by J. C. Owens
Naban paced, a frown pleating his eyebrows, restless energy evident in every movement. “I will go search the healer’s quarters. Perhaps there is something there that might help his burns. There must be a way to take some of the pain away before he wakes.” There was determination in the words, a defiant glare aimed their way, as though they might argue his optimism.
Tar nodded instead, and rose to stand at his side, gaze sliding to Brenaith. “We will search for anything that might work upon him.” He shrugged a little helplessly. “I honestly do not know what he is now, elven or demon, or perhaps still both, but surely there must be something that will help.”
Brenaith came to realize that he had positioned himself on the bed with his back against the headboard, one hand gently untangling Shaynith-una’s hair, the other threaded through the shadow knight’s fingers. He only nodded, words escaping his ability to speak at the moment, and watched them leave before staring down at his hands as though they had somehow betrayed him. Around Shaynith-una, there seemed to be a great many things that he was doing on instinct, with no rational thought whatsoever. It all made no sense. He glanced self-consciously over to the remaining brothers, but they paid no attention to him, Pensir with his head resting on the back of the couch, and Spensa completely asleep.
It made it easier to return to his task, patiently working through the long strands of Shaynith-una’s hair, mourning the dirt and blood that hid their beauty. The shadow knight was beautiful in ways that Brenaith had not consciously counted, but his hair was a thing beyond words, and to see it in such disarray, dull, muted and sullied, seemed a deep wrongness, as though that small thing encompassed all that he had endured.
Shaynith-una’s fingers twitched, curling around his once more, and Brenaith’s gaze snapped up, meeting those strangely pink eyes once more. Hope rose. There seemed more life in the knight’s look, his gaze more lucid than before.
“Brenaith.” The sound was harsh and paper-thin, and Brenaith could hear his throat click with the attempt.
A glass appeared at his elbow, and he startled, calming only when he realized it was Pensir who held it. The Elite nodded, hope in his own look. Brenaith had forgotten how swift demons could be. He shook his head at his own inattention to his surroundings before focusing on sliding a gentle hand beneath Shaynith-una’s head and letting a tiny trickle of water touch his lips.
They parted, almost in reflex, and he felt his heart jump at this new sign of improvement. Pensir stepped closer, aiding him from the other side, and between them, they managed to keep the painfully small amounts trickling until Shaynith-una seemed to slip back into unconsciousness, though it did not seem as deep as before. His color seemed better, despite his transfer from the hall below.
Pensir nodded, a small, almost-smile tilting his lips, his wings rustling restlessly along his back. “Good. He is strong, and now he knows you are here.”
Brenaith shot him an incredulous glance. “Me? Whatever does that matter?”
Pensir stared at him for a long, considering moment. “He cares for you in a way he never did with Dars, much though they were close.”
Brenaith blinked, then his lips tightened. “He gave me up to the elves easily enough and did not protest the bond being broken. I hardly think that constitutes ‘care.’”
“What would the elves have done to you if it had not been broken, if they considered you part of him?” Pensir’s look was shrewd.
Brenaith drew in a breath, sudden understanding flowing over him. “They would have killed me. Their High King indicated as much. But—Shaynith-una told me that he was his father’s son, even as he let me go.” His tone sounded far too plaintive for his comfort.
“Was that for you? Or for them? You are alive, are you not?”
Brenaith could only gape, before turning back to stare down at the shadow knight with disbelief tingeing his senses. What was truth and what was lie here? Was he so weak that he was swayed to believe what he was told rather than search for truth?
“I cannot say I completely understand what his actions toward you portend.” Pensir shrugged. “I fight to understand my own bloodright, my own feelings.” He snorted at Brenaith’s incredulous glance. “Yes, I have them, despite what you might have been taught about us, or have seen. Whether it is because of our mixed blood, or something else, we seem far more open to emotion than either the elves or the demons.” He reached out to trail the back of a clawed finger down his youngest brother’s neck. “Shay, on the other hand, is probably the most emotional of all of us, but he has been forced into the mold his father created, kept from even the most basic understanding of emotional nuances. We hide our feelings within our small circle, become one with our demon kin, but him? He longs for something else, even if he does not conceive of more.” His smile turned wistful and sad. “He is meant for more, I can feel it. Meant for greater things than he has yet encountered as a shadow knight. There are things I have foreseen, but do not yet comprehend, regarding his path.” His red eyes rose to pierce Brenaith’s. “I believe that the elven gods are taking a hand in this, changing his destiny in ways we cannot see.”
Brenaith shifted, his lip curling, gesturing at the knight’s wounds. “They are not beholden to mercy then. I would not trust their actions, if this is their way.”
“Gods are not merciful. They see more than we do, know things we can never comprehend. To achieve the greater good, they take action in what way seems best. The individual is moved to create the path needed. What we think we need and want is not always what is best for the future.” Pensir was frighteningly calm and confident in his words, like he knew this for fact, rather than conjecture.
Brenaith grimaced. “All the more reason to distrust them. Whatever their purpose, they will not protect any of us from harm.”
Pensir watched him, red eyes dark with hidden thoughts. He did not elaborate further, did not dispute Brenaith’s bitter words.
“What happened here?” Brenaith gestured beyond the doors.
“The gods themselves. When Lutan was taken, contained, as you have told us, then the elven gods descended upon this fortress, opened portals and forced the demons back to their plane of existence.” Pensir’s tone held no clue as to his own experiences during the attack.
“But you are still here…” Brenaith’s confusion bled into his tone.
“We are. We do not know why.” His eyes slid to his youngest brother, so terribly still. “Perhaps it was because we are half bloods and the demon world did not call to us as strongly. Perhaps it was for this, that we must keep protecting him, now more than ever. With the demons gone, the humans will rise again, and they will have no ability to see him as changed. They will only see one of the shadow knights, who subjugated their people, destroyed their lives. He will be a target.”
That knowing red gaze fell once more on Brenaith. “And you, little human, where shall you stand?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brenaith was to ponder that question for the next several hours as he watched the Elites work as a well-organized team. Tar and Naban had found some raw ingredients that might be used for the burns, but food had become of paramount importance. Tar, surprisingly, turned out to be a very good cook, and he managed to make a hot supper in the remains of the vast kitchens. Pensir and Naban helped him bring it up to the rooms, a long trek.
Spensa was still deeply asleep, and Pensir woke him with clear reluctance, having to shake him for several minutes before he could sufficiently rouse Spensa to even a small degree of awareness. He ate with painful slowness, Pensir prodding him now and then to persuade him to consume more. The moment he was done, Pensir and Naban took his arms and steered him back to the couch, where he collapsed once more and was instantly asleep.
Pensir frowned and stroked back his dark hair. “Is this normal? Did the healing harm him?”
Tar shook his head wearily from where he sat at the table, dirty dishes littering its surface, head in his hands. “He has never had to use his tal
ents so deeply. I don’t know, brother.”
Brenaith had resumed his station upon the bed, but this time, he lay prone next to Shaynith-una, not quite touching, but letting his own body heat kept the cold at bay. He watched the others in silence, feeling as helpless as they seemed to.
Naban had taken over the desk, reading a book of medicines, then referring to it often as he began to crush the ingredients into a stone bowl, muttering under his breath as he mixed in additional herbs, then some sort of thick, viscous liquid that looked plant-like in origin. In time, he had a thick ointment that he added a tiny amount of water to, so that it was somewhat workable.
Brenaith rose from his spot when he saw Naban bring the bowl to the bed, and with great patience and delicacy, the two of them began to smear the mixture over the burns.
Shaynith-una flinched under the first ministrations, his body trying to recoil from their touch, but as the ointment began to kill the pain, as the burns were protected from the air, he very gradually began to relax. His breathing seemed stronger, and on occasion his eyes slitted open for a few moments before they would slide closed, and he would slip away once more.
Brenaith was glad that he remained mostly unconscious. What they were doing could not possibly be less than extremely painful. The longer the shadow knight could avoid the reality of his wounds, the better. Perhaps they could get it under control before he was ever completely conscious of it.
He bandaged the knight’s wrists and ankles with tender care, sickening memories of his body strung tightly, wracked with agony, making him swallow back bile. The way the knight had reacted upon awakening, his comments about Brenaith being alive, made it increasingly evident that whatever Shaynith-una’s true feelings about Brenaith, there had been some attempt to save him from the elven High King’s plans, perhaps even to lying. It was hard to forget that moment though, and the look from cold, red eyes as he had reminded Brenaith of his heritage, of his father.
They were so far apart. Human opposed to an elven demon. Was it possible for there to be any understanding between them at all? Now, as Pensir said, the demons were gone. Humans would rule once more. What place could there possibly be for a demon demigod and four half blood demons? They would be hunted down and, with righteous and understandable fury, killed. For so long, Brenaith had dreamed of such a moment, of the demons conquered, driven back, made to pay for their crimes. He had often envisioned murdering Stratlin in creative fashions, or the others that had sated their lusts upon his body, leaving him broken and bleeding.
Now, that need for vengeance was nowhere near so clear-cut.
And what of him? Could he stand aside and watch his fellow humans kill them? The likelihood of him being able to protect them was almost nil. No human would believe him, or take the time to find out otherwise. Hatred for what the demons had done was going to be a driving force once the humans realized they were finally free and began to pick up their lives, count the cost of what the demons had destroyed.
Forgiveness would be far, far in the future, if at all.
Yet, in some part of him, now he never questioned that he would stay with Shaynith-una. He could not say he understood himself or his motivations in the least, but it was clear in his mind that he would travel with them, see them safe. What happened after…
“You will not survive here,” he whispered, before looking up to meet Tar’s frown. “You will be hunted, once they know you are alive. Once they know that Shaynith-una is a shadow knight, there will be no stopping them.”
“We need to get to the demon world,” Naban growled, finishing the last of the wounds and stepping back to wipe his fingers clean of the ointment.
“They did not let us through the portal,” Tar grunted. “I have no faith they will allow us now, even if we could find one that led home.”
“There is somewhere else…” Pensir’s voice held hesitation, as though he were not sure of his facts. “Somewhere I have read about.” He stepped away, striding across the room, stepping up on the library ladder to run fingertips across the spines of the older books near the top.
It took some time as he pulled out volume after volume, only to return them to their places with a muttered curse. At last, he freed a thin, well-worn book, eyes lighting as he turned the pages. He slid down the ladder with amazing speed and dexterity, bringing the volume to the bed where he laid it upon the covers near Shaynith-una’s feet. Pointing to an illustration with one clawed finger, he turned it so they could all see.
The picture showed a celebration of some sort, musicians and jugglers, food and games. The detail was amazing, the artist of note. But it was the subject that was truly eye-catching.
Different races, many of them, together and seeming completely at ease with each other, many of them hand in hand in dance.
Brenaith stared in fascination, then leaned closer, frowning. “Are they pure races? That one seems demon, and yet not, and that elf seems—different.”
Pensir gave a small smile that showed the edges of his fangs. “You have a good eye for detail. The story speaks of the land of Redhill, a meeting place of those who were born of violence, who had been rejected by their parents’ cultures. A land of half-bloods.”
His finger slid down the page. “And those who seek this land shall find it in their hearts, shall find the path brought to their sight through belief, in the Mountains of Sharda, in the shadow of the great falls,” he quoted.
Naban snorted. “Well, that is suitably vague. The likelihood of finding it seems about even with surviving here. It is a story, Pen, little more than that. We cannot drag Shay on a quest for a myth.”
Pensir glared. “There was a book back in the demon plane which mentioned the exact same thing. Have you got any other place to lead us to safety?”
Naban crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. “We need to have more than a dream to work with. You and your books!”
Pensir growled, lunged forward, only for Tar to pull him back against his chest, stilling the struggle of the smaller demon with relative ease.
“Shh. Naban means no insult.” His fulminating look at Naban made the other roll his eyes in response, but Naban sent a nod in Pensir’s direction.
“I don’t understand your ways,” Naban said. “Just as you do not understand my love of the sword, but you are my brother, so I guess I will listen.” The grudging tone held a certain affectionate amusement that seemed at odds with his gruff nature.
Pensir growled and shook off Tar’s hold before tugging his clothing straight and pointedly turning his back upon Naban.
Brenaith interrupted the conflict. “I think I know of these mountains.”
The demons stopped, staring at him in disbelief.
He flushed and shrugged. “My king, Tynan, once met a merchant who claimed to come from the east, the far, far east, over the inland sea and from a city at the base of the Sharda peaks. We did not believe him, thought it was one of the wild tales that peddlers are so fond of sharing for a cup of good mead. But the detail he spoke of… If it was a story, then he certainly had gone to a great deal of trouble to create a world of detail.”
Pensir sucked in a breath, leaning toward him, his uninjured right wing flaring out in excitement, almost clipping Naban on the nose with the tip of it. “Truly? He spoke of Sharda?”
Brenaith struggled to remember the encounter. “He said that he came from the east, far beyond the borders of the mountains here, to the inland sea, and beyond. That the Sharda Mountains were so massive that they could be seen after two days of sailing, but that it would take a week to get there.” He shook his head. “It seemed beyond belief, and he did not push the matter. Just told stories at the feasts for a week or so and then moved on. I had forgotten all about it until you mentioned Sharda.”
Pensir flapped his wing, making Naban lean back with a scowl. He turned to look at Tar pleadingly. “You see, what is the chance that Brenaith would have heard of this place as well? There must be some truth to the matter. If we cou
ld find it, Shay would be safe, we would be safe, at least until we are allowed home.”
Tar frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze roaming the comfortable room. “We would have to find or create packs for each of us and build something to carry Shay in. This would not be easy. The eastern border is up through a pass. We would have to make it through in the next two weeks or the weather will turn foul and we would be trapped. That requires long days and some brutally steep paths.”
“We cannot stay here. It will not be long until the humans discover the broken gates and they will come to strip this place bare.” Pensir’s saddened gaze roamed over the books and various artifacts Shaynith-una had collected. “I can’t bear to think of them pawing through his things. I could see them burning the books. Some of them are in demon, and they will never see the value in them.”
Tar nodded, his expression grim at the thought. “We have the wagon and horse.”
Naban turned to face him with disbelief evident. “You just said we had to travel light. Now you are suggesting we take the whole damn room with us? They are books!”
Pensir growled. “Yes, they are books, you idiot. Valuable knowledge encased in their pages. For example—Redhill.”
Naban scowled back. “This is our survival we are talking about, fleeing from the humans, and you would have us travel at the pace of a wagon? Tar, you cannot be serious.”
The largest Elite shrugged. “It will do no harm, and if, in the end, we cannot take it all the way to Redhill, then we will hide the wagon and load the horse with our goods. That will lighten our load and speed the progress.”
Naban snorted, sending a glare at Pensir. “Your obsession is going to get us killed, brother.” He whirled on his heel. “I am going to do something needful, like search the place for useful items that might keep us alive in this madness, since you are both taking us on this fool’s quest.” He strode from the room, wings held high and tight against his back in a clear sign of anger.