Twice Blessed

by Taryn Noelle Kloeden

  Twice Blessed

  Taryn Noelle Kloeden

  Wild Winds Press

  Contents

  Osterna

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part II

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part III

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Thank You For Reading!

  Cast of Characters

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Lorenzo Lee,

  Let this be my vow.

  Part I

  The Pack Divided

  Chapter One

  Today's entertainment for the hungry, raucous crowd outside would be Lonian Kemar's death, and the grislier, the better. How would they do it? Lonian doubted the Kyreans would grant him—the Sylrian leader they so despised—the dignity of a swift end. Would it be wild animals? Fire? Some other torture only Gabriel Garrison's sick mind or Tallis Terayan's sadistic urges could weave together? The prison bars fractured the light from Lonian's lone window. Through it, he glimpsed the arena's sandy floor and the thousands of spectators lining the amphitheater. He cracked his knuckles behind his back, rattling the chains on his wrists.

  Lonian glanced at his guard. The man’s shuttered gaze didn’t reveal much.

  “Won't be long now, Kemar,” the guard said.

  For over two months, Lonian had been Councilor Terayan’s prisoner. The Councilor had questioned, starved, and tortured him, but none of that compared to the deeper agony eating through Lonian’s heart: His nation, his people, were all gone. The few scattered Sylrians who had survived centuries of Kyrean attacks were slaughtered or enslaved. Kyrean soldiers occupied Sylrian lands, and the cold clean tundra and sacred mountains would be mined, desecrated to feed the Republic's endless appetite. It had been Lonian’s responsibility to protect their culture, and he'd failed.

  His soul lay in tatters, and the only unblemished portion was leagues away, safe and whole within his Crimund, the dog Laera. The Councilor had allowed the canine who shared part of Lonian's soul to escape, telling Lonian he hoped she would seek help from Rayna Myana and the Fenearens. Lonian prayed Rayna would not be foolish enough to take the bait, but even so, knowing Laera was free gave him a measure of peace. He'd not let down everyone he loved.

  As if summoned by his guilt, another prisoner entered the cell from the tunnels running beneath the arena. Lonian’s nephew Kellan sauntered as though he were not chained, clothed in rags, and followed by a pair of surly guards. The cocksure display did not fool Lonian. Kellan had always cloaked his pain in arrogance.

  Lonian's guard spat on the ground. “Good, the other dog. Bring him here so he'll have a clear view of what's to come.”

  “Thanks for the escort, gentlemen,” said Kellan. “That will be all.”

  Both guards replied with a swift punch to Kellan's gut, dropping the young man to his knees. Lonian stumbled toward his nephew, though he could do little with his own hands chained. Kellan leaned against Lonian. The boy's too-sharp shoulder blades dug into Lonian’s chest as they rose together.

  “Easy, Kellan. Save your strength,” Lonian whispered into his nephew’s matted black hair.

  “For what, Uncle?”

  The guards pulled them apart before Lonian could reply. In truth, he did not know what to say. What was left to them? Where was their freedom, their justice, their safety? Those had died the day he'd seen his tribe chained. Vengeance was the most he could wish for, and Lonian had learned long ago how empty a prize that was.

  Lonian's captor dragged him toward the arena while the other two Kyreans held Kellan back. The guard swung open the heavy door, revealing the four steps that would take Lonian to his doom. Warm air fetid with dried blood and sweat washed over them. The applause above diminished as an unnaturally loud voice slithered over the stadium.

  Lonian recognized Garrison immediately. He had defended his people and lands against Garrison, the captain of Terayan's personal guard, for nearly two decades.

  “Good people of Halmstead,” Garrison said, “comrades, and Councilor, today’s amusement is a special treat. These past weeks, Sylrians have filled our arena, but none will compare to their fearless and primal leader. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you an enemy of the Republic who I myself have brought to justice, Lonian Heratas Kemar!”

  Fearless and primal? That was the closest Garrison had ever come to giving him a compliment. The guard unchained Lonian's hands. He grunted with relief as he rubbed the vile purple and green bruises covering his wrists. At least he would not die in chains.

  “Move.” The guard pushed Lonian toward the stairs.

  Lonian looked back at his nephew. Kellan’s feigned confidence had fled. Tears filled the young man's gray eyes.

  “Please!” Kellan shouted. “Take me instead!”

  “Don’t worry.” The guard who restrained Kellan shook him. “Your time will soon come. Captain Garrison wants you to watch.”

  “It’s all right, Kellan.” Lonian met his nephew’s desperate gaze. “Sira’s eternal spring awaits us, as do your parents and my Tristren. I love you, my boy.”

  “No! Lonian! Lonian!”

  The guard shoved Lonian into the blinding arena as the crowd's roar overtook his nephew’s pleas. Lonian's eyes took longer to adjust than his ears. The driving rhythm of ten thousand voices in concert thundered in his veins.

  “Blood, blood, blood, blood!”

  “Silence!” Councilor Tallis Terayan smirked from his platform above the arena as he handed a gilded goblet to an attendant. Lonian recognized the Intrumn Vecus voice amplification potion from the mauve haze bubbling over the cup's rim. His old friend Davin had once brewed it to aid a search party for a lost child. It disgusted Lonian to see the same magic now twisted into an instrument of cruelty. Garrison stood beside Terayan, grinning. Lonian turned his gaze to the sandy floor instead. Dark stains coated the ground, the only remnants of countless lives.

  Terayan continued. “The Kyrean Republic is built upon a code of honor, and therefore we offer this traitor a chance to repent.”

  The vicious crowd shouted their protests. Good. Lonian wanted no part of their mercy.

  Terayan raised his hand, commanding silence. “He will still be executed in the name of our Father, but it is our Lord's will that we give this vermin the chance to die with valor.” Terayan stood, staring at Lonian over the platform's edge.

  “Lonian Heratas Kemar, dog of the Sylrian Provinces: Do you repent your sins to the Republic? Are you willing to admit your treachery and failures?”

  The Councilor and Garrison’s set smiles already anticipated Lonian’s answer.


  Lonian spat into the dirt. “You speak of the Father, but you, Terayan, are no son of Sira’s. You are Razorn’s progeny down to your worm-eaten bones and hollowed out heart.” He spat once more. “I will die with the valor of my people, and both of you,” he pointed at the platform, “will die cowards’ deaths.”

  “Very well.” Terayan’s expression did not change.

  Lonian had never met Terayan before the Councilor had imprisoned him and his people. He'd heard that the velvet-tongued politician could charm a room with a word or a smile, but when he'd finally seen Terayan, he'd not found charm in his perfect teeth or shining blond hair.

  Lonian did not have a Fenearen’s sense of smell, but despite the Councilor’s sweet-scented perfume, nothing could hide Terayan’s rotten odor. Fierce anger rose up inside of Lonian, bitterness that he would not stop the tyrant, longing for another—any other—who would.

  Garrison clapped his hands. “Bring out his executioner—or opponent, rather.”

  Terayan re-took his throne.

  Lonian’s guard pushed him to his knees. Four more men brought forth his death from another cell across the arena.

  The figure was clothed in only a ragged pair of leggings. Long chains dragged from his wrists and neck. The guards pulling him stayed far out of his reach. Lonian sought to embrace death with dignity, but traitorous fear seized his heart. Who was this man that they needed such precautions? What would death at his hands be like?

  The man reached the arena's center. Shaggy black hair hid his face. Now only steps away, Lonian could see how the man's chest heaved. He was far less muscular than Lonian had assumed from afar. Strength was not his opponent's advantage. Lonian was at least three times his size. The Sylrian gulped. So why did the man terrify the guards?

  “You drew the short straw, Donal!” one of the four men escorting Lonian's opponent shouted.

  “Aye,” the guard to the prisoner’s right—Donal—answered. “Go then!”

  The other three dropped their chains and hastily retreated to the cell from which they'd entered.

  Donal approached the prisoner. He released each restraint before placing his hands around the man’s neck. A small click reverberated through the stadium.

  Lonian focused on the thin metallic band the guard pulled away. He struggled to make sense of what he saw. Had it been a collar to connect the chains, or was it something else? Before he could decide, the crowd erupted.

  “Aronak! Aronak! Blood! Blood! Blood!”

  The unchained creature raised his face to the sky and opened his mouth. A snarl bit the air, and spittle flecked Donal's breastplate. The prisoner lunged toward Donal, catching the guard’s arm in his teeth.

  Donal screamed as he pulled away. Blood splattered the ground between them. As the prisoner wiped his mouth, Donal bolted to the cell on the arena's other side, slamming the door behind him.

  Terayan’s laugh sounded above the cheering. “Ladies and gentlemen, Kado Aronak!”

  “No.” Lonian realized there was no denying what the collar on the man's neck had been. It was a Monil. Combined with the wolfish snarl, there was only one explanation. “But you’re Fenearen?”

  Aronak tossed back his dirty black hair to reveal his face. Long teeth dripped blood down his chin.

  Nausea ripped through Lonian’s stomach, raising bile in his throat; the person before him was no man. He was a boy, with smooth skin and no trace of stubble.

  A cry sounded behind Lonian. He turned. Kellan stood chained in the doorway to their cell.

  “Don’t watch, Kellan!” Lonian shouted. Aronak, this wild-eyed boy in front of him, was younger than his nephew. He had perhaps sixteen winters at most.

  Lonian shielded his eyes from the sun and called to Terayan and Garrison. “You bring me a boy, a Fenearen brother, and expect me to fight him? With what? I'm Sylrian, not Fenearen. I can't shift.”

  “No,” Terayan said, “we expect him to kill you. Though you make a fair point. I'd like there to be some sport in it.” He nodded to Garrison.

  The captain drew a dagger from his weapons' belt. Garrison threw the blade into the arena. It spun end-over-end, landing in the sand at Lonian's feet. The crowd cheered.

  The Sylrian took the dagger. A slight quiver at the corner of the Fenearen’s mouth suggested fear to Lonian, not malice. Lonian dropped the dagger and forced himself to walk toward Kado with his hands raised in peace. Kado crouched, his eyes morphing into those of a wolf.

  “No, my son, stop—” But Kado was on him.

  Still in human form, the boy bit into Lonian’s shoulder. He bellowed in pain as he shoved the boy off him.

  Kado leaped back, shaking. Black claws grew and receded from his nail beds. “No!” He shouted at his own hands. “I don't want to be that thing!”

  “Why do you fight the wolf, my son?” Lonian clapped a hand over the gaping wound where the flesh had been punctured in a perfect crescent of crimson wells. “You are a beautiful creature, Kado Aronak, beloved of Lumae and the Father.”

  “No.” Kado’s voice trembled barely above a whisper. “I am a monster, a beast, and a murderer.” Blood trickled from his lips as he spoke.

  “That’s what they’ve turned you into. Can’t you see?” Lonian reached forward to comfort Kado, but the boy struck out again.

  Lonian dodged his attack. “My son, you do not have to do this.”

  “I am not your son!” Kado snarled as he launched into the air, shedding his human visage.

  Lonian could not believe what his eyes showed him. Was blood loss causing him to hallucinate? The boy's wolf form should have been as black as his hair, but the fur that coated the creature now was an impossible white.

  The spry white wolf tackled Lonian to the ground. Every instinct told him to fight, to protect himself, but he pushed down the urge. He lay still, refusing to struggle against his attacker’s gnashing claws and slavering jaws. He would not fight. He would not flee. He had to show this boy that his wolf was nothing to be feared.

  Kado's hot teeth pressed against the sensitive skin of Lonian's neck.

  Lonian winced, but kept still. He would not hurt this boy.

  “Why don’t you fight?” Kado’s voice cracked as he fell back into human form, still holding Lonian on the ground.

  “I will not.” Tears ran down Lonian’s cheeks. Few Fenearens—if any—had ever been blessed with the snow white fur of the founding goddess, Lumae. Could the stories from his boyhood about a hero bearing Lumae's blessed coat be true? Not long ago, Lonian would have dismissed such notions, but he had met a twice-blessed seer, helped her on a journey straight out of myth. Perhaps Rayna was only the beginning.

  “Why not? I am no child!” Kado shouted. He forced his forearm over Lonian’s neck.

  Lonian struggled for air. “What have they done to you, precious thing?”

  Kado released his hold. “What do you mean, precious thing?”

  “Enough!” Garrison’s voice invaded the moment. “One of you must die or you both will!”

  In Lonian’s peripheral vision, Terayan leaned forward in his throne, but said nothing.

  Lonian rose to his knees, shaking. “They mean what they say. You must kill me, now.”

  “What? Why would you die for me?” Kado fell before Lonian. “Good people are dead because of me. I don't deserve to live. Let them kill us both, and the world will be better for it.”

  “No, my boy. You must live.” Lonian laid his hands on Kado’s shoulders. He did not fully comprehend what the boy’s white coat meant, only that it had to be a sign from the gods. He had faith in this message, just as he'd had faith in Rayna.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your coat.” Lonian’s voice shook. “Your wolf form is pure white.”

  “It’s hideous. I’m hideous.”

  “No.” Lonian released his hold. The forgotten dagger lay on the sandy floor between them. Lonian slid it toward Kado's hands.

  Kado trembled. “What are you doing?”
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  Lonian Kemar sighed. He did not want to die, not when his people were in such peril. Not when his nephew was still a prisoner. But the guards circled closer, ready to kill both him and Kado, and it left him no choice. He pulled Kado closer to him, so that no one on the outside could see what happened next. Lonian wrapped Kado's fingers around the dagger's hilt.

  Lonian pictured his beloved mate, Tristren. Death had parted them for ten long years.

  I will see you soon, my love.

  Lonian focused on the frightened boy before him. “Thank you, Sira, for letting me see him. Please, keep him and Kellan safe.” Lonian grabbed Kado's wrist, plunging the dagger into his own neck. Cold and shock surged through every part of him.

  Kado pulled the blade away with a cry. Blood splattered across his face and the spectators roared approval.

  Lonian collapsed. His rags stained red, and his nephew’s screams reverberated through his skull. His blurring gaze sought Kellan, but darkness closed in, and Lonian knew no more.

  Tallis Terayan strode down the musty corridor beneath the stadium. Garrison and a retinue of guards followed, though Terayan was more than capable of protecting himself. They passed rows of cells. Some were empty, others held fodder for the death games the capital’s residents so adored. The air stank of unwashed slaves and urine. Most men of Terayan’s station would cover their noses with silken handkerchiefs, fearing the pestilence of the unfortunate, if they dared venture into such a place at all. But unlike most of his peers, Terayan was born in the gutter. The son of a drunken, unemployed stone mason, he was no stranger to filth.