The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 6
Sofia frowned. Why bring the King to her father’s rooms, to show him evidence of treason? Why not the Throne Room? And what was wrong with the old man, why hadn’t he spoken? Last night he was a commanding presence, despite looking pale, but now he was barely alert.
“This is ridiculous. My father is innocent.” Sofia directed her words to the Prince. He made no answer, only smiling back. Her father took a step toward the old King, who blinked back at him. Several blades were levelled at her father and Sofia edged toward him, pulse racing. She had to stay close. Whatever was happening, it was a lie. Father was no traitor.
“My King, you know this is not true.”
King Otonos tilted his head. He moved his mouth slowly, but no sounds followed.
Her father turned to Emilio. “Captain. Surely you do not believe this?”
Emilio made no answer at first, though his eyes were wary. His breastplate reflected the firelight and when he spoke his voice was loud in the silence. “I am here at the Prince’s behest to investigate claims that threaten my liege.”
King Otonos nodded, lips pursed. “Danillo, yes...the man...that man seemed to be...”
One of the Mascare propping him up hushed the king, who complied without resistance, and Sofia felt her stomach turn. Had the king been drugged? He was old but he wasn’t feeble. The whole thing was some cruel puppet show, a play for his benefit. And it was Oson’s doing. No doubt all the scowling during the meeting had been an act too. The attempt to discredit her family was obvious. Pathetic even. Had the king been in his right mind, he would not have been fooled.
The Prince was still staring at Argeon. Sofia shivered. He wanted the Greatmask.
“Here, my Lords.” A Mascare removed a letter from her father’s desk. She hadn’t even heard him cross the room. “It’s written in their script.”
“Show me that,” her father said, but the masked man handed it instead to Solicci.
“It names you, Danillo of Casa Falco.” He’d barely glanced at it. Sofia clenched her jaw. She couldn’t fight them, they were too many and she untrained. But she couldn’t convince the king that it was all lies either.
“What names me, Solicci? Have the decency to speak plainly.”
The Prince took over. “It’s a letter from warriors beyond the wasteland. From the west. Our old enemy has sent an assassin which you have paid for.”
“The punishment for treason is death,” Solicci added.
“I have not received nor kept any letter from the Medah.” Her father suddenly had a knife in his hand, but she hadn’t seen him reach for it. “Boy, what you have had your lackey plant is no evidence. Prince or no, you will detract your accusation or die by my hand.”
Sofia drew a breath, her surprise echoed by many of those in the room. “No, father,” she cried. “It’s what they want.”
“You’re outnumbered,” Solicci said. “Don’t be a fool, listen to your daughter. She’s quite bright for a Carver.”
Her father’s shoulders trembled. He was inches from rage. “I am outnumbered. But this cur will still be dead.” The prince had gone purple but held his ground.
“And so will your daughter be,” Solicci snapped back. Sofia inched her own hand for the big chisel at her belt. Her heart thumped, a thousand hooves against her chest, but she stood tall. Unprovoked, these men sought to shatter her father and sully the name of Casa Falco. Neither Father nor Tantos had done a single thing to hurt the other houses and never the King. Oson and Solicci deserved naught but steel.
Her father shook his head. “You need her. Argeon will not speak to a Cavallo.” He looked to each unmasked face. “Nor a Pesce. Or a Tartaruga. I have seen to that.”
Solicci puffed himself up. “You have dared to –”
“Enough.” Her father roared the word. “You have dared to bring these false allegations against me, drawn weapons upon me and involved my King in your petty games. I feared you coveted Argeon, but I did not think you would stoop to such barren depths, Solicci. Am I wrong in guessing that Osani has abandoned you then? Or do you wish for both Greatmasks?” He paused, moving his gaze to the Prince. “Or worse, have you simply become a lapdog to this whelp?”
Solicci offered no response but Oson drew his own sword. The King placed a shaking hand on his son’s shoulder.
“No. Show me... the letter.” His voice creaked in the silence. His head wobbled as he moved a hand in a circle before him. “Emilio, come.”
Solicci handed the letter over and the king read slowly, the captain of his guard joining him. The Shields shifted in place but didn’t lower their blades. Ten men, including the king, arrayed against her father. She kept her hand near the chisel. It was not much against swords, but she had nothing else.
Emilio glanced at her, then spoke, a trace of reluctance in his voice. “It is written in the Medah script.”
King Otonos frowned.
“There is more, your majesty.” Another mask-less man waved at the door. A dark skinned man was dragged into the room by two Shields. Sofia’s stomach flipped. Hanging between the king’s guard was a warrior from across the western desert, from Medah – a place where the old were taken into the sands and buried alive, where disobedient children were scalded with hot embers and women beat their menfolk if they disobeyed their wishes and where dark mages plotted and schemed to take Anaskar.
The old enemy.
How had the man crossed the desert? Survived the Wards? And worse, gained admittance into the city, let alone the palace!
A Shield pulled the prisoner’s head back by the hair. Tears ran down his face and his blue eyes were wide. A large bruise swam beneath his swollen cheek. Solicci pointed to her father, speaking slowly. “Is this the man who sent you gold, who snuck you into the city?”
He nodded, eyes darting from face to face.
“And the man who asked you to assassinate King Otonos?”
“Yes,” he managed, accent thick. “Please, don’t kill me.”
Her father made no response and she inched closer. His whole body trembled and he had not put his knife away. To the king, he spoke, voice quiet. “Your Majesty, you do not believe this, surely? Look at his eyes, they are blue by the Ocean Gods. He is no Medah.”
The king’s dark eyes flashed. Though he needed support, fury lent his voice power. “This letter... this man. It is a betrayal. Emilio?”
“Treason is punishable by death,” the Captain said, his face set.
“No!” Sofia reached for her father. Something hot bit the back of her head and a moment later she was looking up from the floor, her father crouched over her. Had someone hit her? Argeon concealed her father’s face but she could hear the rage in his voice, even as he whispered. “Through the fireplace, petal – on my word. They will lie.”
He helped her up and Sofia flinched. A Mascare lay crumpled on the ground, blood pooling around the blade in his stomach. One of her father’s knives. Oson was shouting from across the room where Solicci held him back. The Shields wore white faces and the Medah man was being pulled from the room. Her father radiated a power she’d never felt before. The air thickened around him and when he spoke, his voice resonated.
“This need not end in further bloodshed. I will spare the rest of you, if you stay your hands and let my daughter alone. I will accept your punishment.”
She shouted. “No.”
Solicci raised his hands. “If she cooperates –”
“No. She is to be given safe passage from Anaskar.”
Oson spat as he stepped forward, pointing his finger. “No? You are a traitor, you make no bargains.”
In the blink of an eye, faster than seemed possible, her father crossed the space between the two and caught the prince’s hand, jerking the man close. He placed the knife against Oson’s throat. “Stay,” he barked, and the force of his word drove them back. Sofia took a half step back herself. It put her between her father and the fireplace – but with its flames she couldn’t guess what he’d meant. It was large and the heat was real. What was she to do?
“Danillo, no more.” Solicci held up his hands. “Give up the Prince and the Greatmask. If you do that, we will grant you your wish. On my honour, your daughter will be free.”
“On your honour, Solicci? I do not believe you have any left.”
“On my honour.”
Still no-one moved.
Emilio whispered to the King, who straightened. “He is my son, Danillo.”
Her father made no response, but the air changed again, becoming less oppressive. They will lie. Sofia looked from face to face.
“Very well. A son for a daughter. Swear it, my king.”
“I swear.”
A moment longer her father held Oson, and then he shoved him into Solicci’s arms. The Prince wheeled on the captain. “Take my father away, you imbecile. Isn’t he in enough danger?” Spittle covered his chin and his face was red.
“Honour the terms,” her father demanded.
Solicci waited a moment, letting the old king leave before waving a hand. “Take them both.”
“Now!” Her father leapt forward, knives flashing in the lamplight. Men fell back, even as others met his attack. None could touch her father. He wove among them, cutting and maiming. Oson backed away but Solicci and the other men without masks drew their own blades.
“Go,” her father roared when he saw her watching.
“I can’t leave you.”
A soldier charged her, his blade poised to strike and his face a rigid snarl. There was no mercy in his eyes, no hesitation in his swing.
Sofia ducked, stumbling back as the blade whistled over her head. Her father appeared and his arms were blurs as he fought, cutting the Mascare to ribbons.
Spinning, he caught her and without pause, threw her into the flames.
Chapter 8
Ain placed a palm on hot sand and closed his eyes. The sun beat on his head and sweat slipped down his back. A familiar discomfort, and with no breeze running across the desert’s god-like face, he might have removed his cloak. If he did, and the elders found out, he would be shamed. No Pathfinder let their cloak touch the ground by choice. Too precious, its entire length dyed a sky blue, each cloak was the work of a third of the settlement. More, it was not merely fabric. It was a symbol of the Ocean, a symbol of Medah’s past. Or its future.
There.
Thumping from a pair of booted feet. The scuff of a lighter shoe on the sand, the plonk of camel feet. The bare tread of wild dogs, their pads sizzling. The hard lines of wagon wheels. Passage after passage trembled beneath his hand, vibrations played along his skin. The age of their passing was a collective thunder as they crossed the desert, filled his mind. It was an army, a history of the very land, in the form of every step any living soul had taken on the path.
He heard them all.
Ain raised his hand and the sound of their passage receded enough that he could resume his Pathfinder’s Trial. He walked on, guided by the echo of footfalls. Water was close. With such a busy path to follow, one which resonated from deep beneath the surface, he had no doubts. His cracked lips told him it had better be.
If the Sands willed that he perish then it would be so, though his gift had never led him astray.
If the elders really sent an experienced Pathfinder along to shadow Initiates, then the man better be impressed. Ain had found every path, every water hole, every site of significance since starting his trial. And if it was Majid, Ain hoped his friend was watching closely. Once Majid left on the Search Ain would have no-one to measure himself against.
He’d have to think of a surprise for Majid. Payback for the pepper in his food. Maybe a nice big, sticky rock-lizard in the man’s sleeping roll?
The echo of slowing footfalls brought him to a halt. Sand stretched before him, distant dunes wavering in the heat. A small collection of stones formed a cairn, beneath which would be a well. Ain hauled the stones to one side and slid the cover aside, revealing a dark opening and rope tied to a heavy iron ring. The ring was stained with age but the rope was new.
Pulling on it, the slosh of water rose from below and his throat gave a raw swallow of anticipation. When he lifted the bucket to his mouth, water spilled down his tunic. Wasteful! He put the bucket down and knelt. “Sands forgive me.”
Cooling off was tempting but he only drank again, carefully. Next he stopped to fill his water flasks before resting against one of the larger stones. At repose, in a spot where so many feet had come to a halt over the decades, the rhythm of their moving was dulled to such an extent that he could barely hear them. Only when he slept, could Ain experience truer escape from the noise.
The sand was quiet. No other living creature visible, not even the scrawniest cactus, and only his own footprints suggested any one had ever set foot in this part of the desert. If an older Pathfinder like Majid was out there, he saw no evidence. To be Medah was to be skilled at concealing oneself in the landscape, but that was like saying the Sands were vast.
Ain was not convinced he wasn’t totally alone. Upon sending him off, the elders would not answer his questions about whether he would be watched.
“You will be worthy if you return,” was all they offered.
Ain would return. Faster than any Pathfinder before him. Then maybe they would take his request seriously, and allow him to shape his own future. Allow him to make Silaj a part of it. Even her mother would no longer object, once he was a true Pathfinder. Majid and Elder Raila believed in him, he would not fail them. He took another drink from the bucket before dropping it into the dark, covering the well and heading for the nearest dune. Beyond would be a new path, this one to civilisation.
With each step the sand gave a little. His legs were beyond aching but he kept on. If he travelled quick enough, he could reach the Cloud Oasis before nightfall. Paths spread around him like veins on the big leaves merchants brought from the far west. He’d tried to keep one as a child, but it eventually shrivelled to brown in the desert heat.
To his left pulsed a faint rhythm, an old, old trail buried deep beneath the sand. It could have been for game or a regular road between settlements. This was overlaid by whispers of lesser paths, some that might never have been taken with any regularity, by any more than one or two people. The sand to his right was similar, the barely audible shuffle overlaid with stronger beats from more popular trails. The path his own feet trod was shifting, its power waxed and waned, as travellers past and present drifted on and off.
One such diversion, though faint, gave him pause. It sounded as no other path had before. Light, but sibilant. “What’s this?” He placed a hand on the desert floor, then jerked his palm back at a sharp, slicing sensation. No blood. Frowning, he hurried along the side of the dune, its edges soft. The hiss of the path grew as he ran. No passage was meant to hiss, let alone cause pain. Feet had a rhythm, a step, a hard sound. Even the oldest trail he’d heard was the same, one of steps. The passage of feet striking ground. This was different.
A sharp depression appeared ahead. When he reached it, Ain leapt down its sides, coming to a halt in a spray of sand. A body, dressed in the remnants of Medah tans, lay in its centre. Half-covered in sand, it was a skeleton, bleached by the sun. He moved closer and the hissing disappeared. And then so did the murmur of other paths. All of them. Only in pre-wakeful moments had he experienced such quiet.
Who had died here, to leave such a strange trace on a path and then to create such powerful silence? Ain crouched. An outstretched arm was open, the other buried in the sand. How slowly had the wind uncovered this poor soul? The head was turned away, jaw agape. Ain brushed at the sand. There had to be a clue to the traveller’s identity. He worked in the sun, pausing to drink but once, when he’d finished. Under the sand, a hint of familiar cloth was visible, hidden beneath the skeleton.
“Forgive me.” He tugged on it. A large scrap came free, the portion which had been buried beneath both body and sand still held enough colour for him to recognise a Pathfinder’s blue cloak.
“So. This is what happens when we fail.” Had the man followed the wrong path or ran out of water? Was he attacked? Or was he a Pathfinder on his own Trial? Sometimes a young Pathfinder never returned, but it was rare. And cause for great mourning among the clan. When had it last happened?
The man was gone now, it mattered not how or when.
Ain straightened the limbs, flinching when the arm dislodged, and shifted the skull into place before tying the remaining scraps of cloak around the head, placing eyes, ears and mind to rest.
“Let the passing of feet go quiet now, your path is at an end.”
He kept a smaller piece of the cloak, climbing the depression with heavy tread. The further he moved from the skeleton the louder the many paths became, mixing with and finally drowning out the swishing of the perished Pathfinder.
Somehow, the knowledge that the Sands willed it was not of comfort. Ain shivered. What did the Sands, with its restless shifting, have in store for him?
The noon sun slid across the sky, searing exposed skin, but he pushed forward. It was reckless, and he stopped barely an hour out from the skeleton. He’d been sipping too frequently from his water flask. Time to stop and set up camp. Travelling deep into morning was already a risk, his haste would kill him if he travelled into noon.
Setting up his tent and crawling into the welcome shade to take a long drink, Ain lay down and breathed deeply. Once he had a rhythm going, one counter to the hum of paths around him, he closed his eyes, blocking out the tan roof, the dark pole and the white orb blazing away beyond the canvas. Sweat trickled down his temples. He breathed deep and even until his heart slowed and his limbs grew heavy.
Hours had passed when he woke. The sun was heading for the dunes and a wind had picked up, beating against the tent. He’d lost too much time. There was a real chance he would no longer beat Majid’s record of fastest Pathfinder to return to the Cloud Oasis. He rubbed his shoulder, which had stiffened as he slept. Did it matter anymore? Had it even mattered before? Proving his worth could be done, simply by completing the trial as required. Safely.
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