by Ronie Kendig
“We have seen no councilmembers nor accelerants,” Tili said. “Councilwoman, what word from the Ematahri? Where is my sister, Kiethiel?”
After a long pause, Kedulcya held his gaze, resolution touched with pity in her eyes. “The Ematahri play host to Sirdar. I and my companions were sent to retrieve our emissaries. Your sister refused to come. You have my sympathies, Steward.”
Tili took a step forward, anger shooting through him. “What do ye mean, refused to come?”
“Thiel had work yet to do. She is in Abiassa’s hands,” Praegur said, and Tili took note of the finality of his tone. This was the one that didn’t speak, wasn’t it? And yet he spoke. To Tili. Said Kiethiel wasn’t done. Something whispered to accept the words. To trust Thiel to her path.
“Hey, can someone call off this . . . thing?” Tokar muttered, drawing their attention.
Draed had skulked closer to the young lieutenant, hackles still up and clear irritation homed on Tokar. Heat wakes rippled over his spine. His fur shook, as if he were trying to shed Tokar’s existence.
“I’m afraid ye’ve made a bad impression,” Tili said.
“Yeah, well, so did he.” Tokar arched away from the catlike creature that prowled closer. And closer. “Blazes, Tili, call him off.”
Tili scoffed. “Ye can’t call off a raqine.”
Now, Draed pressed his nose to Tokar’s breeches. Then dragged his damp snout up the man’s leg and side.
“Tili . . .”
“Just stand very still. Let him inspect ye. He needs to trust ye.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening, I’m pretty sure,” Tokar muttered as the snout rose to his chest, staining his green tunic darker with heated, moist breath.
Draed’s ears flattened as he came nose to nose with Tokar. The beast took several deep breaths.
“Blazing thing looks ready to sear the life out of him,” someone muttered.
Drawing his head back, Draed took in a sudden draught.
Oh no.
And with a lurch, he sneezed.
Tokar fell backward. Landed on his back, his face full of steaming, sticky, milky-gray ooze.
Draed shook his snout, flinging more snot as he turned from the crowd and stalked back to Umoni, who sat watching with squinted eyes, observing the way Draed defended her. Almost amused.
Laughter bubbled around the crowd of Jujak and villagers as Tokar picked himself and his pride off the ground. Wiping his sleeve over his face cleared some of the goo but did nothing to remove the humiliation.
Tili bit back his smile, but their gazes connected and betrayed him.
“You knew what he was going to do!”
“Not until it was too late.”
“I hate those things!” Tokar growled. He accepted a cloth from a villager and worked to clean his face.
“Steward, we must make for Vid.”
Tili glanced at the Councilwoman, then at Negaer, who knew their true purpose. Gwogh had said their mission to find Haegan would be a secret, but he had not imagined it would be kept from the Council. “Begging ye pardon, Madam Kedulcya, but ye were there in the base of Mount Medric when Gwogh sent me after the prince. We”—he glanced to the others—“make for Unelithia as instructed once supplies are gathered and the villagers ready.”
“Then I ride ahead after we reach Caori.”
“I can afford no man to guard—”
The woman turned a steely gaze on him, and suddenly he felt like a boy again. “You mistake me, Steward. I ask neither for your permission nor help.”
• • •
HETAERA
Smoke rose in lazy tendrils from the ruins of Hetaera. The only unscathed structure remaining in the great city, the Spire of Zaelero seemed an odd and ridiculous sight amid the ruin. The sun taunted the depressed city as the smoke spirals wavered, affording a sliver of light to break in and stab the spire’s golden orb, then throw its glare into the eye of the downtrodden. Curling smoke came not from burning buildings, which had been gutted weeks ago, but from the continual pyres upon which the diseased dead were disposed. Included in their number were many Jujak left to defend the city and slaughtered with glee by the madman who’d stolen power.
Drracien Khar’val stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, feet spread shoulder-width apart. Never had he imagined the great Citadel would fall so easily. That the home he’d known for nearly ten years would collapse in defeat.
He sensed the rear approach and hoped—no, willed the intrusion not to happen. But with a swirl of red and burnt-earth smell, Poired joined him. His shape, a mirror of Drracien’s—not just in height, but in the way they stood—made Drracien want to drive a fiery bolt through the Dark One’s heart.
“It has been three weeks since we took the city,” Poired hissed.
“And your very skilled Maereni, the most vicious of your fighters, still haven’t found Gwogh.”
Acidic eyes turned on him. “You sound pleased.”
“Amused,” Drracien corrected. “Gwogh and the Council of Nine will continue to be a problem if you cannot subdue them. If you had allowed me to—”
“Your place is with me.”
“It was not always. You abandoned me.”
In a blaze of Poired’s fury, Drracien flew backward. He braced for the impact—a second too late. Pain exploded across his shoulders. Punched the breath from his lungs. He dropped hard as darkness snatched his vision.
In a wind-torn thought, Drracien lay on a blackened surface, staring up at Poired, who crouched over him, hand on his chest. Eyes blazing red. Face gaunt and hollow—not the old man with short-cropped hair, but an incorporeal conglomeration of black wisps and flayed flesh. Searing agony wormed through his chest at the touch of the man who’d given him birth.
Drracien gripped the tormenting hand in both of his and pushed.
“Get up.” Poired’s command scraped at his ears.
Blinking, he complied with the Dark One’s words, which seemed to have hands that moved Drracien outside his own will. On his feet, he looked around. Found more of the same flayed-flesh beings. “Where—what is this?”
“The Void.” Poired’s hulking form glided across an unseen floor or road.
As he moved farther away, strangulation closed around Drracien’s throat. Only then did he realize the other beings were clawing at him. With terror, he jerked free and scrambled—and yet he didn’t. His moves were muddied. Sluggish.
“Stay close or be lost to eternity.”
Rubbing his throat and arm, he glowered. “Might have said that before they strangled me.”
“You are my heir. They will not harm you.”
“They strangled me!”
Poired stopped sharply. Spun. Glowered. “This is the Void.”
“And is that supposed to mean something—beyond being terrifying?”
“We are not corporeal here.”
Light-headed at the words, he glanced at his own hands, surprised to find them as frayed and flayed as the rest. Surprised to see distortions of color bend around them. If he was not in a body here, then . . . “I don’t need to breathe.”
Poired inclined his head with an arcing brow and started moving again. This time faster. Steps clipped, intent.
“Is there a hurry?”
“We lost her for several weeks—she ran after upending everything I had worked toward for the last decade. The Maereni have located her.”
“Ah. Then they’re good for something.” Drracien knew better than to mock the Maereni. “Wait. Located who?”
“A traitor,” the Dark One spat. “A vile witch who has conspired against me from the start, though I have provided for all her needs. Though we had an arrangement. She has sacrificed her soul on the altar of her arrogance to think she can outrun me.”
“A lover’s quarrel.” Drracien snorted, his stomach roiling. Uh . . . He placed a hand over his abdomen and glanced down. Did he even have a stomach here?
“Do not be so childish. I have no
need for love. It is a wasted effort. We have one goal—to deliver his will to this rotting planet.”
“Why? Why are we doing his work?” He motioned around them. “Look at the power we have!”
Poired spun. At the sudden move, his frayed flesh swirled in vapors around him, forcing Drracien to stop short or tumble into—through?—the Dark One. A gnarled hand reached toward him. “We have no power without him.” Then he smiled. “You are a quick study. I knew you would be. Saw it in your rapid advancement at the Citadel.” Which was far too creepy, to think about the Dark One monitoring his academics. “Soon you will not need me to walk the Void. Your transference is nearly complete.”
“Trans—” Agony ripped at Drracien. His ears popped and he stumbled forward, finding himself corporeal once more. He turned his palm over, surprised at the way the fading . . . faded. The way his flesh solidified and the surroundings took on greater density.
Alarm kicked his gut when he realized they were no longer in the Citadel overlooking the city. They now stood in a hovel. One that reeked of waste and rot. He dared not move, afraid he might trip back into the Void, but he darted a look around. A large fireplace. Table with two chairs, one broken. A moldy lump of bread on a broken plate. Murky water in a tin cup. “Where are we?”
“This home—”
“No.” Drracien again took in the place. “No, where are we? As in, this isn’t the Citadel. I know the Citadel, every alley and nook.”
Amusement glinted as the Dark One smirked, then gave a slight nod. “Caori.”
“Caori?” Shock pushed Drracien back a step. “But that’s a hundred leagues from the Citadel!” He shoved his hair from his face, grappling with the reality that they’d traversed two countries in the span of a few minutes. “Why?”
Morning light caught the gold fibers of Poired’s overcloak, its sleeves and hem and collar embroidered with flames and strange symbols. In fact, every inch of the cloak had been embroidered with black thread. Symbols upon markings and markings upon symbols. That ebony stitching made the red and gold threads stand out even more with his nearly white hair. “You mean,” he said as he opened a tattered book sitting on a table and let the pages flutter closed, “why have I brought you here?”
Drracien gritted his teeth. “Another lesson, then?” It seemed the Dark One felt he must cram lessons Drracien missed from the last twenty years into the fortnight he’d been with him, teaching him, instructing him, making Drracien into his own dark image.
“Isn’t that what all of life is?”
“We learn from mistakes so we do not repeat them.” It had been a mistake to follow Haegan. In doing so, he’d been so intent on keeping eyes on the prince, he’d noticed too late the Maereni sent to retrieve him.
“A noble concept, but flawed.” Poired stilled, stared into the space between them, then gave quick signals to his guards. He’d detected someone’s presence. He had an uncanny ability with that. “Mistakes are made when our loyalties are divided, when our attention is divided.”
Hardness edged into his expression, tightening the knot in Drracien’s gut. Loyalties. Attention. What was Poired afraid would distract Drracien? The way he watched him, the intensity roiling through his eyes told Drracien he should know. He should have anticipated the answer.
“Everything always has a purpose with you,” Drracien said. “So—yes, why am I here?”
Poired smiled. “You’re going to dispatch a traitor to the Void.”
Dispatch. The beings that had clawed at him—were they the dead who’d been dispatched? The thought made his skin crawl. “You mean kill.” But who? His mind rent the moment, recalling the words from the Void. “The woman you mentioned.” But what woman? The Dark One was not known to have dalliances. He himself said love was a wasted effort, especially when busy destroying the world.
When his gaze struck a coat hanging limp on the wall, Drracien recoiled. Nondescript tattered material meant nothing. Revealed nothing. It was the twisted metal that stabbed the lapel. Nausea swirled as ice sped through his veins. He swung his gaze to Poired. “You can’t—”
A scream severed his objection. Thuds and shouts preceded shadowed forms on the other side of the opaque window. The door flung back and four Maereni dragged in a writhing woman—no. They weren’t touching her. And none were wielding. Drracien’s gaze moved to the Dark One. With a nearly lazy effort, he held the woman beneath a band of wielding. He sneered and yanked her forward. Her face smashed against the wood floor.
With a strangled cry, Drracien recognized the woman.
Elara Khar’val. His mother!
Palms sweating, he froze. Please. The word clawed through his mind, his chest, and dug into his heart. Please. But to voice it—utter the plea and she would be boiled out before his very eyes. There would be no chance. No salvation for her. No perfectly spoken words to buy her life. She would die.
Yet if he allowed Poired to murder his mother—“Please.”
“Please!” she cried out, her beseeching wail colliding with Drracien’s and drowning it. Swallowing it.
His heart thudded as he stared at the bent woman and half wondered if Poired had heard his betraying plea. Shame beat him that he worried more for himself than the woman destined to lose her life.
Ash-colored hair, peppered with age and dirt, hung in tangles that shielded her face. Head shaking, she sobbed so deeply it heaved her shoulders.
“Killing her,” Drracien said, his voice a tightly controlled tremor, “does not remove the attachment. She is my mother. That cannot—”
Elara went closer to the warped wood planks, a strangled yelp spiraling up from her.
“Raising you does not mean she was your mother.” Calloused, unfeeling words, meant to temper Drracien’s attachment to the woman weeping on the floor. “I brought you to her as a babe after your mother, a woman I knew before the war, died giving birth.”
Uncertainty slashed Drracien’s resolve. He considered his mother—Elara. She hadn’t given birth to him? Is that why she had never favored him with affection? He snapped his gaze to the Dark One. To the roiling irises. “She raised me. She tended my needs.”
“Did she?” Poired circled her, the hem of his long black cloak—much like the one Drracien now wore—floating above the heat wake matting his mother’s hair to her scalp. “Will you tell me that she gave you clothes? That she paid for scholars and tutors? That you ate the choicest meats?” Hatred flared through the man’s features. That straight nose, so like Drracien’s. The fiery eyes that seemed to change with wielding. The slight yet muscular frame.
Gaze falling on his mother, Drracien hesitated. He hadn’t learned to read until he’d entered the Citadel, then he’d devoured every book in reach—all the ancient, musty texts. Clothes? Most were inches too short or torn, the castoffs of others. That is, until he’d entered training.
Training.
“You.” Disgust slashed him as he lurched toward the Dark One. “You sent Aloing to bring me to the Citadel. He colluded with you?”
“No.” Poired’s jaw clenched then relaxed. “I could no more stand that pompous, self-righteous accelerant than the next incipient. But when one of my Maereni reported you stealing from the baker and butcher, I investigated. I . . . encouraged the High Lord with a hefty donation to the Citadel.”
So it had been him. Drracien had wondered how he’d ended up at the Citadel when he’d so expertly hidden his gifts.
Poired’s leather riding boots shone beneath the embers of his wielding as he rolled his fingers at Elara. “Tell me, witch. What did you do with the coins I sent? You spent them on the dregs and those brats of yours.”
Dolin and Dati. His brother and sister.
“They were your brats, too,” she hissed. “That money was my payment for enduring your stench!”
With a flash, she slid across the room and slammed against the stone hearth. A crack sounded through the room. She screamed as her body crumpled against the wood.
So, his
siblings were his siblings, even if they only shared a father.
“She betrayed me, failed me, and stole my money for years before I learned the truth.” Eyes narrowed, Poired stalked toward him. “She was paid handsomely the years you were in her home, and you had naught to show for it save a severe work ethic, calloused palms,”—he lifted Drracien’s hands—“and a hunger that drove you to crime.”
He remembered the hunger. The desperation to eat. To fill the growl in his gut that seemed like a desecrator clawing out of his belly. Painful. Weakening.
“Does this anger you?”
It did. But what did it matter now? Drracien slid a look in his mother’s—Elara’s direction. There, amid her trembling, he found wild green eyes beneath stringy strands of dirty blonde hair. Her gaze darted from him to Poired.
“Why?” he found himself asking. “Why did you deprive me?”
She shook her head, drawing in her hands as she gathered herself into a sitting position.
“You’ll lie to him as well?” Poired’s words were quiet, amused and yet furious. “When he stands with me. When he knows the truth of what you’ve done?”
“I . . .” She shook her head, looking more like one addicted to the roots than a woman in possession of her faculties. “I wanted—”
“You wanted ?” Drracien found himself towering over her. “I wanted! I was starving and all I wanted was food. Five years old, scurrying with the rats through tunnels to find a scrap.”
More headshaking denials. “It wasn’t—”
“I might understand that you did that to me. I wasn’t your child. But to do that to the twins . . . your own children.” Drracien liked the twins—they were good kids. “To what end? To torture us with starvation?”
“So you wouldn’t end up like him!” she spat.
“Starve us. Demean us.” He noticed the warbling wake from his fingers and didn’t care. “Disgrace us and yourself. All to what? Teach us not to be evil? Is this not evil, what you have done to those who depended on you?”
“N-no.” Shaking fingers stretched toward him. “ P-please. I . . .”
“How many times,” Drracien growled, “did Dolin and Dati beg for food? How many times did I hold Dati while she cried herself to sleep for the hunger that ate at her? How many times did I steal and end up having the constable bring me home?” Breathing grew hard. Warbling tingled his fingers. He focused the heat. “And you would beat me. To teach me, you said.”