The Shattered Star, page 24
Caes snorted. That was a lie—they would never leave her alone. And Caes would never be able to welcome death. Alair was back in the world, and while she had first thought she’d be able to die without seeing him again—that was a falsehood she had told herself.
She pushed herself up to look out the window and over the courtyard, which was lit by torches. Pools of glistening blood and pieces of flesh were still visible where the Soul Carvers likely executed their grisly task. Soldiers and servants alike went about their business in the yard, stepping around the thickest puddles of muck like they were avoiding dung and not human remains. Yet beyond the courtyard, beyond the palace walls, lay Fyrie, eerily calm under the clear night. If there was fighting in the city, it was not evident here.
Where was Alair? Was he waking where she had seen him last, in Cyvid? Or would Karima bring him to Fyrie, where he could be searching the city, looking for her? She walked back to the bed and gently laid herself down, groaning from the effort. Maybe he was here, maybe—
That didn’t matter. He could be in the courtyard below and even that was too far away. She was never going to escape this room. Desmin probably had the whole palace on high alert, ready to kill at any sign of Caes or a Soul Carver causing any sort of trouble.
But what she wouldn’t give to be able to hold Alair again. To breathe in his scent. To hear him tell her how much he loved her. To have her friend again…
Caes rubbed her eyes, ignoring how her hands were covered with dried blood. There was no point in hoping. She couldn’t get out of here. There was nothing she could say or do to change Desmin’s mind. The Soul Carvers wouldn’t rescue her—they couldn’t. She could only imagine their faces as Desmin no doubt displayed her skin to them.
The gods wouldn’t help her. They only helped themselves. Maybe Karima was right, and any direct action would have been catastrophic. Karima had a vested interest in Caes getting out, so in this case Caes was inclined to believe her. But that didn’t change the fact that Caes was on her own.
She was never going to leave this room again. She was not a thief, able to break locks. Nor was she some great actress, able to trick the guards into letting her go. She was never going to escape. She was trapped.
…Or was she?
Chapter 37
Cylis
“Of all the crazed, sick, fucked up shit—”
“Cylis, shut up,” Kerensa said, kicking Cylis in the leg, making him grunt. Damn, Kerensa had a good kick.
He glowered at Kerensa. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“It’s not whether you’re wrong. It’s whether they hear you.” Kerensa nodded towards the soldiers escorting them to the temple. Shirla’s temple-turned-Karima’s temple-turned-Shirla’s temple once more. The soldiers’ heads briefly turned towards them, but then their attention went back to escorting their charges through the palace courtyard and towards the city streets. “Last thing we need is them taking another slice out of Caes.”
“Fucking sick, nob-headed—honorable, courageous, brave men,” Cylis raised his voice and shifted his diatribe as the guards looked at them once more. Stupid men. They were very very lucky Caes was still alive, because if she wasn’t, there was no way he’d tolerate this. None of them would.
Cylis was right, they did have them draft a letter, and eventually speak to, the Soul Carver soldiers in the Malithian army. The result was chaos. Some joined with Ardinan to protect Caes, others refused to leave Malithia’s forces and escaped. Still others fought and many died on both sides. In short, Fyrie—and soon every major area in Ardinan—was or would be the site of brutal fighting. Caes—sweet naïve Caes—had this idea that Soul Carvers got along in blissful companionship. That was not true. Cylis made a note to tell her when he saw her next about the Soul Carver Wars, which the empire liked to pretend never happened—it was bad for messaging. When he saw her…
At least the Soul Carvers weren’t in their stupid prison anymore. Sure, the guards had stupid faces, and the citizens stupid loud voices, and the Soul Carvers’ stupid tunics and breeches were far too snug and worn, but at least there was something new to look at. Even if that sight was nothing more than their captors making them go for a stroll.
“Think about anything else,” Kerensa said under her breath. “We’ll come up with a plan to save her. We will. We just need a plan. They’ll mess up at some point.”
“We already killed to buy her time.”
“And we will repay them for each and every death. But think of anything else.”
“Like why they have that ugly thing in the courtyard?” Cylis asked. The “thing” was a statue of a woman—probably Shirla. It was oversized—as a courtyard statue was wont to be—and the features were greatly exaggerated, nearing grotesque. Maybe it was an Ardinani style? Regardless, that wasn’t the strange part—the strange part was the sword in the goddess’s scabbard. It didn’t match. It was an odd bronze, while the statue was white. Who the fuck cared? There was no making sense of Ardinani taste.
“That’s better,” Kerensa said. “We’ll get today over with. And the next day. And something will work out. We can’t help her if we’re dead.” The soldiers led them through the palace gate, and soon they came upon the streets of Fyrie. It was a charming city, if one ignored the soldiers. And ignored the fact that seeing the Shattered Star of Ardinan now gave Cylis a twitchy eye. And there were only a dozen beggars in sight at any one time. Fyrie was practically a metropolitan paradise…
“How many more days will they make us do this?” Cylis whispered. The guards didn’t stop them from speaking, though no doubt they were under instructions to listen. If they could. Cylis and Kerensa made a point to make their Malithian accents as thick as possible, just in case. “I can’t stand listening to that Penitent—”
“I’m just happy to get out of the palace. But I’m still trying to figure out how they found him so fast,” Kerensa said.
“Easy,” Marva chimed in from behind them. “Shirla must have had worshippers that went into hiding. They were probably in some noble’s house the entire time.”
“Figures.” What sort of Penitent stayed in hiding to be…repentant? Karima didn’t shove remorseful people in a box. She had them beaten. Karima was efficient—she made him, after all. She knew what she was doing.
“Are they trying to convert us?” Cylis asked.
Kerensa shrugged. “Maybe. And it’s in our best interest to make them think they can.” Considering they all drank Karima’s blood and were bound to her in this life and the next…yeah. That wasn’t going to happen. They couldn’t change their religion like changing a preferred wine. When normal humans died, their souls went to a special place in the ether managed by deities whose domain was that of human souls, where they dwelled and rested—or were tossed into one of the hells for being awful. As for Cylis—he had an afterlife of Karima to look forward to.
An afterlife of training and torturing the Soul Carvers of tomorrow. He couldn’t wait.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Marva said to Cylis.
“You’re no fun, Marv.” Cylis grinned. “You know that, right?”
Marva didn’t answer. Her long sigh was an answer enough.
Chapter 38
Caes
Caes went over her plan the entire night, searching for any weaknesses. And the night after that. Finally, a couple days after she had the flesh skinned off her back like a fish prepared for the pan, she decided it was time. For this plan to work, there was no point in waiting any longer.
“You wish to make a confession,” Desmin said, disbelief dripping from each word. She had sent a message begging to speak to him, saying she wanted to make atonement. And Desmin, predictable Desmin, was more than curious enough to see what she had to say.
“Caes,” Desmin said, in a tone that was far too jovial, “you’re not religious, you never were. Not even when your father was Shirla’s Chosen. A little odd, now that I think of it.”
“I know. I have much to confess,” Caes said, her eyes downcast. It was easy to summon tears. She just had to focus on the Malithians that the Soul Carvers were forced to slaughter. “I have realized the sins I committed against Shirla. I have betrayed her and my people. I worshipped her sister. I fraternized with Karima’s abominations…I” –Caes gasped– “I claim my right—as one born under Shirla’s law—to beg for her forgiveness. I claim my right to confess my soul.”
There it was. Now it was time to see if this part of her plan would work. The part everything hinged on. And there was so much that still could go wrong. Desmin was right—Caes wasn’t religious. In fact, prior to being in Malithia, she spent as little time thinking about the goddesses as possible—religion wasn’t dancing, drinking, or gambling. Well, not Shirla’s religion, at any rate. So what if her father was Shirla’s Chosen? She assumed that her father would make sure that Shirla always looked favorably on her—why would the goddess care what Caes did? Though, now, Caes wondered if she had always known, somehow, about the true nature of the gods. That they deserved as much worship as a chamber pot. They had their uses, but they didn’t deserve any special recognition.
But every person born in Ardinan, no matter their circumstance, no matter how irreligious they were, had the right to claim an audience with a priestess in Shirla’s temple and beg for the goddess to forgive them—to confess their soul. It was something done rarely, only before great occasions, or in dire need. Shirla was not a goddess of death, who had the ability to decide what happened to souls after they were gone. No, Shirla’s purpose was rather mundane, and thus people sought her only when they thought they had incurred her disfavor in life. Failed crops, floods, and pestilence were all things that allegedly indicated Shirla’s wrath. And if someone wanted to beseech a god of death? That was rather pointless, since those gods were as willing to listen as a rock. Death gods had their realms. They had their jobs. Why would a farmer care about the opinions of ants?
“You want to confess.” Desmin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to pretend I never heard this,” he said, turning away. “It’s a trick.”
“And miss this chance to show everyone what you accomplished?”
Desmin slowly turned back to face her, an eyebrow cocked up. “What are you talking about?”
There was the Desmin she knew—how did he convince Viessa to be in charge of her? But knowing Viessa, she just let Desmin think he was in charge.
No matter. He was nibbling at the bait—time to set the hook.
“I’m Karima’s Prophet.” Caes held her head high. “I broke the curse and freed her son. I am Malithia’s heir—named by Emperor Barlas Tuncer himself. I defeated Princess Seda in the Idici Sors. And after all of that, you have beaten me. You won. You have me under your control and Soul Carvers at your beck and call. For the first time a kingdom other than Malithia has the power of Soul Carvers at their disposal. Surely, you want to remind everyone that it was you who made this happen. Think about it—the image of me, bowed into submission, begging for Shirla’s favor at a temple that has only so recently come back to Shirla’s worship. What will this make the people think of you?”
What would it do for him? The images crossed Desmin’s face—Caes could see them rippling like water on a shore.
“It’s a trick,” Desmin whispered, but his words were laced with doubt. He wanted to believe her. Whether in a doublet, a wrestling match, or singing, Desmin never was able to pass up a chance to look good.
Caes slumped, making sure her bruises were good and visible. They had given her a new shift to go with Bethrian’s gifted dress, but it was ill fitting, to say the least. She spread her hands apart, palms upright. “What trick? This is me. I can’t fight. I’m not an assassin. I have no friends in the temple, and everyone in this city would sooner gut me than help me. I betrayed everyone.” Caes summoned tears rise to her eyes once more, let them lace her words. “The only thing I can do is try to make peace with whoever will let me, while I can.”
Desmin rubbed his chin. Caes’s breath quickened. What was she going to do if he said no? Hells, would she have enough time to try to work on the guards before Desmin decided to slice her again? She didn’t do a good job of that the last time she was locked in here, before Malithia. And now…everyone truly had a reason to hate her.
Did she have another option? Could she escape?
Convincing Desmin was very likely her only chance.
“Fine,” Desmin said, and Caes tried not to visibly sigh with relief. Then he held up a finger in warning. “Try anything—and I mean anything—I will kill you. We don’t need to tell the Soul Carvers you’re dead. We can easily hide it. I’ll preserve the pieces and send them to them. One. By. One. Starting with those disturbing eyes of yours.”
Caes nodded and swallowed. He would do it. She was alive only because she was the key to keeping the Soul Carvers under control.
But for the first time since she ended up in the cell, hope flared in her chest. He fell for it.
There was little chance this plan of hers was going to work. But it was the only chance she had.
Chapter 39
Bethrian
“Here you go,” Bethrian said, plopping the jar of Caes’s blood in front of Seda, where she rested on his desk. The abrupt movement sent the blood slushing against the glass. They were in his small room, and he finally banished the curious servants/spies that lurked. Sure, he could’ve done this earlier, but this wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to. And he was exhausted and decided that he was going to take a couple days to recover before he told Skull Seda that he had what they needed. It was time to go. He had seen Caes freshly skinned. He wasn’t ready to recount the details to Seda.
No, he was looking forward to leaving this all behind.
And he had so very little to look forward to these days. If Desmin had not remembered his alliance with Seda—and the fool was stupid enough to think that it meant Bethrian was allied with him too—he would’ve been slaughtered by the empire’s Soul Carvers along with every other unfortunate who accompanied them from Malithia. Bethrian had no idea how Desmin was going to manage the Soul Carvers in the Malithian garrisons stationed around the kingdom, but that was not Bethrian’s problem. None of that was Bethrian’s problem.
Yes, Bethrian had very little to look forward to indeed. He was essentially a hostage in Ardinan, and surely would be killed if he went back to his home. He was ready for a change.
The jar of blood sat on the desk, a dark red mess that, in all honestly, probably smelled disgusting. Good thing the jar was sealed.
You’re sure it’s hers? Seda asked from her velvet pillow, a gift from Desmin. What if—
“It’s hers. I sliced it from her veins myself.” Bethrian clenched his jaw. If he had to get further proof that it came from Caes, he was not going to be a happy lord. Less happy than he was already.
Silence, and then Seda asked, Why didn’t you take me with? I would have loved to see that.
“Because you’re a talking head who lives in my trunk when I’m not here.”
Oh, Desmin would’ve let you. Still—I would’ve been so happy.
“I know. And that’s why I didn’t.”
Seda snorted. How dare—
“Seda—” Bethrian groaned and collapsed on the wooden chair next to the desk. He ran his fingers through his glorious hair, gripping as if to pull it out. “There was nothing you would’ve liked to see. It was uneventful, given the circumstances. She gave it to me willingly.”
What?!? Seda the Skull shrieked. That’s impossible. She must’ve been delusional.
Bethrian peered at the skull through the gaps between his fingers. For being a skull, Seda was unnaturally white. Though, how many freshly boiled skulls had he seen in his life?
“Delusional?” Bethrian echoed. “She did have flesh flayed off her back. I can’t imagine that’s conducive to solid thought. But regardless, she gave it willingly.”
Why would she do that? Why—she’s planning something. It’s a trick.
“How?”
This is her. There’s some plot.
“She’s trapped in a cell, alone, and likely still bleeding as we speak. I doubt she has the energy to thwart whatever plan you came up with.” Bethrian rubbed his head a bit too hard, the edges of his nails scraping his scalp. Even dead, Seda was going to be the death of him.
Surely, she told you—
“I don’t know, Seda. I wouldn’t question it too much, considering what you wanted. I asked—she agreed. I got the blood, I wasn’t about to ask her for her full reasoning.”
Seda the Skull seemed to ponder this. True. I have what I need. And now we can focus on our next task.
Next…task?
Next task?
That was right. There was more. Oh, bloody gods, Bethrian had half a mind to toss Seda out a window and be done with all of this. But gods were involved. And there was still the matter that Seda, like it or not, was the only reason his entrails were nicely tucked into his torso. Where they belonged. And he still needed Seda to be able to go home to Malithia.
This—this headache of an exchange—was the reason he waited to talk to her, even though she cursed him out to no end once he finally took her out of the trunk. He was rejuvenated, revived, and ready to do whatever insane task she had for him next.
“What’s next, O’ Bony One?” Bethrian asked, sitting upright and watching the skull. If he focused, he could imagine the bony mouth chattering away. He regretted doing that.
Easy, Seda said. We’re done with Ardinan. Next, we go to the Burning Hand.
Chapter 40
Caes
It took another full day of stewing in the cell, but the knock finally came, announcing it was time for Caes to go and confess her soul. To Shirla. Well, Shirla’s priestess. But close enough.
