The Book of Never: The Complete Series

by Ashley Capes

  Curse or blessing?

  His brother would have called it a blessing. Never knew better. It was not a curse in the traditional sense. No, it was simply a part of him, and it kept him alive even as he hated it.

  Footfalls approached.

  Never dropped the cup and stood, a knife in each hand as he backed toward the edge of the clearing. Did he have time to –

  Two figures burst from the path with shouts. In the flickering firelight it was hard to take their measure as they spread out. He kept his blades ready. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Save it, cursed one.” The first voice was raspy, the hard edges of a Vadiya accent clear. So, they’d found him. Surprising. And quite inconvenient.

  “Keep your distance, it might be catching.” Never grinned.

  The ring of steel being drawn crossed the camp as both men stepped closer, revealing pale faces. One was a typical Vadiya soldier – armed with sword, and chain mail visible beneath his grey tunic. The other was something else. He twitched as he moved. He wore no shirt, carried no weapon, just heavy gauntlets.

  “Planning to beat me to death, then?”

  The bare-chested man said nothing, but the soldier spat. “Commander Harstas sends ill wishes.”

  “Delightful. Care to send a message back?”

  The man did not answer. Never shifted his feet for balance. Time to even things up. He flipped Gum’s knife, caught it by the point and threw. The blade flashed in the firelight as it spun, but the soldier deflected it with his sword. Impressive in such poor light.

  Never frowned. He drew another knife. Both men were more than they seemed. Two of the commander’s best perhaps – or the most hasty? They circled apart. Trouble. The shirtless one drew level with the fire-pit and Never hesitated. The man had scratched himself somewhere in the trees, a thin line of blood running along his pale shoulder.

  Blood in Never’s own veins pulsed.

  No.

  And yet, things were about to get very dangerous indeed.

  Never growled a curse and charged. Do it. Get it over and done with. This was the last time. He wasn’t going to die here, not when he was so close to the coast, so close to answers. One blade he flung at the soldier, forcing the man to leap aside; the other knife Never used to slice his own hand. He ducked inside the shirtless man’s strike, ignoring the pain in his palm, and slapped his bleeding hand over his enemy’s wound.

  Even before he made contact his blood had reacted; veins straining beneath his skin. Now he shuddered as it surged forth to draw his attacker’s own blood free. The shirtless man stumbled. He swung a second blow but Never blocked it, free hand stinging from the gauntlet.

  Never jumped back.

  Blood ran down the man’s torso, but a thin stream connected the man to Never’s bloody hand. As if his own blood hungered more and more. And while his body didn’t actually take on all the blood from his victim, what wasn’t spilled invariably mixed with his own. And he couldn’t stop it yet. He had to be sure. His curse siphoned still more and the shirtless attacker fell to his knees, twitching as he weakened. Blood covered the clearing, sizzling on the fire, splattered on the leaves.

  As ever, something of the one he murdered was drawn inside Never.

  Shirtless Man – Witha – was from an island far to the south. As a child, Witha had mended nets while the stern face of his father hovered over him and – Never shivered when the images and impressions faded. Wait... something was wrong. Sweat formed at his temples and he took a step back, snapping his wrist to break the flow. The bare-chested man still bled; he had slumped across the leaves now, motionless in a midnight pool, but nothing else was the same this time.

  A chill raced through Never’s body and he shivered, falling to one knee. A fever?

  The mercenary had kept his distance during the draining, but now he crept forward, blade raised. “Now we have you, cursed-one.”

  “Aren’t you a clever bastard.” Never gasped the words through a dark haze. Witha had been ill, gravely ill it seemed. Commander Harstas knew Never’s curse well then; his choice had been deliberate. Never had to admit, it really was a fantastic ploy, even if it was going to get him killed. In the past, if a sickness was transferred his body eventually burnt it off somehow, but this fever was strong.

  The soldier raised his weapon.

  Never scrambled away, falling back to the ground but the man’s sword stayed high and the fellow pitched back. He hit the leaves with a thud, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his chest.

  Luck!

  Unless...more trouble? Never twisted where he lay and cried out. His blood grew hot – surely it was boiling – as his body fought the fever. He writhed, beating the earth. Let it pass, Gods, let it pass.

  “Where are you hurt?” Someone knelt beside him. He blinked through stinging sweat and swimming shadows but there were only flashes of pale skin and green.

  The girl from the village.

  His chest heaved. Why had she saved him? He flailed for her arm but the weight of his own limbs was mountainous and darkness drew close.

  *

  Never woke to birds chattering overhead, the scrambling of their claws on branches. His mouth was dry. He lifted an arm with a grunt, wiping at sweat on his forehead. Dawn light dusted the green foliage.

  A pack stood across from the dying fire and two mounds of dirt – graves – rested at the edge of the trees, branches forming a triangle at the head of each. His attackers. Witha. Poor fool; another victim of the curse. Never groaned. Were the Vadiya so desperate to have revenge as to sacrifice themselves? For Witha at least, it had been a sort of suicide. He had to die for his attack to be effective.

  No doubt Harstas had ordered it so.

  Never rubbed at his eyes. His cut had already healed to a thin scar – one more to add to the scores of others on his hands. The curse’s pathetic way of compensating; small cuts always knitted themselves back together quickly. Too bad it didn’t work for sword wounds. A blanket lay across his legs; he’d obviously thrown it from his torso during the night. His own pack rested beneath his head and sleepy embers in the fire winked out as he rose to a half-sitting position.

  What of the girl who saved him?

  Never rummaged through the pack but everything was there; food, silver, cooking implements, all of it in place – even the hard scroll case at the bottom that held his map of the Amber Isle. More valuable than a King’s ransom. Or an Empress’.

  Voices. He cocked his head. Distant, raised in disagreement. He strained his ears, holding his breath. Yes, there was a faint shout and a reply, then the voices hushed.

  He twisted. The argument came from the rear of camp. Footsteps approached at a jog. Never rose to one knee, breathing hard, pausing as the clearing spun. When the dizziness passed he stood, pulling a knife. So, he’d not been stripped of his weapons either.

  The footsteps slowed as they approached the clearing, and the archer from Petana’s inn came into view.

  She didn’t reach for her bow, instead regarding him with hard eyes. She’d been one of the shouting voices; her cheeks were flushed and at her side, her hand flexed in and out of a fist. She didn’t seem aware of the action.

  Never almost smiled – she was actually a lovely looking young woman, even when angry. Too young for him of course, but lovely all the same. And in the day it was easier to spot the differences between her and the Vadiya invaders – a silver necklace with a blue stone in its centre had come free as she’d run. The Vadiyem would never use silver for ornamentation.

  “So, you survived,” she said.

  “So it seems. I should thank you.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t. I still might shoot you. I’ve seen what you are.”

  “Have you?” He shrugged off the insult. “Well, it’s worse being me than looking at me, I assure you.” He gestured to the graves with his blade. “You buried them?”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “Of course.”

  “I’m not judg
ing you, just asking. I would have searched them for information.”

  “You mean for gold.”

  He chuckled. “I haven’t had much luck spending Vadiya coin in these parts lately, young lady.”

  “My name is Elina, not ‘young lady’, understood?” She kept her distance, circling to her pack. Never watched but she made no threatening move.

  “Let me thank you anyway, Elina. I do prefer being alive. Most days.”

  “If you say so.” She rummaged through her pack, still facing him, and removed an apple. She took a bite, sitting back to stare at him, green eyes a little distant.

  “You seem upset.”

  “I am.”

  “Ah.” No surprise she didn’t want to talk about it. Hopefully whatever it was wouldn’t come back to bite him. Best to keep an eye on the trees. Whoever she’d been arguing with might not have disappeared. And the Steelhawks would still be chasing him. The two from last night must not have rested for days. Quite the gamble; Harstas was persistent if nothing else.

  Never knelt by his own pack and lifted a piece of hardbread, returning her look. There was more afoot here with the young woman. “Why did you save me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out.” She frowned. “Gum’s Hero Seal. Surely it is worth a lot more than what you took in coin. Why did you leave it?”

  “Can’t a thief have some limits?”

  “None I’ve known.”

  “How many thieves do you know, Lady Elina?”

  She paused, apple half-way to her mouth. “I’m not a lady.”

  “Of course you are – that necklace is a tell – Hanik nobility. Maybe not a duchess, but you have land and a title I’d say.”

  She stuffed the necklace beneath her tunic. “That’s not your concern, thief.”

  “You’re quite far from home. How did you slip through the fighting? The Vadiya must have control of half the nation by now.”

  “Again, that needn’t worry you, thief.”

  “I see. Would it surprise you to know I have a name too? You can use it if you wish.”

  “Fine.” She tossed the last of the apple into the embers and stood, swinging her pack onto a shoulder. “What is your name then?”

  He stood. “Never.”

  “What?”

  “That’s my name.”

  She lowered the pack. “Your mother called you ‘Never’?”

  “No. My brother named me, as I named him.” He shook his head. Being so open probably wasn’t a good idea; he still didn’t know what she wanted. And yet, something strangely familiar drew him to her, as it had the first time he’d laid eyes upon her at the inn.

  “That doesn’t sound like a Marlosa custom. In fact, you might have dark hair and dark eyes, the same tanned skin but you don’t quite look Marlosi.”

  “It’s a long story.” He spread his hands. “And it was more than twenty years ago now. We were young.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think I believe you.”

  “The truth of the matter doesn’t hinge on your belief.” He grinned.

  “Fine. What did you name him?”

  “Ah, it would be unfair to reveal that.”

  Elina sighed as she hoisted her pack again. “Very well, Never.” She took her bow and nocked an arrow. He tensed but she only moved to the nearest tree, turning back a moment. “I do not know if you are truly cursed, as they said...as I saw, and I pray to Clera that I have truly seen good within you, that I was right to save you, right to spare you now.”

  “As do I.”

  She slipped into the trees with barely a rustle of leaves.

  Chapter 3.

  The woods beyond Petana thinned at the coast, the wide dirt road dwindling to an overgrown path choked by a mess of drying weeds that barely clung to the colour green. Even the earth lay thin and grey. Below Never, the road dipped to a lighthouse of white stone, its roof of faded red tiles a clear marker of the Empire’s reach. Beyond stretched the ocean, glittering blue, dotted with distant islands. The afternoon sky above lay free of clouds – just another ocean of blue. A salty breeze cooled sweat at his temples.

  He took another drink, returned the flask to his pack and rested fingertips against his neck – hot skin. Still! His body fought the illness off for a time, but it always returned. Sometimes he’d feel fine for an hour and then the fever roared back, slowing him. All morning it had been the same.

  “Bastard.”

  Harstas had devised quite the trap. The other Vadiya commanders weren’t smart enough. But Harstas was the kind of man who’d send Steelhawks and a poisoned slave to be sure. And all for a damn map none of the fools even understood. Harstas probably thought it led to buried Marlosa gold. Never shook his head. Maybe it was simple revenge. If he hadn’t killed so many of them escaping, he wouldn’t be in so much trouble now.

  Truly, they were a dedicated pack of fools to chase him all the way from Isacina, and in the middle of a successful invasion at that.

  Time to leave them behind.

  He set off, boots thudding on rocky dirt. At the lighthouse he paused. The base was scrubbed clean but the rest, those pieces of stone that towered over him, were worn with weather. A small window rested high above.

  A red stallion had been painted over the door; the eternal symbol of the Empire, and beside a small stone bench nearby rested a boulder set with a plaque of steel. Words were chiselled within – Northernmost Point of the Marlosa Empire: here we watch for our enemies.

  “Cheery.”

  He circled the tower. A well-used path of irregular-sized pieces of slate kept close to the pale stone, winding down to an old pier. Crushed stone and weed stirred as the waves lapped against the shore. The bulky supports of the pier stepped out into the water where a boat rocked, tied to the dock.

  Never quickened his step, crossing the thick planks. Excellent, he could borrow the boat and be back in a matter of days. Wind whipped up and clogged his ears as he neared the dock; he paused to shelter his eyes with a hand.

  The nearest island, first in the Grey Chain that led to the Amber Isle, was perhaps an hour’s sailing. More if he had to row the whole distance. Once he reached it, he could begin the crossing. Something of a crumbling land-bridge, the Grey Chain would take some work to cross, by all accounts.

  Never lowered his pack into the boat then descended the ladder. Once settled, he reached up to untie the line.

  Vibrations rumbled along the pier.

  A man in a white tunic, his silvery hair wild in the wind, charged up the dock. His mouth was open, shouting obscenities no doubt, but the wind gobbled them up. Never tugged at a nasty knot, but it was stuck fast – too late, the man was upon him.

  “Stop that,” he shouted.

  “I’ll return it, old fellow.”

  The man drew a long, thin knife. “This can de-bone you as quickly as the fish I catch, and you’re a fool if you think you can cut that line before I can make a throw.”

  “I’m probably not as tasty, however.” Never kept his hands raised before his chest, palms out. The boat rocked a little but he kept his balance. If he needed to, he might be able to pull a knife. Maybe.

  The fisherman gave a hard grin. “True enough. Well, are you getting out of my boat?”

  “I’d really like to borrow it.”

  He raised a silvery eyebrow, a chuckle escaping. “So it’s ‘borrow’ now that I’ve caught you?”

  “Well, I never meant to swim back.”

  “Since you’ll end up dead like all the rest of them damn fool treasure-hunters, I’ll still have no boat, whether you meant to bring it back or not.”

  “Ah, but I’m not a treasure-hunter. Or a fool. I’m only looking for answers; so I’ll return. I can even bring you a gift if you like. A nice grey rock, perhaps?”

  The laughter faded from his expression, replaced by a sadness that gave Never pause. The old man fixed his gaze upon Never, appraising him a long moment. He opened his mouth then closed it, as if struggling to
find words, until his body seemed to sag beneath the weight of what was to come. “Listen. You want to bring me back something? Find my son.”

  Never frowned. “Truly?”

  “Aye. Borrow the boat but bring him home.” The wind eased and his hair fell back around his shoulders. “He should be here with me, tending the lighthouse. But he got it into his thick head to go with fools with more greed than sense. He went off looking for the mythical jewels of the Sea King.”

  “I thought they were lost.”

  “No matter, since they don’t exist.”

  “But people search for them here often?”

  “Two, maybe three groups a year. I just saw a ship sail to the chain three weeks back now. It’s them bone-headed storytellers and minstrels down south, feeding the lies.”

  “When did your son leave?”

  “Years ago.”

  A long time. Never said nothing; one glance at the old man’s expression was enough. He turned to the distant island. “I will look for him.” Then back to the keeper. “I won’t promise to find him, but I will try to find an answer, so long as it aligns with my own search.”

  “Is that so, stranger?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared down at Never. Finally he sheathed his blade. “It’s a kind offer but even were I to accept it, I’d still have no boat.”

  Never withdrew some of the silver he’d stolen from Gum, holding it out in his palm. A scythe had been stamped on the face of each piece, catching the sunlight. “Take this to Petana to buy supplies while I’m gone. What is your son’s name?”