The Jack of Ruin

by Stephen Merlino

  “Good.” Willard licked his lips, eyes fixed on the vein. “Now plunge it in and remove it. Let it drain into the cup.”

  “How long will it bleed?”

  “Not long.” His voice had gone dry. “It scabs almost instantly, so as soon as it does, you’ll want to lift the scab and slide the blade in the mouth of the wound to keep it open. The flow will slow, but keep the wound open until the cup is full.”

  Caris’s hands grew slippery with sweat. Her father had told tales of Heralds scouring battlefields for every flake of holy scab, and how some could read auguries from where they fell. She tried to push these images aside, and imagined she was simply letting blood from one of Mother Ganner’s blood-stallions, to make blood draughts for the inn.

  Holding her breath, she dipped the razor in and out of the vein, and an arc of violet Blood followed. The spurt surprised her, and she almost dropped the cup as she pulled it away to catch the arc before pressing it back to Molly’s side as it flagged.

  A shudder rippled through Molly’s enormous frame, and she let out a rumbling groan.

  “Good.” Willard’s voice scraped out as a whisper. “Keep it open until the cup is full.”

  Caris scraped away the scab, a little stab of panic spurring her heartbeat when she saw the wound had already closed, but a quick dip of the razor reopened it, and when the cup filled, she let it close and breathed a sigh of relief.

  A curl of smoke rose from the new scab as a purple scar rose and thickened beneath it.

  Smoke.

  She stepped back, staring at Molly in awe. The cup burned Caris’s fingers, so she had to continually move it from one hand to the other. Was there fire in her blood? The Mad God was in her, after all—the war god, the god of fire and destruction.

  Molly held her head high. Her scarred sides heaved as if she’d been running, and hot, sulfurous air gusted from scarred nostrils.

  Something thrilled through Caris. She bowed deeply and backed away. The gesture came unbidden, unplanned, but it was as natural as kneeling for a queen.

  When she brought the cup to Willard, his cheek seemed sunken and pale. He licked his lips, almost panting with anticipation. “Remember what I told you,” he said in a ragged whisper. When she didn’t answer right away, he tore his gaze from the cup and lifted his eyes to her. She hadn’t anticipated the eye contact, and flinched. How she hated touching eyes! Harric had explained to her how important this signal was to people, like ear movements to horses. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier, however, and she guessed this was a time when meeting eyes was important.

  The roaring started in her ears, and her vision began to narrow.

  Instead of looking away, she closed her eyes. Looking away was her “biggest tell,” according to Harric. If she didn’t touch eyes, people would judge her. But he’d also taught her the trick of staring at people’s noses instead. It seemed ridiculous when he first suggested it—she’d thought he mocked her—but he convinced her to try it, swearing that no one would know the difference. And he was right. No one did notice. And it wasn’t as bad as touching eyes.

  “Girl!”

  She opened her eyes and stared at the tip of the knight’s bulbous nose.

  “Do you remember what might happen when I take the Blood?”

  An ugly lump sat in her gut. “Yes. Krato’s words, not yours.”

  He nodded. “Be ready. Plug your ears; do as you will. Just don’t listen.”

  “And…you will remember nothing of what he says?”

  Willard shook his head. “Nothing.” His hungry eyes returned to the cup, and beads of sweat pricked out on his forehead.

  “How will I know when you’re back?”

  “Gods take it, girl, give me the cup before it hardens!”

  Her hand trembled as she set the razor back in its box and lifted the cup to his lips. He sucked and swallowed, and then sucked the scab from the bottom and licked at the cup. Her stomach rose in protest as she held it for him, but she held it steady, and when he finally turned his head aside, she set the smoking cup in the box with the razor.

  Willard gasped as if in tremendous pain, then thrashed against his bonds.

  Heart leaping, Caris retreated a few steps. Did the Blood burn as it went down? Did it burn in his stomach and in his veins as it spread through his body? Willard roared, and she jumped; his voice had taken on an uncanny volume and basso tone.

  Before she could tear her eyes away and flee, his head whipped toward her, eyes blazing violet. Grinning maniacally, teeth stained with Blood, he roared, “Thou!” The voice sent vibrations through her that seemed to reach into her chest and squeeze her heart to a halt. The flesh of Willard’s face pulled back, baring teeth and bulging his eyes in hideous parody of the man. His eyes raked her up and down as if they would pry the iron plates from her body.

  The sight froze her in place. A small corner of her mind screamed, Run! but the god’s eyes held her like snake eyes charmed a bird.

  A purple tongue slid across his lips. “Kneel for me.”

  Caris inhaled suddenly, strongly, as if someone stuck her with a hot nail. Her heart started again. Though her feet and gaze seemed frozen in place, her hands were free. She tugged a plated gauntlet onto one hand, and wadded up the rag she kept for swabbing her brow on the trail.

  “Mis-bred thing,” said Willard-Krato. “Unfit for life.” The violet eyes seemed to penetrate to her soul, her deepest self. “Thy brood-mother should have smothered you on sight. Thou art half beast. Unworthy of station.”

  Caris tried to move, but the voice held her. There was a presence behind the voice, a captivation, and her heart rose to it, bared itself for approval…so these words cut deep. Each was a keen dirk sliding lazily past her armor into her heart.

  Part of her kicked in pain and protest, but still her heart rose, craving approval, surrendering to the truth of his divine judgment—despairing, yet still rising, hoping for some small sign of favor in the contempt.

  “Do you wear the color of cobalt?” he said. “Thou art unfit for any color. Thou hast no blood rank. True men turn from you in disgust. Thou wilt breed slaves with bastards.”

  Caris crammed the rag in his mouth.

  She shouted as she did it, though to her own ears it sounded more like a cry, and Willard-Krato’s eyes bugged like they’d pop from their sockets. The attack came as such a surprise to him that she got most of it in before he realized what was happening. With a steel-clad thumb, she crammed the rag between gnashing teeth until he gagged and his jaw slacked to let her stuff in the rest.

  Purple with rage, he choked on the gag and tried to spit it out.

  She grabbed the dust kerchief that hung around his neck and pulled it up over his mouth to hold the gag in. Before she could get it in place, he began thrashing his head from side to side, so she lost grip and it fell back about his neck.

  Panicking, she slammed his head back against the tree with the back of one arm, and locked it in her armpit until she could haul the kerchief up across his mouth.

  The moment she sprang clear, Willard-Krato went berserk.

  He roared into the gag. His eyes bulged with fury as he bucked against the chains, but even with Krato’s help, Willard’s body was no match for chains designed for Molly.

  Caris put her hands on her hips as she caught her breath and assessed her handiwork. And though she kept her gaze well clear of his eyes, she found herself drawn to him—to that ego-annihilating presence—in the same way she was tempted by Molly’s presence. To catch a glimpse of the improvised bridle she’d made him, she had to imagine he was nothing but a snake-bit stallion she’d tamed and stabled. To her relief, the gag appeared to be holding tight across his mouth. It had been too tight to lift over his mouth easily, so when she yanked it over his chin, it probably left a nasty burn. Something like guilt gave a tug at her heart, but she snuffed it. He’d said, Do what you will, after all, and he wouldn’t remember.

  The important thing was that she’d sil
enced Krato.

  A terrible cracking sound from Willard made her flinch. She looked and saw he’d begun grinding the kerchief between his teeth. It sounded like the cracking of bones beneath boots, and his eyes burned with such hatred that she almost felt them scorch her skin. His judgment reared above her, and she felt her heart helplessly rising for approval.

  With a cry, she hurried away, burying herself in Rag’s calm.

  Safe. Steady.

  When she’d covered twenty strides, she glanced back to him straining against the chains, veins popping, the burning gaze following as he gnawed the gag. She couldn’t stop him from gnawing through. But it only needed to hold long enough for her to get out of hearing.

  Swishing tails. Sun on tired legs. A quiet snort.

  The darkness fell away, and she picked up her pace to a jog. And as her mind cleared and her heart recovered, she felt a troubling giggle rising in her lungs.

  She’d gagged the Mad God. She’d silenced him.

  The very idea terrified her…yet she felt just like she’d won a tournament against an Old One.

  As the sound of Willard’s struggles faded behind her, the giggle became nearly continuous. Some of it came from triumph, but as much came from nervous terror. What if he broke free and took her? What if… But no. He was bound with iron. He was lashed to a tree until she released him.

  To the gods with terror.

  She jumped like a colt. “Stuffed his gob!”

  As if in sympathy, the chirp of birds and chatter of river grew louder, and she saw the water’s glittering surface through the brush.

  The horses looked up as she rejoined them, their ears perked in curiosity, and she greeted Rag with a nuzzle. As she stroked her smooth cheek, Rag nickered and nudged her back. The mare’s ears swiveled toward her as if she wanted in on the joke.

  “Hard to explain.” She held up a carrot she’d saved from her lunch, and felt the tickle of whiskers as Rag lipped it up from her palm. “Besides, you’re happier not knowing.”

  A distant bellow sounded in the forest from the direction of Willard’s tree. Willard-Krato must have finally gnawed through the kerchief. Thankfully, she was far enough away that she could not discern words, but his fury was immense and tireless, like the roars of an outraged yoab. The horses’ ears swiveled toward the sound, eyes widening as they looked to Caris, and she soothed them with soft sounds and pats.

  “He can’t get to us. Let him bellow.”

  Nevertheless, the roars made her wonder. Even if Willard wouldn’t remember the gag, what if Krato did? What if next time he cursed her before she could gag him? She was probably overthinking it. Maybe Willard had not meant the god literally occupied his flesh. Maybe that was just an expression meaning the Blood made him vile, like the god made him say things like the god would say.

  She chewed her lip, wishing Harric was there. He saw things from a different vantage. Half the time, the irreverence of that vantage infuriated her, but sometimes it helped her see something she would not see alone. And often he set her heart at ease.

  As soon as she removed the horses’ hobbles, she looped the lead line through their halters and formed a train, then secured the lead on Rag’s saddle. As she led them downstream, she realized that in addition to the buzz of worry in her mind, thought of Harric had summoned up a dull ache in her chest. She frowned. She shouldn’t have let herself dwell on him, but her heart kept returning to thoughts of him. They’d only been apart a few hours, and already she missed him. If she could lay a false trail for Bannus and return to Willard without much difficulty, they could catch up to Harric by sunset and bed.

  Bed. Her face grew warm. Stupid. They couldn’t share a bed in such company.

  What a thought that was! Now her cheeks blazed. Yet this urge had burned in her for the last couple of days—a new and foreign fire in her—and it confused and angered her. It was that loathsome ring’s doing. It had to be. It forced her feelings, and now it seemed to be giving her these physical urges. She managed to snuff them when she focused on the horses or on some other engrossing task, but the moment she let down her guard, she found herself plotting beds or private moments. Gods leave it!

  She bit back a yell of frustration.

  I miss him. I hate him. I want to bed him.

  If she cast her mind back to before the ring, she recalled she had actually scorned him. She’d never forget when she saw him caught for conning a slave-lord in Gallows Ferry. She remembered clearly how shocked and ashamed she’d felt. In that moment, a dozen little details of his behavior over the previous weeks had fallen in place and she’d seen the pattern of trickery and dishonor in him. Still…he’d been kind to her. When she’d first arrived in Gallows Ferry—confused and prone to horse-touched episodes of panic—he’d helped her. He’d come to her aid when no one else did, and got her on her feet. They’d been misfit friends.

  But even then, before she’d learned what a trickster knave he was, she’d had no attraction or physical urges. Once, when Ana asked her what she thought of Harric, she’d made Ana laugh by referring to him as a runt.

  She buried her face in Rag’s sun-warmed mane and breathed in the mare’s scent.

  Was that how she’d seen him? A runt? It must have been. But that was stupid. He was finely formed, his shoulders and buttocks—

  Her face grew hot again. Gods take the ring!

  She fled fully into the world of the horses and, since the only male in the string was a gelding, found no such urges there. Shared sensory images flooded her mind. Green juice filled her mouth, soft greens dissolving on her tongue. Rough-edged herbs surrendered their pungency between molars. Gradually, she felt her heartbeat calm.

  “Safe. Steady,” she murmured. Rag nuzzled her.

  With a sigh, she mounted. Turning back toward the river, she led the string of horses downstream along the sunny riverbank. Her task was to leave a few miles of tracks and then release the captured horses and send them southward. Let that task divert her from thoughts of Harric.

  They followed the river for a half-mile of easy going on soft sandbars and gravel banks. Then the watercourse bent, and the bank ahead bristled with palisades of logs and massive boulders. Instead of searching for a way around, she turned back to the ancient forest. If she could find one of the yoab runs Mudruffle had indicated on his map, it might prove the easiest way for the horses to take southward.

  She glanced back at Mudruffle’s inert figure behind her saddle.

  “Wish you were here to guide me,” she said, laying a hand on his cool clay hat.

  Upon learning that the Heralds had excommunicated her from the lists of the Arkendian Blood Ranks, Queen Chasia responded with this proclamation: “Henceforth shall this day be known as Excommunication Day, and a holiday. On this day let none work, but let the bells ring, let bonfires blaze, and let my people make dances and sing, for never have tidings brought me such joy.” In this way, she mocked the Heralds…and for it, the people best love Excommunication Day.

  —From Queen Chasia’s Golden Years, by Blue Gildrus

  31

  False Trail

  Scents of rich green life filled Caris’s senses as she plunged the horses into the forest. Behind her the clatter of the river fell to a low rush, like the breath of wind in distant trees. Eventually, all sound hushed, as if in awe of the ancient trunks like standing columns in some green god’s palace. Beams of sunlight slanted down from holes in the canopy, illuminating clouds of dancing insects. During the worrisome detour with Willard, she hadn’t noticed the forest’s grandeur, but now her heart felt lighter and her spirits rose, eyes lifted to the soaring canopy.

  She soon found, however, that even though the trees were widely spaced and the canopy was an airy dome above them, the floor of the forest was crisscrossed with fallen trunks of the ancient giants, which made travel difficult. Harric had a name for these logs. Something like “seed mounds” or “sapling beds,” because the rotting bulks acted as raised beds for seedlings to ge
t a start above the shading ferns and shrubs. During her long hours in the saddle, she’d come up with her own name—“swan logs,” because they reminded her of the swans at home, which carried swanlings on their backs, raised above the water until big enough to brave the moat themselves. And because the tree’s final sacrifice to its children was like the swan’s dying song, which was its most beautiful.

  Pretty names aside, the great bulks were too high for horses to cross, and after dozens of dead ends and backtracks, she decided the best name was maze logs.

  Swallowing her frustration, she picked her way west, hoping to intersect a yoab run.

  How long since she’d left Willard? She glanced up, but could not see the position of the sun through the canopy. She imagined they’d been gone an hour, which left her only one more hour before she’d have to send the captured horses south and loop back.

  Rag’s head rose, alert, and her body stiffened.

  Yoab.

  Rag’s nostrils flared, and Caris smelled it through her. A rank mildew and urine stink. Both of them remembered it from their nearly disastrous encounter with a yoab on their way to Abellia’s tower. And this was not an old scent, months old, like it should be. It was pungent and sharp, as if laid down that morning. Piles. She chewed her lip. Had the monsters already come down from summer feeding on the hillsides?

  The other horses whinnied, fear rising in them like froth in a boiling pot, forcing Caris to spread her attention among them to still their drumming hearts. She gave Rag extra attention, smoothing the aroused memories of their last encounter. She could not allow the mare’s fear to blossom as it had the first time they met a yoab: the moment that beast had roared, Rag’s fear overwhelmed Caris so swiftly that she’d become part of it, blacking out until long after their wild flight through the forest. If they encountered another yoab, she could not allow that to happen again.

  As soon she felt she could spare some of her concentration, she stood in her stirrups and scanned over the fallen trunks for signs of yoab. Nothing. No huge beast disguised as a hill of moss and lichens. But the space beyond the logs looked scoured and tilled as if a yoab had fed there. She urged Rag forward, and they rounded a swan log and entered into the yoab feeding site. In the space about the size of a large corral, the forest floor had been stripped of all plants and plant matter—alive and dead—leaving a tumult of thin soil and sand and rock, as if it had been tilled by a mad giant’s plow.