Lunatic (19 page)

A coppery taste flooded his mouth. He hated Derias.

No, Shaeda hated Derias.

Same difference.

"Do you see now, my johnis?"

Yes. I see why you hate the Shataiki. But what does this have to do with conquering the Horde?

"Johnis." Silvie's voice shut off the image. He shook his head. He was on his knees, palms flat on the ground.

"Shaeda," he whispered. "Shaeda, come back. Explain the rest. Tell me."

But Shaeda was quiet.

Why did Silvie always seem to silence Shaeda?

Silvie said his name again. Shaedas will was so strong. But he couldn't ignore Silvie.

"I saw ... I saw into Shaedas mind. Her memories ... I saw ... She hates Shataiki, Silvie. Hates them. And she wants to control them. She's angry, very angry."

"You can read her mind?"

"Not all the time, I don't think." Johnis shook his head. "Sometimes."

"Rely on me, my johnis. You must learn to trust in my power."

Shaedas power.

Johnis licked his lips. He'd had a taste of it. His mind fantasized what the full measure of her might could do. Heady, really.

She chuckled. "Trust me, my johnis. You will see, in time ... "

"See what?" he asked.

"I didn't say ..." Understanding came into Silvie's eyes. "Are you two going to continue these private conversations?"

He shook his head. Shaeda prodded him along. "We have to get to the priest."

MARAK LED DARSAL THROUGH THE STREETS, TURNED down an alleyway, and came upon a single-story house that was larger than the ones around it but mostly plain to look at.

"This is home. Per our arrangement." He hesitated, almost unwilling to say whatever it was he intended to next. "There's a spare room with a mat you can sleep on."

"A mat." She crossed her arms as best she could with the chains. "Am I your pet dog now?"

Love him, Darsal.

Right now she wasn't sure how, much less why. He was a brute. Uncouth and cold to the touch. And he smelled.

"Just tend the horse." He reached for her neck.

Darsal struck him in the chest on instinct.

Marak took a step back and absorbed the blow. His expression was both frustrated and surprised. "You want to wear the tether all night?"

"You went for my neck. What was I supposed to do?" Her instinct, her head, said to snatch out one of his knives and run him through. Her heart said that he hadn't meant anything and that she'd overreacted. And a third part of her said she hadn't overreacted but she could still get away without killing him.

Maybe Elyon himself had gone loony.

She could almost hear him laughing at that one.

Marak gave an exasperated sigh. "Just hold still." He removed her tether and shoved the lead to his horse in her hand. "Come in the kitchen when you're done."

"You want me to tend the horse?" From Forest Guard to Shataiki killer to traitor to mucking horse stalls. Although it was a step up from Alucard. As if that took much.

Marak stopped and turned around. His gaze lingered longer than necessary, studying her with an expression she couldn't read.

"You've made your agreement."

"To serve you, not the horse."

"My experience is that albinos rarely break their word." His voice was hard, edgy. Tense. "Don't disappoint me." With that, he went into the house.

Darsal started to protest, but he was already inside. She scowled. Maybe this was a bad idea. The horse reeked. Marak reeked.

He'd left her alone.

She could escape now, easily, without ever touching him.

But ... but her fool's errand, her mission ...

Elyon, what do you mean? How do I love a mongrel? He's rotten through, as good as dead already.

But the resounding, soft voice continued. "So were you. "

There was no winning that one.

"For you, then," she grumbled. "For Johnis. Wherever the lunatic and his lunatic girlfriend are."

She went around back and unsaddled the Scab warhorse, rubbed him down-a disgusting, smelly task. She fed and watered the animal then entered into the living room from the back door, bracing herself for a fresh dose of spoiling Horde stench.

The inside was clean and smelled of dinner. Marak had drawn the curtains and lit a few candles and a standing torch.

Darsal rounded the corner into the living room and didn't see him. A couple of chairs, a low table, and a couch. Five candlestands and the torch. To her left was a small, round kitchen table big enough for two, maybe three people.

To her right was a narrow hallway.

What was in the rest of the great Horde general's house? No harm in looking. Know thy enemy, right?

Love thy enemy.

She remembered the line from somewhere but couldn't place it. The other Earth, somewhere. Not Alucard.

Darsal entered the hall and found three doors on the left, one on the right. The hall was a dead end.

The first room was a study. Qurong's general liked to read. The room was full of books and scrolls. A small writing desk lay half-buried under a mound of paper, and several candles had gone to a waxy grave.

Darsal looked in the second room. Bathroom. Nothing special.

The third was a storage room. She approached the fourth with some care. It was farthest from the door and on the far right end of the hall.

She turned the handle slowly.

Yes, this was the great general's bedroom.

Darsal remained in the doorway, taking it in. A small bay window, curtains drawn. A single candle on a stand right beside his bed. Two trunks: one red, one brown.

A worn journal lay on the bed, open.

Thinking maybe it was battle plans, Darsal ducked inside.

If she made it to Thomas, to the others, she could ...

Her hand touched the leather.

The cover had an inscription in neat, flowery handwriting. A woman's. Curious. She flipped it open. Definitely not battle plans. She started to read.

"Dear Marak, we've been in hiding two months now. Forgive the long secrecy, but you understand how it is. We parted ways so angry, so hurt . . . Jordan's been good to me, but I fear too much is left unsaid. So listen to me, love ... "

A hand grabbed her by the wrist and spun her around.

Her head slammed on wood paneling.

Darsal wrapped her hands around Marak's wrist and squeezed until he released her. He swore. She went into a defensive posture.

The general shoved past her and slammed the journal shut. Picked it up and studied it for a long time. Then set it on a bookcase.

Darsal was between him and the door, but experience fighting with and against Silvie taught her well the meaning of knives in thigh sheathes.

Do not run.

"What's in the journal?"

Marak's expression was unreadable. He looked surprised and enraged. Barely restrained fury. A caged, half-starved lion.

"Does this look like the kitchen to you?"

"I was looking around. For that you grab me by the wrist?"

"Did I tell you to look around?"

"I repeat the question. I trained under Thomas Hunter, supreme commander of the Forest Guard. I'm hardly some simpering wench you can throw around at will."

Marak studied her a minute, then relented. "Learn your place, albino." He stalked down the hall into the kitchen.

Thoughts of the journal made her hesitate.

If she could get to it ...

"Go clean up," he growled from the other room.

Darsal opened her mouth to protest.

No.

His reaction to the journal was potent.

More mysteries.

Shake it off, Darsal. It was nothing. He's a brute. A brute who hates all things Elyon, including you.

She retreated to the bathroom and found the clean clothes and jar of morst. For a long minute she stared at the basin of murky water with which she would have to bathe. Finally she wet a cloth and washed herself. Darsal washed her hair, too, as best she could. After she was clean and toweled off, she examined her cuts and bruises, fingered Jordan's pendant at her throat.

The one Marak kept staring at.

Marak with his flaking skin covered in disgusting white powder that barely muted the noxious fumes. Marak, the Horde general out to eliminate the entire Circle because of their skin.

The beast who allowed those things to happen to Rona and Jordan and Xedan.

Her hand brushed the jar of morst as she reached for her clothes.

She paused. Studied it. On impulse she opened the lid and smelled. A floral scent. Water dripped from her dark hair into the jar.

Darsal brushed the wet lock back over her shoulder and put the morst down.

Wrung out her hair better.

How miserable, to smell and look so grotesque that you would cover your entire body in a white powder out of embarrassment. The only thing worse than Scab skin was Shataiki flesh.

Darsal mulled it over.

Curious, that partial journal entry.

Disgusting, the mere suggestion of loving a Scab.

This mission is stillborn.

As she used the comb, her eyes fell once more to the jar.

Her skin was as mortifying to the Scabs as theirs to her. Yet she had chosen to love them as penance to Elyon.

She pressed her lips together.

Love them.

But first they had to be able to stand the smell of each other.

She smelled at least as bad to Marak as he did to her.

"That could work," she whispered. She braided her hair in Horde fashion, then opened the jar of morst, which really did smell nice. Quickly, she rubbed the white powder over her body, over her hands and arms and as far under the shackles as she could.

Ten minutes later she came into the kitchen.

Two bowls of stew waited at the table. Marak had flung himself into one of the chairs and was eating his meal in a brooding silence.

Darsal waited in the threshold, watching him eat. Elyon, how do you win a Scab that won't even look at you?

Just looking at the white skin made her itch and feel stiff.

Stop it. You're sympathizing with a monster.

Then she narrowed her eyes. For one, the rotten-meat smell was heavily muted and she could stand it, even in the minute or so they'd been in close proximity. Two, aside from the places on his arms where their skin had made contact when he grabbed her, fresh morst had been applied in generous amounts.

General Marak had taken great care that no cracks and no obvious flakes showed.

Why?

"Get out of my blind spot," Marak said without looking up or turning his head.

Darsal's eyes narrowed. "I like this spot."

Marak jabbed a finger at the chair in front of him. She started to argue again, but that tiny little voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her of her mission.

Fighting Marak every step of the way would never work. Forcing herself to obey, she took her seat.

Marak's eyes were dull, clouded, concealing some skeleton rotting in his heart. Darsal returned the steady gaze. The longer she looked the more she saw-and the more questions she had.

What exactly had caused him to come into the dungeons? To stay his hand? And then there was that journal ...

What lay beyond the skin of this general?

"Are you a spy?" Marak continued to study her.

"No." So now the interrogation would begin. Now he would force her to lay bare her sins. She braced herself. "I'm sick of spilling blood."

"I spill albino blood."

She didn't flinch. He was watching for her reaction, and she didn't want to witness his satisfaction as he gloried over his exploits, reveled in the slaughter of Middle, of innocent men, women, and children. She should burst across the table and spear him through with his own knife.

But the memories served as pointed reminders. She thought of Johnis and Silvie, who had stayed true to her even when shackled to the wall awaiting their doom. Just like Jordan had.

Was that what the books were about?

Her hand went to the necklace. "I've done worse."

That answer surprised him. She looked away.

Silence.

"You're wearing morst. Why?"

That surprised her. "I ... thought it might help."

"It helps."

"You think I lie."

"I don't trust you. Eat. We've a long day ahead. Tomorrow I'll have a brood of albinos to deal with and a meeting with Sucrow. Unfortunately." Marak stood.

He was becoming more and more curious. So the general hated the priest as well. But then, Sucrow was easy to hate.

"To discuss killing the Circle."

The general's eyes went cold. "To discuss our mission. Desecration."

"Fitting title. Did you name it?"

Silence.

Darsal couldn't withhold the question anymore. She lowered her spoon and twisted sideways in her chair. "Why didn't you kill me in the dungeon?"

Marak's expression turned dark. He cracked his knuckles. One hand pressed flat on the table, he leaned down to her.

"I'm beginning to rethink that decision."

"Does it have something to do with Jordan?"

He instinctively raised his fist, then lowered it and swung away from her, red faced.

"What makes you think that had anything to do with him?"

The mighty general had an underbelly. Jordan.

What did she care about a Scab's feelings?

But ... she couldn't hide the overwhelming impulse to keep pushing.

Elyon help them both.

"You seem upset by his death."

Marak stalked away from her. "Stop it, albino."

Now she had to find the source of his wound. It was nonnegotiable. And the evidence all pointed to one man: Jordan of Southern. She stood.

"You know his name. It's his necklace I'm wearing. He gave it to me."

His fist smashed against the wall. Understanding came.

One clean-skinned and warm. One disease-riddled and cold.

Darsal lowered her voice, seeking softness she didn't possess. "He was your brother, wasn't he? And you executed him."

Marak pivoted on one heel, his face stopping inches from hers.

Darsal froze.

"Never, ever speak like this to me again." His hot, acidic breath basted her skin. Darsal choked on the smell and fought back a cough.