by Brandon Barr
That evening after dinner, Meluscia had retrieved a blanket and pillow from her own room then returned to the passage. There, she had made a comfortable place to lie beneath the hole that looked into Mica and Praseme’s room. A burning loneliness ached in her chest. These servants in many ways represented every person living in the Blue Mountain realm. She imagined that every tiny knoll village and hamlet that dotted the Hold Kingdom was made of rooms just like these, each warmed by personalities and stories not too different than those found in her secret tunnel.
Standing, she looked through the spy hole again. Praseme was still focused on her needlework, her face serene. Mica had poured himself another cup of rum and had settled back in his chair, his eyes closed, as if savoring the sweet tones of Praseme’s melody.
A cold draft rushed down the shaft of the cavern, and Meluscia brought the blanket up around her, wriggling deeper into the large pillow cushioning her back and head. She needed this moment to breathe, this reminder of her people—people who were not just suffering from a food shortage, but also from the constant threat of the Nightmares.
She shuddered, recalling the monstrous thing that had broken into one of her father's back paddocks, killing the night watchmen and eating two of the royal horses before being brought down by the spear riders. The Nightmares were becoming bolder. And more deadly. There was a family left to grieve tonight…
She could hear the soft whispers of the people around her. She could protect them, once and for all, by bringing the Verdlands and the Hold together. If only someone believed in her.
Once her father died, she would have no family other than Savarah. She thought of her father and the way in which she’d parted from him. She had spurned him on his deathbed, then departed with harsh words. It felt cruel now. He was her father, and no matter how betrayed she felt, did she want his last memories of her to be the ones she’d left him with?
She thought of the days ahead. Tomorrow, she would leave for the Verdlands. She would not let Valcere destroy her people without a fight. Savarah’s words came to mind, bringing a little smile to her lips. Get Valcere’s warmongering ass off the throne and put the rightful heir where she belongs.
She would do whatever she could to counteract the adversarial approach Valcere would take toward King Feaor. But what would work? Ideas flitted through her mind for a time, then grew tiresome as the hour ebbed, and her thoughts turned to Mica.
The memory of him so close to her. How the touch of his hands, even for so brief a time, had lifted her confidence off of the cold stone floor. She had felt strengthened…but only for a short while.
The night grew colder, and she slipped in and out of sleep. Praseme’s tune, so content, so satisfied with the life she had, seeped into Meluscia’s bones like a dull, throbbing ache. Taunting her. She had sought to soothe herself here, but was instead reminded of what she was losing. Again she thought of the freedom she now had, with the responsibilities of Luminess now officially taken from her. But the thought only made her bitter. She wanted to rule. She wanted to save her people the pain of the war she sensed was just around the corner. To lead the people like Luminaries of history. Like Monaiella. She wanted the power to make peace.
And she wanted to be able to come here to this tunnel. To look upon Mica, and simply imagine being with him. To pretend that she was where Praseme was. She was so similar in size to Praseme, how easy it was to place herself down there. Even the slight paunch of her richly-fed stomach mimicked the faint swell of Praseme’s belly. At least for a little while longer.
Stop torturing yourself and make peace.
Meluscia called out in her mind to Jonakin, the imaginary lover she had created so long ago. For him to join her in the bedroom. But it felt too unreal. Half-hearted. Her emotions were skewed and disillusioned by the day’s events. She tried to imagine Mica lying with her, instead. He was real. She wanted love that was tangible, to feel his arms embrace her…but Praseme’s glad melodies were a discordant sound reminding her that it was all a game, and that Mica would never be hers to have. It wasn’t long before cynical dreams dragged her away, easing for the moment her unfulfilled ache.
_____
SAVARAH
Aszelbor’s naked body lay in a mound of ice within the meat room, dry eyes staring straight up at Savarah. She looked down at her one-time ally, the royal undercook—whom she’d poisoned—but her thoughts were focused intensely on the dangerous man beside her, hunched over the human carcass. She knelt beside Osiiun. His nose was by Aszelbor’s large lips. He pushed on the dead man’s chest and inhaled the released air.
“I smelled his breath and checked his body an hour after he died,” said Savarah. “I couldn’t detect anything.”
Osiiun glanced up at the soldier standing beside the meat room door and signaled for privacy. The soldier nodded and left. Savarah was alone with one of the king’s fiercest riders. And, like her, a secret enemy to the people who trusted them.
His words came quiet but fierce. “Aszelbor’s heart erupts, while simultaneously I receive a message that Orum wants to talk to me? I don’t like coincidences.” His eyes looked deeply into hers. “What would Orum need to tell me that he couldn’t tell you?”
Osiiun’s penetrating eyes unnerved Savarah. She felt a momentary sense of losing control and ran a hand through her hair to disguise her distress. “You have five Quahi waiting for you back at Praelothia,” said Savarah. “You are higher ranked than I; you must know something I don’t.”
He looked at her warily. “Where is Orum?”
“I had him hide in the old bear cave at Opal Gorge.”
“You brought him here? To the Mountain!?”
“He requested it.”
Osiiun’s eyes fell to Aszelbor’s bluish face. “I smell something I don’t like. Something tainted.”
“I am wary as well, but,” Savarah paused, as if in thought, “but I am eager for you to meet with Orum and hear out his message. His words might put us at ease.”
“Doubtful,” said Osiiun, and rose to his full height, nearly a head taller than her. His eyelids sloped down at the ends, giving him a contemplative look. Savarah had seen first-hand the deadly cunning behind those disarming eyes. They hid his suspicion well. But even so, she thought she detected some small change in the way he looked at her.
“Let us go,” said Osiiun. “If something is rotting, I will root it out.”
Chapter Four
SAVARAH
The Opal Gorge was a slanting crack beneath the sheer eastern face of the Hold. It stretched half a day’s ride out toward the large valley that lay between the Hold and the ancient volcanic flow of black rock mountains that was Hearth’s Scat. There were many little villages of the Hold tucked amongst the dark porous rocks that stretched for days in mountainous piles amidst forest and muddy glades.
Savarah’s horse snorted as it neared the old bear cave, as if catching a vile scent. The porous black boulder was barely visible under the crescent sliver of moonlight. Savarah kept both hands on her reins, though she wished she could slip her fingers down to her knife. If it was anyone but Osiiun riding beside her, she could have done so unnoticed.
“Orum!” shouted Savarah. “It’s Osiiun and I.”
A torch in Osiiun’s hand sparked to life. A moment later, the blaze warmed the surrounding rocks with orange light. The cave stood dark and empty. Savarah dismounted, sliding the fawnskin quiver and her bow over one shoulder. Osiiun stayed on his horse. She sensed his suspicions rising higher by the moment.
Where was that damned razor arm? She’d given the creature specific instructions.
“Orum?” she called out again.
As she came to the cave mouth, she noticed the shackles that had held the creature lying broken in the dirt. The blood drained from her face. The stupid beast had found something to saw through the thick chain. A storm of rebukes ran through her mind. She had failed. She should have tried to kill Osiiun before poisoning Aszelbor—should have risked a
battle of wits with the shrewd, bloated bastard instead of pitting herself against a brutal giant like Osiiun. There was no going back, Osiiun would know. He would see the tracks on the ground, the chain. She had to strike. Now. While surprise was still a possible ally.
Savarah took in one last calming breath, embracing what had to be done in the instant that followed. Slowly she turned, masking the left hand that deftly slid the bow from her shoulder. Her right flew for an arrow and her bow twanged.
The arrow sunk into the chest of Osiiun’s dark horse. The animal reared and crashed to the dirt. The torch landed on the ground, silhouetting her target. She loosed more arrows as she steadily moved toward Osiiun, firing down upon him from where he lay, one foot lodged under his horse. The big man swung his leather armguard, deflecting some of her arrows, each tipped with a different poison. Two out of five shots had gotten through his frenzied defense when a flash of movement caught the corner of her eye—a blur coming from the torch-bathed shadows to the left of the cave.
She whirled toward the figure, fitting another arrow to the string. A dull white blade swung down upon her. She released the arrow prematurely, shielded her head with her bow. The blade cracked against the boned tip of her bow, snapping the oiled gizzard string, the force of the blow bringing Savarah to a knee.
The razor arm’s sunken eyes glowed in the firelight, its hot rotten breath washing over her face. It drew back its serrated arm and thrust it forward like a skewer. Savarah glanced aside the bladed arm with her broken bow as her right hand drew her knife, slashing its diamond-tipped blade through the creature’s frail belly flesh.
It screamed, entrails pouring to the ground. Savarah finished the creature, driving the knife through its rib cage into its heart. It was an enormous act of mercy, considering it had broken her precious bowstring.
In the sudden silence, she turned to Osiiun. He yanked his foot free of the horse and raised himself off the ground, sword in hand. She had only her knife and three remaining arrows, but no working bow to shoot them. Osiiun snapped off the shafts of the two she had shot into his shoulders. He stared at her as he did it, his face showing no hint of the pain he must surely have felt.
He stepped toward her, scooping up the dying torch in his free hand. “What turned you from the master?” he asked, his voice low, but unnervingly warm. Unlike her, he had mastered the theater crafts.
She moved back, keeping pace with his footsteps, angling away from the cave to what she recalled to be open space.
“What turned you?” he asked again.
She switched her knife to her left hand, then drew out an arrow and flung it at him with practiced accuracy. He blocked with his armguard and the head splintered harmlessly from the shaft. Without a working bow, she didn’t have the speed to slip an arrow past his guard.
“Tell me,” he said. “Have you found a more powerful master? Have you been promised some greater reward?”
She noticed the stain of blood running down his cloak. The farther he went, the less strength he would have. The wounds would wear on him, as would the poison. She’d used a different toxin for each arrow, hoping one or two were immune to Osiiun’s strange brew he drank to inoculate himself.
“I’ve imagined what it would be like, turning from the master,” said Osiiun. “Why won’t you tell me what you’ve found? Perhaps I can be made an ally.”
The back of her foot hit a rock, and Savarah nearly lost her balance. She turned and quickly searched her path, but the torchlight suddenly disappeared and all she saw was darkness.
She scrambled blindly into the dark, turning back toward Osiiun. He had hidden the light behind his back. He edged it out from behind him, just enough to illuminate her, but not far enough that he couldn’t hide it again with a twitch of his wrist.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said. “Speak. Tell me what’s happened.”
Savarah noted he had closed some of the distance between them. She continued stepping back into the unknown dark, a game she couldn’t keep up much longer. Two arrows and a knife versus one long sword in the hand of the most feared fighter she knew. He was a paragon of flawlessness.
It was a good thing she’d landed two arrows and marred his perfection.
“How are your wounds?” asked Savarah.
With the torch behind him, she could only see a slight glow running over the side of his face, but even then, she noted a tightening of the jaw.
“You’ve worked so faithfully for our master,” he said again warmly. “Why have you betrayed Aszelbor and I?”
She glanced behind her, to her right, before he could tuck the torch behind his back again. There was a grove of dwarfed trees. Piles of black rocks. Nothing sparked an idea. But then, in that void, it occurred to her exactly what she should do.
She angled her movements toward the stand of trees as if smelling opportunity there.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she said, “Do you—”
Savarah stumbled backward and fell at just the angle she wanted, her knife hand bracing for the fall. The other hand, shadowed by the position of her body, moved to retrieve an arrow. She hit the ground and drew out the weapon. Osiiun was charging, sword held with purpose at his side, his expressionless face lit by the extended torch.
He was too close.
She threw the arrow. A deadly realization widened Osiiun’s eyes the moment before the tip pierced his neck. Savarah raised her knife hand, but its movement was slowed by the tiger’s wound from earlier that week. The torch illuminating Osiiun’s bloody shoulder now reflected the flash of his well-aimed sword. Savarah’s knife met Osiiun’s blade, deflecting the blow away from her heart. But the power and speed behind it drove the sword through her tender left shoulder.
She screamed as Osiiun thrust the sword deeper into the very place the tiger’s claw had gone through, his blade pinning her to the ground.
“I’ve always wanted to kill you,” whispered Osiiun through clenched teeth. His hand came up to her hair and gripped it painfully, but Savarah sensed his strength was fading. For if he’d had his full power, he would have snapped her neck with a yank of his arm. “You are inferior,” he said in a wheezing breath.
“Your math skills are poor,” said Savarah, keeping the excruciating pain of her shoulder from her voice. “I killed you. I get one of your Quahi. Simple addition and subtraction. You are the inferior one.”
His grip on her hair tightened and he began to stretch her neck down to her shoulder. Her muscles burned, feeling as if they would pull apart. Had he been feigning weakness? Was the neck wound not mortal?
She winced, willing herself to remain conscious until the end. Slowly, the searing agony eased. She could feel his muscles failing, unable to find the strength to finish their mission.
“You killed me only by surprise,” Osiiun rasped. “A coward’s kill.”
“A strategic kill,” said Savarah. “Our master would have been pleased, if it had been done in his service.”
For a long moment there was silence. Savarah thought him dead. But then he finally whispered faintly, “Why?”
“Because,” Savarah whispered back, “love is a beautiful flaw. I find its weakness enchanting. I want to be near it, even if I can barely feel it. I want to protect it.” She turned her head slightly toward Osiiun’s ear. “I’m going to kill the master.”
He said no more, and after a time, she felt his body stiffen. Through her pain, Savarah tried to assess her situation. Osiium’s blade was leaning against his gloved hand. She had to remove the sword, but she knew as soon as she did, her blood would flow freely.
Savarah took the shaft of the sword in her hand and then slowly released a breath, remembering her master’s arena and the many wounds she’d suffered there.
Only, now, she didn’t have access to his healing arts.
Savarah tugged on the sword and screamed like a woman dying in childbirth.
_____
MELUSCIA
The scent of fresh-picke
d roses was intoxicating, but the sight of them amazed Meluscia, for they were dark blue, like the ones said to have been created for Aurorah during the forging of their world. Jonakin had come home early from patrol, and brought the roses with him. “How did you find these? They were destroyed.”
“They are a sign from the Makers. Perhaps you are the last Luminary the Beast will live to see.”
Jonakin’s arms enfolded her. His lips, warm and soft, pressed into hers. Perfect. Her affection, her desires—she was a human avalanche. Jonakin’s green-ash eyes, pure and wise and sincere, looked deep into her soul and whisked a part of her away.
But then they changed.
They became the bluish gray of Mica’s eyes, close, tender. She pulled his being into hers through those mysterious eyes. The portal for the soul. A sacred exchange that passed through the sieve of the other, just as the Book of Intimacy described. The freedom. The vulnerability. The shamelessness of naked trust. Everything she’d longed for. His warm fingers filled with purpose caressing her neck, running through her hair, his breath on her face.
She drew him into bed and their bodies fused into one. One soul. One rhythm. She pressed her hands against his back as Mica’s lovemaking brought out her voice like a melody, low and deep, like the ballad of the mountain in winter.
But then a distant awareness tugged, and a cold crept in. The musical sighs and moans faded away. Silence grew, and so, too, the chill. Like a gust of midnight frost, biting like ice.
Meluscia opened her eyes. Darkness and the smell of cold stone greeted her. This was not the fragrant scent of her room, and Mica’s form had vanished like a dream from her arms. She was still in the tunnel.
