The Great Betrayal (The Lost Prophecy Book 8)

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob could feel the anger boiling within Scottan.

  Could he do anything to soothe his brother?

  Even if he could, would it matter?

  He’d already learned that the past could not be changed, regardless of how much Jakob wished it could. The death of their mother. The pain Scottan suffered as a result. Nothing could change that.

  But this was his brother. He had to try.

  If his brother was damahne, he would have access to ahmaean, even if he wasn’t certain how to use it yet, and even if it had not yet been awakened within him.

  Jakob asserted a little more control and found that source of ahmaean within his brother.

  It was a ball, hidden deep within him, little more than a nugget of power. Jakob touched it, grasping it gently, and forced it forward.

  Jakob felt warmth spread over his brother, a sense of power that washed through Scottan. And Scottan was aware of it.

  Jakob retreated within his brother’s mind. Had he just helped his brother realize that he could be powerful?

  Had he made it so that his brother would be more dangerous?

  No, Jakob didn’t think that was possible. He couldn’t influence the past in such a way. He could only help comfort his brother in this time. It was something he hadn’t done back when it had happened. Jakob had been too engrossed in his own mourning, and he hadn’t checked on his brother, though he should have. He would have known that Scottan suffered the same way Jakob had. Yet Jakob had believed his brother to be stronger and had managed to deal with the passing of their mother much better than he had.

  That wasn’t the case at all.

  His father reached for Scottan, trying to hug him, but Scottan pulled away and wiped tears from his eyes. A resolute sense worked through Scottan, and Jakob realized that Scottan had changed; he had hardened, and this night was the beginning of it.

  Jakob retreated, stepping out of his brother’s strand, and looked along the fibers.

  There was another nidus, not far from here, and he decided to look into that one, as well. He needed to understand his brother, and he wanted confirmation that his brother was the person he now claimed to be. It would be painful, but… Jakob had to think it was necessary. If he attacked his brother, and Scottan could be saved, he needed to give him that opportunity.

  When he plunged into the nidus, he quickly retreated into the back of Scottan’s mind, letting himself get a sense of where he was and at what time in Scottan’s life. What moment would this be? Would it be a shared moment like the last, a time when Jakob would have known what Scottan had gone through, or would this be something different, a time when Scottan had been on his own, after he had joined the Ur?

  As Jakob peered out through his brother’s eyes, he saw a familiar sight. This time, he noted the barracks grounds, a place where he had practiced with Endric in those days when he still hadn’t known who Endric was or why he was willing to work with Jakob.

  What was Scottan doing here?

  Within his brother’s mind, he had a sense of movement, and realized his brother was practicing.

  It was interesting being within someone else’s mind as they practiced with the sword, and it intrigued him to learn that, though Scottan was skilled, he was not nearly as skilled as had Jakob remembered. The catahs that Scottan knew were basic ones. Would he ever have mastered more complicated catahs not been interrupted by the madness?

  The practice stave smacked Scottan along the arm, and he grunted, nearly dropping the sword.

  “No. Don’t lower your defense. You need to always maintain your readiness.”

  “I can’t. I can’t even keep up with you,” Scottan said, looking at his swordmaster.

  “It’s not a matter of keeping up, it’s a matter of staying alive when confronted with someone who might be willing to kill you. Are you willing to do what’s necessary to stay alive?”

  Jakob felt the same rage bubbling within Scottan that he felt when his father had been speaking to him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “That’s no sort of answer,” his swordmaster said.

  “That’s all the answer you’re going to get.” Scottan lunged forward, swinging his practice stave again, this time throwing the anger that had boiled within him at his instructor. He leaped with a sweeping movement, and his sword came crashing down on the instructor’s practice stave, barely blocked. The instructor grunted and pushed Scottan off, darting through a series of catahs that forced Scottan back. Jakob could feel Scottan’s determination, and without meaning to, he influenced his brother’s movements.

  There was something so simple about working with the sword, something that was natural for him now that he had done it as long as he had. Maybe if he helped his brother, maybe if he showed him how to deflect this attack, the anger that seized him would lesson.

  Scottan let out a whoop of excitement when his practice stave crashed into the other man’s arm.

  It was short-lived. The instructor twisted, catching Scottan on both wrists, before nodding, indicating that their sparring session was over.

  Jakob didn’t recognize Scottan’s instructor. The man was not one of the Ur he had seen when within the city, but there were hundreds and hundreds of soldiers, and Jakob had not known all of them. He had only begun to know some of the men assigned to Scottan, and that was because Jakob had trailed along after his brother, and the others had simply tolerated him.

  “That was better. You seem to anticipate the pattern, as if you’ve seen it before.”

  Scottan grunted. “Probably because you’ve shown it to me.”

  The instructor frowned. “Perhaps. We will work more tomorrow.”

  As the man turned and placed his practice stave on the rack, Scottan cleared his throat. “Why are you working with me like this?”

  His instructor glanced over his shoulder. “Should I not?”

  “The others don’t receive the same sort of dedicated training.”

  His instructor smiled tightly. “The others don’t need it.”

  “Why do I need it?”

  “Because of what you’ve lost and because of what you could become.”

  Did the instructor know about Scottan? Did he know that Scottan could be damahne if given enough time? It was a strange comment to make, especially if he wasn’t aware.

  “It was my father, wasn’t it?” Scottan asked as the instructor reach the edge of the barracks practice yard.

  The other man paused and turned back, considering Scottan with a bright intensity to his gaze. “If it was? Would you rather he not have asked that you receive the necessary instruction?”

  Scottan frowned again. “I would rather it be earned than given to me.”

  “Then earn it.” With that, the instructor departed the practice yard, leaving Scottan standing alone, holding his practice stave.

  Jakob remained tightly bound within the back of his brother’s mind, not wanting to assert himself too much or reveal himself at all. The interaction with the swordmaster was odd, and Jakob wouldn’t have expected it to have mattered so much to his brother. What was it about his sword training that made it so meaningful to have created a nidus on his strand?

  “You have promise.”

  Scottan spun, noting another man standing along the edge of the barracks. “Have you been watching me?”

  The other man shrugged. He was of average height, average build, but there was something about him that pulled at a sense of familiarity for Jakob. Had he seen this man before? If he had, where was it? Could he have known him from Chrysia?

  “I look for many with talent.”

  “What kind of talent?”

  The man smiled. “The kind that you possess.”

  Scottan returned his practice stave to the rack and turned away from the man. “I don’t possess any kind of talent. My father is trying to force me into this, but…”

  “Your father the priest would force you to become a soldier?”

  Scottan didn’t answer.
<
br />   “That would be an interesting request for a priest.”

  “He thinks it will help with my anger.”

  The other man laughed, and there was a darkness within it.

  Jakob stared at the man, trying to understand where he might have seen him before. There had to be something that would remind him, but what was it? Why would he feel such a familiarity?

  “There are other ways to manage anger.”

  “Such as?”

  The man shrugged again. “I’m not sure that you’re ready, but perhaps in time, you will be.”

  He started away from the barracks yard, heading in the opposite direction from Scottan’s sword instructor.

  Unlike with his sword instructor, Scottan chased after this man. “When? When will I be ready for what you think I can do?”

  The man flashed a dark smile. “Don’t worry. I will keep an eye on you.”

  With that, he turned, leaving Scottan to watch him depart.

  Jakob stepped back, retreating from his brother’s mind, and out of this time, withdrawing so that he could stand outside of the fibers once more. He was confused. There was something clearly important about what he had just observed, but what was it? Why would that man have watched his brother—and who was he?

  Can you tell me what I just saw? he asked the nemerahl. The sense of the nemerahl was there, as it always was when he stood outside of the fibers. She was tightly bound to the fibers and powerful with that connection. As she often did, she appeared in her nemerahl form, stepping away from the fibers and taking on an almost corporeal form.

  You know what you just saw.

  I don’t know. I didn’t recognize that man, so I don’t know why it was important.

  You didn’t have to recognize him to know why it was important.

  She was being difficult, but that was to be expected with the nemerahl. They often preferred that he work out what he had seen on his own, rather than sharing with him directly. In this case, he wasn’t certain he could puzzle out what he had observed.

  That left another option, but it meant he would travel forward once more along his brother’s strand. How many times would he need to do that? Each time required energy from him, though not nearly as much energy as it required for him to reach the damahne. His natural connection to his brother made it much easier for him.

  Jakob studied the fibers and found another nidus along his brother’s strand.

  He plunged into that nidus.

  When he drifted to the back of his brother’s mind and focused, he found himself within a tavern.

  It was dark, and the air smelled of smoke and dirt, as well as stale ale. A somber song played in the back of the tavern, strummed by a guitran player. The minstrel didn’t sing, and for that Scottan was thankful.

  That was a difference between Scottan and Jakob. His brother never enjoyed the stories, not like Jakob did. Whereas Jakob would listen to a storyman for hours, to the point of losing himself in those tales, his brother had never had any time for them. He considered them a waste and had always felt there was nothing he could learn from them.

  Scottan sat with his back to the wall, carefully considering those around him. He wore a nondescript cloak and had come unarmed, but Jakob detected the tension within him and a sense of uncertainty. Whatever it was that troubled him, he feared something would be happening soon.

  The door to the tavern opened, and a man entered.

  Scottan tensed, studying the door and the man who had come in for a moment, before relaxing and returning his attention to the mostly full mug of ale in front of him. He tapped his fingers on the table, drumming them in a steady pattern. Every so often, a waitress would sweep by, giving his still-full mug an irritated glance. Scottan ignored her.

  The door opened again, and once more, Scottan looked up.

  Another man entered. Jakob recognized him as the same man who had observed Scottan in the barracks yard before. He looked slightly older, which told Jakob that years had passed between the two nidus events, but otherwise, he appeared unremarkable. He wore a gray cloak, and a hint of a bulge beneath it revealed the sword strapped to his waist.

  Scottan tensed again and sat up stiffly, resting his hands on the table.

  The newcomer swept his gaze around the tavern for a moment before settling on Scottan. He flashed a dark smile and made his way to the table, taking a seat. He grabbed Scottan’s mug of ale and pulled it toward him, taking a long drink before setting it back down. The man wiped an arm across his face, his lips twisted in a sour expression. “You realize this tastes like piss.”

  Scottan shook his head. “I haven’t been drinking. I had to have something in front of me, otherwise…”

  The other man snorted. “You don’t need to worry about upsetting a waitress.”

  Scottan shrugged. “I didn’t want to draw too much attention. Wasn’t that what you told me? Come here without anyone else knowing that I did?”

  The other man smiled again. When he did, his face changed, making him scarier. No longer did he seem nonthreatening, and no longer did he seem quite so plain. When he smiled, there was an almost savage appearance to him.

  “I did, indeed. It pleases me that you listened.”

  Scottan looked at his hands, keeping his gaze off of the other man, though every so often, Scottan would look up and try to study him. It was times like these that Jakob considered asserting more control, so he might understand what it was that had drawn this man to the tavern and why Scottan had been summoned here. It was quite clear that this had been a summons.

  “What happens now?”

  The man shrugged. “What happens now is entirely up to you. You get to decide what you will do next.” The man lifted the mug of ale again and tipped it back, taking a long drink. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You can choose whether you continue to serve as you do, nothing more than a common soldier in a common city doing common things for the rest of your life, or whether you would chase the chance to know the gods more intimately.”

  Jakob asserted control briefly and forced Scottan’s head up, making him look at the other man’s arms and then his neck. He didn’t make Scottan meet the other man’s eyes. Doing so would be unlike how Scottan had acted with the man before, but Jakob had to know. Was this man Deshmahne?

  The idea seemed absurd, but what else explained it? What else could this man be other than Deshmahne?

  And if he was, they had a greater presence in Chrysia than Jakob had ever known.

  If Scottan had converted—and he began to wonder if that was the reason that his brother had a nidus at this time on his strand—then how many others had converted back then? How deeply had the Deshmahne infiltrated the Ur and other soldiers like them before the attack?

  The man’s arms were covered. His neck showed no markings. Still—could he be Deshmahne?

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  The other man grinned. “You are here. But I still detect a reluctance within you. If you do this, if you choose to know power, there can be no reluctance. You must do it in a way that embraces what you could be.”

  Scottan did look up then, and he met the man’s gaze. There was strength within Scottan, and Jakob felt a moment when he hoped Scottan would refuse him, but that moment faded when Scottan looked back down again. “How can I embrace this if I need to hide myself?”

  The other man snorted. “You have a quick mind. That will serve you well. That’s why I identified you as a potential recruit. Think of all the others who could have been recruited, but I came to you.” The man leaned forward and tapped Scottan on the chin until he looked up. “I told you I would watch you. I told you I would look for your potential. You have continued to display flashes of potential. That should please you.”

  Scottan nodded. “It does.”

  Jakob wanted to scream to his brother and tell him to do anything other than align with the Deshmahne, but even if he did, it likely wouldn’t matter. He could have a presence within his broth
er’s mind for only so long.

  “Well?” the man asked, reaching his hands across the table toward Scottan.

  Jakob forced Scottan to look at the other man’s arms again and had his fears confirmed. Tattoos wound around both of his forearms, disappearing up the sleeves of his robe. As Jakob focused, remaining in control for the briefest of moments, he detected the dark ahmaean swirling around the Deshmahne.

  A man like this—one who was sent outside of the south on his own to recruit—would likely be powerful. Jakob had met many Deshmahne priests when he’d traveled with Brohmin, and they all had been far more powerful than those he’d met when he had visited the south.

  Could the Deshmahne be using his own ahmaean to exert his influence on Scottan?

  Jakob pulled upon Scottan’s ahmaean, using it briefly to determine whether that was taking place, or whether this was simply the Deshmahne attempting to convert his brother without using his ahmaean to influence him.

  He couldn’t tell.

  He had to help his brother, even if his brother couldn’t help himself.

  There was the nugget of ahmaean still within Scottan, and the Deshmahne would not have known about that. How could he, when it would have been nearly impossible to believe that someone else could become damahne?

  Jakob doubted that it would matter, but he pulled upon that nugget of ahmaean and wrapped it around his brother’s mind. As he did, he pressed it toward the center of his mind, sending it in a soothing wave that was much like what the daneamiin did. It rolled through his brother, and then was gone.

  The Deshmahne frowned. Had he detected what Jakob had done?

  It likely didn’t matter. The Deshmahne could use his ahmaean but would not likely be looking for someone else to have the same connection as he did.

  “I will do this,” Scottan said. He looked up, meeting the Deshmahne’s eyes. “I accept the power you offer.”

  The other man nodded. “Good.”