Behind them followed several additional soldiers on horseback. They trotted toward the stables. Last of all came Erland.
When he saw Ivanore, he dismounted and handed his reigns to one of his servants who led the horse away toward the stables.
Ivanore smiled, sincerely happy to see him, but he did not return it.
“You’ve been gone for more than a week,” she said. “Surely, you must be worn out. Are you well?”
He hesitated before answering and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “As well as can be expected. My men are exhausted, as am I.”
“Come here and say hello at least,” Ivanore said. They had not spoken since that evening in the chapel, and Ivanore hoped it had not ended their friendship.
Erland pulled off his gloves and held them tightly in his fists. “No,” he said. “I’m dirty. I must wash up and see to my men.”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
Ivanore left her archer and walked purposefully toward Erland who caught her in a wary gaze. As she neared, her steps slowed. He was as dirty as he said. His armor was splattered with dark brown stains like his men’s uniforms, and a smear of it had dried on his cheek. It wasn’t mud, as Ivanore first thought. It was blood.
“Erland, you’re hurt!” She started to run to him, but then stopped abruptly only a few feet away.
He wore a mask of shame, as evident as if he had worn the hood of an executioner. He held out his hand to her, to prevent her from coming closer.
“What have you done?” said Ivanore, the words coming out in a choked whisper. “Erland, what have you done?”
She could smell the blood now, the scent of copper thick and heavy, like a cloak of death.
“You know what I am,” said Erland. “A soldier.”
“Soldiers go to war. They fight to defend their land, their people.”
Erland’s jaw clenched. “We are at war. You of all people should understand that.”
He was referring to her visions. Yes, she had seen it all in her visions, but somehow, she had hoped it wasn’t true, that maybe her visions were of a time years in the future. But seeing Erland standing before her now, the blood of innocent men clinging to him like guilt, she knew her hopes had been in vain.
“What happened?” she asked. “Tell me.”
Erland shook his head. He could no longer meet her gaze. “Such things are not for women to know.”
“But I must.”
She stepped closer to him. Erland tried to step back, but she was faster. She pressed her palm against his breastplate, felt the weight of the blood under her skin.
The vision crashed into her skull like a sudden storm. As she stared at Erland’s disapproving face, she saw the terrified faces of villagers—women crying and pleading for the lives of their husbands, children whimpering in fear and confusion. She saw the men too, their expressions haggard, hopeless—and the soldiers, stone-faced, obeying their commander out of duty without any deeper understanding of what their actions meant.
Ivanore watched helplessly as Erland abruptly called his soldiers to turn on the unarmed men. At first, they looked at him with confusion and shock, but once the first loyal man drew his sword and swung it at the neck of a villager, they all followed his lead. Heads dropped to the earth like overripe melons, but that wasn’t enough for Erland. The soldiers, now crazed with blood, kept on hacking through the bodies until not a single prisoner was left intact.
When all was done, the soldiers’ swords hung dripping red at their sides. They heaved for breath, their frenzy spent. They surveyed the open grave before them. There was so much blood it was difficult to distinguish one body part from the next. Then, glancing up, they noticed the people, the witnesses. Men riding on wagons and horses, others walking on foot. Women carrying bundles of firewood or baskets of vegetables. And the realization dawned on some of the soldiers what they had done—and why. But they said nothing. Instead, at their commander’s call, they moved back into formation, weary now with murder, and began their long march back to Auseret.
Ivanore, tears cascading down her cheek, lowered her hand. Erland stood silent for a moment, but then he gave his usual crisp nod of dismissal and marched away toward the barracks without looking back.
20
The Sotherby cottage sat off the main road leading to the village of Quendel. Brommel had passed it the night before but had barely given it a second glance. Except for the smoke rising from its chimney and the well-tended garden of rich green herbs and purple-petaled flowers beside the porch, he might have thought the place abandoned. The fields out back were overgrown with weeds, and the structure was in a severe state of disrepair.
Brommel remained a few yards from the front door. He had learned the hard way not to approach the door of a collection, especially a reluctant one. The rope-like scar across his neck was the work of one of them.
“Sotherby!” called Brommel, readying his hand over the hilt of his dagger tucked into the band of his trousers. He’d use it if he must but preferred not to. The king did not like damaged goods. “I’ve come to collect on your debt. You were notified and have had plenty of time to put your affairs in order. It’s time to go.”
Brommel looked up at the sky. The sun had risen well above the horizon. If he left now, he would reach Vrystal Canyon by late afternoon and Noam by dusk. He thought of how Jakob had hinted that Silas Sotherby might be difficult to take in. Brommel never understood why some men fought against the inevitable. In half a year, this man would have his debts worked off and could return to his family, if he chose. If he was smart, he’d get leaving over as quickly as possible. Brommel hoped he would. He did not want to be found in the canyon after sundown.
“Sotherby! If you don’t come out, I’ll have to come in after you, and I don’t like doing that. It’s up to you. Come willingly and remain healthy enough to work off your debt in the mine or come out fighting and spend the first few weeks of your indentureship recovering from your wounds.”
The door opened. Brommel shaded his eyes with his hand. Someone stepped out, but it was not Silas Sotherby. It was a little girl, the same little girl Brommel had come across yesterday in the field.
The girl watched him with wide, questioning eyes. She held a rag doll in her arms and stroked its cheek with the back of her hand.
“It’s Lael, isn’t it?” asked Brommel. “That’s what your mother called you. Lael.”
The girl nodded.
“Lael, is your papa here?”
Lael said nothing.
Brommel and the girl eyed each other. She couldn’t be more than five years old. Did Sotherby send the girl out hoping Brommel would take her instead? He’d known such things to happen, and some collectors had agreed to the disgusting practice. While children couldn’t work at hard labor the way their fathers could, there were other uses for them, things that churned Brommel’s stomach.
He called out again. “Silas Sotherby, you have a debt to pay. Either pay it in gold or in your own blood, it makes no difference to me.”
Through the open door, Brommel noticed movement inside. A few moments later, the door opened wider and a woman stepped out onto the porch, drying her hands on a dish rag. She was no longer young, but she was still beautiful. Dark hair hung in a single thick braid draped over her shoulder. Her eyes, blue as sapphire, held a wary but confident expression.
“My husband isn’t home,” she said.
Lael moved close to her mother and pressed herself against the woman’s legs. The woman stroked her daughter’s hair in an almost absent-minded way, as if the practice was so common place as to be second nature.
Brommel had learned over time to appear intimidating. It was vital that the men he collected feared him to avoid unnecessary resistance. If the men surmised that any attempt on their part to flee or fight would end up badly for them, they tended to come along without protest. But Brommel hated casting such fear into the hearts of women and children.
“He’ll come home,
” he’d console the families privately. “A year, maybe two. Once the debt is paid, he’ll return to you. You have my word.”
This woman stood before Brommel and such words escaped him. Instead he said, “Where can I find Silas Sotherby?”
The woman, presumably Mrs. Sotherby, glanced down at her daughter and in response to an almost imperceptible nod, the girl turned and ran into the house.
“As I said before,” said the woman, raising her eyes to Brommel, “my husband is not here. He’s off hunting and won’t be back until late tonight.”
He didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. The steadiness in her voice, the lack of hesitation that he had come to recognize behind people’s lies, confirmed that he would have to return tomorrow and hope the man didn’t run off in the meantime.
He and the woman studied each other in silence, each daring the other to speak. Finally, Brommel turned away. “Tell your husband I’ll be back in the morning to collect him.” There was nothing more he could do now. He might as well get a drink. He turned to leave, but the woman’s voice stopped him.
“What if—” she began, but her voice cut off abruptly. Brommel turned back and waited. The woman took a cautious step toward him. The look in her eyes had softened somewhat. They were now filled with questions. “What happens if he doesn’t go with you? If he refuses to pay?”
Brommel considered this. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that question. “He’ll pay, all right,” was his usual answer, and it was usually enough to assure that payment was indeed made, often in coins hoarded beneath floorboards or squirreled away in jars. Many people, when faced with their families breaking up, managed to scrape together the fines that had previously been neglected. Those who had no money gave themselves.
But for some reason, Brommel felt this woman deserved a different answer. There was something about her that felt so familiar.
“If your husband doesn’t pay his fines, he will lose this farm. Other men will come. They will tear down this house, plank by plank. They will dig up the soil. They will sell it to some other man for a profit.”
“You’d throw a family out into the cold?” asked the woman.
“Not me, ma’am,” said Brommel. “Lord Fredric owns the deed to this property. Until your husband has paid what he owes, it belongs to the king.”
More moments passed. The woman’s eyes roamed the distance as if contemplating its value, then she glanced back over her shoulder, toward the house. Toward her daughter. Her expression changed. She looked as if a decision had been made.
“I’ll tell my husband to expect you tomorrow,” she said, avoiding Brommel’s gaze this time. Then she turned and vanished into the dark doorway.
21
Ivanore strode into the castle’s main entry hall, past the dragon statue, and up the staircase. The tears had dried on her skin, which burned with fury.
When she reached the ornate double doors of the meeting room, she did not knock but pushed through them like an invader.
She found Arik there, sitting with his feet up on a cushion, a glass of wine in his hands. He dropped his feet to the floor, startled at her entry.
“Ivy,” he said, his wine glass steady in his hand, “what is it? You look angry as a hornet.”
She stood in front of him and made no attempt to control her rage. Behind him, hanging on the wall, the victors’ tapestry mocked her. She tried not to look at it, as it reminded her too much of all she had seen in her visions lately.
“Captain Erland and his men arrived a few minutes ago,” she said.
“Oh good,” replied Arik. “I expect Erland will be up soon with a report. Thank you for letting me know.”
“He is covered with blood. They all are.”
Arik looked concerned. “They aren’t injured, are they? I really can’t spare any more men.”
“The blood isn’t theirs.”
Arik lifted his eyes to meet hers. He did not look away as he raised his glass to his lips and took a long, casual drink. Then he lowered the glass and set it on the table beside him.
“Then I’m pleased Erland followed my orders.”
He looked so smug, so absolutely cruel. How could this man ever have been her brother?
Ivanore took an aggressive step toward Arik. “How could you? Those people did nothing wrong! They were innocent!”
Arik rose from his chair. Now that he had become a man, he towered over her. He was no longer the young, awkward boy their father had exiled to Hestoria. He was tall and strong, with the bearing of a king.
“None of them are innocent,” he spat the words as if they were poison. “As long as your precious Guardians remain hidden, all of Hestoria carries their guilt.”
“But why? What have the Guardians done to you, Arik? They are simple people, farmers, families with children. They have made no move against the Vatéz in years. They just want to be left alone.”
Arik ground his teeth. “Their very existence mocks the Ministry, mocks me! They were born to destroy the Vatéz, the enemy of the Seer, or have you forgotten the story, Ivanore? You know the lore as well as I. The Gods granted man magic, but the Vatéz became greedy and used their magic for selfish gain. So, the Gods sent the Seer, more powerful than any enchanter, to reclaim their gift. But generation after generation of Seers failed to destroy the Vatéz, you see. They were simply too strong. But the Gods knew in time a Seer would rise up that would end the Vatéz, end magic once and for all.”
Arik stepped closer to Ivanore, and feeling his closeness sent a shiver of fear through her. His eyes widened, his lips pulled back in a sneer. He believed it, she realized. He believed all of it.
“Then you were born. Our mother had failed like every Seer before her, but you were destined to do what no one before you could do. But life is ironic, isn’t it? You didn’t want to be Seer. You ran away from your calling and married that mongrel, Jayson. And here we all are, years later. Jayson has your Seer’s crystal, and I have the Seer. We are at a stalemate, you see. Someone had to make a move, and that someone was me.”
“So, you slaughtered innocent men to draw out the Guardians.”
“Exactly. And once the Guardians reveal themselves, Jayson will hide no longer. I’ll find him, and that crystal will be mine. And with both the Seer and the Seer’s stone, I will finally be able to secure my plans to invade Imaness and take what is rightfully mine.”
“Our father’s throne.”
“My throne.”
Ivanore watched Arik carefully as he moved around her to the fireplace where the flames were starting to die. He picked up the iron poker and stabbed the partially-consumed wood with it. Sparks flew, and the wood hissed. Fresh flames flickered to life.
“I’ve seen the future, Arik,” said Ivanore, desperation clawing at her. “Without the stone, the visions are imprecise, as you know, but I’ve seen it.”
“You’ve already told me.”
“But you never listen. None of this will turn out the way you think. Your invasion will fail. You will fail, Arik. It will all be in vain.”
Ivanore had no time to prepare for what came next. Roaring like a charging bear, Arik spun on her and struck her shoulder with the iron. Pain erupted from the spot, and Ivanore cried out, stumbling against the sofa.
Aril stood over her, his eyes cold and calculating. He’s gone mad, thought Ivanore.
“Who do you think you are, O mighty Seer, that you can condemn me?” He struck her again. She turned instinctively away, and the iron fell across her back, shooting fresh daggers of pain through her body.
“You abandoned your own people, O Lady Ivanore! You did this! The Guardians suffer because of you!” He struck again and again, the iron thudding against her arms, her hips, her back.
“Arik, stop!” she cried, each blow drawing a sharp gasp from her. “Please, stop!”
As if her voice suddenly reached through the beast to the boy, he threw away the iron. It clanged against the stone hearth, but the fury still
burned in his eyes as he continued to assault her with his own hands. Arik grabbed the fabric of Ivanore’s gown and flipped her onto her bruised back. He slapped her once, twice, three times. Her lip split, and she tasted blood on her tongue.
Finally, breathless, his rage spent, Arik released her, and she slid, trembling, to the floor. Fresh tears sprung from her eyes.
“Why don’t you fight back, Ivy?” asked Arik, his voice sounding like frightened child. “I know you have magic, a talent I have never possessed. Yet I’ve never seen you use it. Why not? Is it because you love me?” His voice broke into a cynical laugh. “Of course that’s it. My loyal sister. Well, Ivy, you don’t have to worry about me. Not anymore. I have the Ministry in the palm of my hand, I have armies in my control. All of Hestoria is mine.”
He glared down at her, disgust transforming to remorse. But the new emotion seemed more than he could bear. He no longer looked at Ivanore. Instead, he moved to the door, opened it, and summoned in one of the guards. “Show Lady Ivanore to her room,” he said.
The guard, a boy of no more than eighteen, crossed the room and took Ivanore gently by the arms, but even that sent stabs of pain through her. She winced, but she was determined not to cry out again. It would only give Arik more pleasure. With great effort, Ivanore got to her feet and cautiously made her way out of the room, every inch of her protesting in pain. But she would not give her brother the satisfaction of believing her beaten. She held her chin high and left the room without another word. But as the door closed behind her, a powerful wave of grief overpowered her, not for the abuse she had endured, but for the loss of a brother she once loved but who was now gone forever.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 9
