Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  Jaeme’s heartbeat quickened. He didn’t want to speak the words. Despite Kenton’s and Nikaenor’s faith, despite all he’d seen, he still didn’t quite dare to believe it about himself.

  But he also didn’t want to lie to his uncle anymore, no matter what Kenton said about him.

  “Some of the people I travel with,” Jaeme said, careful to keep his voice low, “they think I’m the bearer of Kotali.”

  His uncle choked on his tea. “They think you’re—”

  Jaeme held up his hands. “I know it sounds crazy. But I was there when the bearer of Nerendal claimed her stone. Saara’s the niece of the queen, and she’s taken the throne. She—” even now Jaeme struggled to describe the magnitude of what he’d witnessed “—she held the godstone in her hands. I saw it with my own eyes. I heard the voice of the god announce her to her people.”

  Greghor stared at Jaeme. “The bearer of Nerendal is truly on the throne of Tirostaar.”

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Jaeme said.

  His uncle seemed to know exactly who Jaeme meant. “Of course.”

  If Diamis pressured it out of him later, Jaeme supposed it wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself, but it was no trick. The walls of the castle burned.”

  His uncle’s face grew concerned. “So this is what you were doing in Tirostaar. Starting a revolution.”

  “It wasn’t our plan. That was just how it worked out. And I didn’t lie to you—I went because Daniella was going. But the others, they think—”

  “They think you’re like this girl Saara. Why?”

  It was a reasonable question. “It’s hard to explain,” Jaeme said. “But Saara, she knew where to find Nerendal.”

  “Of course,” Greghor said. “Everyone knows where Nerendal is kept.”

  “It’s more than that. She could feel him calling to her. And when we were in Foroclae, another of my friends swam to the bottom of the ocean and retrieved Mirilina.”

  “The Seastone?” Greghor looked even more astonished than he had about Nerendal, which Jaeme supposed was warranted. No one had seen the Seastone in a millennium. “You have it?”

  Jaeme nodded. “My friend does. But we’re here because I’m supposed to be finding Kotali, but I don’t feel—I don’t know where to look.”

  Greghor frowned and cleared his throat, possibly thinking that this should be confirmation that Jaeme wasn’t the bearer the others thought he was. Jaeme definitely wouldn’t blame him for that.

  “I can’t imagine that Kotali is here in the castle,” Greghor said, finally. “But there is a false wall. Your father and I found it as boys, though it’s been a long while since I’ve been down there.”

  Jaeme gripped the edge of his chair. “Show me?”

  “I’ll tell you where it is,” Greghor said. “And you can look at your leisure. It’ll probably come to nothing, but—” He dipped his finger into his tea, using the liquid to draw a map on the table, the dark gray color turning black as it moistened. “Here,” he said. “Behind the sarcophagus to your great-great-grandfather. You know it?”

  Jaeme nodded. He’d explored that area many times.

  “Beyond the back wall, there’s a section of brick that’s a slightly different color. If you press on it, it turns on iron hinges. You have to give it a good shove, though. No casual bump will open it.”

  “What’s beyond it?” Jaeme asked.

  “A room,” Greghor said. “With designs on the wall I’ve never seen anywhere else. But perhaps they mean something.” He looked right into Jaeme’s eyes. “Perhaps they’ll lead you to what you’re looking for.”

  Jaeme nodded. “Thank you.”

  “May the stone roll in your favor,” his uncle said. “I hope you find what you seek, though I have to admit that I very much doubt it.”

  “So do I,” Jaeme said. But looking at the map fading on the table, at the wall his uncle had indicated, he hoped Greghor was wrong, and Kenton was right.

  Forty-seven

  When Kenton left Jaeme languishing in the hallway in a puddle of his own incompetence, he headed back to the barracks, intending to lie down for a bit and close his eyes until he no longer wanted to murder several of the people currently residing in Castle Grisham. At this point, a stiff drink was definitely in order.

  It was a damned good thing Kenton wasn’t the bearer of Kotali because he’d have a few things to say to the god when he found him.

  Kenton crossed the grounds to the barracks—

  And found Perchaya waiting just outside them. A few guards leaving the barracks gave her a quizzical look but continued on.

  “There you are,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

  “Again?” After the way they’d parted earlier today, he’d expected her to avoid him as intently as he’d been avoiding her.

  Admittedly, she didn’t look impressively happy to see him. She held out a piece of paper. “This is a section of the commentaries I copied for you, along with the reference verses in the Chronicle.”

  Kenton took the paper. “You found something?”

  “It’s about the question I had,” Perchaya said. “About why Diamis cares more about capturing us than killing us. I think—I think it’s not enough for him if we’re dead. I think he needs to collect our souls.”

  Kenton froze, staring down at the piece of paper. “You think—”

  “It’s just a theory,” Perchaya said. “But it fits. I don’t know what he’d need to do to us—drain our blood, perhaps? Maybe a blood magic ritual?”

  Kenton stared down at the words without seeing them. He remembered the night Diamis had used Daniella to kill his father. His father’s blood swirling in the air, evaporating like mist at sunrise. Not raining down in torrents as it had in Tirostaar.

  Going . . . where? He’d thought it was a trick of his memory, that he’d simply remembered his father’s death less bloody than it had been, that his young mind had been unable to contain the horror. But he remembered it floating around Daniella in a cloud, then winking out of the air.

  Gods. Had Daniella consumed it somehow?

  Perchaya gestured to the paper. “Anyway, there it is. I marked the title of the commentary if you want to look at it. It’s in the library.” She hesitated. “But you might not want to tell Senric the priest what you’re after.”

  With that, Perchaya brushed by him, her skirts swishing as she hurried away.

  “Perchaya,” Kenton said. “Wait.”

  Perchaya turned, looking at him warily, and Kenton swallowed against a lump in his throat, unsure what he wanted to say, knowing only that he didn’t want her to go.

  Which was stupid. He was clearly only making her life worse, had been since the very moment he laid eyes on her.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Perchaya nodded, and she turned to go, more slowly this time, as if she thought he would call her back a second time.

  But Kenton didn’t dare.

  Kenton read over the paper but didn’t search out the commentary. Instead, having avoided her long enough, he set out to find Daniella. The news wasn’t getting any better for the waiting, and he was going to have to tell her eventually. Besides, this new bit had disturbing implications.

  Kenton hadn’t expected to find Daniella in the inner courtyard of the castle, had figured that he’d just pass through the courtyard on his way to the rooms she shared with Jaeme, but there she was. Sitting on an intricately carved bench, a book open on her lap.

  She wasn’t looking at the book, though. Her gaze was upwards, watching the thick green leaves of the strange black tree in the center of the courtyard. The knighthood tree. Kenton thought the practice by which young knights fed their blood to the tree sounded like many of the other knighthood rituals he’d heard about—overly complic
ated and ultimately rather silly. But despite all the blood that tree had consumed over the years, despite how thick and dark and unnatural the trunk had become, he didn’t find the presence of it as unsettling as he would have assumed.

  He wished he could say the same about the woman sitting beneath the wide canopy of its branches, dappled by spots of afternoon sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

  Daniella turned and saw him, and for a moment, he saw her again in his mind’s eye, a tiny thing, wobbling toward his father, a small smile on her face. Daniella tilted her head curiously at him as he watched her, but didn’t say anything, even as he sat on the bench beside her. The courtyard was empty, which was good. He couldn’t risk anyone overhearing what he had to say.

  She closed the book on her lap. “Come to chat about Perchaya?” she asked, though her tone implied that obviously he hadn’t.

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.” Daniella’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that, kiss her and then run as if—”

  “No,” he repeated, sharper this time. “You wanted my help, remember, and I said I’d give it. Well, I did.”

  Her face paled, the irritation replaced by something closer to fear. Fear that was unfortunately justified.

  “You found something about my memories?” Daniella’s voice was soft, small. She cleared her throat, straightening. Obviously trying to project a bravery she didn’t feel. “About what my father did to me?”

  “I did. The question is whether you really want to know.”

  Even as he said it, he knew there wasn’t a question at all. If she decided now that she couldn’t take it, he’d tell her anyway. They couldn’t afford ignorance. Not when they had to consider what was to be done.

  She looked at the tree again, her fingers picking at some gold beading on her deep green dress. “Tell me.”

  Kenton felt the same respect he’d had for her before, though less grudging this time. “The power you have, the blood magic you used—I don’t think your father gave it to you. I think he created you with it.”

  If he thought her pale before, her face appeared utterly bloodless now. Small freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out in stark contrast. “What does that mean?”

  “There’s a type of blood magic creation called a homunculus—”

  She made a sound from behind her tightly-closed lips.

  He studied her. “You’ve heard of them?”

  She nodded. “There’s an old tale from eastern Andronim where a blood mage created one. It was a monster, a vicious creature of earth and blood. They called it a bloodborn. It laid waste to a village and . . .” She closed her mouth again, drawing in a deep breath through her nose before starting again. “But it was a fiction. Bloodborn don’t exist. It’s not possible.”

  “That probably was fiction, pieced together from the truth. Which is that blood mages have been trying to create these homunculi, these bloodborn, for . . . well, I don’t know how long. Since Maldorath, maybe. And they’ve succeeded, in part. They’ve made creatures of blood magic, but none survive past a few days. No one was able to turn the theory of it into a reality.” He paused. “But your father had the instruction of Maldorath himself, so it’s possible he finally did.”

  Her lips worked soundlessly.

  “I know it sounds mad, but listen. What you did in Tirostaar, what you did to my father. I know you didn’t mean to—” This because she pulled back from him, shaking her head rapidly “—but you used blood magic without expending any blood. Powerful blood magic, the kind regular mages can’t do. You said that Lukos told Erich you couldn’t be controlled by blood magic like a regular person, because you were something different. And you are.”

  “No,” she said simply, though he knew she wasn’t actually denying any of the facts he’d stated. Just the conclusion he’d reached with them.

  “Perhaps you’re blood magic incarnate. That would explain why you don’t need others’ blood to do what you do. You are the magic.”

  She balled her hands, her knuckles white. “How could I be—I’m a person, not some ephemeral power! I’m right here in front of you, flesh and blo—” She tripped over the last word, swallowing it down. “This is just a theory. How could you know this for sure?”

  Kenton looked down at his own hands. It wasn’t that long ago that he wouldn’t have had any problem telling her all the gory details of her making, all the sacrifices laid at her feet. He might have relished it, actually, some petty revenge for what she had taken from him. Even though he’d known she was only a tool of her father’s.

  But now . . . she was a tool, but one that was trying her best to be free of its maker. She might be some kind of blood magic creation, but she wasn’t some extension of her father’s will made flesh. She was a person, just as she said. He found that he didn’t want to hurt her, not any more than he already had.

  But she still had to know.

  “All those children,” he said. “The ones the Drim were accused of kidnapping and draining. That happened the same year you were born.”

  Daniella nodded. “I know it had to be my father who did that. He needed to turn the people against the Drim, and he needed access to the chamber where Maldorath is. What are the lives of a hundred children worth when it comes to his sick ambitions?” Her voice was heavy with bitterness now. Her clenched hands like fists seeking a target.

  Kenton nodded. “Right. It had to be him. But I don’t think he did it just to set up my people. My sources say that homunculi can be made only from the blood of children, and lots of it.”

  Her breath caught. “No. No, no—” She was pleading, almost, for him to take it all back. He could see it in her eyes, wide with horror.

  He couldn’t take it back, couldn’t make it not true, no matter how much he wished he could. He felt like he had when telling Nikaenor his father had died, like part of him was hollowed out.

  “It explains why he hasn’t made more of you. It requires young blood, so much that it’s incredibly difficult to do without getting caught, which makes what your father did—”

  “Stop!” Daniella jumped to her feet, the book falling to the grass. “Just stop!” The words sounded strangled but were loud enough that Kenton looked around the courtyard to make sure no one had sauntered by in time to think the lady was being accosted by her own bodyguard.

  Thankfully, the only witness to their conversation was a red-tailed squirrel that had made its way to within a few feet of their bench, only to scramble away into the nearby hedges at the sudden noise.

  “Daniella—” Kenton started.

  “No, I don’t want—” She shook her head, her long curls trembling against her shoulders with the movement. “No. Why should I believe you?” She narrowed her eyes, her hands still fists at her side, shaking. “You would try to make me believe something like this, because you hate me. You’ve always hated me.”

  Kenton stayed seated. Her accusation was untrue, but not unfair. “You wanted me to find information, and I did. I’m not lying to you.” He shifted, his gaze finding the tree in the center of the courtyard, the thick trunk nearly black with the blood of generations. “And I don’t hate you. I never did, not really.”

  Heavy silence for a moment.

  “Of course you did,” she said. “Because of what I did to your father.”

  “Which brings me to the last of the news,” he said. “Something Perchaya found that makes sense to me.”

  Daniella froze, watching him, as if terrified of what more there could possibly be.

  Kenton didn’t want to continue, but Daniella also didn’t tell him to stop. She hated what he was saying—

  But she didn’t want to be left in the dark. Gods, she was a better person than Kenton had ever given her credit for. Perhaps one of the best of them all. “Your father could have killed me,” he said. “Could have
killed Perchaya. But instead he wanted to capture us, the last of the Drim. Perchaya asked me why, and I didn’t have an answer. She just found a reference to a passage in the Chronicle. More of a suggestion, really.”

  “Just tell me,” Daniella said. “Don’t draw it out.”

  “We think Diamis needs more than our deaths,” Kenton said. “He needs our souls. And in order to get all the souls of the Drim together, he’d need a place to store them.”

  Kenton watched Daniella as she stared up at the tree, her features stunned and absolutely still.

  “I remember the night my father died,” Kenton said. “I watched. You drew the blood from his body, like you did in Tirostaar. But then it swirled around you and disappeared, not like Tirostaar where it fell from the air. It was as if it went somewhere.”

  Daniella’s voice came out small and choked. “You can’t think that I’m your father.”

  “No,” Kenton said. “But I’m afraid you might be . . . a container. A container of magic built to house souls.”

  Daniella’s eyes flicked back to him. “Gods, Kenton,” she said, her voice quiet. “Is there no end to the things you can accuse me of?”

  He sighed. “What you did to my father wasn’t your fault. You were a child being used by Diamis. I always knew that. I never hated you. I sure as all hells didn’t trust you.” He rubbed his hands on his knees. “And I was afraid of you.”

  She tugged at the long green sleeves of her dress. “And now?”

  Kenton had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Gods, she was going to make him say it. This was nearly as bad as talking about Perchaya. “I trust that you want to stop your father. I trust that you want to keep Maldorath locked away where he belongs. I trust that you care about the others. I trust that you’d do whatever it takes to help us succeed.” He met her eyes. “So yeah, I guess I’d say I trust you now. But you understand what may need to be done. If you still have the souls of the other Drim within you—”

  Daniella nodded, blinking rapidly. “Do you think . . . if I died . . .”