Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “The Sending stone?”

  “Of course.”

  I tried to rally my Guardian authority. “And if I want answers now?”

  “Then go to the source.”

  He smiled, then stepped back.

  “What do you mean, E’tuah? What source?” There was no reply. “E’tuah!”

  “Vanya?”

  I jerked around at the new voice. Breta was standing on the slope, peering up at me, one hand to her hilt.

  “Yl’avah’s blasted might,” I growled. “Breta, what are you doing here?”

  “Joining you on watch, of course.” She took a step forward, but I could see the tension in her body. Her neck straining, the line of her body poised against the shadows. “Who was that?”

  I grunted to mask my alarm. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you were just talking to someone.”

  “Myself. It helps to stay awake.”

  Breta snorted, then leapt nimbly up the slope, eyes scanning behind me, up through the jumbled Bones. “You’re lying,” she said. She stopped beside me, tilting her head towards me, suddenly very close. There was a smile on her face. “Who is it?”

  “Sands, Breta. I told you, there’s—”

  “You said, E’tuah.”

  “What?” I laughed nervously.

  “I heard you. You asked him what the source was, then you called him E’tuah. Come on, Vanya. I know why you’re lying, but if you don’t tell me the truth, maybe I’ll have to be nosy and ask Koryn what this is all about.”

  I swallowed. Koryn already knew things—he’d overheard my conversation with Tala that night on the desert, the first time we’d gone out: a mention of a man in the desert, an exile, someone who had led me to Gitaia. It wouldn’t take much to convince him I was still talking to this person, and that would plunge me into trouble all over again.

  “I think I will,” she announced.

  “Will what?”

  “Ask Koryn.”

  She started back down the slope. Without thinking, I leapt forward and seized her wrist.

  “No!”

  She laughed, but I noticed the tension snap into every limb of her body. A challenge rose to her eyes. Yl’avah’s might, I was going to have to say something.

  “You can’t say anything to Koryn,” I hissed. “If I tell you, you’re going to be absolutely silent about it. For both our sakes. Do you understand?”

  “So it’s bad as all that?” She grinned.

  “Just swear to me on your keshu, your solemn oath as a Guardian—swear, Breta.”

  She rolled her eyes. “My solemn oath?”

  “Yes. As a Guardian.”

  “Very well.” She tilted her head. “I swear I won’t tell Koryn about—”

  “That you won’t tell anybody. Swear it.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell anybody about this conversation, or what I overheard, as long as you tell me. I swear on my oath as a Guardian.”

  I nodded, struggling against the fear that stuck in my throat like a rock. “Then it’s like this.” I lowered my voice and sat, pulling her next to me onto a nearby rock. “After I was attacked by Sumadi, that first time, as a child, I wasn’t saved by any Guardian. And I was far too incoherent to save myself. There was . . . there was a man.”

  “Go on.” She leaned forward.

  “A man saved me. He brought me to Gitaia—the valley, with the running stream, and the trees. He showed me water in the desert. He still lives there, and he doesn’t want Guardians disturbing his peace, so he mentioned the possibility of a well. And I thought it was a good idea, so I followed through with it, and here we are.”

  “And tonight? That was him?”

  I nodded. “I was telling him to . . . to leave us be. I warned him, and he . . . he ran away.”

  E’tuah run away? I swallowed against the laughable concept. But Breta didn’t know him, and it was better to keep up appearances.

  “So you don’t trust this man?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Yet he saved my life, and he led us here . . .” I let that hang in the silence.

  Breta chuckled. “I like you, Vanya,” she said abruptly. “You always find some inventive way to shit on the Circle. You’ve been speaking with this man, an exile, for what—years?”

  “Light and all, why does everyone assume he’s an exile?”

  “Well, who else would he be?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s not an exile. He’s not from Shyandar, I know it.”

  “He’s from the desert, then?”

  “Or from beyond it.”

  Breta leaned in, voice edged with excitement. “You really think so, Vanya?”

  I nodded.

  “Prove it.”

  In one blindingly idiotic moment, I almost revealed the Sending stone. I caught myself, hand curled in my robes, heart pounding. But would it be so terrible? Breta was like me. She wanted the desert—the Old Lands. She understood me.

  “It’s just the way he talks,” I said, frowning. “He knows things. And he doesn’t consider himself Kyr’amanu.”

  “That’s not proof, Vanya.” She laughed again. “Sands, I see why you don’t want anyone to know. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  She jabbed me with an elbow, playfully, then gripped my hand. It could have been an innocent gesture, a friend, promising to keep my secrets. Yet somehow, she was closer to me than before. Her leg tucked against mine, our bodies touching.

  And she was looking at me, a little glint in her eye.

  The uncomfortable realization dawned slowly and terribly.

  I was an idiot. I was a blind, careless, sand-shitting idiot.

  I stood, heart pounding in the charged silence.

  “What’s wrong?” She straightened, hand to her keshu. “Is it them?”

  “I don’t know.” I swallowed, my mind emptied of any blasted intelligent thing to say. “Could you . . . could you check the other side of the . . . of the camp?”

  She tilted her head. “Are you okay, Vanya?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m fine. I’m . . .”

  Yl’avah’s might, Tala was going to kill me.

  But nothing had happened. It was nothing. There was nothing here. Just a misunderstanding. Just . . .

  I cleared my throat. “Breta, check the other side of the camp. Now.”

  The woman stood—not just a Guardian, or a friend, but a woman—and I caught the annoyed furrow of her brows. “What’s wrong with you, Vanya? Now that I know your little secret, you get all pushy with me? Is this some dumb male ego thing?”

  “No, no. I’m in charge of watch, and I need you to cover the other side of the camp. Light and all, what are you waiting for? Go! Get out of here!”

  The look she gave me could have withered the Tree. She tossed her head, then turned and marched down the slope.

  As soon as she was gone, I sank onto the rock. Yl’avah’s might, what kind of trouble had I gotten myself into?

  I was going to have to be careful. Breta knew things now. And on top of that, did she really think we . . . that her and I . . . ? I groaned. What had I done to make her think that? What had I said?

  Maybe she thought with Tala and me fighting, I was just that desperate. And maybe—sands take me—maybe I was. I let out a long, agonized breath. Sands, I missed Tala. I missed the nearness of her, and the warmth of our shared bodies, our shared minds. I missed the spark of her. Ever since this thing with the baby. Would it ever be the same?

  But Tala had come to me, and she had kissed me. She had promised herself to me, and I to her. We had given our oaths.

  I had to hold on to that. Tomorrow, we would return to Shyandar, and I would make things right. Somehow, I would.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kulnethar ab’Ethanir

  My father the High Elder was dead.

  I knelt in silence as they came, the healers. My own people. They washed his body. They rubbed oils into his skin. They wrapped him in a long, winding shroud.
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  He is yours now.

  My father’s voice ran through my head, over and over again.

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi is yours. Your responsibility.”

  He had struggled for his last breaths. I had sat with him, alone, surrounded by the sharp smell of lath’is, annoyed that of all things, this was what plagued my father in his last moments. I could hear it in his voice, the encroaching shadow.

  “I will keep an eye on him,” I said. “I promise.”

  He shook his head. “Trust not your assumptions. Some truth is . . .” He gasped. His chest rattled, that awful, chilling sound.

  I gripped his arm. “I understand, Father. I will watch him.”

  “A choice.” He nodded. “You will have a choice to make . . . someday. Many choices. But always . . . one.”

  “A choice?”

  His face brightened for a moment as he gazed at me, smiling.

  “My son,” he whispered.

  And then it passed over his eyes: a flash of pain, a glimpse into the Unseen, a shadow of things to come. Worry, struggle, grief, questions—and hope. I blinked, and it was gone.

  And so was he.

  The light in his eyes went out. The skin became a mask. In a single exhale of breath, the person ceased.

  And I was alone.

  My responsibility.

  The day had passed in a blur of solemn ritual. I knelt now at his side, the healers around me, Alis behind, a steady hand on my back.

  “I will make the right choice, Father,” I said quietly. “Whatever it is. I promise you. Oh, Yl’avah, help me to see it!”

  The shrouding cloth was wrapped around him, a single flap folded against his chest, awaiting farewell.

  What else was there to say? So much—and nothing.

  I swallowed, and with a gentle hand, I lifted the fold and drew it over his face, shielding him forever from the eyes of the world.

  “We must take action against the Hall! They defied you. They defied your father. Against his very word!”

  I sat in the council of Elders, next to my father’s place. His chair was empty, and would remain so until filled by a member of this council. Their voices clamoured.

  “Isn’t it worth waiting?” another said. “What if this expedition fails? It will be forgotten—brought to nothing, and—”

  “A coward’s route! Is that what we want? To bow to the Hall?”

  “The Al’kah is lord of this city.”

  “The Al’kah means nothing. He has forgotten the ways of Yl’avah, the truth that this Temple holds. His predecessor was a pupil of ours, ever eager to bring the sides together in compromise and peace. But this Al’kah is a man of blood. Mark my words, he will destroy us!”

  “The signs are already upon us,” another agreed. “Unprecedented aggression from the Sumadi. An early Kaprash.”

  “Perhaps it won’t be so long.”

  “Does it matter? The fields are struggling. The people are desperate and scared. The Hall claims to have them under control, but I fear the worst.”

  “Then perhaps a war with the Hall,” I finally said, “at such a delicate moment, is unwise.”

  The eleven remaining Elders turned to me, thought to be the best and wisest of the Temple.

  “With all respect, ab’Ethanir,” said Melanyr ab’Kulatyn, a dark-haired Elder with a severe brow. “Timing is irrelevant. The duty of the Hall of Guardians is to maintain order. Nothing more. We are the true guardians of Kayr—we hold the keys of its legacy and the wisdom of the ancients. We are the soul of Shyandar. The Hall thinks these difficult circumstances give them control. We must show them their error. You yourself told us of the scorn the Al’kah visited on your father. Are you willing to suffer that unopposed?”

  “No. I intend to speak to—”

  “Words!” Melanyr shook his head. “They are men of action, young Kulnethar. They will not value your words.”

  “I’m not finished.” I leaned forward. “Or have you lost value for words yourself—at least the ones not flowing unchecked from your own mouth?”

  There was a scattering of tense laughter. The men and women of the council had been growing more accustomed to my presence, ever since my father had requested me, first to assist, then to take his place. But there were some who had never forgiven me for my intrusion. This would probably be my last day here—and for that I was grateful.

  “I intend to speak to the Al’kah myself. I will deliver the word of my father’s death. And I will return with his apology.”

  Melanyr snorted. “Apologies. And what will he do? He will carry on as he has.”

  “Maybe.” I nodded. “But I ask myself, what would my father do? You speak of retributive acts: denying Guardian Taskers their midday lessons, refusing marriage vows, withholding the services of the healing rooms—my healing rooms. But I wonder, would my father let innocent people suffer for his pride?”

  “The Guardians are far from innocent. Rumours are growing. Just the other day, they say a man was beaten to death in the fields for daring to question the overseers.”

  I frowned. “These are rumours, Elder ab’Kulatyn. I tended no such body. Besides, it’s within their rights to enact discipline, whether or not we agree with—”

  “Are you defending them, Kulnethar? Or maybe just that shadow-seer of yours. After all, they say the expedition was his idea.”

  “I’m not defending them, Elder. I’m defending truth for its own sake. Please, whatever our grievances against the Hall, let’s not stoop to petty hearsay like Taskers in a squabble.”

  “Hear, hear,” muttered one of the Elders. I nodded at the white-haired woman, Vadiyah, who was clearly frustrated with the proceedings herself.

  “Look,” said the portly Jakalu, a Temple singer of great renown. “The point of all this is the good of Shyandar. Is it not? Young Kulnethar is right. We are in the midst of Kaprash and the people are suffering. Why don’t we offer a branch of goodwill? Reach out to the people and prove our value to the Hall. My singers have recently perfected the most beautiful chorus of lament. Why should it stay in these walls when the grief is out there? Let me take the chorus to them. We’ll pass out honied nuts and lift their spirits.”

  “I like that, Jakalu,” said the white-haired woman. “That fulfills our calling more than threats to the Hall.”

  Melanyr was already shaking his head. “That’s not the point. Yes. Wonderful idea. Fine. But the truth is the Hall no longer respects us. They respect power, not pretty choruses.”

  “There are many forms of power,” I said softly. “Is not beauty the highest?”

  Melanyr frowned at me, and I felt a warning in my gut. I was not an Elder here, and I suspected my father’s name would not shield me forever. Melanyr did not like me, that much was clear. I had spoken against his aggressive policies more than a few times while aiding my father. Could that alone explain his veiled animosity?

  “Your words show great wisdom,” Melanyr conceded. “For a youth such as yourself. But tell me, Kulnethar ab’Ethanir—with whose voice do you speak?”

  “My own.”

  “Not your father’s?”

  “My father is dead.”

  “Melanyr,” chided Vadiyah. “Is this necessary? The High Elder is barely settled in the South Fields and you want to use his death already? Show a little respect!”

  “It’s an excellent point, though,” said another broad-faced Elder. “Kulnethar was here on his father’s authority, and . . . well, we all knew this day would come.”

  I sighed, and before the protest could be repeated, I rose.

  “Elders, thank you for the privilege of allowing me to speak in this council. My father is dead. His chair stands empty. And yet I carry his words within me, as we all do. Before I leave—and leave I will—allow me to speak one final time in his name?”

  I saw a few nods and took that as permission.

  “His words would be simple. We have a purpose, a reason for being here. The Chorah’dyn herself gave u
s a sacred task to hold to the Avanir, and to that we must be faithful. Whatever we do, let it not be for power, or for our own safety or significance, but let it be for that purpose.”

  I nodded, and in the sudden painful silence, I left the room.

  The scribes made shuffling circles around the Library, like a slow, ceremonial dance. Amidst the scratching of pens or the creak of a winding rod, one would get up, trace the perimeter of the room, and disappear into the stacks. Only when he was gone would another rise, going in the opposite direction, maybe for a fresh ink stone. When she had seated herself, another would take his turn, and then, ponderously, another. Then the first scribe would reappear from the stacks. There seemed to be some silent understanding of no more than one body moving at a time, as if the concentrated effort of their work required the absolute minimum of distractions.

  Of which I was one. I caught them staring at me as I hurried towards a reading table, arms heaped with scrolls. Their precious scrolls.

  Trust not your assumptions, my father had said. But which ones? That Ishvandu was my friend? That I could trust him? Or that he had threatened my father in order to steal a forbidden tool of the ancients?

  Both. All. Any.

  I had to speak with Ishvandu. I had to get him back on my side. This expedition was dangerous—surely he could see it. But more dangerous was that. That milk-white stone. That drawn keshu. That moment of outrage. And that mysterious barefoot intruder who called himself by a long-dead honorific.

  E’tuah.

  He was the knot that tied this all together somehow, and Ishvandu was in the middle of it. It was time to start investigating this issue properly. It wasn’t coincidence Ishvandu had sought the Sending stone mere days before his departure into the desert. And why? Why, unless he wished to use it? And for what purpose but to speak to the man in the desert? A man whom Nyashal had also seen, a barefoot intruder.

  So there was something about Sumadi, and the desert, and this E’tuah person, something connecting all of it, and it was time to find out what.

  An urgency pulled at me as I moved through the Library, but I forced myself to slow down. I didn’t want to draw too much attention. I needed to look for hidden things, forbidden things.