The Destiny (Blood and Destiny Book 4)

by E. C. Jarvis

  “I should probably have a poke about in there for a bit, make it look like I’m actually doing what we said I’m down here to do in case that bright bugger decides to come look,” Cid said.

  “I agree,” Narry said with a nod.

  “Do you think there is an actual passageway to the palace down here? I thought Larissa was being a bit fantastical about it all.”

  “Oh, there is a passageway,” Narry said with a curious smile. “Sandy…”

  Sandy lifted her robe, revealing a little too much leg for Cid’s nervous constitution to handle, then pulled out a spyglass.

  “How long have you had that?” Cid asked.

  “Since we left the airship. I spent some time on the train journey modifying it for the Friar.”

  “Illusion-detecting filters?” Cid said.

  “Indeed,” Narry said, his beaming grin widening.

  “I’ll leave you two to it, then,” Cid said. Where Sandy had been storing the spyglass all this time, he didn’t want to know.

  He turned into the boiler room, a large square space which looked like it had once been a block of prison cells, and now an enormous, cast iron metal beast occupied the center of the room. Several chimneys led through holes in the ceiling, carrying the heat to different parts of the building. A warm pile of ash filled the tray beneath the boiler, but for now, the beast was unlit. At the far end of the room, a pile of coal spilled out of a coal chute, a modern addition to the ancient structure. It didn’t give him much comfort to know they had replaced the prison with a heating system.

  Cid plucked at the tools on his belt, intending to leave a few dotted around, maybe even to open a few panels on the boiler to make a show of fixing it. Only he couldn’t decide which tools to use for the subterfuge. Invariably—knowing his luck—if he left a spanner, further down the line, that spanner might be the difference between life and death. He also didn’t like the idea of leaving behind one of the few things he had to remind him of Elena. It seemed a callous way to treat a gift.

  After agonising for some time, he eventually fiddled with one of the chimney pipes, loosening a bolt and shifting the pipe out of alignment, leaving his pliers clipped to the bolt.

  “Cid,” Sandy called.

  He poked his head out into the corridor and looked up and down. There was no one around. He stalked towards the end of the hall, checking in the other rooms, which appeared to be empty. “Where are you?” Cid said when he couldn’t see Sandy or Narry anywhere.

  An answer came when something rolled along the floor and bumped into his foot. The spyglass. He bent down to pick it up, a frown tugging on his bushy eyebrows. The front of the glass had a red filter stuck to it. He lifted it to his eye and scanned up and down the hallway, watching for signs of a hidden illusion. When he finally turned to the end wall containing the burning torch, he saw what was missing. The entire wall wasn’t actually there. The torch hung from an iron pole connected to the ceiling. Sandy and Narry stood side by side, smiling at him from the other side of the wall.

  “Fuck me,” Cid muttered as he lowered the spyglass, the wall returning to its place. “That’s our way in, then.”

  “Indeed it is,” Narry said. “Gods be praised.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Kerrigan’s pace through the city was not as swift as he would have liked, his body still weak from the injuries sustained at Sallarium. Saunders marched quietly at his side, a slight hobble in his gait from his own injuries.

  “Sir?” Saunders said as they turned into Odelius Street. The fort came into view less than a mile ahead.

  “Yes?” He guessed what Saunders was going to say before the Lieutenant began but opted to let him ask the question nonetheless.

  “Are we really going to go along with Miss Markus’ plan?”

  “She has asked us to learn information which I intended to uncover for myself. It so happens her request aligns with our own initiative at this point.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just that…I believe Larissa and the others are intending to assassinate the President. We have an opportunity here, sir. We know who they are and what their plan is. If we were to report to the General, he may reinstate our ranks.”

  Kerrigan slowed to a stop. He turned and leaned his uninjured shoulder against a nearby lamppost. A cool breeze blew up the road from the direction of the fort; it would be a pleasant day in the city for most residents, blissfully unaware of the seedy underbelly of the government in charge. Saunders was right. They had a choice, a chance to return to normality. If they played the part well enough, their mismatched traveling companions would be rounded up and hanged before the sun had set and he would return to the rank of Colonel. He might even be given a promotion for his efforts. It seemed like a convenient setup—a test from the gods.

  “General Gott and I have had a few disagreements over the years,” Kerrigan said. “It was difficult to deny the orders of the man in charge and even trickier to argue with his approach.”

  “I can attest to that, sir,” Saunders said, a hint of cynicism in his voice.

  Kerrigan chuckled. “The Colonel in my unit before me died suddenly in circumstances which were never explained, and we knew enough not to ask questions. When I was promoted to replace him, I was called for a meeting with the President and General Gott. I walked into his office with pride. When I came out, I was filled with dread and faced a choice.”

  “What happened?”

  “They described some of their dubious activities to me and gave me a mission. The General found it to be an efficient plan serving two goals at once.”

  “What did they ask you to do?”

  “To clean the streets of the Capital of whores and homeless.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Indeed. I tried to question why the police force weren’t dealing with issues, as it didn’t seem to be a matter for the military. That is when the General told me of Doctor Orother’s experiments. Only a select few know the details, he told me. I should be proud to be so trusted.”

  “We’re you proud, sir?”

  “Initially…yes. It didn’t take long before I saw the true meaning of what it meant to be in the select few. By then, it was too late. I couldn’t back out, not without risking my career—my life. We have an opportunity here, as you said, Tobin. If you want to make a report to the General regarding the plot to assassinate the President, I won’t stop you. I think I will take this opportunity to correct my mistakes.”

  “I’m with you, sir.” Saunders nodded with a slight smile.

  Kerrigan expected nothing less. He pushed off from the lamppost and marched down the road towards the fort, reminding himself to expect an unpleasant reaction to his return from the dead.

  Before long, they reached Fort Dalet. The entrance to the ancient stone structure was tucked behind large earth ramparts and a ditch, flanked by two bastions. Guards with crossbows patrolled the walls, and a pair of soldiers high atop the wall on either side of the gate turned their weapons toward the two men as they approached.

  “State your business,” the highest-ranking guard barked down to them.

  “Tell General Gott that Colonel Kerrigan and Lieutenant Saunders are here to report,” Kerrigan called up to the soldier.

  The man faltered, lowering his crossbow slightly. “Sir? Is it really you, sir?”

  “Yes, and we don’t have all day to stand around discussing it. Let us in,” Kerrigan yelled. The two soldiers on the wall exchanged nervous glances with one another. He tried not to feel too affronted. There was no protocol stating what action a soldier should take when a supposedly dead Colonel turned up at the gate, demanding to be let in.

  The two men disappeared from the wall.

  “What if the General orders them to kill us?” Saunders asked.

  “In broad daylight? The General does not have a dramatic flair. If he’s going to get rid of us, he will do it in private where there will be no witnesses.”

  “I don’t think that’s as comforting a
s you intended for it to sound, sir.”

  The iron portcullis rose up, and the thick wooden doors behind it opened inwards. Kerrigan marched forward with head held high, as if there were no doubt in his existence.

  “It’s good to see you, sir,” the soldier said with a salute when Kerrigan reached the other side of the door.

  “Thank you, Sergeant…Kantas?”

  “Yes, sir.” The Sergeant’s face brightened at being recognized.

  “Carry on.”

  “Sir…”

  Kerrigan had started to walk away, but the worried tone of that one word caught his attention. “Yes?” he asked as he turned to face Kantas, who operated the winch to lower the portcullis.

  “There is someone with the General, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know his name, but the whole fort has been on high alert since he arrived.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Kerrigan exchanged a wary glance with Saunders before heading toward the administration building.

  . . .

  Larissa expected The End of Hope tavern to be bustling and lively, especially as she and Holt arrived there as the sun dipped in the sky. Most workers should have been heading home or out into the city for evening entertainment. Instead, apart from the tavern staff and an old man nursing a dribble of ale beside the fireplace, they were the only other people inside.

  “It’s quiet,” she said.

  “That’s the fifth time you’ve mentioned it,” Holt replied. He took a sip from his glass of water—having refused to drink anything alcoholic—then turned his attention toward the window.

  “Do you think the others will come back tonight?” Larissa asked. “I know I gave them until tomorrow night. Perhaps that was too long? Should we wait all that time? What if we hear some report of criminals being captured? Will we attempt to rescue them?”

  “Which question should I answer first?” Holt said.

  “Please, Holt, don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your usual unhelpful self.”

  “How was I being unhelpful?”

  Larissa sighed and wrinkled her nose. It felt like the beginning of an argument, and her nerves were already too on edge to cope with having a fight. For all they had been through together, it was a wonder they weren’t more consistently natural in their conversations. Although, she supposed that had always been a stumbling block between them. She smiled, recalling the first time they’d met, how he’d seemed so darkly dangerous and handsome, and she’d wanted to fall in love with him one moment and throttle him the next. Idle chitchat was not a skill he possessed. Neither did he seem to have developed an ability to offer her any sort of meaningful comfort when she was obviously distressed.

  Her hand twitched up to her neck, looking for the necklace and stone that had long since disappeared. She silently resolved to replace the jewellery with something far more innocuous by way of a stone if ever she made it out of this alive and in one piece.

  “Larissa?” Holt said, tearing her silent promises back to reality.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Being unhelpful.”

  “Oh. It’s all right. You don’t have to apologize.”

  “No. But I’m told that it is expected of a man to apologize after a fight with his…” Holt’s eyes narrowed and he looked down at his feet.

  Larissa didn’t know what to say, how to respond. What had he been about to classify her as? His lover? His girlfriend? The love of his life? “Captain?” she offered.

  “That’ll do for now.”

  She bit her lip and turned her attention to the glass of wine on their table. She’d barely touched a drop, feeling foolish for having ordered it when Holt placed his order for a glass of water. The heat from the fireplace didn’t do much to warm their end of the tavern, so the flush on her face came from pure embarrassment. For now. She stifled a smile. For the first time in a long time, her mind wandered to ridiculous romanticism. Would they one day be married and live happily ever after in a beautiful little cottage, perhaps along the coast—the opposite end of the coastline to Aditona? She could almost picture him making a training assault course in a nearby copse of trees. Maybe one day there would be children running around the course with him.

  “You two want some dinner?” the barman called over to them, snapping apart her dreamy vision. They had already secured a room for the night, posing as husband and wife.

  “Do you have a menu?” Larissa called back.

  “Not exactly. We have pie. Lamb or chicken?”

  “Which would you prefer?” she asked Holt.

  “Chicken.”

  “One of each please.”

  “Right you are.”

  The barman disappeared into the back of the tavern, and they returned to a comfortable silence. She wondered what Holt was thinking about. Surely, his mind couldn’t only be filled with keeping watch for trouble and planning attacks? As close as they were to achieving their goals, especially the one goal he wanted from the start—to kill the President—she was desperate to know if there was any space left in his thoughts for her. For their future.

  “Holt?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  He took a deep breath, then tore his gaze away from the window and looked her in the eye. He seemed tired, a layer of sweat bathed his brow, and she knew he was suffering once more from the Anthonium withdrawal.

  “Cid,” Holt said as he turned back to the window.

  “Oh.” Her shoulders drooped. So much for him sharing her idealistic daydreams.

  “No, I mean Cid is coming.”

  “Oh!”

  The tavern door opened, and, sure enough, Cid, Narry, and Sandy entered. For once, Cid had a smile on his face. Larissa dared to hope their fortunes might be on the verge of improving.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  “I can hardly believe my eyes,” the rotund General Gott said as he entered the room. He marched straight over to Kerrigan and clapped his hand across his shoulder. Kerrigan bit his cheek, stifling a pained groan at the brutal assault on his wounded shoulder. “And the Lieutenant too.” Gott gave Saunders a grunt of approval.

  “I hear we are dead, sir,” Saunders said.

  “Yes,” Gott said, the word drawn out. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and struck a match to light it, then offered the cigar case to both Kerrigan and Saunders. Kerrigan politely declined, as did the Lieutenant, although from the look on his face, Saunders would have preferred to smoke the entire pack. The atmosphere between the three men was unmistakably uncomfortable. They stood in the General’s office, a large room with only one small window looking out to the training courtyard at the center of the fort. The dim, early-evening light showed the outside to be virtually empty. Where there would usually be men training or running errands, the grounds were now devoid of all but a few soldiers. It was a pitiful contingent of men to defend the city.

  Kerrigan opened his mouth to speak, since the General hadn’t made any effort to begin the discussion; the sound of the door opening behind him stopped whatever words he might have said. As he turned, a familiar face entered the room. His blood ran cold as he locked eyes with none other than Solomon Covelle. The gentleman waltzed into the office as though he owned the entire fort and had every right to be there. Kerrigan couldn’t quite reconcile the idea of him as the descendant of Emperors. Perhaps the man did indeed deserve to walk around in such a manner. The scratchy white beard seemed at odds with the tanned skin of his face. A man who’d clearly spent a long time in the arid climate of the Blue Mountains in Eptora, he was no stranger to Kerrigan, though his true status as the missing Professor Markus and the last descendant of the deposed Empirical line were both new pieces of information. He had clearly been playing the devil’s advocate for a long time, convincing the President that he had been working with him for many years.

  “Colo
nel.” Covelle gave him a terse nod as he walked directly to the General’s side.

  “Sir?” Saunders asked.

  “This is Solomon Covelle,” the General said as he took a step away from Covelle.

  “The Covelle you ordered me to murder last time we spoke, sir?” Saunders asked, his voice cool and determined. If the atmosphere had seemed awkward a moment ago, now it was positively dangerous.

  The General glanced down at the table and took a deep breath, a moment later recovering his usual neutral poise. “The very same,” he said as he picked up a glass containing a liquid which looked suspiciously like whiskey and took a sip.

  “Oh?” Covelle asked, drawing to stand beside the General.

  Kerrigan instinctively reached toward his belt as though to draw a weapon before remembering that he had no weapon, and even if he had a pistol, he wasn’t sure which man to shoot.

  “I had a Presidential aide in the room with me at the time, Solomon. I had to make some form of a show to cement my loyalty.”

  “Still playing for both teams?” Covelle asked, clearly not convinced.

  “Did this young man follow that particular order?” The General waved a hand toward Saunders.

  “He did not, though not for lack of trying.”

  “Precisely. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have sent an inexperienced pup of a Lieutenant to do the job.” He took another sip of whiskey and shot a look of determination at Kerrigan and Saunders.

  A myriad of comments entered Kerrigan’s mind, none of which managed to spill from his lips. He considered what might happen if he leapt forward and snapped Covelle’s neck. Might the General send him to the gallows in response? Would launching such an attack now endanger the plan for Larissa and the others? He had so many questions, and the muddy mess of whom to trust and which side he belonged to only grew worse the further he allowed things to go on.