Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3), C.J. Aaron [book recommendations .TXT] 📗

from where it had been resting in the palms of his hands. He could see the stains of salty residue from the tears that had soaked his cheeks.

“Never give up hope, my friend,” Ryl proffered, his eyes blazed with the rage of an inferno. “Though it may be bleak, there is always hope. If there is one thing I've come to understand of the tributes, they are resilient beyond all bounds.”

A fleeting smile crossed Geshill's face only to be overpowered by the lingering melancholy.

“Hope? How can you see hope when the world is shrouded in black?” Geshill sighed.

“It is because I refuse to give in to the darkness,” Ryl stated emphatically. “I have seen the face of hopelessness firsthand, and I have prevailed.”

Geshill looked at Ryl and leaned his head slightly to the side. His eyes were wide with an unbridled curiosity.

“Who are you?” Geshill asked.

Ryl rose slowly to his feet, rolling back his shoulders as he stood tall. With both hands he reached up, carefully removing the hood that covered his head.

He watched the eyes of the farmer travel the length of his face, the confusion growing. Reaching his neck, the eyes stopped, widening as they studied the brands.

Geshill stood with a slow, purposeful motion. He pointed to the numbered brand on the right side of Ryl's neck, just below his ear.

“You're a tribute? But, how?” He gasped. “It's impossible. Your Harvest is this cycle. Only days away!”

Ryl smiled as he nodded his head.

“Aye, that is true and I intend to be there for it,” Ryl stated. “You see, my Harvest came a cycle early.”

Ryl witnessed the workings of Geshill's mind as it assembled the pieces that he'd come to understand. His eyes bulged as the connection was established.

“It’s ... It's you!” the farmer stumbled through his words. “But ... but, you're dead! Swallowed by the sea along with your sponsor’s frigate.”

“So I've been told,” Ryl said with a smile.

Chapter 10

The dawn brought with it grey skies and a cold mist that blanketed the land. Ryl pulled the hood of his borrowed cloak down, covering the grey of his phrenic cloak underneath. Strange as it still seemed, the sensation of having both his arms covered was foreign. It tugged at his mind as they plodded on toward the town ahead.

Aldren and Geshill rode in the lead. They’d taken one of the farmer’s wagons to restock on supplies as well as to enlist the services of his daughters. Ryl and Andr followed shortly behind, while the rest of their companions and the ailing tributes had remained hidden away in the stable at the farm.

Though he'd known the origin of the second wagon, Geshill had nearly toppled from his chair at the sight of the black wagon outside his door. The appearance of the wagon and the black cloaked riders from the darkness of the night was a menacing sign.

They'd placed the wagons back to back, their rear flaps held ajar. Though none of the tributes had awoken since Elias the previous day, they were beginning to see encouraging signs of life. On several occasions, arms had moved purposefully, heads had rolled from side to side, or bodies shifted. The movements, though slight and most likely still involuntary, were progress nonetheless.

The dismal grey sky above and the pervasive mist fought to unseat the optimism that surged through his veins. They moved in silence, turning west from the small road leading to Geshill's farm and entering the main road to Milstead. Hints of the village lurked in the distance like shadows in the bleak grey of the morning.

On both sides of the road, rocky, rolling hills and small copses of trees stretched out to the horizon. The terrain surrounding Milstead was elevated, with the village itself resting in the shallow depression of a valley. A narrow river, the tepid continuation of the one that ran alongside Serrate, lapped along the western border of the village.

Ryl was feeling especially anxious this morning. The risk of involving two extra individuals in their schemes was disconcerting. Geshill had assured them of their willingness to comply and of their silence. His daughters had grown up with daily reminders of their father’s hatred of the Ascertaining Decree and the Kingdom that had stolen their aunt from their lives. There was no amount of gold that could sway their opinion on the matter.

Ryl turned from his thoughts back to scanning the bleak, mist-soaked surroundings. He was unsurprised to see nothing of note. No signatures of tributes and, thankfully, no black stains of the Lei Guard. To his side, Andr's eyes made their continuous furtive sweep of the countryside.

There had been no sightings of the hunters throughout the night, though the threat of their appearance was genuine. Ryl subconsciously stretched a hand behind his back, letting the comforting feeling of the Leaves quiet his anxious mind.

Through the mist of the morning, the entranceway to Milstead materialized like the head of a tunnel choked with clouds. Ryl's eyes could barely penetrate the occluded air for much more than twenty meters. The swirling breeze constantly shifted the patchy cover, making details indistinct.

From the descriptions of the farmer and his brief, extended view from the overlook the previous evening, Ryl knew what to expect of the town. The main road entered through a once-ornately adorned gate, the likes of which would have made the artisans in Vim cringe. The vertical posts, fashioned in what looked like rusted attempts at wheat stalks, were nearly indecipherable. The faint words of Welcome to Milstead scrawled into the thin metal plaques that stretched above the road were nearly illegible.

A low stone wall surrounded the city. At a little more than a meter in height, it stood as a poor bastion should the town ever require a substantial defense. At opposite corners of the main street, two inns stood, their vastly differing facades alluding to their calling.

To the right, the poorly maintained front steps of the inn led upward to a narrow porch