The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  Roidan sighed and scratched his nose. “Care to explain this fracas, Malik?”

  Long of red hair and drooping mustache, King Roidan’s pale blue eyes missed little. They swept over us in less than a heartbeat and knew more of what on in the undertones than we did. Roidan’s family line held more power, more subtlety, and far more intelligence than our wisest mages. His eyes knew what we but suspected, his eyes saw clearer than a Griffin’s predatory gaze, his wisdom surpassed that of the professors teaching at university. His power, and that of his ancestors, kept Bryn’Cairdha safe for generations uncounted. He commanded. We obeyed.

  “I’m to blame,” I burst out as Malik’s jaw dropped to speak.

  Roidan’s eyes widened in mild surprise.

  “Your Majesty,” I amended, ducking my brow while still holding a struggling Sky Dancer still. Through my inattention, my will conquering hers slackened. She reclaimed her own, and coiled like a striking cobra. Despite her injuries, that girl was far stronger than I. I growled under my breath at Wind Warrior, and he increased his weight on her shoulder and thrashing lion quarters. Sky Dancer hissed malevolently and tried to throw me off.

  Roidan leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. He wore as he usually did, a simple robe of light brown silk, belted with bright yellow satin, and brown slippers on his wasted feet. No crown graced his head, nor did he need one. A simple rope of twisted gold graced his thin neck, yet he carried his royalty as a cavalry soldier carries his nation’s banner. He needed no crown or rich brocade to declare him King and fit to rule.

  Crippled from the waist down from an Raithin Mawrn attack many years before, King Roidan still commanded the loyalty and respect of his people, his vassals and his military arms. Despite his infirmity, the King led his country through wars and famine, drought and pestilence, plenty and riches. He took power at the ripe age of fourteen, led soldiers into battle and kept them alive. None in the Atani order sought a leader more worthy to follow.

  “Why is that miscreant here and annoying me, Malik?” Roidan asked, his brows lowering. “I thought you killed him long ago.”

  “My apologies, sire,” Malik replied, once more bending his great knee. “I didn’t know where he was until recently.”

  “He’s a traitor and a murderer,” Roidan snapped, scowling. “How dare you bring him here. Why is he wearing my uniform? My uniform!”

  “Sire.” Malik stepped forward and blocked the King’s view of me with his heavy body. “The error is mine, as is your punishment.”

  He bowed his dark head, his dark hair swinging low, covering his face. “But I brought him because I need him. He’s the best there is, and you need the best if we’re to rescue your daughter. Your Majesty.”

  “I don’t like it,” the King snapped. “I don’t like him. He’s a disgrace to all you stand for. All you should stand for.”

  “Your Majesty is, of course, correct,” Malik replied, his voice, soft, mild, respectful. “Right now, I’ll hire the demons vomited from hell if it means bringing the princess home safe.”

  “I think you bloody well did.”

  Malik merely lowered his noble brow and said nothing.

  From the floor, I watched as King Roidan’s hot stare flicked from me to Malik and back again. “Damn it, Commander,” Roidan groused, his anger plain. “Don’t you dare manipulate me. You’re manipulating me again, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Captain Vanyar.” Roidan barked, struggling to his feet.

  Daragh stepped forward to assist him with his hand under the King’s left arm. Only then could Roidan stand. His royal right finger pointed down, at me, marking, condemning. His angry stare behind it chilled the blood in my veins. “I haven’t forgotten your stupidity, boy,” he growled. “You killed my soldiers.”

  “I did, Your Majesty.”

  I bowed my head, still pinning Sky Dancer’s beak to the slate floor, wishing either Malik wasn’t so desperate nor Iyumi so stupid. Without them, I’d be safe in my tavern, forgotten and alive. The King’s voice promised a very long, excruciating, execution. Why did I leave my flask behind in Malik’s private chamber? I craved a drink. I didn’t just crave it, I bloody needed it.

  “When this is over –”

  He didn’t need to finish. His eyes said it all. You’re one dead Shifter.

  “I’m yours, Your Majesty,” I replied, my voice thick. Lying on my back, my arms around Sky Dancer’s head, I no doubt appeared as idiotic as my words. Her cheek against my chest, her deadly beak widened and snapped perilously close to my nose. I grimaced with the effort, as she tried to raise her head enough to throw me off. “Execute me, please. I deserve it.”

  He sighed, still annoyed, but his finger dropped. “Not until my daughter is returned. Should you prove your loyalty in this endeavor, I’ll see to it personally you die an honorable death.”

  “All I can ask for, Majesty.”

  The conversation rattled me enough that trying to force calm into Sky Dancer’s agitated brain proved useless. I had none of my own to offer her. Only by utilizing both rapidly weakening magic and Wind Warrior’s strength did I keep her flat on her side, her head on my chest. I snorted tiny feathers, and fought for my own breath. Her head was bloody heavy. Her tail struck the floor, and Wind Warrior’s beak, time and again, lashing, as she growled low in her throat. I ducked my head and evaded a deadly slash from those wicked front talons.

  “Kill him now,” growled a voice from the back. That same voice I heard before but couldn’t identify. Malik half-turned, his heavy tail swinging against his hocks as he, too, sought to put a name, a face to the voice. He scowled, his hand on his sword, as Padraig also turned and searched.

  “Interesting suggestion,” Roidan said, his fingers stroking his chin as he frowned, deep in thought. His dark eyes speculated as they rested on me. “Shall I?”

  “Please don’t, sire,” I replied, gasping with effort and breathlessness. “Malik needs me, to get your daughter back. I’ll surrender, after we have her home.”

  “Malik? Do you truly need this egotistical, murdering scoundrel to bring Iyumi home?”

  Malik nodded slowly. “Sire, I did fetch him from the gutter specifically for this mission. Otherwise, I’d let him rot in the hell he chose for himself. Only he has the skills I need to bring Her Highness back. I know he’s a, pardon the pun, royal pain –”

  “I should have locked him away years ago. For his own safety, of course.”

  “I know, sire. He’s certainly not worthy to breathe the same air as Your Majesty. However, his skills are legendary and I do need him. The Princess Iyumi is in grave danger.”

  “But – him?” Roidan sighed, resting his chin on his fist. “Come on, Malik. An officer as competent as you surely can find someone – er, less criminal.”

  Malik bowed over his arm across his chest. “Not in the short time we have, Your Majesty. I swear I’ll keep him under control. His murdering self shall never trouble you.”

  Into this heated mix, the tiny Griffin Healer, Ilirri, darted into the room from behind His Majesty’s royal escort of Centaurs and human soldiers. Her swift eyes fastened on Sky Dancer, and she spread her wings. Half the size of most Griffins, she flew across the blackened table in a graceful leap, ignoring King and Atani commanders alike. Every eye, including Cian’s, watched her with awe. Only one so dedicated to her patients might fail to acknowledge her liege lord and master. Or the heavy armaments of the Atani.

  Dropping lightly to all fours, her lion tail lashing, Ilirri furled her wings. Her beak bent down and her bright amber eyes focused on Sky Dancer, assessing her injuries with the swift skill that prevented many deaths among my Atani brothers and sisters. Without fuss or drama, her talons closed over Sky Dancer’s broad brow.

  “Has it been five minutes, Malik?” King Roidan asked, baffled.

  “No, sire,” Malik replied as Llyr returned to his spot against the wall, gasping for breath. His arrow return
ed to its bow-string as his spine stiffened. His blank eyes stared straight ahead of him, although triumph seeped from his pores.

  “Crap,” Roidan muttered, sour. “I might have saved myself a few pennies.”

  “Let her go, Vanyar,” Ilirri snapped, raising her beak. “You’re no good there. You, too, Wind Warrior. You’re hurting her.”

  “But –” I said, “she’ll, er –”

  On the receiving end of her fierce raptor glare, I obeyed. Releasing Sky’s Dancer’s head, I rolled out from under as Dancer flipped her beak upward, in triumph. Sky Dancer tried once to rise and fight – but only once. Ilirri muttered under her breath and Sky Dancer collapsed in a heap, her blackened wings falling like limp sails. Her beak rested atop her talons as her tufted lion tail ceased its lash.

  I staggered upright, feeling slightly woozy from the terrible drain on my powers and energy. In addition to changing my body into a liquid, I hadn’t used my magic much in the last two years and I was out of practice. Between the two, I’ll have one hell of a headache come tomorrow.

  “Give me room, boys,” Ilirri snapped at us, her lion tail lashing with annoyance. Her neck feathers ruffled as she once more concentrated on her unconscious patient. “Begone with you.”

  “But –”

  “Wind Warrior, I’m not telling you again.”

  “But –” Wind Warrior repeated, however my hand on his feathered forearm halted further protest.

  “Leave go,” I muttered, leading him away. “Trust me, you’re well out of it.”

  The big Griffin’s beak shut tight as he permitted me to guide him from Sky Dancer’s side. Although we both hesitated, and glanced back with concern, Ilirri had her patient well in hand. “She’s a bitch when she’s healing,” I muttered.

  “Vanyar.”

  Though Ilirri’s voice held nothing save quiet assurance, I recognized a threat when I heard it. Ilirri was no Griffin to mess with. Those who pissed off Ilirri often issued swift and genuine apologies before certain important bits vanished without a trace. One Centaur I refuse to name was still missing his elemental genitalia as he never acknowledged he wronged her. His parents named him Radu, the Atani ranked him First Sergeant, and malicious folks called him ‘Entire’ although he certainly wasn’t.

  “Ilirri.”

  I bowed low even as I dragged Wind Warrior with me, staggering under the weight of a Griffin several times larger than a draft horse. He shut his beak, I noticed with pleasure, as he caught the nasty flash from her predatory gaze. He gulped and swept his tail protectively over his precious bits.

  “Sir, is she really –” Wind Warrior began, casting a quick glance over his massive shoulder.

  “That bad?”

  “Um –”

  “No, son,” I replied, tugging on his arm. “She’s far worse.”

  Sky Dancer slept, free of pain, ignorant of the drama enfolding, her mind and body open for Ilirri’s healing magic. Her huge and blackened wings drooped, half-hiding the smaller Griffin behind them, collapsing like limp sails. Sky Dancer’s eagle eyes slid shut, just as my tentative probe into her mind fell far short.

  “Beat it, Vanyar.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  At the same moment we boys retreated, Ilirri’s clever talons worked loose the buckle on the leather satchel she carried across her neck and shoulder. Ointments and powders spilled out as she selected what she wanted. As Sky Dancer’s burns were extensive, Ilirri emptied her vials in a hurry.

  Under our fascinated gaze, the King’s included, Ilirri shut her tawny eyes and her breathing evened. Under her power, Sky Dancer slept, oblivious, no longer in pain and her healing just beginning. As Ilirri’s talents healed me more times than I cared to count, I knew Sky Dancer lay in the nation’s best talons. No one, inside or outside the royal court, could heal as well as Ilirri. In that, Malik stood second best in the lives saved.

  “I’ll fix her,” Ilirri muttered as her healing magic poured into Sky Dancer. Her small beak lifted as she gazed over her tawny shoulder. “I know a spell, an old one, that speeds the regrowth of feathers.”

  She swiftly dipped her beak, finally acknowledging her King. “Majesty, she’ll be flying again in a few days, you can count on it.”

  “Good,” Roidan replied. “I’ve a feeling I’m going to need her.”

  His pale eyes rested once more upon me. Freed from constraint, I stood and offered a much improved salute, my arm across my chest and my chin lowered. I half-thought he’d speak to me, yet he didn’t. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried.

  “Now then,” Roidan snapped, garnering our immediate attention. “What happened here?”

  “Your Majesty –” Malik began.

  At the same time, I burst out, “Cian has hated me since –”

  “Captain Vanyar,” Roidan barked. “When I want your opinion, I’ll send a memo. When I want your advice, I’ll give it to you. Until then, shut thy mouth.”

  I obeyed, with a snap.

  “Lord Captain Malik.”

  “Sire.”

  “What in the name of creation happened here?”

  In true Centaur form, Malik glanced from me, to Cian and finally to his liege lord. “Cian is a traitor,” he replied simply, his hand loose at his sides.

  Roidan scowled. “I should name that idiot Vanyar as head of my Atani,” he muttered. “I know that much, Commander. Don’t push my good nature. I’m rather irritated these days.”

  “Very well.”

  Malik straightened his spine and his heavy tail lashed. “Cian mounted an unprovoked attack against First Captain Vanyar, and grievously injured Lieutenant Sky Dancer instead. Though his treachery was not aimed at Your Majesty, his actions are deemed vile, venomous and unworthy of an Atan, nor a Bryn’Cairdhan citizen. I recommend he be hanged forthwith.”

  “That’s the Malik I hired,” Roidan muttered, smiling. “You’re ever bloodthirsty, conniving, and simply too loyal for words. I always knew you’d side with the just, the pure. And, um, me.”

  “He hasn’t been tried yet,” I gasped, stumbling forward, breathless and falling to my knees. “Not yet guilty and all that.”

  Freed from Sky Dancer responsibility, Wind Warrior followed, his huge wings wide and sheltering me. His oddly protective stance brought forth feelings of both gratitude and horror from within me. I almost got Sky Dancer a fiery funeral and this old boy likes me?

  “Cian deserves death,” Wind Warrior grumbled, his talon on my shoulder. “Why do you protect him, Van? Captain, I mean.”

  I rose to my feet, angrily brushing his talons away. “He has the right,” I growled, unable to control my tone even in Roidan’s presence. “As do we all.”

  Malik eyed me up and down, dispassionate before turning to address the King. “He does have a point, Majesty.”

  “And a valid one, damn it all.” Roidan sighed deeply and scratched his thin chest. “I want to execute him, feed my bloodthirsty nature. I haven’t presided over an execution in months.”

  Resting his chin on his fist, his elbow on the mahogany planked table, his light blue eyes roamed, measured, sized up. They roamed over the council chamber, assessing, reading each face, each stance, his powers picking stray thoughts from those present: who hated whom, who felt fanatic loyalty, who felt jealousy, anger, love, lust or just plain old ordinary greed. No set of eyes that met his failed to drop instantly to the slate at his or her feet. Cian paled, his skin ghostly under his bruises and blood, as the King’s royal eye marked him.

  That acute blue gaze rested on me at the last. His glance shifted from my face to the sword at my hip and back again. His right brow lifted. Without thought, or guidance from me, my hand dropped to its hilt.

  Ba’al’amawer bowed low, from his waist. “We all bend the knee to your despotic and bloodthirsty rulership, Your Majesty. But pray tell, have mercy. Throw this traitor into the dungeon until he can be tried and convicted. He has served you well in the past.”

  “Oh, both
er.” King Roidan eyed Cian with distaste before jerking his chin toward the Minotaur Chieftain. “Imprisoning him means I have to feed him and I’m much too miserly for that.”

  My fingers roved over the ornate hilt belted to my hip, lingered over the falcon’s parted beak. Its wide-spread wings formed the crosspiece and twin sapphires rested where a falcon’s raptor gaze might see. I frowned. As Roidan leaned upon Daragh’s strong arm and sat once more on the cushions of his sedan chair with a sigh, I remembered with a sharp jolt upon whose hands I received it.

  From Roidan himself. On the very day I swore my oaths as an Atan.

  At the same instant, as though reading my mind, Roidan glanced from my face, down to the gold inlaid hilt under my palm and back again. That’s twice now. Is he trying to tell me something? He tossed me a lightning fast wink, so quick I doubted I’d seen it. Yet, his face remained mildly reproving, as before.

  I pondered the wink and the sword. He wanted me to think about it. No one else received such a gift on the occasion they joined the military. I had. Why? I never stopped wondering why I, among them all, earned the King’s favor and with such a weapon. My thoughts wandered away from the current debacle to that day when I donned the Atani uniform and the Death’s Head ring.

  Caught between boy and man, I knelt before King Roidan, my bare head lowered. Even in his chair, he looked down on me, as befitted the ruling monarch. Throngs packed his throne room: many relatives, no few nobles, and a quarter of his military forces. Griffins perched on tall pillars built for them. Minotaurs, heads above all others, ringed the great hall. Centaurs mingled with humans, joking, laughing, teasing the soon-to-be Atani recruits. Malik, a Captain then, stood at my shoulder as my sponsor.

  “I’ve instilled it with much power”, Roidan told me on that long ago day in a ceremony most had forgotten, his breath tickling my ear. “Use it. Cut your arm with it, now. Bathe it in your blood so it may know you.”

  Fifteen years old, I obeyed him. Its razor edge sliced my inner arm, my hot blood coating its blue-tinged length. I felt little pain and no alarm as the tempered steel, folded thousands upon thousands of times, absorbed, no, sucked in, my essence. I never forgot how it glowed blue, as though with an inner light, upon receiving my sacrifice.