Janus had wanted a sign. Well, it seemed he had certainly found one.
*
Blood dripped from her wrist, staining the white snow with a trail of crimson. Reflecting the tumultuous sky rippled with indigo and purple, it almost looked black, drops spotting the footprints left by her boots. Her breath exhaled in clouds of steam around her face, skin flushed warm despite the frigid cold of the night. Everywhere hurt, her limbs so stiff and heavy she had to drag herself through the snow. Too many times her knees buckled before she caught herself, wobbling in place like she was walking a tightrope.
Up ahead a riftspawn danced on the bitter wind cutting through her, long fins fluttering like ribbon. It trailed a line of silver, the residue of its energy. She could feel each glistening thread, connecting all the living things around her, the rift at the centre of all the pulsing energy. It, like so many others she had encountered on her travels, was ripe, ready to burst wide open. It seemed so less daunting than before. Her feelings had been sanded down, flickering shadows beneath a layer of solid ice she had no desire to crack even if she knew how to.
As a child she never would have dreamed of defeating her father in battle, nor contemplated what that was supposed to mean. In her head he had been a figure larger than life, looming over her happiest memories with his caricature of a scowl, always reminding her of her weakness. Of how she did not belong. If she had never left the village, if she had never dared to question the life she had grown into, she did not think she would ever have challenged him as she just had. Now victory meant so very little to her. All it had been was the last thread cut, that had tied her heart to this place and squeezed tight on her lowest moments, reminding her that home was so very, very far away.
Licking her lip to the taste of salty blood, she spat into the snow and stamped it into the ground. Home did not need to mean her father’s approval. It did not need to mean this frozen landscape, no nourishment to offer, where the people shivered around the desperate embers of the fire to stave off the lurking darkness of the low season. Rook could make up her own mind about her life without that shadow hanging over her. She had made her own goal, chosen her own journey, and it would not do to try regretting it now.
“What do you say,” she murmured, wincing at her swollen lip, “are we truly partners now? Are you in this with me?”
The Rook hissed in her mind, a gust tearing through her thoughts. Images of herself came to her, distorted through the rippling of a stone dropped into a pond. Vicious and fierce, pale hair streaming around her and eyes a blinding white. Wings of snowy feathers stretched out behind, a black beak and talons poised for a strike. The feeling was a handshake, of a signed contract. The rumble of a deal made and settled.
You and I. We.
Rook blinked. “You understand what that means?”
An eddy of anger, catching beneath a thought and lifting it higher. Separation would ruin them both. It understood itself in relation to her, just as she had always been Rook because of it. They were equals in that sense, two unwitting fools who had taken the plunge, thinking they were the one getting the best deal out of their bargain only to have been royally screwed over. It bristled at her wanting to seal the rifts. To end this pact and return to their own separate worlds.
The grin found her unbidden. “I think I’ve learned my lesson.” A drop of snow landed on her face, melting into her skin. She raised her face as more fell, soon brightening the sky with swirling flurries, eerily silent despite the violence of their movements. “It’s about balance, isn’t it? The Riftkeepers weren’t there to keep the gates closed. They were there to protect people from the dangers that could pass through. They were there to keep the worlds in balance.”
Snow caught in her lashes, vision laden with white when she blinked. “There is no you without me, and no me without you. Deal?”
The Rook cried out. Something about the echo sounded like acceptance.
Around her riftspawn startled from the snow, bright spots of colour against a monochrome background. She plodded on, huffing as her breaths came heavier and heavier. The rift was further than she remembered, the slope much steeper and more treacherous when buried under three feet of snow. She would underestimate how deep pockets were and plunge down until she had to climb out of the hole, teeth chattering and her hands numb. Her fingers scrabbled against outcroppings of rock that peeked from the endless white, feeling nothing as she attempted to haul herself along.
By the time she reached the platform she was exhausted, even with the strength of The Rook aiding her. She wiped at her nose, a mixture of snot and blood, and trudged towards the stone structure in the centre of the plateau, blanketed by a layer of powdered white. Inside the circle the familiar pattern of coloured lights drew her forth, and she was energised by the buzz and hum of power. The blizzard had grown so fierce she could barely see beyond the length of her outstretched arms so she took each step carefully, conscious of the way the plateau gave way to a sheer drop on the other side of the rift.
“This is home,” she said. “This is where we were born, Rook-ka. Do you remember?”
Flashes of the mirror to her own memory. Something bright and sparking. A light in the darkness of the otherworld. Temptation. Then a flesh creature, in a world of white. An invitation. A host to take. A life to be had in the physical world. Not having to run and fight every single day. Pain of being. Touch and sight and smell and taste and sound.
Sputtering noises pulled her from reminiscing, lights of the rift sparking and glowing brighter. So bright it hurt her eyes to look at, magnified by the reflection bouncing off the pristine canvas around her. Arms raised over her eyes, she bowed her head against the wind and waited for the light to dim, dizzy with the crashing energy of the rift, cutting into her with vibrations so extreme she could barely breathe. It felt like being thrown back and forth from an icy lake to a white hot fire, without a second of respite. She tried to reach for a riftblade but she couldn’t even move, muscles spasming. Her bond with The Rook faded from her grasp, leaving her alone in her struggle.
Then suddenly the lights faded out, the frantic energy receding into a normal steady rhythm. Her shaky limbs took a moment to settle, eyes adjusting to the gloomy sky after such bright light. Dizzy, disorientated, she raised her spotted gaze and froze when she saw the figure of a man silhouetted by the brilliant pinks and greens of the rift. He stumbled forward a step, looking around himself. A hand rose to catch the falling snow. Then another step and more natural light washed over the familiar slope of his cheekbones, the cut of his shaven jaw and dark brown hair not shaggy but silky and neat. Hazel eyes, more brown in the murky light. They made a complete rotation before they settled straight ahead, on her. Rook could scarcely believe it.
“Viktor?” she breathed.
“Rook? Is that you?”
She was running to him before she even registered the thought. Seeing the moment his legs buckled, she swept in just in time to catch him before he crashed to the ground, left arm swinging loose at his side as she hauled the right over her neck. A groan left his lips, pale and leached of their proper colour. He looked drained but undeniably Viktor. Not the smirking, posturing prince that had claimed his form back in Tsellyr, but the young man she had come to know in her travels north.
“How did you get here? Did you come through the rift? How is that even possible? Are you really here?”
“Rook!” Viktor patted at her shoulder, breaking the onslaught of her questions. “Give me a moment, will you? I don’t even know myself.”
They trudged awkwardly through the snow, him leaning against her to steady himself. Each step he took was tentative and slow, his gaze roaming his surroundings with a wide eyed wonder. Flakes of white caught in his hair, collecting across his silken covered shoulders. She couldn’t help but note the finery of his garb, or the rips and tears across the bottom of the garment, stains marring the rich emerald green. Jewels dangled from his ears, winking at her.
Rook grunte
d as her breath caught, injuries flaring up. The adrenaline had softened the pain that was now making itself known to her, the gash in her arm sharp and acute, her abdomen heavy with a dull, pulsing ache. She had probably gained a few bruised ribs, maybe worse. It hardly mattered. Here was Viktor, in the flesh, gasping heavily as he hung off her uninjured arm.
“You’re hurting.”
“I’m fine, Viktor. How can I not be? I didn’t think…” She hadn’t been sure she would see him again, as she had known him before.
“Yeah. Well. It’s not over yet.”
She gazed at him, the distance in his eyes and the crease forming between his brows. He looked older. More wizened in his years. It hadn’t really been that long, in the grand scheme of things. Funny, how time seemed to make its own rules.
“The memories haven’t left.” He huffed sharply, nearly slipping from her grasp until she caught him by the waist, pain erupting through her torso with the twisting dive she performed. “If anything it might be worse. I can’t really escape it, either. It’s not like you can run away from the fact that you might not be real.”
Rook pinched him.
“Ow! What was that for?” Viktor rubbed his arm.
“You are real, you dumb bird brain. I’m holding you right now. How can you not be real?”
Bitterness twisted his features. “I was born to be him, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Impossibly the snow thickened, pelting her in the face. “How can you be born to be someone else? You were born and then you grew up as you. Doesn’t matter about predestined nonsense. That’s the reality.”
“I wasn’t born in Nirket.”
“Yes. You were born in Tsellyr. You said.” How long had it been, since then? When they had been a band hastily thrown together by the governor’s daughter, unsuspecting that events would transpire to tangle their lives together irrevocably. It seemed both an eye blink and an eternity. But as much as coincidence had thrown them together, the choice to continue as one had been theirs. She held fast to that. Rook considered these people as her kashei. That was not the nudging of some god; that had been her choice.
“I should have been raised there, too,” said Viktor, sniffing. His nose was bright red. “I should have been raised with the name Vallnor Siklo, believing myself to be him before I would ever inherit his memories. Makes the transition easier. I should never have had this other self. Viktor was never supposed to exist.”
She stopped to stare at him. “So? Viktor does exist. It doesn’t matter how many times Vallnor was reborn. The only thing that matters is who you consider yourself to be.” Then she continued on, tugging him with her. Faint flickers of firelight could be spotted through the thick haze of the snowstorm. They filled her with a potent brew of relief and trepidation.
“I don’t know, Rook.”
“Well, you’re not the first to feel a little lost. Nor will you be the last.”
“You sound confident.”
She snorted, shrugging shoulders heavy with the weight of her cloak. “Paint the smile on your face and soon it becomes habit. The truth is, I’m greedier for answers than anyone. At some point we all have to accept that they can take a while to find. Nothing worth chasing is easy.”
Viktor wrinkled her nose. “You sound like some ancient scholar who hasn’t left her home in the last decade.”
“I’ll take that for the compliment you so clearly meant that as.”
They fell into silence after that, focusing on trudging through the towering snow. It took so much energy to pull both of them that she could feel her eyes drooping, exhaustion creeping in alongside the cold. She kept her connection to The Rook simmering just enough to heighten her senses. Any more and she risked knocking herself out – she had already channelled more energy than her body was accustomed to today. But her eyesight needed to be sharp to pick out the triangular hut peeking out from the mound of snow, roof partially sheltered by a raised outcropping of rock. This hut had belonged to old Councillor Sorren before he had succumbed to the Korlak. No one had bothered to repossess his home, for fear of the ‘curse’ that had plagued him.
With as much strength as she could muster, Rook shoved against the door. Nothing. Viktor raised his brows and she scrunched her nose at him. As far as she was aware, he hadn’t just fought two of his tribe’s strongest warriors, one after the other. Her frustration gave her the spike of energy she needed to burst through the door, a pile of snow following them inside and making it difficult to slam the door shut, wind wrestling with her for the shelter provided by the small hut.
Inside was warm, if only for the protection from the ice cold wind. Rubbing her hands together, she threw Viktor onto the armchair that had been draped in sheepskin and said, “You’re going to sit down and I’m going to get the fire going and then you’re going to tell me how in the Locker you managed to get here.”
“I don’t really know the details.”
Rook tutted. Leftover firewood had been left in a stash next to the hearth and she piled it into the fireplace, hunting for a flint. It was not a lot – if they were staying for any longer than a night or two she would need to fetch more – but she didn’t have the energy to worry about it. The snick of the flint against wood was too satisfying, the first sparking ember already warming her soul inside.
Soon the crackling of flame filled the silence of the hut and she peeled the worst of her sodden clothing off to lay out by the fire, Viktor yelping and averting his eyes to her snickering. Then she settled herself on the worn woven rug, tugging a musty smelling blanket around her torso, and old Sorren’s fleece lined cloak around her shoulders. It took some coaxing and a vicious round of sneezing before Viktor conceded, throwing his own robe down and returning from the bed area wearing the oversized clothes of the previous owner.
“You look the proper warrior now,” she said.
“I look ridiculous.”
“That, too. Now, come on. Tell me what you know.”
And as the fire warmed their frozen bones, they talked. They talked until their voices turned hoarse and the words dried up. They talked until the last embers faded and they finally caved to their bodies’ need for sleep. They talked until the angry tear in Rook’s heart began to heal, reminded that she was not alone. She still had family, even if her own wanted her no longer. It was with a smile on her lips that she drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.
*
Weak sunlight streamed through the window, rousing Viktor from the tumbling images of his dream. Waking slowly, he blinked heavy lids and glanced around the cabin, rolling out joints stiff from being cramped into a single armchair. It took him a moment to remember the previous day’s events and when he did he looked down to Rook spread-eagled across the woven rug, mouth parted as her soft breaths filled the quiet of the space. Her hair streamed out around her in a pale cloud, her face crusted with blood that ran down the length of her neck. He grimaced, feeling his aches and pains remind him of their presence.
With a grunt he shoved himself out of the chair, collapsing on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Rook stirred, eyelashes fluttering before she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. He didn’t have the heart to wake her so he left her there to scrounge through both her satchel and the small shelf at the back of the room for something to eat. His empty belly gnawed at itself, gurgling as he rifled through her books and sketches and assortment of other bits and bobs. Coming away with some strips of dried meat, he chewed on one as he moved around the room, soon realising he’d have better luck with the worn leather of the old boots slumped by the door.
Viktor could have sworn he’d never felt so hungry in his life. He felt like his body was caving in on itself, desperate for fuel. Jumping through the door seemed to have taken its toll on him. He had, after all, just crossed the space between two islands in the span of seconds. It was a strange thing to contemplate, but after all that had happened to him recently, it was just another impossibility to add to the pile. They wer
e beginning to stack up.
“Ah ha!” he exclaimed, pulling out a jar of small dried kernels. Some kind of nut, he thought as he chewed. He smacked his lips, grimacing at the overly salty taste, and then shovelled another handful into his mouth. What he wouldn’t give to be back at the palace with all the fine foods available at their party. How Fyera had found the money for such a spread, he had no idea, but he salivated at the memory.
Immediately guilty, he glanced back at the slumbering Rook and then preoccupied himself by scouring the shelves, fingers picking up dust as he swept them past jars of substances he did not recognise and some carved wooden figurines, all vaguely animal shaped. Pocketing the one that looked like a bird, he caught a stuffed doll before it fell. Propping it against the books at the end, he scanned the titles but struggled to read them. The words were similar enough as to look familiar but not quite right. Some kind of Rökkish dialect that Rook was likely to know, presumably. The thickest of them he pulled out, attracted by the gothic font across the spine. Nearly dropping it from the shock of its weight, he dragged it over and smacked it onto a small table containing three mismatched, rickety chairs.
Dust plumed outwards as he cracked open the spine, tickling his nostrils until a sneeze ripped from his throat. “It’s too bloody cold in this place,” he grumbled, pulling the old man’s sheepskin blanket further around his shoulders. His muscles felt tight with the strain of stopping himself from shivering but when he looked to the fireplace there was no wood left to burn, the hearth black with ash and soot. Sighing, he looked at the book, testing the weight of it and then deciding that needs must. A dry, dusty old thing like this would burn well and no one was going to care about some old man’s missing histories.
Scrabbling around the fireplace for the flint Rook had used, he nearly fell over when a sleepy voice mumbled, “What are you doing?” He started so hard he overbalanced on his haunches, palms smacking onto the ground to catch himself.
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