Wrath of Lions (35 page)

The elf girl Aullienna leaned over the body of Kindren, the young prince of Dezerea. Deep gouges crisscrossed the pale skin on her back, and the elf boy’s body was mangled, his flesh slashed in repetitious four-pronged patterns. Punctures dotted his body too, large half circles, and the flesh of his right forearm had been shorn away, leaving behind a glistening mess of muscle and sinew. The elf girl did not look up as Bardiya approached, but kept her forehead pressed against Kindren’s chest, bathing his body in her tears.

“What in the bloody underworld…?” he heard Patrick gasp from behind him. Sand kicked up as the horse he was riding skittered to a stop.

Bardiya slid to the ground, his massive knees digging into the desert floor. Only when he placed his giant hand on the unmoving chest of the elf prince did Aullienna acknowledge his presence. Her gaze lifted to him, eyes bloodshot, tears forming thick rivulets down her
face. She opened her mouth to speak, a pleading look coming over her beautifully innocent features, but only a shrill moan came out.

Reaching out, Bardiya placed a finger to her lips, quieting her. He then leaned over Kindren, placed both hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.

“Please help him,” he heard the girl say, her voice a whisper.

The young elf was perilously close to the end. Bardiya prayed and prayed, knowing his lips were moving, though he could not feel them. At first there was nothing, and it took all his carefully trained willpower to tamp down his panic. His mind was full of questions and doubt, but he had to push all of it away. Taking in a deep breath, Bardiya continued to pray, forgetting his role as a leader of men, forgetting the power he wielded, the decisions that lay on his shoulders, the future shrouded in danger. He was here, now, with a life in peril…and through him, that life could be saved. That was what mattered. That was
all
that mattered.

Ashhur, grant me strength,
his mind whispered.

The damage to the elf’s body became clear to him: the severed muscle, the torn fibers in the boy’s flesh, the gouged stomach, the snapped bones. Each wound struck him as if it were his own, and the burning sensation in his hands was as if he’d plunged them into the heart of a star. Much like when he’d healed Davishon—his would-be elven assassin—the pain lessened as Kindren’s body mended itself, fractured bones binding with their broken halves, burst blood vessels closing, skin knitting itself shut. A final burst of energy flowed from his palms into the elf’s chest, shocking his stilled heart back to beating. A gasp reached Bardiya’s ears, and his mind returned to the physical realm.

He fell back, his energy drained. It took great effort just to lift his hand and wipe sweat from his brow. He opened his tired eyes and looked on as Aullienna cradled her mate’s head in her lap, her tears of sorrow replaced by ones of relief. Kindren’s eyes were open, but he looked like he did not understand what was happening.

“You are hurt, child,” Bardiya told Aullienna wearily. “Come, let me heal you.”

“Rest a moment,” he heard Patrick say as Aullienna continued to hold Kindren. Bardiya twisted his head around. His friend was sitting atop his horse, staring at him and shaking his head.

“Her back is bleeding,” Bardiya said.

Patrick shrugged.

“Let the nymph have her moment. The boy almost died.”

“He should have,” Bardiya whispered, and he heard wonder in his own voice.

“Yet you brought him back,” said Patrick. “Good job, big guy. I just hope you learn your lesson.”

“And what might that be?”

The redhead pointed to the couple on the ground.

“What you just did there? It was all because of Ashhur. Your god gave you the power to heal. You prayed to him, and he lent you his own strength so you could bring someone back from the brink of death. Amazing, if you think about it. And you’ll never, ever be able to do that again once Karak has destroyed the god you love. The next time you try to save a life, you’ll have to watch someone die instead.”

Bardiya stood on weary legs, and as much as he wanted to deny his friend, he did not possess the strength to argue. Patrick’s face hardened.

“Your place is coming to the aid of others,” he said. “And your earlier example is shit. You may not blame the wolf for attacking a boy who wanders into the forest—I get that. But only a coward would stay outside the forest after discovering a child was missing.”

Patrick turned his horse, glaring over his shoulder as he rode away.

“And the gods help the man who would watch that child die instead of
defending him from the wolf
.”

C
HAPTER

17

T
he figurine was a foot tall, illuminated by ambient light reflecting off the chamber walls. Ceredon knelt to study it, his elbows pressed into the round oaken table. It was of a naked woman, wide at the hips and bosom, her hair flowing about her in unruly spirals. Though the statuette had been carved from plain sandstone, he still thought he could see the peach hue of her flesh. Her eyes were black, bottomless pits where mere mortals such as he lost themselves.

The figure’s stance was odd: arms stretched up above her head, fingers fanned out, waist slightly bent, legs bowed and crossed at the ankles, head thrown back, mouth opened wide. The placement and pose invited wildly divergent interpretations: The upheld arms could represent a gesture of freedom or the stance of a bound woman; the arrangement of the bowed legs was common in both dance and swordplay; the opened mouth could be screaming in either pleasure or pain. Her every feature seemed to be wholly human, yet the curvature of her body was unmistakably elven. Ceredon shook his head. There was no contradiction here, no duplicity. This was the goddess, and for her, there was only balance.

“Celestia,” he whispered, placing his hands on either side of the icon and closing his eyes. “Please, tell me what I do is right.”

He sat listening to the rumble and creak of the massive crystal structure above him, waiting for some sign from his creator. But none came, not even a subtle shudder that might have suggested she was listening. Perhaps Father was right; perhaps Celestia no longer cared for her people.

“So be it,” he said. His eyes snapped open, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on Celestia’s bosom. “We may not be worthy of your love, but I have never stopped loving
you
. If you’re watching, please know that what I do now is out of love—love for the people you created, love for the wisdom you taught us.”

He stood up, took off his belt, from which his khandar still hung, and placed it on the table. He then removed a short dagger from his boot and examined it. The blade was sharp enough to slice down the length of a piece of thread. “I serve you always,” he whispered. “Even in the darkest of moments.”

Sheathing the dagger in a leather wrap and tucking it back into his boot, he lifted his eyes to his surroundings.

It is time,
he thought.

He was in a chamber far underneath Palace Thyne, accessible via a passage in the crypts hidden beneath the sarcophagus of Ra’an Dultha, the first Lord of the Dezren. Tantric Thane, leader of the rebels fighting his father’s regime, had revealed the passage’s existence to him. “From the tunnels you can access any section of the palace unnoticed,” he’d said. “We have tried to use them before, but to no avail. The palace is too large, the tunnels too narrow, the rooms too numerous. It took us three full evenings just to examine eight chambers, and all we found inside were servants and underlings…and your quarters. However, if you could tell us exactly where to look…”

“No,” Ceredon had replied. “I must be the one to do the deed.”

He had first he met Tantric in his bedchamber in Palace Thyne on the evening when his room was discovered. It had happened
after yet another patrol during which Ceredon had protected the very rebels he’d been assigned to exterminate. They’d talked for only a short time before Tantric handed him the dagger that was now stowed in his boot, marked with the Thane family crest, which would help steer suspicion away from Ceredon when he used it. After that, the old elf had told him of the secret door behind the emerald fireplace that connected to a series of narrow, interlocking tunnels, one of which led to Lord Orden Thyne’s secluded shrine, where Ceredon now prayed.

The time for prayers was over, though, and the elf breezed past the table, fingers sliding over the chamber’s glimmering green walls as he disappeared inside a geometrical trick: one wall was positioned slightly forward from the other, creating a nearly invisible gap wide enough to slip through.

Although the exterior of Palace Thyne was of shimmering emerald, the foundation and what lay between the walls was pure granite, hard and compacted and bleak. When Ceredon exited the breach, leaving behind the twinkling green chamber, he was thrown into near darkness. He waited for his eyes to adjust and then placed his foot on the first step of a constricted staircase. The well was a steeply angled upward climb, the walls so close on either side that he had to move sideways so as to not scrape his shoulders against the rough stone. Every thirteen steps, a level ended, and four narrow openings in the floor led to small, circular tunnels containing access points to concealed entrances in dozens of rooms in the palace.

He climbed floor after floor, keeping count of how many times the stairwell rotated, until he reached the ninth story. After another quick prayer to Celestia, he dropped on his belly and pulled himself forward on his elbows, entering the north tunnel and a darkness so bleak that even his elven eyes could not adjust to it.

Panic tickled at the hairs on the back of his neck. The blackness was a living thing, squeezing in on him, trying to crush him. He had never experienced its like before, not even in the deep caves or
the catacombs beneath the city. An urge to retreat to his room filled him, and he had to fight it. He felt ashamed of his cowardice. It was only darkness, and he would navigate the tunnel as he must, his claustrophobia and fears be damned.

He inched himself along, shooing a few squeaking rats away, sounding like a rat himself as his cured elk-skin breeches scratched against the rough stone. His hand fell on one portal to the right, one to the left, one to the right, one to the left, each emitting a soft, whispery puff of fresh air. He counted seven openings before stopping, swiveling on his stomach, and steeling himself for the task at hand.

Reaching above, his fingers found a thin stone shaft. He latched onto it with both hands and pulled himself upward, sliding from the tunnel like a snake. The world brightened, the air growing pleasantly warm. There was a second shaft above him and he ascended that as well. The heat grew with each passing moment, and when he drew himself up, he met a haze of smoke.

Just like all the portals, this one opened up behind a wide hearth. Ceredon carefully placed his feet on the sooty stone ledge and inched his way to the side. He had to hold his breath to keep from coughing, and every so often one of the dying embers would pop and leap, threatening to scorch him. Luckily none did. Perhaps Celestia was looking out for him after all.

There was a latch on the far side of the interior of the hearth, and when he pulled it, the corner bent away with a quiet rumbling, opening space for him to exit. He crawled out, not bothering to slide the corner back into place. He’d need it ready for his escape. Brushing himself off, he pulled the dagger from his boot and stepped into Conall’s bedchamber.

The room’s emerald walls lightly twinkled with the fading glow from the coals. The room’s eastern-facing windows were covered with heavy drapes, blocking out light from outside. Still, Kindren could make out a pair of dressers arranged on one side of the room,
a wardrobe positioned along another. Straight ahead was a four-poster bed, finely crafted from lacquered mahogany. The sheets on the feather mattress were silken and glossy, bulging in the center where a sleeping form lay.

Creeping across the room, Ceredon made sure his soft-booted feet made no sound. One wrong move and Conall would awake, summoning the Ekreissar to protect him.

When he reached the bed, he stopped, hovering over it for a moment. His father’s cousin rolled onto his back, eyes firmly shut, chest rising and falling at steady intervals. Ceredon slowly knelt, even the faint creak and crumple of his clothing sounding much too loud to his ears. With one hand he grabbed a pillow. With the other he pressed the dagger against the side of Conall’s neck.

In a single smooth motion he ripped it across the jugular. As blood erupted across the bed, Ceredon shifted, slamming the pillow against the older elf’s mouth to hold in the sudden surprised shriek he emitted when he woke from his dream. Conall thrashed, clutching at his gushing throat, and from beneath the pillow came a subdued gurgle. Ceredon pressed harder, keeping the pillow positioned so that no blood splashed on his own clothes. The crimson fluid soaked the satin sheets, forming macabre patterns.

When Conall finally fell still, Ceredon pulled back the pillow, and he shuddered involuntarily at the sight of the ghost-white look of horror on the dead elf’s face. Swallowing down bile, he moved to the window, careful not to step in the puddle of blood that had dribbled down to the floor. Pulling aside the curtain, he gave the pane of stained glass a quick strike with his gloved hand. The glass shattered, the shards tinkling when they struck the shimmering emerald floor.

The deed done, he hurried back to the hearth, sparing only a single look back at the mess he’d created, at the corpse of one of the three powerful members of the Triad in his fine satin sheets.

“And then there were two,” Ceredon whispered before crawling back through the raised corner of the hearth.