“The leaf,” Tun said flatly. “What are you talking about?”
“The one inked onto your arm,” Aren said, pointing with his free hand. There was a curling line there, peeking from under the edge of the loose sleeve. “I don’t think you really understand the meaning behind it.”
Tun stared at him, then slid his sleeve up. Aren flinched. There was the petiole, curling and winding this way and that; then the blade, slender and shadowed, laced with veins. Aren was surprised that he had been right, and he gazed at it, mesmerized and haunted by the image of it.
He still had no idea what kind of plant it came from.
Aren was in such a daze, he didn’t see it coming and barely managed to dodge the flask of oil that Tun threw at him. It crashed into a display, spilling oil everywhere. The glass hit a candelabra and the oil caught fire.
“Still feel like playing?” Tun yelled, throwing the second flask. This time, Aren struck it away with the staff, but the splattered oil only added to the fire, causing bursts of flames to erupt around him.
Aren pushed over the displays, letting candles and boxes fall to the floor. He needed room; he needed a barrier from the fire. Stars, he hoped he wasn’t going to die here. If he did, Dane would be really pissed off.
Tun grabbed the smaller vials that lined the wall behind the counter, throwing them without even bothering to look. Aren was able to dodge a few and deflect several others with the staff; a handful connected with his blocking arm, and he winced at the pain.
The growing fire now blocked the way out. Aren changed directions, moving towards the doorway that led to the living area. He needed to find another exit fast. There was a crashing noise behind him, and he heard Tun’s large frame push through overturned tables. There was a roar of pain, and Aren looked back to see him trying to put out the fire that had caught on his pants. Aren pulled down more boxes and cases before crossing into the living quarters.
He found himself in a dark, narrow hallway that continued to his left and right. Just ahead was a staircase. He was sure the only way out the second floor was going to be through a window, and he didn’t have a good feeling about how that landing would turn out.
“Give me the staff!” Tun yelled, throwing a box of glass tealight holders. It hit the back of Aren’s head with a resounding thud, and he was propelled into the staircase railing, falling head first into it. He pushed himself up with a grunt and ran his tongue over the new cut on his lip, tasting the blood in his mouth. He was getting really tired of that flavor.
Aren passed what he guessed was a coat closet and ignored it, focusing on the doors to two different rooms at the end of the hall. He opened the first and found a washroom. With a curse, he closed it and tried the next. It looked to be a parlor. He entered, closed the door, then began to move the furniture to block it. It might stop Tun for a minute or two. From the hallway, Tun bellowed like a gree in labor.
Aren scanned the room. There was a large stone fireplace against one wall with bookshelves crammed with odds and ends on either side. The wall to the right revealed the only other door in the room. He stumbled past the love seat, hoping that this door didn’t open into a closet. He pushed down on the handle, but it didn’t budge. There was a banging on the other door, and he turned to see the armchair, ottoman, and console table rattling.
“Tiede Vir is a dead man!” Tun bellowed from the hallway. “But I’m going to kill you first!”
Aren wanted to respond but bit his tongue. This wasn’t the time for witty repartee. Tun began to throw himself at the door.
Aren twirled the staff in the same manner he’d learned to use the staff-like clai’bo weapon, but it was slick with oil and he ended up dropping it. He cursed, picked it up, then swung it over his head and brought it crashing down on the door handle. Tun shrieked, then slammed himself even harder against the blockade.
Aren wiggled the door latch; it wasn’t as strong as the hardware in the House. He wiped the staff against his shirt, raised it again, then brought it down harder. The handle came off, and he fumbled with the locking mechanism. He pushed the door open and closed it behind him when his nose was assaulted by the stench of waste, blood, smoke, and bile. He fought the urge to leave, and he clasped his free hand against his nose and mouth to keep from throwing up.
The room was lit by dying candles, dozens of them filling up the spaces on shelves, set up in random clusters on the floor. In the middle of the room, spread out on the charcoal-gray carpet, was Wethern Duv, his eye sockets empty, his face bloody and beaten. His limbs were broken, arranged at odd angles from his body, and where his feet should’ve been there were bloody, bandaged stumps. The strange leaf symbol had been carved onto his torso, a violent red against the pale gray of his skin. Aren stared in horror.
“Wethern…” Aren felt the name leave his lips, but he couldn’t quite link the word with the thing laid out before him.
“Who?” Wethern’s voice was so weak, Aren thought he had imagined the sound.
“You’re alive?” Aren was so overcome with surprise that despite his initial repulsion, he knelt beside the man’s body. “Stars, how are you alive?”
“Aren?”
“I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Just kill me,” his lips barely moved.
There was a crash on the other side of the door, and he knew that Tun had made it through. Aren bolted towards the door and jammed the bottom of the staff into the space between door and floor. Then, he glanced around the room to look for something to block it, but found nothing.
He peered through the hole where the door handle used to be and saw Tun massaging his shoulder, bent over in pain. Then, Tun picked up a poker from the fireplace.
Aren cursed under his breath. “Think, think, think!” he growled, taking inventory of his surroundings: staff, candles, and a near-dead man. Wonderful.
The heavy iron poker thumped against the door three times, then Tun said, “Congratulations, boy. You’ve found my Goat. Now open the door so I can smash your head in.”
“That sounds appealing,” Aren called back. “Let me think on it.”
Tun kicked the door and Aren gripped the staff hard, determined to come up with a way to get himself and Wethern out of this alive. There was a splintering sound as the door was kicked again. It wasn’t going to hold.
“You’re only making me mad! Open the—”
A deep booming noise interrupted him. They were silent for a moment, then the building rumbled.
Aren looked up at the ceiling. “The second floor is going to collapse,” he said. “We’re all going to die here!” There was another rumbling boom as the fire hit the storeroom. The building creaked, and there was a thunderous crash in the direction of the storefront.
“I’m not leaving without tearing your limbs apart!” Tun kicked the door again, and this time it buckled in its frame.
Aren lost his leverage and stumbled backwards as Tun came through and swung the poker at him. Aren fell to the floor, extinguishing a few candles with his body, but managed to bring the staff up with both hands to block the blow. Tun swung again, and Aren held the block, managing to pull his knee in and send his boot into Tun’s groin. Tun clutched at himself, and Aren swung the staff around fast, aiming for his knees. Tun dropped a little, still holding his groin, and Aren’s attack ended up connecting with the side of Tun’s massive thigh. Tun roared in pain, but he made a grab at the staff, managing to hold onto it with one meaty hand.
Aren gripped the staff, knowing that it was the only weapon he had. He wrestled for it, pulling and twisting, but Tun’s hand seemed to meld with it, despite its slickness, as if it were an extension of himself. Aren watched in frustration as Tun’s shoulders began to glow under the fabric of his shirt. The symbols on the staff began to pulse its red light.
“I’m going to kill you for killing my brother,” Tun growled. “How dare you keep his staff as a trophy!”
Aren was incredulous. “That was your brother? I didn�
�t kill him; a unicorn did!” Why did everything that came out of his mouth sound ridiculous?
There was an explosion, and for a second Aren thought Tun had blasted him full of magic, but it was the sound of the second floor as it continued to collapse. The noise made Tun falter, and the crimson lights receded.
“Help,” Aren breathed, and in his mind flashed images of the House, the city glowing at night, the sea in the morning light, Lake, his family, Selina. “Help…”
Tun’s magic recovered and the staff began to pulse again. Aren could feel the power of it vibrating under his fingertips. This is it, he thought.
Tun grinned.
Consequences
ONE
Eight Hunters and Gryf had tracked and fought the monster on the main road outside of the industrial district, and by the time it disappeared in a trail of smoke, six Hunters had been seriously injured. They returned to the House to regroup and tend to their wounds. They had worn the monster down, learned how it moved, how it could summon a sword out of thin air and generate a shield around itself. Now, they had to prepare to defend the House. The monster was going to recharge its magic, and when it did, it would likely go after Vir.
Gryf’s twin swords had been scattered across the gravel road, and he picked them up, looking them over in the biolight. Once this fiasco was over, he’d spend a whole day cleaning his weapons. Then, he’d find time to get to the House and force Aren to do more sparring. He had forgotten how predictable Aren was in a fight, and how much chaos his little brother seemed to attract.
Gryf shook his head, recalling the brief conversation he had had with Hunter Illana as they converged on the monster’s location. She had run into Aren before the hunt, and Aren was rambling on about Lady Illithe, the gods, and oil. Illana said Aren ran from the House as if he were being chased by demons. Gryf hoped that Dane was with him.
A sound like thunder caused Gryf to flinch, and he felt his skin prickle. He frowned, his eyes scanning the area and finding nothing. He looked up and noted a few ghost-like clouds. No rains. Then, the sky towards the west, in the direction of Crescent Park, began to glow orange, and black smoke rose like wraiths escaping the confines of Aum.
“Fire,” Gryf heard himself say. Then, a sensation like ice water ran down his spine. “Aren.”
He ran towards the nearest stables, borrowed a gree, then took off towards the western districts. When he arrived at the scene, a fire had consumed an entire storefront, the oil shop, and he couldn’t see any way in. People were gathering in the streets, panicking, staring, doing nothing useful.
Gryf pointed to the man closest to him. “Get Fire-Control and Regulators. Have them block off this area.” Then, he pointed to another bystander. “Get on a lark or find a messenger. Get word to the House to have the doctor standing by. The Historian’s Apprentice might need medical attention.”
Another citizen, who had snapped out of the trance of the fire, began to knock on nearby doors, telling people to evacuate. Satisfied, Gryf ran west towards the first alley, then turned and headed towards the back end of the block of buildings. He found the door that corresponded to the shop, jumped over the low wall, then kicked in the door. The kitchen was full of smoke, and he crouched low, allowing his eyes to adjust to the hazy lighting. “Aren!” he called out.
He headed into the hallway, where the smoke was thicker. He began to cough, then peeled off his black body armor, holding it over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered, but he took a step forward. There was an explosion and he ducked. The heat was intense and sweat poured down his face. The storefront was just to his left, and tongues of flames lashed out into the hall. There was a staircase to his right, but if Aren had gone up there…
Gryf stood frozen for a moment, thinking. The safest place, aside from the kitchen, was the other end of the hall, and he prayed to the Fire god to spare his brother’s life. As if in response to his prayers, Gryf heard the sounds of a struggle, metal against wood, yelling. He rushed down the hall, past the open doors of a coat closet and washroom, and into a parlor. The door was cracked in places, and furniture had been moved and kicked. Aren was here.
The smoke was getting worse, so he had to act fast. He noticed the second door, awkward in its frame, its handle missing. He ran towards the room and saw the burn of red light through the smoky haze. He wiped a hand across his face to focus on the figures on the floor: one prone, its limbs not quite right, too short to be Aren. Two more, struggling over a glowing staff.
A man with a large head held the staff in one hand, his shoulders alight with the silver telltale signs of the magic wielder. He was charged and ready to loose a stream of magic right at Aren, who was gripping the staff with a twisted determination.
Let go, Aren! Gryf thought. Damn it, let go and find cover!
Gryf dropped his makeshift mask and unsheathed his swords, ready to rid the mage of his whopping skull problem. They hadn’t seen him come in, and he lifted his blades for the strike.
“Meina Tiede gala gin mei!” Aren roared, his eyes seeming to look off into another world.
Gryf dropped to his knee as his arm shielded his eyes from the strange green light that filled the room, throwing the large man back several feet. Aren stood up, unaffected by the blast and looking possessed. He held the staff out with one hand, and the red light receded, replaced with a soft green glow.
“Keip tei ga jei,” Aren growled, taking slow, confident steps towards the mage.
The mage was shaking his head, and Gryf didn’t know if it was because of the hit he had taken or because he didn’t know who Aren was anymore. Gryf wasn’t quite sure who Aren was right now, and that sent all sorts of warning messages through his brain.
“Aren!” Gryf called out. “Aren, it’s me, Gryf!”
Aren stopped, then turned towards him. Gryf stood up, holding his swords out in front of him as if in surrender. The clouds seemed to disappear from Aren’s eyes, and he said, “Gryf? What’re you—?”
Gryf sheathed one of his swords as he eyed the mage, who was getting to his feet. Gryf had had enough of magic. He strode towards the mage, slammed him against the wall, and pressed a blade to his throat. “My brother’s enemy is my own,” he growled, the sword’s edge causing a fine line of bright red to blossom at the mage’s neck. Gods, he wanted to kill him for what he had done to Aren.
“He’s been poisoning Lord Vir,” Aren said, putting a hand on Gryf’s shoulder. His voice was cloudy, unsure. “We need to take him to the House.”
Gryf paused to consider, then plunged the sword in just above the mage’s knee, causing the man to scream. When he pulled it out, the mage cried again, collapsing onto the ground. He sheathed his sword and looked at Aren. “We need to move. We’re going to die from breathing this smoke if the building doesn’t collapse on us first.”
“There’s also Wethern,” Aren said, using the staff to point at the disfigured man on the floor.
“He’s dead.”
“Actually, he’s not.”
Gryf looked at the man again. His limbs looked like they had been broken days ago. He had no eyes, no feet, and he had been cut up. There were wounds that looked like they were infected, and the man had been burned in various places.
Gryf looked at Aren. “He’s one breath away from death, and this smoke will kill him before we get him out the door. He’s suffering. He’s been suffering for days, it looks like.”
“Kill me,” the disfigured man rasped.
Gryf looked at him again, and the empty eye sockets seemed to plead with him. “May you return to the gods,” Gryf whispered, and in the space of a breath he drew his blade and plunged it into the man’s heart. Aren stared at Gryf, horrified. “We still have to drag the mage to the House,” Gryf said. “Let’s go.”
TWO
Kaila spent the evening in her room, reading what the Night Realm had documented on the istoq, the planetary god, and mage-summoned creatures. Unfortunately, there was no useful information on the latter, which mad
e her feel frustrated and helpless. She didn’t know when the creature was planning to attack the House again, and she worried about Aren.
By Mahl, what spell did Aren weave to make her think of him so often? She thought about contacting Geir. It was said that before he was given flesh, he could remove memory. Maybe he could help her forget.
Kaila felt a thump in her chest; Alaric was summoning. She stood up, slipped her feet into a pair of aqua satin slippers, when a little girl’s voice echoed through her head. Goddess, I need your help. It was the little Priestess.
Kaila sat on the edge of her bed, closed her eyes, and concentrated. Selina sounded so small and terrified, and Kaila had to fight the urge to rush to Tiede to find out what was going on.
A messenger came to the House with news. There’s a big fire, and Aren might be hurt. I heard Aren calling for help. I heard him in my head, but I didn’t know what to do. I tried to talk back to him, but then everything was dark. The Priestesses tried to wake me up, and they were fussing about something. I could hear them, but I couldn’t wake up.
Kaila took a deep breath and talked to Selina in her mind. Where are you now?
Asleep. Somewhere in the House. I feel tired, like I was running a lot.
I’m going to ask my brother to check on Aren. Try not to worry.
Thank you, goddess, Selina whispered in Kaila’s mind. Please bring him home.
Kaila opened her eyes and ran down the halls towards Alaric’s study but found it empty. She paced the room in front of the fire blazing in the hearth, trying to think of a way to get to Tiede, but her mind could only conjure an image of Aren calling for help.
“What’s got you so worked up, darling?” Alaric asked as he and Taia entered the room.
Kaila gasped, caught off guard. “Worried about Tanghi,” she lied. “That creature is powerful, and we haven’t heard from him yet.”
Alaric was about to speak when Tanghi stepped out of the fireplace. Alaric smiled at her, then squeezed her shoulders. Taia went to Alaric’s desk where she set down papers and opened up the heavy logbook.
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