Ki laughed. “It took him three days before he could look at us. Perhaps he would feel more at ease about seeing his future bondmate dressed as an Aua’Catan than he did seeing us. You know, Lady Hightower, that you Bittermarchians do wear far too many clothes. How is a body supposed to move as it should?”
Arianne cleared her throat. “We feel that covering ourselves is best for modesty’s sake.”
“Who is Modesty?” Ki asked.
Arianne opened her mouth to answer, but snapped it shut when she realized she was being sported with. Ta and Ki laughed and gathered their backpacks. Arianne grabbed her sock and breathed in, the air hinting at moisture and tasting of the verdant green around them.
Night birds trilled a warning at them as Ki and Ta led Arianne out of their camp. The moss’s blue light provided just a bare circle of illumination, and Arianne kept her eyes trained on it to avoid snagging her feet on rocks and sticks. Once in the more friendly grass of the plain along the river, she relaxed. Moonlight darted in and out as the clouds veiled and unveiled its light, the twins’ white hair practically glowing when it caught the weak rays.
A brisk breeze hissed through the grass, and Ta looked to the sky. “I believe we will have a little rain,” she speculated.
“I hope not,” Ki answered. “Lady Hightower’s dress will be completely waterlogged and I will have to cut it all off so she can walk.”
Arianne stumbled. “You most certainly—” Then she bit her lip. The sisters laughed again. Had the two given Davon such a difficult time? Wherever the carvings wanted to go, she hoped they led to him and she hoped that he wasn’t too far away.
Chapter 44
Davon pulled the two soldiers away from the door and gave one of them the rest of his blue moss. “Get the Queen to the far end of the room and surround her! Hold the moss high so you can see.”
The water continued to seep under the door, mingling with the blood of the slaughtered men on the other side. Davon moved behind the couch closest to the door and pulled his knives as the pool widened. The Lord High Sheriff commandeered a rifle and bayonet from one of the soldiers and joined him.
“Who is behind the door?” the sheriff asked.
“Not behind, coming under,” Davon corrected. “It is Baron Longford, only you may not recognize him when he shows himself.”
The sheriff’s face contorted with the questions he wanted to ask, but he snapped his rifle up, bayonet attached, as a form rose from the pool of water, glinting in the blue moss light. Davon felt the presence of the Primal Water before him as it took the shape of Dales but not his features. It remained translucent, a hulking creature of clear liquid warping the light as it passed through.
But a darkness danced inside it, a darkness Davon had seen cavorting around the flame inside the Seeing Wall. The shadowy figure inside the water was barely a hand high, and wherever it moved inside the massive, watery form, all light died.
Davon jumped on the couch and sprang forward, sabertooth knives raised overhead for a powerful downward strike. A fist of Primal Water took him in the ribs before he could swing, sending him flying across the room to slam into the wall with terrific force. Breath exploded from his lungs and he dropped his knives as he landed on a decorative table, trinkets of shattered china and crystal falling with him to the floor.
Ribs aflame, he gasped for breath like a fish out of water, unable to fill his lungs without agony erupting in his chest. The Lord High Sheriff yelled and then was silenced. Davon struggled to his feet, finding a watery tentacle wrapped around the man’s throat. With a whipping motion, the tentacle snapped the sheriff’s neck and threw him to the floor.
Another watery appendage flung the couch against the opposite wall as if it were nothing more than a child’s toy. Davon retrieved a sabertooth dagger and threw it, but it passed through the liquid Baron, only dimpling the water for a moment before sending a spray out the other side.
As the soldiers rushed forward for a bayonet charge, Davon transformed into Khodo Khim. There was hardly room for him, a nearby couch and table shoved away to accommodate his girth. His injured ribs still burned, lancing pain through his chest with every breath.
The watery hand of the creature extended into a tentacle, whipping across the soldiers and encircling them, pulling them tight as if in a noose. Their faces flushed as the tentacle squeezed blood to their faces, and they screamed as they were hauled together and constricted, pressed tight against one another until ribs cracked and arms snapped. Davon leapt, his massive body passing through the tentacle. The liquid appendage splashed down as it lost connection with the main body, the soldiers dropping with it in a sodden heap, writhing in pain.
Davon spun, upsetting more furniture, and jumped toward the undulating water before him. Just before impact, the form simply collapsed, splashing to the ground as Davon sailed over. The wetness under his paws quickly slid away, the transparent creature reforming three long strides from where the Queen huddled in a corner. Only General Cutler stood between her and the creature, and he held the blue moss aloft, his eyes wide with terror.
Crouching, Davon gathered himself and bounded off of his hind legs just as two watery arms shot out from the monster. One arced toward General Cutler, hammering him on the side the head. He crumpled, eyes vapid and mouth frozen open. The moss tumbled out of his hand.
The other arm shot unnaturally backwards, hammering Davon in the already injured ribs. Burning pain scorched his ribcage as the heavy blow knocked him into the windowed wall overlooking the garden. Glass popped as cracks spread like a lightning strike on the rain streaked window.
Breathing came hard, every intake searing Davon’s chest with agony. He could barely stand, four legs unsteady, each wanting to go its own direction. The Queen screamed as a tentacle wrapped about her waist and hauled her into the air. There was nothing Davon could do. In frustration and anger he sucked in air, cracked ribs bellowing in pain as his massive chest inflated. The tentacle lifted to dash the Queen against the wall, and Davon let loose a massive bellow, a roar so mighty it shattered the weakened glass behind him.
The Baron’s watery form rippled as the waves of air blasted toward it, mist breaking free from its edges. The congealed water warped and then burst, spraying tiny droplets against the wall like rain in a wind whipped storm. The Queen fell hard as the grip on her waist disintegrated and she cried out in pain. But there, standing alone before her, was Baron Olivanne Longford, stunned and stumbling. His Dales-sized clothes hung baggy around him like child in his father’s coat and trousers.
Muscling through his pain, Davon strode over, the Primal Water already migrating back toward Baron Longford’s unsteady feet, pulling away from walls and carpets, drawn to him as if he were a lodestone.
Extending his claws, Davon batted the Baron to the side, ripping his left arm so deeply that it hung by a few shreds of sinew at the shoulder. His body slammed into the wall, smearing it red. Davon twisted to face him, ribs screaming, and the wide-eyed Baron bolted for the glassless windows, flopping over the edge to fall one story down into the rainy night.
He hit the ground with a sodden splash. Davon peered over the window ledge and into the garden below, feline eyes and lightning aiding his search. Rain spattered against his fur as he scanned the cobblestones and planters, finding Baron Longford lying bleeding in a pool of rainwater. His skin was absorbing rainwater as it had at the river, swelling his body and knitting his shoulder back together. Already he stirred, his inflating form filling his clothes. Davon stepped back and bounded out, flinging himself into the night.
The impact sent bursts of pain through his body, and he stumbled, slamming into a stonework planter. Rocks and dirt tumbled to the ground under his weight and his vision blurred. He shook his head to clear it. Baron Longford’s scent was close, but by the time Davon’s eyes cleared the man was already on him. A heavy fist caught him in the head, sending it spinning until a kick to the ribs made him forget every other pain.
He
flailed blindly, animal instinct filling him with rage. Driven by the need to survive, Davon reared, paws thrashing. Baron Longford backpedaled from the flurry, but not before Davon raked a claw across his chest and ripped open his shirt. As Davon came back down on his forepaws, the Baron’s massive fist hit his bony head again, rattling him. Like a madman, the Baron pressed forward, fists and arms flailing, a snarl gashing his face. Davon shrank back for a moment, catching one of the Baron’s arms with his long sabertooth. Before he could retract it, Davon opened his jaw and clamped down the Baron’s meaty bicep.
Teeth sunk into flesh. With a whip of his feline head, Davon yanked the arm completely off the other man and flung it into the night. Blood and water spurted from the Baron’s shoulder, his eyes wide with shock. Davon bit down again, turning his head sideways. His fangs sunk into the Baron’s chest, water and blood filling his mouth as he lifted him into the air.
But something lurked in his blood, something he could feel, something cold. It was like ice and shadow, bitter and formless, and it poured into his body and reached into his mind. His jaw slackened and the Baron fell out, splashing to the ground.
A voice spoke to his mind, distant yet powerful. Crush him. He is meaningless.
The command was calm, a rational counterpoint to a heart hammering from exertion and danger. The Voice was deep, smooth, and exacting. It expected obedience, and Davon could feel a punishment waiting if he didn’t obey its wishes.
End his life. But take no pleasure in it. One should not rejoice. One should not mourn. Death is, nothing more.
Davon had intended to kill the man. Even now, arm gone and bleeding, the scant water tried to save him, every drop that touched him sucking into his skin. But the blood gushed out with the water, the Baron’s face paling with every pump of his weakening heart. Above him, Davon could feel the Primal Water seeping down the edge of the wall, trying to return to its host.
Do it now!
And Davon understood. The Voice was the darkness he had seen dancing in the icy Seeing Wall and in the Primal Water. It was an infection, a stain. It was in the Primal Water. It was in the Baron’s blood. In horror, Davon realized that the Baron’s blood was in his mouth. Davon transformed back to his human form and spat the warm fluid into the night. Still, the taste remained. The Voice echoed in his mind, a shadow of its former strength. Kill him! it whispered. Davon gathered his spit and expectorated again, breathing painfully in and letting his heart settle. The Voice was gone. The Baron was not.
Olivanne’s body swelled with the water gushing in, the stump of his shoulder no longer bleeding. Behind him, the Primal Water slithered toward him along the mortar between the stones, searching for its servant. Baron Longford stirred and Davon raised his rifle.
“So,” the Baron said, “I see you have a gift, as well.”
“Who is behind this plot, Baron? Be quick.”
He laughed. “The plot doesn’t matter anymore. The real lesson has been taught. If the Eternal Flame is not so eternal, then so must we all fade and die. A winter without fire will teach the lesson. What you call life or beauty or love is all without purpose. To embrace such things only brings sorrow. Be free, Baron Carver. Be free as I am free. Only in emptiness is there peace! I can teach you.”
“You aren’t free,” Davon growled. “You are as much a slave to your emptiness as anyone else is to life or love or beauty. I’ve felt empty, Baron, and there’s no value in it.”
“You are a fool,” he said, turning back to Davon.
“Or you are,” Davon returned.
The Primal Water inched closer, speeding as it neared Baron Longford as if anxious for the reunion. Olivanne’s ripped shirt allowed a view of the watery scar that marked him as the chosen of the Primal Water. Why had it chosen such a wretched man, or had the infection of the shadow influenced its choice?
Baron Longford sat up, craning his neck around to watch the approach of his primal master.
Gritting his teeth, Davon dropped his rifle, grabbed Olivanne’s head, and twisted it until the neck broke. The Baron’s body settled to the ground, the absorbed rainwater leaking out of his deflating skin. Still the Primal Water came, reuniting with its host, swelling Baron Longford’s body back to the size of Dales. But the corpse didn’t move.
“Davon!” the Queen shouted from above.
“Here,” he returned, ribs protesting with every breath. The blue light of the moss weakly framed the old monarch’s silhouette in the broken window.
“Are you quite all right?” she called.
“I am well. And you?”
“Quite miserable, actually. Are you in danger? I have sent soldiers down.”
He took another look at the motionless Baron. The Primal Water may have seeped into him, but his wounds did not heal, nor did the watery creature that had nearly undone them all show any signs of returning. Olivanne Longford was no more.
“All is well, I believe, your Highness.”
The Queen leaned heavily on the window sill. “So you are the enormous sabercat, as I discerned. Quite a trick. When did you learn it?”
“A few days ago.”
The splashing of the soldiers’ cautious feet and their nervous calling ended the conversation. Davon guided them to his location with his voice, the rain slackening.
“We need to take the body inside,” Davon ordered. “Somewhere dry. His missing arm is somewhere around here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
After a few minutes, the soldiers found the arm, but the body could not be moved no matter how many men threw their backs to the task. Not even a limb could be plucked up from the stones. Then Davon understood. The dead Baron was the vessel for the Primal Water. Only the Khodo Khim could move it now, but his burning ribs couldn’t handle the task—at least as a man.
“Stand back, if you would,” Davon ordered. “And don’t be alarmed.”
He changed after a brief stint of concentration, finding the transformation becoming more and more natural. The soldiers, however, found nothing natural about it, bumping into each other in an attempt to get distance from the gigantic sabercat. Davon growled as soothingly as possible and scooped the corpse into his mouth. With a painful bound, he carried it through the broken window, startling the Queen, her house guard, and Doctor Otis, who tended to the monarch’s left arm by the light of the blue moss. The soldiers fumbled for guns.
Davon quickly dropped the Baron’s body on the floor and resumed his normal shape, hands in the air to placate the terrified men.
“He’s with us,” Queen Filippa said, face pained. The soldiers relaxed, and the doctor shook his head and returned to work.
Most of the injured and the dead had been removed, but the Lord High Sheriff’s body still lay motionless on the floor at the Queen’s feet. The Queen winced as Doctor Otis splinted her arm.
“How is she, Doctor?” Davon inquired.
“I think the arm is the only break,” he returned, “but she’s a mess of bruises.”
“And my walking stick seems to have disappeared,” she lamented. She turned to the corpse that Davon had dropped to the floor. “Is that Baron Longford?”
Davon nodded. “It is. When the water swells him, he takes the shape of Dales, the Caravan Master at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. It was the same man all along. The Primal Water chose him, though there is something else, something that infects it. It spoke to me briefly when the Baron’s blood was in my mouth.”
The Queen frowned, a question on her lips, when a soldier darted into the room.
“My Queen,” he said, bowing. “You have a visitor. I told him to return in the morning, but he wouldn’t be denied.”
“Who?”
A familiar voice spoke from the doorway. “It is I, Duke Longford. I have come to confess for the good of Bittermarch. My information is urgent.”
Davon ground his teeth. Here, undoubtedly, was the dastard who had conceived of the scheme. The Duke’s face was gaunt, his haughty demeanor brought low. A resign
ed, fearful look haunted his eyes, and Davon knew that Bittermarch was indeed in grave peril.
Chapter 45
Davon sat on the couch next to the livid Queen, the scowl on her paling face deepening with every word that marched out of Duke Longford’s mouth in a halting cadence. The Duke had, indeed, come to lay his soul bare, and for all his treasonous trespasses against his nation, Davon could at least respect that when their circumstances had turned for the worst, he’d had the courage to come forward.
Duke Longford was shocked to see the bloated visage of his brother on the floor and even more surprised about Olivanne’s service to the Primal Water. This confirmed to Davon that the plots against Bittermarch and the Eternal Flame were separate endeavors. Whatever the case, the Longford’s were indeed ambitious people and complicit in all of it.
“The plan,” the Duke continued, “was for me to stabilize Bittermarch after your death and that of your successor. I would then take the weapons we purchased and the men at our command and put a quick end to the war. We had bargained with Creetis to allow them parts of the south, though I had no intention of letting them actually have it.”
The Queen’s eyes burned. “And so you are saying now that Creetis not only has an army to the south, but one to the north armed with our weapons paid for by several prominent families from the north?”
The Duke swallowed, hands trembling on his lap. “Yes, Your Grace. We went to recover the weapons from the various locations where we had secreted them and they are gone. With our armies deployed to the south, we are in grave danger.”
“That I knew,” the Queen returned, voice severe. “I want the names of the conspirators. All of them.”
“Please,” Duke Longford begged, “do not make me sink so low as to be an informant on my peers. It is beneath my honor.”
Davon stood. “Beneath your honor? You plot assassination and treason against your Queen and your nation, and giving up the rats of this conspiracy is beneath your honor?”
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