“Coincidence,” she finally said. “It’s weird, but so what?”
“The three of you are linked by your untimely birth,” Jerrod told her. “Some would call you cursed, but it is more accurate to say you have all been touched by Chaos in some way.”
“I’m no wizard,” Scythe assured him. “And neither is Vaaler, from what I can tell.”
“Chaos manifests in many different ways,” Jerrod explained. “We’ve all seen Keegan’s power; with him it is obvious.
“Vaaler’s parents were both blessed with the Sight, yet he is completely blind to its visions,” Jerrod continued. “He cannot summon Chaos, yet his mind is quick to grasp the most complex and intricate theories of magic. Ironic, maybe even tragic … but not that surprising if you understand that Chaos usually defies expectations.”
He paused, and Scythe knew he was waiting for her to ask, “What about me?” But she refused to give him the satisfaction. After a few seconds Jerrod resumed, undeterred by her silence.
“You are touched in a different way. You are driven by impulse and emotion. You are quick to act—rashly and often violently.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” Scythe laughed. “Based on that, everyone I knew back in Callastan was touched by Chaos.”
“With you it goes deeper,” Jerrod insisted. “There is an aura about you. I first sensed it in the encounter with the Inquisitors. During the battle you were little more than a blur to my Sight. A random, unpredictable storm swirls around you. Most would be devoured by it, but you ride the storm. You embrace the Chaos. It makes you strong.”
Scythe shrugged off the blatant appeal to her ego for what it really was.
“I know the games fortune-tellers play,” she warned him. “Spit out some vague generalizations about human nature, throw in some compliments to make the mark feel good, then sit back and watch as the client twists the words to make them fit the specifics of his or her own life. It’s just a con.”
“There are charlatans who use such techniques,” he admitted. “But in the Order there were true prophets. When they first dreamed of the Burning Savior, much was unclear. They saw a figure bathed in fire and flames, but little else. We did not know where our savior would be born, or even if we were searching for a boy or a girl.
“Now I understand their confusion,” the monk continued. “Keegan is the savior, but he does not stand alone. There is a deep and powerful connection among Keegan, Vaaler, and you. To unlock his full potential and achieve Keegan’s destiny, all of you must work together.”
“Nice try,” Scythe said, shaking her head. “But I’m not letting you drag me into your crazy plans.”
“You refuse to see what is right in front of you,” Jerrod admonished. “The curse Keegan placed on Shalana was the first step in a much greater journey. Keegan cast the spell, but it was you who urged him to take action. You inspired him to use his power, and Vaaler showed him how to direct and control the Chaos. This was only possible because all three of you worked together.”
“I just wanted Keegan to help Norr,” Scythe protested. “That’s all it was.”
“No,” Jerrod insisted. “There are greater forces at work. Crossing paths with you wasn’t just random chance. You were destined to become part of this.”
“I wanted to kill you back then,” Scythe reminded him. “Keegan, too.”
“But you didn’t,” Jerrod countered. “And now we share a common purpose. I was blind to this at first; I stood in opposition to you. Now I realize you and Vaaler are as important to stopping the armies of the Slayer as Keegan. Now I see the truth.”
Scythe knew there wasn’t any point in continuing the argument; logic could never sway the mind of a fanatic. Jerrod wasn’t actually interested in any kind of objective truth. Faced with facts that didn’t match his original narrative, he wouldn’t reconsider or reevaluate his position. Instead, he’d redefine and recalibrate his interpretations of his prophecy to make things fit. He’d twist his perception of events so that they supported his beliefs, regardless of what actually happened.
“Does this mean you’re on my side now?” she asked.
“I always was,” he told her. “I just didn’t realize it until now.”
“How much of this have you told Keegan?” she asked, worried the monk’s crazy theories might heighten the young man’s infatuation with her.
“Nothing,” Jerrod answered. “I have not spoken to Vaaler yet, either. They are already both on the proper path; they have already accepted their roles in Keegan’s destiny.”
Now the real purpose of the meeting became clear: Jerrod was here to try to bring her into line.
Scythe was pretty sure his newfound loyalty wouldn’t last. Keegan’s role as the savior seemed to be the only constant in his religious delusions. Sooner or later she’d say or do something that contradicted the image Jerrod had so carefully constructed for her and he’d respond by redefining his prophecy yet again.
Probably decide I’m some kind of false prophet who needs to be cleansed from Keegan’s life.
Until that inevitable betrayal, however, she was more than happy to make Jerrod think she was buying into his madness.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Especially the crazy ones.
“I guess it’s good to know you’ve got my back now,” she said.
“I know you don’t believe me,” he said. “I hope in time you will come to see the truth for yourself though I don’t believe it matters either way.”
There were plenty of responses she could give, but she knew none of them would make the monk rethink his position. And she was too tired to argue, anyway. So she said nothing.
Much to Scythe’s relief, Jerrod seemed to take the hint and turned to go. Raising the flap of the tent, he paused and looked back over his shoulder at her.
“You are part of something greater than you realize. You and Keegan share something deeper and more powerful than you can comprehend. Destiny will not be denied.”
He vanished before Scythe could reply. Exhausted, she tied off the tent flap and curled up beside Norr.
Think whatever you want, but I’m more than just a pawn in your stupid prophecy.
She clung to that thought defiantly even as she felt sleep creeping in, the rhythmic rumble of her lover’s snores washing over her as she slipped away into blackness.
Every breath Shalana drew was agony.
Norr had cracked at least two of her ribs with the blow that brought her low. Her left side was one giant purple-and-black contusion from her armpit to her hip. Her back ached, another dark bruise marking the spot where the big man’s knee had kept her pinned to the ground and forced her to yield.
Her shoulder ached; she was lying awkwardly on her right side. But she knew shifting positions would bring on a wave of new torments, so she ignored and endured her discomfort.
Physical pain was nothing new to her. She bore the scars of several battles—some much worse than what she’d suffered in the duel with Norr. But those wounds and injuries had always come in victory. The pain she felt in defeat was different: an inescapable reminder of her failure and humiliation.
In the aftermath of the duel, a handful of her supporters had forced their way through the celebrating crowd and helped her to her feet. They had guided their fallen champion through the bedlam of Norr’s victory, ignored and forgotten, until she reached her tent.
No, not my tent. The clan chief’s tent. It belongs to Norr now.
She wondered how long until he came to claim what was his. Hopefully not until tomorrow. For this night, at least, she just wanted to be left alone.
The thanes who had escorted her to the tent were gone, leaving her side hours ago to go pay their respects to Norr. She didn’t resent them for abandoning her; it was important for them to show the new leader that he had their support and loyalty. Any claim she had over them had been forfeited in the duel.
He was hobbled. Crippled. Standing on one leg by the end. And I
still lost.
She kept replaying the battle over and over in her head, watching as victory slipped through her hands time after time and trying to understand what went wrong.
It almost seemed as if fate itself didn’t want her to win. As if destiny had chosen Norr to be chief, and her to be simply cast aside.
Or was it something else?
Terramon’s final words before the battle rose up like an accusing spirit from her memory: Now that Norr is back, I only hope you stay strong enough to defeat him.
Her father was a cruel and heartless man. But he wasn’t stupid. He had sensed something in her. Some flaw or failing that made him wary, despite Norr’s vulnerability.
Weakness.
Was it really fate that snatched victory from her grasp? Or had she subconsciously sabotaged herself? Did some part of her feel sympathy or pity for Norr? Did some part of her feel bad about trying to force him into marrying her? Did some part of her actually want to lose?
These were questions she didn’t want to face. Not tonight. So she rolled over onto her back, easing the throbbing in her aching shoulder but unleashing fresh agony in her ribs.
She gasped and gritted her teeth, but the pain cleared her mind. Unable to sleep, she let her consciousness drift, unfocused and free. Faint laughter and singing rose up from the night’s silence, carried on the wind from the celebrations still going on in the Long Hall. And then another, all-too-familiar sound—the thumping of a cane against the flap of the tent.
For several seconds she ignored Terramon’s presence, hoping he would just go away. Of course, that didn’t happen.
“Shalana,” his voice hissed in the night, the cane’s rapping against the tent becoming more insistent. “Shalana, wake up!”
With a faint groan, she rolled back over onto her right side. It took several seconds before the fresh burst of pain faded enough for her to speak.
“I’m awake.”
That was more than enough invitation for Terramon, and he quickly pulled the flap aside and thumped his way into the tent. She expected him to sit, but he chose to remain standing: a dim shadow in the blackness of the tent.
“Still sitting in the darkness,” he muttered.
Shalana braced herself for the coming lecture.
“I tried to warn you,” he said, with a weary shake of his head.
“I didn’t listen,” she answered, keeping all emotion from her voice.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” he assured her.
“I know.” You wanted me to win so you could stay in power. You were my right hand, first among the thanes. Now you are just one of many.
The chief had the power to both name and reject thanes. By right, Norr could strip her father of his title. However, despite his personal dislike of Terramon, he wasn’t likely to take such a drastic step. To preserve the unity of the clan, he’d probably let her father—and the rest of Shalana’s supporters—keep their titles, though they would have far less influence over the new chief than those who had backed Norr’s claim.
“I spoke to Norr,” Terramon told her.
Of course you did. You know he doesn’t trust you, but that won’t keep you from trying to get close to his ear.
She wasn’t surprised her father had already cast her aside. He was scrambling to forge new alliances, trying to secure his position so he could slowly rebuild his sphere of influence under the new chief’s rule.
Norr wasn’t a vengeful or spiteful man; at least he hadn’t been when she knew him. He wouldn’t openly speak out against Shalana or take any action against her or her supporters. But the Stone Spirits would still see her as his rival. Though technically still part of the clan, she was a fallen and defeated adversary in their midst, and anyone befriending her would be looked at with suspicion.
Eventually she could regain her status among the clan by proving herself in battle and through loyal service to Norr and his thanes. But it would take time—months or possibly even years. Until then she would be ignored and shunned, a pariah among her own people.
If that is what must be, it must be.
“I made Norr an offer,” her father explained. “He accepted.”
What kind of offer? Shalana wondered, though she didn’t say the words aloud. And why would Norr accept?
Norr had grown up under Terramon’s reign. He knew what kind of man her father was: ambitious, ruthless, cunning. Age had stripped him of his warrior’s skills, but he could still use political manipulation to bring an enemy low. Surely Norr had to recognize that Terramon was the single biggest threat to the continued loyalty of the thanes. The glow of the Red Bear’s triumphant return would fade in a few months. As winter settled in and the day-to-day realities of life washed away the luster of the new chief, there would be whispers of unrest. There would be questions about his long absence, his unexpected return, and his strange Outlander companions.
And what about Hadawas’s Conclave?
The leader of the Sun Blades—a clan even larger and more powerful than the Stone Spirits—had called a meeting of all the clan chiefs. If not for Norr’s arrival and unexpected challenge, Shalana and her thanes would already be making preparations for the journey.
Such a request was not made lightly; it had been forty years since the last Conclave: the time of the Purge in the Southlands. Hadawas was well respected among all the clans. The other chiefs knew he must have had a good reason to call them together in the last few weeks before winter gripped the East in her icy fist: some looming crisis or disaster.
Whatever it was, Shalana had no doubt it would be the first real test of Norr’s leadership. And if he stumbled in any way, she had no doubt Terramon would try to turn the situation against him.
So whom will you back this time, Father? Who among the thanes will you chose to be your next puppet?
“You need to speak to Norr, too,” Terramon continued when Shalana—lost in her own convoluted thoughts—failed to respond. “Tomorrow, if you are well enough.”
“He doesn’t need to hear from me,” Shalana spat out, suddenly angry.
You destroyed me with your manipulation and your games. Now you’ll try to destroy Norr. He doesn’t deserve this!
“All the thanes are paying their respects to the new chief,” Terramon reminded her.
“I’m not a thane.”
“Not yet. But Norr will name you to his council if you come to him.”
Shalana blinked in surprise.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I told him I would step aside if he chose you as my replacement.”
“I … I don’t understand.” Shalana’s head was spinning as she tried to wrap her mind around his words.
“Norr promised to bring you to the Conclave,” Terramon continued. “He has sworn to give you a position of honor and importance among his supporters.”
“This is madness,” Shalana gasped.
“Norr doesn’t trust me,” her father explained. “But he still admires and respects you. He always will. He wants you to be on the same side. He still has not learned the lesson I tried to teach you both.”
“I won’t betray him,” she said, her voice cold. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”
Terramon shook his head. “Why not? He turned his back on the clan and abandoned you when he left.”
That was your fault.
“Now he has returned and taken away what is rightfully yours. He humiliated and shamed you in front of everyone.”
“He won the duel,” she muttered. “He earned the right to be chief.”
“Don’t be a fool,” her father spat. “We both know he cheated!”
Shalana didn’t answer right away. She didn’t think Norr was capable of something so dishonorable … but she hadn’t thought he would simply vanish five years ago, either.
“Do you have any proof for these accusations?” she asked.
“I saw what happened in the duel,” he answered. “The victory was yours, and then it was somehow snat
ched away.
“The masses may be blinded by the legend of the Red Bear,” he continued, “but I still see clearly enough to know he had no hope of beating you on only one leg. And yet, somehow, he was the victor. It was … unnatural.”
As much as she hated to admit it, Terramon was right. Something odd had happened in the duel. But whatever it was, it wasn’t something she could explain. Or prove.
“Even if you are right,” she told him, “nobody will listen.”
“No,” he admitted. “Not without evidence to back our words. But Norr still has feelings for you. He will be looking for someone he knows and trusts to help him lead the clan. He will bring you into his confidence.
“Wait. Watch. Listen. In time, you will uncover his treachery. And then you can take back your birthright!”
“I don’t want to play your games anymore,” she said, rolling over so that her back was to him. The pain caused her to grit her teeth, but she managed not to cry out.
“This is not a game,” Terramon said after several long seconds of silence. “When the truth is revealed, you will realize Norr is not worthy of being chief. It will be up to you to bring him low.”
Shalana didn’t bother to answer.
Her father endured the crushing silence for several long seconds before adding, “I know you better than you know yourself. You are my daughter; you are my blood. You will do what is necessary to keep the clan strong.”
Then she heard him pull aside the hide flap and step out into the night, moving slowly while leaning heavily on his cane for support.
Shalana lay motionless in the darkness of her tent long after he was gone, her mind too busy thinking about what Terramon had said to notice the aches and pains in her body, until she finally drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 18
SURROUNDED BY HER dogs, the Pack Master raced across the snow-covered plains with long, loping strides, her body hunched so low the tips of her fingers grazed the frozen earth. The wind whistled in her ears and her long, dark hair trailed out wildly behind her. Her breath came in ice-fogged clouds as she panted heavily, her pounding heart pumping hot, eager blood through her veins to ward off the chill in the air.
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