Free The Dark Ferryman by Jenna Rhodes Page A

poked a branch into the fire, stirring up those already burning a bit, and watched as an ember flew up with a hissing spit, then burned out. Actually, that was not quite true. Nutmeg could box the prince’s ears with the best of them, and give him an earful of Dweller parables, always pragmatic and often humorous, and she never let Jeredon wallow in regret or slack in his rehabilitation, for all that she was little more than torso high to a Vaelinar. The Dwellers of this world were the salt of the earth, no less, and the Gods blessed them even as they had turned deaf ears and blind eyes to the other races of Kerith. Sevryn had not been raised as a Vaelinar, so he wasn’t brought up with the knowledge that they’d lost all they’d known, even their memories of their true roots and heritage. He missed nothing but what he had been given from the day he was born, and never thought back on the generations before him.
    Not true for other Vaelinars; not for those original lost who still lived. Not for those who fought to claim an intangible something they felt they had lost, whether it be rulership or superiority or dominion over the earth they trod. Not for those who would do anything to regain that which they had been banned from forever.
    Sevryn wondered if that was what drove Quendius.
    He stabbed his poker branch into the flames and left it there to burn as well, knowing he wouldn’t gain an answer that evening, and perhaps never. He would not, however, give up trying to find one. He wondered if he had already made the choice the Ferryman had demanded of him.
    He dozed a moment, eyes half open, his hands going slack, his mind drifting off to things he hadn’t felt in the battle, hadn’t noticed until now . . . the smell of the blood exciting him, the sight of it streaming down his blade and pooling onto the sands. His heart leaped in momentary excitement and he tasted a yearning at the back of his throat.
    He dreamed of something he was not, but had been . . . once. The feel of cold iron bound him by ankle and wrist, shame as white hot as forge-heated iron filled him. Old scars of body and soul ran achingly through him.
    The shock of it flung his eyes wide open, his body in a still wakefulness. The afternoon had grown late, the sun’s half-hidden rays slanting low across the vista.
    “City lad. You ought to know better than to sleep in the wild.”
    He knew the voice before he saw the shadow separate itself from the dusky images thrown by tree and bush, and the being squatted down in front of him, the burned-out fire separating them. Even among the varied Vaelinars, his soot-colored skin was a rarity, and he dressed to accent it, wearing leather breeches of charcoal hue, and a rich ivory long vest which fell open as he settled himself. Quendius spread his hands out to the cooling ashes in futility, but Sevryn doubted he wanted embers to warm his hands. The man he knew preferred the heat of blood.
    “You followed Gilgarran to his death. Would you follow Daravan there as well? It is better, lad, to lead. Always better to lead.”
    “Kill me and be done with it.”
    Quendius grinned. “To the point.”
    Sevryn levered himself to one elbow, eyes locked on the other. He did not move beyond that, nor did the expression in the other’s eyes give away any intention.
    “When Gilgarran brought you to my forge above the Silverwing, I thought you nothing more than a servant dogging his boot steps. Him, I knew. I knew his reputation and his canniness. Knowing that, I should have paid more attention. You were the weapon he had hidden up his sleeve although it didn’t save his life. You did what he intended. You brought my forge down, and you brought back word of what I had been doing.” Quendius clenched one fist and released it. “I kept you alive because I thought you had only been a bl-blow tagging along behind him. If I had known, you’d be dead already.’ ”
    “We’ve something in common, then. We both regret the