Destiny's Blood (The First Star Book 1)

by Marie Bilodeau

  On the horizon, the moon was now black, a red outline around it. The setting moon and rising sun were forming an eclipse, and the light that broke through was scorching the hills in the distance. Whatever life remained burned at the simple touch of the sun’s rays.

  The sun was rising.

  And there was nowhere left to hide.

  The creatures came in waves, like slime oozing between the buildings of the capital, which meant the Malavants had failed and probably already fallen. Zortan pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on his enemy.

  Black lightning sizzled from Groosh’s fingers and crackled on Zortan’s sword, so powerful that it nicked the blade. Zortan could feel his strength chip away with each new attack, through the deep link he shared with his sword after years of wielding its powers.

  “I thought it was you,” Dunkat said, taking a step forward. Zortan placed his right foot back and held his sword before him, forcing his breath to remain steady and not betray his fatigue. “My parents died because of what you did. Because you took the heirs. You didn’t stick around to see the consequences, but trust me, it was quite a show.” He smiled, his teeth blackened with tar, the darkness in his eyes absorbing the dawn.

  Zortan didn’t bother replying. The man was insane, and there could be no negotiating. This battle would see one of them dead.

  “It was your duty to obey your queen,” Dunkat continued. “A duty that saw to the death of your queen and her kingdom.” As Dunkat mentioned duty, Dunkat seemed to falter, and Zortan sped forward. The man wasn’t fast enough to get out of his blade’s way, and the sword neatly severed Dunkat’s left arm at the shoulder.

  Dunkat looked down at the fallen limb. From his shoulder, only a black substance dripped where he should have gushed red. “I understand duty,” Dunkat said, looking back at Zortan. Beside him, the black waves of creatures stopped.

  Zortan’s arms throbbed. His sword was weakened from having absorbed so much tainted ether, and he was unable to recharge it without the sun that would see him dead.

  Dunkat smiled again. Zortan held up his sword, and for the first time in his long years of faithful service knew it to be insufficient.

  The black lightning came slowly, teasing him before engulfing him. Zortan felt his hold on his sword slacken. He was not surprised to meet death while protecting his queens and nieces.

  He felt his flesh burn with the dark magic, and then he felt the fire soothed by the touch of his wife’s loving embrace.

  Yoma entered the great temple, grunting under Layela’s weight. She scanned the area quickly. The temple itself was one giant room, with water trickling through the wall and surrounding a central altar. It had no roof — probably to let the sunlight in, she guessed.

  Yoma walked toward the altar. She had seen it often enough in her vision to know that she needed to shed some blood there. She dragged her sister across the small stone bridge, the waters grey and still despite the constant feed. Long-dead trees surrounded the altar; some were incinerated, others were just petrified from lack of sun.

  Yoma sat Layela near one of the trees and propped her up to check her wound. Blood was still trickling from it, and she could only guess at how bad the internal bleeding was.

  “Hang on, Layela,” Yoma whispered close to her sister’s ear, hesitating a moment before standing. The ether battle still raged outside, but it was the trail of blood leading to Layela that made Yoma’s heart lurch. “I won’t let you die,” she said strongly, walking towards the altar. If she shed some blood, she would gain the full powers of Mirial. Then she should be able to heal even her sister’s horrible wounds. If the powers of the First Star couldn’t save Layela, then no one could, and Yoma refused to accept that.

  She pulled a knife free from her boot and closed her fist around it, pressing down hard and without hesitation. She bit back a cry of pain and forced the blade deeper, until a trickle of warm blood fell from her hand into the altar. The stone absorbed some, while the rest formed a puddle in the middle.

  She looked at the reflection in the blood. It turned clear, but nothing else happened. “What am I supposed to do?” she demanded, dropping the knife with a clang. “What do you want from me?”

  It struck her like a blow. Layela’s blood. Since the ether had been split between the two of them, Mirial also needed Layela’s blood to feed her. Yoma glanced back at her sister.

  She needed something to carry the blood in. She couldn’t make Layela bleed anymore, but there was enough on her. She picked up her blade and ran back to her sister.

  “I’ve got it Layl,” Yoma exclaimed. She leaned in close to cut off a piece of her bloodied shirt when she noticed her sister’s stillness.

  Alarmed, she looked up. Layela’s face was no longer drawn, her features now peaceful.

  “Oh no,” Yoma sobbed, feeling for a pulse she knew was no longer there, checking for breath that no longer existed. “Oh no, Layl. Please hang on! Please!!”

  She looked at the knife still buried in her sister’s chest and, in one swift motion, feeling as though the blow had been hers to bear, Yoma pulled it free. The blood lazily trickled out, no longer marching to the beat of a heart.

  “Hang on!” she ordered. She ran back to the altar and threw the bloodied knife in. Again, the blood turned clear like water.

  “Please!” Yoma screamed at the water. “Please save my sister!”

  “Nothing can save you now.”

  Yoma looked up, her tears dripping into the useless water. Dunkat stood in the entryway, wounded but, aside from a missing arm, whole. He tossed Zortan’s bloodied sword to the ground with a clang that made Yoma jump.

  Two voices seemed to speak from Dunkat’s tarry mouth. “How sad to fight so hard, only to fail.”

  Yoma felt her anger boiling deep. She looked down at the water and saw that one of her eyes now shone the deepest blue of night.

  “I won’t let you die,” Yoma spoke softly, looking at her deep blue eye. She grabbed the ceremonial dagger from the altar, still covered with her sister’s blood, and cut deeply into her hand, mixing her fresh blood with Layela’s.

  This time, the blood did not turn clear.

  43

  Yoma gasped as Mirial called to her, tingling her blood with ether and anticipation. She could feel Mirial embrace her, and she welcomed the First Star as it soothed her pain and asked that Yoma help soothe hers.

  “No!” Dunkat screamed. He threw a wall of dark ether into Yoma, shattering the altar. Pieces of stone cut into Yoma’s skin as she tumbled to the ground. “You will not revive ether!”

  Yoma stood, but she did not feel the anger she had expected. She felt calm, and she looked at Dunkat as though he was but a little boy—a frightened little boy who had lost his parents when he was barely thirty; a boy who had witnessed their deaths in the ether storm that had vanquished Mirial’s capital when her queen had died.

  And in him, a soul that did not belong, bent on vengeance for the death of the woman he had loved. Yoma smiled.

  “She did not die,” she said. “Your wife, Minister, simply returned to Mirial.”

  Dunkat’s features twisted in anger and pain, and Yoma guided the mists into him, as she had witnessed Layela do to Avienne’s ankle. She knocked the soul of the father out of the son’s body. The wraith hovered for a few seconds, its face twisted by years of rage and pain, before disintegrating into nothing, his soul finally purified and released.

  Dunkat fell to his knees, his father’s powers no longer holding him together. The wounds Zortan had inflicted finally began to take their toll. Blood poured from his shoulder and he gurgled, his eyes staring wide at Yoma.

  “You were right, Dunkat. It will end soon.”

  Dunkat spat blood and fell forward onto his face, no longer moving. She stared at him for a long moment, before a bright flash at the corner of her vision caught her attention. Zortan’s bloodied blade gleamed with the first rays of the sun. Yoma closed her eyes and reached out, lowering the p
urple shields around the solar system and gently letting the sun shed its extra layer of ether. The light passed over the planet but obeyed Yoma’s will and did not crumble it. She smiled as she felt the ether races rejoice — even Josmere’s young, already firmly seeded into the ground.

  Yoma’s peace faltered as she looked at Layela. She walked to her body and clutched the cold skin, kissing her forehead and softly calling to her, even though she knew her voice could no longer be heard.

  She held Layela’s limp hand, uncertain what to do. She remembered feeling this lost only one other time. When she had crossed the threshold and killed to save her sister. When Yoma had given up all hope of ever being anything more than a derelict. Unlike her sister, who wanted to be more. Who could have been more.

  “Layela,” her voice cracked on the familiar syllables, her tears flowing freely and falling on her sister’s pale skin.

  Layela! Her heart and mind screamed the word over and over again, unable to shed the pain of having failed to save her. Her tears became sobs as memories assaulted her, the cold skin an insult to her sister’s liveliness.

  “Why didn’t you take me instead? You just needed one! Why wasn’t it me?” she screamed. She felt Mirial dancing all around her, in her hair, brushing her brow, filling her heart. She closed her eyes, quieted her sobs and made a final prayer.

  Lady Mirial, please make it so that my sister will be the one to walk out of this temple.

  Yoma smiled as the warmth welcomed her home.

  Mirial breathed life into her as easily as the blade had taken it away, with breath as warm and soothing as the mists of her ether. She hovered for a moment before leaving Mirial’s heart, understanding so much more in death than she ever could have in life.

  Even her deepest aches were soothed. She saw life, thousands of lives, which continued beyond death and flowed with the ether of Mirial. The millions of deaths she had been made to live at the hands of the Kilita extended beyond the lives she had seen end and became a beacon of hope. She heard Josmere and Yoma laughing, and the fear and sorrow that had clutched her heart vanished into memory.

  Her eyes opened and she embraced the pain of her body, healed but scarred. She pushed herself up. Sunlight warmed her cold skin and the trees were crowned with leaves. Mist flew around her, and as she looked up the waters of Mirial began tumbling into the temple once again, arching down in a waterfall and branching into two streams. The waters bubbled as they parted to surround her and flow past on both sides, as though breaking and bowing to her.

  In the reflection of the pure silvery water, Layela saw herself: dishevelled, dry blood clinging to the side of her lips and chest. But it was her eyes that held her attention. One of night blue, the other of day green. She saw herself in one, Yoma in the other. Night and day had been reunited once again to serve Mirial.

  She blinked and was surprised to see tears gathering over the green.

  The Victory jostled not far from orbit. Gobran felt tears sting his tired eyes as he looked upon the stars surrounding Mirial, her shields finally lowered.

  “Turn her around.” He spoke in hushed tones, not wanting to break the spell. The sun of Mirial greeted them, as beautiful and bright as he remembered it. He exhaled and shed years of worry — his home planet was still there, barely minutes away.

  The twins had succeeded.

  “Take us home,” he whispered and the crew broke out in cheers. Gobran’s daughter hugged him fiercely, her tears wetting his shoulder.

  “Sir,” Gant interrupted. “A ship is approaching Mirial.”

  The crew grew silent and tension became thick.

  “Show her to me.” The ship came into view, a battered old thing devoid of life, one engine completely missing. Still, she was a sight to behold. Slowly, she was dragged into the atmosphere of the planet, her broken armour burning up.

  Gobran began to sing. His daughter was the only one to raise her voice to join him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care that tears ran unchecked down his cheeks and that his voice cracked.

  Some traditions had to be respected, and he had to welcome the sailors home.

  The Destiny had faithfully borne her crew to rest on Mirial.

  The world was washed with light so bright Avienne covered her head, despite the creatures clawing at her. She felt warmth and reached out to grab hold of Ardin’s arm so as not to lose him. Then the light vanished and she opened her eyes. The ramparts were empty of creatures. Below, only the dead and a few living remained.

  She could see Loran on the other side, unconscious and bleeding. Her right leg was gone. Three Mirialers surrounded her and Avienne looked away, towards her brother. His face was covered in nicks, his right arm bled freely and one eye was badly swollen.

  He was looking up, and she followed his gaze. The sky was a perfect blue and the sun shone in the east, its rays soothing her cold skin.

  “Layela,” Ardin whispered and turned to his sister.

  She smiled. “Go. I think I can handle things here.” He hugged her quickly and was gone with a speed that defied his wounds. Around him, a cheer rose from the Mirialers, as they, too, came to understand the meaning of the sun on the horizon.

  Mirial was saved, and day could rule once again.

  Avienne smiled and joined in the cheer, then turned and started to collect the twenty-four expensive ether knives she intended to sell. She would look into buying a home. A real home. For herself, near wherever her love-struck brother would go. But first, she would definitely be spending some of the profits on soap and new clothing.

  Blood and bones, she didn’t think she could smell much worse.

  Twenty years. It had been almost twenty years.

  Twenty years since Mirial and her weakening shields were discovered by Solari, two days before the heir was to be born. Most remembered the after-effect of that birth — the exile, the pain, the loss of their home — but Dunkat remembered the moment: the exact moment he learned of ether.

  The stench of flowers mingled with the smells of people all around him. His father was proudly discussing the spiral architecture of the royal palace, holding his wife’s elbow as though she were his most precious and fragile possession.

  The Mirialers, wary at first of the strangers, were growing to enjoy Minister Groosh’s love of art. It was something they took great pride in, but were rarely able to share with outsiders. Their duty and choice had always been to remain hidden; to protect and hide Mirial from those who would take advantage of her ether.

  He heard bits of conversations, his tired mind playing them over and over again, whispers and shadows from a past only he seemed to remember.

  “Minister Groosh, you must see...”

  “Minister Groosh, the Destiny’s design was meant to...”

  Groosh. That was his name too. He had been thirty, full of ambition. And he’d had a name.

  Silence broke through his memories and he heard his rattling breath. But soon a crying child shattered that sound, too.

  “The heir!” a hopeful voice cried. Dunkat already understood that they needed a girl. A boy-child would be whisked away and given to some other family. Dunkat wondered if it would be the family of the father. The father: a man unknown, un-acclaimed and uninvited to his own child’s birth.

  The thought was forgotten as he glanced around, his own memory growing dim as the taste of blood grew stronger in his mouth. The captain of the Royal Guards headed towards the back, where the birthing room nestled hidden behind layers of rich gold and red curtains. He knew the captain’s face — the man had kept a close eye on the Solarians since their arrival.

  Dunkat took a deep breath. Cooling mist soothed his senses, seconds before his memory exploded with vivid colours.

  “Loretta!” he heard his father scream as a roar smothered them. His mother’s knees seemed to weaken for a moment. Then she turned and he saw that the delicate silk of her dress was melting, bubbling and turning her body black. Her mouth was twisted in a silent scream and her knee
s slowly gave out, her grace as a dancer defying the agony of her body.

  His father’s hair was sizzling, his skin melting as he reached her. He managed to remain standing long enough to catch his wife, holding her crumpling body in his own as they both caught fire.

  The smell of burning flesh and fresh mist mixed past and present, and Dunkat felt his heart break and harden, all at once. Around him more fell, struck by the mysterious ether, but he and a few others remained standing. The ether ripped through them without care or discrimination, downing one and leaving the next unharmed.

  And the screams, the fires, the heat on his flesh as he ran away, away from his burning parents...Dunkat gasped. The metal in his mouth was stronger than before.

  That was the power of ether. He forced his tired eyes to open and, made out the blurred shape of the heir near the waterfall, her back to him.

  He needed to stop the revival of ether. He needed to kill her.

  But he was dying.

  No! I must stop it!

  His father had found ether. His father had found a way to survive, to try to avenge his love, and Dunkat would do the same.

  The wraiths of Mirial. The tainted ether. Ether that could go against the very laws of life, unless purified by Mirial herself. To cling to the dark ether in death would offer him the powers of ether, of the evil he had no choice but to use so that he could destroy it. And unlike his father, Dunkat had never been weak with love of art.

  He took a deep breath, felt the blood rattle in his chest and tasted it on his tongue. He clung to his anger and hatred, clung to the powers he had felt from his father.

  He clung to the darkness until his breath stopped coming and his sight grew dark.

  Silence. Darkness. Nothingness.