CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The moon was framed elegantly by the topmost boughs of the Ingwald forest. Celia saw it, and everything else for miles around. All was a sea of leaves and branches in the sky. She was a little unsteady of her balance, but Richter casually strode past her with his hands in his pockets, walking along narrow branches with the same ease that she might walk down a village road. Moving automatically to keep abreast with him, Celia moved, albeit far more cautiously. "Do you like the view up here?" Richter asked.

"Oh, yes," Celia said, looking up at the moon again. Growing up in the Water Tribe, she had always been taught reverence for the moon, greatest of all hydromancers. Now, up here in the canopy, she felt closer to it than she had ever been. Richter nodded appreciatively and gnawed at the end of his grass. He looked out over the forest as a king might survey his domain.

"I come up here to think," he said. "I care about the Freedom Fighters. They're like my new family. But sometimes, I can use a break." Celia's ears hadn't missed what Richter's casual tone had tried to gloss over.

"New family?" Richter nodded.

"My entire village was destroyed in a Dominion raid," he said, and there was an odd emptiness to his tone. "My family, my friends…everyone I knew. But I survived, and I decided that fate had let me live. I didn't want to waste the precious gift I'd been given, so since then I've dedicated my entire life to making things difficult for the Dominion troops stationed here." His voice seemed to be picking up intensity now, like a rock rolling down a hill and slowly getting faster. "We steal supplies and give them to villagers, we sabotage communications…we do anything we can to make them pay for this land." Celia found herself spellbound.

"What about the other Freedom Fighters?" she asked. "Are they orphans, like you?"

"Some," Richter said. "We think Longshot really suffered, I've known him for over a year and I've never heard him say a single word. We picked up Pipsqueak and the Duke while they were rummaging through Dominion trash for food, and the others just sort of came along. Like Otto. We met him through chance, but we lucked out with him." His eyes got a strange, far away look in them, as though he were remembering something distantly. "He's from a village a day's march from the forest, out in the countryside. There, the Dominion has banned all geomancy. His father and his older brother tried to resist, but they were taken away and imprisoned somewhere. And he…well, he ended up with us." Celia felt so moved by all of this. She could completely understand the plight shared by these lost souls, these Freedom Fighters.

"I lost my village to the Dominion, too. It was where they discovered Brishen, and it's become occupied." She felt like her story sounded somewhat lame next to the collective weight of tragedy being carried around by the Freedom Fighters, but for some reason the look in Richter's eyes and the tone of his voice made it seem like hers was the most important one of all.

"The thing is, though," Richter said, "is that Otto represents something. His father and his brother, and countless other geomancers, are still alive and still resisting, even in prison, I know it. They represent something, and so does your friend, Brishen. They represent hope for us." The words hung on the silent night air for a long while, and the two of them just stood there, bathed in moonlight as the breeze rustled across the top of the canopy, sending leaves rippling like water in a pond.

Jack woke the next morning to find himself sprawled on a wooden platform, the sun shining directly into his eyes. He squinted, rolled into some shade, and slowly his mind started working again. He remembered the celebration from the previous night. Or at least, he remembered that there had been a celebration last night. The harder he thought, he began to realize that he barely remembered anything at all. It was then that he realized that he had a throbbing headache. He massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. Had he really had that much wine to drink? From the headache that he had, there was no way it could just be a hangover.

Around him, people were bustling about, working on whatever had been charged as their task of the day. Some people were lugging things from one platform to the next across the rickety rope bridges, while others were climbing down to the forest floor, doubtlessly to forage for food or scout for Dominion activity. He heard footsteps behind him, and craned his neck to look so quickly that it caused his aching head to spin. He groaned and rubbed his head again, and Otto laughed. "You had quite a night, Jack," he said with a bemused tone. "I was just coming to see if you'd woken yet."

"Yes, I'm awake," Jack said groggily. He groaned softly. "What happened last night?"

"You mean you don't remember?" Otto asked. "You and Pipsqueak were having a berry-eating contest—"

"I remember that," Jack said slowly.

"—And we ran out of berries, so the winner was inconclusive. So, the two of you got to drinking wine instead. We ran out of that, as well, and the two of you were frustrated. So, finally, you settled on a head-butting contest." Well, Jack thought, that explained why his head was hurting so much more than just a normal hangover.

"And who won?" Jack was almost afraid to know the answer.

"You," Otto said, to his great surprise. "The two of you butted heads for a solid three minutes before Pipsqueak went down. He owes you a ducat for it, so don't forget to collect that from him." Jack nodded dumbly, still disoriented and confused. Slowly, he began to clumsily lurch to his feet.

"Do you have anything to eat around here?"

Brishen was eating breakfast in one of the upper huts and carrying on a lively conversation with Smellerbee and the Duke when Jack staggered in, half-leaning on a chuckling Otto. "Look who's up," he said, and there was applause from around the room, and wearily, Jack waved to salute his adoring public. Then he sat himself down and Otto pushed a plate of meat and bread towards him. Hungrily, Jack began to eat his fill.

"Where did you get this?" he asked between mouthfuls. "It's not bad." Otto grinned.

"Usually, things like that get lost in the woods if they're on their way to the Dominion forces," he said.

"Well, if this is what you do, count me in on the next job," Jack said with a small laugh as he went back to wolfing down his food. But Otto seemed to be intrigued at the thought. His brow furrowed thoughtfully for a moment, and then he settled himself down and began to tuck into his own meal.

"I'll talk to Richter about it," he said mildly.

Celia awoke in a hut with the sunlight filtering through its windows. She looked around. It was a little larger than most of the other huts she had seen, and it seemed fairly well-kept. The bed she slept in was spacious, its simple mattress filled with straw. Not the most comfortable pallet, but it was better than her bedroll. Slowly, she sat up and saw that her traveling clothes had been strewn across a chair, as well as her waterskin. Yawning slightly, she rose and crossed to the chair to start getting dressed. As she did, she noticed that there were an awful lot of knives lying around this hut.

Then, she stopped cold.

Her blood froze, but her mind went into a blind, speeding panic. She was in Richter's hut. She had fallen asleep in Richter's bed. She was undressed. Things were not looking good. She and Richter had spent some time up in the treetops, and then they had returned to the party down below, where the two of them had shared a stolen bottle of firebrandy. From there, everything was very hazy. She threw on her clothes quickly and then rushed out of the hut. In doing so, she almost bumped headlong into Richter himself.

"Oh, good morning, Celia," Richter said mildly. Celia felt herself flush.

"Richter," she asked a little brusquely, "what—"

"You had a little too much to drink," Richter said reassuringly. "I tucked you in, and I spent the night at Otto's hut." It took a moment for his words to hit Celia full-on, but when they did she felt a warm wave of relief wash over her. Inwardly, she breathed a deep sigh. She hadn't done anything she would have regretted. And Richter had made sure of it. How chivalrous of him, she thought. "There's breakfast on the next level down," Richter continued. "Go and get yourself something to eat. I'm going to take a few of the Freedom Fighters out on a job, but we should be back by mid-afternoon. I'll see you then, all right?" Celia nodded, and Richter started walking off. He waved to her and cast her one last look from over his shoulder. "See you soon." And with that suave remark, he was off, with her wistfully watching his retreating back.

Jack's head still hurt when he was dragged off along with Otto, Richter, and Smellerbee to take part in the days' work. But he was man enough to deal with it, he told himself, and his warrior's instincts had him spoiling for a fight with the Dominion. The thought of resisting them right under their noses, making life miserable for them appealed to him deeply, much more than the life of a fugitive ever had. He and Richter were up in a tree along the side of the road, while Otto and Smellerbee had taken up flanking positions on the ground. Richter had promised that it would be a fairly simple smash and grab. They had been waiting up there for a few minutes in careful silence, waiting for the target that Richter was so sure was on his way. Bored of the silence, Jack risked opening his mouth to speak.

"So, what are we on the lookout for, exactly?"

"A very dangerous man, one who needs to be removed from the board permanently. He poses a grave threat to everyone in the area," Richter said solemnly. Jack nodded grimly, not sure of what else to say. He didn't have to say anything else, though; Richter held up a hand as though to pre-emptively silence him, and whispered, "I think he's coming now. Stay ready." Jack's keen archer eyes cast their gaze down the path, and just around the bend he saw a long shadow moving, and growing ever closer. His grip on the hilt of his dirk tightened, and he started to slide it from its scabbard. The figure rounded the corner, and Jack rested his gaze upon…

An old man. He was hunched over and leaning heavily on his knotted walking stick. He moved with a shuffling gait, and even from up in Jack's perch it looked as though each step was requiring a Herculean effort from the man. Nonetheless, he was clad in the deep reds and golds that marked him out as a citizen of the Dominion. Jack just stared. Could this old man truly be as dangerous as Richter was convinced he was?

The man was directly beneath them now. "Jump," Richter said softly. Jack blanched.

"No way!" he said, gesturing to indicate the long fall to the ground.

"Trust me," Richter said, and without another word he leapt from his bough to the ground. Jack bit his lip, and deciding that Richter had to know what he was doing, swallowed his caution and launched himself into the air. The ground came rushing to meet him, and he could feel it, this was his last moment…only for him to land on the ground and feel it soften at his touch, gently absorbing the impact of his landing. He realized with a start that Otto must have softened the ground for them, and gained a new appreciation for Richter's resourcefulness. Straightening up, he drew his dirk. The man turned around, surprised, and a spinning knife, expertly thrown by Richter, knocked his walking stick out from under him. The man immediately collapsed to the ground. Otto and Smellerbee emerged from the undergrowth, and the old man was surrounded. Slowly, he forced himself onto his knees and looked around wildly. Richter approached him.

"State your business, old man," he sneered, his voice the very icon of contempt. The man looked fearful. His voluminous white beard hid his chin, and it was shaking to his very tips. Richter's knife edge glinted menacingly.

"I'm just an old man," he said, his voice full of tremors of fear. "Just an old—"

"Liar!" Richter yelled out, and kicked the man in the ribs. He fell to the ground wheezing and clutching his midsection. Jack put a hand on Richter's shoulder.

"That's enough," Jack said firmly. "There's no need to do that." Richter tossed off his hand and made to kick the man again, but his foot stopped; a small column of earth had emerged from the dirt and blocked him. Otto held his hand out, and slowly approached. He crouched down, so as to be face-to-face with the old man. When he spoke, his tone was a good deal more gentle, though stern.

"Where would the Dominion house its war prisoners from this area?" he asked. The old man looked up. This captor seemed more level-headed and wanted information. Surely, he would be more reasonable.

"Prison?" he said, his voice rasping. "There's one out at sea, not too far from here. They call it—"

"He's got a weapon!" Richter yelled suddenly. His knife flashed through the air so quickly that it seemed as if the knife hilt had just grown out of the back of the old man's head. He slumped forward, dead, and immediately Richter sprung on the body, removing his knife and inspecting the corpse. Otto's brow kneaded itself in anger.

"What did you do, Richter?!" he yelled out angrily. "He was about to tell me where I could find my father!"

"He had a weapon," Richter said defensively, cleaning bits of bone and brain off the tip of his knife. "He was trying to lure you in closer so he could kill you. I couldn't let that happen." Jack stopped to think for a moment. That didn't sound quite right.

"I didn't see any weapon," Jack said.

"Oh?" asked Richter. "Then what do you call this?" He dramatically produced from the fold of the dead man's robes an ornate and wickedly curved dagger, one that looked very dangerous, indeed. "Do you see the weapon now, Jack?" Jack couldn't deny that there was a weapon, but the man seemed genuinely harmless, not even able to stand up on his own. And he had been about to provide them with some useful information, no less. Richter was all ready walking past the body and heading for the trees again. "There'll be more people coming this route during the day," he said. "We need to set up the next one. Otto, clean everything up." With a few gestures and a stomp of his foot, the entire scene of the murder vanished into the earth, leaving it as pristine as if not a single foot had fallen upon it. Smellerbee started heading back to her hiding place, but before Jack and Otto took up their positions, they exchanged a meaningful glance.

Something was up about this Richter.

Brishen lay in the warm sun, curled on Appa's side. He had appreciated the hospitality the Freedom Fighters gave him, but there was nothing to him quite like the soft hide of his lifelong companion. To the soft rhythm of the bison's breathing and heartbeat, Brishen found himself slowly drifting off into a quiet afternoon nap, one of the most relaxed he'd had in a while. For some reason, being surrounded by the Freedom Fighters and the forest made him feel safe, and instead of the waking, shallow sleeps that he had had every night since his rescue from the ice, he found his consciousness buried deeper than it ever had been in his memory.

In the grey mists of his dreamtime, the first thing that Brishen noticed was the shadow in the distance. It was undoubtedly the outline of a man, though his appearance was shrouded by the roiling clouds of grey that surrounded them both. But despite the silhouette being of a man that Brishen knew he had never seen before, Brishen felt that this man in his dream was a familiar presence, like an old friend. He could see the figure looming larger as it approached him, and despite any fear he had in his dream, he stood his ground.

"Brishen," came a voice. It had a strange lilting and flickering quality to it, and like the silhouette seemed strangely familiar. It was not calling to him, nor was it threatening him. It was simply…addressing him. Brishen gazed up at the shrouded figure, and then twirled his hands about to summon a great gust of wind. To his great surpris, though, he found that his aeromancy seemed to be gone from him, and even though it was his own dream he suddenly felt quite helpless. He looked up, and for a brief moment he could see the face of the man.

He had a hooked nose, from behind which brown eyes stared down kindly. His mouth was ringed in a grey-and-white goatee, while his long white hair stretched down to his shoulders. He looked weathered and old, and yet the fire in his eyes betrayed to Brishen a certain ancient wisdom just beneath the surface. Brishen did not know how he knew, but by instinct, the name of the man formed on his lips.

"León."