Elyon

by Ted Dekker

  The man snapped to attention. “Loyalty, integrity, honesty, sir.”

  “Shall I think less of my officers, Commander Reyan?”

  “No, sir.”

  At his look the men scattered to their final preparations. Marak turned on his heel, scanning the shoreline. The priest would come. It was only a matter of time. He bit back a mocking laugh.

  He didn’t wait much longer before Warryn, chief of the Throaters, came riding hard through the forest. Warryn swung down. Marak noticed he wore an eye patch now.

  So the Throater’s blunder had cost him his eye; Sucrow was a harsh master.

  “The priest wants to know why you’re leaving without him.”

  Marak shrugged. “I’m ready to leave. Or do priests not move as swiftly as warriors?”

  “He’s on his way,” Warryn persisted. A smug look crossed his face, as if he knew something Marak didn’t. “He’s sent me ahead to ensure you do not leave.”

  “We don’t have the time for games.”

  Warryn’s expression sobered. “It has to do with the expedition, General. I’m sure he has his reasons.”

  “He is aware we’re on a schedule, is he not?”

  One blank, cold eye drilled him, then shifted to Darsal, who had just appeared through the clearing. Darsal glared back at him, then turned her attention to Marak. She touched the Circle pendant around her neck.

  Warryn made a sound in the back of his throat. “The priest wishes also to know when you plan to kill the slave.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you doing it yourself, or will you have another perform the execution?”

  Marak snapped his head up. His hand brushed his hilt. This Throater would never touch Darsal. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, that Cassak had asked the same question. He dismissed it.

  “Concern yourself with the present, not the future, Throater. I’ll kill her when I’m done punishing her.”

  The gloat on Warryn’s face shriveled to a blank, wide-eyed stare. Then his eye narrowed and darkened.

  “Respectfully, General, the future and the present are not so distant from one another. What occurs in one will affect the other by design.”

  Someone cleared his throat. Reyan. His ranking commander rubbed a spot on his ear, not quite shaking his head, and made brief eye contact.

  “Tell Sucrow we need to move out quickly,” Reyan said to the Throater. “There’s no time to waste.”

  Warryn’s face tightened.

  “Now.”

  The Throater gave one look at Marak, who nodded, and took his leave.

  Reyan waited.

  Marak relaxed his fist.

  Reyan nodded pointedly toward the trees. “We brought in a dozen albinos, General.”

  More albinos? They were getting harder to find by the day. “Where?”

  “More of Jordan of Southern’s brood. Apparently the Eramites drove them out. We await your command to execute them.”

  A test. Only Cassak would be so bold as to test Marak by forcing him to order an execution just to see if he would do it. He must have set this up so Reyan would have to ask. The captain was making a point to the men. And to his general. Since when did Cassak question Marak’s abilities?

  Something was wrong. He’d never been so angry with his friend in his life, and never had Cassak had cause or desire to doubt him. It all started with Jordan and Rona, didn’t it?

  Or . . . did it?

  Reyan cleared his throat. “General?”

  On instinct he checked his pocket for the medallion. It was . . . gone.

  Marak snarled. “Execute them.”

  He stalked off without waiting for a reply, grabbing Darsal by the scruff on the way and dragging her off into the trees.

  eight

  Elyon, why is he manhandling me? The fire?

  Marak glanced over his shoulder. He loomed over her. Close. So close . . .

  “Where’s the amulet? Are you trying to ruin me?” He straightened and turned toward her, his eyes drilling her. He wanted her to say it. To admit it.

  Darsal couldn’t help but feel startled. Marak fully expected nothing but the truth from her. An albino. Had she made so much progress?

  She crossed her arms and looked Marak in the eye. She didn’t know what Marak was talking about. For all she knew this was a ruse so he could say he’d already interrogated her before conducting his real search. Her sense of vengeance flared over the con demned albinos, equally met with the utter despair of his deception and the shocking revelation of his trust.

  Her mind caught up. She couldn’t save the albinos. She could keep this thread of trust. “You want the truth.”

  Marak’s arms folded over his chest. Her heart skipped a beat. Did he really trust her so much? The general was so close. And now—now everything seemed to hinge on her answer.

  She drew a breath. Let his newfound trust in her sink in. “I didn’t take the amulet, my general.”

  His fist curled. “Someone did.”

  “It wasn’t me. Ask your captain.”

  “Cassak is my best friend,” he said. But his eyes betrayed doubt. Marak considered his albino slave more trustworthy than his Scab captain now?

  Darsal backed off. Marak was irrational when it came to those close to him. Irrational enough to accuse his best friend of stealing from him. “It still wasn’t me.”

  “And the fire?”

  “I just needed out of the room. I wasn’t trying to burn the place to the ground.”

  And for that she thought he might either break down or explode.

  “Neither Josef nor Sucrow has it?”

  Marak cleared his throat. “Both claim innocence. My guess is the bloody priest, but he’s got someone else holding it.”

  “You want me to steal it from him?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. For a full minute she stared at his back. She started to reach for his arm, but he turned back around.

  “In the lair, if something were to happen, you wouldn’t be able to run.”

  Her brow furrowed. Surely he didn’t think her a coward. She studied his eyes. No, no, it was something else. “Now, there’s a change of subject.”

  “I can handle the priest,” he said.

  He had not answered her question. Silent affirmation? Denial?

  Marak withdrew something small and silver from his pocket, then stooped and reached for her leg. Darsal jerked. Kicked, out of habit. Marak stilled, and something in his expression twisted. With an uneven breath, Darsal willed herself to relax.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Her general lifted her foot to his knee and unlocked the shackle. He then did the same with the other. For a moment he stayed there, kneeling with her sandaled foot on his knee, key and open shackle in his hands. Darsal suddenly felt silly.

  Marak was . . . releasing her?

  He straightened and set her foot on the ground.

  And then she was alone.

  Marak’s voice bellowed across the clearing at his men. A few horses whinnied. The breeze sent a chill through her, despite the warm sun.

  Her feet felt so light after wearing the heavy chain. Now . . . now all was weightless and surreal. Even the ground beneath her barely seemed to touch her. Dare she think she had Marak’s heart?

  Dare she think she could keep it?

  Tree branches swayed gently, leaves rustling. Instinctively she looked up, hoping for a flicker of white wings.

  “What will you do?”

  Darsal swung around, dropped to a crouch.

  Gabil was in front of her. “You could leave, you know. He would understand.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” That idea stung her. It wasn’t part of her mission. Elyon’s mission.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Darsal straightened her shoulders. “I can’t leave without Johnis and Silvie. Without Marak.”

  “They’ve chosen their paths.”

  “They’re in pain.”

&nb
sp; “Yes. They are. They are deceived.”

  “You would have me leave them like this?” She didn’t believe what she was hearing. Gabil wanted her to scrap the mission?

  “You cannot save them all, Darsal.”

  Indignation filled her. The Horde was as worth saving as the Circle, and save them she would. Or die trying.

  “I only want to save three. Why do you want me to run to safety? If I leave, I condemn them. I condemn the Circle.”

  “That is true.”

  Darsal didn’t answer. Gabil isn’t telling me to leave them. He’s showing me why I have to stay.

  “Love him for Elyon, Darsal. For Johnis.”

  She balked. The hair on the back of her neck rose. It was a thread of hope, but it hinged on her ability to love a Scab general.

  And on his returning that love.

  “Darsal!” Marak’s voice bellowed from the clearing, through the grove of trees. They were ready to leave.

  Gabil flapped off.

  “Darsal?” Marak came through the trees, sighted her. Stopped.

  She raised her chin. Stood in front of him just as she had that day in the dungeon. Looking at him, the fight left her. In its place was deep sorrow and love.

  “I’m here.”

  Marak looked at her gravely with an expression she’d never seen. And she knew: he’d expected her to leave.

  For a moment they stared at each other. And then it was over.

  Marak turned back into the stoic warrior and started back for the others. “It’s time to leave.”

  NIGHT FELL OVER THE EXPEDITION PARTY. SERVANTS CARRYING long torches surrounded their masters, creating a ring of fire against the starlit night. The desert cooled with the rising moon. Johnis rode ahead, Sucrow and Marak behind and to either side of him. Out on the wings, two commanders. He’d noticed some strange activity between Cassak and Sucrow but thought little of it. Cassak was a mediating figure—it was likely all usual. Marak either didn’t notice or wasn’t disturbed by his captain’s movements.

  Behind them all, servants . . . followed by the Throaters. They cut south through the canyons, past Natalga Gap, and into the endless sand.

  Silvie should be riding next to him, not held captive by an evil priest and caged at the tail of the procession. He had to think of a way to free Silvie. He had to . . .

  The siren song swelled, overpowered his vision so he could no longer think of Silvie. Johnis felt his senses sharpen and his focus narrow. He could think only of the mission.

  Shaeda.

  You are beautiful, he thought. Tell me more. You are a queen, with a mate, yet the Leedhan were not born until after the Desecration.

  She gave a low, seductive laugh. “You are correct, my fair one, I am the eldest of our kind, at eighteen. Does such please you, that one so young might wield such power?”

  He didn’t have time to answer.

  “I see nothing,” Sucrow growled. He clutched his staff. A strange, heady sensation fell over them.

  The moon rose high into the east now, and Johnis turned his horse to confront the broad length of shadow, moon at his back.

  “Patience, Priest,” Marak snapped. His irises were enormous, or his pupils had shrunk strangely.

  “I think we’ve shown more than enough patience for the time being, General.”

  “How far until we turn west?” Marak demanded. His mood had gone from irritable to completely foul. Now he seemed to struggle with something, but Johnis couldn’t pinpoint it.

  The siren song distracted him. Shaeda’s mind was open to Johnis once more. She gave him instruction as they traveled. The further they went, the more he saw through multicolored Leedhan eyes.

  “Not much farther. Another hour or so, I think.”

  Marak humphed his answer. “We’ll need to make camp, then.”

  “Camp?”

  “You didn’t expect to ride through the night, did you?”

  “It’s a long way. I thought you were all in a hurry.”

  Shaeda’s song spurred him along. She was fantasizing as much as she was planning their next move, seeing farther ahead than anyone could have realized.

  These miserable fools made of clay had no idea what was coming for them.

  Marak had been taking stock of the area. Shaeda’s gaze lingered on the general for a long moment. Johnis could make nothing of her assessment. Her thoughts were growing more guarded, more cautious.

  “Here’s as good a place as any,” Marak said.

  “Continue on . . .”

  “We should continue,” Shaeda said. Johnis said.

  “There is nothing.” Johnis said, his voice hard and clipped. “Not until we reach the canyon. We should keep going.”

  Marak dismounted. “Ten minutes.” Silvie refused Sucrow’s assistance down and nearly fell off the horse, trying to dismount.

  Silvie had refused to look at Johnis as she was forced into a cage. Johnis considered how to rescue her while Marak, the officers, and Sucrow went to discuss whatever it was that Marak wanted to discuss.

  Silvie . . .

  Shaeda clamped down, her rival now out of the way.

  Johnis stumbled off his horse and sank to the ground, elbows on his knees. He rubbed his temples. Against Shaeda’s wishes, the caravan had stopped.

  “We must not linger, my pet.” Her claws cut into him.

  “I can’t control him,” he protested under his breath. “I can’t. There’s no telling the blasted general what to do. Patience, please.”

  He was punished every time someone else slowed her down. Shaeda’s invisible grip tightened.

  “Let me go,” he whispered. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think.

  She was crushing him, squeezing the life out of him. Her will, her mind, her heart, her thoughts—her loves and hates—all his. And his were hers. Silvie . . .

  Shaeda suddenly relented. She chuckled. You are correct, my pet, my little human . . . Leave such obstacles to me.

  Johnis struggled for air. He opened his eyes and sat up. Brushed dust off his arms.

  “Johnis?”

  Johnis’s head shot up. Darsal stood beneath a desert tree, an overgrown piece of white bark and shriveled branches that thrived with cacti growing from it. He tensed. Darsal came closer. He could smell her raw, pungent skin even through the citrusy fragrance she was wearing. He curled his lip and showed her his back.

  “What should we do?” he whispered. He watched the others, waiting for Shaeda’s insight to overtake him.

  “Elyon, Johnis.”

  Shaeda bared their teeth and growled. “Elyon abandoned us, wench!” He spun, close enough to smell her sickly sweet breath.

  And then he saw Marak wasn’t making camp. Instead he was preparing to speak with his officers and Sucrow. If he could get to Silvie . . .

  “Patience, Johnis. She shall be returned. But she is needed to convince the albino to stand down.”

  What do you mean? It was Darsal, after all . . .

  And then, for the moment, Shaeda was gone. At least, he didn’t sense her. That could change.

  “Why don’t you focus on killing Sucrow, not the Circle?”

  “Sucrow.” The name drew bile from deep within. He glanced over at the priest’s caravan, where Silvie was.

  Darsal’s eyes followed his. “We don’t have long, Johnis. Back out. Silvie needs you to drown.”

  “What?” He withdrew from her. Was she mad?

  Darsal started over. “No, listen. The red pools—You need to drown in them. It’s the only way. It’s—”

  “The heat’s gotten to you.”

  She grabbed his arm.

  Johnis pulled free. Drown. Murderous albino wench. His lip curled. “Leave me.”

  Her brow arched. “Is that you or the entity talking?”

  The Leedhan’s eyes homed in on Darsal. Darsal could drop dead.

  “Distract the guard,” the albino said. “We can save Silvie from the priest.” Her eyes flicked to the officers and Sucrow.<
br />
  His eyes narrowed. “Why should I trust an albino?”

  “Because the albino is the only other person who cares about Silvie.” Darsal crossed her arms. “And because I think your answer will help you determine where your heart’s going. But decide. I don’t have all night.”

  Johnis struggled for control. His heart . . . He was following his heart, wasn’t he? Or . . . was he?

  His heart was with Silvie. As long as he didn’t thwart the mission . . .

  Shaeda, Shaeda, don’t tell me one woman can thwart the mission. Just give me this.

  The Leedhan didn’t like the idea. No, she wouldn’t. Silvie had his heart, which meant his entity did not.

  If Darsal dies, it doesn’t hinder the mission. What’s the harm?

  “I need an answer, Johnis. They’ll move out any minute.”

  Shaeda finally relented. As long as this didn’t interfere. The priest and the general must remain allies, must continue this fool’s quest.

  They were so naive . . .

  Johnis gave Darsal a sharp nod. “Let’s go.”

  nine

  Darsal left Johnis and stole through groups of Throaters and warriors who waited while their leaders convened. A waning moon gave her just enough light to see by. Guards skirted the perimeter of the band of Horde while the officers and Sucrow spoke in private. The light from a few torches broke through the shadows.

  She could still barely wrap her mind around the fact that Johnis was being controlled by a Leedhan. And she felt guilty about the ruse of going after Silvie—she didn’t need Johnis’s help, and chances were slim she’d be able to aid Silvie. But if she could get Johnis to think, maybe, just maybe . . . he’d forgive her in the end, once he saw she’d only meant to steer his attention away from the Leedhan.

  Silvie would be more than willing to be rid of the priest and to help Johnis with the amulet. Still . . . that did nothing for the nagging in the back of Darsal’s mind. She passed by the outcropping of rock where Marak and the others were still meeting. They were mildly secluded, yet still in the open. Darsal dodged a couple of servants. Marak’s voice sounded strained, furious about something. But he didn’t yell. He kept his voice low—a soft, chilling sound.

  Darsal inched toward the canvas-covered cage on wheels, where Silvie was being held, then caught herself. She hugged the shadows. Two Throaters stood guard. One could be Warryn.