Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2)

by Kathrin Hutson

  She had not fully understood how little he knew of the tasks ahead of them—just how much time it would take and how long they would need to labor at such efforts—though his knowledge seemed all-powerful when compared to what the rest of the Brotherhood claimed to comprehend. She had not realized, before they arrived at the waiting, lonesome, solitary construction of salt and stone towers, that the man could not, in fact, clearly see the end of his goals. Would she have accepted his offer if that had been evident? Lorraii did not doubt she would have, though it would have saved her from her current aggravation at discovering such things only now, with nothing to engage her in passing the time. The Wanderer had restored her purpose where she had failed to do so, alone and removed from the bonds of blood and creed. But that did not mean she had to content herself with long, empty hours, waiting to be summoned—even if she had been capable of such things.

  She steered clear of all the places she knew within the stone buildings, moving aimlessly through the dark hallways lit infrequently with low-burning lanterns. Through no conscious design of her own, she found herself stopping before a tall, thick wooden door. It boasted an intricately carved design she had not seen elsewhere in the fortress, complete with flowering vines along the door’s outer rim. The entirety of the door’s surface depicted a scene of outstretched hands, creatures of the land and the air, and the delicately engraved, winged forms she recognized with a flash of rage—the amarach. The craftsman of this piece had not taken the liberty of providing these figures with the detail of facial features and expressions; much more attention had been paid to the animals and the disembodied hands reaching inward from the vines. But the superior bearing and call of authority could not be mistaken in the amarach’s poses or the stretch of their wings.

  With a deep exhale of irritation, Lorraii tore herself from the image, set her empty bowl on the floor, and tried the door handle. She had not, in fact, expected it to be unlocked, and the fact that it was replaced her annoyance with nonchalant curiosity. If she’d learned anything about the Brotherhood during her time here, it was that they did not expend funds, attention, or care on things they did not themselves deem valuable and lucrative for their own self-image. But this door was free of dust and lacquered pristinely. The hinge had been well-oiled and made no sound whatsoever when she pulled the door open toward her. As a fleeting afterthought, she glanced down the hall, but of course no one was there and no one had seen her. She would have heard them approach, and doubtlessly they would have shrieked in piercing, wary surprise to keep her from pursuing such prying intentions.

  The door latched softly again behind her, and she found herself in momentary darkness. When her sight finally adjusted, she realized she stood at the bottom of a winding, enclosed staircase, most likely of another tower. She climbed diligently, realizing after a few minutes how high the stairwell rose when it still turned indefinitely before her. The tower in which the Brotherhood had striven to compel the woman-child was the tallest at Deeprock Spire, but this could very well have reached nearly the same height.

  Before she saw any new light or moving shadows, Lorraii heard the voices. Three of them, by the sound of it, though they spoke in no language she understood. The words were dark and low, rumbling in guttural tones like the wheels of a wagon turning slowly under a heavy load. One of these voices seemed higher in pitch than the others, though barely. And before she knew it, Lorraii had reached the top of the spiraling staircase. Another door blocked her path, but she did not hesitate to reach for the iron handle at its center; the temptation to burst through swiftly and interrupt whatever secret gathering occurred beyond was only too strong.

  The minute her fingers grasped the handle, a bright flash escaped around the edges of the door, fading almost instantly. She was not swift enough in entering the next room to see the source of such brilliance, but she could guess at what it had been.

  Before her stretched a receiving room nearly as large as the one connecting her own chambers with Torrahs’. A large window adorned the far wall, filled with clear glass panes only slightly rippled. And before the window, completely still in the grey midday light spilling in from the sky, knelt two amarach.

  They provided the only measure of color inside the stone walls. The female’s wings twitched against her back, the same color as the straight curtain of deep-brown hair spilling behind her shoulders over a plain, roughspun dress. The male on his knees at her side had hair just as long as hers, though his was a fiery, untamed red, glinting in the light from the window despite the never-ending cloud cover. The feathers of his wings seemed as if they’d been set ablaze, shivering against the disturbance in the air from his companion’s movements, and he wore only a pair of loose trousers.

  Lorraii slid the door closed behind her with the heel of her boot, both taking stock of the room and focusing her awareness on its occupants, as she had been taught. Her lips twitched in the hint of a smirk; she had heard three voices, and the owner of one, it seemed, had gone elsewhere. “Does the Brotherhood know of your disappearing visitor?”

  The amarach did not move for several seconds, not even to share a glance between them. They gazed with upturned faces at the glassed-in window, then the female slowly rose to her feet and stretched her wings wide, almost in a gesture of leisure. Then she turned to face the woman who had interrupted them. “Do not pretend to care for what the Brotherhood does or does not allow.” Her voice was soft and steady, but her amber eyes blazed from within her lightly tanned face. “What they presume to dictate does not concern you, Lorraii, daughter of Ruxii, last of the Ouroke.”

  Lorraii sneered at the address. These amarach thought they knew everything, but they could never truly know her. They could not understand what she had done for her people, what she had done to survive among them and then without them. They could not know what she was willing to do to put the Ouroke’s souls at rest. Raising a brow, she turned her head and eyed the female amarach with a sidelong glance. This way, she took in the rest of the room she’d entered.

  The walls did not rise as tall as they did in her own chambers, but the closer ceiling did not feel oppressive. The room was circular and broad, with curved wooden doors at both the north and south ends. She assumed these led out to the ramparts facing the Amneas and that there were no other accessible stairwells but the one she’d just climbed. No beds, cots, or pallets existed in this room, and while it was possible the amarach had been granted their own chambers in other towers across the ramparts, she doubted the Brotherhood had gone through the trouble of providing these creatures with more than one chamber. They’d been bonded and questioned, and when they’d either refused or been incapable of providing the desired answers, their captors had put them away in an unused antechamber, keeping them both at hand and at bay as a last resort. She wondered, then, just how that bond worked; neither of the doors she’d entered were locked, and she doubted the two others in this tower had been, either. What laws kept these immortal beings from disappearing at will, as their race was wont to do—or flinging themselves to the rocky cliffs below when their fates had been sealed? Surely, they must have realized by now what the men who had bound them to their flesh intended within the walls of Deeprock Spire.

  “How long have you been wasting away up here in your prison?” Lorraii asked, fueled both by her hatred for these beings and the satisfaction of seeing them so confined. She glanced at the redheaded amarach, who had finally stood and turned to face her beside his companion. From beneath his dark brow burned eyes nearly as black as night, and the contrast of that gaze amidst his fiery mane would have given her pause had she not already known he could do nothing to act against her.

  “I imagine nearly as long as you’ve been alone,” the brown-haired amarach replied, speaking as casually as if neither party harbored any ill will toward the other. But despite the palpable animosity, they each knew no one could act on such impulses in this place and at this time.

  Lorraii looked at her again with a languid d
rift of her eyes, wishing she had already been granted permission to fulfill her desires before she stumbled upon this tower’s hidden secrets. She would have had more than words for the creature, then. Instead, after a sufficiently imposing gaze, she turned her back to the amarach and stepped toward the large shelf of thick, dark wood on the south wall. Its twin stood opposite against the north side of the tower, and beyond two simple, frayed armchairs, a small side table, and a thin, unraveling rug—through which the hard coldness of the floor could undoubtedly be felt—there were no other furnishings. The shelf, though, was thoroughly stocked with all manner of curious things for a room with such a purpose.

  She made her way slowly along the shelves, treading lightly and inspecting its contents—jars filled with saltpeter, smooth white pebbles, and what looked like broken, charred pieces of firewood. Most of the other substances, however, she did not recognize. A plain wooden box, the lid lying open upon its hinge, contained a pile of flint pieces, and beside that rested a small silver hammer, its head no bigger than her own thumb. It seemed impossible to fathom whether the Brotherhood had tossed their wards in this tower without bothering to clear the items first or if they’d delivered these things at the amarach’s request. Then her eyes fell on the daggers.

  “What was it you sought,” she said, stepping toward the end of the shelf where the weapons lay, all four perfectly aligned along the wood and placed with apparent care, “to let the Brotherhood bind you to your undoing? Was it knowledge? An attempt to stop them?” She glanced over her shoulder at the redheaded amarach. “A long-desired night of carnal pleasure, perhaps?” She’d heard the stories, well aware of the wide range in what the celestial beings craved from humans. Torrahs had also shared with her his knowledge of their various factions—why they quarreled and warred with each unceasingly and with no end in sight.

  Her assumption had been remarkably accurate. The male amarach sucked in a breath through his teeth, then growled something low and unintelligible in his ancient tongue. His wings shuddered, and the flare of his nostrils exposed his disgust almost as surely as the heated glare in his black eyes. Lorraii smirked, silently daring him to attempt the harm he so obviously wished to inflict upon her. But his companion’s fingers twitched in his direction, as though she could hold him back with such a small gesture. Apparently, she could; he clasped his hands behind his back and raised his chin in acknowledgement, though he still seethed at their unexpected visitor.

  “You know such goading words are useless,” the brown-haired amarach said, her composure unwavering. “So tell me, what purpose brought you here?”

  Lorraii raised her brows and returned her attention to the daggers laid out on the shelf. She’d only seen their like once before and in the company of such creatures as were currently imprisoned here, on the shores of the Amneas. These were Sky Metal blades, so rare in the world these days, they were no longer wielded in mortal hands. “I think,” she replied softly, “one of these will do.” She reached out toward the pommel of the closest weapon, which stood out among its brothers by the cobalt inlay curving along the hilt in wavering patterns. The male amarach growled again behind her, but his reaction meant little.

  When finally her hand wrapped around the cold metal, she took a sharp breath and closed her eyes. The jolt of energy was instantaneous, filling her with an intimate knowledge of the blade and its purpose. With that knowledge came the memory of the blade’s life itself, which was thin and sparse and not very long at all. The magic of her runes awoke, burning with an intensity she had come to acknowledge and respect, as one did with the ache of sore muscles after a satisfying, productive day of hard labor. She felt the call of each rust-colored symbol upon her skin meant for such unveiling—at her left wrist, above and below her right knee, scattered across one shoulder, and prickling at the corner of her left eye. She welcomed the heat of their awakening, seeing the dim orange glow from beneath her closed lids and knowing that, should she open her eyes, she would see these runes blazing anew with their own light, like the red-hot tip of an iron brand. Lorraii had worked hard to earn such marks upon her flesh—had battled and sacrificed and completed countless rites for such an honor, as was the Ouroke way. When she opened her eyes again, she knew.

  “So,” she said, her voice thick with the remnants of physical pain and the pleasure of acquired understanding. Turning toward the amarach once more, she slid her thumb and forefinger along the flats of the Sky Metal dagger. “They have locked you away up here and made you immortal weaponsmiths.”

  The female amarach’s eyes had lost their narrowed, calculating composure. Now, she stared at Lorraii with something more akin to remorse and not unlike fear. The tattooed woman did not doubt the celestial beings, of all the races in the age of this world, had heard of the powerful forces behind the Ouroke’s runes, united with them forever upon their flesh. But it seemed this one had not, in fact, anticipated seeing such convergence for herself, let alone initiated by the fruit of her own labors.

  “That was not meant for you,” the creature whispered. Her words were even and precise, but Lorraii caught the miniscule tremble of the amarach’s lips.

  “Of course not,” the Ouroke replied, her brows drawing together in mock sympathy. “But now I’ve made it my own.” When she glanced at the redheaded amarach, the hatred burning in his black eyes betrayed whatever emotion he hoped to contain within his rigid, frozen stance, and she reveled in it. Lorraii made her way to the single door atop the staircase, caressing the cold weapon in her hand as though it were a newborn babe. Drunk on the power she had just seized, emboldened by her new advantage, she grasped the door’s iron handle and looked over her shoulder at the immortals. “You must know you will not be spared in the end, when this is all over.”

  The brown-haired amarach threw her head back and laughed, catching Lorraii by surprise. The sound was merciless and cruel, echoing off the tower’s stone walls, and when the creature returned her gaze to the tattooed woman, her widening eyes glinted with amusement and what could only have been the spark of madness. “I knew it far before you ever entered this game, Ouroke.” She lowered her head to stare at Lorraii from beneath her dark, deceptively delicate brow, eyes blazing above a ruthless smile. Her companion took a deep breath as if to steady himself but said nothing.

  The force of that ethereal stare filled Lorraii with a sudden, shameful dread, and she yanked the door open and hurried through it. The temptation to lower her eyes beneath the amarach’s scrutiny had been nearly overpowering, but if she’d lingered long enough to submit to it, the creature would have won. Even when she slammed the door shut behind her and hastily descended the curving stairwell, the amarach’s mirthless chuckle followed her.

  It had been foolish to engage an immortal in such machinations, where pride and intrigue toppled one’s certainties like a stone tossed through a barricade of twigs. Lorraii had spent too much time in restlessness, and she had taken her bout with the amarach too far; now, her doubts assailed her. Those beings knew more than she ever would—far more than Torrahs himself had uncovered through his trials—though the laws of their punishment permitted them to reveal very little of it. It could be that this included the end of Lorraii’s path, the success or failure of her aim in standing at the Wanderer’s side.

  She clearly recognized that the sickening clutch of these thoughts had been the amarach’s intention with such parting words, and Lorraii fought to release herself from them. Only when she reached the bottom of the staircase and closed the ornately carved wooden door behind her did she experience some measure of relief. Surety bloomed and grew within her once more when she noticed herself still alone in the hallway, still undetected. Most likely, neither Torrahs nor the Brotherhood had noticed her absence within the usual haunts of her listless wandering through the fortress. She did not intend to make them aware of where she had been or what she had discovered; it did not concern any of them.

  Leaning against the door, she looked down to study the Sky Meta
l dagger in her palm. The hilt’s cobalt inlay drew similar coloring from the wavelike ripples of the folded steel, and when she turned the weapon this way and that, the design seemed almost to move and undulate beneath the dim yellow light of the lanterns hanging along the hall. Whatever the amarach might have said, whatever knowledge the creature and her self-aggrandizing kin claimed to possess, the Ouroke still had this—the blade that had not been forged for her but had given itself to her nonetheless. And she did, of course, plan to use it.

  Chapter 12

  On the third night of the Honalei’s voyage across the Sylthurst, her two passengers sat beneath the stars on the portside deck, staring at the bright gibbous moon. Their massive catch the day before meant they practically feasted at every meal. Kherron at first had thought it reckless and precarious that Uishen would set out across the river without restocking his supplies—the most important of which remained food. But after having seen the ferryman bask in the victory of such a catch, he’d realized the man took nearly as much pride in his success as a minor fisherman as he did in his barge; and if Uishen had in fact spoken true about never failing in his endeavors with a lure of gold coin, the man had little cause to worry over his next meal.

  The previous morning, after they’d cleaned and gutted the massive pike and the two slightly smaller fish, Uishen had taken Kherron up to the smaller compartment centered above the Honalei’s main—and only—cabin. There, at the top of the ladder rising through the center of the cabin, he’d found a remarkably spartan second story with large windows cut into each wall but that facing the Honalei’s aft.

  Uishen had explained he’d placed the firebox here to keep it both out of the wind and out of his way. Then he’d pulled a flint and steel from one of the cauldrons—Kherron had thought it a remarkably odd place to store such tools—lit the small logs at the bottom of the firebox, and cooked their fish. The tin box had soon revealed itself as Uishen’s spice collection, but the man used only salt, dried parsley, and black pepper.