Born Of Fire And Darkness (Book 2)

by India Drummond

  He chuckled. “Your scarf.” He reached over and adjusted it, putting it into the position he’d showed her when he first given it to her. “It was on the opposite way when I saw you last.”

  A warm blush crept over her face. “Korbin…”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  She nodded and reached over and took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  This time his smile was genuine. “And I will continue to be.”

  “But there is something I must talk to you about.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “It’s about your mother.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What about her?”

  “We shouldn’t have been drawn to her.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Betram said, too. Do you know why she appeared? I can’t say I’m sorry. It changed things for me. I feel… better, about a lot of things since talking to her.”

  “She didn’t appear, Korbin. You went to her. You sought her.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I must have been thinking about her. I’m sorry if our lost days were my fault. I guess I don’t really know how to be an anchor. If we ever do that again, you’ll have to teach me how to do better.”

  Octavia took a breath. “You aren’t understanding what I’m saying. You sought her.” When Korbin’s only response was a blank stare, she added, “As I was seeking Trinity.”

  “You mean…”

  “You’re a conduit.”

  “That’s not possible. I have never practiced Kilovian ways. I don’t really know anything about the One.”

  Octavia shook her head. “I don’t mean you’re a practitioner. You’re a conduit. Think of it this way: if you had never picked up a paint brush, how would you know if you had talent for arts?”

  “But…”

  “The practice of the One is just that, a practice. One you have a strong talent for. You didn’t know before simply because you never tried.”

  “I’ve been your anchor before, when you sought Rhikar, thinking he was the dark conduit attacking my father. Nothing like this happened then.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps your mind was more focused that day.” She recalled the moment clearly, the way he’d watched over her as she used her training to seek her former mentor.

  “But I’m a Talmoran Dul.”

  “So was Seba.” She’d expected this. He needed to exhaust all the possible objections before he could accept the truth.

  “What does this mean?” Korbin looked pale and shaken.

  The reaction pleased her, in way. It showed that he understood he took the role of a conduit seriously. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, except that we shouldn’t use you as my anchor again until you have learned to control your thoughts and impulses.”

  “So this explains Sen Betram’s attitude.”

  “Yes, he thought you were my student. Thinks, I should say.”

  “Maybe I should be.” Korbin’s gaze settled somewhere far away. “I can think of a lot worse ways to spend my life. A conduit. Of all the things I ever imagined, this was never one. But it sure beats the hell out of the idea of being a senator.”

  A chuckle bubbled up in her throat. Only Korbin would have thought being a community servant was more appealing than ruling the community.

  His expression turned serious. “Does this mean I can help more? With Pang and Braetin?”

  “I don’t really see how. You’re untrained. Talent is not skill, and what we need now more than anything is skill. And luck.”

  Korbin nodded. “All right. I’ll go see if I can find my father and tell him to bring us some blood from Pang’s vessel. It’s time for him to make a choice and show us whose side he’s on.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll gather what I need for the ritual I’ll perform when he gets the sample for us.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Korbin said. “He may well refuse. I’ve learned not to count on him over the years.”

  “I know. But we must try.”

  He came to her and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Without waiting for a response, he left, and Octavia stared after him. In some ways, she was sorry she didn’t love him. He was possibly the best man she’d known in a very long time.

  ∞

  As Korbin went in search of his father, he considered the things he’d learned. He wasn’t as hurt or upset as he thought he would be at Octavia choosing to be with the emperor. Learning that he was a conduit had changed everything, soothing the initial shock. It only made sense that if she was to be his mentor, she couldn’t also be his lover.

  More importantly, she was his friend, and although a selfish part of him regretted her choice, he also felt a calm acceptance. She wasn’t the one for him. His mother had said as much, even though he hadn’t wanted to believe her. Octavia was beautiful and smart and a loyal friend, qualities he wanted in a wife, but he also wanted someone who returned his desire.

  Walking toward the prayer alcove where he’d met his father before and near where his father had his chamber and receiving area in the palace, Korbin pondered what being a conduit might mean. He still found it difficult to accept and even more difficult to picture. Would he learn to gather herbs? Would it be his job to perform Kilovian death rights? Would Kilovians even accept him? Or would he do something different with his talents than Octavia did with hers? As much as he respected Kilovians, he didn’t feel a part of their community. But being a conduit wasn’t an accepted part of Talmoran culture, so would those Talmorans who wanted to consult a conduit even want someone like him? Where would he ever fit in?

  Once again, he found himself of two worlds and part of neither. He’d experienced the same feeling when he was living as a commoner under an assumed name. The moment he was outed as a Dul in disguise, none of his “common” friends trusted him, yet none of the wealthy and powerful in Vol would associate with him either, likely because he’d rejected their world, something they couldn’t understand.

  He stepped into his father’s reception room and found an acolyte of Braetin’s temple within. “Is the Ultim Qardone in the palace today?” Korbin asked her.

  “No, Dul,” the young woman said. “After returning from the prison, he returned to the temple for his meditations.”

  The prison? He must have gone to see Seba. He must still be trying to secure Seba’s release for Braetin. Korbin frowned. Had his father been trying to dupe him and Octavia with his earlier show of support, or was he simply hedging his bets?

  “Very well,” Korbin said. “I’ll seek him there.”

  He turned to go, but before he made it to the door, he found his way blocked by four imperial soldiers.

  “We are looking for Ultim Qardone Graiphen of Vol.” The guard’s tone told Korbin this wasn’t a friendly invitation to meet with the emperor.

  “He’s not here,” Korbin answered for the acolyte. “I’m searching for him, too. If you have a message for him, I can relay it.”

  “Not unless you want to go to the depths with him,” one of them sneered. “He is to be arrested in the name of Jorek Jabrilion Tareq Musalik Khourov the Eighth, emperor of Talmor.”

  Korbin took an involuntary step back. “On what charge?”

  “The murder of Seba Wenriov of Vol, prisoner of the empire.”

  Korbin’s blood felt cold in his veins. “But wasn’t Seba to be executed anyway?”

  “The man was a prisoner of the empire and justice was not the Ultim Qardone’s to dispense. He will answer to the emperor for his crime. Where is he?” the guard demanded of the acolyte.

  “At the temple of our Lady Braetin.” The young woman’s hand shook as she brought it to her lips.

  The guard pointed to two inner doors, then signaled the other guards. “Search for him.” Turning back to Korbin, he said, “He’s not at the temple. If you know where your father is, tell us or face arrest. This order comes from the emperor himself.”

 
Korbin shook his head. “No. I don’t know where he is. I came here looking for him, too.”

  It didn’t make any sense. Why would Graiphen kill Seba, unless he was turning away from Braetin, hoping to weaken her by not letting her have his prize? His hope swelled. Maybe his father was on their side after all.

  But a sense of foreboding settled over Korbin immediately after thinking this. The move had not been part of their plan. If anything, he’d expected his father to go after Zain, not Seba.

  None of this made sense. He needed more than ever to talk to Graiphen, but couldn’t imagine where he’d gone.

  Chapter 25

  That evening, Nassore had taken the punishment, five lashes across the back of his thighs, from Dul Crenta, the imperial family’s master of discipline, stoically, as a man should when being treated as a child. Inwardly, Nassore fumed that his father had ordered such a humiliating chastisement.

  Zain was right. He’d been right from the beginning. Nassore was grateful to him for opening his eyes to the truth of what was really happening in the empire.

  Nassore had thanked Dul Crenta for helping him to see the error of his ways and said he wished to spend some time in silent reflection. The master of discipline seemed pleased and praised Nassore for his attitude and for rightfully submitting to the emperor’s will. “Someday,” Crenta had said, “that will be you on the throne, and you will appreciate the burden of needing the unquestioning submission of even those closest to you.”

  Nassore had sat through the lecture, then when the moment was right, slipped into the garden. His father’s guards stood outside the main doors, but the family gardens were closed. Likely there were more guards at the gates leading to the common gardens, but Nassore would not be going that way.

  Escaping from the palace had been more difficult than Nassore had anticipated. He’d always felt safe within its high, shining walls, protected from the world outside. Never before had he considered that the walls that kept others out might serve well to keep him in. The prince hadn’t dared ask any of his servants for help, even those he believed to be loyal to him. He’d dressed in plain, dark clothing and made his way alone.

  Using a climbing vine, a trellis, a couple of low branches, and some gaps in the ancient stone wall, he was able to climb to the top. No such easy path down the other side existed. Nassore dropped down, wrenching his ankle on landing. He swore under his breath.

  Each step away from the wall sent a shooting pain up his leg and he winced to put any weight on it. But glancing up one last time at the spires of his father’s home, he knew he couldn’t go back now, or a worse fate than five lashes would be waiting for him.

  His legs ached still from the punishment. Dul Crenta was not one to go softly, even on Jorek’s youngest children. Their punishments were scaled to their age, of course, but he had told Nassore often that even their smallest infractions were a matter of the honor of Talmor and thus could not be hidden or overlooked.

  The aching in his legs and the pain in his ankle made Nassore hobble. He had worn a light cloak, too warm for the weather, but it allowed him to cover his head, at least. With his shuffling gait and his face hidden, when he did finally make it through the rocky areas around the palace walls to the streets of Durjin, no one gave him a second look except perhaps to think him a cripple to be shunned and avoided.

  The sense of freedom buoyed him and carried him down the long, painful journey to the temple district. Was anyone looking for him yet? Those last, agonizing steps felt like they took forever. Nassore was convinced that his father’s guards would swoop in and take him back just as he approached the threshold.

  He staggered to the temple entrance and rested against one pillar. The pain nearly kept him from taking that final step, but his determination and will pushed him onward and under the large, arched doorway.

  A priest met him upon entry. “Today’s time of worship will begin in a quarter hour.” Then, as though noticing Nassore’s state, he asked, “Are you all right, my son?”

  Nassore pulled back his hood. “I seek refuge.”

  The priest’s eyes went wide. “Come, your highness,” he said. “You are injured?”

  The prince nodded, squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

  “Lean on me, then.”

  Nassore gratefully agreed and allowed the man to prop him up. “Thank you.”

  “Come. Let us go someplace private.” To a passing acolyte, he said, “Fetch Qardone Vono at once. Tell him to seek Lord Zain and bring him at once.”

  The acolyte scurried away, and the priest took Nassore to a private room just off the grand entrance of the temple. He helped the prince to a seat. “Can I get you anything while we wait, your highness?”

  Nassore shook his head, the pain in his legs worsening as he sat on the punishment stripes he’d received. The pain in his foot lessened once he took the weight off. He grasped the edge of the chair to keep his hands from shaking.

  “Shall I leave you to wait, or do you prefer my presence?”

  “You may go,” Nassore said. “And thank you.” He was not accustomed to offering thanks for the gestures that were simply due to one of his rank and importance, but today, he felt humbled and grateful.

  “You honor me.” The priest bowed before leaving.

  Only moments later, hurried steps approached outside. Zain rushed in, followed by the high priest Vono, who Nassore had met earlier before what should have been the ceremony where he pledged loyalty. He was embarrassed to realize Vono had witnessed his father’s humiliating ploy where guards had taken Nassore away like a common thief.

  Zain came immediately to his side and took Nassore’s hand. “What happened?” When Nassore hesitated, glancing at Vono, Zain dismissed the high priest. “Leave us.”

  With the other man gone, and despite his deep shame at both his own treatment and in his father’s sacrilegious actions, Nassore told him of the meeting with his father, the plans to send him away for “education,” his punishment, and eventual escape.

  Zain frowned. “You have suffered much at the hands of one who fears the truth and the power my mother and I have brought into the world. You are wise to reject his false claims and come to us.” He touched Nassore’s face, and a warm tingle of pleasure followed the trail of his fingers.

  The demi-god looked down. “Your ankle is badly hurt.” He knelt beside Nassore and gently slipped the boot off his right foot and pulled off the stocking that covered his bare foot. Although Nassore had been dressed and undressed by others every day of his life, this action had an intimacy that made him feel safe and loved.

  The swelling in the ankle ballooned. The skin was dark. “I’m amazed you were able to walk so far on this,” Zain said.

  “I was determined to see you.” Nassore had never before felt an attraction for men, but Zain blurred the line between male and female, being both and neither at the same time.

  Zain lifted a hand to touch the injured ankle, and Nassore winced instinctively. “Shhh,” he said, meeting Nassore’s gaze. “I will not hurt you. Ever.”

  Gently, he passed his fingers over the skin, and as he did, the pain began to ease and the swollen and distorted joint receded to a more normal shape. The process tingled but did not hurt, as Zain had promised. Instead, Nassore felt an almost euphoric buzzing that emanated all over his body.

  The joint now felt stiff but uninjured. Zain held the foot in his hand, slowly rotating it, working the stiffness away until he was satisfied the damage was healed. When no trace of the injury remained, he smiled up at Nassore. He helped the prince replace his stocking and boot. “Now. My mother wishes to meet you. Come.” He stood and offered his hand to Nassore.

  The prince took his hand, and to his surprise, even once he’d risen, the demi-god did not release it. Instead, he led him to the door by the end, and together they walked down the temple corridors.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Nassore felt surprised that he didn’t mind. Public displays of affection were not
for those of the upper classes, much less the imperial family, but any who saw them smiled with approval before bowing to the pair.

  Hand in hand, they made their way to the lower level of the temple. “Here,” Zain said at last. “This is my mother’s inner sanctum. She will be pleased with you, I’m certain of it.”

  Nassore flushed with the praise. “I hope so.”

  “How could she not?” Zain squeezed his hand.

  Zain pushed the heavy door back and led Nassore inside. Within the room, toward the back, lay a woman who could be none other than the chosen vessel of Pang. Her glossy hair was a few shades lighter than her son’s black tresses, and it pooled on her shoulders in a beautiful cascade. Her bright blue eyes shone with intelligence and light. She was nearly nude, covered only by a sheer gossamer robe of the palest pink that fanned around her on the cushions on which she reclined.

  She smiled brightly at her son. “Zain, my starling.”

  “Mother.” Letting go of Nassore’s hand, he went and knelt before the goddess’ vessel and kissed her cheek.

  A strange twinge of jealousy filled Nassore’s chest. Pang smiled at him. “You are Prince Nassore.”

  “Yes, Lady Pang.” He bowed formally.

  “You were right,” she said to Zain. “He is beautiful.” She sat up and eyed the prince hungrily.

  “And he’s suffered greatly for us,” Zain said, his tone grave.

  “Has he?” The words came out with a purr. “Tell me.”

  Zain recounted the story exactly as Nassore had relayed it earlier, but now the prince felt almost foolish.

  “It was nothing. My ankle is healed, thanks to Zain.”

  “But you were unjustly punished by your father, and he didn’t even bother to deal the stripes with his own hand, but passed the job off to a servant.” Her tone dripped with disdain. “Injustice stings more than a severe chastisement dealt in the right.”

  Zain tutted his agreement.

  “Show me,” Pang said, leaning forward.

  “My lady?” Nassore asked.