A House Divided (Astoran Asunder, book 1)

by Nicole Ciacchella

  "My mother will look after him," Cianne whispered, wishing she could offer Lach something more comforting. She had no doubt that Annalith would guide Toran into Cearus's embrace, but what good would that do? They were both of them gone forever, and no amount of wistful thinking of them being with their Lord would ever lessen the pain of the loss.

  "How?" Lach asked, raising his tormented, tear-streaked face to her. The torture in his eyes nearly undid her, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding herself together as fiercely as she was holding him together.

  "I don't know," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I wish to Cearus I did."

  "Captain Stowley?" a respectfully hushed voice asked as the door opened. "I'm so sorry to trouble you at this time."

  "How could he do this?" Lach demanded, his voice rising into a howl that made Cianne wince.

  "Leave us. He's in no condition to talk," she said, surprised by the ferocity in her own voice. She knew the Enforcers were just doing their job, but rage filled her all the same, reminding her of how she'd felt when her mother had died. Why couldn't everyone go away and leave Lach in peace? If he'd asked her to leave, she would have gone too, but he wanted her there. He shouldn't have to deal with anyone he didn't want.

  "My apologies," the voice said, the door closing with haste.

  "How could he?" Lach asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Closing her eyes, Cianne held onto him, his face pressed against her chest. She rocked him like a child, but his wild sobbing didn't cease, and she was relieved when Elder Borean entered the room, the House Apothecist trailing in his wake. Lach turned away from them, burying his face in Cianne's shoulder, and she lifted her eyes to Elder Borean.

  The Elder said nothing, but pain limned his features as he gave Cianne a slight nod, which she returned. Tears poured over her cheeks, blurring her vision, and she tried to blink them back. The Apothecist parted her lips as if to speak to Lach, but Cianne stopped her with a vehement shake of her head. Elder Borean put his hand on the woman's shoulder and nodded at her.

  Handing Cianne a small vial, the Apothecist mouthed, All of it. Cianne nodded to indicate that she understood, and the other two withdrew from the room.

  "Lach," Cianne said in the gentlest voice she could muster. "Will you drink this?"

  She had thought it would take some coaxing, but he seized the vial from her with alarming eagerness and downed its contents. She stayed with him, stroking his hair as he lost consciousness. Carefully, she lifted his head from her shoulder and settled him in his chair. Getting him into his bed without assistance would be impossible, and she didn't bother to make the attempt. Either the servants or her father and the Elders would see to it.

  Rising on unsteady legs, Cianne mopped her face with her handkerchief and blew her nose. She was bone-weary and loath to leave Lach by himself, even though grief seemed to infest every corner of the room, threatening to overcome her with reminders of things best left forgotten. She would be there for him, though. She would do that much for him.

  How can I ever turn him down now? she wondered in despair, then despised herself for the selfish thought.

  "I'll be back soon," she whispered to him, in case he wasn't insensate enough not to hear. She didn't want him to think she'd abandoned him.

  As she made her way to the door, she realized she was parched. The tears seemed to have pulled every last drop of moisture from her body, and she longed for a cool glass of water. Her temples pulsed gently, a warning that a headache was approaching, and she pressed her fingers into them, trying to alleviate the pressure.

  "How is he?" Elder Borean asked when she joined them. Moiria was there too, sitting in a chair and staring at nothing with dead eyes as the other Elders attempted to persuade her to eat or drink something.

  "He's sleeping," Cianne said, her voice rough. Her throat ached. "I couldn't lift him out of his chair, so—"

  "Don't fret, child," the Elder said kindly. She couldn't remember the last time he'd sounded so nice while speaking to her. "We'll see to him."

  Her father wound his arm around her shoulders and led her to the refreshments, as if sensing her thirst. "You can't abandon him in his hour of need," he whispered.

  She stiffened. Fighting off the urge to push him away was almost impossible, and she clenched her jaw. "I'm his friend. I'd never do such a thing to him," she hissed back, though she knew full well that wasn't what he had meant.

  Cearus plague him! And to think I felt badly for my errant thought while my father has no qualms about exploiting Toran's death to his own purposes.

  No shame crossed her father's face. He tightened his arm about her shoulders, and she was glad for the excuse to shrug him off when she reached the refreshments and could pour herself a drink from one of the pitchers. She didn't bother looking at the liquid; she simply needed to get something cool and wet into her dry throat immediately, and she almost choked when she tasted the lemonade. It slid down her throat in a bitter rush, tasting like bile. Her stomach curdled, and she set the glass down with a thud, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist.

  "Water?" her father asked, his eyes taking everything in as he handed her another glass.

  "Thank you," she forced herself to say. Turning away so she wouldn't have to look at him, she drained the glass in one long swallow.

  "Moiria, why don't we get you to your chambers?" Elder Vorfarth asked, trying to help Moiria from her chair. "The Apothecist is here, and she has something for you to take, to help you rest."

  "I don't want to rest," Moiria said, pushing Elder Vorfarth away with such force that the woman staggered. The Elders exchanged a look and Daerwyn swooped in.

  "Moiria," he said, crouching before her and taking her hands in his.

  "You know, Daerwyn. You know what this is like," she said in a hollow voice, staring at his face desperately.

  "I do," he agreed. "Come with me, please."

  "Yes… Yes, I will." She rose, her face blank, and Daerwyn put a steadying arm around her, guiding her from the room.

  Leave it to Father to come to the rescue. Doubtless the Elders are impressed with his smooth handling of the situation.

  Her mouth tasted bitter again and she turned back to the table to pour herself another glass of water. The nastiness of her thoughts was unforgivable. Moiria was right, Daerwyn was the only person in the room who understood what she was going through, and he might be cold and unyielding, but he wasn't cruel. Surely Cianne didn't believe that of her own father.

  "Where are the Enforcers?" she asked the Elders, who blinked and stared at her as if they'd forgotten her presence.

  "They're taking Toran away," Elder Vorfarth said, pressing her lips together. Elder Borean chided her with a glance.

  "They would like to speak with you once they've seen to Toran," he said.

  "Me?" Cianne asked, her mind racing. She knew why they wanted to speak to her, so that wasn't the reason for her question. Dread coursed through her as she thought about which officers might be in the manor. Her mind was in enough turmoil without having to come face-to-face with Kila again.

  "Yes, Cianne, dear," Elder Borean said. He took her hand and led her to a chair. "Are you up to speaking with them?"

  "Yes, I think so," she said in a faint voice.

  "Very good, my dear. This is a horrible tragedy, and we fear for Moiria and Lach, but it comforts us to know you will be here to console him."

  "Poor Lach," Cianne said, her face crumpling. She didn't need to feign her distress.

  Elder Borean patted her hand and made soothing noises, offering her his handkerchief so that she could wipe away the tears that had begun to roll over her cheeks again. It was clean but smelled stale, and she dried her face with it, twisting it between her fingers as she forced a smile.

  "Thank you, Elder Borean."

  He was about to say something else to her when the Enforcement officers appeared. Behind them, several Enforcement staff passed, carrying a litter with a white sheet drawn
over it. Officer Burl saw where Cianne's gaze was fixed, and she drew the folding doors closed.

  Cianne wasn't alone in having noticed. The Elders had ceased speaking, a pregnant pause descending on the room. Elder Vorfarth paled and pressed her hand to her mouth, and Elder Borean moved in front of Cianne, as if to shield her.

  "Might we have a moment alone with Miss Wyland?" Chief Flim asked.

  Cianne knew who the chief was, though they had never been introduced. She commanded her gaze not to seek comfort, forced it not to stray to Kila.

  "Cianne?" Elder Borean asked.

  "It's all right," she said.

  "We'll be in the next room if you need us." With that they withdrew, leaving Cianne alone with the three Enforcers.

  "We're sorry to trouble you, Miss Wyland, but we'd like to ask you a few questions. I'm Chief Flim. You know Officer Burl, and this is Officer an Movis."

  "Yes, we've met," Cianne said.

  "At the assembly," Burl told the chief.

  "Ah, of course. Miss Wyland, I understand Captain Stowley went to your manor after the assembly ended?"

  "Yes," Cianne said, wondering where this line of questioning was leading. "He escorted me home and stayed to chat."

  Nodding, the chief scratched at a notebook she'd produced. "Did you know Advisor Toran Stowley well?"

  "I did," she said, nodding. "Lach and I have been friends since we were children, and I spent a great deal of time here."

  "Did you notice anything unusual about Advisor Stowley's state of mind as of late?"

  Perplexed, Cianne stared at Chief Flim. "No, I… I don't think I did, but Advisor Toran didn't confide in me. As far as I could tell, he seemed normal."

  "Normal?"

  "Advisor Toran was a cheerful man," Cianne said, looking at her hands, her eyes welling with tears as memories of him inundated her. "I'm sorry, but why are you asking me these questions? You don't think—"

  "These are procedural questions, nothing more," Officer Burl said.

  The chief shot a look at her but didn't say anything. Closing her notebook, she tucked it away in her jacket.

  "Sorry to trouble you. Thank you for your assistance," the chief said.

  Casting a sidelong glance at Kila, Cianne watched his eyes slide from her to the chief to Burl.

  I think it's past time he and I had a talk, she thought, eyes lowered as they left. Under cover of her lashes, she peered at Kila's back as it disappeared through the door, and her heart did something it had no business doing.

  Chapter 10

  Morning wasn't far off by the time Kila returned to his lodgings, but he was too keyed up to sleep. Changing back into his looser garb, he stepped out to his garden to finish what he had started before Burl had knocked on his door.

  He had accompanied the chief and Burl back to the station, where they left Toran Stowley's body in the care of the Healers. Incongruous as the name sounded when it came to those Healers who worked with Enforcement, their unsurpassed knowledge of human anatomy was an indispensable tool in the Enforcers' mandate to fight crime. If anyone could pinpoint the exact cause of death, it would be them, though their preliminary examination didn't turn up any evidence contradictory to the established narrative. Krozemund, the Chief Anatomical Examiner, assured Chief Flim that he would consult with an Apothecist as necessary to confirm the nature of the substance in the vial, but he said he could typically discern what someone had ingested by the effects it had on the body.

  Krozemund had headed the team of Healers since before Kila's first tenure in Cearova, and Kila had never heard anything untoward about the man. All signs pointed to his feeling no particular loyalty to anyone. Healers weren't incorruptible, but their accepted collective ethos demanded that they treat all victims of ill health or injury, regardless of the person's social status or economic means. Most of the Healers Kila had known took this vow very seriously, considering themselves duty-bound to serve Aima, Lady of Life, and their sense of mission meant that they were renowned for their resistance to corruption. He was confident they could trust Krozemund's judgment.

  Burl had left shortly after the Examiner shared his initial impressions, ordering Kila to report for duty bright and early the next morning. She was obviously anxious to close the case, and Kila couldn't entirely blame her. He hadn't the slightest idea of her agenda, but no matter what it was she hoped to achieve, the undeniable truth was that she would be under immense pressure from the House Elders to wrap this up and quickly. Kila imagined they would hunker down in their Council Hall all night in order to strategize as to how they intended to handle the news of Toran Stowley's death and its disbursal through the city.

  Kila had lingered at the station, wondering if the chief might approach him, but she had done nothing more than nod in his direction when she also left.

  Transitioning from position three to position four, he considered everything that had happened that night. Was he seeing sinister intent everywhere he looked? Nothing about this case seemed immediately out of the ordinary, as sad as that fact might be, but something about it bothered him. The necessary parts were all there, neatly laid out in the proper order, and he wasn't certain whether he ought to read into that.

  "The position of your left hand is a bit off," a soft voice floated down to him from his garden wall.

  Startled, he dropped form, snapping into a defensive stance. It had been a long while since he had felt he ought to be on his guard at all times, and he found the reminder unpleasant. Why had he wished to be back in this wolves' den?

  "Might you extend the courtesy of making yourself known?" he asked, fixing his eyes on the small, dark shadow at the top of his wall.

  "Best if we don't do this here," the voice responded. "I mean you no harm, but I don't expect you to trust my word."

  He said nothing in response to this, waiting for her—he had discerned that the voice was female, if nothing else—to show herself.

  She landed on his lawn without making a sound. Rising from a crouch, she slowly started toward him, hands held parallel to her shoulders, palms facing him so that he could see she was unarmed. However, he wasn't willing to trust that she didn't have a weapon hidden about her person, and he maintained his position.

  A rippling shadow, she moved over toward his lodgings, not heading for the door but for the light spilling from one of his windows. Illumination washed over her, exposing her slight form. She wore a tight, black leather vest laced all the way up to its high neck. Black breeches covered her legs, tucked into fitted black leather boots. A hood was attached to her vest, and she held her hands up until he nodded, then she reached to push back the hood, revealing her face to him at last.

  "Miss Wyland?" he asked. Confusion swept over him, followed closely by a sense of wariness.

  At the sound of her name, her eyes darted around the garden as if she feared enemies might be lurking behind his feral rhododendron. She jerked her head in the direction of his lodgings, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. He gave up his stance and went to the door, opening it and beckoning her in.

  "I wasn't aware that the Houses were so well-versed in the positions of the deshya," he said, his sense of wariness increasing.

  Few foreigners were familiar with the fighting style native to his homeland. Battle Masters' gifts were such that they could never have any real inherent advantage over a Battle Master opponent from another land, so each realm had developed its own distinctive fighting style to compensate.

  Myrshan Battle Masters had created a style for their sole use, and non-Adepts were prohibited from using it under penalty of imprisonment. Legend had it that the deshya had evolved from the Battle Masters' form, developed by a young man jealous of his sister's powerful Battle Master gifts. Decade after decade he had practiced, tooling and retooling the deshya, until he honed skills so unknown to her that he bested her in a duel to the death.

  The legend was a load of bollocks, as far as Kila was concerned. Ordinary people could certainly learn how to fight
and become very skilled at it, but no matter how fancy their fighting style they could never hope to be a match for a highly gifted Battle Master. In his view, it was a story the non-Adepts amongst his people told in order to reassure themselves that they weren't completely at the mercy of their Adept counterparts.

  "The House knows nothing about it," she said, watching his face.

  "Last I checked, you're a part of the House."

  "So you've now discovered."

  Frowning, he stared her directly in the eye. Why the song and dance, he wondered. It had been a long night, and he would have preferred her to just come out with it.

  "You're the Enforcer. Assemble the pieces," she suggested.

  Pressing her hands together, she lowered her head so that her chin rested on the tips of her fingers. Inhaling deeply, she parted her hands, her right extending out to her side in a fluid motion as she bent her left at the elbow. The fingers on her left hand splayed elegantly, weaving patterns through the air as they came to rest near her side. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, and she rotated her upper body, simultaneously sliding her right leg behind her while bending her left at the knee, her upper body twisted so that she faced left.

  Misdirection. Anyone unfamiliar with the dancelike movements was liable not to notice what she'd been doing with her right hand. She pointed her dagger at Kila's chest, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew he would be able to disarm her, if he so desired. Moving with catlike grace, she stood upright again, sliding the dagger back into the sheath concealed up her sleeve.

  Her form, it was so familiar. Closing his eyes, he watched the scenes playing out behind his lids. A little, pert face screwed up in determination as she tried to imitate his movements. That same face beamed with delight when he praised her for a perfectly executed kick. She had hungered for his approval. Like a wilted flower exposed to the sun at long last, she had directed her face toward him, eager to bask in the light.

  "Annalith," he said. "That never was your name, was it? I thought as much, though I didn't want to press you on the point. You were a skittish creature as it was."