Heir of Hope (Follower of the Word Book 3) Page 4

  He held the lamp out above her head. His gaze was now focused on the spot just below her chin, a look of disgust on his face.

  She knew what he was staring at: the scar that ran along her neck. Unlike the other scars she bore from her healings, this one was repulsive, encompassing the entire right side of her neck up to her jaw. The scar was an ugly red and distorted her skin so that it looked more like the leather hide of a reptile than a woman’s soft, smooth look. Marred enough to evoke revulsion in most people.

  Rowen stared back, daring him to say something. She’d learned her lesson. Showing weakness only invited cruelty. Not that any of them came close even before that. They feared her power more than they enjoyed teasing her.

  “Turn around.”

  Rowen did as he commanded. She was more than ready to leave this ship. The light moved behind her and the lamp came to rest on the floor to her left. He shoved something on her right hand, tugging it over her fingers and securing it around her wrist just below the manacles. “Don’t even think about taking the glove off.”

  “I won’t.”

  He snorted behind her and worked on her manacles. The sailor had no idea how many times she had thought about using her mark. Sitting in the dark, she would find herself imagining what it would be like to free herself by using her power, to make others fear her—really fear her—and leave her alone.

  But the sobering reality of what that would make her brought her back. She was no monster. And she never wanted to be one. The Word did not give her this power to hurt others, no matter how much they hurt her. However, the temptation never left. It sat in the back of her mind, taunting her, promising her freedom if she would only give in.

  The manacles dropped from her wrists. Before she could bring her hands around, rope replaced the manacles, tightening around her wrists. Not even a moment of freedom. Rowen clenched her hand. The sailor must have seen it because he scooted away from her as fast as he could and pulled on the rope, whipping her around.

  Rowen slammed down on her knees.

  He grabbed the lamp, keeping as much distance between him and her as possible. He gave the rope a tug. “Get up. Time to go.”

  She struggled to her feet, her legs wobbly. She took a step toward the side of the ship and fell against the wall. The man gave another tug. She ignored him, testing her leg muscles, stretching them until confident she could walk.

  The sailor glared at her. What was he going to do? Carry her out? The thought made the corner of her lip twitch. He’d rather clean out her bucket ten times than touch her.

  She took one step forward. Her legs held up. She took another, then another. The sailor turned and led the way across the lower hold. As they passed the first set of crates, a large, black rat scurried between the boxes. Neither she nor the sailor reacted. In another life, the creature would have startled her. But after weeks spent inside the bowels of the ship, she had grown used to the vermin, unafraid to lash out at them if they got too close.

  A square of light appeared ahead. Narrow, rickety stairs led to the top deck. The sailor went first, the rope tightening as he made his way up. Rowen hurried behind him, almost tripping on the first stair. Halfway up, her legs began to shake and sweat broke out along her face.

  She reached the top, panting. A faint, cool breeze brushed her face and her whole body sighed. Sweet, salty air filled her lungs to bursting. At last!

  The sky above was a dull blue, almost grey. The canvas sails were closed and tied; the masts naked and bare like an oak tree in the winter. She stepped onto the deck. Coils of rope and barrels were lined up along the railing. Two sailors stood by the main mast, a couple more on the upper deck. Dark blue water spread out on three sides of the ship.

  To her right stood the captain, his dark, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his head, leaving only his dark eyes and lower face visible. The white feather tucked inside his brim fluttered in the breeze. He stood beside a gap in the railing, like a guard on duty beside the gates of a city.

  Past the captain and the railing were hundreds of piers and walkways, a crisscross of wooden docks spanning the length of the coast as far as the eye could see. Ships as large as houses down to dinghies fit for one were tied to the docks. Broken crates and tipped-over barrels lined the wooden planks. Dark green water lapped gently below. Gulls flew overhead, following the wind, gliding through the air and rising on the gusts.

  Beyond the docks, ships, and weathered shops stood the walls of a large city. Thyra. The ancient city of wisdom.

  Though not quite as large as the desert city Azar, Thyra was still bigger than the White City. The outer walls stretched for miles in either direction. Two archways led from the piers into the city. Neither set of gates were closed.

  Inside the walls were thousands of white buildings, with columns and orange-tiled roofs. Tall, thick trees grew between the buildings and along the streets. Most of the trees were bare, with only a handful of colorful leaves still clinging to their branches.

  One building caught her eye. In the middle of the city, rising high above any other, was a tower that looked like a thick white column, with windows encompassing the very top. The conical roof looked to be made of gold and for a moment she could imagine how it would shimmer in the sunlight. But under this grey, drab sky, it looked more tarnished than beautiful.

  The wind pulled at her clothing and hair, and held a trace scent of salt and fish. Rowen stood still, watching, listening. A shadow passed over her heart.

  Something felt . . . off.

  The walkways were empty. So were the ships, archways, and the streets inside the city. Not a person in sight. A city this size should have been bustling with activity. Instead it was quiet, save for the waves and the few birds.

  Rowen shivered. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the sailor next to her shift uncomfortably and mumble, “Not natural.”

  The captain held up his hand and slashed the air. “Quiet, men.”

  Silence fell across the ship.

  Rowen looked back at the piers.

  A figure emerged through one of the archways. It was a man, tall and lanky, with short dark hair and simple clothing. As he passed beneath the archway, the street behind him faded, then came back into focus as if a fog had passed behind him.

  Rowen frowned, staring at the spot as the man continued along the dock.

  He passed two other piers before turning and heading down the one where the ship was docked. No one spoke. He disappeared along the side of the ship, the only sound the clop, clop of his boots. The man emerged again, walking up the plank that led to the ship’s deck.

  The captain held up his hand. “Are you the herald from the tower?”

  The man stepped onto the deck. Instead of answering, he looked around, his gaze lingering a moment longer on Rowen. He did not react to her scar, not like the sailors or the captain. Rather, he seemed to stare through her, as if she weren’t there. A chill ran down her spine. The sailors shifted again around her, their gazes on the deck or out on the ocean, not on the man before them.

  Rowen stared harder. He looked like a man, talked like a man. So what was wrong with him? She watched his eyes. They never moved, never blinked. The chill spread throughout her body.

  He turned toward the captain. “We have been waiting for you.”

  The captain folded his arms. “The journey took a day longer than I expected. The winds were not cooperative. Not something I have control over.”

  The man ignored the captain. Instead, he looked at Rowen again. Her truthsaying power tingled, but she did not sense anything from the man. He stared at her, his lips never moving, his body unnaturally still.

  “Well”—the captain dropped his hands and cleared his throat—“if it’s all the same to you, my men and I would like to be paid and on our way. Thyra seems to be lacking, er, accommodations right now.”

  That wa
s an understatement. Thyra seemed to be lacking everything. Mainly life.

  The herald turned back to the captain. “Yes. Your payment. I will send you your payment once I have the woman.”

  The captain’s face turned dark. “How do I know you’re not going to double-cross me?”

  “You don’t.”

  Rowen expected the herald to shrug, but he stood motionless.

  “However, it would not be a wise business move for my masters not to give you what you are due. You and your men will be paid, but there will be no exchange until I have the woman off the ship.”

  The captain worked his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the herald. His men waited, glancing between the captain and the herald. What promises had been made to the captain and his crew? What had they been offered that they would sail all the way to Thyra?

  And what was wrong with that man?

  “All right, then.” The captain turned and motioned to the sailor beside Rowen. “Give her to him.”

  The sailor gripped her arm and shoved her toward the walkway. The herald looked at her, his eyes never moving. Her heart beat against her ribcage. Death dwelt here, not life.

  And yet this is where the Word had led her. She had been called to Thyra, she couldn’t back out now. She was too far down the dark path. The only way out was the light at the end. The light the Word had promised.

  Rowen fixed her thoughts on that light. Don’t look at the herald, don’t look at the empty city. Adrenaline washed over her, leaving a trail of tingling nerves.

  “Follow me.” The herald turned and stepped onto the plank that led down to the dock. Rowen hesitated. The sailor holding the rope to which she was tied shrugged and dropped it. The other sailors murmured quietly amongst themselves. She could feel their fear now. It overpowered every other feeling they’d had over the last hour. There was no way they were going to escort her off this ship.

  Their fear melded with hers. She didn’t want to go either. She looked at the walkway ahead and took a step. And another. It took all her willpower to walk across the deck.

  The men watched her.

  Rowen lifted her chin and swallowed her heart back into her chest. She placed a foot on the plank. It was a narrow piece of wood, hardly the width of both her feet. Taking a deep breath, she made her way down it.

  The herald stood on the dock, his blank stare fixed on her. Don’t look at him, just watch your step. Seconds later, she reached the dock and stepped off the plank, her heart beating fast.

  The herald did not acknowledge her. Instead, he turned and headed along the dock toward the piers as if he expected her to follow without question.

  Rowen looked back. The crew stood along the railing, watching her. No love, no concern on their faces. Only hardness.

  She straightened her shoulders and turned around. She followed the herald to the end of the dock. He stood a head taller than her, lean and angular. His hair was a faded black, as if color had been stripped away, but it had not turned a silvery grey.

  The sounds from the ship behind her grew faint as they approached Thyra’s wall. Nothing moved, except for a lone seagull swooping overhead. They walked along the base of the wall toward the nearest gate. A few minutes later, they reached the archway.

  Inside the walls were rows of white buildings on both sides of grey cobblestone streets. Matching columns were positioned in front of the buildings.

  Windows were open, but nothing moved inside. A wagon sat abandoned by one alley. Farther down the street was a cart, splintered, with a wheel laying a couple feet away.

  Rowen and the herald passed a clothing shop. She glanced through the broken window. Silk cloth of every color fluttered inside. Broken glass crunched beneath her boot.

  A slow breeze pushed her hair away from her face. A minute later, the breeze grew stronger, cold and brisk. Soon, Rowen found herself pushing against the wind. She moved close to the buildings lining the street for shelter.

  Then the screams began. Echoes drifting on the wind.

  Rowen stopped. She adjusted her head so the wind held her hair away from her face, then stared down the street at the piers, ships, and ocean that lay beyond the gates. The screams came from the docks–

  The captain and his crew.

  Dear Word.

  One by one, the screams faded until all she could hear was the rush of the wind in her ears. Rowen stood there, frozen. Then, the wind slowed to a light breeze. The sun seemed to brighten, as if it had been hidden behind a cloud and was now coming back out again.

  A second later the breeze died. Now all was still and silent.

  The hairs along her arms and neck rose. From the corner of her eye she saw the herald began to walk again, never looking back at her. Rowen turned and watched him, unable to make her feet move.

  She could feel it now. A presence. A chill that soaked right into her bones. She’d felt this before. From the woman in Azar.

  Velyni.

  A rustling sounded behind her. Rowen spun around. Brown, red, and yellow leaves skittered across the cobblestone from an alley nearby. But there was no breeze now. No wind.

  Rowen turned and ran.

  She caught up to the herald, almost bumping into him. He continued toward the tower. Rowen looked around. Nothing else moved. But she still could not shake that cold feeling. Every part of her remained alert for whatever invisible presence was trailing them.

  She followed the herald past more buildings, each one grander than the last. Statues of men and women wearing long robes and holding flowers or books in their hands were carved into the columns. Words were engraved over doorways in a language she did not recognize.

  After a half hour, her feet began to throb and her legs tightened up and began to shake. Her head throbbed right above her eyes. She looked up. Ahead stood the tower she had first seen from the ship.

  They reached the end of the street. It converged with six other streets, all around the compass, forming a large fifty-foot circle around the tower. The herald led her across the circular street toward the columns that surrounded the bottom of the tower. Past the columns was an arena the size of a large field. The arena sank down below street level, with stone steps surrounding it. It looked like it could fit thousands of people. Like an outdoor audience chamber.

  On the other side of the arena a stage jutted out from the tower–a platform where government officials or nobility could stand and address the people.

  High above the arena and columns stood the tower. It was even taller than she had thought, even taller than the city walls.

  The herald led past the pillars and down the steps into the arena. Rowen followed. Anyone could see her here in this open space. She glanced up. Was someone up there? Were they watching her now?

  They crossed the arena and walked up the steps toward the stage. Past the stage stood a door leading inside the tower. The tower itself was made of smooth, white stone. There were no statues, no carvings, none of the artistry she had seen throughout the rest of Thyra.

  The herald reached the door and opened it. For the first time, he turned around and waited, his strange, unblinking stare fixed on Rowen. “They are waiting.”

  The Shadonae.

  Beings who could kill with a touch of their hand.

  Would they do that to her?

  But then, why bring her here? Why take the trouble of hiring—and then murdering—a ship and crew just to bring her here and kill her. No, they wanted her.

  Cold sweat broke out across her body.

  Chapter

  5

  The desert stretched out for hundreds of miles, a sunburned landscape with barely a tree in sight. Heat poured down from the sun, washing across Nierne and soaking through her thin linen clothes. The sky was a pale blue, as if it had seen too much sunshine and faded away. Stunted bushes with coarse, brittle branches were scattered a
cross the desert. Hardy, brown grass grew in clumps alongside the brush. There were no colors, no flowers, no greenery. Only bleached hills and heat waves.

  How could anyone love this land?

  Nierne scratched her arm and flakes of dung came off. What she wouldn’t do for water right now. Just a pitcher and a bowl, something to wash off the filth that covered her skin and a place to lie down. Caleb had said they would stop to rest outside of Azar, but they hadn’t stopped yet, and it had been over an hour since they left.

  Lore walked beside her, his body bent forward, his gait slower now. Was he tired too? He still wore a headscarf, but he had long since dropped the part that covered his face and now it hung over his shoulder.

  Caleb walked along to her left, his back straight, his arms swinging casually. He still wore the brown robe and headscarf he had arrived in. Unlike Lore and her, Caleb seemed to fit in with the desert. All he needed was a camel and a pack and he would look like those nomads they had met at the signpost after leaving Azar. In fact, neither she nor Lore had noticed him standing there until he had approached them and called out their names.

  Apparently the Keepers hadn’t noticed him either. They’d let Caleb leave the city without stopping him.

  Nierne glanced at him. Was that a smile on his face? No, more like a boyish grin. It transformed his features, relaxing hard lines and creating new, inviting ones. He looked almost . . . normal.

  Catching her gaze, Caleb looked over at her. “Not much farther. There are some abandoned ruins just west of us where we can rest.”

  “But won’t there be people there?” She didn’t feel like meeting anyone.

  Caleb shook his head. “No. Treasure hunters have long since taken everything of value from there. And many others think the place is haunted.”

  “Haunted?”

  “Yes. By the Trickster.”

  “Trickster?”

  “Yes. Stories about him are told to Temanin children, but there are many adults who still believe in the Trickster and Mirelukahn, the Mother Healer.”