Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) Page 11

  ~~*~~

  Each beat of the horse’s hooves jarred Kalen’s broken bones. His foot throbbed, and sharp pain stabbed at his fingers and wrist.

  The rest of him was numb.

  Derac held him in place with one hand. The hilt of Garint’s sword jabbed him in the ribs, but its presence comforted as must as it pained him. It, too, served as a reminder that he lived.

  Death should have claimed him in the Danarite’s camp. Whatever sorcery Garint had cast upon him had taken away his awareness of his heartbeat, of his breath, and of all of the things separating the living from the dead, except for the pain.

  ~Live,~ the First demanded.

  Kalen couldn’t laugh at the folly of the word. He couldn’t even manage a smile. Was the presence within distressed at his plight? Was the creature a hallucination that would disappear without a trace when his body finally understood he no longer belonged among the living?

  The horse slowed to a smooth walk, and his awareness of his body faded into nothing.

  “I find myself questioning why I take you to where you might be saved, when I have Garint’s sword and your blessing to end you here and now,” Derac said. “Are you even able to speak?”

  When he didn’t reply, he was dumped from the saddle. The force of the impact was like lightning. As quick as it struck, it faded again. He was dimly aware of the First’s rage boiling within him. Kalen clung to the sensation.

  It was another reminder of the life he’d lose soon enough. The irony of it almost made him laugh. He’d spent so long surviving, enduring, and walking the line between life and death, that the reality of his death made him want to experience just one more breath, feel a little more pain, and live a little longer. Kalen blinked, and he could make out the blurred form of a horse’s leg in the darkness.

  “It would solve a lot of problems if you died,” Derac said. The glint of steel drew his eye. Kalen managed to lift his head enough to make out the man’s silhouette illuminated by the light of the full moon. Stars twinkled overhead, framed by slender branches decorated with a modest covering of leaves.

  “The Rift will Ride,” Kalen managed to whisper. There was a strange echo to his voice. He couldn’t feel himself speaking, but the words he wanted to say emerged regardless.

  “Oh, so you can still speak? What in the name of the Lady of Light do you mean by ‘the Rift will Ride’? This isn’t the first time you’ve said it. What will happen if I run you through here and now, just as you ran through Hareth and Uthen?”

  “War.”

  “The Rifters haven’t come out of their canyons for over a thousand years. Even I know this much. I don’t think I believe you. I’m not even sure if I believe you’re the Rift King, sash and brooch or not,” Derac replied.

  Something cold and hard pressed against Kalen’s throat. His awareness of it took him by surprise.

  “If you kill me, you’ll find out for yourself,” he said, the strange echo still present. “They’ll come for you first.”

  “Why?”

  The words were torn from his thoughts and spit from his lips. “Because you will be their King, and you will Ride with them. You will wage war against your own people, and their blood will drip from your stained banner. You will crush them beneath the hooves of your black horse. Then, like Arik before me, like me before you, you will be put to the sword and another will take your place. Your existence within the song of the ancestors will be a blight they will strive to erase.”

  The pressure eased against his throat. “And if you live?”

  Kalen didn’t have an answer to that. The Guardians always managed to find him, no matter how far he’d ridden in the past. One would appear on his trail and stay a respectable distance behind him, a shadow who watched, listened, and never intervened.

  “Well? What happens if you live?”

  Kalen couldn’t voice his doubts. Even though he wanted to, he couldn’t force the words out.

  “Are you trying to tell me that no matter what happens, this so-called Ride will still happen?”

  “How far would you go for your King?”

  “You bastard,” Derac said.

  “Actually, my mother is a lady, and my father a lord.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and no matter how much he desired it, he couldn’t take them back.

  “It is true, then. You weren’t born in the Rift. Marist told me. The Rift doesn’t have lords or ladies. You were born in Kelsh, just like he thought. You’re one of us, and you’re their King?”

  “Hellfires,” he muttered.

  “Answer me this. Garint said something about being betrayed by the King. What did he mean? Why did you think it was the King?”

  “Are you going to run me through or talk me to death?”

  “I’ll decide after you answer.”

  “If you’re going to break my foot to get answers, I recommend you start with the right one,” Kalen said. “You’ll have to find the truth of it for yourself. He’s your King. Not mine.”

  “But you’re one of us!”

  “If you want to learn the truth, finish me off. When the Guardians find you—and they will—ask them. They’ll tell you all you want to know.”

  “I’m not a traitor,” Derac snarled.

  “You’re not a very good murderer, either. Less talk, more sword.”

  “I will pray to the Lady of Light that I don’t regret letting you live.”

  Derac grabbed hold of his arm and jerked him upright. It hurt enough that Kalen couldn’t even manage a scream. He was tossed across the horse’s withers and Derac mounted behind him. After positioning him on the saddle so he wasn’t flopped across it, the Kelshite kicked the horse into a gallop.

  Kalen didn’t know who the Lady of Light was, but he wasn’t above praying that she’d either kill him or make the pain stop.

  She ignored him.

  “Not much longer,” Derac said.

  Kalen clenched his teeth together to keep silent. His body trembled, but he couldn’t tell if it was from pain, shock, or the vellest wearing off. He hoped for the latter.

  It wasn’t until a bright light roused him that he realized he’d fainted. The horse skidded to a halt and let out a startled whinny. Derac’s hand was tight on his arm, and it drew a pained gasp out of Kalen. Dismounting, his companion led the horse right to the door of a home and pounded on it with the hilt of the sword.

  “What’s going on?” the sleepy voice of a man asked. The door opened.

  “Get the healer and wake Uncle,” Derac snapped. Kalen tried to get down from the saddle, but Derac’s grip tightened. “There’s trouble.”

  Kalen blinked and tried to force his eyes to focus, but all he could make out was blurry shapes and the unsteady glow of a light held in someone’s hands.

  “Hurry on in, then. What happened? You’re covered in blood!”

  “Most of it isn’t mine,” Derac replied before turning to help Kalen down from the back of the horse. His left foot tangled in the stirrup. He fainted with the sound of his choked-off scream ringing in his ears.

  ~~*~~

  Pain raced up Kalen’s leg and spine before thundering through his skull with such intensity that it dragged him out from the black of blissful unconsciousness. “Hellfires!” Instead of screaming, he cursed.

  “I could’ve told you he lived without you injuring his foot further,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere over his head. “Lay him down there. Gently, now!”

  Kalen wasn’t certain if he wanted to brave opening his eyes. The only thing that didn’t hurt was his chest. It was so numb he couldn’t feel his breath for all he heard his raspy gasps for air.

  “Accident,” was all that Derac said.

  “Make yourself useful. Water, as hot as you can get it, and clean linens. Take them from the Lord’s closet if you must, but hurry with them. Elgen, wake Analee and tell her I need her,” the woman said. A finger prodded Kalen in the shoulder and drew a yelp out of him. “As for you, you must not
sleep. Do you understand?”

  “I’ve been healed before,” Kalen growled in the Rifter tongue. Realizing his mistake, he opened his mouth to repeat himself in Kelshite, but he was silenced by the woman’s probing finger.

  “I understand you,” she replied in a thick accent. Without care for his discomfort, her hands worked over his chest. Heat washed over him when she peeled the shirt off of him.

  “You know our tongue. I didn’t believe many Kelshites did,” Kalen gasped out between breaths. So long as he kept talking, and she kept talking to him, he could do as she demanded. “You may be wasting your effort.”

  “A healer must try to save any in need. That is our way. But, you know this, don’t you? Why is it one so young has been healed so many times?” The woman’s fingers traced the lines of the scars across his ribs. Even when she touched his broken ribs, Kalen remained silent. “But you are not that young. You merely look it.”

  “I am thirty, if you must know,” he replied.

  “I can’t begin until Derac brings what I asked for. Analee will be most useful as well. I must ask that you open your eyes and keep at least one open. It will make our work easier. At least, then, I might know if you’ve fainted during the treatment.”

  His right eye opened with ease, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force the left to obey his will. A young woman bent over him. The frown he expected wasn’t there. Instead, the faintest of smiles creased her lips. “You’re supposed to be frowning. I thought that was in your oath. You can’t grin at someone’s misfortune.”

  “You’re lively for a man whose next breath could be his last.”

  “I’ve heard that before too. Do your worst, healer. The sooner this is done with, the better.”

  “I’d rather not kill you before I’ve had a chance to heal you,” she replied. The frown he’d been looking for made its appearance. He knew better than to look down at his stomach where her fingers hesitated before trailing down to his left leg. Blood was something that he was accustomed to, but he still wasn’t quite sure what the Danarites had done to him. The memory of exactly what happened after the Lord Priest broke his foot was dim at best.

  “These injuries weren’t caused by a fall from a horse. They weren’t caused by a sword,” the healer murmured.

  Without replying, Kalen focused his attention on ceiling. The steady illumination of a lantern reflected on polished wooden beams. Above the beams were the shadows of rafters. It roused old memories that he had succeeded to forget for more years than he cared to think about.

  “Talk to me.”

  A door creaked open. Kalen strained to make out the pattern of the wood’s grain.

  “You called for me?” another woman asked.

  “Analee, prepare poultice for me. Bring your flute.”

  “At once,” Analee replied.

  “I hope that I won’t need to resort to that flute,” the healer said in a wry tone. “You’ll wish you could deafen yourself, should it touch her lips.”

  “What’s your name?” Kalen asked.

  “Marissa.” She didn’t ask for his name, and he didn’t offer it.

  “Your accent is terrible. Who taught you the Rift tongue?” he asked in Kelshite. “That girl—Analee?—won’t need to play her flute. Recite some poetry or sing, and I’d seek a ledge from which to throw myself.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re a fool for insulting the one who’ll heal you or a genius for it. Trying to irritate me so I’m done with you as quickly as possible?”

  “I’ve brought what you asked for,” Derac said. Kalen tried to glance at the man, but he couldn’t see across the room from where he lay. He’d been placed on a sedan with a low back. Marissa stalked around him, making quiet, disapproving noises in her throat.

  “Put it there,” the healer ordered, pointing at a nearby table. Derac obeyed, setting down a steaming pan of water and a pile of linens.

  “What is going on?” someone asked from the door. It was a man’s voice, and each word emerged as a thundering rumble that Kalen felt as much as heard.

  “Uncle. There’s trouble,” Derac replied.

  “That I can judge from the amount of mud and blood staining my floor. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Kalen almost laughed at Derac’s bashful silence. “You’ve a nest of Danarites in your precious land,” he said without masking the venom in his voice. “And at least one of them will bring ruin to you and your house.” Before he could say anything else, Marissa seized his left foot and twisted. “Hellfires, woman!”

  “So many broken bones. I am astonished you’re well enough to manage such rudeness to the Lord of this house. What did you do to yourself?” Marissa asked.

  “I didn’t do anything. What do you think happened?” Kalen growled out through clenched teeth.

  “When I first saw it, I thought a horse had stepped on you, but the breaks are too consistent,” the healer said. Kalen glanced at her face to see her puzzled frown. “All of the bones are broken like this. Clean breaks. Localized.”

  Derac spared him from trying to answer the woman. “Torture, Marissa. They tortured him. When he refused to speak, they thought they’d get answers out of him one broken bone at a time.”

  “And you brought him right to the villa, so the Danarites could follow you here to us,” the Lord said.

  “I had no choice, Uncle. I couldn’t kill him. Not like that. Should I have left him? They wanted him dead or alive. They know where your villa is, anyway. There is a fool of a traitor with them.”

  “He speaks the truth,” Kalen said. He switched to the Rift tongue and glanced over at Marissa. “Will sitting up interfere with your work? If you end up killing me, there are things they need to know.”

  “It won’t.” With more strength than he thought her capable of, Marissa hauled him upright. He bit his lip to keep from cursing. “Remember. If you faint, you’ll die.”

  “I’m aware. Do your part and I’ll do mine,” he replied.

  “You’re a Rifter,” the Lord said in a thick accent that reminded him of Marissa’s. “You aren’t a Guardian.”

  “I must ask the Guardians what they saw in you to make you an Akakashani, or do all Kelshite Lords make assumptions for things they do not know?” Kalen smiled through the pain. It had been a long time since he’d spoken the more formal version of the Kelshite language, but his tongue remembered the intonations. It felt like he was trying to seduce each syllable. He shuddered.

  “How did you know that? Who told you?” Anger deepened the man’s voice.

  “Uncle, wait. You don’t understand,” Derac pleaded, hanging onto the Lord’s arm like a child.

  “I’m going to begin,” Marissa warned. “By all means, do argue.”

  Kalen braced himself. He didn’t have time to draw a breath before she laid her hands upon his left foot and the pain was sucked out of him. Kalen’s muscles relaxed, and he slumped back against the support of the sedan. Lethargy set in as he stared at the Kelshite Lord. He summoned all of his hatred and loathing and let it burn through him. He wondered just how Derac would react if he learned his own uncle was just as much of a traitor as Garint. “Why are you an Akakashani?”

  “I don’t see how that is your business.”

  “Uncle!”

  “I’m not speaking to you this moment, Derac. Be silent!”

  The Lord stepped into view and dropped down onto the sedan that was on the other side of the table. Dark hair, still tousled from sleep, hung in front of a pair of blue eyes as pale as Kalen’s. A blue, unbuttoned tunic clung to the man’s shoulders. A short-cropped beard and mustache hid his mouth.

  Kalen struggled to clench his fingers into a fist, but the broken bones refused to bend. It was a face he knew too well. He saw it every time he stared into a mirror. While there were wrinkles near the man’s mouth and eyes, Kalen couldn’t deny the truth.

  ~Kill?~ the First asked. It was both an offer and a question, accompanied with the familiar sense
of bloodlust, as well as images of battle and death.

  Shaking his head was difficult, but he managed. Marissa clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I said you could argue, young sir. I did not say you could move.”

  “Xorisi,” he muttered. If the woman recognized the Mithrian word of apology, she didn’t reply to it.

  “A Guardian is not due to come, not for another season. You do not wear the colors, and you came in on a gray horse. Rifter horses are black. Who are you and why have you come out of your Rift?”

  Kalen stared into the man’s eyes and wondered if the Lord noticed their resemblance.

  “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, Derac,” Kalen said. Without the pain to sustain him and keep him conscious, he had to focus on each word in order to speak. He muttered a curse.

  “You know why I can’t.”

  “And I will tell you why you will,” Kalen said in a low, even tone. His gaze flicked to Derac before settling on the Lord once more. “Who would you rather do it? Your uncle, this woman, or you?”

  “She’ll heal you,” Derac snapped. “There will be no need for that sword!”

  “What are you talking about?” the Lord asked.

  “What is your name, Lord of Kelsh? What is your gifted name as Akakashani? Speak,” Kalen demanded.

  “I am Lord Bresalan Delrose of Kelsh, and I have been gifted the name of Corasan.” Each word was clipped, as though forced out of the man’s mouth without consent.

  Kalen let out a low growl from deep within his throat. For a brief moment, Marissa lifted her hands from him and the pain kept him from responding. His foot no longer hurt with the piercing pain of before. It was almost a relief when it throbbed with the beat of his heart.

  Her fingers brushed against his ribs, and Kalen’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to scream, but he bit down on the side of his mouth to keep the sound contained. He sighed when the pain once again was devoured by the healer’s magic. He cringed at the feeling of his bones shifting just beneath his skin as she stroked her fingers over his ribs. She muttered to herself, and he almost laughed when he recognized what she was saying.