“Her first Oathtaker?”
“Yes.”
“Sheva.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I remember him—vaguely.”
“So, this . . . Skelly . . . What about her?” Eden asked.
Lucy sat at the edge of the bed. “Well, as I said, everyone thought she was less than sane. When we couldn’t seem to shake her tailing us, Sheva stopped to ask some of the locals about her. The vendors told him that Skelly was harmless—but crazy. So finally, when she drew near once more, Sheva turned around to face her, a scowl on his face and his Oathtaker’s blade in his hand.”
As Lucy spoke, she stood and demonstrated what he might have looked like, an expression of intensity on her face. Then she burst out a great smile.
“Honestly, I thought the woman would jump right out of her skin, he so surprised her!”
Grinning, Mara took up her cup, blew on the tea to cool it, and then drank.
“So, what happened?” Eden asked.
Sitting down once again, Lucy draped the cape over her shoulder. She ran her hand against it, up and down, up and down.
“Skelly insisted on speaking with Rowena,” she said. “When Sheva finally relented and allowed her an audience, she told Rowena that she recognized her as a seventh-born among the Select. Then she gave her this cape.” Again, Lucy stroked it. “She said that her father had been an Oathtaker to a seventh, and that his attendant magic had included the ability to create enchanted artifacts.” She laughed outright.
“But, Lucy,” Mara interrupted, “you’re able to infuse objects with magic.”
“Yeeeessss, but according to Skelly, her father produced things of magic out of thin air.” She shook her head and waved her hand about, scoffing. “That seemed . . . preposterous to me. Anyway, telling your mother that she had the gift of foresight,” Lucy said to the sisters, “Skelly gave her this shawl and a . . . prediction, or . . . something.”
When a crack of thunder sounded out, they all jumped, then quickly turned their attention back to one another.
Lucy removed the shawl from over her shoulder and ran it under her chin.
“Why do you do that?” Eden asked. “Rub it under your chin?”
She smiled. “Cashmere is warm, lightweight, and intensely soft. If you run it under your chin, you won’t feel the least scratchiness.” She leaned in and whispered, as though sharing a secret, “I confess, I’ve always loved the feel of it.”
She handed the item to the twins.
As they ran their hands over it, Vida reached over to touch it, as well.
“It’s so luxurious,” Eden said. “Still, this Skelly must have said something about it, Lucy. Was that what her—prediction—was all about?”
A sudden gust of wind blew rain into a window that had been left open a crack. Lucy went to close it.
“Well,” she said as she returned, “Skelly spoke mostly in riddles. Even so, I know her to have been right about one thing, at least. She told Rowena that she’d have a seventh daughter one day, and then, about the cape, she said—” Lucy stopped cold. “No, that’s not right.” Her brow dropped. “As I mentioned, she spoke in riddles. I remember laughing about it at the time, teasing Rowena that we’d seen and heard it all, so I’m sure I can recall her words accurately. Now, let me think here . . .”
She stood and paced, her hands pressed together and her index fingers to her lips.
A minute later, she turned back. “Yes, I remember it all now.” Then she recited what Skelly had said:
Come one.
Come two.
Come illusion,
Come true.
Bear me now.
Bear me then.
Dare to sense me even when.
She shook her head, grinning. “Like I said, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe you’re not remembering it correctly,” Eden suggested.
“Oh, no, I’m certain I got the words right.” Lucy cocked her head, thinking. “I wonder if Skelly was referencing the fact that Rowena would bear twins—you know, with the language: ‘Come one. Come two.’ Hmmm. I suppose that’s possible. Although what the rest of it all could mean is beyond me.”
She paused, once again contemplating. “In any case, the old woman told your mother that this,” she gestured toward the shawl, “was for her seventh-born. Of course, the mystery is in whether she did in fact mean just you, Reigna,” she nodded at her, “or you also, Eden,” she added, glancing her way, “in that you are the ‘seventh seventh who is, but is not,’ of prophetic fame.”
Mara put her empty cup down. “Since Skelly told your mother that it was for her seventh-born, that may explain why she took it along with her when she left here pregnant with you two,” she said to the twins. “So, I guess that betwixt yourselves, you’ll have to decide what you’d like to do with it.”
Chapter Ten
His anger rose, then spurt out like steam escaping a teapot, causing him to shake intensely. He knew he shouldn’t reminisce, shouldn’t dwell on things of old, but sometimes all the self-counsel in the world was for naught.
On his knees, he bowed down until his forehead rested on the floor. He thought about how, as a child, he’d been taught of forgiveness, of pardons, and of mercy. He’d tried that way, had intended to protect it at all costs—had even sworn to do so. It was Ehyeh’s way. But eventually, he rejected it—when the cost became greater than what he wanted to pay.
When Daeva visited him in the darkest hour of his young adulthood and introduced him to a new way, he followed, delighted that the underlord offered an alternative—retribution . . . vengeance. Over the years, thoughts of how to see those goals come to fruition, festered inside. They caused him to gush imprecations. Curiously, those thoughts also offered a unique sense of . . . satisfaction. In truth, he’d grown most talented in the art of malediction—and best of all, he’d found the way to bring life to his own damning curses.
Try though he might to hold his memories at bay, they flooded down on him.
He scowled as he recalled how his father had abandoned him, and of how his mother had left him a victim. Momentarily nauseous at the thought, he drew his hand to his mouth, choking back his bile.
When an act of violence against his person robbed him of his childhood innocence, following which the violator manipulated him—convinced him that he had himself to blame—hatred was born. Initially, it was a hatred of himself that sat dormant for a time. But eventually, when confronted with yet another rejection, his burning self-loathing produced its inevitable byproduct: the detestation of others.
Well, Mother had been right about one thing. To hate someone was to wish death upon him. But wishes are flighty, ethereal sorts of things. To come to pass, they oft require a helping hand.
He stepped back in time to that glorious day that he felt certain would remain with him for all time. He recalled looking at the man who’d trespassed against him, and who stood at the doorway before him with his arm draped over the shoulder of a boy at his side.
“Master Mugger,” he had said to him, with a bow, “I learned of your move here. I thought I would stop by to pay my respects.”
Mugger, in his usual style, tottered, a consequence of his chewing bibulous nut—notwithstanding the earliness of the hour.
“Ahhh . . . it’s you—my favorite student of all time!” He grinned, maliciously, showing off his red-stained teeth, compliments of his drug of choice. “I just returned from a journey that I set out on earlier today to retrieve my newest student.”
He pulled the boy closer, a lecherous look in his eye. “I’ve hit the big time. This one,” he leaned in and whispered, “is a descendant of the Hazarik. His mother has placed him in my care. I’m to teach him the basics of reading and writing.” Putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders, he leered down at him.
Oddly, the child wore a half grin. His brow rose as his eyes ran down the form of his new master’s visitor.
“I see,” the man said, recogni
zing a sense of camaraderie with the boy. Although not more than five, possibly six, years of age, his physique already held the promise of great strength to come. “Well, my congratulations to you, master.”
Stumbling, Mugger slumped into a chair. Waving his hand toward the boy, he demanded that he fill a pitcher from a keg sitting on the counter. When the youth, following his master’s command, grabbed the vessel, cockroaches scattered out from beneath it. He flinched at the sight of them, then did as his master bid him.
He returned with the ale, along with two earthenware cups, and set them on the table.
Mugger’s guest gestured toward a nearby chair, a question in his eyes.
“Of course, have a seat,” Mugger said before coughing up and then spitting out a mouthful of phlegm that left a dark red spot on the floor where it landed.
The man sat, then filled his former master’s cup before his own.
“It’s a pleasure to see you once more,” Mugger said before taking a great swallow.
“Yes, master.” He paused. “You know, along my way—quite near here, actually—I made the most . . . intriguing find. I wonder if you might accompany me to take a look.” Knowing the man could not resist flattery, he added, “I could use your most profound expertise, as I have never come upon such creatures before.”
“Ah! Where are they then?”
“Just a short walk from here.”
Lumbering back to his feet, Mugger winced from the effort of lifting his own massive weight. “Well, let’s be off then, before dusk sets in,” he suggested. Tottering in his insobriety, he turned to his new student. “Come, boy.”
The three set out. After making their way through an oak grove and across a fallow field, they came upon a rocky area. In its midst stood a rounded opening, like a doorway. Long shadows enshrouded it, as the sun now neared the horizon.
“This way, master,” the man said, making an opening in the brush that partially camouflaged the path ahead. He gestured for his former instructor to proceed. “After you.”
Once they all passed the threshold, he said, “Now, just yonder is a clearing with room to venture about, in the center of which is a pond.”
The boy glanced his way, as though reading his intentions, and then followed Mugger.
The man watched the youth closely. He sensed that he possessed an absence of restraint—and abundant, innate intelligence.
A nearby murder of crows burst into flight ahead of them. Their cackling and cawing filled the air. The man almost smiled upon noticing bits of flesh hanging from the beaks of several of them. It only seemed right that they’d enjoy a feast, as over the past weeks, he’d made sport of capturing a few of them from time to time to feed his pets.
“Just there,” he said, pointing to a pond as he dropped his satchel to the ground.
Mugger approached the water’s edge. “It looks deep,” he said.
“It is—quite. So please, do watch your step.”
As the boy stood off, watching, the man neared Mugger’s side. He got down on one knee. “There, do you see the movement in the water? Just there?” He pointed toward the middle of the pool.
Mugger’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “Where? I don’t see anything. What is it?”
“Occasionally, about this time of day, the most unusual creature ventures out for a look.” Glancing up, he held Mugger’s eye. “And here is the amazing part,” he added, before pausing for effect. “It breaks the surface—and then . . . it flies into the night!”
Pulling back, Mugger scowled. “That’s preposterous.”
“You think so? Here. Squat down, just here.” He patted the ground at his side. “The water is clear. Take a look for yourself.” He leaned forward, luring his victim in.
Oh, but he is too large. Still, if I can take advantage of his drug-induced inebriation, get him in a vulnerable position . . .
“Oh, there it is!” he cried, pointing down into the water. “Quickly, master! Look!”
After spitting out another mouthful of his bibulous nut-stained saliva, Mugger crouched down. His eyes narrowed as he searched the waters. “I don’t see anything.”
“Stay here while I get you some bait to draw the creature out.”
He stood, then walked away to retrieve his satchel. Upon his return, he rummaged inside it.
Mugger made as though to rise.
“Oh, no, master! As you always taught: patience is rewarded. Just a moment longer now.”
He took a biscuit out of his bag. “Here,” he said, putting it in Mugger’s crimson stained fingers, “take this and throw it . . . just there,” he pointed, “to the center of the pond.”
“Just there?” Mugger gestured.
“Yes. Now, be ready!” With that, he stepped back.
Try though he might, he could not refrain from smiling over the trap he’d laid. Upon arriving in the area sometime back and discovering this inland pond filled with man-eating lampreys, he’d stuck around, feeding crows to the eel-like suckers, sporadically, so as to be certain they remained alive.
Preparing to toss the biscuit to the pond’s center, Mugger leaned in. He drew his arm back and then tossed the bait, following through with his swing.
In that moment, his former student knew three things with utter certainty. First, when the bait hit the water, the lampreys would squirm about, revealing their true size, nature, and strength. Second, Mugger, not entirely sober, was off balance at the moment, which made him vulnerable. And third—there would never be another chance like this. So, taking no risk that this window of opportunity might be lost, the man stepped up, placed both his hands on Mugger’s back, and then pushed.
He hit the water’s surface with a mighty roar. His arms and legs thrashed about. As he groped for a rock at the pond’s edge, which broke away and scattered into fragments, the previously hidden nest of lamprey surrounded him. He writhed, screaming, as the beasts wrapped their forms about him and then latched on with their funnel-like sucking mouths.
He shrieked and flailed about. “Help!” he cried. “Help! Help me!”
As his screams continued, the beasts pulled him farther away, then down deep into the pond’s center. Above, the water seem to boil, bubble, and foam.
A minute later, a cloud of crimson, eerily reminiscent of the color of Mugger’s teeth, rose to the surface.
He was no more.
His former student looked up to find the boy approaching.
When the child stood just feet before him, he bowed. “Master,” he said, looking back up, “teach me.” He smiled—a gesture that did not quite reach his eyes. “I am called ‘Zarek.’”
Back to the present, the man glanced up into the mirror, calling on the underlord. When the spirit made his presence known, he prostrated himself. “Tell me,” he said, “what shall be the price for my request?”
Oh, how he gloried in his time communing with Daeva and the other lords of the underworld, Akka, and Sij. Decades earlier, sometime after he’d first turned to them, the three spirits had favored him, intervened for him, in the form of a hex—a glamour—in exchange for a price. They’d required a simple thing really. He had but to take the life of a member of the Select—or to be more precise, of his charge . . .
Yes, and he’d been all too content to comply.
Thereafter, through the underlords’ intervention, he had maintained a generally youthful appearance—at least to those incapable of seeing with more than merely physical eyes. Moreover, the magic provided that one with the power to read thoughts or to discern truth from falsehood, could not see through to his true self. Even so, his body was giving out. But now, with a new mission before him, he dared not appear weak. Hence, once again, he’d turned to the spirits.
The underlords named their price for his latest request. This time they required that he take the life of an Oathtaker who possessed the power to heal, and that he then use that person’s blade to dig his grave. He thought the demand simple enough. He’d heard that the City of
Light fairly burst at its seams with the lot of them these days. And once done, his strength would be restored—for a time, at least.
Then of course, there was the matter of his persona. He grimaced with the thought of having to learn how to smile again. Such expressions were foreign to him. But he’d best start practicing them—straight away—as the underlords could do nothing for him in that regard. A grim countenance could add years to his visage—and that, he could ill afford.
Chapter Eleven
With the grounds cleared, and the Oathtaker troops now divided into companies, Reigna marched to the center ring. “Attention!” she called, her breath turning to a billowing fog in the cold air. “Attention, everyone!”
The sounds of weapons clanging, of horses neighing, and of orders made, sounded out as the hundreds of men and women about her, struggled for a better view, but in due course, the crowd stilled.
“As your leaders have instructed you, we must all be in our best fighting form. An Oathtaker’s blade is a mighty tool—but is insufficient in itself. We will fight for Oosa—to protect its people and their freedom.”
She paused as the crowd whistled and applauded.
“We begin today, with sparring matches,” she added. “We’ll start with a review of the basics in various weaponry, but be advised that we haven’t much time, so let’s get the most out of what we do have.”
Eden whispered something in her sister’s ear.
Reigna nodded and then addressed the crowd once again. “Each company leader has arranged for your matches. When not engaged in one yourself, you should be taking note of good form. Each of you will depend on each of the others for information as to how to improve your skills. We are a team, but we can only perform at our peak when we are all at our personal best.”
The crowd responded with hoots, calls, and stomping.
When the sounds died away, she continued. “There will be a healer on duty at all times. Today, that will be Kayson. He is right there,” she pointed in his direction.
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