The Mark of Gold

by A. S. Etaski

  I felt cold and small.

  Nodding acknowledgment, I excused myself. “I am going fishing. I shall return later.”

  Mourn was gone for most of the day, and I began to wonder, since he had spoken of drying the pig meat. Nothing prevented Gavin and me from doing this, so we began the process along with the few fish I’d caught and cleaned.

  I hadn’t found any carrion but gave Nightmare the fish bones and guts; she readily consumed them. Glancing Gavin’s way—he was occupied—I checked her teeth. As he’d described, she had canines, and her many grinders had points capable of splintering bone into shards.

  How did he do this? It wasn’t a matter of having removed the old teeth and sticking in new ones. They looked like those she had died with, just…

  Modified.

  I gave her some of the aged pig meat, astonished that it seemed to be helping her scent. I sniffed closer. She didn’t smell like a horse, but she didn’t smell rotting, either. Not as before. I considered this scent.

  Somewhat like the dogs in Troshin Bend. One that isn’t excreting.

  Through the morning, I had expected the lingering crows and other scavengers to come in and try to steal the meat as we dried it; we were out in the open and would see them coming. Yet there was an odd lack of animals to make the attempt. A few bare-headed raptors circled high for a while but did not descend. By the time the Sun had passed overhead, and I was wearing my sunblind, they had left.

  “This is strange,” I said, explaining my observation. “Are you doing this?”

  Gavin shook his head. “I had not planned to but wondered if the mare and myself somehow put them off.”

  I shook my head, narrowing my eyes in thought. “Not that alone. They stay away like a predator is here. Or close by.”

  Gavin’s pause was brief. “Ah. Mourn. Perhaps his presence lingers to our benefit.”

  I smirked. Maybe the “Dragonchild” had needed to piss several times last night but wouldn’t pull down his pants in front of me again after he’d caught me inspecting his member. Maybe he’d gone into the treeline and purposefully made a boundary to warn other competitors away from his kill.

  Although, it was amusing to consider Mourn being modest about that. I doubted he knew I’d been looking for signs of demonic taint, not appraising him for potential performance. I hadn’t said anything, and this didn’t seem a topic Gavin would bring up to reassure, if he even noticed.

  “Well,” I began, “I had planned to stay to defend the meat, but if it may be this quiet all day…”

  “Hm?”

  Gavin wasn’t following me.

  “It seems strange Mourn has not returned when there was a plan. I will search around for him, beginning near his den.”

  “I have a means to summon him if we are approached,” Gavin reminded me.

  “Oh, yes. How is that done?”

  The Deathwalker smirked. “A thunderstone. One you obtained from the Ma’ab.”

  I grimaced. “Wonderful. Well, you can use the same method to ‘summon’ me, then.”

  “As you will.”

  I took a skin of river water and a pouch of forest food with me, so I need not hurry back, and left the last direction I’d seen him go. As I expected, it was not so easy to track him, especially in daylight. I lost clear physical sign early on; the mercenary wouldn’t leave behind a trail of fresh broken twigs, torn fronds, scuffed rock, or disturbed soil.

  Soon, I turned toward the hillside den, keeping careful measure of my strength. The path was familiar, and the Sun was intense, so I moved as I did underground: using a mix of scent and sightless perception to lead my way. It was as though another side of the forest lingered at the edge of my periphery; I detected warmth from a living creature, some unusual musk, or a sound which left an echo for me to drift toward, floating on that natural current.

  My eyes snapped into focus as something large moved over the next rise, where the hidden den would come into view. I crouched down, lightly touching the ground for balance on the slope, and held still. The sound offered the mental image of a bear scrubbing an itchy spot against rough bark. A growl of relief followed, but I decided it wasn’t a bear.

  My lips stretched without showing teeth. Returned already, half-blood?

  I crept closer, quickly as I wanted to gain sight of him before he scented or heard me. It was a self-test for practice only; I would not try to get stupidly close. It would prove nothing, and I wanted to keep my head.

  I chose my approach, reached the hillcrest, and peeked above a stone, managing to catch that brief glimpse. Like the bear I’d first taken him for, Mourn scratched his back against the tall stone outside his den, which was open. He focused on one side of his spines as if his left shoulder irritated him intensely. He had removed his harness to do so.

  Or perhaps he hadn’t yet put it on, I thought as I sniffed the warm body heat and musk drifting from the cave. Did he just wake up?

  The next moment, the Dragon son inhaled through his mouth and moved his head. His tongue flicked out, his metallic gaze fixed right where I was crouched as I tried to get lower out of sight.

  He rumbled, “Salsis, velxun.”

  Well, damn.

  I offered the requisite reply to avoid a fight. “Gre’as anto.”

  His tail swerved while he lifted his hand to form the familiar motion of accepting peace, and I stood up. My approach casual as I looked about, I was impressed most of the signs of Gavin camping here while I recovered were gone.

  “Needed a nap?” I said in Trade.

  “Yes.” Mourn smirked, shrugging into his weapons harness, cinching it tighter in front. “I have not slept since you entered the storm on the Midway.”

  My smile fell as he adjusted the fit around his torso. Shit. Between Gavin and this half-breed, was I the one who needed the most sleep, the weakest link? Quite a reversal from traveling with Humans and Dwarves. I didn’t like it.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “You mentioned drying the pig,” I said, “and seem to follow through on tasks rather than be distracted on a whim.”

  He lifted a heavy brow. “You suggest either you were wrong or if I’d found trouble?”

  “And I wanted to discover which, yes.” I paused. “Since you did not suggest being tired when you said you were going foraging, I assume you didn’t want me to know you might be vulnerable.”

  “It came on suddenly,” he murmured, sounding resentful. “Though you assume correct. No Davrin I knew slept while knowingly vulnerable.”

  True enough.

  His harness in place, his pants and bracers snug, Mourn ducked briefly into the cave and pulled out a large, heavy sack. He handed it out to me.

  “Here,” he said. “For our travels.”

  I took it but barely managed to keep it from plummeting to the ground. I looked inside though my nose told me what to expect. “Impressive. A sampling of the entire forest.”

  Mourn had crouched, his tail braced against the ground as he prepared to move the boulder into place.

  “Are we not coming back here?” I asked.

  “No,” he grunted, straining to get the boulder moving before letting it settle and proceeding to cover up the signs. “You are well again, the weather will be fair for the next few days, and Nightmare can pass as living from a short distance. I must return to Augran, and you have agreed to go there, pending a formal bargain.”

  “Are we leaving now?” I asked, wondering if he would rather negotiate on the road.

  “This evening.” Mourn gauged the shadows cast by the trees rather than the placement of the Sun itself. “We have enough time to prepare and preserve the food if I use some added spells.”

  I certainly wanted to see that.

  Slinging the foraged goods over my shoulder, I followed as he walked in the direction of the river. “Where are your long weapons? I see the pouches and short blades on the harness. What of the bow and qui
ver of black arrows? The sliding swords?”

  Mourn paused on the hill and half-turned. Considering a moment, he opened his hands, palms up, drawing my attention to them. His soft growl sounded like vaex-vur-vaess. Then, from thin air, the oversized archer’s weapons used to kill Witch Hunters and shoot Kurn appeared in his hands.

  I blinked. My mouth opened but then he motioned and spoke again, in a few words, exchanging his bow for the sliders he’d used against the cannibals. He didn’t threaten me with them, but a nearby tree lost a few twigs.

  I studied the metal whorls that made up his bracers, avoiding his face in case he was mocking my ignorance again. The shapes were abstract and did not glow like Soul Drinker, but I recognized at least one as a wizard’s symbol for a bow and arrow, and two which could imply the double blades. There were ten and two more beyond what he’d shown me.

  “Elegant solution for the weight,” I said. “And an impressive selection.”

  His tail offered advance warning that he was angry with my response.

  Uh-oh.

  I hurried to add in our Mothers’ tongue, “Did the Davrin make these for you?”

  His tail slowed to a stop, but I heard the quiet, bitter elaboration in his distant city’s accent. “They did. I cannot remove them, Baenar. Neither will anyone else.”

  Cautiously, I lifted my eyes to his face, evading the reptilian pupils grown so thin but acknowledging the tension everywhere else. “They will not?”

  Mourn showed me his fangs in an unpleasant manner. “The few who might have done so without rupturing the bracers and severing my arms refused. Fortunately, the maker had the foresight to imbue them to grow with me in size.”

  Implying they’d been bonded to him since youth.

  My pulse throbbed quietly in my ears. “Who refused? And why?”

  “My Priestess-Matron. My Grandmaster. My Sire.” He paused. “I know why the first two refused.”

  Mourn opted not to complete his story, turning to head down the hill. I stood there a few moments holding his bag. Perhaps he intended to prove himself as broody as Shyntre, and with as much cause for his blame felt as heavy. I shook it off and got moving.

  I didn’t do this to him. I don’t know what they did.

  I called out, “Does your Aunt still live in Vuthra’tern?”

  He slowed so I could catch up, turning his Elven ear toward me, but I couldn’t see his eye. “No, she is dead. Nor does my Grandmaster, though he died first.”

  My brows went high. Did he kill them both for what they made him?

  It must be. Knowing what I do now, how could anyone think a magic-laden half-blood would not turn on them?

  Then, inside, I sighed. Wilsira had thought it was a good idea to tease and provoke Kerse for five hundred years, and to lie about the Consorts. Shyntre made it well-known how he felt, having taken enough abuse to turn against any female with power over him the moment he had an opportunity. My wizard simply wouldn’t talk about whatever the Valsharess had done to him.

  “Any particular reason they turned you into an intelligent weapon,” I groused, adjusting the heavy sack, “or was it because they could and didn’t consider if they should?”

  Mourn’s shoulders lowered and his tail weaved gently as he stepped down the hillside. He took a moment to answer. “Fairly simple. The Elder Mind had become an imminent threat. The Priestesses were afraid, and the first Matron who could deal with it would become the First House. It was ambition.”

  I shuddered. “And did you ‘deal’ with it? For your Matron?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Though, not alone. And my Matron did not enjoy her new rank for long after.”

  I could well imagine, like Wilsira, she had made a crucial mistake in her success and hubris. “How long ago was this?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Four hundred and forty turns?”

  “Wait…” He looked at a bird that caught his attention. “Apologies, that’s incorrect. Four hundred and thirty-nine.”

  I strained my eyes in a hard roll. “Hilarious, half-blood.”

  “I am not jesting, Baenar.”

  “But there is an Elder Mind threatening Sivaraus, do you know?”

  Mourn shrugged. “There is more than one Elder Mind in the Deepearth. Now, may I ask you a specific question about your blood family?”

  Nice chafe.

  “Sure. Ask it.”

  “Does anyone else at your House have blue eyes?”

  I squinted, puffing my way up the second hill. “No. I am alone in my shade, there for everyone to remark upon if they so desire.”

  “Hm. Who is your sire?”

  I waved my hand. “Some registered spurter in the Eleventh House. I don’t know, I never met him.”

  “Registered? What does that mean? An elder?”

  “What? No, he wasn’t above two hundred when my Mother caught. It means he met and was acknowledged by the Palace Court in the House records.”

  He wasn’t too interested in that. “Under two hundred. Aren’t there older males in Sivaraus who breed?”

  “In truth? No.” I paused. “Well, wait. One. The Headmaster of the Wizard’s Tower. He must be a thousand by how many wrinkles he has, though his son passed two hundred. Besides him, you are the oldest bua I have ever met.”

  “Hm, except I don’t breed,” Mourn said with a sneer.

  I didn’t know what to say to that, and he did not invite me to try.

  Still, it opened many questions. Did he have no urge for sex like Gavin? Or was it that the pleasure had been twisted to serve another, as it had been for me, and he felt revulsion? The challenge to discover an unforced climax with a bua defined my first turns at Court, but I had many opportunities to try and could not avoid facing Jilrina’s legacy regardless.

  In contrast, this half-breed had escaped to the Surface where there were no Davrin to mate with; certainly, no Dragons walking around, either.

  So, what is his view on sex? Does he ever think about it, or act on it?

  I was somewhat surprised the geas hadn’t hit by now. I was talking about Sivaraus in the hopes of learning about this other city of Dark Elves. Perhaps the trick was not talking about the one who ruled it.

  The mercenary was quiet long enough for me to return the ball.

  “Why is your question, of all things, about old males and blue eyes?”

  He grunted, implying that he wouldn’t answer.

  We’d see about that.

  “What was your House name, by the way?”

  Slowing to a stop, he turned to me and answered this without a squabble. “Dar’Prohn.”

  My arms lost some of their strength, and I had to set down the bag, remembering an exiled Captain of V’Gedra. She’d been near death but found by Cris-ri-phon and his brother in the Desert. She lived with Humans to survive.

  If any of that was real. Fuck.

  Meanwhile, Mourn studied my face. “Hm. You know this House?”

  “Um. No. But there was a House Ja’Prohn in the Desert, was there not?”

  “Likely,” he answered with a detectable caution.

  I called his bluff. “You do not know?”

  Mourn exhaled, looked to the side.

  I retorted heatedly under my hood, “So, you lied.”

  “Correct,” he rumbled unapologetically.

  “Pfeh! You can’t ‘fill the gap’ my mothers have kept from me even if you cared to.”

  “Not fully. I know of a war that caused a cataclysm which drove the Dark Elves underground to escape it. I know their Queendom had once been in the Red Desert, though the capital city is buried in sand somewhere, and the soul dagger you possess played a role in its downfall. Having met your Deathwalker, I know that somewhere this gave rise to the deathless one I’d taken for a long-lived sorcerer who appeared from time to time.”

  I waited. “Is that all?”

  “For now.” Mourn looked toward t
he North for a reason I couldn’t fathom. “I have not cared much for this part of my heritage when there were many aspects to explore.”

  I exhaled. “What of Tamuril’s sis—”

  “If the Naulor in Augran is knowledgeable of that time,” he said with force, “her insight is not open to me, Baenar. I do know she is too young to have been living then, so she would be a scholar at best. Though, I’m sure you have seen,” the Dragonchild sarcastically opened his arms to either side as if embracing the world. “Not even the Naulor Elves are out in the open building cities and expanding on their past where Yungar and Tundar can see.”

  I stared. “What and what?!”

  Mourn palmed his brow. “Humans and Dwarves. Yungar. Tundar.”

  And Baenar.

  “More Draconic,” I grumbled, dragging the bag for a few steps after we got moving again.

  “To’vah. Yes.”

  I harrumphed. Do only the Naulor have a Draconic name they call themselves as well? Why is that?

  Finally, Mourn reached out for his harvest to carry it. I let him take it and asked, “What of blue eyes and old males?”

  Mourn smirked that I was stubborn enough to circle to this yet again. “If you know your lineage, Sirana, I need not cast any doubt of it. I was only curious.”

  “Why?”

  We’d crossed a line of brush, and I could hear the river now. Mourn’s silence was that type that felt like he was choosing his words. I waited.

  “Once,” he said, “at my Matron’s command, I chased a blue-eyed Davrin bua out of Vuthra’tern. Seeing you, I wondered if he made it to Sivaraus for he fled that direction, although it is more likely he died in the wilderness, as he was injured.”

  I disbelieved the possibility. “When was this?”

  “It was four hundred and fifty turns ago exactly. If the bua had lived, he would be five hundred and seventy, seven turns older than me.”

  And approaching Elder D’Shea’s age. Older than my own Matron.

  I repeated stubbornly, “There are no buas that age in Sivaraus.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  I scowled, watching his large, scaly feet pressing the dirt and downed leaves. How this bootless Dragonchild loved to count, I thought, though made no such observation aloud. I wondered how often a fugitive exchange might happen with the two cities. Who knew about this already?