Allay tipped his head. “Nor should you. I need to see my father.”
The man nodded and led Allay through the camp. It was well organized, the rows of tents likely arranged by region. He noted the deep maroon of Gomald, and a few deep blue of Salvat, but saw none of the Bastiin green or the orange of Saeline. How much did that bother his father?
As they made their way through the camp, Allay noted soldiers making quiet preparations, none speaking loudly. Few bothered to look up as he passed. There was a sense of unease through the camp, one that seemed to come from more than the approaching war.
Mendi seemed to notice it as well, and he could practically feel her body tensing near him. What was taking place in the camp?
As they reached the massive tent in the center of the camp, no answers came.
A pair of soldiers stood on either side of the door, blocking access. When they saw Allay, they turned slightly, allowing him to enter. The soldier who had met them on the road into the camp turned and hurried off.
“I’ll wait here,” Mendi said.
Allay looked up to the two guards and then surveyed the camp before shaking his head. “I think it’s better if you come with me.”
“Your father—”
“Will not harm my servant,” he whispered.
Mendi met his gaze and nodded.
They entered the tent.
Like so many other things with his father, the interior of his tent was ornately decorated. A table set in the middle of the room, with a large mattress nearby. Not near the walls of the tent, Allay noted. Was his father so paranoid about his safety that he wouldn’t sleep near the sides of the tent? A plush carpet had been rolled over the ground, giving a strange warmth to the room. Three lanterns glowed with a sickly orange light.
His father looked up from his seat at the table when he entered.
Allay almost took a step back. His father’s eyes had a haunted appearance, the sockets deepened and dark. He’d cut his hair close during the time that Allay had been gone, leaving him looking gaunt. The dark robe hanging from his shoulders appeared overly large on him now.
“Father,” Allay said, nodding to him. He remained near the doorway to the tent, and Mendi stood behind him, almost as if she were afraid to come too close. It was possible that she was.
“You finally return?” Even his father’s voice had changed, coming out thready. His eyes flicked around the room, as if he searched for something in the shadows that only he could see.
“The Magi—”
His father slammed his hands down on the table and stood, leaning over it. “Don’t defile my presence by speaking of them!”
Allay blinked. Since joining Locken, he’d heard the rumors about his father. Most of them had come from Robden, word of his father’s strange advisor, and of the influence that he had on the King. But he hadn’t expected his father to react so angrily to mention of the Magi.
His father turned his head, and if Allay didn’t know better, he would have thought his father listened to something that wasn’t there.
It had been that way with his mother, especially near the end. A strange madness had claimed her, as it had claimed others in Gomald, though not quite as many as were rumored to have been affected in Thealon. She’d wasted away, eventually dying from an inability to eat. Allay had tried to keep those thoughts out of his mind, not wanting to think of his mother like that, but seeing his father now made it impossible not to remember.
Even at her worst, she had never had the wild stare with which his father now looked at him.
His father made his way around the table and stopped, his gaze drifting past Allay. “And you dare bring your slave with you after what has happened in Gomald?”
“What happened in Gomald?” he asked. There had been a time when he would have believed his father knew everything that took place in his kingdom, but the man before him didn’t leave Allay with that same confidence. Something had changed, and whether it was the madness or some other sickness, Allay didn’t know. And maybe it didn’t matter.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. The damn rebellion thinks to claim my throne. They’ll find I have assets they didn’t account for.”
“Father?” he asked.
His father blinked. For a moment, the strange darkness within his eyes faded, but then it returned, just as forceful as it had been before. “Are you with them, Allay? Is that why you’ve come?”
“I’m not with the rebellion. The Magi tasked me with establishing peace.”
“Magi? They would interfere when I’m so close?”
“So close to what? What do you intend with this war?”
His father’s gaze darted around the tent before returning to look at Allay. “Intend? I intend to demonstrate power to the gods, Allay. I will claim the Tower.” There was a quiet menace to the words and a conviction that startled Allay.
“What of your kings? How do they feel about this plan?”
“My kings follow my command.”
“Does Locken?”
His father drew himself up and took a threatening step toward Allay. “Is that why you’ve come? Have you sided with the traitor?”
The question hit too close to the reason Allay had come. Whatever affected his father was different from the madness that had claimed his mother. With that, there had not been the clarity of thought that his father seemed to possess, even if it was fleeting.
“I’ve come to warn you against moving your troops out of Gom Aaldia, Father. Another army moves through our lands—”
“Yes. Locken thinks he can threaten my army.”
“Not Locken. This is Deshmahne.”
His father blinked. “Deshmahne?” He turned and stared toward one of the lanterns, his gaze drifting a moment. “No, they are no threat. The Deshmahne are priests, nothing more.”
“They’re more than priests, Father. I’ve seen them.”
His father turned and looked at Allay with an angry gaze. “They are priests, nothing more. They serve as I command.” He seemed to dare Allay to refute him.
When Allay said nothing, his father returned to his chair at the table and leaned over it, staring at it. Every so often, he would look up, as if startled, and glance around the room, searching for something that Allay could not see before returning to whatever he worked on.
Richard said nothing more to him, ignoring him completely.
Allay considered trying a different approach, but what could he say that would influence his father? His father seemed… far away. Unapproachable. Allay’s words had fallen on deaf ears. His father’s decision had been made. Or something—or someone—had made it for him.
He turned and motioned to Mendi to leave.
As he did, he cast another glance toward his father. A part of him wanted the man he remembered from years ago—the man who had taught him and his brother about Gom Aaldia, who had played with them, laughed with them, even the man who had been tough on them—to return. But perhaps it was better that he didn’t. It was easier this way to leave, and to return to another king who might be better suited to lead even if it meant defeating his father.
They made their way through the camp unobstructed and without a chaperone. At the edge of the camp, he hesitated, something making him turn his attention back.
In addition to the tents of maroon and blue and brown—all his father’s colors—he noted black tents in the distance, at the edge of the camp. Allay frowned, studying them, wondering what those colors might represent. As he did, he noted movement on that side of the camp from the north.
His heart skipped a beat.
Could they be Deshmahne?
Had his father formalized a relationship with them? Was that what he’d meant about the Deshmahne serving as he commanded?
It seemed his father was farther gone than he had realized. Perhaps Gom Aaldia was farther gone than he had realized.
If so, was there anything that he could do to reestablish peace?
Mendi tou
ched his hand, and he took hers into his.
What was there for him to do?
“Return to Locken,” she suggested.
“And then what?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Neither did Allay.
Chapter Thirty
Alriyn opened the door to the huge room slowly. The four Denraen nodded to him as he passed, just as those who were stationed along the hall had nodded to him. The bright metal of their breastplates reflected the small light of the room, attracting his eyes. He could faintly smell the oil they had used to polish them. His gaze moved quickly to their swords, and he nodded back, relieved somewhat by their presence, though he knew they would be of little help if any trouble returned.
Worry played in his mind as he found Karrin sitting carefully near one end of the bed. She was clad in a simple white gown, which he knew to be the same gown she had worn for the past several days. He worried about her, knowing she had been under much stress lately. His eyes moved from her back to the bed. It had been brought up especially for Bothar.
Alriyn walked over to it and smiled briefly at Karrin as he approached. She was the only other Mage in the room. Daguin looked little better, though the deep blue and purple bruises on his face had faded some in the last day. They had been lucky to find him.
Endric had found him, really. The man had done just as he had vowed and searched until all the injured Magi had been discovered. The Elder Mage had been found bound and gagged in one of the lower cellar rooms, his arms and legs tied, and the same burn marks upon his ankles as they’d found on Efrain and all of the others they had discovered. These brands were what the Deshmahne used to steal power from the Magi.
So many had been lost.
Alriyn wondered if they had been meant to find him, wondering why the Deshmahne had not just killed the Mage. But then he decided it made sense that they would be that cruel, to leave him barely alive. It was surely more heartless to leave him suffering as they had. He wondered too about the brand around Daguin’s ankles. He had touched them once and found them cold. Looking upon the man, he could almost feel the Mage’s energy seeping from the wounds, keeping the scars from healing properly. It seemed impossible that something could drain the Mage of his abilities, his energy, yet these brands seemed to do just that.
They had tried to heal him as best they could, but with little luck so far. None could seem to figure out what kept the wounds open. Some Deshmahne evil, but he could not figure out how to cure it. It was the same for all the Magi they had found.
“He is little better,” Karrin told him. “He stirs occasionally, but little else.”
Alriyn nodded. It had been the same the last few days.
“The rest of the city?”
“They are gone. We’ve suppressed them. The Deshmahne are gone and Jostephon is imprisoned,” Alriyn said. It had taken the Magi working with the Denraen, but they had stopped the Deshmahne in the city. Now, there were dozens of tattooed men under Endric’s guard, but out of the city.
“What now?” Karrin asked him.
He had no answer. Responsibility now fell to him. Leadership was not something he had ever sought, yet it was now thrust into his lap. Always the scholar, never the leader, he was now forced to be something he had never intended to be. Yet he could entrust the safety of the Magi to no one else.
“There is much to be done,” he answered. “We must decide as a whole,” he told her. “The Eldest has gone to the Deshmahne, and it puts the mahne at risk. We must be ready. We must protect the mahne,” he said, his words echoing those of the goddess, still uncertain what the Deshmahne could gain by acquiring the ancient text, and still uncertain what else they might have been after in the city.
“What of Roelle and the apprentices?” Karrin asked.
Roelle had been gone for a long time, and he had heard little from her. He hoped she would find her way back home. “We must entrust them to the gods,” he said. “And await Isandra’s return.”
Isandra stared at the bars of her cell. Her head throbbed, and weakness threatened to overwhelm her. How long had it been since she was placed into this cell?
Days. Maybe weeks.
Too long.
She’d long ago realized that she was not escaping. What would her sister do without her? The two of them had been inseparable since birth, though Karrin always tried to lead. Coming north had been Isandra’s way of proving herself as capable as Karrin.
What had she done wrong?
Denraen had died because of her desire to come north. Alriyn had encouraged it, and his small council had gone along, wanting evidence that perhaps they needed to follow the ancient tradition, but she had been the one willing to make the journey.
It should have been a simple journey, but it had been anything but simple.
She wrapped her arms around her legs, staring at the cell. There hadn’t even been any movement for the last day.
Had they left her here to die?
She no longer heard Wendiy moaning down the hall. She suspected that meant the woman had died. She prayed daily to the gods, hoping for some respite, and did so again now, thinking that there had to be something she could do that would gain their favor. The gods wouldn’t want the Deshmahne wandering the north so freely, would they?
Her stomach rumbled, and she tried not to think about it. Doing so didn’t change anything. She was starved, only the broth and occasional slice of bread sustaining her. Even her hunger did little to distract from the steady wasting of her power.
As she had done too often, she touched the branding on her ankles.
It was cold—too cold—and she could almost feel it as her abilities wasted away.
How much longer would she be able to hold on? What would she become without her Mageborn abilities?
Not an Elder on the Council. That was lost to her now.
A door opened and closed, and Isandra glanced up.
Could it be food coming?
She heard a steady thumping of feet along the stone and recognized the familiar gait.
When Longtree appeared at the door to her cell, he smiled.
“Have you come to release me?” she asked, feigning confidence she didn’t feel. She wouldn’t let Longtree see her beaten, even if she felt that way.
“Not now.”
“Then why have you come? Did your master give you permission?”
“Permission? I rule in the city now that the High Priest has led the attack south. And I promised what I would do to you when your power was gone.”
Was her power gone? She no longer knew.
And what was this about an attack?
“What do you think to do?” she asked.
He leaned toward the cell. Were she closer, she would bang his head against the bars the way she had the last time. Maybe this time, she’d brain him enough that he’d release her. “I will take your life and watch you take your last breath.”
She turned away from him, not willing to give him the pleasure of her disgust. “Go away.”
There was silence for a while, and she thought he left, but then she heard the jingling of metal—the distinct sound of keys. One was fitted into the lock of the cell, and he pulled the door open.
Longtree came toward her, and she finally looked up. He wore an open look of disgust, but there was something mixed in with it, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Now, I’ll do to you what I did to my other keeper.”
Isandra feared what he might do. As he neared, she could feel an energy to him, one that he hadn’t possessed before. Had the Deshmahne granted him strength as they had so many others?
He leaned toward her, and she grabbed his neck.
The suddenness startled Longtree.
Isandra was weakened, but seeing this man, she felt a surge of anger and revulsion. It gave her strength that she didn’t know she had.
She squeezed.
Longtree jerked back, trying to get free, but she held onto him tightly. There was no escaping the pres
sure of her grip, and she had no intention of releasing him before he passed out.
He kicked at her, catching her in the ribs.
Isandra squeezed harder.
Another kick, this time catching her thigh.
She clenched her jaw, fighting back the pain, and twisted while squeezing.
There came a crack, and he dropped.
Isandra fell backward, away from Longtree. He didn’t move.
She watched, waiting to see if he breathed, but there was no sign of his chest rising.
Had she killed him?
Her heart hammered, but she was unable to find any remorse.
When he still didn’t move, she struggled to stand. She nudged him with her foot, and he remained still.
She’d broken his neck.
Isandra let out a shaky breath.
The door to her cell remained open, and she started toward it. She paused at the door and returned to grab the keys to the cell from Longtree’s pocket before making her way down the row of cells. She’d need them if she intended to free any others.
She need not have bothered. The other cells were empty.
Where had they taken Wendiy?
They hadn’t. She was gone. Dead.
Isandra drew upon what strength she still had, and hurried down the hall. She reached the door and practically dragged herself up the stairs. At the top, she carefully pushed the door open.
The hall was empty.
Making her way through the halls, she encountered a few servants, all of who glanced at her but made no attempt to stop her, before finding the door leading out into the city.
The street was awash with chaos.
Mounted soldiers marched through the streets, most making their way toward the southern gate. It was the same way she’d come into the city.
She couldn’t go that way, not if it meant risking herself to others like Longtree. Not if it meant recapture. Besides, not only did she no longer have her Mageborn ability, she had killed. Could she really return to Vasha?
Isandra knew that she would have to. The Council had to know what had happened here. The Denraen had to know what they faced.
Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3) Page 23