Chapter Twenty-Five

The ground rumbled like thunder and Rhys shouted a warning, horrified as steam spewed from a small cone less than twenty steps from Luka. Water surged skyward from the opening, scalding hot, if what Rhys had heard was true. Instantly, Luka and Ravan dodged to the left, skirting a stinking pool of boiling mud to escape the steaming spray.

It lasted too many long moments, the water cutting off with a hiss and gurgle as if a valve had been closed. Heedless of the slippery, mineral encrusted ground, Rhys and Tarian hurried to join the others, Rhys’s concerned gaze traveling from Luka’s face to his exposed hands, looking for blisters or burns.

“We’re well,” Ravan assured them, shaking water droplets from her cloak.

“What was that?” Tarian asked, eyes wide with an understandable alarm as his gaze darted between the myriad of pools and craters surrounding them. They stood on a swath of the sickly yellow, short grass that grew between the steaming, reeking caldrons and mud flats and poked through the ash.

“We must be careful,” Luka warned. “The pools will emit gasses harmful to breathe, the bubbling mud will burn, while even the smallest cones will spill out steam or scalding water without warning.”

The bleak, nightmarish landscape spread out around them and a low moan escaped Tarian. “Why have we come here?” he asked, sounding lost, panicked.

Rhys dropped a hand on his shoulder and Tarian looked up, his eyes wild.

“We are here because Luka needs us at his side,” he said in calm, resolute tones. “He needs us to be strong.” Tarian stared at him a moment, and then drew himself up, squaring his slender shoulders. He firmed his lips and nodded, visibly clutching at his courage.

Luka looked heartbroken. “I am so sorry, Tarian. Please forgive me. You were not supposed to be here.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “This is not what I planned. By all rights, you should be home safe with your father. If I could change things…”

“He may yet have a role to play, Luka,” Ravan said soothingly. “We do not know why the fates have brought him here, with us.”

“Fates,” Luka repeated. For the first time since Rhys had met him there was a bitter note in his voice. “The fates aren’t involved here, just my own foolishness that has endangered all of you.”

“That is where you are wrong, my sweet witch,” Rhys put in hastily, knowing Luka’s just heart was hurting. “We are here because we choose to be. Because we love you.”

Luka’s dark eyes shimmered as he looked at them one by one, and he drew a deep breath. “I have spent most of my life alone,” he told them quietly, and a sad smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what I have done to deserve your love, but I will try to be worthy of it.”

Ravan promptly touched his arm. “We give our love freely, Papa. All you need to do is allow yourself to accept it.”

Luka’s lips parted, then he shook his head helplessly, clearly overcome. He turned abruptly, taking several steps away from them. His shoulders shook as if he wept and Rhys’s heart twisted. Tarian moved under Rhys’s hand as if to follow him and Rhys gave his shoulder a soft squeeze.

“I don’t want him to suffer,” Tarian confessed brokenly. Rhys searched his face, so young, troubled, wet with tears.

“He’s strong, Tarian. Stronger than we know, I think. But he is also deeply compassionate and gentle and ridiculously shy. At the moment, he is embarrassed and humbled, but I suspect joy underlies his tears. He’ll be well.”

Tarian nodded, sniffed, and wiped at his tears with his sleeve. Ravan shifted her pack on a shoulder, her own eyes bright, and they crossed the stubby grass to stand beside Luka. The ground turned a chalky white at their feet surrounding a pool of brilliant green water, seeming bottomless, with a strange yellow scum floating on its edges. The farther side, some ten paces across, was lower, a thin layer of water spreading across the ground with a froth of rust and sulfur and other minerals Rhys couldn’t name clouding its surface.

Tarian strayed to a pool on their right, perhaps drawn by its vibrant colors. Brilliant orange and yellow stained the earth under a thin layer of water dipping to glowing green, which then plunged to a pool of deepest blue, again without a visible bottom.

Rhys touched Tarian’s hand in warning, pointing to a hissing cauldron of mud close to their boots. “Stay with us,” he urged. “I have no desire to see you harmed by anything here.”

“Yes, lord,” Tarian said, white lipped, clearly disturbed and frightened by the bleak, astonishing landscape. Rhys found it unsettling as well, needing to fight off a growing despair, the foul, oppressive air fraying his spirits.

Luka skirted the pool and headed toward the center of the swale, Ravan and Tarian behind, Rhys in the rear. He kept a hand on the knife at his belt, though he knew this battle would not be fought with common weapons. Mud pools continued to bubble and belch on either side of them, the rumble and hot spray of a geyser halting them at intervals, too close to be comfortable.

The gray sides of Ash Swale drew in, growing taller, forcing them onto narrower paths between the painted pools. The bright yellow of sulfur appeared through the grass until it surrounded them, spanning out into the distance. Rhys made a sour face at the strong, unpleasant odor. The mineral encrusted grass crunched under their boots and he winced, knowing they would be heard by any enemy lying in wait for them. Had Aethan brought an army with him? Men in armor and steel who would throw his broken body, along with those of his companions. into the deep pools to be dissolved in the acidic baths?

Or did he come with only Lorin as his companion? Rhys thought of his half brother then, and sadness welled inside him.

“Did you have any chance at all?” he whispered in the sulfur laden air. He’d been his father’s captive on two occasions—terrible months of brutality and degradation and despair that ate at his soul. What had it been like for Lorin, living in the same household with the monster? How young had he been when Aethan had gone to his bed—

Rhys’s mind shied away from the horror of that. The years upon years of beatings and unwanted touches and rape in the darkest nights. Worthless and unloved. Small wonder Lorin hated him, the one who’d escaped. Had become like his father and tormenter. Perhaps, when this was done, Rhys could find a way to reach him, through the pain and horror, to the man he could have been.

A small cone hissed beside the path, startling him back to awareness. There was a slight dip in the swale ahead of them and Luka brought them to a stop on the edge of what appeared to be a mud flat, twenty paces across and equally as wide, bubbling gently. Rock poked here and there through the slime, the mud seeming only a hand span deep. Sunlight shimmered off a thin layer of water on its surface.

“They’ve come,” Luka said, and the grief in his voice shook Rhys. A silence settled around them and he peered across the mud. Gradually the shapes of three men became discernable in the distance, advancing through the bewildering landscape. They stopped on the opposite shore, and a chill ran through him. Lorin glared at them, hate on his face. But Aethan stood loosely, confident, holding the end of a rope looped around a man’s hands tied at his back.

Tarian gasped and took an impulsive step forward, but Luka grabbed his arm to hold him back. Anger and panic swept Tarian’s face, but he waited, body visibly shaking.

“What do you do here, Aethan?” Luka called across the distance. “The Well is not yours to take. Go home before you lose all you have.”

Aethan’s laugh was cut off by a rumble in the earth, then on their right a geyser spewed into the air, towering above their heads. Hot mist landed on their upturned faces and Rhys threw an arm up to protect his skin. It lasted only moments, but as the water settled into the earth, he found that Aethan and Lorin had started across the mud flat toward them, pushing Calan out in front.

The man stumbled on the slick ground but regained his feet. He looked up, his frantic gaze going at once to Tarian. Relief washed over his comely features, and he straightened to his full height as if the sight of his son renewed his strength. Aethan noticed and muttered a curse, kicking the back of his knee, sending him sprawling into the mud. Lorin’s scornful laugh hung on the thick air.

Tarian made a frustrated sound, rocking on his heels. Rhys put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Let Luka deal with them,” he urged, though his heart burned as well.

Calan regained his feet and Luka instantly put up a hand. “Far enough,” he warned as they took another step closer.

Aethan’s look of disdain was easy to read. “You don’t frighten me, Luka. I know your heart. You can’t, won’t, hurt me. Your principles won’t allow it. They make you weak. It’s why I’ll always win.”

He motioned to Lorin, and they took another step forward, reaching the middle of the mud flat. At that moment, unexpectedly, Ravan shouted and dropped to a knee, slamming her hands on the edge of the mud. Instantly, the mud lost its firmness and the three men sank to their knees, their waists. Aethan shouted in anger while Lorin flailed as they sank deeper.

“Don’t fight it,” Ravan warned calmly. “You’ll only sink farther.”

Fear whitened Calan’s face, but he didn’t struggle, his gaze locked on Tarian as if urging him to be calm, brave. Tarian nodded, shaking under Rhys’s hand, and Rhys’s heart hurt at the love apparent between them. What would it have been like to have a father to nurture and guide him? Not be the cause of his nightmares nor put his life in peril now.

Ravan’s trap had been well planned. It must have been what she’d gone ahead of them to prepare. A rueful smile touched Rhys’s lips. He’d been acquainted with Ravan most of his life, Luka for years, but he wondered if he really knew them at all. Their power was more than he had ever imagined, more than they’d hinted at.

“Aethan, please,” Luka entreated. “Listen to me. You will never have the Well. Go back. I don’t want to fight you.”

“You shall surely lose, witch,” Aethan hissed. To Rhys’s horror, he drew a long slim knife from his belt and placed it against Calan’s back. “Release us.”

“If you kill him, there will be no talking,” Luka warned, his voice deadly cold.

Aethan’s smile grew cruel. “I don’t need to kill him. There are many ways to inflict pain, to torture a man until he begs for release.”

Tarian growled in his throat and Rhys fisted his cloak, holding him in place. He stiffened and flashed Rhys a look, fury and terror sparking in his eyes. Rhys shook his head, mouthing, “Not yet,” though he found it difficult to hold his place when Aethan moved the knife and drew a line across Calan’s cheek.

“If we walk away now, Aethan, you will surely die. There is no escaping the pit.” Luka looked at the liquid oozing to the top of the mud. “I doubt the water here is drinkable.”

“And if I gouge his eyes out, spill his entrails in the mud, the carrion birds will gather that much sooner.” Aethan made an impatient sound. “Enough. We all know, Witch, you won’t see this man harmed. That pure, good conscience of yours won’t allow it. Let us out, and we’ll talk,”

Rhys’s heart sank. Luka couldn’t have foreseen the complication of Aethan having a hostage. What was to be done?

Luka let out a frustrated breath and tilted his head to Ravan. She scowled but made a sharp motion with her hand. The mud shivered, air bubbles bursting across its slick surface with the stench of rot and decay. The mire hardened, and with a shout of panic, Lorin struggled to gain his feet, hauling himself from the mud. Aethan merely looked annoyed, pulling Calan upright with him until they stood on firm ground.

Despite the circumstances, a spiteful smile tugged Rhys’s lips. From the waist down, the three men were covered in stinking mud, with slime on Lorin’s forearms and lower face from his struggles. Lorin caught his gaze and temper flared in his blue eyes. He strode toward him, boots sticking in the mud. Rhys couldn’t help but laugh out loud, waiting for Lorin’s angry words. It caught him off guard when Lorin stopped in front of him and clamped a hand on his neck, squeezing hard.

“You find this funny, brother? I’ll flay you alive.” Spittle struck Rhys in the face as he struggled to breathe, pulling on Lorin’s arm. Lorin leaned close to his ear, his hot breath brushing against his skin. “Then I’ll do the same to your witch, listen to his screams as I peel him open, fucking him as he dies.”

“Lorin,” Rhys gasped out, a plea, staring into his brother’s eyes, searching… The blue eyes, so like his own, widened slightly, the grip on his neck easing. For a moment Lorin looked bewildered, uncertain, but then a hardness settled on his features and he clutched Rhys’s throat again, making his head spin from lack of air.

“Enough, Lorin,” Aethan drawled, sounding bored. “Let him be. I wouldn’t want you to…damage him.” The lewd tone underlying his words sent a shudder through Rhys.

Lorin grunted, loosened his hold, and shoved Rhys from him, stepping back to Aethan’s side, who’d come up to the edge of the mud. Rhys rubbed his throat, gulping in air. He slanted a glance at the others, embarrassed to have been caught so easily, but Luka and Ravan’s attention was on Aethan while Tarian inched closer to his father.

Luka stirred. “What now, Aethan? You cannot force me to reveal the Well of Hope to you.”

Aethan looked them over, one by one, his gaze lighting on Rhys. “No more of this. Rhys, kill Luka, now.”

What? Rhys’s gaze darted between Luka and Aethan. Was he in jest? A cruel smile curled Aethan’s lips, his eyes cold.

“It’s easy, love. Kill the witch, or I will slice this man open ear to ear, then do the same to the boy.” Aethan kicked the back of Calan’s leg, knocking him to his knees in the mud.

Tarian gave an angry shout and dashed forward, boots squelching in the stinking water covering the mud, but Lorin intercepted him, trapping him against his body with a strong arm around his neck. Rhys looked at them helplessly then jerked his gaze to Luka and Ravan. Why weren’t they reacting? Ravan ignored him, eyes on Aethan. Luka wouldn’t meet his gaze. But there was something…

Luka held himself still, silent, his handsome face growing pallid as if under strain. Rhys’s heart clenched, and he made a move to touch him, but Ravan sent him a sharp glance from under her brows, giving a slight shake of her head.

Rhys hurriedly looked away to find Aethan’s speculative gaze on him. “What will it be, Rhys? Your lover or the people he’s promised to protect? What would Luka wish you to do?”

“Luka wouldn’t wish—”

“But he has wished, hasn’t he? Isn’t this how the Well came into his possession?” Aethan scowled. “Come. Decide. I’m growing impatient.”

Rhys drew his sharp knife from his belt. Sunlight glittered off the long blade, shining in his eyes. How could he stall? Surely, Luka had a plan. The mud bubbled with soft plops, small cones hissed. The earth complained, and he heard a geyser go off behind them. Lorin and Tarian both looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, but Rhys and Aethan locked gazes.

Rhys’s heart pounded. He’d never seen himself in his father’s face. Both he and Lorin took after their mother’s family. Nevertheless, he’d always feared there was a part of himself, buried deep, that reflected Aethan’s cruelty. At that moment he could easily have plunged his blade into his father’s chest. There was a glint in those dark as night eyes. A twist to his lips that betrayed his pleasure in wanton brutality. In inflicting pain. He would kill Calan without a thought beyond the joy of drinking in their grief and horror.

Aethan’s eyes narrowed as if sensing Rhys’s thoughts. “You refuse? So be it,” he snarled, and pressed the edge of his knife to Calan’s throat.

“No!” Rhys shouted, springing forward, and Tarian’s scream of anguish rang in his ears.