Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  And then there was me, ordered to sit and watch and say nothing unless addressed.

  I glared across the room at Kulnethar ab’Ethanir. What in the sands had he gotten us into? Why couldn’t he have kept his blasted doubts to himself? I know what this is about, he’d said. He must have figured it out somehow, seen something at the Hall, heard something in my words. Couldn’t he see how terrible this looked for me? As if I’d gone straight to my white-robe friend and blathered all the secrets of the Hall without thought to the consequences!

  “What happens in the desert is our concern,” Neraia was saying. “Not yours.”

  Kulnethar shook his head, anger sparking in his eyes. “What concerns Shyandar, concerns the Temple. You had no right to keep this from us. An expedition into the desert to find water?”

  “We are not here to justify our actions to you, ab’Ethanir. Nor to your father. We are here to inform you.”

  “Inform us? You think—”

  “Peace, son.” The High Elder put out a hand. His voice rasped painfully, but he leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair. Kulnethar was right. He was sick—very sick. His hands were shrunken into claws. His shoulders stooped. Patches of grey hair were missing. Only his blue eyes shone with the same vigour. “We wish to make no accusations, only to understand.” He paused to catch his breath. “If you find this spring in the desert, will you use it?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Neraia replied. I recognized that stony voice, all too often directed at me.

  “And how?”

  “That will depend on the spring’s accessibility.”

  The High Elder made a motion with his hand, a lifting of a finger. Kulnethar leaned forward, ready to step in for him. All things considered, I was impressed. I had never imagined my friend in such a setting, but he played the part perfectly. He looked straight at Neraia and held himself with absolute confidence. Perhaps too much confidence. “Can you explain that more fully?” he asked. “What are we talking about here?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Neraia sai’Kalysa, I hope it’s clear that I’m speaking with my father’s authority. The Temple will need a more complete explanation before we sanction this undertaking.”

  “Sanction? That’s a heavy word for something within our sphere of authority. Not yours.”

  “If it stays in the desert, fine. If it remains out there, fine. But if it affects our way of life, then the Temple must be a part of these decisions.”

  “It will be, when we know more.”

  “Or when you deem the timing more advantageous?”

  Neraia’s eyes narrowed.

  “An outpost,” the Al’kah’s reedy voice cut in. “We plan to set up a complete outpost in the desert, with a system for redirecting water from the mountains into an accessible location, a continuous source, both in season and out, for the purpose of supplementing the Avanir and protecting the health and well-being of the people of Shyandar. Is that objectionable to the Temple?”

  The High Elder’s eyes slipped closed and he bowed his head, lips pursed. Kulnethar hesitated—finally caught off guard by the Al’kah’s directness. He glanced at his father, glanced back. He even looked to me, pleadingly.

  “Al’kah . . .” he faltered, gathering himself. “Al’kah, will you spare no thought to the consequences?”

  “You mean the consequences of a more reliable source of water?”

  “I mean . . .” He glanced at his father again, who showed no sign of stepping in. “I mean the desert, Al’kah. What of the desert? What of . . . the Sumadi?”

  “As we have recently and tragically discovered, the Sumadi can be just as dangerous within the walls of Shyandar as without. It’s time for us to take a more offensive stance when it comes to our survival, Kulnethar ab’Ethanir. We cannot sit back in apathetic reliance any longer.”

  “Apathetic reliance?” Kulnethar gaped. “You’re speaking of the Avanir. You’re speaking of the Great Tree and the purpose for which we were sent to Shyandar. Surely you trust our duty here! Yl’avah will provide.”

  “He has provided. The Avanir is still our primary source of sustenance and guidance, but does that preclude further precautions made in the interest of our own survival?”

  Kulnethar, for all his efforts, was no match for the Al’kah. I could see him struggling against a course of action that was wrong in his mind, for which he had no words. He tried anyway. “Al’kah, the Avanir is more than food, more than water. We are . . . we are bound to it. It is our purpose. Our very reason for being here. And if we forget our purpose, then we risk everything our ancestors have fought to preserve—every reason we had to survive. Kaprash has been long these few years. Yes, yes, I admit it. But the scrolls and chronicles of our forebears show clearly that we have passed through difficult times before—and we will again. Can we not trust the mercy of Yl’avah to spare us?”

  “This isn’t about trust,” the Al’kah replied. “Our survival was given into our own hands. Using what resources the desert has does not mean we turn our backs on why we are here—it ensures we will be here to see that purpose done.”

  “But wisdom!” Kulnethar blurted out, looking at us all in turn. “Don’t you see what this will do? We rely on the Avanir. We . . . we must rely on the Avanir.”

  “And we will continue to do so,” said the Al’kah.

  Kulnethar was beaten. He sank back, shaking his head. “We cannot agree,” he said at last. “The Temple cannot condone this.”

  Then abruptly, the High Elder sat up. He gripped the arms of his chair and slowly, painfully, rose to his feet. It was an alarming sight. Kulnethar reached to help him, but a simple motion from his father’s hand and he fell back, watching in tense silence.

  The old man didn’t speak. He looked at us, as if preparing to denounce us before Yl’avah. Then he shook his head and turned. With agonizing steps, he traced his way behind the chair, across the floor, and toward the window overlooking Shyandar. For a long moment, he stood there, gazing over the city, his eyes drawn to the gleaming black rock at its centre. No one spoke. Despite everything, the Al’kah and the Guardian Lords showed respect in their silence.

  “I understand,” the High Elder said at last, each word heavy and slow, “that it’s your job to ensure the survival of our people. In this, you are fulfilling your obligation. But it is my job and the job of this Temple to ensure the integrity of our people.” He paused. “Death will come, my Guardian Lords, to each of us. Yes, to me too—as you can see for yourselves.” He caught his breath. “What matters is our purpose. Our legacy. The things we leave behind. The . . .” he stopped to breathe, “the path we forge for others to follow. This water from the desert, if it succeeds, will extend lives. It will . . . it will nourish our bodies. It will grant us a sense of security. A little peace of mind. But . . . but it will teach our children to trust the desert more than the Avanir, to which we have been called, and as much as I . . . as I respect your intentions, my Guardian Lords, to that legacy I cannot agree.”

  There was a tense moment. The Guardian Lords frowned at the High Elder, the High Elder frowned back at them, and Kulnethar clutched his knees, frowning at the floor.

  “My son is right,” the High Elder said at last. “I will not condone this expedition. The Temple will not condone it. And my imminent successor will not condone it either, you have my word.”

  “For that, I am sorry,” the Al’kah said, standing and immediately filling the space of the room. “But the Hall will continue to take its own council in this matter. Good day.”

  Kulnethar’s eyes sparked in outrage, but he remained where he was. The Al’kah tended to have that effect on people. Only when the man had turned and swept through the curtain, did Kulnethar meet Neraia’s eye. “Will you persist?” he asked.

  “We will,” she said.

  The High Elder made no reply, and Kulnethar had finally run out of words. He looked down, his face more grieved now than angry. At last, he nodded. “Very well.
We will wait to see the outcome of this expedition before taking action against the Hall. But tell me this—do you have a strategy to protect this outpost from Sumadi?”

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi is our strategy,” Umaala spoke from beside me. “He is aware of them.”

  “He is.” Kulnethar nodded. “But isn’t that short-sighted?”

  “Why short-sighted, ab’Ethanir?”

  “There’s only one of him, my Guardian Lord. One survivor. You will make an established route into the desert, the safety of which is dependent on a single man, and when something happens to him? If he’s finally killed by one of those creatures? What will you do then?”

  “Yl’avah’s might, Kylan,” I growled. “Are you planning to poison me or something?”

  Umaala held up his hand, shooting me a single, warning glance. “We will adapt,” he said. “Right now, we have an advantage, and we intend to use it. Perhaps this is Yl’avah’s providence for us in a time of need.”

  Kulnethar shook his head. “Perhaps,” he said, then glanced at me, and I noticed the glisten of worry in his eyes. Yl’avah’s might, he wasn’t angry at me. He was worried for me.

  I laughed. “I’ll be fine, Kylan. I can handle the shades, I promise.”

  “Perhaps,” he said again, then sighed. “Forgive me, my Guardian Lords, but my father needs rest. Please.”

  Umaala and Neraia knew when it was time to go. They rose gracefully, nodding their respect to Kulnethar, then to the High Elder, who remained standing by the window, and I followed. We had just neared the curtain, when a voice called from behind.

  “Ishvandu.” It was the High Elder. “A moment, please.”

  I stopped and glanced at Umaala. The Guardian Lord grunted, clearly unhappy, but he wasn’t about to refuse the High Elder after all that. Don’t do anything stupid, he seemed to say beneath his furrowed brow, then he left.

  I cleared my throat, feeling remarkably like an ignorant green-Tasker again. But this was what I wanted, I tried to tell myself. I had asked for this—hadn’t I? Of course with Kulnethar hovering like a hen, the whole meeting was pointless.

  I tried to smile. “Yes, High Elder?”

  The old man grunted and the mask slipped from his face: the lines deepened, his eyes turned weary, his chest rose and fell dramatically, struggling to catch his breath. Kulnethar was right. He was dying. And soon.

  “Ishvandu,” he said. “You are treading dangerous ground.”

  I swallowed and glanced at Kulnethar. The High Elder followed my gaze.

  “Son,” he said quietly. “Would you be kind enough to fetch my medicine?”

  A significant look passed between them. “Of course, Father,” he said. Kulnethar obeyed, if somewhat reluctantly, and a moment later I was standing alone with the High Elder. Somehow, though the man was as frail as death, I felt instantly vulnerable.

  “I want to lie down,” he said abruptly.

  “High Elder?”

  “That means I would appreciate your help, child. I’m not as spry . . . as I used to be.”

  I hesitated, then hurried over to him. He leaned on my arm. Immediately, I could feel the trembling of his limbs, but with my help, we shuffled across to one of his private chambers. The same one I had intruded on all those years ago.

  The sleeping pallet was raised up on stone and wood slats, piled with pillows. I led him to it, and with a groan, he lowered himself down, stretching along its length, feeling every muscle and bone in his body. Propped up by so many cushions, he was almost upright; yet head back, eyes closed, body laid out, his frailty was painfully obvious. He seemed shrunken, skin hanging off his bones like an old, thread-bare sheet.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Why am I here, High Elder? Seeing you like this?”

  “Because it’s easy enough for me to see through your lies. I figured I would return the favour.”

  I went cold, but I tried my best to sound offended. “Lies? I hardly spoke at all!”

  “Ah.” The High Elder nodded. “So Umaala ab’Krushaya knows about the exile you’ve been speaking with?”

  I almost spluttered a denial, but even through his closed eyes, I realized the High Elder saw the truth. I clenched my fists. “You ordered me not to speak about him. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I also ordered you never to contact him again. And have you?”

  “How could I?”

  “You tell me.”

  I laughed. “High Elder, I doubt that man is even still alive! How many years has it been? Who could survive so long in the desert, alone?”

  “Who indeed?”

  I swallowed back another laugh. It would only sound like frightened, nervous energy. Yl’avah’s might, I found myself wishing the old man would just hurry up and die. If the Circle found out about this, it would be the ropes for me.

  I tried a different tactic. “High Elder, you said I should come speak to you after I took the oath. I have taken it. I’m a sworn Guardian. I will protect the people of Shyandar and obey the Al’kah, and whether you meant this for me or not, it’s done.”

  “It is.” The old man nodded. “Let me see your sword.”

  “High Elder?”

  “You heard me. Your keshu, Guardian. Show it to me.”

  I hesitated. It was not right for us to bare our keshu without purpose. They weren’t toys to be trifled with. Yet neither was this a gawking Temple student.

  Slowly, I drew the blade, letting it rest across my palm, marvelling at the subtle shimmer rippling across its length, the edge that never dulled, the fine lines engraved on its surface countless years ago—in another world, another lifetime.

  The High Elder finally opened his eyes and with a shaking hand, he traced the figures carved there.

  “You know the old words?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Defend the righteous.” He turned the blade and his fingers found the partner script. “Destroy the wicked. A hard task for any man. Can you do it?”

  “I swore the oath,” I repeated. “I am a Guardian. I will act in obedience to the laws and the Al’kah.”

  “Not to me, then?” he smiled.

  “You are not my lord.”

  “But I am.”

  I frowned. “Your authority is in the Temple, High Elder. I serve the Al’kah.”

  “You serve Yl’avah and the Tree,” he corrected. “And you stand in my house, under my law. Try again.”

  “You know what I mean,” I growled. “I’m a Guardian, not an Acolyte. You saw to that years ago, if you remember.”

  “Correct.” The old man smiled. “I spared your life, ab’Admundi. I sent you to the Hall when I could have sent you to the Circle. You were in my debt then, and you are now. So give me your sword.”

  I laughed in surprise. “What?”

  He held out two shaking hands, the bones visible beneath his parchment skin, not grasping, but patient, expectant. “Your sword, ab’Admundi. I will have it.”

  My heart skipped and a coldness washed down my spine. No one laid hands on a Guardian’s keshu—only those who were above him, who had the right to command him. The High Elder was asking for the same authority over me as a Guardian Lord.

  But what choice did I have? He was right. A single word to the Circle would see me condemned as a criminal.

  I swallowed. “What are you doing, High Elder?”

  “Giving you your impossible task, just like I promised. Don’t you want it?”

  “Not from you.”

  The High Elder shrugged. “Then go. And your fate will judge you.”

  “What in the blasted sands does that even mean?”

  He just smiled.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We both know, ab’Admundi. Give me your sword, or leave.”

  I considered leaving. It was the smart thing to do. Get out. Get out, and hope he choked on his own lungs before the day was finished. But when then? He knew what I was here for, and de
spite the tightness around my chest like a rope, I was curious. Another impossible task. What in the blazing sun did the old man have in mind? And would he really rat me to the Circle? He might. Given everything, given how much he hated the thought of this expedition, he just might.

  I was going to regret this.

  Letting out a long, angry breath, I jerked my hands forward, holding out the sword. “Here,” I snapped. “Take it before I change my mind.”

  “How gracious of you.”

  The man coughed and smiled, receiving the blade with a surprising amount of elegance. I was half afraid he would slice open his own hands, but he cradled it perfectly.

  “This sword,” he said. “Do you know its history?”

  “It belonged to a Guardian before me, and to another before him, and so on.”

  The High Elder nodded. “Countless young Guardians have gazed on these words, have sworn their blood into its edge, seeking to make themselves worthy of its legacy. From generation to generation, since the day it was discovered in the vaults of Kat-net, at the hour of their need. Defend the righteous. Destroy the wicked. Be a Guardian. Fulfill your purpose. Be all that you can be. That,” he said, “is the impossible task I give you.”

  I blinked. “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, that’s it?” He coughed and shook, struggling to recover. “Don’t you understand the gravity of your role? There is a great weight . . . on your shoulders, Ishvandu ab’Admundi. Can you live up to it?”

  “I will do my best.”

  “Your best is not good enough.” He shook his head, breathing hard, gripped with a sudden intensity. “Your best will fail. You must be better than that. Stronger. Purer.”

  I frowned at him in annoyance. “High Elder—”

  “What do you want?” He gazed at me, brows lifted. “What do you want, ab’Admundi? Tell me.”