Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3)

by Kathrin Hutson

  Ambrous had admittedly been the first to throw such vicious stones, and it surprised him just as much as it likely had the others, if not more. He’d never been one for employing force or violence, yet he’d agreed with the others to follow Torrahs’ direction and use the wealth of knowledge at their fingertips—at least, in the beginning. The otherworldly power he’d seen in the vessel’s glowing green eyes—the omniscience—terrified him every time. And he had succumbed to the whim of his Brothers’ thirst for knowledge and understanding. In short time, Torrahs had proven himself and his great plans more conjecture than fact, more swagger than founded confidence and expectation.

  This woman-child, though, was an entirely different creature. Ambrous found himself capable of quite easily separating this gentle, naïve being they locked away from the terrible command of the immortal vessel they shackled to a chair and even then could not restrain. They were two beings entirely, and when Ambrous had had enough time to witness Torrahs treating each creature as if they were one, he had made his decision.

  His Brothers focused on honing the practical application of the wisdom they’d amassed within these stone walls, fueled with the new energy brought by Torrahs’ revelation—to wield such forces for a specific cause was possible, and it would aid them. Too blinded by their thirst for more and the promise of what their success would yield, they’d turned a blind eye to the frightened girl they’d abandoned behind a locked door in a dank, windowless room. Perhaps Ambrous had turned to caring for the blue-eyed Dehlyn out of guilt; he had been the one to cast the initial attack that first night in the tower. While he’d come to realize this Dehlyn retained little memory of her transformation, if any, he could not ignore the fact that she inhabited the same flesh he and his Brothers had assaulted. Perhaps he came to her searching for peace, for escape; Deeprock Spire hummed and crackled now with magical energy, building like boiling water before it spilled over a cauldron. Here, within the cell they called her chambers, he found relief from the electric crackle in the air and the sound of his Brothers whispering their incantations, honing their spells, preparing for the final battle.

  Admittedly, Ambrous did not fully understand what that would be. Insofar as he had seen, this battle existed only with the immortal vessel herself and remained one-sided. The green-eyed creature never fought back, never lashed out, and even when the amarach appeared to secret her away to whatever realm she inhabited in the late hours of the night, there came no retribution. Not even when Torrahs’ Ouroke companion had butchered the immortal with black wings, though that had been none of the Brotherhood’s doing and very much against their instructions. But not even then had any of these old men playing at the youthful struggles of conquest been reprimanded or punished for such an affront. The slain amarach had merely been replaced, and nothing had seemed to change beyond Torrahs’ growing irritation, increasingly apparent. Ambrous had heard of the Ouroke’s escape—they all had—and he thought their fortress far better for it. While the woman had been brazen and frightening in her own right, she was unpredictable and quite clearly out of Torrahs’ control. Henrick and Cecil had been very much the same when they’d sought to bind their own amarach decades ago. While they’d succeeded, the subsequently unfolded events had gotten them killed for their reckless folly, thus driving the Brotherhood into countless years of isolation, devouring every scrap of knowledge, and their silent fear of using everything in which that culminated. There was no place for that sort of impulsive negligence here—not when Torrahs and his Brothers seemed to foster their own particular brand of it. And Ambrous no longer wished to take part.

  That was easier said than done. He’d felt at home here for so many years, in his own solitary way, but Torrahs’ return had brought with it both a hasty command to action and an unspoken promise that anyone who did not join him in his efforts would be dealt with accordingly. Were it not for that and the fact that he hadn’t left Deeprock Spire in years—and on much younger, stronger legs—he would have left them to their own devices already. Then again, perhaps he would have stayed for Dehlyn.

  When he had given her enough time to dress herself, he turned around to find her standing beside the copper tub, the shift clinging to her still-wet body and her soaked hair tucked between the fabric and her back. With a sympathetic sigh, he reached out to untuck her damp hair, dark with water, and told her to lean slightly over the tub so he could wring it out. That was the extent of his knowledge when it came to the proper handling of women’s hair; the only man within these walls who even still possessed such growth was Nicholai, and Ambrous highly doubted the man would willingly lend Dehlyn a comb. Still, she seemed quite unbothered by her lack of suitable hygienic care, and the guileless, unsuspecting awareness behind her eyes made his heart ache.

  “That’s better,” he said, pulling a few wet strands from her cheek to tuck behind her ear. “Now, time for bed, hm?” He gave her a small, gentle smile—though it felt strained and unnatural on his face—and she responded in kind, nodding slowly as if lying on the flimsy straw pallet they’d taken no pains to provide her was just what she needed after a long day of being held captive. Ambrous followed her toward the pallet on the floor and watched her sink onto it in nearly overwhelming relief. He bent to retrieve the tray from her supper, all of which she’d eaten in a matter of minutes, but stopped when he heard her voice.

  “Will you stay here with me?” Dehlyn asked, her blue eyes glistening in the lanternlight from where she sat on the pallet. “Just for a little bit?”

  With another sigh and a small, quick chuckle to mask his regret, Ambrous stooped toward the ground to sit beside the pallet. His body groaned with the effort—his knees especially—and it took him longer than he would have liked to get there. He pulled his robes up just enough to position himself comfortably against the wall, then nodded. “Just for a little bit,” he conceded, then reached out to grab the two thin woolen blankets from the pallet. “Lie down.”

  Dehlyn did as she was told, tucking her fists up beneath her chin—as if she were twenty years younger and not yet within the body of a woman—while Ambrous covered her with the blankets. He felt her wide, curious gaze on him the entire time and tried not let himself be consumed by it; that gaze made him want to steal her away from this place, deliver her somewhere safe and kind and unassuming, and there was nothing he could do. All he could offer her were these few simple acts, and while it seemed none of his Brothers had even considered this woman-child’s state of mind or the conditions in which they kept her, even his own willingness did not feel enough.

  He glanced down at the tray beside him, upon which were scattered the remains of Dehlyn’s supper. Though the Brotherhood had food in abundance, they had somehow managed to underfeed their poor charge with crusty bread and tepid water and the occasional bruised fruit or stringy vegetable. Ambrous did not know if that form of punishment had been a direct order from Torrahs—who seemed indelibly to be delivering orders now—or if his Brothers had all come to adopt the opinion that Dehlyn did not require the same caliber of sustenance they took such pains to provide themselves. Either way, he would not stand for it.

  For the last several weeks, he’d visited this room as often as he could without drawing too much attention to his absence. His Brothers knew full well, despite his having cast foremost among them that first night in the tower, that he had no true desire for such things—no true love of sacrifice for their common aim. That was what they called it, anyway, though it seemed only a sacrifice to Ambrous himself, as he noticed his peers seemed quite willing to shave off slivers of their own humanity—their own souls—to one day puncture the immortal vessel. But they had not begrudged him his solitude. Not yet.

  Whenever he could, he slipped away to be with Dehlyn, to comfort her. The first time he’d visited, he’d found her unwashed, in a soiled dress, with tears having run grooves down her cheeks through the dirt. That was the first time he’d called for the copper tub and heated water. Rummaging through a few of the
rooms filled with random belongings leftover from the previous inhabitants of Deeprock Spire—still untouched, unsorted, having maintained the items’ surprisingly undiminished quality—he’d found two decently preserved shifts for her, which he’d washed himself and exchanged for her own. He still washed her dresses, and he’d since taken it upon himself to both heat each copper tub and procure of his choosing richly prepared meals from the Brotherhood’s own table.

  He tried to do this at least once every day for her, but sometimes it was impossible. Dehlyn did not complain. She’d stopped crying when she seemed to realize his visits would be a regular installment to her captivity. Even after they had formed some semblance of friendship, it surprised Ambrous to find that she did not attempt to sway him with pity or anger or fear. She did not pout, she did not lose her temper, and she never asked for more than what was given. Except for tonight, of course, and it made him wonder acutely what had changed.

  Now, he finally did meet the woman-child’s soft gaze, summoning a calm smile from a place he did not think existed within himself. Whatever the Brotherhood accomplished, whether they succeeded in compelling the amarach vessel to expose itself and unleash the wealth of power Torrahs claimed would then be theirs, Ambrous could not in good conscience renounce this blue-eyed Dehlyn to a fate more commonly meted out to murderers and cutthroats and thieves. He had never wanted any of this.

  As he had never before witnessed the transition, the man had not realized how quickly Dehlyn slipped from wide-eyed awareness into sleep’s embrace. He watched it come over her, like a veil being drawn behind her eyes before her lids slipped closed. Her breath deepened and slowed with surprising ease, as if she had been enchanted into such a state instead of going to it willingly. Of course, Ambrous had to concede to the fact that everything about this woman-child—and her vessel counterpart—could conceivably be labeled an enchantment. But that in and of itself did not make her a monster, to be treated by the Brotherhood as she had. This innocent, childlike creature had done absolutely nothing.

  He watched her for a few minutes more, then realized he tempted fate by lingering. Each man here knew full well by now what came for her every night, whether or not they had brought her to the tower to be tortured without result or had left her to her own devices within the four suffocating walls of this airless room. They’d stopped posting rotating sentries of old men outside her door at night weeks ago, once they’d recognized and accepted the unfailing pattern of her inevitable return. Even still, they had continued to keep the door locked; one key remained with Torrahs at all times, and its twin hung perpetually from a hook nailed to the door, as if someone had wished to retain an open invitation to ... he could not think of a suitable reason. Nor could he summon a reasonable explanation for such decisions; by day, they locked away a harmless woman-child, incapable of retaliation or deception, while by night, the immortal presence who took possession of her body could leave at will with an amarach guide, and they could do nothing to stop it.

  Still, the thought of confronting such creatures now, alone and within Dehlyn’s chambers, terrified him. To witness such a thing in the tower, surrounded by his Brothers and their consuming drive for brutal victory, had been more than enough. He placed his palms on the floor and made to push himself up, the pressure of his aching joints and aging body bringing a stifled groan. Glancing at the sleeping woman to ensure he had not woken her, he found himself meeting the steady, green-eyed gaze of the amarach vessel herself.

  Ambrous’ elbows wobbled beneath his weight, and he slumped to the floor again, his head thumping back against the stone wall behind him. Even then, he did not entirely feel the pain of it, frozen in surprise and apprehension. This should not have happened; she should not have appeared so soon. He could only lick his lips in a poor attempt to wet them, trembling beneath her gaze like an ensnared rabbit.

  The vessel blinked slowly, then pushed herself up upon the straw pallet, gently folding the woolen blankets over themselves at her feet. She offered him a slow, pensive smile beneath gentle brows drawn with grief and something akin to gratitude. “Ambrous,” she whispered, her voice low and tender, completely unlike both her few resolute words spoken in the tower and the lilting cadence of the woman-child’s speech. “Dear, sweet Ambrous.”

  The dazed Brother swallowed and nearly choked; he had not anticipated her recognition of him, though he realized he should have. The amarach vessel contained an entire universe of knowledge within a single presence—so he’d read, and so he’d been told.

  “You have no reason to fear me,” she continued, piercing his very soul with her all-seeing green gaze. “You have shown me such kindness in this place. Such compassion amidst walls and hearts of stone.”

  Ambrous felt his lips tremble, and even as he bit down on them, tears welled and spilled down the furrowed lines of his aged cheeks.

  Then the vessel shifted on the pallet to turn completely toward him, moving as close to him as she could without leaving the straw for the cold stone floor, and reached out to cover his hand with her own. Her skin was pale and smooth, unnaturally fragile and impossible-seeming in contrast with his own withered fingers, their loose skin speckled with the first signs of age spots. For a moment, Ambrous could only stare at their hands, and something finally gave him the courage to look up into her green eyes of his own choosing.

  He could not say with all certainty that it was, in fact, courage. It felt more as if her hand had left his to grasp his chin and gently lift his head, though she had done no such thing. Though he could not fathom how, looking at her filled him with a surprising peace, as if everything he’d ever wished to be told would be delivered him here and now from this otherworldly creature. He felt the tides of some impending deliverance rise toward him, cresting into something he did not understand, but he found himself wishing for it all the same. Then he swallowed again, this time in anticipation.

  “You know what your Brothers seek to do here,” the vessel announced, holding him with her gaze as if she voiced words of reassurance and comfort instead of the things that had recently left Ambrous sleepless.

  “Yes,” he said in not quite a whisper.

  “And you do not agree.” She shared with him a slow, regretful smile, searching his eyes.

  Ambrous cleared his throat, his hand now feeling hot and sweaty beneath her marble-cool palm. “I do not.”

  The vessel nodded sagely, as if confessing she had known his secret all along, as if reminding him that he was right in feeling the way he did. “No matter what they attempt in the coming weeks,” she said, lowering her head to fix him beneath fragile yet still entirely serious brows, “you must continue to do what you have done for me.”

  “Of course,” the wizened Brother replied.

  “You must care for me as you have, Ambrous. This is what I need from you.”

  His heart raced within his chest, his robes now feeling entirely too heavy—too warm. “I will.”

  “You must protect me.”

  Of its own accord, his free hand joined the first to grip the vessel’s cool, bird-like fingers in his own. “Yes,” he replied sharply, wanting only to alleviate the fear and pain he found behind her eyes. How had he not noticed it before?

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear on my life.” He couldn’t have gotten the words out fast enough, amazed his tongue had not stumbled upon them. A shudder of relief and aching release ran through him, and he couldn’t remember the last time his aged heart had thumped with so much force, his chest heaving. He seemed to understand completely now what the vessel had been telling him from the beginning; she needed him, beyond a shadow of a doubt and within this sequestered place of cold stone and biting sea spray and men who had abandoned their consciences long ago, Ambrous was the only one who could give this to her. His was the only soul untainted by the burning need to possess the things locked inside her, to release that power within her and seize it for himself. He was the only man who truly cared for the creature they m
eant to undo.

  Finally, the vessel’s second hand joined Ambrous’ fervent grasp, and she caressed the backs of his hands as if soothing a frightened child. He did not think he had felt anything more wondrous. “It is enough,” she said gently, the commanding pull of her voice having dissipated like a raging fire beneath a rainstorm. The compelling intensity in her glowing green eyes had faded with it, leaving her with an indecisive smile beneath a frown very much like uncertainty. She seemed to be trying to reassure herself, and this brought forth all the serenity and understanding age had provided Ambrous—the selfsame thing that had been ripped from him upon Torrahs’ return to Deeprock Spire and all it portended.

  He raised a hand to cup her cheek, using the opportunity to show her how willingly he would keep his vow. “It is,” he replied.

  The vessel’s eyelids fluttered, her brows twitching briefly together as though she did not believe either of their words, and the sad smile returned. Ambrous found tears swimming in her eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe them away. But the vessel did not cry. She did not enfold herself in his thin, aged arms. She merely dipped her head, inhaled as if she’d just been doused with cold water, and bent her head back to gaze up at the ceiling.

  A blinding white flash illuminated the dark room, and Ambrous squeezed his eyes shut against the glare. When he opened them once more, blinking against the dimness of the single oil lamp burning by the door, he found himself staring at the amarach who had come for her. For some unfathomable reason, the sight of the immortal’s glowing orange gaze upon him did not terrify him as it had within the tower. He no longer felt at odds with the sacred edict the amarach had enacted so many centuries before. On the contrary, he felt a part of it, some integral piece of the universe’s grand mechanism, slipped into the emptiness filled by acquiescence and purpose. If all his striving had been for one thing—the culmination of his travels, relentless efforts, and decades spent studying to understand the world—it was for this. He would do whatever the vessel asked of him, no matter what it was.