The Warlord's Legacy (52 page)

“Of course it does,” she spat at him. “Your concerns
always
come first, don’t they?”

The witch was gone, limping as fast as three working legs could manage, before Corvis could draw breath to reply.

N
IGHTMARES BESIEGED
C
ORVIS’S SLUMBER
. Happy memories bubbled like burned stew through his brain, painful and foul. In the shadows of every image, every dream, he saw Khanda, laughing, and from his gnarled, inhuman fingers hung a limp body whose face Corvis didn’t dare allow himself to see.

They slept later than they meant to the following morning, bone-deep exhaustion proving more than a match for their need to keep moving. Most of their aches and pains and wounds weren’t much improved. Seilloah hadn’t returned, and Corvis’s own spells of healing were meager, little better than mundane poultices and herbs. But he’d found that, so long as he didn’t dwell on anything in particular, the mere act of
remembering
didn’t seem quite so agonizing as it had the previous night. He dared hope that the residue of Khanda’s violation would fade with time.

Even once they’d awakened, they found themselves unable to get started immediately. The low-hanging sky was thick and grey as dirty cotton, the breeze brushed shivering skin with a thin autumn chill, and the ground had become slick mud, but at least it wasn’t raining just then. Hollow stomachs demanded breakfast, fearful minds puzzled over why Khanda had not tracked them down during the night, and Corvis couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut that Seilloah might never be coming back.

It was, blended with his worry for Mellorin, a bitter draught to swallow.

“Perhaps,” Jassion proposed as he poked at the remnants of the dried meats that had been breakfast, “we injured him worse than we thought?” His voice, through the bandage that now ran across his face like a scarf, was wretchedly nasal. “Maybe he couldn’t even find us.”

“How did you find us the
first
time?” Irrial asked.

The baron glanced at Corvis across the charred wood that had recently been a small fire, tensing. “Mellorin.”

Corvis could see Irrial and Jassion both holding their breath, and forced himself to remain motionless until he could bring his emotions back under control. “Tell me.”

“For what it’s worth, Rebaine,
she
followed
us
, and it was Kaleb—that is, Khanda—who decided she would come along. I thought … I believed I could protect her.

“In any event,” he bulled ahead before Corvis could reply, “Khanda used
her
as a focus of his spells to find you.”

Corvis frowned, then nodded. “Blood relation. My spells wouldn’t have been strong enough to prevent that.”

“No, but they interfered well enough. We had to be pretty close to pinpoint you. I don’t
think
we’ve gotten far enough in one night to escape its range, but maybe, if Khanda’s wounded badly enough …” He shrugged.

“So, what? You just
happened
to be near enough for the spell to work? When we were staying in the middle of nowhere, in a village roughly the size of a pinecone?”

“Kal—Khanda said he tracked you via the spells you’d cast on the ogre, Davro.”

“Wh—Davro? Did you kill
him
, too?”

“No.” Jassion shook his head. “Mellorin wouldn’t allow it, and Khanda went along with her.” It was the baron’s turn to scowl. “You’d better know, Rebaine. Her relationship with ‘Kaleb’ has gotten, uh, complicated. As in, teenage-girl-complicated.”

Corvis groaned, head actually slumping into his palms. For several moments, the others decided to let him be, though Jassion—despite his concern for Mellorin—couldn’t quite repress a nasty grin at the pain in the older man’s tone.

Only when he finally looked up through bloodshot eyes did Irrial ask softly, “Is it possible? Could they have found us through Davro?”

“I couldn’t say,” Corvis admitted. “Normally, I’d think not. Seilloah barely accomplished it, and the spell was cast directly on her. But I
don’t know the full extent of Khanda’s power in his present form.” A thought struck him. “Kaleb mentioned a ‘Master Nenavar.’ Does that name mean anything to you?”

Jassion’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe so. Though it’s fairly obvious that I know less of what’s happening than I believed.”

“I think,” Corvis said, steeling himself with another deep breath, “that you’d better tell us everything.”

M
ECEPHEUM
. No matter how he tried to avoid it, the answers always seemed to lead him back to bloody godsdamn
Mecepheum!
He was starting to loathe that city as virulently as he did Denathere, but the Guilds were the only answer Jassion could offer. So Mecepheum it would be.

Although the autumn air was cool and the breezes gentle, the ride was hard, the road long. Their days were a frenetic fog of anxiety, pressing the horses as hard as they dared, walking them when flesh threatened to fail beneath the strain. Their nights, save on those rare occasions when they were fortunate enough to stumble upon a convenient roadside inn, were spent tossing and turning on the hard earth. Corvis could not speak for the others, of course, but his own sleep was replete with the most hideous nightmares, growing ever worse even as his
waking
thoughts slowly healed from Khanda’s ravages.

Each evening, he cast upon himself those spells that would alert him if someone approached too near at night, and each morning he awoke, head aching, with his wards undisturbed. Jassion had apparently, despite his burning hatred, fully accepted the need for cooperation. For the time being.

Days matured into weeks, and Khanda did not appear. Every waking moment became an exercise in paranoia, the travelers watching over their shoulders, jumping at every sound, hands dropping to weapons if a horse so much as snorted. Wounds refused to heal, thanks to the constant tension in their muscles and the pounding of horseflesh beneath them.

Even worse, Seilloah had never returned to that camp amid the
rolling, rocky hills, and after hours spent in searching, they’d been forced to move on. Corvis felt as though he’d left one piece of himself behind in that hollow, and another, even larger, in the lonely farmhouse where he’d all but abandoned his daughter. He wondered, on occasion, if very much of him was left to lose.

Now, only a few days shy of their goal, they’d stopped in yet another small town, taken rooms for the night in yet another small inn. It was bustling without being
too
packed, laborers crowding the benches and tables, barmaids wending their way from one throng to the next. It smelled neither of food nor drink but of autumn leaves. Corvis wondered idly how they managed it, but didn’t care enough to ask.

Mellorin had always loved the autumn, as a child.

Jassion sat halfway around the room, uninterested in conversation. He idly examined the blade he’d purchased in Orthessis to replace Talon, checking it for flaws that might somehow have escaped his notice during a dozen prior, similar inspections. Corvis couldn’t help but remember another tavern, another common room, another sword, another conversation. He couldn’t decide if it felt like yesterday or another lifetime.

Irrial, it seemed, had noticed the same similarities. “It sort of feels like we’re running around in circles, doesn’t it?” she asked from across the table.

“You’ve no idea,” he told her bitterly. “He’s done it to me again, Irrial.”

“What are you …?”

“Khanda.” Hatred dripped like venom from the name. “Another war. Another threat to my family. And Khanda lurking around its edges, hiding behind whoever started it, drawing me out. Using me for what I have, or what I know. I’m tired enough of battle—I’m bloody
sick
of being led into battle by the nose!” He couldn’t hold his hands entirely steady as he took a slug of a drink he’d forgotten he’d ordered; foamy suds sloshed over the tankard’s rim, dribbled down his fingers. “I’m tired of seeing the wrong people die.”

Irrial furrowed her brow at that, and Corvis was certain some biting comment was on its way, but it never materialized. Instead, “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”

“She’s my daughter,” he said simply. “I’d die for her.”

“I believe you would, at that.” She sounded amazed, though whether it was at his assertion, or at herself for
believing
his assertion, Corvis couldn’t guess. They sat, each drinking, each contemplating the other.

“I don’t understand you, Corvis,” she finally told him. “But I think I understand
Tyannon
a little better. There really are two different people inside that soul of yours, aren’t there?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”
Or maybe you’re just going somewhere I don’t
want
to follow
. Postponing her reply, he waved over one of the barmaids, barked an order for another flagon and more bread and cheese. It was gooey, salty stuff, that last, but after weeks of dried meats, it’d do.

Irrial waited, her face blank, until the woman had come and gone, returned with the order and gone once more. She leaned in, so she might make herself heard over the growing crowd without shouting.

“You so
clearly
care about Mellorin—about all your family. I know you’re worried sick about Seilloah, I saw your concern for our brethren in the Rahariem resistance. I think … I think you even truly care about me, despite the last few months. I know you certainly
used
to.”

“Well, gods be—”

“I’m not done.”

A pause. “Sorry.”

“I’ve seen all that, Corvis. I’ve seen that you’re not
just
a monster. And I know that you care for the people of Imphallion as a whole—or you think you do, at any rate. You’re helping them now, even if you also have personal reasons. You told me once that everything you’ve done, you did for them, and I think part of you really means that.”

Corvis swirled his mug until it sloshed. “Um, thank you?”

“And yet,” she said, her tone growing hard once more, “you have no trouble at all wading to your goal through rivers of blood. Slaughtering families, hanging body parts like bunting.

“Consorting with demons.”

“It wasn’t like I
wanted
to—”

“But you did. It doesn’t matter if you
wanted
to—you were
willing
to. You know what I think, Corvis?” she asked, gesturing with an empty fork.

“I’m not certain I want to,” he confessed.

“Too bad. I think that you’re so disdainful of
people
as a whole that
you forget—that you
let
yourself forget—that each one is a
person
. You talk about Imphallion like it was a single entity, because that’s how you see it; it’s the only way you can give a damn about it. You’ve added it to your list of ‘worthwhile individuals,’ and everyone else can hang. I think that you’re so focused on those few you care about, it’s never even occurred to you that everyone else is
just like them
. I think you’re so wounded, inside, that you only have so much sympathy, and the more people you’re dealing with, the thinner that sympathy is spread.

“You care about people, yes. Deeply, passionately. But only
some
people—because nobody else is a person to you at all. And to pretend that you do what you do for ‘the people,’ rather than the handful of souls that mean a damn to you, is the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

Corvis found himself staring into his tankard, clasping it with all ten fingers for fear that he might otherwise lash out. “And even if …” He cleared his throat, coughed twice. “If all this is true, why point it out? What difference could it possibly make?”

“Because I also think …” It was her turn to pause. Her voice had gone soft, softer than he’d heard since they left Rahariem. He wanted to look up, to see if her face had softened as well, and found he didn’t dare. “Because I think Tyannon was right. I think you
could
be Cerris, instead of Corvis Rebaine. I’d like you to be. But I don’t think you know how, and I don’t think any of us are ever going to be able to show you.”

By the time Corvis forced himself to raise his head, she was gone from the table. And for just an instant, as the tavern disappeared beneath the memory of a flower garden behind a dilapidated old church, he couldn’t tell if it was Irrial or Tyannon who was walking away.