Ruby Ruins

by J M D Reid

  When he closed his eyes at night, the pool of her blood spread through his memory. A growing tide of crimson surrounded her head while the length of steel thrust into her skull. He’d get her killed. He’d mess up and lose the only thing keeping him from sinking back into the darkness.

  He didn’t know when it had happened. He told himself he was doing it to protect Dualayn and the others, but he knew that while Dualayn was a good man, it was Avena that he’d come to focus on. He didn’t know when the shift in priorities had occurred. Maybe when she’d coaxed him out of the darkness.

  Some days, he almost felt like he could take off his sable gloves and don a better color. A nice purple, the color of a warrior. Purple represented Qasigh, the Tone of Fatherhood. It was no coincidence that amethyst jewelchines produced shields and bands of restraining energy. They resounded with a father’s love and desire to protect his family, just as healing topazes resounded with the Tone of Motherhood, spreading compassion and care, the tender love of a mother.

  He could be rid of the Black and walk in the light. To do so, he had to keep Avena alive. He couldn’t do that if he led her into danger.

  When he’d turned his back on her, it had ripped out his heart. Pain pulsed through his soul. He never wanted to give her anguish, but he saw no other way. What sort of man protected by hurting the ones he cared for?

  Loved.

  He loved her. He knew it now. And he would never have her. Never be worthy of her. She could do so much better than him.

  As he organized his men for their morning exercises, his gaze slid to Smiles. I could just cut you down. That would protect everyone. Then I could leave.

  He was doing it again. Fleeing. Why was it so easy for him to be a coward?

  Anger flared at his stupidity. He should just go to her. Talk to her. Reason with her.

  She’s too stubborn to back down, he told himself. I never should have taught her to fight. She’s a woman. It’s a man’s duty to bleed in their place. We’re strong so we can protect them. We brave the wilderness and face the black-faced bears, the white leopards, and the winter snows to keep the home and hearth safe.

  He struggled to believe those words as another part of him whispered: She didn’t need your help fighting all those Green-Faced Boys. Trounced them all.

  He focused on the memory of her lying bleeding. The cost of his failure. If he’d taken her to any man but Dualayn, she would be dead.

  The front door opened, the creak echoing across the lawn. His gaze flitted past Jolene pushing Bravine and her wheelchair past a small group of sheep grazing, and landed on Avena stepping out of the manor. Mauve ribbons gathered her hair into two small tails above her ears. He tensed, fearing she meant to join their training again.

  Then he noticed the dark-red dress she wore.

  He relaxed.

  She wasn’t dressed for training. She must have finally accepted that she didn’t belong with Ōbhin. She was better than swinging a sword or a stave. She didn’t need to risk her mind. She’d invented a jewelchine. How many people in the world could claim that? Dualayn had no heir. She was practically his daughter. She would inherit his knowledge, even his fortune.

  She’ll make something bright with this world. It’ll resound with the Seven Harmonious Tones, drowning out Niszeh’s discord.

  He watched her march down the path from the house, descending the gentle slope of the hills. One of the sheep baaed at her passage. It was skinny, shorn a few weeks ago. She marched back straight, her skirt swishing with her passage. The summer sun caressed the softness of her cheeks, her lips. She passed out of sight for a moment behind a rhododendron bush in full bloom. She emerged on the other side, nearer to the main gate.

  Cold fear screeched through the warm melody singing through him. She marched for the gate alone. His feet moved before he could stop himself. He crossed the distance to her in long strides. She whirled at the sound of his approach, her expression hardening. Her chin lifted.

  He didn’t want her to hate him, only to stay away from him and remain in safety where she belonged. However, he could suffer her anger, her loathing, if it meant protecting her. He slowed to a stop before her, his tulwar swaying as it hung from his heavy belt.

  “If you’re going out, you need an escort.”

  She arched her eyebrow. Her hair gathered in the two short tails on either side of her head made her seem younger. Vulnerable. “I’ve ventured into Kash alone before. I’ll be fine.”

  “Kash isn’t the same as it used to be. I’ll send one of my men with you.”

  “Is there a riot?” She glanced to the east. The grove of trees beyond the estate hid the curtain walls of central Kash. “I haven’t heard the bells calling the guard.”

  “Doesn’t mean there won’t be one.”

  She patted her satchel as she said, “I’ll be fine, Ōbhin. I don’t need you to worry over me.”

  Avena took a step forward. He seized her arm, the sable of his gloves contrasting with the red of her dress. She shot a fierce gaze at his hands before her dagger-sharp eyes flicked up to his. She ripped her arm free of his black grip.

  “I’m not yours to command! I go where I will! You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going unarmed.”

  He wanted to seize her by the scruff of the neck, haul her inside, and tie her to her bed, but she was already marching to the gates. She pushed them open enough to slip through them while he stood rooted. He should go with her, but he was trying to drive her away.

  There hasn’t been a riot in a week. Maybe she’ll be fine.

  He hesitated, torn. He wanted to be at her side, a shield against any harm, but the way she’d looked at him ripped at his heart. He glanced at the sun. It was two hours from noon. A warm, bright day.

  Qasigh, let your protective Tone resonate around her, he prayed.

  As he returned to his waiting men, ignoring their questioning looks, worry hummed through him. He felt plucked by it like a lyre tuned too much, his string on the verge of snapping.

  Chapter Nine

  “Doesn’t even think I can walk through Kash alone,” Avena muttered as she marched across the Tendril Bridge into the Breezy Hills Slums.

  Wreathed in anger, she hardly noticed the street urchins and neighborhood youths who flocked around her, crying out her name or calling her fair lady. Without thought, she pulled the purse out of her pocket, scattering the brass glimmers, the smallest denomination of Lothonian coins, to them. The coins could buy them a day’s food. It was the least she could do.

  It did little to satiate her rage.

  “He knows I can fight,” she hissed at herself, barely over her breath.

  The children were laughing and swarming around her, wearing worn shirts and ragged dresses, dirt streaking cheeks. She cast out another spray of glimmers, the brass coins falling like seeds cast from a farmer’s hand.

  From her father’s hand.

  There was another man who didn’t want anything to do with her. Who didn’t think she was good enough. He was a hazy memory now. She hadn’t seen him since she was seven. Thirteen years had muted her memories. She could see Evane like a bright flame, and visualize her mother alternating as a warm sun or a dark void.

  That terrible day played in Avena’s mind as she marched through the slums, leaving behind the empty leather purse and the children to play their games. It had been one of her mother’s dark days. The darkest. Mostly, her mother was a bright and happy woman, but sometimes the Black would creep into her. She would sit listlessly, sometimes not even getting out of bed. Father would ignore Mother, performing extra chores around the farm, working himself to the bone until his knuckles swelled and he collapsed exhausted at night in the chair by the central hearth, stained from working in the field. When Mother brightened, she’d do the work of two women, laughing and playing, full of life and energy.

  That day, Avena and her twin sister had sought to bring flowers to brighten their mother’s dark day. Only something had gone wrong. The
ir mother had been utterly replaced, like a darkling had crept into her skin and wore it like a puppet. She’d wanted to make Avena and Evane clean.

  She’d drowned Evane in whitewash while Avena stood by frozen with fear and disbelief that their mother could do something so awful. Father had saved Avena’s life by killing Mother. Then he’d walked away. She’d never seen him again.

  Avena wasn’t good enough for her father, and now she feared she wasn’t good enough for Ōbhin. She didn’t know how to prove herself if he wouldn’t let her train. Wouldn’t take her on secret missions against those who threatened Dualayn.

  When Ōbhin had asked her to come with him to seize Creg, a rush of euphoric joy had filled her.

  She rubbed at her head, feeling for the wound. She felt whole, mended by the topazes. Not even a scar remained. She kept rubbing the spot and, for a moment, her nerves fuzzed like they had when she’d first awoken. Avena stumbled and struggled to remember what she’d done to cause her injury and lose Ōbhin’s trust in her.

  “You okay?” a man asked her, his voice soft.

  She blinked and realized she was on her knees. She didn’t remember falling. She shook her head and looked up to see one of the city guards. He wore a tabard of green and blue with Lothon’s white stag.

  “You all right, madam?” he asked, gray hair peeking out beneath the leather cap he wore. He helped her stand.

  “Just . . .” A shiver ran through her. She couldn’t remember falling. “I’m recovering from an injury. Thank you for your assistance.”

  He nodded. “My pleasure to help.”

  Then she realized she’d walked the length of Angle Road through the Breezy Hills and Roida Slums to reach Patience Gate. The stone archway, piercing through the thick curtain walls which marked the original bounds of the city, were painted yellow. Traffic flowed in and out, farmers pushing handcarts laden with fresh produce, laborers in rough clothing, skilled craftsmen carrying canvas bags laden with the tools of their craft. A carriage trundled out, the coat of arms Duke Mesayn Thastom painted on the door, the guard sitting beside the driver holding a crossbow.

  She gave the helpful guard a smile as she headed into the city itself. Ostensibly, she was delivering a letter for Dualayn. He’d left it outside of his lab labeled for Refractor Charlis. Avena needed her bosom friend’s advice so had leaped at the chance to deliver the letter.

  How could she show Ōbhin she was useful without driving him away? Fingers’s warning echoed in her mind. She had no idea. How can I show him I’m strong again if he won’t let me near him? It’s an impossible snarl.

  Patience Gate led into the southern half of old Kash. The Ustern bisected the city. She could see the Pillar, the ancient tower from which the kings of Lothon used to reign, thrusting gray over all the buildings. The smaller Rainbow Belfry marked the location of the Temple of the Seven Colours, the seat of Elohm’s temporal power. There, the new high refractor sought to quell the fracturing chaos threatening to send her country into another civil war.

  Or an external one with Roidan.

  The Rainbow Belfry itself was a thing of wonder. An artifact that existed before Kash’s first brick was laid, a tower made up of a spiral of white, red, blue, purple, green, orange, and yellow stones that were all melded together to form a sold whole. Every hour, the tower resonated a loud note that chimed across the city. It could often be heard out in Dualayn’s manor.

  The houses inside the curtain wall were older, often made of stone with their walls painted in white colors and with scrollwork patterns along the trim. The first floors were given over to shops where goods were sold or workshops where common goods, or exquisite ones for those with coin, were produced. The second, third, and sometimes fourth floors housed residences. Some were single-family homes, the shop beneath owned for generations; others were tenements where three or four families dwelled. Public houses lay on every third or fourth block, serving their neighborhoods. In alleys, she spotted the occasional ruffian. Though she was in the more prosperous part of Kash, the gangs had their presence.

  The entire city was divided a hundred different ways. Most gangs were Lothonian, but the Onderian laborers, Roidanese migrants, and Tethyrian vagrants had their own thugs, all warring and battling over a few blocks. Some were allied with the Brotherhood, others the Rangers. It was said the gangs could switch sides at any time as new leaders rose and fell in their vicious, pack-like hierarchy.

  The sooner she and Ōbhin could extract Dualayn from the Brotherhood’s grasp, the better. Maybe his Demochian friend could assist, she wondered as she passed St. Jettay’s Square and the Temple of the Seven Colours. A group of people prayed in the center of the large plaza. Should I suggest it to Dualayn?

  It did disturb her how easily Dualayn agreed to work with the Brotherhood and their patron, the enigmatic White Lady.

  Past the temple, she came to the Grand Course north. The wide boulevard led to the Houses of Parliament. The legislative body of her country, who should be a check against the king’s abusive powers instead of enabling them, lay before her. It was built along the southern bank of the Ustern, rising five floors tall with windows set at regular intervals. The exterior stones were Homphrial marble, characterized by its blue and red veins. The windowsills and frames were gilded gold and stylized to resemble antlers meeting to form a box. As she neared Rower’s Square where the street terminated, the shape of the long building became more and more apparent. It was really three separate structures connected by two narrow wings. Each was one of the three Houses.

  The central one was the House of the Serfs, representing the interests of the common men and women of Lothon. Any who owned land could vote for its members or run for the seat. To the right lay the House of the Peerage; its members were nobles who inherited their seats from their ancient bloodlines. The left held the House of the Clerics, the refractors and priests appointed by the high refractor to represent the church. A law had to pass two of the three houses with a greater majority, though each also held their own area of responsibility.

  Right now, the House of the Peerage and the Serfs were enabling King Anglon to levy new taxes.

  Rower’s Square, a large plaza, lay before Parliament. In the center rested the fountain of Lovineth the Rower, who’d famously rescued members of Parliament from King Loshen Briflon’s wrath three hundred years ago. Lovineth had used his rowboat to ferry them to safety. They’d commissioned a statue of him standing on the prow of a boat surrounded by maidens pouring water into the fountain to keep his vessel afloat with the love and hope of Lothon. Above him billowed the nation’s flag, the white stag on a field of blue and green divided horizontally.

  A crowd milled in the square, men wearing the green and white cloths, some holding signs written with charcoal on scraps of lumber, begging Parliament to give relief to the taxes. Some held oars, a show of support to Parliament against the Crown. Rivermen, they’d call themselves, inspired by the actions of Lovineth. Avena threaded through them without any fear, and not because of the line of city guards at the base of the steps up to Parliament’s entrance. The protesters glanced at her, rough men, some with gaunt eyes and shoulders bowed by unseen forces.

  Pity stirred through her. These were her people. She was a farmer’s daughter. She would never forget her roots. What King Anglon was doing wasn’t right. He should care more for his people than his ambition. She’d heard the rumors buzzing through the house of war with Roidan, their neighbor to the east. Ondere might take advantage of such a conflict to reclaim the Colonies, their land lost to Lothon years ago.

  Another triple war. The last time the three nations who shared the large island had fought, it had led to chaos and suffering.

  But what can I do to stop it? she wondered as she approached the guards. They glanced at her clothing and parted for her without a word.

  She held her skirts as she climbed the steps. Her satchel swung on her hip from her shoulder. It held an earthen gauntlet and binder. If another riot broke
out, she wouldn’t be defenseless. If I fight my way out of chaos, will that prove to Ōbhin I’m not a liability?

  She swept inside the building and spoke with a young man sitting at a desk. He wore a well-tailored jacket of bright blue with silver trimming, his cheeks covered in rouge as was the current fashion among the young nobility. He was some lord’s son serving as a page to Parliament for the prestige.

  He gave her directions to Refractor Charlis’s office.

  Unsurprisingly, it lay in the House of the Cleric’s wing. She strode down the grand hall connecting the three buildings, the floors polished marble with a runner of orange carpet down the center. The Colour of Compassion should remind the lawmakers, a body of mostly men, to remember the suffering of the poor.

  She passed oil paintings of “important” men striking dramatic poses. Some appeared proud in armor, shiny breastplates and pauldrons, sitting gallantly upon destriers, resplendent and martial. Others wore the fashion of their time, some in curious garments that Avena had never seen before: jackets of velvet with puffy sleeves, thick scarves wrapped about necks, voluminous pants that almost resembled skirts divided for riding.

  Refractor Charlis’s office lay on the fourth floor. She felt only lightly winded when she’d finished her climb instead of a dizzy spell, glad her stamina returned to her. Each office had a brass nameplate affixed to the darkly polished doors. She passed several, belonging to other priests and refractors, before she found the one she searched for.

  She opened it onto a smaller office, an antechamber with a desk covered in parchment, its chair pulled back as though its occupant had left it in haste. The walls were painted in rainbow hues, the seven colors forming chevron patterns that spread out from the middle and vanished behind a shelf. It held a complete set of religious tomes upon it.

  “Deffona?” Avena asked as she glanced around the small room. A small coat rack stood by the door. She hung her satchel from it and frowned. There was no place in here for her friend to hide. “Hello?”