25. Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Raven
I knelt on the rug in Caelan's tent for what quickly became an interrogation. "Why did you lie to me about Tanead's power?"
"I didn't. I was the one who warned you of it."
"You said he couldn't melt metal. Untrue." Caelan paced before me like a prowling lion…a prowling lion with a bulge in the front of his pants that he was working hard to ignore. It was harder for me—I was on my knees. It was right there, a tease and a threat.
"I've never seen the power used. I misunderstood its strength." The best lies were always built of truth and part of my statement was true. I'd never seen Tanead burn with my own eyes, though I'd understood what he could do well enough.
Caelan stopped in front of me and placed his thumb gently on my chin, turning my face so he could glower at the purple bruising blossoming there.
"I fucking hate seeing him when I look at you," he growled. Though this time he seemed to mean Tanead, he'd said the same before of Marcus Rosa. It was becoming clear that Caelan wanted my body to be marked only by him. I wondered how he'd do it.
Caelan's dagger sang free in answer to my question. A thrill of fear sent tingles down my arms and my heartbeat skipped and raced. Warmth flooded my core and my cheeks.
Caelan's eyes settled on the thin white scars on my chest. I wondered if he'd add to them. His eyes roved over me, considering options, and with each new place they landed, I wondered if that would be the place. The anticipation rose until my skin sang with it, every nerve ending alive and waiting for the blade's touch.
"You don't look afraid," Caelan observed.
Did I look like I was salivating with eagerness like a hungry dog? Because that's how I felt. "I'm not afraid."
Caelan's dagger descended to rest on my collarbone. Its touch was gentle, the thin, sharp blade's edge barely touching the delicate skin of my neck. "How about now?" Caelan's voice was low, the anger gone. It betrayed the same eagerness I felt, the same raw, barely-contained want.
I met his eyes boldly. I showed him everything. No need to hide this from him—everything else, yes, but not this one thing. The more he saw, the more he'd want me.
"No."
Caelan licked his lips and shifted on his feet. He looked like a parched animal in the prairie during the dry season. His desire pulsed in the space and made the air feel hot. Though I still told myself I was disgusted by the idea of being marked by a Slayer, the wetness between my legs as I knelt for him, my knees aching, showed it for the lie it was.
But Caelan lowered the dagger. "Not yet," he murmured, more to himself than me.
"Why wait?" I asked sharply. I pretended to myself that I was disappointed because I wanted him to give in to what was between us. It would be the beginning of building trust, and his trust was essential to my plan. I couldn't murder the emperor if I was always in chains and under guard. But was it the only reason? No.
"Because a mark means nothing without the loyalty it represents. Your bruises will fade. Someday, your loyalty to even the gods will pale in comparison to your loyalty to me. When that happens, the mark I give you will mean everything."
I nearly laughed out loud. Did he really believe what he was saying? If so, he was a sentimental fool.
My skepticism must've shown on my face because Caelan sighed and sheathed his dagger, backing away. "I'm a patient man," he said firmly.
More patient than I was, as it turned out. He shackled my wrists and ankles together and attached them to one of the posts holding up the tent. If I moved too much, the whole tent shook. I had to wake him even to use the chamber pot. It was humiliating to squat over the fancy bucket while he turned his back and listened. The one time he watched, I glared at him fiercely until he turned away with a little smile on his face.
He didn't take me the next night either. He made me kneel at his side until my knees ached while he pretended to read a book. He asked me questions, which I answered with a mix of lies and truth.
I couldn't pretend that my desire wasn't building. I had no time alone to ease it with my own fingers. By not taking me, Caelan was refusing to grant that I had power over him. Was that why he was doing it? None of my attempts to entice him worked. I became increasingly frustrated.
The days blurred together. I settled into the constant deep ache in my muscles caused by riding. I watched the landscape around us change.
The Borderlands near Archeon looked much like Los. But as we traveled up the river, the land came alive. The river was wider here; water leaked out to form beaches of mud along its banks. Crops drank in the moisture and grew fat. Farm fields were rich with grains not yet ready for harvest. Small homes peppered the spaces between the fields, inhabited by the families that worked them. Most of their harvest would go to the Lord of the Borderlands, Irfan Najjar, who would tithe the appropriate percentage to the crown.
Najjar’s was a name I remembered well from my lessons. During my father’s uprising, he’d stayed loyal to the crown. Had he turned, Losians might have been able to enter Vaharilar through the Borderlands to join my father’s cause. But Najjar held firm and the forces of the Borderlands fought instead for Caelan's father, Emperor Calathan VIII. The emperor was so grateful, he gave my father’s lands, The Blood Lakes, to Najjar after my father's death. Now Irfan Najjar controlled two of the empire’s most lucrative territories.
Despite the thriving fields, we passed few villages. Those that existed had the look of places that had been repeatedly burned and rebuilt. Charred wooden posts held up freshly constructed houses and shops; the valuable timber had been reused. The people of these villages did not flock out to greet the passing army. Mothers with fearful faces ushered children inside and barred doors. I watched a man with short horns compulsively grab them, as if to hide them from sight before he ran.
Signs of yet another service Lord Najjar offered his emperor—he turned his eyes away while his people were being burned and hung.
I’d seen little of this when I traveled into Los four cycles ago, for I traveled through the night to keep from being seen. Farad had thought it best, though I’d yearned to see more of the empire that had almost belonged to my father.
“Get up,” a man roared, pulling me from my reverie.
Tanead had fallen. The chain that attached him to the mount ahead was taut. He lay in the mud churned up by the hundreds of hooves that walked before him. Alwashi shit coated his cheek. His eyes were closed.
“Stay,” Caelan commanded me as he dismounted and strode towards his captive.
Poor Tanead. I hadn’t meant for this. My selfish choice to go with Caelan back to Havard had consequences for Tanead that were not what he deserved. I almost felt guilt, though I made it a habit not to.
Caelan bent over Tanead in a cautious stance, ready to draw his scimitar in an instant if this was a trick. He pressed his hand to Tanead’s neck to feel for a pulse.
Amon rode back from the front of the line. He pulled his mount up short, tugging on its reins until the animal’s mouth bled. “What’s the problem?”
“He collapsed but he’s still breathing,” Caelan said.
“So drag him. We go on.” Amon turned away as if the matter were settled.
But Caelan stood and held up a hand to stall the soldier who guided Tanead’s mount. “If we drag him, he could die. He’s worth too much to let him choke on mud.”
Amon turned back with narrowed eyes. He sat high on his mount with squared shoulders, looking down imperiously at his brother. He was everything I’d been taught to expect a Slayer to be and I hated him in my bones, though I’d hardly spoken to him. He must want to thrash his brother for arguing with his order, but perhaps he saw the sense in Caelan’s argument, too, for he said, “What do you suggest?” with buttery smoothness.
“Get him on his feet,” Caelan said. To a soldier standing nearby, he called, “Fetch water from the river.”
The man rushed to comply.
“Going to give him a little drink, are you? Shall we just call a rest?” Amon’s mocking tone declared to all that he thought his brother weak. I’d thought the same when I first realized Caelan’s oddness. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Caelan didn’t look weak as he took the bucket from the returning soldier and placed it on the ground next to Tanead’s head. He fisted Tanead’s hair and plunged the demon’s head into the water.
Then he waited, looking for all the onlookers as if he were bored. His eyes slid lazily to his brother. Sparks seemed to fly between them in the stillness before Tanead began to struggle. Caelan left him in the water for a few moments more before he lifted him back out and let go.
Tanead coughed and shook his head, red-colored water splattering onto Caelan’s armor. Caelan didn’t wait to let him catch his breath. He grabbed the demon beneath his arm and stood, lifting Tanead up with him. Then he let go. Tanead wavered on his feet but was too proud to fall.
“My father always said demon blood was weak. Are you too weak to walk, Heir Tajawl ?” Caelan goaded.
Tanead spat at Caelan’s feet in answer.
Caelan nodded.
“Ride on,” he called. With large strides, he returned to me and remounted. Tanead’s mount was already moving and Tanead stumbled after, his eyes half-closed, his shoulders rounded forward with exhaustion. The army lurched forward except for Amon, who stayed still for a long moment before whipping his beast and riding hard for the front of the line.
I closed my eyes and sought Asherah. It was because of my choices that she did not yet have her Chosen.
A sharp hook dug into my chest when my mind touched hers. The tug on it was stronger this time. At once, I was inside her. I was her.
I felt full and satiated. The blood of the men I'd eaten had pleased me. They’d come to greet me with sweet words, but I had little use for worshipers and a great need for meat, red warm wet runny meat. I devoured them and praised their sacrifice. It was thanks to their devotion that I grew strong. The heat of their blood raced through my veins, strengthening the fire that made my heart beat.
I flew for longer each day as my muscles strengthened. My teeth pleased me as they grew long. The next time men came to greet me, I might not have to eat them. Then again, maybe I would not. It depended on whether they brought goats.
I was ravenous for a bleating goat, their flesh delicious when charred. My mouth watered…my human mouth. With effort, I tore the hook from my gut and cast it aside.
I was human, I reminded myself. I was not a dragon.
I was shaking when I opened my eyes. Caelan had twisted around to see me. Worry peeked through his mask of uncaring. “What’s the matter?” he asked roughly.
I coughed, swallowing back nausea. The taste of charred human flesh lingered on my tongue, the scent of iron blood flooded my nose. “Nothing,” I said, clasping my shaking hands together.
When he turned away, I took a deep, steadying breath.
God-blessed, god-cursed. Nobody could decide which phrase was more accurate. The gods contained power beyond what we mortals should touch. Look at me, now, shuddering from a few moments of touching Asherah’s mind. She was still at the base of the Mother’s Womb, moving slowly. Still an infant, not even having lived through a single moon-cycle. Yet her power humbled me.
The deep voice spoke. Do not worry, child. You will get used to the Touch and grow stronger, too.
Am I mad already? I asked the voice. Who are you? You're not Asherah.
I'm not Asherah. I'm your Savior. Your Master. Your Chosen.
I sighed. How many masters could one woman have?
***
The River of Madness branched and we followed it east. Here, they called it the Blood River. It continued to the capital of Havard, and past it.
This land was richer than the fields of the Borderlands.
“Where are we?” I asked Caelan, unable to hide my fascination.
“The Belly.”
Yes, that must be, for rows upon rows of grape vines grew on trellises that stretched to the horizon. The Belly mostly made and exported wine.
“Who will inherit The Belly now that Lord Kells is dead?” I asked. According to my lessons, the young lord had no siblings and no legal heir.
Caelan stiffened. “Broker may still be alive,” he said coldly, and did not answer my question.
There were real cities here. Buildings made from mud and stone flanked streets. Large castles stood at the center of populated rings with low walls around them for protection. It was after teams of ferrymen carried us across the river into Havard that I began to wonder if I’d been here before.
The tunnel exit I’d taken to escape the Emperor’s Dungeon emerged in the farm fields in the eastern Flesh. From there, I’d traveled northeast. So far as I knew, I had never been to southern Havard, docking on a ferry in the river. And yet, something about it was so familiar.
Soldiers catcalled to women on the streets and roared their greetings to bartenders serving pints to workers on benches before their establishments. A particular side street caught my eye. An instinct flooded me. If I went down that street, I’d find hot cakes dripping in butter, fresh from the oven. What a treat. My mouth watered.
How could I know that? I’d never been here before.
At that thought, a flash of memory invaded. A man’s face—my father’s. I recognized it from drawings I’d seen, though I’d never remembered his face before this moment.
His hair was the same blue-black color as my own, but it fell straight onto his chest. His nose came to a strong point and his eyes were blue, reflecting ancient northern heritage. A shadow of a beard grew on a sharp jaw.
I swallowed back the tears that filled my eyes. Had I once come here with my father, just a child holding her parent’s hand? Had I ever been so normal?
My gaze rose to the Palace of the Suns, which awaited us like a looming giant. Its foundation was the corpse of the dragon, Kutha. It was said that Kutha had been the one that struck the final blow to kill the Father and died much later in his sleep; his body was a round mound, half-reclaimed by the shifts of the Crust over time. The palace that sat atop him was not made of dragonstone. It was carved from white limestone with statues of gold filigree adorning massive columns. Generous arched windows boasted of how safe the Havards were here; they had no need to live in a dark cage in fear of attack.
Once, my father had almost taken this palace. On the Night of a Thousand Torches, he’d stormed Havard with a force of thousands, surrounding the palace and forcing the emperor to discuss terms of surrender.
But he’d died that night, on the very edge of his victory, and those men he’d brought here had died, too, their blood soaking into the soil and the bed of the river, tainting the water for seasons.
Nobody knew what had passed between the traitor and the emperor that night. Even the Coterie knew only what everyone else did: My father died because he believed in something.
Lord Marcus Rosa had laid down his life and the lives of his family for a cause, and that cause was justice for the people. He wanted to see a fair ruler on the throne of Vaharilar.
My eyes lingered on the corpse of Kutha as I thought of the tunnels carved inside. The Emperor’s Dungeon, also known as the underworld. But I’d once called it something else: home.
Caelan turned in his saddle to study my face. “Nervous?”
“Why should I be nervous?” I asked lightly. I tossed my hair and raised my chin, but Caelan only chuckled.
“My prince,” Baris called.
Caelan’s gaze followed Baris’ voice. He pulled our alwashi up short and stared.
A crack in the earth wove through the streets of Havard. Though there was little damage near the docks, it seemed to grow wider as we approached the palace. In fact, was the palace itself leaning, as if the corpse of Kutha had sunk more deeply into the Crust? I tracked the chasm with my eyes. It stretched west like an arm reaching for the Mother’s Womb.
“The quake from Asherah's Rebirth,” I murmured.
“No quake from the Broken Realm has ever been strong enough to do such damage here,” Caelan said sharply.
I kept my mouth shut, not to state the obvious: no dragon had been born since his ancestors founded Havard.
Caelan kicked his mount and sped up, weaving through the forces of the men, who got out of his way. We rode ahead of Tanead, who still stood, though barely. We found Amon at the front of the line.
“Why didn’t we receive a report of this?” Caelan asked. He was all military man now, brisk and efficient.
His brother shrugged languidly. “We did. But nobody died so it didn’t matter.”
Caelan’s gaze sharpened, taking in the damage. Hundreds of homes had collapsed as the ground shifted and opened. “Nobody died?” His voice had that careful, dangerous tone that sent a shameful thrill through my blood.
“Nobody important,” Amon clarified.
We rode on past the dirt of fresh graves.
Amon laughed. “It’s good to be home, isn’t it, brother?”
Caelan smiled tightly. His fingers were white on the reins. I felt his muscles tighten when we passed through the gate into the inner courtyard. I knew why I was tense, but why was he? This was his home.
We were greeted by a nobleman who informed us the emperor would formally welcome his sons this evening in a public audience before all of court. It would be my first chance to make an impression. My first step towards my new goal.
I dismounted and walked between the shining marble columns into my new battlefield.
Welcome home, Raven, said the deep voice.