Five Lands Saga Box Set 1 (Five Lands Saga Box Sets), page 92
He nodded, and she turned and left the courtyard, her shoulders hunched, weighed down by the kind of knowledge that could crush a person.
He hoped, truly, that it wouldn’t break her.
Daniella didn’t know exactly where she was going after leaving the courtyard, but she knew she had to get away from Kenton before she completely fell apart. Kenton was getting to be someone she could talk openly with, but he wasn’t who she needed right now.
She wanted Jaeme, wanted to melt into his arms and sob and hear him tell her he still loved her, no matter what she was.
If that was indeed what he would say. She paused just before the stairwell, placing a hand on the carved-stone banister. Her breath felt too short, her lungs aching.
What if this was too much for him? He’d seen what she’d done in Tirostaar, and he’d held her afterward, kissed her, told her none of it mattered, that she was still Daniella. He’d fallen in love with her. But this . . . this was worse. There, she’d unleashed a horrible power, but in doing so she’d saved them all.
Jaeme might be able to love a girl with a power she couldn’t control, but could he love her even if she might not be human at all?
She was a weapon, Lukos told Erich all those months ago, in the depths of Castle Peldenar.
She’d thought she’d discovered what he meant by that, but maybe it was so much more. Maybe the girl herself, all that Daniella thought she was, was really a façade. Maybe she was just a weapon, and nothing more.
A weapon made of the blood of innocent children. So many children.
She wheezed in a breath, leaning on the banister for support.
“My lady?” a matronly servant carrying a tray of discarded dishes from the upper living quarters came within a few stairs of her and stopped, concern stark on her face. “My lady, are you well? Do you need—”
“No,” Daniella said, gasping the word out. The flood of tears threatened behind her eyes, and she would not collapse in some helpless puddle right here. “No, please continue on. I—have you seen Lord Jaemeson?”
“No, my lady. I’m sorry.” The servant shifted the tray between her hands, looking as if torn between obeying and setting the thing down to help Daniella. “I could send for him immediately, though.”
Daniella forced herself to straighten, to stand without the banister’s aid, even though her knees felt weak enough to buckle. In her mind, she could hear the screams of all those children.
Screams and blood and darkness.
All pieces of her creation, of her being.
“No need to send for him,” she said, gathering back as much composure as possible. “I’ll look in his rooms.”
The servant nodded, though she didn’t seem terribly convinced.
Daniella made her way up the stairs, her shaking hands holding the fabric of the long skirts to keep from tripping over the hem. Her breath was still coming in short gasps, and the world seemed dark and fuzzy around the edges.
Maybe she should have had the woman send for Jaeme. But she was as equally afraid of seeing him right now. She couldn’t keep a secret like this from him, even if it was physically possible for her to pretend everything was fine. But if she had more time to think things through, to make sense of it even a little—
No, there would be no making sense of this. There would only be surviving. And hoping she didn’t lose the friendships she found and the man she loved in the process.
She made her way to Jaeme’s bedchamber—their bedchamber, he’d called it often enough, though she’d been hesitant to read too deeply into that—grateful not to encounter anyone else along the way. Her stomach was twisting, beads of sweat forming along her brow.
“Jaeme?” she managed to call out as she stumbled in.
Nothing. He wasn’t here.
Her vision was narrowing enough that she was certain she would pass out. She made it to the newly cleaned chamber pot and fell to her knees in front of it just in time. Her stomach tightened one final time, and she heaved the contents into the pot.
When her stomach was empty, she sat back on her heels, wiping the sweat from her face with a trembling hand.
Strangely enough, she felt somewhat better. Her vision broadened again; the dizziness passed. Her stomach settled once more, even though her throat burned.
She would find Jaeme and tell him all of it. She had to believe that their love was enough, that it would always be.
And that no matter what she was, no matter how she’d been made, she had to be human enough to stop her father, once and for all.
Forty-eight
Jaeme left his uncle on the balcony and went immediately into the basement. Hope was a squirmy feeling, one he wanted to be rid of as quickly as possible, whether by fulfillment or disappointment. He headed down the stairs and into the far part of the castle, to the vaults that held the ashes of the former dukes of Grisham, sealed in stone. On his way he passed several doors with broken locks. He cursed Kenton silently and made a note to tell his uncle about it so he could have them replaced.
Beyond the sarcophagus Jaeme found the wall where the brick was different, the stones slightly more even and a deeper color than the surrounding wall. It was barely noticeable in the light of his charm, even knowing in advance, and it wasn’t as if the sun would ever touch it here.
Jaeme set his shoulder against the wall and pushed. As he strained against it, for a moment he thought his uncle was wrong, that it had rusted shut long ago, or that it was simply the wrong wall to begin with, but then with a crack and a soft scraping sound, the wall gave way and swung inward on silent hinges. Jaeme looked into the room.
And found a wide table, on top of which lay the naked body of a boy with black tattoos marked up and down his flesh. The lines were sharp and jagged rather than the swirling runes of the old script, and while Jaeme had never seen them before, he could guess what they were.
His breath caught. His uncle had to have hidden the body somewhere, of course, but if he’d left it here, he could have at least warned him.
Shivers crawled over Jaeme’s skin as the boy’s eyes opened, black as night even where they should be white, and the boy sat up and looked at him.
Panic crawled in his throat, and Jaeme’s hand went to his sword, remembering too late that he didn’t have it with him—he rarely wore it when he was wandering around his own home. The boy stopped moving, eyes watching him, unblinking. Jaeme took a step back, but the body—it had to be dead, didn’t it?—didn’t move to climb off the table. It just continued to look as if waiting for something.
“All hells,” Jaeme said. “Stop looking at me.”
Its glassy eyes still fixed on him, it spoke. “What do you want?”
Jaeme’s eyes widened. Had someone heard him? Would that be Diamis on the other end? Or Tehlran? How could he tell who he was talking to, and how would either of them know if it was him?
“You’re interrupting,” the boy said. “Is there no purpose to it?”
“No, my lord,” Jaeme said, trying to think of what he could say to mislead Diamis, to get information out of him. Even Tehlran might know something that Jaeme could use.
The boy stared at him with dark, empty eyes, and Jaeme absently took a step backward.
And nearly jumped out of his skin when he collided with someone standing behind him. Jaeme shouted, his voice echoing through the tunnels, and felt a pair of hands settle heavily on his shoulders.
“Jaeme,” Hugh said. “What are you doing down here?”
Jaeme’s heart beat in his throat. Hugh? What was he doing down here? Jaeme wished he could pull the wall closed again, to keep Hugh from seeing. Gods, what excuse could he give to another duke to cover up what Greghor had done?
Too late, Jaeme watched Hugh set eyes on the body. He would have certainly heard Jaeme speak, calling the thing ‘my lord.’ Oh, gods. Jaeme pressed himself against the open door, watching as Hugh’s face contorted in horror.
“By Kotali’s strength,” he said. “What in all hells is that?”
“I don’t know,” Jaeme said. He cursed himself. Was that the best he could come up with?
“You don’t know?” Hugh said. “And yet you were talking to it?”
The boy continued to stare, not at the doorway, as he had when Jaeme walked in, but at the place where Jaeme now stood, as if it were waiting for his instruction.
“Who’s there?” the boy asked. “Have you been compromised?”
Jaeme had half a mind to slit the thing’s throat, but he wasn’t sure even that would stop the spell.
“Oh, Jaeme,” Hugh said, still staring wide-eyed at the dead body. “What have you gotten yourself involved in?”
“No!” Jaeme said. “I didn’t—I’ve never seen this thing before. I—”
Hugh held up a hand to silence him, tearing his eyes away from the boy to look at Jaeme with a mixture of fear and pity. “Your uncle told me you’d been acting strangely. He said you’d been stealing off into the tunnels. He was worried you might have developed a snap habit, and he asked me to investigate.” He looked back at the boy. “But I never would have thought—”
No. Jaeme looked up at the walls, but found no strange writings, no runes resembling what his uncle had described. But this was definitely the room Greghor had indicated. And he’d obviously been down here recently. A lump formed in Jaeme’s throat, so thick that when he spoke, his voice strained. “My uncle,” he said. “When did he ask this of you?”
“Just now,” Hugh said.
The lump swelled, so Jaeme’s voice came out almost as a squeak. “He told you which part of the castle I’d been frequenting. He told you I’d just gone down here.”
Hugh nodded. “He was worried about you, Jaeme. Tell me what it is you’re caught up in. Is Daniella involved?” He paused. “Perchaya?”
By the gods. By all five of the damned gods. Jaeme had been set up. His uncle had set him up. After Jaeme had agreed to cover for him. After Greghor had promised to protect him.
Jaeme had wanted Kenton to be right, but not about that.
“She’s not,” Jaeme said. “None of us are involved. I swear to you, I’m seeing this body for the first time, same as you—”
“Jaeme,” Hugh said, his voice even, as if he were trying to calm a panicked horse. “I know you. I know you would never have meant to get involved in blood magic. Tell me what’s happened, and I can speak for you with your uncle, with the Council, if necessary. I just need you to tell me the truth.”
“I told you the truth. I’m not involved in this. It’s my uncle. He—”
“Your uncle trusts you,” Hugh said. “He brought your name to the Council to go after Daniella because he believed in your loyalty to Grisham and to Mortiche.”
Jaeme blinked at him. “My uncle didn’t want me to go. He spoke against the assignment.”
“No,” Hugh said. “Your uncle is a modest man, but he’s the one who brought the idea to us in the first place. I was the only one who opposed, but not because I didn’t trust you.”
Hugh went on about his motivations, but Jaeme couldn’t follow. His uncle had lied to him. He hadn’t tried to get Jaeme out of the assignment. Hadn’t tried to play Diamis and the Council off each other to protect him. He’d been asked something of Diamis, and then delivered it.
Gods, had he never been trying to protect Jaeme or Grisham at all?
“Everything’s gone to the lowest hell.” Jaeme’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt like it echoed and echoed.
“You can still fix it,” Hugh said.
At that moment, Jaeme knew. Hugh was wrong. There was nothing he could say to fix this. Nowhere he could look for Kotali. Nothing he could do to keep his uncle from descending on the others, now that he knew Jaeme would be on to him.
Gods. Nikaenor. His uncle knew that Nikaenor had Mirilina. Now Jaeme would have more than Nikaenor’s father’s blood on his hands. More than the people of Ithale. Jaeme hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d betrayed them all. Jaeme looked into Hugh’s eyes, and he knew in his heart.
There was nothing he could ever do that would make this right.
Forty-nine
Nikaenor leaned against the apothecary’s door frame watching the slender woman across the street twirl sticks of fire. She wasn’t drawing a large crowd, despite her skill. In Ithale, everyone in town would have come to see a show like this—the twirling brands creating rings of fire, spinning through the air as she tossed and caught them in smooth, easy motions. Here in a big city like Grisham, she was just one of dozens of street performers. Fewer now, maybe, with the tournament officially over and the thick crowds beginning to disperse.
The woman looked nothing like Saara, but seeing the flame spin and dance, Nikaenor couldn’t help but think of her. He felt like an idiot, remembering how sure he was that he was going to marry her someday, when what he’d felt was the pull of them being chosen.
Okay, he thought, remembering the way his heart beat faster when she regarded him with those dark eyes, or how she left him tongue-tied in a way that Jaeme or Sayvil never did. Maybe it wasn’t just the pull making me an idiot.
He was long past any hope that she might be interested in him in the same way. They might both be bearers, but she was a queen now. Still, he missed her. He missed having them all together.
Maybe that was why Jaeme was having so much trouble finding Kotali. Maybe if all four bearers were here—
Peace, Mirilina said. Nikaenor patted his coin pouch gently. He’d wondered at first if that gesture was sacrilegious, but Mirilina didn’t seem to mind. Kenton was wrong. The gods weren’t distant—Mirilina could hear his thoughts, and now she could answer them.
She answered with that one word more often than not, especially in the dark of night when Nikaenor worried about his family.
“Ridiculous,” Sayvil said with a scowl, emerging from the apothecary. “For the price they wanted for three measly leaves, I could plant a whole row of dew-dress.”
“But you bought it, right?” Nikaenor really didn’t want to spend the rest of his day finding every apothecary in Grisham to look at identical bottles of crushed leaves.
Besides, he was getting hungry.
Sayvil sighed. “Yes. We’ll likely need some for pain relief. Though given how long Jaeme’s taking finding his damn stone, maybe I should have gone the planting route.”
“You’re starting to sound like Kenton,” Nikaenor said. “Jaeme’s looking. I was just with him, and he was really trying. You know, in a Jaeme way.”
Sayvil snorted. “If Jaeme’s trying anything, it’s to get Kenton to leave him and Daniella here while the rest of the us deal with this whole world-saving mess.”
Nikaenor felt his hackles rise. Sayvil could be prickly at the best of times, but to imply that Jaeme would just abandon them on their mission . . . He shook his head. “That’s not fair. Jaeme’s done a lot for us. He’s risked his life. My dad would always say ‘If a man stands for you once, you treat him like he’d do it every time. And then he will.’”
“Sounds like the way fools get taken advantage of,” Sayvil said. Then her expression softened. “I’m sorry, Nikaenor. I didn’t mean—”
Nikaenor felt a surge in his chest at the slight to his father, as if the man were really here, and Nikaenor could leap in front of him and protect him from the insult. Or, perhaps, from the sword. He shrugged and avoided her gaze so she wouldn’t see the way his eyes suddenly burned. He hadn’t cried in front of any of them, other than when Kenton had first told him about his father’s death, and he didn’t particularly want to start now.
Not that he thought tears made him soft, or weak. His dad had never been one afraid to shed tears, and he was one of the strongest men Nikaenor had ever known. But he was afraid if he started crying, he might never stop. And Mirilina needed more from him than grief. They all did.
Peace, Mirilina said.
Okay, Nikaenor said back. Though he really wished he could be eating something now. Food helped take his mind off things he’d rather not think about.
“Come on,” Sayvil said, and tugged him along the street. They wound past shoppers picking out bolts of cloth from a stand of bright linen and cotton, and another street performer playing a jaunty tune on a pan-flute. Then they were out on one of the main thoroughfares of the city, leading toward the southern gate. The thick summer air smelled of sweat and passing livestock and somewhere nearby, a hint of roasted cinnamon almonds.
The crowds were pushed back to the sides of the street as some high-ranked lord and his retinue passed, leaving the city in a small parade of knights riding long-maned horses and carrying purple and white banners, followed by a large coach where the noble ladies of the house likely rode, though the curtains were closed. Behind the coach were a few more horses, lesser steeds ridden by various house attendants. The attendants wore puffy purple sleeves with small bells attached at the wrist and caps with long white feathers jutting from them, and Nikaenor snickered at how ridiculous they looked.
They might get to live in a castle and mingle with high folk, but Nikaenor would rather scrub a hundred pots in his family’s inn than have to wear that particular outfit to work.
He was about to point them out to Sayvil when a face across the street caught his attention. A man in his late-twenties, clean-shaven with dark hair and a face that Aralie would probably sigh over—not that that took much. He looked strangely familiar, though Nikaenor couldn’t figure out why. The man wore the clothes of a typical townsman of Mortiche, a belted plain-linen tunic with cording at the neck, over pants tucked into high leather boots, scuffed with wear. A servant from the castle on his day off?
