The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (24 page)

Bastard. He knows Norr wasn’t involved
.

“He’s sleeping,” Scythe answered coldly. “He had a long day.”

“He will wake up eventually,” Jerrod replied. “When he does, I’m eager to share my theories about what happened in the duel with him.”

The monk had her, and he knew it. Norr could be naïve, but he wasn’t stupid. If Jerrod started questioning him about the duel, he’d demand the truth from Scythe. She could lie to him, but his suspicions would be raised. He’d know something wasn’t right; he’d probably even tell Shalana out of some misguided sense of honor and duty.

Then what? Will they fight again? Or will Norr be disqualified and Shalana declared the winner?

She didn’t know a lot about the Eastern culture, despite her time with Norr. He’d always seemed reluctant to talk about his past, so she had never pressed him. But she was pretty sure cheating during a duel to determine who would become clan chief would be considered a serious offense.

The snores coming from her lover reassured her he was still fast asleep; there wasn’t any risk of his waking up midconversation.

“If I tell you,” she said, “you can’t say anything to Norr.”

“That was the implication,” Jerrod agreed. His voice and expression never changed, yet somehow he still managed to sound smug.

“Keegan cast a curse,” she admitted. “Something to give Shalana bad luck during the duel.”

“How long will this curse last?” Jerrod wanted to know. “Any misfortune that befalls Shalana could affect us, as well. That is how Chaos works—there are always unforeseen consequences. Rexol called it backlash.”

“I think it was just for the duel,” she said, though she realized now that she wasn’t exactly sure. “Vaaler took steps to make sure the magic didn’t flare up out of control,” she added.

The monk nodded, and Scythe silently cursed herself for inadvertently selling Vaaler out. Threatening to tell Norr had rattled her into revealing more than she’d intended.

“This was all my idea,” she explained, hoping to at least redirect Jerrod’s wrath away from the other two. “Vaaler and Keegan both tried to talk me out of it.”

“But in the end, they listened to you,” Jerrod muttered, almost as if he were talking to himself instead of her.

“Now that Norr’s clan chief, he can use his influence to get the Stone Spirits to help us,” Scythe added. “It was risky, but it worked out for the best.”

To her surprise, Jerrod answered, “I agree.”

“I thought you’d be mad,” Scythe said warily, wondering if this was some kind of trick or trap.

“We all know Keegan’s destiny, though exactly how he will fulfill it is still unclear,” the monk explained, speaking slowly as if still trying to work the ideas out. “I feared you were a distraction—an impediment; an obstacle. Now I think I may have been wrong.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were born beneath the Blood Moon?”

“How do you know that?” Scythe demanded. She’d never talked about her birth, even to Norr.

“So was Vaaler,” Jerrod continued, ignoring her question. “And Keegan.”

Scythe was momentarily taken aback. The Blood Moon was a rare event; the last one had happened twenty years ago and lasted only a couple weeks. She knew the three of them were roughly the same age, but she hadn’t guessed they’d all been born within days of each other.

“Coincidence,” she finally said. “It’s weird, but so what?”

“The three of you are linked by your untimely birth,” Jerrod told her. “Some would call you cursed, but it is more accurate to say you have all been touched by Chaos in some way.”

“I’m no wizard,” Scythe assured him. “And neither is Vaaler, from what I can tell.”

“Chaos manifests in many different ways,” Jerrod explained. “We’ve all seen Keegan’s power; with him it is obvious.

“Vaaler’s parents were both blessed with the Sight, yet he is completely blind to its visions,” Jerrod continued. “He cannot summon Chaos, yet his mind is quick to grasp the most complex and intricate theories of magic. Ironic, maybe even tragic … but not that surprising if you understand that Chaos usually defies expectations.”

He paused, and Scythe knew he was waiting for her to ask, “What about me?” But she refused to give him the satisfaction. After a few seconds Jerrod resumed, undeterred by her silence.

“You are touched in a different way. You are driven by impulse and emotion. You are quick to act—rashly and often violently.”

“That’s all you’ve got?” Scythe laughed. “Based on that, everyone I knew back in Callastan was touched by Chaos.”

“With you it goes deeper,” Jerrod insisted. “There is an aura about you. I first sensed it in the encounter with the Inquisitors.
During the battle you were little more than a blur to my Sight. A random, unpredictable storm swirls around you. Most would be devoured by it, but you ride the storm. You embrace the Chaos. It makes you strong.”

Scythe shrugged off the blatant appeal to her ego for what it really was.

“I know the games fortune-tellers play,” she warned him. “Spit out some vague generalizations about human nature, throw in some compliments to make the mark feel good, then sit back and watch as the client twists the words to make them fit the specifics of his or her own life. It’s just a con.”

“There are charlatans who use such techniques,” he admitted. “But in the Order there were true prophets. When they first dreamed of the Burning Savior, much was unclear. They saw a figure bathed in fire and flames, but little else. We did not know where our savior would be born, or even if we were searching for a boy or a girl.

“Now I understand their confusion,” the monk continued. “Keegan is the savior, but he does not stand alone. There is a deep and powerful connection among Keegan, Vaaler, and you. To unlock his full potential and achieve Keegan’s destiny, all of you must work together.”

“Nice try,” Scythe said, shaking her head. “But I’m not letting you drag me into your crazy plans.”

“You refuse to see what is right in front of you,” Jerrod admonished. “The curse Keegan placed on Shalana was the first step in a much greater journey. Keegan cast the spell, but it was you who urged him to take action. You inspired him to use his power, and Vaaler showed him how to direct and control the Chaos. This was only possible because all three of you worked together.”

“I just wanted Keegan to help Norr,” Scythe protested. “That’s all it was.”

“No,” Jerrod insisted. “There are greater forces at work. Crossing
paths with you wasn’t just random chance. You were destined to become part of this.”

“I wanted to kill you back then,” Scythe reminded him. “Keegan, too.”

“But you didn’t,” Jerrod countered. “And now we share a common purpose. I was blind to this at first; I stood in opposition to you. Now I realize you and Vaaler are as important to stopping the armies of the Slayer as Keegan. Now I see the truth.”

Scythe knew there wasn’t any point in continuing the argument; logic could never sway the mind of a fanatic. Jerrod wasn’t actually interested in any kind of objective truth. Faced with facts that didn’t match his original narrative, he wouldn’t reconsider or reevaluate his position. Instead, he’d redefine and recalibrate his interpretations of his prophecy to make things fit. He’d twist his perception of events so that they supported his beliefs, regardless of what actually happened.

“Does this mean you’re on my side now?” she asked.

“I always was,” he told her. “I just didn’t realize it until now.”

“How much of this have you told Keegan?” she asked, worried the monk’s crazy theories might heighten the young man’s infatuation with her.

“Nothing,” Jerrod answered. “I have not spoken to Vaaler yet, either. They are already both on the proper path; they have already accepted their roles in Keegan’s destiny.”

Now the real purpose of the meeting became clear: Jerrod was here to try to bring her into line.

Scythe was pretty sure his newfound loyalty wouldn’t last. Keegan’s role as the savior seemed to be the only constant in his religious delusions. Sooner or later she’d say or do something that contradicted the image Jerrod had so carefully constructed for her and he’d respond by redefining his prophecy yet again.

Probably decide I’m some kind of false prophet who needs to be cleansed from Keegan’s life
.

Until that inevitable betrayal, however, she was more than happy to make Jerrod think she was buying into his madness.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Especially the crazy ones
.

“I guess it’s good to know you’ve got my back now,” she said.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he said. “I hope in time you will come to see the truth for yourself though I don’t believe it matters either way.”

There were plenty of responses she could give, but she knew none of them would make the monk rethink his position. And she was too tired to argue, anyway. So she said nothing.

Much to Scythe’s relief, Jerrod seemed to take the hint and turned to go. Raising the flap of the tent, he paused and looked back over his shoulder at her.

“You are part of something greater than you realize. You and Keegan share something deeper and more powerful than you can comprehend. Destiny will not be denied.”

He vanished before Scythe could reply. Exhausted, she tied off the tent flap and curled up beside Norr.

Think whatever you want, but I’m more than just a pawn in your stupid prophecy
.

She clung to that thought defiantly even as she felt sleep creeping in, the rhythmic rumble of her lover’s snores washing over her as she slipped away into blackness.

Every breath Shalana drew was agony.

Norr had cracked at least two of her ribs with the blow that brought her low. Her left side was one giant purple-and-black contusion from her armpit to her hip. Her back ached, another dark bruise marking the spot where the big man’s knee had kept her pinned to the ground and forced her to yield.

Her shoulder ached; she was lying awkwardly on her right side.
But she knew shifting positions would bring on a wave of new torments, so she ignored and endured her discomfort.

Physical pain was nothing new to her. She bore the scars of several battles—some much worse than what she’d suffered in the duel with Norr. But those wounds and injuries had always come in victory. The pain she felt in defeat was different: an inescapable reminder of her failure and humiliation.

In the aftermath of the duel, a handful of her supporters had forced their way through the celebrating crowd and helped her to her feet. They had guided their fallen champion through the bedlam of Norr’s victory, ignored and forgotten, until she reached her tent.

No, not my tent. The clan chief’s tent. It belongs to Norr now
.

She wondered how long until he came to claim what was his. Hopefully not until tomorrow. For this night, at least, she just wanted to be left alone.

The thanes who had escorted her to the tent were gone, leaving her side hours ago to go pay their respects to Norr. She didn’t resent them for abandoning her; it was important for them to show the new leader that he had their support and loyalty. Any claim she had over them had been forfeited in the duel.

He was hobbled. Crippled. Standing on one leg by the end. And I still lost
.

She kept replaying the battle over and over in her head, watching as victory slipped through her hands time after time and trying to understand what went wrong.

It almost seemed as if fate itself didn’t want her to win. As if destiny had chosen Norr to be chief, and her to be simply cast aside.

Or was it something else?

Terramon’s final words before the battle rose up like an accusing spirit from her memory:
Now that Norr is back, I only hope you stay strong enough to defeat him
.

Her father was a cruel and heartless man. But he wasn’t stupid. He had sensed something in her. Some flaw or failing that made him wary, despite Norr’s vulnerability.

Weakness
.

Was it really fate that snatched victory from her grasp? Or had she subconsciously sabotaged herself? Did some part of her feel sympathy or pity for Norr? Did some part of her feel bad about trying to force him into marrying her? Did some part of her actually want to lose?

These were questions she didn’t want to face. Not tonight. So she rolled over onto her back, easing the throbbing in her aching shoulder but unleashing fresh agony in her ribs.

She gasped and gritted her teeth, but the pain cleared her mind. Unable to sleep, she let her consciousness drift, unfocused and free. Faint laughter and singing rose up from the night’s silence, carried on the wind from the celebrations still going on in the Long Hall. And then another, all-too-familiar sound—the thumping of a cane against the flap of the tent.

For several seconds she ignored Terramon’s presence, hoping he would just go away. Of course, that didn’t happen.

“Shalana,” his voice hissed in the night, the cane’s rapping against the tent becoming more insistent. “Shalana, wake up!”

With a faint groan, she rolled back over onto her right side. It took several seconds before the fresh burst of pain faded enough for her to speak.

“I’m awake.”

That was more than enough invitation for Terramon, and he quickly pulled the flap aside and thumped his way into the tent. She expected him to sit, but he chose to remain standing: a dim shadow in the blackness of the tent.

“Still sitting in the darkness,” he muttered.

Shalana braced herself for the coming lecture.

“I tried to warn you,” he said, with a weary shake of his head.

“I didn’t listen,” she answered, keeping all emotion from her voice.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he assured her.

“I know.”
You wanted me to win so you could stay in power. You were my right hand, first among the thanes. Now you are just one of many
.

The chief had the power to both name and reject thanes. By right, Norr could strip her father of his title. However, despite his personal dislike of Terramon, he wasn’t likely to take such a drastic step. To preserve the unity of the clan, he’d probably let her father—and the rest of Shalana’s supporters—keep their titles, though they would have far less influence over the new chief than those who had backed Norr’s claim.