“Don’t fucking touch anything.” Ellia glares at me. Then, she raises an open palm and leaves it hovering over the wood as if touching the tower would cause death. She investigates it prior to pressing her hand on a specific location at the base of the tree. Roots retract with the soft sound of grinding wood as a portal appears to our left.
What? How did she do that?
She tugs on my tunic and insists we enter without delay. “Don’t touch anything,” she reinforces.
I hardly pay any mind to her warning, though. I casually brush my fingers along the wood after walking through the doorway, curious if they’re normal tree roots or if there’s something special about them that allowed her to create a doorway. The entrance starts closing inward just as Ellia enters behind Persia.
I crouch low and run. Persia is right on my heels. The long corridor, maybe twenty paces across, curls in like snakes tightening around their prey. It grows too small to sprint, but the exit is close. I force my legs to keep moving. Long, low strides. With a momentous leap, I lurch forward and find my way through the wall before it devours me. Scrambling on the ground, I look back. Persia’s head pops out of the tunnel, then her front paws reach through and pull her to freedom. Ellia is gone.
Unknowing what to do, I stare at the wall of roots. The black cat sits next to me and joins in with my staring. What now? Did she get eaten by roots? The various shades of brown have a subtle change in color. They grow darker where the portal was until its nearly black. Ellia bursts through the black rot. She’s covered head to toe in the grueling slop. Her arm snaps up, flinging some rot, and firmly points in the direction we’re to head.
Her emotion is concealed behind the black mess on her face, but it can’t be happy. I spring to my feet and start marching. Suddenly, a sharp sting slaps the back of my head. My brow tightens inward. I stop and look at her.
“I said don’t fucking touch anything. I’m tempted to cut off that other hand of yours, but one handicaps you enough. None, and you’d be fucking worthless. I’m not going to be able to fix that now that it’s rotten. Go.” Her hand snaps up again. I flinch, but she only points.
Ellia looks down on me with disappointment. It’s a common occurrence since the day I attempted to drop that evergreen—the day Astor fell from our lives forever. Though…I can’t help but feel ashamed for disappointing her. Why? She’s a villain. She’s as evil as they come. But her strength and expectations push me harder. I want to please her even though she’s my captor. I’ve never had that with Stone or Goose, or even my parents when they were still… alive. Mom. Where have you been? I miss you.
I spin around and trudge forward, gripping my fists into tight balls. Both of them. Until I remember one is missing. My fingers graze over my nub to reassure myself it’s not there. The phantom of my hand lingers.
Being on the Taoiseach’s grounds stirs emotion and wonder regarding the truth behind my parents’ death. Stone has never given me an honest answer. He always dodges the questions as if I would forget I once had parents. Ellia would give me the truth of it. She wouldn’t hold me back from the pain. She would let me take it and suffer the consequences. But I doubt she knows any more than I do. It would be nice to know the truth. Unfortunately, now I’ll probably never see my brother again or hear the real story. It would be impossible for him to find me in the compounds of the Martelli Manor, and I doubt I’ll ever escape these impenetrable walls after seeing Ellia’s narrow escape.
Ellia leads the way through the grounds to Harris Martelli’s mansion. She keeps to the shadows, of course, creeping along the wall, ducking behind bushes and trees so we aren’t seen by any of the patrolling guards. Some would conclude she’s allergic to the sun.
The fortification guarding the estate illustrated grandeur and an ancient impenetrable strength. As we near the Taoiseach’s home, I find it to be even more marvelous in an unusual way. Power, elegance, fear, and fascination are all words that come to mind when staring up at his grand manor.
The home is comprised primarily of lapped ironwood slats. My father, being the Architect of Parliament, knew all about commerce and the power ironwood wields within our society. Ironwood is incredibly heavy and incomparably resilient, causing its value to soar above all other organics. The Taoiseach’s home being wrapped in the prestigious material demonstrates not only the physical dominance of the structure itself but the Taoiseach’s power over the market and the commodities in Azure. It’s typically used for the bones of the structure, not embellishment.
Straight lines, clean cuts, and modern finishes in the waking light claim elegance. It looks as though a scholar with the demand of perfection lives here, and it makes a statement about The Taoiseach’s expectations.
Harris Martelli’s personal touch is what draws out the fear. The home has a sadness about it with limited lighting washing over an exterior dark in color, which presents despair all by itself. But to further enhance that despair, there are gardens of gloom surrounding it. Their malicious auras represent death and toxins. Not to the Dihkai race, however, or the House of Martelli. Mushrooms represent everything that are Dihkai—thriving from decay. The shroom is the insignia of our race. The Hiberneyts have their barren maple. The Lahyf have their raindrop. The Sprhowts have their blazing sun. And we, the Dihkai, get a dreadful mushroom.
I’ve come across other gardens of gloom, but Harris’s is unlike any other. He not only has hundreds if not thousands of mushrooms thriving around the entire complex, but they are all colossal shrooms. There isn’t a mushroom in his garden smaller than I am. Walking through a fungi forest of this magnitude could dampen the spirits of the deceased.
I remain silent and ogle at the fascinating sight until we enter his home through a side door that is not being guarded. It must be another secret entrance because it’s concealed behind a thick, brown creeper climbing up the side of the building. Ellia grabs a vine, and they all disperse, revealing a wooden door.
Once inside the building, Ellia leads me directly to a pair of doors, of which I assume the Taoiseach is on the other side. The entire walk through the manor, Ellia leads without so much as a glance over her shoulder to see if I was following. Either she’s gaining trust or has wild senses beyond her telepathy that allow her to know if I’m in proximity. Based on the skillset she’s demonstrated thus far, I wouldn’t be surprised of the latter.
What’s more interesting is I haven’t seen a single guard since we crossed the fortified barrier around his estate. Not even at the entrance to his chambers. Is he so arrogant?
“Wait here,” Ellia instructs. “An escape is impossible, so don’t bother.”
She raps on the door, and it opens. I don’t see by who. She steps inside to discuss matters with the Taoiseach, I presume.
My stomach is tied in knots, and my palms are damp with sweat. Why am I nervous? Ellia says she will protect me from his touch of death. Maybe I don’t honestly believe she’s capable of it, even with the amount of skills and talent she has. Now that I think on it, the Taoiseach defines what power and fear are. How could she possibly protect me?
I wait in the hall long enough to convince myself to run then to talk myself out of it. Like Ellia said, it’s pointless. And the closer I can get to the Taoiseach, assuming he doesn’t execute me, the better chance I’ll have of paying back the favor of my parents’ deaths.
The door opens. Out steps a young girl, probably a few seasons younger than me, with olive skin and dark features. She dons a servant’s uniform. Without saying anything, she gestures for me to follow her into the room. I acquiesce even though my body tells me to run the opposite way.
There he is. There’s the man who murdered my parents. He’s dark, just as I remember seeing him that night four seasons ago, peering between the baluster. A shade darker than his already dark room, he sits with a fine posture and a menacing stare. The same stare he had that night. He looked up at me from the floor below, and something happened. I can’t remember what, but there was something
about him that shifted my nerves and sent me running. The memory evades me.
The Taoiseach’s hands are interlaced on his desk as his eyes look me up and down. I tremble on the inside, but I refuse to let it show. I refuse to let him witness the effect he has on me. He may be a man of greatness. He may be the ruler of our civilization. But he won’t have any power over me.
Ellia stands silently in one corner of the room. The handmaid escorts me to a chair across from him before she walks to the opposite corner from Ellia. I sit down.
Like the rest of the mansion, this room has dark hardwood flooring, dark wainscoting on the walls, and dark trim throughout. The walls above the paneling have a light-grey tone, which is the only aspect of the room that doesn’t make it feel like an oversized coffin. This guy must really have some dark emotions running through his soul if this is where he chooses to reside.
“Welcome,” he says with a deep, dark voice that matches his dark skin and dark persona perfectly. “I’ve been awaiting you for some time. How long—”
“Four seasons,” I interrupt. I hope that wasn’t a mistake.
“Ah…yes, four seasons I have been searching for you. I don’t know if that is a compliment to you or a blow to my competence. I suspect a trace of both.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything.” I speak out of turn again. I’m digging my own grave where I stand. Might as well, I suppose. I’m already in a coffin.
The Taoiseach looks at me with abhorrence. Then, he looks to Ellia and raises an eyebrow. She remains silent. I don’t dare take my eyes off the Taoiseach to see what she gestures. He soon turns his attention back to me. “I think you are well aware of that by now. If you behave like a child, you are worthless to me, and I will carry out your sentence. Or…” He pauses. “…you can exceed the high recommendations Ellia has bestowed upon you and carry out a more satisfying life.”
“No.” I reply as politely as I know how to a man who murdered my parents.
Again, the disgust on his face is apparent. “No?” His gaze shifts to Ellia then back to me. I can see frustration growing within him. “What do you mean?”
“No, I’m not aware of why you’ve been searching for me.” I reply with complete composure. I’m not sure how. This man is terrifying. “Not entirely. I don’t remember anything from that day. All I know is my brother hates you and you murdered my parents. So, no…I’m not aware of why we were forced into exile.”
“You’re very spirited, aren’t you? Careless. But spirited.” He doesn’t allow me time to respond. “Well, if you truly don’t remember what took place that day, let me start with this. The reason you are not hanging from a noose is because I would like to present you with an opportunity. Now…” There’s a fleeting pause as he stares at me with intense consideration. “…I can give you the truth of what happened four seasons past, but I am already aware from our brief interactions thus far that your immature mind will not accept it.”
“Maybe it’s your arrogance that gets in the way of others accepting the truth.”
That was a mistake. I cower, but not soon enough. The back of his hand lands across my cheek with precision and force, leaving a familiar sting. The pain is searing, but I sit high, trying to hide it.
He rises from his seat and walks around the desk. I quiver as he draws closer. His eyes narrow as he lifts my left arm, looking at my missing hand, I suppose. He looks to Ellia without a word. He simply shakes his head and releases me, then proceeds to sit on the edge of his desk.
“You’re correct. I often feel others are capable of less than they truly are. But you will show respect regardless, or I’ll remove your words.” He looks to the silent servant in the corner of the room.
I get the feeling I’m only allowed one warning from the Taoiseach, so I keep quiet and listen to what he has to say.
“Very well, then, I will enlighten you. Whether you choose to believe it or not is your choice.”
I shift in my chair, eager for his words, but at the same time, I don’t care. I want to punch my fist through his chest and watch him bleed out.
“As you know, your father and I were good friends before the incident.”
I tighten with his casual reference of my parents’ deaths. The incident. He doesn’t care. Why should he? He murdered them.
“As the Architect, he and I worked inextricably for many seasons. I trusted him with invaluable information regarding the races. Information passed down from The First Four. I had high expectations for your father. He was one of the few I ever saw potential in. However, he began distancing himself and took part in clandestine meetings. That’s when the disappearances first started happening. It was slow at first. Nothing to raise caution. But then the pattern became apparent. The only things the missing persons had in common were that they were Dihkai, and they were all acquainted with your father in some way. Whispers spread through the streets, and at first, I didn’t want to believe it, but eventually I came to accept that there isn’t anyone I can trust. Not anymore. The rumors all pointed to your father as the conspirator of mass genocide. He used the information I entrusted to him against the realm. He let his decisions be guided by impulses manifested from fear.”
The Taoiseach pauses for a breath. I remain quiet and attentive, not believing a word he’s saying.
“The public became aware of his malicious intent, which, in turn, found its way to his children. And, out of love, I presume, Stone took it upon himself to flee with his Dihkaian sister and burn his manor down with his parents asleep inside. That is the public’s viewpoint of the matter. To prove otherwise is a daunting task that will only involve revealing a history that cannot be unveiled. My hands are tied for the greater good of the realm, Jaymes. It had to be that way. As for who truly murdered your parents, I have my suspicions, but all the evidence suggests otherwise. The realm knows the McLarin children murdered their parents, so, as the Taoiseach, I will oblige their accusations because there is no one else to pin it on. And the vast majority of human civilization is uncaring and hungry for a dramatic turn in their empty lives. They seek an exciting story, that is all. It makes no difference to me who takes the fall as long as the citizens are kept in control. Except—”
The Taoiseach pauses as I take out my anger on the chair, gripping it with intensity to prevent myself from attacking him.
You’re growing up, Jay.
Mother? Now? Where are you?
Holding your tongue. It’s the wise choice.
What do you know, mother? You left me. You left me alone with Stone. And now I am alone facing your murderer. What do you know about me growing older? Nothing! Go away! I must ignore her, or they’ll think me insane. Maybe I am insane.
The Taoiseach quietly ponders me. He reaches for his tumbler and empties it down his throat but spits it out when the chair beneath me collapses. I hit the ground with a jarring pain up my spine thanks to his damned hard chairs. He’s the Taoiseach. He ought to be able to afford cushions, let alone a sturdy chair. When I move to rub my behind, I realize why it collapsed. The chair is all but disintegrated into a soft, black mess.
The Taoiseach stares at me for a moment longer before taking a seat behind his desk. He continues as if I didn’t just fall on my ass. “Except you have something special about you, Jaymes. I am willing to keep you around until I fully grasp what that potential is. And whether or not it can be controlled. To be completely direct, my initial intention was to preemptively execute you and your brother. At the time, I was uncertain what information your father had shared with you. And I had to prevent that information from spreading, which is why you were deemed a fugitive. But…I now see your father was an honorable man. And his children are merely ignorant bystanders. But the people still believe you to be fugitives. And Parliament believes you to be fugitives, so I must treat you as such. The alternative to execution is befriending the once-enemy and raising her as my own. Not because I feel it necessary to absolve my actions for what happened to your parents or to fill a paren
ting void of a child I orphaned—my damaged heart does not allow me compassion—but because I see your greatness and where it can take us. You have potential, Jaymes, and I would like to invite you into my own home as a…guest.” His final word is soft. Almost inviting.
“What?” I speak delicately, attempting to take in what he’s saying to me. His words are too genuine—not rehearsed in any way for it to be a lie. He murdered my parents, though. I know he was there. But he’s claiming somebody else did it. Does he really expect me to comply? The trembling I felt at the door grows within me. I rise to my feet. I want to hurdle the desk and kick him in the face. “You murdered my parents!” I can’t hold back my anger. My volume rises. “I may not remember everything that happened that day, but I remember your face! I can’t forget that and let you come into my life as a…as a mentor? Or a father! Or whatever it is you want to be!”
My arms quake. I can’t hide it any longer. My head feels warm, and my emotions flare like…like…like I could put my fist right through his head. I have absolute hatred for him. I slam my fist down on the desk only because my reach will not allow me to hit him. To my amazement, it doesn’t stop. It goes right through it. Not due to strength. It wasn’t accompanied by the sound of cracking and wooden projectiles. It went through the desk, leaving an odd cutout with blackened edges. I look at my hand, stretching and curling my fingers to see if they’re damaged.
The Taoiseach’s brow lowers, and his lips tighten. He fills his glass with the decanter of amber and consumes a generous sip. He’s ungrateful.
“So destructive and uncontrolled. Your potential is undeniable.” He pauses. He looks to Ellia. Again, she gestures something to him, and he looks me in the eyes. It’s a long moment.
He sets down his tumbler and saunters around the desk. He seizes my left arm again. I flinch, but he steals it anyways and raises it closer to his face. He rubs his palm over it, and an agonizing pain creeps through my arm. Then, an odd tingling feeling pulses through it. I can feel my phantom hand again. And my fingers. And I was just starting to get used to not having it. I look down, and there it is. A hand. It’s not a phantom pain. My hand is back!
Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Page 30