A thought that had been nagging Jaiden for some time surfaced again, though selfishness had prevented him from voicing it before now. “Sir Golddrake is loyal to you – he founded the Order in your honor, after all.”
Criesha arched an eyebrow. “This is true.”
“Well…” Jaiden’s nervousness almost prevented him from continuing, but the words finally came in a rush, “why haven’t you healed his lameness as you did mine? It seems rather unfair.”
The goddess’s face showed something like pity, though her verbal response didn’t match. “Do you think so little of our bond, Jaiden? I have only one Champion, and my greatest gifts are reserved for him. Just as I have you, Gholdur the Tyrant has his in Ebon Khorel, though the King-priest and the Dread Lord have a head start. You, and none other, hold the key to defeating them. Whoever wins will have the upper hand in transforming your world, for better or worse.
“So do not go seeking conflict until you must. Even if it results in loss now, the greater good is served by you being ready when the enemy can no longer be ignored.”
Criesha slid atop Jaiden’s body, placing her knees on either side of his waist. With a slow hand, she pushed the straps of her dress over each shoulder until it glided down her torso. “The next full moon is not far off, and there is some preparation to mastering your next gift. Are you ready to learn?”
Jaiden reached forward with both hands, placing them on the fabric bunched at Criesha’s hips. He pushed his chin to his chest to both nod and watch as his palms moved up Criesha’s waist to claim her breasts.
“The magic of your enemies relies heavily on deception,” she continued, offering explanation as she reached down to guide him inside her.
All the breath left him at once, and he struggled to listen to her words as she began rotating her hips ever-so-slightly.
“Therefore, I will give you the ability to bathe yourself in an Aura of Truth. When you choose to do so, your position as my Champion will be unmistakable to your enemies, and they shall know you wield my power.” Criesha leaned forward and placed her hands on Jaiden’s chest, then raised her hips with a torturing lack of urgency. “But you shall see all within this Aura as it truly is, and no lie may be uttered from inside its glow. It requires a special sort of concentration to maintain, however, which is what we shall work on today…”
Three days outside the city left Jaiden mildly surprised at his eagerness to return. He had not been able to commune while out on patrol, and was feeling the effects of separation from his Goddess. He chose six men to act as lieutenants, including Lothander, and brought them with him on the first patrol, so they might learn the terrain and routes they would use when taking out their own units. True to his word, he made sure Bremmil accompanied them as an initiate, forcing him to do grunt work.
They found nothing noteworthy or suggestive of danger out among the hills, and Jaiden remained dubious about prioritizing such patrols. He wanted to head straight to his apartments in the palace when they reached the city, but knew an audience with Prince Falcionus would be prudent and proper.
Upon reaching the throne room, he found a bevy of Aasimar crowded into an inward-facing circle. A great rustling of feathers and perturbed movements pervaded, but no voices, and whatever lay in the center of the ring was concealed by the stretching rainbow of color-tipped wings.
Palomar must have spotted him, however, because his calming voice reached out to touch his mind, though Jaiden knew not where his companion stood. “I am pleased to see you have returned, Sir Luminere. Illicurus has as well, and has instructed all the Aasimar to join him in flying south.”
“He what?” Frustrated at his exclusion, Jaiden waved his arms and waded through the feathery circle, determined to get to the bottom of the Aasimars’ agitation. “Pardon me, my friends,” he said as he squeezed between them, finally gaining their attention as he came face-to-face with Illicurus in the middle.
“Marshall, I was told to expect you with news from the Black Hills. Do you have a report?”
Illicurus continued to look another Aasimar in the eye as he responded. “As I already told Prince Falcionus, the orcs were merely gathering for some sort of celebration – a coronation of their new chieftain, it seems. They pose no real threat, and after a little breast-beating they will no doubt disperse, once the majority regain sobriety.”
“And what is this business about flying the Aasimar south? I thought it was agreed that each Master would keep a third under his command, and Sir Golddrake has already led his allotment to Synirpa.”
“Firstly, we Aasimar are not subject to the commands of the Order.” Jaiden could hear the venom in Illicurus’s telepathy. “We have our own hierarchy, and presently, I am at the top of it. Secondly, I have decided to meet the King-priest on our own terms, and fully intend to do so.”
“I did not mean to offend, Marshall. Only, wars require all allies to operate under a unified strategy, if they are to be most effective. Surely, if we coordinate our—”
“I have coordinated with the Prince.” Illicurus peered over his shoulder at the throne, where Falcionus sat holding his scepter, a nervous look on his face. “It is decided.”
“But we do not all agree,” responded Palomar.
Another voice, one Jaiden was unfamiliar with, jumped into his mind. “We decided together to give our service to those who rescued us, Illicurus. We followed your deviation from authority before, and no one needs a reminder of where that left us!”
“I am your Marshall, Ymrilad, and I based my decision on what is best for the Aasimar. We are away from home, as I am painfully aware every time I set eyes upon this crude wasteland, and have to look out for ourselves. Besides, as I already told you, the human prince agrees with me.” Illicurus shot another glance at the silent ruler of Dawn’s Edge.
“Pardon me, my friends.” Jaiden looked from one perfect face to another in the crowd of angelic outsiders. “I do not mean to overstep my position, but if I remember the telling of your own story correctly, isn’t ‘looking after yourselves’ precisely what left you cursed in the first place?”
Illicurus stared at him with an intensity Jaiden had never known, and for a full three seconds, all voices in the room fell silent.
“Our punishment, Sir Luminere,” Illicurus began, his words pulsing with the strain of imposed calm, “was for not properly obeying the directives of Hiruth Jeshu, may his light shine forever. In the absence of our Celestial Lord, the next highest-ranking Celestial is empowered to give such directives – and that would be me.”
Palomar interceded, deflecting the poison currently aimed at Jaiden. “But Marshall, we are no longer on Mount Celestia. While I do not believe this dissolves us from authority, I would suggest the virtues we aspire to emulate should dictate our behavior. I swore loyalty to the Order of the Rising Moon, and honoring that means obeying its hierarchy, even though its leaders are not Celestials.”
“But you do not simply get to lay aside your original oaths because you have taken on others, Palomar.” The fire in Illicurus’s voice burned clearly. “Have you forgotten your allegiance to Hiruth?”
Palomar’s tone remained steady as he pushed himself forward to stand beside Jaiden in the circle. “We all did for a time, Marshall. Thus, we are here.”
“Bah!” Illicurus waved his hands dismissively. “My command is going to help the humans who freed us defeat their enemy. It is clear we are their best chance for doing so, and will not show our strength by splitting up and hiding in the north.”
The second dissenting voice, belonging to Ymrilad, answered. “This is not about doing what we think is best for these humans, or for ourselves. Do you not all see? We were stripped of our memory, of who we were, for taking matters into our own hands. How can you ignore the cruelty we endured in our cursed forms and not weigh it heavily? We owe these people for bringing us out of that torment, and should honor their wishes until the debt is repaid, however we measure that. I am not ready to say the scale
s have been balanced.”
Palomar nodded. “I will stay with Sir Luminere and serve the Order of the Rising Moon until my death, or the King-priest of Chelpa is defeated.”
Jaiden felt a swell of pride and took in a deep breath, letting his chest expand to match. Illicurus gave him a measuring stare, before glancing briefly once more at the Prince. Jaiden’s eyes followed, and he thought it strange Falcionus had not spoken during the entire debate. In fact he looked shaken, as if he’d recently seen the spirits of his ancestors. Were the Aasimar not projecting their argument to the Prince?
“So be it.” Illicurus resumed his normal tone, as if disinterested with the entire proceeding. “Those Aasimar still recognizing my rightful authority shall fly toward the Castle at Windhollow Rock on the morn. The more glory for us.”
Chapter 28
Haunt of the Bone Man
T he day he left Selamus, Rogan thought only of putting as much distance between himself and Lady Saffron as possible. So why could he not get the images of that morning out of his head? Saffron’s body glistening in the candlelight, Dhania appearing at the door to bring him breakfast, the smiles on each of their faces before they turned into… something else. He was done with them now, though, and would be happy to never meet another person from Begnasharan – doubly so a woman.
Travelling the Dawn Way south with as much speed as he could manage, Rogan came to Synirpa within a week. As he passed the familiar tract, he fought the urge to stop in and see some lads of the Order he’d spent long weeks with on the road. They had other things to worry about now, like staying alive for the next month, or whenever Ebon Khorel decided to finally stretch his arm north again. He knew it was only a matter of time.
As Rogan traversed the length of road between the seat of Rosegold and the castle at Windhollow Rock, his mind wandered to the memory the moonlight brought to him the last time he covered that stretch. It still amazed him he had blocked out the sound of Dominic crying, but he heard it clearly enough in his head now, echoing down the halls of the years between them – and he knew in his bones his son was somehow alive.
That was his goal, finding his son. The woman he loved, or the woman who loved him… it was unnecessary confusion that would dilute his purpose. Happiness would have to wait, and he was patient. He had already delayed such thoughts for over ten years; surely, he was better off doing so again.
Realizing the need for care, he slowed his pace once past the lands he assumed the Duke’s forces patrolled. The country between Synirpa and the ruined fortress of Halidor had already paid a heavy toll in lives, a recipe for creating desperate men. Desperate men needed less of a reason to cut your throat for the promise of a full purse, or even a free horse.
Well into the evening, he reached the town they first found wiped out by the plague. Light was fading, but he wanted to push on. The memory of all those bodies packed into the great hall was enough to unnerve him. Even as the sun failed, more than enough of the moons remained to see by, though the shadows would not stop playing their tricks.
With Rogan’s senses on alert, even the sudden movement of the wind in the trees or a creaking sign triggered suspicion. He could not shake the feeling something was watching him from behind the shutters of a gutted house, or imagining the almost-dead had risen to hunt down those who abandoned them to their fate.
As he stopped his horse to better listen, the sounds receded along with the wind, keeping their clues from him. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood outright, and a shiver made its way down his spine as he prodded his steed to a trot.
Sometime between midnight and the predawn hours, he decided he finally had to get some rest if he was to make any progress the following day. He tied his weary animal to a tree some fifty paces off the road, and lay beneath its boughs. The ground was cold and uneven, and Rogan promised himself the following night would be spent at an inn, if he could find one.
In another couple days, he made it all the way to the ruins of Halidor, where he decided to stop before crossing into his own country – the Empire of Chelpa, as it was now known. He remembered a time before it was so, before the kings of Chelpa looked outward with lust upon the territory of others. Rogan climbed a still-standing section of shattered stone wall and surveyed the southlands, his home, where he was officially unwelcome.
Though a thorn in the side of this monarchy, he strove for what most in the realm wanted, or so he believed – the opportunity to live without the constant storm cloud of fear casting its shadow overhead. There would always be poverty and undesirable tasks to perform, but the worry of unexpected punishment, of being conscripted into an aggressive army and sent to war, of being forced to dedicate your labor to a cause not your own, he could bring a resolution to those.
The land, however, still looked the same – at least from a wall across the border. He did not know whether that seemed an encouraging sign or deception. Could the land and sky be expected to warn you of the dangerous transformation taking place under its witness? Whatever the state of the current environment, he was entering it tomorrow and needed to decide what course he would take.
He required information, and that suggested regaining touch with his allies, of whom there were many. Rogan had resistance contacts in villages and cities across Chelpa, but needed to be smart about who he chose to see. As a wanted criminal, the Blood Tear Brotherhood would no doubt be on alert after his infiltration of Hope’s End and the assault on Blackthorn Prison. It would be wise to involve as few sources as possible, which meant identifying the right ones ahead of time.
If his son was alive, who would know? Where would Dominic be now? Rogan could not lie to himself – he knew the Blood Tear Brotherhood would not have spared his child because they suddenly grew a conscience. If they did so, they had a reason, which necessitated taking the long view. His son would only be alive now if the regime thought he would be useful when he grew older. They would put him somewhere they could control, or at least keep eyes on him. Though he wished it were not so, the logical spot to start his search was Lucnere, the capital of the Empire itself. Whether they placed Dominic in an orphanage or kept him locked in the palace dungeon, someone in Lucnere would have made that decision.
Rogan sighed, accepting the new direction of his fate. At least a large portion of the Imperial army, if not the King-priest himself, would be away from Lucnere, heading north. He swiveled on the crest of the wall, looking toward Selamus as the fading glow of the sun settled behind the mountains, toward Sir Golddrake and Saffron and… no, that was not his place. They would stand or fall regardless of his presence, and he knew he could do more good in his own county. His son needed him; he had already made the decision. So why was he looking back?
He descended the wall and sought out a soft patch of dirt to bed down on. His horse, tied to a nearby tree, nibbled on sprigs that pierced the earth around the ruins. Rogan could already sense the night would be restless, but he had to at least try to sleep. In the morning he would head due south, making his way to the town of Twin Pikes, where at last count he still had a few friends. The Dawn Way ended at Halidor, however, and he would have to watch for signs of the army as he cut cross-country.
Rogan’s eyes were shut only a matter of minutes, it seemed, before an out-of-place sound grabbed his attention. A metallic clinking, like the rattling of chains against rock, reached his ears from nearby. He snapped to a seated position and listened intently, the dark of night fully drowning his vision, but the rattling faded.
His hand encircled the hilt of his dagger and he strained to hear, but the wind circling in the stones and his own heartbeat in his ears masked all other noises. Then he heard it again briefly, definitely metal, coming from somewhere among the ruins. Rogan rose to his feet and pressed his back to the block of stone he’d used for shelter, regretting his choice not to light a fire as his eyes strained against the dark. The sound drew closer. An unnatural chill fell upon him, piercing his skin and sinking all the way to his bones.
He carefully drew his dagger from its sheath, trying not to give any indication of his position to whatever was out there. Behind him and to the left, the shuffling clank came to an abrupt stop. Rogan noticed his breath was coming out in white puffs of vapor, the air was so cold. Time measured out in the rapid beats of his heart, and a brief eternity passed with no resolution to his anxiousness. Something had to be done.
Convincing his muscles to obey him proved no simple task, but Rogan counted down from “three” in his head and then leapt out from behind his stone shelter. Only four long strides in front of him stood a young boy, staring up at Rogan’s face. His skin and ragged clothes held a blue-green hue like they had absorbed all the light cast by the two moons, leaving the space around him an even darker version of night.
Manacles clasped around the boy’s ankles, connected by a thick chain short enough to restrict a normal gait. More troubling was that the child’s face seemed to have borrowed some of Rogan’s features: his deep-set eyes, the angle of his nose – his mind immediately seized the possibility that this was his son. How could this be?
The apparition did not speak. They stood staring at one another for a couple dozen heartbeats before the boy suddenly turned his back on Rogan and started walking away, chains clanking with every step. Rogan reached out an ineffectual hand as his legs would not move. He was paralyzed from the waist down, and the words he longed to speak caught in his throat. He struggled to move, to urge the boy to stop, but all he could summon was a building tension in his chest that failed to dissipate, despite his efforts.
Not knowing what else to do and growing desperate, he looked to the uril-chent dagger in his left hand… if only he could release the pressure. He pointed the tip of the blade toward himself and with a decisive motion, plunged the dagger into his chest.
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