by J. E. Holmes
She drew back and released him. “No,” she said. “Not at all.”
He rubbed at his throat. “You have a knife,” he said. He stood askew, his shoulder to her. He looked out toward the door, toward the dark window. “What about the sword?”
She gestured to it at her hip.
“I take it you aren’t returning to give it to me?”
“I’d sooner cut you in half,” she said.
“I’m glad to see this is a cordial visit.”
“I didn’t have to put the knife away.”
“But I do appreciate it,” Ancil said.
“How is our father’s chair? Comfortable yet?”
He snapped his head around. “Do you want to try saying that again?”
“How could you, Ancil? I mean it. How could you? I never thought—”
“Shut your mouth, Edi. I mean it. Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife. He was too relaxed about this. She was still in a position to threaten him, but he acted as if he were in command. There was something she was missing, something she hadn’t noticed yet.
“I know why you’re here,” he said. “But I’m not the one you have to threaten.”
She blinked. “What are you saying. Aren’t you . . . ?”
“King? You’d have thought, wouldn’t you?”
With a flick of her wrist she hurled the knife. Nowhere near him, just to get it out of her hand and to get his attention for a moment. He flinched and fell back against the wall as the blade stuck in her bedroom door with a sharp twang. In the next second she drew the bloodsword and had the black blade leveled at her brother’s chest. With a single push, she could run him through and stick him to the wall.
“Speak quickly,” she commanded. “If I suspect you’re lying to me, I’ll make it hurt.”
He swallowed. “Deffren,” he breathed.
“What?” It couldn’t have been Deffren. Ancil was the prodigy, the future king, the one with the mind and the cunning. He was . . . too smart, perhaps. Too cunning. Not yet molded in his father’s image. Deffren wasn’t the eldest. But he was the most brutal, the closest thing there was to another King Maxen.
“Father began all this when the emissary’s son first arrived,” he said.
“When he learned that Ashwin was going to pay him a visit.”
He nodded. “He suspected he would be killed. If he still wanted his war, he needed a successor who could be as ruthless as he was. I didn’t pass his test.”
“Explain.”
“I opposed his plans at every meeting,” he said. “He had three plans—one if he failed and died, one if he talked Ashwin down, and one if succeeded and won the bloodsword. You don’t want to know what the third plan involved.”
“What about Straad, marching to Father to protest the Era of Peace Accord each night?”
“An act.”
“You lied to me.”
“Severely, and I regret it.”
“You’re lying to me now.”
“We all lie to you, Edi. We all lie to everyone.”
She clenched her jaw so hard she worried her teeth might crack. “So you’ve just been feeding my pet and hiding away? Why haven’t you continued to oppose this slaughter? Where did your spine go, brother?”
He turned away.
“I killed Straad,” she said.
He closed his eyes.
“He massacred a village.”
“Edi . . . .”
“Under your banner, wearing the King’s colors.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me why, Ancil. Why are you allowing this? Political alliance, political maneuvering—Lords, you could simply outsmart the crown away from Deffren! You could convince him to give you control of the armies so he could go and lead one of them!”
“It isn’t simple.”
“I think it’s simple enough,” she said.
“It was a terrible mistake for you to come back.”
“I’m going to end this. I won’t leave with anything less.”
“No, that’s right—because you won’t leave at all. Here you are committing the exact mistake that Ashwin did. You brought the bloodsword directly to the person who would most misuse it. How could you do something so idiotic? Why not just run, and hide, and let this war be fought on even ground?”
“Because villages of people are being slaughtered and I don’t call that even ground!”
“You’re being shortsighted.”
“I’ll slap you again. It felt good the first time.” She paused and cocked her head. She’d heard something. “What is that?”
“You’re such a—”
“Shut up.” She turned and looked down at Marv. He was huddled in a ball, growling in the direction of the door, of the window, of the darkness outside. He was shivering, and then all at once he bolted for the bedroom, and she heard him scuttle under her bed. “The dark-rain has started,” she said. He was always so afraid of it, even when he was safe and inside. The tiny hairs all over her body stood on end, as a chill spread over her.
“Leave while you can,” Ancil said.
“I won’t. I didn’t come alone.”
“You’ll all be killed. It was a miracle you escaped the first time. If you hadn’t had help, you wouldn’t have made it.”
“You call that help?” Yes, he had helped her. He’d told her which way to run. But he could have done far more than that. “That’s your problem. That’s always been your problem. Just because you don’t curse at me or punch me or throw me in the river, you think the slightest kindness is such grand generosity. Well it isn’t. It just makes you slightly less terrible.”
“Where will you go? March into the hall and confront him?”
Ediline sheathed the sword and her skin crawled at the lack of sound. It was a relief to have it sheathed again. She slipped to the bedroom door and pulled the knife from it. That went to its sheath as well. “Javras is going to come looking for me if I don’t return quickly. I just came here to check on Marv. Thank you for taking care of him.”
“I do care, Ediline. I care about you, and I am working against Deffren. It’s just . . . difficult. He has a lot more influence than either of us ever gave him credit for, and much more support from the generals than I had expected.”
“Like our father but without any cleverness.” She’d hoped not to fight.
“Instead he’s just brutal,” he said.
She took a breath. “Yes, he is.”
“You won’t be able to defeat him by being clever. You’ll have to be brutal, too.”
“I know.” Now, against Deffren, there was no avoiding a fight.
“I don’t think you have it in you, Edi,” he said.
She set her hand on the door and tried to become like ironwood. “Watch me.”
Ediline stepped through her door and into the absolute silence that buzzed like a swarm of distant flies. Her pounding heartbeat banged out a quick rhythm to the sound of the darkness.
The dark-rain had just begun to fulfill its ominous promise. Black droplets of shadow fell and swirled and twisted in the wind.
She didn’t hear Ancil follow, but she did hear Marv’s distant whimper. It pained her that she had to leave him again. She would stay and comfort him, if she could, but that wasn’t an option for her.
She closed the door and headed toward the ladder. When she stepped out, her arms and legs were splattered with flecks of shadow. They clung and spread, and it almost seemed as if she could see right through herself where they fell. Doing her best to ignore it, knowing it couldn’t hurt her, she forged on through the dark.
The ladder was cold and wet beneath her hand. She gripped it tight, feeling the grain of the wood rub against her palm. One foot on the bottom rung. There she stalled, held by hesitant fear from moving forward. Something here wasn’t right. She’d been gone a while. Javras should have been on his way after her, but there was no sign of him.
She climbed faster.
And looked up just in time to see the boot coming down. She heard the crunch of her nose before she felt the red pain, the shocking blast through her head. There was no sensation of falling, only air driven from her lungs when her back hit the walkway below. She rolled toward its edge.
Bright scars of light burst across her vision. Bitter blood gushed down into her mouth. She rolled and spat and then brought a hand to her nose. At first she flinched away at the pain, but she knew she had to stop the blood-flow if she could. Get it to clot. With a mouthful of her cloak between her teeth, she bit down and screamed, and popped her broken nose into place. And she held.
Her mind, her conscious mind, struggled to gain ground against her pain and panic to breathe. She needed to get up, to defend herself.
The planks bounced and reverberated with the impact of a heavy landing at the base of the ladder. Ediline tilted her head back, scampered away. And she looked up at her father.
Pain flashed through her head.
No, not her father. In the dark, with blood streaming down her face, the resemblance sent a lance of fear straight through her. The massive, powerful body, the thick dark beard, the ruthless glint in his eye. Her father was dead. Yet this was the King. Deffren.
“Somebody’s going to notice that,” he spat. “Ancil was right—you really did crawl back. There was no need to hunt you down after all.”
“Aw, Deffy,” she said. With fear all the way to her fingertips and blood still in her mouth, it was difficult to control her voice. But she did. “I didn’t know you cared about me so much. I am touched.” Blood dribbled out of her mouth.
She kept her breathing as steady as she could even as her lungs fought to get the air back into them. Of Might and Resilience just like his father, Deffren was incredibly dangerous. She could see his eyes on the black hilt and scabbard. Hungry. Good.
“I’ve always hated you,” Deffren said. His voice boomed with power and authority. There was none of the drunken slur, none of the slow thought process of this last year. The warrior—the killer—was back, and his sights were set on Ediline, his eyes dark with murder. “You’ve always been trouble. But now you’re finally proving useful. The Lords have rewarded me for being merciful to you.”
He stalked closer, looming. If he tried to wrestle the sword from her, there was no way she could overpower him. In a flash she realized that if she hoped to survive she would have to kill her brother. The thought slashed through her and cut with icy clarity. She would do it, if it meant survival, if it meant the end of bloodshed. And she would loathe herself for it.
She got to one knee and dropped her free hand to her side. It was a standoff. Who would move first? It wouldn’t be Ediline. She was too hurt, too weak. But she was fast, so Deffren must have thought she might move first, to get the first attack, so he hesitated.
“No soldiers to do your dirty work for you?” she jabbed.
“Not this. I’m going to enjoy this.”
“I’m not weak the way you think I am.” The fact that her vision was hazy and she had to spit out blood didn’t help her, but she did her best to snarl. “I killed Straad.”
“You’re a traitorous whore, taking up with that monster’s son, killing a man you’e known your whole life.”
“And it was so easy,” she said and managed to fake an arrogant laugh. “I only wish it had been you instead, big brother.”
He roared and flew, but Ediline was faster. He aimed another kick at her face, but she pivoted and slipped out of the way. At the same time she pulled the hunting knife and slammed it to the hilt into his thigh.
But Deffren was of Resilience. It hardly slowed him. He twisted and grabbed the whole of the back of her head in one hand. She lost her grip of the knife, let go of her nose, closed her mouth, and reached for the bloodsword.
Deffren slammed his knee into her forehead before she could draw the blade. Everything went black, and her hands went limp. She felt herself fall. She felt a tug at her waist, but no sound that came with it. The bloodsword being drawn. She heard two voices, one deep and powerful, one cunning and wise. Then something hit the side of her head so hard her teeth hurt, her eyes hurt, her neck whipped to the side, she lost any idea of where she was, and she fell away from herself into a dark, dark place.
“There is no time,” boomed a terrible voice through the dark.
“There could have been time,” said a second voice, frantic and dangerous.
“It was the only thing we could do,” said a woman’s voice, strong and poised but thick with emotion and regret. Guilt, perhaps. “You—”
“I’ve done nothing but try to protect the people,” snarled the frantic voice.
“You’ve dipped too far into a well too dark and deep for anyone in Attenia to suffer, granted or not,” said the booming voice.
“And for that we will all die?”
“Yes,” said the voice of another woman, this one level and sharp. “But others will live on.”
“I will not be party to your sacrifice.”
“You can’t—”
“Try to stop me.”
A sound like running water. Shadows and silence not like a wall, but a curtain, that which lay on the other side nearly tangible, almost there. A shape, a silhouette. A voice.
“I hear a voice, sometimes, speaking not to me,” confessed the female voice. “It feels from so long ago, speaking of an entirely different Lanen. Sometimes, I believe almost that she hears me. I fear I will not have enough time to understand.”
— Chapter 27 —
“On the sixth darkened day, demons prowled the streets of Attenia. Only in perfect darkness could they be seen. Only in full silence could they be heard. The Lords gathered their people beneath the Arch, beneath its divine protection. On all sides were they beset upon by demons of shadow and silence. From day and into night, then into day once more, the Lords guarded their people against the evils of the Desolation, and the people grew hopeful that they might survive. Each of their Lords bled a river for them. Each, except for one.”
—The Words of the Lords, ed. iv
The thing that became apparent to Ediline before anything else was pain. After the voices from the dream slipped away and became all but forgotten, she became aware of the pain all through her, and a feeling of something clamped around her neck. It was tight and pressed on her throat. Next, there was a light. After that, a voice broke through fragile silence.
“During this year, over three hundred people across Lanen disappeared during dark-rains,” said a lilting voice. “At least twelve people were apprehended by the Church for claiming to have seen something in the shadows, and that’s just the ones that were reported.”
Ediline blinked. Deep, nauseating pain split her skull from top to bottom and front to back. The walls were close, and dark, and one of them held a door with vertical ironwood bars. She was in a cell, in Sladt’s jail.
She struggled to get air. Her nose and throat could have been clogged by clotted blood.
And Remer, angelic pale in a neat black dress, stood outside her cell in the dim light of a torowood lamp. Ediline’s memories swam as she struggled to remember the girl trailing after her father’s advisor, taunting and nasty and sneaking out into the dark-rain. Remer had her arms crossed and peered close to the bars. Her pale face in the dim light, framed by dark hair.
“You look truly awful,” she said.
Ediline just blinked. Words were too far away right now. She felt dizzy. And every breath she pulled in was thin.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Remer said. “I just have to tell somebody. Besides, you can’t say anything bad to me about it because you’re the ninth—and imprisoned, on top of that. You’ve really made a name for yourself.”
Ediline glared. “Go away,” she tried to say, but it barely came out.
“The King is going to kill you. He’s just thinking about how best to do it.”
The King. Kill her.
Where was it?
It was gone.
“Bleeding bodies of the Lords,” Remer said, “what is wrong with you?”
Ediline inhaled, but nothing went to her lungs. It was as if all the air was drawn out of her. Her vision was blurry. Her hands tingled and her fingertips were numb.
“Help,” she gasped.
It was the oath. The magic of that sword, the magic that bound her to it was trying to kill her. That sword would not leave her until she was dead. Well, it was gone, and there was nothing left to do but die.
“What can I do? You just need to pull yourself together—”
Ediline launched forward and lashed out through the bars. She grabbed Remer by her perfect white neck and slammed her cheek against the ironwood bars. There was hardly any breath for words, but she managed to get out, “Something sharp.”
“Let go of me!” Remer shrieked.
“Something sharp!” Ediline hacked and coughed, and she lost the strength to hold onto Remer. Her head was spinning. Her whole world was whirling, tipped on its side and dumped upside-down.
“Here!”
Ediline looked up through tear-filled eyes. Remer unhooked an earring and knelt down. She reached through the bars and set the piece of jewelry in Ediline’s shaking hand. The clasp had a thin needle point.
She squeezed the stone stud earring and cried out as the needle drove into her palm.
“By my blood,” she gasped, “and by the blood of my ancestors, I will not be held captive by this sword. I break my bond. Release me.”
Air filled her lungs as if it had always been there. She coughed at the urge to draw more in, and she slowly uncurled her cramping, bloody fingers. Somehow that had worked. Maybe some of the sword’s magic had worn off on her, to allow her to hold onto that oath as long as she had. Or maybe it was something else entirely.