Elyon (14 page)
Shaeda came over him, heightening his perceptions. Silvie’s eyes narrowed. Had the Leedhan heard him?
“We’ll deal with the other later,” Silvie scoffed. Her voice briefly cleared his head.
“Your attentions, my pet . . .”
They dismounted at the broad, white steps and came up the stairs. First Marak and Sucrow, then Johnis and Silvie. Darsal passed Johnis and came alongside Marak’s flank. Warryn, Cassak, and Reyan followed, swords ready.
As they passed through the atrium to be admitted into Qurong’s throne room, Johnis’s hand brushed a leather cover in his back pocket. The remaining book of history.
I’m forgetting something.
That unnamed something nibbled at the back of his mind, even as he pushed through the crowd. Shaeda tried to pull him back, but the impulse to see this through was momentarily stronger.
A fleeting image of Thomas in the desert flashed across his mind.
“Such is madness, my Johnisss . . .”
He grabbed Cassak by the arm. “Those magic books in the attic. Did you ever find them?”
The man stared hard at him and yanked free. “I sent a man to look. The attic was cleared.”
Johnis stiffened. Silvie’s head snapped toward him. From seven to one in so short a space? “They were in a crate.”
“We have not time for such indulgences, my pet . . .”
Shaeda was getting impatient. She had absolutely no patience for anything not directly related to her purposes, her goals. Still, she was hiding something from him. Many somethings.
Silvie touched his shoulder, snapping him out of his trance.
Cassak shook his head. “I double-checked myself once I got around to it. The entire room was empty. Sorry.”
Heart racing, Johnis followed the captain around the corner. He was confident, but Shaeda’s anxiety grew as they neared the throne room. Her memories surfaced, memories of things the Shataiki—Derias—had done. Shaeda’s terror wound around his heart and chilled him to the core.
“What was that about?” Silvie asked.
Johnis blinked. Shaeda cut off the connection. Her cold, tangible fear, though, lingered.
“Josef.” Silvie pressed her fingers on his chest. “You are going to be rid of her? Her power, remember?”
Was he? Did he still desire to?
Life without Shaeda . . .
A low, menacing laugh sounded in his head.
Johnis froze. Then managed to clear his throat. “Not now.” He changed the subject, hoping to throw Shaeda off, and possibly distract her fear. “What did Sucrow do to you?”
I can’t do this with you strangling me,
he protested. Her grip relaxed slightly.
Silvie didn’t answer immediately. “He tortured me.”
The priest and the general stopped abruptly and saluted four Scabs armed with spears who stood before the broad, white double doors that led into Qurong’s throne room. The warriors saluted Marak and stepped to the side.
The doors swung open with a solid crash like thunder against the walls. Qurong’s hall echoed, first with the sound of the doors, then again as the guards slammed their spear butts down in unison. Three times the sound pealed through the hall and rattled the fixtures, even Teeleh’s winged-serpent image.
Shaeda braced herself. She recoiled at the sight of the idol. Johnis took a long, ragged breath and crossed the threshold.
DARSAL GAPED AT THE FAN-SHAPED ROOM THAT SPRAWLED before them. Red-robed warriors armed with swords and spears lined the wall. A chandelier with six rings, the widest easily eight feet across, hung full of dripping candles from the ceiling twelve feet above them. Hibiscus and broad-leafed gold hyling plants splashed orange, red, green, gold, and purple around the room and gave off a sweet scent that almost masked the stink of the Horde.
A long, purple carpet lined the center of the white stone floor and circled around and over a six-foot platform that served Qurong’s throne. The high-backed chair was made of a reddish wood and covered in what looked like rich purple silk. Torch stands stood proud on either side.
And there sat Qurong, robed in blue and tan, with a gold necklace at his throat and his sword at his side. Long braids spilled down his back and over his shoulders. He sat tall and regal, every inch the great Horde leader. His cloak was off one shoulder and bared his right arm. A steward attended him. Qurong displayed only power and anger. If the Shataiki swarm unnerved him, Darsal couldn’t tell. He was a mean snake, and the bats had only seemed to make him meaner.
The Scabs bowed upon their approach. When Darsal did not, Marak gave her a look. She shook her head. He motioned her to stand out of sight.
Qurong scowled at his priest and his general, his expression mocking. “I see you’ve managed not to kill each other.” He shifted forward, leaning as if to rebuke wayward children.
He said nothing of the Shataiki outside.
“Respectfully, lord,” Marak said, his voice stiff. “Our mission is not complete.”
“Oh, really?” The supreme commander leaned farther forward. A sneer split the morst on his face. “Then why are you here?”
Darsal glanced at Johnis, expecting him to answer. But his eyes had that purple cast to them, and he seemed pale.
Who was really in control?
Marak spoke. “We’ve four days to kill the albinos before the amulet’s powers reverse. A day and a half has already passed.”
“I repeat my original question then.” Qurong scowled.
“My lord,” Sucrow said, “we must journey to a high place in the northwest desert, in the mountains. The journey will take the majority of what little time remains. However, there is—”
“Then what are you still here for? Ride through the night if you must, but get rid of those albinos once and for all,” Qurong snapped. He stood.
“Lord, there is one other thing . . .” Sucrow continued.
Qurong snarled. “What?”
“The ritual requires a small amount of blood. That is why we are here rather than continuing on our way—”
“My lord,”—Marak tensed—“it’s your blood he and Josef insist they need. That is why he’s dancing around like a child on an anthill.”
Sucrow scowled at Marak.
“Excuse me?” Qurong roared.
“The ritual calls for the ruler of men to spill a portion of his blood,” Sucrow explained. “It need not be more than a drop or two.”
The Horde leader’s eyes narrowed. He considered this for a long minute, then growled. “Very well. But do not try my patience again. When next I see your faces, the albinos had better be dead, down to the last squalling infant. You will leave immediately.”
D
arsal went with Marak to a guest room while Sucrow drew Qurong’s blood, again with more pomp and ceremony than truly needed, thus turning five minutes into an hour. As though they had more time to lose. Let them lose time.
Perhaps it would spare the Circle. It would certainly give her more time.
She swept the room. Linen blankets, reed mats, more bright colors. A scribe’s desk sat to the side, with Marak’s original Desecration plans strewn over it. Martyn’s war journal. Marak was keeping his plans as backup in case Johnis failed.
Marak stripped off his cloak and crossed the room to dig in his pack for morst. He stripped off his tunic, exposing rotting, flaking white flesh. A fresh gust of rotten-egg smell hit Darsal.
She grimaced at the sight of his back and looked away. She’d thought she was used to the sight of Scab skin but had never seen the full extent of the general’s scabbing disease. An absolute beast. She tried hard not to gag.
He rubbed the white paste over his chest, arms, and neck, then as much of his back as he could reach. Watching him was painful.
And she remembered it wasn’t only his skin that was diseased. His coarseness, his decision to kill the Circle, his execution of his family—all part of the Great Deception that ate away at his mind, soul, and body.
She cleared her throat. “Has Cassak gone to Qurong?”
No answer. Her general pulled his tunic back over his skin and drew his cloak over his shoulders. He put away the morst.
“Marak.”
He didn’t turn toward her, instead staring at the wall for a long minute. “Soon enough it won’t matter.”
Darsal furrowed her brow. “You don’t mean that.”
“Get me some water.”
“It’s right there on the table,” she protested.
“I don’t want that water.” He went to his desk and studied something. He wouldn’t look at her, and it was maddening.
Darsal knotted her fists. Marak was just being boneheaded, deflecting emotion by pulling rank, but now it was getting to her. “It’s all the water there is, unless you feel like taking a side trip to a red lake.”
“Darsal,” he scoffed. “It’s over. Don’t you understand that?”
Deceived,
she reminded herself.
He’s deceived.
“As soon as Sucrow reaches the high place, it’s over for the Circle.”
Elyon’s love had no place in this hellhole, no seat of honor among snakes. Darsal slammed her fist on the wood. “Is this a game to you?” Marak’s papers and notebook rattled. The tumbler sloshed over, and a thick, black mark streaked across the top page.
He jumped back. “Are you insane?”
She was going mad, acting like this. But they were out of time, and she was sick of dealing with him.
Marak raised his arms, glaring at the table. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you think is wrong with me?”
His mouth clamped shut, and he took several long, heavy breaths, nostrils flaring. He finally broke his death glare and turned his back to her.
Darsal’s anger exploded. The general’s precious papers were all over the table. She gripped the edge and flipped the table. Everything went flying. “Don’t turn your back on me!”
He didn’t turn. He just stood there with his back to her, gawking at the mess without a word, cold and lifeless. A hacksaw tore its way through her body.
“Marak, you don’t have to do this.”
Elyon’s gentle prodding suggested she relent. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
“Yes, I do need to do this, Darsal.” Her general’s voice deepened. “We’re going to execute the albinos. All of them.”
“Marak,
I’m
an albino!”
“I
know
!” He refused to look at her, instead surveying the strategies and plans strewn all over the floor, months of work that, if Johnis’s plan worked, would amount to nothing.
The Desecration. He’d sold Jordan for that.
Darsal’s heart sank into her shoes at his pronouncement. This ruthless Scab in front of her would never back down, even for love, because Elyon was not with him.
I’m sorry, Elyon. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.
Marak righted the table, then the chair. His own temper was flaring, and he was doing his best to control it. She could tell by his slow, deliberate movements. It sobered her, shamed her, that he succeeded where she had failed.
“The thought of anyone living in that kind of pain drives me mad. I can’t force anyone to live like that. That’s why. And their minds . . . Darsal, I can’t let that go on. I cannot.”
His words grated at her. Darsal’s fists knotted at her sides. Could she really give up on him?
Elyon wouldn’t.
Heaven help them.
“That includes me.”
Marak continued to clean up her mess. The man was ice. The comment hung in the air, thick and oppressive, just like the mass of bloodthirsty Shataiki outside.
“You’re different,” Marak whispered.
Darsal tried to rein in her temper. She reached out to put her hand on his shoulder.
Deceived. He is deceived, rotten to the core.He doesn’t know . . .
“I’m going to do my job.” His voice sounded like piano strings pulled too tight. He wouldn’t even look up, wouldn’t turn and show her his face.
She withdrew her hand.
The general separated several wet pages and returned them to their proper places. Each movement was stiff, unnatural.
A thought crept into her mind, a desperate card she had no right to play. Darsal removed Jordan’s pendant from her throat and placed it on top of the journal he was holding.
Marak was on his feet and in her face before she knew he’d turned around. “Leave my brother out of this! The lakes are poison, my people are getting sick and dying, and the albinos are to blame! And in under three days we’ll have purged the world of their plague!”
“You really think your brother was a plague?”
The morst around his face had cracked. “I would rather you die than be an albino!”
“Then kill me!” Darsal grabbed one of Marak’s writing journals and tore it at the spine. She ripped at the pages and scattered them across the room. Then she flung the ruined leather cover against the wall.
The cover splayed upside down, title showing.
A chilly noose tightened around Darsal’s throat.
They both stared at the book, frozen in place for a minute.
Rona’s journal.
She had destroyed it.
Darsal’s hand went to her mouth.
Marak started around the room. He found each page of the journal, smoothed the creases out, and stacked them in order. He sank down and stared awhile longer, uncertain what to do with his recovered treasure.
Finally, he flipped over the remaining pages of the book, still bound, and tucked the shorn ones in the back. He placed the cover back in position and bound the whole mess together with twine. Then he set the book down and traced the leather with calloused fingers.
It was all he had left of Rona.
And Darsal had taken it from him.
“Marak.”
He didn’t respond. He’d forgotten she was in the room.
“I lost my temper. I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
He did not blink. He did not move.
She stole forward, all her rage evaporated in an instant. Her eyes fell to the book’s cover.
To Marak, with all my love.
Marak’s hand spread over the writing. He looked up at her, eyes cold, gray, expressionless. Not even hate. Numbness overtook her.
Elyon, what have I done?
Someone knocked. “General, it’s Cassak.”