Then, one morning many moons later, he’d awoken to see a crimson flutter outside his fourth story window. He’d jumped from bed and dashed to the window to yank the arrow from the sash, excited at what it boded.
But then he’d paused with his hand wrapped around the ash wood. How had the boy gotten the arrow up there?
Loukas’s window overlooked a courtyard and gardens, and his father’s manor stood far from the forest surrounding it—even farther from the estate’s boundary walls. Moreover, his father’s guards were vigilant. Loukas had a hard time imagining how the boy had gotten in there to fire an arrow up at his window from the middle of a protected courtyard.
More curious yet, the manor had hundreds of rooms. How had the boy known which room was his?
He yanked the arrow free and rushed to dress, determined to ask him.
Yet somehow, he never did.
There were always too many other things to talk about when they were together, too many adventures to be had. Caves to explore. Rock faces to climb. Battles to wage, either against each other or united against some imagined enemy. The Vestian preferred the former, Loukas the latter.
Once, after a lengthy time away, the Vestian had returned having learned his own version of the cortata. He liked to spar in the dance of swords and was agile and fast—and grew faster as they grew older. Loukas didn’t enjoy sparring as much as the Vestian did, but he held his own.
Loukas talked to the other boy often of his studies. They would lie in the grass, or atop some precipitous rock chimney they’d just ascended, with the wind in their hair and the sun hot on their skin, and Loukas would speak of economic policy or the politics dividing their kingdoms, and the boy would always listen.
They both thought the schism between the kingdoms was inane, and stupid, perpetuated by the ignorant belligerence of the under-educated and the prejudiced indifference of the over-privileged. Loukas and the boy were proof that Vestians and Avatarens could get along just fine if they set aside the petty grievances of long-dead kings.
Sometimes Loukas would go home after debating with the boy and write long treatises on how the two kingdoms’ relationship might be amended. Then he would burn them, lest one of his tutors discover the writings and have him flogged for treason.
But a flogging would be getting off easy if his father ever learned he’d been spending his free time with a boy from Vest—prince or not. Loukas risked...well, everything, every time he plucked an arrow from his window sash and followed its silent summons to the river.
He never knew what the other boy risked. He knew virtually nothing about his life. In two years, he’d never even learned his name.
Names weren’t necessary between them somehow. Names perpetuated the divide. As often as Loukas talked of his future in the Fire Courts, he shared a dream of leaving it all behind, of seeking some other path into an adulthood where they could choose new identities to define them, where they wouldn’t be forced to hate one another.
Loukas had been sixteen when the river rose.
The Vestian, he’d later learned, was eighteen.
They’d been stretched out that afternoon atop the Horn, debating politics, which they did more often than sparring by then, since the Vestian had long surpassed Loukas in ability with a blade and made a laughable example of him every time they danced swords together.
Loukas hadn’t seen him in more than two moons. He’d returned with his black hair to his shoulders again and a new tattoo resembling a stiletto tracing from his breastbone down through the shadow between the muscles of his chest. Its outline was pink, the flesh still healing. The ink looked like dark mercury and flashed in the sunlight. The Vestian had gained other tattoos through the years, mysteriously. He never wanted to talk about them.
Loukas had been sharing his latest plans to bring peace between the kingdoms—once he ascended to his title as a Furie in the courts, that is—and as always, the Vestian had been listening. He had this way of lying with his dark head propped on one hand, cat-like, watching Loukas with his pale eyes half-lidded and a smirk curling one corner of his mouth.
“It won’t work you know.” He rolled onto his back but turned his head to gaze at Loukas. “Neither the Fire Kings nor any of their Furies would ever risk peace with Vest. Nothing breeds solidarity among a nation like a deep-seated hatred of the nation next door. As fickle as your people are, it wouldn’t take but the foul breath of one disgruntled spice merchant to rouse rebellion among the provinces, and the next thing you know, your benevolent, peaceable kings would be back to chopping each other to bits.”
Loukas snorted. “You Vestians really do think the world revolves around you. Are you really expecting me believe that hating all things Vestian is the source of Avatar’s social and economic stability?”
“I’m just saying, if the shoe fits...”
Loukas shot him a defiant grin. “By a jaded sort of logic.”
The Vestian propped his head in his hand again and hitched a brow at him. “Because I’m being pragmatic about your romantic nonsense, you call it jaded?”
Loukas’s expression sobered. This wasn’t the friend he remembered, who’d always stood in solidarity of views. “What happened to you? You used to think something could be done, the same as me.”
“And then I grew up.”
“Well...you grew.” Loukas gave him that much. He probably had a whole stone more muscle on his frame than Loukas did now, despite his own long hours working the cortata, and he moved with a peculiar, sometimes unsettling grace. “I can’t say you show any greater maturity now than you did when you tried to kill me from the far side of the Ver.”
“If I’d been trying to kill you, Furie, I would have.”
“Yes, so you’ve always claimed.”
The Vestian smiled and laid his head back again. “By the Two Paths, but you always take things so personally. Just because I don’t have much hope for our two kingdoms mending their fences doesn’t mean I’ve given up on us—”
That’s when they heard it.
They both sat up at the same time, their attention riveted upstream.
The Vestian captured Loukas’s arm and with it his gaze. “We’ve got to go—now.”
Loukas got fast to his feet...
%
He nearly ran head-first into Trell, who’d stopped suddenly. Whereupon Loukas realized that they were back where they’d left the horses. He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts that he’d barely paid attention to his surroundings all the while they were descending the rock face.
He had Tannour to thank for the effortless way he clung to the rocks now, and Tannour to blame for basically everything else.
If not for Tannour, Loukas never would’ve crossed the Fire Sea, never would’ve sought refuge in the Emir’s forces...never would’ve known the burden of war.
But also if not for Tannour, he assuredly would not have survived life as a combat engineer for as long as he had—and especially not while assigned to any company led by Trell val Lorian.
That’s when Trell started walking again, and Loukas saw why he’d stopped.
Tannour was sitting atop his horse beside theirs.
Loukas instantly experienced that double-edged pang of betrayal and thrill that ever plagued him when the Vestian showed up. “What are you doing here?” he asked tightly.
Tannour arched a sardonic brow. “You really think I’d let you and the A’dal go off by yourselves without a suitable chaperone?”
“I’m not sure you qualify as suitable, Tannour,” Trell said with a grin. “I get the feeling if left to our own devices, you and I would get into just as much trouble as Loukas and me.”
“The more the merrier to slay the beast, A’dal.”
Trell slung himself into his saddle and looked Tannour over with affection, and not a little admiration. “Have you been here all night?”
“More or less.”
Which meant Tannour had been listening to their conversation all night, as well.
Fethe! The only way to keep a spoken word from reaching Tannour’s ears was not to speak it.
“And...we have company.” Tannour turned a steely look over his shoulder.
A breath later, Loukas heard the sound of a galloping horse coming closer. Then the scout Saran cantered out through a break in the trees.
“A’dal,” he called as he reined in his horse, “you’re needed in camp.”
Trell nodded to him, then to Loukas and Tannour by way of farewell, and set heels to his horse’s flanks. Saran spun his mount around, and they cantered away fast.
Loukas took up his reins, too aware of Tannour near him, too keen to this man he’d once thought of as a brother, among so many other roles. But in knowing Tannour so nearly, so also he knew there was no way Tannour had come there to watch over them out of the goodness of his heart.
Loukas clenched his reins in his hands and speared a look at the Vestian. “He’s your tether now, isn’t he? That’s why you’re keeping so close a watch on the A’dal.”
Tannour had been staring after Trell, but he turned back to Loukas upon this question, his gaze as coolly distant as ever. “What do you care?”
He heeled his horse after Trell, leaving Loukas forgotten in the dust of his departure.
Nineteen
“No one appreciates how tremendously hard I’ve
worked to become so universally adored.”
–The Candidate Vestal Niko van Amstel
Pelas stared at Ean as though he’d just spoken in tongues. “I beg your pardon, where did you say?”
“He said T’khendar.” Anticipation hummed through Tanis. At the idea of reuniting with his mother in the flesh and meeting his uncle—never mind seeing the fabled realm—Tanis could hardly contain his excitement.
“We can get there from Alorin,” Ean said, “but the fastest way would be via the First Lord’s sa’reyth.”
Pelas shook his head, looking apologetic. “I can’t open a portal into the sa’reyth, for I’ve never visited those shores.”
“I can take you.” Darshan’s deep voice turned all heads to him.
Pelas’s brother stood with his hands clasped behind his darkly clad form, imposing and seemingly immutable to any power save his own. For some reason, Tanis got the distinct yet improbable impression that Darshan and Phaedor would become fast friends.
Ean formed a marveling smile. “You’ve been to Björn’s sa’reyth?”
“I followed the drachwyr Amithaiya’geshwen across a node into the pastures of this sanctuary.” Darshan announced this like it wasn’t the most incredible statement under the sun, like it happened every other day. “I know the world.”
“You followed a drachwyr?” Pelas looked his brother up and down in blank astonishment. “When by the Void was this?”
Darshan shifted his dark eyes to him. “After you scolded me that if I ever left my ivory tower, I would see the truth of things.”
Pelas looked bewildered. “I said that? I mean, I agree, but—”
“Nonetheless, it was after this conversation that I set a new course,” Darshan opened palms to the sky, “and here we are.”
Rafael chuckled. “So we have Pelas to thank for your miraculously benevolent turn?”
Darshan spied him cryptically. “I have not yet decided upon my degree of benevolence towards you, Rafael.”
Rafael’s aqua eyes gleamed. “Especially once I’ve won our bet.”
Tanis approached Rafael. “Thank you for everything, sir. I’m sorry about your floors. And thank you for accepting...you know, the other part.”
Rafael’s hair shed skeptical embers into the afternoon, but his smile was genuine. “I still do not think it can be done.”
Tanis shook his head at him. “You have to find a way. If anyone can do it, it will be you.”
Rafael arrowed an amused glance from Tanis to Sinárr. “What has my old friend been teaching you? A little bit of admiration, a dash of adulation, liberally seasoned with flattery and the dish is cooked?”
Pelas chuckled. “Everyone who knows you knows this is your recipe, Rafael.”
Rafael regarded Pelas as if he was quite a delicious dish himself.
Sinárr cleared his throat again.
Rafael returned smiling eyes to Tanis. “It will be an entertaining game in the very least. I thank you for the challenge of it.”
Tanis nodded politely and returned to Sinárr’s side. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”
Sinárr placed a hand over his heart. “You have but to summon me and I will appear,” while his thoughts whispered, Someone must keep an eye on Rafael.
Ean moved in to say goodbye to Rafael, while Pelas clapped a hand on Darshan’s shoulder and moved them away from the Warlocks, saying, “There’s a mystery I’m hoping you can help me clear up, brother.”
Darshan eyed him circumspectly. “What is that, Pelas?”
“Why did you cut your hair?”
The Malorin’athgul’s gaze tightened minutely. “The drachwyr Amithaiya’geshwen and I had a misunderstanding.”
Pelas flashed a sharp grin. “Did the little dragon engulf you in the flames of her mighty roar?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He angled Pelas a reproving stare as he began summoning his portal. “We both had our claws in each other.”
“Were these claws metaphorical or literal?” Pelas was clearly loving this exchange. “Will the little drachwyr be eagerly awaiting your return to the sa’reyth, or should I arm myself to defend you?”
Darshan leveled him a stare. “Learning humility at the cost of one’s own invincibility is never comfortably undertaken, Pelas. You are familiar with the experience yourself and might therefore exhibit the courtesy of better self-restraint in not ridiculing others.” Whereupon, he led them stoically through his portal.
Tanis emerged out of Shadow onto a high meadow in the midst of steep-sided mountains whose peaks tore shreds out of the ashen clouds. Beneath an overcast sky, the grass appeared impossibly green. Something felt wrong to him, but he couldn’t fit the feeling into any context. He wondered if it had something to do with the place itself.
Darshan nodded up the hill and said to Ean, who was emerging behind him, “The sa’reyth is that way. It is where Mithaiya was heading before we had our misunderstanding.”
Pelas chuckled. “How very discreet you are, brother, glossing over all the intimate details. Where exactly did you claim her...or should I be asking, where did she claim you?”
Darshan looked to Tanis with an expression of strained grace. “Please take my brother away before I recall why I left him bound in a tower believing his power was lost.”
“I still owe you for that,” Pelas said with a taunting smile, which only proved how truly he’d forgiven his brother.
Tanis tugged on Pelas’s arm. “Come on. I want to see my uncle’s sanctuary.”
Pelas sauntered after Tanis, grinning back over his shoulder at Darshan the while.
***
Ean watched Tanis striding away with a Malorin’athgul at his side and marveled at the twisting paths of their lives. So much had changed since that portentous day when they’d left Calgaryn together!
“This is where I leave you, Ean.”
Startled, the prince turned back to Darshan. “Leave me? But I thought—”
It was the look in Darshan’s eyes that silenced him. A tension lay behind his gaze, and his brow revealed a subtle furrow. For a being as dispassionate as Darshan, these telltales very nearly equated to a plea.
Ean stared at him, not understanding. “You said you had questions for Isabel.”
“I do.”
“You know they would welcome you now, for what you’ve done.”
“For what I’ve done...” Darshan considered these words while he held Ean’s gaze, his mind deeply quiet, his thoughts cordoned off from Ean’s awareness. “No, Ean. I think for what I have done, it is not enough.”
The prince held his gaze, wondering what the
other was thinking, startled by how much the idea of their parting bothered him.
“I have returned you, as promised.” Darshan’s gaze assumed a remote quality. “Now that you’re bonded to Rafael, perhaps you desire our bond to be—”
“No.” It was very nearly a cry. After what they’d been through together, how could he imagine...?
Ean searched Darshan’s dark gaze with his own. “I thought you saw. I thought you understood. Unless...” he thought he might understand, “is it that you no longer desire our binding?”
“I find that I enjoy the connection.”
Ean flung up a hand to this proof. “Well, then.” But suddenly it wasn’t enough just to feel some mutual agreement about it. He squared himself before the Malorin’athgul. “Look...you summoned me to Tambarré, just by—I don’t know—willing it, or something.”
“Balance bends to my will,” Darshan murmured, clearly not seeing where Ean was going with this.
Ean took hold of the Malorin’athgul’s arm. “Darshan, I cherish the day you decided our paths should cross.”
Darshan drew slightly back at this. “You did not seem to appreciate it at the time.”
“At the time it appeared you were trying to obliterate me.”
A hint of a smile touched Darshan’s lips. “And now?”
“Now I see a new path of consequence and know you helped to draw it—that you’re drawing it still, even though I can’t see your hand upon the implement of its design.”
Darshan pondered these words while the darkness of the Void reflected in his gaze. “I’ve seen this pattern in your thoughts. This pattern is what led you to bind with Rafael?”
“Yes.”
Some slight tension eased in Darshan, as a confusion at last resolved.
They stared at each other for a while in silence, with Darshan radiating indecision and Ean concern. “This is something you have to do?” the prince finally asked. It was partly an assertion and partly a plea to reconsider. “Are you certain?”
Darshan shook his head. “I am certain of nothing.”
The Sixth Strand Page 32
