Entwined Paths (Swift Shadows Book 2)

by M. L. Greye

  “You could still do it,” Levric said thoughtfully. “However, you’ll need to switch your tactic.”

  “How so?” Emry blinked.

  “You’re looking into this as a top-down solution when a bottom-up approach might provide better results,” he replied.

  “I’m not following.” She frowned.

  “It seems as though you’re looking into changing the country by ruffling the feathers of your lords and ladies, forcing them to defer to you on the condition of your birthright,” Levric remarked. “What if instead you gain the favor of the majority of your people – the commoners?”

  Emry almost laughed. She held it back as she said dryly, “Wouldn’t that be ideal? The issue is that no Rioter in his right mind would listen to me, the Crown Jewel. As for the rest of them, they’d wonder why one of their princesses is suddenly talking to them. Not to mention, my father would disapprove and most likely ban me from wandering the regions just to chat with peasants. His advisors might even be so bold as to call it treasonous – me overstepping my bounds.”

  “And what if you went by an alias?”

  “What?” She blurted.

  “As you said, the Rioters would ignore you, and all others would suspect your motives.” Levric clasped his hands in his lap. “Do you know much about the current organization of the Rioters?”

  She shook her head, ignoring her shame at her own inadequacies. “No.”

  “That’s most likely because there isn’t any.” He grunted, surprising her. “Each region has its own faction with even smaller clusters of differing opinions throughout. There is no singular leader. They’re a chaotic, jumbled mess, which is why the Royals discredit the Rioters as little more than disgruntled peasants.”

  “Alright,” she said slowly.

  “Now, for the past several months, I’ve pondered over the notion of what good would come to the Rioters if they had someone to lead them. To unite them.” Levric went back to scrubbing his chin with his hand. “They could become a powerful force. Something to be reckoned with. A faction the king could not ignore.”

  “You’re suggesting I become that person?” Emry let out a short laugh. “The Jewel turned Rioter?”

  Levric shook his head. “No, I’m suggesting you lead your people.”

  “Under an alias. A lie.” She furrowed her eyebrows.

  “Not necessarily,” he replied. “I think you should simply go by another title. Don’t use a name. A title can be just as, if not more, compelling.”

  “A title,” she repeated. “Like, the Jewel of the Rioters?”

  “That would be too close to your actual position, but yes, something similar.” He nodded.

  “I’ll have to think up something then.” Emry shifted her gaze between Declan’s parents. “This is the problem you took to my father?”

  “No, but I do believe that you becoming the leader of the Rioters can help us with our issue.” He gave her another smile.

  Emry wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Her, becoming the leader of the Rioters. It was an insane idea. Yet, if it worked … Emry blew her breath out in a rush. “Where do we begin?”

  :::::

  That night at dinner things between Emry, and her father were tense. Neither she nor Onyx said much for half of it. Cit kept glancing between them until at last Onyx sighed and apologized for snapping at her earlier.

  Emry glanced up in surprise. She hadn’t been silent because she was still cross with him. Her mind was on the conversation with Declan’s parents. On how she first had to come up with a leader persona and then needed to go back out into the regions. She was actually thinking about how she’d bring up her traveling again to Onyx.

  If her father was feeling remorseful, though, she might as well do it now. It was a little manipulative of her, but Emry wasn’t sure when he might be more willing to let her travel again. It’d taken the coaxing of his advisors to let her go to Heerth, and she’d already traveled the regions once within the last year.

  She cleared her throat. “Apology accepted, Father. I was wondering, though, what your thoughts would be on me leaving to Glavenryl for another tour.”

  Both Cit and her father look startled. “Why?” Onyx asked.

  Because Levric had suggested it. Because the Glav Rioters were the most organized after Anexia. She couldn’t give her real reasons, so she went with a half-truth. “There’s so much more I wish to see of it.”

  “If you go off traveling again, the country will suspect your birth order,” Onyx replied. “Cit should travel next.”

  Again with that idiotic tradition. She glanced at Cit who had gone pale. “I have no desire to travel,” Cit said quietly.

  Emry winced inwardly. She grasped for a different angle. For anything… “Then announce Cit’s desire for a Trials, and no one will suspect my traveling. They’ll assume she is the elder of us.”

  Onyx pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply as he did. Emry was readying herself to combat his rejection, when he nodded. “Start your tour in Kruth. I don’t want the Glavs to think themselves overly special because you began there twice.”

  Emry allowed herself a small sigh of relief. He’d said yes. That was the important part. Even if it was to Kruth first. She’d make it to Glav eventually. “Thank you, Father. In the morning, I’ll begin my preparations to leave.”

  He only nodded again and returned to his meal. Cit, though, eyed her suspiciously. As soon as dinner ended, Emry headed to her room – in no mood to linger. Before she got far, however, Cit linked her arm through Emry’s and steered her to the parlor with her pianoforte.

  Once inside, with the door closed, she whirled on Emry. “Why are you leaving again? And what did Father fight with you about?”

  Emry sank onto a mint colored chair with rose gold embroidered lilies all over it. Cit’s favorite flower. She frowned. Unsure of how much to tell Cit – if Cit would understand Emry’s wish to unite their people again. Would Cit go running to their father if she said anything? Taking a deep breath, Emry decided that for now she would keep her plotting to herself. At the moment it really was nothing more than a scheme inside of her head that she’d discussed over once with Declan’s parents. There wasn’t anything to tell.

  “I want to see more of our country before I must rule it.” Not a lie.

  “And your fight?”

  “Do you remember Declan Sharpe?” Emry bit the tip of her tongue.

  Citrine blinked. “Ewan’s friend? The boy who saved you?”

  “Yes.” Emry nodded. “I ran into his mother yesterday. She came all the way to Breccan to try to see Father. I set up a meeting this morning for her and her husband, and that angered Father. He said I didn’t go through the proper channels.”

  “What was the meeting about?” Cit frowned.

  “They wouldn’t say.” Emry shrugged as if that was all there was to it – as if she hadn’t sought them out afterwards.

  “Oh.” Cit dropped onto her pianoforte’s bench – her gaze on her hands in her lap. She was silent for a moment. Then, “How long will you be gone this time?”

  “When will your Trials be?”

  “Six months,” Cit replied. “I think.”

  Emry would be required to be home for those. The first Trials in a hundred years. It was going to be a big deal. She smiled for Cit’s benefit. “I’ll probably be gone just four months, like last time. I’ll be here for your Trials.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Declan tripped and swore as he sprawled forward into a bush. Ignoring his now throbbing wrist and torn palms, he rolled back up to his feet in as smooth a movement as he could manage.

  Kearns had him running again, as she’d made him do every morning for months now. The difference, though, was that for the past two weeks, after Kearns told him to stop and he’d caught his breath just enough, he’d tell her, “Again.”

  Maybe Declan was drifting into madness like the Heerth Blue – Fiona – who asked for more torment from her
Main. He was overworking himself. Yet, he’d done it now every day for two weeks. He had yet to not puke as soon as he landed at Kearns’s feet on the last lap. She didn’t seem to care. Honestly, she tended to be so pleased with his display that she had been giving him an extra meal every time. Well, except for today.

  Today she’d told him he had to run again, as Declan had asked, and then duel that Green friend of his afterwards. She meant Genne. Kearns had seen them walking into dinner together the night before. Little did Kearns know that Genne was currently Rand’s nightly companion, ever since losing her tent in a duel against Rand the week before. Genne had failed her test.

  It was a sort of rite of passage in the camp. The way the Back Rubes progressed those who were ready for a living upgrade. Genne had been in a tent for five months and her Back Rube figured it was time to push her. Rand was widely accepted to be the best in the camp – ability versus ability. In order to get an upgrade into one of the wooden, slanted roof A-frames, a Stolen had to draw blood and pin Rand down for an entire minute. Genne had drawn blood but hadn’t held Rand down for the minute, so she’d lost her tent.

  Apparently, she figured it was better to be with Rand than to risk it out in the snow. Declan would have rather tried his luck outside.

  He was almost to Kearns again. His final lap in his final set. His lungs were burning, and his legs felt like they were made from butter, but he miraculously didn’t feel like vomiting. Kearns had sensed that somehow within him – felt he’d grown stronger. She’d realized he could run and fight Genne. Declan felt violated at the thought that Kearns knew his body better than he did – that she could search through his insides without a semblance of caution. The woman had no soul.

  As usual, once Declan passed Kearns, he stumbled to the ground, chest heaving. Kearns barely waited to the count of ten before kicking him in the side with the toe of her boot. “Get on a round.”

  He moaned and forced himself upright. His vision was swimming and he felt light-headed, but he made it to his feet, albeit slowly. “I said get up.” Kearns snapped. Declan’s stomach suddenly tightened – like she’d grabbed a hold of it and squeezed.

  A terrible idea on her part. Declan felt the bile rise up in his throat, and Kearns was conveniently just a couple feet away. He spun his head toward Kearns and spewed over her boots.

  Kearns swore vehemently and kicked her leg upward toward Declan’s face. She only caught air, though. He’d already moved around her and was halfway to the nearest round, smirking like a thief. A miniscule victory – that was what it felt like.

  Upon seeing him near, Genne stood from where she’d been drinking water and crossed to the opposite side of the round from Declan. Kearns stomped up to its edge – his puke splattering onto the muddy snow. “Sharpe! If you don’t make the Green beg, she gets your tent.”

  His jaw clenched as his minuscule victory dissipated. Kearns hadn’t threatened to take away his tent in weeks. He glanced at Genne and saw the hungry look on her face. The woman wanted the freedom the tent gave. It was snowing every night now – the dead of winter. Those who slept outside, except for the Pales and Oranges, didn’t wake up the next morning. Declan would have to whore himself out if he wished to live – something he’d been fortunate enough to avoid.

  “What are you waiting for?” Kearns snarled. “Begin!”

  The clay ripped to pieces beneath him as barbed vines flung towards him. Thick and pointed at the tips.

  Declan took one last glance at Genne’s determined, somewhat hopeful face and let himself drop into that dark place within him. That place where he had to hide his emotions – hide his real self. He tunneled down deep. He needed to remove himself from all empathy. From his pity. From himself. Because he would not lose his tent.

  He’d watched Genne fight Rand last week. Rand had broken off the tips of her vines and fashioned them into daggers to defeat her. Genne had added thorns, thinking she’d improved and would avoid the same outcome. Except Declan didn’t care if he bled to death today. Not when his tent was on the line. He tapped his speed and snapped off the tips of two of her vines, wrapping his hands around them at the base.

  Blood trickled down his arms, hot and sticky, and burning. He gritted his teeth and dove across the round, dodging Genne’s vines easily. He tackled her to the ground and put his two makeshift daggers to her throat. Genne cried out as she hit the clay. Declan pushed the tips into her neck pricking them. Genne froze.

  “Call it!” Declan shouted at Kearns.

  “I said make her beg,” his Main retorted.

  Declan made the mistake of catching Genne’s eyes as he glanced down at her. The horror. Exhaustion. Failure. Fear. So much fear. Declan held her gaze. He understood each one of those emotions – had experienced them himself. Fought with them every day. Every night. They were his constant companions.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Kearns hissed.

  He gritted his teeth, and tears spilled over Genne’s green eyes – eyes he’d once admired and found stunningly beautiful. And then he saw her gaze shift. To acceptance.

  She knew there was no way out. Either Declan caused her pain or he didn’t. Kearns would punish Declan for not hurting Genne, and she still wouldn’t have a tent. Kearns would still punish Genne for losing.

  If Declan carried out the punishment himself, he’d control her pain. He could make it look worse than it was. Could make it easier than whatever Kearns felt like dishing out. So once again he tunneled down into himself and closed his eyes before tapping into his speed.

  He made quick work of taking her own vines and wrapping them up her arms and legs. She moved so slowly. The whole world did. He had to be nothing more than a cold breeze – faster than the blur he’d once been.

  When he slowed, his chest was heaving. He told himself it was from all the exertion on an empty stomach, as he watched Genne stiffen and scream. Declan pulled the vines tighter and hundreds of spots on her body darkened with blood.

  “Stop!” Genne shrieked. “Stop! Stop!”

  Kearns was grinning, her eyes gleaming darkly. She hadn’t told him to stop, though, so Declan yanked the vines even tighter. Genne began to sob. “No more. Please, no more!”

  Declan stood there holding the vines and began to tremble in horror at what he’d done – what he was doing. Genne was thrashing and blood was beginning to pool. Still Kearns didn’t utter a word. Declan didn’t pull it any tighter, though. He couldn’t move. He was frozen in place as his disgust at his actions filled his throat, gagging him.

  Genne went on begging until what felt like an eternity later, Kearns finally said, “Enough.”

  He dropped the vines and glanced down at his bloodied palms. A Ruby rushed to Genne’s side and began freeing her.

  Genne was still sobbing and cried out as each thorn in the vine was removed from her flesh. Declan kept his eyes on his hands, trying not to flinch with each of her screams.

  Kearns came up alongside him. “Fix up your hands. You get to keep your tent and have dinner. You’re done for the day.” She patted his cheek, her warm fingers searing his skin, and walked off.

  A Ruby approached Declan. He was vaguely aware of the man healing his palms. He wasn’t sure how long it took him. Declan’s gaze was locked on Genne – at her blood-soaked sweater tunic and leggings. Utterly ruined. By him. Two Rubys dragged her away toward the infirmary tent.

  When the Ruby beside him said he was finished, Declan turned and headed to his tent. He felt sick. Had his stomach contained anything he would have thrown up. He flung open his tent flap, tied it shut behind him, and kicked off his boots. He then threw himself onto his furs, yanking one up over his body.

  Not caring that there were remnants of blood on his hands – of her blood on him – he dug his face into his pillow, curled into a ball, and sobbed.

  He was filthy. This whole camp was filthy. After what he’d just done, it was where he belonged. Today he’d acted heartless. Soulless. All for this tent.

 
He’d acted selfishly, horrifically. He’d made Genne beg. Genne. One of his few allies in this camp. He’d made her scream.

  Declan wrapped his arms around his middle. Despair yawned open before him, and Declan fell into it willingly.

  :::::

  He was running – so fast his feet hardly touched the ground. So fast the barren trees surrounding him were nothing more than a blur of grays and browns. So fast he barely made an indent on the snow beneath him.

  Declan was panting so hard his lungs felt on fire. Yet, still he pushed himself forward, onward – to what he didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to keep going. He was being tugged forward as if guided by a string. He ran and ran and ran, until his foot caught on a root, sending him sprawling into a mound of snow.

  The snow broke his fall better than he’d expected. He hardly felt a thing as he landed face first into it. A startled shriek had him rolling over. There was a woman standing over him. Blonde hair, silver eyes, high cheekbones–

  “Emry?” He blinked up at her, shaking the snow out of his hair with one hand.

  “Are you alright?” She frowned down at him, her arched brows drawn together.

  “It wasn’t a bad fall,” he said, sitting up.

  She reached out a hand, her cold fingertips brushing across his cheek. She pulled back, glancing down at her hand. “You’re crying.” Her eyes lifted to his. “Why do I keep finding you crying?”

  Was he? If he was, he honestly couldn’t remember the reason. All he could think of was that the tug had suddenly disappeared. But Emry was expecting an answer, so he said, “I can’t remember.”

  Her eyebrows raised, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she stood and scanned the barren forest. Declan pushed himself to his feet. “What are you looking for?”

  She took her eyes off the twisted empty branches, snow covered ground, and cloudy sky above to look at him. “I can’t remember,” she said slowly.

  “Well, which way were you headed? I can walk with you until you think of it again.” Declan didn’t want to leave her alone in a frozen forest. That couldn’t be safe.