The wind kicked up and groaned over the valley as his cage swayed to a stop some twenty feet below the precipice of the ridge. Val-Draekin’s cage hung ten feet to Nail’s left, slightly higher than his. The Vallè was still unconscious. To Nail’s right were three other cages similar to theirs, arms and legs dangling from each. Crows pecked at the stiff, blackened limbs jutting from the two farthest cages.
But the man in the cage nearest his was alive. One curled hand reached between the bars toward Nail. Two widened white eyes stared from a blackened face, unblinking, dark pupils fixed on him.
Unblinking.
The man had no eyelids. No brows. No hair on his head at all. Nor skin on his face. His whole body had been stripped of its skin. He was naught but pale sinew and red muscle and scraps of clinging flesh.
Nail knew this was not the work of the crows. The man had been flayed alive. Recently. By the oghuls above. Hragna’Ar!
Nail’s mind flew back to the Sky Loch mines, back to the blood-filled cauldron and the trapper atop the altar. Hragna’Ar! He couldn’t believe there was such savagery in Gul Kana. Oghuls! How could such monsters even exist? How could the world be full of such savagery?
The fleshless man tried to speak, pink tongue curling from his lipless, gurgling mouth. The noise was naught but a sickly wheezing hiss. He thrust his skinless arm out farther, stretching his clawlike fingers toward Nail. But the poor man’s tender butt and thighs were stuck to the iron floor, his back to the iron bars behind him.
Nail looked away, doing his feeble best to ignore the eerie sounds issuing forth from the man. He tried uncurling his own clenched fingers from the bars of his prison. But they too were stuck to whatever foul filth stained the iron.
Horror-stricken, he realized . . .
. . . he was sitting in the torn and rotten remains of similarly flayed men.
* * *
The Last Warrior Angels will lay false claim that it was I, your Blessed Mother Mia, who brought about the fall of Laijon. My own son, Raijael, will lay false claim that ’twas I who stole Dragon Claw, that handless hand he thought his birthright, that fell weapon I alone stripped from the corpse of the Last Demon Lord, that vile silver abomination that hath shredded the flesh of Laijon.
—THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
JONDRALYN BRONACHELL
24TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
Squireck walked silently beside Jondralyn, steel-toed boots clicking against the marble tile floor, Dayknight sword girt at his hip. His polished black armor glittered with the sharp yellow reflections of the vast chamber’s thousand candles.
They had the Temple of the Laijon Statue entirely to themselves. It was near midnight of the last day of the Angel Moon, and the temple, normally sunlit from the tall stained-glass windows above the gallery, was dark but for the dancing flames of the many candelabra. Jondralyn was always overwhelmed by the vast hollowness of the place and the majestic chamber’s splendorous height and domed ceiling three hundred feet above. Her own heavy boots echoed through the temple as she circled the gray-veined pale stone dais of the Laijon statue. She wore Silver Guard armor. Her sword was strapped to her belt under a thick black cloak, the cowl of which was pulled over her head, concealing her in shadow. She hid her face, ashamed.
It had been a little over two moons since Gault Aulbrek’s sword had slashed her. Less than two weeks since she had reopened the wound whilst in the Rooms of Sorrow. And two days since Val-Gianni had removed her bandages and fitted her with the eye patch. She had purposely sequestered herself in her own bedchamber, doing naught but staring at her own grotesqueness in the mirror. She stared at the one long scar that now defined her. It was red and ragged and fierce, stretching from the top of her face to the bottom. A scar that was only partially covered by a black eye patch for an eye that was gone. It seemed so unreal. And she couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t face the world.
At least the bandages had hidden what was underneath. Now she felt so vulnerable. She wished to fashion a helm or mask to cover her hideousness. She did not want to be seen in public, ever.
But she had promised Squireck that she would accompany him to the Temple of the Laijon Statue prior to his fight in the arena with Gault Aulbrek. He desired to pray before the great likeness of Laijon, and he’d wanted her by his side. He wanted it to be on the eve of the Eighth Day before his bout.
Now she hid behind the cowl of a cloak, not even wanting Squireck to see her, unless it was through the shadows cast by a thick, dark hood.
The Prince of Saint Only stopped and stared up at the statue.
Jondralyn dared not look up. She could not bear it, for fear the hood would fall from her face, exposing her. That, and she could not bear to look upon the spectacularly carved face of Laijon with its perfectly squared chin, smooth lips, nose, jaw, eyes, and brows, all so precise and elegant and peerless in beauty. No, she could not look up at all that perfection without having to acknowledge her own lack.
“This statue of Laijon,” Squireck began, “has been my ideal, the reason I trained so hard in the dungeons under the arena with sword and ax and maul, to hone my own physique, to build my own muscles. I dreamed of this statue whilst I knelt in prayer for hours, begging Laijon to deliver me from mine enemies. Now, my body is naught but a vessel to honor the great One and Only.”
“You should pray,” she said, focusing on the tiles of the floor. His hero worship of the statue’s unbearable beauty was like pointed daggers scraping across her soul.
“We’ve the place to ourselves,” he said. “ ’Tis an honor to gaze upon such magnificence, do you not think?”
“I’d rather just go.”
Squireck noticed she was not looking up, or at him, but straight at the floor.
“You needn’t worry, Jon. I’ve seen the scar. I know you wear an eye patch. I do not judge you.” His gaze traveled back up to the statue.
But he does judge me. He had been revolted by her face when the bandages had come off in the Rooms of Sorrow. She’d borne the brunt of his reaction. He could never take back that initial look of horror that had spread across his face. She would remember it always. And now that he continued to feign devotion toward her, continued to somehow always be near her, always be willing to help her—it was just too much. She just wanted space away from him to breathe. She did not trust the attachment and devotion she saw now in him.
She stared at the base of the raised dais before her. Stared at the statue’s carved booted feet, stared at the five black-and-silver cauldrons and the tendrils of incense swirling from each, stared at the five life-size marble oxen that bore the burden of the smoking cauldrons, each boulderlike head facing outward as if on watch. Each cauldron’s surface was gilded with symbols inlaid in white, black, green, blue, and red. This was the first time she’d noticed the symbolic detail. The colors were representations of the magical angel stones and weapons of the Five Warrior Angels: Blackest Heart, Ethic Shroud, Forgetting Moon, Lonesome Crown, and Afflicted Fire, the Five Pillars of Laijon.
Ethic Shroud. She pictured the glorious white shield in her mind as a coldness settled over her skin. She recalled what Lawri Le Graven had said in Sunbird Hall. The weird dreams are full of weird things buried in cross-shaped altars. . . .
“The wreath of white heather atop Laijon’s head,” Squireck was saying, “represents the purity of his cause. It was sheer brilliance that Tala twined a similar wreath for me. I always figured ’twas you who put her up to it.”
She answered, “The wreath of heather was Tala’s gift and Tala’s alone.”
“As you wish,” he said curtly. He was growing impatient with her. “The symbolism of me wearing the wreath in the arena was surely ordained in heaven,” he said. “I will wear it again when I face Gault.”
She wished she had not come with him tonight.
“Did I not look the spitting image of the statue,
Jon? In the arena, fighting with the wreath atop my head, did I not look exactly like this statue?”
Jondralyn didn’t need to look up to remember the wreath circling the statue’s head, or what the Prince of Saint Only had looked like in the arena. She’d seen both Squireck and the statue plenty before. Squireck had been all hardened muscles and magnificence. And at more than five stories tall, the likeness of Laijon was carved of Riven Rock marble, one arm held aloft and a great sword in that hand pointing skyward. The great statue of Laijon—the focal point of worship, pilgrimage, and faith in all the Five Isles—was all hardened muscle and magnificence. And yes, in the arena, Squireck had looked exactly like the statue.
“He is my cousin, you know,” Squireck said.
“Who?” Jondralyn asked, distracted by her own thoughts.
“Ser Gault Aulbrek.”
“Yes, I did know.”
“His mother, Evalyn, was my father’s eldest sister,” Squireck said. “She wed a Sør Sevier nobleman, a lord of the Nordland Highlands named Agus Aulbrek. ’Twas a controversial marriage at the time. They were both assassinated. Gault was their only surviving child. I’d never laid eyes on him until I saw him chained in Sunbird Hall.”
“I said I know who he is.” She really wanted to go.
“I wonder what he knows of the Brethren of Mia, of the lost angel stones and weapons of the Five Warrior Angels.”
“Why would he be privy to any of the workings of the Brethren of Mia?”
“Gault’s mother, along with my father’s other two sisters, Elynor and Elyse, held secret allegiance to the Brethren of Mia. It is why they defied Edmon. How my mother and two aunts came to know of the Moon Scrolls is unclear. But my own mother also paid secret homage to the Brethren. Was she who got me involved.”
She had never before heard him speak of Beatriz Van Hester. “How is your mother now?” she asked.
“How would I know?” Squireck’s answer came quickly. “Adin Wyte is long conquered, my father the forgotten king of a ruined kingdom, the fate of his queen a mystery, especially to one such as I, one who has been locked away for murder.”
He turned, facing her squarely, his black armor creaking as he straightened his stance before her. “Did you not keep up with the goings-on in Saint Only whilst I was imprisoned? Did you hear no word or rumor of her fate? Do you not know if she still lives? Did you show any concern at all?”
Jondralyn felt immediately ashamed that she had not. She had failed her once betrothed in many ways. Even now she was impatient with him for nothing, for her own insecurities. I have been so selfish my entire life—
“Why did you agree to come here with me, Jon?” he asked, the quiet fear in his eyes all too evident.
“Because you asked. And I did not want to disappoint you.”
“You did not wish to come at all.”
“That is not what I’m saying.”
“It is exactly what you’re saying.”
He was right. And she was growing frustrated with him.
“I love you, Jon,” he said. “I always have.”
“Squireck, please,” she sighed. “You are my friend. That is all I want. Friendship. Cannot that be enough?”
The fear in his eyes quickly changed to bitterness, then annoyance. “If you are not interested in me as more than friends, why come to watch me pray before Laijon tonight? Why spend any time with me?”
“I wish to support you, to share in your triumphs. And I hope you will be there for me, too, when I need you. But as friends.”
“I can’t accept that,” he answered. “To be just friends is a mistake. It is wrong. I can’t be near you without wanting you, Jon.”
“And I cannot give you what you want.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t explain.” She put as much reassurance in her voice as she could. “I just don’t see you as any more than a friend.” She felt nothing for him. Harsh fact was, she scarcely thought of him at all. Hawkwood consumed her every thought.
Sometimes it was enough just to be near Hawkwood and hear him speak—it didn’t even matter about what: Bloodwoods, assassins, anything he said could arouse her passion for him. She finally looked up and met Squireck’s gaze sternly, not caring if he saw her scar. “Romance. Desire. It will never happen for us. I wish it could, but it won’t. It’s just a feeling I have about these things, an instinct.”
Hurt and confusion melted over his face. She wished this conversation had never started. “Besides,” she said, “relationships are difficult, full of resentments. We would make each other miserable in the end.”
“Have I not treated you well?”
“You treat me wonderfully.” But I can never forget that look on your face when you first saw my scars in the Rooms of Sorrow. It was going so wrong, this conversation. She needed to guide it in a new direction. Make him feel like there was some hope. “You have taught me so much of the Brethren of Mia. Led me down paths to knowledge that I would never have found on my own. That is what is important to me. To our relationship. Our common goals in stopping war and suffering. We’ve much to accomplish together, you and I. But when it comes to love . . . the truth is, you can do better than me, Squireck.”
“And you presume to know what is best for me? It is your love I want. Not mere friendship. I cannot accept less than I give. I will not be just your friend.”
“Please don’t end our lifetime of friendship over my choice. Such a thing would do great insult to me as a person. It would make me feel that . . . that I have only ever been a potential lover to you, and not a real person with my own hopes and desires.” Her voice was growing harsh. “Is that all I have ever meant? Is that all I have ever been worth in your eyes, Squireck? Love? Romance? Sex?”
“And where is the crime in desiring such things? Lest you forget, we were betrothed once.”
“But that is over. And you must listen to me now, hear what I am saying now. I cannot give you what you want. I’ve my own issues to deal with. I would make you so miserable. So unhappy.” She repeated, “I cannot give you what you want.”
“But you can give Hawkwood what he wants?” he snapped. “That is the type of man you desire. A traitor. A killer. A loser who killed your very own mother—”
She slapped his face. Her blow hardly moved him from his spot. Her hand stung. “You do not know Hawkwood like I do,” she snarled.
She knew of the rumors—that her mother had not died in childbirth, but rather by the poison of assassins. Roguemoore had mentioned as much. That her father believed it. That her father had gone to war against Aeros because of his belief in those rumors. She’d also heard the rumors that Hawkwood had been the assassin. But she did not believe that rumor. Would not.
“You do not know Hawkwood like I do,” she repeated.
“I know him well enough,” Squireck said coldly. “He uses you, Jon. Uses you for his own ends. He is lecherous and most foul—”
“It is you who is lecherous,” she shot back.
“I am no lech.” He scowled, lips pursed in anger. “I am better than Hawkwood in every way. Born of royal blood. Blessed by Laijon in the arena. Can you not see?”
“He has done naught but fight for our cause, same as you.”
“Right. Exactly. He has read the Moon Scrolls. He’s plumbed the secrets of Mia. He knows the history of the Five Warrior Angels. He knows history is bound to repeat itself. He knows the prophecies. Your beloved Hawkwood knows that the destiny of the Princess lies with the Gladiator. He connives to thwart the will of Laijon. He is a lech.”
“That is in the Moon Scrolls?” she asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect. “That the Princess and Gladiator are to be together?”
“Hawkwood is using you, Jon. And you don’t even know it. I’ve seen his leering looks. I see his lusts. He wants to take your maidenhood, not out of love, but to thwart the will of Laijon.”
Nothing he said was helping. It just confused her and made him seem more weak in her eyes, made
her want to withdraw more, to lash out at him.
“It is you who stares at me with lust, who leers at me uncontrollably.” Jondralyn knew her words were cruel and meant to humiliate. She also knew they were not completely true, but still they spilled forth in a rush. “It is you who treats me as if I’m naught but a potential sex partner. That is the one thing Hawkwood has never done, stare at me as you do.”
“How can you say that if he’s the one you rut with?”
“How dare you accuse me—”
“So he has not stared at you in the throes of passion?”
“How dare you presume the manner of my relationship with him?”
“The point is, I am no lech. And still you accuse me of such. And I enter the arena on the morrow to fight for you, Jon, to kill Gault Aulbrek, my own blood kin, the man who maimed you. It is I who seek to avenge you. All whilst Hawkwood does nothing.”
“I do not need anyone to avenge me.”
“Yet that is the type of man I am,” he continued on, as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Honorable and true. Hawkwood was on that oxcart with you and Gault for days and did not kill the man. Did not avenge you as he should have.”
“He was injured, as was I.”
“You make excuses for him.”
“He saved my life. He stitched me together.”
“Stitched you together?” Squireck scoffed. He took a step back, throwing up his arms in exasperation. “And you believe that? Everything he says is a lie. How can you love such a liar? It is unacceptable.”
He sounds so much like Jovan in his fervor. Irrational. Unpredictable. She found that she was actually scared of this man standing before her. This imposing stranger in Dayknight armor. He hasn’t listened to a thing I’ve said. It was the most maddening conversation she’d ever been in. Ever heard. She did not feel safe. She never had.
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