But he can’t go back now. Ilvara’s words still ring in his ears. If not for you…
Despite knowing his mission, Caius can’t help but think of her voice, asking him not to die like this. Facing the bandit army alone is stupid, he knows. It’s pig-headed and irrational and could easily result in his death. Despite his strength in combat, sheer numbers will overwhelm him.
And yet, Caius cannot see any other existence. What would he do instead? Join the Guild again, fight for a good cause to recompense the gnawing pain? What use is there in goodness anyway, when he killed the one good thing in his life? Should he try to train again in Lockmire? Live in one of the holds with a dull occupation as a smith or a fisherman? Meet and marry a girl he can’t love? How can he go on and forget all that’s happened? How will he sleep at night with this weight of guilt so heavily on him?
None of it matters. The thought is like tar in his mind, covering everything else in its opaque slime. Empty, Caius takes a step toward the meadow.
It doesn’t take long to reach the boulders. The grass around them shimmers with dew. The rocks appear immovable, built into the earth like pillars. But if the ground is listening, they will step aside like pebbles underfoot.
Soft morning light settles over the dirt that was scattered about when that first dragon came tearing through the ground. He remembers her expression of terror. She hadn’t known, then, about dragons.
“Surge jumentum ignis, audi vocem meam!” Arise, beast of fire; hear my voice!
The ground is silent a moment, and Caius waits, watching. He repeats the command. The ground ripples like the surface of a lake. The boulders tremble just like he knew they would. Caius leaps aside to avoid one crashing down onto him. The dragon’s head plunges up through the churning surface, growling and moaning.
“Ego paenitet amicus, sed egeo tui auxilium,” Caius calls to the beast as it shakes off dirt. I’m sorry, my friend, but I need your help. He grabs hold of the dragon’s scaly black leg and hoists himself upward. “Sursum!” he shouts. Up!
Terbeas—massive pale grubs—hang from its huge mouth. The beast finishes the worms before it flaps its enormous wings and lifts off the ground. Caius climbs up its shoulder, neck, and onto its head, gripping the pieces of bone protruding from the top of its elongated skull.
He commands the beast to fly him to the Peaks of Cinis, a destination he’s sure the dragon will understand. Its large head slowly aims toward the black mountains. Since this breed of dragon is larger and more heavily armoured than most, its movements aren’t particularly smooth. However, it maintains a dragon’s characteristic grace in the power and speed of its magnificent wings. Furthermore, its flight endurance is unmatched. This dragon could fly to Lembross and back before tiring.
The rhythm of the dragon’s flight is almost hypnotic. The inky water of Blackmist Pond below reflects the beautiful creature, body covered in glittering black scales, flexing and relaxing to pump strength into its massive wings. He gives the dragon a pat on its shoulder, commanding it to fly higher so not to alarm those who may be watching the water.
When he’s surrounded by milky clouds and in the full blaze of the summer sun, Caius leans back on one of the spines. He shuts his eyes against the mist, picturing her as he so often does. Her tangible excitement when she rode a dragon for the first time. She’d lifted her hands to the sky as if trying to grab the clouds.
His gut twists with longing. He remembers wanting to ask her to marry him when he was thinking of how to celebrate her birthday, now not far away. What a selfish thought. She had other plans for her life. Why would she ever want to marry him?
He’d never even wanted a wife before, not like this. At one point, he thought he might marry Maven, but it wasn’t something he desperately wanted right away. It just seemed inevitable. And then his mother died. That changed everything.
Those first few months as a bandit were difficult, as letting go of both his mother and Maven seemed impossible, on top of not finding his father. He remembers drinking one night in the central cavern during the second month he was there. He didn’t usually drink there, but that night he craved company, even from drunken slobs like those men. He couldn’t lie on his bedroll listening to the blood pumping through his head for another evening.
He sat at a table alone, finishing the last of his tankard when a man he hadn’t met yet slumped down beside him.
“You. You’re Caius, aren’t you?” the man asked.
Caius nodded.
“I wanna talk. I’ve noticed you around lately. You’re the silent one. Always lookin’ angry, even when we come back with a load of riches. What’s that about?”
“None of your concern,” Caius replied, rising to purchase another drink.
The man slammed his hand down on the table. “Sit down. Let me get it for you.”
Reluctantly, Caius sat. Despite wanting people around, he didn’t feel much like talking, but he appreciated the free drink. When the man returned with two fresh tankards, he sat down and said,
“Is it a woman?”
Caius sighed. “It’s several things.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Is one o’ them a woman?”
Caius sighed and took a drink. This brew was weaker than the last one. At the end of the night, they usually were. The price, however, was never diluted like the ale was. Greedy bastards.
“Listen,” Caius said, “I don’t want to talk to some stranger about my issues. I appreciate the drink.”
“Women will be around until the end of time,” said the man, regardless. “We got ‘em here. We got ‘em all around Nequa and Ardellon. Big ones, skinny ones, brown skin, white skin. I even met a Talparian woman once. Feisty beast.”
“And?”
“And you gotta get over her. She isn’t worth your trouble. Find another one.”
Caius thought of the mother who had given her entire life to helping Caius only to be claimed by the winter frost. Of Maven, who suffered every day in a household that kept growing and a father who beat her, still able to focus all her attention on Caius when he was around. Now, she was alone with that family again. Would she even last without him?
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Caius told him, draining his tankard in three big gulps.
“Aw, lovesick little child. Little soft, weak thing. You’re letting them walk all over you when you outta be tough.”
Caius felt himself bristle but tried to stay calm. He’d seen too many men make a fool of themselves here, and he wouldn’t be the same. “Don’t push yourself, stranger.”
“Make sure you don’t go near the women pouring ale or singing. You may lose yourself completely. And don’t even think about the ones swinging axes! I say, there isn’t a weaker man than the one who lies down at the feet of a woman.”
Caius put his tankard down and shook his head. “Good night,” he said as he rose. “Next time, drink at least two mugs before you start acting stupid.”
The man stumbled to his feet. Caius heard the tankards crash to the ground behind him as he walked away. Some other men loitering around laughed. Then, Caius was spun around by a hand on his shoulder and punched right in the nose.
Body tense with anger, Caius gripped the older man by the neck and hit his face so hard he fell and didn’t move. Breathing hard, he stared at the men watching, cheering, laughing, through eyes pounding with blood. Turning back to the cavern tunnel, he swore to never drink there again.
The next morning, Caius heard the man he punched had choked on his own vomit and died.
Caius doesn’t love her in the childish way he adored Maven. Maven appealed to his senses, but she has his heart. If only he had really caught hers. His mind fights with him, reminding him of that kiss on Blackmist’s shores. She kissed him back. She said she couldn’t think. Then, at the end, she said she loved him. Did he really manipulate her enough to make her say those things? She was a vulnerable woman, and he’d known it. Without even thinking, he must have pressured
her into feeling things she wasn’t really feeling. He never, ever wanted to hurt her, but that’s all he seemed to do.
Caius considers what other men might have done in his situation. A smarter man wouldn’t love a woman who could not love him back. A stronger man would grieve for a time, then move on, would even allow the prospect of loving someone else. A greater man would have never let himself love her as much as he did. As much as he still does.
Then again, a lesser man would join the bandits rather than kill them. A weaker man would have killed himself already. And only a fool couldn’t fall in love with her.
So, Caius concludes, at least I’m not a fool.
✽ ✽ ✽
Evelyn draws a deep, slow breath. The simple sensation of fresh air in her chest is enough to make her weep with joy. The fire is gone forever. She was only dead for about forty-eight hours, but each hour felt like longer than a thousand years. There was no time there, really. No progression of thought. No past or future. Only agony. Endless, mindless agony.
Her eyelids open to bright sunlight streaming in from the window. She sits up slowly, careful not to wake Ilvara next to her, and stretches her fingers to meet the golden rays. The light casts a reddish glow on her skin. She shuts her eyes against it. Warmth splashes across her face and neck. Not burning heat. Soft warmth.
She is still there when Ilvara stirs nearly an hour later. She looks up at Evelyn, blinks a few times, and begins to cry, pressing her face to Evelyn’s hand.
“You really are alive,” Ilvara murmurs.
Evelyn smiles. “I am as awed as you are.”
“I have to ask you something,” Ilvara says abruptly. She wipes at her face. “It’s about when you first arrived at the castle. We put you in that room with the windows all around it.”
Evelyn turns back to the window as the memory resurfaces. She sees glistening glass and soft coverlets. Something tells her to stop remembering, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to follow this memory through. She wants to live this life differently than the first one.
“I forgot about that room,” Evelyn whispers. “It feels so far away.”
“You had bookshelves and a writing desk—”
“Gods,” Evelyn croaks. The room comes fully into view. The grain of the wooden desk where she penned journal entries before she tucked the pages into a book. The view from the windows. The soft blanket she had loved running her hands over. Suffocating her as her face was shoved into it.
“Evelyn, what? You look very distressed.”
Evelyn gulps, but her throat is dry. The room looks dark when she turns back to it. “I remember it.” Her heart flutters. No. This is not different. This is exactly how I felt before. Panicked. Helpless.
Ilvara grips her arm. “What happened? I know Hadrian did something to you. What did he do?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “I remember he was whispering, telling me to keep quiet. Threatening me. He was angry. I remember my face being held to the blanket. I remember his hands…”
“Did he…?” Ilvara seems to be holding her breath.
“Something noisy happened outside the door that stopped him before…” Evelyn blinks back tears. “I don’t remember seeing him go. Perhaps I fainted.”
Ilvara pulls Evelyn into her arms tightly, but Evelyn pushes away.
“Apologies,” Ilvara says. “I somehow forgot.” She shakes her head, tears streaming her face. “I am so sorry on his behalf.”
Evelyn nods numbly, hand trailing up and down her own arm, tracing patterns of old scars. After a while, she looks at Ilvara again, “Why did you ask about that? Why aren’t we in Lockmire? Why did you want to bury me here?”
Ilvara shares the long story then, of how she and Count Hadrian had an awful fight, of their being cast out of Lockmire, Leo escaping Caius in the dungeons, their journey here, the experiences with the Shrine, Maven escaping, the testimonies, and finally, the events at the Sanctuary.
After the tale, Evelyn releases a long breath. “So, I wasn’t his last. Hadrian’s.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It seems Herus led you straight here, then.”
Ilvara combs her brown hair out with her fingers. “Perhaps.”
A knock at the door catches their attention. Anna’s voice comes muffled through the door: “Would you two like a morning meal?”
“Please,” Evelyn responds.
Anna pokes inside with a tray of bread, cheese, and berries. She lays it down on the table and takes up the empty pitcher.
“Any news of Maven and Priscilla?” Ilvara asks.
Anna shakes her head. “We just sent out a messenger to check on them. We haven’t heard anything since they left last night.”
“Perhaps they ran off into the forest together—” Ilvara mutters.
“Did you sleep?” Evelyn interrupts.
“A little.” Anna taps her fingertips against the pitcher, eyeing Ilvara. “We have a group of ministers visiting from Esterden later this week, so we’ll need our rooms back soon.” She turns to the door.
Ilvara huffs as Evelyn rises.
“Are you and Priscilla very good friends?” Evelyn asks Anna.
Anna stops at the door. She turns just her face. She has a strong nose, but it suits her, and her bottom lip is much fuller than the top. She looks hearty and tough, like she’d do well in battle, but she’s so quiet.
“We were,” Anna says icily, then leaves them.
Evelyn sits back down. “I don’t think she liked your cutting tone about her friend. Even if Priscilla’s actions damaged their friendship, it seems Anna is still loyal.”
She feels Ilvara’s eyes on her, but can’t look away from the door.
“That is an interesting observation,” Ilvara says slowly. “You don’t usually notice things like that. Or you didn’t before…”
Evelyn finally looks at her. Ilvara still seems tired, even though she must have slept.
“Everything feels different now,” is all Evelyn says.
Chapter 14
Girl with Golden Hair
Asher surveys Tarreth’s main thoroughfare in the morning sunlight. As he stretches out his sore neck, he wishes he hadn’t fallen asleep in that chair next to Alesia’s bed. He just hated leaving her alone with those Shrine workers. Those women are nothing but scarlet veils and jewels wrapped around a carcass. There’s no beating heart there.
Asher lived in this city all his life. He saw how those Shrine workers treated his mother, a high-paying patron and a faithful gods-worshipper. He heard how the workers tried to seduce his father. How they gossiped about his younger sister, Francine. How they smiled so bitterly and lied so sweetly. In his opinion, Alesia was safer in the beggar’s alleys than in the Shrine. But it was Ilvara’s choice.
Last night while he was painstakingly writing or repeating his testimony against Maven, his mind was on Alesia, alone in that room with all her wounds. What if she woke up with no one familiar around? Wouldn’t she feel as if she had been abandoned by everyone she loves? And with her mother destined for death, she needs people to care. When the Shrine worker let him in, he went straight up to check on her. Thankfully, she was asleep.
He didn’t learn until this morning that Evelyn wasn’t even buried here, and that, in fact, none of his company were let inside. One of the workers mentioned—with a disgusted roll of the eyes—they thought she’d been buried next door at the Sanctuary of Herus.
He looks there now, with its white walls gleaming in the sun, the twin pillars in front supporting part of the large second floor. Mother used to attend the Sanctuary to worship twice a week, after her awful experiences at the Shrine of the Seven. She wasn’t quite sure about Herus, but she preferred it to those back-biting snakes at the Shrine.
Asher does not lean either way when it comes to gods. He doesn’t much like the Shrine because of the workers, but he’s heard of miracles happening there, even if he doubts their credibility. He hoped last night he would observe
one, but Alesia’s fever was still raging when he left. He isn’t sure why, but her death would make the last bit of hope go out of him. If the last few days have proven anything, it’s been that death is an unfailingly cruel and unbiased beast.
A small group is coming up the street toward the Sanctuary. Men and women fling questions and accusations at someone between them. A female voice cries out for them to leave her alone.
Hand on the hilt of the dagger at his side, Asher approaches the throng. “What’s the problem here?” he asks.
Some eye him uneasily. He’s glad at that moment for the change of clothes Caius and Grogar grabbed from Hadrian’s bedchamber. If not for them, he’d still be wearing those oversized things from Maven’s cottage. They’d laugh in his face for trying to command them.
He pushes through the crowd toward the centre of their attentions. There, a somewhat familiar woman with russet skin and black braids is being pulled by another woman who berates her with questions. Asher shoves the woman off.
“Cease with your harassment at once,” Asher orders, “or I’ll report all of you to my superior. I assume you don’t want to pay the recently raised fine.”
“Fine? For what, asking questions?” one man asks.
Asher lowers his brows at him. “For harassment. It’s one hundred silver.”
The group murmurs questions to one another. In this beat, Asher offers his arm to the woman while waving his other hand to the uncertain crowd. “Be gone, and I’ll do my best to forget this incident.” He smiles down at the young woman on his arm. “May I escort you to your destination, my lady?”
The crowd disperses around her. Eyes wide, the woman gestures to the twin pillars. “The Sanctuary.”
“Very good,” he says. “I wanted to go there myself.”
“Thank you. For that.” She’s breathless, and her arm trembles in his. Her journey must have troubled her greatly. “You’re…Asher?”
Asher furrows his brow. “Have we met?”
“Not formally. I was at the Sanctuary when your party arrived at the Shrine. I’ve met the rest of you. I’m Priscilla Naveen.”
Of Embers Page 10
