by Carol A Park
He stared at her, hand held limp and dripping in mid-air. “Why in the abyss would you want to go back? I thought you were running?”
“I am. After I check on my inn.”
“By inn, you mean your girls.”
She knelt to the water herself. It annoyed her that he was perceptive enough to understand her real reasons. “There’s a reason assassins don’t tangle with the Conclave,” she said. Her girls were under her protection. It was her fault that they were now potentially exposed. She needed to see to it that they remained protected before she moved on—if it wasn’t already too late for that.
She felt his eyes on her. She sensed he was about to speak, but then stopped. And then started again. “About that. Why did you try to kill Ri Gildas?”
She turned away from him. For a little while, she had managed to forget the real reason she was in this mess. But it was still too close to the surface. “My reasons are my own.”
“But I offered to pay you…”
What would he say if she told him? Because your father killed mine for attempting to defend my honor after your brother seduced and impregnated me. “My question is how he survived. Is there some Banebringer magic that brings the dead back to life?”
“No. He must have only been injured. That…crazy woman must have healed him somehow.”
“He was dead.”
“He can’t have been.”
“I am quite adept at telling when someone is dead, I’ll thank you.”
He shook his head. “It’s simply not possible. Not even the most gifted healer could do that.”
“Then perhaps you don’t know everything about your own magic.”
He hesitated. “All right. I’ll grant that, but—”
She scooted as close as she could get to one side of the cave and lay down with her back to him. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, she was exhausted from having so little sleep the night before. Besides. She wasn’t going to suffer through hours of him trying to make more conversation with her. “I’m going to attempt to sleep. You can take first watch again.”
Once again, Vaughn found himself watching the restless form of Sweetblade as she attempted to fall asleep. The more he learned about this woman, the more perplexed—and intrigued—he became.
Everything he had learned of her up until now told him that she was exceedingly practical, and yet, against every wise course of action, she was returning home to be sure her employees had been seen to.
And then, of course, still niggling at him was the question of why she had taken matters into her own hands as it concerned his father.
She had demurred on the question, but the look on her face when she had attacked Gildas had been unmistakable. She utterly despised him, and hatred that deep could only be borne out of some history. She wouldn’t have risked herself otherwise.
It wouldn’t surprise him if, at some point in the past, his father had indeed done something to earn that hatred.
And his latest ‘example’ of this was merely the most poignant—not only because of the innocents he had slaughtered to prove a point, but because he had robbed Vaughn of the only activity that had made him feel normal again. Useful. Whole.
If his father had wanted to torment him for daring to exist, and for taking away not one, but two of his sons, then he had chosen the best possible manner of doing so: by punishing everyone who had helped Vaughn, whether knowingly or not.
Vaughn had since realized that he would be able to turn to no one but himself for help—a lonely, haunted place already, even among his Ichtacan “friends.”
A varied group of people, some of whom were nice enough, and some of whom…well, frankly, weren’t. They agreed on one premise: Banebringers shouldn’t be persecuted, but their abilities studied, for the good of society. Aside from that, anything went. Yaotel was a powerful force of personality keeping the group from fracturing into warring sub-factions, and keeping them to an agreed upon code of conduct. But Vaughn shuddered to think what might happen if Yaotel died.
Aside from the monster it would summon, of course.
He sighed. There was something refreshing about being around Sweetblade. Sometimes he felt like he would never be known for anything more than his status as a target of the heretic gods’ warped sense of humor. Among non-Banebringers, if they knew what he was, he would never be accepted. Among Banebringers, he was accepted because of what he was.
Ivana, on the other hand, knew he was a Banebringer and frankly didn’t seem to care, except in as much as his abilities appeared to intrigue and aid her.
Ivana. That was her name, wasn’t it? She was more than the assassin, more than the innkeeper. Perhaps if he stopped thinking of her as Sweetblade, she would start acting less like her guises and more like whoever she really was.
He watched as Ivana’s breathing became more regular. It was crazy to go back to the city, but if his aid would put even a crease in his father’s forehead, it was worth it.
Chapter Thirteen
Bait
It took Ivana almost an hour to fall into a restless sleep on the hard rock she had as a bed, and, once again, she woke after too little time.
She sat up, feeling disoriented, but after a moment, realized it hadn’t been Vaughn who had woken her. She didn’t even see him—though, with him, that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
Then she heard it. A howl.
A wolf? This close to civilization?
The howl came again, closer, and there was something wrong about it.
“That’s not a wolf,” Ivana whispered, more to herself than to a hypothetical Vaughn who might be around.
Vaughn appeared next to her, eyes focused on some distant point outside. “Damn,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re right.” He picked up his bow.
Great. Just great. Three monsters in less than a week?
“We can’t stay in here,” Vaughn said. “We’ll be cornered.” He set an arrow to the string of his bow and walked to the mouth of the cave, peering out beyond the trickle of water that passed for a waterfall. He turned his head slowly, eyes watching every corner of the forest, as if he could actually see.
She slid her dagger out of its sheath and joined him, hoping that whatever it was, it was small and easily dispatched. Not all bloodbane were angry behemoths, or crazed, clawed birds.
“There,” he whispered.
She turned and looked in the same direction he was facing, but saw nothing.
“Move out into the open,” he said, “and then don’t stop running.” And then he slipped out of the cave and disappeared—literally—into the trees.
“Vaughn?” she hissed. “What—?”
And then two white lidless eyes appeared, staring out of the trees on the other side of the creek, far too high off the ground to be small and easily dispatched.
And Vaughn had abandoned her? The coward!
The eyes came closer, and then the creature itself appeared. It vaguely resembled a wolf, but only because it walked on four legs, had two pointed ears, and a snout. Like the bloodhawk, that was where the similarities stopped. It was two times the size of an average wolf, for one, and fangs sprouted down from the top of its jaw. Instead of fur, its skin was covered in the same thick hide as the monster they had killed in the city and the bloodhawk. Large, vicious looking claws gripped the dirt under its feet.
And its eyes turned in her direction.
A chill ran through her. Don’t stop running. For once, Ivana agreed with him. This was not a beast she could fight with a dagger, even if she weren’t trapped in a cave. She just hoped Vaughn had a plan beyond using her as bait.
Ivana darted through the waterfall and into the trees.
The beast crashed into the woods behind her, giving chase, and a jolt of fear gave her extra speed. Twigs slashed at her face, and then she remembered the second part of Vaughn’s instructions: stay in the open.
That seemed counter-intuitive to her, but she did it a
nyway. She darted for the creek bed, the only truly open spot in the woods, and splashed into the thigh-deep water, hoping it didn’t like water. The wolf-monster splashed in behind her, undeterred. Cursing, she waded toward the opposite shore, but apparently the beast was also a good swimmer.
It lunged at her before she could reach dry land, and a moment later, she felt its fangs dig deep into her thigh.
She screamed and tried to wrest herself free from the creature’s hold. She managed to avoid letting its claws take off her head, but the beast snapped its head back and forth, and then let go, flinging her onto the other side of the bank like a doll.
So this is how it ends, she thought in a pain-hazed blur, watching in slow motion as the creature lunged for her throat.
There was a heavy thud, and it howled and stumbled sideways in the water. And then again. And again. Just like the monster in the square.
Until finally, it lay in the water, thrashing, quivering, and then still.
Ivana sank back, gasping in relief and pain. But her blood darkened the wet dirt around her and trickled into the water in swirling lines as the current carried it away, and she tried to rise, only to be forced back down by the pain.
“Ivana!” she heard distantly. “Ivana!”
She roused herself to look. Vaughn splashed through the water, and a moment later, she felt herself being picked up.
She struggled in his grasp. He would not—
“Relax,” he said. “You’re not going to be able to walk on that.”
She gritted her teeth, the pain of needing him to carry her almost as bad as the agony in her leg.
But exhaustion won out. She relaxed, and in the moment before she fell unconscious, she had the odd sensation that she were five again, being held against her father’s chest.
Ridiculous.
Chapter Fourteen
Revelations
Hush, hush, sweet girl. Go to sleep.
But, Papa…I want to stay up and study with you a little longer.
Hush, it’s late. There’s always tomorrow. Go to sleep.
Ivana woke, cringing against the light. She opened her eyes cautiously, shaking off the dream, and tried to move.
Pain lanced through her thigh and her head swam. She froze, taking a few deep breaths to steady herself.
She stopped trying to move and looked around. She was back in the alcove behind the waterfall, and Vaughn was nowhere to be seen.
She pulled aside the remains of her skirt so she could examine her leg, bracing herself for whatever wound she would find there. But she found that it was wrapped tightly, from just above her knee to the top of her thigh, with what looked like strips from her dress.
She squinted toward the daylight. She pulled herself toward the water and drank deeply. Mist tickled her face and clung to her hair in beaded drops when she had finished.
What time was it? She had no idea what direction she was facing, and so no clue as to what the sun shimmering behind the water meant—other than that it was low enough in the sky to not be the middle of the day.
She heard splashing, and a moment later, Vaughn sidled through the small gap between the waterfall and the edge of the rock. He was damp after his trip through, but grinning. “You’re awake,” he said. “That’s good.” He held several small bundles in his hands and offered one to her. “Hungry?”
Why did he have to be so chipper? It reminded her of Aleena in the mornings. “Where have you been?” she asked, feeling cross.
He jingled the second pouch that hung at his waist. “Spending some of my hard earned setans.” He settled down next to her.
She gave him a critical look. “You walked into a village looking like that?”
He shrugged. “I told them I’d had a run in with a pack of bloodsprites.”
“Does this happen often to you?”
“They like me.” He eyed her. “Most people do.”
She rolled her eyes. “Bloodsprites aren’t people.”
He unwrapped one of the bundles, revealing a few pears. He took a bite of one and then tossed her another. She caught it, and though she wanted to fling it back in his smiling face, her growling stomach forced her to take a bite instead.
They munched in silence for a while, both eating second pears, until her burning need to have questions answered overruled her complete lack of desire to talk to him. She didn’t like not knowing what was going on. “You abandoned me to be eaten by a monster,” she accused him by way of start.
“The worst ones tend to avoid daylight,” he said.
“I meant last night.”
“Ah. Yet if you’ll remember, I advised you to start running, did I not?”
She grunted.
“Everything was completely under control.”
“Nearly having my leg torn off by a gods-cursed wolf does not constitute having things under control in my book,” she said. She moved her leg and winced. It didn’t hurt so bad if she didn’t move it, which was surprising. She should have been in abject agony right now.
“Still hurting?” He didn’t wait for a response. He rose and knelt by her side, and then started unwrapping it. “As I said, aether can be unpredictable. Let me take a look.”
She grimaced as the makeshift bandage pulled at the wound. “Is that really necessary?”
He finished, set the dirty cloths aside, and then opened another package. He held it up to show her the contents: a spool of thick thread, a needle, and a bolt of new cotton cloth. “It is if you want me to stitch this shut, which I would advise.”
She dared to look at her leg and wished she hadn’t. It looked as though…well, she supposed it looked as though it had been gnawed on by a large, monstrous wolf.
Appropriate.
The white of bone showed through in some places. “Ugh.” She looked away. She couldn’t believe she was even conscious. That bindblood aether was impressive.
He raised an eyebrow. “Surely the sight of a little mangled flesh doesn’t upset your stomach.”
She frowned at him. “I’m not fond of the mangled flesh being on my own body.”
Amusement flickered across his face. “Well, you don’t have to look.”
She settled for watching him as he worked. He dunked a clean cloth in water from the falls and began rinsing out the wounds.
She clenched her teeth and put her head back against the wall. “Why,” she said, trying to ignore the pain, “must you be so rough?” Though in truth, his aether had to be helping. Otherwise, she would never be awake for this.
“Are you always this grumpy, or is that just the façade you show the world?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mmmm.”
She flinched as he touched a particularly sore spot. “Sorry,” he said, and his touch was gentler from then on.
She opened her eyes again and found them drawn toward the gruesome sight of her leg and his ministrations.
“You’re lucky the fangs of that particular beast weren’t poisoned.” He produced a jar and a bottle of amber liquid—liquor, no doubt—from one of the other packages. “I’m not sure that these would be enough, otherwise.”
“Are you going to pour that on my leg?” she asked, pointing to the bottle.
“I need to clean it somehow.”
She usually avoided alcohol—even nominally clouded judgment could be deadly in her line of work—but aether or no aether, that was going to hurt like bloodfire. She’d make an exception this time.
She stretched out her hand and motioned to the bottle, and he handed it to her. She uncorked it with her teeth and took a few long swigs, and then gave it back. “I don’t know if a little bit of liquor and salve will be enough either,” she said, taking a guess at what was in the jar. “No offense.”
“Really? That’s a change.” He pulled out a few more slivers of the aether and crushed them. He mixed some of the powder into the salve and then dumped the rest into the liquor. “With this, it should be enough.
The aether will better know what to do with the foci.”
“The aether will know what to do,” she restated in disbelief.
“Yes. If you give it something to focus its abilities on, it performs better, or at least performs more in line with what you want it to do.” He pointed to her wrist—though the splint had been ripped off in her struggle with the bloodbane last night, she found her wrist didn’t hurt anymore. “Like your ‘cast.’”
“I thought you said it wasn’t sentient.”
He chuckled. “It’s not, precisely. Yet…” He shook his head. “Well. I don’t think we know enough yet to come to any conclusive theories.”
“We?” she pressed.
He held up the bottle of liquor. “Ready?”
She was intrigued in spite of herself. Probably partially the liquor. But, in this case, talking helped keep her mind off the pain, so she didn’t mind.
“Who are you?” she asked. And then she stuffed a piece of cloth between her teeth.
Vaughn dribbled the liquor over Ivana’s thigh, trying to get it into every crevice of the wound.
Her entire body tensed. She squeezed her eyes shut, clamping down hard on the cloth with her teeth. Though he could tell she was trying not to cry out, a muffled groan made its way through the cloth anyway.
Vaughn shook the last drops out and sat back on his heels, considering her question. He supposed it didn’t matter now. “My birth-name was Teyrnon, third-son of Ri Gildas of Ferehar—though he wasn’t Ri when I was born, of course. Now I’m Vaughn, demonspawn fugitive son of Ri Gildas of Ferehar.”
He said it calmly enough, but a hint of bitterness tinged his voice. And he was certain she heard it.
But she didn’t comment on it. She spat the cloth out, eyes still closed. “Finally going to admit it?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“Admit what?”
“That Ri Gildas is your father.”
“You knew?”
“I guessed.” She didn’t elaborate. “But he declared you dead.”
“Yes. I’ve always assumed it was because he didn’t want his growing prestige tainted by a demonspawn son.”