Trevain considered calling out her name and drawing her attention. He considered entering the water and swimming up to the rock to speak with her. But it seemed somehow sacrilegious to interrupt her solitary moment of song.
He could see that she felt free alone. She did not need his comfort or guidance; she was wise enough to know how to find her own private contentment. If he spoke to her, she would surely clam up and become withdrawn and silent again. She deserved the chance to sing to herself in peace.
Trevain began slowly backing away, with soft, soundless footsteps. He would slip away unseen. When he was at the entrance of the exit tunnel, he hesitated, glancing back at her. He remembered when he had thought that his own brother was dead. Elandria had sung to him to comfort him. It was the first time he had heard her voice. He would never forget her kindness.
Because of the compassion she had shown him, he felt compelled to do everything within his power to help her. She was obviously grieving far worse than he had been—and with good reason. Aazuria and Elandria were very close. I felt so hopeless when I thought Callder had drowned—and he’s just a worthless wanker. If I could get that miserable over a freeloading jackass just because he’s my little brother, then Elandria must feel exponentially worse. Aazuria took care of her. She always paid attention to Elandria and took her advice. They were close for ten times as long as I’ve been alive. It’s possible that Elandria misses her sister even more than I miss my wife.
He began walking forward again, fully intending to approach the lagoon, but when Elandria paused in her singing and turned to look in his direction, he found himself stepping back into the tunnel. He lingered there, just out of view. There was a quiet moment before Elandria softly began to sing again.
Trevain put his forehead against the cold stone wall. Elandria had switched languages, and now she was singing in a tongue he did not know. It sounded to him like it might be an Inuit language, probably Aleutian. There were deep, guttural vocalizations which added to the mystical quality of the chant. Even though he did not understand a word, it still managed to stir up his repressed emotions.
He was not a religious man in the least, but he suddenly felt very much like praying. It was surely something new which the heavenly lilt of Elandria’s vibrato invoked in him. When her chords trembled, they liquefied his solid strength, melting the pillars which had supported him. When the sweet assault continued longer than he had thought humanly possible, anything solid remaining in him was vaporized directly into gas. It was sublimation; it was so sublime that he did not think he could stand. He lowered himself, his back grazing the jagged wall as he sunk halfway down, before his knees were jammed between the walls of the tunnel. It was too narrow for him to crouch or sit. It was too painful for him to stand.
Aazuria. He did not often allow himself to think about where she could be. Reports from guards who had been wounded in the attack described a small band of guerilla warriors led by a man with a horrible disfigured face. Prince Zalcan—it was the same man who had already killed Elandria’s younger sister. Now he had taken Elandria’s older sister, and the poor girl had resigned herself to consorting only with beasts. Trevain swallowed back a bitter lump of saliva. He did not often allow himself to remember what had been done to Corallyn. He did not like to remember the visuals of seeing the young girl’s body dissected into more pieces than he could have borne slicing an earthworm into as a child. But the visuals came, and along with them was the nagging reminder that the man who had done such sickening deeds was now holding his wife captive.
Bile rose in his throat as nausea churned his stomach acids. Would Aazuria’s limbs be returned severed from her body as well? He would never forget the horror of seeing little Corallyn’s arm in a violin case. Its only decoration had been chipped orangey-pink nail varnish which Trevain had purchased for her in a department store. The color had been barely clinging to her cold, dead fingers.
Trevain remembered being unable to pull his eyes away from the limb for several morbid minutes. He had noticed that Elandria was falling, and he had acted instinctively to catch her before she had hit the ground. He had seen the blank expression on her pale face a moment before her limp body had slumped into his arms. She had been practically weightless. As a crab fisherman, he had developed great strength from constantly handling extremely heavy objects in the worst of elements. Elandria was little more than a wisp of air. Of course, at the time, she had recently been badly injured and was only just recovering. Then to see her youngest sister slain so mercilessly! More than ever, at that moment, he had felt the need to protect Elandria and Aazuria. The girls had been through so much.
Enough—the girls had been through enough. After being mistreated by their father, was it not his responsibility to take care of them? Of course, the notion was somewhat ridiculous considering that Aazuria was over six hundred years old, and Elandria not much younger than that. Both women were greatly his seniors, and he had learned ten new things for every hour he spent in their company, but it did not dampen his inclination to protect them. If anything, their age and wisdom made them more precious to him.
And of course, he had failed.
Somehow, even after all this, there was an ember of hope inside him. It must have been engendered by Elandria’s song, because he had not been able to detect it even an hour earlier. For the first time since he had learned of Aazuria’s abduction, he truly believed that he would find his wife again and that she would be unharmed. He felt like luck was on his side—not that he understood much about what exactly luck was. He had faith—not in some higher power, but in Aazuria herself. He knew that she would do everything possible to stay alive and get back to him.
In the meanwhile, he should be doing everything he could think of to search for her. He should be preparing for his foray into the Maldives. He somehow knew that if he could keep the sound of Elandria’s voice in his mind while he led his excursion, he would be successful. He believed he could surely do anything with such richness resonating in his soul.
He wished he could bottle up this feeling; this feeling of all his strength and weakness intensified until he was beyond himself. For the first time in ages, he could calmly look inward. If Elandria’s effect on him could be bottled, he would take it everywhere and drink deeply of it whenever he felt himself wavering. For in this moment, he was invincible.
Perhaps he should go and speak with her. If only there was some way to lift Elandria’s spirits and return the sense of peace and hope that she had given to him! But he had no artistic talents. He was a relatively simple man; a hard working fisherman who read a lot and liked plants. Giving Elandria a bonsai tree from his greenhouse would not do the trick. Although he had many treasures in his conservatory which he had collected over the years, none would suffice. He was useless to Elandria. Anything he could do to ease her pain would be the equivalent of a child giving their graphic-designer parent a pathetic card written with a wobbly crayon.
Sionna had suggested that talking with Elandria would be therapeutic. But what was the point? What could he possibly say or do? Still, he needed to try. It was his duty to try—whether his help ended up being ridiculous and unwanted, was it not better to try? He left the tunnel approached the lagoon, staring across its rippling surface at the silent siren. The sea cows in the water noticed him before Elandria did, and they alerted her to his presence with warning cries. Elandria’s head snapped towards him with surprise as her voice wavered and paused.
When her azure eyes met his, Trevain stopped moving and stared. Although the color was identical to the icy hue of Aazuria’s eyes, the emotion in them was completely different. He had never seen such fear and pain in his wife’s face. Elandria was a very different, very vulnerable girl. These were his thoughts before he realized that what he was seeing was empathy.
The clarity of Elandria’s irises reflected his own pain like a mirror. In a single glance, she could see the reaches of his torment, and she felt it with him acutely. She absorbed h
is pain through their interlocked eyes, and it amplified within her until she was visibly weakened. For that was simply her compassionate nature. He understood now. Although Elandria was suffering a great deal for her own loss, she could not be around any others. She saw their pain and she felt it acutely. The need to heal and soothe everyone else was killing her. She was barely keeping herself together as it was.
And here he was, making it worse! His presence was not therapeutic in the least—he had only caused her more pain. He did not know how he understood all this in an instant, but he did. If he remained, and if he spoke to her, it would only make it worse.
He inclined his head slightly, in a gentle bow of acknowledgement. With that, he pulled his eyes away from hers, and turned to walk away. He had to leave.
Trevain retreated into the murky tunnel. Once he had navigated through the narrow pass, he dove into the warm spring on the other end without a backward glance. He knew that he had done the right thing. Perhaps Sionna thought Elandria would benefit from company, but he disagreed. He would do what he believed was the best thing possible for her. He would leave her alone. She seemed happier that way. She deserved her tranquility.
Chapter 6: Martial Law and Marital Woe
“We should really head back to Adlivun,” Vachlan said as he downshifted. “Just to keep an eye on things there.”
“Trevain and Sionna are there,” Visola said, resting her cheek against the cool window of Vachlan’s sleek black Aston Martin.
“And what is your sister going to do if there’s an attack? Give everyone cyanide capsules?”
Visola reached out and hit Vachlan in the arm. “Shut up. It was saxitoxin, a thousand times more powerful than cyanide.”
“Because cyanide is so inefficient?”
“She coated my weapons with the poison,” Visola said in a sleepy voice. “My sister’s the best.”
“Sionna’s crafty, that’s for sure. But my point is that Adlivun needs real leadership. It needs us.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Zuri’s already been taken,” Visola said softly, failing to repress a giant yawn. “You can go back, but I’ll stay on land. I want to be close to Alcie in case she needs me.”
“Then I’ll stay too,” Vachlan said, turning to glance at her, and noticing her heavy eyelids. “Besides, I’m too tired to make the trip. Let’s find a fancy hotel.”
Her droopy eyelids shot open so that she could scrutinize him. He was not tired; he was just saying that to make her feel better about being obviously exhausted. “Cut me some slack,” she mumbled, turning to press her forehead against the glass. “I was up for two days learning how to ride a motorcycle.”
“Neat little toys, aren’t they?”
“Mmmmm,” she mumbled, pulling her knees up against her chest and snuggling down into the soft warmth of the heated seats. She must have drifted off to sleep for a few minutes, for when she felt Vachlan’s hand sliding into hers, it startled her awake. She instinctively pulled her hand away. When she saw the surprise on his face, she cleared her throat and changed the subject. “So how are you going to get us into a fancy place? Won’t they need ID?”
“I have ID, dearest. Lots of pretty fake passports.”
“That’s not fair!” Visola said, straightening curiously. “I want to see!”
“Check the glove box.”
She began scrimmaging under gum wrappers and chocolate bars, and sure enough, found a small case. There was a combination lock on it. She turned to him questioningly.
“What’s—”
“Your birthday.”
Visola could not resist a small smile as she spun the dials with her thumb. These little domestic and pedestrian moments when “The Destroyer of Kingdoms” demonstrated his devotion were precious gems. Mostly because Visola expected each moment to be the last. She began to rummage through the box, opening passports and scanning driver’s licenses. A few were in his real name, Vachlan Suchos, but many more were false identities.
“Victor Sanchez!” Visola exclaimed with a burst of laughter.
“What, don’t I look like a Victor Sanchez?” Vachlan asked.
Visola shut the box with a smile. “You have to help me get some of these.”
“The most recent ones were hooked up by contacts of Zalcan’s. But now that we’re ‘out’ you won’t need to go sneaking around with fake IDs. We’ll eventually negotiate so that our Adluvian IDs are acceptable.”
“That’s right, I’d already forgotten. We’re ‘out,’” Visola said, testing the way it sounded on her tongue. “Do you really think they’ll let us use our existing ID system? Probably not. They’ll probably want to issue us the cards themselves… maybe even absorb us as another state or half-assed territory, do you think? Or will they just consider us Alaskan citizens? Good Sedna!”
“It looks like Adlivun is the new Puerto Rico,” Vachlan remarked as he pulled into the hotel’s valet parking.
Visola quickly stuffed his box of passports into her gigantic black leather purse which was resting on the floor near her boots. She did not feel comfortable leaving something so precious in the car when he was using valet parking. Grabbing her purse and hooking it over her shoulder, she smiled at the bellhop who had opened the car door for her, and elegantly exited the vehicle. She glanced up at the warm lights of the beautiful foyer, and she turned to Vachlan with a pout.
“You haven’t taken me anywhere nice since 1805,” she complained.
“I know,” he said, leaning down to plant a kiss on the side of her mouth. Even though Visola was six feet tall, Vachlan towered over her. “I’ll make it up to you. Maybe once things settle down we can do a regular date night.”
She slipped her arm around his elbow as they walked together through the massive doors of the hotel which were being held for them. “Sure,” she said, giving him a sweet smile. “We could go out and have dinner every Neverday. Our time-honored tradition.”
“Now, Visola…”
“Hi, how are you?” Visola said, greeting the young girl at the front desk. She glanced down at the girl’s name badge. “Would it be possible to book two rooms for tonight… Stacey?”
“Sure. I’ll just need some identification and a credit card for a small security deposit.”
“Two rooms?” Vachlan protested as he withdrew his wallet from his slacks. He handed Stacey the necessary cards. “We only need one.”
“I need my own room,” Visola insisted.
“I’m not paying for two rooms!” Vachlan said with frustration. “It’s a waste of hard-earned money.”
Stacey, the concierge, glanced at the fat stack of bills in Vachlan’s wallet and cleared her throat. She peered at the Aston Martin through the glass doors, from which the bellhops were unloading bags, and she sighed.
“Yes, it’s better to be economical in these hard times,” Stacey commented.
“I don’t need his ‘hard-earned’ money,” Visola said, rolling her eyes. She unzipped her tight leather jacket halfway down, giving everyone an ample view of her creamy cleavage before pulling her own considerable wad of cash from its warm compartment. “How much for the second room?”
The woman called Stacey sent Visola an incredulous eyebrow which loudly declared that if she had a man who looked like Vachlan, she would not be requesting a separate room. It also suggested that if Vachlan was going to be alone, she would gladly keep him company herself. Vachlan gave Stacey a helpless do-you-see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look. The woman was evidently sympathizing with the dark-haired man. Vachlan shrugged and reached up to scratch under his ponytail sheepishly.
“I have work to do,” Visola explained. “He’s far too distracting. With his hands, and his mouth… talking, I mean. Nonstop talking. And he snores like an obese hippopotamus with a microphone.”
“I most certainly do not…”
“Two rooms, please,” Visola insisted.
Stacey cleared her throat as she pounded away on her computer keys. “Sure, ma’am.”<
br />
“Great! Thanks,” Visola said, leaning forward to speak to the young woman in a low voice. “Take it from me, cinnamon buns: don’t ever get married.”
“By Sedna’s pigtails, Visola!” Vachlan swore, throwing his hands up. “Must you always publicly humiliate me?”
“Yep,” Visola answered quickly, with a smug smile.
Stacey laughed then, realizing with relief that the couple before her did not actually want to rip out each other’s throats. She could see the humor and love in their fleeting shared glances. Volumes of tenderness were communicated in every vicious glare.
“Wow,” Stacey remarked. “I’m guessing you’re not newlyweds. How long have you two been married?”
“Pretty much since the dawn of time,” Vachlan answered.
Stacey laughed again as she handed Vachlan a credit card bill to sign. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Way back in the Jurassic period she could tolerate being in the same room with me,” Vachlan said, quickly scrawling his signature.
“Good Sedna, I’m old enough without your exaggerations!” Visola said with a groan.
“But you’ll always be young and beautiful to me.” Vachlan winked at Stacey and spoke in a tone which bordered on flirtatious. “That whole Industrial Revolution thing was really hard on us.”
“I swear, you sound just like my grandparents!” Stacey exclaimed as she retrieved card keys and wrote the room number on their sleeve
Visola sighed. “You’ve got no idea, cherry pie.”
Lying in bed, Vachlan frowned as he stared up at the ceiling intently. He had gone back downstairs after viewing his room, to request the room directly below his wife. Someone had been occupying it, but Vachlan’s wad of cash had quickly persuaded Stacey to evict the guest and have a maid spruce up the room in a jiffy. Visola’s behavior had been slightly more erratic and unpredictable than usual, and he wanted to make sure she was fine.
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