Taunting the Devil (The Bastard Cadre Book 5)

by Lee Carlon

  Walden nodded as he realized Maiten was the source of the headache. “He’s here, but I can’t hear the words.”

  “It’ll get easier,” Amir said. At Walden’s frown he added, “When you wear his heart, it will be easier.”

  “Then you have no desire for Maiten’s heart?” Walden asked.

  Amir shook his head. “It was all lies. My job was to get rid of your friends and lead you around in circles down here.”

  “You’re a good man,” Walden said.

  “I reckon you’ll be a fine Chosen. How are you going to do it?” Amir asked.

  “What do you mean?” Walden knew exactly what he meant.

  “How are you going to kill Lord Rarick? You’re a good man. Probably never killed anybody in your entire life. How are you going to do it?”

  Walden pondered the question. Eventually, he said, “I have two daughters. I must do it for them.”

  “That’s good. What are their names?”

  “Carla and Sarin.”

  “Beautiful names,” Amir said with a wide grin. “All right, we just have one more wall. Are you ready?”

  Walden tightened his grip on the laser-cutter. “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to just wait for Tralit d’Arathan?”

  Walden started to respond, but Amir spoke over him. “Good stuff.” Amir’s grin spread, and he laughed. “Let’s do it. Remember, for Carla and Sarin.”

  Amir guided Walden to the wall, but this time instead of pulling him through, he placed his hands on Walden’s back and pushed him into the darkness.

  16

  Homecoming

  “Why isn’t Vincent here?” Corsari asked.

  “Why would he be?” Doran replied, trying to keep the hope out of her voice. Please understand, she thought and looked around the dirt garden Corsari had brought her to.

  They were on the outskirts of Peak City behind a wooden dance hall that had escaped the attention of wandering tomytons in the years since the Cleansing. Corsari stood looking through a window into a small room on the corner of the dance hall.

  Is that where she slept as a child? Doran wondered.

  Snuffle snorted loudly and stamped a foot.

  “I’m sorry,” Doran said. She took the corpse across Snuffle’s back by the shoulders and dragged it to the ground to unburden her friend.

  The wound that had started as a small nick behind Snuffle’s left foreleg was black and puffy and the size of Doran’s hand. With the corpse on the ground, Doran reached for Snuffle, but he sidestepped to avoid her touch. He winced as his foot came down.

  “I’m sorry,” Doran said again.

  Snuffle slumped to the ground and lay there snorting heavily.

  “Vincent is in Turintar,” Corsari told Doran with a frown. “Why did we leave Turintar?”

  Doran didn’t answer. Her gaze swept the garden for the best place to dig a grave. A single poinciana tree stood in one corner. Its trunk twisted and leaning to one side. An autumn carpet of scarlet flowers was scattered beneath the tree’s canopy. Shadows gathered there in anticipation.

  Here for the show? Doran thought, knowing the shadows were hoping for much more than a mere diversion.

  It won’t be long now, Doran thought with dread. Without meaning to, she asked, “How long did you know Vincent?”

  Coward, she chastised herself for delaying the inevitable question and the violence that would follow. She stooped to lift the corpse’s feet and started dragging it toward the lone tree and the gathering shadows. May as well give them a good view.

  Corsari smiled, “I’ve known Vincent ever since we—”

  The shadows whispered to each other beneath the tree, and Doran caught their excitement and hated them for it, knowing that it was herself she should hate. After all, would she be satisfied chained to another? No, she thought, I am not chained to another, I am chained to many others.

  She recognized each shadow. She’d lived with most of them for years. She accepted their protection and skills when she needed them. She remembered the bald man who had killed the dog in Turintar to keep it quiet. Her shadows would have taken him if she’d asked them to. She had no right to resent their eagerness at the prospect of freedom.

  “I have known Vincent since we met in Frake’s Stronghold on the day Lord Obdurin…” Corsari trailed off.

  Not even a single day, Doran thought.

  Corsari stepped down from the wooden verandah surrounding the dance hall. Dust puffed up where her feet struck the hard-packed dirt. The whispering beneath the tree intensified.

  “You said did,” Corsari said.

  Doran stopped dragging the corpse and looked up. The warrior looked stern, and her hands rested perilously close to a pair of knives.

  It took Doran a moment. “Did?” Her stomach lurched, and she felt her skin go pallid as she realized her mistake. She’d asked, How long did you know Vincent. She said, “I meant—”

  Corsari advanced, her hands reaching for her knives in their sheaths.

  I will not control her, Doran thought. I would rather—

  “What have you done with Vincent?” Corsari demanded and drew the blades.

  “Nothing. He’s safe in Turintar.” The corpse’s feet slipped from Doran’s hands as she studied Corsari.

  Please, no, but she knew it was inevitable now. It always was. Doran straightened and met Corsari’s eyes. “Vincent is fine, but you died.”

  Corsari’s mouth opened to protest, but then her eyes sought out the shroud covered corpse and she closed her mouth.

  “You died,” Doran shouted, “but you’re free now.”

  Corsari strode back to the dance hall and the window. Doran followed her, fists clenched. She’d never confronted death so directly in the past, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe there wouldn’t be so many shadows beneath that tree if she had.

  Corsari’s face was reflected in the glass of the window, and Doran saw the instant when Corsari’s focus shifted from the room to her own reflection.

  “You’re free,” Doran insisted.

  Corsari turned, and Doran fell back against a wooden wall as the warrior pushed past her.

  Snuffle snorted in protest and started to rise, but Corsari had left the verandah and dropped to her knees beside the corpse before Snuffle had finished standing.

  “Don’t!” Doran shouted, but Corsari had sliced the linen open before Doran had finished saying the word.

  Corsari rose and staggered back from her own lifeless face beneath the shroud. She turned on Doran and demanded, “Why?”

  Doran edged forward. “There is no why.”

  “Is that it? My life wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  “We don’t get to choose how things go, only how we deal with them,” Doran said. “You’re free now. Resist whatever force is compelling you and decide how to deal with this. Don’t be like so many others who live their lives according to other people’s rules and then do the same with their deaths.” Doran resisted looking at the shadows under the poinciana tree.

  Corsari’s long legs covered the distance to Doran. She demanded, “Why?”

  Snuffle took several slow steps toward them, favoring his left foreleg.

  “There is no why, only what you do next,” Doran shouted, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Why?” Corsari demanded, and Doran heard the echo of dozens of other voices wanting to know the same thing.

  “Stop!” Doran yelled. “Be free. I don’t want to control you.”

  “Why?” Corsari shouted into Doran’s face.

  “This isn’t you, you wouldn’t hurt me,” Doran shouted, the tears running down her face now.

  “Why?” Corsari shouted again to a backing chorus of excited whispers.

  Corsari’s knives came up, and Doran knew her friend would kill her if she wasn’t stopped. Doran had contemplated allowing it to happen many times.

  “Stop,” Doran’s voice was neither loud or forced, and Corsari st
rained against her own body as it suddenly refused to obey her.

  “Stop,” Doran repeated with certainty. She would never willingly allow her life to be taken, not even for Corsari.

  Corsari’s expression was feral and full of hatred, and Doran could still see her unanswerable question on her face.

  Doran plucked one of the knives from Corsari’s hand, confident Corsari had neither the will nor the knowledge to resist Doran’s command. She nicked the ball of Corsari’s right thumb with the knife’s edge.

  The whispers beneath the tree had stopped, and several of the gathered shadows faded from view. Doran tried not to begrudge them their disappointment. If she hadn’t exerted her will over Corsari, Corsari would have killed her, and they would be free.

  Doran turned the blade on herself and nicked the ball of her own left thumb.

  She hesitated, but there was no choice. If she didn’t do it, Corsari would come for her again, and Doran wouldn’t be able to stop her. She pressed her thumb onto Corsari’s and mingled their blood. She didn’t say anything, there was no need for words or ceremony, no matter what some practitioners believed.

  She put the knife back in Corsari’s hand and closed her fingers around the hilt.

  It was done, and Doran hated herself for it.

  17

  The Judge’s Mercy

  A single beam of tightly focused light descended from the ceiling to illuminate the throne at the center of Maiten’s Hall. As always, the space felt vast to Valan, the edges of the room were shrouded in darkness, and it was impossible to know where the hall ended. A stone statue of the God Maiten stood over the throne, the tips of his wings at the edge of the light above. The statue held his fabled spear in his right hand, the base planted firmly by his feet, the tip pointed at the ceiling, and the God’s carved left hand rested on the throne’s backrest.

  Valan tried to ignore the grim-faced statue, but its presence dominated the room.

  Four bruised bondsan guarded the entrance to Maiten’s Hall, but their attention was on Lilly who had broken protocol by running straight past them to the children she now organized in a tight circle with herself at its center. Valan stood patiently at the threshold waiting for the order to enter, hoping the bondsan wouldn’t notice him so he could study the proceedings before becoming part of them.

  Rarick must die. Omar’s voice continued to echo in Valan’s mind, and each time Valan ignored it, he felt a twinge of pain.

  At the edge of the circle of light, the children whimpered when they looked into the darkness. Lilly glared at her brother as she fussed over them. Valan noticed the boy Lomar and cursed silently.

  Two men knelt with their hands and faces pressed to the floor in front of the throne. Both men wore the colorful silks of Damar’s warrior class.

  They glanced at each other, then one of them said, “Lord, we will do as you have ordered.”

  Lord Rarick, self-styled Emperor of Central Newterra, sat on the edge of his throne. In a break with Damarian tradition, Rarick’s silks were creamy white. A few years earlier, Valan had goaded the Lord of Damar into rejecting the practice of wearing the brightest colors. Rarick was erratic but easily manipulated with practice and timing. He’d spent many of their early meetings, trying to glean meaning from the colors of the clothes his subordinates wore. Feigning frustration, Valan had complimented Rarick for his patience and consideration for the traditions of Ardel’s court. When pressed, Valan admitted he doubted he himself would be as skilled at understanding the importance of court opinions on such matters or so willing to allow the court to determine his personal wardrobe. One week later, Lord Rarick had adopted his current style, and their meetings had run smoother for a time.

  “Of course you will,” Rarick said, clearly irritated at the suggestion they had any choice but to follow his orders.

  Valan watched Rarick. Though the Lord was in his thirties, he had the physique of an awkward teenager. Valan’s eyes drifted to the heavy bracelet that encircled most of the Lord’s left forearm. The angle of Rarick’s arm made it impossible to see Maiten’s heart, but he could see the golden light it cast.

  One of the kneeling men continued. “Lord, is it true our brother’s lips were sewn shut before the negotiations with Lord Obdurin Chi’Rhysin Chosen? We have heard whispers of this, but do not—”

  “It’s true,” Rarick snapped and sat so far forward on his throne that Valan thought he might slip off the edge.

  There was silence for a moment as the two men considered this statement. Rarick watched them eagerly, unable, or unwilling, to keep the malice from his expression.

  “Then, Lord, how was he expected to negotiate—”

  “He wasn’t,” Rarick said, bright-eyed.

  The second kneeling man raised his head and placed his hands on his knees. “You sent him to die?”

  Rarick nodded. “I finally found something he couldn’t fuck up.”

  Valan couldn’t see the man’s expression, but Rarick responded, “You disapprove?”

  The man stood up and looked hesitantly toward the ceiling. His companion whispered hurried words, imploring him to stop.

  The man on his feet said, “I disapprove. I’ve disapproved for fourteen years, but I’ve held my silence. You’re an uncouth butcher, but when your attention was on Damar’s enemies, it benefited us all. After the Cleansing, you kept at your petty wars, but you left us alone, but now you—”

  Unseen wings beat the air twice in the darkness, and the man flinched, instinctively ducking his head.

  “Go on,” Rarick instructed.

  The man hesitated then drew his sword and blurted, “You’re a fucking—”

  The wings beat again, and a shadow descended from the darkness to snatch the man from his feet.

  The shadow retreated with its prize, and the man screamed once.

  Rarick sat back on his throne in a studied pose that he wouldn’t be able to maintain. “What did he say?”

  The man left kneeling on the floor pressed his face into the stone and sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “What was he going to say? What am I?” Rarick demanded.

  Valan thought, He’s coming undone. He’s normally petty, but this is new.

  “He must have said something before you came in here. What am I? A fucking genius? A fucking inspiration?”

  “I’m sorry!” the man wailed.

  A look of disgust crossed Rarick’s features. A winged shadow descended and took the man. A moment later, they heard the sound of first one and then a second body hitting the floor somewhere in the darkness.

  One of the children screamed, but Lilly clapped a hand over the child’s mouth, cutting the sound off.

  Rarick shushed them loudly, then said, “Maiten judges them unfit. His dimin take care of the rest.”

  When Rarick looked away he noticed Valan in the doorway, and in a high pitched voice ordered, “Seize him.”

  The bondsan at the door moved, two of them took an arm each. Valan saw the snarl on one man’s face before somebody kicked the back of his legs and he dropped to his knees.

  Rarick stood from his throne and descended the circular platform it stood upon. He took a sword from a bondsan’s scabbard as he rushed toward Valan. The bondsan stayed where he was without remark.

  Rarick prodded Valan in the chest with the point of the sword and broke the skin. Valan flinched, remembering the blade that had opened his torso a little over an hour earlier.

  Rarick spoke in his unnaturally high voice, “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now, dog.”

  “If it is your will and the will of Maiten that I die, then I will offer no protest nor beg for my life. My life is yours to do with as you please, my Lord.”

  “I should,” Rarick said. He stepped back and waved the sword vaguely in Valan’s direction. “Do you know what my men call you?”

  “Wolf, Lord.”

  “Wolf! It’s because they don’t trust you. Why should I trust you, Wolf?”


  Valan remained silent.

  “Where have you been?” Rarick demanded.

  “I interviewed the prisoner, and I discovered spies in the tunnels below the citadel. I was dealing with them.”

  “Spies, what spies?”

  “Two of Obdurin’s people,” Valan said.

  “Where are they now?”

  “I killed them, Lord. They looked dangerous, and I dare not risk keeping them alive.”

  Rarick studied Valan for a moment. “Worried they might say something?”

  Rarick tossed the sword he held to the man he’d taken it from. When that man fumbled the sword and it clanged on the floor, Rarick scowled at him. His accusation and the spies Valan spoke of forgotten like toys moved out of sight.

  “Where’s my brother?”

  Valan hesitated. Rarick knew of Warwick’s death. “Lord Marlan will arrange for his body to be sent home.”

  Rarick waved this off. “Marlan, pfft, he’s ignoring me. What’s he up to? You were there. Tell me.”

  “He honors the alliance, Lord,” Valan said.

  “Where’s Warwick?”

  “Lord, he’s—“

  “You keep saying he’s dead. How do you know? Did you kill him?” Rarick squinted at Valan as though the idea was taking hold. “Did he give you those injuries?”

  “An old acquaintance did this to me.”

  “Convenient,” Rarick snapped.

  “A man called Ethan Godkin beat me,” Valan said.

  “I don’t believe you,” Rarick said.

  “I have evidence, my Lord.”

  “Evidence, Wolf. Why would I believe any evidence you present?”

  Wolf. Valan thought. Shit. I was a wolf when Ethan beat me.

  If his situation weren’t so precarious, he might have laughed. If he showed Rarick the recording of his fight with Ethan Godkin, the Lord of Damar would see him shift into a wolf and he would never let him close again.

  “You are of no use. I sent you to Turintar to assist Warwick. I sent you to question the assassin. Where is Warwick? Has he claimed Frake’s Peak? Does he wear Rhysin’s heart? Has the assassin given you the names of my betrayers? Where is the assassin? He escaped after you spoke with him. What did you tell him?”