“I don’t know, milady,” he said.
“Was this the plan all along?”
Quester shook his head. “No, not at all. My masters simply said I was to take Peytr’s gold, and so long as the end goal was to make our god’s life miserable, I was to do as he said.”
“I was never a part of the plan? I was never supposed to lead you to glory?”
“No. I fear Peytr made that up to conceal his true intentions.”
Rachida ground her teeth together. Her heart raced, her blood boiled. Every part of her wanted to disbelieve this man, but what he said made too much sense. Her marriage to Peytr was a convenience, a disguise to hide their true lives. Her darling husband had often said that it was her station as Soleh Mori’s daughter that made their marriage worthwhile, but now that Soleh was gone, the gods were at war, and any advantage Rachida’s name held had shriveled up and died. Peytr had his heir. He had no need for her any longer.
She grunted, spat on the ground, and turned to the sellsword. A ray of hope bloomed. Quester might have been lower than a common brigand, doing whatever it took to line his own pockets, but Peytr had misjudged the man. A rare mistake for her darling husband; a mistake she could use to her advantage. Nudging her sword aside, she patted the bed. Quester appeared hesitant, but eventually took a seat at her side. He smelled of stale liquor with a hint of lilac. For some reason that made her think of Moira, and her heart thudded harder in her chest.
“Swear to me, Quester. Swear to me that what you’ve told me is true.”
“I swear, milady. On what little honor I have.”
“Good.” She leaned over and placed a single kiss on his cheek, then stood, lifting her sword in the process. “That is your reward. . for now.”
“For now?”
She poked her blade into his chest. “Yes, for now. Do not go getting any ideas, however. What I promise you is double what Peytr offered to kill me. My word is my bond, as any will tell you. Is that an appropriate price for your soul?”
Quester smiled sadly. “I will do anything you ask, milady.”
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything.”
“Good. This is the way it will be from here on out. Everything Peytr declared when we departed the Isles will remain the same. We will march, we will fight, and I will lead you. The people of this hamlet say there is a battle raging in the north? Then that is where we go. Do we have the supplies we need?”
“We have enough for a couple weeks, but it would be prudent-”
“I care not for prudence,” she said, more harshly than she’d intended. “What I do care about is that we make this war as miserable for Karak as possible. What I care about is surviving until he and his brother destroy each other, so you can fulfill your duty to me.”
“My duty to you?” he asked with a slight, expectant grin.
She smiled, and it felt good to do so. “Come the end of this war, you are going to help me find Moira, and after that, my son.”
Quester nodded in silence.
“And Quester?”
“Yes?”
Her hand drifted to her sword; the thought of revenge was a sweet cure to her frustration and helplessness.
“Once we return to my beloved husband, you will not take his life,” she said. “That right is mine, and mine alone.”
CHAPTER 12
Ceredon lay on the cold sand inside his tent, reflecting on how quickly his situation had changed. One moment he had been an object of ridicule, harassed and tortured nearly every minute of every day; the next, he was left alone, three hundred new objects of ridicule taking his place.
The people of Ang had been forced from their home and marched through the desert for countless days. Most of the humans’ skin had been dark brown to black, yet as the whips urged them onward, the shackled masses became tinged with splotches of deep red. Ceredon had thought Darakken’s murderous actions in the villages they’d crossed on the way there brutal, but what he now witnessed went far beyond that. It was evil what was happening to these people. Men, women, and children alike were cruelly ushered onward, denied so much as a cup of water while shuffling beneath the heat of the desert sun. Only when they neared death from dehydration were they given sustenance; when they were felled by the myriad of lashes covering their bodies, they were brought before the enormous Bardiya, who would place his hands on their bodies and heal their ills. Afterward the victims were shackled once more, and the process began anew.
Having been sheltered in Quellasar for most of his life, Ceredon had seen a god only once-the day Karak and his First Children came to their forest dwelling to introduce themselves to the elves. Ceredon was four years old at the time, and to him the twelve-foot colossus that was Karak had seemed unreal, the stuff of legends and nighttime terrors. He felt the same way now, staring at this dark giant whose eyes constantly ran wet with tears and whose voice was hoarse as he sang songs of peace to the heavens. Bardiya was a living contradiction; he could have easily crushed any of the elves or human soldiers that harassed him, could have inspired his people to revolt against the beatings they suffered on a daily basis, but did not. He did nothing but cry for peace. Ceredon didn’t know if he should feel awe, pity, or anger.
What he did know was that his own inner shame was growing. He found himself walking, yanked forward by his wrist irons toward the rear of the column, all but forgotten. Larstis, the Dezren elf whose horse he was tethered to, proved to be a kind jailer. Larstis would offer him water and food, and even allow him to ride in the saddle when the elf wished to stretch his legs. Ceredon was thankful for each moment of relief, though each brought rise to his shame. Here he was, thankful to the man who kept him prisoner, for showing him tiny measures of kindness. True kindness would have been releasing him. True mercy would have been standing up to the torture the humans endured.
The path Darakken forged through the desert was circuitous, and often they looped past certain trees or cliffs Ceredon recognized from days before. He concluded that the demon was dragging them endlessly just to punish the humans with the beating sun and fiery sand of the desert beneath their bare feet.
Ceredon rolled over, his chains jangling, and moaned. Outside, Bardiya was telling his people a story, something about a rat and a swamp lizard and the seductiveness of false faith. He could barely make out the words, but he swore he’d heard a story very much like that one at some point in his youth. He finally stopped trying to listen, gulped down the last swig of weak wine Larstis had given him, and tried to fall asleep to the giant’s soothing tone.
A few minutes later, he heard the shuffling of feet over sand, followed by the flap of his tent being shoved aside. A tinderstick was struck, and brightness filled the tent. Ceredon opened one eye. Boris Morneau was standing there, holding a lantern in one hand and a sack in the other. The human looked down at him and smiled.
“You look better.”
Ceredon nodded. The young soldier had made himself scarce since the night he’d come to Ceredon speaking words of warning about the terrors Darakken would impart on his people. He was constantly riding ahead of the procession, acting as the demon’s forward scout. Now, when they came upon the occasional small village, it was empty. He couldn’t help but think that was the human’s doing.
“You’re silent,” Boris said, tilting his head. “Do you wish me to leave?”
“No,” said Ceredon in the common tongue. He pulled himself up as much as he could in his fetters and drew his knees to his chest. “Please, sit with me. I am sorry I have nothing to drink, or I would offer it to you.”
“I brought my own,” the human said with a smile. “Besides, given our conditions, you are more my guest than the other way around.”