The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (51 page)

He tried not to look at the faces of any Danaan he came across, but every so often he would see someone he recognized. He tried not to react—they had all lost friends and family in the war—but it was still shocking to see the faces of those he had served with on patrol.

“You still think of them as your people, don’t you?” Shalana asked, noticing his reaction.

“In some ways,” Vaaler admitted. “It’s hard to forget what I spent my whole life believing.

“Ever since I was a child, they told me it was my destiny to be king,” he said. “I was supposed to guide my people through times of trouble. I was supposed to protect them and keep them safe.”

“Sounds like what you did for us,” Shalana told him. “Maybe your destiny is still to be a king … though among our people we prefer the title of chief.”

“The thanes welcomed me as an adviser,” Vaaler said with a shake of his head. “But it’s you they followed.”

“We’re a package deal,” Shalana said, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. “I think everyone understands that.”

She kissed him, and Vaaler simply enjoyed the moment for as long as it lasted. But once it was done, he said, “So what happens now?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But the Guardian’s arrival made everyone a believer in the legends you and Norr were following. Even my father can’t deny them now.

“If your friend Keegan really is destined to save the world,” she said, “maybe we should try to find some way to help him.”

Keegan, Scythe, and Jerrod walked along in silence, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the unnaturally rapidly decaying corpse of Raven as possible before nightfall. The monk was in the lead, healed of his wounds by the Sword, just as Keegan had been. He was still struggling to reconcile his Sight with his restored vision, but he seemed to be adapting quickly: he was already able to walk without difficulty.

They were still heading southwest toward Callastan to find Cassandra and the Crown; despite everything that had happened, their mission had not changed. But now they were three instead of four, and instead of Jerrod carrying Daemron’s Sword it was Scythe.

Even handicapped by the restoration of his eyes, Keegan had expected Jerrod to offer some objection purely on principle. Instead, the monk had surprised him.

“I finally understand the prophecy of the Children of Fire,” the monk had explained before they set out. “I now realize why it was difficult for our prophets and seers to identify the savior.

“Your destiny is tied even more closely to Keegan’s than I ever
imagined,” he’d told Scythe. “There is not one savior, but three; just as there are three Talismans. The Sword is meant for you, just as the Ring is meant for Keegan and the Crown is meant for Cassandra.”

Instead of mocking him for revising and reinterpreting his prophecy yet again, or making some snide remark about not wanting to be a savior, Scythe simply nodded.

He could tell she was still suffering, but it was something more that held her tongue. She seemed different, as if she had somehow changed after using the Sword to kill Raven.

She’s gone cold. Hardened her heart
.

Could he really blame her? Norr gave his life for Jerrod’s beliefs. Maybe Scythe had decided the best way to honor his memory was to embrace the prophecy and do everything in her power to destroy the Slayer.

Despite this change, however, he could see that she was hurting. Suffering. He wanted to go to her—just as a friend—but something held him back.

It feels like a betrayal. You still have feelings for her, but Norr was your friend
.

Maybe Scythe was right to harden her heart; it made everything much simpler.

You should do the same. Ignore your feelings for Scythe and focus on finding Cassandra
.

“A few more miles,” Jerrod said, interrupting his thoughts. “Then we can rest.”

The others didn’t answer, and the three of them trudged on in grim silence, each knowing they had many weeks of travel ahead before they reached Callastan.

Once we get into the Southlands, the Order will be looking for us
.

Glancing over at Scythe, Keegan had a feeling she’d be ready for them.

Cassandra’s first thought when she woke was that she was in another prison; the room around her was very small, and there was only a single door and her legs had been tightly bound. But then she realized the bed she lay in was too soft and comfortable for any cell, and the walls of the room were filled with hundreds of vials, bottles, and jars. And her legs weren’t bound; someone had splinted them.

Is this an apothecary’s shop?

Her next thought was of the Crown, and her heart skipped a beat until she realized it was tucked safely away in its sack and resting on a small table beside her bed.

The door to the room creaked open and a tiny, scholarly man entered, carrying a small candle.

“I’m sorry,” he said, seeing she was up. “Did I wake you?”

Cassandra shook her head.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need anything?”

“No,” she said, though her mouth was dry. “How did I get here?”

“I found you after the riots,” he told her. “Some of the locals spotted the bodies of the … those things in the jail. They wanted me to come and look, to see if they were diseased.”

“You are a doctor?”

“At times. And I spent many years sailing the Western Isles, so the locals all consider me an expert in the strange and unnatural.”

“Those bodies should be burned,” Cassandra told him. “Just to be safe.”

“I thought the same,” he said, nodding. “And they were.

“But in my examinations I also discovered you,” he continued. “None of the others had actually dared to enter the building, of course.”

“They were afraid. Why weren’t you?”

“Oh, I was,” he assured her. “Yet I reasoned that anything powerful
enough to kill those monsters would already have ended my life if it was still a threat.

“Reason is a powerful tool to overcome our emotions,” he noted, like a wise teacher instructing a student.

“Once inside, I spotted you curled up in a corner, clutching that headpiece so tightly I could barely pry your fingers loose. I thought it must be important, so I put it by your bed.”

He nodded in the direction of the table.

“What happened to my legs?”

The man hesitated, then said, “Stress fractures. Very strange. As if you were standing at the center of an incredibly powerful burst of energy. Like the kind that could cause an earthquake.”

Cassandra ignored the implied question.
He’s clever. He knows more than he lets on
. But she also sensed something sincere and fundamentally decent about this bookish little man.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To better treat your injuries,” he said. Then after a moment of careful consideration, he added, “I feared what the people might do to you if they discovered you were one of the Order.”

“I’m not,” Cassandra said. “Not anymore.”

The man shrugged. “As you will. In any case, you’re safe for now. If someone is hunting you, they won’t find you here. At least not until more of your kind—sorry, your former kind—arrive.”

“The Order is coming here?”

“Callastan is in ruins. The city has been ravaged by powerful magic. Word will reach the Pontiff soon, if it hasn’t already. In a few days our streets will be overrun with Inquisitors.”

Of course. Yasmin will come for the Crown. And in the wake of the destruction, the officials and citizens who opposed her Purge might have a sudden change of heart
.

“I don’t know how to hide you from the Order if they’re looking
for you,” the man warned her. “But I will do what I can for you until they get here.”

“Why are you helping me?” Cassandra asked.

“You remind me of someone,” he said. “A young woman I used to know. We … grew apart some years ago.”

“I look like her?”

He laughed softly. “No, not really. She was an Islander. But there’s just something about you that made me think of her. I can’t really explain it.”

“I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me,” Cassandra said, realizing she hadn’t shown any proper gratitude yet. “I owe you a great debt, sir.”

“Please,” the man said with a rueful smile. “Calling me sir makes me feel even more ancient than I am. My name is Methodis.”

Daemron the Slayer stares out from atop the battlements of his castle, his gaze moving slowly over the cramped buildings of the mean and meager city that has grown up around it. Just beyond the last of the small, squat structures a field of large crosses has been erected. Mutilated corpses—the parents, siblings, and friends of the would-be assassins who dared to attack him—still hang there, slowly rotting.

They died in gruesome public executions: slow, agonizing deaths meant to serve as a visceral reminder to his subjects of the consequences of rebelling against their king and their God.

The loyalty of his followers had grown fickle. Their ancestors swore fealty to him and joined his war against the Old Gods. They had shared his sin; it was only fitting they share his punishment. But many of those he rules over now—twisted creatures malformed and mutated by the Chaos that poisons the land—feel
they are unfairly condemned. Bitter and resentful of their lot, they follow him not out of loyalty but only out of fear and desperation.

The whispers of festering rebellion were growing ever stronger; the assassination attempt stark proof of how bold his enemies had become. Yet he knows that all the bitterness, resentment, and rebellion will be swept away in an instant if the Legacy falls. If the barrier keeping him and his followers trapped in their prison world crumbles, even the most ardent opponents will flock to his banner, eager to join the ranks of his armies as he marches upon the mortal world.

That time is drawing near. The Legacy has grown thinner than even he had realized. The Crown alone nearly brought it crashing down; he’d felt the pounding Chaos battering against it, causing it to bend and bow. But just when he had been certain it would shatter, the Talisman was silenced. Somehow, the Legacy still held.

His subjects had felt it, too. The echoes of Old Magic reverberated across his kingdom, loud enough that even the weakest of his followers could not help but hear it. And though the Legacy endures, his people now have renewed hope. Faith in their Immortal ruler has been restored.

Beyond the city and the crosses, the once-empty plains of his kingdom are dotted with thousands of small camps, his followers gathering in response to his call … and the call of the Talismans. They have crawled forth from the caves and tunnels, assembling en masse at his command, eager to be unleashed upon the mortal world.

Among the gathering army walk his generals, weeding out those too weak to join in the great battle that is to come. Resources are scarce in this nether realm; food and weapons are in short supply, and those that cannot help bring him victory must be identified and cast out to fend for themselves.

So far, none of his subjects has been foolish enough to oppose
the culling—not with the grim reminder of the price of disobedience still dangling on the nearby crosses.

He feels no remorse for the lives he has taken, or for those who will surely perish after being exiled from his army. He created this netherworld. All life that walks, flies, and crawls across the plains of ash belongs to him, to do with as he chooses. His subjects understand that now. Once again, they know him for what he truly is … as does he.

For a time he had forgotten himself. Centuries of exile had made him hesitant, afraid, uncertain. But the cowardice and self-doubt that plagued him is now gone. He remembers who and what he is.

I am Daemron the Slayer: wizard, warrior, prophet, and king! I am the last of the Immortals—a God! And when the Legacy falls, the world will tremble at my return!

The publication of
Children of Fire
, the first book in my Chaos Born trilogy, was the culmination of many years of work and preparation. I’d written and rewritten the manuscript countless times over the past decade, slowly polishing it until it gleamed. And though I had planned out the second book in the series in great detail, I didn’t actually begin the writing process until very recently. And for the first time in my professional life, I was nervous about a project. Would I be able to create something in a single year that matched the quality of a book I’d spent almost a decade revising?

Fortunately, I didn’t have to take on this daunting task alone. With the help of my editors, Tricia Narwani and Michael Rowley—and the support of my incredible agent, Ginger Clark—
The Scorched Earth
became a worthy follow-up to
Children of Fire
. And as I work on
Chaos Unleashed
, the final book in the series, I’m no longer nervous. The amazing feedback from readers who loved the first book has inspired me; your enthusiasm for the story and characters is the most rewarding thing any author could hope for. I can’t wait for fans to see how the Chaos Born trilogy ends, and I hope you’re all as excited as I am. Thank you for your support!