“And neither you nor the dwarf bothered to tell the rest of us about this curse until now?” Seita asked, venom in her voice.
Stefan had watched the mistrust growing between his two travel companions ever since leaving the glacier. In fact, he had been aware of the tension between Seita and Culpa since Lord’s Point. But the Vallè was right. They should have known about the curse. Gisela had pulled the stone from the altar in the Roahm Mines. It had first touched her flesh. And now she was dead. And he had seen the look between the Dayknight and the dwarf when Roguemoore had touched the black angel stone in the Sky Loch mines with his bare hand. And now the dwarf was also dead. Coincidence?
Gisela had been the first to touch the blue stone when Nail had pulled the battle-ax out of the altar in the Roahm Mines.
Angry, he spoke his position, all of it, voice quaking in the cold. “Angel stones. Magic weapons. Moon scrolls. The Way and Truth of Laijon. It’s all nonsense. Even the curses you mention. Naught but silly superstition. All of it.”
Culpa eyed him curiously. “Why would you say that, after all you have seen?”
“What have I seen? Just the horrific deaths of my family and friends.”
“You’ve seen Blackest Heart and Forgetting Moon with your own eyes. Few throughout the breadth of history can say the same.”
“What does it matter?” he answered. “That battle-ax, Nail lost it. That crossbow strapped on your back, it hasn’t done anything special yet, has it?”
“You are being a cynic,” the Dayknight grunted. “And I don’t care for it. Faith is a virtue. Doubt is not. One is strength. One is weakness. Choose which side you are on.”
“Which side I am on?” Stefan felt the anger within boil. “By rights I shouldn’t even be here, Culpa. And if you ask me, faith and belief in holy books and moon scrolls have done naught but kill folk and start wars. And faith and belief in magic weapons and angel stones have done naught but launch pointless quests that have killed every person dearest to me. At the moment, I see faith and belief as naught but cowardly lies. And lies are the most dangerous of things.” He hung his head. “Leastways that is how I feel.”
“I understand you are frustrated,” Culpa answered, sympathy in his tone. “I feel like giving up sometimes too. But I know that we cannot. We will not. I will not.” He looked away a moment, then back. “My young cousin, Tyus, ’twas he who taught me the power of having faith and never giving up. Though he is from Gul Kana, two years ago, at eighteen, of his own volition and desire to help, Tyus went and fought against Aeros Raijael in Wyn Darrè. He endured many horrors and was eventually taken captive by one of the White Prince’s Knights Archaic in a town called Lavandoria. Enna Spades offered Tyus a deal, and that deal cost him his tongue. But Enna kept her end of the bargain and my cousin was free to return to Gul Kana. Which he did, for a time. And despite missing his tongue, despite not being able to talk, despite all he’d seen and suffered, my cousin went back to Wyn Darrè to join Ironcloud and Seabass and others of the Brethren of Mia. He went back to study ancient texts and fight for our cause. Tyus Barra had that much faith. For faith and belief breeds optimism. Doubt does not. Doubt equals negativity and failure.”
Stefan didn’t buy into Culpa’s view of optimism and doubt. And Culpa’s frustrations were not his own. He figured the weapons of Laijon and the angel stones were indeed a curse, and not for the reasons the Dayknight said. “I cannot speak to your cousin’s bravery for I do not know him. But why would Shawcroft spend his entire life searching for these relics only to leave them exactly where he found them, then place deadly traps around about? So Dokie can be shot with darts? So Nail can fall into a glacier?” Stefan had asked all the questions in a rush. He glanced at Seita. “Val-Draekin dead too. For what?”
Culpa did not answer, just gazed into the fire.
“It’s all pointless,” Stefan went on. “None of this would have happened if Shawcroft would have kept the weapons and stones hidden safe in some other way. After all, he hid his Dayknight sword in the eaves of his cabin for years and nobody knew.”
“You may be right,” Culpa answered. “But I would never be the one to second-guess Shawcroft on anything. When he first found Lonesome Crown, he did exactly as you suggest, gave the helm and angel stone to his brother, Torrence, for safekeeping. And that did not work out. Torrence bragged about his treasures. And Aeros Raijael launched his crusade. After that, Shawcroft made every effort to find the weapons . . . and then just leave them be. Safe where the Blessed Mother Mia left them to begin with.”
“I just don’t think it makes any sense,” Stefan said.
“I’m with Stefan.” Seita placed her hand on Stefan’s knee. “I thought the entire quest was a stupid notion from the start. A complete waste of our time. And it has claimed the lives of our friends.”
Culpa said, “Their sacrifice will go down in history—”
“Go down in what history?” she snapped. “Some religious text likely to be misinterpreted a thousand years from now, some vague words apt to claim more lives in the future as innocent people go in search of Nail’s and Val-Draekin’s frozen corpses, imagining their bones to be filled with magic or some such?”
Nobody spoke. Seita stood, brushing white puffs of smoke away from her face with her hand. “I can’t breathe in any more of this damnable smoke. I need some real air.” Her eyes darted between Stefan and Culpa. “You two can hash this nonsense out between yourselves.” She strode away into the darkness alone.
Stefan stood to follow, but Culpa stopped him with a stern voice. “Let her go,” he ordered. “She shouldn’t hear what I am about to say to you anyway.”
Stefan sat back down, wary, wishing he were anywhere else in the Five Isles but here. Everything about the quest had unraveled to the point of disaster. Only three of us left. And two of us don’t even believe in the mission anymore. If we ever did . . .
“I take this quest seriously.” Culpa’s voice had taken on a touch of anger. “But if you want out, you are free to go, Stefan. For the place I go next, Deadwood Gate, is not to be trifled with. I have seen what lives within the depths of those mines.”
“What have you seen?” Stefan asked.
“Deadwood Gate is oghul forged,” Culpa answered gravely. “Ten thousand years of oghul digging. For what? Gold? Something else? Digging and digging. Thousands of tunnels. Millions, maybe. A vast underground labyrinth that stretches east from Kasmere Lake clear to Wroclaw, and north to the oghul city of Tok. And in the hundreds of places in between, there are abandoned forts and chapels and barns that have basements and dungeons and root cellars with hidden entrances, all connected to this stew of underground caverns, all leading deep down to the very heart of the Five Isles, all leading to that one dreadful place we fear most and those fiery beasts we dare not speak of. Fiery beasts of the underworld and their dread druidic masters . . .”
The Dayknight paused, swallowing hard, a haunted look in his eyes as he pulled his own gray hood up around his head. “I ought not speak of it further, lest I bring more curses down upon us. I’ve said it many times before, but the mines of Deadwood Gate will grip and twist your mind if you are not ever watchful. Once in those dungeons, the very air you breathe is heavy with dark enchantment and illusion and black spells full of hate, evil sorceries created by primordial demons of obscure legend, ancient wraiths The Moons Scrolls of Mia mention but once, a race of monstrous fiends worse than any oghul, worse than any beast of the underworld.”
“What?”
“Druids of an ancient race. Maybe not even of this world. They were simply called the Skulls.”
“The silver secret of the Skulls?” Stefan questioned. “You mentioned such in the Sky Loch Mines. Roguemoore seemed to dismiss the notion. I’d never heard of such things before.”
“Few have. Only The Moon Scrolls of Mia mention the Skulls, and not often. Once they were eradicated from the Five Isles during the War of Cleansing, all memory of the Skulls’ existence was purge
d from every book of history, and every evidence of their physical existence was buried in the deepest, darkest of haunts. You likely saw the remnants of their final removal and resting place in the Roahm Mines above Gallows Haven.”
“The pool of water Shawcroft called the Place of the Skulls?” Stefan felt his insides curdle with fright as he recalled the ghostly visages of a thousand pale skulls floating in that calm dark pool. Seemed the ancient world was a vast layer of perils and mysteries he did not even know of.
“You have been a brave companion so far, Stefan,” Culpa said, seeing the look of horror on his face. “But I will only take true companions with me from here on out, or I will go it alone. I will only go on with those who show faith and strength like that of my cousin, Tyus. For it is Tyus Barra and those like him I fight for.” Culpa paused, but just for a moment. “I will give you until first thing on the morrow to decide if you will follow me, or follow Seita.”
† † † † †
Stefan found the Vallè maiden at the bottom of the moonlit dale, standing in a gust of wind-driven hail, blond hair whipping into her eyes, a small black kestrel in the palm of her hand. The bird lingered a moment before gracefully flapping away, disappearing up into the blustery night sky, somehow braving the pelting ice.
“How did you catch a bird like that?” Stefan asked as he trod gently down into the draw. “How does it even fly in such weather?” His foot slipped into an unseen boggy hollow brimming with cold water, filling his boot. He muttered a low curse.
“Careful.” Seita rushed over and helped him from the sludge. Embarrassed, Stefan plopped down on a nearby deadfall and removed his boot.
“It’s going to be a cold and windy night,” the Vallè said, her words nearly lost in the gale. She pulled the hood of her gray cloak up over her head.
Stefan did the same, then wrung his sock out. “I’ve been freezing ever since I left Gallows Haven, it seems. How did you catch that bird?”
“You miss home?” she asked.
“I miss my family,” he answered. “I miss . . . well, it—it matters not.”
“You miss Gisela?” she finished for him, big round eyes gazing into his. “You can say her name around me, you know. Her name is on your bow. You carve her name on everything. You’ve done her memory great honor.”
He could feel the bow strapped to his back now. The quiver of arrows, too. And his bulky armor. When will I ever be free of the clunky iron? It was his only protection, his only warmth—the armor and the bow.
“We’ve all lost someone,” Seita said. “It was hard for me to watch Val-Draekin get sucked into that glacier. His death made me question the validity of every dream I’ve ever had. For his death”—she looked away—“I did not foresee.”
That confused him. She had said she saw three of us die. And three are now dead. He didn’t even know if he could stomach the subject. Stefan silently slipped his sock and boot back over his frozen foot. It was going to be a miserable cold night. “I don’t want to be here anymore, Seita,” he admitted. “Culpa just gave me an ultimatum, told me If I wasn’t serious about his quest, I should just leave on the morrow.”
Seita looked into the night, as if contemplating his words, as if contemplating leaving herself. The temperamental hail seemed to die off again as quickly as it had started. He asked her, “If I left, would you go with me?”
“I would, but for my dreams.” She met his gaze, put her hand on his knee. “Years ago I told my sister, Breita, that I dreamed we would all be searching for the lost angel stones and weapons of Laijon someday. I told Val-Draekin of these dreams too. It is why he agreed to become involved in all this. He believed in my dreams. And now his death weighs heavy on my mind. It was why I lashed out at Culpa earlier. Fact is, I do not think this quest has been nonsense. For I saw this quest in my dreams. I believe in it as much as the Dayknight, or anyone in the Brethren of Mia. Perhaps more.”
“And your sister, why did she not follow you on this dream?”
“Breita followed her own dreams. And I worry for her. I have not heard from her in a while now. And that too weighs heavy on my mind.”
“Was Breita the Vallè rider Nail and I saw on the horse above Gallows Haven? She looked exactly like you.”
Seita gripped his thigh, eyes roaming into the dark night. “I think maybe so.”
“Remember, as Nail and the rest of us fled Gallows Haven, we told you that we found a red-eyed horse dead at the bottom of an elk trap?” Stefan asked. “It was likely Breita’s horse.”
She squeezed her fingers around his leg tighter, drew her gaze to his once more. “I must finish this quest, Stefan. Culpa knows I will not quit. He knows I must go on.”
“But why continue?”
“What is it you are afraid of, Stefan? You are one of the bravest souls I have ever met. I know that dying does not scare you. So what is it?”
He felt the emotion grow within him, not knowing if he could articulate the truth of things. He’d watched and listened to Seita intently ever since meeting her, observing her bright round green eyes under wisps of pure white hair. What depths he saw in those penetrating orbs, which seemed to look into him and beyond. It was as if the Vallè maiden could truly discern things about him that he could not.
He felt the tears build in the corners of his eyes. “I’ve done so much killing,” he muttered. “On Jubal Bruk’s grayken-hunting ship I used to slay merfolk by the score and not think twice about it. But after shooting arrows down into those knights who fought Shawcroft, something changed in me. I imagine they were men with families, probably. Boys like me, most likely. Boys just fighting for their country. I do not want to shoot an arrow at another living thing again. Not even an oghul.”
“You have a tender heart.” She reached around him and began to unstrap the bow and quiver of arrows from his back. “But the fact is, most oghuls deserve killing, especially these up north like we’ve seen. Naught but brute grunting savages.”
“What are you doing?” he asked, feeling her remove the quiver of arrows.
“Let’s just both relax for a time.” She had the bow and quiver in her hands now. “Let’s set these aside for a moment.” She placed them against the deadfall next to her. Then she wrapped her arm around his waist, pulling him in close, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her body heat warmed him. It seemed the frigid wind ceased to even exist.
“I wish I’d never become good at shooting a bow,” he said.
“Yet you are.” She snuggled her body into his. “For every life you have taken, think of the lives saved.”
“But was it worth it?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Killing to save your own skin is always worth it.”
“What about tomorrow? What about Culpa? What shall I do?”
She pressed herself into him. “Thing is, Stefan, I distrust the Dayknight. And Culpa distrusts me. So you must continue on with us. Because I need you.”
He felt a cramp forming in his calf and stretched his leg out. The birch log they were sitting on rolled back, dumping them both over onto their backs in the damp foliage and frozen pellets of hail.
“Sorry,” he muttered, embarrassed, struggling to sit up, unsuccessfully.
Lying on her back, Seita let out a soft giggle. Tangled in his cloak, Stefan levered himself to his elbow, smiling at her joy. The Vallè threw her cloak over them both and melted into him under the covering they now shared. She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, pulled his face close, pressed her lips to his.
It wasn’t just a small bashful peck on the lips, either. Her tongue slipped between his lips and parted his mouth. Again her breath tasted like sweet pine needles. There was a yielding softness to her as his arms encircled her waist. Stefan could feel the warmth of her thigh against his. “Let me help heal the wounds in your heart,” she whispered. “I know you miss Gisela.”
At the mention of her name, an image of Gisela frozen on the trail, dead, crept into his mind. “
I shouldn’t.” He pulled away from her. “We shouldn’t.”
Seita’s fingers were still entwined in his hair. “Don’t be afraid. You will not be cheating on her memory.” The heat pressing between them bloomed from his chest and warmed its way down his arms to tingle the nerves of his fingertips. And for the first time in weeks, Stefan let complete bliss flow over him like a soft melody.
“I just need someone to hold me,” she moaned under her breath, lips smothering his again.
And with her kiss, all Stefan could see was Gisela’s frozen dead face. “We shouldn’t.” He pulled away from her again. “Not now. Not in this place.”
Seita abruptly stood, adjusting the front of her leather tunic, fastening her cloak around her neck, throwing the gray hood over her head. “Forgive me, Stefan, but you are right. We should just be friends, you and I.”
That confused him.
The Vallè maiden hiked back toward camp, leaving Stefan lying on the cold foliage alone, his heart brimming with a mystifying happiness and sorrow.
* * *
’Tis that unrelenting dream of an eternal soul that wears out the spirit, ages the body, and crushes all rational thought in cruel fashion. And what happens when that eternal dream dies? One finally finds peace in that everlasting nothingness.
—THE BOOK OF THE BETRAYER
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CRYSTALWOOD
12TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
ROKENWALDER, SØR SEVIER
It had been two days—perhaps three—that Krista had been in the cell, suffering from her injuries. She had no grasp of time in this dark place. Bogg’s gaolers showed up with food so unpredictably and infrequently she could figure no rhyme or reason to their comings and goings. The only light she ever saw was from the torches they carried, so painfully bright she closed her eyes against them anyway.
The Blackest Heart Page 58