Heir of Hope (Follower of the Word Book 3)

by Morgan L. Busse

  The sun rose behind them as they left the ruins. Their shadows led the way in front. Nothing but sand stretched across the hills ahead of them, dotted with scrub brush. A single path led toward the hills, the path they were currently following. Heat filled the air, promising another hot, dry day.

  An hour later, their shadows shrank and the sun rose across their shoulders. Nierne kept her head down, watching each step kick up dust. Lore walked behind her. Caleb walked ahead. His scarf hung from his belt and his hair glistened with sweat.

  “There we are.” Caleb pointed west. Dark tan rectangular shapes formed a small cluster along the horizon between two hills. “Kutab.”

  Nierne squinted. The town wasn’t much to look at. Then again, that was her assessment of almost everything in Temanin.

  Near midday, they approached the village. A handful of tan stone buildings with small square windows, a couple sparse trees, and a large well were all that made up Kutab. A woman stood outside the door of the first building, sweeping away the sand that covered her doorstep. Her skin was reddish brown and leathery, and her dark hair was covered by a bright red scarf. She leaned against her broom and watched them approach.

  The buildings were set around the well. Other women stood in the doorways, beating rugs or sweeping out the ever-encroaching sand. Children played in the shade cast by a tree near the well. The well itself was the life of the village. It was waist-high, built from square foot stone. A thick wooden pole stood on either side. Suspended between the poles and above the opening was another pole, with a bucket and rope attached.

  Caleb led them through the village toward the well. Five men stood beside it, chatting. The men looked up as they approached.

  Caleb stopped a couple feet away and bowed his head. “Peace upon you.”

  The oldest man in the group bowed his head. “And peace upon you.” The other men then bowed and said the same words.

  “I come as a traveler.”

  The oldest man nodded. “I see.” His gaze moved from Lore to Nierne. “And you travel with foreigners.”

  “Yes, they are my friends.”

  The man’s gaze lingered on Nierne. She looked away, thankful for the hood over her head.

  “We are here to purchase supplies and horses, if you have any available.” There was an edge to Caleb’s voice now. Nierne glanced at him and found him staring at the man. Tension seeped into the air.

  “I can help you with that.” A short man in a faded white and blue robe stepped forward from the group. “I carry supplies in my small shop. And there are horses out back.”

  Caleb nodded. “Then lead the way.”

  The man turned and headed toward the nearest building, a two-story structure. A broken sign hung above a narrow door, the paint so faded that the words could not be distinguished.

  At the door, Caleb turned. “Wait out here. I will arrange everything with the man inside. It will be easier if there are no distractions.” His gaze rested on Nierne as he said those words.

  Nierne frowned. It wasn’t her fault the men were staring at her. “Is it safe, then?”

  Caleb glanced at Lore. “Yes.”

  Lore gave a small jerk of his head at the unspoken question. He pulled at the pouch that hung around his neck. “Here.” Lore tipped the pouch over and two sparkling rocks fell out. Diamonds. “To help with the supplies.”

  Caleb hesitated, then took the gems. He looked at Lore as if trying to read his face. Lore ignored him and cinched his pouch shut.

  Caleb closed his fingers over the gems. “This should cover the horses.” He turned and entered the store.

  Nierne stepped closer to Lore and glanced at the well from the corner of her eye. The men had closed their little circle and were talking again. All but one woman had disappeared into their homes. The children continued to play some form of chase around the tree on the other side of the well. No one was paying them any attention.

  “When I passed through a village on the way to Azar, no one spoke to me. I filled my waterskin and left.”

  Nierne looked back at Lore. “Perhaps it was because you’re not Temanin.”

  “Could be.” Lore scanned the village, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “However, I will feel safer once we are gone.”

  “Do you see something?”

  “No. But there is hostility in the air.”

  Nierne watched the children playing nearby: two girls and three boys. All were about the same height and age. They ran around the tree, laughing and chasing each other, the dust kicking up around them.

  She missed seeing children. A small smile spread across her lips. Children would flock around Father Reth every time he left the monastery. They would laugh and reach for his hands. Father Reth would beam with joy.

  She kicked at the sand, a familiar ache filling her middle. She missed him. But her memory of him was fading. She could barely remember the details of his face. Only his smile: big and wide.

  Her life as a scribe was a distant memory now. She had been traveling for almost a year, running from one city to another, chasing people, trying to stay alive. In fact, the only constants were the Word . . . and Caleb.

  Nierne frowned and glanced at the door. Caleb. He had been there at the White City, and in Temanin when she was sold as a slave, and in Azar, and now here as they embarked on a journey back to Thyra.

  Strange. She had not thought about that before.

  “Nierne, stay close to me.”

  Lore’s words drew her out of her thoughts and back to the village. Lore moved and stood between her and the well. The group of men walked their direction. The village had grown quiet.

  Nierne looked toward the tree and found the children had left. And the women were gone too.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Lore said.

  “And who are you to speak, Avonain?” The taller man stopped and spat on the ground near Lore’s boots. “I saw your eyes, I know what you are. And you are not welcome here. Your people killed my son.”

  Nierne swallowed. She had wondered when the war would catch up to them.

  Lore held up his hands. “The war is over. And I am sorry about your son. If you just let us go, we will be on our way.”

  “And just where are you heading?” The oldest man spoke this time.

  “Across the Great Desert to Thyra.”

  The men gaped at each other.

  The tallest man turned back toward Lore, his eyes slits. “I say we kill him now. He did the same to my son.”

  The oldest man held up his hand. “If the Avonain is truly guilty, then the desert will judge him. We have extended our welcome to this man’s companion. To take it back would be to bring the wrath of the All down on us.”

  The tall man snarled at Lore. “So be it. The desert will show you.”

  “Come now.” The elder man placed a hand on the other man’s arm and turned him around. “Let them be.”

  The other men glanced at Lore, then Nierne, and turned and walked away. They headed out toward the eastern part of the village.

  Lore kept his gaze on the men, his face tight, his body rigid, his hands curled into a fist.

  “It’s not your fault, Lore.”

  He didn’t move.

  “The war, the man’s son’s death. You didn’t kill him.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I did. Who knows? And the sad thing is”—Lore sighed and glanced back at Nierne—“I would do it again, if I had to.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What?”

  Lore shook his head, his hands uncurling. “I defended my people during the war. I do not regret that. I am a guard; it’s what I do. The Temanins attacked, and so I stopped them.” He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze now on the backs of the men. They disappeared beyond the last house. “But it doesn’t mean I liked what I did. And I am sorry if his son died.�
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  Nierne frowned and watched Lore. She couldn’t imagine doing what he did: using a sword, giving commands, making choices that ended men’s lives. Yet it hadn’t seemed to harden him. Except where Caleb was concerned.

  The wind blew across the desert and the sun now hung high in the sky. Lore and Nierne moved toward the shade of the tree and waited for Caleb. He emerged a half hour later, with three more packs, stuffed, and a couple waterskins.

  The merchant followed him out. “I’ll take you to the stables once you have filled your skins.”

  Caleb nodded and walked toward them and held out the stuff. “A pack for each of you, with dried food and a blanket.” He held out a light colored scarf to Nierne. “For your face and head. It will be more comfortable than the cloak.”

  Nierne took the scarf. “Thank you.” She undid the cloak and held it out to Caleb. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his rucksack. She took the scarf and wrapped it around her head and neck. It wasn’t perfect, but it would keep the sun out of her eyes and off her skin.

  They filled their waterskins and the extra ones Caleb had at the well, then followed the merchant to the stables in back.

  It was a crude building. Stalls lined both sides, six in all. Five of the stalls held horses. They were small and sleek, with light-colored coats. Caleb approached the first one and held out his hand. A white mare came up to the wooden boards and touched his palm with her muzzle. He smiled and patted her softly. The horse looked like the one Caleb had ridden to Azar. Did this mare remind him of his own horse?

  Nierne shook her head and looked over at the other stalls. Caleb was an enigma. An assassin, a killer. And gentle with horses.

  Lore led out a grey mare and the merchant brought a red one to Nierne. Bright-colored blankets and simple leather saddles were placed on the horses.

  Lore and Caleb secured the waterskins and packs to their horses. Nierne stood a couple feet away and watched. The reddish horse raised her head. Her stomach began to twist inside her. A strong desire to walk across the desert came over her. Walking was easy, safe. They would get there, eventually, right?

  Caleb walked over and placed a light blue blanket on the back of her horse and secured the saddle. He glanced over at her. “There is nothing to be afraid of.” He patted the horse. “The man assured me this is his most gentle horse.”

  Nierne didn’t say anything, just eyed the horse.

  “Here, give me your pack.”

  Nierne handed it over and Caleb secured it behind the saddle. Then he grabbed the reins of her horse and those for his own mare and led the two horses out of the stable. Lore already stood outside with his horse.

  The village was empty and quiet. A breeze blew, lifting bits of sand into the air and brushing the stray curl away from Nierne’s face. The sun beat down on her, soaking through the scarf on her head.

  “Do you need help up?”

  She shook her head. “No. I can do this.” I think. She faced the left side of the horse, grabbed the saddle, and placed her boot into the stirrup. With one strong heave, she went up and brought her leg around and settled into the saddle.

  She looked at Caleb and grinned. “See?”

  He lifted the corner of his lips as if holding back a laugh and went back to his own horse.

  Nierne grabbed the reins. Maybe this won’t be so bad after—

  The horse took a step forward and she almost lost her balance. She clung to the horse with her knees and straightened up, reins now in hand, her face hot.

  Caleb settled into his saddle and looked back. He didn’t say anything, but the smirk on his face had widened.

  Nierne straightened her shoulders and sat tall. She gave her horse a small kick. “Let’s go.” She rode past Caleb and Lore. “Before it gets too hot.”

  She swore she heard Caleb say, “Yes, milady.”

  Chapter

  7

  Rowen slowly approached the door to the tower. Torches flickered inside, lighting up the interior. Wide stairs made of pale stone curved up and around. The walls were white too. The only color was a red runner that ran up the middle of the stairs. She looked up, then back inside the door. The stairs must lead to the room at the top. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the herald watching her.

  Rowen took a deep breath and entered the tower. The air was cool inside, and smelled of dust. Upward she went, following the curve of the stairs. Torches were set on either side of the tower, so the staircase always had light. She was careful with each step. One slip and she would fall with no way to catch herself, not with her hands still bound behind her.

  A door shut below her with a muffled thud. The flame from the torches sputtered, then returned to their constant burn. She looked back. Should she wait for the herald? He appeared a moment later and stopped a couple stairs below her. He did not say anything, just waited for her. With a small sigh, she turned around and continued up the stairs.

  One minute passed. The stairs went around and around a pillar in the center of the tower. Two minutes. Her calves, already tight and shaky from the long walk here, began to burn. Three minutes. How far up was she now? Four minutes. She panted, sweat streaming down her face.

  Five minutes. Just when she thought she could go no farther, she saw the top of the stairs and a wide, arched doorway. Bright, white light filtered into the stairway from the door. Voices echoed inside the stairway, low and quiet.

  Rowen stopped and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. The voices sounded almost musical. Not what she thought the Shadonae would sound like. She had expected gruff and sharp, something to match the pale men she had imagined.

  She stared up at the doorway. So what did they look like?

  Rowen pushed away from the wall and continued up the stairs. She was done with waiting and wondering. Best to get it done now and meet these beings she was somehow supposed to destroy. But her resolve did not stop her limbs from shaking.

  Word, don’t leave me now.

  Rowen reached the top. There was a small space between the top stair and the doorway that led inside. She stopped just outside the circle of light and looked in.

  The room inside was large and round, about the size of the training room back home. The walls were painted a brilliant white. Tall windows encircled the room, letting in natural light. Paintings of elaborately dressed men and women, framed in gold, hung between the windows. In the middle of the room were high back chairs made of polished wood, about twelve in all, placed in a large circle. There were no other furnishings in the room: no tables, no other chairs, not even a bookshelf, at least that she could see.

  Past the circle of chairs at the far end of the room were two men. They stood beside a window and seemed to be peering out. One was taller than the other, with pale hair that hung down his back. He wore a light silk shirt with dark pants and boots.

  The other man was a couple inches shorter, his hair dark and wavy. His silk shirt was the color of the sky, the color Lady Astrea loved to wear.

  Those were the Shadonae? But . . . they looked like men.

  Both men turned at the same time and began to cross the room, still talking quietly amongst themselves. They had not noticed her yet.

  Rowen entered the room and waited. These men were not the Shadonae she had envisioned. In fact, they were quite the opposite. Long, straight noses, high cheekbones—features that looked almost unnaturally beautiful. Even feminine.

  As they circled around the chairs, the dark-haired man looked up. He jerked to a stop and put a hand out in front of the other man. The pale one stopped as well. They both stared at Rowen, eyes wide.

  Were they not expecting her? Had they not seen her approach from the very window they had been staring out moments ago?

  The dark-haired man closed his mouth, then opened again as if he were trying to speak. The pale man stared at her neck, his nose wrinkling.


  Rowen wanted to hide her scar, but that would only show weakness. Instead, she stood there, rigid.

  The dark haired man sputtered. “Mercia?”

  Rowen didn’t answer. Her mind refused to work. These men, they couldn’t be Shadonae. They were neither terrifying nor sinister, nothing like how the stories had described them. She blinked and stared again. How could such evil beings look so . . . so beautiful?

  The dark-haired man walked around the chairs and came near the doorway. His eyes, wide at the moment, were a brilliant blue, matching the blue color of his shirt. His lips were full and pink. His skin flawless, as if he had been chiseled from marble. “Mercia?”

  That name again.

  The other man stayed back and folded his arms. His hair was even paler than her own, almost the color of moonlight. His face was more angular than the dark haired man, his eyes a watery blue. His skin was also pale, but not how she had imagined. Instead, the pallor of his skin made him appear more exotic than eerie.

  The dark-haired man continued toward her, a hungry look in his eyes. His gazed stopped on her scar, but he did not flinch. Rowen dared him to say something. Instead, he continued his perusal downward, his gaze taking in all of her.

  “You look like her.” His words broke the silence in the room. He stopped a couple feet away and began to walk around her.

  She smelled from her time on the ship, but he did not react to her. Instead, he continued around, stopping when he was in front of her again. He peered at her, his look so intense it felt like he could see inside of her. He shook his head. “But you are not Mercia. So who are you? What is your name?”

  Rowen glanced from the dark-haired man to the pale one behind him. They may not look terrifying, but there was a darkness to their presence and it seeped into the air around her. She took a step back.

  “Regessus, hold her in place.”

  She had forgotten about the herald. A hand clamped down on her shoulder, fingers digging into her skin.