The Weave of Fate

by S L Matthews

  The small girl looked back at her mom, her eyes swollen.

  “M-Mom?” she said, a quiver in her tiny voice. Ava’s mother gave a soft smile of recognition as the little girl released her emotions. She ran headlong into her mother’s outstretched arms and let loose a torrent of tears, tears held captive through countless years. Lost in the moment, Ava let it all go. Years of pain and suffering condensed into one glorious embrace.

  “He cannot beat you,” her mother whispered.

  It was not a message of reassurance. It was a statement; a calm, strong declaration. Ava heard her mother’s voice, but the message did not make any sense.

  Who cannot beat me? What does she mean?

  “Calm your mind, my sweet,” came another soft, tangible statement. Again, the words surprised Ava. She stood in her home, wrapped in the safety of her mother’s arms.

  Why is she saying these things? This doesn’t make sense!

  While her emotions strained to comprehend the words, Ava’s mother pulled her to arm’s length and stared. Her eyes were white hot, only a subtle hint of blue remaining.

  “Quiet the storm within,” she said. Her voice grew stern yet her tone remained soft and caring. “You must do this for me.”

  Young Ava closed her eyes, heeding the words of her mother. As they came together, a long, slow breath withdrew from her lips. As if the world around her slowed, her soft breath dragged out, the longest of her young life. Once the air in her lungs had expired, Ava held that breath, savoring the complete relaxation.

  A sharp pain in her ribs broke her concentration. An intense fire emanated from her side, twisting a grimace across her serene expression. Yet as quickly as the pain came—it left, replaced by a dull ache. A similar pain developed behind her shoulder, but she focused on her breath, inhaling through the discomfort. As the air escaped her lips, so too had the pain.

  As the mysterious aches faded, cramps rippled across her body. Ava settled deeper into her trance and her expression relaxed. With every breath, the pain disappeared. In time, all that remained were the aches in her side, aches that dispersed an instant later. Ava opened her eyes. Her mother was smiling. It was a joyous smile, one of immense satisfaction, as though Ava had taken her first steps, or said “Mom” for the first time. Then, as quickly as she’d appeared, her mother’s image faded.

  “No, wait!” Ava yelled. “Don’t leave me again!”

  Ava’s dream blurred as the aches continued. Her mother’s bedroom melded into a large, richly adorned chamber, nestled on the second story of an old inn. Her mother’s image distorted into a dark-skinned, wretched man, a bloody candlestick clenched in his fist. Ava recalled her attack. She remembered her wounds and the venom in his voice. Viktor knelt before her, eyes closed and winded.

  The source of the dull aches had become clear. But she was not dead. She was not broken. She was strong—and she was healed.

  Viktor raised the candlestick again, blood dripping from the warped handle. Her blood.

  Ava raised her hand, catching the candlestick in the air. Viktor’s face lost its intensity, replaced by a puzzled expression—confusion. He opened his eyes. His face lost all color, leaving a pale husk of a decrepit man.

  Ava stared back at the—thing—before her. Her eyes radiated light, cloaking the grand chamber in a soft, blue hue. Her gaze was forged in fury. She stared at him as a judge would a convicted man, as an angel would a demon. It was suffused with anger and condemnation, years of pain, fear, and anguish morphed into a single, deadly gaze.

  Viktor slid from his knees to the floor. His lower jaw fell open. His eyes watered and his nose followed, fluid leaking into his gaping mouth. The candlestick, slick with blood, tumbled from his fingers while his body crumpled.

  Ava saw the brilliant blue light reflect in his eyes. It shown off the tears and highlighted the oils in his beard. She knew it wasn’t the sun. It was her.

  But…how?

  She turned to look behind her, certain she would find a cold, lifeless version of herself lying in the corner. Instead, she found a few dozen gems and an old, black amulet, bathing in a pool of wine and blood. So much blood.

  Is this—mine?

  Ava looked to her hand and the old, wrought iron candlestick wrapped within her fingers. It was nearly bent in half. The fine details were gone, some misshapen beyond recognition, others caked in thick red fluid. It was to be the instrument of her death.

  Dried blood crept into the fine lines of her fingers and her hands were stained a deep crimson. She was certain they would never be clean again.

  She lifted her other hand. Ava felt across the back of her shoulder and down her side. Her hand felt a sharp, stinging sensation. Cold. She winced at the blue, frosted blade before wrapping her fingers around the elegant hilt. Slowly, she withdrew.

  Ava closed her eyes and breathed through the pain, slow and steady. When the chilling sensation left her side, she opened her eyes and held up the slender dagger, a hint of frost escaping into the air.

  How am I doing this?

  The memory of her mother’s smile replayed in her mind. Subconsciously, she drew in a slow breath of air, held, and released. In that instant, she felt better…whole. Ava looked back down at her side. No wound.

  Her eyebrows lifted and her mouth fell open. “Mother?”

  Ava’s gaze drifted to Viktor. It was apparent his eyes had never left her. His face was contorted and squished. He looked as though he desperately wanted to turn away, to hide, to run. But it was equally apparent, he could not.

  “Feed me to the dogs?”

  Viktor flinched. He cowered, crawling away from her. He whispered, in a meek, broken voice, “Why?”

  Memories of the morning resurfaced, along with that very question falling from Ava’s lips. Why? A vision of Viktor approaching, weapons ready, flashed into Ava’s mind. She looked upon his shriveled, petrified form. Then, her gaze drifted back to her hands. In one, she held a cracked, bloody candlestick, ripped from Viktor’s hand. In the other, a slender, frosted blue blade, ripped from her own side.

  Fire burned within Ava, a flame she had never felt, an unquenchable fury. She squeezed the weapons with all her might. She stood to her full height, emerging from the shadow of the corner. The morning sun pressed against her form, warming her body.

  “You meant—to kill me?” she asked through clenched teeth. Her voice was clear, her tone unmistakable. Slowly, she lifted her gaze. The deep, blue light rose to illuminate the defenseless form slinking away from her.

  Viktor trembled. He covered his face and whispered under his breath. “Yes.”

  Disgust fused within Ava. She held up the bloodied weapons and closed the distance with Viktor. She leaned into his face, shaking them violently, watching his horrified eyes bounce from one to the other.

  “Yes…what?” she screamed, her words dipped in venom.

  Viktor collapsed to the floor, losing control of his bladder and his bowels. He laid helpless before Ava, a quivering shell of a broken man. She glowered as the question took hold in Viktor's mind. In time, he snapped, crying like a beaten child. He looked up to Ava. “Yes…my queen.”

  He flashed a finger to Thibold’s body, lying in a heap of white, stained robes. ““P-please. I was…he told me…”

  “Enough!” Ava looked upon the man she feared most of her life, the man who enslaved, raped, and beat her, the man who emptied her life of meaning and numbed her of all sensation. This man lay before her, pathetic. He pleaded for his life…he begged, but this only heightened her disgust.

  Her eyes softened. She raised the ornamental dagger, her gaze tracing the intricate weave of the hilt. She knew its shape, like the fresh flowers in her hair, like the giant rug in her mother’s room.

  Ava took a slow, controlled breath and closed her eyes. The last remnants of pain left her body. The last wounds healed. She was whole, as though the events of the morning never took place…as though the events of the past ten years never happened; yet the in
ner pain, the torment, the emotional torture remained. She heard his sobs and pitiful pleas. She heard the bustle of the old market. She heard the joy and laughter from the tavern below. She heard it all. She soaked it in while her body soaked in the sun. She absorbed the rays, bathing in their warmth.

  She exhaled. The act must have been torture to Viktor, whose pleas had become nothing more than inhuman blubbering. The common tongue had long since fled and all he could do was mutter like an incoherent baby, a baby that had soiled, defecated, and slobbered all over himself…all over this city.

  Ava opened her eyes and looked upon him, judging his entire life in a single moment. She held up the ornamental dagger and its purple lotus hilt.

  “This doesn't belong to you anymore,” she said. “And neither do I.”

  She knelt before him, twisting the dagger in her hand, feeling the cold steel against her fingertips. Ava pressed the tip of the blade against his chin and lifted, bringing his eyes back to her.

  Viktor’s lower lip quivered while the stream of fluids continued to run down his face. Through his tears, he mumbled, “Wh—what are you?”

  Ava thought for a moment. She saw the light of her eyes reflect through his tears. She imagined her mother’s proud smile, beaming back at her.

  What am I?

  Her gaze drifted to the woven, tattooed pattern across her wrists. His mark. She was sold by her father, stolen from her mother. Viktor had etched the mark into her skin personally, while he raped her for the first of countless times. She recalled a life of fear under his roof, of beatings, of torture.

  Ava raised her eyes to meet his. She knew he would never give her another order. She knew he would never again raise his hand against her. She knew those days were gone—and as she stared into his awestruck eyes, she could see—he knew it too. She looked into his soulless heart, smelled his musky, rancid scent, and with soft determination, whispered, “I know what I’m not.”

  | Chapter XV

  Puppetmaster

  H atchets and swords sprang into action as the crew of the Orcus cut the pirate ship loose from the wreckage. Burning rope and debris littered the deck of the abandoned Cyrean vessel. The ship listed heavily to the port side, remnants of the Promenade serving as an overzealous and undesirable anchor.

  The passenger ship had slipped beneath the waves, masked by the opaque waters of the sea. Cyrean soldiers tore through the ropes and poured water across the flaming tatters of sail while another group rigged a pulley to lift the massive, lumbering mast off their deck. Every man burst into action to create order in the chaotic scene before them.

  “Line ‘em up!” Rowan bellowed. “Flank the deck with this swine…so they may see one another gutted.” Each word was dipped in the bitter taste of hatred. Cooper lurched as Rowan grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto the deck. His face smashed against the boards and a nail tore a jagged line across his cheek.

  Cooper rolled to his back to reveal a long, clean gash the length of his cheek. He dabbed at the wound, looked up to the mercenary, and drew the most sarcastic smile he could muster.

  “I trust you took no offense to our little dance this morning,” Cooper said with his usual flourish. “You can keep the coin, by the way. A gift from one dead man to another.”

  Rowan snarled and swung his boot across the newly forged line on Cooper’s face, sending the pirate head first into the side of the ship. Cooper clawed along the railing, but his hands and knees would not react, still numb to the icy water. Rowan tugged at Cooper’s vest, yanking him back to the deck.

  Cooper wrestled to free himself from Rowan’s grip, flailing about, desperate to get his legs under him.

  “Did you find the amulet?” Rowan said. His voice was low and hushed, a deep whisper, quickly drowned by the sounds of activity across the deck.

  Cooper halted. His heart skipped and his hair bristled. He offered a quick glance at Rowan, long enough to soak in the smug expression draped across his face, then lunged for the rail. To his surprise, Rowan had set him free. Cooper sat upright, bracing against the rail and dabbed at the gash on his cheek.

  “What are you talking—“

  “Oh, let’s not do this, Coop. My time is precious,” Rowan said, his words dipped in rancor. “Who do you think tipped off your angry little friend?” He peeked over the rail and studied the churning water below. “What did you do with Jorel, anyway?”

  How does he know? Cooper thought.

  Chilling thoughts raced through Cooper’s mind. He replayed the morning’s event at the tavern. He went over his conversation with Jorel about the stranger from Crossroads. He questioned the image of a fat man dressed in a white robe sprinting to the docks, boarding the Promenade.

  His brow raised. “It’s not here, is it?”

  Rowan’s head cocked back in laughter. “Always knew you were the smart one.” He shook his head, allowing the laughter to subside. “Bu’ no, it’s not here.”

  Cooper’s confusion grew. He scanned the deck and the fiery remnants left behind by the rope and sail of the Cyrean frigate. “So, your dumbass plan was to board our ship and murder us at sea?” He let loose a sarcastic chuckle and rolled his eyes to the Orcus, lit up like a torch as it drifted off into the sea. “That didn’t work out so well, did it?”

  Rowan’s voice deepened and his expression grew dire. “No, my friend. I believe that was your plan.” His gaze darted to the soaked passengers clustered on the deck, then into the darkness of the sea and the void left behind by their sunken vessel.

  Cooper’s heart sank, though he fought to show it. Rowan was right. They had boarded a defenseless ship and killed civilians, all for an amulet that wasn’t even aboard.

  “That’s different,” Cooper said under his breath, though he knew it wasn’t true. “So now what, you kill a couple dozen pirates and sail home to claim your prize?”

  Rowan’s sardonic laughter resumed, though a subtle hint of evil had worked its way in. He stood and gazed at the silhouette of Wyvern’s Rest. “Any relic of Valshyr is worth more than that whole damned city.” He straightened his cloak and adjusted his armor. “But there’s something far more valuable in that old inn, and we intend to claim her.”

  Cooper, unable to resist the urge, drew a sarcastic smile and added, “Look Rowan, unless you’re talkin’ about Ava’s sweet corn bread or your mom’s sweet, sweet lovin’, there’s nothing left of value in that old town.” His eyes lost their luster, joining Rowan’s gaze across the harbor. “Not anymore.”

  Cooper’s gaze landed on his men. The pirates that remained had been lined up each side of their ship. Their faces were bloodied, their clothes torn, and their spirits broken. Many Cooper had known since they were kids, some he had just met, all had been convinced to join him on the high seas. As such, their blood was on his hands.

  “Why sail all the way out here then? Seems to me you could have taken your prize and been done with it.” His gazed returned to Rowan, lowering his voice. “Besides, you’ve known these men most of your life. You can’t just—“

  “Seems to me,” Rowan interjected. “Everyone willing to stop us is on this ship. We can remove our opposition, and over a hundred witnesses, in a single stroke.”

  Rowan stepped closer, lowering his pitch to match Cooper’s. “An’ look around, Coop. You’re not one to be talkin’ about loyalty.”

  “That will do, Sergeant,” came a stern, unyielding voice.

  Rowan’s face lost its expression. He stood up, adjusted his armor, and spun to face his superior.

  A large knot formed in the pit of Cooper’s stomach. Chills ran up his spine while uncertainty tore at his thoughts, hearing a voice he was assured to never hear again. He followed Rowan’s gaze, finding a tall man parting through his men like a god through the sea. Every step deliberate, every move graceful. With fluid efficiency, the Cyrean captain worked through his soldiers, their ranks parting before him.

  The color flushed from Cooper’s face. Captain Ferael?


  “Of course, Captain,” Rowan said with the tone of a different man. The gristly snarl had left, replaced with a congenial tone of respect and sincerity. Rowan stood at attention, unwavering, as the other soldiers continued to round up pirates. When the captain gave a knowing nod, Rowan slapped his heels and returned to his work, unceremoniously hoisting yet another pirate off the deck.

  “Dammit Coop!” Taryn pleaded, crawling to the edge of the deck. “I see you haven’t learned to control that mouth of yours.” Cooper sensed his brother sizing up his wounds, but his thoughts were fixed on the ghost gliding through the Cyrean ranks. Taryn continued to mumble words in Cooper’s ear, but he would hear none of them.

  “Taryn,“ Cooper said. “Stop talking.”

  His younger brother, however, was determined to finish his thoughts. Cooper’s gaze continued to survey the crimson-cloaked soldiers while his confusion transformed to disbelief. Face after face, though leaner and darker than he remembered, became recognizable. Every man he had served with, every officer he had served under, and the one man that led them all, was aboard this ship. And each one, to the man, had shared the same sentenced so long ago—death.

  Uncertainty gripped at Cooper’s chest, his imploring eyes snapping to Taryn. “Tar, something’s very wrong.”

  Taryn scoffed, “Oh, you mean other than finding out your own brother is a pirate, killing innocent civilians, and—“

  “Look at me,” Cooper interrupted. “You’ve got to get off this ship. Now”

  Cooper saw the dismissive tone fade from Taryn’s eyes. His expression grew serious, though lacking understanding. “You know all the stories Jorel and I told about dawning the red?” he said, turning his attention to the Cyrean captain. “You’re about to find out why at least half of them were true.”

  “Now, Jorel,” Cooper said, raising his voice above the activity of the deck. “Burn it. All of it.”

  He felt Taryn’s eyes on the back of his head, and waited until understanding took hold.