He closed his eyes, holding the gemstone tightly, fear trickling at the back of his mind, uncertain he’d wake as himself. He shook the thought away. He’d deal with what came in the morning.
Chapter Three
Faust focused on a wasteland in a memory. Flowers wilted, grass shriveled, trees creaked and cracked, their leaves and branches disintegrating into blackened dirt. Someone cried farther into the dying forest, beckoning him.
The crying tore at Faust’s soul, filling the wasteland with such force, he thought it controlled the rapid rate of decay. He quickened the pace, running toward the heart-wrenching cries. He stopped at a clearing of dirt and rock, nearly out of breath.
Emoris hunched over the body of a dead man, shoulders shaking, hands clawing into bloodied tunics. The deity raised his head to the sky, and the cry he produced rattled Faust’s bones. It was as if Emoris’s soul shattered.
The scene wavered to a downpour with Emoris sitting on a chair, staring out a window with a dead look to his eyes. The deity touched the potted plant by the window, a faint glow crossing over Emoris’s fingers, but nothing happened.
Emoris shuddered, fresh tears falling down his face. He turned to Faust. “Please kill me, High King. I can’t—not without him. I can’t even create a small flower anymore. I— Please!”
More rain fell outside as if resonating with Emoris’s turmoil.
Faust’s heart bled for Emoris, even though he shouldn’t feel any sympathy for the deity. Not after Emoris maimed and tormented him within the castle of Limorous. Despite his conflicted emotions, Faust reached out as the scene blurred like the water running against the glass.
Rain tapped against a windowpane, the sound annoying.
Faust pulled the blanket over his head to block it.
Wait.
Faust shot up from the bed, scrambling for a sword, fearing he’d somehow dreamed himself back to the castle in Limorous. The wooden bed creaked, and the floorboards groaned with Faust’s light steps. His heart thundered as he scanned the room for any sign of either Lathil or Emoris.
Faust breathed deep, pushing the strange vision of Emoris far from his mind. He grasped one sword and assessed his surroundings. He was alone, but not in Limorous. Faust racked his brain, certain he’d fallen asleep outside—in a cave.
The room contained a simple, small bed, a table, and a chair, which suggested the establishment was an inn. He glanced down at his clothes, surprised he wore a simple dark grey tunic and pants. He slowly set his sword down, touching his chest. By Alimphis. Someone had undressed him.
Faust saw no signs anyone else inhabited the room with him, but they could have left to inform someone of the Mark of Linos on his chest.
Faust found a pail of clean water, some linen to dry with, and a short cloak by the table. He didn’t see his previous set of clothes, but his Volant armor shined, no longer tainted by the blood of Drokan Knights. It still sang with Aris’s magic beneath his hands.
Faust stared at a single piece of parchment paper in the center of the table. He picked it up, giving it a quick glance. It was in the old tongue, but short—simple enough for him to read. Faust arched an eyebrow.
Find Sor.
Faust dropped the scrap of paper. He recognized Qinn’s handwriting.
He touched his chest, closing his eyes. He needed to calm down and think. There were no signs anyone else had been in the room. Thus, the most logical answer was Qinn had taken over as Linos had with Aris. If that was true, Qinn must have killed the Drokan Knights back in the forest.
He leaned on the table and covered his mouth, a cold sweat working over his skin.
He was not Qinn. He could not become Qinn. He was a proud Kingsley and he would remain himself, no matter what.
Faust shook the unease loose and cataloged his belongings. His rings and bracelet rested on top of a new set of clothes. The hairpin Ignas had given him remained attached to his belts, but the rings hung off a strange, twisted, leather cord.
Faust examined the Royal Moon ring and his extravagant ring from Ignas. Neither seemed damaged. Nothing seemed different about the bracelet either.
Faust stared at the pile of clothes. The dark blue fabric held no embellishments. It was plain, nothing like anything he was used to wearing. The fabric was coarse, too, but durable. Obviously meant for travel and lots of movement.
Coin clanked together, and Faust blinked as he looked down. A small bag sat on top of dark pants. Faust set the tunic aside and tugged the small bag open to see more coin. He examined a silver coin with different indentations and crests on it than the other kingdoms. Great. These indicated different laws and trade, which meant a pricing structure, too.
“What did he do while I slept?” No one mentioned Qinn would do things like this, they only spoke of him being revered and sought after. To him, Qinn didn’t appear to be someone he should revere.
Another piece of folded parchment paper was nestled inside the tunic and he pulled it out. The warped paper showed its age, the ink bleeding through in one spot as if it was recent. He unfolded it and ran his gaze over an old map with Qinn’s handwriting scribed along the cities. Small tack holes punctured each corner. This map had been hanging up somewhere recently. The newer ink circled an X in a forest a ways from what he could only assume was the capital by its sheer size. The word Vinas was dashed along the upper side of the city. He laid the map out and studied it for a safe route for him to leave the town, but all roads led to ports or large towns he wanted to avoid.
He needed to get out of here fast. He rolled the map up and stuck it in a pocket inside the cloak for safekeeping.
Faust stripped and washed. He threw the grey tunic set on before slipping into the darker set and securing his swords. He unearthed a pair of gloves under the pants and smiled. Qinn picked good clothing at least. He tucked his rings under his tops, out of sight. They’d attract unwanted attention, but his hairpin looked like a belt decoration. He snapped the bracelet on his wrist and tugged his sleeves over it, moving to his Volant armor.
Faust strapped the leg guards and arm guards in place underneath the top tunic and boots, throwing the cloak over his shoulders, fastening it in place. He plucked the coin bag off the chair, tied it to his belt, and made his way to the door, giving the room one last sweep to ensure he left nothing behind, then closed the door. The place barely held up. Qinn should have chosen somewhere else to stay.
First, Faust needed to leave and find another town that was not an armada stronghold, then see if the coin he had was useable. If it wasn’t, he would try to barter it. He wasn’t as hungry as he should have been.
Faust unhooked the gem on his bracelet, rubbing the stone with a heavy sigh. He walked down the rickety stairs to the bottom floor and squinted against the early morning light coming through large windows in the expansive entrance.
“Are you all right to go out, Rath?” a voice with a slight accent asked.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned his attention to a wooden counter with a row of keys lining the wall. The tall, skinny man with dark hair must have been the innkeeper.
Faust flashed a practiced smile. “I am fine.”
“If you say so.” The innkeeper shrugged. “No more running from wolves, you hear? Those beasts don’t give up.”
“I will be careful.” Faust made a mental note—Qinn was a liar, too.