Wrath of Lions (73 page)

“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.

C
HAPTER

39

F
or 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.

“By Karak, you look like shit,” the soldier said, hastily throwing his arms around Ceredon to keep him from falling. “Whoa there, I have you.”

Ceredon leaned into the man, thankful for his strong arms and quick actions. When he took a closer look at the soldier, he saw that he had an odd, diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.

“Thank you,” Ceredon said in the common tongue. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

The soldier paused, then said, “You can call me Boris Morneau. And there’s a good reason we haven’t met. I only arrived a few hours ago.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

“Information,” Boris said proudly. “I had an urgent message for Master Clovis.”

“Oh. And what was that message?”

Boris looked at him sidelong. “I’m sorry, my message was for Master Crestwell’s ears only,” he said. “And besides, you haven’t told me
your
name yet.”

“My apologies,” Ceredon said with a chuckle. “Ceredon Sinistel, at your…actually,
in
your service.”

“Ceredon? As in son of the Neyvar?”

“The one and only.”

“Well, what do you know? I just arrived in Dezerea, and I’ve already met a prince.” His head cocked to the other side. “Granted, a very
injured
prince, but still. What in the world happened to you?”

“Short, uninteresting story. However, do you think you could do me the favor of helping me to the big room down the hall?” He lifted the wooden pitcher, an action that hurt like hell with his broken arm. “I was not thinking and attempted to retrieve some water for myself despite my…condition. If you were to lend me your shoulder, I promise you this prince will never forget it.”

“Of course. Consider me at your service.”

With Boris’s help, it took no time at all to reach the Chamber of Assembly. The young soldier even went so far as to fill the pitcher for him, then fetched a cup for him to drink from. It was while he was mid-gulp that a shrill scream pierced the night air.

“What was that?” he asked Boris.

The soldier shook his head. “I told you. I came with a message for Master Crestwell. I never said it was a
good
message.”

“I see.”

Boris steered him out of the chamber and back down the hall, heading for the stairwell. It was then that Biden came tearing around the corner, eyes wide with fright. When the healer spotted Ceredon, he stopped short.

“My lord, what are you doing down here?” Biden exclaimed in elvish.

“I needed water,” Ceredon said, as if the agonizing trip down to the lowest floor had been nothing.

“You should have told someone,” the healer said, panting. “You frightened me half to death. If you had been taken…”

“Why would I have been taken? By whom?”

“Why, by the rebellion.” Biden looked at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. “Did you not hear?”

“Hear what?”

“There was an attempt on Councilor Iolas’s life tonight. One of the insurgents snuck into his room and attempted to put a dagger through his heart. If the guard on duty had not gone in to check on him, he would have perished.”

Ceredon’s heart rose into his throat. “Oh,” was all he could say.

Biden walked up to him, looking him over. “At least you seem to be healing, my lord. How does your foot feel?”

“Like it’s the size of a watermelon.”

“But at least you can feel it. This young man assisted you down the stairs?”

He thought of telling the truth, but instead said, “He did.”

“Thank goodness for him.” Biden looked at Boris. “And what is the human’s name?”

Boris stared at him, dumbfounded.

Biden chuckled and switched to the common tongue. “Many apologies. I am simply wondering the name of the human who assisted my prince in his time of need.”

“Boris,” he replied. He looked as if he were about to speak his last name as well, but he tripped over the word and fell silent.

Ceredon grabbed the healer by the sleeve of his robe. “Biden,” he said, switching back to his native tongue, “enough of this, I feel fine. Tell me what happened to Iolas. You said he was attacked, but was he injured? If so, was it serious?”

The healer shook his head. “The guard put an arrow through the rebel’s heart before he had a chance to do him any harm. However…”

“Go on, Biden. Tell me.”

The healer looked around, then said, “Iolas does not feel safe here any longer. As the last of the Triad, he is returning to Quellassar to name two new members of the sacred trinity. It is an obligation he has been putting off for weeks.”

“And the attack gave him reason,” Ceredon muttered.

“Indeed,” said Biden.

“When does he leave? Has he decided?”

“Three days.” The healer cocked his head, staring closely at Ceredon’s face. “My prince, do you wish for my help in returning to your room? You have grown pale.”

Ceredon shook his head. “I am sure my friend Boris can manage. You must have things to do.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Very well,” Biden said. “I must check on your father. But I will be back to look in on you as well. Try to remain in your bed from now on. I will send two guards to keep watch over you until morning.”

Ceredon nodded to the healer, who then ambled away, heading for the main entrance to the palace. He shook his head, feeling his insides tense. Iolas could not be allowed to perish by any hand other than his, but he could not be allowed to return to Quellassar either. Ceredon would need to take care of him in the next two days…which, given his condition, would be a near impossible task.

“What was that about?” Boris asked.

Ceredon looked at the young soldier and shook his head. “You weren’t the only one delivering bad news this night,” he said, leaving it at that.

“Oh. I see. What will you do about this ‘bad news’?”

“Honestly, my new friend? I have not a clue.”