Jeric didn’t look up.
Braddok led Sable toward the fire, opposite Jeric. “Some rope, Aks?”
Aksel rummaged through a saddlebag and tossed a bundle at Braddok.
Jeric looked up and met Sable’s gaze across the flames. He didn’t know which burned hotter.
He didn’t know why it angered him.
Braddok cut the rope, using once piece to secure Sable’s ankles and another to secure her wrists. She did not fight him.
Jeric almost wished she would.
“You might wanna check her, Wolf,” Braddok said. “Her shirt’s soaked through.”
Jeric noticed the dark stain then.
He jumped to his feet and approached. Sable wouldn’t look at him. He crouched beside her and peeled back her shirt. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. She was like stone, her gaze fixed on nothing. He unwound the wrapping and cursed. The thread had ripped through her skin, and the wound bled freely. He glanced up to find her glaring at him. As if he were the one who had given her this.
Perhaps he was.
“Brad,” Jeric said tightly. “I need ale.”
Braddok got up, scooped his flask off the ground, and shook it. His brow wrinkled as if he didn’t understand why it was empty but also wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d finished it without knowing. He stalked to the horses and found another flask, which he tossed at Jeric.
Jeric caught it and uncorked the lid, and Sable looked sharply away as he poured ale over the wound. She sucked air through her teeth and shut her eyes. The stitches needed to be replaced, but they didn’t have the right supplies. Instead, he used a clean dressing from the saddlebags and wrapped it around Sable’s waist. She stiffened at his touch but didn’t say a word, her eyes fixed decidedly away from him.
“Sable…” he started.
Her gaze speared through him, cutting his words short. In her eyes was the loathing he’d seen from so many: hating him for who he was, what he was, and what he had done—for everything he represented. It’d never bothered him before; he’d taken pride in it.
It bothered him now.
Chez returned with Stanis, and Jeric stood. Chez winked, joining Aksel by the fire, hand open and demanding some of the hardtack Aksel was currently chewing. Jeric regarded Stanis, but Stanis wouldn’t return his gaze. Stanis had always been the wildest of them, but lately, his behavior had been volatile—belligerent, even, as if drunk off of the blood they had collectively spilled.
Stanis took a seat at the rim of firelight, his back to Jeric.
“Where’s Gerald?” Chez asked.
Jeric and Braddok exchanged a long look.
Chez’s gaze darted from Jeric to Braddok, then leaned forward with a sigh. Stanis looked over then. Jeric sensed Sable’s full attention, too, though she didn’t look over.
“How?” Chez asked.
“A knife to the heart,” Jeric answered. He let the words sit, not wanting to divulge more. He only hoped Sable would allow him this.
Gerald’s fate was a risk they all took, every single day. He wasn’t the first man they’d lost, but he’d been one of the best, in skill and character.
“That true?” Stanis asked sharply, eyes narrowed on Braddok.
“Is what true?” Braddok barked back.
Stanis’s eyes flickered suspiciously to Jeric. “Where’ve you been, Wolf? You leave suddenly. Didn’t say a godsdamn word—”
“He doesn’t have to tell you scat,” Braddok cut him off.
Stanis threw down his scabbard and stood. “I think we have a right to know why Gerald died for some godsdamned Scablicker.”
His words filled the camp, and before Braddok could make a stand against them, Jeric said, “Gerald didn’t die because of her. He died because of me. Because I failed. Over and over again. I failed to stand for you.”
“Wolf, we know who holds your strings—” Braddok started.
“And I’m cutting them,” Jeric said sharply. “I am joining the Strykers.”
Silence fell.
Chez broke it with a hammer. “What?”
When Jeric didn’t deny it, Chez and Aksel looked to Braddok, hoping he would deny it, but Braddok looked solemnly back with a shrug. He’d known for some time. Stanis regarded Jeric with an expression Jeric couldn’t read.
Aksel sat forward. “Hagan will never allow it.”
“He is,” Jeric said.
Aksel looked bewildered.
“Hersir’s performing the ceremony when I return.”
“But why?” Aksel asked.
Jeric looked from man to man, his gaze settling on Braddok. “Because I won’t risk your lives for my brother’s whims. Not anymore. I’ll serve Corinth, but on my own, without your blood on my hands.”
Jeric’s words settled and took root.
Chez dragged a hand over his face. “Gods above. The hells am I gonna do now?”
“Join me on king’s guard,” Braddok said with a wink.
“No, thanks,” Chez replied dryly. “I prefer to see a bit more action.”
“Which is why I said to join me on king’s guard.” Braddok waggled his brows.
Chez snorted.
“Godsdamnit, Wolf,” Aksel grumbled with a sigh, resting his forearms upon bent knees. “I feel like my life’s about to become excruciatingly boring.”
“Good,” Jeric replied. “Boring means alive.”
Aksel rolled his eyes and chucked the last remnants of hardtack on the fire.
Jeric glanced at Sable, who looked immediately away from him.
“What are you three doing out here, anyway?” Braddok asked.
“We were coming back from Stovichshold. Your brother asked us to check on…” Chez’s gaze flitted to Sable before answering quietly, “…things.”
Hagan had gone behind his back and used his men. Jeric gritted his teeth. “Why?”
“We—”
“—shouldn’t talk about it here,” Stanis cut him off. He tipped his head toward Sable.
“She’s not a threat,” Jeric said.
“She’s a Scablicker,” Stanis growled. “That’s reason enough, though I expected you’d know that, Wolf. We still don’t even know why she’s here.”
“If I say she’s not a threat,” Jeric said dangerously, “she’s not a threat.”
Stanis’s cheeks turned crimson.
Jeric nodded for Chez to continue.
“There’s been an… incident,” Chez continued, casting a quick glance in Sable’s direction.
“What sort of incident?” Jeric asked.
“Right after you left, Reichen was attacked.”
Jeric’s eyes narrowed, and he remembered the map. “Attacked how?”
“Not sure. All the Scabs are gone, cattle too. But the people were found dead in a pile on the temple steps.”
“Gods…” Braddok sat forward.
“All of them?” Jeric asked, sitting upright.
Chez nodded. “And that’s not even the worst of it. We didn’t see the bodies in Reichen. Anaton had them burned, but we did see them at Dunsten.”
Jeric and Braddok exchanged a glance.
“Nastiest thing I’ve ever seen. Skin was chalk white and translucent. You could see the veins through it, but they were black as ink, and their eyes…” Chez hesitated. “They were gone. Nothing left but empty black pits.”
“The five hells…?” Braddok said.
“Swear to the gods.”
Jeric frowned.
“People are spooked,” Aksel said. “Stovich is pissed.”
“Of course he is.” Braddok grunted. “Surprised he’s not storming Skyhold.”
“He is,” Aksel said. “He’d left for Skyhold just before we arrived.”
Jeric met Sable’s gaze across the fire. Despite her anger, he could tell that this news concerned her. He would’ve asked if she’d seen anything like it in The Wilds, but he didn’t think she had. He also didn’t want to draw any more attention to her.
“Did you find anything at
the sites?” Braddok asked.
Chez shook his head. “Nothing, other than bodies.”
“Any idea where the Scabs went?”
“No. It’s like they just vanished.”
Jeric leaned back on his hands. “Leads on the people behind this?”
“There are rumors…” Aksel said, tossing a twig on the flames. “We keep hearing about a legion.”
“Legion,” Jeric repeated.
“Yeah. We don’t know anything definitive, but we think it’s a group of Scab rebels. The guards keep hearing rumors in the mines.”
“What are the rumors?”
Aksel shrugged. “The Scabs think this legion is going to set them free.”
“We are Legion, Legion is we… soon we’ll be free!” Chez mocked. At a sideways glance from Jeric, he said, “That’s what they keep saying, anyway. No matter how many times they’re beaten.”
Over the years, there had been a handful of times when Scab slaves had attempted to rise up against their masters. But this… Jeric had never heard of anything like this before, and it disturbed him. He turned his men’s words over and over as he watched the fire. All this time, they’d been concerned about Kormand, Brevera’s ruler, attacking their borders, when there was a threat already within.
“What are you thinking over there, Wolf?” Braddok asked.
Jeric didn’t answer immediately. “I think we need to hurry home.”
“And so what Asorai created, mankind, in its constant quest for power and knowledge, defiles. Man takes the precious gifts The Maker has given, twists them to suit their own selfish desires and their own selfish ends, letting darkness into the world. And the darkness grows, feeding off of lies and deceit, obscuring the light, the truth, giving rise to evil. The people cry out to The Maker, furious that He should abandon them, when they never truly wanted Him near in the first place.”
Excerpt from Il Tonté, As recorded in the Eighth Verse by Juvia, the Liagé First High Sceptor.
29
The next few days dragged mercilessly. A vicious storm escorted them south, unleashing torrents of rain so strong they were often forced to find shelter and wait. For Sable, the sky above mirrored the storm raging within.
She blamed herself for not seeing who the Wolf really was. She should have. But the stories had painted a predator, all snarls and death and destruction. They had failed to show the Wolf as a man—a vulnerable, warm-blooded, and beautiful man—and therein lay the problem. Sable had come to know the man, and she had a difficult time reconciling the two as one.
She shared the Wolf’s horse, which only made it worse, and the silence between them became a living and breathing thing. She wanted to hate him. She tried to, but then she’d remember the moment he woke from Tallyn’s, and all the moments that followed, and where the hatred should have been, her chest squeezed instead, aching from the loss of something that was never real to begin with.
On the third day, the rain relented, and Chez, Aksel, and Stanis ventured off to hunt. Braddok took the horses to a nearby and very swollen stream, and the Wolf stayed with Sable. It was a habit he’d made, as if trusting no one else to make sure she didn’t run. Which, Sable thought, was wise, because she would have.
Sable wandered down the stream’s edge to a calmer sort of inlet, and there she crouched to dip her bound hands into the cool water. She cupped her fingers and brought what little she could to her lips. Soon after, she sensed the Wolf standing behind her. She didn’t turn, but dipped her hands back into the stream instead.
“Have I killed someone you love?” he asked suddenly.
Sable wondered how long he’d been wanting to ask her this question. She plunged her hands deeper into the water, letting the cool soothe her chafed wrists. The Wolf crouched beside her, grabbed her chin, and turned her face toward his, forcing her to look at him.
The blue in his eyes was so deep it looked violet.
“I’m trying to understand,” he said tightly.
“What’s there to understand?”
“Why this hatred?” he growled. His patience waned. “I understand your anger. I expected it. But this…” His eyes flickered over her face. “It’s still me, Sable… I am not your enemy. I don’t understand why you’re treating me like one.”
Sable lifted her bound hands between them. “And this is how you treat your friends?”
“That isn’t my choice,” he said, releasing her chin. “I’d leave you free if I didn’t think you’d run.”
“Then I’m not really free, am I?”
His brow hardened. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“My answer doesn’t matter,” she said through her teeth.
He leaned back a little, eyes searching, still not comprehending.
“If you had killed someone I loved,” she continued, “would it change anything? Would you tell me you were sorry? Would you mean it? Because if you’re going to question your actions on one life, you’d better question your actions on every single one of them.”
He leaned close; his eyes stormed. “What would you know of my fight? You’ve been hiding in The Wilds with your head in the godsdamned snow. Everything I’ve done is for the protection of my people, just as you steal to protect—”
“That’s different—”
“Is it?” he cut her off. His hot breath mixed with hers. “You think you’re better because you’re a healer? We both deal in the currency of fate, Sable.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare compare my actions to yours. You’ve slaughtered hundreds of innocent people—”
“Innocent?” His teeth flashed. “Is it innocent when Scabs send their children to poison our wells? Is it innocent when they burn our buildings with our people trapped inside? Was it innocent when they took my mother and delivered her heart in a box? Or does none of that matter because it’s Corinthian blood?”
Sable’s mouth clamped shut. She hadn’t heard any of that before, and she would’ve called him a liar except for the part about his mother. There was no lie in that. Her heart squeezed a little, thinking on what that must have done to him.
“There are always two sides, Sable,” the Wolf said lowly. “Don’t dismiss mine simply because it complicates yours.”
They glared at each other, a battle of wills. At last, Sable turned her face away.
He didn’t speak to her again.
Eventually, the six of them began a steep descent into the Valley of Kings. Sable had never traveled this deep within Corinth, and looking at it now, she understood why it inspired so many songs. It plucked a string deep inside of her, and a bass note breathed in her ears, warmed by the wind and flourished by the chimes of distant birds, her heart the timpani that gave it pulse. Again, Sable wondered how something so beautiful could be the source of so much pain.
A lake basked in the densely forested valley below, glittering like sapphires. Behind it stretched imposing walls of granite, their jagged snowcaps tinged pink from the setting sun. And nestled right up against those mountains, like a dragon protecting its hoard, stood a magnificent fortress.
Skyhold.
According to the verses, the Liagé had constructed the fortress and presented it as a gift to the Corinthian people—a symbolic link to the Maker. It’d been a promise of peace and prosperity, that though their gods clashed, Corinth and Sol Velor would live in harmony. Now, the fortress proved a mark of defiance, repurposed to physically block the Sol Velorian god from ever stepping foot on this world again.
A city sprawled at its feet, encircled by an enormous black wall. Sable had never seen so many buildings in all her life, not even in Trier. They huddled like a crowd of nobility, with boastful towers of pride, each posturing to stand grander and taller than the one beside it. There was more wealth in this city than all of Corinth.
“Go on,” the Wolf said to his men as they stood at the valley’s edge. “We’ll catch up.”
Braddok eyed Sable, then nodded at the Wolf and galloped off wit
h the rest of the pack.
Sable was wondering what the Wolf intended when he suddenly shifted against her and cut her bindings free. The ropes slid from her wrists and dropped to the ground.
“You’re a guest here, Sable,” he said. “And despite what you think, I’ll hold to my promise. I will see you safely wherever it is you want to go after this.”
“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” she snapped, holding up her freed hands. “You waited till I couldn’t run.” Well, she could run, but she wouldn’t make it far. Not this deep within Corinth.
The Wolf’s arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, and his breath warmed her ear. “It isn’t wise to alienate the one friend you have in this land.”
“Friend?” She laughed darkly. “I don’t have friends.” The memory of Gavet’s betrayal hovered over her.
The Wolf held her tight, his body tense against hers. At last, he leaned back, threw her cowl over her head, and adjusted her cloak around her shoulders. “Then at least stay hidden,” he said tightly. He gave their horse a swift kick and galloped furiously after his men.
And the great fortress approached.
They were a few dozen yards from the gate when Sable spotted the crosses. From a distance, she hadn’t noticed them for the enormous black statues standing on either side of the gate—statues of Corinthian gods that were still under construction, thanks to dozens of Scab slaves currently working them. But as they neared, she realized that what she’d initially dismissed as spindly black trees weren’t trees at all.
They were wooden beams of crucifixion.
Bodies hung from stakes like some macabre garden, men and women alike—even a child. Crows perched on heads of patchy black hair, pecking at the slow disintegration, stealing whatever they could while leaving white flecks of disgrace upon the freshly tilled soil below. Most of the bodies were Sol Velorian. The rest, death made too difficult to distinguish.
A crow laughed cruelly, sawing through the quiet, and as they rode past the bodies, she smelled the rot. The putrid stench of decomposition. Her stomach turned, and she glared back at the Wolf.
“And you wonder why I hate you,” she snarled.
The Gods of Men Page 26
