The Falcon in the Barn (Book 4 Forest at the Edge series) Read online

Perrin stared out the northeast window of his private office in the tower and came to some conclusions.

  The problem with Shem, Mahrree, Jaytsy, Peto, the fort—with everybody, really—was that they couldn’t see.

  But Perrin could.

  He could see them in the shadows, staring from the trees, going for cover behind a door, under a desk, into a shop, through a barn. . .

  Shem said his mind was confusing him.

  Mahrree said it was nightmares.

  His children said nothing.

  But he knew the truth: he was surrounded by Guarders, masquerading as cats.

  Not literal cats—it wasn’t as if he was insane—but citizens looked at him, then looked again. Some were new who claimed they were from the ruined village of Moorland. Others said they were visiting relatives to help with rebuilding, or on their way to somewhere else, although Edge wasn’t on the way to anywhere “else.”

  He’d spin around, and there they’d go—ducking behind a building or tree, and when he chased after them, they were already gone.

  He changed his routines, patrolling different roads in patterns he never used before. And he stared into the eyes of those cats—those collaborators who Qayin Thorne had mentioned to Shem when he thought Perrin was dazed and presumably deaf from grief in the carriage—sent to the barn at Edge to keep an eye on the trapped and wounded falcon named Perrin Shin.

  And someday, his family would believe him about the cats, if they weren’t already dead.

  Colonel Perrin Shin was the only one who knew the whole truth. How could a man sleep with that knowledge?

  Today out of the command office window and he observed another pair of cats setting up across the road from his fort taking over the old catapult fields. The abandoned farmhouse was being cleaned up, having been claimed by a couple around his age who waved pleasantly as he stalked by that morning.

  He pulled over his spyglass and focused on the woman hauling crates into the house. Then he pivoted the shaft to get a closer look at the man tying a cow to a tree next to the barn that looked as if it could come down at any moment. Perrin didn’t feel even the smallest bit of guilt for watching the man scratch himself in a less-than-suitable place, sure that no one could see him. The spyglass was, after all, meant to spy on Guarders.

  After an hour Perrin took a quick walk over to the run-down house, the dusty windows already wiped clean, and the sounds of scrubbing coming from the kitchen. He noticed that at the old barn the man was hammering a board against a leaning door frame.

  Perrin straightened his jacket and marched over to him. Moments before Perrin reached him, the farmer turned around. He blinked rapidly to see Perrin continue his stride and stop only about a foot in front of him.

  “You’re the colonel, aren’t you?” the man said, taking a short step backward and almost into his barn.

  “I am,” Perrin said coldly. “And why are you here?”

  The man blinked at him again, nervously. He was of average height, average weight, brown hair going gray at the temples, and light brown eyes. Nothing remarkable, nothing distinguishable. Exceptionally average, so as to not to be memorable in any way.

  Exactly the kind of man Perrin would have chosen for the task.

  “I, I, I, I . . .” the man stammered, “I . . . and my wife, of course, we’re from Moorland. Lost our home and my mother in the land tremor, and heard there were possibilities here. Cambozola Briter, sir,” and he held out his hand to shake Perrin’s.

  Perrin slowly raised his hand and took Briter’s, squeezing it until he heard something pop. The man gasped slightly and Perrin released his hand.

  “Bit of a mouthful, the first name there, isn’t it?” Briter said, trying to sound light-hearted but a trembling undertone gave him away. He shoved his hand into the safety of his trousers’ pocket. “I was named after four different ancestors,” he gabbled. “You can shorten it, though. You can call me Cambo, or Zola, or Bozola, and even in school I was called Bozo. So sir, you may call me—”

  Perrin focused his glare. “Mr. Briter will suffice.”

  Cambozola Briter swallowed hard. “I, I, I spoke to your master sergeant some days ago. Said soldiers planted this field, but it needed to be taken care of,” he rushed. “My wife is an excellent gardener, sir, I’m a fair cheese maker, we’ve got chickens and plans to buy more cows. The master sergeant said we could provide food to the fort in lieu of payment for the land. We’ve got some builders lined up to shore up the barn. He, I mean that sergeant, had us a sign a paper and everything.”

  Perrin just nodded once. “Yes,” he said tonelessly. “Sergeant Zenos told me. I will personally review the document. How long did you live in Moorland?”

  Briter was beginning to sweat, and not, Perrin was sure, because it was hot Weeding Day. No matter how well-trained the spy, it was a rare man that could withstand a prolonged Shin glare. “Most of my life, sir. My family came from Sands, but I’ve always preferred small villages, away from all the bustle. Would never want to be in Idumea, sir! And may I say, sir, sorry about your parents?”

  Perrin nodded again, but doubted this cat was anything but sorry; only surprised that Perrin was already on to him.

  He looked over at the house. “Is that your wife cleaning in there?”

  Briter nodded and cleared his throat. “Yes. Sewzi. And we have a son, but he’s in Mountseen at the university.”

  “I want to meet your wife.”

  “Of course, of course!” Briter said, massaging his hand and rushing ahead of the colonel to his house. “Sewzi! Visitor from the fort, Sewzi!” he called in warning as he ran up the back steps, Perrin stalking after him.

  The back door opened and a pleasant enough looking woman opened the door. She glanced at Perrin and stopped. “Oh, my . . .”

  You better be afraid, Perrin thought, because I don’t fear you.

  “Mrs. Briter,” he said shortly. He shook her hand firmly but decided not to crush any of her knuckles.

  She seemed so innocent, so average. Maybe a little younger than Mahrree, with rough, dry hands. She might actually be a gardener, and wouldn’t that be the ideal place for her to spend all day watching the fort across the road, in the acres of her new farm. Her blue eyes looked as terrified as a rabbit’s.

  “Just so both of you know, I’m watching this land. Perfect view from my tower. I know everything that goes on here in Edge because nothing escapes my attention. Do you understand?”

  The Briters nodded vigorously.

  “Of course, sir. Of course!” Mr. Briter said too quickly. “And, and, and we appreciate that!”

  Perrin squinted at them. “I don’t know why you would. But I will find out.”

  He spun and headed back to the road, leaving the Briters with their mouths hanging open.

  Maybe this was why his marks in diplomacy in Command School were always his lowest. He didn’t see a need to coddle the truth, but to expose it and pierce it, writhing, to the ground.

  ---

  “How long did you say this has been going on?” Rector Yung asked Shem, who leaned against his mantelpiece watching the fire.

  “A few weeks,” Shem confessed. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it was trauma. I thought it was just a temporary disturbance, but . . . I suppose it’s the berry that broke the bear.”

  Yung nodded sadly and watched the flames as well. “We suspected and feared something like this could happen—”

  Shem shook his head. “But he’s so strong. I don’t understand.”

  Rector Yung put a hand on Shem’s arm. “It has nothing to do with strength. It’s happened before, with others. Sometimes a man just gets pushed too far. And when you look at his history, it’s rather inevitable. That Perrin’s lasted so long is remarkable.”

  Shem turned to him. “Wait a minute . . . that’s why they sent you, isn’t it? I thought it seemed odd you were willing to come back into service, but you knew this would happen, didn’t you?”
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  Yung shrugged. “Suspected, but not knew. With the others—”

  But Shem, furious that he’d been left in the dark, didn’t care about any others. He was supposed to be the one shedding light for everyone else. “So why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Shem,” Yung said patiently, “what else could we have done?”

  There was no answer for that. Bitterly, Shem turned back to the fire. “So what do we do now?”

  “We’re going to need help. I don’t work alone, nor is this a quick fix. Jothan just returned to the forest. We should tell him.”

  Shem closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “Do we have to let them know?”

  “While I’ve seen this before, I’d feel much more comfortable with some assistance. Jothan’s the perfect man.” Yung paused. “Shem, why don’t want them to know?”

  It took him a minute to find the words. “I’m worried of what they’ll think of him.”

  “What they’ll think of him? They’ll think he needs help.”

  “Are you sure?” Shem’s voice was so tight, so tense, that Yung turned the brawny soldier to face him.

  “What’s this really about, Shem?”

  His chin trembled as he stammered, “What if . . . what if they decide he’s . . . not the one? What if they . . . change their mind or something?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know!” Shem nearly wailed, sitting down in Rector Yung’s only chair, a stuffed piece that was likely twice as big when it was first made decades ago, but now was so worn that it was flat and barely big enough to contain the master sergeant. He held his face in his hands, tears leaking between his fingers.

  Astonished, Yung squatted in front of him and waited.

  “He can do it, Rector. He can do it all. Or rather, he could have. But now? It’s all been too much, I feel it. If Jothan tells them—”

  “But Shem, nothing’s changed. Perrin’s still the one. Hifadhi believed it, and Gleace does too. And I’m more sure of it now than ever before. He’s going through this for a reason, Shem. There’s a purpose to the pain. There always is. Sometimes it takes us a lifetime to understand it, but eventually we’ll see and even be grateful.”

  Shem couldn’t look at him. “I can’t see that right now. I just don’t get it.”

  “You’re not required to ‘get it.’ You’re required to stand at his side; nothing more, nothing less,” the rector assured.

  The men sat in silence for a few minutes, listening only to the crackling of the fire.

  Yung watched the flames while waiting for Shem to come out of his brooding. Eventually he said, “How do they make steel for swords?”

  “I’m sorry, Yung, but I’m really not in the mood to give you a step-by-step description.”

  “They do it with fire, right?” Yung said. “Smelting iron, then heating it for a long time, and processing it in some way, right?”

  Shem sighed. “That’s the over-simplified version, but yes.”

  “Why? Why so much heat and time?”

  Shem sighed louder, as if to emphasize that he really didn’t want to discuss this. “Because iron is brittle and useless as a weapon. But through sloughing off the impurities, getting rid of the slag, and heating it correctly, it becomes a strong, stable piece of steel.”

  “It does,” Yung agreed. “And only by such a grueling refining process does it become something as fine as what you wear on your hip—a true piece of art and function, able to defend like nothing else in the world can.”

  Shem was crying again, but now for a different reason.

  Yung smiled that he ‘got it.’ Even as a boy, Shem had been so quick to understand. That was why he was chosen.

  “He’s going to make it, isn’t he?” Shem sniffled.

  “Oh, I believe he is. And when—not if, but when—he comes out of all this—”

  “He’ll be even more remarkable, won’t he?” Shem wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He’ll be everything we anticipated?”

  “He will, Shem. Now please tell Jothan. Get some more minds working on this besides just yours and mine. This is going to take some time, and we’ll need reinforcements. In the meantime, you can update me about his behavior and we can make some plans.”

  Shem exhaled. “Do you have any idea how many people I meet, and at different times, and in different places?”

  Yung chuckled. “No, actually I don’t. And I don’t envy your schedule. When, exactly, do you sleep?”

  “I’m not even sure myself,” he admitted. “But I’ll be here, as often as possible. Tell me one more time, please.” He gripped the old man’s shoulder. “He’s going to be great, isn’t he?”

  “He is, Shem. He is.”

  Grinning through his tears, Shem darted out of Yung’s back door and into the night.

  The rector watched him slip into the shadows and smiled. “He’s going to be just as great as you, Shem Zenos.”

  ---

  The next morning Shem took the long way back to the fort. Exceptionally long, considering that he was heading south to the market before he went north to the fort. He slipped into the front doors of the Inn at Edge, nodded politely to a couple of patrons up for an early breakfast, and made his way to the kitchen door.

  He pushed it open and smiled dimly at Mrs. Peto.

  Mrs. Peto looked up from the dough she was kneading and sent back a similarly dismal smile. “Good morning, Master Sergeant. Or maybe it isn’t?”

  Shem shook his head slightly. “Just wanted to let you know.” That was all he needed to say to convey that Mahrree would likely be by later.

  She nodded and said, without silly preambles, “Stay. I just pulled out some hot rolls. Have some before you go on duty.”

  “Didn’t bring any silver with me today, but thank you.”

  “No silver needed,” she said. “My treat.”

  Shem knew what society expected next. They should banter back and forth about how that was Too kind, but no, and Oh, but I insist, and Oh, but I couldn’t—

  But he didn’t have anything left for society’s games, and neither did she. Mrs. Peto was weary, trying with Shem to support a family they didn’t know how to help. But Mrs. Peto had grown sharper in the past few moons, and was so focused she hadn’t got Shem’s ranking wrong in weeks.

  “Thanks,” he said simply and took the plate she offered him, with four rolls still steaming.

  He was grateful the eating room was mostly empty, and that the sun’s light hadn’t reached it yet. The muted silence was restful as he bit into warm roll, honey glaze sliding down his fingers—

  “Well, hello my old friend!”

  Shem stopped chewing and looked up at the creature that emitted the crooning noise which destroyed his peace.

  “Sareen. What a surprise.” He tried to sound pleasant, but it was as useless as being happy about discovering a hole in your tooth. “So you made it back to Edge after all, I see.”

  Again he knew what society expected, but he was depleted of energy and even good manners. The best he could manage was to gesture to the chair across from him at the table.

  Sareen either wasn’t too discerning, or she was simply that desperate that she cheerfully accepted his halfhearted invitation and sat down with a variety of tinkling noises. The multiple chains on her arm clanked together like an accident at the blacksmith’s. She leaned forward adoringly, chin resting on her hands in an odd manner which she likely thought was alluring, and fluttered her eyelashes as if something was stuck on them.

  Shem struggled with a yawn. It was too early in the morning.

  Sareen sat up, insulted. “I was going to say you’re looking quite well, but you’re a bit baggy under the eyes. Maybe even have a black eye forming . . . have an eventful night?” Something crisp in her tone confused Shem. There were likely a multitude of meanings to her question, but he didn’t bother to work them out.

  “A bit,” he said as he shoved the last of his roll into his mouth.
“Always something going on around here,” he garbled.

  “Well, you still look quite . . .” she tilted her head in evaluation, “extraordinary. Always were a fine example of manhood and soldiering.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively, but Shem didn’t know what she was suggesting, especially at this hour.

  Sareen hadn’t changed much over the years. She was the first and only girl he’d ever kissed—not by his choice, but as a requirement of the first Strongest Soldier Race. Yet he was fairly confident he wasn’t the only male she’d ever kissed. Women like her didn’t realize that stories got around about women like her. Sareen was as attractive to Shem now as she had been a dozen years ago, which meant a mud puddle was more enticing, and likely cleaner.

  She was waiting for his compliment, but all he noticed was that she’d put on some weight over the years, making her rounder and softer, but he didn’t know how to politely say, “And you’ve become fat, but it works for you.” Then again, it did make her abundant cleavage rather unappetizing. Her dark hair was a mass of something on her head, probably intended to look sultry, but was sloppy, and her eyes were clouded.

  All he could come up with was, “And you look well too.”

  Realizing that was all she was going to get, she said, “I’m surprised the village looks so good. I wasn’t going to come back until I heard the reports that Edge was rebuilding quite nicely.”

  “Soldiers are doing most of the work,” Shem said dismissively. He picked up his second roll.

  “They’re also rebuilding some of the shops,” Sareen mentioned. “I was thinking of buying a small one to sell books in.”

  Shem shrugged and chewed. “Already have a bookseller. One of the few shops that survived.”

  Sareen rolled her eyes dramatically as if she were seventeen again. “But what he sells is so dull. There are new books, you know. Exciting ones. All about women and men and . . . relationships.”

  Shem noticed something happening around his leg, as if a cat was marking him on the outside of his boot.

  He glanced down to notice Sareen’s bare foot rubbing his leg. Since that was the oddest thing he’d ever experienced, he crossed his legs, removing his calf from her easy access.

  Sareen smiled in what she likely thought was a coy manner and repositioned herself on her chair.

  Maybe she had an itchy foot, Shem considered, that she felt the need to scratch it now on his thigh.

  “What makes you think people will be interested in these relationship books?” Shem asked, only to be polite.

  “Oh, they’re interesting, all right,” Sareen said with a lusty chuckle. That’s when Shem noticed her perpetual giggle was gone, replaced by something deeper and creepier. “So what’s new in Edge? Besides, everything, I mean.”

  “Uh,” Shem tried to think of something, “Rigoff and Karna were transferred to Rivers—”

  “I know all of that,” she said, suddenly bored. She slid her foot from his thigh. “I visited Teeria after they moved. Rivers’ captain lives in something grander than Edge’s colonel. And as for Karna’s intended? Miss Robbing is far too serious, but I guess if he likes her,” she curled her lip. “Wedding’s supposed to be next week sometime. They’re keeping it small.”

  “I know,” Shem said, playing with some crumbs. “Brillen wrote to all of us. Marriage will be good for him.”

  “Be good for you, too,” Sareen murmured. When Shem only looked at the table again, she continued. “Teeria said there have been stories,” she whispered the last word.

  “About what?” Shem tore apart a roll.

  “About Colonel Shin,” Sareen leaned forward, her cleavage nearly crushing Shem’s remaining rolls.

  He slid them to safety.

  “Has he really lost his mind?”

  Every muscle in Shem clenched. “No! Who’s saying such things?”

  She sat back and folded her arms in something like tinkling triumph. “Shem, people talk. When there’s no entertainment, people go looking for it. The rumors have traveled all the way down into Rivers. Quake’s probably heard a few stories about the sad and terrifying—or should I say terrified?—commander of Edge.”

  Shem’s left hand bunched up as if a long knife were in it. “Well people are wrong!” he hissed. “He’s been dealing with more than anyone can imagine. Can’t he grieve in privacy? Can’t he live his life without everyone peeking through the windows to gawk? That he continues is astonishing. What his family endures is commendable. How Mahrree copes is nothing short of miraculous! Tell people that, if they want something to talk about!”

  An odd smile formed on Sareen’s face. “Well, then. I will. So tell me, Shem Zenos—what’s going on with you? When I wrote to Miss Mahrree last season she said you were still devoted to soldiering. Still looking for the right woman to be devoted to?”

  Shem sighed, relieved for the change of topic, even an uncomfortable one. “I don’t know. Just not the right time, yet.”

  She scoffed. “You’re in your thirties, Shem! So am I. So when will the ‘right time’ be?”

  He shoved the rest of the second roll into his mouth and wrapped the remaining two in his handkerchief. “I need to be going to the fort, Sareen. I wish you well with your bookshop.”

  He made to leave, but Sareen grabbed his arm. “Can I see you again?”

  He shrugged, gently pulling out of her grip as he stood. “I’m on double duty frequently, what with the rebuilding and everything—”

  “So if I come by the fort?”

  “I really can’t say, Sareen. Hard to find me sometimes—”

  He headed for the door but heard, “What if I go to the Shins? I’ll still find you there, won’t I?” Her tone turned icy. “People talk, Zenos, and they’re wondering if the death of his parents is the only thing filling Perrin Shin with anxiety.”

  It was the insinuation that stopped him in his tracks and made the back of his neck tingle, as if her glare were singeing him.

  So that was the kind of relationship books she was reading—the kind that led her to assume everyone else lives as poorly as in the stories.

  He refused to acknowledge her accusation, but to the kitchen he called out, “Thank you for the rolls, Mrs. Peto,” as he left.