Goth’s snarl near the open cell door hits just a split second before his talons grab hold and I’m scooped into a bear hug. The moonlight now affords me a look of every detail of his monstrous face. Hot, stinking breath spews from his tooth-filled maw. I scream as he gnashes his incisors into my shoulder and tears away a chunk of flesh. He chews and swallows, then licks his fat purple lips.
I kick out as violently as I can. He pulls me in tighter, and his talons puncture my back. My old wounds rip open. He laughs, the malevolent sound echoing throughout the tower.
I must not die here! I have one weapon left. I push the anger down into my belly, feeling it boil to a pitch.
Become the storm, Faria said.
The rage vibrates until I can hold it no longer. I see the face of my father laughing in the twisted features of this hideous thing.
Why run, boy? the leviathan asks in my dreams. This time, I do not run.
I let the energy burst through me as I strike. The tips of my fingers connect with Goth’s skull, and I feel the vibration pass into him like an electrical charge. I drop to the floor with a thud and roll away. Goth takes one step forward, then his misshapen eyes roll back into his skull, and a sad, mournful groan escapes from his lips. For a moment, I actually pity him. Any feeling I have, however, is cut short as his head explodes like a melon showering me with chunks of bone and gray matter. The huge muscled body falls forward, slamming with a thud against the floor of my cell.
Men’s voices enter the hall.
“His door is open?” someone asks.
I hear the guards pull their humbatons from their belts, ready for trouble. They round the corner into my room and find me standing over the headless creature, anointed in blood and moonlight.
“Leontes?” one of them murmurs.
“I surrender.” I raise my hands in the air.
CHAPTER 23
CADENZA
My return to the Wendigo is without fanfare. I’m smuggled into camp during sleeping hours and held in the guards’ barracks until morning. I’m the picture of abject humiliation when The Warden inspects me.
“Now you understand what I can do to you?”
“Yes, lord.” I make my voice raw and wilted.
“The son of a nobleman bows and scrapes before me,” he smugly jokes with the guards. “What have you learned in your time in darkness, Leontes?”
I squint to pretend my eyes are pained from disuse. “I’m nothing but your servant, lord.”
The Warden nods, duly impressed. “And how can you serve me?”
“Once Faria teaches me all he knows, I’m yours to do with as you will.”
The Warden strokes his thick, blond mustache. “I’m told that you murdered the keeper of the tower?”
“No, my lord,” I say, sniveling.
“Yet Goth was found dead in your chambers?”
I shake with fear to sell the lie that escapes my lips. “He came to the cell as he did daily to feed prisoners. He was in a frenzy.” I cry softly. “He tore the door from my cell. I tried to fight but couldn’t. I’m so weak.” I gesture to my rail-thin arms, which, though strong from training, seem malnourished.
The guards chuckle at my cowardice. “Go on,” says The Warden.
“I saw the great beast in the moonlight and soiled myself with fear.”
The guards laugh.
“He ripped into my shoulder”—I point to the wound Goth made—“then the beast went mad! He slammed his own head against the black stones of the walls again and again, broke his own skull open. That was when your men found me, lord, covered in blood. Thank you for saving me! Thank you!”
The Warden and his henchmen stand silent, not certain whether to believe the story, but there isn’t much other explanation. The idea that I killed Goth seems implausible. I could explain how I exploded Goth’s head with a swift blow of the Dim Mak, but that would seem equally ridiculous.
“He tasted your flesh and went insane. Perhaps there is something poisonous in you, Leontes,” The Warden muses.
“I throw myself upon your mercy, my lord!” I grovel at his feet with pitiful whining. He’s disgusted by my presence, but Faria’s right, my father doesn’t want me dead yet, so he won’t kill me. Not until they are both sure they can do without me. Therein lies my chance.
“Clean him and return him to the healer’s hut,” The Warden instructs. “You’re mine now. Do you understand?”
“Thank you, my lord!” I lean to take his hand.
He pulls away with loathing. “Bah!” He stalks off.
Let him mock. Dead men do not seek revenge, and I am not dead yet.
I’m shaved and scrubbed raw. I shiver when the freezing water of the pressure hose blasts me and wince when the sting of the disinfectant powder hits my face. I run my hand over the smoothness of my scalp. It’s the first time I feel clean in over a year. The guards remove my bindings and lead me to Faria’s hut. They shove me to the ground and walk away. I crawl through the porthole into the healer’s home. The fire burns low, creating long, haunting shadows. Faria sits in the place I first met him. His face, however, is not the same. His skin sags; his cheeks are hollow. His lean frame, which once carried an essence of hard strength, looks decayed. His wrinkled lips curve inward into his mouth as if he is sucking a straw.
“Master,” I whisper.
He has aged, but he’s alive, so there’s still hope. “You’ve returned,” he croaks. “And you’ve slain the beast of the tower.”
“Yes.”
“Now you understand the power and what you must do with it. I’m tired and must rest.” He pulls a fur over himself and lies down before the fire. “Welcome home, son of Leontes.”
This isn’t home. I won’t be home until it’s done.
I’m now master of the hut and Faria the assistant. He sleeps most of the day, conserving his strength, willing his body to survive another hour. The Warden must have seen his decline. Now I understand why I’m allowed the position as Faria’s replacement so easily.
The Warden sends men to check on me. I keep them satisfied by showing off my work mending fractures and scrapes, tending minor infections, and the like. In truth, I’m waiting for my moment. Faria believes Edric needs me alive as a contingency. I believe that I can’t count on my father. In his mind, I’m just a tool to be used, and the need may never arise.
I’m not the only one with designs. The yearly Combat has come and gone, and Perdiccus of House Mughal has been named champion. The standard of the manta flies over the city of Meridian this yearly cycle. Another Pavaka and purging of unwanted babes has followed. It makes me sick to be here, waiting, but self-pity is useless. No, I must make my own destiny, so I plot and I plan.
Faria and I are meditating when Carrick calls. I welcome the familiar Picker inside. It’s time for the first move.
“Hoping Faria the Red could take a look.” The big man holds up his finger, swollen and purple from some accident on the day’s haul.
“I’m the healer of the Wendigo now,” I tell my old colleague. The dark shaman makes the most imperceptible of nods in assent.
“Okay, Leontes. Just be careful,” Carrick says warily.