On Lonely Paths (Earth and Sky Book 2)

by Jann Rowland

  Such was not the case with Quicksilver. With each blow, Skye ground his teeth harder and harder on the wooden gag, and the smile on Quicksilver’s face grew wider and wider.

  At first, Skye tried to contemplate Quicksilver’s humanity—or lack thereof—but he soon became lost in the pain, and as the cane fell upon his back time and time again, everything seemed to be enveloped in the blistering heat of pain.

  “Quicksilver, that is enough,” a sharp voice muttered at last. Skye thought it was the king of the Chosen, but he did not know for sure. His eyes were screwed tight against the pain.

  “I am only trying to open up his mind.”

  “You are bound to kill him at this rate. Move on to the next rite.”

  Skye tried moving his lips to push out an insult around the gag, but he could manage nothing intelligible. He thought to himself that at least it could not get worse. He was wrong.

  Quicksilver, in a voice that was meant to be heard, continued on with the words guiding the rite. “Our mighty god has blessed us with the metals of the earth, and so we use those very metals to begin the initiation of a connection between you and Terrain. With this dagger, may we release the evil that afflicts you.”

  While Skye had no idea what the use of a dagger had to do with the releasing of evil, all skeptical thoughts fled his mind as a dagger began to carve into the flesh of his back. His head jerked up and backward as he let out a muffled cry, but the dagger only continued on its path, circling around, lifting, making lines, all of it no doubt turning his back into a veritable tapestry of sacred Groundbreather symbols.

  “The blood of this man has been spilled for Terrain,” Quicksilver said when he was finished. Trembling with the effort to push back this newest pain, Skye watched with some effort as Quicksilver put the bloody dagger back on the table and grabbed a small piece of white cloth.

  The cloth blotted at the wounds at Skye’s back—though not with any gentleness—until finally Quicksilver pulled the cloth away. It was red with Skye’s blood.

  Quicksilver went to the table and squeezed out a little of Skye’s blood into the goblet. “Droplets of the living blood, given of the body of one of those who have been bonded together with Terrain’s water,” he said, raising the goblet in the air for emphasis. Then he lifted, of all things, a hairbrush. He held it up for a moment and picked something off it. Skye thought it might have been a few strands of hair. “A piece of that which is now dead, given of the body of one of those who have been bonded together with Terrain’s water.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together over the goblet before releasing whatever was in hand.

  He grabbed a large dark flask and turned back to Skye. Then he sprinkled the pungent-smelling oil from the flask on Skye’s back.

  Skye howled into his gag.

  “Oils to prepare the body for what is to come,” Quicksilver said as he sprinkled the foul liquid all over Skye’s backside. He then made a gesture, and two guards came forward.

  When the guards flipped Skye onto his back, he began to writhe in pain as his wounds touched the altar. The guards were forced to hold him down as Quicksilver sprinkled more oil all over Skye’s bare body. No inch was left uncovered. Skye had never felt dirtier.

  “The blood of two dedicated followers of Terrain to envelop the blood of the bonded, to purify that which has been tainted.”

  Quicksilver grabbed the dagger and drew it across his palm. Then he allowed a few droplets of his blood to drip into the goblet. After gazing down at the blood he had spilled, he passed the dagger to the king of the Chosen, allowing him to present his own scarlet offering.

  In the meantime, Skye’s back was arched as he fought against the guards that held him, trying to keep his wounds from touching the altar.

  Quicksilver walked over to Skye with the goblet held carefully in both hands. He gave a nod to the king.

  King Canyon stepped forward and removed Skye’s gag.

  In spite of himself, Skye let out a shout. The pleased look in Quicksilver’s eyes did nothing for Skye’s mood.

  “You blasted . . . rock-eating . . . bird-dropping-faced . . .” Skye said, attempting to spew his vitriol. But he hurt too much to think of any clever insults.

  “Hold him down tightly,” Quicksilver murmured in instruction to the guards, who tightened their grip on Skye. Quicksilver moved even closer with the goblet, holding it above Skye’s head.

  “There’s no way in all of Celesta’s skies that I’m going to drink—”

  Skye suddenly saw stars as someone knocked him aside the head. He groaned, his eyes fluttering closed with the shock, and he felt the cool metal of the goblet pressing against his lips. He firmly shut his mouth against the disgusting liquid. Then someone dug their fingers into one of the wounds in his back, and he let out a yell, and the blood mixture poured into his mouth.

  Skye gagged, but his two guards were ready for him. One of them held his mouth shut while the other pinched his nose closed. He bucked against them, his whole body revolting against the notion of ingesting the blood of his enemies. The irony was not lost on him that the creation of the bond that was now being undone had been the last time a liquid was forcibly fed to him.

  Skye put up a valiant fight, but he had to breathe at last, and he was forced to swallow. When the guards were certain he had done so, they let his nose and mouth go, and he dry-heaved, which only served to make his back feel worse. He bit down on his lip to distract himself, but he could barely feel it.

  Quicksilver grabbed a small bag and held it over Skye. “The soil of Terrain is a blessing upon all the world. His warmth and life are to be found pulsing throughout his gift to us all. And so we spread his soil upon your body, completing the process of purification.”

  And then Quicksilver sprinkled dirt all over Skye’s chest, unaffected by the force of Skye’s glare or the curses that escaped Skye’s mouth. Quicksilver replaced the bag on the table and put a glove on his right hand. Then he picked up an iron rod with some sort of symbol on the end.

  Despite the haze of pain, Skye watched as Quicksilver carried the rod over to the small forge and put the end inside.

  “You’re a monster,” Skye growled, wincing as even the act of talking caused his body pain. “You’re all monsters. Savages. Beasts.”

  Quicksilver paid him no attention, merely gazing at the iron rod as the end of it heated up. When he finally removed it from the fire, the end of the rod was a dull red.

  “I will ruin you,” Skye growled, not entirely coherently. “Ruin you all. Dead! Monsters!”

  Quicksilver carried the rod over to the altar. The two guards tightened their grip on Skye.

  “Celesta will—” Skye gritted. “You will all—”

  His words were lost in a pained shout as the hot iron pressed down right above his heart, searing his flesh.

  “May the Mighty Terrain descend upon you and rip away from you the gift that should never have been yours!” Quicksilver cried out. “May the bond of Terrain’s blessed water be broken!”

  The brand was lifted, and Skye screamed. He felt as though his insides were being torn out as his soul was wrenched away from Tierra’s.

  His last thought, before unconsciousness took him, was of how foolish he had been to ever fall in love with a Groundbreather.

  Stonedog and his fellow Groundbreathers reached the confiscated glider with the Fenik in hand, and they took heart at the imminent success of their mission.

  But Skychildren began pouring out of the palace with bows and short-swords at the ready, and they came charging at the Groundbreathers.

  “I will hold them off!” shouted Stonedog.

  The other Groundbreathers moved into the formation they had practiced, clinging to each other and the glider with the bound Fenik among them. Stonedog cut down several Skychildren with his longsword, dodging their arrows. Then he raced to take his place, and the glider swooped downward.

  Arrows fell among them like hail, but though some Groundbreathers were injure
d and cried out in pain, Stonedog kept to his task, guiding the craft from the sky. Shrieking their rage, the Skychildren hurtled down after them. But the weight that had been placed upon the confiscated glider gave them extra speed, and the Skychildren could not reach the Groundbreathers before they touched down on the earth amid a group of soldiers awaiting their return.

  And when the Skychildren in pursuit found themselves to be outnumbered, they fled in fear.

  The Groundbreathers crowded around Stonedog, praising his work, but he only fell to his knees and cried, “Praise Terrain!”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Escape

  The instant the connection was cut, Tierra screamed.

  Skye, though angry with her, had done his best to shield her from the worst of what was done to him, his love for her still shining as a beacon in the midst of the maelstrom of his hurt and anger. However, even before that awful moment in which they were torn apart, Tierra had felt a slight sense of what Skye was suffering. The bond created by Terrain’s water could not be set aside so easily by Skye despite his efforts. As each successive torture was perpetrated against Skye, Tierra, though not able to feel the physical pain, felt the psychological effects. She had never known her people could be so malicious.

  But when the connection was severed, she actually cried out with the pain of it. The weeks of being too far away from Skye to speak to him within the bond were difficult enough, but this was infinitely worse. Knowing the bond was still present had provided some small measure of comfort. Now there was nothing more than a bleak emptiness. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  “My lady!” Violet exclaimed as Tierra collapsed on her bed with tears streaming from her eyes. “Whatever is the matter?”

  Tierra, though mentally probing at the ends of the newly severed bond—which were as raw as a stump at the end of an arm—looked up at the woman. Violet paled. Though Tierra could not see her own expression, Violet looked at her as though she were the worst caricature of Celesta imaginable, come to life before her very eyes.

  “Get out!” Tierra growled.

  The woman did not question her. Instead, she turned and hurried from the room, not even closing the door in her wake.

  Unfortunately, the open door allowed someone just as unwelcome as the servant-woman to enter. This new visitor looked about the room with imperious conceit before turning and speaking to someone through the open door. Then she closed it and approached the bed, seating herself on the edge, looking down at Tierra, her expression unreadable.

  “So, it is done?”

  Tierra nodded and buried her face in her pillow, tears beginning to fall in earnest. The feeling of her mother’s hand caressing her hair did nothing to comfort her.

  “That complicates matters further,” Sequoia said with a sigh. “I had hoped—”

  “You had hoped what?” Tierra asked, flaying her mother with the caustic tones of resentment. “Perhaps you had hoped for these disgusting people to kill Skye after they destroyed our link? If, indeed, he is actually still alive. Or maybe you are promoting Canyon’s doomed pursuit of me. Did you want two daughters to become queens? Because you had that already, even if the king was not to your liking.”

  “Tierra, you know nothing—”

  “I know enough to know you betrayed me. I think you had better leave. I have no time for people such as you.”

  Sequoia glared at her in obvious irritation. But Tierra remained unaffected. She was not some young girl clinging to her mother’s skirts and being chastised for having eaten a forbidden treat. She no longer knew if she ever wished to see her mother again.

  “Has your fit of pique passed?”

  Feeling mulish, Tierra did not respond. She only gave her mother a furious look.

  “Because if that is the case,” Sequoia said, “then we need to discuss what we should do.”

  Something in her mother’s tone pricked Tierra’s interest. So rather than make a scathing response, she took in a deep breath and listened.

  The feeling of every nerve in his body afire with pain brought Skye from the blissful state of oblivion. Groaning, he shifted, becoming aware that his side, a part of his body that had not previously ached, now felt as though the tips of flames were running along it. He exhaled, stopped moving, and allowed the realities of his situation to wash over him.

  Eyes dirty from the grit of unconsciousness—not to mention the accursed soil that sadist had sprinkled over him—fluttered open, and Skye looked up, seeing the smooth walls and ceiling above him. He turned to the side slightly, noting that he had been deposited on the small cot in his cell, left to his fate.

  Careful not to exacerbate his wounds, he rolled to his side. The light in the room was constant, provided as it was by two torches situated in his cell and by the light emanating through the barred window of his door.

  “Those Groundbreathers above ground are amateurs,” Skye muttered to himself as he attempted to rise. “They don’t even know the meaning of pain.”

  It took a little doing, but soon Skye had levered himself up on one arm, determined to show these vermin that he was not broken. The bed under his back was a mass of drying blood, a testament to the fact that the Groundbreathers had not even bestirred themselves to staunch his wounds.

  That was when it hit him—the gnawing sense of a hole gashed out of his heart.

  Gingerly, Skye looked down, wincing at the sight of the rawness of the brand seared into his flesh above his heart. But while that hurt enough, the place where the bond between Skye and Tierra had been joined, the site of that nebulous cord that had bound them together, hurt even more. The bond was now gone, and in its place was a jagged wound. If it had been of a physical nature, he might have compared it to having an eye gouged out.

  He could not feel Tierra’s presence any longer. And that hurt most of all. But he would not think of the removal of the bond. All these Groundbreathers had brought him only grief in his life. He had been a fool for ever thinking he could begin harmonious relations with them.

  Overcome, Skye lay back down on his bed facing the wall, heedless of the ruined fabrics below him and his equally ruined back. He drifted for a time, unaware, uncaring, heartache filling his entire being. There was nothing left for him. Perhaps they had broken him.

  A sound in his cell brought Skye from his drifting—he did not know how much time had passed—and he twisted his neck to see a confusing sight. There, standing in the middle of the room and watching him with horrified eyes, was River.

  “River?” Skye said with some confusion, slowly turning toward her so that he could see her better. He wondered whether he could have been hallucinating. “Ah, you’ll have to . . . forgive me if I’m not in any condition to stand and greet you.” He paused. “Why are you here anyway?”

  “What have they done to you?”

  “It’s worse than it looks,” Skye replied as he lifted his head, trying to inject levity into the situation. River’s incredulous look informed him his efforts were an abject failure.

  “I have never . . . I cannot imagine . . .”

  “Can’t imagine what?” Skye asked, putting his head back down on the bed, tired and defeated. “You never thought your people could commit such atrocities? It seems we’ve both learned something today.”

  “Get on with it, woman!” a voice called from outside the cell. “Save your admiration of the prisoner for some other time.”

  River shot a disgusted glare behind her, and then she approached Skye with more confidence. She had a towel and a basin of water in hand. “I have no love for these people, and I hate living underground. But I never could have imagined . . .”

  “Why are you here?” Skye asked her again.

  “To tend to you,” River said.

  Skye nodded in bitter understanding. “Since they likely don’t want Tierra near me, you are the next logical choice, I suppose.” He took in a shallow breath, trying to avoid moving his back as much as possible. “You ca
n go back to Tierra’s paramour and tell him I don’t need any help.”

  A frown appeared on the woman’s face, and she stepped closer, speaking in a low tone. “There is more happening here than you know. I need you to be on your feet for our plans to work.”

  “Plans? What plans are you talking about?”

  “Plans to get you out of here, of course.”

  Skye looked at her, wondering whether she were daft, but River just shook her head impatiently. She shifted the towel under the arm holding the basin of water and used her other hand to show Skye a jar she had hidden in her clothes.

  “Do you know what this is? I was told to clean your wounds and do nothing else, but this was given to me to prepare you to escape from this hole. Do you want to leave here or not?”

  The jar, of course, held the salve—the wonderful, pain-reducing salve that Tierra had allowed Skye to use over and over again during his captivity in Tillman and Sequoia’s castle.

  Painfully, Skye leveraged himself up on the bed until he was in a sitting position. “Maybe you should tell me more.”

  River blushed and looked away, refusing to look his way again. “We have no time. We need to get this salve on you and get you ready. But before we do, can you . . . Do you think . . .” Her color became even higher, and she gestured wildly at his midsection.

  Instantly, Skye understood, and he laughed, which only turned the red of River’s embarrassment to anger. The movement caused pain to shoot through his back, however, and he instantly regretted it.

  “My apologies,” Skye said with a grimace, casting his eyes about the room for something to use to cover himself. “Modesty was not precisely high on my list of concerns.” He gestured to his clothing, which still lay on the floor where he had left it. “If you will bring me my clothes, I will cover myself.”

  Nodding, River pocketed the jar and did as he requested.