Elyon (7 page)
Sucrow nicked Silvie’s throat to make his point. Her blood oozed along her soft skin and onto the altar. The priest collected the crimson liquid onto his fingers and dipped them into a bowl of water.
“It’s always more fun through the throat.”
Sucrow poured the bowl’s contents onto the wound. Smoke curled, sizzling. Silvie yelped and tried to jerk away but had nowhere to go.
The priest kept pouring. Silvie’s skin turned from white to yellow- green to gray.
Johnis lunged, but the guards held him back by the wrists. “Leave her alone!”
“It won’t kill her. At least, it isn’t supposed to.” Sucrow cackled.
A flash of movement. Darsal lifted the candle stand and went for the priest. Swung. Sucrow barely dodged the blow and dropped his bowl, reeling backward. Darsal jumped between Silvie and the priest.
Sucrow stood. He opened his palm and unleashed a stream of fire. Darsal dodged as the flame grazed her shoulder and scorched the stone floor. Her body slapped against the rock, her head bouncing.
Sucrow glided to Silvie’s side, amused at the whole situation. “Or perhaps I could do worse.” He dug his nails into her cheek. Silvie growled but could do nothing. The bloodstain taunted Johnis.
The priest kissed his fingers.
Johnis’s chest constricted. His muscles curled into knots. Shaeda—or he—snarled.
As Darsal groaned and picked herself up off the floor, Sucrow threw his knife at her. But another knife whizzed through the air and struck the priest’s midflight. The weapons ricocheted off each other and skittered across the hard floor. A blast of sound. Darsal slammed back against the wall, away from Johnis. Sucrow’s sorcery.
The room went still.
General Marak of Southern stood on the threshold, another knife ready. His gray-white eyes homed in on the priest.
“I’m pleased you could join us, General,” Sucrow scoffed, turning.
Johnis could feel the changes as Shaeda’s power finally began to flow into him. His heart pounded. They would end this, ally with the priest, get the general and the albino out of the way. His fists knotted. He could snap the metal chains like twigs.
“You’re well out of line, Priest,” Marak growled.
“She’s just an albino.”
“Arya is not. Release them now. We’re getting this cursed expedition over with.”
Johnis lunged for Silvie, but Marak caught him by the collar. Shaeda—through Johnis—lifted her hand and raised it toward Sucrow. She began to recite in a language Johnis didn’t know. His heart rate spiked.
“Save it,” the general snapped. “The next time, Priest, I will kill you.”
Sucrow cackled. “I half expected you to go running for Qurong.”
Marak’s eyes narrowed. “More proof I am not a priest. Let the girl up. We don’t have time for this.”
Inside him, Shaeda stirred, acknowledged the shift in focus. She lowered her talon and stopped mid-incantation. Marak was not in defiance of the priest; neither would he allow the priest access to the amulet. They were working together. He felt her power ebb. There would be no snapping of the chains.
Shaeda, please!
Johnis tugged his shackles. Didn’t Shaeda care?
No, not as long as he was not in danger. Marak was now the mediator between this entity inside and the priest. As long as it furthered the mission, she would not interfere. He must endure a little longer.
“And if I choose not to?” Sucrow sneered.
“Then Josef and I make the expedition without you.” The general’s expression darkened.
No! Silvie!
Johnis dove for one of Marak’s knives. Marak drew back and slapped him to the ground, hard. Johnis started up, but Marak’s sword point threatened to run him through.
“Enough,” Marak snarled. “What are your terms, Priest?”
Sucrow considered his options. “I keep the girl until this is over.”
“Fine. If she dies, the agreement is breached.”
“Agreed. And you kill the albino. She attacked me.”
The two stared each other down.
Marak pulled Johnis up and let him stand, but kept a knife pressed against his ribs. “Come,” he ordered Johnis and Darsal. “We have preparations to make.”
S
ucrow left his servants to clean up the mess and load the girl into a small cart with a built-in cage for transport. She would be ready along with his other provisions. He went to take a final look at the old legends, at the ceremony. It had been there all along, right under his nose. He chided himself for not seeing these things before.
But soon enough he would no longer require these fools.
Perhaps by then Marak would be in line. If not . . . more drastic measures might be required. But what more could you do to a man once you’d stripped him of everything?
Well, not everything. Marak still had his position and his very prominent ego.
And his life. And his best friend, Cassak.
But his beloved captain would soon be leaving him. The mere thought made Sucrow laugh. Already the potion was doing its work. Loyalties could be bought, coerced, and traded for improved honor.
“My lord?”
Sucrow glanced up, scowling. A servant stood at the door. Upon his bidding the wretch approached and bowed low.
“What could possibly lead you to bother me at this hour?”
“Marak’s captain is here.”
Like a faithful dog.
Sucrow chuckled.
“Bring him in.”
Sounds of commotion filtered in from the hallway as the captain stalked in, sword half-slung. His face was tight, shoulders back. Sucrow couldn’t quite read his expression.
“Reconsidered so soon, Captain?” Sucrow asked.
Cassak’s eyes turned icy. “What is it you want of me?”
Sucrow sat forward and laced his fingers beneath his chin. So the fish had taken the bait, had he? He concentrated, summoning the power of his lord and master to his aid. The captain scratched a spot on his neck, uncomfortable. He could not see the little serpent with its red, pulsing, star-shaped eye at his own throat.
So simple, this ability to control the heart and mind and body of a man.
“Nothing too difficult,” Sucrow assured. “You executed Jordan of Southern along with the other two, correct?”
The captain answered slowly. “I did.”
Technically true. Cassak carried out Marak’s order. It didn’t really matter. Marak was there; Marak gave the order. Sucrow just needed the general to remember who let fly the arrow.
“I would like a copy of your report, as well as Marak’s notations and Martyn’s war journals.” At Cassak’s hesitation, Sucrow reminded, “Qurong gave the general and me equal standing. He did not relinquish my rights to oversee executions. Besides, my understanding is the general made copies. I merely wish to see one of them.”
“Why do you want it now?”
“Merely review.” Sucrow managed something close to a pleased look. He took his staff in hand. “There is no need to tell Marak. I also want the amulet.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Patience, Captain. Tell me something: do you enjoy being a captain? I will put in a word to Qurong that your services have not yet been rewarded. What do you think?”
The little snake bit the captain on the jaw, entrancing him.
Cassak didn’t answer, but his eyes said he was interested.
“Together we will remind Marak of his duties.”
MARAK STOOD IN THE CLEARING SOUTH OF MIDDLE, JUST beyond the gates. His commanders flocked around him. Everyone was accounted for save Sucrow, Darsal, and Josef. He half listened to his commanders, who all parroted things he already knew.
Teeleh’s breath, since when had he become so irritable with his own men?
Darsal had slipped away. He didn’t like the albino being where he couldn’t see her. Where had she gone?
“General, the priest and his men are unaware—”
“A warrior is prepared to break camp and run in under five minutes,” Marak said. Sucrow would show up, just as planned. If the old priest moved too slow and had to catch up, so be it. “We’re leaving as soon as the scouts report.”
He reviewed the checklist in silence. Cassak was supposed to meet up with him in the desert and signal his men to follow . . . provided he didn’t make any more mistakes. He’d become intolerable since his return, since the Eramite skirmish.
And spending so much time on his own . . .
“General, are you certain this is wise?”
“Are you afraid of a superstitious old man, Commander?” Pause.
“No, sir. It’s only—”
Marak passed his checklist to the commanders to mark off. “What makes a warrior, Reyan?”
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.
E
lyon, 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.”
