Chapter Two
W hen Jem had thought of the mainland and home—all the moments he’d ached for it—he’d never once imagined he would find it changed.
He’d daydreamed endlessly of Neuvella and his family and their beautiful castle surrounded by lush forests. Just as he’d taken refuge in his aviary by the clear blue lake growing up, he’d escaped there in his mind. The only unknown he’d pondered was the dungeon below the castle.
He’d never ventured to the dungeon built into the hill on which the castle stood. Why would he? But he’d spent hours of the interminable voyage imagining that shadowy, dank place. Days even.
For when he told his mother of the plot to kidnap him, Cador and his treacherous family would be locked away as they deserved, and Jem would finally feel safe.
It had to be done. He had to be strong.
Aside from the dungeon, which he could only conjure in his mind, Jem had taken comfort in peaceful memories.
In the months he’d been so far away in Ergh, he’d only worried that he’d never return home again.
Not that anything would happen to Onan in his absence.
After all, the mainland had remained dependably the same his whole life.
He scoffed at himself. Twenty years? That was nothing.
He’d never imagined fire.
It was of course fire that caused the smoke blotting out the distant stars and stinging his eyes.
On the edge of the western horizon, an eerie orange glow surfaced where Jem swore there had only been blackness.
He wasn’t sure which was worse—the ominous darkness of drifting smoke blotting out the stars or that faraway glow.
As they dropped anchor close to the northern shore, the night was still too dark to see anything of the mainland but the marked lack of starlight. The moon faded now toward the horizon, back toward the expanse of the Askorn Sea.
They lit candles inside lanterns that swayed with the creaking motion of the ship, rocking gently in the currents.
Out of his stall, Lusow snorted and whinnied, hooves thudding the deck.
In the tense silence, they watched Jory ease the leather harness over Lusow’s flanks, preparing him to be lowered from the ship onto a small barge.
Jem squinted at the shore, seeing nothing amiss.
Yet was it too still and silent? Surely not.
They hadn’t expected a greeting party. No one knew they were coming.
They hadn’t spotted any trading ships, which wasn’t particularly unusual in itself since trade between the mainland and Ergh was infrequent and only re-established in the past two years.
Here at the top of Onan, north of the Holy Place, the coast was empty. It was expected.
Delen asked in a hushed tone, “You’re sure you can’t recall any wildfires in the past?”
“He already said no,” Cador snapped.
Jem glared. “I can speak for myself.” He sounded churlish and childish, making himself cringe.
He cleared his throat. “No, as I said, I can’t remember there ever being wildfires in this part of Onan.
At least not to my knowledge. There have been fires in summer at times, but usually in Gwels to the east, not anywhere near here.
” He squinted west. “Long ago there was a large fire toward Ebrenn.”
“Tan is making her displeasure known.”
As one, they turned to Creeda where she knelt by Hedrok’s pallet at the foot of the mast. They’d shifted the poor boy closer in preparation of disembarking. After what seemed like hours of sobbing but was likely only some minutes, he slept fitfully again.
Eyes closed, Creeda clutched her bundle of sevel twigs. Her low voice seemed scraped raw. “Tan punishes the mainland for its greed. The clerics have warned of this.”
The clerics had been warning of any number of catastrophes for as long as Jem could remember. He rocked nervously on his bare feet. The deck was still warm, the air hot even in deepest night.
The wafts of smoke seemed to heat the wind. He wondered how far away this fire was. They were days from Neuvella, so surely his home was safe. The fist of dread in his chest tightened nevertheless.
No one responded to Creeda, for what could they say? She fell silent, lips moving in a wordless prayer as she stroked the twigs in a repeating pattern. It made Jem’s skin crawl. He wanted to tear the bundle from her hands and hurl it into the sea.
Atop the Cliffs of Glaw, Creeda and her cohorts had spread a circle of gnarled sevel branches, an altar for their offering to the gods.
He touched his throat, remembering her and her husband’s plan to sacrifice him by severing his head.
He sincerely hoped Creeda’s gods craved something less bloodthirsty now.
Shifting his weight back and forth, he scratched his nails over his scalp, wincing as he loosened a scab.
Over the weeks of the voyage, he’d developed the nervous habit.
It had started merely as touching his head whenever he struggled to fall asleep—which was every night now—and running his fingers through his hair, laughing mockingly at himself.
Yes, your head is still attached.
It was comforting at first, making him think of lazy childhood days by the lake, his beloved sibling Santo indulging him by playing with his hair. It wasn’t until he woke one morning with blood crusted under his fingernails that he realized he’d been scratching too hard.
His hair was so thick that no one could tell what he’d done, and he’d vowed to stop. Yet this new habit was strangely hard to break.
In his nightmares, cruel hands grabbed him, and he suffocated in darkness, a rough sack over his head as he thrashed. He often woke kicking, relieved at least that he didn’t cry out in his sleep. He couldn’t appear weak in front of the Erghians ever again.
The only way he’d feel safe was if the conspirators were locked away. He couldn’t give in to the temptation to forgive Cador. He wouldn’t give in to his weakness. They thought him soft and spoiled and nothing. They were wrong.
He glanced around the deck. Delen had assured him the people accompanying them back to the mainland hadn’t been party to the plot against him aside from Creeda. But perhaps he should have them all locked up. How could he believe a word from Delen or Cador?
He could leave it to his mother to decide. The thought was undeniably reassuring. When he returned home, Mother would take charge. He wouldn’t have to worry. He wouldn’t have to be afraid.
Shoving his hands in his pockets after catching himself scratching his head, Jem spread his toes, pretending he felt the sand of the southern beaches of home. He would stand fast.
Lusow whinnied and side-stepped, Jory rubbing him and speaking softly. Jem didn’t envy the task. Truth be told, he didn’t envy Cador and the other hunters who helped him with the pulleys to lower the horse to the barge. One of them, Kensa, had joined in the dice sometimes.
He knew she and Cador had lain together in the past. Not that it mattered now.
Cador could dally with her day and night for all Jem cared.
Her dark hair was cropped short like all the hunters, and the muscles in her neck stood out as she heaved with the others, tawny skin shining with sweat.
Along with smoke, hints of ash now hung in the air, dusting Kensa’s vest.
Lusow thrashed his legs fruitlessly once he was airborne, Jory not stopping in his assurances that were practically shouted now. In his leather trousers and vest, Cador’s muscles looked even starker than usual, straining as he pulled on the ropes.
Gods, he was still the most handsome man Jem had ever seen.
He hated him.
Cador had married him knowing he’d be kidnapped and maimed. He hadn’t cared. No matter that he’d vowed from his knees atop the Cliffs of Glaw that he regretted plotting against him. No matter that he’d called Jem his love.
Jem had heard over and over on Ergh that the mainlanders were silly and weak. He would not prove them right. How could he respect himself if he forgave such a violation of trust? Wasn’t he worth more?
When he’d journeyed to Ergh, he’d been afraid of everything.
Then he’d thought himself brave when he gave his heart and body freely—joyfully.
But this wasn’t one of the romantic adventures in the pages of his fantastical books.
He should have known better. He should have known Cador was only using him. What a fool he’d been.
Even if the original plan was to only— only!
—sever his hand and not his head, Cador and Delen had agreed to it.
Cador had vowed to the clerics, the gods, and Jem’s mother that Jem would have his protection.
He’d taken his virginity. He’d kissed and held him and proved himself shockingly gentle and tender for a barbarian.
Now all those memories were like the ash drifting on the wind.
Had Cador actually ever desired him? How could Jem believe he truly had? After so many attractive, muscled lovers, why would Cador want puny him? It had seemed so real, but now he questioned everything.
Though he had to acknowledge that Cador hadn’t faked pumping his seed into Jem’s body.
He’d felt it. Tasted it. A thrill rippled through him now to remember their frenzied coupling before he schooled himself.
He couldn’t allow lust to cloud his judgment.
Even if he believed Cador was truly sorry, to trust him again?
Impossible.
When Jem had agreed to allow Delen and Cador to meet with Kenver first, of course he’d lied. What choice did he have? He’d meant it when he told Cador he understood. Yes, he did understand why Cador had agreed to his father’s plan—the children’s suffering was unbearable.
But in Ergh’s boots, Jem would have simply approached the mainland with the truth and asked for help. And that surely made him na?ve, but no more than his own mother had been when she’d trusted the empty promises of the Erghians.