The woman gave a derisive snort and turned her entire body to face him. “My father was Ouroke, but he was an ambitionless man. I did not wish to be his scion then, and I do not wish now to be a conjurer’s pet.”
“Hm.” Torrahs inclined his head, raised his brow in a condescending farewell, and turned to leave. She meant to goad him with insults and her own feigned apathy, but he would not indulge her. Apparently, he’d done that for too long.
As soon as he closed the door to her chambers and locked it once more, he allowed his anger to return. Lorraii was determined and foolhardy, yes, but she could not have slain the amarach in the tower without the Sky Metal blade, and the men who had facilitated its presence in Deeprock Spire had erred massively in their judgement. The blame was entirely theirs and fell, he believed, most heavily upon Fortenu.
Without acknowledging the two Brothers who remained in the hall outside Lorraii’s chambers, he stalked down the corridor toward the dining hall. The gluttonous Fortenu preferred to multi-task in his consumption of both food and the knowledge Torrahs had set him to applying in their use of the arcane. Torrahs had rarely seen the man elsewhere during the day, and while he did not doubt Fortenu remained completely unaware of the consequences, he could not abide this glaring weakness in their defenses. It reminded him once more of how utterly naïve the Brotherhood had always been.
He did, of course, find Fortenu at the long wooden table, smothering a slice of thick bread with clotted cream and honey. Judging from the remaining third of a loaf beside him and the nearly empty jar of clotted cream, the man had been through quite a bit of his snack already. As the huge man stuffed half the slice into his mouth, grunting in pleasure like a pig, Torrahs approached him from the other side of the table. He placed his hands gently on the wood and leaned forward.
The fat Brother jumped in surprise, mumbled what Torrahs assumed was a greeting, and ineffectually tried to catch the spray of crumbs and cream spewing from his mouth. He swallowed, choked, and downed the cup of weak ale in front of him. “Torrahs,” he tried again, then sputtered and swiped the mess from the unrolled scroll beside his plate. “I thought you were in the library.”
“I was,” Torrahs replied evenly. “But new information has come to light that needs to be addressed.”
Fortenu’s eyebrows rose, and he wiped his mouth. “Concerning the vessel?”
“Indirectly.” Torrahs eyed the other man, who gazed at him with open anticipation and a hint of eagerness. “There are only two amarach kept within these walls.” Fortenu nodded. “And Nikolai and Vos are still the Brothers bonded to them?”
“Of course.” The man took another drink.
“Collect them,” Torrahs said.
Fortenu waved a hand. “I will, after I finish—”
“Now.” Torrahs kept his voice low, but he’d already roped Fortenu into a mixture of fear and admiration. The man would not falter in his desperation to please him. “This cannot wait.”
Nodding vigorously, Fortenu rose from the table with a grunt, his overlarge belly bulging against the edge of the table and shoving it across the stone floor by an inch. The jar of clotted cream toppled over, but to Torrahs’ satisfaction, the Brother did nothing to right it.
HE BADE THE TWO BROTHERS who had joined them to open the door. Nikolai readjusted the leather belt around his robes while Vos merely stared at Torrahs. They still knew nothing of his intentions, and this was good. Many rash decisions were made under the weight of surprise, and if a shock could not spur them to obey, forcing them to act under duress would be just as effective.
Finally, Vos reached out without breaking Torrahs’ gaze and turned the handle. He gave it a gentle shove, and the ornately carved door swung silently inward. “Please,” Torrahs said, gesturing for his Brothers to lead the way. Vos’ bald pate accentuated the overlarge purse of his lips. What little hair he still possessed remained on his eyebrows, which were such a lifeless, pale blond they seemed nonexistent as well. Torrahs remembered well how comely the man had been in their youth, though decades of lounging with his Brothers about the fortress, amassing their knowledge from old records and sequestering themselves from the Amneas’ dreary cold, had not been kind to him. Even behind his glower, the man seemed brittle. Vos extended an open palm, and Fortenu handed him the oil lamp. Then the bald Brother turned to step over the threshold.
With a nervous grunt, Nikolai followed. Somehow, he had managed to retain his black locks, which he kept cut just above his shoulders. Torrahs couldn’t decide if the man would look any younger if he’d chosen to shave the scraggly patch of black beard, which looked like it belonged instead between his legs and not on his face. But he conceded that the man found a certain pride in being among the last of his Brothers to lose his coloring to the greys and whites of their old age.
Fortenu stepped through the door after Nikolai, and Torrahs thought the man would have to stay behind. The fat Brother huffed halfway through the doorway, his enormous bulk catching in the frame. But he shifted, grunted, and shimmied in a most surprisingly nimble fashion before stumbling through with a remarkable amount of dignity intact. These men had grown in expert ignorance of their physical limitations, Torrahs mused. Even so, they had not yet tried to oppose him.
Fortenu’s massive form nearly blocked all the light from Vos’ lamp, but the flame glowed faintly ahead and above them, dimming steadily. Torrahs took a moment to study the door once more, crafted with such precision in its elements of twisting vines, outstretched hands, and winged forms. He knew its story all too well—within the chaos of the world, there remained a place of balance; sanctuary and refuge would always be provided for those who sought to restore the balance. It seemed particularly poignant now, of all times, though he knew it did not apply to them.
So many years ago, before the Brotherhood had become what it was never meant to be, Zerod himself had uncovered this door within a labrynth of Hyanite ruins in the far north. The man had been thrilled at the time to have acquired such an ancient relic; he’d had it carefully delivered to Deeprock Spire and unloaded his enthusiasm upon anyone who would listen. The door, he’d said, had been crafted to honor the immortals far before the first had betrayed them for a human and they’d banished themselves from the world. The memories brought an ache of longing and regret, for Torrahs and Zerod had been as close as any two men born of the same mother and raised under one roof. He had not known the Brotherhood had installed the piece here, as an everyday item. Swallowing, he stepped through the doorway and followed the weak, rising glow of Vos’ lamp.
The stairwell spiraled upward, echoing with four pairs of footsteps and Fortenu’s labored, huffing breath. Torrahs made sure to fall behind the man just enough that the inner wall of the pillared staircase blocked the ungainly view of the corpulent Brother squeezing his mass between the narrow walls.
Finally, a grey light filled the passageway, and Torrahs joined the others in an unadorned, circular room at the top. The three Brothers stared into the room, and Torrahs eyed them in turn before following their gazes. They did, in fact, keep two amarach up here; he could not say they were locked away, for the doors had been surprisingly unlocked, but they were undoubtedly captives, if not wholly prisoners. The male sat at the far side of the room, his legs crossed and eyes closed. His wings, as red as the rising sun, hung around his bare shoulders like a cloak to protect him from a cold Torrahs knew he did not feel. His mouth moved in silent words, and when Torrahs closed the door behind him, the red-headed immortal opened his eyes and slowly looked up at him.
The female sat upon a stool and consulted a thin, short sheaf of parchment, her long chestnut hair draped over one shoulder. The hem of her simple, undyed dress rose just above her bare ankles, and she too looked up to fix Torrahs with an inquisitive gaze before humming in mock surprise. “New faces,” she said, masking her caution within bland tones.
“There won’t be any more for some time, I’m afraid,” Torrahs said. Her blank lack of reaction amused
him; these beings had been under no immediate threat for decades, but if she’d expected to remain safely imprisoned forever, she would not have employed such effort now to guard her emotions.
After another sweeping gaze around the room, taking in the two outer doors and the bookshelves stocked with many tools but very little books, he turned toward Vos and Nikolai. The men had viewed the exchange with poorly concealed confusion. Vos seemed to suddenly remember the oil lamp in his hand and stooped to set it upon the floor.
“It was clever of you to command them never to leave this room,” Torrahs said. Nikolai puffed out his narrow chest, the gentle shake of his head that briefly set his black tresses to waving no doubt an unconscious show of pride. Vos merely flicked his gaze toward Fortenu standing on the other side of Torrahs, clearly unsure as to the purpose of this particular visit. “But that does not redeem your other choices. It was far more reckless to employ amarach in the creation of such weapons.” Without waiting for a response, Torrahs stepped right toward the tower’s south wall and the shelf of supplies therein. He appreciated the moment’s tension; it would give him far more of an advantage.
“Reckless?” Nikolai repeated. His voice was deep and broad, unsettling to hear from such a thin man who took such pleasure in his own physical appearance. “Only a weapon of Sky Metal can kill an immortal.”
Torrahs reached out to trail a finger down the flat of the cold, shimmering blade closest to him on the shelf. Two others sat beside it, their design similar yet distinct from one another, plain in a glorious, deadly sort of way. He noted the space between the one he touched and the others; Lorraii had not lied to him. “Of course,” he replied, then turned around swiftly to stare at the black-haired Brother. “Sky Metal is fatal to the amarach, but it does not discriminate the flesh of its victims.” Torrahs did not miss the dawning dread Nikolai shared with Vos.
“What are you saying?” Fortenu asked, seizing a purpose for his presence beyond mere observation.
Torrahs raised his brows at the man, then turned toward the female amarach, who had not moved from her stool. Though he met her gaze with a thin smile, he spoke to his Brothers. “The amarach only enter our realm when they have a reason to do so. When they are sent. Excluding, of course, those who have been bonded and must remain with their humans.” The brown-haired amarach’s eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly, and he knew he’d struck a chord within her pride. “They haven’t lived among us for centuries, nor have they gathered the Sky Metal used to arm themselves. You—” he turned toward Nikolai and Vos “—have provided the entire celestial realm with a renewed source of weaponry.”
“That’s impossible,” Nikolai said.
“They’ve been bonded to us for decades,” Vos added, his voice even and calm despite his wide eyes. “The weapons are for us. These creatures cannot return to their plane.”
Torrahs forced a chuckle. “That does not deter their visitors.” He glanced again at the immortal on the stool. “Does it?” The celestial with the fiery mane rose from his seated position, filling the tower with the quivering tension of his presence as though he’d just entered. Torrahs looked at him in mock surprise and bowed his head to the creature in acknowledgement.
“A foolish decision, no doubt,” Fortenu said, frowning at his two Brothers and shaking his head at them in admonition. His multiple chins shuddered against each other.
Torrahs did not know if the man had had any knowledge of the business Nikolai and Vos had set their amarach to conducting, but he found Vos’ surprised blink of confusion entertaining. The bald man had obviously expected Fortenu to support him in the matter. Torrahs eyed each immortal in turn, then gestured toward the center of the room. “Please.” When neither amarach responded to his request, offering only hateful glares beneath furrowed brows, Torrahs turned again toward his Brothers. “I see you’ve taught them nothing of manners.”
Nikolai let out a frustrated breath, and Vos rubbed the top of his smooth, glistening head. “Do it,” he said, nodding toward the female. Only then did she meet his gaze, though she had no choice but to obey. Nikolai took a deep breath beneath the withering stare of the red-headed amarach, but he had only to nod toward the immortal’s companion for the hulking, flame-colored creature to also do what he’d been commanded.
Torrahs smiled. He had not thought to guess which of the celestial beings had been bonded to which Brother, though either option would have amused him. Now he knew, but it no longer mattered. “Release them,” he told the old men in robes.
Vos pulled back with a frown. “No.”
“They know too much,” Nikolai added. “Especially after what you’ve just told us. And they may still be of some use.”
With a congenial sigh, Torrahs nodded. “Indeed.” He had, of course, expected his Brothers to refuse such a demand. Nikolai had been quite correct in his reasoning, and he did not doubt that both men had grown accustomed to the unusual and awe-inducing status of commanding an amarach of their own. But they’d used that advantage so unwisely. Stepping casually behind the winged creatures so he could peer between them toward his Brothers, he said again, “Release them.” Neither man moved, eying him warily. Then Torrahs reached out and placed his hands firmly against the base of each immortal’s neck.
He had never intended to touch an immortal and had never measured the direct consequences of such a decision. Nor did he consider what would happen when the creatures were already bonded. Nothing could have prepared him for it.
Though both amarach stood inches taller than him, they froze at his contact, at once rigid in opposition and bending to him in supple compliance. The female sucked in a hissing breath, the male with the blazing wings growled, and both Brothers stumbled as if they’d been struck. Torrahs felt the creatures’ power beneath his fingertips, buzzing with unbridled energy and at his command. Almost. He felt himself being drawn away from them, as if he’d snagged his robes on a splintered doorframe and could not press on. They were not his, not yet, because the very nature of each amarach’s bonding struggled now between two masters, belonging wholly to neither.
The room shuddered and jerked around Torrahs, making it impossible to focus. A warmth bloomed beneath his hands, where his skin touched theirs, and his jaw ached with the effort to maintain that contact and force back the nauseating rejection of what he attempted. Nikolai let out a low groan, raising a hand to touch his temple though he never quite succeeded.
“Release them,” Torrahs barked through gritted teeth, feeling as if the room were a box, battered by an energetic child who had sealed his feet to the ground and wished to shake him free. Vos moaned something unintelligible, and the warmth beneath Torrahs’ hands became a searing, unbearable heat. “Release them!”
“Haela, I release you,” Vos cried, the red of his face, straining in discomfort and defiance, rising to cover his bald head.
“I...” Nikolai started. “Rofaer, y-you... I—”
“Do it,” Torrahs shouted.
“I release you.”
Instantly, the world stilled once more. All fell silent but for Vos’ low grunt, the thump of Nikolai backing against the tower wall and sliding to the floor, and Torrahs’ harsh, labored breathing. It did not matter now whether or not they witnessed the struggle of his efforts. He had taken the amarach.
With a deep breath, Torrahs straightened to his full height and gently removed his hands from the immortals’ backs. Then he stepped back and moved toward the door and his Brothers. Neither celestial moved but for a twitch of Rofaer’s flame-colored wing when his newly bonded human inadvertently brushed against it. Fortenu gaped at him, eyes wider than seemed possible in such massive folds of his face. Sweat had beaded on Vos’ brow and bare pate, but neither he nor Nikolai looked up to meet Torrahs’ gaze.
“Now,” Torrahs said, blinking slowly before turning to gaze at his amarach. “The most important of your previous agreement remains the same. You will not leave this room.” The immortals stood erect before him, staring
at the far wall and breathing slowly, though he knew they had endured just as much turmoil as the rest of them. “But you will stop forging Sky Metal weaponry,” he added. “And you will no longer receive your brethren here.” Haela finally glanced at him then, her dark eyes narrowing above the smallest hint of a smirk. But he knew the game. “Oh, I know I cannot forbid them from entering. But I can and do command you not to receive them. You will not speak to any visitor, human or amarach. Excluding myself, of course. You will not make hints or provide communication in any other form. You will ignore everyone else until I say otherwise.”
Rofaer’s eye twitched, his hands balled into fists, then Torrahs returned his attention to Haela. The immortal’s smirk had disappeared. Her expression revealed nothing, though when she blinked, glistening tears fell from her lashes to leave a thin trail down her cheeks.
Torrahs nodded. “Until I decide what to do with you, that will be all.” He turned and briefly eyed Vos. “Remove the supplies,” he said, then opened the door and descended without the lantern.
Chapter 14
Kherron’s head ached, and whether it was from the repetitive twitter of birdsong, the sun falling directly on his face, or the fact that he might have suffered another injury, he could not tell. It took a long while for him to manage opening his eyes and even longer to remember that he’d expected to be dead.
He turned his head and rolled onto his side, where his face fell once more into dappled shadow and he could finally see. If he was not dead, surely he must have been dreaming. Lush branches towered over him, their green leaves not yet turned by the season sparkling in the light like gems. A warm breeze brushed the hair back from his forehead and bent the long blades of grass against his skin. He heard the trickle of a stream somewhere nearby, and the thought of water pushed him into sitting.
Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2) Page 16