“HE’S STILL TRACKING US.” There was anger and not a little admiration in Duon’s voice.
“Just our luck,” Conal growled. “That canone will never give up.”
“Foul language for a priest,” Duon said, and felt a little hypocritical, having taught him the word in the first place. Duon had used it frequently in the last two days.
“Not a priest, not any longer. Just a hunk of meat. I can’t do anything he doesn’t want me to.”
For the third time that afternoon the man took the sharpened stick and thrust it towards his own stomach; as with the first two attempts, his hand stopped abruptly just short of piercing the skin. Duon was sure it was no act.
Arathé mouthed her words and waved her hands desultorily, saying something like, “He won’t let us die.” It was hard to tell exactly; she was so tired her hands didn’t form the words properly.
Captain Duon would never have believed he would be wishing for his own death. Even after the horror of the Valley of the Damned, when as leader of the Emperor’s army he’d lost thirty thousand men, he had not sought to end his life. He’d thought then that he’d known despair, but what he had felt then was akin to joy compared to this. This complete loss of self. Slavehood without a moment’s respite. Of course he wanted to live, but he’d take death over a continued existence as the puppet of a cruel magician.
“Your father will keep tracking us,” the priest said. “Canone.”
He seemed to enjoy the flavour of the word, the smuttiness of it. Small rebellions, all they were capable of.
Duon sighed. “Noetos wanted us to go our own way, but now he comes after us. The faster he comes, the harder the voice drives us.” I just want to lie down.
Never. You’re mine until you burn out.
Physically sick at the sound of the voice, Duon responded with anger. May the hour come soon, especially if it inconveniences you.
His words had as much effect as a gnat biting a horse, he had to acknowledge. Certainly not worth the voice answering him.
Noetos had trailed them ever since the voice had led them down from the Canopy. They hadn’t been difficult to track, Duon surmised: one by one each of them had tested themselves against the hold on them. The resultant struggles gave the fisherman noise, broken foliage and, in Arathé’s case, blood to follow. All the efforts proved futile, as Duon guessed they would, but each of them would keep trying, he was sure.
To escape the hold the voice had on him was now the sole desire in Duon’s heart. Arathé had told them of the indignities the voice had forced her to commit, and he had seen for himself the way her body had been possessed. The voice had done similar things to him, he knew, though at the time they had seemed praiseworthy. The inhuman speed and strength in the Summer Palace; the ability to swim even with a broken leg; surely they had been sign enough. But because their effect had been laudable, he’d not questioned the voice closely.
Not that it would have mattered. The voice had demonstrated his absolute mastery of his charges, and their fate was clear. He would continue to reside in their minds, his presence making Duon sick to his stomach, and whisper his mocking words while scheming new atrocities for them to commit. Then he would take possession of their bodies, compelling them to do his will. And so it would go until they died, discarded, hands and hearts blackened by all they had been forced to do.
There must be some way out of this dilemma, he thought—knowing he was likely overheard, but safe in the knowledge that the voice would expect such thoughts. And this was their first and greatest problem: they needed to find some way of communicating with each other without being overheard by the voice. Duon never knew when he was under observation. Lately it seemed the voice hovered constantly in his mind. So there was no way even of telling the others to think of ways to outwit the voice. He assumed Arathé might have an idea or two, but held little hope that Conal would add anything. The man had been pitifully self-absorbed since the three of them had been thrown together.
Duon had a few ideas of his own, so tenuous he had barely thought about them—which was exactly how they had to stay,