He paused outside the door, muffled music just beyond. Ten more minutes, and it’d be over. He’d be done and he’d never return to Alt Võina ever again.
Ash opened the door, knife in one hand. Three sets of eyes stared at him.
Kult’s daughter hid her head in her mother’s lap, her hands over her eyes for good measure. His wife was gripping the armrest of her chair.
Kult looked amused.
Bastard.
The daughter would be scarred for the rest of her life. Ash had tried to avoid the family seeing it, but there was no turning around now.
“I can see now that I didn’t give you enough credit. Those wounds have to be hurting, and still you persist.”
Smug bastard. “Shut up. You brought this onto yourself.”
Kult stood.
“I dare say this is your fault more than it is mine. You sold me the explosives, remember?”
Ash was tired of his face. He’d never been so angry.
“You murdered a family. A young child is dead because of you.”
His wife whimpered. His daughter’s small body shook with the effort of holding back tears.
“Darling?” Her voice quivered. She hadn’t known about this. Interesting. Was the book he’d found hidden away in their closet another secret from her?
“Don’t pay him any mind, dear. It was an accident. An accident caused by your explosives, Ashwin.”
Ash lunged—and froze. Something was holding him back. Something with strong hands.
“Ashwin Okoye, I arrest you on charges of attempted murder.”
He recognised the voice. Captain Vahimees had finally re-joined the fray now his dirty work had been done for him. He’d made second person on Ash’s kill list.
“I didn’t admit anything.”
Kult chuckled. “Perhaps not, but you tried to kill me. Twice in one night. In front of witnesses, no less.”
Ash’s eyes darted to Kult’s wife and child. His daughter’s eyes were red, and his wife looked ready to be sick onto the expensive furniture.
He tried to wriggle his way out of the captain’s grip, but didn’t move an inch. His rib was screaming, his bruised body didn’t have the energy left for another escape.
Another guard tore the backpack away from him and emptied the contents onto the floor.
“More explosives? Were you trying to kill the entire family, Ashwin? Perhaps you killed Vaha’s family too. Criminals often have a pattern.”
“I didn’t—”
“Words won’t save you. You attacked a guard, attempted to kill Kult and his family, and we’ve found more explosives in your pack. It’s irrelevant who else you’ve killed.”
Ash faltered. He was right. There was nothing he could do to get himself out of this. He would hang. They wouldn’t even need a trial to convict him now.
He’d really messed up this time.
I hope the child will forgive me and work with me. It’ll be easier if she does.
Chapter 63
Levi
Levi sat in the chair where Elder Costel had left him. In the middle of his old room. Had it always been so small? Had it always been this cold? It had never screamed luxury at him, but now it seemed grey and lifeless in comparison to everything he’d seen outside—everything that Doran had shown him.
And now they were both back here, with no weapons and no hope of escape.
He’d never see Hjeva or his parents again. Doran would never see Ceidir again or make up with his parents. Levi couldn’t have foreseen this, but it felt like his fault.
His door opened. No knocks, no asking if it was all right. Just assumed privilege.
Levi recognised Elder Marten without having to meet his eyes. There was something about the way he walked that was unmistakable; he’d know it anywhere.
“I see you’ve finally returned to us, 840. We were all worried.”
He wanted to question it, ask him if they’d been worried about him or his blood being spilt where they couldn’t drain it, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. In the presence of his former jailors, words failed him.
He wasn’t brave like Doran, smart like Ash, or strong like Naavah Ora. He wasn’t even the warrior they’d trained him to be. He was a weak child, nothing more.
“We will forgive your untimely escape. We can see now that it couldn’t be helped.”
“It couldn’t?”
“Of course not. Nothing that is our Lord’s will can be denied.”
So it hadn’t been a lucky turn of fates after all. Just his Lord pulling Levi’s strings like he was a puppet.
“Forgive me, Elder Marten.” He hated himself for the words, but he couldn’t help them. All this time he’d spent with Doran he thought he could finally live. That he had a future.
How stupid he’d been. The Elders, this village, his Lord, were his only life.
“Our Lord still demands your blood. We will sacrifice you at midnight. That other man too.”
Levi looked up. “You’ll kill Doran?”
Elder Marten hit Levi across his face. “Not kill, 840. Sacrifice. Have you been away so long you’ve forgotten your beliefs?” Elder Marten took a small knife from his belt. “Perhaps a reminder is necessary.”
He was going to bleed Levi. Not three months ago he’d welcomed the pain. It’d been a sign he was chosen for something, was good for something. Now it was a sign he’d ended up in a bad place, and this time he’d taken Doran with him. Maybe he deserved to be sacrificed. Maybe that was all he was good for.
But Doran didn’t deserve it.
“No.”
Elder Marten scoffed. “We’ll see about that. Elder Pios will be back in an hour to bleed you. You and this Doran will be sacrificed together. 856 will come over to bring you clothes and prepare you after your bleeding.”
Levi hung his head. The Elder exited, leaving him alone once more.
If what Elder Marten said was true, then being sacrificed was all he was worth. But if what Naavah Ora had said was true, his sacrifice would mean the end of this world. Even if his life had no other meaning, he didn’t want to allow that.
But he wasn’t like Naavah Ora. He wasn’t clever, or talented, or strong enough to do the right thing. She would put an end to everything the Elders had planned. Perhaps, if her gods existed after all and were more powerful than his, it would be enough. If it wasn’t, and his death doomed the world, then perhaps that was how it was meant to be. Everything died eventually. His blood was merely a means to an end.
He wanted to fight, like Naavah Ora was doing right now and like Ash was doing in Vaska. He wanted to be more like Doran, who was likely putting up a fight.
But he wasn’t like any of them.
He was 840.
Dunhă and I are connected in a way Ceallach will never understand. I feel him writhing inside it. A parasite.
Chapter 64
Doran
Doran’s hands were tied. He was lying on his side on the floor, his head aching where someone had hit him. The room was small, closer to a prison cell than a bedchamber. There was a window, locked and gated, and a bed. When he rolled over, he saw a table and a chair in the corner of the room. Nothing else. It had the cold feel of a detention cell. Even his cheap room in Ceidir was better than this, and he’d chosen that because it was run down and no one else had wanted to pay for it.