The Rabbit and the Raven: Book Two in the Solas Beir Trilogy (26 page)

“You did what you had to do. It was genocide,” Abby
replied.

“I
know
what it was. But you cannot ask me to side against my brother again.”

“He did this as the Southern Oracle. What do you think will happen if we lose and he rules Cai Terenmare?” she asked.

The Southern Oracle hunched forward, covering his face with his hands. He was silent for a long time, and Abby sat down beside him. Finally, he raised his head and looked at her, taking her hand. “All right,” he said, sighing heavily.

“All right?” She searched his eyes.

“You win, C’aislingaer. I will align with the Solas Beir. What happened here must
never
happen again.”

Abby smiled and kissed his cheek. “
Thank you
, King of Jaguars.”

He smiled back and squeezed her hand. “You are a formidable opponent, Abby. I do believe my brother has greatly underestimated you.”

“And I agree with the former Solas Beir’s decision to make you Southern Oracle. You are a man of honor,” she replied.

The oracle sighed and shook his head. “No. I am a man who has made many mistakes.”

“But you learned from them. The old Solas Beir knew that. That’s why he chose you to replace Tierney. He knew you would understand what was at stake better than anyone.” Abby stood up and held out her hand. “Come on—let’s go back to the village. But can we climb down the pyramid this time? I can’t handle going through that passage again.”

The Southern Oracle took her hand and got to his feet. “Neither can I.”

Chapter Nine

THE SIXTH COURTESAN

T
he courtesan stood looking out into the vast nothingness of the Barren. To the west was home. Due east was the city from which he had scarcely escaped. He considered himself lucky. Of the six of them, three had been used until their last breath had been taken from them. The fourth had put up a fight and had died for it, but her sacrifice had created the diversion that made his flight from the city’s dungeon possible. The fifth—well, the fifth had been the hardest to leave behind.

He could do nothing for the others, but the fifth still lived, or at least he hoped she did. He had wanted to free her as well, but with the guards close at his heels, it simply wasn’t possible. She was young, much too young to be left alone in that den of vipers, but there was nothing he could do until he found someone with the power to intervene. If he failed, the Shadows would feed on her, draining her completely. It was her face that drove him to press on. But even if he did fail and she was lost, many others like her lived in his village, young ones who could just as easily be taken. He could not let that happen. If he could not save her, he must honor her by crossing the Barren to warn the others.

He stopped to rest at the rock spire that marked the desert’s border. The Eye of the Needle it was called, and around the steep rock wall of its base was a smattering of large boulders. He chose one and set down his satchel, opening it to check his supplies. Before the palace guards had given chase, he had managed to steal the bag and some food from the bazaar flanking the city’s gates. He had stolen a leather cask as well. It had been half full, but now, after a good day’s run to this place, it was almost empty. Ahead, the hot, dusty dunes of the Barren mocked him, asking him if he truly dared to venture forward with nothing but a few sips left.

He did not have a choice. He could not return to the city. He had heard there was a village on the southern coast, but getting there would still require travel through part of this desert. Even if he managed the journey, the place was rumored to be a vile rat’s nest of bandits and cutthroats—not much different from the
gang of slave traders he’d just left, really. Supposing he made it to Southport alive, he had nothing to trade for a voyage home except himself, so in all likelihood, the bandits would simply ship him north to the city of the Eastern Oracle again.

He thought of his sister back home in their village on the plains, and of an old saying she favored: “The Light will provide.” The saying had carried them through to harvest during many years of hardship. He had to hope provisions would come this time too.

He slipped the strap of the satchel over his head and onto one shoulder, slinging the bag to rest on his hip, so the weight of it was distributed across his body. He adjusted the richly embroidered silk tunic that had been given to him upon his arrival in the city. The tunic was deep purple in color, the mark of the royal courtesans. One of his hands had been branded with a golden tattoo. It was a shape he knew well, one that served as the sigil of the Solas Beir, that of the Sign of the Throne. He traced the spiral of the nautilus shell and stepped away from the rock spire onto the hot sand. The Light would provide. It would have to, for there was nothing else.

The courtesan followed the sun as it journeyed west. He was unsure how many hours passed in the dizzying heat
. He only knew that he had to keep to his path, west, always west, one foot, then the other, step after step.

Ahead, something shiny twinkled, glinting in the sunlight. As the courtesan approached, he was able to
discern the stone basin of a well. Surely, he thought, it would be dry—he dared not hope otherwise. To his delight, the well was full and running over into the shallow trough that encircled it. He dipped a finger into the cool liquid and tasted it. The water was sweet.
How can this be?
There was an insignia carved into the white marbled wall of the fount, a woman with wings outstretched like a bird. The symbol was bounded by a simple carved circle.

The courtesan hesitated, remembering the creatures who had taken him, their harsh, bird-of-prey screams piercing the stillness of the night.

Above the image was a jewel, also enclosed in a circle. This jewel was the source of the twinkling light he had seen from afar. It was an amethyst, deep violet like his tunic, a stone of protection and healing. In spite of the resemblance of the carving to the winged creatures who had been his captors, surely this fount was his salvation, a sign the Light had indeed provided. His parched throat felt as though it were full of splinters, and the water was so very sweet.

He filled his
cask and drank, then refilled it and drank again. A third time he filled it and then capped it tight for the journey to come. He wished he had more containers to hold water, but at least now he was refreshed. He ducked his head into the well. It felt so lovely to feel the cool water on his skin.

He still did not know how he would make it across the Barren without losing his way or his mind, but this gift of water had certainly improved his odds. He ducked his head again for good measure, to enjoy the coolness of the fount once more.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain pulse through the hand that had been branded and raised his head from the pool, startled to find a small reptile staring up at him. The creature was long, almost eel-like, with a ribbon-like tail and a rounded snout. Just behind its eyes was some kind of lacy frilled growth, not quite horns, but gills perhaps. It had small, stubby appendages. The creature’s scales were a muddy red, almost black, and a lighter scarlet line ran along its sides. The tapered tail bloomed into a flat paddle, edged in black and white stripes. The thing hissed at him, revealing rows of teeth curved like cutlasses toward the back of its throat. The courtesan pulled his hand back—he could see a half circle of red dots next to the gold tattoo. The thing had bitten him.

“He changed his mind?” David asked in disbelief after the Southern Oracle left their tree house, having formally shared the news with the others. Cael, Jon and Marisol had joined the oracle to tour more of the village, leaving David and Abby alone.

“Yep. He sure did.”
Abby was beaming from her victory.

“I love you, woman. I really do. I don’t know how you did it, but you are
amazing
.”

“I
am
amazing,” she agreed, grinning. “But it’s a long story. I’ll have to fill you in later. For now, he’s hosting one last feast before we leave tomorrow.”

“Great! Wow, I just can’t believe it. I’m thrilled.” David scooped her up in his arms and spun her around. The tree house swayed precariously.

“Whoa there,” she laughed. “Dial down the enthusiasm. You’re going to kill us.”

With the news of the Southern Oracle’s decision to join the alliance, the frosty tension that had so quickly developed between him and David melted. The feast ended with the promise of friendship and future visits.

After the feast, Abby shared her experiences at the Blood Altar with David and the others. She wanted them to understand the oracle’s reasons for becoming an ally, and why he had said no initially. It was David who understood something no one else recognized, not even Abby.

“You pushed him,” he said. “Remember what Eulalia said about you being an empath and being able to project emotions?”

Abby remembered. “You’re right. I didn’t even know I was doing it, but it’s true. There was such a strong emotional echo in that place—it was overwhelming. But what surprised me is that it wasn’t the fear that stuck with me, it was anger at the injustice of what happened to those people.”

David nodded. “Righteous anger.”

“Exactly,” Abby agreed. “It was almost like I was standing outside of myself, watching as I focused that anger into a fine point, and then beamed it at him, burning it into him until his resolve evaporated. It was powerful.”

“Sounds like somebody’s got their own laser powers,” David smiled.

“Guess so. Better not tick me off, Fly Boy,” she said, punching his arm playfully. “I’ll mess you up.”

David raised his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare. So how about using that mind trick on Tierney? Think it could work?”

“Worth a try,” Abby said. If the Southern Oracle was strong enough to once again stand against Tierney, maybe she was too.

With replenished supplies, they headed into the depths of the forest, accompanied by the oracle and his entourage. The horrors that had haunted them on the journey to the village seemed to have vanished, and with extra guards for the night watch, the group was able to travel more quickly than before.

Soon, Abby found herself saying a heartfelt goodbye to the Southern Oracle, as he left them safely at the Emerald Guardian. Though she had not known him long, she would miss him. She respected his courage.

The sun was setting once again, and the forest was getting dark. With the rainforest at their backs, everyone seemed to be in a lighter mood, as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. The familiar sounds of their own forest were comforting, and the sight of their horses
, grazing as contentedly as when they had left them, made everyone ache for home.

Still, when Cael suggested they postpone the long ride to the castle until morning, no one objected. The fortunate turn of events with the Southern Oracle had buoyed their spirits, and for the moment, almost erased the sense of urgency driving their mission.

Exhausted, Abby had no trouble getting to sleep. Wrapped in David’s arms, she felt warm and safe.

Spending time in the rainforest had been draining; even without the sleep-deprived nights, there had been a depressive shadow hanging over her, something intermeshed with the canopy itself. The heaviness of it made Abby feel as if her body were made of lead—even with the good news of having the Southern Oracle as an ally, there were times when it took all she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It was similar to her experience fighting fear in the passage at the Blood Altar. She knew the others could feel it too, but not as keenly as she did. She wasn’t sure if that was because she was an empath, or because of her experiences at the Blood Altar. Either way, she felt cursed.

The courtesan stumbled down a dune and across the flat, dusty bottom of a lake that had been dry for centuries. Ahead were more dunes. They looked blurry, but the courtesan was unsure if this was because of the heat in the air, or if something was wrong with his vision. He was starting to suspect the latter. He looked back at the path he had taken, following his sandy footprints to the crest of the dune. Perhaps he
was
seeing things, because he seemed to have company.

The eel-lizard thing that had bitten him was stalking him now, hanging back several paces, just far enough away to stay out of reach. The courtesan stared down at the semicircle of angry, red dots on his hand. Next to them, the branded golden nautilus shell still lay flat on the top of his hand, but the skin around the tattoo was swollen. His hand was ballooning into something unrecognizable, a fleshy lump with pudgy sausage fingers. His throat felt swollen as well, and the dry splinters of thirst had returned. Each swallow was raw, agonizing. Attached to his belt was his
cask, still nearly full. In the grip of his fever, he had found it too heavy to lift, and then, as his temperature rose, he had forgotten about it entirely.

The ground below the courtesan rolled like the deck of a ship, and through a dizzying haze of confusion, he wondered if the ground was actually moving or if the desert heat was slowly frying his brain. Or perhaps it was the eel-thing’s venom crawling through his veins, killing him as slowly as he stumbled through th
is never-ending land of sand and more sand. There were many things he was unsure of, but of one thing he was certain: whatever was following him was growing.