Quin studied her father in the last of the moonlight.
“You’re alive.” The words fell out of her like stones dropped into a lake, creating ripples to the furthest reaches of her mind.
The memory of the last time she had seen him came back to her suddenly. He had been lying in the commons, which could not be far from where they were at this very moment, and his face had been distorted by a look of hatred.
Now, in the dawn, his skin was cool, his hands gripping hard at the fabric of the Big Dread’s cloak. No breath escaped any of the three men. They exhibited no sign of life at all, and yet their skin was pink and healthy and soft to the touch. Their bodies were not frozen by temperature; they were frozen in time. She wondered how she’d come across them while There. What were the dimensions of that no-space?
Quin felt a strange war taking place inside her mind. A short time ago, she’d insisted to Shinobu that she was a healer and did not wish to hurt anyone. But she was now experiencing a very different urge. She pried Briac away from the others, roughly pulling his fingers loose from the Dread’s cloak and yanking him onto his back. His arms and legs held their strange positions as she moved him.
When she’d turned his body so he was looking up toward the sky, she pulled out her whipsword. She let her hand move of its own accord—her muscles knowing the motions more than her mind did—cracking the whipsword out into the shape of a long dagger. This she lifted above Briac’s chest.
“I said I would kill you if John didn’t,” she whispered to him. That memory had fully surfaced, and it was tugging other memories up toward the light.
Briac’s eyes were turned to the side, his mouth partly open, as though he’d frozen midsentence. She lifted her arm higher, planning to strike down with one well-aimed blow. But her arm hovered in place for a long while.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, unable to finish the motion. It was impossible, with him lying there helpless. She rubbed her face with her hands. Leaving him alive would mean …
What would it mean? she asked herself. More, was the answer. More of what we did before. She wasn’t sure what she’d done with Briac before, but the outline of it lay at the back of her mind, huge and dark, a slumbering giant she did not wish to disturb. If he is alive, I’m afraid I will obey him, just as I have always done. Still, she found she could not strike him like this.
Dawn was coming in earnest now. Quin tried to calculate how long she had spent There. Subjectively it was impossible to tell. Her memory told her both that it had been only a few minutes and that she’d spent days in that black nothingness. She had left Hong Kong near midnight. Hong Kong was seven hours ahead of Scotland, so eleven in the evening in Hong Kong would be four in the afternoon on the estate. Yet it was dawn now, which could only mean that her brief trip There had taken at least fifteen hours, or she could have lost a day and a half, or even more.
In the growing light, she noticed a dark patch on Briac’s left trouser leg. She brushed her hand against his thigh, and it came away wet and dark. Blood. His shirt was similarly stained, at his right shoulder. He’d been shot a year and a half ago—she remembered that. So many memories were still hidden, but this one she suddenly saw in full clarity. John had shot him twice. There’s a matching scar for you! John had said. What did he mean by that? she wondered.
In all these months, while Briac had been lost There, his blood had not even dried. It had simply stopped flowing, just as Briac and the others had stopped breathing, just as their hearts had stopped beating.
She examined the other men more closely. The oldest, whose face was hidden behind a thick woolen hood and a full, gray beard, looked unharmed. The other one, the one they’d called the Big Dread, had a cut across his chest, which had been poorly bandaged by a torn strip of his cloak. This wound too was still wet.
Quin wondered if these injuries were the reason her father and the Big Dread had become stuck There. It seemed likely the wounds had distracted them from their time chants and left them stranded.
She got to her feet, noticing for the first time exactly where she was. She had come through the anomaly into a clearing in the woods. A standing stone was off to her left, and down the path, in the distance, she glimpsed the commons. This is where it all began. Right here, she thought. With a last glance at her father, she started down the path.
As she reached the wide meadow, Quin saw the burned heaps of rubble that had once been cottages, but so far there was no sign of human life upon the estate.
Memories were surfacing faster now, and more images from that evening came to her mind—Quin hiding by her burning cottage, throwing a knife at a man holding her mother. Her right hand twitched at that memory, and she looked down at both hands, sensing their many hidden skills.
She passed by a structure with a gaping space where its large door had once been. The interior was dark, but otherwise it looked undamaged. The name came to her: the workshop. And up ahead was the practice barn, which had not fared as well. Its roof was gone except for a ragged remainder in a corner. Its stone walls were covered with black streaks, and the interior was strewn with fallen masonry.
Ducking through the barn’s burned doorway, she found it chilly and darker inside. She could make out the shapes of weapons racks against the walls, all of them charred or falling apart. There was an equipment room at one end, full of rubble. Within that room, Quin found only one item of interest—a small metal chest in a corner, buried almost completely beneath stones and mortar.
Another memory appeared: Shinobu’s father in the clearing in the woods, opening a trunk full of guns. Quin pried the chest open and found no guns inside this one, only a jumbled mess of holsters and scabbards. Almost without thinking, she buckled a belt of rubbery black material around her waist and hung her whipsword from one of its clips. Idly she practiced drawing the sword and putting it back.
Near the bottom of the chest, she discovered thin sheaths, designed to be worn inside one’s clothing, up against the skin. She attached these to the inside of her waistband. The jeans she wore were so big she could easily fit the athame and lightning rod into these sheaths beneath her trousers. She didn’t know what she hoped to find on the estate, but it was better, she decided, not to wear those stone implements out in the open.
The main area of the practice barn was strewn with debris, but there was a fairly clear path down the middle, as though someone had been there since the fire. She grabbed her whipsword from its new holster, closed her eyes, and let her body take over.
As long as she didn’t try to think, her muscles knew what to do. Her hands flicked the whipsword out into the shape of a longsword, and she ran down the center of the barn, slashing the weapon in a routine that came as naturally to her as walking.
When she was finished, she stood by the open doorway, swinging her arms in circles to get rid of the soreness that was already settling in—she was terribly out of shape, and the old wound in her shoulder was aching.
The sky had grown brighter, and she became aware of motion in the distance. Someone was walking across the commons. As the figure drew closer, before Quin could see any facial features, she noticed the way it was moving—like a dancer, slow and smooth and stately. Then she saw the very long light brown hair. The name came to her mind immediately: the Young Dread.
The girl was heading toward the workshop, and Quin walked in that direction to intercept her. When the Dread crossed out of the meadow and through the trees along its rim, Quin had the strangest impulse to draw a knife and throw it at her. Her mind brought a very clear image of the Young Dread: the girl’s lean, ropy muscles kicking into motion to catch a knife from the air and hurl it back toward Quin.
She had undoubtedly seen Quin from a long way off, and yet nothing in the girl’s demeanor indicated this until she was standing almost directly in front of Quin. Her course had not changed, nor the direction of her eyes.
“Hello,” Quin ventured when the Dread had come to a stop near her. The girl had a small deer over her shoulder. There was blood on its neck where her arrow had killed it.
The Dread did not answer but instead gave a slow and solemn nod, stepped gracefully around Quin, then continued on into the workshop. She set the deer down, then moved to a back shelf, where Quin lost sight of her among the shadows.
“May I come in?” Quin asked after waiting a few moments for the girl to offer.
The Young Dread turned toward Quin, knocking something from the shelf as she did so, and her hand flashed out to retrieve whatever it was before it hit the floor. Quin was startled to see the girl mishandle anything—her motions were so precise that any error seemed out of character. The Young placed the object somewhere back on the shelf, then pivoted to face Quin.
“You may come in,” she said.
The pitch of the Young Dread’s voice was appropriate to a teenage girl, but its tone would never be described that way. Her words formed slowly and clearly, and they sounded unstoppable, once they had begun, like a trickle of water that would eventually cut its way through granite.
Quin entered the workshop almost timidly. The Dread was a petite girl, and yet crossing into her private space felt like stepping into the den of a jungle cat. Quin glanced around the room cautiously, noticing that a cooking hearth had been created near the gaping front door, with large stones arranged in a circle and thick ashes from previous fires.
Near the hearth was an area where the Dread had been butchering the animals she ate. There were several pelts drying above a chopping block, and Quin noticed the Dread herself was wearing a vest made by hand from deerskin.
There was straw in one corner with blankets folded on top of it, odds and ends scavenged from the estate along shelves, and a rack of knives and swords that looked to have been salvaged from the training barn.
The Young Dread tied her long, untidy hair in a twist behind her neck, then began working on the deer.
“Have you been here this whole time?” Quin asked.
The Dread did not bother to respond or even pause in her task. She continued skinning the deer with delicate, expert motions, in the way, Quin imagined, a Viking princess might. At any rate, the answer to Quin’s question was obvious. The Dread was not the sort to take bus trips around the countryside or to do a theater tour of Glasgow.
Quin moved closer to the Dread, holding out her left wrist, where the athame-shaped scar showed clearly on her pale skin.
“You can see that I am a sworn Seeker.”
The Dread’s eyes swept over her wrist without stopping, then returned to the deer. When she spoke, there was a hint of surprise in her voice.
“You do not need to show me your mark. I am the one who gave it to you.”
“Right,” Quin said, remembering this only now and feeling like an idiot. “You gave me this mark. In the forest. You watched me take my oath.”
“I did,” the Young Dread agreed.
“Whatever I ask, you must answer me, isn’t that right?” She remembered someone telling her that. John. John had told her, in the barn above the cliff.
“No,” the girl replied. “That is a courtesy among Seekers. Another Seeker must answer your questions. Your father, for instance. We Dreads have our own knowledge.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure whether she had once known this or not. It didn’t feel as though she had. The Seekers and the Dreads, with two separate pools of knowledge. What did that mean exactly?
The Dread was quiet for a while as she began gutting the deer. Eventually she said, “You may ask me a question. It might be I will answer.”
Quin thought about what she should ask. What did she want to know? The answer was: everything. If she didn’t wish to be a pawn, she must learn all she could. But one thing above all: “Is the athame with the fox carved into it the only one left?”
The Dread’s head swiveled around to stare into Quin’s eyes. This was uncomfortable—like being stared at by a tiger—but Quin resisted the urge to move back to safety.
“Do you have this athame in your possession?” the girl asked.
Quin did not answer.
“Who is your master, young Seeker?”
“I—I have no master.” The words came out more confidently than Quin felt, but she meant what she said. “I am my own master now.”
Perhaps she imagined it, but this seemed to please the Young Dread.
“No,” the Dread said, “the athame with the fox is not the only one.”
The deer was gutted, and the Dread was slicing the meat into cuts for cooking.
“How many are there?” Quin pressed.
“I cannot answer that, because I do not know.” She was quiet again as she took logs from a stack of chopped wood and began to build a fire. “I have seen three in recent years,” the Dread continued when the fire had sparked to life. “One was destroyed here—it was marked with an eagle.”
Another memory: The eagle was the symbol of Shinobu’s family. They’d had an athame, and it had been destroyed.
The fire was soon crackling, its heat causing Quin to notice how cold she’d been since arriving on the estate. The Dread brought out a metal grill, which she set over the flames, then laid slices of venison across it.
“Who has the other one?” Quin asked.
“The other athame is the athame of the Dreads.”
“The athame of the Dreads,” Quin repeated softly. Of course the Dreads would have an athame. “My family symbol is the ram. Why doesn’t our athame bear that symbol?”
There was a long moment of quiet before the Young Dread replied, “That is not a question for me.”
The girl’s voice didn’t invite argument. Quin tried another tack: “You said three athames ‘in recent years.’ Were there others?”
“I have answered a question,” the girl said, as though that ended the matter. She settled into stillness, staring into the fire.
Quin fell silent as well, and soon the aroma of the cooking venison took up most of her attention. A few minutes later, when the deer meat was pulled from the grill, they both ate. And ate. Quin couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a meal, and she burned her mouth in her haste to consume her portion. Grease from the animal dripped down her fingers, making her wish desperately for water and soap, but this didn’t stop her from gorging. She wiped her greasy hands on her jeans and found it didn’t bother her as much as she expected.
Finally, dirty and full, she studied the Young Dread’s face and ventured another question.
“Was there ever a noble purpose for us?” she asked the girl. “I thought as a child—the stories of Seekers helping the world, ‘evildoers beware,’ ‘tyrants beware’… Was it always lies?”
The Dread was silent for a long while—so long that Quin thought she’d decided not to answer. At last, however, the girl began to speak.
“We Dreads exist to ensure the three laws are followed. Do you know the three laws?”
Quin hesitated, waiting to see if a memory would appear, but none did.
“I don’t think I do.”
“Young Seeker, these are our sacred laws. Your father should have taught them to you before all else.”
“There are many things Briac should have done that he did not,” Quin answered quietly.
“That is so,” the Dread agreed. “The three laws should rightfully be recited before you take your oath, but Briac Kincaid omitted them, and the Middle Dread made no complaint. Very well. In truth he is not the first to omit them.” She paused, as though her own words disturbed her. “The laws are simple,” she continued, “but when broken are to be punished with death. First law: a Seeker is forbidden to take another family’s athame. Second law: a Seeker is forbidden to kill another Seeker save in self-defense. Third law: a Seeker is forbidden to harm humankind.”
“But we—” Quin began.
“You have broken at least one of these laws, have you not? Perhaps many times,” the Dread said. Then she continued, her words now measured as carefully as a medieval merchant might count out gold coins across a countertop: “It was not always so. Our laws were sacred once. Over time, shadows creep in. What was clear becomes muddy.” Quin could see the firelight reflected in the girl’s eyes. She was lost in the past. “Families intermarry. How can we Dreads know who rightfully owns an athame? There might be many with a valid claim. A Seeker kills another Seeker but has proof the other was a danger, or would become a danger. How shall we Dreads judge this? Was it self-defense, or was it murder? And humankind—it is very easy to claim that by harming some, you have saved many others. This is what every Seeker asserts when he damages humankind—‘I did it for the greater good. It was necessary, I swear it.’ ”
“Who decides, then?” Quin asked quietly. “Who decides if the laws have been broken?”
“When my master is resting, as he has been for so long, the Middle Dread decides,” the Young continued. “The Middle Dread decides with judgment that is unreliable. He chooses not who is right or wrong but whom he favors, whom he wishes to have power. Lately he has favored your father. And before that, others like him.”
“Then … your laws are worthless,” Quin said.
“In my master’s hands, the laws had great worth. He can look at a Seeker and see within the man. I have watched him do this. But the laws are worthless in the hands of the Middle Dread. That is true. And by his judgment, we destroy Seekers, and the families of Seekers, or keep them alive. It is why we are known as Dreads.”
There was another silence, but eventually the girl continued. “You ask me, was it always lies? I have seen it both ways. There have been true Seekers. Honorable men and women. For centuries they fought unjust and cruel men and they helped those who were good. The stories you heard as a child are true.”
Quin felt a flicker of happiness, but she knew the Young Dread was not finished.
“But there have been others,” the Dread went on, “who used their athames to seek nothing but wealth or power. They have done shameful things. Simply because they saw some personal benefit in it.”
“Like Briac,” Quin whispered.
“And like many before him. But Briac may be the worst.”
They were both quiet for a long while then, until the Young Dread wiped her hands on a rag and looked up, fixing Quin with a thousand-year stare. When she spoke again, she seemed uneasy about the topic.
“You have loved the other apprentice.”
Quin was embarrassed. Only a short time ago, she’d let John carry her up to her room on the Bridge. She’d put her arms around him and pulled him close.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Do you still love him?” the Dread asked her.
She wanted very much to say no. After all, John had lain in bed next to her, had kissed her, and then he’d stood there as those men had beat her. And yet, some part of her understood his desperation. Eventually she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what I feel.”
The Dread turned her eyes away, and Quin thought she could see confusion in the girl’s face. It was an emotion that did not fit well on one so self-possessed.
“Why do you ask about him?” Quin asked her. “Do you know him—more than just seeing him when we trained on the estate?”
“I do not know him,” the Young Dread said firmly. “But we have spoken. And I wonder—I wonder what kind of person he is.”
Quin tossed a twig into the fire, trying to figure out how to answer that question. “When I’m with him,” she said after a while, “I can feel that he loves me. I see it in his eyes.” She paused, watching the twig burn up in the flames. “But now I know he wants an athame more than he wants me, more than he wants anything else.” She paused again, then added, her voice low and serious, “He came after us that night, here on the estate, for revenge. What would he do if he got an athame? It wouldn’t be good. How could it be good?”
The Dread was looking into the fire once more. It was impossible to read the girl, but Quin sensed she was troubled.
Then slowly the Dread said, “I have seen him.”
Something in the way she said it did not fit.
“Do you mean recently?”
The girl nodded.
Quin’s stomach experienced a falling sensation, like she’d unwittingly stepped into an airlift that had dropped her down two stories.
“Where?” Quin asked. “Here?”
The Dread did not answer.
Quin was on her feet. She found herself backing away from the girl. Was she helping John? When had they spoken? Did this mean he would be after Quin again?
The Young Dread remained seated by the fire, her eyes on her hands. Looking around the room, Quin felt her attention caught by something that didn’t belong. She allowed her eyes to travel slowly across all the walls, searching. There was something on the shelf along the back wall. There. An electric cord.
It was surprising that there was electricity on the estate at all—though the workshop was almost untouched, so perhaps that made sense. It was more surprising for the Young Dread to be in possession of anything requiring electricity. Why would the girl have such a thing?
Quin walked toward that cord, noting that the Dread turned her head to watch but didn’t rise from her seat by the fire. Quin followed the cord along the shelf to a pile of rags. She slid her hands under the rags and pulled out …
A mobile phone.
Its screen was awake, and there were words printed across it: Message Sent. The time stamp was from an hour ago, when Quin had first walked into the workshop. And further, Quin was now looking at the date. She’d lost nearly two days when she went There.
The Dread was observing her from across the room. The girl’s face was motionless, but Quin thought she now detected shame in the Dread’s features.
“John gave you this phone? You’ve told him I’m here?” It was not so much a question as a statement. “You were stalling me.”
The girl nodded slowly, like a judge confirming a death sentence.
“Why—why would you do that? He hasn’t even taken his oath.” She was trying to calculate where in the world John had been an hour ago and how long it would take him, from that hypothetical location, to reach the estate.
“There was an injustice,” the Young Dread said, as though this would explain her actions.
“Isn’t this unjust?” Quin asked. “I am a sworn Seeker. I only wanted time to remember, to decide what to do.”
“I … I wanted …” the Dread began again. “I wanted to make up for things that were done. My master would know how to set things to rights. My master would have stopped Briac. But I … I am torn.”
“Briac,” Quin said, remembering that her father was lying in a clearing in the forest. “Right. I’ll take care of that now. Before I have yet another person after me.”
She turned to leave the workshop but had gone only a few steps when she made a new mental connection. She was angry, but she was finding it difficult to direct her anger at the Young Dread. Quin too had been torn about helping John. “Your master,” she said, turning back. “Describe him.”
The Young Dread began to do so, but before she had put two sentences together, Quin was running out of the workshop, calling back over her shoulder, “Come with me!”
The sun was fully up in the sky as the three men came into view. They still lay in the clearing near the standing stone, their arms and legs at odd angles. But Quin could tell immediately that something had changed. Her father’s limbs appeared to have settled, as though his muscles were gradually growing softer.
And the men were breathing. Their chests were expanding and contracting so gradually, it was almost impossible to spot the movement, yet it was there, changing their appearance from statues to living creatures. Something besides their chests was moving as well: blood was trickling from their wounds.
The Young Dread let out a gasp when she caught sight of the old man with the beard. This man was moving the least—perhaps he had been There the longest. In a moment, the Young was kneeling at his side, holding his head very carefully in her hands. The girl put an ear to his mouth, listening for breath. She spoke softly to him in a language that sounded something like English. Then she shook his chest and spoke to him again, more firmly.
Quin drew her whipsword, knelt over Briac, lifted her arm. It was time to make good on her promise. If Briac woke up, he would remind her of things she did not wish to remember, would force her to do things she did not wish to do, and Quin didn’t think she could stand up to him. She’d never been able to stand up to him. She must make an end of it now.
Briac blinked.
It was a slow motion. His eyelids traveled downward a tiny bit at a time, until his eyes were closed, and then they performed the same motion in reverse. His gaze turned very, very slowly, until he was looking up at her.
Now! Quin told herself. Now, or you’ll never do it!
She struck down with her blade. Briac’s half-frozen arms came to life on reflex. His right hand hit her whipsword away; his left grabbed her neck. Then he was perfectly still again, his hands frozen in their new positions. Danger had jolted him back into Quin’s time stream, but only for a moment. She pushed his arms away from her and lifted the whipsword again.
“Quin!”
Her head snapped up at her name. John stood at the edge of the clearing, two other men spread out nearby. She recognized one of them from the Bridge. All three had guns pointed directly at her.
“Please, Quin,” John said. “Please put your sword down.”
