Bloody Rose

by Nicholas Eames

  “It won’t leave my room,” Arwa said, sniffling. Her face was red with tears.

  “How old are you now, Arwa?”

  “Nine years,” said Arwa, frowning. “You know that.”

  “Much too old to be crying then, little sister.” Mehr brushed a tear from Arwa’s cheek with her thumb. “Calm yourself.”

  Arwa sucked in a deep breath and nodded. Mehr looked up at Arwa’s nurse. She knew her well. Nahira had been her nurse once, too.

  “Did you see it?”

  Nahira snorted.

  “My eyes aren’t what they once were, but I’m still Irin. I could smell it.” She tapped her nose.

  “It has sharp claws,” Arwa said suddenly. “And big eyes like fire, and it wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

  Arwa was growing agitated again, so Mehr cupped her sister’s face in her hands and made a low soothing sound like the desert winds at moonrise.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” she said finally, when Arwa had gone still again.

  “There’s not?”

  “No,” Mehr said firmly. “I’m going to make it go away.”

  “Forever?”

  “For a long while, yes.”

  “How?”

  “It isn’t important.”

  “I need to know,” Arwa insisted. “What if another one comes and you’re not here? How will I make it go away then?”

  I’ll always be here, thought Mehr. But of course that was a lie. She could promise no such thing. She looked into her sister’s teary eyes and came, abruptly, to a decision. “Come with me now, Arwa. I’ll show you.”

  One of the maidservants made a sound of protest, quickly hushed. Nahira gave her a narrow look, her grip on Arwa still deathly tight.

  “She won’t approve,” warned Nahira.

  “If my stepmother asks, say I forced you,” Mehr told her. She touched light fingers to Arwa’s shoulders. “Please, Nahira.”

  “I imagine Lady Maryam will draw her own conclusions,” Nahira said dryly. She let Arwa go. “She doesn’t think highly of you, my lady.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Mehr. “Come on now, Arwa. You can carry the lamp.”

  The nursery was undisturbed. The living room was lit, candlelight flickering on the bright cushions and throws strewn across the marble floor. Arwa’s bedroom, in the next room along, was dark.

  The guardswoman trailed in reluctantly behind them. Her hand was fixed firmly on her scabbard.

  “There’s no need for this, my lady,” the guardswoman said. “Lady Arwa simply had a nightmare. I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you?” Mehr replied mildly.

  The guardswoman hesitated, then said, “I told Lady Arwa’s nursemaid and the maidservants that daiva don’t exist, that they should tell her so, but …” She paused, glancing uneasily at Mehr’s face. “The Irin are superstitious.”

  Mehr returned her look.

  This one, she thought, has not been in Irinah long.

  “I ran into the room as soon as she screamed,” said the guard, pressing on despite Mehr’s pointed silence. “I saw nothing.”

  Ignoring her, Mehr nudged Arwa gently with her foot.

  “Go on, love. Show me where it is.”

  Arwa took in another deep breath and stood straight, mustering up her courage. Then she went into her bedroom. Mehr followed close behind her, the guardswoman still hovering at her back.

  “There,” Arwa said, pointing. “It’s moved. On the window ledge.”

  Mehr looked up and found the daiva already watching her.

  Pale dawn was coming in through the window lattice at its back. Silhouetted against it, the daiva was a wisp of taloned shadows, its wings bristling darkly against a backdrop of grey-gold light. It was small for a daiva, no larger than Arwa, with nothing human in the shape of its face or in the lidless glare of its golden eyes.

  “Stay where you are, Arwa,” Mehr said. “Just lift the lamp higher.”

  Mehr walked towards it; slowly, so as not to startle it from its perch. The daiva’s eyes followed her with the constancy of prayer flames.

  Arwa’s chambers were three floors above the ground, behind heavily guarded walls. Nothing should have been able to reach it. But daiva didn’t obey the rules of human courtesy, and there were no walls in Jah Irinah that could keep them out of a place they wanted to be. Still, Mehr’s gut told her this daiva was not dangerous. Curious, perhaps. But not dangerous.

  Just to be sure, she held her hands in front of her, arms crossed, her fingers curled in a sigil to ward against evil. The daiva didn’t so much as flinch. Good.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Arwa.

  “Speaking,” said Mehr. “Hush now.”

  She drew her hands close together, thumbs interlocked, fanning out her fingers in the old sigil for bird. The daiva rustled its wings in recognition. It knew its name when it saw it.

  “Ah,” breathed Mehr. Her heart was beating fast in her chest. “You can move now, love. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “It still looks like it wants to bite me,” Arwa said warily.

  “It’s a bird-spirit,” Mehr said. “That’s what birds do. But there’s nothing evil inside it. It’s a simple creature. It won’t hurt you.”

  She took another step closer. The daiva cocked its head.

  She could smell the air around it, all humid sweetness like incense mingled with water. She sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to set her fingers against the soft shadows of its skin.

  She held one palm out. Go.

  But there was no compulsion behind the movement, and the daiva did not look at all inclined to move. It watched her expectantly. Its nostrils, tucked in the shadows of its face, flared wide. It knew what she was. It was waiting.

  Mehr drew the dagger from her sash. Arwa gave a squeak, and behind them the guardswoman startled into life, drawing the first inch of her sword out with a hiss of steel.

  “Calm, calm,” said Mehr soothingly. “I’m just giving it what it wants.”

  She pressed the sharp edge of her dagger to her left thumb. The skin gave way easily, a bead of blood rising to the surface. She held her thumb up for the daiva.

  The daiva lowered its head, smelling her blood.

  For a long moment it held still, its eyes never leaving hers. Then the shadows of its flesh broke apart, thin wisps escaping through the lattice. She saw it coalesce back into life beyond the window, dark wings sweeping through the cloudless, brightening air.

  Mehr let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. There was no fear in her. Just the racing, aching joy of a small adventure. She pressed her thumb carefully against the window lattice, leaving her mark behind.

  “All gone,” she said.

  “Is it really?” Arwa asked.

  “Yes.” Mehr wiped the remaining blood from the dagger with her sash. She tucked the blade away again. “If I’m not here and a daiva comes, Arwa, you must offer it a little of your own blood. Then it will leave you alone.”

  “Why would it want my blood?” Arwa asked, frightened. Her eyes were wide. “Mehr?”

  Mehr felt a pang. There was so much Arwa didn’t know about her heritage; so much that Mehr was forbidden from teaching her.

  To Arwa, daiva were simply monsters, and Irinah’s desert was just endless sand stretching off into the horizon, as distant and commonplace as sky or soil. She had never stared out at it, yearning, as Mehr had. She had never known that there was anything to yearn for. She knew nothing of sigils or rites, or the rich inheritance that lived within their shared blood. She only knew what it meant to be an Ambhan nobleman’s daughter. She knew what her stepmother wanted her to know and no more.

  Mehr knew it would be foolish to answer her. She bit her lip, lightly, and tasted the faint shadow of iron on her tongue. The pain grounded her and reminded her of the risks of speaking too freely. There were consequences to disobedience. Mehr knew that. She did not want to face her stepmother’s displeasure. She did
not want isolation or pain or the reminder of her own powerlessness.

  But Arwa was looking up at her with soft, fearful eyes, and Mehr did not have the strength to turn away from her yet. One more transgression, she decided; she would defy her stepmother one more time, and then she would go.

  “Because you have a little bit of them in your blood,” Mehr told her. When Arwa wrinkled her nose Mehr said, “No, Arwa, it’s not an insult.”

  “I’m not a daiva,” Arwa protested.

  “A little part of you is,” Mehr told her. “You see, when the Gods first went to their long sleep, they left their children the daiva behind upon the earth. The daiva were much stronger then. They weren’t simply small animal spirits. Instead they walked the world like men. They had children with humans, and those children were the first Amrithi, our mother’s people.” She recited the tale from memory, words that weren’t her own tripping off her tongue more smoothly than they had any right to. It had been many years since she’d last had Amrithi tales told to her. “Before the daiva weakened, when they were still truly the strong and terrifying sons and daughters of Gods, they made a vow to protect their descendants, and to never willingly harm them.” She showed Arwa the thin mark on her thumb, no longer bleeding. “When we give them a piece of our flesh, we’re reminding them of their vow. And, little sister, a daiva’s vow is unbreakable.”

  Arwa took hold of her hand, holding it near the glow of the lantern so she could give it a thorough, grave inspection.

  “That sounds like a children’s story,” she said finally, her tone faintly accusing, as if she were sure Mehr was telling her one of the soft lies people told their young.

  “It is a children’s story,” said Mehr. “Our mother told it to me when I was a child myself, and I’ve never forgotten it. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “I don’t know if my blood will work like yours,” Arwa said doubtfully. She pressed her thumb gently against Mehr’s. Where Mehr’s skin was dark like earth after rain, Arwa’s skin was a bare shade warmer than desert sand. “I don’t look like you, do I?”

  “Our blood is just the same,” Mehr said quietly. “I promise.” She squeezed Arwa’s hand in hers, once, tightly. Then she stepped back.

  “Tell Nahira it’s safe to return,” she said to the guardswoman. “I’m going back to my chambers.”

  The guardswoman edged back in fear. She trembled slightly.

  If Mehr had been in a more generous mood she would, perhaps, have told the guardswoman that Irinah was not like the other provinces of the Empire. Perhaps she would have told the guardswoman that what she so derisively called Irin superstition was in truth Irin practicality. In Irinah, the daiva had not faded into myth and history, as they had elsewhere. Weakened though they were, the daiva were holy beings, and it was wise to treat them with both wariness and reverence when one came upon them on Irin soil.

  But Mehr was not in a generous mood. She was tired, and the look on the guardswoman’s face had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Daiva aren’t real,” the guardswoman said blankly as Mehr swept passed her. “They’re a barbarian superstition.”

  Mehr didn’t even deign to answer her. She walked out into the hallway, Arwa scampering after her, the lamp swinging wildly in her grip. As they left the nursery, Nahira swept Arwa up into her arms, and one of the maids plucked the lamp deftly away. Mehr kept on walking until Arwa called out her name, holding out her arms again in a way that made Mehr’s traitorous heart twist inside her chest and her legs go leaden beneath her.

  It would be best, she told herself, to keep walking. It would be best not to look back. She did not want to be punished. She did not want Arwa to be punished.

  “Don’t go,” Arwa said in a small voice. “Can’t you stay just one time?”

  Mehr stopped. If she turned back—if she stayed—Maryam would ensure she would not be allowed to visit Arwa again for a long, long time.

  Mehr took a deep breath, turned, and walked back to her sister regardless. She closed her eyes and pressed one firm kiss to Arwa’s forehead. Her skin was soft; her hair smelled like rosewater.

  “Get some sleep,” she said to her. “Everything will be better when you wake up.”

  “Go,” Nahira said. “I’ll take of her, my lady.” A pause, as Arwa struggled and Mehr hesitated, her feet frozen in place by a compulsion she couldn’t name. “Lady Maryam will be awake soon,” Nahira said and that, at last, broke the spell. Mehr turned and walked swiftly back towards her room. She could hear Arwa crying behind her, but as she had told the maidservant Sara, children were often distressed. The hurt would pass. Soon Arwa would forget she had ever been sad at all.

  if you enjoyed

  BLOODY ROSE

  look out for

  THE THOUSAND DEATHS OF ARDOR BENN

  Kingdom of Grit: Book One

  by

  Tyler Whitesides

  The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn is the first in an action-packed epic fantasy series featuring master con artist Ardor Benn.

  Ardor Benn is no ordinary thief. Rakish, ambitious, and master of wildly complex heists, he styles himself a ruse artist extraordinaire.

  When a priest hires him for the most daring ruse yet, Ardor knows he’ll need more than quick wit and sleight of hand. Assembling a dream team of forgers, disguisers, schemers, and thieves, he sets out to steal from the most powerful king the realm has ever known.

  But it soon becomes clear there’s more at stake than fame and glory—Ard and his team might just be the last hope for human civilization.

  Chapter 1

  Ardor Benn was running late. Or was he? Ard preferred to think that everyone else in the Greater Chain was consistently early—with unreasonable expectations for him to be the same.

  Regardless, this time it was all right to keep his appointment waiting. It was a stew tactic. And stew tasted better the longer it cooked.

  Ard skipped up the final stairs and onto the third floor. Remaught Azel clearly wasn’t the big fish he purported. Rickety wooden tri-story in the slums of Marow? Ard found the whole thing rather distasteful. Especially after Lord Yunis. Now, that was something! Proper stone mansion with a Heat Grit hearth in every room. Servants. Cooks. Light Grit lanterns that ignited with the pull of a chain. Ard half suspected that Lord Yunis wiped his backside with lace.

  Different island. Different ruse. Today was about Remaught Azel, no matter how unaccommodating his hideout appeared.

  Ard shifted the Grit keg from one arm to the other as he reached the closed door at the end of the hallway. The creaking floorboards would have already notified Remaught that someone was coming. Interesting, Ard thought. Maybe there is something useful about holing up in a joint like this. Floorboard sentries.

  The door swung open, but before Ard could step through, a hairy, blue-skinned arm pressed into his chest, barring entrance.

  “Take it easy,” Ard said to the Trothian man. This would be Remaught’s bodyguard. His dark, vibrating eyes glared at Ard. Classic. This guy seemed like a tough son of a gun, although he was obviously past due for one of those Agrodite saltwater soaks. The skin on his arm looked like it might start flaking off.

  “I’m a legitimate businessman,” Ard continued, “here to do … legitimate businessy things.”

  He glanced past the large bodyguard to the table where Remaught sat, bathed in sunlight from the western window. The mobster wore a maroon velvet vest, a tricornered hat, and a shoulder cape, currently fashionable among the rich folk. Remaught seemed tense, watching his bodyguard detain Ard at the doorway.

  “Search him.”

  “Really?” Ard protested, holding the Grit keg above his head so the bodyguard could pat his sides. “I left my belt and guns at home,” he said. “And if I hadn’t, I could easily shoot you from where I’m standing, so I find this whole pat down a little unnecessary, and frankly uncomfortable.”

  The bodyguard paused, one hand on Ard’s hip pocket. “What’s this?�
� he asked, his voice marked by a thick Trothian accent.

  “Rocks,” Ard answered.

  “Rocks?” Like the bodyguard had never heard of such things. “Take them out—slow.”

  Ard reached casually into his pocket and scooped out a handful of small stones that he’d collected on the roadside before entering the building. “I’ll need these for the transaction.”

  In response, the Trothian bodyguard swatted Ard’s hand, sending the dusty pebbles scattering across the room.

  “Now, that was quite uncalled-for,” Ard said to the mobster at the table. “I find your man to be unnecessarily rough.”

  “Suno?” replied Remaught. “Three cycles ago, he would have fed you those rocks—through your nose. Going soft, I fear. Fatherhood has a tendency to do that.”

  Ard wondered what kind of father a mobster’s bodyguard would be. Some fathers made a living at the market or the factories. This guy made a living by stringing people up by their toes at the whim of his boss.

  The Trothian moved down, feeling around Ard’s thighs with both hands.

  “At the very least, you should consider hiring a good-looking woman for this step,” Ard continued. “Wouldn’t hurt business, you know.”

  The bodyguard stepped back and nodded to Remaught, who gestured for Ard to enter the room.

  “Were you followed?” Remaught asked.

  Ard laughed as he set the Grit keg gently on the table, stirring a bit of dust that danced in the sun rays. “I am never followed.” He adjusted the gaudy ring on his index finger and sat down across from the mobster. “Except occasionally by a bevy of beautiful maidens.”

  Ard smiled, but Remaught Azel did not return the gesture. Instead, the mobster reached out for the Grit keg. Ard was faster, whisking the keg away before Remaught could touch it.

  Ard clicked his tongue. “How about we see some payment before I go handing over the Grit in a room where I’m unarmed and outnumbered?”

  Remaught pushed backward in his chair, the wooden legs buzzing against the floor. The mobster crossed the room and retrieved a locked safe box from the window seat. It was no longer than his forearm, with convenient metal handles fastened on both sides. The Regulation seal was clearly displayed on the front beside the keyhole.