Darkness Risen (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 4)

by Emanuel, Ako

“Tell me this,” he said, leaning close, his eyes transfixing her. *:Can you sever it?:*

  D’rad’ni blinked. *:My first answer would be no. She is too integrated into this other soul to separate them without killing both. But I am no expert in this area. You need one who is fully trained in the arts of chi’ol’bey. I only have an intermediate level of training in such matters of the mind and soul. I could be wrong, though I think not.:*

  Luyon nodded. “Thank you, D’rad’ni. I will need you to take an oath of total silence on this, right now. None may know of this, save the High Queen and whomever she chooses to tell. And I will tell her.”

  D’rad’ni gave her oath, looking relieved that it did not fall to her to tell the High Queen. She took her leave of the First Voice/Prince Consort presumptive and hurried away.

  Luyon continued to walk slowly through the halls rather than av’tun directly into Audola’s lains - only he and the High Heir had that privilege, and only he into all lains, including the bath and sleeping lains. He sifted through the little that D’rad’ni could tell him of the Heir’s condition and how best to break it to Audola.

  He still had not come up with anything original when he reached the High Queen’s laire. She turned and impatience practically radiated from her, though her movements and demeanor were calm. Only he could see her expectancy. He paused, at a loss about how to begin.

  The look on Luyon’s face turned Audola’s heart to ice and her breath to bitter lead. She prepared herself for the worst.

  “How does she fare?” she asked in a whisper, not choked, but then it did not have to be.

  “She fares well physically,” he said, hedging.

  “And otherwise?” Her eyes were wide in a face that felt rigid with fear. He came forward and took her hands. “What is it? What did D’rad’ni say?”

  “She is - Jur’Av’chi’n,” he said.

  Relief bubbled like laughter in Audola’s chest. In fact, she wanted to laugh. Was that all? But Audola had expected that, considering that she had felt her daughter come so close to the hand of the Beloved. But as she continued to stare at him, the laughter died away. There was more to it.

  “Tell me,” she said, her voice as flat as a glass mirror and as opaque.

  You won’t like it, his eyes said. Then he straightened his back and squared his shoulders. Audola did the same, her face becoming calm, relaxed. She could handle the grim news better as High Queen than as a mother.

  “She seems to be in a joining that is stronger than any D’rad’ni has come across. It is so advanced that the ol’bey’woman suspects - that it might be something akin to the Solu’san. There are overtones of death-defiance in it, but there are other, unexplained components. She feels it is unlikely that she would be able to sever the link without killing the Heir and the other she is attached to.”

  Audola sat down slowly, assimilating this information a bit at a time. And she reached the same conclusion that Luyon had reached and that accounted for his reticence. Only one other link like this had ever been documented, and that was Jenikia. And the Lor’av’ona creature.

  “And who is she linked to?” Audola asked, not looking up.

  “That the Heir has not said, but she said that she came close to what she was looking for,” Luyon reported.

  “That creature,” the words slipped out, bitter and anger-filled. Luyon’s hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her close.

  “It seems he saved her,” he said gently, trying to soften the blow. “He did pull her back from the brink of death.”

  “Yes, but what else did he do to her? The Solu’san? How could she have a link so advanced, a link that formed in ten’turns what would not even form after tens of cycles, unless she committed the Solu’san? What if the eyes of the Goddesses and the Supreme One have turned away from her? The future of the Realm is resting on her shoulders. If she is rendered illegitimate because of this, we will have played right into our enemies’ hands.”

  Luyon wrapped comforting arms around her. “Then we will just have to determine whether she is still fit to rule,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Audola looked back at him and poured her fear into his supportive hands. “And if she isn’t?”

  “Then,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder and kissing her cheek, “there may be a way to make her so.”

  Audola did not protest as his arms tightened and he kissed her again. She gave him her fear and worry, and he gave her possible solutions. And she thanked the Supreme One again for his presence.

  CHAPTER IV

  seething with hatred and purple with rage, the darkness turned..

  ...Gav’av’aron limped beside Cedagav, his left hind leg still sore from his cousin’s hoof - as was his chest. They entered the obin’toyo and there, in the dark, was the self-same cousin Mendicuv. Ol’bey’women were gathered around him, and his low moans were counterpoint to their whispered chants and finger drums.

  Cedagav watched them work for a long moment, then turned to his adopted half-son.

  “See what you have wrought,” he said, without rancor or rebuke. “You are Coaltam - you are held to a higher standard than others.”

  “Yes, Cedagav,” Gav’av’aron said in a subdued voice. “I was defending myself.” He said it as undefensively as he could. “I did not provoke him.”

  “Yes, I know, Coaltam. I am not blaming or chastising. But as Coaltam, and one turn, Stallyn, you must take responsibility for the actions of others - like Mendicuv. And since your actions harmed him, you will help heal him. And though he hates you for taking what he saw as his rightful place, you must love him like a brother and look out for his well-being. One turn you will show him who leads the Herd. But you must still love him because he is part of the Herd.”

  Gav’av’aron did not argue. He stepped forward, then looked at the other with a question.

  “And will he look out for my well-being, should I need it?”

  Cedagav’s deep black, copper-flecked eyes narrowed slightly. “Very good Coaltam. You are right to question. The problem of one is the problem of all, in the Herd. If the two of you cannot resolve this between yourselves, then the Clan Herds will find a way to resolve it for you.”

  With that slightly ominous, matter of fact statement, Cedagav left. Gav’av’aron moved closer, feeling just the slightest bit of resentment that he should be made to undo what he had had to do to save himself from the other’s cruelty. But then, Mendicuv would have to live knowing that he owed his life in part to Gav’av’aron’s healing - the thought made some of the resentment melt away. Without breaking rhythm, the ol’bey women made space for him. Chest muscles still aching, hoof-shaped bruises still burning, he settled among them and laid his hands on his paler cousin. He extended all his senses, av’rito, di’rito and lor’rito - he could feel the damage he had done, but he did not yet see how to repair it...

  the darkness turned...

  Gavaron woke with the rise of the last moon, and stretched in his bonds. With each memory, he felt a little bit more of the learnings of his life before crossing the Av’ru return to him. He let his awareness sink into the earth, free of fetters as his sense of Av was not. Each time he used his lor’rita it became easier, more natural, more readily available to his touch. He sank just below the surface of his confines and spread his senses out, memorizing, mapping, marking his path out to freedom. The prison he was in was not attached to any Tribal palace, but was a compound in the wilderness, hidden far from any centers of large populations. There was a palatial villa at one end. The compound, including the stable and fields, were directly behind the residence and were abutted by tree-carpeted mountains.

  Gavaron laughed to himself as he took a mental walk around the compound. He had begun planting the seeds of decay throughout the place, rites of destruction, some of which would take immediate effect, and some that would take many cycles, even tens of cycles to come to fruition. He had weakened support beams and set fractures and faults into stone. He encouraged pe
sts in wood and cloth and food. He leached away gold from treasure chambers and worked at the bonds within precious gems. Wherever possible, he slowly replaced precious metals with lead or other base metals, leaving a thin veneer to fool the eye. And then he had worked at the inhabitants of the foul place, shifting delicate chemical balances within their bodies ever so slightly, breaking a bond here and corrupting one there, sowing infirmity and disease that would show with age. He felt a pang of uncertainty before touching the servants, those who were there against their will, and decided to leave them mostly alone. The others, the rulers of this eve-mare - he had only to look as far as his stall-wall to dissolve any doubt about tampering with them. The Queen and her Court were transgressors against the Goddesses. They had fallen past redemption long ago.

  The stable was actually just a small part of an abhorrent menagerie, filled with all conceivable specimens of Av’Touched, even some he had never come across before. There were beautiful half-bird half-wuman creatures, with feathers like the finest silk, in huge suspended cages. There were feline, wuman-like beings lounging on moss-covered rocks with chained collars around their necks. There were half-wuman half-fish people in large, enclosed tanks without seams. There were Katari, Cribeau, even wumans, all bound and waiting on the pleasure of their captor. And there were inimical pre-Av’Touched, lor’ugawu, mirrli, lu’mari, and others that defied description.

  The others imprisoned with him were of some interest to him beyond merely testing his lor’rita - while he could not ‘see’ using his lor’rita, he could sense them, could feel their general outline, their composition, and the shape of their minds, if not the thoughts themselves. These other captives, on the other side of the palm, he worked to strengthen. He enriched the food and fodder coming to the prisoners. He attacked the rite-locks on his and their av’rita as much as he could, and tried to encourage knowledge of the male ‘ritas. He strengthened their bodies and fanned their defiance through their hormones while weakening their bonds. Some of them were too docile - they had been broken, and they followed every direction their handlers gave them. Others fought their bonds, screaming their defiance and laughing at their punishment, raging against the bars and chains of their cages. Gavaron had studied the defiant ones before, sometimes weakening their shackles and the bars or locks to their prisons at moments of disobedience. And a few, upon discovering this aid, broke loose. One or two even made it all the way to freedom.

  He pondered his fellow and sister captives as he pushed the limits of his strength. Should I plan to take others with me when I finally liberate myself? he wondered. It was riskier and infinitely more difficult to try to free all of them. Besides, what did he owe these others? The captives were not allowed to communicate at all, but some of them found ways. He had tried with those nearest him, but they had been unresponsive. If they have given up hope, are they worth freeing? Should I jeopardize my chance just for their sake?

  His thoughts were disturbing to him as he ranged out past the villa grounds and the out-buildings and the surrounding wilderness. Before, he might not have given a second thought to freeing others. Have I given too much sensitivity to Varo? Or have I always been so distant from others besides Jenikia and Jeliya that I would have always contemplated leaving the helpless in their straits?

  No, he had always tried to help those in need, before, to the best of his ability. Perhaps a part of him sensed that the freeing of others was beyond his powers?

  He turned his attention completely to the surroundings for a moment. Far to the weste, beyond the wilderness were farms and fields. The forest in between was old, alive, with deep roots. The trees of it quivered at his touch, gently feeling his presence with their roots. He tickled them back and moved on. Mapping these features in his mind, he turned back to his ponderings.

  Perhaps he could free some of the prisoners, and they would help free others? He considered the notion, probing deeper, when his awareness suddenly expanded not just down, but out, spreading faster than he could assimilate. Like parched ground drinking water, the earth soaked him up, leaving his body far behind. Through the soil and stone he rippled, like a dark stain spreading, blazing black mountains breaking out upon the surface of his mind like blemishes, covered with pale hairs like trees and shallow sweat filled pits like seas and rivers. Below, the black bedrock sucked him in even faster, down and out, filled with unexpected pockets of creamy air and gray water, and still farther, down and out to the white-gray chaos of the magma layer...

  No, I...! Ripped apart! his mind cried, can’t, spreading too thin, I...

  YOU ARE A CHILD OF LORO, the earth sang. ALL THE WORLD WILL KNOW YOU AND ANSWER. ALL THINGS OF LORO AND DIO WILL HEED YOU. LOR’SON, KNOW THAT YOU HAVE BEEN NAMED.

  And like a nova dwindling to a tiny star, his consciousness winked out.

  the light turned...

  ...Gavaron dreamed. In his dream, Jeliya was on a path of gold, bathed in platinum light. She trod the path, her skin glistening, while willowy trees lined the path, waving gently in a welcome kiss of breeze. She looked beautiful, tall and regal, walking slowly and stately upon the smooth gold sand.

  The glittering drops of moisture that so defined and highlighted her velvet skin turned to tiny rivulets. The light upon her seemed to congeal, gradually putting more and more weight upon her shoulders, and he saw that the sand was not so smooth. There were harsh, hard-edged grains of grit that seemed to cut right through her sandals, just enough to prick her feet. The trees, with the faces of multitudes in their trunks, gave no shade, but seemed to stir the light with their branches, making it thicker, and churning the grit with their roots, turning up the sharp points.

  But she strode valiantly on, her floor-length guinne fanning out behind her, shedding sweet sweat and the thickening light like ebon silk. Her av’rita rose like a blossoming flower of crystal amber, and filtered the light. It also spread slick over the jagged path, more like gravel than sand, he saw now, to smooth the way of those who would come behind her...

  the darkness turned...

  The two stable boys woke Gavaron up as they came in warily, glancing around as if expecting joumbi to jump out at them, even in the full light of early morn. Varo took no note of this, merely wondering vaguely what fresh torments they had in store for him this turn. But Gavaron noticed, and laughed inside. He listened within Varo’s ears, his thoughts whirling behind Varo’s mind.

  “D’you really t’ink dis one cursed, for true?” one whispered to the other as they tried to do their chores as fast as they could and still be thorough, and tried to touch him as little as possible.

  “Dunno,” the other grunted recalcitrantly, casting a nervous glance at Varo. Varo pricked his ears, vaguely intrigued. Gavaron was more interested - the grumpy one had an upset stomach, from filching food from the dishes meant for the Queen’s table.

  “Melae say he bring angry joumbi wit’ he from d’ Lora’Lons. Them say de joumbi taking revenge for him being bound-up here.”

  “Just get d’ fresh straw and t’ing, nah?” the older boy whispered testily, but there was fear in addition to discomfort under and behind his sharp tongue. Again he cast a veiled glance at Varo, as if afraid that Varo could do something to him. But of course, Gavaron could. When the stable boy touched him to start grooming him, Gavaron reached out with his lor’rita and calmed the boy’s stomach. The stable boy jerked his hand away and stared. He caught the boy’s eye and smiled slightly, winked. The boy blenched slightly and turned away.

  “But melae say all d’ trouble start when they bring he here! Them say he bring trouble with him!” The younger boy’s voice rose as he flung his arms wide, scattering straw everywhere.

  “Does melae say that indeed?” a cold voice, like the chill of earth-bound clouds, queried. “And you have time to be listening to melae and spreading melae instead of doing your duties? Perhaps I should see your Mistress about that? I’m sure she could find something for you to do with all this extra time you have?” Fekniri’s voic
e turned sweet.

  The boys scuttled about their chores with extra fervor, stammering out apologies and denials, then finally falling silent under the weight of her heavy, baleful stare.

  “Why is he not ready for outfitting?” she snapped finally, as they got more and more clumsy under her eyes. They froze for an instant, then faced her with their eyes on the ground.

  “Please, Train’Marm,” the older boy spoke up timidly, his voice trembling as a dira’mouse trembles under the velvet claws of a gila’cat, “The food was late in - in being brought. The cooks were sick, and some of it - some of it was all spoilt, Ma’am.”

  Again the silence descended, weighed and judged them and found them wanting, but not at fault. She could punish them, but that would only slow the grooming further.

  “Finish as quickly as you can, and then bring him to the norae field,” she said in a tone not as sharp. The boys bowed as Fekniri stalked out. The smell of fear grew stronger to Varo as she left. Varo did not blame them. His punishments always got more fearsome as her temper sweetened.

  the light turned...

  This turn, as every other, brought new humiliations. Varo lay exhausted. Being put through his paces by Fekniri or, on occasion, one of the other Trainers, was both humiliating and infuriating to Varo. He raged against his helplessness, flew against the bars of the cage on his mind, but to no avail. His av’rita, small as it was, was completely cut off from him. He had no knowledge of the male ‘ritas, nor would he have known how to use them if he did. He was made to walk, prance, genuflect, and display himself, through pain and pleasure, but mostly pain, until, little by little, his will wore down.

  The worst, for reasons that he could not explain nor name, had been this turn, the first time that Fekniri had tried to mount his back. He had made sure that he was always aware of the panquin, that he always hated it, that he never got used to it, though for what it was it should have been extremely comfortable. It conformed to him like a second skin, having been made and tailored to exacting and exhaustive measurements of his back and body. It moved with him as nothing he had crudely made had ever done. It should have been a pleasure to wear, and hard not to get used to. But being aware of it was actually easier than he imaged, for the thing itched incessantly, no matter what the tailors lined it with. He blessed the itch, however, and squirmed under the thing.