Scout- The Complete Scout Box Set, page 13
part #1 of Scout Series
Trace cocks a brow.
“No,” I add in response to the silent question, “I’ve no additional proof that Samuels is with Viva Sylthia. But I do find it irregular that the Holy Guard is transporting prisoners in secret. Especially when the roses’ duties are supposed to entail guarding temples. Don’t you?”
Trace’s jaw tightens, his gaze flickering east toward the Temple of Dansil and the Eye on its peak. “Do you know when these prisoners are expected?” he asks finally. Reluctantly. As if it pains him to share in my information.
“No.”
“And the prisoners’ identities? Origins? Numbers?”
“No.” My pride winces, but my face remains steady as I wait. When Trace fails to comment, I prod the ground with the toe of my boot. “Well?”
Trace shakes his head, his silver-blond hair shimmering in the sun. “Stay away from Samuels. And the roses. If your suspicions are correct, your being in the Holy Guard’s proximity is too dangerous. If they are incorrect, your being there is irrelevant.”
The fire simmering in my blood turns to molten lead. I step forward, coming close enough to ram my index finger into Trace’s chest. Coiled muscle beneath a blue tunic presses back, the subtle earthy scent of male sweat touching my nose. “The king brought me here—”
Trace catches my arm, his large hand encircling my wrist like a shackle. “I don’t give a damn why Firehorn brought you here,” Trace hisses into my face. “I am the captain of the king’s guard. If something needs to be done, I will do it. Not a young woman. Not on my watch.” Trace’s nostrils flare and he lowers his head, his lips a breath away from my ear. “If you want to put yourself in harm’s way, I suggest you shout both our secrets off the rooftops—because having me executed is the only way you’ll get past me.”
19
Violet
The warmth of the Revelations Room wrapped Violet like a blanket. The hollow loneliness that had plagued her for as long as she could remember, the one that had exploded into a black abyss when her mother died, was slowly starting to fill with something besides shallow cuts and droplets of blood.
Friendship. Love. Hope. Purpose. Mission.
Kernel upon kernel, each gifted by her True Family, fell into place. Violet found it hard to imagine how she had survived as long as she had without the Goddess and her warriors.
“How has the Goddess helped us recently? How did she speak to us through her actions?” Brother Joshua looked around the room and leaned in, as if sharing a secret. His encouraging gaze stopped on Violet and his eyes smiled. “You know, don’t you?”
She didn’t. Worse, her sisters and brothers were all looking at her in eager expectation. Her chest tightened at the thought of letting them down.
“Relax, Violet. Let the Goddess guide your mind.” Joshua’s quiet voice was like a calming trance. “This is a search, not a test. Let the Goddess help you find the answer. What very important event happened at the palace five days ago?”
Violet bit her lip. “Princess Raza was attacked.” The sisters clapped. Happy, giddy clapping, as if Violet had shared news of a healthy birth, not a near death.
The confusion must have shown on her face, because Dasha put a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “It was a codex, and you recognized it for what it was. That is very impressive for one so newly come home.”
“Will you decipher the codex for us, Dasha?” said Joshua.
Dasha nodded, laying a hand on her belly. “The Goddess was sending a message, reminding us that Everett is our enemy.”
“Excellent.” Joshua looked back out across the room. “But we must look further. What makes us certain that the attack was a codex and not a random trick of fate?” Taking out a large slate and chalk, Joshua wrote “PROOF” in big letters across the top.
A few moments of contemplative silence settled over the room before a brother called out, “The princess lived despite terrible odds. Only the hand of the Goddess could have kept her safe.”
“Quite right,” said Joshua, writing “impossible odds” on the slate, reading the words aloud as he chalked them. The Children close to the boy who’d spoken clapped him on the shoulders, the brothers using more force than the sisters, but all with grins on their faces. “What else?” Joshua prodded. “Certainly, we should have more proof before we accept the attack as a codex.”
The Children fidgeted, some girls closing their eyes in thought, others biting their lips. Dasha put her tongue between her teeth and stared at the ceiling. The desire to get the answer was infectious, pulling Violet into its sacred current.
“With Prince Rune dead, Princess Raza is the next in line for the Everett throne—the future ruler of the Dark God’s disciples,” said Zalia, speaking slowly at first but gaining confidence with each word. “Without the Goddess’s guiding hand, the attackers would have chosen easier prey than Everett royalty. In fact, how could the attackers have penetrated the palace grounds at all but for the Goddess’s help? Whether they knew it or not, the attackers became the Goddess’s soldiers that night. Their souls will be rewarded.”
Joshua smiled, writing “chose Dark God disciple as target” and “breached territory guarded to keep out mortals” on the slate. Cheers erupted again, this time surrounding Zalia, who basked in the praise like a sunbathing cat.
“Wait,” Violet said, though she doubted her voice would carry amidst the din. To her surprise, the Children turned their attention to her at once, as if nothing was more important than hearing Violet’s next words. She sat up straighter. “Aren’t these signs—er, codices—contradictory? Why would the Goddess both send attackers and protect the target of their attack?”
Silence. The sisters shifted uncomfortably and the brothers avoided Violet’s eyes, as if she’d suddenly lost her clothes and was ignorant of the accident. Violet swallowed.
“Sister Violet is newly returned,” Joshua reminded the Children. “That she learns quickly is not a reason to expect her to know everything at once.” He turned to her, his voice gentle. “What you call a contradiction is in itself a codex, Child. One perhaps meant for you specifically. A sign that the Goddess wants you to think harder on her message, to really understand what her actions teach you.”
Violet shifted, readjusting her skirts. Her thoughts itched, wanting to push back. “But—”
“You do want to understand what’s happening in the world, don’t you?” Joshua interrupted, his voice now stern, certain.
Violet nodded.
“And do you think someone who wants to understand the world should think things through, or argue on reflex?” Violet’s face heated, but Joshua did not break his gaze. Warm. Firm. Certain. “Do you still want to stand beside your brothers and sisters, fighting for that better world, Violet? Or is the Dark God’s path more alluring than the Messenger’s? The darkness is admittedly easier to follow, demanding no analysis, no effort of thought.”
“I want to stand with my True Family,” Violet said quickly, that dark, lonely void threatening to return for her. “I don’t wish to be the Dark God’s pawn.”
Joshua nodded gravely. “Then I ask you again, should you channel your energy into understanding the Goddess’s message or arguing against it?”
“Understanding it,” Violet whispered, lowering her head. As soon as the words left Violet’s mouth, she felt Dasha’s hand close over hers.
“It’s all right, sister,” said Dasha as others nodded in agreement, reaching out with sympathetic touches and encouraging smiles. “We all were confused once. But now we’ve come to understand. As will you.”
Violet swallowed.
“Can you answer your own question, Violet?” Joshua asked gently.
Violet searched her mind, struggling like a drowning man looking for shore. She had to come up with something. Anything. “Maybe . . . maybe the Goddess wanted to remind us of the truth as kindly as she could? And to encourage the Everett delegation to return to their own borders without provoking an all-out assault before we are ready?”
Joshua’s triumphant smile loosened a knot in Violet’s heart. “So you can see the truth, if you try,” he said with a nod. “Keep at it.”
“We do this together, sister,” added Zalia. “Your True Family will stay with you every step of the way.”
“Tell us what the world will be like when the Goddess triumphs,” Dasha begged of Joshua.
The man smiled. “We will live in peace, as will our children, who shall be born healthy and strong with the Goddess’s love in their hearts. There will be neither pain nor sorrow. Instead of war and hate, those who quarrel shall ask the Goddess for guidance and justice, which she will give with compassion through her disciples. Through you.” Joshua paused to shift into a more comfortable position. “Now close your eyes and listen to how it shall be.”
20
Kali
I have little more to say to Trace, not after his training-yard declarations. From the sulky silence with which Trace now tolerates Kal’s presence on Prince Wil’s guard duty, it seems Trace is of a similar mind. Since we aren’t speaking, I feel no need to ask Trace why he goes out to sweep the wilderness every evening. Nor do I feel obligated to tell him that Princess Raza waits for him every night on the opposite side of the palace grounds.
“If I didn’t know better,” Luca drawls three days into our new wordless routine, “I’d say you two are quarreling over a girl. And that she probably isn’t worth the headache.” The man divides a sardonic look between Trace and me.
Trace snorts, following quietly in Wil’s wake as the prince strides past the stables, the mess hall, and the rest of his usual haunts for the third time since we started the outing an hour ago. A wind that’s chilly for Delta ruffles the grass, the blades bending beneath its force. It’s unusual for Wil to meander about, but today he seems in no more mood for conversation than Trace is.
I glance at Luca. “How do you know we aren’t?”
Luca tips his head back and laughs. “Because the only girl who would be interested in both of you is a whore, and she’d have found a way to make coin long ago.” He nudges Wil’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Highness?”
Wil nods absently, his eyes on the ground as he turns our procession to skirt around the palace.
Luca frowns. “Where are we going exactly?”
Wil’s eyes trail the ground. “It’s just around the corner now,” he says, his face pale and his fingers gripping the sides of his long, formal coat in a white-knuckle hold.
“Around that corner?” Luca’s brows climb. “But those are . . .”
“The dungeons,” Wil mutters in affirmation.
“Why under the bloody stars do you want to go to the dungeons?” I ask. After the evening at the Wandering Dog, I’m little worried about propriety, and Wil seems to be taking the directness in stride. Unlike Trace, who tightens his jaw at the familiarity. Because pawing a foreign princess is exponentially better than speaking plainly to your own prince.
“‘Want’ isn’t the word I’d choose,” Wil says with a sigh. “The prisoner who attacked Princess Raza is awake. My father has charged me with his . . .” He fumbles, shaking his head like a dog. “Interview.”
I exchange a glance with Luca. I’m all for a bit of responsibility, but this?
“In that case, feel free to take another turn around the palace,” Luca mutters. “Or five more.”
Wil gives Luca a ghost of a smile and, squaring his shoulders, heads for a heavy door at the base of the round tower. A row of lanterns thoughtfully hangs on hooks outside the entrance and we each take a light before going inside. It takes Trace two tries to light his.
Many of the scars I’ve seen on his flesh are the kind you get in a place like this, not a field of battle. I wonder how many nightmares this walk down the stairs will cost him.
The yellow light cocoons our small group in imagined warmth as we make our way down the spiraling steps into the belly of the underground. The stench greets us before the sight, a putrid mix of shit and vomit, urine and blood, terror and agony. A pleading scream rips through the air and Wil stumbles, bracing his hand against the wall for balance.
“We should have left a guard outside,” I say, catching Trace’s eye. The first words I’ve uttered to him directly in days. “The bloody staircase is too cramped as it is.”
A bead of sweat creeps down the guardsman’s temple despite the underground chill. “You can go up,” he says evenly.
“I’m not the one who takes up all the space,” I say, adding the lifeline he just threw back in my face to the list of reasons I hate Trace.
At the end of the passage, Wil raises his chin and strides to the guard on duty. “Good afternoon,” he says with a gracious nod of his head. Apparently the boy can be princely when he needs to. “Might I speak with Questioner Calvin?”
The guard touches a fist to his chest, little surprised at Wil’s appearance in his lair. “Of course, Your Highness. This way, please.”
We follow the guard to a dusty room, where mismatched wooden benches surround a low table. A shelf on the wall holds ledgers, ink, jugs of water and wine, and, of all things, a teapot. With a set of painted porcelain cups beside it.
“I will tell Questioner Calvin you are here,” the guard says, touching his fist to his chest again before disappearing.
Wil, Luca, and I sit. Trace chooses to stand. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Half an hour. I’m beginning to wonder if Firehorn has specifically ordered Calvin to keep Wil waiting all day when the door to our room opens and a middle-aged man glides inside.
“I’m Calvin, Your Highness,” the man says with a half bow. Loosely tied-back graying hair and manicured fingers complement the soft, confident timbre of his voice. “Chief questioner.”
Wil rises to his feet. “Thank you.” He pauses as if searching for words and, upon finding none, points to us. “My guards. Kal, Trace, and Luca.”
Calvin greets each of us in turn. My gaze brushes past his thoughtful eyes and clean clothes to his blood-spattered shoes. He smiles wryly. “Ah, well. I imagine you’re quite familiar with what happens here, no matter how benignly I dress. Tea?” Without waiting for a reply, the questioner takes the teapot and fills five delicate cups with steaming liquid.
“Were we waiting for the tea to steep?” I hear myself ask.
Calvin smiles and places a cup in my hands. At once, the strong aroma of the brew overpowers the other smells assaulting my senses. A veil of pretense that we are somewhere other than a torture chamber, speaking with its master-in-chief.
“Well then, Prince William,” says Calvin, inclining his head respectfully. “I understand that His Majesty has placed you in charge of obtaining intelligence from a certain prisoner. Do you wish to question the man yourself, or shall I tell you what I’ve learned thus far?”
Wil places his untouched teacup back on the table. “I’m to do it myself,” he says quietly.
“Of course.” Calvin sets his own cup down and holds open the corridor door, sending a shiver of dread through me. “This way.”
We follow Calvin past cells of misery to an isolated corridor. An alcove with a bench and some water jugs opens unexpectedly and quickly disappears behind a sharp corner as we reach our target.
My stomach turns as I behold the man in the cell. Despite the bars, the man is also chained to the back wall, with manacles on his wrists and ankles. He snarls at us.
The hate and rage are the only recognizable remains of the rebel Trace and I brought down a week ago. Bile rises in my throat as I see slivers of abused flesh peeking out from beneath the rags passing for clothing. Even with everything Lord Gapral put me through under his tutelage, he never made me question a prisoner. I don’t know whether the other scouts’ training was similarly shaped, but it’s a kindness the depths of which I’m only now appreciating. A wave of dizziness slams into me and I jam my hands into my pockets, focusing on the nails digging into my palms. Feeling a solid warmth beside me, I realize Trace has stepped forward. Our shoulders touch.
The prisoner’s eyes focus on Wil’s pale face, like a predator scenting blood. “Princeling.”
“Hello,” says Wil. The man growls and struggles against his chains, stopping abruptly when Calvin steps from the shadows.
Calvin nods to Wil. “Your guards and I will wait for you around the corner there, Your Highness. The man’s chain will stop him short of the bars. Please call if you require anything.”
I glance at Luca. Are we really leaving him alone?
“The king’s orders,” says Calvin quietly. “This particular corridor ends in a stone wall. I assure you that the prince’s safety will be little compromised by you taking the twenty-five steps to the alcove.”
I turn my face. A preplanned game, that’s what this was. Following silently in Calvin’s wake, I claim a space on the stone bench and search for some place free of the questioner’s tools to look at. The crack on the far side of the floor is the winner until I realize it comes equipped with three fat cockroaches. Crossing his arms, Luca leans against the wall beside me. Trace stands statue straight, his fingers gripping his sword tightly when a moan ripples through the air.
Calvin’s eyes dart to him lazily. “If you are going to be sick, there is a bucket in the corner.”
“Tell me, questioner,” Trace says with deathly quiet. “Which part of your job do you enjoy the most? The screams or the blood?”
Calvin purses his lips in thought, taking the question seriously. “Understanding how people work is most enjoyable. Finding each person’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Learning how to exploit each to its full benefit.” A thin smile. “No two people are alike, you know.”
