“I had no choice,” Peytr insisted.
She shoved him, sending her husband stumbling. Bryce caught him before he fell.
“No choice?” she said. “No choice! I should gut you for what you’ve done.”
Peytr calmly smoothed the wrinkles in his jerkin.
“I understand your anger, darling. I do entirely. But Moira had her part to play in this game, the same as myself and you and the Conningtons and the Crimson Sword here. The gold I withheld goes to these soldiers, to pay for their services.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her with equal parts compassion and disappointment. “You have railed against Karak’s duplicity for years. You have decried the way he treats his creations, and preached disobedience to our people. Do you think this defiance comes without a price? In gaining our freedom, sacrifices must be made. . by myself, by you, by everyone.”
“But Moira-”
“-is a capable woman. And though it was my instruction, she went willingly to Matthew, did she not? Your love understands the dangers of our time. I expect the same from you.”
“You want her dead. You made me lie to her, made me hide from her during my pregnancy.”
“I don’t trust Moira. No matter your relationship, I must have a son and heir. But please, trust me, I wish her no ill will. Do you think she’d live otherwise if I did?”
Rachida’s shoulders slumped. Her hatred and anger gave way to frustration. “Fine,” she said.
Peytr shrugged out of Bryce’s clutches and went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Amazingly, his every action conveyed compassion.
“I have given up my home, darling. I have given up safety and comfort and much of my fortune. If worst comes to worst, I will give up my life. But I will never give up hope, and neither should you.” He looked at the handsome young sellsword. “As for Moira. . tell me, Quester, what was the last you heard of our dear exiled Crestwell?”
“My masters say she is fine,” he said. “Matthew’s wife sent a letter stating as much.”
“See?” said Peytr. “All is well with her; now put her from your mind. Your role in things is about to increase tenfold, and I must have you trust me if we are to succeed.”
Rachida glanced up at him, confused.
“What do you mean, ‘my role’?”
He squeezed her shoulder and then let her go. His compassion seemed to recede, replaced with a hunger she both feared and envied.
“As it is said throughout the Wardens’ stories, every revolution requires a figurehead to lead the way, an individual of noble birth who will guide their people to glory and freedom. What better leader could there be than the lost daughter of our gods’ First Families, one who is beloved and admired by her people? You will lead the charge, my darling. You will pave the way for a Dezrel free of the bonds the gods have placed on us. So smile, Rachida Gemcroft; smile and prepare to take sail, for the gold you would have used to buy Moira’s freedom instead bought you an army.”
CHAPTER 6
His body was covered with cuts and bruises from the beatings he’d been given, his wrists and ankles chafed and bloody from the irons that bound him, and yet for Ceredon Sinistel, dismay was the worst of his pains.
The prince of the Quellan elves had been tethered to the back of a supply wagon and marched endlessly south through Ashhur’s Paradise, made subservient to all present. Quellan, Dezren, or human-it didn’t matter; all who happened upon him abused him, striking him with reeds and whips, spitting in his face, shattering a few of his teeth, and some even going so far as to run their blades across his flesh, opening small wounds that would weep and sting as sweat rolled over them. He was theirs to torture, yet he didn’t complain, even as he lay there in the sand beneath the light of the moon, parched and unable to sleep. His hatred would be sated in time, as would revenge for the murder of his father; the lord and lady of Dezerea; and Tantric, the rebel leader. “Become like the mountain I love so dearly,” his goddess Celestia had whispered to him. Mountains did not weep. They didn’t scream and kick. They waited. They watched. They endured.
Ceredon had lost count of how many days it’d been since they left Dezerea, but it had to be at least twenty. Their march had started out quickly, the force of a hundred human soldiers, four hundred Quellan Ekreissar, and another three hundred conscripted Dezren moving across the forests and rolling hills of eastern Paradise, passing by many abandoned or decimated townships, until they reached the Gods’ Road. The demarcation line was the husk of a lone, gigantic cypress tree that loomed on the south side of the dusty road, its trunk scarred, its leaves burned; an omen of the land they would soon cross. After they passed through miles and miles of scorched landscape, tall prairie grasses rose up to meet them, and the procession slowed to a crawl. They were in Ker now, the unofficial province where Ashhur’s dark-skinned children resided. Ceredon had never been here, and despite his pain he could recognize the beauty of the place. In many ways Ker seemed like elven lands-the earth sparsely farmed, the wildlife free to roam wherever it wished. There were none of the fences, stone buildings, or clear-cut fields that had become common in most human lands, which made Ceredon, for the first time, feel a sort of kinship with the poor doomed souls. The settlements they came across were akin to those of his people; the land unaltered to suit their needs, with each simply built domicile nestled into the earth as if nature itself had given birth to them.
Yet despite their beauty, these settlements were the root cause of his dismay. Most whose path they crossed were abandoned, some with cookfires still burning in their large communal pits, but in others people still remained. These unfortunate souls were fallen upon in an instant, the flesh flayed from their bodies, their corpses hung upside down from the branches of the small, twisted trees that dotted the plains. It went like this for miles, a slithering militia bringing death, seeking out those who fled, to put them to the sword, even when the grassland was slowly overtaken by desert sands. At first Ceredon had counted the dead, but he stopped when he reached one hundred. It was too macabre to keep up the count.
Through it all Darakken, the demon in a human shell who led the charge, fed. Every time Ceredon saw the creature, riding high atop his palfrey like a pale courier of disease, with lumps shifting beneath his flesh, he would close his eyes and whisper a prayer to Celestia for strength. Sometimes she would answer, and renewed vigor would fill him. Most times, he heard silence. Do not abandon me, goddess, he silently told Celestia’s star, glittering in the heavens. I am not ready to meet you just yet.
These were his thoughts as the prince of Quellassar drifted off to a fitful sleep. He was awoken some time later by rough hands lifting him into a sitting position. Groggy, his head lolling, he choked as liquid was poured down his throat. Ceredon coughed and struggled in his restraints, the chains clinking with his every movement. His mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton. His right hand grabbed a fistful of leather, but he hadn’t the strength to push whoever it was away.
“Quiet,” a kindly voice whispered. “Stop moving. He’ll hear.”
Ceredon ceased at once, blinking the world back into clarity. It was still night, the half-moon high in the blackened sky. The camp slept all around him. He smelled shit and sweat and charred flesh. The one standing before him was Boris Morneau, the young soldier with the diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek who had arrived to inform Darakken of Karak’s orders to invade Ker. Ceredon had not seen much of the young soldier during their long march, but on occasion he spotted Boris riding at Darakken’s side. Though he had not noticed the soldier taking part in the various slaughters, Ceredon knew he had played his part. On seeing him, he hacked a wad of phlegm into Boris’s face.