A deadly bloom, p.9
A Deadly Bloom, page 9
part #1 of The Plague Bloom Series
“Bryce—”
“Don’t argue with me, Katelyn.”
“You’re going to end up just like them,” she says, letting go of my hands.
“Like who?” I ask.
“Your parents.”
All I can do is stare.
Katelyn, defiant as ever, narrows her eyes at me.
I, in response, ball my hand into a fist, and say, “After everything I’ve been through… I thought you would be the first to understand.”
“Understand?” my friend says. “You think I would want my best friend to throw herself to the wolves? To the Fallen that killed her parents?”
“Shut up,” I say.
“No. I’m not going to. I—”
“I said shut up!” I scream, throwing my hands into the air in such a wrathful method that Katelyn retreats. She trembles, her lip quivering, her eyes budding with tears.
“Bryce,” she says. “Please… don’t do this.”
“I have to,” I say, and turn my back on Katelyn. “Nothing you can say or do will stop me.”
A mighty sigh escapes my friend’s lips. “All right,” she then says. “Do what you want. Just don’t expect me to come running after you when you leave.”
Katelyn’s footsteps, as they wander back to her seat, are judgment incarnate—a curse of friendship I know should be worn by more than one. However, as much as they bother me, I know that I cannot falter in the face of adversity, and for that reason return my gaze to the holy men and the Elves before us.
“Now then,” Grand Sage Archimus says, “if we have that kerfuffle out of the way.” He spreads his arms to the crowd. “Do we have any other volunteers?”
Very few people move to respond. Most are in their seats, mulling over the possibilities at hand. Some begin to rise, but stop before they can stand, while others who do rise do so with caution in their eyes, unsurety on their lips. The majority who volunteer are young men, newly-married and with wives who might soon have children on the way. Even fewer are the middle-aged men and even women.
“Good,” Grand Sage Archimus says. “Now that this is settled, Sir Kaelan will take the names and addresses of those individuals who wish to apply and will confer with them in the following days. Am I correct in that assessment?”
“You are,” Kaelan replies.
“With that in mind,” the Grand Sage continues, “I would implore you all to look deep inside yourselves and see how you may be able to contribute in the coming days. These are trying times, my friends. We do not wish to fall from grace during them.”
“Son,” Jonathan Rothbard says from behind me. “Bryce.”
The two of us turn to face the captain of the guard.
“Come with me, please.”
I’m not sure what to think as he leads us out of the temple. A part of me believes that I am in trouble, and that, because of my actions, I will suffer. The weather seems to compliment this notion, because in the distance, the eastern Earthwalkers Dora and Sana are being threatened with rain. The clouds overhead spark with thunder. If misfortune comes our way, we will soon be hit with it ourselves.
Just in time for us to make our way home.
Unfortunately for me, Jonathan Rothbard doesn’t lead us down the road that me and his son took to the temple. Rather, he leads us east, along the edge of the perimeter and toward a building I instinctively have come to know as Eula’s armory and barracks.
“Why are we—” I start.
Jonathan Rothbard spins to face me. “You need to learn how to use your weapon,” he says, indicating the sword at my side. “It may be only a day or so before the two of you head to the ground.”
“Why didn’t you volunteer?” I ask, before I can even think of what I’m saying.
The man frowns, but says, “Because I’m needed here.”
“And me?” Peter asks.
“Your destiny is in your own hands. I can’t say I’m happy with your choice, but I’m not going to prevent you from doing what you feel is right.”
“Which this is,” Peter says, to which I offer a reassuring nod in response.
Jonathan Rothbard exhales before turning to lead us toward the barracks once more.
As we draw near, it becomes apparent that the place has been all but deserted. Drawn by the Elves’ public forum, the training grounds are devoid of people, the doors locked but unguarded. Jonathan Rothbard directs Peter and myself toward one of the sparring circles wherein a rack of wooden practice swords have been left out for the convenience of the guardsmen-in-training.
“Peter,” Sir Rothbard says. “I expect you will do your best to teach Bryce how to fight with her weapon?”
“Yes, Father,” Peter says, then corrects himself by saying, “I mean, sir.”
The man reaches into his pocket to withdraw a set of keys before approaching and unlocking the door. He slips inside without another word.
“I can’t believe I got off with just a slap on the wrist,” I say as we turn to make our way into the sparring circle.
Peter kicks a stray rock in his path and watches it bounce along the dirt circle. He then sinks his teeth into his lower lip and offers a frown.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have yelled at her, Bryce.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“She insulted my parents’ memory, Peter.”
“I know, but… still. You could’ve been the bigger person.”
“Sometimes it isn’t right to be the bigger person,” I say. “Sometimes you have to stick up for yourself.”
“You can stick up for yourself without raising your voice.”
“Okay. I get it. I was childish. Can we please move on?”
Peter nods. “Yes,” he says. “We can.”
I pick up a practice sword and twist it within my grasp a few times, surprised at its weight but empowered by it at the same time. “So,” I say, turning my attention back to Peter. “What are you going to teach me?”
“How to wield your sword properly,” he says. “Are you ready?”
I nod.
“Okay,” Peter says. “Let’s go.”
He guides me through a series of movements designed to strengthen my wrist and acclimate my arm and shoulder to the sword’s weight. Judging, carefully, the length of my extension, and navigating me through a series of simple flourishes, he directs me to swing and jab, strike and parry, and eventually gestures me to lift a wooden shield at my side before taking hold of a practice sword and shield of his own.
“So far as we know, there aren’t any people on the ground,” Peter says, “so it’s not likely you’ll need to learn how to fight properly. Still, I’m going to teach you anyway, because some of the moves can be used to deflect the Fallen’s hands and teeth.”
“Like the parrying?” I offer.
Peter nods. “Yes. Like that.” He slaps the flat of his wooden blade against his shield. “Come on. Hit me.”
“How?”
“However feels natural.”
I swing my sword in an arc toward his shield and strike him with enough force to cause my arm to shake.
“Good. Do it again.”
I do it a second time.
“Again.”
And a third, then a fourth and fifth.
The sixth time I go for a blow, he raises his sword to deflect mine, then spins until he is facing my right. “All right,” he says, banging his sword against his shield again. “I’m going to start battling with you now. Do you think you’re ready for it?”
“I think so,” I say with a nod.
“I’ll try not to hurt you.”
“Same goes for you,” I say, then laugh and swing my sword at him.
We partake in a battle of physical prowess I have never known. Though lean, and active from my many walks about and around the Earthwalker, I am not muscular, and as a result, find myself fatiguing easily. However, I know that I cannot allow myself to falter, so I push myself through the discomfort until it passes, causing my body to go numb with adrenaline.
Go, the ghost of my mother would have said, and make me proud.
I swing my sword, raise my shield, throw blocks and deflect them, all with the intent of doing just that. Peter, with sweat on his brow, reaches up to brush it from his brow with his wrist, and leaves an opening I understand is crucial.
I barrel into him with my shield.
He falters.
I smack my shield into his, then bring the pommel of the wooden sword into his abdomen.
“Oof,” he grunts.
Then he is on the ground, gasping and coughing as dirt from our footsteps is kicked into the air.
“So,” I say, tapping his right, then left shoulder with the blade of the practice sword. “Do I win?”
“I suppose so,” Peter says, coughing once more. “You got me when I least expected it.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No. I mean, yes, but… I’ll live.” He pushes himself to his feet and smiles as he reaches down to cradle his abdomen. “Good eye, catching me while I was off guard.”
“You made it blatantly obvious.”
“Did I?” He frowns. “Father did say I needed to be more conscious of my actions.”
“Either way,” I say, lowering my arms and arching my back. “We should probably head inside.”
“Why?”
A droplet of water lands on my fingers. “It’s starting to rain.”
“Oh. I see.”
Peter lifts his eyes to the sky and offers a smile that immediately catches me off guard.
Stop, I think. You can’t think of him like that. Especially now that we’re going to the ground.
The thought fills me with dread.
I was not thinking of my own safety just now, but Peter’s.
Either of us could die once we set foot on the Fallen Lands. That alone is enough to inspire a world of unease in my heart.
Rather than think of the future, though, and the world of worry it could cause me, I decide to think of my present, happy but fractured as it is, and enter the barracks with him.
I know it’s the only thing that will keep me from going mad.
We sit by the light of the fire while listening to the sound of the rain. Hammering endlessly upon our world and offering little in the way of comfort, I watch as out the high windows lightning flashes and raindrops are illuminated by bursts of white-blue light.
“Been a while since we’ve had any rain,” Peter says, sipping lukewarm water we have just purified over the fire.
“We’re in a desert,” I offer, and sip my own water in response.
Peter remains silent. His gaze is lost to the fire, his mouth curved to the ground. I can’t be sure what he’s thinking about, but at the same time, am not sure if I want to.
We all have a lot to lose is the thought that keeps playing through my head.
If we don’t succeed in finding Kira’s Lance, and cannot find a way to slay the Fallen Guardian that Kaelan has referred to as Ziara, we will all die, regardless of whether it’s on the ground or atop the Earthwalkers’ backs.
I shiver in the moments that follow, and bow my head to hide the fear I know is cast across my face.
“Bryce?” Peter asks. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just scared,” I say.
“About what’s going to happen?” He waits for me to nod before speaking. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But we gotta remember: we have fate on our side. You know why?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I believe that we’ll find Kira’s Lance.”
“And if we don’t?”
Peter shakes his head, presses one hand to my back, and tilts my chin up with two fingers on the other. His blue eyes seek mine with an intensity I have experienced only a few times in my life, though what they are searching for I cannot know. All I do know is that, when he does speak, my heart flutters, as he says, “I know we’re going to find it.”
“How?”
“Because I don’t believe otherwise.”
“Magic isn’t real, Peter.”
“Then how do the Earthwalkers walk? The Sky Whales fly? The dead come back to life?”
“I—”
Peter smiles as he pulls his hand away. “Told you,” he says.
Somewhere on the platform above, a door opens, and Jonathan Rothbard’s footsteps echo along the stone used to construct it. “Peter,” he says. “Bryce.”
“Yes?” we both ask.
“We should stay inside tonight on account of the storms.”
“But what about—” I start.
“The Elves will be fine. They’re likely taking shelter in the temple as we speak.”
With a sigh, I nod and say, “Okay.”
“The two of you should get to bed.” Sir Rothbard nods at me and gestures to me with two fingers. “I’ll let you sleep in my office, Bryce. Peter and myself will sleep in the barracks.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, dear. I’m sure.”
I offer Peter a single goodnight before rising and making my way up the stairs to the captain’s office.
Inside, I lean against the door, exhale a pent-up breath, and consider the neatly-made bed resting against the wall behind the captain’s desk.
I lock the door before departing for bed.
9
A Matter of Time
Morning comes, and we have only twelve days before we reach the Promised Lands.
As I awaken, birdsong greets me, and a refreshing while dangerous sense of purpose fills me. Aching from the sparring I’d committed myself to the other day, but knowing that my body will recover and change as a result of it, I push myself upright and run a hand through my hair just in time to hear voices outside my door.
“Are you sure she should go?” a voice I recognize as Jonathan Rothbard’s asks. “She’s only just a girl.”
“Just a girl?” a second voice, which I immediately place as Kaelan’s, replies. “You believe her to be just a girl?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Sir Rothbard, you underestimate the tenacity of children. They are far better equipped to deal with danger than you believe them to be. Look at your son, for example.”
“My son is not a child. He is a young man.”
“And she is a young woman coming into her own.”
“Who barely knows how to use a sword!”
“Do you know how many people volunteered to join me on my expedition into the Agorbia, Sir Rothbard?”
“No, but I imagine it’s—”
“Less than ten.”
Silence fills the gap in conversation, impressing upon me the severity of the situation. Breathless, I wait—hands wrapped in the sheets, chest aching from the lack of air I am taking in.
“I… see,” Jonathan Rothbard says. “I… can understand your concerns, then.”
“So do you see why it is imperative that she come with us? Even if to only be another set of eyes?”
“What if her lack of training gets you killed?”
“Her lack of training will not matter. We are not at war. We are simply navigating the ruins of Up’en da.”
Up’en da? I think.
That city only exists in legend. But if Kaelan is speaking with it, that can only mean—
The men begin to speak before I can finish my thought.
“You found Up’en da?” Sir Rothbard asks. “I thought it was only a legend?”
“The Elves have known of Up’en da’s existence for years.”
“But how—”
“It was buried beneath the sands. The Agorbia winds revealed it to us.”
“Is it at least accessible?”
“Yes. It is.”
I draw in a breath and cast the blankets from my body before rising and making my way to the door. I wait only a moment before twisting the knob and stepping outside.
Both Sir Rothbard and Kaelan turn their heads to look at me. “Bryce,” Sir Rothbard says.
“Sir,” I reply, choosing to ignore the things he said rather than address them head on. He is simply an ignorant man. I cannot fault him for that.
“I hope you slept well?”
“I did,” I say. I turn my attention to Kaelan. “When are we leaving for the Fallen Lands?”
“We’ve yet to outfit the applicants with weapons and armor,” the Elf replies. “That is what we’d planned on doing today.”
“I want to help,” I say.
“Unfortunately, there is little you can do to assist in this process. I would highly suggest that you take today to recuperate from your training and to prepare yourself for what is to come.”
“You know where we’re going though?” I say. “Right?”
Kaelan frowns, but nods. “Yes,” he says. “I do. That will be explained in more detail in the morning.”
The way he looks at me leads me to believe that he knows I was listening, and as a result, is attempting to impress upon me the importance of silence. For that reason, I simply nod, and turn to the captain’s office. “Let me get my sword,” I say, “and I’ll go.”
“Bryce,” Sir Rothbard says.
“Yes sir?”
“Peter was waiting for you. He’s gone home to tend to some things, but I believe he wanted to speak with you. Do be sure to find him.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
Jonathan Rothbard nods and leaves me be.
In mere moments, I have clipped my sword onto my belt and am walking the streets of Eula, which, damp with precipitation, leave my boots feeling heavy and body burdened. The humidity is sweltering—like steam from a boiling pot of water—and causes sweat to break out along my brow.
I am just about to lift my hand and wipe the perspiration from my brow when movement appears out the corner of my eye.
At first, I am tempted to ignore it, because there really is no reason for me to offer anyone my attention at this hour of the morning, especially considering the circumstance. Still, the presence lingers; and when I lift my eyes to face the person head on, I find that it is not a stranger in my midst, but my best friend.
“Katelyn,” I say, stepping forward.
“Bryce,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes are narrowed, and caution fills their green surfaces as I approach her family’s homestead.
