Elyon (8 page)

“You want me to steal it from him?”

He didn’t answer immediately. For a full minute she stared at his back. She started to reach for his arm, but he turned back around.

“In the lair, if something were to happen, you wouldn’t be able to run.”

Her brow furrowed. Surely he didn’t think her a coward. She studied his eyes. No, no, it was something else. “Now, there’s a change of subject.”

“I can handle the priest,” he said.

He had not answered her question. Silent affirmation? Denial?

Marak withdrew something small and silver from his pocket, then stooped and reached for her leg. Darsal jerked. Kicked, out of habit. Marak stilled, and something in his expression twisted. With an uneven breath, Darsal willed herself to relax.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Her general lifted her foot to his knee and unlocked the shackle. He then did the same with the other. For a moment he stayed there, kneeling with her sandaled foot on his knee, key and open shackle in his hands. Darsal suddenly felt silly.

Marak was . . . releasing her?

He straightened and set her foot on the ground.

And then she was alone.

Marak’s voice bellowed across the clearing at his men. A few horses whinnied. The breeze sent a chill through her, despite the warm sun.

Her feet felt so light after wearing the heavy chain. Now . . . now all was weightless and surreal. Even the ground beneath her barely seemed to touch her. Dare she think she had Marak’s heart?

Dare she think she could keep it?

Tree branches swayed gently, leaves rustling. Instinctively she looked up, hoping for a flicker of white wings.

“What will you do?”

Darsal swung around, dropped to a crouch.

Gabil was in front of her. “You could leave, you know. He would understand.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” That idea stung her. It wasn’t part of her mission. Elyon’s mission.

“Yes, you do.”

Darsal straightened her shoulders. “I can’t leave without Johnis and Silvie. Without Marak.”

“They’ve chosen their paths.”

“They’re in pain.”

“Yes. They are. They are deceived.”

“You would have me leave them like this?” She didn’t believe what she was hearing. Gabil wanted her to scrap the mission?

“You cannot save them all, Darsal.”

Indignation filled her. The Horde was as worth saving as the Circle, and save them she would. Or die trying.

“I only want to save three. Why do you want me to run to safety? If I leave, I condemn them. I condemn the Circle.”

“That is true.”

Darsal didn’t answer.
Gabil isn’t telling me to leave them. He’s showing me why I have to stay.

“Love him for Elyon, Darsal. For Johnis.”

She balked. The hair on the back of her neck rose. It was a thread of hope, but it hinged on her ability to love a Scab general.

And on his returning that love.

“Darsal!” Marak’s voice bellowed from the clearing, through the grove of trees. They were ready to leave.

Gabil flapped off.

“Darsal?” Marak came through the trees, sighted her. Stopped.

She raised her chin. Stood in front of him just as she had that day in the dungeon. Looking at him, the fight left her. In its place was deep sorrow and love.

“I’m here.”

Marak looked at her gravely with an expression she’d never seen. And she knew: he’d expected her to leave.

For a moment they stared at each other. And then it was over.

Marak turned back into the stoic warrior and started back for the others. “It’s time to leave.”

NIGHT FELL OVER THE EXPEDITION PARTY. SERVANTS CARRYING long torches surrounded their masters, creating a ring of fire against the starlit night. The desert cooled with the rising moon. Johnis rode ahead, Sucrow and Marak behind and to either side of him. Out on the wings, two commanders. He’d noticed some strange activity between Cassak and Sucrow but thought little of it. Cassak was a mediating figure—it was likely all usual. Marak either didn’t notice or wasn’t disturbed by his captain’s movements.

Behind them all, servants . . . followed by the Throaters. They cut south through the canyons, past Natalga Gap, and into the endless sand.

Silvie should be riding next to him, not held captive by an evil priest and caged at the tail of the procession. He had to think of a way to free Silvie. He had to . . .

The siren song swelled, overpowered his vision so he could no longer think of Silvie. Johnis felt his senses sharpen and his focus narrow. He could think only of the mission.

Shaeda.

You are beautiful,
he thought.
Tell me more. You are a queen, with a mate, yet the Leedhan were not born until after the Desecration.

She gave a low, seductive laugh.
“You are correct, my fair one, I am the eldest of our kind, at eighteen. Does such please you, that one so young might wield such power?”

He didn’t have time to answer.

“I see nothing,” Sucrow growled. He clutched his staff. A strange, heady sensation fell over them.

The moon rose high into the east now, and Johnis turned his horse to confront the broad length of shadow, moon at his back.

“Patience, Priest,” Marak snapped. His irises were enormous, or his pupils had shrunk strangely.

“I think we’ve shown more than enough patience for the time being, General.”

“How far until we turn west?” Marak demanded. His mood had gone from irritable to completely foul. Now he seemed to struggle with something, but Johnis couldn’t pinpoint it.

The siren song distracted him. Shaeda’s mind was open to Johnis once more. She gave him instruction as they traveled. The further they went, the more he saw through multicolored Leedhan eyes.

“Not much farther. Another hour or so, I think.”

Marak humphed his answer. “We’ll need to make camp, then.”

“Camp?”

“You didn’t expect to ride through the night, did you?”

“It’s a long way. I thought you were all in a hurry.”

Shaeda’s song spurred him along. She was fantasizing as much as she was planning their next move, seeing farther ahead than anyone could have realized.

These miserable fools made of clay had no idea what was coming for them.

Marak had been taking stock of the area. Shaeda’s gaze lingered on the general for a long moment. Johnis could make nothing of her assessment. Her thoughts were growing more guarded, more cautious.

“Here’s as good a place as any,” Marak said.

“Continue on . . .”

“We should continue,” Shaeda said. Johnis said.

“There is nothing.” Johnis said, his voice hard and clipped. “Not until we reach the canyon. We should keep going.”

Marak dismounted. “Ten minutes.” Silvie refused Sucrow’s assistance down and nearly fell off the horse, trying to dismount.

Silvie had refused to look at Johnis as she was forced into a cage. Johnis considered how to rescue her while Marak, the officers, and Sucrow went to discuss whatever it was that Marak wanted to discuss.

Silvie . . .

Shaeda clamped down, her rival now out of the way.

Johnis stumbled off his horse and sank to the ground, elbows on his knees. He rubbed his temples. Against Shaeda’s wishes, the caravan had stopped.

“We must not linger, my pet.
” Her claws cut into him.

“I can’t control him,” he protested under his breath. “I can’t. There’s no telling the blasted general what to do. Patience, please.”

He was punished every time someone else slowed her down. Shaeda’s invisible grip tightened.

“Let me go,” he whispered. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think.

She was crushing him, squeezing the life out of him. Her will, her mind, her heart, her thoughts—her loves and hates—all his. And his were hers.
Silvie . . .

Shaeda suddenly relented. She chuckled.
You are correct, my pet, my little human . . . Leave such obstacles to me.

Johnis struggled for air. He opened his eyes and sat up. Brushed dust off his arms.

“Johnis?”

Johnis’s head shot up. Darsal stood beneath a desert tree, an overgrown piece of white bark and shriveled branches that thrived with cacti growing from it. He tensed. Darsal came closer. He could smell her raw, pungent skin even through the citrusy fragrance she was wearing. He curled his lip and showed her his back.

“What should we do?” he whispered. He watched the others, waiting for Shaeda’s insight to overtake him.

“Elyon, Johnis.”

Shaeda bared their teeth and growled. “Elyon abandoned us, wench!” He spun, close enough to smell her sickly sweet breath.

And then he saw Marak wasn’t making camp. Instead he was preparing to speak with his officers and Sucrow. If he could get to Silvie . . .

“Patience, Johnis. She shall be returned. But she is needed to convince the albino to stand down.”

What do you mean?
It was Darsal, after all . . .

And then, for the moment, Shaeda was gone. At least, he didn’t sense her. That could change.

“Why don’t you focus on killing Sucrow, not the Circle?”

“Sucrow.” The name drew bile from deep within. He glanced over at the priest’s caravan, where Silvie was.

Darsal’s eyes followed his. “We don’t have long, Johnis. Back out. Silvie needs you to drown.”

“What?” He withdrew from her. Was she mad?

Darsal started over. “No, listen. The red pools—You need to drown in them. It’s the only way. It’s—”

“The heat’s gotten to you.”

She grabbed his arm.

Johnis pulled free. Drown. Murderous albino wench. His lip curled. “Leave me.”

Her brow arched. “Is that you or the entity talking?”

The Leedhan’s eyes homed in on Darsal. Darsal could drop dead.

“Distract the guard,” the albino said. “We can save Silvie from the priest.” Her eyes flicked to the officers and Sucrow.

His eyes narrowed. “Why should I trust an albino?”

“Because the albino is the only other person who cares about Silvie.” Darsal crossed her arms. “And because I think your answer will help you determine where your heart’s going. But decide. I don’t have all night.”

Johnis struggled for control. His heart . . . He was following his heart, wasn’t he? Or . . . was he?

His heart was with Silvie. As long as he didn’t thwart the mission . . .

Shaeda, Shaeda, don’t tell me one woman can thwart the mission. Just give me this.

The Leedhan didn’t like the idea. No, she wouldn’t. Silvie had his heart, which meant his entity did not.

If Darsal dies, it doesn’t hinder the mission. What’s the harm?

“I need an answer, Johnis. They’ll move out any minute.”

Shaeda finally relented. As long as this didn’t interfere. The priest and the general must remain allies, must continue this fool’s quest.

They were so naive . . .

Johnis gave Darsal a sharp nod. “Let’s go.”

nine

D
arsal left Johnis and stole through groups of Throaters and warriors who waited while their leaders convened. A waning moon gave her just enough light to see by. Guards skirted the perimeter of the band of Horde while the officers and Sucrow spoke in private. The light from a few torches broke through the shadows.

She could still barely wrap her mind around the fact that Johnis was being controlled by a Leedhan. And she felt guilty about the ruse of going after Silvie—she didn’t need Johnis’s help, and chances were slim she’d be able to aid Silvie. But if she could get Johnis to think, maybe, just maybe . . . he’d forgive her in the end, once he saw she’d only meant to steer his attention away from the Leedhan.

Silvie would be more than willing to be rid of the priest and to help Johnis with the amulet. Still . . . that did nothing for the nagging in the back of Darsal’s mind. She passed by the outcropping of rock where Marak and the others were still meeting. They were mildly secluded, yet still in the open. Darsal dodged a couple of servants. Marak’s voice sounded strained, furious about something. But he didn’t yell. He kept his voice low—a soft, chilling sound.

Darsal inched toward the canvas-covered cage on wheels, where Silvie was being held, then caught herself. She hugged the shadows. Two Throaters stood guard. One could be Warryn.

She waited for Johnis, who said something to the guard to draw his attention away. The guard hesitated. Johnis grew persistent. At last the guard grumbled and followed Johnis.

Good. The scrapper was still there, inside his flaking shell—somewhere.

Darsal looked both ways, climbed up, and ducked inside. Incense filled her nose and mouth. She coughed and stumbled over something.

A muffled voice. Far corner. Darsal’s heart nearly stopped.
Silvie
.

Hating herself, Darsal inched around and started a sweep for the medallion. If Sucrow had left it, she could get it. She’d rather Silvie not know she was here.

Darsal heard a low groan. Silvie was hurting. Time was running out. She heard voices. Rummaged faster.

Love them, Darsal. Love them.

“Stay away from me,” Silvie groaned.

Darsal froze. Silvie was looking straight at her. Darsal started to speak, then thought better of it. What could she say? She climbed over Sucrow’s meager supplies, trying not to gag on the smell of the incense.

She saw a bag, reached for it. Started to dig. “What happened, Silvie?”

Icy silence.

Reaching deep into the bag, Darsal felt something cool and round. The medallion. So the rat
had
managed to somehow get it from Marak. Interesting. Who took it? Warryn, perhaps?

Or was Sucrow working some magic? If that were the case, he could have made Marak give it to him himself, and Marak wouldn’t necessarily remember a thing.

Frustrated, she shoved it in her pocket and stood. Glanced at Silvie. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she was lying on her stomach on the wood. She was bruised and had a nasty gash on her neck. She glared, then turned her head away.

“Sil—”