The Gantlet Read online

  She strained her eyes, remembering, then closed them and whispered, “Mara,” as she had been taught.

  The night opened to her, lighting the pathways, house and barn clearly seen across the field. Staring into the farmer’s fields, Breanna could see sheep gathered in the pen near the cottage, their sides touching, one protecting the other from night creatures. She saw a raven flying high, blue-black wings spread in the darkness, searching for small birds caught out after dark, like Orbels chasing Qays. Across the Tribon, a herd of deer drank from the shallows, the spots on the babies brightly white. Fish jumped from the water, moonlight sparking off their scales as grandfather’s lamp reflected in their huge, round eyes. She saw it all.

  Thank you, Mara. I can see in this darkness, as you taught me. Think on me, Mara; send my love to my mam and poppa. I’ll keep the secret the way I was told. She woke as from a dream and the night returned, for she had no need of light, but in her young mind there was surety—someday, maybe soon, she would sincerely call for Mara’s help.

  The trip back to the cottage was pleasant, with Elida guiding them by the lights in the sky, and Alane holding the oil lamp to make the holes in the path visible. Breanna liked the family, but was afraid they might feel differently about her if they knew what she had discovered in the dark of night. Life was better sometimes when it was simpler, she had learned on her own, after being taken from her family. How she wished she could be home with her mam and poppa, laughing at something that gave them pleasure. She knew she had always been treated with extra kindness, but she loved it, so it wasn’t wrong to want it back. A child ought to be with her family, and even though she was grateful to Willum and Alane, she was unhappy and sad, missing the familiar parts of her old life. The naïve girl who had believed nothing bad could ever happen to her had disappeared, leaving a wiser, kinder person.

  A year later, in late autumn, the weather went to extremes and became the “earliest, coldest winter since fifty years before,” the villagers of Weir said. Garden produce froze on the vine before it was time, water in the Tribon turned to ice, and the sheep shivered in their thick coats. The family was thankful for the dried goods Alane had put away in the late spring, and for the rabbits Willum and Sean snared. An occasional deer was found in the forest, half-frozen, and Willum put it out of misery, adding to the family’s food supply. Fish were also a staple when they could trap them.

  Breanna felt guilty, for she knew her presence was a burden to the family. She wished something could be done; if only she could go home and send loads of food from her part of the world, but such was a childish thought, and she was growing older. Celebrating her eleventh summer without her family was painful, even though the Vales tried hard to make it happy for her. Alane told her sadness would get easier, but it lived in Breanna’s heart all the same.

  A second year passed, and then another, with the child becoming more similar in the ways of the family, and less like her mam and poppa. The points at the tops of her ears were not so sharp anymore, but everyone in Weir knew she was elven, a fact accepted because the people in Weir loved her as one of their own. Her small face had matured, adding weight and character in the strong set of her cheekbones as she aged, but the yearning in her deep blue eyes had never changed. She desperately missed her old home, even as she made a place for herself with the Vales.

  The pain still came when she pictured Mathena with an apron, making loaves of bread, or cleaning their fire pit, getting ready to prepare a meal. Breanna felt she had betrayed her parents by placing the memories of her old life in the background where they didn’t hurt as badly. Did Mam really make the loaves in small square shapes, or were they longer and rounder? The loaves Alane made were small, hard, and crusty, and when they were hot and loaded with butter made from the family’s share of cow’s cream, Breanna thought she had never tasted anything better.

  The fifth year with the Vale family, on her birthday of fifteen summers, a remarkable incident changed Breanna forever. On her way to the village, taking goat’s milk and wool in exchange for cream for Alane to make butter, she spied one of the family’s lambs atop a high cliff above the Tribon. The lamb was out of place in a dangerous spot; to lose it would be disastrous to the family, who depended upon every curl of wool for either weaving or trading. Breanna laid her burdens aside and ran to the river, where she quickly shortened the distance between herself and the bleating lamb. Scooting up the rocky cliff near the edge of the Tribon, she slipped on loose shale as she grabbed for the small animal. The slide took her toward the cliff’s edge and to a drop that would have sent her to her death on the boulders below. Visions of her dead body bouncing off the big rocks into the water frightened her as she slid. From her cache of old, old memories, Sheela’s voice broke through the fear.

  Jump, child; place your feet and jump. Without further thought, Breanna pushed off from the crumbling rock with her toes, and soared over the cliff with the lamb in her arms. Her feet touched soil far from the bank, and the lamb jumped from her arms and scurried away. Amazement at being alive took her breath away, and she fell to the ground in silent thanks.

  Sheela, thank you, I’m saved. Later, when the errand was complete and the lamb back with its flock, Breanna thought about Sheela, her red hair sparkling, green eyes filled with tenderness, and her face as bright in thought as it had been in the past.

  Sorting the past into locked memories had been the child’s way of avoiding pain, but after her most important birthday, the whispered secrets of the seven magical Qay women in her family returned more and more on their own, coming to the surface when she needed them. Hidden knowledge pushed into her mind as she remembered. On many occasions, when she was a babe in arms, unable to speak, the women who loved her had leaned over her bed and whispered secrets into her tiny ears. Their voices returned to her in the Vale house, clear and filled with love for the child she had been, for the person she would become.

  Also on the morning of her most important birthday, Breanna awakened to the sound of her skin whispering as it moved across her body, replacing old scars, healing new scratches. She almost screamed at the sight, and would have, had it not been for disturbing the family. In her parents’ house, many from the village would have helped prepare her for the rite of passage as her elven skin began preparing for its long life, but there were none to advise her in the Vale household. Breanna prayed her body would care for itself, for she had no knowledge of what rituals should be performed for such an event.

  Tragically, for the Vale family, the evil presence who had manipulated Ely Vingus and his neighbor Tam was very aware of Breanna’s birthdays, and waited impatiently for the fifteenth-year celebration. On that very day, when all the well-wishers had done with congratulations (for the villagers used any reason for a party), terrible things began to occur. Yahmara—who in the beginning had falsely believed that Tom Simpkin delivered the girl to Thrum, a sanctuary and prison for the demon-possessed—discovered the truth of the tinker’s betrayal when it was too late to stop it with a mere potion.

  Tom had been coerced into carrying the girl to her doom at the hand of Thrum witches, and would have had it not been for his innate kindness and pure spirit. He could never understand why he agreed to carry a demon-possessed child anywhere at all, and blamed the sight of the silver coins for his waver from proper behavior. Had he known Yahmara had placed a spell upon those coins, compelling him to his bitter downfall, those five years after the incident might have been more productive and less guilt-filled for the trader.

  The black scar on the witch’s chest itched as she quivered to even the score with the tradesman, and she vowed to make him suffer, for the Supreme Witch hated vile do-gooder little men who refused to obey.

  Yahmara Cromcroft was the eighth and last Qay child to receive a special gift of knowledge. She had not always been a witch; rather, she was a cousin of Mathena, and they had been children together. But during her preadolescent years, Yahmara immersed herself in the black craft, and prayed
to the Spectre, master and lord of the underworld. In her worship, she brought shame and disgrace upon herself and her kin. Eliandor Stronghold Pentara, the councilor of Haven Pentara, and Mathena’s grandfather, upon receiving the irrefutable knowledge of Yahmara’s betrayal of faith, had pitched the young witch from the windows of the Darth of Qayborn castle to the rocks below, where she landed on her face.

  “Never again darken these portals or I shall tear the skin from your body,” were the councilor’s final words as he watched her fall. Eliandor, being a kind elf at heart, winced at the violence of his own behavior, but he knew in his soul it was not enough; he should have taken her life, lest someday they all regret his action of mercy.

  Rather than feeling sorrow for the loss of her family, Yahmara wanted revenge upon Eliandor, whom she had known since birth. She stole the black book of witchcraft from the reigning queen, and studied in the deep forest until her knowledge was greater than any who had come before. The book explained how she could erase the human part of herself by tearing out her own heart and throwing it onto the bonfire during the yearly celebration of crones. She had learned well, and with the approval of her contemporaries, Yahmara became the Supreme Witch of the black arts, subservient only to the Spectre.

  Centuries passed, and she grew stronger by using the Old One’s gift. Yes, Yahmara knew it was not truly hers, and she should have been prepared to give it away, but she became greedy and power hungry. She was determined to steal the other seven gifts from those who would never recognize the power they carried.

  Mathena Ascroft, the witch’s old enemy, had given birth to a child in a settlement on Nore Mountain, leagues from the protection of Haven Pentara. The six Qay sisters, along with the child’s mother shared the power of their gifts in the form of memories they whispered into the babe’s ears.

  The girl, Breanna Ascroft, grew, and at ten years she was the prize Yahmara had waited for. Here was an opportunity for revenge upon her old enemies, Mathena and Eliandor. The witch would steal the child away, and stash her at the lunatic colony of Thrum, until time presented a convenient opportunity to destroy her.

  Yahmara knew the prophecy of the coming champion of the Old Ones, and she knew her obligation to relinquish the gift she possessed. But the witch was proud, and disdained anything from her elven heritage. Besides, before Breanna reached maturity, she would be dead, and any connection she had to the prophecy would be gone. Fortunately for the child, Yahmara didn’t know until much later that the theft of Breanna’s memories would have ensured her possession of all eight gifts from the ancient elves. The memories were only shadows of what was real, but by possessing them, Yahmara would have had a clear path into the minds of the seven Qays who created them. The witch could have easily plucked the gifts of power from them all.

  Early on, when the child was very young, some of Yahmara’s followers had mumbled there was more to the girl Breanna Ashcroft than met the eye, for very old magic surrounded her. But the Supreme Witch was too busy putting her plans for revenge into action to listen to murmured rumors. Being full of the Spectre’s power, she felt undefeatable. She had been so close to all she desired that night she led Ely and Tam to their soul’s destruction, but an ancient elf named Ziglianor had used magic to keep the knowledge from her. When she finally discovered the truth, Yahmara set the girl to running for her life.

  On her terrible, horrible—but very important—fifteenth birthday, Breanna’s life became a child’s nightmare alive in the light of day. The countryside of Weir was nearing harvest, the end of summer almost gone, with cooler temperatures every day before sunrise. The family was outside after birthday celebrations, tending to first chores. Breakfast was over and weeding still to be done. The day was early, with dew on the grass near the well. Breanna tipped the bucket to pour water into the animal troughs, and knew the exact moment when time slowed its movement. The bucket’s long stream of water hung over the empty troughs like a bright ribbon, with the crowded, round drops reflecting a rainbow of color from the sun above.

  Willum raised his voice and pointed, and the tone of his voice was more frightening because of his usual soft-spoken words. A moving darkness rolled fast along the ridge above the Tribon River, stirring the deep waters and pitching dead fish onto the banks, with the eye of the storm trained on the Vale farm.

  “Alane,” Willum cried, his voice overwhelmed by the noise of a great black swarm nearing the house. “Alane, go back inside,” he screamed, but the din was a hundred thousand locusts, buzzing and circling, blocking the passage of sound.

  “Breanna, get the children to the house.” Willum was on the ground yelling as darkness absorbed his feet. “Go, hide, Breanna.”

  As in a dream, she saw a bright red spout of liquid fly from Willum as his head came away from his body and the undulating blackness’s long tendrils pressed and squeezed his still struggling form.

  “Willum,” Alane shouted, “Willum, I’m coming to you.”

  “Alane, no, go inside,” Breanna screamed, awakened from her trance. “You can’t help him. He’s gone. We have to get inside.”

  “Willum,” the grief-stricken woman repeated, oblivious to any other thought, “Willum, I’m coming to you.” She ran toward her husband, toward the black shape’s long stretches of buzzing masses. Searching for Breanna, it wrapped itself around Alane’s body and dragged her to ground. She shrieked once as the mass bound her neck, and squeezed her body into many separate parts.

  Breanna grabbed at the two children, but the blackness knew they were there and reached out to absorb the boy. She saw it happening and ran screaming, searching her memories for knowledge, pulling power from a source waiting to feed her. Her body stretched, extending great lengths in her mind’s eye as she grasped the boy and pulled him against her.

  A mordant sent from a witch’s cairn brings despair and death. Breanna remembered the day: she was three summers old, happy as only a small one could be. Winona, her mother’s friend, her friend, whispered, “Child, someday across your path may come a terrible entity. Mordant—black as night, with long tentacles that reach and destroy—the sounds of a million locusts. Run from it, child, but if you must stay, embrace it, wrap it inside your arms, and fling it to the four winds. Reach inside your knowledge and do as I say. You have all you need to survive.”

  The mass churned, disturbed by the loss of the boy, and came toward the elven girl, the object of its search, ready to destroy her. Breanna was terrified, and lost touch with the memory, but her fear was for Sean, and she knew her strength must come from within. With her whole thin body, she encircled the black mass and pulled the breadth of it into her arms as though it were a beloved friend. She spun once, then again, and again in a twisting, turning movement, as the source pushing her spiraled upward. When the power released her, she flung the blackness far, far away, out of sight, into the open sky, and then slowly, as if in a dream, her fifteen-year-old body returned to the solid world as her mind continued spinning.

  “Sean, Sean, wake up,” Elida begged her brother. “Wake up. Mam and Poppa are gone. We have no more family.” She sobbed at the end and hugged her big brother against her, trying to understand what had happened.

  “Elida, we must leave this place. Whatever it was, it will be back. Don’t ask me how I know, but I’m certain,” Breanna said, near hysterics. Her grasp on reality had been tenuous since the death of her foster parents. But she knew the trouble awaiting them. The Vales had been destroyed by an evil force controlled by dark spirits, and it would return with even greater strength.

  The boy was still, with no signs of life remaining, his strength taken by the mordant.

  “Bree, do something. Make him well,” Elida pleaded, looking to Breanna as savior. “Please, don’t let him die; he’s all I have left of my family.”

  “But I don’t know how, Elida. I’m not able to give life,” Breanna said.

  He is not dead, he is sleeping. You must wake him. Wake him, Breanna of the Qays.

 
; “Who said that? Elida, did you say he’s sleeping?” Breanna asked warily.

  “Why are you asking me?” the child replied. “I don’t know if he’s asleep. He looks dead.” Poor Elida was distraught; first her parents, now her brother. She was beside herself, sobbing into her hands, careful to avoid looking at her mam and poppa lying on the ground near the barn.

  “Let’s take him to the Tribon,” Breanna urged.. “We’ll try to wake him there. Hurry, help me, and then go back and gather supplies: food, water skins, knives, quilts. Can you get them? We must leave this place soon, before it returns.”

  The boy was heavy, his bones sturdy from farm work, with the muscles of adulthood beginning to show on his frame. He was twelve winters of age, younger than Breanna, but four years older than his sister.

  “Elida, quit crying; pick up his feet. He’s very heavy on this end. Yes, that’s right, we’re almost there. Now, to the edge, and let me have him. Yes, go and get supplies. Hurry, we have so little time.”

  The boy was even harder to move without his sister’s help, his heavy boots dragging over rocks as she pulled him into the water.

  Hurry, must hurry.

  Breanna didn’t question the voice. It was in her head, part of her collection of whispers. She entered the river with Sean and hugged him to her. Leaning forward, she dunked his head and waited, but nothing happened, and he didn’t move. Again, she pushed him under, and kept him there until she felt he might drown, but still nothing happened. The magic within her heard the call and sent life-giving power as Breanna searched her memories. She recalled words from another time when Miralda had spoken them. Chanting over the boy, she dunked him into the cold water again.