Seon's Freedom

by Lisa Daniels

  Priya gave a loud, heart rending wail. “No! Not my daughter. Please…”

  Erlandur clanked in closer, his dark blue eyes narrowed. “Is there nothing you can do, witches?”

  “I can only siphon the blood. Delay it,” Raine said. “Like I’ve been doing for the past week. It’s not an ideal solution.”

  The past week? How long have I been out?

  Then, again, insidious, invasive: Give in.

  The voice got louder with each iteration, first like a heartbeat, now like an insisting thumping, a cacophonous noise that threatened to drown out everything else.

  Her soul sank, as the realization dug in. “I’m turning into a Shadow?”

  No one spoke for a moment. Then, Raine nodded. “Yes. I can draw some blood out of you now, delay it…”

  “But you can’t stop it?”

  “No.”

  Give in.

  Raine took out a syringe, holding the needle over a candle flame. “My mother tried everything to fight it. But she knew she was losing. She said… she described a voice. Something that kept telling her to give in. She said it consumed her mind.”

  A beat. Give in.

  “I hear it. The same words. ‘Give in.’ Nothing else.”

  Raine checked to make sure it was alright, before sticking the needle in, and siphoning murky gray-red blood into the syringe. A horrible, draining sensation, along with the pinch of pain made her lie back, dizzy. The needle retracted, and Yarrow breathed in relief.

  “It’s a signal,” Erlandur said then.

  Yarrow squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then clutched at Raine’s hand. “Where are we?”

  “The Fractured Spine,” Raine answered. “We repelled the attack. And we made it to the clan. Not without some losses. About forty-three werewolves died. But hundreds of Shadows died.”

  “And the Supreme?”

  Give in.

  “Got away,” Erlandur grunted. “But when it went, the Shadows stopped attacking.”

  Disappointment crashed. After everything, they didn’t kill the Supreme. Even with Erlandur. They had lost numbers. They achieved nothing.

  And they hadn’t even made it to the Fractured City yet.

  “What will happen to my daughter?” Hragun snarled. “Will she die? Is it inevitable? Is there nothing anyone can do?”

  Raine stared at Erlandur, and the undead wolves that hovered outside. Erlandur set his jaw. “There are some options, but you’re not going to like any of them.”

  Give in.

  “Let’s hear them,” Yarrow said, attempting to inject some enthusiasm into her tone. Everyone looked at her as though she was dead already.

  I’m not dead yet. I still have breath.

  “One. You become a Shadow. We imprison you, and use your blood to help make weapons and armor.” He snapped his fingers as Hragun grunted, displeased and disgusted with the idea. “Two. We kill you. Nothing else. Three. We try and delay this and figure out something else, somehow. Four… I turn you into one of these.” He indicated the undead wolves. “A fighting undead witch. But you will have no mind of your own.”

  Give in.

  At this, Priya reached a hand across to rest in on Yarrow’s stomach. “No. Absolutely not. My daughter will not become… an aberration. Anything but to see her face… devoid. Lifeless.”

  “I do not know how the undead spell will work for a witch, though,” Erlandur admitted, ignoring Priya’s concern. “And there is one more option.”

  “Tell me,” Yarrow croaked, desperate for any answer to her predicament.

  “Don’t give in.”

  Raine gaped. “What?” A sliver of grief infused her expression. “But…”

  “I know your mother died. I know it became too much for her,” he said, though there was no kindness in his voice. “But perhaps if Yarrow learns to deal with the voice, she might be okay. Though she won’t have the same magic as before.”

  Don’t… give in? Easier said than done. The voice kept pounding at her subconscious, weakening her resolve, lowering her mental barriers.

  Give in.

  “She’ll need someone with her at all times, to make sure she doesn’t fail. Or to trap her if she starts converting.” Erlander said in a matter of fact tone. “There’s something I want to talk to her about, though. In private. Please leave us for a moment.”

  Reluctantly, everyone left, though Yarrow’s mother and father took the longest to leave.

  Yarrow glared at him in suspicion. The magic she reviled now pulsed through her veins, corrupted her skin.

  “Let me tell you something I haven’t admitted to anyone else.” Erlandur leaned closer then, his breath heating her ear, making her shiver. “I hear the voice every day as well.” He revealed a part of his arm, normally concealed under a long fitting sleeve. Black veins protruded. “It’s not easy. And you must always be vigilant. But it is possible.”

  He squeezed her hand briefly, before leaving, letting the others pour back in again.

  Yarrow let their concerns wash over her.

  Give in.

  She gritted her teeth. The voice didn’t go away.

  It might never stop.

  Chapter Four

  Production levels were high. Vrin observed as witches, guided by Raine, extracted black blood from their prisoners, using the magic afterwards to upgrade and enchant all weapons. Their pride and glory displayed in a ballista that sat upon a small tower, also made by the enchantment witch. The Spine wolves were a frosty lot, living close to the dark spirals of the city themselves. In the daylight, Vrin saw the peak of one of those towers in the distance, within the heart of the Fractured City. Beyond the Fractured Spine homes, extensive barriers existed, helping to separate the Spine wolves from the evil influence of the city.

  To live so close to the Shadow homeland must be a terrifying ordeal. Vrin admired the Spine for holding onto their ancestral homes instead of relocating to safer areas. Spine defenses were far more advanced than Lunehill ones. They had sentries patrolling the tops of walls. The main base resembled a huge fort, complete with wall top defenses, towers, including the one with the long ranged ballista, charcoal lines preserved in tubes to protect them from the weather which could be easily refilled… he began making notes. Then he stopped.

  No point making notes if none of them returned.

  Kain and Erlandur stood with the legendary Spine chieftain, Targun Wasteborn, along with his son Nox. The Spine chieftain wore a pure white skin in wolf form, bigger than any wolf Vrin had ever seen. The tales, maybe exaggerations, claimed that he was once along against a hundred Shadows, and he managed to slaughter every one without a scratch.

  They talked of the oncoming expedition, of the dozens of Shadow prisoners they kept, and the massive undertaking of enchanting all the weapons to make them a worthy fighting force.

  Production took weeks. And no one wanted to go into the Fractured City unprepared. In the meanwhile, in the swarm of everyday life, the small ideological clashes between leaders, Vrin knew of one individual who suffered day and night. He spotted her now, stationed upon a lonely tower, watched by a guard to make sure she kept the corruption in check.

  His heart twitched in sympathy. That beautiful woman with the black veins in her arms had become more withdrawn, less prone to talk to anyone, except for Vrin, Erlandur, Raine, and her family. Whatever secret words Erlandur had told her instilled some iron in her soul. A small streak of jealously writhed at the thought that Erlandur gave the witch something he could not.

  He had carried her, helped hunt for her. He had scooped her from the ground when the blow had knocked her out, defended her limp form against other Shadows until the assault stopped, and her family took over the task of caring for her. He had asked often for her, but Hragun rejected his concern, wanting everyone but Raine and Erlandur to stay away from his precious offspring.

  Vrin hopped over the tower steps, his leg muscles contracting with the effort. He smiled at the guard who recognized
his high status as a Lunehill council member, and stepped aside, allowed him to stand next to Yarrow.

  Her gaze seemed far away, clouded over as she wrestled with whatever prevalent thought scratching at her sanity. Eventually, she noticed Vrin by her side, and those dark eyes return to a semblance of clarity. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he replied, trying to keep the pity out of his voice. She didn’t need pity. She required strength and confidence. Something to help her battle against whatever it was that consumed from within.

  “I’m sorry about my father.”

  “Don’t be. It’s obvious he cares about you deeply. He’s a good man.” Vrin checked out the view from their vantage point, seeing the wooden floorings of the battlements, and a few loitering Shadows groping at their defenses, before some well-aimed arrows ended them.

  “I don’t know if I can keep this up,” Yarrow said, strife in her tone. “The weeks are passing. And the voice is still there, as strong as ever. It’s worse when I’m trying to sleep at night. It’s better if I’m… doing something. But I don’t feel like doing anything. There’s just emptiness.”

  Vrin didn’t understand emptiness in the way she addressed. He did, however, realize that she likely felt as if she constantly hovered between the border of life and death. Of giving into the thing she despised.

  They despised.

  He placed his hand firmly on her shoulder, acting as a bastion of strength and comfort. Whatever happened, this woman needed to know that all hope was not yet lost. The strange, magnetic connection that drew him to her pulsed stronger than ever.

  I can help her. Whatever’s there in her head, I can assist. A lot of dedication, sure. In the Lunar Wastes though, you either fully dedicated yourself to something, or you spent your life as a ghost, watching as the war raged about you.

  “If you keep thinking of nothing but it, it will eventually devour you. You need more to life than the constant fear that you’re on borrowed time.” He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, though no appreciation showed upon her face.

  “I think I’d rather die than have this. And my magic…” she raised up her arms, displaying the knotted black veins, “it doesn’t work anymore. I don’t have that familiar warmth. There is something else, though. And I’m afraid to touch it. I know it’s… dangerous.”

  “All magic is dangerous,” Vrin reminded her.

  “Not like this,” she hissed. “Not like the Shadows.” She bit her lip, before sighing and lolling in the seat, bereft of will and energy. “I want my magic back. I want to be able to shock those moon cursed bastards back into the holes they crawl out of.”

  “Maybe we will find a chance for you yet. Don’t be so quick to fall into despair.”

  Now she squinted at him, suspicious, and the expression irritated him.

  “What do you care about what I think and what I do, anyway? I mean, once the march goes off, I’ll be a liability. I came to kill, but I’m the one who is in need of killing.”

  Finally, her attitude got to him. Irritation flashed. “You need to stop with this.” Vrin flicked her on the face, making her flinch in shock. “Yes, you could die. Yes you might turn into whatever is in you, and yes some people do think you’re better off dead. But I happen to remember a strong-willed woman who came all the way to Lunehill, convinced that she, along with her Dreadwood clan mates, could bring the fight to the Shadows. This attitude gets you nowhere.”

  Her face hardened. “Leave me. I don’t want to speak to you.”

  Vrin had to respect her wishes, especially when she turned the shoulder and rejected any more of his attempts to touch.

  However, over the coming days, he noted small changes in her. She went through her brooding period, then plucked up opportunities to speak to him again, to prise out of him his peculiar brand of optimism and practicality. Somewhere, he knew that she was clinging for reasons to keep going, and in Vrin came a voice of support that grounded her. It was far better than all the options she had before.

  The naysayers who shied from her in the streets as if she was already undead, like Erlandur’s wolves, or the Shadows they kept locked in their chambers became less, when Yarrow walked with a little spring in her step, instead of weighted despair.

  One morning, Vrin thought he could surprise her. He gathered some of the best Spine food together – roasted tawnuts and goose slices, politely asked to be admitted in by the guard, and walked into her writhing and tossing upon the bed, sweat pouring down her face, her fingers contorted like claws as she scraped for an invisible hand hold.

  Immediately, he placed the bowl of food down and dashed to her side, pinning her body down before she could harm herself anymore.

  “Yarrow. Yarrow! Wake up!”

  Horror seared him when she opened her eyes, and madness shone in them. Black seeped into the eyeballs, and a rattling growl reverberated at the back of her throat.

  “No. No! Fight it!”

  She clutched him by the collar of his robes, breathing fast, hissing, “I… it’s… kill…”

  Her father stumbled into the room, his eyes wide. “She’s losing!” Vrin snapped the sentence. “Can you get any of the witches? Anyone?”

  Wordlessly, her father scampered out, not even bothering to protest Vrin’s presence there. The guard vaulted into the room, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of the delirious witch. Oh sweet moon, the infection was creeping up her arms, inking into her chest.

  Raine burst into the room a moment later, followed by Hragun and Priya. Raine had the needle in her hand, and she plunged it into Yarrow’s arm when Vrin and the guard held the feverish witch down. When Raine siphoned out the blood, now far more black then red, Yarrow let out a sigh, and her convulsions ceased.

  The mood was solemn as she got shakily out of bed to wash herself.

  “I don’t know what else we can do,” Raine said softly.

  Yarrow shook her head, squeezing her mother and father’s hands. “Thank you. Please leave me with Vrin. I wish to talk to him alone.” She bent over the sink in the bedroom, splashing it over her face, limbs still quivering like a scared cat. Hragun still held a menacing aura whenever he regarded Vrin, but he conceded to his daughter’s wishes. His dying daughter’s wishes. Priya followed after him, for once, the powerful witch impotent and helpless. Raine left last with the guard, but not before taking off the tooth necklace she wore, to loop it around Yarrow’s neck.

  “May it perhaps offer you some willpower in the days to come,” the witch said.

  Yarrow swallowed, wrapping the new gift in her palm.

  Alone, Vrin waited for her to speak, though he didn’t know how to react or what to do. It seemed no matter what he said, what anyone said – the darkness would inexorably creep over her.

  “I don’t know why you keep coming to help me. Not that I’m one to complain, but it does confuse me.” Yarrow finished washing off the worst of the sweat and whirled upon him. “I’m a leper. Death breathes over me. My skin is blemished. My magic is gone. I am nothing to this world.”

  “That’s not true. You’re something. To your mother, your father. To the witches. To me.” The last words came out a whisper.

  “To you?” Her laughter came mocking, scornful. “I have not treated you the way you deserve. You keep coming to help me, you keep trying to stave off those voices, and I’m rewarding your effort with this. I don’t see what’s in it for you.”

  His heart twanged painfully. “You,” he said, eventually. Something wedged in his stomach, influenced his heartbeat. “And that mischievous witch who thought she could lure me into her bed on their first meeting.”

  She remembered that with a smile, before her face dropped. “Will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Will you come to bed with me? I don’t know how much… longer I have. I’d rather not die and never know what it was like to be with you.”

  A shiver of arousal rippled through Vrin. He moved closer to Yarrow, who watched him expectantly, a little l
ight returning to her formerly heavy eyes.

  No way. He couldn’t deny her this. Not now.

  He closed the distance, and their lips made contact for the first time.

  She wasn’t kind or gentle in the touch. She grabbed him, squeezed him to her, kissing urgently, as if any moment, something might happen to ruin the moment, to prevent her from ever experiencing him to her fullest.

  She ripped at his clothes, and he helped peel off hers between stolen kisses, using his superior strength to throw her onto the bed, and pounce above her.

  She didn’t want soft or loving. She wanted hard, rough and fast – something that made her feel, something that distracted her from the cruel voices inside.

  His erection throbbed painfully, longing for her wetness and warmth, and when he entered, she clamped her thighs around his hips, immersing herself into the act.

  He came too fast, not expecting it. The feeling enervated him, but he knew he couldn’t stop. She needed this.

  With a growl, he pulled himself out of her, and began kissing down her body, intending to fill her mind with nothing else but him.

  His heart, however, ached in both joy and sadness. Somewhere, he hoped that she wouldn’t give in.

  That she would find a way to hold the voices at bay.

  Chapter Five

  Somehow, somewhere, the incessant voice that pounded within her had quietened. She stared at the empty space where Vrin had lain next to her after their romp, and saw the cold breakfast he had intended to surprise her with.

  Honestly, she clung to him because she wanted to feel something before she died, anything but the constant reminder that darkness knocked at her door. He had been supportive, kind, solid, and she took advantage.

  Because what right did she have to like, to love, when this vile infection coursed through her veins?

  The moon shone brightly outside, staring down at her children in a brilliant gleam of yellow.

  Give in.

  She dismissed the voice, got dressed in her warmest clothes, and peeked through the keyhole of her chambers. A guard stood dutifully outside.