CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Raging flames painted the night sky in hues of orange and gold, and threw shadows across the yard of the villa where the tall bodies sprawled.

"We have to go," Kit whispered at his back.

Caim wanted to turn away, but his feet were stuck fast to the ground. Men in black armor gathered in the yard. Their angry words echoed through the compound. His father knelt at their feet, a proud man, with a sword's pommel jutting from his chest like the mast of a sinking ship.

A wail pierced the silent night. Calm's stomach ached like someone had punched him as his mother burst from the burning house, into the arms of the waiting soldiers. He wanted to run to her, to save her, but he could do nothing as the dark men dragged her away, into the fields and the great forest beyond, vanishing like a pack of ghosts.

Then, the paralysis dropped away from him and he slipped through the fence, ignoring the call behind him. He darted across the yard, avoiding the bodies of the dead armsmen strewn across the ground like fallen toy soldiers. He stopped at the center.

His father had been such a big figure in his life, like a hero from out of the tales. In death, he looked smaller, as if that which had made him so large had leaked away with the river of red-black blood running from the gash in his chest.

"I'll kill them," Caim said between sobs. "Every one of them."

A tremor ran through him as the corpse opened its eyes, and a whisper issued from its blue-tinged lips.

"My son… my son." ulsing light dredged Caim from the dark tides of oblivion. His first thoughts were muddled, but one realization struck him immediately.

He was alive.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. He had been prepared for death, ready to face whatever afterlife awaited him, or for nothing at all. In his travels he had encountered many beliefs, from the ancestor worshippers of Illmyn to the rigid monotheism espoused by the True Church. All prescribed damnation in one form or another for those who killed their fellow men. Whether to spend eternity in Death's gloomladen underworld or wander the fathomless ethers between the stars forever, he had accepted his fate long ago.

He squinted against the bright light and made out a lantern hanging on a rusty hook. An odor of mildew pervaded the room, which was cramped and unfamiliar. Water marks stained the plaster walls, decorated by mosaics, their tiny tiles encrusted with mud and filth. A vault of ochre bricks arched overhead. The stone floor was cold beneath his back.

He turned his head as the girl sat up. She had stayed with him, which surprised him more than a little. She should have been long gone by now. She still wore her ruined nightgown. For a moment he felt bad about her clothing, until he took a breath and a lance of pain through his side reminded him he had bigger concerns. Like dying.

He looked down and almost wished he hadn't. Twelve inches of wooden shaft jutted between his first and second ribs on the right side, not far enough back to hit a kidney, thank the gods of his forefathers. And he wasn't spitting up blood, so it hadn't punctured a lung. He let out a slow breath. The wound wasn't fatal in and of itself. He might even survive, if he could get the bolt out, if infection didn't set in, if a physician appeared out of thin air. If, if, if…

He knew it would be useless, but he reached back with his right hand anyway and grasped the shaft. He tugged, just a little, to see how deep the head was buried and clamped his jaws together to stifle the cry that raced up his throat.

The girl grabbed his wrist. "Don't touch that!" She sounded angry, as if he was her responsibility. Strange. Maybe he was still dreaming.

He dropped his hand away, too weak to resist her. He took a better look around. They must be underneath the city. The Othir of modern day was constructed over the ruins of the ancient Nimean capital. Invading peoples from a variety of nations had sacked the old city several times before the empire reasserted itself on the world stage, emerging from its own ashes like the legendary phoenix. Now, centuries later, those ruins festered beneath the city, only seen from above whenever somebody's cellar caved in. This chamber may have once been part of a villa, or a food merchant's shop. Somehow the girl had carried him here, or dragged him more likely. Still, it was no small feat for such a tiny waif. The lantern looked like an antique, probably leftover from the days of the empire, but it still had some oil in the reservoir. Another miracle. It would be nice to die with some light.

As he looked around, Caim almost missed Kit sitting in the far corner, arms around her knees. She watched him with sad, tearful eyes. He offered what he hoped was a cheery smile, but the pain transformed it into a grimace. The frown she tossed back at him didn't hold much hope. Good old Kit. She never pulled any punches.

"Thank you," he mouthed.

Josephine frowned as she glanced into the corner where Kit sat, and then turned back to regard him with a pensive expression. "What are you looking at?"

"Why did you help me?"

She shrugged, a simple raising and lowering of her shoulders, but he could see the pain behind her eyes. It raged like a beast within her, a feeling he knew all too well.

"What else could I do? You're hurt."

"You could have left me."

"Maybe I wanted to look into your eyes as you died."

He took a deeper breath and let it out. "You don't seem the type, Miss Frenig. But I'll do my best to make it quick."

"Caim!" Kit chided through a veil of tears.

"Call me Josey."

"All right, Josey. You'll get your wish soon enough. Just keep that lamp burning a little while longer."

"You can't die. I need you alive."

Caim couldn't stop the racking laugh that erupted from his belly. When he had recovered from the agony that almost sent him reeling back into the darkness, he ventured to speak again.

"I'd sooner believe the first answer," he said. "You're harder than you look, Josey. So, now you get your revenge. After I'm gone, go find somewhere safe. Get out of Othir if you can."

"Where can I go? I can't go to the authorities. I don't know who will try to kill me next. Whom should I trust?"

"Trust no one."

"What about you?"

"Especially not me. I don't know what to tell you. Go back to your lord father's estate until things settle down. Or find a nice farm boy and start a family."

"I don't want to run." She glanced down at her hands resting in her lap. "I want to find out who killed my father. For that, I need your help."

Caim tested his strength by pulling himself up into a sitting position. The wound didn't pain him much when he moved slow and took small breaths.

"I'm no use to anyone anymore, girl."

She gazed back at him. Wetness gathered in the corners of her eyes. He hadn't realized how green they were, like glittering jewels. Even bedraggled and mud-stained, she was beautiful.

"Those men meant to kill me, and Markus is part of it," she said, softly as if she couldn't believe the words coming from her own mouth. "But you risked your life to save me. You're all I have."

Caim closed his eyes. Deep inside his chest, the old anger smoldered. He wasn't ready to relinquish this life. He had things to do yet, debts that needed settling. The dream loitered in the back of his mind, and the vow he'd made on that night with his father's blood on his hands. Somehow, other things had gotten in the way of fulfilling that oath, but he saw it clearly now. His life up to this point had been a path toward that goal, if he lived to see the end.

"You'll have to get the bolt out."

"What?" She shook her head, sending her straggly ebon locks flying in all directions. "No. We'll find a physician. There's got to be a way out of these sewers."