“Our Chief Herder has spoken,” she said, “and this old one will listen. I shall watch you from here, as you say. However…” Her faint smile faded, and she hesitated. “Even if… even if you succeed, I can’t help but worry about what comes after that.”
“We shall consider that problem when we come to it,” said Yuma, trying not to think too deeply about Jesska’s ominous words.
“All right.”
Yuma let go of Jesska’s shoulders and tipped her hat. The only way down from where they were was the staircase winding around the Feast Hall. She had only taken her first step when Aidan followed behind her.
“The gates are open, but they will likely wait to attack at night.”
“I understand.”
“Garamund himself may try to fight that box—Fractica, I mean—but the others will charge this building.”
Yuma nodded. “Yes, they are sure to go after the Host. He’s the only one of us who has the slightest chance against the Grim King. But that is precisely why I opened the gates. If they can get here directly, hopefully there won’t be too many hurt along the way.”
If the Host’s enchantment had not been protecting the catacombs, the city would’ve become a pile of burning ruins at every whim of the Grim King. The Host was their only weapon against his full tyranny. At least until now. And Yuma had a plan.
“Aidan. There is still time before the sun sets. You must go now and gather the other herders.”
“Chief, I have… limitations as to how far I can go to defy the Grim King…” said Aidan, his words steeped in both fear and regret.
What did it mean, exactly, to have spent one’s childhood under the Grim King? To have been the only child to survive among a cohort gathered from across Merseh? Aidan had almost as many white hairs as black ones in his mustache now, but the memory of it still haunted him. Every morning, seeing his half-dead face in the mirror, he must remember his time with the Grim King.
Yuma patted his shoulder. “I think all of Danras feels the same as you do. After you have gathered the herders, come back here to protect Granny Jesska.”
“I am sorry, Chief Herder. I just cannot fight…him.” He bowed low.
“And watch us,” she said, cutting off his unnecessary apology. “Watch us fight.”
Aidan nodded, and averting his eyes from her, he quickly made his way down the stairs. Yuma followed him down until she stopped at the door leading to the Host’s chamber.
“We can’t turn back now,” she murmured.
She opened the door. Inside was a wide floor, upon which sat the Host, in completely black ceremonial robes. These robes were less elaborate than the ones adorned with feathers that he had worn during the herding, but they were more significant. The last time Yuma saw these robes was last spring. A child named Dalan had worn them, scared to death and standing by an altar, the robes laden with flowers from the grasslands. It was Dalan who had prostrated himself on the floor, but it was the Host who had risen, shaking off the flowers.
Bowing, Yuma spread her arms in the proper manner before him.
“Chief Herder.”
“Yes, Host.”
He gestured for her to approach. Yuma stepped forward, the heels of her boots knocking against the floor, echoing in the wide chamber.
“You are firm in your decision?” the Host asked.
She smiled brightly at him. When Lysandros smiled like this,Yuma always felt calmer. She hoped it would have the same effect on the Host, but he simply scoffed in the most unchildlike manner.
“And where on the steppe did you learn such a bewitching smile…”
Yuma could feel herself blush. The Host stood and picked up a long stick leaning unassumingly against the wall, its top end wrapped in leather. The Host held it out to Yuma, with both hands.
“This is the Spear of Hope, passed on from one Host to the next, for the last three hundred years. This spear was forged in starlight by Iorcan rhymesmiths, blessed by Lansisi life priests, and imbued by the Host with all the wishes of the steppe, to fight the Grim King. It was never used, because that rebellion was quelled before it even began. But the Hosts always knew that one day someone would rise up, though none of us knew it would be this day. This spear is now entrusted to you, as you have chosen to fight the Grim King.”
Yuma was familiar with the story of the Rebellion Undone, told everywhere in Merseh by parents to children in hushed voices. It was later in her life that she realized it was not just a story about a noble failure—it was also about how it could be tried again. She took the spear with both hands, and hitched it to her back carefully.
“Listen to me, Chief Herder. The song I am about to sing is especially dangerous. The underlings of the Grim King will swarm this very place. Are you prepared?”
Drawing from all her inner strength, she smiled once more.
