"I didn't do it," Silas said. "He slipped or something, and hit his head on the wall. He almost killed me. Who was he?"
Penticott looked back at Aziz's body. "Nobody," he said. "A criminal."
"He said his soldiers killed his family."
"They might have, if someone in his family was Cursed, and they were protecting them. You know that."
Silas nodded. "I just don't know why he attacked me for it. I've never been a soldier, have I?"
Penticott laughed. "No. You haven't. I'm sure of it."
"How do you know?" Silas was sure he hadn't been, but he wanted someone else to confirm it.
"His soldiers serve for life. That is the oath we take when we join. When we're too old to be out in the field, we move on to do whatever we're capable of doing, whether that's as a steward of one of the provinces, or a cook in a barracks kitchen."
"What if you don't want to serve for life?"
Penticott gave him a strange look then, as though he couldn't even fathom the question. "We always serve for life," he said. "It is a noble and just service, and we are well cared for. Nobody has ever changed their mind."
Silas sat there, thinking about it. There was something in him that wasn't so sure Penticott was right, but maybe that was his hangover. He watched the soldiers take Aziz away.
"I'll send a healer down to with a salve for your bruises, and to make sure nothing is broken," Penticott said. "I can't have you looking such a mess when Roque arrives. For now, just rest."
Silas laid back down on the straw and stared up at the ceiling. Constable Penticott left him, locking the cell door as he did. If Silas had been looking, he would have seen the questioning stare the man gave him before leaving the dungeon.
***
The healer came down a few hours later with bandages and a smelly, oily substance that he spread liberally across Silas' chest and stomach. He had gasped when he had seen the scar running across his upper body, and remarked that he had never seen anyone survive such a nasty looking wound. For his part, Silas remained silent. He was lost inside himself, searching for answers to questions he had never known to ask.
He woke up a few hours after the healer had left, his body trembling uncontrollably and his mind racing out of control. The shaking was painful on its own, but even more so with the injuries Aziz had given him. He cried out in agony and begged for someone to come and help him, but of course nobody could hear him, and nobody came. He closed his eyes and held them shut tight, praying to Amman that the tremors would stop, even though he never prayed to Amman, and didn't even believe he existed. After the prayers didn't help, he began to cry, leaving his eyes blurry and sore.
After that, he began to hear voices.
He didn't know who they belonged to, but at first, there were two of them, a man and a woman. They were arguing, these two voices, arguing about rumors and hope, about an ocean and a ship and a land far away from theirs. They were arguing about life and death, about freedom and tyranny, and about justice. In the end, the woman said she was leaving, and that she wished for him to stay and die.
He stayed, and a least a part of him died.
His mind returned to the seashore, to the ship sailing out across the blue waters. He realized then that the male voice had been his, and the other, his wife's.
Next came another voice, the voice of a soldier, a commander, ordering men out into a village. He could see what was happening now, see it as though it were right in front of him. He didn't know how he had gotten here, but it was so real. He was riding a large white destrier, and he had a torch in his hand. When he got close enough to each building, he would hold the torch out against its thatch roof, sliding it along the distance until it was well aflame. Then he would move on to another, and another, until the entire village was on fire, and many of the villagers dead. He had helped them burn it all down.
No, he had done more than that. The voice was his own. He had commanded it.
More voices followed, each a memory that had been locked inside the bottle, now free to bubble out and into his delirious state. He could only understand some of what they were saying, and some of what he was doing. He would open his eyes sometimes, and he would be in some other place and time, and sometimes he would be on the straw bed staring up at the stone ceiling, shivering and shaking and trembling.
During both occasions he would cry out in pain and ask for it to stop. He would beg for a drink; of the healer, of Penticott, of the devils in his nightmares. He would beg for the bottle to be stoppered once more, so that he didn't have to relive the terror and the agony and the cold hard truth.
He was a murderer.
***
Silas opened his eyes. At first, he wasn't sure if he was awake or not, because he wasn't trembling. For once, his body was still. He took a deep breath, and tried to figure out what had happened to him. Everything was so jumbled together into one giant mess of memory and emotion. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't know anything for sure. He stared at the ceiling, and waited.
The jailor came down a few hours later, finding Silas staring ahead, unblinking. He unlocked the cell and walked in, then went to kick the old man in the ribs.
Silas surprised him, turning his body and catching the jailor's foot, then shoving with a grunt. The jailor tumbled backwards and fell to the floor.
"Tt... Ti...Time to wake up, Morningstar," the jailor said, stumbling back to his feet. "Constable Penticott ordered me to bring you to the bath and make sure you clean yourself up."
Silas glared at him. "If you ever try to touch me again, I'll kill you," he said. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "How long have I been in here?"
"Six days," the jailor replied. "You were sick. Had a fever or something. Healer's been to see you, and so has the Constable. You were mumbling the whole time, something about a ship, and a kid, and being a murderer. I don't know, I didn't hear that much. Anyway, he sent me down here to get you. Roque rode in this morning, and they're eager to get their hands on the Cursed boy."
Silas held his head in his hands. He couldn't remember most of what he had thought he'd seen and heard. He did remember coming to the Constable's office to turn in a Cursed. He took a deep breath of himself, his nose clear for once. He smelled worse than a fertilizer cart.
"A bath sounds like a good idea."
He got up and followed the jailor out of the cell and to the right, down a small stone hallway to another room. This room had a series of clay pipes running along the ceiling and down the walls into the floor, suspended by thin metal brackets. In the corner of the room was a stone ledge with a hole through it, and in the center was a large pool of water. Silas had never seen anything like it before.
"It's the one benefit to rotting in the dungeon," the jailor said, puffing out his chest with pride, even though he had nothing to do with the room's construction. "The pipes carry the water in from the river, past the ovens where we cook the food for the barracks to heat the water, and then to different pools throughout the grounds." He pointed at the ledge with the hole. "Another pipe carries the waste out to a pit a a few miles away."
It may have been interesting, but Silas didn't care that much. He was thirsty. Not for ale. For water.
The jailor shoved him in, handed him the razor and soap, and then started closing the door. "I'll be right back with your new clothes. You have one hour to get cleaned up."
Silas had removed his clothes and thrown them into the corner before the door had finished closing. He carried the razor and the soap over to the raised basin and stuck his finger in, finding it comfortably warmed. He looked down at the bandages wrapping his body, found the end, and unraveled them, noting that most of the bruising had begun to fade, from a dark purple to a less horrible brown. Once again, he ran his finger across the scar.
Murderer.
He heard Aziz's voice in his head. He closed his eyes. He remembered that much. He had murdered people. He had ordered their deaths. Innocent, unarmed people.
Farmers and merchants, mothers and fathers. Even children. He didn't remember the details, but he knew that it was so. The thought made him sick.
He leaned over the water, looking at his reflection, at the wild hair covering his face. "This won't do," he said. He dug the blade of the razor into the soap, and began to shave.
Silas had just finished removing the hair from his face when the jailor returned, carrying a bundle of cloth. "You almost look human," he said. He put the clothes on the floor near the door and left.
Silas decided to take that as a complement. He put his hands on the edge of the bath and lifted himself up and over. The jailor had been right, it was one good benefit. He leaned back in the warm water and closed his eyes, ready to enjoy the moment.
He didn't have the chance. No sooner had he closed his eyes then he was overcome with emotion, an emotion that rose from old memories that he couldn't bring back to mind.
Murderer.
It was Aziz's voice.
Murderer.
It was his wife's.
Murderer.
His son's?
Murderer.
His own.
Silas opened his eyes. Whatever had happened to him, whatever would happen to him, he knew one thing. He had to stop the Mediator from taking Calum Hess.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eryn
When Eryn first woke, she thought she had died and gone to be with her family in the Fields of Amman. The sun was shining bright overhead, and she could hear birds chirping all around her. She could feel the coolness of the grass beneath her head, and a soft, fresh breeze washing over her body. Laying there, she was completely at peace.
Then she noticed the itch.
She sat up, looking down at the palm of her hand. It was bumpy and red and it itched beyond reason, an effect of the ivy's poison. She stared at it and struggled to resist scratching. Roddin had said he could make a salve for it.
Roddin.
It all came back to her in a tide of emotion. Her brother was dead. Her mother and father were dead. His soldiers had killed them, all of them. No, that wasn't right. Her brother had been killed by a woman, a Cursed, bearing his sigil.
The woman.
She had said her name was Lia, and the last thing Eryn remembered was having the staff pointed at her, the crystal at the tip glowing an intense blue.
She got to her feet and spun around. There was the great big tree, there was the branch they had hid behind, there was her brother. She ran over to him. His eyes still stared up at the heavens.
"Roddin, I'm sorry."
It had been her fault they had been found. Because she was angry. Because he had told her secret.
Eryn put her hand over her brother's eyes and pushed the lids closed. "May you rest in the light and peace of Amman," she said. It was a simple prayer, but one she had seen Timor, the village's Priest of Amman say whenever one of the villagers had passed on, before burning them on a pyre and then burying them in the ground. The ashes would fertilize the fields, it was believed, and ensure the survival of their village.
She sat with him then, and gave herself time to mourn. She leaned over him, filled with wracking sobs, missing him and Mother and Papa. He had made a mistake, and it had cost them all so dearly. Still, she couldn't find it in her heart to not forgive him. He hadn't meant to harm her, or them. He hadn't meant to cause this trouble. Like he had said while they fled the soldiers, it was his fault. Mother had said the same.
Eryn didn't know how much time passed while she sat over her brother and cried. Eventually, her body was too tired and too dry for the tears to keep falling. She realized then how dry her mouth was. She had promised she would survive, and somehow so far she had. She needed to find some water.
She got to her feet and looked back at the fallen tree. She had the strength to dig a hole to bury her brother in, but she didn't have the tools. The tree had dislodged a lot of earth when the roots had been pulled, so she decided she would place him there, and cover him with the dirt. Once he was buried, she would try to find her way back to the stream they had crossed.
"I'm not stealing from you," she said, leaning down and taking Roddin's knife from where it lay by his side. "But I need this."
She picked up the knife and turned in the direction of the tree's base. She nearly choked at what she saw.
The grass near the base was black and scarred, as though it had been struck by lightning. The trees out beyond it had scars as well, marks cut deep into the bark like someone had started to cut them down with an axe, and then changed their mind. There were three bodies there, two in the distance near the trees, and another much closer, near the center of the clearing. The body looked as though it had already been on a funeral pyre, though it wasn't completely charred.
Eryn could still make out the form of a glimmering black dress, and see random strands of golden hair still attached to the smoldering remains.
"Did I cause this?" she wondered. "Did I kill them?"
She didn't remember anything after seeing the blue crystal glowing. Only that her ears had tingled before she'd passed out. Had she done this with her Curse?
She felt like she should be upset at having killed someone, but the woman, Lia, had killed her brother, and would have killed her too. His soldiers. She knew those were his soldiers back there. They had killed her parents.
"Is it wrong to kill those who have wronged you?" she asked out loud. She didn't think it was.
She was cautious in making her way over to the corpse. She had heard stories that his soldiers were immortal, and couldn't be killed. That even if you cut off their heads, their bodies would still continue to fight. She had never even seen one of his soldiers before yesterday, so she had no idea if any part of the tales were true. They looked dead enough to her, but she couldn't be too careful.
When she got close enough, Eryn put out her toe and lightly kicked the woman's foot. She tried to ignore the smell that was hanging in the air, and the gruesomeness of the scene. She had seen burns before, both the bodies coming off the pyre, and when Papa's assistant Harl had an accident at the forge and lost his entire right arm to the flames. Lia didn't move.
Convinced she was dead, Eryn came closer, leaning over her and looking down. Only small bits remained of the shiny dress, but she saw the shimmer of red in the ash that surrounded the body, up next to the head. She leaned down and picked at it with the tip of Roddin's knife, revealing the crystal eye that had hung from the woman's neck. The necklace must have melted away, but the eye remained.
"I should leave it," she said. "I should leave everything, bury Roddin, and be on my way."
But she didn't. She couldn't. The eye was his symbol, the only thing she even knew about him. She felt like she needed it, as a reminder of who had brought this sudden misery into her life. She caught it on the edge of the knife and lifted it to her, holding it in the sunlight in front of her face.
"You caused this," she said, looking at it. "You took everything I had away from me. By Amman, I will take everything you have away from you."
She knew then that she meant it.
Not only would she survive, but she would find him, and she would end his tyranny, so no others ever had to see their families killed for them, or be killed themselves for nothing more than having the power to help people. Her parents had taught her to be strong, and loving, and just. She would weep for them again, she knew. She would weep a hundred times a hundred times more. But she would also make them proud, and stand up to injustice.
"By Amman, I swear it," she said, putting her free hand to her lips and drawing the sign of Amman to seal the promise.
She took the eye and brought it to the branch of the tree. Then she went back to Roddin and lifted him up, taking the bow and quiver from him, and putting them under the branch as well. After, she went to check on the soldiers.
She was still walking towards them, when she saw it. The staff. It was laying in the grass as though it had been thrown backwards when Lia
had fallen. She walked over to it and picked it up. It was lighter than she had thought a staff of metal could be, cool and smooth to the touch. She didn't know of any alloys that were so light, nor did she know of anyone who could mold metal into such a perfect shape. She looked it over curiously, and then shifted her attention to the crystal.
Now that it wasn't glowing, she saw that it wasn't a crystal at all. It was round, dark blue in color, and only the size of a small stone. It had strange, white cloudy swirls that seemed to be floating in it, and small pits in random places on the surface. Eryn stared at it, turning the staff this way and that so she could see it from every angle. Somehow, the stone had created light and heat, enough to burn a hole right through her brother. It could be useful, if she could learn how to make it work.
She decided that she couldn't take the staff. She was afraid that only his soldiers might have such things, and she didn't want to be mistaken as one of his. The stone was small though. If she could free it from the teeth, she would take that.
She laid the staff on the ground and leaned over the end, placing Roddin's knife between the metal teeth and the stone and using her weight as leverage. She flexed her muscles, pulling back. It took some effort, but the prong shifted just enough. The stone fell out, onto the grass.
"I'll never regret going to the forge with Papa," she said. She picked the stone up and held it to her face, spinning it in her fingers. It didn't seem like there was anything special about it, but she knew there was. She held it in her fist and went to look at the soldiers.
Now that they were dead, Eryn didn't find them anywhere near as frightening. In fact, they looked just like any other man who had been burned, except they were both wearing some kind of metal shirts that had melted over them, and metal helms that were now fused to their skulls.
"There were six of them," Eryn said. "What happened to the others?"
His Dark Empire (Tears of Blood) Page 5