She ran her fingers over her scalp again, then quickly snatched her hand back down when she realized what she was doing. At her feet, Jerrod began to cough and choke until he spit out a viscous mixture of blood and phlegm.
“Admit it,” she demanded. “I’m better than you ever were. You could never beat me.”
“I could never beat you,” he said, the words muffled by his rapidly swelling lips and the blood pouring from his broken nose and into his mouth. “But she can!”
Yasmin’s awareness had been almost completely focused on Jerrod during their battle. It was only now that he was vanquished that she sensed another’s arrival.
Spinning to meet the new threat, she saw a small Islander girl standing in the door, carrying a strange silver blade. And then the girl vanished, replaced by a demon made of steel and rage.
The monster launched itself at her with a speed unlike anything Yasmin had ever faced. The Pontiff threw herself into a back handspring as the blade sliced through the air in too many different directions for her to follow. For an instant she thought she had miraculously escaped unharmed, but as she landed her left foot simply gave way, the tendon in her heel severed so cleanly she hadn’t even felt the pain.
As Yasmin crumpled awkwardly to the ground the creature was on her again. This time she actually saw the blow coming though she wasn’t fast enough to move out of the way.
Daemron’s Sword lopped her head from her shoulders in one smooth stroke, sending it spinning through the air. The Pontiff’s consciousness endured just long enough for her awareness to sense the room tumbling around her, and the last image to pass through her brain was that of her own decapitated body toppling forward, a dozen feet away.
METHODIS COULD FEEL the warmth of a lantern shining on his face, but he wasn’t ready to open his eyes yet. They itched and burned, and he knew bright light would only make them worse. His throat was dry and scratchy, so parched it hurt to swallow. His empty stomach was clenching and cramping, as if trying to digest itself to feed his ravenous hunger.
He recognized all the symptoms as signs that the bliss-wort he’d taken was almost completely out of his system.
That means they’ll begin the interrogation soon.
Knowing there were far worse torments to come, he let his eyes peek open just a crack. To his surprise he wasn’t in some kind of prison or torture room; he was lying in bed in the room at the back of his shop.
Impossible!
Closing his eyes again, he tried to dig up memories from the delirium that had gripped him the past few days. He could remember the Pontiff’s speaking to him, but he couldn’t recall her torturing him.
Maybe she didn’t. I don’t seem to be injured or in pain beyond the expected withdrawal symptoms.
He vaguely remembered the Pontiff taking him from his cell, carrying him over her shoulder like a sack of flour as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop.
Did that really happen, or was it part of some bizarre fever dream?
There was a man, he suddenly recalled. He and the Pontiff fought. And then a woman. There was something familiar about her…
No! It couldn’t be. She’s gone. It had to be a dream.
But then how did he end up back in his shop?
“Drink this,” a woman said, placing a cup up to his lips.
They’re trying to drug me to make me talk!
He clamped his lips together and turned his head away.
“You always told me healers make the worst patients,” the woman told him. “Now quit being childish and drink!”
Methodis opened his eyes to see Scythe’s olive-skinned face hovering over him. The woman sitting on his bed was no longer the fifteen-year-old girl she’d been when he last saw her, but her eyes still had the same spark and spirit he’d seen on the day she was born. She had grown into a beautiful young lady though there was an edge to her features and a hardness in her gaze that made her seem older than he knew she was.
“They told me you were gone,” Methodis said, his dry throat making his raspy voice crack.
“I came back,” she answered curtly. “Now drink!”
He took a small sip from the cup, and a cool, syrupy liquid dribbled across his tongue.
“Good?” she asked.
“A little more,” he said, and this time the words didn’t hurt to speak.
This time he drank deeply, letting the elixir coat and soothe his aching throat. But his relief quickly vanished when he remembered the danger they were in.
“You have to go, Scythe,” he warned her. “The Order is looking for me!”
“Not anymore,” she told him. “They’ve been driven from the city. Most of the Inquisitors and Seers are dead. Including the Pontiff.”
“You killed her,” Methodis said, as random images bubbled up from his memory.
“She deserved to die,” Scythe told him. “I’m just sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner.”
Scythe stood up and set the cup on the small table beside the bed.
“When I think of what they did to you…”
She trailed off, but Methodis could see the emotions churning inside her.
So much anger. So much hate.
“I’m okay, Scythe,” he assured her, sitting up in his bed. “They didn’t hurt me.”
“You don’t have to worry about sparing my feelings,” she told him. “If you tell me what they did, we can start trying to help you.”
“They didn’t do anything,” he said, laughing. But this time his chuckle wasn’t a mad giggle; it was warm and natural. “I gave myself an overdose of bliss-wort before they grabbed me.”
“No wonder you look terrible,” she said, clearly relieved. “I’ll go find you some golden-stem extract to settle your stomach.”
“You still remember your lessons,” Methodis said, grinning. “I’m impressed.”
“If that impresses you, wait until you hear the rest of what I have to tell you,” Scythe told him.
Then she bent down and gave him a fierce hug, squeezing so tight he actually thought he might pass out.
“Scythe,” he gasped, “this is no way to treat a patient.”
She loosened her grip and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead.
“Sorry. I’m just so happy to have you back; I don’t ever want to let you go.
“I’ll go get you some golden-stem,” she promised as she headed out toward the front of the shop. “And then we need to talk about Cassandra.”
She disappeared before Methodis could say anything, but a thousand questions suddenly exploded in his head.
What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, my little Spirit?
—
Cassandra had never visited the Western Isles; few in the Southlands had. However, it wasn’t distance that kept them relatively isolated from the mainland. Most vessels could make the journey in ten or twelve days. Bo-Shing’s enchanted ship took half that time, its dormant magic roaring to life once they hit the open sea.
But on the first day after leaving Callastan the storms began, buffeting and battering The Chaos Runner. Mornings were usually calm, but by afternoon the winds would rise and heaving waves would toss their vessel for hours on end, causing Cassandra’s stomach to disgorge its contents dozens of times. The storms would continue well into the night, leaving Bo-Shing and his men little time for sleep as they battled to stay afloat and on course.
When they finally reached Pellturna—the Western Isles’ infamous pirate port—Cassandra had been only too glad to drop anchor. It seemed a miracle they had made it, and she couldn’t even imagine making the journey in an unenchanted vessel.
The storms wouldn’t be as strong for ordinary vessels, Rexol had pointed out. The Chaos that drives the ship forward comes with a price.
Despite the knowledge that the backlash from Bo-Shing’s ship was unleashing terrible storms, Cassandra was eager to resume their journey as quickly as possible. But two days had passed since their arrival at Pellturna, and B
o-Shing showed no signs of wanting to leave anytime soon.
The city—if it could even be called that—was little more than a collection of ramshackle buildings built along the water’s edge of a sheltered cove. The inhabitants couldn’t even be bothered to maintain a dock: Visitors on larger ships had to drop anchor in the cove and come ashore in rowboats with a shallow enough draw to land directly on the beach.
The entire commerce of Pellturna was built on satisfying the vices of unscrupulous sailors: sex, alcohol, and mind-altering plants and herbs were all readily available for the right price. As Cassandra had no interest in such things, she hadn’t bothered to leave the ship. Unlike Bo-Shing and the rest of the pirates, who spent virtually all of their time visiting the local brothels.
They know there is something foul on this ship, Rexol said. An evil presence. I can feel it!
Cassandra had gotten used to the mage’s paranoid ranting, so she paid him little attention. If anything, he was probably just sensing the Chaos that fueled Bo-Shing’s vessel. And the pirates’ prolonged absence didn’t require some sinister explanation; they were simply filthy beasts eager to satisfy their carnal desires.
The only one in the crew who didn’t seem determined to catch some kind of venereal disease was Tork, the navigator. Bo-Shing had told her that Tork possessed the far-sight. Cassandra still wasn’t clear on exactly what that meant, but he was clearly suffering from some kind of mental imbalance. While the others engaged in their debauched revelries on land, he seemed content to putter about The Chaos Runner, talking to himself.
He didn’t even seem to realize Cassandra was there unless she addressed him directly; he was lost in his own private world. On a few occasions she had tried to speak with him about their destination. But whenever she asked about the island or Keystone, he would smile, shake his head, and give her the exact same answer.
“It lies beyond the Kraken’s Eye. On the edge of the world. You’ll see soon enough.”
Her frustration had grown to the point where she had decided to venture out into Pellturna herself. She didn’t have a boat to take her to shore, but it was close enough she was confident she could make it if she swam.
She made her way up to the main deck. Before she could dive into the water, however, she sensed Bo-Shing and several others returning to the ship. A second later her ears picked up the sound of several voices loudly singing off-key. The captain stood in the bow of a rickety rowboat as Shoji and several other pirates manned the oars, swaying from side to side despite the calm waters as he led his crew in drunken song.
When they reached The Chaos Runner they clambered up the cargo nets draped over the side of the hull, displaying impressive agility considering their inebriated state. Seeing her waiting for them, Shoji laughed and threw his arms wide as he stumbled toward her.
“A kissh from my fav’ritest lady,” he slurred.
Cassandra was in no mood for foolishness. She met his clumsy advance with an angry shove, sending him sprawling hard to the deck. Bo-Shing and the others burst out laughing, doubling over with alcohol-fueled mirth.
“Glad to see you finally made it back,” Cassandra said.
“Been up for two days straight,” the captain told her. “And only a fool sleeps in Pellturna. Good way to wake up robbed of all your clothes and your throat slit wide open.”
Cassandra didn’t bother to point out the fact that anyone with a slit throat wouldn’t wake up at all. “I hope by morning you’re sober enough to sail,” she snapped instead.
“Why?” Bo-Shing asked, seeming genuinely surprised. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Back into town,” Shoji called out from where he still lay on the deck. “Soon as we’re rested!”
“You promised to take me to the Keystone!” Cassandra reminded them. “We had a deal!”
“But I never said when we’d get there, did I?” Bo-Shing countered. “You need to learn to negotiate better,” he added, his voice rising to be heard over the laughter of his crew.
“You know what I can do if you make me angry,” Cassandra warned him, her voice low and menacing.
Unfortunately, Bo-Shing still had enough of his wits about him to call her bluff. “You do anything to me and you lose the only captain who can get you where you need to go,” he told her with a satisfied smirk.
When she didn’t have an immediate comeback, Bo-Shing turned away and stumbled across the top deck, heading for the steps that led down to his private cabin. The other pirates dispersed, staggering off in various directions to find somewhere to sleep. Shoji simply closed his eyes and lay where he had fallen, snoring almost immediately.
Cassandra followed Bo-Shing down the steps and into his room, shutting the door behind her.
Use the Crown! Rexol urged. Break his spirit! Bend his mind to your will!
She’d gotten so used to ignoring him that she barely even registered his words. Bo-Shing looked over at her curiously, then shrugged and began to strip off his clothes.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I sleep naked,” he said. “Feel free to get naked, too,” he offered, tossing his shirt into a corner.
“Methodis told me about your case of root rot,” Cassandra said. “If we don’t leave here tomorrow, I’ll tell the entire crew how you failed as a man.”
“Without the healer around to back up your story,” he said as he dropped onto his bed and yanked off his boots, “do you really think they’ll believe you?”
“Is that a chance you’re willing to take?” she asked.
“I think it is,” he answered with a smile.
For a brief instant she considered telling him what was really at stake: the Legacy, the Slayer’s return, the fate of the entire world. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.
Is that because I know he wouldn’t care or because I think he wouldn’t believe me?
On some level, Cassandra wasn’t even sure she believed it herself. Preparing their flight from Callastan, she had managed to convince herself that bringing the Crown to the Keystone was the right thing to do. Now, however, she wasn’t sure.
At one time she’d been certain this was her destiny, and she’d embraced it. But looking back, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat helpless. She’d fled the Monastery with the Crown, hoping the Guardian would take it from her when she reached his lair beyond the edge of the mountains of the Frozen East. But in the end he’d pushed her away. Then she’d fled across the Southlands, hunted by the Minions and the Order.
Her vision of the Keystone had momentarily given her a true sense of purpose, but the time spent languishing in Pellturna had dulled its edge. In reality, little had changed. She was still alone and on the run. She hadn’t really chosen her path; it had been thrust upon her.
“You got something else to say, sweetie?” Bo-Shing asked. “Or you just going to watch as I strip down?”
It doesn’t matter if I chose this path or not, Cassandra realized. I’m on it now, and I have to see it through to the end.
“You promised to take me to the Keystone,” Cassandra said. “We’re leaving tomorrow. If we don’t, I promise you will regret it.”
“I don’t respond well to threats,” Bo-Shing replied, giving her a wink and fumbling with the drawstring of his trousers.
“Sleep on it,” Cassandra advised, turning to go before he started removing his pants. “You might feel differently once you’re sober.”
—
The spell that kept Orath hidden in the shadows was beginning to fade. The Chaos that fueled the ship helped mask his presence, but it wouldn’t be long until Cassandra sensed him lurking in the cargo hold.
Orath wasn’t about to suffer the same fate as the Crawling Twins. While the monk was on the top deck confronting the pirates, he slithered through the porthole and scuttled along the side of the ship’s hull.
When Cassandra left the captain’s cabin and returned to her own quarters, Orath slowly climbed up the side of the
ship and onto the top deck. It was empty except for a single snoring pirate.
The last of the Minions slipped down the stairs and headed toward the captain’s quarters. He slipped open the door and approached the sleeping pirate. Just like Cassandra, Orath was eager for them to reach the Keystone. Unlike the young woman, however, he was willing to take action.
Raven had mastered the art of disguise and impersonation; of all the Minions she had been the most skilled at transforming herself into another being. Orath favored a more subtle approach. As with the Danaan Queen, he preferred to manipulate and control his subjects rather than become them. But in this case he couldn’t hover at Bo-Shing’s side giving him orders.
There were other ways to exert control, however. Wrapping his arms tightly around his own body, Orath began a soft chant. His whispered words were little more than a hiss as he called upon the Chaos. His flesh quivered as his transformation began. Within seconds his tall form had become completely incorporeal; he was no longer a physical being of flesh and blood, but a figure made of dense black mist.
The mist began to shift, the outline of Orath’s form dissolving into a cloud that hovered over Bo-Shing before slowly crawling down his throat.
The next morning there was much grumbling and complaining when the captain ordered his men to weigh anchor. But nobody—not even Cassandra—suspected the truth.
Bo-Shing was gone. His body was little more than an empty shell of skin, everything beneath eaten away from the inside so Orath could wear it like a cloak.
THE ORDER HAD been driven from Callastan. The few Inquisitors who’d survived the attack had fled, as had many of the soldiers fighting with them. Many more had simply thrown down their weapons and surrendered during the battle, utterly demoralized by a combination of the forces uniting against them and the power of Daemron’s Sword.
I felt that power myself for a while, Keegan thought, remembering the odd sensation of using two of the Slayer’s Talismans simultaneously. Jerrod had been right: They balanced each other out. But Keegan had also felt a powerful synergy between them: Together, they were even greater than the sum of each individual part.
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