Dark Lady's Chosen (16 page)

The elder nodded. “Aye. It cuts deeply.”

“I think I know where the rogue
vayash moru
have taken shelter from the day. If they’re in their day crypt, they’re vulnerable. We could punish the ones who did this.”

The elder drew a deep breath and looked past Jonmarc at the rising sun. “I saw that Lord Gabriel was here—and I know they helped drive off the biters that attacked us.”

“Gabriel and Laisren are angry about what Malesh is doing. They’re bloodsworn to stop him—as is Lady Riqua. But they can’t move against Malesh by day. We can.”

The elder still looked to the sunrise. “No one has hunted
vayash moru
by day in these lands for many, many years. We have honored the Truce.”

“Honorable
vayash moru
still respect the Truce. Malesh is a bad seed. He’s betrayed his own kind. There’s still a chance to stop this before it becomes a war. If this goes on, and King Staden has to get involved—”

The elder nodded, and turned to meet Jonmarc’s gaze. “Yes, I know. The price will be high.

Too high. We will go with you. May the Dark Lady forgive us.”

Later that night, Jonmarc’s dreams gave him little sleep. The years faded, and once again, he was in Eastmark. He was tied to the back of a wagon, his wrists chained and his ankles hobbled with ropes. The soldiers hadn’t bothered to give him a shirt or cloak when they pulled him from General Alcion’s brig. He was shivering with cold, which only made the pain worse. Alcion hadn’t been content with forcing him to watch while the men under Jonmarc’s command were hanged for refusing the order to burn down a village that could not afford to pay its taxes.

It wasn’t enough that the hangmen deliberately made the nooses short, so that his soldiers twisted and convulsed while they gasped for air. Nor was it sufficient to force him at sword’s point to watch as Alcion’s troops made bayonet practice with their dying bodies. Alcion and his blood mage, Foor Arontala, wanted to make an example of the captain who dared defy them. He had been beaten, whipped, and branded. Arontala had made sure Jonmarc was denied the solace of unconsciousness or shock until Alcion was through with him. Arontala, the same Fireclan mage who had sent magicked beasts to his own village two years before, the beasts that had killed his wife.

When the soldiers dragged him from his cell, Jonmarc expected to see a stake in the courtyard. Death by fire was Alcion’s preferred mode of execution for ranking officers who disappointed him. But Alcion’s plans were larger. Jonmarc lifted his head defiantly to look at the man on horseback who sat at a safe distance, watching the preparations. Alcion’s long black hair framed a face dark as night. That alone told of his pure Eastmark blood. The intricate tattooed markings on his left cheek made it clear that he was also of royal blood.

Third in line for the throne, Jonmarc knew, behind King Radomar’s oldest son, Kalcen.

Lately, Jonmarc had begun to wonder whether Alcion and Arontala had other plans for the succession. Whatever their plans, Jonmarc knew he wouldn’t live to worry about it.

Two of the soldiers dragged Jonmarc from the wagon. He stumbled and fell, hobbled by the ropes. He heard the whistle of a sword’s blade and tensed, expecting to die. Instead, the blade sliced through the rope binding his ankles, and cut painfully into his left calf. “On your feet,” the soldier commanded, dragging Jonmarc to stand.

The other soldier pushed the crossbow against Jonmarc’s back. “We have a little surprise planned for you—and your friends.”

Yesterday, the soldiers had herded all of the villagers into a barn before the executions began. Women, children, old and young. Now, soldiers pitched hay around the barn. More dragged branches from the woodpile. Behind them stood their captain, a man in the uniform Jonmarc had worn until just a few weeks before. Next to him were three barrels. Jonmarc had no doubt about the barrels’ contents. Oil.

“Nice night for a bonfire,” the soldier who held the crossbow against Jonmarc’s back murmured. “You chose these villagers over your oath as a soldier. Now, you can die with them.”

Soldiers opened the barn door far enough to push Jonmarc through. Inside, Jonmarc saw Sahila, one of the village elders. Sahila met his eyes, and Jonmarc saw that Sahila understood. They were going to burn.

The soldiers kept their crossbows trained on the barn doorway until the massive doors were shut and barred. Jonmarc looked to Sahila. “Any other ways out of here?”

“Nothing they haven’t sealed.”

Inside the barn, the only light came in slivers between the old siding planks. Night was falling, and soon even that would be gone. Dust floated in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Dust that would make the barn burn that much faster, once the flames came.

Jonmarc looked around, desperate for inspiration. He spied a large iron ring in the floor.

“What’s down there?”

“Grain bins and root cellars.”

“How many?”

“Not enough.”

“Get everyone you can below ground,” Jonmarc said.

“Those bins could become an oven.”

“Up here, we don’t stand a chance.”

Sahila nodded. Jonmarc watched him disappear into the throng. He walked the perimeter as quickly as his painfully bruised muscles would allow, but Sahila was correct. All the doors were sealed. And even if they found an opening, soldiers on the other side would shoot them down before they could get far.

Smoke was beginning to waft through the small gaps between the boards of the barn walls.

Outside, flames began to lick at the old boards, lighting the inside of the barn with eerie, dancing shadows. Jonmarc turned, and was startled to see Sahila advancing toward him with an axe.

“Hold still.”

“Like hell.”

“You want to die chained like an animal? Put your wrists on that beam, and close your eyes.”

Jonmarc flinched as the heavy axe whistled through the air and clanged against his chains, severing them. He looked around. Sahila had gotten at most a third of the villagers into the bins, but the rest huddled in frightened groups. Outside, the flames burned higher.

“Is there anything else below the barn? Even a dung pit is better than being in here when those rafters start falling.”

Sahila thought for a moment. “Come with me.” Slinging the axe over his shoulder, he led Jonmarc to a place in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor. He flung his axe, and it landed on its blade in the dirt, but it seemed to Jonmarc that the floor beneath their feet shook, just a bit. “Here. Dig here.” Sahila motioned for several nearby men to join them.

Jonmarc gritted his teeth against the pain as he grabbed a shovel and began to dig. A hand’s depth beneath the dirt, they hit wood.

It was growing warmer inside the barn. Jonmarc eyed the rising flames. They were running out of time.

Hacking with their tools and kicking with their combined strength, the men worked until the old wood splintered. Moist, cold air rose out of the darkness. “Caves. They run all through this area. Can’t barely plant a field without someone falling into one. No idea what’s down there or where it goes. Just remembered my father showing me where they’d closed over one when they built the barn.”

“Anywhere’s better than here. Let’s get them inside.”

The cave mouth was narrow, allowing only one person at a time to enter. One by one, the villagers descended, as the flames spread up the walls and to the barn roof. By the time the last of the villagers was down, bits of burning wood were falling around them. “Get in,”

Jonmarc said to Sahila.

“What about you?”

“I’ll come. Just get in.”

The roof creaked ominously as Sahila shimmied down into the cave. “Hurry.”

Jonmarc needed no urging. He jumped into the hole, banging from side to side as he fell, as overhead, the roof gave way. A shower of sparks and a hail of burning wood followed him down the shaft, burning into his back. The heat took his breath away. He landed hard, and his leg folded painfully under him.

“There’s no way out,” Sahila said, helping him to his feet. “There are shafts—that’s why we’ve got air. But not even the children could fit through them.”

The cave was damp, helping to resist the blistering heat that seared down from above. In the distance, Jonmarc could hear screaming. Around him, babies wailed and women sobbed. A few voices chanted in prayer, begging the favor of the Lover. Men cursed under their breath. They waited.

It took a long time for the fire to burn itself out. Hungry, thirsty and cramped, they waited in the darkness until a night and a day passed, afraid that soldiers might be standing guard over the wreckage, waiting to shoot survivors. When Jonmarc finally climbed up the shaft, it took all his strength to shove aside a fallen beam that was still hot enough to burn his palms. Cautiously, he looked around, expecting to feel a crossbow bolt at any moment. He scrambled out and scanned the horizon. No soldiers awaited them. From the wreckage of the barn, the soldiers had felt assured there were no survivors.

Little of the barn remained standing. Charred timber covered the old barn floor. Sahila joined him and together they ran to free the others who had taken refuge in the bins, throwing aside the wood that pinned the bin doors shut. Silence met them as they pulled back the doors. The odor of burning hair and roasting meat met them. Huddled together, the bodies of the villagers were covered by ash. No one moved. No sound came. Sahila cursed potently. Jonmarc fell to his knees, unable to look away from the carnage. From the cries of the men around them as they freed the other bins, Jonmarc knew there were no survivors.

“Eastmark’s not safe for you,” Sahila said. “You’ve got to run.”

“What about them?” Jonmarc said, with a glance toward the survivors.

“We have kin in the other villages. We’ll slip away, in small numbers so that the guards don’t track us. We’ll survive.”

“I’m so sorry. I brought this on you.”

“Would you have spared us by following your orders? We would all be dead. And you’ve paid dearly for your honor. We’re grateful. But we can’t protect you. If the soldiers didn’t loot my home, I may be able to get you a cloak and a bit of food. Get out of Eastmark. You’re Margolan born. Go home where you’ll be safe.”

Safe. Nowhere is safe.

Jonmarc jerked awake, sitting up in his bed. He was bathed in sweat and his hair hung in his eyes. He looked around wildly, unable to place this unfamiliar room. “You’re safe,” a man’s voice said from the doorway. It took a moment for Jonmarc to recognize the deep, raspy sound of the Magistrate’s voice. The man lit a lantern and came into the room.

“Did I cry out?”

“No. I heard your dreams.”

Jonmarc was amazed, but the Magistrate’s eyes assured him of the truth of his statement.

The dreams had never left him, not in the long years since he’d fled Eastmark. The burning was only one of many memories that haunted him, making sleep elusive. Carina was able to trance with him, blunting some of the force of the memories. It had been a long time since he’d fought his way out of the bedclothes, ready for battle. But even she could not make the scars and memories completely disappear.

“Are you a mind healer?”

The Magistrate shook his head. “No. A truth senser—and a dream reader. It explains why I was chosen for my role—and why I never married.”

“Sorry I woke you.”

The Magistrate looked at him with a gaze that seemed to see far too much. “You know what it is to burn.”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you would lead us to the day crypts.”

“What choice do we have? If we don’t punish the guilty, innocent
vayash moru
will be destroyed. It’s only a matter of time before the burnings start again. I swore an oath to Staden to be the protector of living and undead. And if that means I stand between them, so be it.”

The Magistrate nodded. “You would do this, although
vayash moru
took both your wives from you.”

“And if Arontala and Malesh were mortal, what should I do? Pledge to destroy all mortals in vengeance?” Jonmarc took a deep breath, passing his hand back through his hair to brush it from his eyes. “I do what I’m good at. I fight. I try to be on the side of the good guys. When I can tell which side that is. As for the rest, well, I’ve been cursed since I was fifteen. Don’t know why or by whom, but cursed, nonetheless.”

The Magistrate’s gaze fell to the mark of the Lady that was drawn on Jonmarc’s chest. “You swore the Bargain.”

“I wanted some insurance. I have rotten luck.”

The Magistrate frowned and extended his hand, palm first, toward the mark, stopping just above the skin. His eyes lost focus. “No. Not cursed. Chosen.”

“From where I sit, they look a lot alike.”

“She won’t release you, you know. Not until you’ve completed the task She has for you.”

“Who?”

“Istra.”

“I made the Bargain to destroy Malesh and stop this war from starting. That task is over when he dies—and so do I.”

The Magistrate’s gaze was far away. “Perhaps. Then again, damnation is in the details. You pledged your life and soul to Her, didn’t you? But it’s up to Her when she claims what belongs to Her. She’s chosen champions before. That’s what the legends say. I’d ask Lord Gabriel, if I were you. Remember where you are, son. Death doesn’t end things here.” He seemed to come back to himself. His smile was weary. “You’ve passed one test.”

“Oh?”

“I have my own dreams, you know. The Lady warned me of fire and fire bringers. She said to only trust the burned man.” He gestured toward the old scar on Jonmarc’s shoulder, where one of the burning beams in the Eastmark barn had caught him. Only then did the Magistrate reveal the dagger sheathed beneath his sleeve.

“You really think you could take me—with that?”

The Magistrate met his eyes. “It’s poisoned. I think you know the kind.”

Jonmarc repressed a shiver, remembering the poisoned blade that nearly killed him last Winterstide in Staden’s court, the blade meant for Tris. “Well enough.”

The Magistrate stood. “There are candlemarks left before daylight. Sleep well.”

Yeah, right.