As I passed the Ballenger family tomb, I paused, staring at the tall scrolled pillars. I stepped closer. Ghosts … I felt their slumber, the ones who had let go and rested. I felt the gentle beat of their hearts, their peace—but I felt the others too—those ghosts who were a gathered sigh whispering over my head, restless, an ageless breath still anchored to this world, the ones who, for some reason, couldn’t let go.
They were shimmers of light, cool fingers brushing my arms, lifting strands of my hair, curious, remembering, hoping—reliving moments, wishing for a second chance—much like the living. Shhhh. It was only a breeze whispering through the pines if you didn’t know. If you had never looked Death in the eye, you likely couldn’t recognize it at all.
The large tomb held numerous crypts, but I knew one of them was marked with the name of an occupant who wasn’t even there. It was not her breaths I heard. Instead, she was buried at the base of Breda’s Tears, the moon and sun as her companions. I was the only one Jase had ever entrusted with the truth of the empty crypt. He had gone against everything he ever had been taught and the law of the land, to grant the last wish of his sister.
I marveled at the lavish and enormous memorial, the one that had frightened Sylvey so much as she faced death. Carved twelve-foot angels bearing scowls and holding swords larger than a man guarded either side of the entrance, their features daunting and imposing. Their deep-set eyes followed you wherever you moved. A richly sculpted eagle graced the cornice above, its enormous claws gripping a fluted ledge, its glare casting a timeless warning to those who approached. An abundance of chiseled fruit draped in leafy marble garlands wound through the spaces between. The details were intricate, right down to the pebbled skin of lemons. In Venda the dead were buried in unmarked graves, sometimes with a clump of thannis laid on top that quickly tumbled away in the harsh winds.
Either come in or go away.
I stepped back, startled by the faint voice.
There was no going in. The stone door was eight feet high. I remembered that at Karsen’s funeral it took two large men to push it shut. How did fifteen-year-old Jase ever do it by himself in the middle of the night? Desperation? Maybe. Desperation could make you incredibly stupid or incredibly strong, or maybe both.
I pressed my cheek against the door, the smooth stone cold against my skin, my eyes stinging. Jase. My heart said he wasn’t dead. This was not his realm. He is alive. But my head told me something different. The clink of his ring on the floor when Banques threw it still made my throat swell. I closed my eyes, trying to will away the pain, banishing thoughts of rings and remembering my vow to Jase instead.
Kazi …
My eyes flew open. The sound was close, warming my ear, as if it straddled two worlds. I stepped back from the door, angling my head, trying to hear more.
I didn’t know … I swear I didn’t know. I’m sorry.
The voice drifted away on the wind, shhhh.
“On your horse! The king is waiting!”
And with No Neck’s order, I left the voices behind and went to face the new ones that were waiting for me at Tor’s Watch. How many of them might be dead too?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JASE
Jurga, Eridine, and Hélder hovered over me, watching while Caemus brushed another line across my forehead.
“A little more over there,” Jurga said, pointing to my temple.
It was a group effort, making sure he closely followed the sketch I had made for him. Kbaaki designs were very specific, and a lot of people in these parts were familiar with them. It had to be believable. It covered half of my face.
“I still think it’s too early for you to go,” Caemus grumbled as he dabbed more dye on my face.
“I can walk. I can ride. It’s time,” I answered. And if I could get to it, I had at least one weapon and a bag of ammunition waiting for me. That would get Paxton’s attention. And if I could reach that one weapon, I could get more.
“Turn your head,” Caemus ordered.
Since I was probably the most recognizable man in Hell’s Mouth, it was necessary that my appearance be dramatically changed. The heavy furred cloak, boots, and hat would do a fair job. The thick muffler that would cover the lower half of my face would help more, but if it was removed, I still had to look like someone else. Kbaaki designs were striking. It was hard to even see a face when looking at the swirl that circled an eye.
“That’s it,” Hélder said, nodding in approval, comparing Caemus’s work with my sketch. His wife, Eridine, concurred.
?
??And now the ring,” I said.
Caemus winced.
“You sure?” Eridine asked.
I was going to be crossing hillsides that were probably crawling with the soldiers of this so-called army. Kbaaki almost always wore decorative jewels in their left brows as a defense against hostile spirits. Jurga had a tiny earring that would do the job. It was another detail to convince anyone I might see—and a distraction to keep them from looking too closely at me.
“I’ll do it,” Jurga volunteered, taking the needle away from Caemus. She didn’t give me any warning. She just pinched my brow and jammed the needle through. A rumble rolled through my chest as she fished the earring through behind it. I had already learned there was a lot of iron behind Jurga’s meek façade—and now I knew there wasn’t an ounce of squeamishness to go with it.