by Brandon Barr
Skepticism crept into Taia’s eyes. “But what of Karience? She’s not going to roll over and play murderer. She’ll demand an investigation and cast doubt as to her part in the act.”
“Not after I’ve tinkered with her mind,” said Rueik. He took a long, metallic cylinder from inside his cloak and held it out to Taia. “It’s a special tool of the Guardians. With it, I can distort Karience’s mind. Turn her into a raving madwoman. The night she meets with Damien, I’ll poison the prince and turn the Empyrean’s brain to mush.”
Queen Taia stared at the object, then placed her hand on top of his. “Such a powerful weapon,” she declared, unable to take her eyes from the mind probe. “Tell me, can this tool make a person do whatever you wish them to?”
“Yes, it has that potential.”
Her eyes darted up to his. “If it works as you say, why don’t you tweak the Empyrean’s head and make her kill Damien?”
Rueik was impressed by the queen’s reasoning. She was more intelligent than he’d first guessed. He immediately thought of Pike, and how he’d turned him against Zoecara. But that had little to do with the mind probe. Pike was already eager to help Rueik for a chance to kill Aven.
“I do not have enough training,” said Rueik. “The precision needed to make a person do something against their will takes years of practice. However, I can turn her into a raving lunatic in short order.”
Queen Taia grinned. “Fascinating.”
“There’s only one caveat,” said Rueik. “Karience must be put to death before the Guardians can investigate and discover her mind has been tampered with. If I turn her into a murderer, I need you to hang her before the night is out.”
Taia’s eyes drifted down his face, stopping at his mouth. “I can assure you, Karience’s trial will last but an hour or two. I know the quorum judge personally. Very personally.”
“Perfect,” said Rueik, yet he sensed the queen’s underlying message…her tone, her fingers gliding up and down the back of his hand. He needed to get back to the facility now, to avoid questions. He’d told Karience he was only going out to the cliff for some fresh air. She might ask Shield Force to confirm his location if he delayed much longer.
He cupped queen Taia’s hands in his. “I should be getting back. After the deaths, perhaps we can get to know one another better over dinner.”
He stood, but the queen’s hand tightened on his. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you better now, Rueik.”
He turned around, masking his frustration with a wisp of a smile.
Damn.
He looked into Queen Taia’s demanding eyes and knew she was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. He doubted she would abandon her plan if he gave her an excuse to leave, but this was too important to risk.
He could make an excuse to Karience and the others if he had to when he returned to the facility.
He pulled Queen Taia up from the bench and drew an arm around her waist.
He’d have to make this quick. Memorable, but quick.
HEARTH
Sometimes I wonder at the unity of the Makers in comparison to that which they have created. Throughout our history, humans have raged one against another, but throughout eternity, the gods behave as if of one mind. Perhaps when we picture the Makers, we should form in our heads the image of a jellyfish. Each tentacle moves on its own, performing functions for the overarching mind that animates the entire collective.
Or perhaps I am foolishly mistaken. If so, it is only because war has not broken out in the realm of the gods as it has in the realms of men.
Until some further revelation whistles upon the wind and finds its way to my ears, I will be content to stare up at the stars and scratch my head at the mystery of it all
-Sculquid, The Book of Questions (Takmuk’s collection of scrolls)
Chapter Twenty-Four
MELUSCIA
Mist filled the stables in the early morning hour, the sun but a distant glow, still hidden under the horizon. Meluscia looked to the gate where workers were repairing some damage. She felt restless, waiting for her party to be off. Bezmerenna and Belen finally mounted their horses.
Praseme rode with Terling because of her injured hand. Her own steed was packed with supplies, lightening the other horses’ loads. A white cloth encircled Praseme’s hand, the wound beneath packed with healing leaves and oils. Meluscia had asked Jauphenna to heal it last night, but the girl said she felt no power for the task. The answer irked Meluscia for a moment, but then she realized it was not Jauphenna’s choice, but the Makers’. Praseme’s hand was a reminder that Jauphenna’s words were true. If Meluscia had not confessed to Praseme, what reason would she have had to come into her room that night? Praseme’s quick hand had saved Meluscia’s life, holding open the way for Meluscia to again offer peace. If she had died that night, so too would any hopes of accord between the Hold and the Verdlands.
“We are coming too,” said a familiar voice. She looked and saw Wiluit.
Standing beside him was one of the old men in his group. The old man smiled and looked up at her. “The eyes of the gods are on you, dear Meluscia. Never have we stayed with one person for so long. You must be a blessed young woman,” he said, bowing crookedly, “and we are honored to be part of your travels.”
“And I am honored to have you. What is your name?”
“I am Seethus, young at heart, old in age.” He grinned and bowed again.
She smiled and ducked her head slightly. The return journey to the Blue Mountains pressed upon her thoughts. “Quickly, mount your horses,” she said. “We have no time to waste.”
A contingent of twenty Verdlands soldiers accompanied them on the long road through the beautiful farmland. When they reached the barracks, Meluscia pressed them to go on, for there were still several hours of daylight.
“We’ll make camp at dusk,” said Meluscia. “And in the morning, we will depart before sunrise.”
On the last hour of the journey, Meluscia’s thoughts returned to the old man’s words.
Blessed?
She was returning to her home a new woman. Purged and free. Blessed. She’d faced death and would have died at the hand of Taumus, had not the Makers intervened through the band of prophets. She felt blessed, but not in the way the old man meant. But then, she knew well that feelings were not always trustworthy guides. Her eyes stung with tears at the thought of seeing the Hold gates open before her, welcoming home their daughter…but her tears held both hope and sadness.
Her hand slipped down to her stomach. A child would soon stir within. A babe that did not belong to her.
In her first act of lovemaking, she had not been loved, for in the man’s dreams, he had made love to another woman.
And as her first time as mother, it was not her child to delight in. The child that grew in her womb was stolen.
These truths were scars on her soul. A poem from the Scriptorium entered her mind. Its book and chapter reference she could not remember, but she recalled the words:
Wisdom born of grief,
Wisdom born of pain,
Scars that linger on,
Remind of deeds done in vain.
The dark came soon, and Meluscia relented in giving her party rest for the night.
Many fires were lit, and the soldiers laid out their blankets and huddled around the flames, talking and laughing as they ate dried meat and fruit.
“It would be safer if you slept near us,” said Wiluit. “Your four companions from the Hold are welcome as well.”
“Have the Makers warned you of danger?” asked Meluscia with renewed concern.
“No,” said Wiluit. “It is my own intuition. You’ve had two attempts on your life. One at the king’s castle, the other at the barracks the day before. While you slept, a black-cloaked man came to take your life. If not for the Makers warning me, he would have succeeded.”
Meluscia watched the fires flickering about the field. It was deeply disturbing, knowing a man m
ight be hiding in the dark, waiting to kill her. “I’ll have my companions join us. I am in your debt, Wiluit.”
“I have no purse nor money, and my living and dying belong to the Makers. There is no debt between us.” He returned to the fire, where his band of prophets sat warming themselves.
Meluscia helped her companions tie down the horses and draw the blankets from the supply packs. She led Terling, Praseme, Belen, and Bezmerenna to the small fire the prophets sat beside.
“Who invited company?” groused Takmuk.
“I did,” said Wiluit, scowling at the old man. “Don’t mind him. That’s Takmuk, and unless he’s writing scripture, he’s as ornery as an ant colony.”
Meluscia sat beside her companions in the grass near the fire and held out her hands for warmth.
“Meluscia, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Jauphenna. “How did you get that black splotch on the side of your face?” A taunting smile formed on Jauphenna’s lips as she waited, watching Meluscia’s face.
Wiluit scowled at the fire. Meluscia noted the annoyance etched in lines across his forehead.
Meluscia opened her mouth to speak, but Praseme spoke first.
“You know well enough,” said Praseme. “You’re the prophet who spoke to her. Don’t ask a question you know the answer to.” Praseme stretched her arm out. “Do you see my bandaged hand? That is a mark of pride. Meluscia is my friend, and I will not endure you making sport of her.”
Praseme’s voice stung sweetly in Meluscia’s chest, like a balm on a lesion-covered heart. Meluscia opened and closed her left eye. The swelling was much improved. But as Jauphenna pointed out, the dark bruise remained.
“I apologize for my young friend’s rude behavior,” said Wiluit. He turned his head to Jauphenna. “As Takmuk is an anthill, Jauphenna can be as churlish as a stray cat, throwing her voice into the night without enough thought as to its horrid sound.”
Jauphenna’s lips scrunched into a knot and her eyes drew to slivers. Without another word, she rolled into her blankets and threw the folds over her face.
“We’re a fiery bunch,” said the other old man called Seethus. He had the little boy, Shauwby, sitting on his knees. “The Makers don’t pick us because we’re the nicest, or because we’re the best. Sometimes it’s quite the opposite.” He bobbed a knee up and down, bouncing Shauwby until the boy grinned. “The Makers are wild and good all at once. Like forests. The Makers give us freedom to roam and find our way through the trees, but they are also like the seas. They move us. Move history.”
Meluscia felt a sense of awe at the man’s words. “You speak beautifully. Your words remind me of certain scriptures.”
“Seethus has a few of those in his bags,” said Wiluit. “But mostly he writes his own.”
Meluscia tilted forward. “His own scriptures?” She eyed the bags at his feet and, indeed, she saw two leather-bound books protruding from within.
“Yes, and histories too,” said Wiluit.
A throaty cough sounded from Takmuk.
Wiluit smirked. “Takmuk writes scriptures and histories as well. You might be interested to know that both have been chronicling your story since we’ve been led to you. The prophecies spoken over you. The attempts on your life. Your treaty with King Feaor.”
A sense of wonder rushed over Meluscia. All the histories she’d pored through in the Scriptorium, all the scriptures. Their overarching sense of destiny, of greatness—with all the men and women, good and bad, lying scattered in their pages among victories and failures. Was she becoming one of them now?
She stared into the fire, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what had been said. If these two old men were writing her history, she would be left standing bare, both the good and the cruel that she’d done penned for those to read long after her final breath. The thought was almost too much to imagine. It was both a frightening and sacred thing to hear that one was being enshrined into the histories.
“Don’t be troubled,” said Wiluit. “This is a pivotal time we live in. Takmuk and Seethus have penned as much. We are on the cusp of a new age. Something tremendous is about to take place. You seem to be a part of it. Why else would the gods send us to follow you?”
Meluscia’s gaze lifted from the fire. “If I accomplish all that I hope to, then what Takmuk and Seethus have written will be proven true.”
The firelight danced in her eyes. For a time, silence hung over the group but for the soft crackle of burning wood.
“What do you hope to accomplish?” asked Wiluit softly.
Meluscia met Wiluit’s eyes. “I hope to bring the kingdoms of men against the Star Garden Realm, to the gates of Praelothia. I mean to kill the Beast.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
MELUSCIA
A cry in the night stirred Meluscia awake. The stars shone brilliantly overhead, and the sliver of a moon beamed like a jewel. And yet, the cry she’d heard chilled her. It had been short, like a lamb’s bleat cut off abruptly by a knife. She raised herself on an elbow and took in the dimly lit meadow. She looked for the night watchman standing at his post at the center of camp. She saw no sign of him.
A horse whinnied nearby. From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow dart across the field, disappearing among her party’s horses.
Then the form of a man appeared out from the horses. He wore a cloak and held a bow drawn toward her.
Meluscia was about to call out a warning when a crack sounded in front her face, followed by two more.
“Intruder!” shouted Wiluit.
At once, a clamor came over the camp.
“You can’t hide forever!” shouted the shadow-figure. His voice was smooth and earnest, as if proclaiming something noble. “One day soon, the ground will drink your blood.”
With a sinister cry, the man mounted one of the steeds and bolted off. The four other horses from her party followed, apparently tethered to the dark rider’s horse. Men jumped upon their horses and hurried to pursue the assassin.
Fires lit up around the camp. The night watchman was found with his throat cut.
Meluscia stared coldly down the road where the murderer had vanished with the horses.
Wiluit knelt at Meluscia’s feet and retrieved three broken arrows. “As long as you’re near Shauwby, you will be safe. These arrows were stopped by Aeraphim.”
“The assassins that follow me put everyone in danger.”
“No,” said Wiluit. “Only those unprotected by Shauwby.”
Meluscia nodded. “I’ll tell the Verdlands soldiers to return.”
“I advise you against that,” said Wiluit. “It would be an insult to them. They’ve lost a man, and they won’t abandon their charge.”
Jauphenna appeared out of the dark. “Four soldiers gave chase to that rider. They are already dead. I’ve seen their bodies and the arrows. Those that remain here will not be harmed. Let them accompany us.”
Four more dead? An ugly sensation crawled over Meluscia’s skin. She couldn’t let emotion paralyze her. According to Jauphenna’s words, no more soldiers would be killed defending her…that, at least, was a consolation of sorts.
Meluscia and her party were given the horse of the slain man, and supplies were rearranged so that the pack horses could replace those that were stolen.
With blood running hot among those soldiers who remained, and sleep impossible, their party rode for the forests of the Blue Mountains in the early morning dark.
By the first trace of light, a heavy fog had fallen on the land. The riders leading the party nearly trod upon the first carcass they reached. It was Praseme’s horse. Cut open, organs and intestines splayed across the path.
By the time they reached the fourth carcass, the bodies of the men who’d pursued the assassin lay strewn along the road, all brought down by arrows.
“This last kill is still fresh,” shouted the soldier leading the company. “The man is close. Be on your guard.”
The fog faded, as if it were part of an ugly nigh
t’s dream, and the sun shone down on them. Ahead were the forests of Meluscia’s realm. Tall red pines towered over green grasses—as clear a boundary as any wall dividing two lands.
Meluscia noticed a dust cloud rising through the trees. Before the company had gone much closer, a throng of forty riders broke from the forest.
Wiluit suddenly raced before the company and reared his horse around, “Do not put a finger to your sword,” he cried. “Let the Luminess Imminent choose the course of action.”
Meluscia found strength in Wiluit’s confidence. She looked at him a moment longer, as if for the first time. His blond hair covered his brow, his eyes unrelenting but good.
She nodded. “The prophets and I will ride out and meet them.”
“As you wish,” said the head soldier, hiding none of his concern.
Meluscia rode out with the prophets toward the oncoming riders.
“These are woodsmen; friends, I believe,” said Meluscia.
“All the same, stay near the boy,” said Wiluit.
The horsemen slowed before Meluscia’s meager party. She glanced back at the Verdlands soldiers. They stood still as pikes, rigid with suspicion.
“It’s Trigon’s daughter,” called out one of the horsemen.
A large mare came toward them. On the horse’s back was a man with a wolf pelt slung over his shoulder, his legs sheathed in leather leggings. He had a serious face rife with dark, sunburnt freckles. Meluscia scanned the other horsemen. She was certain now. These were not soldiers, but woodsmen.
“Do the cowards behind you stay back out of fear?” asked the man in furs.
“No,” said Meluscia. “They have been my escort through the Verdlands. Who are you, and what is the reason for charging out as you did?”
