They stared at each other for a long time, both swept by the violent night wind. He could barely make out her face in the shadows. He wished he could, if only to get used as fast as possible to the face of his future wife. To know her face well could pass as familiarity.
When Domino remembered the presence of the guards, he licked his lips and sighed. “Anyway, I’m not my uncle, I can admit when I’ve made a mistake.”
“You already consider this a mistake.”
“It could become one. I’m not perfect.”
“All right.”
“I’ll need more than that. I still don’t know if I can trust you.”
“Calico!”
The woman turned her head to her leader and took a step, moving away from the wall against which she was leaning. “Ma’am.”
“When Domino has freed himself from the oath that binds him to me, you will give him your allegiance if it suits him. My order is final.”
Calico nodded, staring at her chief with serene eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I will.”
Then Lienn rested her eyes on Domino. “Calico is my best hunter. She will protect you with her life. I won’t go back on that decision. This is a promise.”
But Domino knew words meant nothing. It was Gus who had taught him that by proving his friendship to him over and over again through his actions and not with fine words.
“We’ll see,” he said.
Seconds stretched out, no one spoke. It was time. Maybe it was a trap, maybe it was the worst decision Domino ever made. Something still told him he could trust Lienn, but nothing was less certain. If he left this room now, he’d never become the nichan he was destined to be. Only Lienn could help him tame who he was. The coming war would crush him and his clan if he refused her offer.
“You will be strong and brave,” Mora had told him an eternity earlier. What would Mora have thought of what Domino was about to do?
Lienn took a breath and walked to him.
“Another cut might catch your uncle’s attention,” she said.
“Yes, he sees everything.” She scrutinized him from head to toe. Domino clenched his jaw. Enough of this. “One of the partisans who attacked us hurt my shoulder. You could undo some stitches, draw some blood. The wound is fresh enough. Ero won’t notice it.” A brief hesitation, then Domino froze, the wind whistling in his ears. “I’m connected to Ero. Will he notice my . . . departure? Will he feel it in his blood?” Domino was suddenly aware of his lack of knowledge on the matter.
“If he truly is the Unaan of a full clan and not just yours—”
“He is.”
“How many of you?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe two hundred.”
Lienn nodded. “Then you’re safe.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“You’d have to die for him to feel something, but tonight is not the end.”
“Good,” Domino sighed.
He then untied his shawl, leaving it hanging at his waist, and pushed back the sides of his tunic, revealing his chest and his left arm to the wind swirling into the cell. His skin immediately covered with gooseflesh. Facing him, Lienn turned to Calico who handed her a short knife.
The memory of the sanctuary full of curious nichans came back to Domino. Ero, gigantic, cutting Mora’s skin, then Beïka’s, opening the tip of his thumb before joining the wounds, exchanging blood, binding their beings.
Domino rejected this thought as Lienn crossed the few steps that separated them. He knelt down in front of her, before the eyes of the other nichans, still tense and waiting for the slightest sign or change in the air to act. They wouldn’t have to.
Lienn cut through the blood-stained threads running through Domino’s thick skin. The wound had begun to heal. The blade was soon to reopen it. Domino gritted his teeth, his eyes straight ahead as Lienn spilled his blood. It flowed down his arm, followed the prominent vein curling around his biceps. He didn’t blink when Lienn bit her tongue, hard enough to start. Here was a wound that no one would notice.
She slipped two fingers inside her mouth. They came out blood-stained. She pressed those same fingers onto Domino’s severed shoulder.
No matter how far they were from Surhok, the words were the same. In truth, the words bore little power compared to the intention itself. “My protection comes at a price,” Lienn said. “Swear to obey me, swear to follow me, swear to respect me, and it is yours.”
Domino sustained the look in her eyes, forgetting the blood that colored her tattooed lips and chin. “I swear to obey you, I swear to follow you, I swear to respect you, Lienn.” He couldn’t help but pronounce her name. No title, just her, flesh and bone, like him. A first taste of their promised equality.
The dizziness took him from all sides. A metallic and sweet taste passed between his lips. A nosebleed, nausea, confusion; reactions too strong to be natural. Like the last time, ten years earlier, the oath crept into Domino.
He was about to collapse backwards, straight into the emptiness, when Lienn held him back by his open tunic. Instead of crashing on the reefs, Domino fell face down to the ground, his cheek in the more-or-less dry bird droppings. Hands turned him over on his back and one of them touched his forehead briefly.
“It’s done, Domino,” said Lienn’s voice above him, pressing against the wound in his shoulder with a delicate hand. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.” Then to someone else. “Jenian, get Melbim for his shoulder. You two, take him to the room near—”
The rest disappeared as Domino lost consciousness. But in his last moments of lucidity, he hoped with all his heart never to regret it.
X X X I I I
One step at a time, Beïka carried Gus farther and farther away from Surhok. Issba led the way, a lamp in each hand breaking through the night’s embrace. Tossed from right to left, Gus growled. His gag partially muffled the next of his many complaints. Only the footsteps of the two nichans through the ferns and the forest terrain disturbed the silence. Each trampled branch was a fractured bone, the rolling of rocks like teeth grinding hard enough to become sand. Apart from the golden flames, darkness was absolute, like a trap hiding many more in its depths. The wind rustled the invisible foliage above their heads. Winter walked through Gus’s every pore. A thud twisted his eardrums. With each jolt, the pressure of the blood pulsed through his skull.
Tap-tap-tap. The piece of sap still knocked on the top of his forehead. It kept him awake and aware of his new reality.
They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill me . . .
It had driven away all of his previous confused thoughts. In Gus, there was no room for anything else but this certainty. Imminent death. Impossible to think, impossible to calm the trashing of his heart. With every step they took away from the village, with every minute that prolonged his torment, he drowned in his own lack of power. Soon he would be released from these dark waters . . .
Gus was going to die.
He flapped his legs, an uncontrolled reaction as his mind and conscience narrowed around this fate. In response, Beïka’s arm closed tighter around his waist, bending Gus’s ribs. “Stop moving,” the nichan said.
The man jerked and repositioned Gus on his shoulder until the human fit the curves of his strong bones and muscles. The force of the movement buried in the human’s soft abdomen. As air left his torso, spit rained from his lips, traveling along his jaw.
“Keep control of this thing,” Issba said over his shoulder.
“It was your idea, remember? Maybe you should carry the thing.”
“We’re almost there.”
“Where is there?” Beïka asked.
“Far enough away from the village for the others to lose his scent.”
“Fuck! We forgot the shovel.”
The Orator chuckled. “Vigorous hands like yours will soon get the better of a bit of dirt. Since the abomination is already soiled, his grave doesn’t need to be deep.”
Adrenaline coursed through Gus’s chest.
<
br /> His grave. Issa had it all planned. In the middle of the immense forest, no one would waste a minute to search for Gus’s body. The Orator and Beïka would return to the village without the slightest scruples. Whoever had opened the door for them would let them in quietly. The group would move on from this setback, finding the comfort of their bed, of a good meal, of their peaceful mind that no shame could penetrate. In a few hours, when Orsa realized Gus wasn’t ready to hunt, she’d send someone to his hut to fetch him. No one would be found, not in his house, not anywhere . . .
“Here,” said Issba. “Yes, it should be far enough.”
“Great.” Beïka dislodged Gus from his shoulder and threw him to the ground.
The young man crashed without a sound apart from the shocked groan that spurted from his chest. His wings took most of the shock, avoiding the worst to his spine. With his arms finally free, Gus ripped off his gag, soaked in saliva and blood, and took a deep breath. The violent cough that seized him threatened to release his organs through his mouth. Gus clenched his chest and his palm pressed hard against Domino’s necklace. Ever harder.
Issba hung his lanterns from low branches and faced him. His face was bathed in darkness, but the flames burning on the surface of the fat outlined the contours of his partially shaved skull, of his bare, square shoulders, and of his hands, which he held in one tight bundle of fingers against his heart.
“Here we are,” said the Orator motionlessly. He sighed. “Lift him up.”
After a brief, annoyed hesitation, Beïka obeyed. He grabbed Gus by the elbow and lifted him off the ground. He interrupted his gesture, squinted, and his hand fired towards Gus’s chest. It seized the necklace, the amber resin disappearing into the nichan’s fist. “Hey, that’s not yours.”
“Don’t touch—” Fire erupted in Gus’s stomach. The coughing returned, loud and visceral.
Beïka smiled and snatched the jewel from Gus’s neck. The worn-out leather sting snapped. “Family heirloom,” Beïka said, shoving his loot in his pocket.
Thoughtlessly, having yielded his body to fear and instinct, Gus threw his fist into the nichan’s chin. His knuckles met the skin and bone without moving Beïka back even an inch. A ridiculous attack and, in his present state, devoid of any strength.
Before the pain reached his joints, Gus received a punch that immediately sent him back on the humid ferns. His senses swirled, as if in search of a way out of his body. A drilling sound rang in his ears. Pain surged in his cheekbone, invaded his whole face. No more right or left. Blood ran down his face.
Issba uttered an impatient grunt. “Enough of this! We’re wasting time. Orsa will be up before dawn, and we must be back before Jaro’s watch is over.”
“I’m just settling scores with this worthless shit,” Beïka defended himself while wiping his chin.
At his feet, Gus clung to the dirt and wet grass. If the situation hadn’t been so overwhelming with pain, he would have thought it was a nightmare. He’d been there, he’d faced death before tonight. He’d always known it would come sooner rather than later. Yet, more than ever, he didn’t want to die. More than ever, he needed pain to stop.
Domino.
No, he was mad to dare think of him. Domino wouldn’t come to save him. No one would come to save him. Gus had asked to be left alone, for good reasons. Now he was.
In the dead silence of the night, Issba cleared his throat. “Get him up and control him. Are you capable of it, or are you as useless as your uncle claims?”
The silence returned, as cold as death itself. Then Beïka bent down and grabbed Gus again, by the neck this time. As he squeezed, he forced the boy to stand on his feet and face him.
“What are you doing?” Issba said, taking a step in their direction.
“You wanted to kill him, yes? Then I’m killing him,” Beïka announced.
He held Gus’s throat tighter and the boy stopped breathing.
The rope, Gus thought as he tried to breathe, to open his attacker’s fingers. The rope, it . . . He . . . He’s going to kill me. I’m gonna die.
Issba closed his hand on Beïka’s biceps. “You idiot! Stop that at once!”
“What? Changing your mind?”
“I’m trying to save this boy’s soul. To clear it of the Corruption. Before the killing, words must be spoken for—”
A scream ripped through the night and Beïka loosened his grip.
After a long silence during which Gus tried to suck in some air, another squeaky scream froze their blood. Beïka opened his hands, and Gus crashed to the ground, too weak to stand on his legs. He coughed and struggled to escape, gesticulating to the best of his ability. For a moment he crawled away from Beïka and Issba. He didn’t want to run away like a frightened worm, but for the first time, his survival instincts overcame his resolutions and pride.
I’m not dying. I’m not . . .
“Is it—is it one of them?” asked the Orator, horror in his voice.
“Yes,” said Beïka.
Another scream shook the woods, closer. It forced Gus to crawl faster. His hands slipped on the wet vegetation. He fell facedown to the ground, straightened up, and crawled again, searching through his being for the strength to get up.
“We have to run!” Issba said.
“A nichan doesn’t run away.” On the contrary, Beïka took a step in the screams’ direction.
“You fool!”
The next scream froze Gus in place. Suddenly, even the night breeze stopped its whispers. Trembling from head to toe, his breath stuck in his tight chest, Gus made himself as small as possible, his face buried in the plants and rocks. Something was approaching. He could feel it in his flesh, in his veins . . .
As slowly as possible, he turned his head, ordering himself to look over his shoulder. The thing was close—closer than it had been back then, in that cave. Close enough to be revealed by the weak light of the lamps.
This creature didn’t look like the one that had chased him and Domino three years earlier. It was entirely gray except for the black splash that hemmed its mouth. It had a small, bald, shiny, chiseled head, resting on narrow, round shoulders. Its long arms hung down beside it, ending in claws on the tips of which the flames of the lanterns glowed.
Bright blue eyes. Shiny veins of the same color mottling its skull and forearms. A dohor.
His face stretched out in terror, Issba grabbed one of the two sources of light. In an instant, he turned on his heels and ran off into the darkness.
Beïka, for his part, faced the tall creature. The nichan had transformed, his skin now black, melting into the night, an aggressive growl flashing between his sharp wide smile.
Dark and huge shapes in the darkness, the dohor and the nichan gauged each other for a moment.
Gus tried to move. Why didn’t he move?
Don’t just stay here. Move the fuck out of here! Move!
He couldn’t.
The dohor then attacked. Beïka parried the first blow by bending down. The claws split the air, whistling an inch from his head. The nichan retaliated with a cross attack. His arm moved faster than the eye could see, flashing the veins protruding from the surface of his arms. His blow missed its target. Not fast enough, not precise enough.
The dohor moved with unsuspected grace. As Beïka attacked again and again, the creature never lost its footing. It swirled, bent, avoided the nichan’s hand. For long seconds it did only that and Beïka’s attempts remained vain.
Then the dohor struck again. And again. Every time, Beïka stepped back and ducked. Until . . .
The next attack sent blood splattering through the treetops. Nichan blood.
Beïka froze, his throat, chin and lips slit deep. A breach opened in the middle of the tattoo inked in his skin, and more blood spurted out of the wound. The dohor hissed. Then the man lost his balance, and his body fell backward.
It was Beïka’s turn to collapse, to crawl. His blood ran out with an endless gurgling sound. He reached out his hand to
Gus, who had managed to stand upright. But not to run away.
And then the creature noticed Gus’s presence. It took a few steps in his direction, forgetting even the existence of its first prey.
It was approaching, almost twice Gus’s height. Closer and closer. Only ten feet to go.
Gus couldn’t blink.
Six feet.
Gus struggled to breathe.
Three feet . . .
A sudden discomfort gripped his lungs and heart. In front of him, the creature halted abruptly and took a step back. The pain vanished, as if it never existed. The dohor cocked its head and took another step in the direction of the human.
The same pain tortured Gus again, as if long icy fingers hugged his heart and compressed the raw organ again and again with brutal squeezes, without bothering to match its natural pulse.
His valid wing suddenly cramped. Gus grumbled, hugging his chest with one hand.
The dohor, drooling from every corner of his deformed mouth, did the same. The creature retreated once more and then forced against this ache that they both shared and that kept them far from each other.
More pain.
Gus moaned, nailed to the ground, unable to flee. The dohor bent in two, one of its long-clawed hands scraping the earth, the other reaching out to Gus. Both of them stepped back, cries of agony in their mouths.
A single step in Gus’s direction was enough to neutralize them. This proximity put them to the rack.
They were suffering together.
It hurts . . . it hurts . . . But . . .
Whatever that common affliction was, it was the young man’s only chance of survival. He had to take it and live. He could use it. There must be a way to survive.
He wouldn’t crawl anymore.
A scream escaped him as he wiped his bloodied face and charged the dohor. His discomfort intensified, choking his breath, begging him to stay away from that thing, beating out his eardrums, threatening to stop his heart. He was so close to shitting himself, every organ pushing down, trying to escape the pain. Gus ignored this part of him, this vital impulse, and got as close as he could to his enemy.
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