-Blood-Flesh-and-Spirit

by Hyacinth-Scarlet

  “So why did you risk coming here then?” Eli asked.

  “It was the Imperator’s request that I come to grant you assistance,” Shurien answered. “You might not be aware of this, but the avians once reached an agreement with the bloodkin.”

  “I know about the truce between our species,” Dante offered. “It was a long time ago, shortly after the fall of the first dome.”

  Shurien nodded. “Indeed. Unfortunately, at that time, there were a great deal of avian rebels who hated the thought of such cooperation. A particularly aggressive group was behind the murder of Ferdinand and Abigail Bloodmoor, which eventually led to their son, Cole Bloodmoor’s exile. This is why I opened my home to him and his mate when they needed the help.”

  “But the avians are the bloodkin’s enemies now,” Dante said. “The truce didn’t hold.”

  “My people were misguided,” Shurien replied. “The rebels continued to attack, until your father dissolved our tentative agreement. Shortly after that, I was born, but by the time I became Seer, it was too late to mend what the hostility and the hatred had broken.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Eli asked. “To make amends? To fix the truce?”

  “I’m here to give you a choice,” the avian answered. “The agreement between the Imperator and I is part of it, but not the whole story. Now, come closer and see.”

  Eli wanted to know and hear more, to understand this peculiar development. He had a feeling Shurien could provide those answers. Together with his mate, he approached Shurien.

  Under Eli’s astonished gaze, the odd feathers began to shine, flaring around Shurien’s body. Distinct images started to form in those mirrors, hovering in front of them, dancing like ghostly silhouettes. Eli instantly recognized Aran, standing alone in the room they’d just left. The picture changed, showing the Imperator trapped in a jail cell. Valerian seemed to be trying to get him out, furtively inserting a key in the lock.

  Relief swamped Eli at the realization that they had some sort of ally in the palace. It was short-lived, however, as another picture floated within their view, one of Aran lying on the floor, unconscious and apparently dying.

  “Is this some sort of game?” Dante asked, his voice trembling with rage and agony. “What are you trying to tell us?”

  “I am sharing my gift with you, like I did once before with your friends,” Shurien explained calmly. “From this point on, there are various possible futures for you and for the Imperator. I will not lie. It is, of course, in my interest for your father to survive, so in that respect, I believe we share a common goal.”

  “If this is the future, what can I possibly do to help?” Dante inquired. He freed himself from Eli’s grip, straightening his back and glowering at Shurien. “Do you mean to taunt me with my own helplessness?”

  “There is no such thing as a definite future,” Shurien replied, “only a number of possible ones, all affected by choices of individuals. I try to guide my people in the right direction, and I want to do the same thing for you. But in the end, it has to be your decision.”

  “And what other choice do we have?” Eli scowled at the avian. “We have to help Aran. It’s not like we can just let him die.”

  “I’ll just ask you outright,” Dante said. “What must I do to keep my father and my mate safe? And please don’t give me any cryptic replies. I want to know the truth.”

  “No, what you want is for me to tell you to go back,” Shurien said. “You’re burning with guilt and the desire to wash it away. But if you do that, if you rush into things now, then your fate, and that of your father, will change.”

  “Change?” Dante repeated. “In what way?”

  Shurien smiled mysteriously. “In many ways, more than even your father imagines. Again, I will be honest. You walk a risky path, and anything can go wrong.”

  Dante groaned. “Let me guess. Your advice is to have faith.”

  “Yes and no. Faith can only get you so far. In the end, we make our own destinies. And if we’re lucky, we have help.”

  Suddenly, Eli felt a few familiar presences behind him. As he turned, he gasped in delight and shock. “Hello, Eli,” Kier said softly. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  They were all here, Kier, the two Bloodmoor brothers, and even the human, Marlais Hayden. “Why?” Eli couldn’t help but ask.

  “Come now, Eli,” Vane said. “You and Dante helped us. Did you really think we’d abandon you in your time of need?”

  Cole crossed his arms over his chest. “Apparently,” he drawled, answering in Eli’s stead. “But don’t flatter yourself. We just want to make sure the Imperator is safe. We were, after all, promised Kin Lord positions.”

  Kier shook his head, obviously accustomed to his mate’s antics. He didn’t comment on Cole’s words, having apparently expected the lingering tension. Instead, he reached for an item that had been strapped to his back and handed it to Eli. “Here. I made this for you since I figured you might have left yours in Manturanael.”

  Automatically, Eli took Kier’s gift. It was a bow, crafted in a traditionally elven style. Of course, it wasn’t as ornate or richly adorned as Eli’s previous one which had been handed to Eli by his father, Sorr. That particular weapon had been taken from him when he’d been exiled. For that reason, and many others, this gift meant a lot to Eli. As he caressed the curve of the bow, he smiled at his friend. “Thank you, Kier. It’s beautiful.”

  Dante’s hand landed on Eli’s shoulder, just as Cole’s arm wrapped around Kier’s waist, pulling the night elf closer and away from Eli. Eli couldn’t help it. He met his friend’s gaze and burst into laughter. “It seems, my friend, that we’re both in quite a predicament.”

  Kier grinned back and leaned into Cole’s embrace. “But we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  As if to follow his brother’s example, Vane hugged Marlais as well. The human grinned slightly, then said, “Well now that our respective mates have finished showing off their possessiveness, how do we do this thing?”

  Shurien smiled slightly. “In that regard, my friends, I can help you.”

  * * * * In the temple room, Aran waited as the sounds of battle outside finally grew dimmer. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy for the treacherous priest to control the crowd outside. In fact, there were good chances that the man wouldn’t manage at all and would die trying. He had honestly considered tearing the guy apart, but he had decided against it, half because he didn’t want to shed blood in Mother Earth’s temple, especially after She had given back his son. He’d also been reluctant to kill like that in front of Eli and Dante.

  However, he was a firm believer in using even the most unfortunate of circumstances, and he knew his people well. As such, he’d taken advantage of the man’s presence to stall for a little while so that he could give his son time to escape.

  He had anticipated this. Thomson had warned him something was brewing, although not even the astute wraith had managed to figure out exactly who was behind it. Antemia had been very careful, but that didn’t surprise him since her son had always been an excellent tactician.

  It was sad, and a little ironic that the story had to repeat itself. Of course, Aran had no intentions to get killed like his father had been, but the basics of the two situations were the same. But what his son didn’t know was that Aran had made preparations for this. In the past weeks, he’d been actively working on adding a provision to the bloodkin law of primogeniture. If he died, Dante would be the next Imperator, and all of Gideon’s efforts would be for naught.

  Bored, Aran went to the platform that still held the now-open crystal casket. He swept his hand over the smooth surface, smiling. In spite of what was happening outside, he felt at peace. The guilt that wouldn’t let him breathe was finally starting to let up. He would never fully forgive himself for what he’d done to Dante, but now that his son was back, he could safely say that Mother Earth had, at the very least, granted him her pardon.

  At last, the doors burst
open, and Antemia stalked inside, followed by a group of soldiers and the cowering priest. As he stole a look outside, Aran noticed that most of his guards were out for the count, but not dead. Satisfactory. The priest had reached Antemia before too much damage had been done.

  Keeping his face blank, Aran glanced at his foe. Antemia had always been a very gorgeous woman, and that hadn’t changed in the slightest with the passage of time. She still boasted the same stern, classic beauty that had drawn Aran to her in the first place. In a way, she was the epitome of the bloodkin female, which in those times, Aran had seen as a quality. He wished now he’d handled the situation with more care since, as it turned out, mothers had quite an influence on their children. Who knew?

  “Hello, my dear,” he said pleasantly. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while. What brings you here?”

  Antemia’s elegant brow twitched. “Come now, Imperator. Let’s not play these games. We know each other too well for that.”

  Aran laughed. “Oh, but I do remember playing a lot of games with you. Have you forgotten?”

  “Not at all,” she answered without missing a beat. “Sadly, those times are long gone now, and you have other playmates.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Aran smirked. It was probably not a good idea to antagonize her, but he couldn’t help it. Besides, holding onto the conversation would give Dante a little more time to get further away from the palace and keep Antemia’s attention on Aran. “I always knew you loved me.”

  For a few moments, Antemia’s eyes flashed with rage, the pure hatred of a scorned bloodkin woman. It was gone in instants. “I thought you said you’d come quietly. Surrender to the inevitable. There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

  Aran groaned. “Must you be an absolute cliché? At the very least, come up with something more original to say. And I’ve kept my word. I’m not fighting you in any way.”

  As he spoke, the soldiers with Antemia started surrounding Aran. If he’d wanted to, he could have killed a fair number of them, but he held back, waiting to see what she would do.

  Antemia tilted her head inquiringly. “Is your offspring truly so important to you that you’d sacrifice your life and throne?” When Aran didn’t grace that question with an answer, she sneered. “Pathetic. You don’t deserve to be called Imperator.”

  “Perhaps.” Aran smiled. “But your son has a lot of work to do before he can even try to take my place.”

  Something shifted in her manner, a strange emotion briefly crossing her face. No one else would have noticed it, but Aran knew Antemia well. He saw a dose of apprehension and…satisfaction?

  Making a mental note of that reaction, Aran sarcastically inquired, “So what’s the plan now, my dear? Do you mean to murder me? You might be disappointed if you try.”

  “Disappointed,” she repeated in disbelief. “And why would that be?” Her eyes widened as realization dawned. “Oh, Mother Earth. What did you do?”

  Aran burst into laughter. “Why don’t you look into it, my dear, and get back to me? Perhaps we can repeat this process once we’re more prepared.”

  This time, Antemia didn’t even try to hide her anger. “We’ll see about that, Aran. What are you doing, you fools? Take him to the prisons.”

  Even as the guards led him out of the room, Aran was still chuckling. In truth, he could have fought them back and escaped. They couldn’t have resisted his magic. However, he’d set into motion some events that couldn’t be stopped. For the moment, he knew that by now, his son should be safe. The passageway they’d used was known only to the Imperator and the high priest, and Antemia couldn’t possibly find it, not without forcing the knowledge out of Aran. Given that she’d sent him to the dungeons, she didn’t seem to realize any of that.

  Oh, yes, this was going exactly as he had planned. With some luck, he’d weed out the traitors in his home and start anew. It might be painful and risky, but Aran could do it. He would do it, for everyone who had shown loyalty to him. There was too much at stake for him to hesitate.

  Chapter Seven

  Aran sat on the hard floor, looking at the ceiling without really seeing it. He had to admit he felt a little irritated. He hadn’t expected his plan to go quickly, but he wasn’t used to inactivity. It annoyed him, like a niggling fly that simply wouldn’t go away.

  Of course, the fact that no one had come to see him could be considered a good thing. It meant that his foes hadn’t found out about his plan to enlist the avians to his assistance in exchange for a truce. Likely, they were still trying to figure out how to go around the legal provisions Aran had made. He snickered under his breath. There was no way they could change it. He’d been studying the old laws for years. Yes, his original intention had been an entirely different one, but the knowledge served him well now.

  Either way, he expected Thomson to keep an eye on things and bail him out if push came to shove. So far, the wraith had managed to come to him once, confirming that Dante had, indeed, escaped, and that Antemia had taken over the palace. At that time, news of the coup had not leaked to the population, although Thomson had noted the conspicuous silence on the part of both princes.

  Aran wondered how much longer they were going to keep him here. A good couple of hours must have passed since his capture. Did they plan to bore him to death or what? Well, if he wanted to be honest, his extended stay in this place did present a slight inconvenience. Normally, Aran could live for weeks without feeding, but he’d given a large quantity of blood to his son, so he was hungry. Unfortunately, as a wraith, Thomson couldn’t provide the muchneeded blood, and so, Aran had no choice but to rely on his own inner strength to circumvent this inconvenience.

  Probably, his foes were aware of his need. The treacherous priest had been there when Dante had drunk Aran’s blood. Nevertheless, Aran wouldn’t let a little thing like that get to him. He had too much willpower for that. Distantly, he asked himself when that blasted whore would realize it and send someone to interrogate him.

  As if in response to his mental dilemma, the sound of an open door rang out somewhere outside. Aran frowned as he heard silent, rushed footsteps approach. He recognized them, and he had to admit that the identity of his visitor surprised him. Under such circumstances, Aran didn’t like to be surprised.

  A few moments passed, and then his middle son appeared at the door. He carried the keys to the cell and threw a harried look toward Aran. “Hurry, Father. We must get you out of here before they hurt you.”

  Aran got up and brushed his once elegant outfit of dust. “What are you doing here, Valerian?” he asked with a frown. “It’s far too risky for you. How did you even bypass the guards?”

  Valerian smiled slightly. “I’m more resourceful than you think, Father. But I can only do so much.” He inserted the key in the lock, and the door opened noiselessly. “Follow me. I can get you out.”

  Aran examined his son’s face, suppressing a scowl. He was no fool, and he didn’t believe in random shows of affection or loyalty. He had seen through it when Dante had attempted to kill him—an unfortunate event which had nevertheless reminded him of his priorities and goals. With Valerian, though, this offer for help instantly triggered a realization.

  Deciding to pretend for now, Aran nodded. “Have you heard from your brother?” he asked as he followed Valerian out of the cell.

  Valerian shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to Gideon since the day before yesterday. I believe he must be planning something with Antemia, but I don’t know what.”

  At that, Aran grabbed Valerian’s arm and pulled him back into the cell. “Do you think I am a fool, child?” he asked. “Do you think me so weak so as not to see your deception because you are my son? What did Antemia say to you? What made you think that you could get away with this?”

  Valerian paled visibly. “F–Father, no,” he stammered. “I would never do such a thing. I would never go against you. You must believe me.”

  “I mustn’t do anything,” Aran shot ba
ck. “I am the Imperator. I decide what I can and cannot do.”

  His power flowed through him, and he sent Valerian flying to the other side of the room. Valerian hit the wall with a grunt, and Aran made his way toward him. He lifted his son in the air, squeezing the younger bloodkin’s windpipe as anger burned through him. He was so tired of being lied to, so tired of deception. He and Dante finally understood each other in that regard. Why couldn’t his other sons do the same? And how in the world had Valerian gotten involved with Antemia?

  In truth, it wasn’t hard to figure out what scheme Valerian had come up with. Due to Antemia’s connection with Gideon, any action she took would automatically reflect upon her son. If Antemia killed Aran, according to the old laws, the throne would have gone to Valerian, as Gideon would have been blamed as well. So perhaps it hadn’t been Antemia who had planned the whole thing. In the end, she was the face of the plot, the person who would undoubtedly suffer the consequences of killing an Imperator. Valerian, on the other hand, would reap all the benefits without having to lift a finger. Aran actually felt proud of him.

  “You know what, ignore that last question,” he said. “I think I’d better ask how you managed to convince her to go through with such a foolish ploy.”

  Still, Valerian wouldn’t relent. “I told you, Father. It’s not me. I only intended to help.”

  Aran would have very much liked to believe him, but over seventy years as an Imperator had taught him lessons he would never forget.

  “I see,” he replied blandly. Even as he spoke, he buried his claws in his son’s flesh. “I suppose you must think you’re very clever. After all, who would doubt you?”

  Valerian started to make choking noises, but Aran was too far gone at this point to care. The scent of Valerian’s blood beckoned him closer, urging him to take what he needed. The answers and the power were right there, within his reach. Why shouldn’t he take it?