Chapter Twenty
If it was possible, the mazag seemed to have no hard feelings over this whole mess. Saoven led the way back to the beach where, after some brief discussion, they planned to signal a passing ship. The giant red creatures followed them at an easy distance, making all four of the humans very uncomfortable, even if Lucan pretended it didn’t.
As they set up a makeshift camp on the sand, the beasts lurked at a moderate distance before slinking up to the travelers and lounging beside their signal fire like cats at a hearth. They didn’t seem to mean harm and as the beasts would win any confrontation anyway, Janir and the others tolerated them with as much grace and generosity as possible. Nonetheless, it seemed a bit incredible that the creatures could go from trying to eat them to keeping company with them over the course of a day, but it was better than the alternative.
She played absently with her karkaton. Handling them calmed her and not even the mazag seemed to mind. Janir hesitantly leaned against the warm sides of one as the large signal fire roared in the center of their circle.
The enchanter was a shapeless mass of snoring robe. He’d stared fearfully at the large reptiles in the beginning, never letting them out of his sight as he’d helped gather wood for the fire and collected herbs Saoven needed for Lucan. All the same, exhaustion had won out in the end.
The elf gravely contemplating the flames, not having spoken for the past hour. Janir suspected they were thinking the same thing—what to do with the fourth figure who sat cowering to the side.
Bitterly, Lucan glared at his sister. Elves had an earned reputation for being skilled in the ways of healing and although Saoven followed the path of a warrior, he had patched Lucan together rather well. Lucan had been sullen about being tended, but realized that he needed help and submitted resentfully to the elf’s treatments. Now the young Argetallam had a clean bandage wrapped about his ribs—taken from strips of his undershirt—and wild ribwort plantain leaves pressed against the wound.
At length, Saoven rose to his feet and motioned for Janir to follow. She tucked her karkaton safely in her cincher before trotting after him. They threaded between the sleeping mazags’ tails and carefully stepped past Karile onto the beach. They walked side by side away from the others until they were just under a hundred sword lengths away. Janir could still make out Karile’s hog like nocturnal vocalizations, her means of knowing that things were still fine in their meager camp.
The waves glinted silver with reflections of the stars to the rhythm of the pounding surf. Janir and Saoven took their time, moving at an easy stroll. When they were just far enough to be out of an earshot of the others, Saoven turned to her and held her gaze for a very long moment. Several times, he seemed about to say something, then stopped.
“What are we going to do with Lucan?” Saoven asked at length, a dark note in his voice.
“I don’t know,” Janir admitted. She’d just known it felt wrong to leave him to die alone under tons of rock and earth.
“We should kill him,” Saoven unenthusiastically replied with untempered honesty. “We should have left him in the temple.”
Janir swallowed. She knew that. She’d known that at the time.
Saoven heaved a deep sigh. “I know he is your brother and that might lead to a sense of…attachment—”
“This isn’t about him being my brother, Saoven.” Janir shook her head. “We were born only three hours apart, but I was first. Lucan was always jealous of that, he abused me—even when we were children. There was never any love lost between us.”
It was odd to speak of that part of her childhood—the part before Armandius. She’d spent nearly half her life treating it as a deep and dirty secret.
“He tried to kill you.”
And he had killed Florete. It was hard not to cringe at the memory.
“I know all that, but—” Janir hesitated as she thought how to best put words to her thoughts.
“What?”
“Because…he’s…it’s hard to explain, but…” She bit her lip, struggling to put it into words. “He’s afraid, I saw it. So afraid of what we’ll do to him…”
“With good reason,” the elf drily answered. “What will we do, Janir? Take him prisoner back to Saaradan? Turn him loose?”
Janir honestly didn’t know what she wanted to do with Lucan. If they took him back to Saaradan, he would either be used as leverage against the Lord Argetallam or sent straight to the headsman’s block. If they let him loose, that plan was riddled with more holes than a fisherman’s nets. He would likely die in his condition—which defied the point—and even if he didn’t, he would go back to Adasha. The Lord Argetallam would learn Janir was still alive and that sent shivers down her spine just thinking about it. Still, she couldn’t stomach the thought of executing a defenseless captive, after they had tended his wounds, no less.
“I don’t want to kill him, Saoven. Not like this.” She shook her head. “So many people have died, I’ve seen so many people die. These past months…” There wasn’t really much more to say. She had no logical argument for sparing her brother and wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
Saoven was quiet for a long time. When he did speak, it was in a quiet, reserved tone. “We must decide what to do with him before a ship arrives, but I shan’t do anything without your agreement.”
Janir nodded, smiling even though she wanted to cry—for Florete, for the suffering Lucan had caused and was enduring, even for Duke Ronan and the Argetallams. Some of them deserved it, but she kept thinking about how much it had hurt them or if they had been afraid.
The elf exhaled a long breath. “You have a gentle soul, Janir. No matter what anyone says, that is a precious thing.”
Feeling a sudden desire to change the subject, Janir cleared her throat. “I was told to ask you who that was in the Vermilion Market, when that elf tried to get the Key from me.”
Saoven’s eyebrow rose. “The Vermilion Market exists?”
“Yes, but there was an elf. The seeress told me he was called …” It took her a moment. “Malkalar.”
Saoven was quiet. He tilted his head into a shadow so it was hard to read his expression.
“He’s dark.” She almost added “beautiful,” but stopped herself. “He carried a pair of sabers and was an enchanter.” Janir would have to recapitulate the past weeks’ events in more detail after this, she realized.
“Searching for the Key of Amatahns? Are you certain?” Saoven was abruptly concerned.
“Yes.”
Saoven seemed suddenly very preoccupied. He spoke lowly in Elvish, brow pinched in consideration.
“Who is he?” The elf’s reaction unsettled her anew. There was something here she did not understand.
“He is supposed to be a secret.” Saoven’s hands flew to his face and he covered his eyes in a tired gesture that Armandius sometimes used.
“Not anymore, apparently.” Janir might have been discomforted by his response, but these days she had learned to be undeterred by the unusual. “So who is he?”
“I cannot reveal that,” Saoven stiffly replied, obviously unhappy with the fact, but determined to stand by it. His hands dropped to his sides.
“Saoven, he attacked me with magic in the market. He threw me up against a wall and questioned me and he knew what I was.”
“He attacked you?” Saoven’s brow furrowed and he shifted closer. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Janir hastily assured him. “No, Saoven. I just…” She took a deep breath. It was as much to compose herself as to gather her thoughts. Malkalar wasn’t here or anywhere near here, she reminded herself. A long exhale escaped her lips. If Saoven wasn’t going to tell, he wasn’t going to tell.
There was conflict carved across his forehead as he spoke hesitantly. “It has been many generations since there has been such a powerful enchanter among elves, mortals, or any of the other races.”
Janir swallowed. There was something about the way Saoven spoke, som
ething that forewarned of bad news. “So why keep him a secret?”
“Because he is the son of our king.” Saoven’s tone nearly dropped to a whisper.
After a moment’s consideration, it still didn’t make very much sense. “I don’t…understand.”
Saoven glanced about the beach as if he feared eavesdroppers. “It was his will that none of the other races know of his existence. He refuses to allow anyone outside of the elves know.”
“How can you keep someone like that secret?”
Saoven made a vague gesture in the air. “We have our ways. Our kingdom is not like that of mortals, but that is not important at the moment. No one is meant to know his name.”
Janir shook her head, not understanding.
“There is power in a name, Janir,” the elf whispered, “a power that can both create and destroy. The right name can raise mountains and cast down kings.”
When another blank stare was her only reply, he continued.
“A name gives a title to who we are, an identity. They are tied into our very being. To know a person’s name is the first step to binding their soul.”
“But I met a seeress who knows his name.” In hindsight, that did seem rather anomalous according to what Saoven was telling her now.
“Seers and seeresses know most of what goes on in the world and they are not generous with their information in any event. You are possibly the only one outside my race and the Seers who knows of him, Janir. I implore that you take that burden responsibly,” Saoven pleaded. “My people must not learn I revealed such knowledge to an—” He noticed her flinch. “No, I did not mean it that way. They do not know you as I do. They would not…understand.”
Janir nodded, swallowing whatever hurt had welled up at the thought of what she was, but her mind was still wandering. Why had Malkalar needed a seeress? Had he simply been rescuing Zeerla? Not likely. While dwelling on unanswered questions, why had the Argetallams been trying to capture the Key and the power in the first place? Perhaps she would never know.
Saoven watched her carefully as silence filled the space between them. “You said you met the prince in the Vermilion Market. What exactly—?”
Suddenly, there was a commotion from their small encampment—the hiss of a mazag and a scream of pain from a mortal mouth.
Janir and Saoven charged back across the sand. They had wandered much farther than Janir had thought and it was a breathless run back to the mazag and the other “soft skins.”
Saoven was faster than Janir and arrived some twenty paces ahead of her. She came on the scene to find the mazag called Mazag Teris, whimpering over a slice on its upper foreleg. Karile was on the ground, clutching at a bruised eye, and Lucan was scrambling for the trees.
“The wretched scion of the Staspin Waste!” shrieked Mazag Teris, fussing over the torn flesh. It was a shallow wound, but it looked as if Lucan had sliced across a main muscle. It would be painful for Teris to walk for a while.
“Karile!” Janir dove for him. “Are you alright?”
Saoven grabbed Lucan’s arm, wresting the knife out of his hand. With his wound, Lucan too weak to free himself as the elf pinned his arms behind his back.
“He hit me!” Karile whined. “Look, I’m going to have a black eye!”
“Be grateful,” Lucan growled, not even bothering to resist Saoven’s hold. “I wanted to knife you.”
Speaking of which, the blade lay exposed on the sand. Janir snatched it up, facing Lucan. How had he gotten it past their notice? He must have had an extra one stashed in his boot or somewhere to that effect.
Lucan cast her a defiant glare. “You didn’t think I was just going to let you tote me off like a pig for slaughter, did you?”
“We shall make him suffer!” one of the mazag hissed, making to advance.
Janir had stuck out an arm to stop them before she knew what she was doing. “No.”
To her surprise, the mazag obeyed. They eased onto their haunches, glaring murderous desires toward the Argetallam prince.
Saoven release Lucan and he slumped into the sand, more weakened by his wound than he let show. The elf took a step away, taking up a post a little in front of Janir.
Clutching his wounded side, Lucan lifted himself onto his knees. “What do you want with me?” he groaned, a surprising amount of neutrality in his words. “Drag me before your High Lords? Parade me before your people as a prisoner of war?” His dark eyes settled on Janir—devoid of hate, devoid of fear. There was nothing but empty contempt, like a broken animal facing down his captor.
Janir didn’t answer. She didn’t yet have one.
“Let me go,” Lucan said, the hints of a plea creeping into his voice. “You owe me that much.”
“She owes you?” Saoven demanded, taking an aggressive step toward the Argetallam. “You have held her captive for weeks, abused her, beaten her, and you dare say that she owes you anything?”
Lucan did not so much as glance at the elf. “I held your life in my hands,” he said. “And I spared it.”
“You tried to kill me!” Janir could hardly believe his pretention.
“Right!” Karile shouted, fists on his hips as he planted himself at her side. “What they said!”
Lucan still ignored the others. “I thought we were all going to die,” he countered. “Admit it, we should have.”
“And that justifies it?” Whatever compassion or pity Saoven had found for the Argetallam prince was fading fast.
“No,” Lucan shortly replied, still showing not the slightest trace of shame. “I suppose it doesn’t. Yet this is the way out for all of us.” He clambered upright stiffly, one hand settled protectively over his wound.
“I think you are simply trying to save yourself,” Saoven growled. “You know we shall force you to face punishment for your crimes and fear the consequences.”
Janir laid a hand on Saoven’s shoulder, stopping him from advancing on her brother. The elf could have shook her off like a butterfly, but he held back, shooting her a questioning look.
“Let me go,” Lucan said. It came out as more of a suggestion than a request. “It’s at least a week on foot to the mainland and another two weeks to the Staspin Waste. We all know that in my state I’m more likely to die on the way.”
“Then why would you want to go?” Janir asked quietly. She wasn’t sure what she felt about this or even what the right thing would be. She was deciding as she went along.
“I would rather die on my own terms,” Lucan said simply. “I would rather die with my life in my own hands than at the headsman’s block, the hangman’s rope, or the torturer’s wheel.”
Janir swallowed. She could sense that Saoven, Karile, and even the mazag were deferring to her, letting her be the one to decide, but she couldn’t imagine why.
“You don’t want my blood on your hands. I know you don’t, sister.” There was just enough sarcasm in the last word to make it clear he wasn’t going to make any apologies or beg for his life. “This way, we both have what we want.”
Janir didn’t speak. Her mouth wouldn’t work and she didn’t know what she could say even if it did.
Though he was pale and slightly hunched over, Lucan raised his chin. “I will have my honorable death and you will have your clear conscience.”
Without waiting for a response, Lucan turned and stumbled toward the trees. The mazag hissed and made to chase him, Karile let off a shout of protest, and Saoven took a quick step after Lucan.
“No!” Janir cried. She grabbed Saoven’s sleeve and motioned frantically for the mazag to stop. She looked to Saoven before saying, “Let him go.”
Already, Lucan was gone from sight. He had chosen to brave the wild, perhaps because that was the only way he could take control again. It wasn’t as if he stood a chance of circling back and attacking them. Letting him go was merciful—far more merciful than he deserved, but then again, that was the point of mercy. It always went to the undeserving.
He migh
t die anyway, but his was a better chance than she had in that chamber. His life was no longer in her hands and at present he was no longer a threat.
“You would allow him to go free?” the lead mazag hissed. “After he has so wronged us all?”
Janir shook her head. “It is done.” She released Saoven’s sleeve and included the mazag and Karile as she said, “He won’t come back. Just let him go.”
The mazag flicked their tails resentfully, but didn’t disobey. “He is a hatchling,” one of them clicked to the others.
“He killed Mazag Kedris.”
“He will die in the wilderness without den fellows.”
The beasts seemed to decide that they could let Lucan go. They settled on the ground and Mazag Teris set to licking its wounds.
Janir turned to Saoven, ignoring the questioning stare of the enchanter on the back of her head.
Saoven was silent for a long moment. It was hard to read his expression—creased brow, hardened mouth, and rigid jaw. For a moment, she thought he was going to chase after Lucan anyway, but a muscle flexed in his cheek and he nodded once. “It is up to fate, then.”
Epilogue
Reflected sunlight danced on the white stone walls of the fountain house. In Brevia, they would be experiencing the first gusts of cold, but here it was a perpetual summer. The second crop of pomegranates would be ripening soon.
By the brink of the water, staring absently into the ripples, stood a middle aged man with a dark countenance to match his inky beard and tanned skin. His large leather boots were coated in a film of dust from the surrounding outposts, though the rest of his clothes were fresh. Semiconsciously, one hand fingered a silver trinket he had been examining for days now.
At a sound behind him, he spun around with the swiftness of a mountain cat. Inside of a heartbeat, he had struck the newcomer with the speed and accuracy of a viper. A shriek rang through the fountain house, echoing off the walls for one deafening moment.
Groveling on the tile and clutching the blistering welt where the karkaton had struck, the servant silently struggled against the bite of the rod, gaining control of himself before speaking. “Did I startle you, my lord?” The trespasser humbly backed out of reach and bowed to the ground.
“You should know better than to approach me in such a manner.” The first man made no apology, replacing his weapon at his side.
“Forgive me, my lord.” The servant rose to his feet, but kept his head bowed to show respect. “I often forget that as the Lord Argetallam, you must be wary of assassins.”
“No,” the Lord Argetallam flatly corrected, “they should be wary of me.” There was no hint of arrogance, nor boastful vanity in the statement, merely one man relaying a fact he believed to be true.
“Indeed, they should be,” Ernic agreed with a smile. Ernic was young, barely past two decades with a youthful, almost annoying energy to match.
The branded crest on his shoulder marked him as the property of the royal family. Discolored marks, faded over time, yet permanently scarring his skin, were all that outwardly remained of the torture he’d experienced as an adolescent.
As a child, after watching the slaughter of his family, Ernic had been taken from his home in Brevia and made to serve the Argetallams. When he had come of age and began thinking treacherous thoughts, they had been purged from his mind. Now he was the most relied upon servant of the Lord Argetallam, trusted with tasks and secrets that anyone else might be slain for overhearing.
“I must know, Ernic.” The Lord Argetallam paced along the edge of the fountain, the silver trinket clenched tightly in his fist. “I must know if the rumors are true.”
Ernic nodded attentively.
“I must know if she is still alive.” The Lord Argetallam turned his back Ernic. It was a subtle way of reminding the slave how insignificant he truly was, not that those like Ernic oft needed reminding. “In the months since my son’s return, the rumors have grown more frequent. They say that she was taken in by the Lord Caersynn and from there on the story varies. Some say she was killed months ago, others claim she still lives.” The Lord Argetallam whirled on Ernic suddenly and commanded, “Go, find this Caersynn and learn if he knows anything of my daughter.”
“I would go to into the very Lake of Fire, if you so wished it, my lord.” Ernic bowed slightly. “I still wonder, do you not know? She is your daughter. Would you not have felt it if she died?”
It was true that Argetallams formed bonds, lifelong magical bonds, to those they loved. Those bonds were what sent them into Riangar—a state of bloodlust in which an Argetallam’s very eyes glowed with power—to protect their loved ones. Another less fortunate side effect of such bonds was that when they were severed, the Argetallam’s pain was often debilitating.
Either way, it was not something the Lord Argetallam wished to discuss. “You question me?”
“Not at all, my lord,” Ernic placated. “I merely thought…can you not sense her as you do your other servants?”
The Lord Argetallam would have most likely reprimanded anyone else who dared to question him this far. However, with Ernic he simply glared hostility at the youth and moved on, the silver trinket pressed firmly into his palm. “Find her. My other spies cannot be trusted with this.”
“My lord?”
“I had five children two years ago. Six, if Janir lives.”
“I remember, my lord. It is most regrettable.”
“And coincidental, would you not say? Now only Lucan, Kestrell, and possibly my daughter remain. I do not believe it to be mere ill luck and I know not who else I can trust with this.”
Ernic’s head bobbed emphatically. “No one, not even Mortana Emilla, could torture your commands from my lips.”
The Lord Argetallam scoffed at the idea. “She broke your mind once.”
“But only to make sure that I would never betray Argetallam kind. The thought she placed in my mind is still strong, and I will do anything to obey it.” Ernic assured his master heartily, face aglow with zealous passion.
Satisfied, the Lord Argetallam saw his niece’s hold over Ernic was unchanged after all these years. Under her uncle’s tutelage, Emilla had never tortured a man she could not break.
“But I must say,” Ernic added, “that it is unlikely the princess survived the massacre at the Norwin Pass. Even if she did, the Brevians likely killed her as soon as she was discovered.”
“Of that I am aware,” the Lord Argetallam replied. “But if I understand Caersynn as I believe I do, he has a reason for keeping my daughter alive. He could wish to use her as a weapon or he may have other motivations.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but what other reason could a Brevian possibly have?” Ernic ventured, then ducked his head, realizing that it may have been too probing a question.
The Lord Argetallam blinked at him. “My daughter is not mine alone.”
“My lord?”
“She had a mother, you know,” the Lord Argetallam carelessly pointed out. “‘Caersynn’ was Aryana’s name. Fascinating, do you not agree, that a man with the same is rumored to be aiding an Argetallam?”
“Aryana?” Ernic’s brow wrinkled.
“Yes, that was the name of my firstborn’s mother.”
“I know, my lord,” Ernic bowed. “But if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you seldom use the names of any of your other concubines—”
“Your point is?”
“Forgive me, my lord.” Ernic knelt and touched his forehead to the stone, sensing that the conversation was entering dangerous territory.
“It is no concern of yours,” the Lord Argetallam snapped, clubbing Ernic over the back of the head.
“True, true. I ask your forgiveness, my lord.” Ernic groveled—it was the one thing broken slaves did better than serve.
“Your apology is noted. Now you will prepare for the journey to Brevia to learn if this maiden is indeed my daughter.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Be gone.”
As Erni
c bowed, scraped, and scurried from sight, the Lord Argetallam opened his fist to examine the silver trinket. It had been on his son’s person when the boy had been found half alive at their northern borders. The servants who tended him might have thought nothing of it had not one of them noticed it was engraved on the back with a flowing, rich script that read “Caersynn: The Third.”
Lucan had seemed surprised he still had it and refused to admit where it had come from, but anyone could see it was no marketplace trinket. The solid emerald alone marked it as a token of nobility.
Perhaps he was clinging to false hope. As Ernic had said, it was almost impossible for her to have survived, as a child, too. Yet Lucan’s unexplained failure, this medallion, and now these rumors—it was only natural that a father have hope.
If Janir was alive, he would reclaim her at whatever cost. He didn’t care what he had to do or who he had to hurt to have his firstborn at his side, even if it meant breaking Janir herself, he would have her back.
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About the Author
Elisabeth Wheatley began what would be her first novel at eleven and hasn’t stopped writing since. When she’s not daydreaming of elves, vampires, and/or handsome princes in need of rescuing, she can be found wasting time on the internet, fangirling over her latest obsession, and pretending to be a functional citizen.
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Other works by the author
Current titles in the
Argetallam Saga
The Key of Amatahns (Argetallam Saga, #1)
The Secrets of the Vanmars (Argetallam Saga, #2)
The Chalice of Malvron (Argetallam Saga, #3)
The Temple of Tarkoth (Argetallam Saga, #4)
Coming 2017
Current titles in the
Fanged
novella series
Fanged (Fanged, #1)
Fanged Outcast (Fanged, #2)
Fanged Kindred (Fanged, #3)
Fanged Rebel (Fanged, #4)
Coming 2017
The Key of Amatahns Page 38