Beach of Bones (Empath Book 1)

by Dawn Peers

  Shiver left without another word. Sammah turned to Elias, his head bodyguard. The man stood, mute and impassive. His arms were folded across his barrel chest, covered with a sleeveless black leather tunic cinched with a simple belt. His veined biceps were larger than Sammah’s thighs, and flecked with numerous small scars that told of a man that who not impassive for the sake of show. Elias was also a mute. All of the bodyguards in Sammah’s personal retinue were this way. Sammah did not need thinkers or speakers when it came to exercising brute force in the name of the greater good.

  “Keep two men on him at all times. Be discrete. The Lord Shiver has been misleading us. I need to get Quinn involved.”

  Elias nodded and left the room. Shiver went to his desk, glowering at the partially-unravelled parchments that were strewn across it. Diplomacy was not the garden stroll that many lords thought it to be. They had men in their employ that would organise the chaos Sammah currently had on his desk. What they neglected to realise, was that getting involved in the minutiae meant you had a far greater understanding of how the entirety of the kingdom cycled. It wasn’t all about taxes, wine, and whores, though that was all the lords tended to see these peaceful days. All Shiver saw, when he looked at the throne of Everfell, was the sword he’d use to take it. Sammah knew that, when the time came, he would be able to dismantle the security of Vance’s throne, piece by insignificant piece. A wall would not stand, if its foundations were weak, and with Sammah in charge of diplomacy for so long, taking the ear of the king as a trusted advisor, no one had realised that those foundations were already beginning to crumble.

  4

  “I hate this part,” Quinn muttered to herself as she approached the man. Her palms were starting to sweat, but it wasn’t her nerves or fear causing an issue. The man, blindfolded and bound to a chair in front of her, was visibly shaking, and the terror was pouring off him in waves. Quinn didn’t have a problem dealing with fear. It rippled across her skin like a warm breeze. Too much of it did tend to make her overheat though.

  The largest problem was the tiredness and nausea she still felt after her ordeal in the Great Hall. She concentrated on ignoring the sniggers she heard as she made her way through the castle on errands, though she did her best to confine herself to her quarters, keeping at Sammah’s side whenever possible. The sniggering died off somewhat when they saw Quinn with her father. When Sammah had told her that he needed her, with that meaning only one thing, she had almost been relieved. Exercising some form of control over herself, so soon after being so overwhelmed, had caused her to faint, was a perfect way of expunging any embarrassment she felt over the incident.

  Quinn inhaled deeply, letting the dank air from the cheap inn fill her lungs. As she started to focus on the helpless man, the nerves that had been radiating from her bodyguards—men assigned by Elias from Sammah’s personal retinue—began to fade to the background. There was very little else coming from this bound man, despite his precarious situation. It was Quinn’s job to get more answers for her father, without spilling unnecessary blood.

  “Why are you in Everfell?”

  Her voice was strong and steady in the close space of the room. The man jerked at hearing the noise, his head shifting from side to side like a baying animal, trying to locate her past the rag covering his eyes before lifting his head towards her, cocking it to one side. He wasn’t far off the mark of where she really stood. She shifted from one foot to the other. The heat had immediately started to dissipate. He hadn’t been expecting a woman. They never did. He was relaxing, and, Quinn thought with a grim smile, he was amused.

  “You’re the Satori?”

  “I am. But that’s not the answer to my question.”

  He laughed a little, and Quinn bristled. She always did, despite the fact that the man never failed to laugh, regardless of the fact she knew she did not intimidate them. It was hard to get used to, being belittled just because of your gender. She supposed she should be hardened to it by now. Just because everyone thought it, did not make it right.

  “I’m not going to answer your questions little girl.” He spat, his confidence rising, along with indignated ire that Quinn did not need a gift to detect. This was what her guards were present for. Quinn didn’t need anyone to protect her from attacks, not when the people she spoke to—not always male—were bound tightly to chairs in an anonymous inn. The guards served to remind the prisoner that they had been taken captive, and they were being questioned for a reason. The blindfold was to protect Quinn’s identity. No one knew who she was or what she could do, though a legend had spun around the nickname that had begun to circulate in recent years. Baron Sammah preferred their work to be hidden in the smoke and shadows of fear fuelled by rumour. She turned to one of her guardsmen. She didn’t know his name. Sammah preferred that she was protected from that, too, not being able to implicate anyone, if she didn’t know who she was accusing. The guards were well trained despite the lack of personal contact. The senior of the two guards stepped forward as she glanced towards him, no emotion showing on his olive skin. His eyes snapped to Quinn and she waved in the general direction of the prisoner, her hand twisting in a basic gesture Sammah had taught her some years before. Without further question, he drew his sword. It was a long blade, curved and nasty. It wasn’t in good condition, though that was for a very good reason. Nicks in the cheap steel cushioning pockets of rust danced down the edge of the blade, decaying teeth in an already vicious weapon. Quinn realised you would be more likely to die of an infection from your wound than a blow from the blade itself, though it would not be a clean death, nor would it be quick. The ringing threat of the sound, reverberating around the dirty plaster walls, was enough to break this pitiful man. His bravado was shattered as Quinn felt a wall of heat blast her, any fear he had quelled at hearing her voice returning twofold.

  “Don’t underestimate this situation, you fool. I am not alone. You are, though. Heed my words. I am the easy way. Anything you might have heard about me is true. It doesn’t matter that I am female. I own you. In this room, you are mine. You cannot lie. Answer my questions truthfully, and you will go free. Lie, and I will turn you over to my men. They will be less accommodating.”

  Quinn was glad then that she was the only person in the room capable of detecting the truth. She didn’t know what would happen to this man after he had answered her questions. Quinn never met anyone she had questioned, before or after. None of them had turned up in the gaol, pointing fingers in her direction, and most importantly to her, none of them had washed up dead in the city gutters. As with every other element of her life, this was controlled by Sammah. Before she had started questioning people for him, he had sat her down and explained to her, very carefully, why he needed her to do it. There were people that plotted against the king, that wanted to undermine the treaty and rekindle the conflict between their two kingdoms. Sammah was an important factor in keeping these people in check, and he needed Quinn’s skill to help identify these threats. Sammah had said though, that he didn’t want her in harm’s way. That was why she had the guards, why she only worked this way in the dead of the night, and why he had resurrected the myth of the Satori, for the populace to give rumour a name, and a face. And so far, it had all worked. She was questioning and identifying deviant men and women; people that had genuine designs to threaten the peace that they all enjoyed. Sammah hadn’t lied to her. More importantly, he was her father, and she dared not question him. Not when he was the only reason she had a life, or any standing in this world.

  The man was whimpering again. The fear took some long moments to calm, and by the time it did Quinn was openly sweating, her skin hot and her tunic wet between her breasts and down her back. The guard retreated, the sword sheathed, his job done for now. Quinn stepped closer to the man who was now prone and shaking within his bindings. This time, when she spoke, he didn’t scoff at her words.

  “Why have you come to Everfell?”

  “I’m just a merchant. I’m here to
sell. That’s all.”

  His voice, high-pitched and quavering with fear, was more of a giveaway than the dryness she felt in her mouth, indicating the lie. There was no embellishment. He rolled out the words like they had been learned by rote. He was near to tears. Spirits above, this one wouldn’t be hard to break, despite his initial posturing. Still, she resented the salty tang in the air that gave her sight of the lie. Quinn hated liars the most of all emotives. She had once questioned a courtier who lied so frequently and habitually that she had passed out at the end of the interrogation, her throat constricting, it had become so dry. Sammah hadn’t taken kindly to that. The courtier had been manhandled out of the room, Sammah had assured him, and it had been politely suggested to him that he begin socialising in circles outside of the city of Everfell. Quinn hadn’t seen him at court or heard him mentioned since.

  “You’re not telling me the truth. Why are you in Everfell?”

  “I am! I swear I am, by all the spirits!” She rolled her eyes flicked her tongue around her lips, which had cracked slightly. She waited, letting the man stew in silence whilst she wetted her throat with saliva. She wouldn’t let him hear her voice crack, all because he couldn’t utter a single word of truth.

  “You came in to the city without papers. You haven’t been to the merchants. If you were with them, you’d be in their own cells by now, not here with me. I’ll only ask you once more. I don’t take kindly to liars, though I’m sure you’ve already heard that by now. Why are you in Everfell?”

  “I…I…I’m working for Lord Shiver.”

  Quinn waited. The tang in the air abated. They were heading in the right direction. “In what capacity?”

  “Isn’t that enough? You asked why I’m here. I told you!”

  “I have more questions. There are going to be more questions until I tell you that I am done. In what capacity do you work for Lord Shiver?”

  Her voice was calm and level. She worked hard to keep it that way as a bead of sweat slid down her temple, and another down her nose to fall to the dirty wooden floor. The man—she still didn’t know his name and she knew she’d never learn it—was utterly petrified now. Quinn would need to bathe once she was done here, though she doubted her other duties would allow her the time. The quicker she got this over and done with, the better.

  “I’m a spy.”

  She smirked. He wasn’t very good at his job. He wouldn’t be doing it for much longer, either.

  “And what were you going to be spying on?”

  “He wanted someone to monitor the revenues being calculated by the Merchants’ Guild. He thinks Sevenspells are being overtaxed. He wanted information to be able to confront the king.”

  Quinn relaxed. The air smelled sweet now, almost like the scent of the poppy. He was telling the truth. His panic and fear didn’t subside whilst she remained there, quiet—his chest heaved, his defeated head hanging between his shoulders as whimpered, trying hard to hold back tears. She moved forwards, pushing up his chin with the tips of her fingers. His head rose, unyielding. Her voice came softly.

  “I’m done with you.”

  He barked, almost a yelp of joy.

  “How do you feel?”

  He looked confused at the question, not expecting to have to answer such a trivial query. “I feel…” as he thought about it, it became clear that he had no idea how he felt. He was silent, both vocally and internally. He searched inside himself, Quinn thought, trying to put his finger on what emotion he was meant to be feeling at that point. Like everyone she interrogated, he did not have an answer. Panic started to ooze out from him again, rolling out from the chair in fiery tendrils, so she put an end to it before she was bathed in sweat again.

  “Enough. You do not have to answer that question.” She turned to her guards. “Take him away.”

  “Wait—you said I was going to be safe! You said if I answered your questions I could go!”

  “I said you could go free. My men will see to that.”

  The two men stepped forward to haul him from the chair. Quinn had to send her thoughts elsewhere, had to try to ignore the man now. If she didn’t, the heat would overwhelm her. Blood rushed to her head. She felt dizzy, and rushed over to a windowsill to steady herself. It was already open, the cool night air floating past her teasingly, so she took in some long lungs full, careful to make sure the hood she wore didn’t slip from her head. Her heart hammered painfully against her rib cage as the man was gagged. His cries now might be muffled, but that did nothing to protect Quinn from the terror that battered her senses. She concentrated on her breathing, working hard to keep it steady, one hand on the windowsill to steady herself and the other holding her hood close over her face. No. It wouldn’t do to have to explain to Sammah that she let herself be seen outside of the castle.

  * * *

  Everfell would be beautiful, Quinn thought to herself, if it had less people in it. Or perhaps, no people at all. Its grey stone walls encapsulated a rich city kept warm most of the year by the generous winds blowing from the southern isles of Sha’Sek. Because of this, there were plush, green gardens everywhere, lined with delicate perennial flowers and tall, arching willows brushing the ground with their delicate stems. Unfortunately, they often housed drunkards, passed out from too much wine or ale, or hosted fights that had been pushed out from taverns, barring men too drunk to care about spoiling some innkeeper’s furniture. There were too many traders shouting, hawking their wares, and pawing at people in the street. There were too many workers walking along, cursing their bad luck as they made their way to or from whatever toil they spent their day—where they earned coin they wouldn’t be able to hold in their hands five minutes before it was spent on taxes and ale. There were too many children, screeching with extremes of anger or joy, proverbially drunk on the vibrant taste of life. There were people everywhere, living, and it drove Quinn insane.

  She was an empath. She hadn’t known this when she was a child. It had been Baron Sammah, who had taken her in as a yearling and sponsored her residency in the castle, who had identified her particular talents. Everyone else had assumed her to be backwards at worst, socially awkward at best, and they had been close to casting her out altogether. Only her high standing in court of Sammah kept her position in the castle safe. He had even engineered her a working role that kept her away from the frightening maelstrom of activity that usually encapsulated court life. When I’m not sabotaging that myself, Quinn muttered to herself grimly.

  When others argued, Quinn would sit and cower in the corner, trying to focus herself elsewhere before the headaches of fury overwhelmed her. When they were happy, she would become elated. In times of sadness, she was utterly inconsolable. Her emotions had been beyond her control, and without Baron Sammah’s guiding hand through her youngest years she knew beyond doubt that she would have taken her own life. When Sammah had told her the truth—that she instinctively knew and fed off the emotions of others—she hadn’t know what to think. It couldn’t have been a lie. The experiences of her life told her that much. But putting a name to it, and giving what she felt an identity, had overwhelmed her with relief. Not only had Sammah supported her financially through being her sponsor—orphans usually had a cold, lonely and short existence to look forward to in Everfell—she owed him her life. He was her father in more ways than one, and for as long as she could remember, she had given him unflinching loyalty.

  As she skirted around filthy heaps of manure, ignoring the catcalls of street beggars and the wails of malnourished children, she thanked the spirits she had been given the chances she had. Life in Everfell was hard; life in all of the eight provinces was hard. It was a tough kingdom with a chequered history. Only recently, under the guidance of King Vance, had there been a makeshift peace.

  The main aggressor had been the collective city states of Sha’Sek. Quinn had never been to Sha’Sek. Few citizens of Everfell had stepped in the Sha’sekian territories, and the bones of many that had still bleached the bare groun
d of the desert.

  Sha’sek was an anomaly, as far as the rulers of the kingdom of Everfell were concerned. The Severed Desert, a barren wasteland of scrub and grey rock, cushioned the lands of Broadwater, Sevenspells and Port Kahnel like an iron hoof. After a three days of travel on foot, you would reach the rocky beaches of the Ever Sea, and if you were brave enough to risk a boat through those shallow, rocky straits, you would come, in a few days’ straight sailing, to the shores of one of the dozens of islands that collectively comprised Sha’sek.

  The larger cities with the higher populations, tended to attract more powerful men. The smaller islands were known to collectively align, providing one ruler to account for all of them. In all, there were fifteen men and women sitting on the ruling Council of Sha’sek, making decisions in trade and war for all of their people. The council had negotiated peace after the Fourth War with King Vance. Sammah’s own residency in Everfell was a result of this tentative peace. A representative from each nation was permanently resident in their opposing court; Vance’s own cousin Lord Hartley even now lived in the lap of humid luxury in Farn, one of Sha’Sek’s largest cities.

  This arrangement allowed the rulers to consult a foreign native on matters involving foreign policy without having to wait on long, dangerous and expensive courier journeys, or the even riskier air messages. Sammah had the power to advise on behalf of the council, though not to make outright decisions in their name. Lord Hartley could do the same for Vance. It had worked, for the last fifteen years. There had been no further wars. Whilst there had been near misses—skirmishes on the southern borders which had been dismissed by both sides as the activity of rebels and vigilantes—by and large, the peace had held.

  Quinn pulled her hood close around her as she darted back into the castle grounds, through wide open gates that were manned by two sets of three men, all members of the King’s Guard. Sammah’s mute guards were easily recognised; they all wore the same sleeveless leather tunic as Elias, with bare legs from their thighs down, and cloth boots strapped with leather thongs all they had to protect their feet from the cobbled ground. It didn’t matter how deeply the bitter cold bit down in winter; you would never see those men out of their uniform. Their reputation preceded them also, so when they swept through the gate with Quinn, obscured by her hood, scurrying between them, they were not challenged. Sammah’s business was his own, and he was trusted not to bring any menace into the castle walls.