Heir of Hope (Follower of the Word Book 3)

by Morgan L. Busse

  “Now”—the dark-haired man turned his attention again on her--“I promise I won’t harm you. I only want your name.”

  Liar. Rowen could feel deceit mingle with the darkness flowing from the man, like smoke from a fire. But what he really wanted she couldn’t tell.

  “Your name. That is all.”

  The pale Shadonae crossed the room and stood by the dark-haired Shadonae.

  “You look so much like her, like Mercia.” The dark-haired Shadonae lifted his hand toward her face.

  “Valin,” the pale Shadonae seethed.

  Valin drew his hand back, but his gaze remained fixed on Rowen. “You cannot deny she looks like her, Malchus.”

  Malchus’s face grew even darker, almost hate-filled. “You know what we need to do.”

  Valin shrugged and took a step back. “Perhaps.”

  “There is no other option.”

  “And what if I had thought that of you? You would not be here.”

  Malchus glared at Valin. “Tread carefully, or we will lose everything we have fought for.”

  “We might gain something as well.”

  Rowen shrank under his stare.

  Valin turned and walked toward the circle of chairs a couple feet away. “Please—” He extended his hand, a hand covered by a black leather glove. “Come, take a seat.”

  A small growl came from Malchus.

  Rowen stood still.

  Valin laughed. “What are you afraid of? If I wanted to harm you, I would have done so by now.” He smiled, his teeth white and straight.

  Malchus growled again.

  Valin ignored him and waved Rowen over. “I just want to talk.”

  Rowen took one step, then two. The light from the windows bounced off the white marble floor beneath her feet.

  Valin motioned to the chair beside him. The chair was made from a rich brown wood, with a high back that curved at the top. Letters from an ancient language were carved into the sides and back of the chair. Thin slips of gold were inlaid inside the carvings, causing the letters to stand out and glimmer in the bright sunlight that filled the room.

  Each chair in the circle was equal in size and shape. Not one towered over the others. Like twelve thrones.

  She approached the chair. The rope hanging from her hands dragged behind her.

  Valin’s gaze turned toward the rope, then to her bound hands, and he frowned.

  Rowen came around and sat down on the edge of the chair.

  Valin watched her, still frowning.

  “No. I don’t trust her.” Malchus came around the other side and stood two chairs away, a dark look on his face.

  Valin nodded and sat down in the chair next to hers. Strange, he seemed unaffected by the scar on her neck. His eyes barely moved down, unlike everyone else who looked at her. Instead, he seemed intent on her face.

  Her chest tightened.

  “So, back to your name. Who are you?”

  Why? What purpose did her name serve?

  Valin’s smile wavered. He sighed and rubbed his face. “I could find out a different way. But I would rather not. It tends to be more painful.”

  What did she have to lose by giving him her name? They were just talking, talking! Not fighting, not torturing, not any of the things she had envisioned would happen once she met the Shadonae.

  Yet she sensed it would change everything. Still . . .”Rowen.”

  His face lit up. “Rowen? Rowen. Rowwwwen.” Her name rolled off his tongue. “It’s different. Do you have a surname, Rowen?”

  “Mar.”

  “Mar. I do not know a Mar.” He sat back and rapped the arms of his chair with his fingers. “No, no Mar. Who are your father and mother?”

  The whole situation was unreal. She had finally met the Shadonae and it was like they were sitting down having tea and discussing the weather. “Commander Jedrek Mar. And Ann Mar.”

  “Commander? Commander of what?”

  “The Northern Army. He died during the war with Temanin.”

  Valin steepled his fingers and tapped them together. “Interesting.”

  Malchus never moved, never took his eyes off her. Like a cat crouching and waiting.

  “Which part of the north are you from?” Valin said.

  “A small village near Anwin Forest in the Ryland Plains.”

  “Ryland Plains.” Valin glanced at Malchus. “The White City is located there, is it not? That would only have been a couple months journey, if not more . . .”

  The two men stared at each other, something passing between them.

  Malchus spoke. “Could be. But we both agreed she is not Mercia.”

  “No, she isn’t.” Valin sat back. “Your mother. Tell me more about her.”

  Rowen frowned. Why would these men care about her mother? Ann had been a simple woman, the daughter of a farming family that lived near Cinad. “What about my mother?”

  “Who was she? What did she do?”

  Her frown deepened. “My mother was the daughter of a farmer. She met my father when he fell off his horse and hurt his back near her village. She took care of him during his convalescence.” Rowen glanced down at her knees. “They fell in love. He came back and bonded with her after his time in the military was over.”

  “And when did you come along?”

  Rowen looked at Valin. “I’m not Jedrek and Ann’s blood daughter. I’m their adopted daughter. I was left on their doorstep years ago. I was only a baby at the time.”

  Valin placed his hands along the arms of the chair. “So these people were not your real parents?”

  “Yes, they were real!” Her nostrils flared. “As real as any parents could be.”

  “I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply that. What I want to know is who are your blood parents?”

  Rowen sat back, her hands still secured behind her. “I don’t know. No one knows.”

  Valin glanced at Malchus again.

  “She couldn’t have survived,” Malchus said. “Nothing could escape the wolves.”

  Valin gestured toward Rowen. “What about her?”

  Malchus stared at her through hooded lids. “Perhaps. If Mercia had borne a child, the wolves would not have detected the Eldaran blood in one so young. But Mercia herself would not have survived. The wolves would have hunted her to the ends of the Lands and beyond.” His lips turned upward. “That is why I chose them.”

  Valin drew his gloved hand into a fist. “Without my consent.”

  “I did what I needed to do. What you would not do.”

  A silent fight waged between the two men.

  Pieces of their conversation drew together inside her mind. Was this Mercia her mother? Was she the woman who left Rowen on that doorstep all those years ago? It was strange to put a name to a woman she had barely thought about until her mark appeared.

  Time for her own questions.

  Rowen looked at Valin. “Who is Mercia? This woman you keep talking about?”

  Valin stroked his chin with his fingers. “She was an old friend.”

  A horrible thought dawned on her. “You’re not related to her, are you?” Please Word, don’t let me be related to this man.

  Malchus laughed beside her, a harsh, grating laugh.

  Valin shook his head. “No.”

  “Then who was sh—”

  “Enough!” Valin’s sharp tone silenced Rowen. He rubbed the area near his right eye with one finger. “Enough for today. Regessus?”

  The herald came forward and stood near the chairs. Rowen had forgotten about him. He could have been a statue for all the movement he made. Even his eyes never moved, never blinked. He looked human, but was he?

  Valin stood and walked over to him. He whispered something into the man’s ear, covering his mouth with his hand as he spoke. Then h
e backed away, his eyes still on Regessus. The man did not move. “Regessus will escort you to a place where you will stay while you are here.”

  Rowen pictured a small room made of stone, with a slit for a window. Dark, damp, and filled with vermin.

  “Now go.” Valin waved her off.

  Regessus approached Rowen, gripped her by the arm, and pulled her up. His fingers were like claws, digging deep into her flesh until her eyes watered. He maneuvered her between the chairs and toward the doorway through which they had first entered.

  Rowen glanced back.

  Valin stood beside his chair, watching her with an intense gaze. Malchus remained in his seat, a scowl on his face.

  Regessus never let up on his grip, pulling her through the doorway and down the stairs. Rowen hurried to keep up, afraid she would stumble and fall. Down and around the staircase they went. Torches flickered as they passed. Her arm throbbed where he pinched her.

  After a couple minutes, they reached the bottom. Regessus opened the door and pulled her outside. Pale sunlight met her eyes. They were back on the stage near the arena. He led her across the open area and up the stairs to the streets of Thyra.

  They turned left and followed the street. After a couple blocks, Rowen glanced back. The tower was distant now, only bits of it showing through the tree branches above. What were Valin and Malchus doing now? Were they watching her through one of the windows in the room at the top? Were they discussing her?

  Rowen turned back, her whole body cold.

  Regessus walked beside her. His eyes were focused ahead, his gait unnaturally stiff. He looked human and moved like a human, but it was as if his soul had been taken out and only an empty shell remained. A walking corpse.

  “Who-who are you?” Her voice echoed along the street. Rowen swallowed and looked around. Regessus kept walking. “Who are you? Can you hear me? Understand me?”

  He didn’t react. He simply kept going.

  Rowen shivered and plodded along.

  Two blocks later he turned and approached a three-story home. Thick white columns lined the front of the house. A double set of red doors marked the entrance. Arched windows lined all three stories and light colored curtains fluttered out of two of them.

  He opened one of the doors, then turned back and looked at her. “You will stay here.”

  Rowen stared at the house. Where was the jail cell? Perhaps they meant to lock her up in the cellar.

  She stepped inside. In the large, white entryway cobwebs clung to the corners, swaying in the draft. Dust had settled across the white and silver veined marble floor. A short column stood on either side of the wide hall, each with a bust of a man on top, sculpted from white stone.

  Regessus walked past the busts and headed down the hall.

  As Rowen walked by the busts, she glanced at one and jumped back, eyes wide. The bust was the face of the same man she followed.

  Was this his house? What had happened to him?

  Pulse racing, Rowen hurried down the hall to Regessus.

  They passed by rooms on the right and the left, all filled with empty furniture and dust. The hall ended at a staircase leading up.

  Regessus started up the staircase. Rowen followed. He passed the second story and continued to the third. At the top, he followed the hall to the first door on the left. He opened it and looked back.

  Rowen reached the top, her clothes clinging to her body, her breath hot and fast.

  He waited, a distant look on his face.

  Rowen swallowed and entered the room. It was large, with a window set against the far wall. The walls were painted a light green, like spring grass. A fireplace made of white marble stood to the right. To the left was a large bed covered in white linens and pillows, a wardrobe, and a small chamber pot.

  A guest room.

  Why would they have her stay in a guest room? Shouldn’t she be locked up? Wasn’t she their prisone—

  The door shut behind her. Rowen spun around. There was a soft click.

  She stared at the handle. Yes, she was their prisoner, no matter how nice the room.

  She sank to the floor and laid her head down, her hands still bound behind her. She wanted to cry, but was too exhausted. Even the bed seemed far away. She closed her eyes, the name Mercia the last thing on her mind.

  Malchus rounded on Valin. “What are you doing? We had a plan.” He pointed at Valin. “And you are not following through with it. She will be the end of us if we don’t do something about her now.”

  “You don’t know that.” Valin walked toward the nearest window, the one that let him see to the door below, where Rowen and Regessus would soon emerge. “How long do you think we will survive, just the two of us? Yes, we have an army now, thanks to your access to the otherworld. And yes, I can twist more people as we catch them. But I want to see if Rowen will turn before we do away with her.”

  “You want her because she looks like Mercia.”

  Valin shrugged. Malchus knew him too well for him to deny his statement. Fact was, apart from the awful scar on her neck, she was even more beautiful than Mercia. And powerful. He could feel it. He longed to touch her, to feel that core power radiating inside her. It was like a sliver of the sun resided in her. And he wanted it.

  Rowen stepped out into the arena below, a small speck on the grey stone. From here, he could ignore the scar and imagine her, the way he used to imagine Mercia.

  She followed Regessus across the arena and up the stairs to the streets. The canopy of trees hid her from his view.

  “You’re playing with fire, Valin. Mercia never turned, and I doubt her daughter will either.”

  Valin turned away from the window. “So you believe that Rowen really is Mercia’s daughter?”

  Malchus stood a couple feet away, his arms crossed. “The woman is an Eldaran. And she looks almost exactly like Mercia. I would find it hard to believe otherwise. Perhaps Mercia was already with child when you let her go.” Accusation hung heavy in his eyes.

  Valin clamped his mouth shut and looked away. The only mistake he had made during their entire campaign: letting Mercia go. A moment of weakness. A blunder he’d thought Malchus corrected with the wolves. Until now. But maybe it would turn out to be for their benefit, if Rowen could be brought to their side.

  “Who do you think her father is?”

  Valin turned back around. “What?”

  “Her father.”

  Blood flooded his face.

  Malchus saw and a vicious smile moved across his lips. “She also looks like Anwar.”

  Anwar. The very name made Valin’s insides boil. But he had destroyed Anwar in the end, the very last Truthsayer. Unless Rowen was indeed . . .

  Valin gripped the windowsill and breathed slowly until his pulse returned to normal. It didn’t matter. He had won in the end. And he would win again. And if Rowen could be turned . . .

  All the sweeter.

  Chapter

  8

  The Great Desert was anything but great, except in size. Golden sand as far as the eye could see, spread out beneath a pale blue sky. No trees, no vegetation, no clouds, and the air so dry it felt like it was leeching the moisture from her face and body. Nierne pulled her scarf further over her head and sighed.

  Caleb and Lore rode ahead of her, leaving a trail in the sand. Caleb sat straight, his gaze ahead. Lore rode slightly to the right. Nierne followed the men, the gentle rocking of her horse and the dull landscape lulling her into boredom.

  No one said anything. Each night they set up camp, ate dried fruit and meat, and slept. Then they would leave before the sun was up the next day. They did this every day until time blurred into one long, hazy memory of sand, sun, and heat, with occasional stops at watering spots Caleb knew of to refill their skins. He had mentioned his mother was from the Great Desert. Perhaps that’s where his knowledge
came from.

  “Here.”

  Nierne looked up. She hadn’t even noticed Caleb had dropped back. He held his second waterskin out to her. “Drink. Remember, you need to—”

  “I know.” Nierne took the skin. Caleb narrowed his eyes and dropped his hand. She popped off the cork and took a drink, her conscience wriggling inside her. He was right. She needed to keep drinking. Every hour he had said when they first started out across the desert. But his continual reminders, his happy attitude, and this blasted heat were getting to her!

  She took another draught, placed the cork back on, and handed the skin to Caleb. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” She wiped her face. “I’m just not used to the heat. It’s making me . . .”

  “Irritable.”

  Nierne made a face at Caleb. “Yes.”

  “There is a small oasis not too far from here. A day or two’s ride.” He looked off into the distance. “It is a usual stop for the nomads crossing the Great Desert. We will fill our skins and rest for a while.” He hooked the waterskin to his side. “I think we could all use some rest.”

  Nierne closed her eyes and nodded. “That would be nice.” Water, not just a waterskin, but actual, real water, with maybe some plants or trees around it, sounded heavenly. The Great Desert was definitely one of those places that she never wanted to return to again.

  Caleb pulled his horse around and caught up to Lore. The sun moved across the sky and time ticked by with each hoof beat. Nierne rode with her eyes half-shut. Sweat beaded her face. The heat seemed even worse today, as though she were being cooked alive.

  So hot. She pulled at her tunic to let air circulate through her clothing, but it seemed to do little. She plodded along behind Caleb and Lore. Was Lore this hot too? Being from the cooler north, and being an Avonain, he had to be miserable.

  So hot. Nierne pulled again at her tunic. Her vision slowly swirled, causing the sky and sand dunes to mesh together. Her head throbbed, drums beating against her forehead. If only she could cool down. She pulled harder at her tunic, widening the neckline. What she wouldn’t give for a breeze right now.