Bloodkin

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  “Big courtyard,” Vance observed, with a quirked brow. “No women in the Family?”

  “I’m not sure what happened to the queen,” I answered. “I know King Laurence married and had children when he was older than usual, so she may have been older, too. They had no daughters, but even if they had, the boys still would have been ahead of her in line for the throne.” With a shrug, I added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the magic selects male offspring for the royal family. They have a family tree posted on the wall of the receiving room, going back generations, and it’s heavy with men.”

  “Huh.” Midnight was ruled by a woman, and the serpiente believed a woman was as capable as a man, so this was Vance’s first exposure to a patriarchal system.

  “Their sakkri, the high priestess, is always a woman,” I added. “I think they believe the male king and female priestess provide balance. Or something.”

  I heard one of the guards cough in response to my vague, dismissive description. Somehow, I couldn’t find it in myself to be concerned that I had offended him.

  Though I knew all three Shantel royals, I had never met the sakkri, with her gift of prophecy. The Shantel’s most sacred witch was chosen by the land itself, and recognized at birth by the “white curse,” a mark visible on both her human and animal forms. In order to maintain her tie to the magic of the land, she was never given a name. She could be claimed by no one; even the woman who gave birth to a sakkri would never claim the infant as “hers.” A sakkri had no parents, no lovers, no friends.

  No wonder they call it a curse, I thought.

  “The deathwitch said the sakkri sent him to Midnight,” Vance remarked, his tone as controlled as if he were discussing the weather.

  I didn’t know any words powerful enough to soothe him, so I reached out and squeezed his hand instead. Vance shot me a grateful smile, and I tried not to let him see my anxiety.

  There wasn’t time to say more before we reached the temple, which was a low, round building whose doors were covered by an elaborately embroidered tapestry. Cowrie shells sewn against the fabric had become leaves in an elaborate tree, whose trunk was made of wooden beads, each carved with a different design. The green-and-white shells sparkled in the dappled light.

  I forced my feet to move forward, and my hand to reach for the curtain. I smelled the rich aroma of incense and beeswax candles as we stepped into the antechamber. Vance and I both stopped with our toes barely past the threshold, leaving as much distance between us and the two women who seemed to be waiting for us as possible.

  “This is a surprise,” one of the women said. I was startled to see that she couldn’t have been much older than I was, though she was clearly the revered sakkri. Her skin was a deep plum-black, and the “white curse” was visible as markings throughout her long, jet-dark hair. The white strands made striking streaks of silver in the black tresses.

  “Liar,” I grumbled. “A half-dozen goons showed up to fetch us.”

  “Did they,” said the sakkri. It was not a question, though it was accompanied by a pointed glance to the other woman.

  I knew there could be more than one of any of the other witches, but the Shantel always spoke as if there was only one sakkri. I was looking at evidence that my impression was wrong, however, because the second woman also had white markings. She was older, though her face had a timeless quality to it that made it hard to tell her age. Her skin was red-brown, except for the milk-white markings visible along one side of her face like a tiger’s stripes.

  “Yes,” Vance said. “So tell us what you want.”

  The two sakkri did not look offended by our bluntness. They looked serene. I wanted to say or do something extreme, to break that calm the way they had broken mine.

  “We were coming to Shantel land willingly,” I snapped. “To help. Was a show of force really necessary?”

  “We were not convinced you would come to us,” the older sakkri said, with a glance to her … friend, guardian, mentor? I had no idea what relation to each other these two might have. Either way, the look said that this subject was a contentious one.

  “My sister insists that you can aid us,” the younger sakkri said.

  Sister, then. The white curse was not inherited, and the age difference between the two women suggested the relationship was ceremonial, not literal. I said, “And yet you claim our visit was a surprise.”

  “We were not certain if our message had been received, or understood,” the older woman said. “You have a connection to our magic from your time here as a child, but it is tenuous. We also tried to reach the white prophet, but he is … unreliable. Even if our message was received, we had no way to know if you would respond.”

  I thought about my dream, and Malachi’s garbled words. The dream-image of Shane had gnawed at me, driving me here in a way that I now realized was more than simple memory and concern. If I had realized it was a deliberate message, I thought, I probably wouldn’t have responded.

  “Who gave you the right?” I demanded, unable to bite back my fury when I realized they had manipulated me magically. “I am not one of your people! I’m—”

  “You gave us the right,” the younger sakkri answered, her voice rising with as much hostility as mine. “If it were not for your interference, the exile’s crimes would never have been blamed on our people. Midnight would not now be demanding payment, not in coin but in our flesh and blood. We—”

  The older sakkri placed a hand on her sister’s arm, and spoke over her in cool, controlled tones.

  “There is no point in our arguing guilt or innocence,” she said, quieting the younger woman. “All we ask of you two,” she said, “is for you to carry a message. I am aware that you were endangered without your consent by the exile’s scheme, but I am also aware that you eventually chose to ally yourselves with him, and actively assisted him. In that way, you are more culpable than we.”

  Slyly, the younger sakkri suggested, “We could perhaps ease some of Midnight’s wrath were we to share that information.”

  “But we will not,” the older woman snapped. “Our king has forbidden it. He sees you as an ally despite your rather tarnished reputation. If you will assist us, we will not betray you.”

  A chill went down my spine as I watched the two sakkri glare at each other. Surely, this kind of dissent in the temple, where Shantel were supposed to look for guidance, did not bode well. I had been sure the sakkri would be able to explain to the Shantel that we were not the guilty party here. I hadn’t realized they would spin it the way they had, putting the blame on us regardless of our intentions.

  “What is the message?” I asked. I didn’t plan to go to Midnight proper—and who else could they possibly need to communicate with?—but there might be a way to pass information to someone in the market.

  “Prince Lucas will explain,” the younger sakkri said. “They are ready to receive you now, and you are ready to hear what they will say.”

  I didn’t feel ready to hear anything the royal family might tell us, especially given the way the sakkri had all but threatened to turn us over to Midnight as criminals if we refused to help with whatever it was they needed.

  “Let’s go see the prince, then,” Vance said, with a slight quaver in his voice that suggested he felt as trepidatious as I did.

  The sakkri nodded, giving us permission to leave but apparently not intending to come with us. Had we been asked to see them just so they could threaten us?

  If this was the welcoming committee, I was not looking forward to the main event.

  OUR ESCORT HAD fallen back slightly by the time we left the temple, but unsurprisingly, no one offered to return our weapons before we went to see the king and princes.

  The Family’s receiving room was pretty in the same style as most Shantel buildings, built into the forest instead of in competition with it. It was hard to tell which parts of the buildings were growing and which had been constructed, where evergreen canopy ended and manufactured roofing began. Br
eaks in the walls and ceiling let in ample light, but I couldn’t help but wonder how they kept out the rain and the cold in worse weather.

  King Laurence was an elderly man, with old scars marking the side of his face and streaking the back of one hand.

  Prince Lucas, Laurence’s older son, was by Shantel law and tradition the day-to-day ruling power. The king was only involved when the prince felt uncertain about resolving matters on his own or when someone questioned his judgment. When we entered the receiving chamber, Lucas was standing beside his wooden throne, as if too anxious to sit still.

  Shane, Laurence’s younger son, paced behind his father and brother. His closed-off expression made him seem older than I knew he was, and the knowledge that the sakkri had used my warm memories of him to manipulate me into coming here made me even more unsure about how to greet him.

  As Vance and I approached, the guards flanking us bowed. I did not. I also did not step forward or offer a hand to shake, though I knew that touch was considered essential to communication among the Shantel. Refusing to touch someone in greeting was generally equivalent to spitting on them.

  The way Lucas’s eyes blazed when he saw me, however, made me realize I was right not to attempt a friendly greeting. Instead, I stopped as far away as I could without our needing to shout at each other, and Vance followed my lead, lingering just behind my left shoulder.

  “Kadee,” Lucas said, with a flat, unwelcoming tone that made me shiver. “We did not expect you. Who is your companion?”

  Vance spoke for himself. “Vance Obsidian,” he said, “formerly Vance Ehecatl. I don’t work for Midnight anymore, and I don’t work for you, so stop with the ceremony and feigned surprise and tell us what you want from us so we can leave.”

  Silence fell like a hammer.

  At last, King Laurence sighed and said, “Please, be seated.”

  There were two chairs set up, somewhat closer than I wanted to get, and naturally somewhat lower than the chairs available to the royals.

  “No,” I said immediately. “Thank you,” I added, in a belated attempt at basic courtesy. The sakkri had suggested that Laurence at least had protected us and refused to betray us to Midnight. I didn’t want to antagonize him more than I needed to.

  “The fact that you carry the name Obsidian does not require you to be contrary,” Lucas snapped.

  “Your king sits on a dais, and you two stand on a raised platform,” Vance said. “We came here to help you, but first you threaten us, and now you ask us to sit at your feet. We are not your subjects, and we will not be manipulated.”

  “Your upbringing is making you paranoid,” Shane suggested, his voice kinder than that of his brother’s. “We just asked you to sit, not to worship.”

  “The position says enough,” Vance replied, “so I will respectfully stand.”

  “Please,” Laurence said softly, “do not make this harder than it already is. Sit or stand as you like.”

  Vance stayed where he was. Shane’s use of the word “paranoid” probably wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Even without considering the harm done by the Shantel themselves, Vance had been raised by individuals who had subtly manipulated him at every turn. He was naturally cautious as a result, which meant I was going to have to be more reasonable.

  I was the one who was habitually argumentative, the trait Lucas had assigned to all members of the Obsidian guild. I tried to rein in that impulse, reminding myself that the sakkri were at least partly right. We hadn’t willingly involved ourselves in the attack on the trainers, but we had committed ourselves to it. I hadn’t fully understood the situation, but I had made up my mind: given an opportunity, I had been willing to risk my life to strike a blow against Midnight.

  I hated the fact that the sakkri had manipulated me but the king had defended me. I owed them the courtesy of an open ear, at least.

  With an effort at civility, I said, “Let’s begin again. Allow me to introduce Vance Obsidian. As children of Obsidian, you know we will not call you king or bow to commands, but as neighbors we will attempt to stand patiently and listen to a request. I’ll even refrain from commenting on your sakkri’s veiled threat to sell us to Midnight should we refuse, if you give us a reasonable reason to assist you.”

  Laurence shook his head with what looked like disappointment. Shane stepped down from the dais with what appeared to be a chastising look over his shoulder at his father and brother, and offered his hand to me.

  “Thank you,” he said as I took his wrist in what I hoped I correctly remembered was a friendly greeting. It had been a long time since I had lessons in Shantel etiquette.

  He had shadows under his eyes, and when he mirrored my grip and pulled me forward to hug me, I could feel the exhaustion in his body. He explained, “Our land has been barred from all visitors since we heard about the bounty that Midnight is offering for our people. We have been discussing different options, and the sakkri told us to wait here for her final decision this morning, but I …” His voice broke for a moment, and his gaze flickered away from mine. “We did not realize she intended to bring you. That is why your visit is a surprise.”

  “I can honestly say we wish we did not need to involve you,” Laurence said.

  “Everyone keeps saying that,” Vance remarked, “and yet you seem determined to do it.”

  Shane turned toward the quetzal with fury in his gaze. He did not offer his hand to Vance but retreated to the dais with tense steps.

  “You two act like you are the put-upon party,” Lucas snapped, grasping Shane’s shoulder as he passed. Shane shook off his brother’s grip and returned to pacing. “Believe me when I say you are the last two people I would ever have chosen to help us. You are—”

  “They are the ones the sakkri sent,” Laurence interrupted his son. “Recall what we were told. They are not as guilty as circumstances make them appear.”

  “She might not be,” Lucas cut in, gesturing to me, “but what about him?”

  “Shut up, both of you!” Shane snapped, his voice cracking on the second word. “You would bicker until this forest burns.” Shane turned to us again and cut to the point with no regard for authority or protocol. “We need you to deliver a message to Midnight. More specifically, we need you to make a deal.”

  I had guessed this was coming, but I still didn’t understand. “Why now?” I asked. “It’s been four months.”

  Lucas drew himself up, pulling in a long, slow breath as if to compose himself. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with frustration, but he was at least no longer snarling in anger. “Midnight wouldn’t even tell us the extent of our supposed crime,” he said. “They said slaves had been killed, and that we were responsible, and they demanded payment. For weeks, we exchanged offers, incentives … threats. We insisted that we had no part in the exile’s actions. For over a month, we bickered, before the sakkri divined the truth, that the vampires themselves had been threatened. She says the trainers were nearly killed?”

  He sounded incredulous. I had seen it and still barely believed it, but I nodded.

  “When we realized they would not accept our protestations of innocence, we offered payment in coin and goods well beyond the value Midnight assigns the slaves. It would have indebted us for a decade, easily.”

  Unlike the serpiente and avians, who had come to this land as refugees, utterly dependent at first on the vampires for food and shelter, the Shantel had occupied this land centuries before the vampires had arrived to build their monstrous empire. They had never been forced into the crippling spiral of debt that held the other shapeshifters hostage generation after generation.

  “And in reply,” Vance said, “they cut off your trade and offered the bounty on your people.”

  “Our last messenger never returned,” Laurence said. “We waited weeks and heard nothing. Then, about a week ago, one of Midnight’s mercenaries delivered a message. Since we have failed to offer acceptable payment … they intend to burn the forest.” His voice at the end
was small, as if he were saying something obscene. To him, it probably was. Even I was shocked.

  Once again, Vance and I spoke over each other, but this time it was clear our minds were traveling completely different paths.

  I gasped. “Is that possible?” I asked at the same moment that Vance asked, “What are you offering?”

  I turned toward him, startled by his words and even more startled by his tone. I knew that look, that posture, that voice, and it wasn’t one he had picked up among the Obsidian guild. The conversation hadn’t been much different when Malachi had negotiated with a mercenary from Midnight regarding Misha’s return.

  Shane stepped forward, swallowed, and then said in a clear voice, “It’s possible. You being here means the sakkri decided the danger is real, and that we must deal or risk far worse. So … I’m what we’re offering.”

  “Shane,” Lucas whispered, a single word that seemed full of heartbreak.

  But you’re so young, I thought.

  How young, or old, is fifteen years? Vance and I were both outlaws already. Vance was still only fourteen, but he had seen people beaten, seen them die; he had inadvertently caused dozens of deaths. I had taken a life with my own hands when I was only twelve. We had both known terror beyond anything a child was supposed to know, and were treated as adults by our kin in the Obsidian guild.

  But all I could think about when I looked at Shane was the boy who had played a harp and sung to me as the fleshwitch’s spells and potions rearranged the very fiber of my being, twisting my innards in an ongoing attempt to shove unwilling muscle and sinew into a sleek serpent form. The witch, the Shantel’s version of a doctor, had been convinced that if they could just help me change shape once, everything else would fall into place and my symptoms would subside.

  I couldn’t speak, but Vance could and did. “What else?” he asked bluntly. “When Midnight thought the Azteka were guilty, they demanded one healthy shapeshifter for each dead slave, or one bloodwitch for every ten. In the end, there were over twenty dead—and that’s without factoring in the price of rebellion itself, including an attempt on the lives of Mistress Jeshickah and her trainers. They won’t accept one younger prince for the full price, especially after so much time has passed.”