None of the heroes would have been so selfish. He had chosen his affections for his friend over the lives of his troops. And he did not even have enough decency in his own character to feel guilt.
Pathetic.
They had been thrown off course into the cursed Makataj, but this glimmer of hope… What was this respite if not Sel’ari’s forgiveness? What was this if not a second chance?!
Sel’ari had a plan for them yet!
CHAPTER SEVEN
The darkness around him was unlit, but Jerah could still see. The pounds of meat had long since been eaten, and his stomach gnawed at him pleadingly. “You are always hungry,” he scolded himself, feeling much like he imagined his master felt. That was what his master always said to him, with the sort of tone Jerah often found made his jaw clench and his skin crawl. But in mimicking it so exactly, he found himself less aggravated toward his master than pleased with himself.
He had awoken just shortly before and completed his waking routine. Now it was time to pass the remaining hours of his day before he would sleep for the eighth time in his dripping room.
Jerah sat down against the cold wall with his stone balls on his right. He prodded the blue one forward to roll along the cracks in the floor toward the opposite wall. He smiled to himself, a crooked, hooked smile that his master had always worn when he seemed satisfied. Jerah found this expression to be useful in far more situations than his master apparently did, and used it often… especially when he was released. He had been surprised to find that it had the opposite effect on those witnessing it than on he himself making it—usually sending the viewer quickly in the other direction.
Jerah pondered this difference between satisfaction and flight, replaying the times of his release endlessly—like the twitching legs of a nearly dead cockroach. Those beasts never died.
His mind was pulled back into his little room as the red ball turned sharply over a bump in a raised stone and collided with the blue one, sending it twisting into the nearby wall.
Jerah left it there. It was all part of the game, he determined. Instead of simply seeing if a ball could roll farther than the others, now there was the additional challenge of avoiding running them into each other. He narrowed the imaginary alley in which they could move to enhance this challenge. Though perhaps not quite as tricky as catching the rats that crawled about his cell, the stones offered an interesting and new form of entertainment that lasted longer. The damn rats died within a day after he played with them. Stones, he was pleased to note, seemed to remain unchanged.
A distant voice made Jerah still. “—didn’t actually believe Relstavum would amount. When Kraesin found him after the Phantom Isles, he took one look at him and wanted to use him as fodder for his hound. The poor bastard said, ‘He won’t succeed. Not in a century and certainly not in less.’ But Saebellus’ trust seems to have been well placed after all—look what the fucking madman did in a decade. Imagine if he really had worked for a century!” There was a chitter of soft sounds and then the distant voice continued, “If his success ever tempts him to turn, the beast will make a bloody mound of his allies.”
Jerah promptly sat straighter. The beast. His master must have guests. He strained his ears to pick up the second voice, which was higher and quieter than the one before.
“Which I… the only… him.”
Jerah’s brow creased. He had missed most of those words. He stood, letting the orange stone drop from his hand, and raised his head toward the ceiling. He recognized the voices of both males. They were present most often when he awoke. The first voice was certainly his master, proclaiming boldly as he often did about his master’s plans.
“Saebellus knows what he’s doing. We’re perfectly safe.”
That was good. Jerah relaxed slightly, leaning against the wall. If his master was safe, then he was safe as well. That was what he always told him and Jerah had complete confidence in his words. After all, he had but to look at where he was now: safe.
There was silence for a few minutes and then voices emerged from further away, toward the back of Jerah’s cell. He slid to them, his chains scraping across the floor. He hopped over the puddle on the ground and cocked his head toward the ceiling, his long, knotted hair falling away from his ear. There came a third voice now, strong and confident.
“Did you hear that the True Blood king invited Ilsevel and Saebellus all the way to Ryekarayn to dine with him and his brothers? Gods save us! As if Saebellus would accept any sort of diplomacy. He’s come too far for that. I guess the uprisings are putting them on edge.”
Someone made an unfamiliar sound… like… a series of fast, light grunts… or a gentle series of quick coughs… Jerah’s brow knit as he imagined what this sound related to.
“It is NOT humorous,” the higher voice growled, rebuking the third man.
Humorous? So that sound must relate to humorous. Jerah mimicked it quietly to himself as the conversation continued on, too soft for him to discern.
Finally, a few words became audible and Jerah fell silent again. “—since Saebellus took the port?”
Now, he knew what port was. He had drunk some himself once, on a celebratory occasion after he had been released a long time ago.
“Difficult,” the third man replied. “I heard Relstavum is headed south to ensure the attempts at smuggling goods—or soldiers—between the channel dies. The Eph’vi will never see it coming.”
This statement made little sense to Jerah, but he deduced that some ports would suffer and those smuggling ports were about to profit significantly. His master would certainly want in on that trade. He was a good male of business, after all. Especially with humans. His master always talked about how he made short work with them. Or of them.
Something like that.
“By Noctem, how the moon has risen! Saebellus is expecting me early tomorrow morning. I must sleep.”
“I should be going as well. I have another operation,” the third voice agreed. “Good night.”
“My wife will be expecting me to make time for him tonight… Ow, Adonis!” his master replied. And with the heavy click of doors above him, the world fell silent once more.
Jerah sat down slowly, repeating the conversation in his head a few times. He had heard that name before: Relstavum. He was his master’s master’s plan. Another elf of the surface, Jerah imagined. He wondered, briefly, exactly how many people there were up above. He knew that the city had many elves in it, but if people were making port outside of his city, there must be a few more people there. And across the sea, on Ryekarayn, there were humans, which were fatter, shorter, and dumber elves. And then the things called dwarves, which were, apparently, the fattest, shortest, and dumbest elves. So if there were as many humans and dwarves as there were elves, then there must be enough of them to fill a few rooms the size of his quarters! And then there was the enemy general’s army…!
But Master had said they had killed them all, so that meant there certainly were not as many surface-dwellers left.
He reached out to pick up his orange stone and stopped. It was no longer as it once was; instead, there were several pieces of varying sizes, sharp edged in the center and round on the outside. He picked up a chunk, turning it over slowly. This must have happened when he dropped it. He felt what he did when he was placed back in his chains—a cold, unpleasant feeling that allowed no room for a smile.
So, stones could change too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jikun sprinted toward the distant amber light, hardly daring to breathe. Beneath his lopsided gait, the sand was fading, ceding the ground to clumps of brown grass withered by the day’s relentless heat. Yet the orange, floating light beckoned brighter and brighter until it had formed the shape of a fire burning high atop a taupe-colored tower.
‘A tower… a watchtower…’ Like the crystalline towers of Darival, this structure was a beacon of refuge in a long stretch of uninhabitable land.
“Sel’ari be praised!” Jikun heard
Navon’s latest debasement, but for once, he did not entirely despise the religious tribute.
The expanse revealed beyond the tower was indeed a fortune. Plains of inconceivably green grass blanketed the land beneath intertwining strands of glowing, swaying orbs. Charmingly squat homes emerged under the light, and surrounding them along the wide, dirt roads were colorful bazaars. These booths complemented the houses’ simplicity with intricacies of design and vibrant colors.
The city was alive and bustling in the cold night air, packed with merchants and consumers. Living people. Civilization.
Jikun blinked hard once and dug his nails into his palm until he flinched. From the deepest reaches of the city, chimes rang out in greeting. “Saved,” he whispered. He drifted across the lush earth and inhaled the heavy mist that hung in the air.
Beside him, Navon’s gape signaled that he was equally as entranced. “I told you I would find aid.”
“Are you alright?” came a sudden shout of alarm.
‘Highstead—the Common Tongue!’ The human language had never sounded more inviting, even from all the whores in the Port of Targados.
Several heads wrapped in scarves turned at once to spot the approaching strangers, and a horde of bodies dressed in thick wool and camel hide began to gather at the city’s edge. They huddled together like a herd of curious livestock and Jikun immediately dismissed them as such. When he reached the crowd, he flung them aside in a frantic search for the food and water that was required to sustain them.
It was only when Navon stayed him with a restraining hand that his mind somewhat cleared. A rapidly advancing figure strode out of the throng of scrutinizing, caramel faces. A prickle of caution jolted down Jikun’s spine and he lifted his hands from the shoulders of his next victim.
Dark skin… golden eyes… indeed, Eph’vi. Their practices had not before gnawed at every fiber of Jikun’s tolerance, but in the face of his snarling gut and buckling knees, he could not think of a culture more revolting… even if it might be the only one that could deliver him.
The figure was approaching faster now, long legs striding purposely toward the pair.
Jikun recoiled. Eph’vi were not known for being particularly sympathetic—their crowning tenant made all but the most self-righteous squirm: fate aids and rewards those who have proven their worth; misfortune befalls those who have not. ‘And gods be damned… in their eyes I would be the latter…’ Jikun concluded derisively, even as his memory struggled to deduce exactly why that whisper rang true…
Fear stabbed abruptly through his mind, screaming a warning of an… incident… to which he had given little allowance of thought. ‘You are contemptible: you broke your vows. You abandoned your soldiers. You are a traitor not just in the eyes of Sel’ari, but in the eyes of all elves!’ He staggered, shaking his head violently to shun the suggestion.
“My friend is in need of aid!” Navon called, placing a hand swiftly to Jikun’s chest in a struggle to steady him.
The crowd had grown rigid and Jikun’s chin dropped against his breast. Those judging eyes… The battle had been lost…! Surely Saebellus would still have slain his soldiers despite his sacrifice. ‘My life… would have served nothing!’
His hunger withered at the thought and he struggled to rebuke his weakness. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself and Navon.’ He pushed his friend aside. With the efficiency he had learned from masking the agonies of war, Elarium was pushed swiftly into the recesses of his mind, hidden somewhere beneath a pile of dead soldiers in a hazy swamp. All that remained was the veil of great military successes and personal triumphs.
The surrounding desert rushed back to Jikun’s senses—as well as the craving for food, the need for water, the probing faces… and the figure that had broken through the throng to stand before them.
Navon took a single step toward the female, and Jikun noted that only the faintest trace of cautious sympathy could be seen in the creases of her dark, stoic face. ‘Perhaps they deserve their trials,’ he could almost hear her condemnation.
“We are in need of aid,” Navon repeated with a short bow that caused Jikun’s rekindled pride to bristle.
The female’s button nose curled at the scrawny, bent frame before her. “Hmph,” she grunted. She pushed her thick scarf down to lick her darkened lips, and her accent followed thick as soldier’s gruel. “What happened? Where have you come from? What aid do you seek from the city of Dahel?”
Jikun did not have to look down upon himself to imagine the visage of the shirtless, blood-stained, and fatigued male that he was. ‘What aid do you think we need?’ he snapped internally, and a weak tremble coursed through his body at the effort. “We are survivors of a shipwreck off the southwestern coast.” And that was the extent of his paltry creativity.
The female turned her apathetic gaze upon Navon, and the intensity of her inspection grew as though his very appearance—barefoot and deathly pale—offended her. “There is no charity for smugglers here.”
‘Smugglers?’ Jikun’s chest dared to swell, despite its sad state of sand and sash. “We are not smugglers—” he denied, but was undermined by his own voice as it cracked in the dryness of his throat.
“We are mercenaries,” Navon interjected with a dashing smile. “Bastin of Alaris and Rulan of Venmore—I am certain you have heard of us.”
The acerbity of the female’s tone lessened, even as Jikun steadied himself pathetically against his captain’s shoulder. “…The names are familiar,” she mused.
Navon’s expression became livelier, his posture straighter. “We were sailing from Elarium to Ryekarayn for business with Lord Thamos when our ship was destroyed in a storm. And as you can clearly see, all of our possessions were lost with it. We were most fortunate to escape with the flesh still strapped to our bones.”
If Jikun’s mind was any hazier, he may have believed the tale himself.
The female tossed her head at the small crowd peeking around her back, as though feeding off of their reaction. “Rulan and Bastin,” she exhaled slowly, her features displaying an array of deliberating grimaces and wrinkles. Then her words became decidedly brisk. “Our charity rests with the tenets of Epherphese. I am Esra, one of fifty representatives on behalf of our council. In order to supply you and escort you from Dahel and out of the Makataj, I will need to convene with our Re’heshae.” She tipped her chin at their tattered state. “They will devise your test. If you prove yourselves worthy, aid shall be given. Follow me.”
She added nothing of if they failed.
Yet Jikun allowed himself the faintest smile as he fell into a deplorable limp beside Navon. He inclined his head. ‘Swift thinking. Commendable work.’
Navon grinned. Still, when he leaned over to speak, he did not address his own success. “Now is not the time or place to start whoring,” he instead scolded.
Gods. And here Jikun had the audacity to believe they were sharing a sensible moment. His jaw snapped open in offense. “Excuse me?” he hissed as another sandy breeze swept past, making the little orbs of yellow light shake angrily along their cord. “I had intended to praise you for your quick mind. Now…” he trailed off. No, it was no use. Navon could read the lust in his eyes as plainly as if he had spoken his desire aloud. ‘Shamefully predictable,’ he chastised himself. “Who are Rulan and Bastin, anyway?” he demanded gruffly. “I have never heard of them… but you were quick and confident in the use of their names.”
* * *
Navon had been rather sagacious, but then, he had an ample supply of material to draw upon. Not only had wild tales of the iniquitous pair reached even moderately informed individuals on Sevrigel, but he had actually met Rulan and Bastin once before—and not so long ago. Unfortunately he had few others as his alternative; his focused readings did not offer him an extensive selection of unsavory characters to mimic, and impersonating a long-dead hero would likely not be terribly effective.
More importantly, evidence that this conurbation catered to seedy m
ercenaries was written plainly across the city.
As though his reasons should be obvious to his culturally inept companion, Navon gestured in a wide arc. He imagined Ephraim must have felt similarly when he had escorted the unrefined Eraydon into the folds of Sel’varian civilization. He watched as Jikun surveyed the easily recognizable Sel’varian intricacies of several vases and silken rugs displayed upon a table up ahead. Not far from them, Noc’olarian, Galvarian, and even Farvian artifacts were scattered with frequency amongst the merchants’ wares and the balconies of nearby homes.
After Jikun had given the scenery an ample scan, Navon withdrew a few paces from the Eph’ven female. He spoke, careful to keep his voice hushed. “The Eph’vi are frequently involved with both human and elven smugglers,” he intoned. “Rulan and Bastin are two mercenaries who are frequently bid upon in the business of procuring such items. I met them briefly when I acquired the book you eventually stole from me.” He looked pointedly at his friend, a little surge of bitterness following the memory of the altercation inside his tent.
Jikun’s brow merely furrowed. “So now we’re black market mercenaries? Fantastic decision, Navon.” He paused. “Wait. What book…?”
Anger and incredulity would have flared within Navon’s breast, but who was he to fight the predictability of the self-centered hero? In fact, Jikun had probably had the audacity to stuff the tome beneath his bed under a pile of a whore’s willfully abandoned lingerie.
“The book,” Navon muttered. He could play as indignant as Ephraim or as furious as Tiras, but ultimately he had to admit that it was his own resentment that inflamed his offense now. All those diligent hours dedicated to his sole personal desire and Jikun did not even have the courtesy to remember! “How can you not recall that tome? It is not like you have stolen multiple volumes from me. In fact, if we were to eliminate your ‘poetry book’—which I think is quite reasonable—it’s the only one I’ve seen you touch in fifty years!”
Jikun blinked, as though struggling to recall what Navon could possibly be “complaining” about. “You mean that necro—that book?”
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 8
