Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1)

by G. P McKenna

  “Alrighty then,” Pierous took a step back before crossing his arms over his chest, “I must say that I am delighted to be standing here outside without you banishing me back yet.”

  The Sword hummed, a smile still plastered across his unnaturally smooth features as he scanned the courtyard, “Pogue, are you alright?”

  He didn’t look alright, knelt as he was on the marble with his head lowered and breath wheezing. I dropped down beside him, reaching for my bag with the full intention of fixing whatever was wrong. We couldn’t bring Ilya back if we were barely alive ourselves, and we would bring Ilya back. One way or another. Pogue pushed my hands away and stood on shaky legs, “yeah, I’m good. Just tired.”

  The Sword spared him a concerned look before turning back to Pierous, “You should be delighted, Pierous the Immortal. I have refrained from obliviating you on the spot simply because you displayed basic integrity in your actions during the fight against the Scolopendra, even if you did lack valour.”

  “Don’t judge me,” Pierous exclaimed, “you know as well as I that had my full energy reserves been activated that beast would’ve been dead in mere seconds.”

  “That’s true,” the Sword stated, “and precisely what I wish to discuss with you,” Pierous’ eyes lit up like lanterns. Literally. They morphed into a glowing red at the Swords words. He opened his mouth, only to snap it shut as the Sword raised a hand, “your energy will remain tethered to mine, but I am inclined to allow you access to it, for you are only capable of fulfilling your debt to the Shield of Ascot if I do.”

  Pierous drew his arms closer to his chest, “but?”

  “But I am unsatisfied with your proposed terms,” the Sword glanced at Pogue, “I am unsatisfied with this entire proposal. It is truancy from your duty to the Deities, which is precisely why I had ordered the inner sanctum locked initially.”

  Pogue swallowed and looked to the floor, “Orden, I-”

  The Sword held up his hand once more, and Pogue silenced. Orden looked back to Pierous, looking the immortal warlock over, “But what’s done is done. A debt has been formed, and it will be repaid, but you will not be granted an audience with the Ascotian Princess. This is my providence, and you have been bestowed to my care and jurisdiction, and so I offer you my own terms. I believe you shall find them agreeable: Once your debt to the Shield of Ascot has been fully repaid, you will leave Ascot of your own free will and never return.”

  Pierous looked at Pogue and I, his face falling into a wide-mouthed look of disbelief, “so in essence, a resurrection in exchange for permanent exile?”

  “In essence,” Orden repeated dryly.

  “So help your ward, then piss off?” Pierous made a tsk-ing sound, “You drive a hard bargain, Orden.”

  Orden’s eyes flashed as his name passed the Warlocks lips, and nature itself seemed to bolt as the wind picked up, whipping my hair widely around my face as the bird’s calls increased with agonizing screeches. Pierous made an odd choking sound as Orden stared him down. Then everything stilled, the birds and bugs vocalized cheerily away. Orden smiled at the Warlock with anything but happiness, “You are a sworn enemy of the Kingdom of Ascot,” he stated, “yet I am offering you the chance to redeem yourself and leave our lands without fear of pursuit. You may wish to consider my lack of action as a sign of gratitude in assisting my ward.”

  Pierous inhaled sharply before bowing at the waist, throwing his arms backwards in an almost mocking manner, “and to think I thought you blessed ones were the merciful types.”

  “I am neither merciful nor forgiving, so I advise you to choose wisely,” Orden said calmly, “will you help the Shield and earn your freedom to leave Ascot behind? Or do you choose to spend eternity here with me in atonement for your century-long spree of destruction?”

  To his credit Pierous didn’t so much as flinch as Orden stared him down, he simply tapped his chin and hummed as if he had faced such ultimatums numerous times before. He looked over the camp below us before turning back to Orden and shrugging, “I hear that the Kingdom of Blenheim is wonderful this time of year. Satisfied?”

  “No,” Orden stated and clicked his fingers. An overpowering scent of cotton and frangipani filled the courtyard as an orb of glowing purple light appeared in his hand, “but I will unbind your powers all the same. Understand, they will remain tethered to mine until you leave our borders. If I sense anything suspicious, anything at all, you won’t believe what happens next.”

  Pierous didn’t even have the opportunity to respond before he was knocked several feet backwards, landing heavily on his back. Purple light arched its way into his chest, lingering over his heart, as the Warlock withered in pain, rolling around and clutching his throat. He was moaning loudly, but it was barely audible over the ear-piercing gale that threatened to knock me off my feet. And the humming, that was worse of all. It inched into my head until I couldn’t hear myself think, or even tell up from down.

  Time seemed to slow down. Something dropped on my shoulder, but my brain was too disconnected to push it away. All I could do was stiffly turn my neck, only to find Pogue’s forehead pressing into my arm. The hands that tightly clasped his ears were whiter than bone and sweat dripped from his hair. The longer the humming dragged on, the more I could feel my own life energy fading. Lightheaded and drowsy, it was stealing from me what I didn’t have to spare, stopping only once Pierous was motionless on the floor other than sharp convulsion that rattled his chest.

  Then nothing at all.

  Purple smoke puffed from his mouth in time with my heartbeat for several painfully slow moments. Just as I was beginning to fear that Orden hadn’t been able to contain his dislike for the Warlock and had taken the transfer too far, brilliant magenta eyes flew open.

  Sitting up with perfect ease, Pierous stared down at his hands as if he’d never seen them before. He closed one, opened the other. Again, and again, before a wicked graced his lips, and he clapped. The smallest orb of purple energy appeared between them as they parted. Pierous glared down at the tiny glow with a disgruntled sneer. He clapped again, grunting as he forced his hands apart to reveal a brighter glow that rapidly expanded until Pierous held a wheel sized orb of light. Whooping loudly, he clapped once more, and just like that, the orb was gone.

  “Wooo,” he whistled and jumped to his feet, rocking on his heels like a wealthy child at Yule, “thanks a bunch. You have no idea how much magic adds to your life until it’s taken away from you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Orden said, clasping his hands tightly, “this is all due to the Shield of Ascot. I suggest you repay his kindness in turn.”

  “Of course,” Pierous said and practically skipped over to Pogue and me, humming obnoxiously all the while. His smile faltered slightly as he looked down at us but perked back up as he held his hand out to Pogue. With a shaky sigh, Pogue took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet by the humming Warlock, “are you sure you’re alright Shield?”

  “Tired,” Pogue muttered.

  “You look more than tired, you look positively dreadful,” Pierous chirped and turned back to Orden, “any parting words of wisdom, Sir Sword?”

  Orden stared at him for a moment before turning back to his roses, “that’s all, Immortal. Assist the Shield of Ascot, and may the Deities grant all your souls’ peace.”

  “Righto then,” Pierous said, and looked to Pogue, “where to, my lethargic friend?”

  Pogue straightened up, shielding his eyes from the non-existent sun to glance over the maze below. He pointed to one of the abandoned sheds that dotted the maze, “there.”

  “Rustic, but functional. That will do,” Pierous nodded, “right, we shall teleport there.”

  “I don’t got the energy,” Pogue muttered.

  “Who asked you to do anything?” Pierous said and closed his eyes. The humming returned, the air rich with the nauseatingly strong scent of cotton and frangipani. Deities, I was doomed to smell like a nobs dressing room for weeks. Pierous hel
d out his hand and cracks of light appeared in the marble beneath it until the air seemed to collapse in on itself, revealing a whirling vortex of shiny purple light. Pierous stepped back, cheeks flushed and lungs heaving, but smiling brightly, “now that was almost orgasmic,” he chirped. Pierous grabbed Pogue’s arm and went for mine, but I stepped backwards out of his reach. His smile dropped into a frown, “you won’t be accompanying us, Princess?”

  I would actually prefer to spend a week in a nobs dressing room than endure another episode of vortex transportation that day. Once was bad enough, but twice was where I drew the line. I shook my head and Pierous raised a brow, “come again?”

  “I’m coming to the shed, I’m just not teleporting there,” I said while observing Pierous carefully, afraid that if I didn’t he would grab me and drag me along with him, and that would be that, but he merely stared blankly. I cleared my throat, “somebody needs to get the body, right?”

  “Yes,” Pierous said slowly while staring pointedly at my twiglet arms, “but I’m not convinced that you’re the correct girl for that task. No offence.”

  “Offence taken” I huffed but shook my head to clear the rising heat that festered there, “but right or wrong, there’s nobody else. Pogue is about to pass out, and you’re Ascots most wanted. However, if you want to be the one who struts right into the command tent, be my guest.”

  “She’s right,” Pogue said, “I can’t do it, and if Amicia or Ramsey see you in there it won’t end well for anyone.”

  Pierous groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He glanced back at the Sword, and groaned once more, “Alright, but be quick. Bodies rot fast in this humidity.”

  Like I needed him to tell me that.

  Still shaking his head and groaning like I’d kicked him where the sun didn’t shine, Pierous tightened his grip on Pogue’s arm and stepped into the vortex. The light crackled and flashed behind them, growing rapidly unstable before collapsing in on itself, leaving everything how it had always been. A flash of purple light appeared within the hut and I held my breath, waiting for the guards. My job would be much harder with the camp in disarray. It never came. I exhaled.

  “Kilco?”

  My back immediately straightened. I spun around to find the Sword staring at me, his deep but emotionless eyes dancing over every inch of my body. I didn’t question how he knew my name, my mind racing at the prospect of being left alone with a demi-god. What was the social etiquette in such a scenario? Was I supposed to bow or curtsy? I cursed myself for not having paid closer attention in cotillion classes. Or any attention at all. After what felt like forever, the Sword finished his examination of me and looked upon my face with a twitching grimace. He opened his mouth, closed it, and turned back to his flowers, “best of luck with that.”

  The books of my childhood had warned of the stealth, the adrenaline, the utter moral depravity, but not a single one had mentioned anything about the weirdness of grave robbing. Even sneaking into the command tent was an odd experience. The Royal guards all knew my face, but still, it took several minutes of schmoozing to even step foot inside, only to be stopped every several steps thereafter. I would like to believe that being coated in fluorescent toad guts with my nose smushed into my face the guards could sense that I had just performed a great act of gallantry, but the tensely skittish atmosphere extended far beyond just them.

  The hallway walls were dotted with guards. Giant Poota with arms as big as boulders, snide Mariquil who sneered and whispered as I passed, and even the miscellaneous mercenaries who raged from stoically rugged to knobbly kneed. They were all there, fidgeting as their eyes darted about, preparing to pounce on any unnamed threat that dared breath threateningly in the direction of whatever aristocrat or nob paid for them to trail behind like puppy dogs.

  An awful commotion was coming from the throne room, the open doors doing nothing to disguise the mindless hollowing. I stopped to peek in at the hoard that had been squeezed inside like cheese in a tube. Every diplomat who had ever so much as sneezed in the presence of a Royal decree must’ve been present, speaking over one another towards Amicia, who sat poised and proper on her ornate ivory throne while effortlessly engaging in three arguments at once.

  It took some hiding in questionable locations, but I eventually managed to slither into the office without being ejected from the tent for being a public health hazard. A miracle if there ever was one. Carefully closing the door, I stepped closer to the desk. Somebody had seemed fit to cover Ilya’s face with a sheet, but it didn’t make it any easier to look down upon him lying there breathless and colourless, purple patches starting to form beneath its pale coolness.

  Drawing breath was torture as I peeled back the sheet. Pogue was right: in death, he appeared peaceful. His blood-stained hair was spread upon a pillow, too solid and dark, tickling my arms like goose feathers as I placed a gentle kiss on cold, discoloured lips and nestled my face against the curve of a neck that never experienced sunlight. Two worlds collided there: the sensation of robust, well-cared-for hair so vividly different to the still stiffness of everything else.

  Too stiff.

  I jumped away from the table, shaking as if electrocuted. It had been difficult enough to get myself through the command tent. Not even divine intervention would help me smuggle a corpse out unnoticed. Nobody knew Ilya was dead. There would be questions if caught by the guards, death if caught by the Ilvarjo before I could even mutter the words Just borrowing your dead future leader for a spill. Be back soon.

  That would go down a treat.

  Even if I could get Ilya out of the command tent, we still needed to get to the maintenance shed, but my arms were weak and gangly, and he was a literal dead weight. Without thought, my fingernails raked against the dead flesh, and I slammed them to my sides, only for my left hand to snag against something sharp enough to draw blood.

  “Ouch,” I hissed. The last thing I needed right then was for my own tools to be attacking me and adding to the infection risk. Without even sucking the blood from my finger, I slammed the bag atop of Ilya’s swords and ripped it open, rifling through until I found the homegrown enemy. Drops of red shined brightly against the silver blade of the Kaori dagger, sharp even through my canvas bag. It was amazing it hadn’t…cut it?

  Of course. Deities, I loved that saviour of a dagger.

  Tapping the blade against my lip, I moved to the side of the tent and touched the canvas wall. We had rushed Ilya to the nearest office, so if my mental map was correct that wall was all that separated us from freedom. Cutting it open would be treason. It would leave the Princess exposed and break dozens of Ascotian laws. There could be hangings and beheadings.

  I pushed the dagger in and sliced until humid air hit my face. Releasing a breath that I knew I was holding, I turned to Ilya. It was emotionally draining to treat his bruised and battered body with such blatant disrespect, but as the blue sky broke through the leaves above to grace my skin, I had a hunch that things could only look up from there.

  “You have until the count of ten to explain what is happening here before I behead you.”

  Hunches can be wrong.

  True to their word, something cold that wasn’t the mid-afternoon breeze caressed my neck, and with a deep breath, I cautiously raised my head. Irritated red eyes and even more irritated blonde braids glared out at me from behind a grey mask and hood. Those braids, so close to bursting free from their ties, were vaguely familiar, and I wracked my brain to find the name which matched before she could make good on her promise. Mary, Macy…Melly?

  “It’s Mercy, right?” I dared venture.

  “It is. One, two-”

  “Wait,” I dropped Ilya’s limp arm to hold up my hands, “this isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Really?” the dagger pressed close enough to prick, “because it looks like my baby cousin is dead, and you’re dragging his corpse off somewhere that isn’t Caer Spiel.”

  Hmm. She had me there, “Okay, maybe this is what it
looks like, but there’s a good excuse.”

  “Summarize it. Three, four.”

  How was I supposed to summarize the events of the previous three days in six seconds? It was impossible, but I had to try. We had come so far to be stopped by an Ilvarjo on a power trip outside a maze in the forest, “Um, Morrigan, dead, Shield, Warlock, resurrection, hole?”

  Silence so sharp it could’ve been cut with a knife. The blade against my neck twitched. What a shame it had all failed so close to success, but at least I’d tried.

  “Stand up.”

  Gloved hands grabbed my shoulders and forced me to my feet. What was even the point of demanding that? Mercy slouched, lowering herself to my height to rest her blade against my stomach as red eyes looked me over, “never summarize anything ever again. Explain.”

  And so I did. Every moment, every confrontation spewed past my lips in a rapid blur. It felt good just to say everything out loud, like a weight that had been crushing me for days had lifted from my shoulders. It was incredible that Mercy managed to keep up, but somehow she must’ve for she didn’t stop me, just stared on stoically as the lower portion of her mask shifted from side-to-side, “huh, alright,” she said once I finally finished. The blade dropped from my stomach and she indicated towards Ilya, “we best move quickly then.”

  “What?” I exclaimed before clearing my throat to ask in a calmer voice, “you believe me?”

  “No, but if you’re lying, I can always kill you later. However, if there’s even a small chance you’re not,” she leaned over and half lifted Ilya up before pausing to look up at me, “are you planning on standing there looking pretty all day, or are you going to help?”

  If there was one secret I fully intended to take to my grave it was that Pierous was right. I wasn’t the girl for the job. Mercy was. Though she wasn’t particularly muscular, she moved Ilya’s dead weight through camp without breaking a sweat. It was as if she’d smuggled countless bodies through crowded conditions before, for she seemed to instinctively know how to glare just so to make whatever poor soul dared stray near scatter in the opposite direction. I would never have been able to move Ilya without her assistance, that was for sure.