Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  Silas's green eyes smoldered. “Let me up. Fight me like a man. So I can avenge my father's death.”

  Argus looked at the sandy-haired boy for a long time. Every time he checked Reaver he found her closer to his nephew's chest. He groaned, sheathed Reaver amid her dissonant song, and said, “No.”

  “What? You… you have to!” Silas started thrashing, clawing at the stone.

  Argus refused to let him up. “Have you ever thought to ask why I killed your father?”

  “That doesn't matter. He died. And you killed him. You killed the King of Leith!”

  Someone grabbed him from behind, and Argus whirled. Nasira stood there with Siggi and Brenn behind her, the men picking through a pile of dead Whispers.

  “Argus,” she said, her face filthy and covered in small cuts. “We can leave now. It's done.”

  “Oh, no you don't!” said Silas. He grabbed his uncle's leg and tried to rip it away, but Argus increased the pressure until he couldn't breathe.

  Argus let up—just a little—and said, “Are you all right? Is everyone in one piece?”

  Brenn shrugged. “A few more scars, maybe. These days it's hard to tell the difference.”

  “No more missing hands,” Siggi said, holding up his good hand with a smile.

  “Good. There's just one more thing I have to do.”

  “Don't,” said Nasira, grabbing him. “Don't kill the boy.”

  Argus shook his head. “There's been… too much death today.”

  “You'll die next,” the king said. “For my father's sake.”

  “Get up.”

  When the boy refused to move, Siggi came over and they carried him through the empty corridor. They didn't stop until they reached the last cell, the one that had held his mother.

  “Wait,” he said. “You can't—”

  Argus nodded, and they tossed him into the cell. Nasira, who had trailed with the keys, locked the door and pocketed them. “We're leaving now,” Argus said, “but before we do, it's time you know the truth about your father.”

  Silas seethed in the corner of his cell, refused to look at him. “The truth? From a murderer?”

  “Listen well.” He leaned against the bars and whispered his tale. By the end of it, his nephew had stopped making snide remarks and sat in silence.

  “I don't know… I don't know if I can believe it.”

  Argus stood. “That's your choice. But it's the truth. Everyone deserves that. Especially my flesh and blood.”

  “I didn't even know I had an uncle.”

  “Belen probably forbade your mother from ever speaking of me. Kyra was smart. She knew not to anger him by dredging up old exiles.” She'd also smothered him with a pillow, a detail Argus couldn't bring himself to share.

  “You're saying he was a monster?” Silas shook his head, blinking.

  “No. I hardly knew him. Everyone does right one day and wrong the next. Heroes and monsters are for children's tales. Take care of yourself, Silas. Keep practicing with your sword.”

  Silas begged him to wait, to let him free and he'd be better. Argus walked away without a reply. He stopped at Kyra's body one last time, kissed her, committed every little feature to memory.

  Then, with the Legion at his side, he climbed out of the dungeon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Argus had checked the horizon hundreds of times already.

  He checked again now, unable to resist the compulsion. He had to know that Kos was still shrinking.

  “I'm so sorry,” Nasira said. “About your sister.”

  Argus shook his head. He could hardly see land anymore, but the dungeon—and everything that had happened inside it—swallowed everything he was.

  She wrapped her arms around him and refused to let go. The evening was cool, but she was warm under her fur coat. A gift from the Nalavacians.

  “You did everything you could,” she said. “Fate always has her way.” She spat over the edge. “Bitch.”

  Argus smiled. It was like the muscles in his face were the only things holding him up. That if he let them go he'd melt right through the deck. “Kyra always loved the sea.”

  “And you loved her. She knew that in the end. I have no doubt. Your nephew, too. You did the right thing by letting him live—”

  “Did I?” His sea green eyes flared, and the scar on his cheek was hot. “Perhaps I should have killed him. He wanted to die, once he saw what happened to Kyra.”

  Nasira clutched him tighter. “You're shivering. Come on up to the bow. Siggi's working on a fire.” Argus allowed her to pull him up there, where Brenn and the Rivannan waited. They had been chatting, but when Argus got closer their smiles disappeared.

  “I'm sorry, friend,” Siggi said. “My true friend.”

  Brenn nodded and wrapped a meaty hand around him. “Aye. May Braeloth welcome her into his halls. She was a different kind of fighter than we. Not a bruiser. But a survivor. Shrewd. She had to be to survive all those years with Belen.”

  “Kyra was doing well enough until I killed him,” Argus said.

  “Nonsense,” said Nasira. “She told you the night he died was one of the happiest of her life.”

  “If I just left those prisoners in their cells…”

  Siggi cleared his throat. “If Silas hadn't put her down there. Gods, if you want to keep going you could blame me for convincing you to leave Davos.”

  “Can't think of it like that,” Brenn said. Fate plays her part, we play ours. Here, my brother. Drink this.”

  They toasted Kyra's memory with mulled wine. Argus drank down what he could, grateful for the warmth, but one glance into the cup made him stop.

  It looked too much like blood.

  He got up and poured the rest over the railing. An homage to his sister. The little girl who ran barefoot right into the highest waves she could find, and laughed when they made her tumble.

  May the gods watch over her in the next world.

  * * *

  The clunky merchant ship they bought on their way out of Kos had cost them the last of their dragons. Four days later, she puttered into Azmar with her sails deflated.

  The harbor was back to its usual bustling self now that the Turning had ended. The Legion of the Wind shoved their way through the crowds gathered on the docks.

  “Sure you don't want our help?” said Nasira. “I have a keen eye for men who don't want to be found.”

  Argus shook his head. “If he's here, I'll find him.”

  “We'll wait for you at the Hydra and the Fox.”

  They left him on Urbek Way, and Argus inhaled deeply. Once the Legion was out of sight, no one in the streets had the slightest idea who he was. He had no past, no identity at all, and hopefully no more hunters with his nephew imprisoned.

  Argus inhaled deeply, chanting.

  A merchant woman shoved him and muttered something about walking faster. He hardly heard her. Scents assaulted him from every angle. Donkey sweat and roasting duck, clams and exquisite perfume from Harlock.

  He kept walking, using hearing magic to listen. Babble. Curses in foreign tongues. Argus heard whistling down near the docks, earnest confessions of love and a minstrel singing, the song strange but familiar.

  And whispers.

  “I see you, sorcerer. I see you very well.”

  Argus froze. His neck quivered. Those words snapped at him like ravenous lobsters. He looked around and found himself in one of Azmar's sparser alleyways. Two girls with their hair in pigtails huddled around a set of jacks, engrossed in their game. A man drove a group of goats past, glaring when Argus didn't step aside quickly enough.

  Aside from them he was alone.

  He'd just started to study all the windows when the voice repeated itself.

  This time he darted around a corner, glancing the next alley up and down. No one. When he huddled under the eaves of the apothecary on the corner, he found himself in the shadows.

  The one who'd spoken laughed at him. It sounded like blades on wh
etstone. Argus plugged his eyes, and still that laughing continued.

  The laughter trailed off. “At least your hearing is fine.”

  “Who in the blazes are you?”

  More chuckles. Argus covered his mouth. For a moment he considered that he was the one making those sounds. No change. He feared that laugh was somehow a part of him now—a part he couldn't see.

  “Easy, boy. You won't find me lurking in Azmar. No. I'm… much farther away than that.” The voice was deep and had a thick accent. Argus couldn't quite place it.

  “What do you want?”

  “What do we all want? Knowledge. Power. I watched you when you were on the Cradle. Trying to get into the Library of Man.”

  His legs went limp. Argus slumped against the wall, and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. “How?”

  “Magic. The same that flows through your veins. Though mine flows stronger.” He chuckled. “At least for now.”

  Argus scoured the alley. Still empty, but suddenly he heard footsteps everywhere he looked. Felt countless eyeballs watching. A dizziness seized him, made him feel like his body was being flipped inside out.

  “You aren't mad, boy. Not yet. But you will be if you give up on what's in that library.”

  “That part of my life is over.” Of all the insanity, that was one thing he was sure about. “I'm done with the Five Branches.”

  “Certainly,” the voice said, suddenly serious. “Everyone says that, though, and it's meaningless if the branches aren't done with you.”

  “Are you going to tell me who the blazes you are?”

  The man snickered until he ran out of breath, recovered, and said, “I'm the man who can get you back inside the library.”

  Just then, Argus placed his accent. He's from Mael.

  “Aye,” he said, “Mael's the isle who birthed me, of sorts, and there is where I remain. My name doesn't matter. When you're ready, you'll come. I'll know it well before you're close. Don't worry about finding me. I'll find you.”

  “Wait!”

  The voice was gone, and no amount of fruitless questions revived it. Argus didn't know how long he lingered in the alley steadying himself, trying to make sense of what had happened. When the sun started to fall he forced himself to keep walking—more confused than ever.

  He wandered back toward the heart of Azmar. He spoke to no one but studied everyone. No one paid him any attention, and by the time he stepped on Urbek Way again Argus was convinced he'd gone mad.

  Focus, he told himself. There's another task at hand.

  It didn't help. He tracked up the big hill toward Syrio's palace. Janna's palace too. Just after cutting through Luca Square, he heard the voice he was searching for.

  Argus stopped.

  It died off, then came roaring back again. A man telling a story of adventure, and somewhere nearby, a feminine gasp. Argus followed that noise until it was loud enough to hurt his ears.

  He stopped chanting and walked into a dingy tavern called The Armorer. His eyes settled on a white-haired man, puffing a pipe to punctuate an animated conversation. He sat in a corner booth and leaned across it to grab the hand of a woman displaying obscene cleavage.

  Argus walked over and tapped him on the shoulder.

  They turned. His eyes widened.

  “May I have a word?”

  * * *

  They huddled against a wall, away from all the windows and torches.

  “I'll tell you everything that happened,” said Argus, “but not before I get a drink.”

  His father disappeared and came back with two ales, beaming. “I knew that wasn't you Syrio got! I went to the execution. Poor fellow didn't have your nose.”

  “Shh.”

  Argus pulled him deeper into the shadows.

  “What? Still worried about them watching you? I imagine Syrio called off his dogs by now.”

  “It isn't that…” For the third time, Argus studied every patron inside the Armorer. No one seemed to be watching. But that didn't mean much these days. “Have you ever been to Mael?”

  Fotis spat ale foam onto his beard. “I'm as reckless as they come, my boy, but not even I would make that trip. Why?”

  “Never mind. Listen. I have some news from Leith.” He swallowed the rest of his ale and stared into the empty glass. His lips moved, telling what had happened, but they belonged to someone else. Argus was still down in that dungeon, reliving every moment with Kyra and his nephew.

  When the tale was done, Argus forced himself to look at his father. The news had aged him. His leathery face, with its wrinkles somehow deeper, glistened from the moisture of tears. Fotis put down his ale and embraced his son, shuddering.

  “I hardly knew her, my boy. I… let her down.”

  Argus nodded. “Aye. And so did I. So did fate herself. Kyra didn't deserve it, after all she'd been through.”

  “No, she didn't.”

  “You may have let Kyra down, but there's something you can do to set things right.”

  “And what's that? Sail over there and kill my sniveling grandson?”

  Argus shook his head. “Silas is still a boy. Maybe I should have killed him, maybe not. But he's alive for now. He needs someone to show him the way…”

  “Aye,” Fotis said. “And give me one reason why that shouldn't be you.”

  “Because trying to help Leith put the pieces back together is about as appealing as a trip to Mael.”

  His father jabbed him in the chest. “It's your claim, son. Belen died without a single male relative. That means Kyra's brother—”

  “Could be lord regent… if he wanted. Then the claim goes to her father. I'll have none of it. My home is elsewhere now.”

  “Hold on.” Fotis staggered back to the bar and returned with more ale. “You'd really give up your claim? After all these years in exile? You could finally go home!”

  “That life isn't for me. I know it doesn't suit you either. But maybe it's time we build new lives.”

  “Son—”

  “Do it, father. Please.” Father. That word came out of him like a ball of cotton. “There's still hope for Silas yet. Leith needs a strong ruler. Someone who knows the world.” He smiled, remembering the woman with all the cleavage. “Someone charming enough to smooth things over.”

  Fotis thrust his mug against his lips and didn't remove it until it was empty. “I don't know.”

  “Please. Do this for Kyra and me, and I'll do everything in my power to forgive what happened.”

  The old man clutched his shoulder. “You'd really do that?”

  “I can't promise it will be easy. Or that it's even possible. But I can try.”

  Fotis pulled him into his arms and agreed to do it. This time Argus hugged him back.

  “It may be difficult,” the old man said. “I've been away from Leith for decades. When I show up with my daughter dead and grandson imprisoned, it's bound to raise questions.”

  Argus smiled. “Time to turn on some of that charm, old man.”

  “Ha! As if I could turn it off.”

  “You'll figure it out. Better hurry, though.” Argus explained that they'd released Silas's guards on one condition: silence. Most were sleeping down there, refusing to let anyone else enter. They'd see that Silas had food and water, and had promised the Legion to tell the king's advisers that he was recovering from a bout of pneumonia alone in his chamber.

  “Very good. Think they'll be true to their word?”

  “Aye. You should have seen the ways their eyes bulged after my friend Brenn threatened them. Leave as soon as you can. The charade won't last forever.”

  Fotis shook his head. “And I thought tonight would be uneventful.”

  “Come on, old man.” Argus led his father out of the tavern. They stopped outside, under the awning to avoid the rain.

  “Where will you go now?” Fotis said.

  “I'm not sure. There are still a few loose ends to tie up here.”

  “Come visit Leith sometime.
I'll overturn your exile.”

  Argus pursed his lips. “Maybe later. Silas needs time to heal. Gods know we all do.”

  “Some wounds are more stubborn than others.” Fotis held out his forearm, and Argus clasped it in the Leithish way. “Farewell, son. May the gods bless you and protect you all of your days.”

  “Likewise, father.”

  After shedding a few more tears, Fotis turned away. He waved and bounded into Urbek way to join Azmar's masses. He seemed to stand a bit taller than the others. Fotis the outlaw. Fotis the wanderer. Fotis the king.

  Argus watched until the wild white hair disappeared behind a merchant caravan, pulled up his hood and strode into the rain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The rain let up just when Argus entered the Hydra and the Fox.

  Thankfully the walk had been short. He peeled off his hood, shivering. His clothes were soggy, his boots soiled, but he felt warmer when he saw the Legion sitting by the fire.

  “There's our man!” Siggi said. The Rivannan raised his glass while Argus cut through the line at the bar. When he reached the fire that glass was still raised—along with two others.

  “To Argus of Leith,” said Brenn, blue eyes glinting. “Even though he looks like a kitten after a bath.”

  “Aye!” said Siggi.

  Nasira smiled. “To Argus.”

  They clinked their glasses and drank, but when his friends offered to buy him one he declined. Nasira pulled him into the armchair in front of the fire. “No ale?”

  He shook his head.

  “You aren't coming back to Davos.” She slid away and eyed him over her ale.

  “No. Not yet.”

  Siggi and Brenn stopped laughing and looked at him. “Where are you going?” said Brenn. “Want to come with me back to Nalavac?”

  “I think I'd only last a few weeks out there. But I appreciate the hospitality.”

  “Don't do anything stupid,” Siggi said. “S'pose if I minded my own advice I'd still have my other hand…”

  “You can't go back there,” Nasira said. “I know what you're thinking, Argus. The Cradle is too dangerous. It'll swallow you again, and this time you won't be able to get out.”