“Is destroying those who might destroy us not necessary for survival?”
“You know how I feel.”
“Very well, Brother. Have it your way.”
Bardiya sighed. “I wish you understood my words.”
“I do. I simply don’t agree.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then trust me on this.”
He shook his head. “I’ve tried, Brother, but I cannot.”
“You wish to hold on to these weapons, don’t you?”
He nodded.
Bardiya squeezed his eyes shut. “Please know that I will not give you the chance,” he said. “Once the Dezren have taken what they need, I will cast the crates back into the ocean. I will not stand by as you rally my people to violence.”
“Your people?” Ki-Nan said with a laugh. “Last I knew, they were our people, Brother. People brought up to live free in a land of peace. They can make their own choices, just as we can.” He shook his head. “It is the same tired argument, over and over. Do as you must to convince our people to put out their necks. I will do what I can to convince them to fight.”
“You will lose,” Bardiya whispered.
“We will see,” his friend said. He then turned to Bardiya and offered an exaggerated bow. “Until then, I will bother you no more, your Grace,” he said mockingly.
With those words, he walked away, following the path the Dezren forged back toward Ang. Unlike the elves, his body was not wreathed in light. Instead, darkness surrounded him, as if all the brightness had been swallowed the closer it got to his dark flesh. Bardiya leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands.
“You will see, my friend,” he told the air around him. “I will make you understand.”
Two days later, the Dezren departed for their home, taking with them twenty-five swords, twelve daggers, and three battle-axes.
Three days later, when Bardiya returned to cast the boxes of terror into the sea, he found that the crates, and Ki-Nan, had disappeared.
CHAPTER 39
For days without end, Ceredon blinked in and out of consciousness, the potions the Quellan healers had given him to ease his pain leaving him in a state of delirium. At times he cursed his foolishness for demanding that Thane be so brutal.
He rolled over in bed, a spike of pain stabbing through him. His left arm had been broken, along with five ribs, his right foot, and his nose. His body was covered with lacerations and deep gouges which the healers had treated with boiling wine to ward off infection. Biden, sworn healer to the Neyvar, had told him he was lucky to have survived. Ceredon had chuckled at that, knowing as he did that luck had nothing to do with it.
Ceredon had been found on the path to the hills by the retreating Ekreissar, who were fleeing from the rebel’s supposed hideaway. Sixteen had been killed by booby traps-swinging spiked logs, deep covered holes, and bolts fired by tripwire. After stumbling on Ceredon’s unmoving body, they’d scooped him up and carried him back to Palace Thyne. Ever since, he had resided in the room down the hall from his father’s.
The human Clovis Crestwell had come to question him more than once, asking him why he and Aeson had been separated from the rangers, a question to which Ceredon always shrugged in response. He claimed he couldn’t remember, which wasn’t a complete lie. His brain had been jarred by Thane’s beating, leaving him with only spotty memories of that night.
At least he was spared questions regarding Aeson’s whereabouts, as pieces of the Neyvar’s cousin had been found scattered throughout the forest in the days following the attack. Iolas had broken the sad news to him, the old bastard nearly in tears as he sat on the edge of the younger elf’s sickbed. Ceredon found it quite humorous that Iolas trusted him enough to show weakness, considering the fact that the last living member of the Triad was the final one on his hit list.
Thoughts of Iolas brought him to wakefulness. He sat up groggily, glancing about his shimmering emerald room, then through the window at the night sky twinkling with stars. He wore no clothes, and the wounds covering his body still stung beneath their wrappings. His mouth felt parched, so he reached over and snatched a cup of water from atop the table next to his bed. After he downed the liquid in one gulp, his senses began to return to him, which was when he smelled the lingering odor of the half-full chamber pot on the floor beside him. He doubled over, gagging, then reached for the wooden jug that sat on the table for more water. It was empty.
Groaning, he swung his feet over the side of the featherbed, making sure he gave the chamber pot a wide berth. When his bare toes touched the cool crystal of the floor, a shiver rocked his spine, bringing on a new spasm of pain. He accepted the torment, flattening his feet against the ground until the feeling subsided. He flexed his broken right foot, which was expertly wrapped. The bones had been set and were healing nicely, or so Biden had told him. Still, he’d been assured that he would feel echoes of this injury for a long while, possibly even decades.
Once again, Ceredon cursed Thane’s effectiveness.
There was a long walking rod propped against the wall, and Ceredon grabbed it before standing up. He wedged the padded top of the rod into his right armpit and rose to his feet. Using the rod to put as little weight as possible on his broken foot, he hopped toward the door, the empty pitcher dangling from his other hand.
He knew he could shout for help, but the hour was late, and most in the palace were likely asleep. Besides, he couldn’t stand to be alone in his room any longer. He felt completely in the dark, limited by the knowledge that Iolas and Clovis were willing to share. He knew nothing about the status of the rebellion or how his father felt about the whole situation. The Neyvar hadn’t once come to see him, and that fact alone led Ceredon to wonder if he had completely misread his father from the beginning. He hoped not.
The hall was empty when he exited his room, just as he’d expected. He hobbled down the stairs, taking care to hop down a step at a time, and each time he landed, new agony shook his battered body. He paused and glanced down. His room was on the seventh story. That meant he had a hundred steps and six turns to go until he reached the ground level. He groaned, sucked in a deep breath, and hopped down yet another step.
It took him nearly a full hour to reach the bottom, and by the time he got there, he was in so much misery that he had to lean against the wall to wait for the worst of the pangs to ebb. When they did, he got moving once more, working his way slowly through the vestibule, heading for the Chamber of Assembly, where a fountain of water bubbled up from a spring far below the palace.
He paused at the sound of someone’s approach. A shadow appeared at the end of the long hallway that led to the chamber where Clovis was residing during his stay in the emerald city. The shadow grew longer, taller, and the sound of metal clinking on crystal echoed all around the approaching figure. Ceredon froze in place, a feeling of dread coming over him. In his pain-wracked mind he saw the spirits of those he had helped slay, from Teradon to Conall, to Aeson, coming for him. He wished he had brought a weapon with him-a dagger, a length of rope, anything. He then realized that he’d be in no shape to defend himself in any case.
The shadows were eventually cast aside by the flickering torches, revealing the figure to be neither a ghost nor Clovis, but a young soldier. He was handsome in a human way, wearing his armor adorned with the roaring lion as if it were a second skin. His eyes were kind, and he possessed a head of wavy dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. Ceredon teetered to the side and lost his balance. Taking in the sight of him, the young man squinted and picked up his pace.