by R. M Garino
“This change in my affections is still too new, too confusing.” She stood against the railing, rubbing the ruby she wore in a simple gold setting about her neck. “I guess I’m just stuck in my ways.”
The hummingbird moved closer.
“Yes, this does give me time to think,” she said. “I don’t often get time to ponder all the things that could have been, and all that yet may be.”
How many times had she stood here, watching the grandson she would not acknowledge, yet could not keep from her thoughts? There was a similar spot she had used in Reven Marthal. She’d watched him grow, had watched him stumble. How often had he placed himself in situations where he had to be smacked down? She’d watched his small triumphs as he pushed himself to match the measure her own father had set for him. She had forced her emotions down, away from her, lest she reveal her presence in a display of maternal pride or outrage. He reminded her very much of her father, and for so long she had denied the reality of what was. She had not wanted to see it. The memory of him standing guard over his sister during the breach still rent her heart, filling her with an uncomfortable combination of pride for his heroism, and disgust for her own actions of contempt.
Now, she was able to display what she’d once kept hidden. She owed him that much, at least, for what he had given her. Brocco had been beside himself with joy at the transformation of her regard toward the boy. He’d often championed Angus and derided her lack of affection toward him.
The change went deeper than her open warmth for her grandson. The old, festering wound in her soul had been healed, and she now allowed herself to partake in the love that surrounded her. She had declared to Brocco just yesterday her desire to marry him. He had waited so long, been so patient with her. For over a thousand years he had been her mate and companion, the father of her second daughter, and only now was she able to take him as a husband. His elation had been profound, to say the least.
As she watched Angus now, she felt a glow of satisfaction. His Pride was running a complicated obstacle course, sweating in the heat of high summer, displaying the teamwork that had won them the Gauntlet. They had suffered in the lists after the disappearance of their strange little friend, but as the months passed and their wounds healed, they had reclaimed their rightful position. Angus had indeed grown to become worthy of her father’s name. She had no doubt he’d rise to the Elc’atar Guard, and even beyond, taking his rightful place among their people.
“I still have my father’s obdurate swords,” she told the hummingbird. “Remember, we reclaimed them from the mouth of Golan’s Pass? They’re tucked away, hidden in Reven Marthal. Think I should present them to him at the wedding? El’Cain’s blades will make a fine gift.”
The bird performed a complete circle around her head, only to stop again in front of her nose. Thenaria laughed in delight.
“Exactly!” she said. “At long last, a Tu’renthien will again wield Validus and Fidalus.”
Her smile faded as she watched the events on the field.
“He is still young,” she said, her mirth sobering. “He’s still untested by the world, and in many ways, still pampered despite the harshness of his training. Then again, all the Lethen’al are pampered. They are shielded here behind these walls, free from the ravages of greed and hate, safe from the taint the Apostate left behind.”
There was the occasional breach, of course, but as bad as they were – and there was every indication that they were getting worse - that was a poor, controlled comparison. Her memories held horrors that were far more terrifying. The Yearlings had a glimmer of the truth, for they had walked beneath the forest of Aklediem during the Feast of Night for their trials. They had encountered the hordes, the hell spawn the Apostate left behind. The shrulks and manocs thrived out in the trackless forest, and their numbers increased every year. The annual hunt was the only thing that culled their numbers, which was why she had consented to it so long ago. Yet still, what they experienced out there was but a fraction of what she had faced. The Elc’atar suspected, for they had ventured into the Sur and faced their own undoing. Only the Mala’kar sensed how little they knew, for they had spoken to Thelas, the Lo’ademn imprisoned in the Roots of Reven Marthal. They had come face to face with their ignorance, but had never had the opportunity to move beyond it.
Only she knew the truth. Only she knew what awaited them.
Only she, and the Fiftanu seers who gave her counsel, knew what had been, and what was to come.
“They’ve become vague in their guidance of late,” she told the bird. “They stare at me with blank expressions at the most inopportune moments. Whatever it is they have foreseen, they refuse to divulge it.”
A queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach whispered that a terrible malice was about to descend upon them, and she lay at the epicenter. She had no fear for herself. She had lived for far too long to grieve her fate. She would accept it whatever it was. But she was afraid for her family. While she would welcome her own end, she would fight against any attempt by fate to harm her children. Increasingly she found her thoughts drifting to her grandson, and her stomach tightened all the more. For some time now she had suspected his would not be an easy path.
Thenaria drummed her fingers on the balcony’s ledge.
“I dislike not knowing what is happening around me,” she said. “That some divine plan is unfolding I have no doubt.”
It was impossible for the Lethen’al not to have a firm conviction of divinity. Their belief was founded in their experience, in their knowledge of who they were, and what they once had been. They did not share the childish notions of the humans, who tended to personify their conception of a godhead as a separate entity. It was so much more than that. They understood that there was no separation between the divine and all that was. The divine was indeed a presence, but not a single personality; rather an amalgam of all that was or would be.
The soldiers beneath her had gathered to the side of their obstacle course, watching a group of Elc’atar run it in their stead. They moved with the grace of animals, loping and leaping with precision, their movements measured, precise, and perfect. One of their number walked back to the graduates, and stood before them offering a lecture to illuminate what they had just witnessed. They stood at attention, trying to capture the wisdom being shared. And yet Angus’ sin’del also stretched out behind him. Thenaria followed the thin strand of energy that led right to the girl. The unity had grown since she had last watched them. Soon, it would be evident for all to see. It was long past time she sat them down and set firm plans for their future. As stubborn as they were, she was not about to let them continue dictating the terms of their relationship.
“They have a duty and an obligation to the Lethen’al,” Thenaria said, “and it is fast approaching the time that they meet it.”
The Pride ran the course again and, Thenaria noted, there was a marked improvement in their performance. They were stronger than they were before their tragedy. She realized that they never did discover what happened to their missing teammate.
“Perhaps the Fiftanu know what happened to that sickly girl?”
The hummingbird flew a loop, as if declaring its thoughts on the subject.
“I’ll have to remember to ask.”
The Pride was dismissed, and ran double time to the far end of the field, where they practiced unarmed combat maneuvers against multiple opponents. Arielle was making short work of it. She moved like the Elc’atar already, wasting no effort on inefficient actions. Thenaria clapped in approval, glad that she could defend herself. Lilly’s fate would not befall her without a trail of enemy bodies piled around her. She would have to find an appropriate gift for the girl as well. Perhaps she would give one blade to Angus, and one to her.
“Today has been good for me,” she said. “Seeing the children at their training has alleviated some anxiety. Not all of it, but the edge has been dulled.”
The hummingbird hovered beside her ear, listening close.
“Whatever comes, I will make sure the children are prepared to face it.”
It was time for her to return home. It was time to put her plans in place to meet the threats of the future.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Work to Do
The full passage of the year turned with its usual precision, and the quickening of summer faded and slowed as autumn returned. Logan Fel’Mekrin paused as he crested the rise amidst the riot of yellow and gold, leaving the valley behind him. The parade field spread out before him, the same as it was when he’d left it. He hid the smile that wanted to form, keeping his emotions to himself as he had been trained to do. His position did not permit him the luxury of homesickness. He was a Yearling, and soon, he would enter the Sur for his final testing. He was almost an Elc’atar, and like the peers in his cohort, he strove to emulate the Masters.
It was good to be back. The earth here was packed and trampled with the tread of uncountable steps over the ages, to the point where it now resembled stone. The shield walls rose in sheer sheets toward the heavens, both sides of the canyon arcing in a gentle curve until they reached the Gates themselves. The carvings stood out even at this distance, and he took in the familiar scenes they depicted. The entire area flowed with an admirable military precision. Nothing had changed.
Except him. He was stronger now, faster, his talents refined to a razor’s edge. The training he’d undergone had hardened him in both body and soul, lifting him above the ranks of Blades arrayed before him. As a student, he had achieved a certain amount of fame with his swordsmanship, outperforming even some of the Blademasters on several occasions. With a sword, none of his peers could stand before him. He had ended his tour at the Gates undefeated. He had never been touched by a blade . . . save once. From what he heard, stories of his accomplishments were still told in the barracks and mess hall. Now, he had become so much more than he was. If he was masterful before, now he was perfection made flesh.
“Shall we enter, brothers?” Cormac said. He sat astride his lo’el to Logan’s left, his face set in a grim mask of determination as if he were about to storm an enemy stronghold. Logan was pleased with his performance. He wore the mien of a Yearling about to test. At least he wasn’t smiling like a fool all the time any more. The bruises from their last discussion on the topic of proper decorum were just beginning to fade from Cormac’s face. Logan hoped they would not have to repeat the conversation.
“Might as well get it over with,” McAlister said from Logan’s right. He glowered at the world around him, as if suspecting to see an enemy in every direction. At least with McAlister, however, the expression was not feigned. He was always dour and suspicious. Logan had not felt the need to instruct him in the rules of etiquette.
Both of them were pledged to House Fel’Mekrin, and for the most part, they understood their proper place. Neither made the slightest move to enter the Gates complex, for Logan himself had not moved. It was for him to be first in all things. That lesson had taken only one administration to be learned. Logan sat atop his lo’el, Dusk, a midnight-black beast that complimented his own appearance. Together they surveyed the terrain before him.
He had three days before the testing, and there was much he needed to tend to before then. The news that had reached him on his extended tour of the Patresilen had been disturbing, to say the least. If the rumors were to be believed, his sister Gwendolyn was straying far from the path assigned to her. The communications from Mother and Cavallo were disconcerting, though he suspected they were rather overinflated. Her apparent infatuation with that Thomlin fellow, the heir of House Kal’Parev, was the paramount dilemma. That he would squash first and foremost.
It appeared that House was determined to be a thorn in his side, he reflected. Aside from Gwendolyn, there was the issue of Arielle, and her liaison with the heir’s cousin. There was, after all, the matter of the tampering with his sword that still needed a reckoning. The lack of proof to pin the embarrassment on their doorstep was galling enough, but he still rankled at having to take the more dignified position while they openly laughed at him. They would learn that Logan Fel’Mekrin was not an object of derision. He would take great pleasure from that lesson. He savored the nearness of the event. But for Angus, that would only be the beginning. He’d had the better part of a year to plan for this meeting, and he intended to savor every bit of it. No one took what belonged to him, and his claim on Arielle Rhen’val was indeed absolute. She would have to be reminded of that, but her ignorance did not degrade the fact. Through the marriage to her, he would achieve the rank of Field Marshal, as her father had promised. He was not about to allow some trumped-up commoner take what was his by right.
“Are we done reminiscing, boy?” his mentor Mason said in his usual gruff voice. Logan offered a curt dip of his head before urging his lo’el to move. Mason was the Master for now, and Logan only the Yearling. But that fact would change in three days’ time, and Mason was well aware of it.
Good, Logan thought. At least he would not have to be reminded.
There was enough work to do.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
What Is
Arielle had spent the day at the A’gist, running Myth through a series of exercises designed to strengthen the connection between them. As did the rest of her Pride, she wore a leather pouch at her side, filled with tiny tidbits of dried meat to reward the pup when it obeyed a command. The little bundle of energy was a fast learner. Myth lay in the grass beside her when she made the appropriate gesture. It was more than just training, she knew. The little creature was besotted with her, as she was with it. The more time they spent in each other’s company the faster they responded to each other. Arielle was becoming accustomed to the subtle signs that the lo’el needed to relieve herself, to run, or when to rough house a little. At the same time, Myth was reacting to her own needs as well.
What Myth did not seem to grasp was that she could not be with Arielle every waking minute. Twice already Arielle had awoken in her barracks to find the pup attempting to curl up next to her. Although tempted to let her stay, she knew she had to bring her back. A midnight journey up the mountain trails had not been much fun. Myth loved it, as she seemed to love every adventure they went on together. On the last occasion, she’d met Angus on the trail, returning from bringing Fae back to the A’gist. That night had not been so bad, as she’d had company on the way back. It did, however, take her much longer to return than a solo trip did.
Arielle blushed at the memory, and felt her pulse quicken. Maybe she should train Myth and Fae to escape more often.
Myth nudged Arielle’s leg with her head. She scratched the side of the muzzle, just the way she liked. That was a behavior she would have to stop. The way the animal was growing, she would soon knock Arielle over in demand for attention. In only six short months the animal had tripled in size and stood just past Arielle’s waist now. By the end of the year, according to Thesius, they would begin rider training, eventually covering long distances. What was truly strange was the official disbanding of the squads. After each section had rotated into the A’gist and the Lo’el had selected whom they would allow, the other squads were left decimated. Four were accepted from the Ninth: Nole, Padric, Leah, and Brianna. Three were accepted from the Fifth: Laine, Coreen, and Kassidy. Efrain was the sole candidate from the Eighth to make it through. In the past six months, it had been a struggle to integrate with the others. The Ninth were not so bad, but the Fifth were still openly hostile, and Efrain spurned almost every attempt to include him. Combined with the thirteen members of her squad, these would be the Yearling cohort should they all choose to apply.
Arielle grabbed Myth’s fluffy white head and wrestled the beast to the ground. She rubbed her underbelly with vigorous strokes. Myth closed her eyes and extended her head, giving Arielle greater access. And then, she tensed, her head jerking up.
“Such aggressive displays of affection will only make her harder to control,” someone be
hind her said.
Arielle’s hands froze inside the tufts of fur. Her first thought on hearing the voice was of her appearance; her hair was tied into a hasty and messy bun on top of her head. She had to force herself to be still and resist the urge to fix it.
Myth rolled beneath her and surged to her feet. She lowered her muzzle, hackles raised, and rumbled a growl from deep within her young throat. An answering growl, much deeper and more menacing, answered behind Arielle. And still, she did not move.
“You might want to restrain your pup,” Logan said, a casual threat evident in his tone. “It is treading where it should not.”
Arielle stood, still facing away, her fists at her sides. She raised one finger, and Myth silenced its growl. She must have sensed Arielle’s distress, however, as she did not drop her aggressive posture. Arielle pivoted, her chin held high and her face impassive. Myth moved up to stand beside her.
Dusk, Logan’s midnight-black lo’el caught her scent. He uttered a whine and lowered himself to the ground, his head between his forepaws. Logan’s attention was focused on the odd behavior. His Sin’del bent toward it, prodding it in silence. When that didn’t work, he used his boot.
“That will not help,” Arielle said, keeping her voice devoid of emotion. “You should stop.”
Logan seemed surprised at her tone. His face, its perfect features held just so, surrounded by the flowing black hair, took her breath for a moment. She had forgotten just how beautiful he was. She couldn’t hide her reaction, and his leer showed that he did not miss the revelation. In return, his lust appeared blatant and hungry. He outstretched his arms to embrace her. Arielle took a step back, staying out of reach. She could see his irritation swell, and kept her distance.
“And why will that not help?” he said. His voice was thicker with condescension now.
