Inside, Whym raged with a fury that needed an outlet. Outside, though, he remained collected. “I don’t believe it. But I need to know the truth.”
“What would knowing change?”
“Kutan, Kira was pregnant.”
“I know. The tailor raped her.”
“Don’t you get it?” Whym had told Kutan the story of his visit home and was frustrated he hadn’t made the connection. “It was me, not the tailor. It was all my fault!” Whym was close to breaking down as he had earlier in the abandoned warehouse.
“Didn’t your father tell you? It wasn’t yours.” Kutan put his hand on Whym’s shoulder. “Kira told her grandmother the whole story and went to the Temple of Sand for redress. All I know about Kira is what you’ve told me, but she doesn’t sound like the type who’d wrongly accuse a married man. Didn’t your father tell you all this?”
Whym grasped the top of the fence bordering the courtyard to steady himself, then looked down at the street. “I was so upset I didn’t wait to hear the whole story.” He was still processing the news. It explained Kira’s reaction when he’d mentioned her apprenticeship. Whym focused his mind on his anger—at Tyrus, Arlis Thrump, and Drusus Skinner—to shield himself from an overwhelming sorrow. He lifted his eyes to meet Kutan’s. “I still need to know what happened in the temple.”
Kutan stared into the night sky and let out a breath that puffed out his cheeks. “Aagghh. Stern’s gonna kill me if the Council doesn’t.” He looked Whym in the eye. “How do you plan to find out?”
“Follow me.” Whym headed toward the Fiddlestop and briefed Kutan about what had happened earlier on the way. When they reached the tavern, Tyrus was still there. Whym entered while Kutan waited around the corner with their packs.
“Tyrus Fen.” Whym approached the booth, the hatred in his voice slicing through the music and the sounds of merriment. “You’ve been telling lies.”
“Dim Whym.” Tyrus grinned the grin that had meant a beating was coming during their school days. “You ran like the coward you are when you saw me earlier. What brings you back? Have you missed my beatings?”
Whym stood eye to eye with the elder twin. “What happened to Kira in the temple?”
Tyrus smiled. “Jealous Tailor Thrump beat you to it?”
Whym could feel the rage rising. Servant of Death.
Tyrus leaned forward so he could speak into Whym’s ear without being overheard. “She came to me with her broken jaw and scribbled accusations, and I treated her like the whore she was.”
The only thing keeping Whym from attacking Tyrus was his promise to Kutan not to do anything stupid. His body shook from containing his rage. Tyrus straightened with a satisfied smile. “And she liked it.”
Whym snapped. He lunged at Tyrus, taking him by surprise and knocking him from his stool to the ground. As they wrestled on the floor, Whym swung again and again, releasing a lifetime of pent-up fury. He landed blow after blow until he was pulled away. Even then, he fought against the arms that held him back, eager to strike again. But there were too many. He stopped struggling and stood, glowering at his adversary.
Tyrus, the corner of his right eye cut and his nose and mouth bloodied, lifted himself to his feet, snarling at Whym as he rubbed his jaw. “I’m going to carve you like a block of wood.” Whym could see the swirling hatred in his eyes. It was far different from the amusement Whym had seen there during the beatings he’d received when they were classmates.
Tyrus pulled a dagger from his waist, spit a mouthful of blood at Whym’s feet, then casually grabbed a mug of ale from the table. “You won’t recognize yourself when I’m done with you.” He took a swig of the ale.
The music had stopped. A crowd of people surrounded them. Whym, unable to break free from the men restraining him, could do nothing but stare at his adversary. Instead of staring at the taunting, cruel eyes, though, he focused on the lump in Tyrus’ neck that moved as he swallowed. When Tyrus took another gulp of ale, Whym suspended the liquid right at that lump, blocking the intake of air.
Tyrus clutched at his neck, first trying to swallow, then to cough out the ale. He lurched forward, his face red as he choked with gurgling coughs and fell to the floor. One of his friends pounded on his back, trying to dislodge whatever had caught in his throat.
Whym stood still and silent during the commotion, focused on holding the ale. Not until the life drained from Tyrus Fen did he release the liquid, letting it flush from the twin’s mouth and puddle on the floor beside his body. He felt not a shred of remorse. Servant of Death.
“Poison!” someone cried. Whym noticed people pointing at him. In the confusion, Whym felt the grips on his arms loosen and a few let go entirely. With every ounce of his strength, he twisted free and dove into the crowd behind him, knocking people to the floor as he pushed through.
Then he dashed out the door of the Fiddlestop and turned the corner where Kutan was waiting. “Run!” He scooped up his pack and sword belt in one fluid movement and tore off toward the Maze, a bewildered Kutan following.
“What. Did. You. Do?” Kutan asked after they’d ducked into a dark alley to hide.
Whym waited until he caught his breath before responding. “What someone should have done long ago. I killed Tyrus Fen.”
Kutan swung, landing a blow against Whym’s jaw that sent him spinning back against the wall and to the ground. “You promised!”
“Boys, boys, boys.” A hulking figure turned into the alley. Whym looked up from the ground to see a split-lipped smile.
“Salazar?” Kutan exclaimed.
“Get up. You can wrestle like street urchins later.”
No matter his feelings about the man, Whym guessed Salazar was their best chance for survival. He pushed himself to his feet, and he and Kutan followed as the big man wound in and out of the busier streets and down one small alley after the next. In the night, Whym couldn’t use the spire of the Tower of Plenary as a landmark, so he was completely lost. When they turned into a dead end, he suspected Salazar was lost as well. There was only one door in the alley that wasn’t stoned over, a small wooden servants’ entrance that barely came up to his waist.
“Now what?” Kutan asked. The door opened as if in answer.
“I’ll return after I attend to my other affairs. You’ll be safe in the Cache,” Salazar answered, then strode off into the night.
Kutan gaped after him. “The what?” Whym asked.
“Just follow me.” Kutan took off his pack and pushed it through the door before him as he crawled inside. Whym did the same. He could hear the sound of burbling water ahead.
“Leave your things here.” A petite woman wearing a shiny blue dress with embroidered pink flowers up one side closed and locked the door. “Your weapons, too.” She nudged past them, the silky blonde hair that hung to her waist brushing against Whym’s face. “All your weapons,” she said, kicking the boot where Kutan kept a spare dagger. Then she strode down the hall, the soft glow of the candle in her hands diminishing with the pat of her footsteps on the stone.
“Where are we?” Whym asked, removing his sword belt.
“I didn’t believe this place was real. And this whole time Salazar…I can’t believe it!” Kutan headed down the hall toward where the candle glow had stopped.
Not exactly an answer. Whym followed.
“Sit.” The woman was waiting behind a thick desk that highlighted the slimness of her figure. The desk wasn’t the fashionable, decorative type. It was a heavy slab of dark wood, polished so the candlelight reflected across the surface. “Your room will be ready soon.” She crossed her hands and rested them on the wood, regarding Whym and Kutan with indifference.
Moments later, a dark-skinned beauty appeared in the hall behind the desk. “Come.” The first woman was small and delicate. This woman’s long, lithe body swayed like a cat as she moved, the fire in her
amber eyes leaving Whym feeling like prey. She beckoned them to follow with the curve of a slender finger. “In here.” She held out one arm toward the open door at the end of the hall.
Whym and Kutan stepped inside. The room had a single bed with a goose down mattress, something Whym had never experienced. Two cushioned chairs sat in the corner with a small table and oil lamp in between. A loosely woven rug occupied the center of the room, and a basket of food, like the type his mother used to take to neighbors in mourning, had been placed on the rug next to the bed.
As Kutan moved toward the oil lamp, the door thudded shut behind them, plunging the room into darkness. The scrape of a key turning told them they were locked in. “I knew we couldn’t trust Salazar.” Kutan kicked the wall. “You better hope Stern comes back for us.”
“Kutan?” Whym spoke when the angry silence dragged on. He could hear the shift in his friend’s breathing patterns, but there was no answer. “Kutan, I’m sorry,” he offered meekly.
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Footsteps—not the soft tap of the women’s steps from earlier, but the clump of men’s boots—sounded from outside the door. Light seeped through the gap beneath it. In the darkness, there was no way to determine the time, so Whym didn’t know whether it was still night or already morning. He’d tried turning the lock with blasts of air, but as usual, the magic was useless. He couldn’t even summon a small flame of fire to light the oil lamp.
“Tell me,” Salazar asked from the hall, “why you two chose to off our First Lord’s eldest?” Whym and Kutan replied with silence. “Come now, you’re here for your own protection. No need to act like children.”
“For our own protection?” Kutan retorted. “We trusted you.”
“It’s a good thing, too. The reward for your capture is already high, and it’s bound to increase the longer you remain free. If you weren’t locked in here, you’d be sharing your master’s fate.”
“Stern?” Kutan stood, muscles tensed. “Did something happen?”
“The execution’s tomorrow.”
“Execution? For what?”
“For sending his apprentices to kill Tyrus Fen. Though I imagine being the son of Ather Sandoval is cause enough these days.”
Whym’s heart sank. It’s my fault. First Kira, now Stern, and probably Kutan, too! “Stern had nothing to do with that.”
“You can still speak?” Salazar opened the door, a candle—the source of the glow—in his hand. His massive frame filled almost the entire space within the doorway. “If you didn’t kill Tyrus on Stern’s orders, then why? An old grudge?”
“I didn’t plan to kill him.” Even as Whym spoke, he wondered if the words were true. “I lost my temper.” His guilt at involving Stern and Kutan twisted his insides, but he had no remorse for what he’d done to Tyrus.
Salazar stared at Whym’s pocket, where he was palming the Unum, then raised his eyes to look into Whym’s. “Your inability to control your temper has ruined many turns of preparation. Tyrus was to succeed his father.”
“Then I’ve done the realm a favor. Tyrus would’ve been even worse than Lord Fen.”
“Precisely!” Salazar held Whym’s gaze. “The lords, the people, the regions—they’d have risen to depose him. Cyrus, to my surprise, has proven an effective leader while commanding the forces in the Fringe. No, you’ve done the realm a great disservice.”
Cyrus was the replacement for Vademus? Whym wasn’t sure which was more surprising—the younger twin having been named Commander, his doing well, or that they were all involved somehow in Salazar’s elaborate scheme.
“You were plotting this succession?” Kutan asked. “For the resistance?”
Salazar spread his arms. “Who else would benefit from the demise of the Council of Truth?”
“If you’re truly with the resistance, set us free. We’ll rescue Stern.”
Salazar shook his greasy black curls. “That you might be so foolish is why you’ll remain locked up. Stern had high hopes for you, but I’m yet to be convinced of your worth.” The way he’d said “your” while glaring at Kutan gave Whym the impression he’d been speaking only to Kutan.
“Last time we met, you told me I should leave for the Fringe—that I wouldn’t be missed.” Kutan glared back.
“Don’t you wish you’d listened?” Salazar posed the question with a slight tilt of his head to the side. “If you’re to be of any use, Kutan, it’s time you learn how the game is played. Pawns do what they’re told. They’re employed, sacrificed if need be, for the benefit of the pieces that matter. Young Ellenrond here, he matters.” Salazar spun and left the room, swinging the door shut behind him.
Whym turned to his friend before the light disappeared. The scrape of a key was locking them in. Prophecies, visions, plans long laid or just conceived, what Salazar had just said reminded him of Laatst’s warning. Beware those who would see the future on your behalf. He didn’t trust the split-lipped man. “Kutan, don’t pay any attention to him. Like you said, we make our own futures. Their schemes don’t matter.”
“Enough! Why should I listen to you? You forced Stern to return to Riverbend. Tomorrow they’ll string a noose around his neck because he listened to you.”
Stern saved Kutan. He raised him. He’s like a father to him. And Kutan’s right—Stern’s death will be my fault. Whym imagined how he’d react in Kutan’s position, and knew there was nothing he could say to fix the situation. Another “I’m sorry” would be useless.
Kutan continued his rant. “All this so you could run away and hide!”
Whym thought of his father willingly taking the annual beatings as Rat Man to protect the people he loved. With Kira and Mum gone, and Dah refusing to leave, I have no excuse to hide. But if I can learn how to use my power, I might make a real difference. The resistance is now my cause as much as yours. “No, I’m going to fight.”
“You heard Salazar. They have plans for you—you matter.”
“I won’t follow Salazar; and I’m no leader.”
“Yeah? Thanks to you, Stern’s in the hands of the Council. If you won’t follow Salazar, who do you plan to follow?”
The last vestiges of light from Salazar’s candle were gone, leaving them again in darkness. I don’t have a plan, but I wouldn’t have followed Stern—not after what Laatst revealed. Other than his father, Whym realized there was only one person alive he truly trusted—the person sharing his cell. “I would follow you.” Kutan didn’t respond.
With Kutan refusing to speak and occupying the rug, Whym felt his way across the room to the bed. He could feel the heat of the amulet against his chest but kept his mind closed, wanting his own thoughts, not someone else’s memories. Once he hit the soft mattress, though, his thoughts couldn’t compete with his body’s need for sleep.
Riverbend, Chapter 69
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When light of day doth fade to shade,
And in the end my life is weighed,
By those in death I leave behind,
I pray that end of day they’ll find,
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The balance in my favor.
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—ArWhym Ellenrond
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Riverbend
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Aghor never smiled. No one took a smiling jailor seriously. A smiling executioner was worse. That morning, though, alone in the privacy of his own room, he’d let the corners of his mouth curl into the unfamiliar position. Today, he’d hang Stern Sandoval, son of the traitor Ather Sandoval. His father’s father had risked and lost everything to follow ArWhym Ellenrond. Ather had betrayed them.
After savoring the moment, Aghor returned the scowl to his face. He tied on the thick leather arm guards he’d worn as a soldier
. It had been many turns since he’d last fought—his gimpy knee forcing a too-early retirement—but the guards had become part of his uniform.
“Get up!” he roared as he entered Stern’s cell. He didn’t expect a response. After the beating he’d delivered the night before, there was no chance the white-haired seeker would rise. He lifted the man’s head by blood-matted hair, placed his ear near the seeker’s mouth, then exhaled with relief when he heard the faint scratch of pained breathing. The lords would have my head if he died down here. But he deserved every blow and more—sending boys to do his dirty work.
The massive jailor left to retrieve a rope without bothering to close the cell. When he returned, the heavy rope draped over his broad shoulders, his prisoner hadn’t moved. He lifted the old man’s body with a single arm and slid the rope underneath. Then he wound it around Stern’s chest and secured it, testing, as he walked toward the prison exit, to make certain Stern’s body couldn’t slip out. He could already hear the rumble of the assembled crowd.
He dragged Stern up the stone stairs and out into Redress Square. Jeers greeted him as he appeared, and encouraged him as he ascended the platform. With one hand holding the rope just above the knot, he dangled the condemned seeker over the edge so the people could see.
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Stern had willed himself to die—during the torture, during the night, while being dragged up onto the platform. His will had failed him; he breathed still. He opened his eyes to view the sea of people assembled to witness his death. After the beatings, though, he could no longer distinguish faces, his vision a blur of color.
The TruthGuard had known he was coming. They’d seized him the moment he’d stepped through the Commerce Gate, too many to attempt an escape. As they’d marched him across the city to the cells built under Redress Square, he’d wondered how they knew. Was I recognized in the Dung? Did the messenger betray me? What he’d written on the paper had been in code. Only someone who knew the cipher—someone high-ranking in the resistance—could have read it to determine his identity. He was now resigned to face death with that question unanswered. After the torture, death couldn’t arrive soon enough.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 44
