by Dekker, Ted
Do not run.
"What's in the journal?"
Marak's expression was unreadable. He looked surprised and enraged. Barely restrained fury. A caged, half-starved lion.
"Does this look like the kitchen to you?"
"I was looking around. For that you grab me by the wrist?"
"Did I tell you to look around?"
"I repeat the question. I trained under Thomas Hunter, supreme commander of the Forest Guard. I'm hardly some simpering wench you can throw around at will."
Marak studied her a minute, then relented. "Learn your place, albino." He stalked down the hall into the kitchen.
Thoughts of the journal made her hesitate.
If she could get to it ...
"Go clean up," he growled from the other room.
Darsal opened her mouth to protest.
No.
His reaction to the journal was potent.
More mysteries.
Shake it off, Darsal. It was nothing. He's a brute. A brute who hates all things Elyon, including you.
She retreated to the bathroom and found the clean clothes and jar of morst. For a long minute she stared at the basin of murky water with which she would have to bathe. Finally she wet a cloth and washed herself. Darsal washed her hair, too, as best she could. After she was clean and toweled off, she examined her cuts and bruises, fingered Jordan's pendant at her throat.
The one Marak kept staring at.
Marak with his flaking skin covered in disgusting white powder that barely muted the noxious fumes. Marak, the Horde general out to eliminate the entire Circle because of their skin.
The beast who allowed those things to happen to Rona and Jordan and Xedan.
Her hand brushed the jar of morst as she reached for her clothes.
She paused. Studied it. On impulse she opened the lid and smelled. A floral scent. Water dripped from her dark hair into the jar.
Darsal brushed the wet lock back over her shoulder and put the morst down.
Wrung out her hair better.
How miserable, to smell and look so grotesque that you would cover your entire body in a white powder out of embarrassment. The only thing worse than Scab skin was Shataiki flesh.
Darsal mulled it over.
Curious, that partial journal entry.
Disgusting, the mere suggestion of loving a Scab.
This mission is stillborn.
As she used the comb, her eyes fell once more to the jar.
Her skin was as mortifying to the Scabs as theirs to her. Yet she had chosen to love them as penance to Elyon.
She pressed her lips together.
Love them.
But first they had to be able to stand the smell of each other.
She smelled at least as bad to Marak as he did to her.
"That could work," she whispered. She braided her hair in Horde fashion, then opened the jar of morst, which really did smell nice. Quickly, she rubbed the white powder over her body, over her hands and arms and as far under the shackles as she could.
Ten minutes later she came into the kitchen.
Two bowls of stew waited at the table. Marak had flung himself into one of the chairs and was eating his meal in a brooding silence.
Darsal waited in the threshold, watching him eat. Elyon, how do you win a Scab that won't even look at you?
Just looking at the white skin made her itch and feel stiff.
Stop it. You're sympathizing with a monster.
Then she narrowed her eyes. For one, the rotten-meat smell was heavily muted and she could stand it, even in the minute or so they'd been in close proximity. Two, aside from the places on his arms where their skin had made contact when he grabbed her, fresh morst had been applied in generous amounts.
General Marak had taken great care that no cracks and no obvious flakes showed.
Why?
"Get out of my blind spot," Marak said without looking up or turning his head.
Darsal's eyes narrowed. "I like this spot."
Marak jabbed a finger at the chair in front of him. She started to argue again, but that tiny little voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her of her mission.
Fighting Marak every step of the way would never work. Forcing herself to obey, she took her seat.
Marak's eyes were dull, clouded, concealing some skeleton rotting in his heart. Darsal returned the steady gaze. The longer she looked the more she saw-and the more questions she had.
What exactly had caused him to come into the dungeons? To stay his hand? And then there was that journal ...
What lay beyond the skin of this general?
"Are you a spy?" Marak continued to study her.
"No." So now the interrogation would begin. Now he would force her to lay bare her sins. She braced herself. "I'm sick of spilling blood."
"I spill albino blood."
She didn't flinch. He was watching for her reaction, and she didn't want to witness his satisfaction as he gloried over his exploits, reveled in the slaughter of Middle, of innocent men, women, and children. She should burst across the table and spear him through with his own knife.
But the memories served as pointed reminders. She thought of Johnis and Silvie, who had stayed true to her even when shackled to the wall awaiting their doom. Just like Jordan had.
Was that what the books were about?
Her hand went to the necklace. "I've done worse."
That answer surprised him. She looked away.
Silence.
"You're wearing morst. Why?"
That surprised her. "I ... thought it might help."
"It helps."
"You think I lie."
"I don't trust you. Eat. We've a long day ahead. Tomorrow I'll have a brood of albinos to deal with and a meeting with Sucrow. Unfortunately." Marak stood.
He was becoming more and more curious. So the general hated the priest as well. But then, Sucrow was easy to hate.
"To discuss killing the Circle."
The general's eyes went cold. "To discuss our mission. Desecration."
"Fitting title. Did you name it?"
Silence.
Darsal couldn't withhold the question anymore. She lowered her spoon and twisted sideways in her chair. "Why didn't you kill me in the dungeon?"
Marak's expression turned dark. He cracked his knuckles. One hand pressed flat on the table, he leaned down to her.
"I'm beginning to rethink that decision."
"Does it have something to do with Jordan?"
He instinctively raised his fist, then lowered it and swung away from her, red faced.
"What makes you think that had anything to do with him?"
The mighty general had an underbelly. Jordan.
What did she care about a Scab's feelings?
But ... she couldn't hide the overwhelming impulse to keep pushing.
Elyon help them both.
"You seem upset by his death."
Marak stalked away from her. "Stop it, albino."
Now she had to find the source of his wound. It was nonnegotiable. And the evidence all pointed to one man: Jordan of Southern. She stood.
"You know his name. It's his necklace I'm wearing. He gave it to me."
His fist smashed against the wall. Understanding came.
One clean-skinned and warm. One disease-riddled and cold.
Darsal lowered her voice, seeking softness she didn't possess. "He was your brother, wasn't he? And you executed him."
Marak pivoted on one heel, his face stopping inches from hers.
Darsal froze.
"Never, ever speak like this to me again." His hot, acidic breath basted her skin. Darsal choked on the smell and fought back a cough.
Marak stormed out. Darsal could only stand there.
He didn't come back. She pushed aside her bowl, put her head in her hands, and closed her eyes.
ilvie marched across the final stretch of desert to the southern edge of Middle with the sun flickering
at her back and the bitter taste of sand in her mouth. Johnis gained speed with every step.
They'd both been different since Shaeda. But their alternative plans were forming. Thank Elyon, Johnis was thinking.
Unfortunately it required a temporary alliance with Teeleh's priest.
Shaeda could read his mind. He could sometimes see into hers. How much was the Leedhan controlling him? Was she guiding or forcing?
Silvie grabbed his shoulder. "Listen to me!"
He whirled. His eyes were completely void of emotion.
Cold. Hard. Calculating. He was on a mission. The clarity of what he wanted to do completely blinded him to everything else.
Silvie's eyes widened. She backed up, horrified. "You can't do it this way."
He wanted to go tearing through Middle like a wild animal, rousing Marak of Southern out of bed and demanding to see him, as if Qurong's general was little more than a servant to be summoned at will.
"You'll never get Marak to listen to you if you don't do this right the first time," she argued as they headed north along the eastern edge of Middle Forest. "And if you can't get in to see him, this quest of yours will be the death of both of us."
"What do you suggest?"
"Clear your head."
After arguing the matter for a few minutes, Johnis complied. They would not attack General Marak in his bed. Instead they would demand an audience like civilized people and hope for the best.
Following this decision, Johnis appeared somewhat conflicted. The more she got him thinking-forcing him to do something not directly obedient to Shaeda's instructions-the less he was able to reason.
What had they gotten themselves into?
Shaedas directions guided them to the edge of the canyons and set their course back toward Middle. Shaeda had proven trustworthy on this matter, Silvie finally conceded.
"But this alliance with the priest is temporary," she reminded. "This is all temporary. It's Horde we're after."
"Right. Once we have what we need from Sucrow, we'll kill him and use Shaedas power to take out the Horde. We don't need her forever. And I don't have to give her the amulet."
He hesitated. The emotions shifted on his face. He muttered under his breath. Johnis finally looked up at her.
"Sometimes she seems to be in my head, sometimes she doesn't," he explained. "I'm not sure we should talk about this until I know how often she's listening."
"We may not have that luxury."
He fell quiet.
Silvie understood.
She would have to do the bulk of the planning until Johnis found a way to stave off the Leedhan.
Neither spoke for a while.
The desert gave way to forest, and they found a cool stream of muddied water to drink their fill.
"What about Thomas?"
He paused. "We do what we have to in order to complete the mission. Our mission is to defeat the Horde."
"By defeating the albinos. And who will we be left with?"
He answered after a pause. "Each other."
Thank the stars he hadn't said Shaeda.
Strange how quickly her loyalties had changed.
Before leaving this place a few years ago, she would have died for Thomas and the Guard.
Now she wasn't sure who she would die for.
Besides Johnis.
Who now looked completely Horde. Generous flakes of white skin dripped from his limbs, face, and neck. His hair had turned ashen and his eyes a smoky color. He was withdrawn, almost as if drugged. Her heart should be twisted by the sight.
But she was no different. Of course their skins flaked. Logical. Even compelling.
Silvie realized her mind was drifting a little. She refocused. She had to help Johnis.
And Johnis needed his head clear to fight Shaeda.
"You're certain this plan to find this charm in the Black Forest will give you the power you need to control the Shataiki?"
The effects were immediate. Like magic his expression cleared. His eyes focused on her. He finished drinking and stood.
"I know it will." Johnis cast a wicked grin.
A cold chill curled around Silvie's spine. Letting Johnis focus on his mission was the only way to keep him out of the abyss threatening to consume him.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Johnis marched past her into the woods. Silvie followed. After another half hour they approached the road leading back to the city.
"I know how to do it. Shaeda let me in again."
Silvie paused. "What?"
"Convince Sucrow to help us."
"RISE AND SHINE, GENERAL."
Marak woke to the raw smell of an albino. He jumped and reached for his knife, then forced himself to relax.
Darsal stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. Who knew how long she'd been there. Pale sunlight streamed down on her face. Dawn.
"My clothes are in the trunk," he growled.
"A grown man can't dress himself?"
"I really should just cut out your tongue."
"You couldn't stand the smell long enough."
"Would you just hand me my tunic?" Marak pointed at the trunk she was standing next to. She looked coy.
"You could ask me nicely."
He bit back the urge to swear at her. "Fine. Would you hand me my shirt please, albino?"
"My name is Darsal of the Far Northern Forest." She flung it at him.
"Fine. Darsal of the Far Northern Forest, thank you."
She turned her back and went quiet while he dressed.
After their confrontation the night before, he'd stormed outside and taken a long walk around the lake, bathed in it beneath the moon.
Darsal couldn't possibly know anything.
Most of those secrets had died yesterday. After Jordan and the others had helped her escape, Sucrow had ordered their executions, and Marak had no choice.
At least the priest couldn't torture them any longer. Couldn't use Rona against him.
Marak had hoped beyond logic that he would be able to come up with an excuse to free them, even if it meant making them all look like traitors to their own kind.
Darsal's escape had ruined all of that. And then she had come back.
The bloody little albino had sentenced to death three people he'd tried to save and then rendered their sacrifice worthless. He'd come to retrieve their pendants, and there she was.
Marak put on his shirt.
He should have killed her just for having Jordan's Circle pendant.
The commanders had asked why she was still alive. Cassak hadn't. Maybe Marak should ask him.
She'd never touched the stew. It had been cold. He had put it away and could only lean against the counter until Darsal had come back to ask him where he wanted her to sleep. He had tossed an old cloak at her and had told her to sleep on the floor.
Marak put on his boots. One scuffed the wood.
"Sleep well?" Darsal turned back around. Her voice was steady, a very controlled effort. He didn't answer. Of course, that didn't prevent her from speaking.
"About your brother. I didn't intend to overstep last night," she said. "Forgive me."
His stomach lurched.
Jordan had looked up at him from the floor, his arms bound behind his back, face bloody from Warryn's beating, and had used that same word.
I forgive you.
The knot shifted from Marak's gut into his heart and up into his throat.
He squeezed his fist. "I didn't say you could speak."
Darsal pressed her lips together, then lowered her head. She removed the necklace and let it dangle from her hand. Extended it toward him.
"This is what you wanted from the cell, isn't it? It's yours by rights. He gave it to me, for when I found the Guard."
He looked at her, surprised.
Someone knocked at the front door. "General, I've a message for you from the priest."
Marak shoved past her and barreled through the house to the front door. "What in the
name ofTeeleh do you want?" he snarled.
"My lord does not think he's been advised of everything regarding this Desecration of yours. He also wishes to know who is on the western side of the forest." Sucrow's servant glowered with beady eyes at the slave.
Marak crossed his arms. "And for this he's decided to send you to fetch me at dawn?"
"I ... he says you may come at your leisure, General."
"How thoughtful of him. Tell him not to waste my time." He swung the door.
"General-"
The door shut. Sucrow's servant knocked again. "General, the priest was quite insistent that-"
Marak whipped the door open, into the wall, and grabbed the worthless youth by the tunic, right off the ground. "I will meet with Sucrow when I desire to meet with Sucrow and not a moment before!"
He flung him down the steps. "Get out of my sight!"
The servant scrambled to his feet and scurried away.
Marak slammed the door so hard it rattled the walls. Darsal retreated into the kitchen. He stormed back to the bedroom and strapped on his weapons. Throat constricted, chest heaving. Then went into the kitchen to the slave.
Darsal stood at a distance, her face devoid of emotion.
He snarled and sat down, unwilling to deal with the albino in his house-the one he'd spared only because for a fleeting second, with Jordan's medallion dangling around her neck, she looked like Rona.
"I haven't got all day!"
"There's no cause to yell," she snapped, putting the refused necklace back on. "I didn't do it, you big idiot!" Darsal went to the cabinet and pulled out bread, then rummaged for the butter.
Teeleh's breath, she really does look like her. Marak watched her for several seconds.
"It's in the bottom. I don't use it much."
Darsal retrieved butter and cheese and set both out on the sideboard with the loaf of bread. The idea grew as he watched her, demanding he express the comparison. Marak considered whether or not he should say something. She hadn't deserved his bellowing, and she was here of her own volition. Why not?
He would explode if he didn't make the connection.
"You remind me of someone."
She glanced up at him with wide brown eyes, then returned to his breakfast, not slowing down. "Really? Who?"
Marak watched her arrange cheese on a plate. "Rona. My sisterin-law."
