Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3)

by Kathrin Hutson

  “I see you haven’t lost your flair for making an entrance.” The voice boomed across the clearing, failing to disturb the melee of sounds and flurry of moving creatures. A man of huge size, with golden-blond hair spilling from his head, face, and bare chest approached them. Kherron blinked, lost for words before he realized the stranger had spoken to Aelis and not him.

  “Especially now,” Aelis replied with a mock bow and unnervingly forced grin, which looked far more like a grimace of annoyance. Her sarcasm was not lost on either the stranger or Kherron.

  “Aelis,” a woman called, joining their small gathering with arms open in invitation. Her jet-black hair fell in an impossibly straight, sleek curtain around her face and over her shoulders, contrasted by the bright glisten of her black, almond-shaped eyes against darkened skin.

  “Vaedhri.” Aelis stepped into the woman’s embrace with a grin.

  The woman kissed Aelis’ cheek, took a step back to look her up and down, and turned to the blond-haired man. “Stop your posturing.”

  “I am not posturing,” the man grumbled, then paused to consider Aelis again. “It is good to see you.”

  Aelis barked out a sharp laugh and nearly launched herself into the blond man’s arms. They embraced quickly while Vaedhri watched with a smirk. Then Aelis pulled back and motioned with an open arm. “This is Kherron.”

  Kherron nodded at the black-haired woman, letting himself smile just a little. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought these two were Aelis’ parents, though that was entirely impossible. Still, the man covered in blond hair seemed to eye him with a particularly parental glare before extending a thick hand.

  “Good. I am Erbun. Well met, Kherron.”

  “Thank you.” The minute they shook, the man finally smiled at him, and Kherron found himself at least a little less discouraged by his own ignorance.

  “Somebody ought to order these beasts quiet,” Erbun said, turning from Kherron and leaving their small group.

  Aelis and Vaedhri exchanged a short, knowing glance. “Welcome, Kherron,” the black-haired woman told him, then turned as well to join the chaotic gathering of man and beast.

  Before Kherron had a chance to do or say anything else, a swift streak of grey fell towards him from the sky. He ducked in surprise and found himself staring at the man standing now where the grey jay would have landed between him and Aelis. The man was clad head to toe in a grey tunic and trousers, an odd, rounded grey cap resting slightly askew over his sand-colored hair. When he smiled, his bright eyes lit playfully, the few creased lines around them belying his youthful appearance. Eyeing Kherron, he tilted his head so far it nearly rested upon his shoulder. “Greetings, Blood of the Veil.” He placed a hand lightly over his heart and lifted his head again. “I am glad to see Aelis found you. For both your sakes.”

  He turned then to glance at Aelis, and for what seemed like a remarkably long moment, they merely stared at each other. Then the man in grey stepped toward her and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Aelis blinked and finally broke from his gaze, as if discomfited by either reprimand or praise the man offered through their wordless exchange—Kherron couldn’t tell which. The man who had been a bird stepped past her to join those gathered, and when Aelis finally settled her gaze on Kherron again, he thought it best not to comment upon whatever it was he’d just witnessed.

  “I take it these are all the Nateru,” he said instead, approaching her so he could hear both his own voice above the din and whatever response she might give.

  “Not all of them. Only those close enough to come. There will be other clannings in other places.” She turned around to join the settling crowd of unlikely bodies, her fingers just barely brushing against his own before she stepped away. Feeling entirely unprepared, Kherron followed her.

  There seemed not to be a central focal point for this gathering—not like the stream flowing upriver to the clearing’s waterfall or the sacred pool in the underground cavern. The Nateru who had gathered here—Kherron very much preferred thinking of them in those terms as the only real bit of information he possessed—stood, sat, or lounged about as they chose. For the most part, they formed a rough circle, though it seemed more like a wandering, interspecies herd had stopped to rest for the night.

  Aelis sat beside him, her arms dangling casually over her bent knees. On his other side and to his perpetual discomfort, a huge black wolf had slumped to the ground, paying no mind to the squirrel that had made a temporary nest within the ruff of its neck or the bright-green snake coiled between its massive front paws. He felt the beast’s hot, humid breath against his leg when it panted, and while he wanted to move aside and give them both more room, the possibility of giving any offense by doing so kept him where he was. This distraction had led him to miss entirely the beginning of an ongoing conversation among those gathered. When he finally registered the voices ringing through the clearing, he had to force himself to aim his attention there instead.

  “...armies from the east try to fight it, with steel and sheer numbers, nonetheless.”

  “Does anyone know what they want?”

  “No. But we haven’t seen Kuraeh and Min in weeks. I think they might have fallen to the darkness.”

  Kherron’s stomach knotted fiercely at the words, and he leaned slightly toward Aelis. “What are they talking about?”

  “A... black cloud,” she whispered, her brow furrowed while she listened.

  “I think I know—”

  Aelis lifted her hand from where it dangled over her knee to silence him, giving a tiny, distracted shake of her head. “You’ll have a chance to speak later.” Kherron swallowed.

  “Maraly says the priests of Imlach have stirred into awakening,” said a man across the clearing. He sat beside a great blue heron standing regally on its long, thin legs. The man leaned towards the bird again, paused, and added, “Summoning demons. Or attempting to capture them, at least. She saw disciples with a few relics of the Kalibuun.”

  “A western tribe on the Teriborus has been fishing the shores with a Lemnithos. The thing has taken their children as payment.”

  The accounts went on and on, describing the oddities—and sometimes horrors—witnessed in all parts of this world, many of which, of course, Kherron had never heard mention. Eventually, he fell into a strained pattern of quickly picking out the newest speaker among the scattered forms before the next offered their own words.

  “Little can be done of that,” Erbun said in response to yet another concerning report.

  “But something can be done to waylay these new forces.” Kherron’s attention turned with everyone else’s to focus on the man in grey, who sat between the two deer. “What says the Blood of the Veil?”

  Kherron tried not to react to the sudden weight of nearly every pair of sentient eyes landing upon him. Still, he thought he heard himself give an involuntary groan; it could also have been the bullfrog squatting on the other side of Aelis. Every creature at the clanning seemed neither surprised to see him there nor aware that this was his first time, and a brief jolt of alarm went through him. What was he supposed to say that could possibly give them any more information or direction than they already had? Aelis leaned over and nudged him with his shoulder. He had to suppress the urge to stand.

  “I know what the Roaming People—the black cloud wants,” he blurted, feeling foolish for having regressed to the very beginning of the gathered conversation. When no one questioned him, he added, “They want me.”

  “Well, that’s hardly a surprise,” said the man sitting beside the great blue heron.

  “They’ve quite an appetite for this world and its creatures,” said a small, incredibly thin woman on the other side of the clearing, “but they are hardly its largest threat.”

  That brought on an eruption of conversation, human voices mixing with animal grunts, squeals, squawks, and the rustling of lumbering forms and flapping wings. Slowly, Kherron turned his head to glance at Aelis, who merely raised an eyebrow
in solidarity; it served as more of a shrug, given the circumstances. After that, he did not think he would be receiving any direction from her on the matter of speaking at the clanning; he was on his own as the only Blood of the Veil in attendance.

  “If something is not done,” said the man in grey who had been a bird before speaking to Kherron, “these forces will change the world as we know it entirely.” His voice seemed to bring some semblance of order again to the clanning. “Make no mistake, I wish to reclaim the lost pieces of myself just as much as the rest of you.”

  A murmur of agreeing voices rose at that. The man beside the great blue heron called out, “Maraly says she misses meat.”

  That brought a few laughs. “At least she can fly,” Aelis shouted, extending a hand toward the bullfrog at her side. The thing let out a long, burbling croak.

  The man in grey smirked. “However,” he continued, “rebecoming ourselves is not the greatest issue we face. If the current course of things continues unchecked, we may lose ourselves completely, and I do mean without changing skins again. Ever.” A solemn hush overtook the clearing, and the man glanced about those gathered to listen, taking his time in conveying the gravity of their predicament. “There will be no need for the spirits to reveal themselves. Ever. No use for our sacred pools, or clannings, or guardianship of any kind. The secrets will be lost. Who will be left to maintain any balance, to protect what must be protected, if any creature with a working mind and a will can seize whatever power he likes and bend it to his own design? We’ve all watched this world’s most powerful races dwindle and fade. Even the Blood of the Veil”—he thrust an arm in Kherron’s direction—“have fallen to very few. They have always been our link to the spirits, our guides, and where we once welcomed many into our midst, we have but one. Here. Now.”

  It seemed the speaker paused for maximum effect, and Kherron swallowed. All this time, he’d thought of Aelis as his guide, though recently she had become more than just that—he hoped. To hear a man he’d only just met, among an odd sea of strangers, announce the Blood of the Veil served as guides to the Nateru brought a thin sheen of sweat beading at his hairline. He had no idea what he was doing.

  “What does the Blood of the Veil advise?” asked a short, round-faced woman with dark hair and deeply tanned skin.

  “Advise?” Kherron croaked, then cleared his throat. “I think...” When no one said anything else to distract from whatever he was supposed to say, he thought better of trying to impress them and decided the truth was the best option. “Honestly, I have no idea.” He expected outrage and dissention to erupt with that, but if anything, the clearing had grown even quieter. “I’m a stranger to all this. Still. To clannings and spirits. To... skin-changers. To the role I apparently should take as a Blood of the Veil.” That came out with far more cynicism than he’d intended, though it accurately reflected his sentiments. He glanced briefly at the man in grey, who narrowed his eyes but twitched in a silent chuckle of surprise. “I’ve seen the Roaming People and what they can do. I denied them what they sought. I’ve seen the amarach. Spoken with some and fought others, and I survived that much. I’ve been to the void...” The words caught in his throat, and when he turned his head only briefly toward Aelis, glancing at his lap instead of directly at her, he saw her nod of reassurance from the corner of his eye. “And I’ve given of myself what was required to return from it.”

  The fact that no one reacted with the least bit of surprise seemed to make it easier. “But all of that,” he continued, “was nothing more than survival. I don’t know how to advise myself, much less any of you.”

  “And the Unclaimed?” Erbun asked, leaning forward where he sat and folding his hands together. “You’ve seen Her as well, have you not?”

  Kherron met the man’s penetrating gaze beneath bushy eyebrows and wild blond hair, wondering how it was possible that everyone he met seemed to know everything he’d done. He’d hoped that here, of all places, Dehlyn could not have entered—not her name, not the idea of her, not the connection to her and the prophecy she’d forced upon him against his will. That was, in fact, how he’d come to think of it now; his only choice had been in severing her hold on him to protect what remained of his sanity and his soul. He gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

  “And you made an oath to Her, did you not?”

  This time, Kherron turned completely toward Aelis. “Is this why you brought me here?” he hissed.

  She rolled her eyes and looked briefly away, though it seemed far more in defense of her pride than in irritation toward him. “I had to show you that you can’t just—”

  “Yes,” Kherron said, turning back to Erbun. “I made a vow to the Unclaimed, before I knew anything of prophecies or amarach or dark creatures consuming life everywhere. I made that vow far before I knew what I am or had ever heard of the Blood of the Veil. Or you.” He paused then to gaze around at the wide eyes staring at him—animal and beast, side by side, hanging on his every word. For the first time, he understood and accepted his anger, as sharp as the blade of the Sky Metal dagger at his belt, and allowed it to fuel him. He would not suffer anyone’s will but his own. “That vow does not define me. If it ever did, it no longer matters, because I broke it.”

  A soft flutter of surprise moved throughout the clanning. Aelis let out a long, slow sigh beside him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Despite what he felt for her, despite his immense gratitude and fierce respect for her, he could not forgive her completely for deceiving him into this—not yet.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” Vaedhri asked, the tiny frown that creased her brows belying only her curiosity and not the terror or anger Kherron had expected.

  “I met with a spirit of the water. At one of the clearings,” Kherron replied, unsure how to refer to such a place much like this one but thinking now that it mattered very little. “She showed me many things. And she told me the world would still move on if I chose not to go to Dehlyn—the Unclaimed and attempt to fulfill whatever duty that entailed. Which would already have been impossible for me anyways, I assure you.”

  “Kherron,” Aelis whispered, leaning forward over her legs as if to catch his attention. He did not look at her. “Just because something is does not mean it is as it should be.”

  “Do the spirits speak only to the Blood of the Veil?” He addressed his question to the entire clanning, both emboldened by and ashamed of his thoughtless decision to pull rank here, especially among those with centuries of knowledge far greater than his own meager certainties.

  Most of those gathered before him merely stared him down—not in any way with animosity but rather a rapt attention that only fueled his irritation. “Yes,” Vaedhri replied. “And now perhaps only to you.”

  “You wish to know why I would break that vow?” Vaedhri gave a barely imperceptible nod, and Kherron realized the things he had to say were not merely an excuse. He needed these beings to understand. He needed to be heard. He needed to protect and defend his only true free act as his own person—having removed Dehlyn from himself—because it was all he had. “I will tell you why.”

  And he did. He told them everything.

  Chapter 17

  He thought he’d finally found a crack—or at least a weak spot. Torrahs had spent so much time trying to discern what striking force he himself could deliver—with that of the Brotherhood, however much he did not wish to admit it—that he’d failed to see the true power at his very command. What better weapon to shatter the vessel’s defenses than the very creatures who had created her?

  Despite the prophecy and the myriad intricacies he had discovered, waiting for the lad Kherron to grow some semblance of sense and courage had worn Torrahs’ patience quite thin. Dehlyn had told him herself, when they’d entered the doorway to the Ebbing Realm together for a cryptic conversation beyond time, that Kherron would be the one to lay down his own life in order to release the vessel of her fleshly bond and unleash her omniscience back into the world. Torr
ahs would, of course, be there when that happened, and he meant to seize every morsel of that power the moment it did.

  He was more than happy to let the lost, bewildered, lovesick blacksmith make the ultimate sacrifice; Kherron had been his tool from the moment he’d witnessed the boy, years ago, setting metal and flame to life with his unexplained and as yet unharnessed abilities. If anything, he’d grown a certain fondness for the lad’s thickheadedness, which had made Torrahs’ role all the easier. But he could not merely sit within the desolate walls of Deeprock Spire, wasting his time in idleness and wondering when Kherron would be man enough to show his face. The Brotherhood had kept themselves quite busy recently, studying and exercising their new understanding of the magic that somehow grew stronger around them with each passing day. He had felt it in the sparking energy of the air around him, at his fingertips, within his blood, though he could not discern the cause of it. It was impossible to tell whether his reawakened Brothers had enhanced the forces around them here or if the magic’s strength itself had lent to their increasing successes. Either way, the things the men here studied in the great entry room—muttering and conjuring and casting beside perpetually lit fires and over rich meals—Torrahs himself had mastered decades ago.

  To put it succinctly, he was bored.

  Whether or not his attempts tonight would prove fruitful, at the very least, he could add whatever results it produced to his mental catalogue of cause and effect. With any luck, tonight would bring him that much closer to the vessel’s demise. And if nothing happened whatsoever, well, he really did have nothing to lose.

  Climbing the staircase to the tower where they’d chained the amarach vessel once again to the wooden chair, he acutely felt the stares of the two immortals he had taken from Nikolai and Vos and bonded to himself. They tread silently behind him, as he had not yet given them an order to speak. They would do what they were told tonight; they had no choice. And it seemed his decision to command them into silence—including in the presence of their visiting brethren, which he’d known he could never have waylaid—had cowed their internal defiance to a satisfying degree.