Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (14 page)

“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.”

C
HAPTER

12

C
eredon 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.”

Boris meandered across the open space, set down the lantern and sack, and then sat cross-legged across from him. He pulled a skin from his jerkin, and popping the cap, tipped it back and took a sip. When he offered up the skin, Ceredon took it without hesitation. The liquid inside tasted of cinnamon and was harsh, burning his throat as it went down. But there was also a certain sweetness to it that caused warmth to spread in his belly.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A drink my father liked to brew. Fermented potato rinds mixed with rosemary, birch sap, and cinnamon.”

“It is quite good. Sweet, yet potent.”

“Thank you.” Boris squinted at him, shaking his head. “Prince Ceredon, I must apologize for the last time I called on you. It was presumptuous of me to think that you could trust me without my proving trustworthy. I was out of line.”

“I almost broke your neck,” Ceredon said, thinking it terribly funny. “It was the bowl of water you brought that saved you.”

“I count myself lucky, then.” Boris chuckled. “I’ll make sure I carry a drink with me at all times.”

Now they both laughed, and despite their exhaustion, their stress, it felt good to do so. Even then, he kept the sound quiet, for he could only guess at what ears listened in, and what Darakken might think of their nighttime meeting.

“Your question,” Ceredon said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I have had an excess of time to dwell on it, and I fear I still have no worthwhile answer.”

“My question?” asked Boris with a smirk.

“You asked me why Darakken has kept me alive.”

“Ah, yes. That. No answer, truly? Consider me disappointed.”

“Yet you appear to know,” Ceredon said, shaking his head. “Which convinces me you haven’t told me everything yet. What is it you know that I don’t?”

Boris hesitated.

“Come now,” Ceredon insisted. “If we are to play this game, we should play it fair.”

The human tsk’ed and wagged a finger.

“Not just yet,” he said. “You see, I brought a gift for you, one that should keep you from snapping my neck anytime soon.”

“And what might that be?”

Boris squeezed his lips together, uncoiled his legs, and rose to his knees. Untying the string binding the sack at his side, he opened it and tipped it over. From within rolled a bundle with tangled white hair that sank into the sand. Ceredon’s heart rose into his throat. The human leaned over the thing, positioned it in the sand, and smoothed aside the hair. Iolas’s face stared up at Ceredon, his bulging eyes milky and his mouth opened wide in an eternal scream. Ceredon could do nothing but gawk.

“Know that he suffered greatly,” said Boris. “Cactus needles beneath the toenails, open wounds covered with salt, that sort of thing. His cries would have awoken the dead had I not gagged him.”

Ceredon sighed. “Put it back in the bag.”

The human appeared surprised, hurt even, but he did as he was asked. Soon the head of the last of the Triad was safely tucked away.

“I apologize if I offended you,” Boris said, “but I thought you would be happy.”

“It is hard to explain,” Ceredon said, looking the man in the eye. “It is good to know he is dead, but it wasn’t by my hand. He didn’t stare into my eyes, knowing his betrayal cost him dearly.” He jabbed a finger at the sack, which was dark and sodden. “Iolas and the Triad brought so much suffering to the Dezren, and they deserved a horrible death. But forgive me—I cannot gaze upon another severed head and smile. Not when the heads of Orden and Phyrra Thyne stared back at me while Darakken kept me imprisoned in Dezerea.”

“Again, Prince Ceredon, you have my apologies.” Boris heaved the sack toward the tent flap, where it landed with a squishy
thud
.

“Call me ‘prince’ no longer. Ceredon will do.”

“Very well.”

“It is settled then.” Ceredon sat up, pulling his fetters tight, and stretched his legs out before him. He jutted his chin toward the wayward sack. “Now you’ve given me your gift, so answer my question. Why am I still alive? What purpose does the demon have
for me?”

Boris slowly nodded. “You must understand, the two are still linked. The knowledge I have, the reason for your continued
existence
, was spilled to me by Iolas while he . . . suffered. But first I must ask you . . . what do you know of Neyvar Kilidious?”

“Neyvar Kilidious?” Ceredon asked. “Why?”

“Humor me.”

Ceredon rolled his eyes. “Kilidious Sinistel was the youngest Neyvar in the history of the Quellan. He was a mere nine years old when he was crowned toward the end of the Demon War, after the deaths of his father, Kardious, and brother Rentious.
Hen eterunas
vi,
they call him in my tongue: ‘the boy who saved us.’ It is said that after the last of our defenses were shattered after the last of our winged horses were slaughtered, it was his prayers that brought Celestia down from the heavens to cast the demons into the void.”

“You are a direct relation to him, no?”

“Separated by many generations, but yes.”

“I see. And how many other families of the Sinistel line were alive during the time of the great war?”

Ceredon laughed at the absurdity of the question. “None, of course.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it is law among my people that no child of the Neyvar shall bear children until they themselves become Neyvar. A child born of the sovereign is a child born with inherent knowledge of how to lead the people to greatness. Any child born before their father is crowned is henceforth forbidden to receive the crown.”

“And the Neyvars all obeyed this edict? None had children before their crowning?”

“Obviously,” Ceredon snapped. “What ruler would suffer his children to be forbidden their birthright?”

Boris held his hands up. “No need for snippiness.”

Ceredon shook his head. “Then start making sense, human. What does my family history have to do with Darakken keeping me alive?”

To this, Boris grinned. “It’s blood, Ceredon. It’s history. And to something that is for all intents and purposes timeless, such as Darakken is, history is all that matters.”

That got Ceredon’s attention. “Explain.”

Boris began playing with the sand by his feet, picking up handfuls and letting it trickle between his fingers. “Iolas’s version of the end of the Demon War is very much the same as yours, with one significant difference. According to him, it was not Kilidious’s
prayers
that called Celestia down from the heavens, but the blood that flowed in his veins. Your history says that two thousand years ago, when the elves were first created, Celestia molded a single family from each race that she loved more than all else, two families to rule the separate races for all time: the Sinistels for the Quellan, and the Thynes for the Dezren. Is that not true?”

“It is.”

“All of which brings us back to Neyvar Kilidious.”

“In what way?”

Boris’s grin became wider. “The Dezren have always been a more . . . liberated people, unlike your Quellan, who hold tight to their rigid tenets. There is Thyne blood sprinkled all throughout Dezerea and the Stonewood Forest, and has been for centuries, while, by your own admission,
your
family is singular. When the Demon War climaxed a thousand years ago, and Neyvar
Kardious
and Rentious were killed, Darakken and Velixar burst into the Great Hall of Kal’droth—”

“To find young Kilidious on his knees. The goddess then came forth, swallowing the demons in a vortex and banishing them from the realm.”

“Precisely. Only the goddess did this not as an answer to
Kilidious’s
prayers, but because he was the last of his family line.”

Ceredon stared at him doubtfully.

“Think on it,” said Boris. “Celestia created the Sinistel family to rule the Quellan for
all time
. That was her decree, as written in your ancient scrolls. Celestia might have allowed you to fight your battles, allowed thousands of your kind to die, but if she had let Kilidious perish, her own word would have been proven false.
For all time
would not be.”

“This feels wrong,” said Ceredon, his breathing heavy. “Iolas insults our goddess with such a belief.”

“Perhaps, but whether it is right or wrong is irrelevant, at least for the time being.
Darakken
believes this. That is why he has kept you alive. He does not do you mortal damage for fear Celestia will come down from the heavens and banish him again. And it is this fear that we will use against the demon when the time is right.”

Ceredon gaped at the human. “Who are you? What is your purpose here?”

“I am but a humble servant,” Boris said with a bow. “I am Boris Morneau Marchant, son of Francois Marchant and Gillea
Connington
, sworn to protect the house that bears my mother’s maiden name.” He stopped talking and glanced over his shoulder, looking suddenly cautious before leaning in close and saying, in a hushed voice, “I am a mutineer, Ceredon, a wolf among wolves. I am one of many infiltrating the army of the Eastern Divinity and spreading falsehoods, sparking desertion, and casting a seed of doubt into all who stand with Karak.”

The Quellan prince found himself taken aback, frightened even by the man’s proclamation. “But why? To what purpose?”

“To reach an end where no more gods walk upon Dezrel, an end where humankind is truly free. Karak and Ashhur are at war, and it is our duty to make sure that neither of them wins.” The man smiled, the teardrop scar on his cheek flaring red in the light from the lantern. “We wish you no harm, Ceredon, not you or your people.”