Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “Anuai is freedom,” I said. “Freedom from the Avanir. Freedom from Shyandar. We can do that, Mani. You and I. The third. We can build a settlement out there, everything we need to survive. We have water and shelter. We have time. We can speak the truth into carefully chosen ears. If we do this right, the Choosing need never happen again for those who don’t want it. The Avanir need not control us.”

  She was silent again, thinking. What I’d spoken was treasonous enough already—and she knew it. But I was trusting her with my illicit hopes. Could she bend? Just one ally. Yl’avah’s might, one!

  “Ab’Tanadu will not follow you,” she said at last. “Neither will Nolaan, unless threatened. Yet our new recruits show promise. Benji is far too innocent, but I have hopes for Antaru and I’ve already spoken to Jil. He will bow to the strongest wind.”

  “You’ve spoken to Jil?” I dropped my voice, heart straining against my chest.

  She nodded. “As for Arkaya, her allegiances should be obvious. She is Adar ab’Dara’s daughter after all.”

  I hadn’t known that. Yl’avah’s might, how had no one explained that to me yet? And it was Mani who had chosen her for the third . . .

  A suspicion began to curl through me.

  “Yes, Ishvandu,” she said. “Your intentions have always been clear to me. Perhaps clearer than to you yourself.”

  I eyed her warily, hardly daring to believe. “And what about yours?”

  “I will follow the head of my kiyah.”

  “You have no reason to,” I shot back, almost defensive. Hoping, and not daring to hope. “One word of this. One whisper of this conversation, and you could be the head of the third. Why?”

  She took my arm and led me towards a sheltered corner of the stable yard, never mind that it was already empty. She lowered her voice. “Shyandar endures,” she said. “That is all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Records, Ishvandu.”

  “Records?”

  “Our numbers have been declining. People are dying at a steadier rate than they’ve been reproducing. Like Tala—young and strong, she of all people should be fit to bear a child. Yes, some years are fuller than others, and some harvests give false hope, but my calculations suggest that Shyandar will endure for another ten generations, at most, before our system can no longer sustain itself. Ishvandu,” she said solemnly, “we are a dying city.”

  My brow furrowed. I hadn’t even considered that. I’d imagined the cycles of the Avanir going on indefinitely, forever enslaving our people to its fullness and lack, forever holding us here in terror of the unknown. But Mani saw a different fate, not of perpetuation, but of extinction. A chill stole over me.

  “Then you agree with me. You see Anuai’s potential?”

  She nodded. “I’d hoped the transition could happen more gradually, but now I see I was wrong. Sometimes change requires momentum. If we lose you, Ishvandu, we’ll lose Anuai.”

  “And if we lose Anuai . . .”

  “Exactly. We don’t want chaos, we don’t want bloodshed, but if the truth of the Sumadi will spur our people towards a better future, then so be it. Anuai is the best opportunity we’ve had in decades.”

  I frowned. She said we, almost as if . . .

  “Mani, are you talking about our kiyah, or . . .”

  “You know.” She lifted her chin.

  “But . . .”

  “Let’s not pretend anymore, Ishvandu ab’Admundi. You’ve spoken your mind, and so have I. If either one of us goes to the Circle, we both fall.”

  The realization was growing steadily. A fear—and a thrill. “Mani, are you saying . . .” I couldn’t help glancing around the yard one more time, lowering my voice. “Are you saying you are with Adar ab’Dara? That you’re one of his rebels?”

  “No, Ishvandu,” she smiled. “I’m saying Adar ab’Dara is one of mine.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Hyranna Elduna

  Sunlight scattered green across her vision. A streak of blue and gold. Birdsong?

  Hyranna blinked. Was she awake now, or still lost in sleep? Her dreams had been black and hopeless, full of unimaginable pain. But it had felt real. More real than this. She’d been somewhere dark and cruel, stripped of everything—even her own name.

  Trapped.

  A flickering blue light?

  She chased the edges of the dream: she remembered wandering through darkness, being pieced together, bit by bit. Years of agony. A lifetime. Then there was Balduin’s voice, calling her—and home, and painful glimpses of Elamori. And violence. She remembered yelling, punching, twisting. She hunted her enemy through the forest, screaming and injured. It would strike out of the dark without warning. It would tear her skin and her eyes and bruise her flesh. It would rip out pieces of her mind like carrion, until she was nothing and no one. Then it would vanish again into the emptiness of her thoughts.

  Until someone else came. And together . . .

  She remembered the branch in her hands as it cracked against her enemy’s skull.

  When you’re ready, you’re free . . .

  She blinked.

  Colour!

  The realization struck her. She gasped and sat up—too fast. The world lurched around her.

  “Gods be, girl! You’re awake!”

  Hyranna gasped at the looming figure. A woman. A stranger. A . . . a Manturian.

  She scrambled back, arms and legs flailing as she leapt to her feet. The forest was spinning and spinning . . .

  “Stay away!” she croaked. “I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  She tottered into a tree. Blackness threatened the edges of her vision and she doubled over, breathing hard.

  “Steady, now! Steady!”

  The woman kept an arm’s length between them, but hovered. She had a gun in her belt. She had Northmen clothes. She even smelled like them: all gunmetal and leather and brass.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, child, you hear? Just calm yourself. See?”

  “You’re . . .” Hyranna took another step back, struggling to right herself. “You’re one of them.”

  Her face twisted. She reached for the Aktyr in her, everything she had, all her hatred—

  Nothing.

  Hyranna bared her teeth. “Take a step nearer and I’ll kill you.” Even as she said the words, she knew they were empty. Her voice rasped like dead leaves. She had no fire, no strength. Nothing.

  The Aktyr was gone.

  The woman backed away, hands open. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not so. You hear? I’m a traveller, just as yourself. I found you, see? You were dying. Past all help, so I thought, but I tried all the same, and—”

  “You saved me?” Hyranna’s face creased. “You?”

  “Well, not exactly. I’d given you up for dead, sorry to say. A minute more and I’d have fetched a spade. Name’s Tandra, by the way. Tandra Yourk. Feel you should know, seeing as I almost watched you die. Seeing as I’m glad you didn’t.”

  She smiled. It was a wry smile, like an apology and a quiet joke all wrapped up under tough, weathered skin.

  Hyranna blinked. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand. Why aren’t I dead?”

  “Hey.” The woman stuck up her hands. “Don’t ask me. I’m not the one as dragged you back from the grave.”

  Hyranna’s heart clutched again. She spun around, terrified she’d see him. Had E’tuah come back for her?

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “Some man. Said he knew you. Said I shouldn’t leave you.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Just lurched off into the woods. Looked a bit ill, he did.” The woman was watching her, eyes a little too keen. “Something wrong?”

  “He . . . he’s not a good man. I don’t know why he’d come back for me. I don’t know. I don’t trust this . . .”

  The woman’s hand strayed to her side. “Is he someone I should be ready for? He just saved your life, far as I can see, but if you say so, I’ll send hi
m off, with or without a bullet.”

  “I don’t know.” Hyranna churned with emotion: hatred towards E’tuah, fear of what he was planning, hope he meant to free Jerad after all, mistrust, then a strange, warm affection at the woman’s offer, even if it was to shoot somebody. She wasn’t convinced the bullet would do the job, but it made her feel a bit safer anyhow.

  “Tandra,” she said, testing the name. “You found me. You . . . took care of me?”

  “Aye, as well as I could. Which wasn’t much, I’m afraid, save to clean you up.”

  An image flashed through Hyranna’s mind: the wounded Northman she’d tried to save out of the Tindanarra. A memory of wasted kindness, so distant, it barely belonged to her anymore.

  “Hyranna,” she said in a burst of courage. “My name. Hyranna Elduna.”

  Tandra nodded. “Pleased to make your acquaintance Hyranna Elduna.” Then she grunted. “Damned Terryn raiders got mine too, and as soon as you’re able, I’m itching to go after them. This man might help. Or he might not. I’m waiting on your word.”

  Before Hyranna could think of a good answer, Tandra leapt back and pulled her revolver, as fast as any of those Northman bastards. It wasn’t aimed at Hyranna, but she flinched anyway.

  “Wait!” she gasped.

  The man who appeared was not E’tuah. He held open his arms, calm despite the threat. He had bright hair, a neat, bearded face, and strange clothing.

  “Did I miss something?” he asked.

  The voice was immediately familiar. Hyranna struggled to place it. That gentle voice. That bright hair. Like wisps of a dream.

  “You!”

  “You remember?” he asked quietly.

  “You gave us money in Tellern!” she cried. “You sent us to that wayhouse! You . . .” She shook her head. “No, you . . . you were there. The blue light. The blue light under the earth.”

  The man looked startled. “You saw that?”

  “You were in my dreams! You . . . you were calling for help and . . . Balduin found you. Father. He called you . . . You’re . . .” She stared. “Maker’s breath, you’re Alutan Na-es.”

  “Hold it,” Tandra interrupted. “Just hold on there a moment. Hyranna, is this fellow for shooting, or not?”

  Hyranna laughed, then shook her head. After all this time! After ten years, thinking him dead or gone. And now he was the one to save her?

  “No.” She laughed again. “No, Tandra Yourk, please don’t. This is my friend’s father. This is Alutan. This is—”

  Her face clouded. Memories rushed over her. Memories of pain. Of the blue light under the earth, and the darkness, and the tortured cries. Screams of agony. Groans of despair. The hair rose on her skin. She swallowed and staggered against a tree. “Oh, Maker above . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” Alutan said. “I’m sorry you had to see those things.”

  “Your memories?” She was almost relieved. She’d thought for a moment they were hers. Then she saw the lines on his face and the shadowed eyes, and felt a sinking of grief for him.

  “I could only free you from within,” he said. “The Aktyr had wrapped through your mind like a weed. I’m sorry, Hyranna.”

  “I don’t . . .” She glanced between Tandra and Alutan, feeling like she was missing something important here. “I don’t understand.”

  “He went inside your head or something.” Tandra tapped her grey-haired temple. “You were dying, and he saved you.”

  Hyranna touched her forehead. The Aktyr. The dark places of pain: rough hands holding her down, and gunshots, and stone smashing into flesh, and bruises, and the blue light. They were all there, all melded together into a single, wretched nightmare. Some hers. Some not.

  She grimaced at the taste of blood and helplessness.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I followed the slavers from Tellern. And I sensed the Aktyr, growing stronger.”

  “But it’s over now. Right?”

  “It’s over,” Alutan said. “You are free.”

  Free. The word drove into her heart, a painful yearning, too good to be true. Free to go after Balduin Na-es on her own. Free to save Jerad. Free to go home.

  Elamori. The thought brushed through her like a whisper, an ache. She shook her head. She couldn’t go back. Not yet.

  “Alutan Na-es, I need your help.”

  His face creased into a struggle. “Your friend?”

  “Jerad, yes. The slavers have him.”

  “Yes, and my boy as well,” Tandra nodded. “And we’d best hurry.”

  “That’s right,” Hyranna said. It seemed they were on the same side just now and that was good enough for her. “We could use your help. Right, Tandra Yourk?”

  “Right,” said the woman. “You seem useful in a pinch.”

  Alutan hesitated. “Hyranna, my son needs me.”

  “Look,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t know everything that happened to you, and maybe I don’t want to know, but Balduin is out there looking for you—alone. So yes, you’re damned right he needs you. Ten years ago he needed you. Now whatever your story is, it’s a poor substitute for having a father all that time. I did my best looking out for him. I took care of him, and I’m not done yet. So I’m coming too, but first I promised myself I’d save Jerad, and I will. And since it was you who gave us that coin in Tellern and pointed us to the wayhouse, then it’s partly your fault we’re stuck here in the first place. So are you going to help us or not?”

  “Hyranna,” he said quietly. “I’m not like Ishvandu. The man you called E’tuah.”

  “Good.”

  “My power is not like his. I won’t be able to walk up to a gang of slavers and destroy them. My fire is one of healing, not death.”

  “Then I suppose that’s what the sword is for,” Tandra said.

  Alutan glanced at her. “I never kill without need.”

  Tandra shrugged. “Some maiming would help, all the same. Just a few legs. Hands. Nothing vital, if you insist.”

  Hyranna nodded, and they both looked at him, waiting.

  Alutan’s brow shot up, then he gave a sudden, startling laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Hyranna demanded.

  “Just a few arms and legs? By the Tree, do you know nothing about—? Never mind,” he shook his head. “Yes. Fine. Yes, I’ll cut a few hands for you, Hyranna Elduna.”

  “Excellent!” she brightened.

  “I never intended to abandon those people, but finding you here . . . You’re free now. That’s good. But this will be dangerous.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean it. The Aktyr protected you before, but it won’t now. If something goes wrong, if we fail—and there’s a good possibility we might—you could die. You could be recaptured. You used the Aktyr to escape the first time, but you won’t have that option again.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’m ready. Give me something to fight with, and I’ll kill that bastard Brit Garden. I swear I will!”

  Alutan shook his head. “You’ll be doing no fighting.”

  “That’s not your decision to make.”

  “If you want me to help you, then yes, it is—”

  “No.” Hyranna’s face went hard. She stood rigid, fists clenched. “Do you have any idea how they treated us? They beat us for the fun of it. They threatened us, humiliated us, and shot us like . . . like rats. Jerad might be dead for all I know, but I killed one of their scum already, and I can do it again. I’ve earned this, and neither of you have any right to deny me. I’m coming, and I’m fighting.”

  She was breathing hard, furious at the slavers all over again, at Garden. Especially Garden. Her fury stayed small and powerless without the shard, but it was hers, all hers, and Maker above, she was going to use it!

  “How did it feel, when you killed that man?” Alutan asked quietly. There was no judgment in his voice, but the words were like a slap.

  She swallowed back a knot in her throat. It felt evil, and wretched, and
sickening, like all the worst moments of her life vomited out together—but how could she put that horror into words?

  Then she saw Alutan’s face, calm and full of pain, and realized she didn’t have to.

  “Is that something you want to feel again?” he asked.

  Hyranna forced herself to breath, to let her mind brush the edges of that horrible memory. The slaver had tried to be kind. Almost. And that was as insulting as anything. She remembered the Aktyr surging to life, lashing out, overpowering him, and crushing him with all the force of its hatefulness. But it was her hands that had done it, and she’d wanted to.

  Alutan was watching her, waiting for an answer.

  She realized her next words were going to matter—not just for them, but for herself, for something inside that was confusing and painful.

  Finally, she shook her head. “No. But if it means stopping those men, I will.”

  “Very well,” Alutan said. “Are you well enough to walk?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Good.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a leather sheath with a knife. “For you. But stay back until we’ve cleared the first threat. Then it’s up to you.”

  “Aye,” Tandra said. “If they haven’t moved, we can catch ‘em by nightfall.”

  Hyranna gripped the knife with a burst of hope. “Good,” she said. “Let’s go hunting.”

  Rebel

  The Desert and the Forest

  Year 457 and 799 after the fall of Kayr

  It is time.

  The Avanir is before me: the salvation of our people—and my end. Yl’avah grant that I may face it with courage and resolve.

  I am ready.

  - Here ends the Chronicles of the Last Age and the Ending of Kayr, set down by Andari ab’Andala, named Al’kah, first of the Age of Exile.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Ishvandu ab’Admundi

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi!”