The scruffy sorcerer crossed his arms, placed his palms against his chest, and bowed. “Samal will rise.”
Ren repeated the gesture. “Praise Samal, Lord of Life.”
Tarrik felt sick to his stomach, horrified at their worship. Samal was a deceiver, a manipulator, yet they acted as if he were divine. Was this Samal’s plan: to become lord of both humans and demons? If true, it was an abomination. The demon lords would not stand for such a travesty. They would fight—if they could. Many higher-level demons had died in the wars, but Tarrik didn’t know if they’d fallen to the humans fighting Nysrog or to some scheme of Samal’s to strengthen himself. How powerful was Samal now? Had he gained that power by betraying and subsuming his fellow demons? No one knew. No one had seen or sensed Samal since Nysrog had been banished from this world.
Puck spoke, his voice curiously breathless and soft for such a big man. “Lady Branwen, a pleasure to find you here. I was unaware you were in Ivrian.”
“My work takes me to many places, some hospitable, some not.”
“And chaos seems to follow you. Roska Fridle had an unwelcome visitor last night. A most curious encounter. An artifact was stolen, and a demon she’d chained was banished.”
So, Roska preferred to keep secret the fact that her demon had been absorbed by another of its kind. Did Puck know the truth? Was he perpetuating her lies? At least this would prevent Ren suspecting Tarrik might have absorbed the demon. He glanced at her. She remained smiling.
“Demons are not my strength,” she told Puck. “Or I’d stay and assist with the investigation.”
Puck looked at the young woman behind him, who frowned, then wrinkled her nose.
This seemed to signal something to the sorcerer, as he turned back to Ren. “Your specialty is artifacts, is it not?”
“As well you know. They are easier to work with, more predictable.”
“Yes . . . you could be a great power, Lady Branwen. Someone to be reckoned with. Yet you throw it all away by refusing to deal with demons.”
“We each serve Samal in our own way. Do you question his choice in me? I do the Adversary’s work, as do we all. You know it is impossible for me to act against his wishes.”
“I do,” Puck said. “Which is why I’ll let this go . . . this time.”
“There is nothing to let go. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we are leaving.”
“Of course. I will see you at the next meeting of the council?”
Ren paused, then nodded once. “It is an important one. I’ll make sure I’m there.”
“Good.”
Puck turned on his heel, grabbed the young woman by the shoulder, and dragged her across the courtyard with him. She cast a spite-filled glance back at Ren and Tarrik.
As soon as they’d disappeared through a doorway, Ren gestured to the stable hands to bring their horses out. Tarrik noticed both were boys.
“Let’s go,” said Ren.
Tarrik settled their saddlebags on the appropriate animals and mounted his gray. He kept his spear to hand, lying across one thigh.
Ren led the way out of the citadel and along the streets of Ivrian. She kept her gaze straight ahead, not acknowledging salutes from any of the soldiers they passed or glancing at the hanged men and women at almost every intersection.
Once they were out of the city and a few miles along the north road, she slowed her horse and allowed Tarrik to come alongside her.
“I suppose you have questions about Puck.”
Tarrik did but was wary of revealing more about himself. From the tension between Ren and her fellow member of the Nine, he guessed all was not well within their faction. It might be something he could use to his advantage, but how? Best to feign disinterest for now.
“No,” he said.
Ren ignored his indifference. “The Nine are . . . troubled. We work for the glory of the Adversary and yet are given free rein to betray and even kill one another. We are constantly jockeying for position in preparation for when the Adversary is freed. This is something you demons do, is it not—kill each other for personal gain?”
“In this, at least, humans and demons are alike.”
She gnawed on her knuckle. When she stopped, he saw it was bleeding again.
“Some of the Nine see reality differently now after the Adversary’s . . . treatment of them.”
He knew what he’d smelled on Puck Moonan. “They went insane?”
Ren looked away. She didn’t answer.
Blood and fire. These insane sorcerers were attempting to free Samal Rak-shazza, a demon lord whose spiderlike manipulations and powers were second to none. And Tarrik was caught in the middle, actually helping to bring this about.
Had Ren also been driven crazy? He couldn’t smell it on her, but her actions so far weren’t reassuring.
“The Tainted Cabalists seek to assert control over every person on this continent and all lands under human sway,” she said, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Then they will begin a push to liberate the wilderness from the creatures and monsters that make it their home. The inhumans. This would be a worthwhile goal.”
Except these sorcerers also wanted the power of the demons for themselves and sought to bring back Nysrog. Didn’t they realize the insane demon lord would destroy everything they were trying to create? Or were they blind?
“And Samal’s goal?” asked Tarrik.
“Is not for the likes of you to know.”
Ren urged her horse into a canter, and after a moment Tarrik did the same.
The fields and farms became sparser as the miles passed. They stopped for a brief midday meal, which consisted of Ren rummaging through her saddlebags and tossing Tarrik a packet of cured meat. While he gnawed on the tough fare, Ren ate an apple and an orange, followed by a wedge of cheese, and strolled around and stretched her legs.
After eating his fill, Tarrik stowed the remaining meat in his saddlebags and drank some water, then a few swallows of spirits. He noted with disquiet that the new bottle was already running low.
Ren stood staring into the sun, eyes narrowed to slits, apparently dazzled. Tarrik wondered if she’d been beguiled by some malicious cant. I can only hope. He sensed both dawn- and dusk-tide emanations swirling around her.
He waited.
And waited.
Then, without warning, Ren cupped her hands in front of her. A chime rang, and a flash as bright as the sun erupted from the air between them. She gasped, and it disappeared. She shook her hands as if they pained her, and when she turned to Tarrik, her face was beaded with sweat. He could faintly smell triumph.
“You know about the dawn- and dusk-tides?” she said.
“A very little.”
She examined him with narrowed eyes. “And how much do you know about the dark-tide?”
Careful. “As much as any demon.”
“You absorb it and manipulate it. What control do you have over the process?”
Tarrik didn’t want to speak of such things to a human, but her bindings forced him to. “Demon talents are both innate and learned. Some do not require cants; we can effect them unthinkingly. Others require a catalyst, calculations to design and control them, and cants to bring them into being, like your enchantments.”
She glanced at his chest, then rubbed her fingers over her left breast. “I did not see a catalyst under the skin over your heart. Does that mean some of your cants do not require a catalyst to take effect?”
He knew all human sorcerers required a catalyst for their incantations. Contian had told him that its implantation under the skin over their heart was a requirement of the sorcery schools. He hesitated, considering a response that would both answer her question and misdirect.
“Some dark-tide sorcery I require a catalyst for, but . . .” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Ren nodded. “A condition of your exile.”
He looked away and shrugged, as if the loss of his sorcerous powers didn’t trouble him. He knew she woul
d see through the false bravado. “There were many conditions prescribed upon me.” But relinquishing his catalyst wasn’t one of them.
“Are you aware the dark-tide power isn’t really from the dark?” she said.
He gave her a startled look. “What do you mean?”
That was impossible. Was she trying to confuse him? Everything was backward with these people, this world. Their mastery of some things, such as sorcery, was exceptional; but their understanding of many other things was flawed. She must be trying to lure him into her confidence. It would not work.
Ren tilted her head toward him. After a moment, she grunted. “Never mind. Do you know of anyone able to harness the sun’s power?”
Tarrik allowed himself to smile. If that was what she was thinking of doing, she really was a fool. “In our history, a few have tried. Perhaps some were successful.”
“Do not attempt to deceive me. None were able to. All who tried were consumed.”
She was correct. They’d ended up a pile of ashes in a charred ring. “How do you know?”
“Because the sun would have scourged them, cleansed them. Changed them forever.”
“How do you know?” he repeated.
Ren gave him a sidelong glance, then mounted her horse. “I read about it somewhere. It is of no matter. Let’s get going.”
He said nothing, wanting to keep his guard up. Like any sorcerer, she was dangerous. And these questions were no exception. But what had she meant about the dark-tide power?
Farther along, Ren turned off the road and led them along a livestock track until they came to an abandoned farm. Weeds grew over the paddocks and smothered the house and barn, which were falling apart. A dilapidated shed sheltered a stone trough and a pump. A bucket lay on its side, a plant growing from within.
“We’ll stop here,” said Ren.
Tarrik glanced at the sun, which would not set for a while. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
He grunted and dismounted, stiff and sore from his healing wounds. Movement caught his eye—large crabs clustered on the ground around tree trunks. Their bodies were bigger than his head, their shells a tawny brown with legs tinged blue.
“Beezle-crabs. They eat the yellow-green beezle-fruits,” said Ren.
“Are they edible?” A couple of the creatures cooking on the fire later would do wonders for his mood.
She snorted in amusement and shook her head. “Always thinking of your stomach. Yes, they’re considered a delicacy in some parts of the world.” She lifted the bucket and dumped out the soil that had accumulated inside, along with the plant. “Gather some wood and start a fire. I’ll see if the water in the well is palatable.” She wandered off in the direction of a distant stream.
And what other mighty task would you have me undertake, Master? Cleaning your boots? Tarrik gathered the wood with ill grace, knowing he was in a temper and hardly caring. Outside of the city, he could let some of his self-control slip.
He piled two armfuls of fallen branches near the well. Soon after he’d returned with a bunch of twigs, he saw Ren pouring water from the bucket into the pump. She drove the squeaking handle up and down until water poured into the trough.
The sun was still a ways from setting. There must be a reason they’d stopped here. Perhaps she wanted another bath . . .
“Something amusing?” asked Ren.
Tarrik realized he was smiling and schooled his expression into blankness. “Are you intending to bathe again?”
“You should try it. You’re getting a bit fragrant.”
“Is that a command?”
She squinted at him. “Why not? Bathe yourself, demon, and wash your hair. You’re beginning to stink. We need people to think you’re human.” She delved into her belongings and came out with a bar of soap. She tossed it to Tarrik. “Go to the stream now. I’ll have a task for you when you return.”
Tarrik left her to her pumping.
The stream was cold and frightening. There was a sandy bank and a shallow section, but just beyond it the water ran swift and deep. Deeper than anything in the infernal realms. Tarrik hoped their journey wouldn’t involve crossing rivers—or worse still, having to swim to avoid pursuers. Perhaps he should tell Ren now that he couldn’t swim. He winced at the thought of flailing around in dark water where his feet couldn’t touch the bottom.
Swallowing his dread, he stripped, immersed himself up to his thighs, and washed. The soap smelled faintly of crab apple blossoms, though nowhere near as overpowering as the real thing. He washed his hair first, dunking his head rapidly to rinse it, then started on his body. His wounds smarted, but the cold water numbed them.
He was no stranger to this washing process; Jaquel had insisted regularly on the human ritual. His touch on his skin reminded him it had been weeks since he’d had congress with another. His thoughts wandered to Pris and her advances. He imagined her hands all over his body, her warm flesh in his grip, his lips on hers. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mouth became dry. Their flesh burned where they touched, sending delightful shivers through him. Her nails dug into his back.
He uttered a wordless groan as the pressure in his groin grew painful. He pictured the woman’s face but saw Ren staring up at him with the same mischievous smile as Jaquel. Tarrik swore, and his dream evaporated. He fell back into the water with a splash.
For a while he lay there, letting the water cool his ardor and his anger. Had Ren ensorcelled him? Was that what she had been doing while staring into the sun—using her powers as a key to his soul?
“Having fun?”
Tarrik thrashed and spluttered while Ren stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“You’ve been gone for a while, so I thought to check on you,” she said.
He rose, exited the water dripping, and collected his clothes. Hesitating, he decided not to get dressed. Ren’s prudishness was a weakness he could exploit.
“By all the gods, demon—cover yourself!”
Tarrik affected a frown. “I am drying off.” He had to obey, so chose to bring his clothes up to cover his chest.
Ren let out a breath and hurried back to their campsite. The sky was orange from the setting sun as he followed her, still naked. She’d started the fire, and it blazed with fierce abandon, its heat reminding him of his realms. When would he return?
Ren averted her eyes and waved a hand in his direction. “Get dressed.”
He did as ordered. While he tugged on his clothes, she took from her saddlebag the same kit she’d used to sew up his wounds. She opened it and set the kit atop her saddle, then produced the artifact he’d stolen from Roska.
“Come here,” she said, glowering as if he’d just tried to kill her.
Filled with trepidation, Tarrik complied.
Ren drew a thin knife from the kit and held it out to him. “I’m going to choose my words carefully here. Follow my directions assiduously. I’ll be watching, and my bindings will restrain you. If you try to deviate even slightly, it will be the Wracking Nerves for you. And I won’t be gentle this time.”
Tarrik remembered the searing pain that had sent him tumbling to the ground and retching. That had been gentle? He examined the knife. It was as thin as a leaf and razor-sharp.
“What do you want me to do?” he said.
Ren’s pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. She swallowed, then undid the top four buttons on her shirt. She tugged her right arm from the sleeve to bare her skin, then touched the back of her shoulder with her other hand. Her flesh was covered with scars, and Tarrik realized she’d never revealed herself before. Even when bathing in the river, she’d remained hidden, and every time they’d been together in her rooms, she’d been robed. Some of the scars were hair thin, others thick with hardened tissue. They covered every inch of her shoulder and continued under her shirt where he couldn’t see.
Scars overlaid with scars.
Someone had tortured and tormented her.
“What happened?” he a
sked.
Ren busied herself with her kit, threading a curved needle and laying out a bandage. Just as Tarrik decided she wasn’t going to answer, she spoke.
“When Samal . . . when he . . . takes you as one of the Nine, he breaks you. First the body, then the mind.” She held up the artifact. “When I give you directions, you are to follow them precisely and act only when I give you permission to. Am I clear?”
Tarrik looked from the knife to the artifact in her hand and to her bared shoulder. Understanding dawned on him: she wanted him to implant the object under her skin, like a catalyst. Was it a catalyst? It didn’t look or feel like any he’d seen.
“Yes,” he replied.
Perhaps she’d thought to garner sympathy with the sight of her ruined skin. But he wasn’t about to weep for her. He had a knife, and she was close and vulnerable. There was always a chance she’d slip up.
Ren took a deep breath. “Take the small bottle from my kit there. No, the other one. Now pour some over my skin and the knife.”
She knelt in the dirt by the firelight, and he did as she asked. The clear liquid cooled his fingers rapidly as it dried, and the astringent scent of pure alcohol filled the air, though it wasn’t enough to cover Ren’s fear. She reeked of the emotion, because she was asking him to cut her or because of something else? What was the artifact capable of?
“You are to make a single incision, a semicircle one inch in length, taking care to only penetrate my skin to a depth of . . . a quarter of an inch. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Tarrik tried to bring the knife close but found himself frozen by Ren’s bindings. “I—”
“Good. I haven’t given you permission yet. Now I do. Make the first cut.”
Tarrik pricked her skin to the desired depth and traced a curve, which began to leak crimson. Ren hissed, and he realized she hadn’t taken anything to dull the pain. She needed all her senses and awareness. If she messed up her instructions, she’d be meat in his hands.
She spoke through clenched teeth. “Now the powder to stop the bleeding. A light dusting.”
Tarrik opened the pouch and sprinkled the wound. Immediately the blood flow stopped.
“Now, slice under the skin at the same depth to create a flap. Then insert the artifact and sew the flap up.”
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 12