He scowled. “Dreams.” His voice was clipped with bitterness.
“Oh, come now,” she said. “You can’t tell me you hold no dreams of your own. Surely, you keep wishes in your heart as I do.”
That stone cold look pushed away any warmth that had glowed within him, leaving him looking, once again, hardened and much older than he should. “As I said, life is harsh. Some of us can’t afford the luxury of dreams.”
She frowned. What on Eresea has made him so pessimistic? Part of him repelled her, but it was also the part that drew her to him. She couldn’t help but feel compelled to try to help him somehow.
She wanted to say more, but then the caravan stopped moving. She looked around her groggily, feeling the sweet pull of sleep now that they had stopped.
The forest was cast in a pale blue light as the moon stretched its beams across the sky, trying futilely to hold onto the last remnants of its nightly kingdom. The stars were starting to fade into the periwinkle hues of dawn; birds rose to great the sun with a symphony of songs.
They were led to a cluster of thick, bushy trees that would blot out the sun enough for them to comfortably sleep under.
She stifled a yawn and stretched her stiffening neck as she sat down on a curved root that wove through the browning grass like a needle and thread. She folded her legs underneath her battered dress, gingerly rubbing her calves through the grimy silk. She wasn’t fragile like most women of the court, but she was also not accustomed to strenuous hiking. Her muscles no longer hurt with that tight, strained pain they used to, but by the time the sun rose every day, her body was always exhausted.
Rowan sat down next to her and leaned his back against the trunk, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. The little creatures scurried about them, laying out fur blankets and passing around bits of meat and other foul-smelling foods that made her nose shrivel up.
As with every other day, the small runt who had been charged with tying her up carefully came over to secure both their ropes to the tree. And as with every other day, it did not tarry for long, scampering off as fast as it could once the knot had been set.
She tipped her head back, feeling the rough texture of the bark against her scalp. Rowan looked as if he was already asleep, but his breathing was narrow enough for her to guess he must still be awake.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” she murmured.
“Probably to their king, in the mountains.” His words were all jumbled together, like his mouth was moving without his brain's direction. “But we might be surprised.”
She took a deep breath once the rancid meat was stored back in their pouches and enjoyed the smell of fresh sunlight mingled with dew and wildflowers. It was wonderful; the air was pure and fresh, and it soothed her.
“I don't like surprises,” she mumbled, her shoulders unwinding and her feet throbbing.
Their camp grew quieter as the murdels lay on the ground a few feet from them, shielding their eyes against the growing power of the sun.
As the last of the cricket chirps died away, she heard the low rumble of Rowan’s voice but didn’t catch what he said. The last thing she remembered was smiling at the warm golden light bathing the air and ground around them and knowing somehow that everything was going to be all right.
CHAPTER 18Ghosts
IT DIDN’T MATTER HOW many days passed or that she slept in the sunshine; darkness always found her in her dreams.
Lian was in the palace, in the room where her father had died before her very eyes. Her feet felt wet and sticky, and when she looked down, she was standing in a pool of blood.
Her fingers pressed against something hard and slightly heavy. It was the dagger used to slay the Arch Duke. Beads of blood fell like fresh red teardrops into the pool at her feet.
“What?” she said, though hardly any sound came out at all. The air was growing sharper, almost tangible, as its acidic taste cut at her throat and lungs. Her pulse was thundering in her head, and she suddenly felt very cold.
“Lianora…”
The moan came from directly in front of her; she instantly knew who it was.
She wanted to bolt, to run far away from this place of death and destruction. But she couldn’t force her feet to move, as if they were slabs of marble. Something crackled to her left, but her mind screamed at her that it was unimportant, that she should be heeding the goose bumps sprouting along her arms.
Reluctantly, her eyes shifted, and a sob escaped her lips.
“Father?” Her voice was so quiet, yet so loud in the stillness of that moment.
Feron stood before her, fully clothed in his finest robes for the ball, only there was a horrible dark stain on his arms and hands.
“Lianora... Lianora.” He struggled to lift a withered hand, as if he were chained.
His face didn't look right, nor did his hand. The skin was much too pale, almost blue-tinged, and it was shriveled and sunken around the bones. Her father may have been slowly declining in health, but now he looked like the walking dead.
“It was you who did this to me!” His wail was so anguished she felt her heart might split in half.
“No,” she whispered back. “I tried to save you! Remember, Father?”
The ghost floated toward her. “You did this to me!”
Her heart leapt to her throat, and she stumbled as she backed away. She frantically clutched the dagger to her side, as if it would protect her from the spirit.
Her back bumped against something smoldering hot, and she yelped, leaping away. It was the wall, heated to near unbearable levels from the smoldering fire spreading through the adjoining hallway. She was so focused on the spirit that she had not paid attention to how quickly the fire was spreading; it had already spilled into the room, flanking her on both sides.
She was trapped.
I'm going to die, she thought, lifting a trembling hand in front of her. She fought for control of her fingers as the spirit of her father reached out a smoky, decaying hand, as if to choke her.
“This is your fault,” it hissed, those horrible eyeless sockets staring down at her.
“No!” she screamed, covering her ears. The dagger clattered against the floor as she dropped to her knees. She curled into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the nightmare.
“It’s not real,” she whispered quickly, trying to reassure herself but failing. “It’s not happening.”
Then it was all gone: her father, the smoke, the fire, everything. It was so quiet she could hear her heart thrumming violently inside her chest. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and her throat was so tight it was difficult to pull enough air into her lungs. She felt dizzy and lightheaded, and there was a faint ringing in her ears. But no ghosts.
Shaking, she slowly lifted her head and peered around the room, and her breath caught in her throat.
The room was aged, as if a hundred years had passed since the night of the fire. The ceiling was gone, and half of the walls were missing. Pieces of charred, rotten wood from the foundation jutted out at sharp angles. The few pieces of furniture left were covered in dust and ash and eaten up with holes from insects. There was no sign of the charm and cheer the place had once held the night of the masque. It had been driven away by sorrow a long time ago.
Her breathing slowed as she took in the scenery, and she managed to stand up without passing out from dizziness. A light breeze blew from the east. It was dry and stale, and when she looked through the cracks in the walls, she saw nothing but a barren wasteland, long deprived of resources and life.
She shook her head, turning around in a circle. Her throat constricted. “No, no, this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
The scent of singed flesh drifted to her on the breeze, and her nose crinkled. The smell caked her nostrils and throat until she thought she would vomit from the intensity of it. Then the direction of the wind shifted, and she found herself trapped in a vortex that snatch
ed the breath from her lungs.
She swayed from the lack of oxygen, struggling to maintain her balance.
Faces appeared all around her, looking as decayed as her father's. Their expressions were blank, their souls ripped from their bodies, as they stared at her with unblinking eyes. Her fear spiked as she looked into those eyes and saw no reflection. She tried to scream, but the wind pulled the air from her mouth.
Then the wails began, filling the air as they had the night of the fire.
Her voice came out choked as she struggled to take a breath. “No. Stop.”
The wails turned into screams, circling her in a storm of smoke and fire, and though she covered her ears, they didn’t stop. It was all inside her head, and there was no escaping the prison of her mind.
Her knees folded, and she crumpled to the ground, her dream self's eyes squeezed shut, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Stop it!”
The roar only grew louder and the fire hotter until it blistered her skin. All those people died because of her. Guilt and pain washed over her, and she felt herself being pulled under by its weight. Her dream self began giving in to the black void at the edge of the dream, and she welcomed it, anything, to escape this torture.
She slipped further and further away until she felt someone shaking her. “Lianora. Lian wake up.”
The voice sounded so far away, like it was yelling through a wall. She stirred, and her eyes fluttered open to find a pair of brown eyes staring down at her.
“Rowan,” she murmured, sitting up and rubbing her forehead. She glanced at her arms but found no boils. Then the look on his face registered, and she immediately fixed him with an accusing stare. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“We're under attack.” His voice was low and tense, and his hand lingered at her shoulder as he glanced around.
She immediately scrambled to her feet, her eyes widening as the fog of sleep shifted to awareness. “From what? Do you know?”
“No.” Rowan rose to his feet, hand at his hilt. His eyes darted around the clearing in an avian way, fast and alert. “All I know is that it started a few moments ago. The murdels began screeching to one another, and several of them were even fighting off some kind of creature. It was completely covered in black. I couldn't make out what it was.”
It dawned on her that she was able to stand. She stopped and looked first at her hands, then back at the tree. The rope that bound them had been cut. “How did you manage to cut the rope?” she asked, rubbing her puffy eyes.
“I didn't. It was like that when I woke up.”
She glanced back at the rope. “If you didn't cut it,” she said slowly, “then who did?”
The sun was almost gone, making it harder for her to see, but black silhouettes slowly became more visible as her eyes adjusted to the dying light.
The camp looked like it had been abandoned in a hurry; everything was in disarray. Items that had been stacked neatly on the wagon were strewn about, the murdels' precious saffurite lying along the ground like ordinary rocks, and the grass was trampled in several places. The fire had long gone out, a pile of ashen branches, and beyond that she could hear the sounds of a scuffle.
“That way.” She began walking toward the brush, but Rowan put an arm out to stop her.
“Let me go first,” he said, stepping in front of her.
She nodded, too scared to argue, and followed him, treading carefully so as not to give them away to whatever beast was lurking on the other side.
They were two steps away from the bushes when the battle spilled over to them in a flash of teeth and growls.
“Watch out!” Rowan yelled. He shoved her and dove out of the way as a mound of murdels on top of what appeared to be a human-like creature came charging through the clearing. The tiny murdels dangled from the limbs of the animal, slicing wildly with their axes and daggers, but their opponent was too quick and padded in thick leather for them to do much harm. It easily dispatched them, sending several dead murdels hurtling to the ground with its sword, and punching and kicking the rest of them off as it freed itself.
Rowan cried out, and she spun to find a fresh red line across his forearm from the murdel he was fighting. She looked around her feet for anything she could use as a weapon. If only she had her bow!
“I thought you said they were harmless!” she shouted.
“I never said that!” Rowan growled between grunts. “Something’s got them in a frenzy!”
She nearly tripped over something long and hard, and she felt along the ground, finding a broken tree limb. Scooping it up, she rushed toward Rowan when a cold voice froze her midway.
“I'm surprised you're still alive.”
Lian gasped and whirled around; Merí stood before her, giving her a hard stare. Lian hesitated. “I must confess you are the last person I ever expected to see here,” Lian said, shifting her weight “How did you manage to –”
Merí's eyes narrowed as she brought the tip of a saber to Lian’s throat.
Lian froze, her cheeks paling. “What are you doing?” Only now she noticed the exotic black armor masking the countess' frame, which was unusually built with undertones of hard muscle. She studied her stony face. “You're not really a countess.”
Merí ignored her and stepped closer, at which Lian took a step back. “You should be dead,” Merí said. “Murdels would kill for something they want, and I see the lust in their eyes when they look at that.” She briefly gestured to the teardrop and then shifted her eyes back to Lian’s. “I saw the light and the murdel's singed hand. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Lian said, keeping her voice measured. “I was passed out.” I saw the hand, too, but Rowan never mentioned anything about the crystal. I assumed the poor creature had some kind of accident. Her eyes lowered so she saw the gleam of crystal from the bottom of her vision.
Why is she so interested in this?
Merí followed her gaze, taking in the jewel and frowning. She opened her mouth to say more when Lian caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. “Watch out!” Lian yelled as a murdel lept toward Merí's back, ax swinging wildly over its head.
Merí whirled around and blocked the ax with her saber just as it was about to lodge in her skull. She shoved hard, and the murdel stumbled backwards. She charged, knocking it to the ground with the hilt of her saber. Crushing the heel of her boot onto its small hand, it cried out in pain and dropped the ax. She kneeled over it, knee on its chest, aiming for the murdel's heart when it pulled a hidden dagger from its vest pocket and lodged it in her stomach.
Lian gasped.
Rowan's head shot up, the ax in his hand oozing green-black blood from the dead murdel at his feet. His face froze in shock as he took the scene in.
Merí stared at the knife buried in her body.
It was as if time had stood still, and all the air was sucked out of the clearing in that fine line between life and imminent death. A dark look overtook the brief surprise on Merí’s face before she swung her saber hard, ending the murdel's life. Slowly, she stood and staggered, grasping the knife embedded in her body. Her olive skin paled, and her breathing became heavy and ragged.
Lian blanched and cupped her mouth to keep from vomiting. Her limbs shook uncontrollably, and she cradled her arms, as if to keep herself from shaking apart. Never had she witnessed so much death firsthand in such a short span of time. Her mind was on overload, and for a moment, she thought her brain might shut down completely.
Lian gulped down more bile, and though she wanted to look away, she was unable to remove her eyes from Merí.
Rowan swore and ran forward as Merí fell to her knees, still clutching the knife's hilt. He was almost to her when Merí closed her eyes and slowly pulled the blade out.
Lian’s eyes widened so far they hurt. What?
There was no blood, not even a wound. Only a sizeable slit in her tunic proved the knife had been there at all.
Merí shuddered, and it looked
like her skin rippled, like water. Then it was over, and she opened her eyes, looking as if nothing had happened.
Standing, she carelessly dropped the knife and looked expectantly at Rowan, who stood stock still a few feet from her. His face carried the same astonishment as Lian's, and for a long while, no one said a word.
The remaining murdels gawked at Merí before dropping their weapons and retreating into the darkening forest. They were completely alone in the clearing.
At last, Merí sighed. “I feared it may someday come to this.” Her voice was barely audible, and she sounded very tired. She turned and slid her saber in its scabbard. “Come.”
And with that, she disappeared into the trees.
CHAPTER 19Tragedy
ROWAN, AX IN TOW, immediately took off after her, his hands balled into angry fists. Lian shook her head, trying to order the chaos in her mind.
Nothing made sense. It was a fatal wound, and even if they had been able to treat it, Merí should have died anyway.
She hugged her arms to her chest as she stepped gracelessly through the bramble, hoping to catch up to them before Rowan lost his temper completely.
It was nearly nightfall, and she tripped and stumbled along. She was not quite able to see where she was going, so she followed the sounds of snapping twigs beneath Rowan's brisk stomps.
She would have bumped into him if he had not spoken first.
“What was that?”
He stood fuming before Merí, who had paused to watch him with a contemptuous glare.
Lian had never seen him this angry before; veins popped out along his neck and at his temples, and his nose sucked the rapidly cooling air in and out like a siphon.
Merí never flinched, her eyes becoming impossibly colder. “I believe I killed a murdel.”
“Don't play coy with me! You know exactly what I mean. You were dying, should be dead right now. But you're not. What did you do? Who are you? What are you?”
“I did nothing, and I am no one special.” She gave him a once over. “Just like you.”
Veiled Innocence (Book One, The Soul Cycle) Page 18