And yet, even as he spoke those words, he could not recall the necromancer’s personality to him.
“Navon,” Jikun snarled.
Navon shook his head discernibly, swift to repress his own eager self that had boldly manifested in the absence of Tiras’ personality. “A Guardian reached out and grasped my wrist. The gates unsealed and I pulled away. I freed myself.” His voice was growing stronger now. Yes… he, Navon, had overpowered the direction of the Realms. What souls could he harness if he could learn to do so… again? This was the awareness required to pass the First Gate! This was not something any number of personas could replicate. This magic was him. True potential as he had boasted to Jikun time and time again!
“Then I was in the desert once more, staring at the serpent,” he finished, even as Jikun’s grip tightened. “I went consciously to the Realms and back!”
Jikun’s fist swung at him, catching him in the chest before he could react. And the general’s rage came with it, ready to crush any personal aspirations as easily as the Helven’s ribs. “You imbecile,” he growled. “Then you were dead! You god-damn imbecile! I ordered you not to touch necromancy, Navon! As if dying isn’t punishment enough, you know Murios said that you might lose part of your soul—your self—if you botch your god-damn spells!”
‘What sense of self do I have to lose?’ Navon thought resentfully, but he was wise enough to keep the reflection to himself. He pressed his hand to his side and feigned an assault of pain to break his gaze.
Yet Jikun’s words echoed to him. He had returned and yet… he could not retrieve the knowledge of the heroes he had once held so firmly.
“What did you cast? Five? Six spells and you died?” Jikun continued his rant. Despite Navon’s act, he was far from relenting. “You are not as strong as Tiras. By Ramul, you are not even as strong as I imagined you were! You have been practicing your magic all these years against the Beast, but this demonstrates your vast inexperience. Gods know how many spells you’ll be able to cast next time before that happens… before you die.” He released Navon’s shirt unexpectedly, digging his fingers over his bandaged breast. “And if you cannot free yourself the next time, you come back less a soul, Navon, if you return at all!”
So it was comradery that drove the general’s chastisement now.
Navon bowed his head, even as a new pit of personal greed boiled fresh inside him. At the consideration of success he had read about a thousand times but had never aspired for his own. With fewer champions of the past to suppress his character, the feeling eminently bore the weight of his own self.
His death in the jaws of the serpent had proven to be as much a success as a failure.
He saw Jikun’s fingers tense, as though there was more than emotional distress beneath them.
Navon swiftly pushed his ambitions down. He, Navon, was nothing. Tysis of Payne was quick to agree. “You’re right, of course, Jikun. You always are.”
Jikun’s lids narrowed. “…What’s your ploy this time, Navon?”
“No, you are right. I shall be more careful.”
If possible, his friend’s eyes grew thinner, like two piercing slits, and Navon readied himself for the next blow, wishing it would fall somewhere other than his bruised ribs.
“More careful? You can’t slither your way out of your error and especially believe that you would be allowed to cast another dangerous series of self-destructive—”
The general’s emotions were peaking now, his face contorting between pain and fury. Navon knew far better than to argue: the male was already crumbling beneath the weight of their dismal luck and continual brushes with death. It was time to redirect his attention. “What do you think was the true purpose of Relstavum’s actions?” he interrupted, noting the immediate change in his friend’s countenance. “He hunted us down to kill us… and I have the sense that it was entirely premeditated.”
“It wasn’t,” Prince Darcarus finally dared to speak again, his voice strong and decisive in that brief moment of silence.
* * *
Jikun rounded on the True Blood and fixed him with a critical eye. “Were you the reason we were nearly soul-raped?” he growled.
Darcarus’ jaw slacked and he paused, taking a moment to consider the phrasing. “…Soul-what?”
Navon struck Jikun’s foot with his fist and scrambled into an apologetic lump. “Forgive his language, Your Highness,” he quickly gushed.
The groveling only flattened Jikun’s regard. He was equally aware that this blustering heap was Prince Darcarus, second True Blood heir to the Sel’ven Realm on Ryekarayn and Sevrigel’s epitome of perfection and grace. But he was also wise enough to know that the world of politics was perfidious in nature. As with the “just council,” this gold-blooded prince held an equally deceitful inner disposition. Had Navon not endured enough trials from politicians to have learned his lesson? For a male who spent his life wrapped in historical scrolls, he was terribly slow to detect the pattern.
Darcarus continued, appearing mildly amused as he responded, “No, I am not the reason you were almost soul-raped. But then, you two are not from Ryekarayn, so I suppose I should forgive you for your accusations, General Jikun and… Captain Navon?” He paused, and his words settled like the silence before a terrible storm.
Something inside Jikun cracked. His breath sucked in and caught beneath his shattered ribs, drawing his emotions to it. He felt a rush of denial and pride. That this damned, spoiled brat would judge him! How dare an outsider blame him for his course! “It is not my fault,” he hissed vehemently. “The council killed them. The council lost the battle. The council deserves punishment!” And yet he felt the color drain from his face, his lips growing numb. All semblance of his reassurance in his information dissolved with every word.
His breath could not escape, as though the truth was suffocating him, and he was vaguely aware of the buckling of his legs. The stone around him vanished to a murky swampland. No, a fiery battlefield. And dead soldiers… everywhere… everyone…!
A distant voice called outside his mind, but it was hollow and empty, ringing deafly on his ears. The world was rushing to envelop him. The True Bloods. The council. The battle he had fled…!
“Is he well?”
“Jikun! Are you alright?! Can you hear me?!”
There were hands on him. Two pairs of hands. Restraining hands. And the hold triggered a wild reaction within Jikun—a desperation to live. His life was worth their sacrifice!
His mind cleared, strength returning to his limbs. ‘I will not die to the whims of politicians!’ He launched the two males away from him to find that he was lying prostrate on his back, unaware of how he had gotten there. He scrambled away in disorientation. ‘Fuck the gods. Fuck the True Bloods. Fuck the coun—’
Something jerked the cloak about his neck and his body was flung solidly into the earth. The breath fled from his lungs as his broken ribs contracted. Then two faces loomed above him, etched with concern.
Jikun swiftly raised his arm, threatening both away as a stab of pain clouded his emotions. In that moment of reprieve, he clutched at the apathy that emptiness offered, shoving his weakness within his walls.
“Are you alright?!” Navon demanded. “Jikun, can you hear me?!”
Jikun slowly sat up, his teeth clenched. He pressed a hand to his side. “You sound like a crying whore.”
Navon exhaled audibly. “Thank Sel’ari—I think he is alright now.”
Darcarus strutted away, dropping the end of Jikun’s cloak. “Well that was damn close. I haven’t seen anxiety like that since Sairel became king.” He snorted derisively, tucking a golden lock snuggly behind his ear.
‘Close?’ Glancing away from Navon’s uneasy smile, Jikun noted his proximity to the edge of the cliff. “Back up, both of you,” he barked, sliding away. “I did not have a moment of anxiety. I’m just fatigued.” He saw Navon glance up at Darcarus and immediately cuffed him. “I said I did not panic,” he growled again.
Navon pressed a hand to his face, quick to avert his eyes from the prince in the event Jikun deduced the further passage of wordless information. “Alright! I heard you!” the Helven insisted.
And resorted to surreptitious glances.
Jikun calmly returned to his feet, gathering what dignity he retained to direct focus away from himself. “You never answered my question,” he accused the prince, attempting to sweep a hand with equal nonchalance through his hair. He was hampered by an array of frizzy knots. “I asked you what Relstavum was after.”
Darcarus hesitated, scanning Jikun’s unsteady stance. They flitted once toward the cliff and then his lips twisted, as though he found Jikun’s tone—in light of the near fall—amusing. “I responded that Relstavum was not seeking your blood. Or mine. At least, not at first: he likely changed targets after he saw Aersophyla bash his serpent’s skull inward. But before that, he simply wanted Dahel… though it’s possible his day of massacre was moved forward when he realized he had the enemies of his master within his grasp.”
‘His master…?’ Jikun attempted something other than a blank stare.
When this failed, the prince scratched his scalp above the lock and grimaced. “Relstavum is the mastermind behind the troubles on Ryekarayn—the bandits, the uprisings… the massacres. As far as most are aware, he is just a mercenary—a bounty hunter for beasts. To the few informed, he is also an unparalleled necromancer. But the truth is, Relstavum hasn’t done much in his own interest for the last decade—he’s been employed for more crippling purposes.” Arrogance briefly imbued his tone as he reveled in his knowledge. Jikun’s lips soured, but the Sel’ven carried on, “Over the last ten years, Saebellus has established his influence over the land—political and criminal—through this agent. The Realm has always known Relstavum was a criminal, but not to this degree—he kept his relations with Saebellus a secret until the warlord’s shift in power. Since Ilsevel was taken prisoner, his illicit activities have increased and now, with the changes on Sevrigel, the purpose of his actions has been revealed. I would not be astonished to find that even the famine is his doing. Relstavum is the most powerful of Saebellus’ pawns—the end of every string being pulled in this country.”
“Saebellus…” Jikun repeated, but was not truly certain he had voiced the warlord’s name aloud. Relstavum was working for Saebellus…?
Darcarus gave no reaction to his numb utterance and merely continued in a pompous lilt, “And as of late, Relstavum has completely obliterated the last few villages he’s visited—these attacks were further distractions to prevent the human king from meddling in Sevrigelian affairs. Distractions to keep the king’s little mind and great army occupied. But I had no intimation that Relstavum had exacted Saebellus’ plans as far south as Dahel. I certainly would have kept well out of the Makataj if I had known he was anywhere within leagues of the damnable place!” The prince laughed then, his apathy oddly cold in light of the recent events.
Yet everything the prince said rang empty of meaning. ‘Because of the changes on Sevrigel…?’ Jikun’s mind repeated the words, but could form no conclusion. Instead it shifted, freeing itself from the discomfort rising in his gut by turning his skepticism upon the prince.
The male was nothing like Hairem. Nothing like Hairem’s father. And in Jikun’s mind, the Darivalian had imagined the True Bloods to carry themselves with even more regality than their Sevrigelian successors. This male—slouched in comfort against a pile of rubble—was as rough on the inside as he was on the out. Jikun watched as the prince patted down the fraying edge of his shirt. He may have abandoned the dirty white silk on his way into the cavern, but the act had done little to redeem his dismal appearance.
The signet ring wrapped about the calloused finger was all that assured Jikun that he had not made some mistake of identity. He smoothed down his tattered sash, drawing himself up. “What were you doing in Dahel—and at the community inn of all places?” he demanded suspiciously.
Darcarus pried a dried beetle from a tattered hem and flicked it coolly at Jikun’s brow. “I was helping my brother, of course,” he replied calmly, his nose wrinkling at his own pauper-ish appearance. He glanced up once at Jikun and seemed to reevaluate his fortune. “The gods agree I have no reason to be down here. Hadoream sailed for Sevrigel several days ago and, after replenishing my supplies, I planned to depart in the morning. But we know what occurred instead. When that damn necromancer attacked, I would have kept flying straight out of the Makataj but for this insane moral plight that I ought to help the two of you. Now I’ll be pulling sand off my valuables until I am a thousand.”
Navon’s expression—which had certainly begun with all the admiration and awe a typical True Blood “deserved”—had slowly deteriorated into confusion and perhaps, Jikun detected, mild disgust. This male was not, he imagined, at all what the Helven had long venerated.
And the subtle reference to his genitals had not helped.
He looked up from the withered beetle and tried to salvage some good from the prince. “You were helping your brother?” he inquired. “What does King Sairel want with Dahel?”
Darcarus seemed briefly confused, then laughed outright and regarded the Helven with visible scorn. “Why in Ramul would I help Sairel?” he huffed, dropping his foot abruptly down upon the bug’s carcass. “Hadoream. I had to get Hadoream to Sevrigel. Gods know Sairel doesn’t give a damn about anything that doesn’t reside within the confines of his office.”
Jikun wanted to enjoy further True Blood insults, but his face was forced lax with perplexity. “Hadoream is traveling from Dahel to Sevrigel? You must have ships on the coast of the Mythowood. Why come all the way down south through this bloodthirsty wasteland when…” he trailed off as Darcarus’ amusement faded.
The prince tensed, removing himself from his slouch against the wall. “You don’t know…” He casually slid the tip of his boot over the edge of Jikun’s cloak as though to secure it.
But perhaps this time, Jikun sensed, it was necessary.
“I meant to say I supposed you would not have all the details, but… I assumed you would have some grasp of the events. Why do you think Ryekarayn is sinking toward Ramul?” Even before he continued, Jikun felt his stomach lurch. “When you lost the battle at Elarium, you lost the war. …Saebellus owns Sevrigel now. Saebellus, General Taemrin, is king.”
Jikun’s throat constricted. ‘Have some control of your damn…’ But even his self-rebuke was lost as the words struck him again.
Saebellus owned Sevrigel.
Saebellus owned Sevrigel?
“What about Hairem?” Jikun stammered. “My remaining troops outside the capital? The impenetrability of Elvorium?! It’s surrounded by a god-damn cliff on all sides! What do you mean Saebellus owns Sevrigel?!” His voice had risen to a thunderous bellow that shook the very dust from the cavern dome.
Navon shifted closer once more, poised to restrain him. Yet his face was deathly white.
Noting that the Helven might be of no help, Darcarus subtly leaned his full weight over the boot on Jikun’s cloak. “Saebellus did not conquer Elvorium—the council delivered it to him. Control yourself! Upon your defeat, Hairem killed himself and the council surrendered Ilsevel to be his bride. I do not personally blame you for the loss and its results, but that does not change what has come to pass. As for the rest of your soldiers…” He met Jikun’s eyes solidly, his lips growing tight. He did not need to speak the words.
Jikun’s heart froze, too numb to react. He had been beaten mercilessly by the gods since crashing in the Makataj. The heat. The pain. The trial. The necromancy. ‘This damn hole in the earth…’ But news of Saebellus’ victory over the elven nation?
The walls surrounding his emotions redoubled. Grew and wrapped around them so tightly that he could not be certain that they were even within.
“So… Hadoream is on Sevrigel with another army…” Jikun barely managed to whisper. The True Blood royals were all trained general
s, yet the image of the prince riding at the forefront of Sevrigel’s salvation brought him little comfort.
To fully shatter the notion, Darcarus stiffly shook his head, his lock of hair once more slipping free to swing idly by his lips. “You’re not listening, Jikun. Saebellus did not merely conquer Sevrigel, he owns the very essence of the nation. To ensure that no one prevents the solidification of his rule, he is on a brazen path to control Ryekarayn as well. In a few months’ time, his grip on Sevrigel will be secure and there will be no stripping power from him. So by fucking Ramul, no. My little brother is on Sevrigel in secret for now. I can offer him no army while our Realm requires it for our own defense; that damn necromancer’s bandits dare to lay hands even on us if we stray too far from our gates.” Here he paused and gingerly touched his breast, as though he bore a wound from such an attack. “You saw the destruction Relstavum just reaped upon Dahel. Hadoream would have to be Cadorian-Plague-crazy to take the army from Sairel right now.”
Jikun’s arms swung limply at his side as he gave a delayed, emotionless nod. This side of the channel was no better off than the one from which he had fled. His defeat had crippled both continents…!
“Jikun!” Navon suddenly cried, and Jikun realized too late that he had pitched forward once more into the stone. He hit the earth in a numb daze. A wave of pain crushed his ribs, but he could not be certain if it was caused by the fall or the force of his quickening breaths.
“Shit,” he heard Darcarus grunt, and the male’s face swam foggily into view. “At least he is on the ledge.”
“Do you think he can hear us?” Navon inquired, his worried expression floating in beside the Sel’ven’s.
Jikun flipped over sharply to accommodate an unexpected wretch. What little contents his stomach had contained after his days of fatigue splashed out over Navon’s blistered feet.
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 14
