Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3)

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Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3) Page 13

by Kathrin Hutson


  Aelis had slumped against the flat side of a boulder beside their oddly placed camp, staring at the flames while the light faded from the sky. Paden had offered to refill the waterskin with more packed snow, and when he returned, he seemed either unable or unwilling to meet Aelis gaze. Instead, he settled a distance from Kherron beside the fire and clicked his teeth. “We’ve been marched right through mealtimes,” the healer muttered. Kherron turned to look at him, noting the man’s wry smirk tinged with fatigue. “Is it odd to say that feels like a punishment?”

  Kherron glanced at Aelis on the other side of the fire; she had since curled herself within her cloak and now lay facing away from them, her back to the warmth of the flames. In that moment, if he didn’t know better, he would have thought she looked much more like a bear than a woman sleeping in the forest. Whether or not she truly slept now, though, he couldn’t tell, and he didn’t think it very wise, given her current mood, to attempt discovering that for himself. “Meant more for me than for you, I think,” he said to the healer, who only raised his brows in response. “I won’t be long.”

  He stood and trudged quickly off into the trees, going only so far as to be hidden from Paden’s view before he repeated the simple and strangely convenient request for food from the forest life around him. Three large grey squirrels scurried down the pines around him, staring at him for a brief moment before—just like the hares—they laid down seemingly without cause and fell still, a tail twitching once before settling to the frozen ground. Kherron did not find himself short of gratitude even this second time he’d quite literally been delivered a meal, but the occurrence was no less disconcerting. As he circled between the trees to grab each squirrel by the tail, he thought he would much rather prefer hunting like everyone else; perhaps he could finally learn to use the dagger sheathed at his belt for more than skinning small animals and cutting twine and arming himself with the appearance of knowledge in wielding a blade.

  When he returned with fistfuls of grey, bushy tails attached to surprisingly heavy rodents, Paden leaned away from the fire to see what had brought Kherron back so soon. The healer’s eyes widened, and his brows drew together in surprise. Kherron shook his head in dismissal before sitting beside the fire once more, laying the squirrels between them. He drew the Sky Metal dagger and prepared to skin the first, hoping he’d retained enough knowledge of how to do it from watching Aelis and that squirrels and hares were not so different.

  “Is that very much like the fire, then?” Paden asked, staring at the animals that would soon become their meals.

  The man referred to Kherron’s abilities, he knew, and he took a deep breath. “In a way,” he replied. When he looked up briefly to meet the healer’s gaze, he tried to smile but felt more of a rueful grimace on his lips; he did not know for what reason or even to whom he was apologizing.

  Paden snorted and seemed to swallow a chuckle. “You are a useful companion.”

  Kherron rolled his eyes and set to skinning the first squirrel, though he could not contain the snickering sigh or the conceding smile as he worked.

  Chapter 12

  It had not been asked of him, but he did it anyway. As the mortal world slept beneath the waxing moon, Fehl accepted the Light and made his way to the cursed mortal fortress where metal met sky. He had hesitated to leave the Unclaimed’s side, though they both knew she would forever remain safe within the Reach. But her safety, though always now his concern as her guardian, was not the current issue at hand.

  Fehl rather suspected that, had Wohl still lived to remain her eternal protector, the Unclaimed would have spoken to him of the burdens plaguing her. That was, of course, a product of Wohl having been by her side night after night, century after century. A certain trust and understanding inevitably developed over so much time, and he dared to think Wohl and the Unclaimed had even formed a certain friendship, albeit dampened by the weight of immortal torment and the knowledge of the world’s decline.

  The latter he had indeed noted during the brief glimpses he allowed himself of the mortal realm. So many things had changed since the Aetherius had wrenched knowledge and freedom from the very lifeforce of their brethren, bringing the Unclaimed into being and setting the wheels of fate in motion. And how not? It had been so long—so long—and while the Aetherius had no doubt intended only to punish themselves for the unforeseeable consequences of loving mankind, the world they’d been sent to guide and nurture had paid the price of such banishment. They still paid this price, and with the omniscience that had once been theirs relegated to the Unclaimed and at her command, none of them could have foreseen any of it.

  But Fehl had seen the product of such blind self-exile. The mortal races who had depended on their wisdom and vital intercession had either run themselves to ruin or been compelled toward it by forces spawned in the amarach’s absence. The Kalibuun had been the first to fall, hunted unchecked by those first few beings aware enough of the immortal decree to risk, in the beginning, seeking another’s hidden power for themselves. Forces beyond Fehl’s complete understanding rose to fill the void, blending immortal knowledge seized in unspeakable ways with fleshly forms, adulterating the intent behind such truths and bastardizing the order of life and death, time and existence. Others followed, slowly over time but most recently with staggering frequency.

  He did not recognize but few of the races left among the wreckage—the skin-changers he’d heard once called the Nateru; the last vestiges of Imlach’s dwindling disciples; the Lemnithos, whose sole purpose had always lain in answering the litanies of the lost and destitute; the fae had endured—though Fehl had recently felt their passage beyond the doorway. The spirits of the Veil, of course, would always remain as the lifeblood of this shifting world, though they had in turn sequestered themselves in the wake of such flux. He assumed whatever had once allowed them to join with the humans and give birth to the Blood of the Veil—however many unknown few now remained—had since diminished as well, held at bay by the unsuspected power of new forces arising. Even the Ouroke had made it thus far through the age of constant instability, though now only one remained. And their demise as well had been of amarach doing, though that pact had been formed by those few neither of the Aetherius nor the resisting forces—lost, desperate immortals, hungry for a taste of the omniscience that had been stripped from them. He thought of his recent visit to the last Ouroke with a fierce distaste that had not so embittered him in ages. But he dismissed it; that time would come.

  The last few decades had passed in what felt the mere blink of an eye, and even before Fehl had accepted the mantel of protection that had once belonged to Wohl, he’d witnessed the world changing. There was a semblance of balance, yes, but only in the sense that the void of power did not remain so for long; but this balance, too, was tainted with darkness and insatiable hunger. It had not helped that, as the Unclaimed now believed, that the age of the Aetherius’ decree approached its foretold end. That in and of itself, now so close at hand, had seemingly plunged the mortal realm into unrelenting chaos. And what would arise for them now, he could not know. He would never know until it was done, until the vessel was broken and her contained essence joined once more with the natural order of existence. The result of this Fehl could not fathom, but even in his short time with her, the Unclaimed had convinced him it would happen. The end approached. Until then, he would do what he could to ensure that unbinding did not follow the only path that would lead the rest of them into certain darkness.

  The Light took him where he willed, delivering him upon the cold stone floor of a parapet facing the sea—the makeshift prison designed by the Wanderer and his order of wizened, uncertain conjurers. When the Light left him, Fehl gazed upon the two bonded amarach who had, for decades, been kept among the salt spray and the grey sky and the stone fortress. He had been here only once before, when none of them could have foreseen Wohl’s undoing. But he remembered.

  Haela had already been kneeling in front of the window before his arriv
al, her hands folded in her lap as she gazed upon the night sky through the glass. At his entrance, though, she merely blinked but did not greet him. A tremor of pity seized Fehl’s heart, but he could not let himself dwell on the misfortune of his brethren; they could still accomplish much, even from behind these walls. Rofaer sat cross-legged against the adjoining wall, his fiery red wings draped over the slump of his massive shoulders. But he also gave no indication of having noticed their visitor.

  “The Unclaimed has not sent me,” Fehl told them in the ancient immortal tongue, recognizing the need for clarity now that he’d become what Wohl had always been. It was out of decorum almost as much as from his own sudden desire to explain himself. “Still, I thought it best to confer with you here. To ask if you have seen or heard anything of import.”

  His brethren did not reply. They barely moved and seemed entirely unwilling to acknowledge his presence. Fehl took a deep breath, suddenly plagued by more guilt than he knew he had a right to claim.

  “I know I am not my predecessor,” he started, glancing from Haela to Rofaer and back again. “And I know neither of you had ought to do with his final ending. If you harbor any doubts, I assure you, my duty is no less diminished for it.”

  Nothing. He had not expected either of them to openly embrace or celebrate his presence, not after the horrors meted out here by the mortals who called this place their home. But neither had he anticipated such unyielding animosity, which now took the shape of both his immortal brethren ignoring him completely.

  “I have done you no wrong,” Fehl added, fueled by a mixture of anger and deep remorse. He had not been met with a response such as this by any of his kind known to have turned from the Aetherius; those who resisted had always fought together to aid each other through the age of their exile. Whatever this was, he could not discern its cause. “Please,” he added, glancing back to the red-haired amarach against the wall.

  Rofaer had raised his hands to bury his fingers deep into the wild tangle of his hair. He hunched over even farther into his own lap, tugging at fistfuls of his own locks as if in insurmountable agony. Fehl returned his gaze to Haela to find her cheeks colored, tears flowing freely from her dark eyes. She turned her attention from the window in a seeming attempt to look at him, but her eyes never met his, glancing across his body and his face as if she did not see him before coming to rest in the far corner above Rofaer’s head. A low whimper of despair escaped her, and she took a shuddering breath.

  Only then did Fehl recognize the brutally abnormal nature of the circumstances, and he glanced about the tower of their prison, searching for any sign of what had transpired. Then he saw it—the empty shelves lining opposite walls, a thin layer of dust disturbed by the imprint of what had once rested there but had since been removed. The Sky Metal weapons had also vanished, leaving this place devoid of as much purpose as it had been of hope.

  In that moment, knowing the men here had set Haela and Rofaer to smithing new weapons and had recently rescinded such a demand, Fehl understood. He could not fathom what was coming, but if his brethren here had been commanded by their bond to ignore his presence as such, it would come swiftly, and it would come soon.

  A calm, sympathetic urgency filled him, and he stepped toward the kneeling Haela to set a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “I understand,” he said, realizing now she saw him and heard him but had been bound never to reply. “Whatever happens, you are not lost.” Her shoulder shook beneath his touch as she fought the tears already streaming down her face. Fehl glanced at Rofaer, still hunched against the wall and clutching his fiery mane. “Neither of you.” Rofaer groaned and rocked over his crossed legs. “I must return to Her.”

  He wished he could have offered them more hope, though they would have been incapable of expressing any gratitude for it. But each amarach in this room understood with perfect clarity the knowledge gleaned even from forced silence. The command given these two imprisoned immortals not to acknowledge their own had like as not been intended as an insult as well as a safeguard, though Fehl believed not even the Wanderer had anticipated the rippling consequences of it. This also served as a warning—the end drew near, and these sequestered old men now planned something different than their other failed attempts, silencing their bonded immortals to avoid exposing such a plan. Though he could not know what it was, he knew it was coming, and the Unclaimed would be prepared, at the very least, for the change.

  Drawing himself fully upright and gently removing his hand, Fehl took a deep breath and accepted the Light. It pained him to leave his brethren in such a state, but nothing could be done for them until this age was ended. They’d all known the risks of defying the Aetherius and refusing to abandon this world to its unforeseen fate. Haela and Rofaer had fulfilled their duty well, even chained by the manacles—unseen but surely still felt—holding them to this place for decades. Their isolated sacrifice would not be in vain.

  When the Light returned him to the hidden Reach, he found the Unclaimed standing at its unseen border, as if it were a precipice over which she could peer into the mortal realm and watch its days play out below her. But she needed no such vantage point; everything existed there, within her, and even if she had been blind—even if the vessel had not been formed in the likeness of mankind itself—she would never have had to look in order to know.

  “You know of Haela and Rofaer,” Fehl said gently, approaching this with what he knew to be true, that she would, of course, already know in some fashion.

  “And the men who bind them, yes.” She did not turn to face him, merely staring out into the peaceful existence of the Reach, her arms hanging loosely by her sides as if she faced an oncoming breeze.

  Fehl opened his mouth twice before he finally brought himself to speak. “I... do not think the same two men bind them now.” He thought he saw the Unclaimed stiffen, though in truth, her only movement remained a nearly imperceptible twitch of her fingers, perhaps flicking from her open hand against the simple shift she wore.

  “You believe they were released,” she said, lifting her head slightly to ponder something else he could not see, though she still did not turn to face him.

  Fehl’s being buzzed with excitement and trepidation both; the Unclaimed had not spoken to him in this way until now, conferring with him on what he had seen and what he believed to be true. He had not expected such deference from her so soon upon his appointment as her guardian, but he’d hoped for it. “And that they have been bonded anew,” he added, knowing as he said it that it was true. “They were commanded not to acknowledge me.”

  The Unclaimed whirled to face him then, and her wide, panic-stricken eyes glowed a fierce green through the Reach’s gentle haze. She stared at her guardian, as if he had just told her he meant to end her himself, this very moment. Then her eyes flickered upward, and she staggered, lowering herself as gracefully to the ground of this unseen place as the burden of her existence would allow. Fehl was at her side in an instant, kneeling beside her and surprised, once again, by the ferocity of this fragile-looking creature gripping his hand with her own. “I did not see this,” she whispered, staring blankly as if she had just suffered a great loss. “I did not feel the change. I would not have known.”

  Fehl studied her, truly unsure as to what he might offer her in this rare moment of unraveling. This was the second time she had fallen to such unforeseen despair in his presence, and he could not help but wonder if this new vulnerability of hers had opened as a result of his guardianship or in spite of it. “The Wanderer intends to engage in a new effort,” he offered, able only to continue the course of their conversation for lack of any better option.

  She took a deep breath, shuddering when she released it. “Of course he does.”

  “What of Kherron?” Fehl asked, the man’s name on his tongue for the first time feeling strange. “Will he still come?”

  The Unclaimed shook her head. “I do not know. He has severed himself from me completely.” With that, she took another dee
p breath and drew herself together to sit back upon her heels, as if the mere mention of the one she had chosen composed her more than any other surety.

  Her guardian studied her. “Can you go to him?”

  Finally, she looked up at Fehl, an unexpected hope blazing behind her green eyes. It seemed she had not considered such a thing before, which surprised Fehl, given her infinite knowing. More than anything, that glance of hope convinced him the end was nearly upon them. “Possibly,” she replied. “It will take some time to find him.”

  “It will be done.” Fehl held her gaze and nodded, pouring all his reassurance into this one promise.

  Her mouth curved into a tiny smile, and she blinked slowly. “I have lost so much, Fehl,” she said, sinking into that aching, age-old acceptance of pain and loss and concession to what must be. His essence sparked at the sound of his name on her lips. “So many veils falling now over what I used to know.” She glanced away from him, staring off yet again at nothing and everything. “I always thought it would be a relief to see the end coming. To see less. To feel the burden lifting. But I only mourn the passing of what used to make me whole.”

  Fehl swallowed, covering their shared grasp with his other hand. His wings twitched outward in a brief moment of irritated longing, then relaxed, and he let himself give in. “We all felt this when you came into being,” he told her. The Unclaimed looked up at him again, her eyes glistening wet. “Now you feel it for all of us.”

 

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