Undying (Valos of Sonhadra Book 7)

by Tiffany Roberts

  Whatever this creature was, he was in pain, and his suffering overrode her powerful instinct to flee. Even if he’d brought it upon himself, she couldn’t bear to watch him in agony without trying to help.

  Pushing away from the pillar, Quinn approached him, lowering herself to her hands and knees a few feet away. Tentatively, she reached toward him. “What can I do?”

  “Mehi valim!” the stranger growled, pinning her with his burning gaze and rearing back on his knees. The spikes on his armor flared up. Quinn’s eyes widened.

  She was staring Death in the face.

  “DO NOT TOUCH ME!” ORISHOK yelled.

  The strange being crawled backward to put distance between them. He stared at it — at her; it had the look of a female — somehow seeing through the whirlwind of memories and emotion raging inside him. His mind felt as though it would tear itself apart, but he couldn’t grow complacent enough to allow her to touch him.

  He couldn’t let her die.

  She stopped, holding his gaze. Her eyes were odd, unlike any he’d seen, and their color matched the glow of his heartstone — one blue, one green. He didn’t look away as centuries of grief clawed at his insides, as centuries of loss assailed his soul, as centuries of rage ran through him like fire.

  Images flashed through his mind, battling for his attention — the lush forests of his distant youth, the mountain wind over his skin, the pounding of his heart during the hunt. Orishok had always been his name — it had not been stolen along with his heartstone — but so much else had been lost, so much had been taken.

  He focused on the female’s eyes, which were wide with white space around their color, and the memories eased. The emotions diminished, if only slightly. He could barely handle having it all back. But there was something in her gaze that spoke to him, something familiar, and he grasped at it.

  Concern? Fear? Despair?

  She parted her pink lips and hesitated before she spoke again. “Arryu oh kay?”

  On his periphery, he was aware of the nearby dead. Brave valos, one and all, the remnants of his people. But he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge them yet. Not while his mind was so raw, while everything within was so volatile.

  The female inched closer.

  “No,” he said, holding out a hand to stop her. She stilled. “You should not be here.”

  Her gaze dipped to his hand. The thin strips of fur above her eyes lowered. “Yu oh kay?”

  Whatever language she was speaking, it was not the tongue of the Creators. That was reassuring; her form and features bore a resemblance to Kelsharn and his kind, but she was smaller, with a softer face and shorter limbs. And her eyes...there was depth in her eyes, and emotion. Though he couldn’t understand her words, her concern was apparent in her voice.

  With his heartstone back in place, it was best not to think on Kelsharn. Best not to dwell on what he’d done.

  Orishok pushed himself to his feet, easing his armored plates and lowering the spikes that protruded from his shoulders and forearms.

  The female rose, eyes rounded, and stepped back with her arms crossed over her chest. Trembling, she hunched her shoulders and looked past him. “Sar ree.”

  He turned his head to glance behind, across the platform filled with the dead heartstones of his people. A pang of sorrow flowed through him. They had dwelled in Bahmet for hundreds of years after Kelsharn’s departure, incomplete, unable to truly feel...and their heartstones had been here the entire time. So close. So simply hidden.

  Orishok swept his gaze across the square, over the shattered pieces of Kelsharn’s monument —he could take some pleasure in its destruction, now — and to the still, stony forms of the fallen valos. His tribe. His people. Of the four hundred and fifteen who had survived Kelsharn’s alterations, only one hundred and eighty-two had remained when their Creator left.

  Twelve had met their ends in this square. The rest were scattered throughout Bahmet, a dead people for a dead city. Orishok was the last.

  He walked to the other side of the pedestal, heartstone cold in his chest as he surveyed the damage. The statue had crushed the remains of three valos — Rathir, Losk, and Dargaan. Crouching, he gently ran his fingertips over one of the stone arms. Losk’s.

  “I am sorry, brothers,” Orishok said. “I pray it speeds you on your way back into Sonhadra.”

  “Ay ree lee am sar ree.”

  Orishok looked over his shoulder to find the female not far behind him holding one of his tribesmen’s cracked hands. Standing, he turned toward her. “Put that down. You have done enough damage already.”

  She flinched at his tone, but didn’t obey until he gestured first at the hand and then at the ground. With care, she placed the hand beside the rest of the crumbled remains. She muttered, too low for him to catch, and when she straightened, the fur above her eyes scrunched inward.

  “Sar ree,” she repeated. Her posture, tone, and expression conveyed guilt. Was she apologizing? She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

  She was cold.

  The female glanced around the square, corners of her lips downturned, and spoke quietly to herself. She sighed in resignation, lifted a hand to rub at her eye — the green one — and her shoulders fell. Her hand tucked back into the crook of her elbow.

  Her gaze met his. “Sar ree.”

  The female turned and walked away.

  Sorry.

  She was the first living thing inside Bahmet in hundreds of years. The first being he’d encountered since the last member of his tribe surrendered to death’s embrace. Though he knew nothing about her, he could not allow her to wander off; she seemed too soft for this world and its dangers.

  “Come with me, Strange One,” Orishok said. He was one of the dangers to her. Bahmet was no place for the living, but what awaited her beyond its walls?

  Her steps faltered, and she looked back at him over her shoulder. “Wut?”

  “Come,” he repeated, and motioned her toward him. “Follow.”

  Her hesitation was clear as she faced him fully, as was the wariness in her strange, alluring eyes.

  “Yur nawt goh ing tew keel mee, arryu?”

  Flattening his spikes — she inhaled sharply, watching them — he gestured her along. “Come. You do not have to shelter in the cold tonight.”

  The female glanced behind her, then returned her attention to him. She dipped and lifted her chin a few times. It seemed to be a sign of agreement. “Oh kay.”

  Orishok turned and walked toward his dwelling, avoiding the pieces of his fallen tribesmen. Her footsteps were soft as she followed. When he peered back at her, she was carefully stepping around Rathir’s remains.

  Even though they couldn’t understand one another, it was pleasing to speak to a living being. It meant, at least, that he wouldn’t yet have to cope with the years of loneliness that had been returned to him with his heartstone.

  Chapter Two

  QUINN TRIED TO KEEP several feet between herself and the stranger, but the distance slowly shrank as they moved through the winding streets of the sepulchral city. The hazy moonlight cast deep shadows on the faces of the numerous sculptures, granting them disturbing expressions. They were everywhere, all of them in different positions, no one quite the same as any other. The more she saw, the more she felt they were watching her.

  She cupped her hands over her mouth and breathed warm air into them. Her teeth chattered, the only other sound besides that of their footsteps and the gentle wind sighing overhead. He could be leading Quinn to her death, but what choice did she have? It was either follow this alien in the hope he’d help her or leave herself exposed to the beasts and cold outside the city.

  The tall, dark buildings towered over the street on either side, blending together in her periphery. There were clear variances between them — different damage, different window frames, different columns at the entrances — but they all looked similar in the shadows. They each had their own beauty, she was sure; it was the sort o
f beauty found in ancient graveyards with intricately carved headstones and imposing mausoleums. Cold, a little lonely, and always unsettling after dark.

  The stranger said something, and his voice drew her attention away from her surroundings. He stood before the doorway of one of the buildings, twisted slightly to stare at her with glowing green eyes.

  “Saavin, okari non.” He made the gesture again, a flick of his hand that had to mean come.

  He disappeared through the doorway. Quinn followed, stopping just inside. She frowned as she peered into the darkness. The only light came from his eyes; soft green, it thickened the surrounding shadows, making them more imposing. He stopped and settled his gaze upon her.

  “Saavin.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said, staring at the ground. She prayed she wouldn’t trip on anything. “I just don’t have night vision, or whatever you’re using. I mean, glowing eyes would be amazing to have, but they don’t offer that model in prison.” She absently touched the skin beneath her left eye. “God, I’m babbling.”

  “Ebin kev’ven bahlir argok desh ikar,” he said, and walked down the hallway. “Saavin.”

  Quinn remained within the dark room. The faint light cast by his eyes disappeared along with him. She hugged herself, briskly rubbing her hands up and down her arms. With a sigh, she stepped toward the doorway, holding her hands out in front of her, and walked blindly into the darkness. “I can’t see, alien man.”

  “Come,” he replied from down the hallway. The light of his eyes reappeared, distant and dim.

  Quinn gasped, freezing in place. The word had come to her in English this time. She touched a finger to the place behind her ear where the universal translator had been implanted. Was it learning an alien language? How powerful had they made the things?

  The glowing orbs of his eyes approached, his footsteps pronounced within the relatively small space. He stopped when the light of his eyes was enough for her to see the floor and walls. Only the edges of the armor plates on his chest and shoulders caught any light, granting him an ethereal visage.

  “I couldn’t see,” she said, covering her eyes then motioning around her. She pointed at his eyes. “I need light.”

  His only response was a sound that might have been a grunt. He took a few steps backward and paused. She raised her brows and advanced. Once more, he retreated. Quinn followed, matching his pace.

  “You understood!” she grinned.

  The stranger tilted his head, eyes flickering, but he said nothing. He led her up two flights of broad steps and into another hallway, never once looking behind to check his path; he kept his gaze on her. Quinn focused on the light he cast upon the floor to avoid staring into his eyes.

  Finally, he turned into one of the doors. She crossed the threshold into a large room. A wide, tall window with three peaked arches atop it allowed the moons to bathe the space in distilled, silvery light.

  As the stranger crossed the room, Quinn paused just beyond the doorway. The floor here was a pale stone run through with slightly darker veins, reminding her of marble. A set of wide, shallow steps led up to a stone platform on the far side of the room, upon which was a broad, flat, rectangular object. The faded, brittle-looking cloth draped atop it suggested it was a bed. There was a bench carved out of the wall directly beneath the window. Near the center of the room, between a pair of dark columns, sat two pieces of furniture that resembled worn-out couches, arranged on either side of a strange centerpiece.

  The stranger stopped before the centerpiece; it stood as tall as his mid-thigh, and looked like a large, flat plate balanced atop several thin, spindly legs. Three large, smooth stones lay upon the plate. He leaned down, blocking her view for a moment, and when he straightened the stones were glowing a gentle amber. Warmth flowed over her.

  “Oh my God, thank you,” Quinn said, crossing the room with her chilled hands outstretched toward the heat.

  He hurried away before she was close, mounting the steps and moving to the far wall.

  Quinn watched him, quirking a brow. “You act as though you’re scared of me.”

  “Mehi valim. Kev’ven enevet me.”

  He reached up and touched something there. With a soft hiss, the wall slid open, revealing a storage space filled with thick cloths folded neatly on the shelves. He gestured to them and walked to the window before Quinn even responded.

  “You have blankets? How...” She cast a quick glance around the room, noting the worn cloth on the bed and the poor condition of the sofas. Stepping away from the heat stones, Quinn ascended the steps and took a blanket from one of the shelves. The fabric was soft and pristine. She felt a pang of guilt at dirtying it with her hands, but didn’t hesitate to wrap it around her shoulders, quickly returning to the centerpiece. “Thank you.”

  The stranger was still save for the faint flicker of his eyes and the slight motion of his head as he watched her. Quinn lowered herself to the floor, legs crossed, facing him. Silence followed. She bit the inside of her cheek and pulled the blanket tighter. Each of her slight movements rubbed fabric against fabric, the sound pronounced in the quiet. She cleared her throat.

  “My name is Quinn.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Quinn.”

  His eyes flared. “K’win.” He raised a hand and tapped his armored plates. “Orishok.”

  “Orishok,” she repeated, trying to put enough stress on the last sound as he had. She pointed to him, “Orishok,” then back to herself. “Quinn. Human.”

  He tilted his head. “K’win hoomin.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “No. Just Quinn. Quinn.” This time, she motioned a hand over her entire body. “Human.”

  “K’win, desh are non okari non.” He mimicked her gesture, indicating his body. “Valo.”

  “Valo. Orishok is a valo? Quinn is a human.”

  “Dak. Desh are non hoomin, I am valo.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened. She knew the translators were fast, but she never would have guessed how rapidly they could decipher an alien language.

  “Why do you wear all that?” she asked, pointing at his body. “Armor?”

  Orishok’s head tipped the other way. “I kev’van bahlir argok you ikar.”

  “Okay, um.” She covered her face with her hands and parted her fingers enough for her eyes to show. “Armor?”

  He lifted a hand to his own face and gently tapped two of his fingers against the mask. “Ithin is Orishok.”

  “Maybe too complicated a question for now.” She held a hand out and pointed to it. “Hand.”

  Orishok held out a hand, fingers spread. “Otkan.”

  “Otkan. Hand.”

  “Haand.”

  She wiggled her fingers. “These are fingers. Fingers.”

  Again, he mimicked her gesture. “Otkanahl.”

  Quinn chuckled. He must be waiting for her to say his word before he repeated it back in English. “Otkanahl.” It wasn’t exactly the way he pronounced it, but close enough.

  “Feen’gurs.” He lifted his hand and tapped the edge of his mask’s eyehole. “Losa.”

  “Eye. Losa is eye.” She pointed at both her eyes. “Eyes.”

  “Eye is losa. You thoroth okari eyes.”

  “Didn’t quite get that.” She ran a hand through her hair and winced when her fingers snagged. She felt around the area gingerly, discovering large clumps of hair stiff and stuck together. Likely more blood. She lowered her hand, staring at the dried, red flecks under her nails and the stain on her palm. All at once, exhaustion weighed on her. She rubbed at the blood stain for a moment before giving up; what did it matter right now? She was filthy from head to toe. One spot wouldn’t make a difference.

  With a sigh, Quinn glanced at Orishok, then lay down on the hard floor, cradling her head in the crook of her arm. She stared up at the glowing stones, grateful for the warmth. “Quinn is tired. We’ll have to continue the language lesson later.”

  “I do not bahlir your ikarahl, K’win.”

  “I know
,” Quinn replied, closing her eyes. Perhaps she was crazy — she didn’t feel threatened by Orishok, despite his intimidating appearance, and though she was about to leave herself completely vulnerable, she was comforted by his presence. If he’d wanted to harm her, he would have done so already — most likely right after he realized she’d broken the monument. Why bring her to shelter, provide her heat and a blanket if he was going to hurt her?

  Without his help, she might not have made it through the night.

  “Thank you, Orishok,” she mumbled, words slurring as her body and mind shut down.

  ORISHOK STARED AT QUINN as her face eased and she fell asleep. When she was still, he closed his eyes and reached into the pool of memories contained within his heartstone. He’d been able to sleep, too, before. He’d known the limitless splendor of dreams, the endless depths of nightmare. Just another thing stolen. Another thing lost.

  He opened his eyes and studied the female. The pale fur atop her head was tangled and matted with a dark substance — blood, his old self whispered — and her clothes were tattered and stained. The scent of death was upon her, which was odd; it was different from the death-stench of a beast, at once more subtle and more powerful. But it was something else that claimed his attention. Something that had become unfamiliar to him over his long stewardship of Bahmet, the Dead City.

  Quinn was alive.

  Careful not to disturb her, he crept out of the room and to the stairs, climbing them slowly. This was one of the few buildings that didn’t yet display significant structural damage. The safest place for her to shelter.

  It had never been meant for valos. Their hands had only been good enough to build it, good enough to labor...

  He emerged on the rooftop, into air he knew was cold only by instinct; the chill had no effect upon him. Bahmet surrounded him, sleeping its eternal sleep, shrouded in mist that made the empty buildings more like distant mountain peaks. Orishok didn’t need to see them to know they were there. This place had been his home for too many years, and he knew it well.