Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2)

by Kathrin Hutson

  “It never has been,” Nina added, and the way the white-haired siblings stared at their cousin—unblinking and perfectly in sync, as though they dared Sid to confront them—made Kherron think these people had been through something similar before.

  “Times are strange,” Mattheus said. “Whatever waits for you in the east, Kherron, I hope you find it. Your business is your own.” Kherron nodded and rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he could offer these people something beyond disheartening news and more hidden mysteries. “Cor, do you have parchment?”

  Cor stared at Kherron a bit longer, then bent awkwardly in his chair to reach into his inside jacket pocket. From this, he pulled a small square of parchment, and from the pocket on the other side, he produced a quill. “Ink’s on the counter,” he said, pushing the parchment and quill toward Mattheus. Sid sucked his lip, then stood and headed toward the counter. He came back to place the inkwell on the table, and Mattheus eyed them both without a word.

  “The road south from here,” the white-haired man said, scratching upon the parchment with the quill, “is Gileath Byway. It will take you to Vereling Town. The Sylthurst runs nearly the breadth of Buroh’s border with Marohd, and it takes days to cross. Ask for a man named Uishen and tell him you spoke with us. It will still cost you, but he may not try to swindle you along the way.” Mattheus glanced up at Kherron with a smirk. “On the other side of the river is Eran’s Crossing, and just north of there, the Halder Road begins and will take you east.”

  “Will it take me to the Amneas Sea?” Kherron asked, watching the map take shape before him. He wished he’d had more experience with them, and he tried to commit the thing to memory as Mattheus drew; with his luck, something would relieve him of the map before he’d gotten halfway to his destination.

  “It should,” Mattheus said, narrowing his eyes. “There’s very little out there on the coast of the Amneas.”

  “All the easier to find what I’m looking for.” Kherron nodded in thanks when Mattheus slid the parchment toward him. He blew on it to dry the ink before folding it and slipping it into his pack on the floor beside him. The room fell quiet again, and Kherron couldn’t bring himself to meet any of their gazes.

  “Goodnight,” Cor said, pushing himself out of the chair to shuffle behind the counter and out of sight into the back rooms. Sid stood and gathered the dirty dishes.

  Mattheus watched them for a moment, then said to Kherron, “You can take the empty room. First door on the right.”

  “Thank you,” Kherron said.

  “Company has been rare, lately,” the man replied. “I’m not sure what we’d do if we did not have the occasional traveler to interrupt our dwindling attentions.” He smiled. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Kherron said. Mattheus rose and headed toward the back, leaving him alone with Nina. When he turned to look at her, she’d already retrieved a pipe and tobacco pouch from somewhere and now crumbled the dried leaves into the chamber.

  Without a word, she stood and headed toward the fire, where she lit a long twig in the flames and brought it to the pipe. Clouds of smoke puffed around her head, curling into her thick white braid before being pulled into the flue and up the chimney. Nina laid the smoking twig on the hearth, then returned to the table. The pipe’s lip fixed loosely between her teeth, she sat and puffed and stared at Kherron. He thought he ought to retire to the empty room in the back, but the way she pondered him made him think she had something more to say.

  “How long have you been looking for her?” she finally asked, the words muddled around the pipe.

  Kherron blinked. How did people continuously know more about him than he meant to display? And this woman, despite her visions, seemed far more removed from the magic and secrets trailing him in his journey. He’d tried harder this time—had given away far less of himself than in his other encounters with strangers. At least, that had been his intention, and it seemed he’d failed at that yet again.

  Nina sniffed. “Only three driving emotions leave their mark on a man,” she said. “The first is fear, and you are quite obviously not running away from anything.”

  Kherron had the sudden urge to tell her just how much he wanted to run away, that he wished he’d never gotten pulled into this whole mess. But the urge disappeared as quickly as it came upon him, and he was reminded once more just how little choice he had in the matter. He would seek Dehlyn for as long as it took him to find her—or until it killed him.

  “The others are love and revenge,” Nina added, as though she’d purposefully given him enough time for his thoughts before continuing. “Love softens a man, makes him vulnerable. It also gives him grace and patience. Revenge hardens him, fills him with rage and bitterness.” Kherron swallowed, unable to look away from her piercing gaze. “Both weave constantly through your features, dancing together. You have not yet chosen which one to follow.”

  “Did you have another vision?” he asked, unsure how else to respond to such an accurate stripping-down of his every waking moment.

  “No.” She puffed on the pipe and bit down on the stem. “You may carry secrets, but your heart lays stripped and bare upon your shoulders.”

  “Of course it does.” Kherron closed his eyes, remembering all the times his emotions had betrayed him so blatantly.

  “It would benefit you to learn how to tuck it away.”

  “When I have the time for it,” Kherron said, standing, “I’ll give it a try. Thank you for the meal and the room.” He nodded and walked toward the counter.

  “You’re the only other one who knows,” Nina said, making him stop and turn again to face her. “About the visions.” She took the pipe completely from her mouth and gazed at it. “When we were young, the four of us, they didn’t want to believe me. They all came true, eventually. The visions. But no one else ever knew about them. It makes a difference, you having proven this one, too.” She did not smile at him, but her eyes glistened within her wrinkled face, which made Kherron feel as though she had.

  Kherron gave her a small smile. “Goodnight.” Nina didn’t reply; she only dipped her head toward him and raised her pipe in farewell.

  Chapter 5

  He broke his fast with them the following morning. The four remaining traders at Gileath Junction insisted they send Kherron on his way with food from their winter stores, which he assumed they used themselves along their route into the Bladeshale Mountains. Only after the third time he refused did they finally relent. He knew they would have preferred to share that food with him in exchange for his labor at their establishment, but that was an arrangement he could not make. Their kindness had been enough—at least, Mattheus had been kind. Cor remained staggeringly course, though in the end, he wished Kherron well on his journey. Sid did not once shed his apparent indifference, and Nina said nothing. But when Kherron thanked them once more and took his leave, she followed him outside.

  She had a coil of thick rope slung over one shoulder, and the gleam in her brown eyes that morning was far more awake and hopeful than the shrewd skepticism they’d possessed the night before. Kherron stopped and waited; the woman studied him as if trying to form her thoughts into words. “The right path can sometimes feel like defeat. Good fortune in finding it,” she finally said and extended a hand. Kherron reached out to take it, but when they touched, the intended grasp of farewell morphed into something quite unexpected.

  Nina’s fingers, surprisingly strong and sure despite the frail look of them, clenched around his own with more force than seemed appropriate. A tremor ran through her, and she gasped, throwing her head back. A small groan escaped her, and then her chin traveled down again to face him. Only when her eyelids stopped fluttering mercilessly and she focused on him once more did she release her grip, as if she’d held hot coals instead of flesh. Kherron tried not to pull away from her, but she’d left his fingers quite sore.

  “The black cloud,” she whispered, nearly breathless. “It searches for you.” Her gaze flickered across his f
ace, as if she saw him for the first time again, and her eyes widened. “It takes... it takes many forms. It will destroy them all, but you must not go to it willingly.”

  Kherron swallowed. “Destroy who?”

  Nina blinked again and shook her head. “I do not know. My visions have never come from people.”

  For a fleeting moment, he saw the young woman she must have been decades before, filled with wonder and fear in equal parts. They stared at each other, and Kherron had no idea what to say. He’d forgotten all about the mule until it brayed its urgent, screeching call, and he jumped at the sound.

  Nina smirked. “Take care,” she said with a slow nod. “And do not hand the victory to revenge.”

  A surprised chuckle escaped through his nose; that advice seemed far less cryptic than her vision. But he nodded, and with a final, scrutinizing glance, Nina turned from him and made her way toward the stable and the impatient animal therein.

  EACH TIME KHERRON STOPPED to eat or rest, he removed the crude map Mattheus had drawn him and studied it. That was what he had to focus his attention—that and a renewed determination to master whatever sway he held over metal and fire and trees. The night spent at Gileath Junction felt blissfully normal compared to everything else. His hosts knew nothing of who he was or his daunting journey; they’d been preoccupied with their own difficulties and a lifetime of history that so obviously existed among them. The old woman’s visions had seemed the only note of mysticism in their lives, and Kherron couldn’t have been more grateful that his presence hadn’t added to their difficulties. No amarach, no objects moving on their own, no mention of prophecy, and no one trying to kill him. If Nina had had any suspicion of him after they’d touched, it did not seem to alarm her, and she had not pressed him. He hoped, for their sakes, they would continue as they had before he’d stepped through the door—possibly forget him altogether in time.

  He’d been careful to keep the Sky Metal blade hidden beneath his cloak. Though he doubted its previous owner had sheathed it at all and he had nothing of the sort, he did not wish to add it to his pack. A naked blade tucked under his belt might cause unintended damage to his person if he was not careful, but it was better than a blade not immediately at hand should he be attacked again. And he still expected that quite fully.

  That evening, beside the small fire he’d made just off the Gileath Byway, he pulled the dangerously sharp dagger from his belt and turned it carefully in his hands. It was a wondrous weapon, sturdy and light and forged with no imperfection he could discern. And while an amarach had wielded it, it had not acted in any way a dagger should not act. Not yet. It comforted him somewhat to know that even the immortals did not do battle with otherworldly weapons—merely those no longer as plentiful within this world as they had once been.

  But Kherron’s practical knowledge with weapons extended only as far as the skills of his opponents, which were brashly incompetent. He’d been large even among the other bonded blacksmiths at the Iron Pit, and that accounted in large part for his never having been bested in any angry skirmish there. His encounter with the amarach sent to kill him had only reminded him that he was neither a trained warrior nor a worthy opponent—unless he could learn to use what had fallen into his possession.

  The fire crackled in front of him, and he laid the dagger in the palm of his hand, grateful for its weight. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The Sky Metal seemed to warm against his skin; perhaps it merely reflected the warmth of the flames. With a hushed rustle of leaves, a light, cool breeze traveled from within the forest, lifting his hair and caressing his face. Yes, I know, he thought. Go east. I’m working on it. It did not seem strange that he held a silent conversation with the wind, nor did it occur to him to question how he knew, without deliberately orienting himself to the road, that the wind traveled in that direction. His palm tickled with slow, sleek movement, and when he opened his eyes, he caught the last glimpse of the amarach’s dagger moving on its own until the tip of the blade faced east as well.

  Kherron didn’t think. He barely intended to move at all, with neither aim nor resistance. His arm flew up and out in one swift, sharp movement, and the blade shot from his hand. Only when he heard the thing clatter into the dirt road did he fully recognize what had happened. For a moment, he sat there, arm outstretched, staring at his own palm. He could not have actually thrown the weapon; he had no knowledge of such a practice, and the blade would have sliced his palm to the bone if he’d grabbed it for such a maneuver. In the second before it left his hand, it had felt as though the Sky Metal had wanted something from him. Perhaps it had wanted to fly, to be thrown; perhaps it wished something altogether indecipherable. Nonetheless, Kherron had obliged, moving his arm with no purpose other than to do what had been asked of him.

  That in and of itself seemed odd. He’d passed the point now of questioning the fact that these lifeless things wanted anything of him. The proof of this truth had piled so high, it could not be refuted. The question now was why. What did the dagger gain from wishing to be thrown into the middle of the road at night? Perhaps it was a simple question of asking. He’d listened to the wind’s request, feeling the pull east, and something less aware within him had responded to the Sky Metal’s need.

  “Come back,” he whispered, reaching out into the darkness toward the road. His hand remained empty, his arm only feeling awkwardly strained without the solid weight of resistance. With a sigh, he closed his eyes again and tried to recreate whatever connection he’d produced a minute before. Return to my hand, he thought, resting it palm-up against his thigh. Please?

  Nothing happened, which did not surprise him. But he found it irritating that he now needed to go hunt for his only weapon when he had not and could not see where it had landed. Solitude and plenty of space were best suited for attempting to unearth the key to this odd talent; he did not run the risk of hurting anyone or disturbing their sensibilities with occultist displays. Nor would he be taken for a fool or a madman, postulating as he did with nonexistent results. But only a fool or a madman would fling aside the only dependable means of defending his own person when he knew full well the heightened probability of another attack.

  Kherron pushed himself up from the ground and headed toward the road. The moment he left the small fire’s circle of light, he could not see a thing. Slowly, his eyes adjusted just enough to make out the black form of the Gileath Byway against the night’s slightly less-black milieu. The clouds that had followed him before sunset had apparently decided to stop with him for the night, and neither moon nor stars offered any light. He shuffled slowly across the road, back and forth where he thought the dagger might have landed, but his boots made contact only with pebbles, and he saw nothing.

  “I can’t see,” he hissed, kicking at the road with a spray of dirt and feeling like a spoiled child for it. Almost as if that impetuous action had itself been the cause, the fire behind him soared beyond its natural height and strength, roaring as if it had adopted his frustration. It dimmed again instantly, but in the brief moment of intensified light, Kherron had seen the dull gleam of metal against earth, just to his right. Glancing back to reassure himself that the fire was a fire and nothing more—no heralding flash of an amarach’s presence or some other creature come for him—he took a few steps toward where he’d seen the Sky Metal blade. Not wanting to reach out blindly into the dark, he slid his boot over the ground, where it moved dirt and rough pebbles until bumping against a more solid surface. Then he stooped to grab the handle, stood, and tucked the weapon back under his belt.

  He should have been frustrated still, he thought. But he couldn’t help the budding seed of pride. Twice in short order, he’d been given what he needed—one more example from the knife of what he could do, perhaps bringing him closer to understanding how this worked, and light from the fire, though that had undoubtedly sprung from his frustration. These were nothing compared to what he’d done fighting the amarach, but in a small way, they pleased him. Though
he realized anyone who witnessed his trial would not have been impressed, there was no one to have seen it anyway.

  When he returned to the fire and his pack, he sat with his back to the forest. It somehow felt safer and gave him a better view of the road, should any sleepless traveler come his way upon it, unlikely though it seemed. He stared into the fire and felt as though a companion had joined him in his solitary camp. It made him think of the angry face he’d seen in the village of the Roaming People—a man’s face, rearing up at him when he’d danced with the woman with streaks of red paint upon her cheeks, lashing out at him in a shower of embers and burning coal. But this was entirely different. There was no face within this fire, no beard of curling flame, no scorching eyes. Kherron would not call it a friend, but its presence was unmistakable, and it had assisted him.

  “Thank you,” he muttered. A charred twig cracked and broke in two, shifting the position of the others around it, but that was all. And that happened even in the presence of those who did not commune with inanimate things.

  THE CHIRPING OF BIRDS preceding the rising sun woke him, and he was glad to find some little warmth left within the nearly dull coals of his fire. He rose from under his ripped cloak, clasped it around his neck, and ate a small meal of hard cheese, nuts, and half of his final loaf of bread; though this had already hardened and gone stale, it was still edible. His pack contained a few more days’ worth of food, including the tough, salted meat, and he did not know how long it would take him to find another establishment where he could at least pay for a meal, if not replenish his supplies. Somehow, amidst any number of his other concerns, this did not worry him.

  After one more glance at Mattheus’ map, he covered the remains of the fire in a few handfuls of dirt and stood to be on his way.