A Curse of Blood and Power: A Chronicle of Fanhalen

by Viviene Noel

  Mahena peered down again, scrunching her nose.

  Emmerentia batted her eyelashes. ‘Want me to hold your hand, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, fuck right off, will you?’ Mahena snapped, and gave her a vulgar gesture.

  The twin laughed, stepping closer to Mahena. She looked at the girl shaking her head, that bemused look she usually had when she wanted to do something but fear had her in its grasp.

  One second, she was awkwardly angling her head.

  The next, a strident scream pierced the air as Emmerentia thrust her hand between Mahena’s shoulder blades. The twin didn’t wait for the girl to hit the water before diving headfirst.

  When the cold water seeped into their bones, they laid down on the dry, lush grass and sunned themselves.

  ‘See, you didn’t die.’

  ‘My ass is going to be bruised for the next two weeks, thank you very much.’

  Emmerentia closed her eyes and fell off the edges of time as the world paused for a heartbeat. It had been a miracle she’d convinced her brother to take a few hours of rest after the despicable weather he’d forced them to ride through. And after their little fighting session in the said shit weather, their bodies had needed a slight reprieve.

  She had wanted the moment alone with Mahena to see whether her mind would allow for the glimpse of light to shine through, for the confusion and anger to retrieve. She was trying, really trying, to mind the pull and push games the girl had accused her of days ago. It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, but she couldn’t completely drop the knife down in her presence.

  Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  ‘You look peaceful.’ Mahena’s soft voice brought her back to the present with a smile.

  The twin hummed in response.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to like fun.’

  Emmerentia opened an eye, to look sidelong at Mahena. ‘Didn’t you say you were good at reading people?’ Her mouth quirked to the side, and she felt Mahena’s eyes follow the line from her mouth down to her navel. ‘Go on, ask.’

  ‘It looks evil.’

  ‘It felt evil, too.’ She slowly dragged her fingers along the scar, the wound flashing before her eyes. Then she turned her head to look squarely at her companion. ‘And that’s when I learnt blind aggression and arrogance served very little.’

  Mahena picked up on the underlying comment. ‘Yeah… But I lash out because I know you are much better than I am and can easily deflect my strikes.’ She flipped onto her stomach and leaned her head on the palm of her hand. ‘You’re pretty to look at, when you’re not snarling.’

  Time to play? As much as she complained about Emmerentia being inconsistent, Mahena looked for it, too.

  ‘I’m hot when I am snarling.’ Emmerentia mirrored her position, then roved her eyes over her glistening body—a luscious, lingering gaze that suggested the undergarments were see-through. She made sure her voice was lined with the sort of pure male arrogance that irked women. ‘If you want to tangle, you should be straightforward about it.’ She couldn’t help it, help the game—it was too invigorating, too mindless, too free.

  Mahena’s fist curled at her side as her face went red. The twin noticed the spinning behind her eyes, the slight curl of her nose and the pursing of her lips—containment, control. Disappointingly, Mahena only rose a brow. ‘Are you that utterly bored?’

  ‘I am mostly desperate for a worthy opponent.’ Emmerentia winked before admitting. ‘And I am bored. And a little curious.’ Then she was up and walking to her clothes, leaving a speechless, most likely highly annoyed Mahena on the grass.

  Emmerentia slid her now dried trousers on, and turned slowly as she buttoned up her shirt, jerking her chin to Mahena’s own.

  Mahena lazily got to her feet and stretched, ensuring the twin had a full display of the shifting, lean muscles of her back. She looked at the pool for a moment, at the way the sun reflected on the glistening surface, at the butterflies flapping freely near the many colourful flowers.

  Emmerentia noted every movement, then whispered, ‘If we weren’t pressed for time, I would never leave this place.’ Her teeth bit down on her lips—and it wasn’t her, not consciously. It was a whisper from the bottom of the soul, she realised somehow reluctantly, and it didn’t seem like she heard it. Emmerentia made her way quietly to the pond, appearing right behind Mahena. She said onto the wind, ‘Seems like I was right, magic isn’t required to make life beyond magnificent.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you must admit that it would be pretty amazing if you could make fires around the pool that don’t burn the ground or steam the water without turning us to roasts.’

  An unexpected flash of red hair wheezed past her vision—of raging flames, and cunning, and twisted love. A strange hummed sigh escaped her lips. ‘I knew someone who could.’

  Mahena stared at their reflection in the pond, and Emmerentia forced herself to let her see the painful ghosts dancing in her eyes.

  B

  The smell of smoked meat reached her famished nostrils before their camp came to view. Fàaran shot a long look at his sister from where he was perched atop a large rock, forever busy sharpening knives and other pointy things.

  ‘No!’ Mahena yelled, or yelped, a twist of outrage in her voice.

  ‘No, what?’ he said, his head angled.

  ‘I know what that look means. And, nooooo!’ The no rolled off her tongue for longer than she’d anticipated.

  Emmerentia threw her hands in the air. ‘My ego is bleeding.’

  ‘You’re a moron,’ Mahena added. Then she turned her head and launched herself on the juicy meat laid out on the cloth ahead and chomped on it—finished before either could comment.

  Emmerentia echoed her sentiment after hoisting herself next to her brother. ‘Done with the mapping?’ The twin curled her fingers and beckoned her forward. When she approached, the sister placed the map that Fàaran had just unfolded for them all to see. She traced the itinerary until her index pointed to a spot where a big dot had been drawn. ‘Val d’Horà.’

  Where the lines were holding still.

  The little voice snickered at the statement.

  She roved her eyes over the map—crosses and scribbles and words peppered it. Her eyes stopped on the patch of land that used to be Elgona. She asked before they could notice, ‘How long before we reach it?’

  ‘Days.’

  As they left this shielded paradise and rode through the plains under a mild sun, she let her mind wander, let her thoughts slip towards darker horizons, into corners of her own mind that made her believe she might very well comprehend better some of the Queen of Einàr’s motives and manipulations.

  That thing inside her guts smiled.

  31

  They reached the Dartassi camp before nightfall two days later as planned, after marching through the valleys, all of them exhausted by the last trail of the journey. They had stopped only as necessary and, although Mahena questioned the reasoning behind it, she remained quiet. It had proved so much easier than the hilly zigzagging of Orabel’s upper plains, yet as they advanced, the idea of war seemed to snuff out their energy.

  A wall rose to meet them as they slowed the horses to a walk, then to a stop. She’d been told the wall, running around the fortress that was one of the last larger outposts, was built to protect the city from any invaders and belonged to the youngest son of the King. Made of stones, it reminded her of a vigil in the middle of the valley. Two watchtowers bordered the wooden gates, standing tall and proud. A little behind it, in the near distance, she could distinguish a much taller one.

  The guards, who had stilled at their approach atop the minarets, were now debating whether to shoot them on site or come down to greet them.

  Fàaran motioned to the two women to remain still and moved his stallion a few paces ahead, coming to stand into the lights of the towers. Mahen
a had no clue how they decided who was to live and who was to die, but she guessed their coming from the opposite side of the wall to the fighting played in their favour. Fàaran lifted his left hand, index and middle finger jointly held up. Slowly, he brought them to his brow, then facing upward extended the gesture in the guards’ direction.

  A signal.

  The three men looked to each other in something that resembled slow motion. At once, they lowered their weapons and returned the gesture. Looked like they weren’t being skewered today. How did he know what to do? Emmerentia had mentioned her brother had contacted a friend within the army, but how had they come to know each other?

  Fàaran cleared his throat. ‘Captain Voranel is expecting us.’

  A man vanished within the tower.

  They waited, and waited, and waited some more. It wasn’t like it was cold and she was hungry or anything, but they could at least have the courtesy of telling them what was going on.

  After what felt like way too long and Mahena had found herself snoozing on the mare, the doors groaned open. Two men signalled them to move forward.

  Without a word, the twins pulled their mounts’ leads gently, motioning them forward. Mahena’s eyes swept the infrastructure before her, a mix of apprehension and wonder in her blue gaze before she followed suit. As they neared the guards, Fàaran dismounted as a sign of respect. The girls did the same.

  ‘We will show you to the Captain,’ said one of the men, his voice deep and harsh.

  As they walked, the atmosphere crept under Mahena’s skin like a deceiving snake—too hypnotising not to be lethal. The wind disappeared to another plain, the rustling of the leaves a distant melody. The birds returned to their nests, abandoning them to their own thoughts—a roaring silence, a frenetic quiet before the claiming of the truth.

  What if Fàaran’s hopes of finding help amongst the horse-riders appeared vain? What if they turned them around, refused to guide them to the edge of the territory? They were losing men by the day, maybe sparing even a few of them could alter the course of the fight.

  Mahena scratched her head. Her head always itched when she got nervous. Had they thought the possible refusal through? She fixed her gaze on the gates closing in on her, feeling small before the immensity of what awaited past the wooden doors.

  So small. An ant amongst giants navigating a maze of deadly thorns.

  Because if the man Fàaran was resting his faith upon told him to shoo, then would they contemplate another itinerary or just drop their shoulders and leave her to her fate?

  At least now she wasn’t so terrified of the dark anymore and built up some confidence. She didn’t know if she would last long on her own, though.

  The gate grated shut, heavy and full of warnings, sending a shiver to her bones. The blunted sound of the doors sliding back against the dirt a silent music accompanying their steps until the lock clicked.

  It wasn’t hitting her, the reality of the situation—she was still living up to her dreams of adventure, each day full of twists and odd turns. Yet, all of it...all of it seemed so far away, a mirror, a reflected reality. She got scared out of her wits, pain lanced through her body, yet it felt...different. Mahena believed each step in the journey to Vassalis was to be the end of her blindness, but it never was.

  Mahena patted Oria’s neck and scratched her head. The mare was looking around as much as she was.

  The two watchtowers were linked to two bridges, each parting in opposite directions, that gave onto a connecting part of the fortress. Had they cleared the courtyard of everything to prevent losses if invaded? She’d always imagined this kind of place to be full of life—people training, blacksmiths in their workshops creating weapons, horses being let in and out of the stables.

  However, here, nothing. As if a ghost had swept by and engulfed all life.

  Before the war, maybe. Before death knocked on their doors with a defying smile.

  It lasted a few minutes, that murmuring silence. And then, slowly, sounds began to reach her ears. As the guards guided them through the pathways, under arches and to the open prairie beyond the fortress.

  The sounds filled her head like a sledgehammer—mute to thunder.

  How could she have not heard it before? Was she that much in her own head she had erased the world around her?

  She blinked as they exited and didn’t know where to look.

  Tents spread across the prairie, stretching so far it obstructed the horizon. It was like stepping from behind a curtain hiding to another scene of a movie.

  Mahena must have stopped dead, because by the time she loosened a breath someone was pulling her sleeve, motioning her forward. For a split second, her environment blackened, and the little voice hissed in satisfaction.

  It was satisfaction and irritation coupled up in a strange formula.

  Then Emmerentia appeared in front of her, a hand still on her sleeve, head slightly inclined in question.

  ‘She’s never seen a war camp,’ Fàaran offered as an explanation to the staring guards.

  ‘Lucky woman,’ one muttered.

  The questions died on her lips, her eyes wide open to a dream she’d had many times, often awakening in a fit of shivering fear. As they made their way in and through the camp to the captain’s quarters, Mahena stared. Men, women and older children were walking, running, sitting in front of their provisional homes. Some battle ready, some with visible signs of injuries. All kinds of emotions written across their faces from anger, to sorrow, to excitement, to sadness.

  Kids were fighting. They looked so young, so out of place.

  Men in children’s bodies, they bore their duties to their kingdom like a trophy.

  They shouldn’t be here.

  A strident cry made Mahena snap to her left. A woman was being patched up on a stretcher, her abdomen sliced by some unforgiving weapon. Her unyielding scream tore at Mahena’s soul. Two other women were at her side, easing the suffering of the needle going in and out of her skin with tonics and salves and the gods knew what else.

  ‘She’ll be lucky if she passes the night,’ Emmerentia’s whisper broke the silent bubble Mahena had engulfed herself in.

  ‘How can you tell?’ she asked in return.

  ‘It’s a deep cut. The looks the healers are giving each other confirm it.’

  Observe and learn, the little voice kept whispering.

  ‘Without magic, healers are limited if the wound is serious, or if an organ is damaged.’ Emmerentia touched her own belly, slightly below the belly button. A slow, reassuring gesture. ‘I made it through because of magic. I hope she is stronger than me,’ she said more to herself than to Mahena.

  ‘But you...’ Mahena started, but then silenced herself. Emmerentia was still alive thanks to magic, yet could not bear the thought of it. Would she have rather died? Mahena tucked the question away.

  The minutes it took to reach the captain’s tent passed like winter—uncomfortable, cold, slow. Her imagination did not deceive her, only the glamorised side of it lacked.

  ‘Glamour side to war, what the fuck man’

  Their eyes. The expression on the faces of the camp’s occupants struck true. Despite their physical exhaustion, despite the wounds and the losses and the dread, their eyes shone with pride and determination. There was nothing capable of breaking them down.

  The will of a warrior nation.

  Every one of them.

  Regardless of their age, gender, build, state of pain.

  Something shone inside of her.

  And something else smiled crookedly.

  ‘Wait here,’ the guard ordered before disappearing inside the brown tent before them. It was large enough to stand out from the others, but not big enough to call attention to it.

  What if, what if, what if.

  Mahena swallowed hard, forcing her worries down wi
th the rest of her rampant emotions.

  The front flaps of the tent slowly parted.

  ‘Darios,’ Fàaran said as a bulky figure stepped out of the folds, his eyes illuminating at the sight of the older twin. A soft tone. Would she dare say happy and relieved? ‘Got my little note, did you?’

  The man stepped closer. He squinted, as though he was not sure his eyes were deceiving him, then smiled. ‘Had enough of looking like an angel?’ Darios pointed to Fàaran’s hair. He crossed his arms and pouted. ‘You did always envy my mystery.’

  Mahena blinked. Was his hair not his real colour? She peeked at Emmerentia but the twin was looking at the men.

  Fàaran huffed a soft laugh that slowly grew until his shoulders shook with mirth. The sound of his laugh, warm and full of secrets, filled the space around them. Darios joined him and Mahena was left staring at the scene in utter incomprehension.

  After a minute, the men embraced, clasping each other’s backs.

  Mahena discreetly looked again to her left where Emmerentia stood, her face unsurprised, with an almost visible smile on her lips.

  But if Fàaran’s original hair colour was different, then was Emmerentia’s also? She had seen her disappear several times over the past weeks to wash her hair, but she’d always claimed she wanted to be alone. She pursed her lips slightly, remembering Sheya had claimed the same all those weeks ago.

  B

  Emmerentia barely managed to suppress the smile at the sight of her brother reconnecting with his old life. She fought with all the will left in her shredded soul to rein in the tears at the sound of her brother laughing so purely. It crippled something in her stomach and sent a wave of warmth to where only cold reigned.

  She had heard so many stories about the Flatlander when Fàaran came back from the campaigns—what he and her brother had gone through on the battlefield and how close they were because of it.

  She never really pictured his looks in her mind, but Darios was her brother’s opposite, in every aspect, down to the type of energy radiating from him. Where Fàaran came across as distant and cold, Darios radiated confidence and malice, a twinkle in his brown eyes still sparkling despite the horrors of the past months.