Despite Jerrod’s insistence, Keegan didn’t see himself as the heralded savior. But the prospect didn’t seem quite so ridiculous now as it had three weeks ago. Chaos was strong in him; even Rexol had admitted he had the potential to be the greatest wizard the Southlands had ever known. If the Legacy were to fall, how much more power would Keegan have? Maybe he really would be able to stand against the Slayer and his invading horde.
He laughed softly to himself, reflexively ducking and turning his head to avoid a twig that seemed determined to put out his eye. These were the thoughts of an unbalanced mind. The product of travel fatigue and the effects of the witchroot he had started taking again the day after their escape. The root was stronger than he was used to; he had found four vials of Rexol’s distilled extract among the mage’s possessions on one of the pack horses. He’d been taking a few drops with every meal; dangerous, but if the Order ever caught up to them he wanted to be able to unleash his full power. He just had to be aware of the potential side effects: reckless inclinations; delusions of grandeur; the belief that he really was a savior.
He brushed away the thorns clawing at his legs as his horse bravely pushed its way through a thick wall of gorse that had grown across the path, then suddenly spat out, “I’m sick of this!”
“Sick of what?” the monk asked calmly.
“Crashing our way through bushes and brambles and trees! Sleeping on the cold, hard ground. Going weeks without a chance to bathe.”
“Would you rather spend your time shackled to the wall in one of the Pontiff’s dungeons?”
Keegan ducked to avoid another branch then cursed as it scraped along the back of his neck, leaving a burning furrow. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m tired and dirty and I think I’m losing my mind. I can’t keep this up!”
The monk considered his request.
“Perhaps I underestimated the toll this is taking on you. I can sustain my own mind and body as I ride through my meditations, but you have not shared in that training. And there isn’t time to teach you. I suppose for your sake we could risk a single night in a small settlement.”
There were some benefits to having a companion who thought you were destined to be the savior of the world, Keegan mused, rubbing the welt on the back of his neck. It made him much more willing to listen to your suggestions.
“If I remember correctly there’s a small village only a few hours’ ride away,” Jerrod said. “We can stay there tonight.”
“What’s it called?” Keegan asked, throwing up his arm to protect himself from a tangle of leaves and vines that suddenly appeared before him.
“I believe it’s called Praeton.”
“Can I get you anything, Scythe?” Julia asked.
Scythe glanced past the young barmaid and over at the group of five men standing together leaning on the bar. She couldn’t hear them across the crowd of patrons, but she could clearly make out her lover through the haze of the fire. Norr’s frame towered above the others in the group as he laughed and shook his shaggy head back and forth in comic disbelief. From experience she guessed Herrick was regaling the group with another of his ridiculous tall tales about his latest trip to Argot, the nearest of the Seven Capitals. Either that or Gil was sharing another of his bawdy ballads in his painfully out-of-tune voice.
On the bar beside her lover was a heavy tankard, drained of its contents and flipped upside down—an Eastern custom Norr hadn’t yet broken himself of.
“I think we’ll be going up to our room soon,” Scythe answered.
Julia gave her a wan smile. “Don’t count on it.” She tilted her chin down toward the tray of foam-topped ales she was carrying. “One of these is his, and he’s already told everyone he’s buying the round after this one.”
“I think I’ll just go out for some air,” Scythe replied, giving the young woman a smile of her own.
Julia nodded and vanished into the crowd, artfully maneuvering the overbalanced tray through the crowd that always seemed to gather at the Singing Dragon, the undisputed center piece of social life in Praeton.
It had been almost a year since she and Norr had stumbled across the sleepy little town, and over the past months Norr had become a regular feature at the tavern. The rooms they rented were on the floor just above, so it was common for the barbarian to come staggering up the stairs several hours past midnight—invariably waking Scythe as he blundered into the room, too drunk and clumsy and big to have any hope of sneaking into bed unnoticed.
Amazingly, the small town of Praeton was able to provide Norr with everything he had looked for and failed to find in cities twenty times its size. Here the big man had found work and a chance to earn some money. During the harvest he’d been in constant demand, doing the work of three regular-sized men. And when he wasn’t busy in the fields, he did odd jobs around the inn. Sometimes he helped Herrick with his inventory. Occasionally he worked with Yusef in the smithy. Norr’s easygoing nature, his willingness to share a drink, and his ability to work hard from sunrise to sunset without complaint were fast making friends among the men of the town.
Not town, she silently corrected herself. Praeton was little more than a village. Less than a hundred people lived in and around the small cluster of buildings the nearby farmers referred to as “the city.” The population and size of Praeton hadn’t significantly changed in almost a hundred years, the townsfolk had proudly told her once when she had been foolish enough to ask. Most of the residents were fourth or fifth generation: sons who inherited the family farm or business, local girls who married the neighbor’s son. Almost everybody living here was born here. Nobody ever moved to Praeton.
Yet strangely, the community was anything but closed. As both Scythe and Norr had learned that first day, the town welcomed strangers with open arms—no matter who they were or where they might have come from. A few days after their first arrival, Scythe had suggested to Norr that the hospitality was the result of everyone being sick of seeing the same faces day after day after day. Her lover had just given her a disappointed look and countered by saying, “Maybe they’re just good folk.”
It turned out Norr was right. Praeton was nothing if not “good folk.” Norr hadn’t just found work in the hamlet. He had found tolerance and acceptance. They didn’t mind his pale skin or his flaming hair. They couldn’t care less about his thick accent. They didn’t see him as a brute or savage. They considered him a friend, a part of their community. Scythe had been accepted just as easily, despite her own exotic appearance. Islander, Easterner: All seemed welcome in this quaint little village.
As she watched Norr laughing and drinking with the others at the bar, Scythe realized he could build a life here in Praeton. He could settle down and raise children and go to the festivals and celebrations and spend his days working and his nights here in the tavern with his neighbors; good, honest folk each and every one.
Scythe hated them all.
She shoved her chair back from the table and sprang to her feet, desperate to get some air. A barrage of friendly greetings, pleasant waves, and warm smiles assaulted her as she pushed her way through the crowd of men and women between her and the door to the outside. It seemed the entire town was here tonight, and they all seemed to know her name—though she had made a point to learn as few of theirs as possible.
She nodded and waved and smiled in return, though if any of the town had looked deep into her eyes they would have seen an emptiness that revealed how hollow her gestures were. But people saw what they wanted to see, and a pleasant manner and bland smile could hide the seething hatred beneath the surface.
She had learned the art of affectation long ago, during her days selling herself in the streets of Callastan. As stupid as she knew it sounded, that was what she felt here in Praeton. Only now she wasn’t selling her body, but her soul. And every day she stayed in this tiny village she felt a small part of her spirit die.
Where Norr saw peace, she saw only boredom. Where Norr saw comfort, she saw
only complacency. Where Norr saw security and a possible future, she saw a trap of mind-numbing monotony.
Survival. It was all about survival. Scythe prided herself on being a fighter. She reveled in the daily struggle to survive; the constant hum of mortal danger in the background invigorated her. Life was a brutal contest where the weak were left dying in the street, a knife blade snapped off in their belly for the simple mistake of getting caught with their hand wrapped around a mercenary’s coin pouch. Growing up on a ship sailing the Western Isles and her years in Callastan had honed her survival instincts to a keen razor’s edge.
Now she was losing that edge. Praeton was dulling her senses little by little, bit by bit. And as she lost that edge, she was losing her identity as well.
The night air was cool against her skin, and the wind blowing through town smelled sweet with the scent of freedom and mystery and opportunity.
She had told Norr nothing of her feelings. He was happy here—happier than she had ever seen him. And he had never complained once while they lived the life of vagabond thieves, though she knew he hated it. It was only for him that she had stayed as long as she had. But she didn’t think she could endure this torment much longer.
There wasn’t even anybody to steal from here. Scythe had no qualms about stealing from the people she exchanged banal small talk with every day. She had no feelings toward them but contempt, anyway. But she knew Norr would object to robbing their new neighbors, so she hadn’t even brought it up. Not that there was anyone in Praeton wealthy enough to make the effort worthwhile anyway.
Any travelers passing through the town had been relieved of a few minor items, just for the sake of practice. A small relief to the boredom Scythe felt constantly dragging her under. But travelers were few and far between, and it was difficult to keep herself from succumbing to the depths of despair with such sporadic relief.
She did her best to hide her feelings from Norr. She wanted him to be happy. But lately he had begun to sense that something was wrong. It wouldn’t be long until her misery began to ruin his own blissful mood. And then she would have two choices: ask him to leave his life in Praeton behind and come with her, or slip away in the night alone. She honestly didn’t know which was worse.
The faint clopping of horses’ hooves snapped Scythe out of her black mood. She peered into the dark streets, anxious to see who was on the road at this late hour. Probably one of the local farmers making his way to the Singing Dragon after finishing some repairs on his barn. Nothing to get excited about.
Her heart began to pound with exhilaration when two strangers on horseback materialized out of the night’s gloom. She moved forward to greet them, eager to scope out these potential marks.
“We need lodging for ourselves and our horses,” Jerrod said to the exotic young woman who emerged from the shadows beneath the sign of the Singing Dragon Inn. “I hope you have room for us.”
The monk’s eyes had taken on the illusion of a completely normal appearance. Rexol’s staff had been covered in tightly wrapped cloth and tied onto one of the supply packs. It looked like nothing more than a large bedroll, and the pair of them looked like simple traveling merchants.
“I don’t work here,” the woman replied, perhaps a bit more sharply than was necessary. Then, in a much more pleasant voice she added, “But I think there are rooms available. And I can guarantee that the beds are clean and the food is fresh. Take your horses around back and tell the stable boy Scythe sent you. I’ll go inside and let Gavid know he’s got a couple of customers.”
She slipped away through the tavern door as Keegan and Jerrod slid from their saddles.
“She seemed quite helpful for someone who doesn’t work here,” the young man commented.
“A little too helpful,” Jerrod replied. “And did you notice? She was an Islander.” Keegan had, in fact, noticed. “Islanders don’t usually venture this far from Callastan. Normally the Southlands aren’t tolerant of foreigners.”
“She didn’t have an accent,” Keegan pointed out. “Maybe her father was a merchant from this town who married a woman from Callastan, then came back here to settle down.”
“Perhaps,” Jerrod conceded. “But there is something dangerous about her.”
Keegan smiled. “Are you saying she’s a spy for the Order?”
“No, probably not,” the monk conceded. “But I sensed a hunger in her. She may have grown bored with the men of this village. She might be looking to share the bed of a young merchant this evening.”
Keegan wasn’t sure if he was joking. Truth be told, he found himself strangely drawn to the olive-skinned girl with the dark hair. There had been an unspoken challenge in her gaze and a defiance in her stance that demanded an answer. That had intrigued him as much as the lean, hard beauty of her body.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts Jerrod added, “We are here to rest. Do not do anything foolish. Remember what happened the last time you gave in to your carnal passions.”
This time the young man knew his companion was being gravely serious. He made himself a mental note to always be aware of the witchroot in his blood. He didn’t want to do anything he might later regret.
They reached the stables at the back and a tall young lad of maybe fifteen came out to meet them.
“Evening, m’lords,” he said with an earnest, awkward bow.
“Scythe said you would look after our horses for us,” Jerrod said.
“Of course, m’lords. Take what you need and then I’ll water and rub them down for you.”
Keegan grabbed a few essentials from the packs. He briefly considered taking everything, but looking at the simple, honest eyes of the stable boy he couldn’t imagine that anything he left with the horses would end up missing. He didn’t even bother to grab the roll of blankets that hid Rexol’s staff, though out of habit he did grab a single vial of the witchroot extract and the small bag containing a few minor charms. Not that he would have any need of them in this place.
“You can go in through the back way here. Just head up to the bar and talk to Gavid to get the keys for your rooms.”
They did just that, and within ten minutes they were standing at the doors of their respective sleeping chambers.
“We can have dinner downstairs,” Jerrod said. “We might as well conserve our supplies. But we can’t spend long in the tavern. Early to bed; I want to be gone at daybreak.”
“Give me twenty minutes to clean up and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Jerrod nodded, then opened the door to his room and went inside. Keegan did the same.
As the young woman had promised, the room was clean, if a little small. A single bed, a chair, and a tiny table had been jammed into the tight space. A small washbasin and a pitcher of water rested on the table. There was a small window in the corner, shuttered against the chill of the night.
Keegan splashed some water on his face, the cool liquid washing away the dirt and grime of the road. From the pouch at his belt he withdrew the small vial of witchroot and let a few drops spill onto his tongue, scowling at the bitterness. Hopefully by the time he went down for his meal the aftertaste would be gone.
He went over to the bed and collapsed on it with an audible sigh. The mattress was firm, but compared with the hard ground he was used to it may as well have been stuffed with handpicked down from the geese of the wealthiest lord in all the Seven Capitals.
He lay there for several minutes, struggling against the urge to let himself drift off into blissful sleep despite his rumbling stomach. His eyelids fluttered and suddenly he was dreaming in a fitful doze. Not a vision, but a simple, ordinary dream of the young, olive-skinned woman they had first met sitting naked astride him.
Her taut muscles flex in rhythm to his own as she rides him, her skin sheened with sweat; soft moans of passion escape her lips. Her back arches, her moans rise in pitch, she bucks and grinds against him …
And suddenly he was awake again. He laughed and forced himself to sit u
p before he drifted off again. The witchroot was to blame, of course; it stirred up the passions. But though the witchroot had caused it, there was no significance to the dream. It was nothing but a lustful fantasy … and as close as he would get to a woman tonight.
He took a deep breath, savoring one last time the erotic mental image of her naked body against his own bare flesh, then got to his feet. He couldn’t have slept long—a few minutes at most. Any more and Jerrod would have come to check up on him. But if he didn’t hurry down the monk might come up to see what was taking so long, and Keegan had no desire to get on his bad side tonight.
He briefly considered taking the leather pouch with his charms, then decided against it. Rexol had taught him that a wizard should never go anywhere without something that could augment the power of a hastily formed spell, but he had a small bit of giant’s bone on a necklace beneath his shirt in the unlikely event he needed to summon Chaos. He also decided against taking the vial of witchroot he had with him. He placed it in with the charms, then stuffed the small bag beneath his pillow, left, and locked his room.
The monk was already seated at a table in the corner; he could just make him out through the crowd. As he crossed the room he caught sight of an enormous man with ruddy, sunburned skin, flaming red hair, and a thick, red beard, but his mind was too tired to care what an Eastern savage would be doing here, of all places.
He took his seat next to Jerrod. “I don’t see the young woman we met at the door,” he said casually.
“I saw her earlier speaking with that rather large barbarian,” Jerrod informed him. “I believe they are more than just friends. Yet another reason to be suspicious.”
Jerrod was obviously on edge. The line of his jaw was set hard, as if he was expecting trouble.
“You worry too much,” Keegan said, hoping to calm him.
It didn’t seem to help. He supposed it was inevitable the monk would see conspiracies and treachery everywhere he looked; it was part and parcel of being a fanatic. That didn’t mean they both had to worry about it, though.
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