Fire of the Forebears, page 40
The man’s body was broken. It almost hurt Triston to look at it, with the numerous, bloody marks from stones, arrows, and the man’s hatchet. Féderyc coughed again, the sound wet and raspy, as each successive breath came with a rattling shudder. As delicately as he could, Triston rolled the man onto his side.
“They did right…” Féderyc whispered, holding Triston’s gaze before his face contorted with a spasm of pain. “I couldn’t control it.”
Triston’s stomach sank. What was he supposed to do?
A grin spread across Féderyc’s face, his teeth stained red by his own blood. “I prefer this death over the first one.” He laughed, the sound cut short by another choking cough. “It was an honor to serve you, my king.” His features faded into a look of utter relief as his rattling breaths fell silent.
Triston rose to his feet.
“Is he dead?” one man called out, hopeful, from behind the wall. He was the one who’d thrown the hatchet.
The cold wind whipped through the town, carrying with it the smell of smoke, the thickness of the settling dust, and the stench of death. It tugged strands of Triston’s black hair back from his face. He nodded solemnly, and didn’t look away from the broken, dried corpse at his feet. “He’s dead.”
Just as Merric’s body had decayed, so had Féderyc’s; he looked like a man dead for a good three months at least. It was a terrible sight—his dried and sunken eyes staring out of a shriveled, wrinkled face—but all the same Triston couldn’t tear his eyes from it. He was disgusted, not so much by what he saw, but by the fact that this, whatever it was, had been done to someone at all.
“Sir?” The burly man stood a few paces away, quaking in his boots, and he was the only one who dared venture even that close.
Triston stepped back to jam his sword into the soft ground. “We’ll bury him with the others.”
And so the group got to work, silently and efficiently erecting a mass grave for all their dead where Féderyc had fallen. They were men of few words, and for the moment so was he. The battle’s adrenaline wore off quickly, and left each ache screaming louder than before, but Triston didn’t let that slow him, even as he hauled stone after stone.
In the end, their grave became a tower of rubble nearly a story high: a memorial, as it were, and a fitting remembrance of those who had been lost. The mountain men gathered around the grave, sharing a few words for their fallen comrades, and then sang together in a cacophony of low voices. Through this, Triston stood respectfully to the side with his head bowed and his arms folded across his chest.
“Peaceful rest now, the day is won…”
These men sang as though this was the end of their struggle—as though the final battle had already ended in victory—but Triston knew better. These mountain dirges served not as closure, but as a forewarning.
Surely, this was only the beginning.
Chapter forty-three
Juncture
Kura sat on a log beside the fire, her damp cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders. The people of Lâroe bustled about the clearing, moving from house to cooking fire and back again as they handed out fresh food to anyone who appeared hungry or empty-handed. She had a plate of it sitting on her lap herself —an ear of roasted corn, a hunk of flatbread, and several strips of fried meat—but as delicious as it smelled, she hadn’t managed to eat more than a few bites.
All those who were able had spent the evening burying dead, clearing debris, and sinking barricades into the roads leading into Lâroe. The people of the city never seemed to tire, and working beside them had kept her torrent of thoughts at bay, but now in the stillness she didn’t have the strength to hold them back.
Her father and brother had already left for Nansûr, with the rest of the wounded who were well enough to travel. She longed to have gone with them, but also wished there was more she could do here. The townspeople had dead, too. Five, all of them run down by saja fleeing the tower.
Of the thirty rebels who’d left Nansûr, only nine remained. Twenty-six good people had lost their lives because of her. Because this was supposed to have been a heist—something covert—and she’d kept them going even when it turned into an outright battle they never would have planned to fight with so few men.
Ìsendorál’s scabbard pressed against her side, and she let out a shuddering sigh. No one seemed to blame her, though—if anything, after the tower had fallen, the rebels and townspeople alike looked at her with more reverence.
“Mind if I join you?”
Kura jumped before she recognized Aethan’s voice. He wandered up to the fire with a dimpled grin, a blanket draped over his shoulders.
“Hey.” Kura set aside her tray of food and scrambled to her feet to offer him her hand. “You shouldn’t—”
He brushed her aside and took a seat on the log. “I’m perfectly fine.” He shivered, even under the blanket, but tried to hide it. “Honestly, it’s like none of you have ever seen someone get a little wet in the rain before.”
Kura knew that was a lie as well as he did, but she couldn’t help but smile anyway. For a moment.
“Besides…” There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I couldn’t let you sit and brood out here all by yourself.”
“I’m not…” I am. She sighed and leaned forward to rest her head in her hands. “Aethan, they think I took down the tower.”
“Yeah. They do.”
Tears caught in her throat. “It’s a lie—you know it’s a lie. But they followed me, and they… and they died…”
“We all knew when we left we might never come back.”
“We should have gone back, but I—” She realized she’d raised her voice, and stole a timid glance around the courtyard to see if anyone had overheard. A few of the townspeople met her gaze with that same hopeful smile, and she tried not to look away too quickly. “They would have been better off here without me.”
Aethan studied her face. She thought he was going to scold her, but his expression was too gentle. “You’re not thinking of running, are you?”
She glanced down at her hands. She wasn’t—not seriously enough, anyway, to think she had to answer yes—but the thought had flittered through her mind. It certainly seemed the easiest solution. She could give the sword to Renard, or somebody…
Aethan gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t blame you. Gods, I don’t blame you. But once you start running, you can never stop.” He stared aimlessly into the darkness. “You’ll be a thousand dayrides away from where you were, but not one step farther from what made you run in the first place.”
She met his gaze. There was a tiredness in his face, and it reminded her of what she’d seen in his eyes when they’d first met.
After a moment he noticed her staring, then gave most of a grin. “Maybe someone else would have done this better, but who’s to say? You’ve got us this far. Maybe there isn’t someone else…”
Kura clenched her teeth and pulled up her sleeve to reveal the twisted bruise on her underarm. “That’s what happened when I woke the sword.”
Aethan’s face fell as he took her arm in his hand. He ran his fingers over the bruise, then let go of her arm. “Kura, all this means is you’re not in tune with the Essence’s movement.”
Is that all, then? She didn’t know whether to laugh at him or believe every word.
“Here.” Aethan swung his leg over the log so he faced her. “I’ll teach you the Riht—it’s fairly simple.” He took both her hands into his, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he closed his eyes and bowed his head as though he hadn’t noticed.
“Essence, speak to me, that my thoughts may be true
Essence, call to me, that I may seek what is true
Essence, strengthen me, to uphold what is true
Essence, move in me, that I may always be true.”
The words echoed in her soul so loudly she almost forgot to repeat them. But Aethan waited, and line by line she recited after him. She didn’t remember her mother’s andojé, but she wanted with all her heart to at least be able to remember this.
Finally, Aethan released her hands and she folded her arms back under her cloak.
“Thanks.” In the long run, she didn’t think any of it would make a difference, but somehow, in that moment, it had. She managed a laugh. “I don’t know what convinced you to follow me halfway across the country, but I’m really glad you did.”
“You know, to be perfectly honest, in the beginning I was just curious. But now…”
The soft crunch of footfalls against the fine, sandy soil of the riverside drew her attention as Renard wandered up to the campfire, a tray of food in his hands.
“Well,” he said with a laugh as he took a seat on a log across from the fire, “this all looks quite good.”
Aethan stood. “I’m going to see about finding some of my own.”
Kura sat in silence as he headed back toward one of the cooking fires, the gentle crunch of his boots against the loose dirt disappearing as it became part of the sounds of the night.
Renard gnawed on his ear of corn, then jabbed it in Kura’s direction. “Something’s bothering me about this whole thing.”
Her heart froze in her chest. “Oh?”
“They knew we were coming here today. I mean, it’s the only explanation for all of this.”
She had to catch herself before she breathed a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, Renard’s musings made that easy. “How could they have known?”
“Someone must have told them. Someone from Nansûr who listened in on our councils.”
“Who would do that?”
Renard shrugged. “Folks have done it before.” He took one last bite from his ear of corn before tossing the cob into the fire. “I just wanted you to know. ’Cause, well, I know it wasn’t you, and I’ve got to start getting the warning out somewhere.”
The dark road stretched out before them, narrow and winding as it traversed the ever-steepening mountainside. Kura took in a deep breath of the cool night air as she gazed up at the silhouettes of the thin pine trees that surrounded her. She and the remaining rebels had left Lâroe at least an hour before, but she’d only just shaken the lingering smell of smoke from her nose.
They’d paraded out of town amid fanfare and cheering, and even now she could almost hear them. Renard had insisted she walk at the front for their procession and that was where she remained—Aethan beside her, Renard and the others behind. At first she’d resented Renard for it—she was altogether too tired to play as their savior any longer today—but gradually she’d come to understand.
When the people looked at her, they didn’t see her. They saw what they wanted, they saw Ìsendorál, they saw everything it stood for. She didn’t deserve their honor—now less than ever—but she didn’t have the heart to take away their hope.
Something snorted in the darkness not far beyond them. She froze, peering down the road. The rebel company came to a jumbled halt behind her, and Renard’s voice rang over the others. “What is that?”
The dark shape came closer, and instinctively, she reached for her sword hilt. It was a horse, riderless, with stirrups jangling against its sides and loose reins dragging on the ground. She went to step out of the way, but Renard cut in front of her and caught hold of the horse’s halter as it neared their group.
“Looks like soldier’s tack.” He stroked the horse’s nose. “But it doesn’t look like a soldier’s horse.”
Kura frowned and peered down the empty roadway. She ought to have been concerned, but one soldier didn’t seem like a threat anymore. “Where’s the rider?”
Renard grunted in reply and stepped past her, leading the horse. “Keep watch, everybody.”
Kura followed, fist clenched around the sword hilt at her side. The animal might belong to a vojak. That would be reason enough for concern, if they did in fact ride horses. The rebel band continued in silence, but as they rounded a bend another shape materialized in the darkness.
It appeared to be a man, leaning against the bank beside the road. Renard kept walking, waving for the rest of them to stay back as the man drew his own sword and struggled to his feet. He stumbled and ended up on one knee.
“Hey!” Renard called out. “Who’s out there?”
“Who’s asking?”
Kura let go of her sword hilt. “Triston?”
The man on the road laughed—in relief? “Ah, it’s just you.” With a grunt, he fell back against the hillside and let his sword clatter to the ground beside him.
Kura brushed past Renard. “What are you…?” She knelt down beside Triston, then grimaced when she got a better look at his face through the shadows. He’d been beaten terribly—his lip was busted, the left side of his face swollen, and by the way he sat hunched against the hill behind him, he had to be hurting elsewhere. “I thought you went home?”
Triston laughed again, then winced. “I tried.”
Aethan came to Kura’s side and silently handed her a water skin, which she passed on to Triston. He nodded gratefully, and took a long drink.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Triston pointed over her shoulder. “I spent the evening trying to find Nansûr—by the gods, that place is hidden impossibly well—but more specifically, I was trying to follow that smoke when my stupid horse dumped me.”
She nodded back toward Renard. “That horse?”
“Yeah. You all can keep it.”
She caught herself staring at his swollen cheek. “You run into some trouble?”
He chuckled. “A little. But more’s coming.” His eyes locked with hers. “I don’t want war. I promise you, I can stop it if you’re willing to give me the chance.”
Kura leaned back, studying his gaze. She’d been prepared to be skeptical, but he seemed so earnest. In fact, she’d never seen him anything but earnest.
“Um,” Aethan started, “are we really buying this?”
She grabbed hold of Triston’s arm to help him to his feet. “We are.”
Part Four
EReLonG
Chapter forty-four
Traitor Among Renegades
Kura pushed through the crowd, past the other rebels streaming into the entrance to Nansûr. The narrow passages here were mostly empty—a perk of this side entrance; most of the company trickled in via one of the main ones. Renard had thought it best to keep Triston away from the masses for the time being and—guiltily—Kura was happy to avoid the crowd’s prying eyes as long as she could.
Her job: find Idris. And she let her tangle of thoughts rest on that.
She rounded the corner and stepped into a hallway of barracks, the walls smooth and painted with elaborate, colorful patterns. She stopped, glancing over each open, closed, and half-open door, hoping to spot Idris, or at least someone she knew.
A closed door near Kura creaked open, casting a beam of bright light into the dim corridor. Devna stepped into the light, humming a tune to herself as she swept the floor. At the sound of Kura’s footsteps, she stopped, and frowned when their gazes met. Wrinkles collected around her piercing green eyes, showing her age more than her stance or expression.
“You looking for someone?”
Kura swallowed, then nodded. “Yes, Idris. Is she…?”
Devna inclined her head toward a half-open door, three rooms down the right wall. “Over there.”
“Thank you.” Kura scurried along, if only to escape the woman’s ire, but she could feel Devna’s eyes on the back of her head.
She stopped in front of the door the woman had indicated, then knocked, the sound echoing dully. The door creaked open slightly under the weight of her hand and she glimpsed two figures—one seated in a chair, the other standing.
“Coming!” Idris called, and a moment later she appeared at the door. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton shirt, belted around the waist, and a flowing patterned skirt that ended at her bare feet. “Kura!” she said with a bright smile. “You’re back!” The smile disappeared. “What is it? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Kura shrugged helplessly and quickly explained her finding of Triston on the road. “He needs a healer.”
“Kura, I…”
A woman’s voice came from within the room, soft but strong, speaking in the flowing Fidelis tongue—Áclomere, the New Tongue. Idris turned back over her shoulder, muttering a quick reply in the same language.
“Idris,” the voice came again, scoldingly. “Let her in. She is welcome here.”
Idris gave a heavy sigh, and without looking up, she pulled the door back and motioned for Kura to follow her. Tentatively, Kura did. It was a small room, made cozy by the worn, colorful rugs on the floor and the bright tapestries hanging on the walls. A large table took up most of the space on one side, with two wooden bedframes filling up the wall on the other. A great, glowing crystal of lenêre stone protruded from the ceiling, bathing the room in light.
“I’m sorry,” Kura started, “I didn’t—” Then she caught sight of the woman in the chair beside the table.
To judge by her lack of wrinkles, she couldn’t have been older than Kura’s own mother, but with her frail arms and the way she sat hunched in her seat, her legs wrapped in blankets, she looked decades older. She had long, curly hair, like Idris, but it was tied back in a thin, greying braid and her dark skin was marred with white, oblong scars that spattered her face and bare hands. And then there were her eyes. Perhaps they’d been a bright green once, but now they were covered with an opaque, bluish film.
The woman brushed the few loose strands of her hair back behind her ear and straightened as much as she could. “Idris,” she whispered. “Introduce us.”
