QueQoa angled toward him and slowed his pace as Naatos flew over. As soon as AaQar let go and landed on QueQoa's back, a great emotional weight released from Naatos's chest and mind. And with that release went his own strength. The emerald storm drake evaporated, and Naatos fell.
His left shoulder struck QueQoa's jutting hip. He seized at a bronze spine. Before he slid any farther, two hands grabbed him. Warm satisfaction spread through Naatos as AaQar and WroOth both hauled him up.
There were no words to express that joy and relief, nor was there strength. The last thought to pass through his mind was that this was why he did not compromise. In the end, he had been right, his brothers had survived, and vengeance would soon be satisfied.
* * *
Amelia pulled back on the mare's mane and tightened her grip on her sides, slowing her to a halt at the top of the hill. A massive dragon sliced down from the thick clouds. That distinctive rust-and-iron scale patterning was as obvious as his name engraved in the sky: QueQoa. Both unease and relief warred in her heart. She lifted her chin as more fire exploded upward. She imagined the wind carried screams with it, and just the thought of those shrieks of terror brought her sorrow.
A dark dragon rose into the sky. It held a giant serpent of some sort. Its tail lashed out. Two more dragons appeared, the rust scales and red scales clear indicators of both QueQoa and WroOth. All four disappeared within the clouds.
Amelia sagged against the mare. The soft grey hairs played against her cheek, but the tension remained rigid within her chest and shoulders. They were alive. All three of them. And QueQoa was back.
But now what?
Slowing down brought many needs to Amelia's attention. The mare needed rest, water, and food. Foamy sweat lathered the horse's body, and her sides heaved. Guilt cut into Amelia. She had pushed the mare too hard, and she had thrust that knowledge aside in her desperation to get back to Telhetum. Even though most of the journey had been at a canter with intervals for walking, she knew that it was a lot for a horse like this.
They were within a few miles of Telhetum. The Temple of Selgooko lay beyond that. On horseback and avoiding people, it would take her at least half a day to reach the Tue-Rah. Maybe longer. She winced as a spasm cut down her back. Definitely longer. At least the medicine reduced the ache in her thighs and backside. But she wasn't going to ask the mare to take her any farther today.
She patted the mare's sweaty neck and slid off stiffly. "Come on. Just a little farther." Her hand still on the horse's back, she guided her along. The mare followed, obedient but slow.
A low river ran at the base of the hill, shallow enough to easily cross but deep enough for drinking, which was exactly what the horse needed.
Amelia guided the horse toward it, estimating it would only take about ten minutes or so to reach it. Long enough to help the mare cool down. As they walked, her thoughts returned to her current choices and direction. Her clothing indicated royalty, and the blood stains marked her shame. Already the cast of the heavy sun warned her of the lateness of the hour.
Tonight would certainly be spent outside. Staying in an inn or hostel of some sort was fraught with more danger than she cared to risk, even if she did figure out where one was. The supplies King Theol had given her included some coarse brown bread, wrapped cheese, apples, and dried meats. Hunting at least would not be required.
The river's chuckles and gurgles strengthened. The mare's ears pricked up a bit and she trotted forward. Amelia let her go, her own pace remaining slow. Reaching into the satchel, she removed her medicine and took a long swig, resenting the stiffness and aches returning to her awareness.
She shook the flask. Approximately half of the medicine remained, sloshing within the empty space. Capping the top, Amelia reached the river's edge. She stared down at it, her hand resting loosely on the top of the satchel of supplies. The waters were mostly clear, except where they sliced along the rocks. Her thoughts drifted.
She returned abruptly, shaking her head, surprised. How long had she faded? Amelia closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her temple. Wake up, she thought.
The mare continued drinking. Her body glistened with lather. Amelia adjusted her satchel and took in their surroundings once more. A wood lay along the river a short distance away, providing additional shade to cool the mare as well as shelter. No road led directly to it. As soon as the horse finished drinking, they could go.
While she waited, Amelia wiped down the horse's sides with her hands and washed them in the cool water. It wasn't as good as a sweat scraper, but it was better than leaving the mare untended.
And perhaps once she had found shelter, she would find rest as well, if only for a brief time.
35
Contemplation
Matthu seethed at his capture. All of the plans for the rescue had been laid out so well, and yet Vorec had captured him, his compatriots, and apparently a large number of Machat, at least sixty. Maybe more. None of the Machat appeared particularly concerned. A few young ones, perhaps little younger than he, sat cross-legged on the floor, casting out pebbles and buttons while calling out predictions in rhyme.
Traol fiddled with his bandages, his torso bare and underarms heavily purpled from the use of the crutches. Skelt stared out the circular window, his eyes dull and expression resigned. Occasionally he mumbled about changes and towers. Dian kept his back pressed firmly against one of the white pillars and occasionally scuffed his boot against the couch's leg.
Matthu paced continuously, despite Dian complaining about how loud his feet were. Every so often he stole glances at the Machat on the other side of the woven wood barrier, uncertain why they had been captured as well. His confusion only increased when the door opened and two guards thrust Kepsalon in.
The aged Machat stumbled, catching himself on the back of a chair. At once the other Machat clustered around him. One of the younger ones, a child whose fern-like stripes feathered in all directions, brought a pillow to place under Kepsalon's foot.
"This was a small chance," said one of the women. She placed her hands on his shoulders. "Little more than pale blue."
Kepsalon winced. "Small chances can often be realities."
"Is the other well then?" asked one Machat.
Kepsalon cleared his throat. "Matthu," he called out, his voice a little louder now. "I'm afraid that your brother has been placed in separate confinement. He's all right, but he was on his way to assist when we were discovered."
Matthu kept his arms folded, uncertain about his feelings. "Good, he tried," he said slowly. He resumed pacing, slower now. It was too difficult to focus on any one thing, though he wasn't entirely sure why Vorec would have Shon placed somewhere else. If he was afraid of Shon and Matthu banding together further, then wouldn't that same logic make putting all the Machat together a much worse idea? "Is he…is he really all right? Was he injured?" Matthu paused.
"The elder commander believes that Shon's mind has been weakened too much, and your brother did attempt a rather irrational but impressive escape attempt while we were being brought here." Kepsalon paused, then conceded, "Or rather, it would have been impressive if he had had the strength to pull it off. It was a valiant though unwise effort. They placed him in the clearing chamber. He'll spend the night there."
Matthu frowned as Dian whistled low. "They must really think he's losing it," Dian whispered.
"What is the clearing chamber, exactly?" Matthu asked.
"Solitary confinement, pretty much," Dian answered. "Solitary confinement where they wrap you up to keep you from hurting yourself or anyone else. They burn medicinal herbs and such to keep folks calm in there. But it's pretty rare for folks to use it these days."
"A lot of rare things are happening now," Matthu said. He wasn't sure how he felt about his brother being put in a place like that. His own skin itched and crawled just at the thought of not being able to move or scratch.
Skelt remained on the edge of the bed. His face was drawn, the wrinkles a
nd furrows biting deep into his flesh. "We had made so much progress," he said softly.
"It isn't over yet, old one," an ancient Machat with hair almost as silver white as the physician's called from the other side of the room. He strode forward and set his hand to the bars. "Not all is lost. Not all will be unwound."
Matthu glanced between the two in confusion. "Wait, is Shon in danger? What's wrong with the clearing chamber exactly?"
"He'll have a difficult night alone with his thoughts and dreams," Kepsalon said. "But he will reach the other side without too much damage." He hesitated, his lips pressing as if there was more he wanted to add. "He will make it."
Matthu believed Kepsalon. Somehow Skelt's words struck him as statements about more than this. Things weren't good, but he didn't entirely understand the tears that glistened in the physician's eyes. He had been angry to hear of what had happened to Amelia, but there was something else, the look of a man who had thought he had escaped one burden only to find a thousand more.
"I am a fool," Skelt said. "I believed…"
A Machat woman smiled faintly. "No more than any of us."
Skelt shook his head. "It was always lying under the surface. I should have done more. It was only a dream."
Matthu wanted to ask what he meant. There had been points when the old physician's words had struck him as out of place, hints of conundrums and complications Matthu scarcely grasped. But the words choked in his throat.
The old Machat nearest them chuckled. "All starts and ends as dreams and hope."
"Or nightmares and dread," Skelt said.
Matthu hesitated. A heaviness had entered the air. It was so simple to ask: what is all this? What was Skelt talking about? And yet he could not bring himself to do so. Matthu tore his gaze away, looking instead to Dian and Traol. But both appeared equally uncomfortable, Traol twisting the bandages in his hand and Dian stiff as the pillar he rested against. Maybe it was better not to know everything.
Kepsalon glanced at him. He eased his shoulders back against the couch, his injured leg stretched out before him. "You're not going to be able to resolve anything for quite some time, so it would be better for you to rest. It's going to be a long day, and you're already lacking sleep."
"How are so many of you getting caught anyway?" Dian demanded, his voice cracking the tension. "If you were prophets, wouldn't you know that that's the opposite of what you want to do?"
A Machat woman with unusually dark eyes and narrow striping along her cheeks and neck tutted at him. The other Machat prisoners shared a similar expression. "Only if staying free during this period was the most important thing. But there are times when, thanks to the actions of others," she paused meaningfully, "it becomes necessary to choose a less ideal, temporary situation to attempt to achieve a better outcome."
Matthu still thought it was ridiculous. If the Machat hadn't gotten caught, then they could have let him and Traol, Skelt, and Dian out. Then they could have rescued Amelia.
As it was, she would soon stand trial, and he had no doubts about how that would result. The dull ache within his chest intensified. Vorec had said that Libysha wasn't the way that Matthu thought. What else had he missed?
At the very least, the Paras would soon be dead. What did that mean for the Tue-Rah though? Amelia had said that their own world would meet the same fate as Eiram's, with disease and chaos spreading. That had taken centuries, millenniums to develop. He would be long gone before then. Yet somehow even thinking that today his people had sentenced this entire world and dozens of others to such a terrible fate…a long slow death with plagues and illness spreading…
Matthu blinked away the unwanted tears that brimmed in his eyes. His mother had died of meslu fever. His father had sent both he and Shon away to stay with their cousins. The last he'd seen of her, she was tacky with sweat, heaving over a wooden bowl, great purple grey rings under her eyes. That last look had been stolen. His father had refused to let them see her so Matthu had been forced to sneak away. Later Linufe said he forbid them from seeing her so that they would remember her as she was. Perhaps he had been right. Whenever Matthu imagined his mother now, her ghostly pallor and weepy painfilled eyes slipped into his recollections. He hid those memories away as best he could, yet now he couldn't help but wonder…
There were rumors and tales of places with great healing. Fountains and sand pits and incredible resources strong enough to turn back age, knit together broken bones, or remake lost limbs. If such places existed, then meslu fever wouldn't have torn its way through his family like the monster it was.
A woman's gentle alto broke through his thoughts. "It is time to give them their gifts, my friend."
Matthu lifted his head. An older Machat woman stood beside Kepsalon, her scarred hands pressed against Kepsalon's shoulders in sisterly affection. A broad purple scar cut from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her eye, severing many of the fernlike patterns. There was a kindness in her countenance that made her oddly compelling. A quiet descended upon the gathered Machat, and Matthu realized that even if he had wanted to interrupt it, he couldn't. "There are few times when the Machat speak this clearly," she said. "I am Peslano, and I have worked with the other Machat to gather the prophecies that will provide you the most aid for this next portion of your journey. Skelt."
The old physician lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes duller than before, all the strength pulled from his countenance.
Once she held his gaze, Peslano lifted her hand. "For you, there is a choice. Your path can take you to other worlds, or you can remain here if you wish to right the wrongs which you perceive. Accomplish that which beckons in your heart. Neither choice is wrong. But the prophecy you receive depends on what you choose."
"I am not fit for either," Skelt said. "If you know what lies within my heart, then you know what I have permitted. I am worthy of nothing." When the discomfort of the silence intensified, he shook his head. "I will go wherever I can be the most effective. It doesn't matter what I desire."
Peslano's expression remained as calm and insightful as before, her eyes clear and focused intently on him. "Then do not go anywhere without your walking stick or a survival pack." She directed her attention then to Traol. "As for you, Traol, as you struggle with sleep, be sure to always carry your resting herbs with you. And a survival pack that includes rope and salve. Dian, for you—"
"A survival pack?" Dian quirked his mouth up, his arms folded tight over his chest.
"If you wish. But a blue scarf is the most important item you'll carry." Peslano smiled.
Dian's frown deepened. He slumped forward slightly. "A blue scarf."
"A blue scarf," Peslano repeated. Her gaze moved to Matthu. "And you, Matthu, hold fast to your convictions. Don't let go. And wear a small shield beneath your shirt."
Matthu opened his mouth to speak, but Peslano had already turned back to Kepsalon. "When there are three and two are broken, then comes death for the youngest born," she said softly. "Betrayal heralded by sand rose tea and salted with tears."
Kepsalon placed his hand over hers. "You do not have to finish it," he said, his tone gentle. "I know it by heart."
"I'm sorry." Peslano remained stooped over him. "It is not the end."
Kepsalon wiped the tears from her cheek. "An unpleasant door at most."
Matthu wanted to ask, but once again, the words failed him. He sank back on the thick blue couch, feeling as if he was witnessing something not meant for him. An odd heaviness descended upon the room, and the lightness of the Machat faded. Even the young ones stopped their games.
A roar tore through the air, rumbling outward like a peal of thunder. Matthu lifted his head slowly. Cold dread trickled through his veins.
More dragon roars ripped through the thick air. The youngest of the Machat boys drew closer to an older woman. She placed her arms around his shoulders and whispered something in his ear.
Kepsalon forced a smile. "Now things get interesting."
* * *
Amelia passed no one on her way to the woods once the mare was properly tended. The river branched and poured into a large pool at the center before spreading out into smaller streams. Large clumps of green and white striped oak grass and tall stands of poppy grass covered much of the ground except for the full shade of the deeper woods and the riverbank where cattails and reed whips thrived. Farther into the woods less brush grew, so Amelia stopped at the nearest clumps of poppy grass. The mare set to grazing at once. A faint bittersweet and nutty scent rose with the tearing of the greens, similar to crushed poppy seeds.
Taking another long drink of the sugary medicine, Amelia examined the woods and her situation. She had perhaps two hours of natural light left, perhaps a little more. Did travelers come through these parts often? What was the likelihood that a small fire would go unnoticed? She shivered, considering the coming of night. If there was someone else to keep watch that might be one thing. But out here and alone…
A trilling wood lark called from farther in the woods. There weren't many natural predators within Libysha. At least not until one neared the Mallakish Mountains. Although she was not sure what had happened to all the crudons Naatos created. Amelia stared down at her sweaty bloodstained arms and hands. Maybe it was best if she bathed before it got any colder.
She moved downstream beyond the pool and knelt at the low sloped edge. The cool river water beyond the pool sent goosebumps prickling along her arms. Years of cold showers and polar bear dives had prepared her for this, yet it always sent her heart racing like a thunder horse through the star-strewn sky.
Splash and scrub as she might, the stains on her skin remained. Each time she paused to look at herself, she appeared just as bloody as before. Whatever they had added to the blood made it stick even worse. The scent nauseated her. Cringing, she examined her red hands. Maybe dirtying them would help.
Princess Reviled Page 34
