I couldn’t move, disturbed and stunned by how perfect he appeared when placed in such a horrific scenario. Even in that moment when I should have been terrified of him, I wanted to run to him for safety. Even when I knew I should have fled for my life.
If I were to die in this valley.
If that was my fate.
If Darric was going to kill me . . . eventually.
Dying at the hands of such a man would be an incredible way to end.
Would I even know pain? His sword cut flesh without resistance. The blade was sharp. Darric was efficient. Would I die before I began to bleed? Now that I had seen death at his hands, I felt more at peace with it. Would I be eviscerated? Would I suffocate with a severed throat? Would the steel blue of his beautiful eyes be the last thing I’d ever see?
I didn’t realize I wasn’t breathing until Darric wiped his swords off on his cloak. He touched the hilts together, and a white glow fused the two pieces back into one blade. My mind dazzled with questions, but I was too petrified to speak, and the strange, aching need to embrace him troubled me.
I remained hunched on the ground, mouth open, my dress askew and my legs still tangled where I’d landed.
“Aya, are you hurt?” Bromly broke my helpless gaze. Splattered blood sprinkled the threads of his beard, and I stared, mesmerized, into the little red specks. He placed a hand on either side of my face to turn my focus away from the gore. The cold stickiness of his palms turned my stomach. “I think she’s in shock.”
“If she is, you are not helping,” Darric said with imperturbable tranquility as he tapped the bodies with his sword to be sure they were dead.
“Is . . .” My voice squeaked, and I gulped. “Is there blood on your hands?”
Bromly released me to examine his hands. A drip escaped his beard and hit the ground. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“How could you not realize?” I questioned.
Darric tried to hide a smile.
Flint rummaged through the pockets of our dead intruders, tossing his findings into a pile next to the fire: small knives, coins, biscuits. He took their weapons and lined the decrepit blades against the seating logs.
Blood pooled on the cavern floor around the demolished bodies and chopped entrails. I moved my foot to avoid an oozing river, unable to stomach the carnage. The iron smell was adding a headache on top of my growing nausea. This was worse than a decaying prisoner. This was life bleeding out. The men I depended on for protection were murderers.
Worry flickered across Darric’s face as he witnessed my discomfort. “Bromly, go down to the river . . . now.”
Bromly tugged at his bloodied shirt. Without saying a word, he left the cavern. Darric gave a nod to Flint and, sheathing his sword, followed his brother .
Flint held out his hand for me. “Let’s go inside.”
I graciously fed my fingers into his palm, and he helped me onto unsteady feet.
Inside the Hovel, he eased me onto a wooden bench and retrieved a blanket from his room to wrap around my shoulders. The wool smelled strongly of Bromly’s charred potatoes—a stench Flint carried because he loved the hot mush covered in a layer of charcoal crunch. They were disgusting.
I clamped my pale, shaking fingers to the blanket. My teeth chattered, and sweat moistened the curls around my temples. The little feline lay at my ankles, purring against my skin to offer her own piece of comfort.
Flint sat next to me with a bucket of fresh water and a frayed rag. He touched my shoulder and rubbed his thumb into the stiff muscle. My whole body ached from Darric’s protective hold. I could already feel the bruises forming.
“Do ya want somethin’ to drink?” Flint asked. “Ya look really pale.”
I shook my head and closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath. My chest rattled as I let the fear flow out of my lungs.
“It’s over now.” He dipped the rag into the water and wrung it out. “We can relax.”
“I don’t understand.” My voice gargled. The scream I’d let out had reopened old wounds. “What happened out there? Why did you . . .” I couldn’t finish.
“We can’t let anyone know what we’re doin’ up here. Sometimes we’re attacked by other nomadic groups.”
“Does this happen often?” I murmured.
“No.” He clumsily wiped the rag along my jaw, washing away the blood Bromly had absentmindedly smeared on my cheeks. “We’re wanted men. We didn’t want ya to know that. We’ve been tryin’ to ease ya into the truth.”
Wanted. The evidence was all around me. In the eyes of Brisleian law, these men were criminals.
“I don’t want to be here anymore.” I tossed the blanket off my shoulders. “I could handle what you do—the hunting, the pelts, the illegality. But I cannot handle murder. With or without Darric, I’m leaving. I don’t belong here.”
“No!” He snatched my wrist. “You do. Don’t go. Jus’ wait. Give us a chance to explain,” he begged. “It’s not whatcha think.”
I clutched the fabric of my dress and allowed Flint to continue cleaning my face. He grew nervous, and his fingers started to tremble.
“What happens now?” I muttered, watching a small flame come to life over the dying coals.
“Darric an’ Bromly are takin’ care of it. I’ll stay here with ya. They’ll let us know when they’re done.” He looked over my features, making sure he had removed all the blood.
“What are they going to do?”
“Dig a grave. Bury ’em. Get themselves cleaned up.”
An escaped tear traveled down my cheek. Flint raised the rag to wipe it away but missed and stabbed the rough fabric into my eye.
“Ow!” I threw a hand over my face.
“Ssssorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m fine.” Water welled up in my eye. I rubbed my fist into it, trying to soothe the burn, and pushed away from him, but he inched closer.
He faked a smile, displaying every tooth in his mouth, then laughed awkwardly and ran a shy finger along the back of my hand. “I’m really glad you’re here. I mean . . . it’s nice to have someone new to talk to other than Bromly an’ Darric.”
I listened, but nothing registered the way it was supposed to. The last few days had been overwhelming and exhausting. I could no longer process my thoughts. Courage failed me and I broke down, letting the tears flow freely.
“Aya.” He encased me in his arms. “Shh, don’t cry.”
Stupid, naive Divine Princess. Inexperienced. Idiotic runaway.
I buried my face in his shoulder. His sharp, bony frame was such a contrast to Darric’s. I tugged at his shirt and sobbed into the fabric.
“It was hard for me too the first time I killed someone. It’s probably harder to sit by an’ helplessly watch it happen. I shoulda made sure ya were in the Hovel to spare ya the memories.”
I opened my eyes at his words. The crying turned to hiccups. It had been Darric who had run to protect me, while Flint ran for a weapon. Darric who had thrown me towards the Hovel in hopes of omitting the gore, not Flint. Darric, who claimed to want me as dead as the men outside yet acted like a shield of valor every time my life was in danger.
Something was amiss, and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know what plagued Darric Ursygh.
Flint attempted to entertain me by playing his flute. The offbeat music set my teeth on edge, but I tolerated his sweet efforts to make me smile.
Sometime after midnight, the others returned, clean with wet hair and damp clothes. Bromly moved the stew cauldron into the main room and finished cooking, but only Flint ate.
Executions were common in Alamantia City. I had seen death, although I viewed it from afar from the security of my chamber. Never so close. Never smelling the blood or witnessing a man’s insides fall out of his belly. This had been no execution; it was a slaughtering.
My mind couldn’t stop replaying the gore. If Darric had offered to take me to a town, I would have graciously accepted and begged to l
eave before daybreak.
Something was different about my stranger upon his return. He was content, relaxed, satisfied. He sat on the ground, leaning against the sanded bench and whittling a piece of wood, which began to take on the shape of a horse.
As Flint requested, I agreed to give the three an opportunity to explain their actions. I needed to understand the cause of a merciless murder before I ran from my only haven.
Bromly wrung his cap between his fingers, waiting for me to ask the first question.
“I thought this valley was remote. Aren’t we miles away from towns or villages?” I stumbled over my words.
An instant passed when they all looked at each other, expecting another to speak. Flint crossed the room and sat next to me, so close his skinny leg pressed against my thigh.
“It is inevitable that someone will eventually discover the Hovel, either by accident or design. The valley echoes. There is smoke from the fires. The smell of meat and blood.” Darric spoke slow, each word distinct. “The cavern can’t conceal everything. It doesn’t happen often, but when a passerby strays into this valley, we have no choice but to defend our livelihood. Secrecy is everything, and that is the consequence of this line of work.” He paused to slice a curl away from his whittling.
“Your line of work?”
“The King of Brisleia puts restrictions on hunting. It’s illegal for all citizens except his nobles. The law has become so rigid that even getting caught with arrows in a wooded area will get you arrested. Blunts only. You can’t kill a deer with hunting blunts.” It was bizarre to listen to him talk about my family. I pretended to be indifferent. “The complication with that law: it starves people of living necessities.”
“It’s hard enough to provide for a family without ending up in jail,” Bromly interjected.
“Those of low birth have no means of keeping themselves warm, let alone fed,” Darric continued. “Materials such as pelts and dried meat have become priceless commodities in Brisleia. Our work means clothing and bedding for those outside the circle of wealth—the difference between surviving the winter and freezing to death. I’m tired of witnessing unnecessary suffering.”
I tucked my arms against my belly. I had never heard my father’s laws discussed from an outside perspective. I admit my lessons on Brisleian law were sparse, but it always made sense to protect our land and animals. I never thought of how it would affect the public. How many peasants had died of exposure and famine?
“Darric brought us into these mountains to live this way. Though it risks our lives, we all agreed to the consequences.” Bromly slid his cap back on his head and folded his hands in his lap.
“Not all of us agreed,” Flint muttered for only me to hear.
“Every summer we travel to Burge to sell a year’s worth of stock,” Bromly explained. “It’s the best trade city in the country. Once out of our hands, our wares can easily travel to other places in Brisleia.”
“If anyone found us and made it back to a town, our location would be compromised, and our way of life would be over,” Darric went on. “There are families who depend on us to bring warmth and food just before the winter months. They would lose something precious. Killing intruders is the only way to ensure the cycle continues.”
“We are looking out for the greater good,” Bromly added. “I’ve seen citizens save every coin they can spare to buy our wares. We make it affordable. The people of Brisleia need to come first. Sometimes the King fails to realize that. The Divine tend to be concerned with the land’s survival instead of its people.”
I shook my head, still perplexed. “But you’re killing people.” The cat jumped onto the bench and lay beside me.
“Tonight wasn’t about protecting our location.” Darric sighed, frustrated. “The group that came here tracked you. I’m not the easiest person to follow.”
“That’s an understatement,” Flint remarked.
“But you”—Darric pointed the end of his knife at me for emphasis—“left quite the path to track. I knew it would only be a matter of time.”
“You’re saying this is my fault?” Of course he would blame me for this, since he never wanted me here.
“I’m saying I think you recognized those men, as they were residents of your affable bandit cave—sent to track you, find you, and bring you back to their prison.”
I hung my head in disgrace. So, I was to blame.
Darric returned to his whittling. “I’ve been watching them since they tumbled into the valley days ago. This was no accident. They had an agenda.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Flint blinked, bewildered. “Why would someone be after Aya?”
I looked up to find Darric’s eyes full of apprehension. The old hag had been enthusiastic about discovering me astray in the woods. She had celebrated my capture because, like the Onyx Guard, she had known I was a Dreamer when she saw me.
Darric’s mouth formed a hard line as he stared at me. “I don’t know,” he answered, and his glare intensified, warning me to stay silent.
I held my tongue. “I guess if you were going to kill them, at least they had ill intentions. They were murderers themselves.”
“They have not been the only ones to find us,” said Darric.
“You’ve killed innocent people too?”
“We can’t trust anyone. I’ve had no choice,” he said, taking responsibility as if the decision had been his own.
“We have done what is needed for survival,” Bromly added, pulling a portion of the blame towards himself.
“And what about me? Would you have killed me?” I witlessly asked.
Darric hesitated. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t.” I had not understood the grave danger I had been in by following him to the Hovel until it was displayed before me. I had placed too much trust in him. I’d assumed any rescuer would bring no harm. I was wrong. As I trailed after him, a meek and broken creature, he had decided to spare my life if I survived the poisoning, but he never believed I would live. It was a privilege the Hovel brothers had never granted anyone.
Darric half smiled, baring only a few teeth. “No, I didn’t. Not yet anyway. I don’t always know the reason behind the stupid decisions I make, only that in the moment it was the right thing to do.”
“And not killing me was the right thing to do?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He slid the knife back into his bracer.
“I won’t let him hurt ya,” Flint said with unexpected seriousness.
“So, that’s it then.” I lightly kicked one of the fire logs with the tip of my shoe, causing the coals to crackle. “A noble intent that sometimes requires murder to achieve.”
The three looked at each other.
I took deep breaths, and my unease began to lessen. It would be hypocritical to oppose their lifestyle. The Divine royals committed murders all the time, justifying their actions by calling them executions. Treason, theft, rape, homicide. There were many reasons my father might sign a death warrant, claiming protection for Brisleian society. I was part of that. The Hovel brothers were merely enforcing a law they had created in order to give back to the people neglected by the royals. It was honorable in its own right.
Darric tossed the finished piece of artwork at me. Surprised, I caught it. He nodded, appeased, and retrieved his cloak and haversack from our room. “I’ll be back at dawn.” He slipped the hood over his head and closed the front door behind him.
I examined the wood figurine. To my astonishment, it wasn’t a horse at all but a dragon, intricately carved with dozens of tiny scales, four legs complete with claws, and a magnificent set of delicate wings jutting from its back.
“Psh, another dragon.” Flint plucked the sculpture from my fingers. “Good thing kids have imaginations.”
“Kids? Yours?”
Bromly laughed. “No, not ours. We give toys to the children of our patrons. Kids seem to like the mythological stuff.” He removed the stew cauldron from the fire and plac
ed it under the workbench.
“That’s incredible.” And generous. Darric had carved the elaborate toy in just over an hour. He was either part genius or seriously disturbed . . . or both. “Darric makes all of these?” I snatched the dragon back from Flint and turned it over several times.
“Forks, spoons, bowls, toys—anything we need really.” Bromly plucked a kettle from the bench and filled it with water before placing it in the coals. He dug into his woven baskets and extracted three balls of herbs wrapped in loose linen cloth, which he dropped into the simmering water.
“It’s not that impressive.” Flint took the toy from me and tossed it onto the workbench.
“I assume you make an ample profit in Burge if you are giving away toys,” I observed.
“It’s not about the coin. We do it to bring a smile to underprivileged children,” Bromly explained. “Most of our earnings are spent before we ever leave town.”
“Spent or given to the Pragues.” Flint puckered his lips, making kissing sounds towards his brother.
Bromly took off his cap and slapped Flint across the mouth with it. “What I do with my share is my business.”
“Share? So, you split profits?”
“Yep.” Flint beamed. “Bromly always gives his to Hazel an’ her mother.”
“They need the money more than I do, and it keeps Hazel out of the tavern.” Bromly smoothed his wavy black hair away from his face and shoved his cap back onto his head.
“Bromly don’t want other men touchin’ his girl.” Flint snickered, nudging me with his elbow.
“I wouldn’t blame him for that.” I inched away, but the sleeping feline locked me in place. “So, you have a girl?”
“Hazel Prague,” Flint answered for his brother.
“She lives with her mother in Burge.” Bromly sat on the bench across the fire and detached a spoon from his belt to stir the mixture heating over the coals. It filled the Hovel with a lovely clove-and-mint fragrance. “They run a bakery and rooming house and give us a place to stay when we travel.”
“Are you going to marry her?” I blurted.
Dreams of the Fae: Transcendence Page 15