Bloodbound Page 17

  I accepted. “How?”

  “Don’t think I laid a hand on the boy.” She sounded indignant. “I’m not a slave to any thirst.”

  “Who, then? Because the body in the ground up there says otherwise.” I was past caring about insulting her.

  “What you’ve read and a week of my company hardly makes you an expert on my kind. I don’t kiss like that.” She displayed her canines, more pointed than a human’s, but not so prominent that they marked her as some monster. Still, they seemed plenty sharp to me.

  If she expected that to spark some insight, I disappointed her.

  “A vampire fed on your patient. The marks were obvious.” Larsa tapped a nail against her tooth. “My fangs can’t leave punctures that deep. If I want to drink, I have to tear. But that’s not the case for whatever’s been following us.”

  “What makes you think something’s following us?”

  “Aside from the dead man? You know I have a sense for the dead. The night we camped by the burned inn I sensed something. At first I thought it was him,” she jerked a thumb toward Tashan, “but it was something lingering, something close by. Since then, I’ve caught hints of something shadowing us. If it’s needed to feed, it’s done so without us noticing. Last night there was only one hunting ground and only a few choices besides us. The local boy was obvious prey.”

  “Is that why you beat him bloody?” I gestured at Tashan.

  “I suspected something else and was wrong.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “We’ve made our peace.”

  Tashan didn’t so much as nod, making me wonder if the sentiment was truly shared.

  “It’s not him, and it’s not me, so it has to be something else. Something that’s dead, and that bites. So I suspect a vampire from Caliphas—maybe a servant of Rivascis, I don’t know. Whatever the case, it’s following us.”

  “So we did bring it with us,” I thought out loud.

  “It’s watching us, but I don’t think it means us harm. It would have had plenty of opportunities if it did.”

  Larsa’s nonchalant suggestion that a monster followed our trail left me more angry than scared. “It just means those around us harm.”

  She made a small shrug.

  “You don’t seem concerned.”

  “I’m not. If the time comes to deal with it, we’ll deal with it. Until then, nothing’s changed.”

  I leaned forward, barely restraining the desire to scream into her face. “You understand that whatever it is killed that boy last night? We brought that death here.”

  “We didn’t kill him and have no control over what did.” She closed her eyes, as though the conversation was over.

  “Except to move on,” Tashan chimed in. “Staying only threatens these people longer. We should go.”

  He was right. It made me feel like a coward, and a guilty coward at that, but he was right. The best we could do was get back on the road where we perhaps jeopardized fewer lives, and where we might be able to coax our stalker out.

  I glared back at Larsa, but her face was hidden beneath her hat’s brim. With an annoyed grunt I set aside the matter for now and climbed onto the bench opposite Tashan. He tugged the reins and started the cart into motion.

  The Slit o’ the Sun had been a beacon that saved our lives the night before. As we left, it looked abandoned, just a few stone walls and timbers heaped amid the cliffs. Whatever light had been here was certainly gone now.

  I couldn’t restore the Saunnier’s son to them, but I could make sure that whatever had killed him followed him soon.

  “Are those tombs?” Tashan asked, his eyes fixed on the wall of spines rising along Lake Kavapesta’s distant bank.

  “Worse.” Larsa looked past him. “Cathedrals.”

  The Osirian marveled. “There are so many—like a city not for the living.”

  He was right, in a sense.

  Not long after we left the Slit o’ the Sun, signs of civilization had begun to appear. Gargoyles, their faces erased by age, watched us cross the defiant arches of the Senir Bridge. The ancient stones marked the border between the mountain county of Ulcazar and the vales of Amaans below. We were tempted to race across the lonely length, but crumbling gaps—some large enough to swallow a whole carriage—yawned along the bridge’s edges. We passed cautiously, the winds from the Senir River below bemoaning a missed meal.

  Scant miles beyond, a trail maker bore the name “Wait’s Span,” yet all we found were cold foundations and stones melted like wax. Again we hurried on.

  Finally, we emerged into the northern hills, a country of thin fir trees and slow, freezing streams. The land felt somehow frail here. Cold mountain winds blew from our backs, sending dust devils flitting through the woods. Bare roots were a common sight, with whole groves of crooked trees having just given up their grips in the sandy earth. Birds and rodents seemed common enough, but I’d seen better-fed things in the gutters of Caliphas. From the crowns of some hills we could see through the spindly trees, glimpsing vast muddy waters beyond.

  As we crested a bald rise, the cloudy expanse of Lake Kavapesta spilled before us. Countless islands of rotting wood and mossy scrub mired in the muddy shallows, obscuring any border between the lake and land. The winds barely stirred the murky waters, making it look like some great mud plain.

  I couldn’t imagine who would look at the stagnant lake, the loose earth, and the patchy plants, then willingly decide to raise a city here. The hills were only a step away from being a wasteland, and we’d seen no sign of mines or their tailings along the path. The only reason was faith.

  I answered Tashan’s comment. “They call it the Holy City of Pharasma.” I nodded toward the steeples, made ghostly by the distance.

  Larsa scoffed. “Who does?”

  “Mostly those who live here. Believers in the Pharasmin Penitence.”

  “What’s that?” Tashan asked.

  “Fanatics,” Larsa oversimplified.

  “Not entirely,” I explained. “They’re servants of Pharasma, but they hold strong beliefs about how the goddess expects us to live our lives.”

  Tashan looked surprised. “Members of your faith don’t all believe the same thing?”

  “We believe in the same goddess, the path from birth to death, and the mysteries along the way. But for members of the Pharasmin Penitence, that path is covered in thorns.”

  He looked doubtful.

  I tried to explain. “They believe pain comes from Pharasma. That every hardship in their life, every sorrow and loss, is orchestrated by the goddess.”

  “They think their goddess is wicked?”

  “They believe she tests them, that life is the strictest trial. They believe that in death, the goddess will weigh their hardships and tears and balance them with rewards in the afterlife. Those who struggle and suffer will find an eternity of comfort, while those who find fortune in life will pay for it in the life beyond.”

  “It’s a delusion for slaves,” Larsa said.

  “It’s a comfort for those born into hardship,” I clarified, “and who have little hope of escape. Everyone wants to believe they have it harder than their neighbors, that their survival is somehow extraordinary. The Pharasmin Penitence lets its followers believe that every trial has a purpose, that the goddess is mindful of them—even if it’s only to confound them—and that every loss is not just divine, but bears the promise of a future reward.”

  Tashan gave the distant city a suspicious look. “They sound like a joyless sort.”

  “Many are, but some of the most steadfast servants of the goddess I’ve ever met follow the Penitence.”

  “And they burn witches,” Larsa threw in. I could hear an atheistic smile in her voice.

  I began explaining before the furrows creased Tashan’s brow. “The penitents believe magic is for the goddess and her servants alone. To them, those who can reshape the world with magic are sidestepping adversities meted out by the goddess. There have been stories,” I cast a frown back to Lar
sa, “of evangelists of the Penitence dredging up tales of curses and crones, pointing at those who dabble in magic as allies of evils. In some more rural villages it has led to regrettable attacks on those who practice magic. In the worst cases, some outcasts have been burned as witches.”

  Tashan shook his head. “Foolish.”

  “These are extreme and very rare cases that the larger church certainly doesn’t condone.”

  “So they’re heretics?” he asked.

  I paused to think how best to explain. “Pharasma is the goddess of mysteries. While she is very clear regarding some blasphemies, like any good mother she lets her children learn for themselves. Her holiest prophecies are among those that can be interpreted in the greatest variety of ways. So, as her servants, we endlessly seek meaning in her words, in the world around us, and in ourselves. In that way, on many matters, it’s difficult to say that any one interpretation is right or wrong, or that there is but a single meaning.”

  Larsa scoffed. “In other words, your faith is fine with innocents occasionally getting burned alive, so long as someone can argue that it’s in the goddess’s name.”

  I disregarded her antagonistic tone. “Pharasma is neither a savior nor a murderer. She watches, and at the end of our lives she judges. We are responsible for those lives. The headsman, the fugitive, and the innocent are all judged alike.”

  She gave a nasty little chuckle. “Convenient.”

  “The people of Kavapesta, then, they think this way?” Tashan asked.

  “The Pharasmin Penitence began there long ago. The faithful remain, both to honor the goddess, and because life here is so difficult.”

  “The place is cursed. It’s a plague city,” Larsa helpfully pointed out.

  The Pathfinder’s head shot around.

  “Must you?” I asked with a sigh.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” She pretended at innocence.

  I tried to sound reassuring. “The people of Kavapesta have suffered more than one plague, but the last was years ago, and they’re much less likely this late in the year.”

  I could tell from the look on Tashan’s face that I hadn’t been especially successful.

  “We’re well provisioned and can stand another few nights camping. We don’t need anything badly enough to waste time stopping there.” He didn’t sound like he wanted to debate. Even though his fear was misplaced, he wasn’t wrong.

  “I agree.” Larsa’s voice suddenly had a congenial ring to it.

  Oh. I chuckled, realizing her scheme. Of course she didn’t want to stop in a city full of Pharasmins. If even a few moments in one of the goddess’s cathedrals had ended so uncomfortably, a night in a city full of the Lady’s most fervent devotees could go far worse.

  “If you were concerned about stopping here, you could have just said so.”

  She shrugged.

  Avoiding Kavapesta proved more difficult than we’d expected. The trail rode the hills alongside the lake for miles, the city slinking toward us every time it fell out of sight behind a hill or grove of trees. Cottage farms appeared some acres back from the road. Occasionally, a somberly dressed traveler passed by. I didn’t think much of it at first, but by the third time, I realized each passerby was going out of his way to meet my eyes, acknowledging me with either a nod or by making Pharasma’s spiral over his heart. None spoke, though. They all seemed more interested in divulging their faith than making greetings.

  Dusk fell over Lake Kavapesta in bizarre streaks of orange and magenta. As we crested out of the highlands, the city revealed itself again, smoke from a thousand chimneys drifting up as if from as many censers. Few buildings rose above walls so pale they might have been made from temple marble. Without, exception those that did were cathedrals, each marked with thorny spires or the goddess’s symbol in colored glass. Even Caliphas held only one of the goddess’s holy houses, but if Kavapesta’s skyline was to be believed, the city was peopled by priests alone.

  The course of the New Surdina passed near Kavapesta’s gates, still miles away. Not far ahead, though, a road swept north, winding away into a land of brown grasses and tiny bridges over muddy streams. Tashan gave a nod as I pointed it out as the way toward Ardis.

  By the time we reached the crossroads, the sky had succumbed to night. Traffic had thinned as the day came to a close, but still we passed locals with lanterns, mostly in small groups but occasionally a lone individual. No one seemed to be in any particular hurry—a rarity with our land’s countless tales and truths of disappearances in the night.

  We could have probably found a place to stay, even skirting Kavapesta. Although the locals were likely just as wary of strangers here as anywhere else, I suspected a flash of my holy symbol could have bought us a warm meal and a dry barn for the night. But how many Kensre Saunniers might be lighting candles in the homesteads along the road? And was there even now something waking into the night behind us? Something that would soon find us and, after it did, turn its attention to its hunger? Better to sleep apart from any innocent. Even if we couldn’t prevent our stalker’s hunt, we could at least not condemn the guiltless for the sin of charity.

  It was hardly the hero’s option, but I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just didn’t want to feel like a murderer when I woke up.

  A guard wearing chain armor over violet robes stepped onto the road as we approached the fork leading to Kavapesta. He wasn’t alone. Several mounted figures bore torches against the night, tarrying at the crossroads with their lights held high. They bore emblems emblazoned with crowned skulls and Pharasma’s spiral, the crest of Kavapesta. Guards, except for the ones that were clearly Pharasmin priests—not surprising if what I’d heard about the city’s near-theocratic rule held true.

  I asked Tashan to slow the cart and was suddenly unsure of how I held myself when I wasn’t actively trying to look innocent. The guard on foot approached my side of the cart and asked my name. His fellows looked over the coach, scrutinizing us with casual suspicion. Knowing that, realistically, I had nothing to fear, I told him plainly.

  A pike’s blunt end cracked upon Tashan’s jaw before any of us realized what was happening. When Larsa moved, prayers washed over her with holy fire.

  19

  BLOODY-MINDED

  LARSA

  A metallic screech brought with it a reminder of consciousness.

  In the dark, that relentless pounding battered every thought struggling to crystallize, an endless beating I’d lost any will to resist. My pulse rose in my chest, my face, my skull, every strike a soundless steady assault.

  Realizing I was alive was a surprise, but also released a flood of awareness. It was warm and I was lying on something hard. Thirst assailed me. Even through the pounding pain, it gnawed for my attention—parched and bottomless, a well in the sand. Gods of Heaven and Hell, I wanted a drink, wanted it so bad I could feel the thirst in my teeth.

  The pain, the craving, the dull cramps, the sense of falling—I’d been broken enough times to recognize them all. There was a snapping noise as well, something I couldn’t account for. Drops, too, striking my face—too irregular for rain.

  Opening my eyes felt like lifting my whole body, forcing myself up from an oblivion of calm dark and simple pains into a world of worse.

  Fire rushed through the crack in my lids. It pierced, sharp and white, and my body knotted as if stabbed. I squeezed my eyes shut for a long while before trying to breach the world again.

  The burning blur beyond didn’t relent, but through slits my eyes adjusted as best they could. Even through the harsh light I could see the stone beneath me. Warm and reflecting the intense glare, sandy blocks spread like a sculpted desert, dust encrusting eye-level seams.

  There was a snap. Something dripped on my neck.

  Adjusting to roll some of the weight off my aching side was more difficult than expected. Something peeled, the wet rip of stickiness between me and the floor. Knives unsheathed in my side, scouring raw nerves. Slapping a hand to the stab
bing sensation didn’t help, but it was a relief to feel the numbness ebbing from my fingers.

  Another tick. A drip into my hair.

  Damp crust coated my clothes. Sweat? Blood? Had I been wounded? A crossroads, priests, their damnable chanting, fire that burned past flesh. I felt light. My arms and legs were bare. My gloves, cloak, leathers—they were all missing. The ugly scar-ladders climbing from my wrists and ankles tingled, taunting me, making me feel worse than naked.

  “It’s disgusting how much you bleed.”

  I started at the unfamiliar voice so close by. Instincts shouted to roll away, but without knowing how badly I was wounded, I didn’t dare anything dramatic. I exhaled a slow, ragged breath, but that—and the thought that I’d be long dead if the speaker had wanted—did little to make me feel less like a caged dog.

  “How much of that can you even call yours?” continued the arch, philosophizing voice. Another tick, then something struck my face. It bounced off and hit the slab floor, skipping to a halt under my eyes. Something black. I strained to focus.

  A shell. A cracked sunflower seed shell.

  Gingerly, I pushed myself off the floor, trying to keep the pain bearable. The dozens of knives stabbing my insides increased their attack, but didn’t grow into larger, angrier blades. I was panting by the time I managed to sit up.

  Tiny shells pattered upon the floor as I shifted. Some slipped down my shirt, more caught in my hair.

  Light streamed into the room from every angle. There was no doubt it was a cell, but I’d never seen one so bright, or with so much glass. Polished manacles offered places for several occupants. Between each pair of restraints climbed a column of thick glass bricks, meeting above to create a clear, pointed roof. It was like the inside of a glass steeple, the crown of some temple for worshiping the heavens. Some of the glass squares were shattered, suggested that not all brought here worshiped willingly.

  The room’s pale stone tolerated no shadows, reflecting the harsh glare into every shallow corner of the octagonal cell. Even the single metal door was polished to nearly a mirror’s sheen. For most it would probably be uncomfortably bright. For eyes like mine, born for shadows, it was like staring into the sun. It invaded through my cinched eyelids, filling my mind with a wall of white. I inched myself against one of the narrow windows, trying to block even a small portion with my body. It didn’t help.