Palom

by L. L. McNeil

  Harnessing the power of dragons, though? That was clever.

  Sapora licked his lips again, trying to keep the smile off his face.

  Once Tacio finished the excavation, he’d have another of the world’s greatest powers in his claws—a Sevastos.

  Only Isa, Tacio, Vasil, Savra, and the few Varkain dealing with the excavation knew of his weapon, and he was keen to keep it that way. He expected some sort of revolt—a new regime was never going to be accepted by all, particularly when those at the top lost out—and he wanted to be as prepared as he could be for when they decided to strike.

  The idea of Val Sharis and Corhaven teaming up again and unleashing the full force of their Imperial army concerned him, but that threat was precisely why he’d planted his own ally in the Corhaven capital.

  Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard from Morgen in days. Sapora wondered what was going on in Niversai.

  Sapora strolled to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out across the city. Smoke rose from a street some way into the terraced rows of white and blue stone. The sunlight faded, and lit torches appeared periodically, dotted about the streets.

  He enjoyed surveying his kingdom, and never understood why his father chose to remain underground, in the gloomy depths of Sereth.

  He thought to Palom again, and what might have driven him from Taban Yul.

  He thought to Palom’s former business partner, Anahrik.

  He thought to Kohl and Amarah.

  Uncouth criminal.

  He thought to Eryn.

  He thought to Moroda.

  Her death had been unfortunate, but not unexpected. What was unexpected, was her actions halting the Arillian threat. He had been surprised and pleased that the nuisance Aciel had been sorted out. Especially because he thought he’d have had to reveal his trump card to get rid of him.

  Sapora turned his mind back to the issue at hand: Palom. ‘Well then, we’d best release Mateli and put him to use, hadn’t we? I’ve some bother with a large cat I need to be rid of. I’m sure he’ll be up to the job. Explain that I will return him to his former position in the Imperial Guard with full powers if he takes care of this task, plus an advance of five crowns for the effort.’

  ‘Five crowns?’ Tacio said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Surely he should do it for the reward of being released. Why waste gold on him?’

  Sapora ignored Tacio’s questions. ‘Will you see to it he understands the task?’

  Tacio rolled his eyes, huffing as he got up from his chair. ‘I’ll see to it, Sapora. Once I’ve had something to eat. I’m starving.’

  ‘You’ll see to it now.’ Sapora said, turning around to glare at his brother.

  The two stared at one another, the room tense.

  ‘All right, all right. No need to be so moody.’ Tacio said eventually, turning away.

  Sapora stood alone, staring at the mirror shard. He ran a claw across it and smiled to himself. At least now he could receive information immediately. Sending letters by ship or horse took far too long.

  ‘Treasure hunt going well? I’m guessing that’s why Tacio looks so upset?’

  Sapora glanced up to see Isa strolling across the room to him. He hadn’t heard her.

  ‘Palom’s been killing Varkain,’ he said.

  ‘That’s upsetting. I thought he left Taban Yul?’

  ‘He did.’

  She walked past him, her hand trailing on the table and papers scattered on it. ‘When I saw him last, he was…in a rage. Grief, mostly.’

  ‘He did not take Anahrik’s death well.’

  ‘No. He really ought to manage those emotions. The guy is the strongest Ittallan I know.’

  ‘I need your insight,’ Sapora said.

  Isa sat on the window sill and peered out. She wore common clothes; short sleeves despite the cool, with fur lined boots and her thickly braided hair tied back out of the way. Her golden eyes were the same as Tacio’s, though hers were much brighter. She looked as pure an Ittallan as Tacio looked a Varkain, whereas Sapora was something not quite either.

  He immediately resented his heritage.

  ‘What do you need to know?’ She picked at her nails with a short blade not unlike the one Sapora carried, and shared his disinterested, bored demeanour.

  ‘Mateli.’

  ‘The old hunter? What about him?’ She picked a glob of dirt out and flicked it out the window.

  Sapora smelt her fear permeate and narrowed his eyes as she feigned indifference. ‘Everything.’

  Isa looked at him, her face stoic, then slid off the windowsill and into the room. Putting the blade away, she paced.

  She seemed to pace when she thought, Sapora had noticed. Always moving, always touching, always thinking. He’d grown used to it, though it irked him somewhat.

  He felt most in control when keeping completely still.

  He watched her as she paced, his full attention on her words, tone, and body language. He did trust her—for the most part—but was always sure to detect the first signs of untruthfulness. They shared blood. It was always possible she might act for her own gain.

  ‘He’s been locked up…hmm…must be seven years now. He’s a crocodile, the only one I’ve ever known about. Never knew where he came from. He tried to run a separate branch of Guard who worked just for him. They did a lot of stuff, took over some of the scummy districts in the city. Killed people to keep others in line. A lot of people. But the Council put a stop to that after a while.’ Isa shuddered. She folded her arms as she walked back and forth across the room. ‘He’d been a captain in the Imperial Guard. He scared a lot of the peacocks and fodder away though—one of them claimed he ate his cousin. That’s when the Council had to step in and do something.’

  ‘Mateli ate him?’ Sapora leaned forward.

  Her heart rate increased, not quite covered by her constant pacing. She spoke rapidly, spurting out facts to cover her obvious unease.

  ‘There was never any proof, but…I think he did it. Sapora, he’s something else. The Council were scared of him too. Everyone was. I don’t know why they kept him around when he terrorised the city every day.’ Isa ran her hands through her hair and licked her lips. ‘I suppose because he was good at his job? Crime rates were the lowest in Taban Yul they’d ever been. So, the Council put him in charge of training up apprentices for the Guard. Something softer, y’know? But he ended up putting six of them in coffins, ten more in the infirmary in the first week. He liked to break them. You could see it. He’s filled a lot of the mausoleums in the city. Hah, thinking about it, he’s more a Varkain than—’

  ‘Than…?’

  Isa sniffed. ‘Tacio?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Sapora replied, watching her closely. He smelled the drop of sweat on her brow, though he couldn’t see it.

  He mulled it over.

  She gave him the information he wanted, but she was clearly uncomfortable about it.

  Mateli sounded like just what was needed, and he was known to other Ittallan. He would be perfect for the message he needed to send.

  ‘I’ve got Tacio having a word with him.’ Sapora said at length.

  ‘About?’

  ‘Our old friend, Palom. He’s been sighted near Feoras Sol.’

  ‘Isn’t that his hometown?’ Isa said, as she stopped pacing.

  She couldn’t hide her shock, then. ‘So it seems. But he killed two of my Varkain. Butchered them, from the report. I thought Mateli could correct that.’

  Isa nodded, flicked her hair, and resumed pacing. The silence lasted several minutes as she chewed her lip.

  ‘You don’t agree?’ Sapora asked, when it became clear she was not going to say anything.

  She shrugged. ‘Mateli scares me. The way he moves, thinks…Everything.’

  ‘You are my sister. He owes his freedom to me. I doubt your fears are founded.’

  ‘This is Mateli. How did you even find out about him? I thought the Council tried to quash all talk of him after everything
he was accused of...after everything he’d done. Most of the city districts haven’t fully recovered yet.’ Her pacing sped up.

  Sapora shrugged. ‘The Council gave me a lot of information as I got rid of them—one had the audacity to suggest I wasn’t half as much of a threat as Mateli. I was intrigued, so I had Tacio scour the dungeons himself.’

  ‘It’s a bad idea.’ Isa walked past him to the window. She clambered up onto the sill, the wind rocking her where she crouched. ‘You should leave Mateli alone. This is more than what you said you’d be doing. What you promised.’

  ‘Watch your words, Isa.’ Sapora replied, bristling.

  She looked back at him, all smiles gone. ‘You’re going to release him whatever I say, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  She looked like she wanted to say more but shook her head and bit her thumbnail. ‘Good luck with Mateli. You’re going to need it.’

  She turned back to the window and leapt out of the tower.

  Chapter Eight

  Palom’s plan to patrol the road looking for unruly Varkain had sounded fine in his head, but when it came to acting on it, the few Ittallan who lived and worked at the Waterside Inn and beyond had swamped him to the point he’d retreated to his room for the entirety of the afternoon.

  His experiences with Jek and the Varkain, Lathri and her allies, and even the comrades he’d travelled with in autumn rolled around in his mind like a violent storm. What did it all mean?

  What was the point of power if you had nothing to protect?

  He wondered whether those in Feoras Sol knew there were Varkain digging around right under their noses? If he figured out what they were after, would that put him in their good graces? Would it be enough for them to forgive him?

  As the sun set, anxiety his stress levels rose. Being cooped up inside had never been enjoyable, and the itch to get outside grew too strong to ignore. His meraki rumbled within, and Palom realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d transformed—he’d grown so dependent on the Valta Forinja.

  Against his better judgement, he left his belongings in the room, including the sword—which he hid under the mattress of his bed—and left the room.

  His room—the largest in the inn, of course—sat behind the open dining room, where patrons milled around as they tucked into their supper.

  When he stepped into the room, a dozen faces turned towards him. He’d never get used to it.

  Palom nodded to the young captain of the guard stationed at the inn and hurried out the front door before anyone could jump to their feet to stop him.

  Within the first few steps, he felt lighter, freer. He quickened his pace to a jog and followed the river that flowed beside the inn and gave it its name. Settling into the rhythm of the jog, Palom let his mind empty.

  He’d been too pent up. Had too many dark thoughts.

  Palom veered away from the river and made his way deeper into the trees. He recognised patches of forest and landmarks from his childhood and smiled at the memory of simpler, happier times.

  Dusk lengthened the shadows around him, and a haunting breath filled the air as day gave way to night.

  It was the time of day Palom most cherished.

  He was back in the place he had grown up, the woods and caves he had explored with his brother and friends as a child: the place where he had truly found himself.

  He loved the wildness of the place. The raw scent of the earth from where his kin had mined, the free-flowing, rushing waters of the river which fed and nourished the land, the warmth of distant fires and those who huddled around them.

  Palom longed for it—to be sat by the fireside with his family and friends. But he couldn’t face it.

  Not after what he’d done.

  Not after twenty years of running.

  The last words he’d spoken to his father were when he’d left Feoras Sol: “I am leaving. Goodbye.”

  Before he’d forged the Valta Forinja.

  Thoughts of his brother dying in the accident flooded his mind; his screams from where the weight of the rocks crushed his bones, his breathing failing as he slowly suffocated in the depths of the mine.

  Palom had been powerless to help—everything had happened so quickly. One moment he was heaving at a large rock lodged in the mine wall, desperate to reach the ore behind it, the next, the earth growled back at him, the entire shaft shook, and then the walls and roof caved in.

  Palom survived without breaking a bone, though he’d been badly bruised.

  Thankfully, he and his brother had been the only ones working that day—it should have been a day of rest near the end of the harvest, but the two had a quota, and knew between them it wouldn’t take long to complete.

  His brother had tried to transform to escape, but his broken bones and pain would not allow his meraki to be used. He had called out incoherently, a cry of distress and anguish.

  Palom knew he should have left to get help, but he could not leave his brother to die alone: in emonos was unclean.

  Cruel.

  Only traitors died that way, and Palom couldn’t allow that to happen to his brother.

  And, of course, he’d been too afraid to leave.

  Lathri’s face flashed in his mind, lingering on the edge of the memory. ‘You can’t even say your brother’s name, can you?’

  He was young then. Too young, at sixteen. He still had two years before he’d be able to harness his own meraki.

  His brother, three years his elder, had a new born daughter. He had a family to look after. Palom had taken her father from them because he was too afraid, too weak, to do anything other than sit and panic and cry, hoping someone heard and came.

  All the while his brother slowly slipped away.

  Palom had been able to move some of the smaller rocks, but he couldn’t move the sheer mass of debris by himself. He dug as close to his brother as he could, held his bloody hand for comfort, stayed with him in that dark tunnel, worried at any moment the rest of the ceiling would give way and bury them both.

  He had wished many times that the rocks would have come down harder, and his brother died quickly?

  But Rhea had not been kind.

  His brother suffered for two and a half gruelling hours before succumbing to suffocation or exhaustion. Every moment that passed, Palom had wanted to leave, to get help, to get someone who knew what to do, who could save him.

  But he was too afraid.

  What if he died?

  What if he couldn’t remember the way back?

  What if the roof collapsed even more, and they couldn’t reach him?

  But the tunnel held.

  He knew the way back.

  And his brother died.

  Palom could do nothing to ease his suffering or release him from his tomb. Towards the end, when he could barely breathe, Palom couldn’t even hear his last words.

  A final sting for what he’d failed to do, and the catalyst for his decision to leave Feoras Sol and go to the capital.

  Unable to think clearly with memories and guilt bombarding him, Palom tapped into his meraki and shifted, the transformation giving him strength and power.

  In his true form, worries drifted away as his world shrank to what he could sense and taste, and his sadness dulled. It brought him a measure of relief from the self-inflicted torture for his past actions and consequences of his inactions.

  As he strolled through the trees in his true form, the growing darkness creeping up around him, he breathed in deeply, taking in scents from near and far. He could hear the breath of the creatures around him, huddled together in their burrows as they sheltered from the tiger’s path.

  Palom made his way towards where the stream broadened, and the trees thinned. Bright moonlight lit the river bank, painting the grass and water silver, turning the once familiar landscape into another world.

  Crickets sang from the thicker grass, but otherwise the world was still, holding its breath, waiting for the hunter to pass. Palom stopped
as the river flowed across his path, tail twitching as he watched the timeless water flow.

  He heard laughter some way in the distance. The sounds from Feoras Sol carried loud and clear along the water, and he sat down, listening to the noise of his village.

  His senses were not so keen as he could pick out individuals, but he could detect a mix of low, deep voices, and the high-pitched, shrill giggles of children. He heard feet pounding on stone as they raced around, the heaving of solid oak doors being pulled shut. He turned his head slightly to the wind, picking up on the scents of a hundred people, covered in salt, coal, and dirt.

  The wind blew again, from the north-west now, bringing even more of a chill with it. He opened his eyes and looked across the water. Already Val Sharis had experienced snow, but there was more to come. He wondered where he’d be when that happened.

  He sat by the water’s edge for a long time. Night took hold of the land while he sat, and the laughter and chatter from Sol died down until it felt as though all of Linaria was asleep.

  He had been debating heading back, when the noise of approaching footsteps put him on high alert.

  Each step was direct, and confident; not the footsteps of someone wary of a tiger nearby.

  He got to his feet and looked along the river, waiting, straining to listen.

  Four steps.

  Pause.

  Four steps.

  Another Ittallan, on patrol?

  He wished he’d paid more attention, wished he had his Valta Forinja with him.

  The clouds broke overhead, and Palom saw a shadowed figure step out of the tree line and approach the river maybe twenty paces away. In the clear moonlight, he saw another hunter Ittallan: another large cat.

  Did he know this one?

  The smell was as familiar to him as everything else: it was his old home.

  Could it be a relative?

  A family friend?

  The other looked up, spotting him. She froze, tail lashing. She was a snow leopard, her grey-blue fur camouflaged in the silver moonlight.

  She pulled her lips back to bare large canines at him.

  Palom took a step back but held his ground. He heard her growl, sensed her unease, but did nothing to aggravate it as he studied her features. She did not have his bulk, though her tail was as long as her body, and she stood at twelve feet nose to tip.