The prince merely offered an absentminded shake of his head.
‘What occupies his thoughts?’ Jikun let out a mild growl. “Eldaeus is still carrying on about that wereboar nonsense.” He withdrew three neatly bound meals and assessed the shadowed face of the Sel’ven, trying to interpret his grave expression. “You want the dried fish or the dried pork? …I will give you the fish.”
Darcarus loathed the seasoned fish, and yet he did no more than pivot to face him, his expression uncharacteristically bland. The raven vanished in a cloud of purple and grey wisps.
“Alright… be so god-damn strange… Eldaeus needs a companion in his insanity.” He tossed a package of pork at Darcarus’ feet and watched as the male took a single, solemn step over it. But it could not be that he was not starving; their last meal had been when the sun shone from its apex—and that was many hours before.
Jikun pushed off his knees, marching to face the prince directly, chin rising in challenge. “I already tire of this new disposition, so tell me: what is the reason for your gravity? We are only a few days away from Rustall! I would expect you to be as giddy as Eldaeus. Our task is almost over—in a few days’ time, you will have an army and Saebellus’ grip on both continents will be broken.”
Darcarus met his gaze with sharp and attentive eyes. And then they suddenly faltered and swept in search of the package of dried pork. He hastily bent down to retrieve it, but made no rush to return upright.
“So what is it?” Jikun demanded. “Are you frightened?”
At those words, Darcarus let out an audible sigh and turned the package over until he had inspected every angle. “In regards to that, Jikun…” he began, sweeping a hand through his hair as he stood.
Jikun felt his gut tighten with the tone of address. At those five words, the calm of the night and hopeful optimism of the morning vanished like Noctem’s face behind a sudden cloud. They were left in darkness, with only the flickering glow of the fire to light the clearing. Jikun sucked in a breath. “Answer me or I swear to the gods, I will be the first one to put a scar on that pretty little face,” he demanded, his voice emerging in the dark, cynical growl that had merely been waiting to be loosed.
Darcarus met his eyes once more, but this time his jaw was set, his chin raised in the solidity of his frame of mind. Even the threat of Jikun’s temper did not daunt him. “I am not leaving with you tomorrow morning.”
Jikun felt the muscles of his jaw give way entirely.
“I said,” Darcarus repeated slowly, “that I am not leaving with you tomorrow.”
And as the repetition settled, Jikun’s shock gave way to rage. He felt his blood run hot, his lips curling into a toothy, furious snarl. “You god-damn lying son of a Sel’ari-whoring cunt,” he hissed, a barrage of the Helven’s warnings rushing in to mock him from within the crackle of flames.
But even as he spewed venom at the prince, Darcarus drew himself up, shoulders snapping back in unshakeable determination. “Jikun, this mad venture to kill Relstavum was about my brother. It was always about my brother. And I would not have sent him to Sevrigel if this insane plan was my only choice! Acquiring Sairel’s army was my last resort—my desperation. I mean, us… the three… two of us, killing Saebellus’ necromancer? Gods know I prayed it would not come to that. I had other paths… paths I tried to bring to fruition, but all of them failed… Until tonight. An offer has been made.”
For the first time since the prince had deigned to face him, Jikun noticed that the tiny scroll was still clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
“So all along… when you said she was… ‘stretching her wings’ or you were ‘learning news from Sevrigel’… you were conversing with your ‘paths.’ I am a fool…” He laughed shamefully. “A fool. Navon swore you would do this the first moment some ‘better’ opportunity presented itself. What loyalty do you have to us?” He laughed again, but the sound was empty and filled with disgust.
Darcarus’ chin retained its height, his voice level. “Apparently, Lord Barister was defeated seven nights ago, and this has allowed the human king to open negotiations with myself. He has agreed to meet me… To offer me aid in the form of troops.” He lifted his hand sharply as Jikun stepped forward. “Relstavum remains free—if left alive, he will simply concoct another distraction. Everything I promised you still holds! I simply cannot be there to assist! My first duty is to my brother and I must attempt to barter for military assistance before Relstavum regroups here.”
“Why you god-damn—!”
“This venture has always been about my brother!” Darcarus’ voice elevated as he took a sharp step forward, toward the temper that threatened him. “I have never hidden that, you damn fool! Hadoream is why I was out here in this forsaken land, and why I was hunting Saebellus’ force to begin with! A better door has opened and I am taking it.”
Jikun threw his arms into the air, attempting to vent skyward every ounce of his body that desired to strike the prince. “I cannot believe your audacity! We are less than a week’s journey away from severing Saebellus’ hold on Ryekarayn entirely and you turn tail and flee!”
“I HAVE ANOTHER DOOR!” Darcarus roared. There was a screech from a bird nearby as the frightened creature took flight. “But it is not,” he hissed, “another door for you.” He made a wide gesture that encompassed the horses, the rations, and the gear strapped unmarred to Jikun’s body. “I have a better path to aid my brother now, and protecting him is my first priority—not defeating Saebellus. Navon saw his escape to find his so-called atonement and he took it; Saebellus is now weakened, but he is not defeated. Now you remain: Relstavum will create more chaos—slaughter more innocents, reassemble after his losses. You stand here, capable of severing Saebellus’ ties entirely and opening the doors to even greater military assistance for Sevrigel. Here you can justify the loss of your army… those thousands that died… But you must do so yourself. Otherwise, what value does your life hold over those of your soldiers? You either join Navon in believing their slaughter by your hand was in vain, or you accept that slaying Relstavum… saving this country and crippling Saebellus… was always the only door for you… was always your fate.”
White tents erupted into blackened flames and something crackled and popped beneath the helmet of a dying soldier… haunting echoes Jikun had barely kept at bay. The walls cracked as the force of his emotions pressed outward, straining to escape the confinements in which they had been bound for too long.
Darcarus’ words came softer now, offering him refuge from the bursting dam. “You claim you fled Elarium to prove that you were destined for a greater purpose. Navon… Eldaeus… myself? This is not our trial. This is your justification. Now prove that all those soldiers did not die in vain, General.”
Jikun inhaled shakily. But the prince was right. This was his only path. This was always his only path. It was why he had crashed in the Makataj. Why he had found Dahel… encountered Relstavum. Why he had sold himself out to the Brotherhood… Killed Borin… Journeyed this far. He had thousands of lives to justify—only by destroying Saebellus’ power would he fulfill his role. “…So are you leaving now?” he asked, his voice tight with anger.
Darcarus nodded slowly. “Yes, I have a long ride ahead of me.”
Jikun stepped forward once and before the prince could react, he had snatched the package of pork from his skinny fingers. “Then I will be keeping this.”
Darcarus blinked once in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Jikun grunted, sweeping up the sack of rations. “These were to hunt down Relstavum.”
Darcarus opened and closed his mouth in obvious amazement. “I…”
“Go eat your god-damn needles and bark. Or go crawling back to Sairel.” He stalked toward Eldaeus’ acorns, dropping the food safely beside the bundle of supposed luck.
Darcarus let out a single laugh. “You know, in better times, I think we would have made fairly decent companions.” He passed by the scowling Darivalia
n and swung himself upon his mount. “It is unfortunate which paths fate chose for us.”
But Jikun refused to be melted by the prince’s attempted charisma. “You chose this on your own, you viper. Now get out.”
Darcarus gave no reaction to the insult. “If you truly feel the need to replace me, one of my contacts informed me that Saebellus’ Beast abandoned its master and is now on Ryekarayn. It has always been a dangerous force—even against necromancy.”
Jikun’s mouth could not have slacked lower. “And now you have the audacity to suggest that? Get your god-damn ass out of my sight!”
And Darcarus whirled his horse about and trotted quietly into the forest line.
“Good riddance,” Jikun muttered vengefully.
There was a sudden rustle in the branches above and Eldaeus dropped by his knees beside him.
“Gods damn it!” Jikun shrieked, nearly swinging out to knock the Faraven fully from the tree.
Eldaeus grinned crookedly as he rocked, watching the prince fade into the darkness. “And then,” he spoke solemnly, “there were two.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sellemar turned the little porcelain figure in his hands, admiring the detail. The hair, the face… this was assuredly the most carefully crafted one yet—and that was to be expected. He had spared no expense for the figures of his shrine. He probably could have bought a dining room table or half a new wardrobe. Or perhaps hired someone to clean the uninhabitable lower level of his estate.
But here, in this room… the small shrine to Sel’ari was far more valuable to him than any such trivialities.
Sellemar ran his thumb affectionately over the carving before he placed the statue of Aura beside that of her betrothed, Mesheck. She settled there unsteadily and he moved Tiras aside in the event she decided to lurch forward and knock him from the shelf.
Above the little huddle of statues, in the candles that bobbed against his breath, the face of Sel’ari flickered with amused compassion.
“Eraydon. Riphath…” he shifted them to the left of her outstretched marble hands before lifting the last figure before her. He prayed briefly that she would protect him as she had protected the six heroes so many years ago. Sellemar too needed shelter and guidance for the trials ahead. What he had witnessed through Vale’s eyes boded ill for Hadoream and more importantly, Sevrigel.
Saebellus’ determination to retain his throne had reached a climax—even the death of a True Blood was justified. His mind throbbed as he recalled the warlord’s acceptance of Ilsevel’s plan to slay Hadoream and frame his Resistance. The rebellion would never survive such an accusation. Not yet.
But it would soon. Cahsari had finally broken to Sellemar’s interrogation, and tonight he would lay the councilmember before the city square with the crimes of his brethren.
The instigation would be complete. The rebellion would truly begin. And the Resistance would lead it to fruition.
That, of course, made the True Blood essential to the restoration of Sevrigel. But where was Hadoream? ‘What is delaying Itirel…?’ He reached up to rub his temple. The pain was increasing now. ‘Damn Hadoream for hiding away!’
There was a sudden crack of thunder that seemed to pierce from the center of Sellemar’s mind. He started, his hand jerking up, narrowly missing the little shelf.
His breath caught. It was late. The night was dark. And yet, in the silence he could hear no rain. The sky outside his balcony doors was cloudless.
‘Then what?’
There was a crackle of thick fabric being pushed aside. He knew the sound well.
‘A tent flap…’
His eyes snapped open, his breath emerging fast and hard from the abrupt awakening. His heart pounded in his chest like the drums of battle.
A boom of thunder ripped again, closer now, bearing down to consume his tent.
“Vale, get up!”
The unexpected voice that closed the distance in the dark was hoarse and frantic. Fear cleared Vale’s mind. He fumbled in the dark, igniting his lantern and brandishing it before his breast.
Second General Saebellus. The Sel’ven was garishly distorted in the shaking light, the shadows of his face pocketing and elongating his striking features. He was soaked to the bone, his blond hair plastered against the sides of his pale face like a hood. His blue eyes were bloodshot, hollow with the reflection of Vale’s own fright.
And his hands. The palms of his hands were sealed in fresh, glistening blood.
“What happened?” Vale demanded in a hoarse whisper. But he knew the truth. He had seen this all before!
Yet he clung to Saebellus’ words.
The lips parted to a black slit, hanging frozen. Then they twisted, emitting a response so soft, so vacant, that Vale was forced to draw near. “I…” the second general’s voice dipped and was lost.
Vale’s lungs constricted. ‘Say it…’ his mind dared to demand.
Saebellus spoke again. His words snaked across the distance with force. “I killed General Angrenor.”
The color drained from Vale’s face; he could feel it leave him, rush away to his gut. It wanted to pass further, but he collected himself. He had known. He had known that this would come to pass. ‘The general brought this upon himself,’ he flayed his qualms. ‘He pushed us too far. Asked too much!’
Yes. The time had come for the meek to be silent no longer! “What is the plan, General?” he whispered.
Saebellus stood and Vale realized then that the male had been supplicating on his knees. Now he was tall. Strong. Courage had risen above the fear. His words emerged rapidly, forceful and direct. He was at once the general Vale knew. “We must rally the rest of our supporters. We must leave the army. We will participate in this genocide no longer! The capital will see that we will not slaughter the innocent—not for them. Not for anyone!”
And then Vale was racing at Saebellus’ command. The tent flap echoed behind him, battering violently in the wind. Faster. Faster. He had to bring Adonis. Thunder was bellowing once more like the furious cries of the goddess herself. ‘Tonight of all nights!’
His feet pelted across the puddles.
Soon, it was mud. Bloody mud, as though the blood of General Angrenor had seeped through the earth to engulf him.
‘Why is the earth red?
‘…For rebellion. We cannot turn back!’
His hand stretched to the tent that suddenly rose before him, but it seemed distant. Surreal.
Something was amiss.
Terror was bubbling up inside him once more. Dread.
He lunged forward desperately, again and again, and yet his fingers could only brush the coarse side. ‘Adonis… I have to bring Adonis!’ And then abruptly his fingers closed around the fabric. He wrenched the covering aside and the tent collapsed about him, exposing the scene within.
Sprawled across the earth, sickly white and riddled with holes… Adonis lay dead. It was then that Vale realized. ‘The blood at my feet… it is his!’ “WHY?!” he screamed.
The assassin emerged from the shadows. ‘Ilsevel? No… she was not there that night!’
And even as his mind struggled to make sense of the heartache before him, Adonis’ body began to convulse. His lips croaked his name in growing desperation, as though he could still be saved. “Vale… Vale. Vale! VALE!”
“I will purify the races of their depravities,” the wraith hissed, “for I own the king.” And her hand plunged into Adonis’ breast—
“Vale. Vale!”
Vale’s eyes flashed open, his chest heaving from the pain of labored breaths. He felt a hand upon his shoulder, shaking him firmly. But the voice was soft and calm. Safe. Alive. They were sitting in a field of short, wispy grass, Noctem’s moon illuminating Adonis’ solacing features.
“Adonis,” he wheezed and shuddered, pushing himself up unsteadily. He smacked his bare chest once, the abrupt sensation helping to clear his mind. “A nightmare…”
Adonis pressed close to his trembling
arm, keeping a hand upon his shoulder to reassure him of his presence. As he was always there to reassure him. “Which one?”
Vale exhaled heavily and wiped his palm across his face, sliding the beads of sweat away. In the coolness of the night air, it was a wonder he had managed to perspire. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, hoping that the hand would fall away.
It did not.
“The night Saebellus killed Angrenor,” he ceded. “But you… were already dead when I came for you.”
Adonis’ fingers tightened and he leaned his head gently against his shoulder, pale eyes meeting his empathetically. “But that’s not what happened.”
‘I will purify the races of their depravities,’ the bitch-queen had said.
Under the rule of the council, their lives had been perpetually in peril. But after all their sacrifice… was he… was Adonis… any safer? “No… But if we lose this war, it will.”
The world was sideways—he was tilted, knocked askew. On the marble floor. How…? ‘Gods, my head…’
And then he was once more in the field; Adonis was consoling him, pushing his anxieties aside. “It is Saebellus who is king. He will not let death be the penalty of our differences.”
No… he was on the marble floor again. A blurred outline lay several inches away, glinting softly in the firelight.
“He will keep us safe. That will not happen to us.”
The Nemorium faded entirely and Sellemar’s vision cleared, revealing a scene of disarray and shattered glass. He shifted his neck with a pained groan, his head throbbing where he had struck the floor upon his collapse. He had fallen against the shrine, knocking the curtain from its hanging to land precariously close to the burning candles.
“Would not that have been the epitome of pathetic deaths,” he muttered resentfully as he pushed himself gingerly upright. “Sel’ari’s shrine burns to the ground with myself entrapped, all while I dream of another male coddling me—SHIT!” A sharp pain sliced through his palm and he jerked his hand reflexively from the floor. Bright droplets fell in its wake.
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 51