“Pawns are funny pieces,” the man remarks. “They are small and insignificant and easily discarded. But if they play the game right, if they use other pieces as a shield, if they outlast all the other players, they become a queen. Of course, that part goes largely unnoticed. Unless you’re an avid chess player like myself.”
Landor stares at the water in the trough, silently.
“You are not meant to be a pawn, Landor Bone. Your sister was not meant to be a pawn. But you are different pieces in this game. Just as I am.” He leans towards Landor’s ear. “Break hell’s chains,” he whispers. He steps back and begins to walk away.
“Lothalar leran de revelan.” Landor doesn’t look up from the water. His words are slow. Like he’s saying them for the first time and is stunned by their meaning. Their power.
“Lothalar leran de revelan,” he repeats, firmer this time. Stronger.
The giant nods. “Lothalar leran de revelan,” he chimes in. “Do you know the star?”
The star?
“I do,” Landor says.
The giant says nothing and walks off down the street. Landor doesn’t turn around once to see him. He closes his eyes and listens. I know he’s remembering the man’s footsteps. Pondering his gait. His weaknesses. His smell. His presence. Everything that a man needs to stay alive in case of an assailant.
“Here you are.” Craig steps out of the stables. Landor calmly washes the dirt from his hands. “Any luck?”
“Nothing much,” Landor says. “Another band with another leader whose got something to prove.”
Craig chuckles between his teeth. “This rebellion is full of condescending little pricks with ideas about glory and riches. Perhaps, when the Celectate gives me a golden sword, I can fulfill their wishes for a taste of wealth before their deaths, the poor bastards.”
Landor leans back against the fence. “That’s a beautiful plan. But this new leader has no prick.”
Craig swivels in a fast half-circle to face his comrade. “A woman? They made a woman leader? They are foolish bastards!”
“Yes. Fools,” Landor sighs. “I’ve made my report, sir. May I wash up and return to my rooms until you’ve further use of me, captain?”
Captain? Craig has been made a captain? It had always been an ongoing joke between the four of us that Asher would have better luck getting married in the next decade than Craig had of moving up in the ranks of Celect Knights.
Craig nods and gestures wildly with his hand. “Yes. Go. Go and rest well.” He laughs again and slaps his knee in amusement. “A woman? Shit, that was a waste of two weeks.”
A flash of darkness glides over Landor’s face. He swivels back around. “Captain.” Craig looks up. “She has a name.”
Craig waits patiently.
“They call her ‘the Bitch of the Vale,’” Landor says. “My informant told me that no one’s seen her unless they saw death next.”
Craig’s lips curl up in amusement. “Well, perhaps I’ll give the bitch a new name. She can be bitch of the Celectate’s prison before her execution, for all I care. Hell, she could be my bitch. Will capturing this whore be worthwhile?”
Landor shrugs. “You’re the captain. I’ll follow your orders.” He turns towards the stables again.
“Lan, wait.” Craig is quick to drop the formality between them. “I was thinking drinks would be nice at the old place. We haven’t been there since that last time when we . . .” He doesn’t finish. “Anyway, we’ve so much to talk about, after my promotion and all. I really want to set things straight between us. Asher agreed to come if you would.”
“That sounds nice, captain,” Landor replies, “but I’m eating dinner with my family tonight. Lady Bone’s preparing the meal herself.”
“Oh.” Craig looks crestfallen. “Some other time then, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” Landor shuts the stable doors behind him and leans heavily against one of the stable poles.
The image begins to curl in on itself. I grab at the wood. A nearby horse. A saddle on the wall. They slip through my fingers as I’m pulled black into nothing by an unseen hand.
“Whoa!” Shade’s arms latch around my waist as I careen backwards. My neck snaps with the strain. A vein throbs at his temple as he attempts to keep me upright. He pulls me closer, away from the edge of the plank, and my chest burns from the heat radiating from his body. “What the . . .?”
Vaguely aware of the faint aroma of smoke and trees that plays so heavily with my senses, I grab his shoulders and straighten myself. We fumble together awkwardly while we rearrange our positions, but he doesn’t take his arms away from me.
“I’m . . . I’m alright,” I whisper.
He presses the back of his hand to my forehead and frowns. “You’re very warm. Go back to the house. Mama Opal has medicine that can cure anything from headaches to worms in your stomach. You could have some nasty side effects from that wound.” He gestures at my arm.
“I thought you said it was only a shadow blade?” I ask, tilting my eyebrows. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I meant what I said,” he insists and lets go of me. “But every wound has a side effect. My first wound gave me chills for three nights. My second gave me a fever for four. My third . . . Well, the list is unending.” He shoves me towards the plank stairs, but not roughly.
I don’t argue with him and descend the steps. I feel very dizzy and spots swim in the corners of my vision like blinking lights. The vision had been so strong – so enticing – my eyes feel heavy.
I stop beneath the crosswalk and glance up. Shade’s head and the top of his shoulders are the only visible features of his body.
“Hey!” I call up.
He turns around and looks down.
I hold up the dagger. “Thank you.”
I don’t wait for a reply and walk into the streets.
Chapter XVIII
River and I are up with the sun the next day and in the forest with a dozen other women from the village hunting for matured herbs. The dew has not dried and my clothes are damp in moments. I thank River for reminding me to bring a shawl. It keeps the droplets that fall from the burdened trees off of my skin, and covers the frightful symbol on my shoulder that looks more horrifying than it ever did while it was healing. Permanent black marks etched deep into my skin that I trace every so often with tender care.
Ugly. Unwanted. Unloved.
I shake away the words but, alone, among the gnarled trees, they pursue their malicious intentions with fierce accuracy.
Ugly.
Blood running down my back, my arm, my face, as I stood on that podium.
Unwanted.
Aspen telling me to go to hell. Craig wishing me into nothing.
Unloved.
Everyone I love watching my pain – watching – but never coming to my aid.
I feel that chasm in my chest widen. Feel the chilling cold rushing over my spine. The pulse that radiates from my neck to my fingertips in warm tingles of flame and sparks. The pulse lingers over my palm, becoming heavy. Heavier. Until . . .
“Kyla!” River’s cheery voice breaks into my thoughts. “I’ve filled my basket. Are you ready?”
“Coming.” I join her at the edge of the grove.
We walk in silence.
River had made no comment when I’d returned to the house at half past midnight and crawled into bed. And I didn’t believe for one moment that the snores Mama Opal and Axle produced upon my entrance through the unbarred door were genuine. They knew where I had gone. They knew what I had retrieved.
And now they were curious how I retrieved it.
The gates are bustling with activity as usual, but when River halts abruptly, I do the same. Horses – no, not horses – donkeys, are lined up along the wall. Children run between them with overflowing water buckets and feed. I do not remember seeing any creatures of burden within Agron’s walls.
We have visitors.
River is pale.
Panic spreads
wings in my chest. “What?”
“How did they come here?” River musses to herself. Despite the fear, there is a hint of annoyance, a barely perceptible drop of anger, in her words. “We sent no invitation.” She steadies the wicker basket on her hip.
I move towards the gates. A massive warrior leans casually against one of them. I have never seen him before and his attire is not reminiscent of Agron’s standards. His chest is bare save for the leather straps crossing his abs in an X formation. A fearsome, double-edged sword rests atop his back, but despite its thick edges, it lacks the unwavering strength of Shade’s moon blades. The warrior also has a long beard braided beneath his chin that falls nearly to his waistband in a deep black coil. Three black rings circle his eyes and give him the appearance of a monster.
“Kyla . . .” River warns me from behind, but I step into the square.
Otis stands there, facing a group of more six-packed imposters. None of them are shorter than six foot four except a single man planted between the warriors and Otis. He is my height and a red cape does nothing to hide the bony shoulders he possesses. There is not a single hair upon his head or face. Not even eyebrows. All over the smooth skin of his skull, the curve of his neck, black tattoos bedeck his flesh. There are tattoos of birds. Strange creatures. Symbols. Phrases. Men.
The hideous man turns beady eyes in my direction. I stare in horror at his marked face. His thin lips stretch into a pleased smile. “Ah. This is she.”
I plant myself at Otis’s side.
The man’s gaze is hawkish. “I am one of the Unnamed. I have heard of your foreign newcomer. Of the darkness that haunts your abode because of her presence. I have come to clarify whether she be demonic or not.”
So he’s a priest. A shaman. Inside, I’d already known it before the words left his mouth. No sane person pierced every inch of bare skin and stalked into a city with a brutally armed force of hounds at his back.
“I did not summon you,” Otis says. Though his face is stern, the twitch at the corner of his eyes is unmistakable. He’s nervous.
“No,” the priest agrees. “Why would you? A proud, arrogant, unschooled fool like yourself wouldn’t know the wiles of darkness. Demons are quite famous for their deceptive antiques – especially those of the female variety.”
Otis hadn’t sent for the priest. I search the crowd. Dirk is not hard to spot. He stands closest to the burly warriors, a pleased expression on his face. Beside him, Keegan tilts his chin towards me. A silent message. I knew it was suspicious when Keegan did not seek me out over the last few days to torment me. He’s the one who fetched the scarred holy man.
“I am fatigued from the vicious journey so do not test my patience,” the priest continues. “I would appreciate a private conference with the accused in question.”
“You do not decide her fate!” Otis interjects angrily. “The King is the hierarchy here, raavgrar, not you!”
The priest spreads his hands innocently, revealing a bony, equally tattooed chest. “We will not determine her fate. Merely her true origins.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and one of the massive warriors curls fingers around my elbow. He jerks me in the direction of the council house.
“This is blasphemy,” Otis protests. “You have no authority here, raavgrar!”
“Silence that man!” the priest says calmly.
One of the warriors rams the hilt of his sword into Otis’s skull. River screams. People whisper but make no attempt to come to his aid. A pang of understanding tightens in my chest. I know exactly what that feels like.
The council house looks smaller than it did on my first occasion within its walls, but perhaps it is the massive warriors that struggle to line its walls without knocking their heads against the low supporting beams that make its interior so primitive. The doors close behind me and the priest brushes past, his red cape snagging my wrist for a brief moment. I don’t think it was accidental.
The priest lights the fire with a flick of his hand. I know he intends for me to be frightened by such a bold action, but I see the object in his hand. It’s a sliver of common orb but it radiates enough power to create flames when struck against iron. The rims around the firewood are made of iron.
“Do you know why you are here, outsider?” he asks in my language. The tattoos on his head distract me from his facial features.
“No,” I lie.
“Do you know why we are here?”
“No.”
The priest smiles, the tattoos on his cheeks forming strange oval shapes. “We are the connection between light and dark – the Unnamed. We root out the evil and death that seeks to take hold of this land. The poison. The darkness. The devils. We have purged doom from this earth for over a century – a feat that has earned us respect and acknowledgment.”
“And yet Otis hardly seemed compliant to your arrival.”
The priest doesn’t flinch at my words. “Otis is a simpleton. A man of figures and sums and morale and laws. But he fails to understand the fears of the people. Fails to understand the dire sacrifices we must make in order to continue our existence on this brutal path of life. He is blinded by logic. He does not see the demons and the evil that weave through the cracks of this ravaged country.”
“And you do?” I try to focus on the rimmed pupils hiding within the inked patterns of his face.
“We do more than see them,” he says. The tattoos curl as he flashes what I think is a smirk. “We smell them. Hunt them. You see, Kelban, you are immune to the catastrophes that befell this country when you built that hardened mass of stone to forget our existence. But we – those who endured the betrayal, the abandonment, the banishment – did not forget. We remember every life lost. Every darkened being that crept out of the night and robbed an innocent soul. Every drop of blood that hit the silent ground – unheard, unmourned, unknown. We have lost much, Kelban, while you sat behind that wall and called us ‘cannibals’ to ease your guilty consciences. And when your own country deems you unfit for their walls they presume we’re already ‘monsters’ so why not send their criminals to our territory for justification? Why not put more blood on our hands? Your kind is selfish, Kelban. Selfish. Destructive. It is why the darkness is attracted to you. Wants you.”
I struggle to control the rapid increase of my heartbeat. To focus on the true meaning behind his solemn words. Anyone who had not suffered a loss would think he was simply passionate about his beliefs. But I know better. I have seen passion, and I have seen revenge. I have seen belief, and I have seen obsession.
“What was their name?”
The priest’s tattoos shift downwards. “What?”
“Their name,” I repeat. “Wife? Daughter? Parent? Perhaps a loved one not bound to you by blood. Close friend? What darkened being crept out of the night and robbed you? Whose blood hit the ground that you heard and mourned and knew?”
The priest’s calm demeanor shatters. “You . . .” His facial features quiver. Rage. “You have no right. No right!”
“You call yourself ‘unnamed’ but I guarantee you had a name once.”
“Enough!”
“What are you really here for?” I dare a step towards him, struggling to control the building weight in my gut. “You don’t give a damn about the people of Agron. About their welfare. Their souls. And you certainly do not command the respect and acknowledgment you’ve laid claim to. What have you come for?”
His tattoos spread out again and curve upwards. A smile. That heavy feeling in my gut doubles in intensity. He steps closer and his fingers brush my arm. It is a gentle touch, but the scrape of his nail stabs deeper than skin. Like a knife poised on the point of attack. Like the slow hiss of a viper before it strikes.
He leans close – close enough for me to see his eyes. He wears no mask to hide the emotions swirling inside of them. “We have been summoned to determine whether your soul has been compromised,” he says into my ear, “but I . . .” His fingers disappear inside his cloak. “Ha
ve come for blood.”
The black blade he retrieve shivers with undefined evil.
The shadow blade.
Two massive warriors grab me by the arms before I’ve the chance to retreat and drag me before the fire. I stare at the flames licking up into the darkness, their sparks snapping wildly, and struggle to free myself.
“We only need to see your blood. Any demon’s blood is a fluid, white color. Only your blood,” the priest whispers, running his finger along the edge of the blade. It hisses beneath his touch like a living creature.
“You’re not bringing that thing near me!” I protest.
He smiles again.
“You’re assassins, not holy men!” I lash out at the warriors’ ankles but they are too quick. One immobilizes my neck with a firm grip. My muscles weaken. My throat constricts. I can’t scream. I can’t speak. I can’t even whimper.
The priest brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. Smooths it over my ear. His nail scrapes along my lobe with delicate intention. My eyes water at the touch. The closeness. The stench of his hand. He smells like decades of filth. He traces the vein throbbing at my neck to the wing of my collarbone.
“We are not assassins,” he whispers and feathers rough fingers over my throat. He cups the side of my neck and hardens his grip. The delicate bones beneath my fragile skin protest in painful cries. My mouth is open, but I’m unable to scream.
“I am the Unnamed. We protect the blood of this land – and avenge it when necessary. You have poisoned this village.” He palms the dagger in his hand. One of the warriors extends my arm over the fire. The flames warm my fingers.
“We are doing you a favor, Kelban. You do not belong here among the righteous, and a much more agonizing fate will await you should we allow you to continue your existence in this place. You are alone, ostracized.” His eyes flicker over the branded symbol. “The ground will be your home. That has always been your fate.”
He finds a vein throbbing at my arm and tightens his grip on the dagger. One cut – the poison will enter me – I will die.
The sparks snap around my fingers.
You do not govern me.
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 29
