Belgarin looked at his hands, filthy with the man’s bile and blood and gagged. The sight of the woman, the sight of this man and his filth all over his hands was too much, and Belgarin rushed to the corner of the room, vomiting out his breakfast and listening to the ruined thing in the bed laugh as he did.
“Ah, let it loose, king,” the creature said, “let it loose wherever thou will. It will likely not be noticed, not by me, at least. My nose has long since stopped its function—a small mercy, I suppose. A man can only smell his own urine and shit and blood for so long.”
Belgarin’s stomach heaved again at the man’s words, and the creature laughed and laughed while he vomited. Finally, he was done, and Belgarin stood, weak and wavering, rubbing the sleeve of his fine robe across his mouth. “Gods be good,” he said, his voice shaky, “what do you want from me?”
The creature smiled, “You know what it is I want, Belgarin. Pain. Knowledge is pain. I will sell the knowledge that you seek to you, but it is only right and just that I should have my payment.”
The last came out in a hiss, and Belgarin took an involuntary step back. “Fine,” he said, “fine. The woman—”
“Oh no, my king,” the thing said, smiling as blood leaked from its gums, “I find that the price has gone up while you dithered. Such things happen, of course. Fluctuations in the market, so many possible reasons. Even for me, it is no easy pattern to discern.”
“What do you want you foul creature?” Belgarin said, “Why must you torment me so?”
The ruined, wasted thing laughed at that, “Torment, Belgarin? Torment? What do you know of torment? You wear your fine clothes, stick your cock in anything you’d like while they call you king and fawn and weep and laugh behind your back, and you would ask me of torment?”
Belgarin sank into the room’s only chair, cupping his face in his hands, “Please,” he said. “Please just tell me what you want.”
“Please,” the creature mocked, “well, very well, Belgarin. How could I say no to such a request? What I want is a new one to look after me. One that speaks and hears and knows. Do you understand?”
Belgarin swallowed hard and when he spoke his voice came out lifeless and dull, “You want someone that you can murder.”
“Murder?” The thing in the bed asked. “Oh, not murder, Belgarin. How might I do such a thing, when I’ve long since lost the ability even to wipe my own shit? No, it would not be murder. And if it were, I, certainly, would not be the killer. No, knowledge, perhaps. The gaining of it is never easy, as I think you now see.”
“Fine,” Belgarin rasped, “Fine, damn you. You’ll have your victim.”
“A girl,” the creature said, cocking his head, “a young one.”
“Gods be good but you’re a monster.”
“Oh, words that wound, my king,” the thing said. “Not a monster, not me. But I will have my payment, or you will leave as you came—with nothing and understanding nothing.”
We all do what is necessary. We all do what is necessary. Why must you always break things? “Alright,” Belgarin said, his mouth unaccountably dry, “alright. You will have her. Now, tell me what I need to know.”
“Of course, my king,” the creature said, favoring him with another bloody grin. “It is easy enough to discern where she will go, though, is it not? The occurrence at the western gate is no coincidence—there are no coincidences, in fact, not truly. The universe, when it is boiled down to its basest elements, is all about cause and effect, purchase and price. You’ve learned, now, I think, judging by your grim expression, about the latter. The former should make the answer to your question simple enough. Where will your sister go? The only place she conceivably can go.”
“Yes?” Belgarin said, “Well?”
Another breathy laugh. “West, you said. The same direction as your two other siblings, the coward and the fool. Oh, do not look so taken aback, it is what they are, you know it as well as I and dissembling changes nothing. So, let us think of it. The coward first, shall we? Your brother has the stronger position, it is true, his mountain fastness would prove a difficult nut to crack given as it would not allow the full bulk of your army to be brought to battle. A good place for sanctuary, for safety, if that is what your sister is after.”
“Very well,” Belgarin said, “then she has gone to Ellemont.” He rose. “You will have your payment.”
“Do not be hasty, great king,” the thing in the bed said, “for is it truly sanctuary that your sister seeks? If so, why, then, come to Baresh at all, to the very place where she knew you and your armies were heading? Why be in Avarest at the time of your brother’s … unfortunate demise? No, she does not search for safety or security. She searches for an army.”
Belgarin frowned and stopped, halfway to the door. He turned back to the man, “Would you not just say what you mean?”
“Not an easy thing to do, lord. Men have been killed, wars have been fought for the lack of a man or woman’s ability to say what they truly mean. But fine, as I see your patience grows short, I will tell you. Your sister, Isabelle. The fool. Her armies are larger than your brother’s, less than your own, of course, but not by so much, not even with those you have so recently added to its ranks. And she takes great pride in them, does she not? Her knights with their fine clothes, no dirt to mar those bright colors, no notches in those gleaming swords. A large army, a proud army, and one that, should she be allowed, your sister, Adina, will make her own. She travels there even now, my king, and with each night that passes, she grows closer to her goal.”
“Very well.” Belgarin turned and started away.
“My payment, my king—”
“You will have it,” Belgarin grated, then he was out the door, slamming it behind him and heading down the hall. Not running. Not exactly.
The thing in the bed watched him leave, a smile on its face, unknowing or uncaring about the blood that leaked from its open mouth and onto its shirt.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Aaron started awake, casting his gaze around him for some sign of what had woken him. He looked at the sky and saw that it was still dark, though perhaps two or three hours had passed. Fool, he thought, as if the odds aren’t already bad enough, you let yourself fall asleep.
He had told Adina he was going to Leomin, but that had not been true. He had only wanted to escape, to flee from truths about himself that he did not want to face. Instead of checking on the Parnen, he had made his way through the fields and back into the wood. He had kept going until the exhaustion of days spent on the road crept up on him, and he’d decided to sit down against a tree for a moment’s rest.
Aaron, Co began in his mind, there’s—
“Not now, firefly,” he said, remembering the way Adina had looked lying there, remembering the betrayal and hurt he’d seen in her eyes as he’d left. “I don’t want to talk about the princess.”
It’s not that, Aaron, Co said, and he realized that she sounded worried, something’s happened. Or is happening. I tried to wake you but—
She cut off as the sound of a distant scream came to them. Aaron’s heart leapt at the fear and anger in it, for he knew that scream, knew that voice. Adina. The thought had barely passed through his mind before he was moving, sprinting through the trees with reckless abandon, ignoring the scratches and cuts he received from the briars and bushes he charged through.
He ran as hard as he could, pushed himself forward faster and faster until he was careening between the trees. Still, he hadn’t realized how deeply into the woods he’d went in his troubled state of mind, and it was at least half an hour before he made it to the edge of the fields. In the distance, he saw the barn, and his already galloping heart lurched in his chest.
The barn was on fire. A great blaze that sent smoke rising into the air in massive, undulating gray pillars. He forced his weary legs on, his breath coming in great, bellowing gasps as he charged for the barn.
He made it to the inferno a short time l
ater. There was no movement, and he looked to where the horses had been only to see that they were gone. The heat on his skin was immense, but he held an arm over his mouth and forced his way forward. He kicked out at one of the blazing doors and it fell inside the barn in a shower of sparks and flame and smoke. “Adina!”
Aaron, you have to get out.
Ignoring the Virtue, Aaron held his other arm up in an effort to block his eyes from the smoke and flame as he swept his gaze around the barn. He could see nothing. No one. Only flame and ash and smoke. “Adina!” He shouted again, but the smoke was in his mouth, his throat, and his voice came out in little more than a croak.
Aaron, get out now.
The flame singing his clothes, his breath growing weak and labored, he stumbled his way out of the barn, collapsing to his knees a short distance away. “What have I done?” He said, feeling tears tracing their way down his painfully dry face.
Aaron—
“No,” he said, his voice coming out in a low growl, “do not speak to me, Virtue. Just leave me alone.” He had been a fool. He’d let his emotions get the better of him, and he’d left her and the Parnen alone. While he was gone, someone had come, someone who’d brought fire and death, and he had not been here to protect her. He screamed then, a wordless, feral cry of rage and pain that went on until his voice grew hoarse and cracked and gave out.
Aaron—
“Enough,” he said, his words a harsh bark, and the Virtue went silent.
He turned back and stared at the blaze, feeling empty and cold despite the raging fire. She was in there, somewhere. Burning with all the rest. Had she cried out for him, when they’d come? Had she screamed for his help while he’d been dozing in the woods, too absorbed with his own problems to even know it? Too much. It was too much.
He hacked and coughed, his body trying to expel the smoke in his lungs until his eye caught on something a few feet away. It had never been harder to rise to his feet, but rise he did, shuffling wearily to what appeared to be a scrap of clothing that had been torn off somehow. He looked at it blankly for several seconds, his mind foggy and confused with grief. A light blue scrap of clothing. Belonging to one of the soldiers who’d come, perhaps, though they were Belgarin’s colors. Frowning, feeling as if he was in a daze, he crouched down and grabbed the scrap of cloth, studying it.
Something tugged at the back of his mind and, at first, he didn’t know what it was. Then, with a jolt, it came to him. The light blue. Adina always favored the color, her color, and wore it often. He thought back, casting his mind to when he’d been with her the day before, remembering riding behind her on the trail, remembering lying with her in the darkness of the barn. Yes. Yes. It was the same. The color was the same as the shirt she’d been wearing.
That meant that somehow it had been torn. This scrap had not been here when he’d gone into the barn or when he left it, of that he was fairly certain. But it was here now. Which meant … which meant that she had been here. Or, at least, her shirt had. A fresh fear blossomed in his mind at that, but he forced it down. No. Adina had been here, he was sure of it. Which meant that she’d been taken from the barn, had been alive when it was set afire.
He thought of the Parnen captain who’d been set to watch and then his feet were moving, rushing to where the man had been up on a small hill a short way away from the barn. He ran to the place he thought Leomin had been, though in the darkness it was hard to tell for sure, but there was no sign of Leomin nor of any of his equipment. Cursing, feeling that time was running out, Aaron fell to his knees, frantically running his hands through the grass in search of anything that might help him determine what had happened to the Parnen.
He was beginning to despair when his hands ran over something wet, much wetter than the dew that covered the ground, and he frowned, bringing his hands up. In the light of the weak moon, the blood looked black. He stared at it for a moment, his jaw clenched, his hands knotting into fists in front of him. The Parnen had been here, but he was here no longer. Either the man was dead—in which case Aaron couldn’t imagine why his attackers had taken the body with them—or he was still alive. Wounded but alive.
“Co,” he said, rising, “I need you. Like the time when those men attacked us at the princess’s hideout in Avarest, or the way we felt Festa and the others coming toward the ship.”
Aaron, the Virtue said, her voice full of pain and doubt, I don’t know if we can. The bond may not be strong enough. The danger—
“Damn the danger,” he said, “Show me how.”
Suddenly, an undefinable force exploded through him, and Aaron staggered, grunting in pain. He felt an immense tug, as if some giant had grabbed his insides and given them a hard yank, and he felt as if he’d be ripped apart from the pressure of it. He gasped, falling to his knees, his hands balled into fists in the grass, his back arched in agony as he gritted his teeth, spittle flying from his mouth.
Then, he felt something give, like a dam breaking under the strain of an unstoppable river and although the pain did not cease, it lessened, grew manageable. He opened his eyes from where they’d been squeezed shut and looked in the direction of the woods to the west. Faintly, so faintly as to be almost unnoticeable, he saw a light pink shimmer, little more than a speck of light in the darkness. He blinked his eyes, thinking he’d imagined it, but when he opened them again, the speck was still there, somewhere distant in the woods. Then there was another dot of light to match the first, then another, seven or eight in all, and Aaron stared at them, gasping for breath and easing himself to his feet.
There, Co said, and her voice sounded as weary and full of pain as he felt.
“Okay,” Aaron breathed, rising with his hands on his knees, his breath a wheezing rattle in his chest. “Okay.” Then he was running again, toward the lights in the darkness and what he would find there.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
It was nearly an hour before he made his way to where the lights shone among the trees twenty or thirty yards off. They had resolved themselves into the shape of people, still shining that bright magenta, and he winced, shaking his head. This close, the figures blazed, blindingly bright, and he closed his eyes against it. Okay, firefly, he thought, shielding his eyes, that’s enough.
He felt some of the strain leave his muscles and bones and opened his eyes to see only the darkness once more. The darkness and, somewhere in it, the shadows of figures moving. He waited for his eyes to adjust, narrowing them as much as possible as he scanned the woods in front of him. He saw, at the base of the hill on which he stood, a cart with two horses tethered to it. He also noted his and the others’ horses staked to the ground beside it. Staring past the horses, he could see a tent that glowed in the darkness from some lantern or light within. He frowned, studying the cart and saw what he finally decided were several man-sized cages on the back of it. Slavers, then. Men who kidnapped and stole unsuspecting men, women, or children from their homes and sold their bodies to others for a profit. A good sign. They would have wanted Adina and Leomin alive. He only hoped they hadn’t realized who it was they’d taken. So long as she was only a woman with a pretty face, she would be kept alive. But should they realize that she was a princess, one whose head Belgarin would pay a king’s ransom for, she would not live long.
Aaron stared at the tent, at the vague outline of figures he could see in it by the lantern inside, and rage unlike anything he’d ever felt before built inside of him. Grew and grew, burning inside of him until he felt as if he would catch fire, a blazing beacon in the darkness. These men. These men had come and taken her, had stolen her from him, had taken Leomin too. These men.
The ache of his fire-chapped skin, the sharp pain in his side, the weariness from two weeks spent on the road vanished in an instant, swept away by the storm of his fury. He heard the sound of someone cough nearby, between him and the tent, and he turned his head, drawing his sword.
We need … to stay calm, something said in his mind, a familiar
voice, but just then it seemed distant to him, strange, unknown and insignificant. Aaron, please—
“Not Aaron,” he said, but the words were spoken with three voices. His own, the feminine voice, and the anger’s own. He bared his teeth in a grin, not now.
Then he was running, making no attempt to hide the sound of his approach, the dry leaves of the forest crackling beneath his feet as he ran. “What the f—”
The man’s words turned into a scream as Aaron bowled into him, slamming him against the tree on which he’d been propped even as he drove his sword into the man’s stomach with all the strength and momentum he could bring to bear.
The man dropped the crossbow he’d been holding, grabbing at the sword with both hands, oblivious of the sharp metal slicing through his flesh as he fought to get it out of his stomach. “Who—” He said, “who the fuck—”
“Death,” Aaron hissed, spittle flying from his mouth as he jerked the blade upward. The man screamed more as the steel cut through his organs, and Aaron smiled as a river of blood washed over his hand. Then, he felt something, a presence behind him and spun, jerking his sword free in a shower of blood and leaping to the side.
There was a sound of the crunching of dry leaves, and an arrow flashed by his shoulder in the darkness, burying itself in the man he’d been in front of only moments before. Aaron followed the course of its flight and saw a figure in the darkness, the man bent over, trying to reload a crossbow. It would be too slow. Much, much too slow. “Heard you,” Aaron said, but though the words came from his mouth, they were not in his voice and they were not his own. “Felt you.” Some deep, dark part of him rejoiced, smiling at the man in front of him, rejoiced at the blood he would spill, at the art and the glory they would make together, and Aaron smiled with it.
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