CHAPTER TWO “Brand, come here, lad,” a deep voice called from the direction of the barn. Brand looked up from where he was harnessing the big gray gelding, Rolan, to a plow. Geiro, the tall, sandy-haired overseer of Arundale, one of the many tenant farms that filled the fertile valleys of the Earldom of Lommar, was approaching. A slight frown tugged at the corners of his usually smiling mouth, and he carried a small cloth bundle in one of his large, heavily calloused hands. Beside him walked an older, slump-shouldered man with an odd, shuffling gait. Brand thought he recognized the second man as one of the wagoners who stopped by regularly to carry goods between the earldom’s farms. Brand finished tightening the harness and gave Rolan a pat on the side. The horse turned his head to nuzzle Brand’s short black hair. Brand scratched him under the jaw, handed his lead rope to a waiting farmhand, and hurried over to meet Geiro and the wagoner. “Brand, this is Graden,” Geiro said. An unusual tightness around the overseer’s normally bright hazel eyes hinted that something was amiss. “Earl Argyde asked that I send some seed up north to Edmon. Graden’s going to deliver it for me, and I’d like you to go with him.” A mixture of excitement and suspicion shivered through Brand. He had lived and worked on Arundale for half of his fourteen years and never been any farther north than the farm’s northernmost field. Why would Geiro want him to accompany Graden to Edmon, and what was troubling the usually cheerful overseer? He studied the wagoner, hoping something about the man might provide a clue. Small, watery blue eyes measured Brand, staring from a round, fleshy face. A ragged scar across the man’s left cheek pulled his mouth into a permanent sneer. He stood only slightly taller than Brand, whose own short stature and slight build often made people mistake him for a much younger boy, but the wagoner’s rounded shoulders stretched wide beneath the stained tunic he wore. Patched woolen breeches, well-worn leather boots, and a ragged, wide-brimmed straw hat completed his outfit. His lips twitched in what might have been an acknowledging smile, but it looked to Brand like a predatory leer. Brand’s pale gray eyes narrowed slightly. “Why am I going to Edmon with him?” he asked Geiro, The overseer glanced at the cloth-wrapped bundle he carried and then held it out to Brand. “I had one of the other boys pack your things.” Brow furrowed, Brand took the bundle. The cloth that formed the outer wrap was the blanket that normally covered his sleeping pallet in the barn loft. He pulled up one edge of the blanket and found an assortment of familiar clothing rolled inside. Except for the breeches, shirt, and boots he now wore, the bundle contained all of his belongings. “If you can’t find work at Edmon,” Geiro said, not meeting Brand’s eyes, “Graden will take you to Taggart or another city. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to do in one of them.” “Find something to do?” Brand asked, confused. And then it hit him. It was happening again. For the fourth time in his short life, the people who were supposed to look after him were sending him away. First his mother, then his aunt and uncle from Wieland Manor, then his relatives in Arjun, and now Geiro. Brand’s throat tightened and his eyes burned with tears. He blinked them away. “But . . . why?” Geiro met his eyes for an instant, and then shuffled back a step, looking everywhere but at Brand. “You’re a hard-working lad, Brand. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” He looked at Graden. “Don’t forget to mention what a hard worker he is, and that he’s got a special way with animals. Be sure you tell everyone that Geiro of Arundale said that.” With a final brief glance at Brand, he turned toward the barn. Brand stared after him, limbs tingling with an uncomfortable chill. He dropped the bundle he held and dashed after the overseer. “Geiro, wait!” The farmer halted but did not look back. “Is it because of what happened with Cleon?” Brand asked. “That’s it, isn’t it? I didn’t do anything to him. He lied about what happened. And he’d been drinking,” he added, recalling the reek of alcohol on the older boy’s breath as clearly as if he were back in the barn with him. It had happened three nights ago. Brand had been asleep in the barn loft when a pained yelp followed by a loud crash awoke him. He scurried out from under his blanket and peered over the edge of the loft. Silver-blue moonlight shone through the open gable window, providing enough illumination to see the cause of the disturbance. Cleon, the brawny son of Arundale’s cook, widow Merra, was stumbling along the wide aisle between the stalls, mumbling a string of foul curses. Fly, one of the little wheat-colored terriers Geiro kept to help the farm cats control the rat population, slunk ahead of him, limping slightly. Cleon aimed another kick at the hapless animal. “Cleon, leave him alone!” Brand jumped down from the loft between Fly and Cleon. Robbed of his initial target, Cleon swung his foot at Brand instead. Well-acquainted with the older boy’s drunken behavior, Brand easily dodged the clumsy attack and Cleon staggered to one side, off balance. Fly dashed up behind Brand, skidding in the straw that covered the hard-packed dirt, and started barking at his attacker. Cleon caught his balance on the door of the stall beside him and reached forward to shove Brand aside. “Out of my way, witch-boy!” The stench of sour alcohol on his breath nearly made Brand gag. “That little mutt tripped me and I’m going to teach him to stay out from under my feet.” “You don’t need any help to fall over your own feet,” Brand said, and then ducked as Cleon swung a meaty fist at his head. Cleon’s knuckles smashed into the stall door with a resounding crack and he spat another curse. Startled by the noise, the horse inside the stall kicked the door, causing it to bang loudly against the frame. Fly continued his furious barking. “Fly, hush,” Brand said. The little dog quieted, but he kept a watchful eye on Cleon. Cleon yelled again and swung an ill-conceived punch over the stall door, striking only air and bringing his elbow down hard on the door’s upper crossbeam. With a roar of outrage, he punched the door again. “Get out of here, Cleon,” Brand said. He kept his voice quiet and his tone calm, aware that was the best way to deal with the older boy in his current state. “You’re drunk and you’re going to hurt someone—probably yourself. Go stick your head in a trough.” Brand took hold of Cleon’s arm, intent on leading him out into the cool night air. “Let’s go. And stop yelling. You’ll wake all of Arundale.” Instead of relaxing and allowing Brand to guide him from the barn as he normally did, Cleon gave an enraged shout and shoved Brand away. For a brief instant Brand was airborne, and then he smashed into the door of one of the grain storage lockers. Air exploded from his lungs, and his head snapped back against the wood. Fly snarled. “Fly, no!” Brand forced himself into a sitting position. “I’m all ri—” But the dog had already launched himself at Cleon. The boy brought his hands up to ward off the attack. Fly caught hold of the material of his sleeve and hung on with a tenacious grip, growling and trying to shake his head. Cleon screamed and swung his arm, slamming Fly into the stall door with a dull thud. Fly yipped once and fell to the ground in an unmoving heap. Rage flared in Brand’s chest, speeding his heart. A dark, purple-tinged veil fell across his vision and a shadowy gulf split the barn floor before him. Chill air and dark, nebulous forms swirled within the dim gray confines of the impossible chasm. Terror eclipsed Brand’s rage as childhood memories swam into his awareness: Black ghostlike forms rising around him, flowing from the walls, ceiling, and floor, taking the shape of horrible soot-black creatures with white eyes . . . the air filled with piercing shrieks and terrified screams . . . people fleeing . . . people dying . . . “No!” The chasm snapped shut with a burst of freezing air, severing the dark cloud that had begun to emerge. A pain-filled shriek stabbed into Brand’s head, a wall of nothingness slammed him back against the wall, and then there was only blackness. He awoke to Fly licking his face. A quick examination of himself and the little dog revealed no obvious damage, but Cleon lay on the ground, gasping and whining, cradling a broken right arm with his left. Brand tried to stand, to go to the older boy’s aid, but his head spun painfully. He gasped and fell to his hands and knees, and then jerked his right hand up when he felt something sharp and icy beneath it. He brushed away the straw and found a piece of dark metal half-buried in the dirt floor. A moment’s scraping with his fingers revealed a triangular medallion, about the size of a large coin. He worked it loose and held it up. It felt unnaturally cold but warmed quickly, matching the temperature of his flesh so closely that, if not for the weight of it against his fingers, he would scarcely know he held something. It seemed crudely made, like something an apprentice craftsman might fashion out of odd scraps and bits of metal. It had a small irregular disk in the center, with three short pieces of metal that connected the disk to the triangle that surrounded it. Voices and lights outside the barn interrupted Brand’s examination of the strange object. He dropped it into the small cloth pouch he always wore on his belt to hold any interesting rocks or other items he discovered around the farm. Geiro entered the barn a moment later. Several of the Arundale farmhands came with him, along with Cleon’s mother, widow Merra. The lanterns they carried flooded the barn with yellow light. A brief flurry of activity followed as the adults checked the condition of the boys and took them to the dining hall in the farm’s main building where Cleon’s arm was treated and both boys were served steaming mugs of well-milked tea laced with a slightly bitter herb. The drink helped ease the ache in Brand’s head, but it continued its dull throbbing and occasional waves of dizziness made the world tilt and his vision tunnel threateningly. Once things had calmed enough for the boys to be heard, Geiro asked Cleon to tell his side of the story about what happened. “I was on my way to bed when I heard strange sounds from inside the barn.” He gave Merra a pathetic look that stripped years from his features and clearly appealed to the woman’s motherly instinct. She turned a withering look on Brand and then looked at Geiro with a frown that wordlessly insisted he take her son’s side. It was no secret that Geiro harbored a deep fondness for the widow; apparently Merra thought to use that to her son’s advantage. Yet it was also well known that Geiro’s affection for the widow did not extend to her son, so Brand did not give up hope that he would be absolved of any wrongdoing. “As I was walking through the barn,” Cleon continued his story, “Brand jumped down from the loft.” He shot a suspicious look at Brand. “Or maybe he flew down. I thought I saw dark wings. He has those witchy eyes, you know, and they were glowing.” Brand started to interrupt Cleon’s string of ridiculously embellished lies, but Geiro stopped him with an upraised hand. “We’ll hear your side next, Brand.” Cleon gave Brand a smug look. “Brand told that stupid little mutt to attack me.” He pointed at Fly. The dog had followed Brand from the barn and now lay underneath the bench on which he sat, growling softly every time Cleon glanced his way. “Brand can control animals,” Cleon said. “He can tell them to do anything and they’ll—” “All right, Cleon,” Geiro said. “Enough of your wild tales. Brand’s a boy just like you. He can’t control dogs or any other animals. He just has a way with them, which is neither uncommon nor witchy.” Cleon frowned. “What about them witchy eyes?” Brand stared hard at Cleon, giving him a good view of his “witchy” eyes. The older boy looked away quickly, and Brand smiled. Few people Brand met failed to comment on—or at least impolitely stare at—the pale gray, winter-sky eyes that contrasted so starkly with his raven-dark hair. Cleon had decided soon after they met that Brand’s eyes were a clear sign of his “witchiness.” Although Cleon never clarified what he meant by the term, the disdain with which he said it made it clear he felt it was both dark and dangerous. “Brand’s gray eyes mean nothing more than your brown ones,” Geiro told Cleon. “But he can work magic!” Cleon said. “If that’s true,” Geiro said, “we should be grateful to have a wizard among us, to help fight the Shadows until Arden returns.” A short silence followed Geiro’s mention of Shadows as the gathered farmhands exchanged worried glances and a few made brief warding signs. “A wizard released the Shadows in the first place,” Cleon said and then pointed at Brand, “and he attacked me with them! That’s how I broke my arm. A Shadow jumped on me and pushed me against the wall. I was barely able to fight it off.” Geiro studied Cleon for a long moment, lips pursed, and Brand feared he was about to proclaim the older boy’s story true, but then the overseer shook his head. “I’ve never seen a Shadow,” Geiro said slowly, “and I hope I never do. But I’ve heard enough about them to know that if one attacked you, we’d be digging your grave right now, not listening to you tell tales. I think it more likely that you had too much to drink and imagined you saw something moving in the dark.” “Did I imagine my broken arm too?” Cleon started to lift the wounded appendage, but grew suddenly pale and lowered it with a whimper. “Brand told a Shadow to attack me, and I fell and broke my arm,” he finished with a pathetic moan. Geiro watched the older boy for a moment longer, and then looked at Brand. “You’re turn, Brand. Tell us what happened.” Trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the occasional waves of dizziness that continued to assail him, Brand told what he could remember from the time he heard Fly’s cry to when Cleon flung the little dog against the wall, and then he paused. Geiro watched him expectantly. “Go on, Brand. What happened next?” Brand glanced at Cleon. The older boy was watching him with a self-satisfied expression, as if daring him to tell the truth. But Brand wasn’t sure what the truth was. He recalled a terrifying void that opened at his feet and remembered something similar happening long ago, but he wasn’t sure any of it was real and thought it unlikely that anyone would believe him if he mentioned it. And if anyone did believe him, it would only serve to prove his “witchiness” and make them side with the older boy. Brand met Geiro’s eyes. “I don’t remember anything after that. I think I hit my head.” “You don’t know what happened to Cleon?” Geiro asked. “You didn’t push him?” “I don’t think so. He was pretty drunk. He probably tripped.” Brand looked at the people around him, hoping to find sympathy or understanding in their expressions. Everyone in Arundale knew Cleon’s reputation for drinking and bullying; surely that would make some of them accept Brand’s theory. Yet, except for Geiro, no one would meet Brand’s gaze. Over the following days, the inhabitants of Arundale had avoided Brand more than usual, and he saw enough sidelong glances and overheard enough whispered comments to realize that Cleon’s version of what happened was spreading across the farm and being accepted as truth. “I know Cleon didn’t tell the whole truth about what happened,” Geiro said, recalling Brand’s attention to the present. “We all know what a bully he can be, especially when he’s drunk, but he’s the one who got hurt, and hurt badly. It’s going to take weeks for his arm to heal, and just at a time when I can really use him to help with the spring planting. Maybe he was clumsy enough to fall on his own, and maybe not, but—” “I didn’t do anything to him!” Brand said again, his voice choked with emotion as the reality that Geiro was sending him away settled into his mind. “You said you don’t remember what happened. That’s not the same as not doing it. And you know this isn’t the first time something strange has happened around you.” Brand nodded, unable to argue as his head filled with memories of the times he’d been caught doing things he shouldn’t be able to do: overhearing conversations that were out of earshot, moving objects he wasn’t strong enough to lift, even knowing things about people he should have no way of knowing. “I don’t put much merit in Cleon’s stories about your so-called witchiness,” Geiro went on, “but you and I both know there’s something different about you. I see that difference as special, but most of the others don’t. It’s my responsibility to keep the farm running smoothly for Earl Argyde. I can’t do that if half my workers think I’m harboring a witch. You understand that, right?” Brand nodded. He did understand, although part of him wanted to deny it, to argue that he was a normal boy and he could prove it, if only Geiro would give him another chance. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “Good lad.” Geiro reached into a leather coin purse hanging from his belt. He rarely wore the purse, having little need for money in his day-to-day responsibilities. Brand assumed he carried it today to pay Graden to haul the seed to Edmon. Geiro pulled a small silver coin from the pouch, pressed it into Brand’s hand, and closed the boy’s fingers over it. “That’s a gift from me to you, Brand. It’s not much, but it should get you some food and a place to stay if you need it. I’ve already paid Graden to let you ride with him until you find someone to take you in, so don’t let him talk you out of it.” He clapped Brand on the shoulder and turned him back toward the wagoner. “Now, get going,” he said, his voice catching slightly. Brand swallowed a sob and took a step toward the wagoner, then he paused and glanced back at Geiro. “What if someone asks why I left Arundale?” “Tell them Geiro expects better things from you than working on a farm.” He winked and walked into the barn. Brand stared after him, his emotions reeling. What would he do away from Arundale, the place he’d called home for half his life? How could he survive on his own? He glanced at the coin Geiro had given him. Money was a rare commodity on Arundale, something Geiro never wasted, yet he’d used some to pay Graden to take Brand with him and he’d given Brand a full piece of silver. Clearly Geiro did not see either expenditure as frivolous, which meant he truly believed Brand could find those “better things.” Buoyed by the overseer’s belief in him, Brand squared his shoulders and started toward Graden. As he walked, he pulled open his keepsake pouch and dropped the coin inside. He started to close the pouch, but the triangular medallion he’d found half-buried in the barn floor lay wedged above the other items, its edges stretching the cloth around it. He dug it out and held it flat on his hand. It nearly covered his palm. His brow knitted. He remembered it being much smaller. “Whatcha got there, boy?” a gruff voice asked. Brand looked up. He had reached the spot where Graden stood. Brand showed him the medallion. Graden studied it for a moment and then grunted. “Piece o’ trash.” He headed toward the far end of the barn at his slow, shuffling pace. “Time to go.” Brand pursed his lips and looked at the medallion again. Piece of trash? Maybe. But it was his trash. It might have lain buried in the dirt of the barn floor since before he came to the farm, maybe even before Geiro became overseer. That made it part of Arundale, a part he could take with him. He would keep it to remind him of the farm and of Geiro’s belief in him. Digging into his pouch, he withdrew a long scrap of leather cord, fed an end through one point of the medallion’s triangle, and tied it in a loop to the other end. He slipped the cord over his head and tucked the medallion inside his shirt. For just a moment, he thought he felt a flare of icy cold and then the dark metal warmed to the temperature of his flesh. Picking up the bundle of clothing Geiro had given him, Brand dashed after Graden, the dark medallion bumping gently against the skin over his heart.
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