Bitter Winter, page 18
part #5 of Ilyon Chronicles Series
He shook, his eyes flooding as his throat caved in on itself. Drawing a difficult breath, he shoved back the blankets and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He knew Elôm could save Kyrin and the others without the cure, but what if He didn’t? What if the dream would be his reality? Hot moisture rolled down his face, and he scrubbed it away. He forced another deep breath, but the trembling wouldn’t subside. Then, another wave of cold washed through him. Something wasn’t right.
He pushed to his feet, disturbed by the twinge of weakness in his legs, and crossed the room to the washstand. He held his breath and looked in the mirror. Even in the twilight-like darkness, he could see the redness around his throat.
He braced himself against the washstand. He couldn’t be sick. He needed to get the cure. He needed to save Kyrin. How long until he couldn’t even stand?
He hadn’t had trouble with his lungs since Elon had healed him. Jace always believed he’d been healed completely of the condition that affected him because of his ryrik blood, but what if that were not so? He would die of suffocation long before the fever took him. He placed his hand against his chest, as memories of choking on his own blood took hold. But that wasn’t the worst. If he fell ill and died now, who would save Kyrin?
Unbidden, Avery’s offer dropped in amidst the fear. He could save Kyrin… if he was willing to accept the offer. He shook his head. No, he couldn’t. But didn’t Avery say his uncle made a sport of killing believers? If Jace did kill him, how many others would be saved? Not only Kyrin and all those who were sick but other believers in Keaton as well. One man to save many others. Was that really so terrible?
The question unsettled him, but once again, he saw Kyrin’s pale and lifeless face from the dream. He had to save her, and now he had even less time than he had thought. He turned to the window. The hazy, gray light told him it was almost dawn.
Bracing himself, Jace grabbed his clothes and dressed quickly. His discomfort sounded a warning, but fear for Kyrin drowned it out. He loved her too much to let her die, and if he didn’t act now, he soon wouldn’t be able to.
Once he was dressed, he opened his door and paused to listen. The house was silent and brought him a sad relief. If Holden knew what he was doing, he had no doubt his friend would stop him. He had to leave now, while they were still asleep. It was just something he had to do.
Downstairs in the dim foyer, he pulled on his coat. Just this bit of effort made him too warm and a little shaky. He had to hurry. With a glance over his shoulder that stirred the unease in his stomach, he let himself outside.
The icy breeze momentarily refreshed him, but as he walked down the street, it bit through his clothes and chilled him to the bone. He hunched his shoulders and hurried his steps. He had to finish this before the fever overwhelmed him. He thanked his ryrik blood that he wasn’t already bedridden, yet he wouldn’t assume it would halt the fever’s effects completely.
Jace had to fight down his roiling stomach when the sign for the Red Crane appeared just ahead. His steps grew heavy, as if he had to drag them to keep himself moving forward. Gripping the cold knob, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Would Avery or his men even be here at this early hour?
Spotting Tavor, he let out a long breath, but the nausea only grew. The man noticed him a moment later. His look said he’d been expecting Jace to show up. Something about that didn’t sit well. Jace was supposed to be a better man than that. But he did this for Kyrin. She didn’t deserve to die if he could do something to save her.
Pulling his shoulders back, he crossed the room, fighting to hide a wince at how much energy the walk from Ben and Mira’s had consumed. Tavor looked almost amused when Jace reached the table. He leaned back in his chair and waited frustratingly. Surely, he knew exactly why Jace was here without him having to say it.
Jace gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time for games. “I need to speak with Avery. I… I want to accept his offer.”
Tavor nodded slowly and set aside the deck of cards he’d been playing with. Standing, he grabbed his coat. “Come with me.”
He strode toward the door, and Jace followed, struggling to hide his disappointment that Avery wasn’t here in this tavern. More walking would only deplete his energy. He willed strength into his body. In response, a bit of warmth seeped through his veins, steadying him. He would have to rely on this aspect of his ryrik blood until his task was completed.
His task . . .
His stomach threatened to turn, and he swallowed it back into place. He couldn’t think about it. Like when he’d fought in the arenas, he had to shut his mind to the horrors… except he’d never set out to kill anyone then, only in self-defense.
But this was different. At least, that’s what he told himself. He did this to save people. And Avery’s uncle was not an innocent man.
This thought settled fitfully in his mind as they veered off the main street and into a narrower alleyway. Another tavern sign hung over one of the doors—the Dragon’s Head. Tavor opened the door and beckoned him inside. The tavern interior was smaller than the Red Crane, though it appeared better kept—more a place for gentlemen patrons than the usual riffraff who frequented such places. The room was empty save for the barkeeper who gave them a calculating look, but said not a word as the two of them passed.
Tavor led Jace up a dark stairwell. In the hall, he spotted a man standing guard at the end near the farthest door. He eyed Jace and then traded a silent nod with Tavor as they neared. At the door, Tavor knocked. A minute later, it swung open halfway. Avery peered out. His clothing was a bit rumpled as if he’d only just gotten out of bed and tugged them on. The moment he saw Jace, the irksome hint of a grin grew on his face.
“Here to discuss our deal?”
Jace nodded curtly, and Avery opened the door wider, gesturing him inside. Tavor stepped in as well, taking up a guard position and watching Jace as though he didn’t quite trust him.
Jace swept the room with his gaze. It wasn’t simply a meeting room. While not overly spacious, it contained an unmade bed, a table, and a couple of cabinets. This must be where Avery lived, or at least one of the places he’d made home since he’d assassinated Emperor Daican.
“Sit,” Avery said, gesturing to the table. He reached for a coffee pot with steam curling around the spout. “Coffee?”
“No.” Jace’s voice was clipped, but he didn’t soften it, nor did he take a seat despite his body’s need for rest. “How do I find your uncle?”
Avery lowered the pot and looked Jace up and down. Jace resisted the urge to throttle him. He didn’t have time to waste. Avery met his gaze with a knowing look.
“You have the fever.”
Jace swallowed hard, acutely aware of the swollen ache taking over his throat. He did not answer. The truth was plain enough to see.
Instead, he ground out, “Where do I find your uncle?”
Avery straightened, his expression growing more serious. At least he wasn’t making light of the situation. “Every morning he attends the ‘games’ at the arena. Executions of Elôm believers and others who have offended Her Royal Highness.” He scowled at the mention of Davira. “No doubt that’s where you’ll find him. If you go now, you can intercept him on the way to the arena.”
Clenching his jaw, Jace nodded, making himself picture the man sitting and watching believers being killed as if it were a sport. He didn’t deserve to live if it meant other good people would die.
“What does he look like?”
Avery gave Jace a detailed description of his uncle, including the manner in which he usually arrived at the arena. The entire time, Jace’s heart pounded like a drum deep in his chest, the blood throbbing in his veins.
Once he was certain he could find Avery’s uncle, he nodded again. After a brief pause, he looked the man in the eyes. “There’s one more thing.”
Avery silently waited for him to speak.
“I’m risking everything for this. My friends should get something if I fail and am captured or killed.”
Avery mulled this over a moment. “Very well. If you fail and don’t return, I’ll give them enough of the remedy for Daniel and King Balen, free of—”
“Three people,” Jace cut in. “Prince Daniel, King Balen, and Kyrin.”
He felt wretched making such a deal, as if he was personally condemning Rayad and everyone else, but he had to try to save Kyrin.
“All right, three doses.”
“And you will stick by that?”
“I may be a smuggler, but I’m a man of my word,” Avery responded with all seriousness, and Jace believed him.
In the following silence, the discomfort tugging at him spiked again—an inner warning to turn back while he still could—but he fought to silence it. Who could blame him for doing whatever he could to save Kyrin? Hadn’t he given her father such a promise?
“I’ll be back for the remedy.”
Turning, he headed out of the room before his inner voice could raise any further protests. He didn’t slow on his way through the tavern or out onto the streets. Now that the sun was up, more people traveled the alleys, but he paid them no heed. He had to travel a couple of blocks before the Draicon Arena came into view. The moment he spotted it, his innards lurched and twisted. He’d never fought there, but it brought memories flooding back of the arenas he had seen.
Despite the cold, he could almost feel the hot grit of sand and hear the cheers. Why did that life he’d fought so hard to put behind him seem so suddenly near? The dark hopelessness of that time seemed to surround him, as if he were tottering right on the edge of slipping back into it. He shook his head. He had to focus. Perhaps it was the fever, warping his senses and bringing new life to those past horrors. He drew the cold air into his lungs to clear his head. Instead, a cough rose up, burning his chest. He half expected the salty warmth of blood in his mouth, yet none came.
By the time he had crossed the city and neared the arena, his clothing clung damply to his skin, and his head pounded. His elevated heartbeat worked twice as hard as normal. He paused, looking around at the people filtering into the arena. His gaze then traveled upward, climbing each of the six stories of the monstrous structure. Ice encased him, and his mouth went dry. How many people could such an arena hold? He could almost hear their screaming and chanting for death. How many had been killed here already?
Shaking off questions he couldn’t answer or do anything about, he focused on what he could do—save Kyrin. He scanned the base of the arena until he found the entrance Avery had described as being used by nobility. He would have to get closer. Thankfully, no soldiers guarded the entrance, at least not from the outside.
Gripping his sword scabbard, he strode toward the entrance. A nearby statue provided a good vantage point and a way to conceal himself. He stepped behind it and leaned back against the cold stone, letting out a long breath. He closed his eyes and focused on his heartbeat, willing it to slow to a more normal rhythm.
Several minutes later, the sound of approaching hooves jerked his attention to the street. From the direction of the palace rolled a carriage towed by four white horses. Jace’s heart lurched into his throat as it passed on its way to the arena and stopped several yards away. This was it. It had to be Avery’s uncle.
He stood frozen as three men exited the coach, and a fourth jumped down from next to the driver. They weren’t clad in official gold and black, but everything about them said they were guardsmen. A moment later, a fifth man joined them—tall and thin with graying hair pulled back in a tail that fell well past his shoulders. Jace’s pulse kicked up yet another notch. It was him—Baron Reynold.
As the man fussed with his cloak, Jace stepped away from the statue and slipped his hand to his belt where he’d stuck his hunting knife. Move quickly, take the man out, and then run. It was all he had to do. Kyrin, Rayad, and the rest of their camp would be saved. He slipped the dagger out of its sheath, concealing it within the folds of his coat. The man’s back was to him and his security didn’t appear to notice. He was so close. If he lunged, he’d reach him. He squeezed the dagger as the man’s defenseless back filled his sight. Heat curled through his blood. Drive the blade in, just right of the man’s left shoulder and it would be done.
Jace froze.
What was he doing? Was he truly going to kill—to murder—this man? His grip on the dagger trembled as the voice inside him rose up, echoing Elon’s voice. Elon, his Savior, the one who had died, not only in his place, but for all those in Ilyon, including Avery’s uncle. Elon had paid for their lives with His own blood. Who was Jace to take another’s life like this, regardless of the circumstance?
The horror of what he’d been about to do nearly sent him to his knees. “Elôm, forgive me.”
He took a wobbly step back and met with a solid blow to the back of the head. Light flashed and then darkness as he crumpled.
Chapter Twenty
Rough tugging at his arms roused Jace. Muffled voices surrounded him. Then hands grabbed his arms, yanking him upward. He stifled a groan as his shoulders protested. His feet dragged along the ground, but he didn’t have the strength to lift his head, much less get up. He blinked, the cobblestones a blur. None of his senses worked at first and returned slowly. Pain flooded in, and he drew a sharp breath. The back of his skull felt like it had been split open. He wasn’t so sure it hadn’t.
Wincing at the pain pounding behind his eyes, he raised his head and got his feet underneath him, though he stumbled a few steps before his legs regained their strength. He looked to his right and left at his captors—the same guardsmen he had seen with Baron Reynold. They led him around the side of the arena.
He hung his head again, the pain of regret swelling in his chest to rival the pain in his head. This was his fault. He’d brought this on himself with his lack of faith. He’d been so afraid for Kyrin that he’d let his fear overwhelm him. His poor decisions had been based on the desperate and misguided belief that he could save her under his own power. What a fool he was. She always had been and always would be in Elôm’s hands. Whether she lived or died would be His will. What folly for Jace to believe he could save her by taking the life of another—by forsaking all he knew of Elôm. His fear had led him to one of the biggest mistakes of his life, and now he’d pay for it.
I am so sorry, Elôm. I’ve done terrible wrong. I’m done taking things into my own hands. Whatever happens to Kyrin… whatever happens to me, I accept Your will.
Tears stung his eyes, but even now, facing his own uncertain future, a peace settled inside him that he hadn’t experienced in what felt like ages. Thank You.
The men jerked him to the right, cutting off the rest of his thoughts. He stumbled, his legs wobbling again. He’d barely regained his balance before the men slammed him up against the side of the arena. He ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut at the fresh stab of pain that shot from the back of his head. When he opened them again, Avery’s uncle stood in front of him, his sharp, clean-shaven chin tipped imperiously as he peered down his long nose at Jace.
“So my nephew finally hired an assassin?”
Jace said nothing, and the man snorted.
“Did he not think I would be prepared for such a thing? You poor fool. You walked right into it.”
Jace let his gaze drop. He was a fool, and he was prepared to accept the consequences.
“You have the fever.”
Jace looked up again into Reynold’s smiling face.
“My nephew offered you the cure in exchange for killing me, didn’t he?” He shook his head as if Jace were nothing more than a pathetic beggar. “Pity. You look like you would have provided good sport in the arena.”
Jace swallowed hard, an involuntary reaction to the thought of finding himself in an arena again. Before he or Reynold could speak another word, a man rushed up to them. Jace didn’t recognize him as being with Reynold when he’d first arrived. He stepped to the man’s side and spoke in his ear. Though he barely more than whispered, Jace’s sharp hearing caught the words.
“We’ve finally found him, my lord. He’s been staying at the Dragon’s Head. He’s there right now.”
Jace stiffened in his captors’ grips. The man was talking about Avery.
Reynold’s expression lifted. “Is that so?”
The other man nodded.
“Then let’s not waste any time.” Avery’s uncle motioned to one of his guardsman, and then peered contemptuously at Jace. “Dispose of him and then meet us at the Dragon’s Head.”
Jace’s heart pounded, each beat sluggish and heavy. Not only would he surely die, but no doubt Reynold would capture Avery and drag him to face Davira’s wrath. Any small chance of ever getting the remedy from him would then be gone.
Without a second glance at Jace, Avery’s uncle turned and joined several of his men, striding back the way they had come. Jace’s two captors plus one other man pulled him away from the wall and led him in the opposite direction. Jace tugged against them, but even the heat working through his veins couldn’t compensate for the draining effect the fever had on his strength.
Elôm, he cried out with total dependence as he should have done days ago, I can’t stop this. Only You can.
The men dragged him into a shadowed alley up the street from the arena. Snow drifts, broken glass, and other refuse cluttered it. Several yards away, a large lump lay half buried by the snow. Jace had to swallow down his stomach. It was just large enough to be a person. Had these men killed someone here before? Would his body lay here to freeze where his friends would never know what happened to him? He released a heavy sigh. Had coming here to Valcré even been the right decision, or had he again taken matters into his own hands instead of trusting Elôm?
The men shoved him against the wall of the building. The third man reached into his coat and pulled out a long dagger. Jace fought to pull away again, but they held him in place. Resignation settled. He couldn’t escape death this time and would accept it with whatever dignity he had left.
