Someone slid into the room through the window and scattered a cloud of snow that flickered in the firestone’s light. Furs wrapped around his head disguised his face.
“Warmth to you, friend,” the woman said, though her hand went quick to the knife on her hip.
“And to you, so long as you live,” the visitor replied, voice muffled. He approached the Havok stone and held his hands close to warm them.
“No bow on you?” she asked. “Not a hunter then.”
“No.”
“Mourisian, though. I can tell by your accent. Born and raised in Harivaz. Tell me your age and name. It could be that I know you, and you me.”
“Yes.” He went to the wall opposite her and removed his weapons harness; four swords that glowed with a soft blue hue within leather sheaths. Sighing, he sat and leaned his head back against the wall.
“Four Kovah blades,” the woman said. “One is more than most can afford, yet you carry four. Who are you, friend? Tell me before I begin to doubt you are a friend at all.”
“You are wise to doubt it.” He brought down the furs that covered his face and she gasped upon recognizing him. “Don’t fret, Torye. Nobody has paid me for your blood.”
“Aris,” Torye hissed. The snow drifting in from the window danced in the brief silence, then she chuckled to herself. “You would think that after all these many cycles, I would know exactly what to say to you. Yet here you are and I’m speechless.”
“I prefer it that way.”
“No doubt you do. Oh, the memories I could rekindle for you.”
“No need.” Aris bowed his head and ran his fingers through his long hair. “I have not forgotten.”
“So why have you come?”
A deep and unfamiliar well of sadness showed in Aris' eyes. “Theina may be dead.”
Torye's heart skipped a beat. “No.”
“Yes. The Mourisiel caught her…”
“I’m so sorry, Aris.”
“...inside the palace. She had broken in, her and several accomplices. They killed a few guards, tried to kill the lords and ladies Mourisiel.”
“Did they succeed?”
“Not a one. All were caught before they reached their targets.”
Torye shook her head. “I can’t believe they actually tried it.”
“But you knew they would.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Aris' eyes glazed as he recalled a memory. “She came to me. Cycles ago. Told me that she had made some friends. Allies, she called them. They wanted what she wanted. What she thought I wanted. She asked me to help them, to lead them. I refused. I told her not to meet with these friends of hers anymore. I told her it was folly, that it was impossible, could never be done. She wouldn’t listen. Now she may be gone because I couldn’t make her see.”
“That’s her own choice, Aris. Children, you can’t control them. You have to let them do what they will. That’s how I raised Razhier. He always learned best when I gave him the freedom to make his own mistakes.”
Aris' eyes turned to ice as the memory left him. “Razhier would have gone to you, same as Theina came to me. He would have told you that he was part of it. He would have asked you to help.”
“What makes you think Razhier would involve himself in something like that?”
“Because he loved Theina. He would have followed her into the mist at world’s end.”
“He never told me anything about such a plot. It’s ludicrous.” Torye hesitated. “Or have you come to tell me that he was caught with them?”
“No, but he was at the execution, with an old man I didn’t recognize. I was hoping you could tell me who that old man was.”
“Why don’t you ask Razhier?”
“Because he might lie, and I have a hard time controlling myself when people lie to me.”
Torye’s hands tightened to fists. “If you touch him, Aris…”
“That’s why I came to you. So I wouldn’t have to.”
“What now, then? Now that I don’t have the information you’re looking for?”
“I’ll have no choice but to go to Razhier and see if I can convince him to tell me what he knows.” Torye stood up, fists clenched, but Aris held out a hand and she hesitated. “You know how that ends.” His tone struck Torye as exhausted, even jaded, but it didn't make him wrong.
“I won’t let you hurt him," she said at last.
“Then you’ll tell me the old man’s name.”
“And what will do you to him?”
“That is my business.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
Aris sighed. “I don’t answer to you. Tell me the name or I’ll go get it from Razhier, despite whatever resistance he might put up.”
Torye shook her head. “You used to be a reasonable man.”
“That was before they killed my daughter.”
The anger in Aris’ voice burned hot but Torye caught the trembling anxiousness just underneath. He had always been stoic and controlled. To see him on the edge, as though he might be ready to slip, broke through Torye’s own hardened walls. “Fiskahn. His name is Fiskahn. If you know your history, you know…”
“Pasala’s sexual tutor." Aris nodded. "I remember. I thought it might be something like that. What did you say when Razhier came to you?”
“That it was an idiotic plan. I even met with his friends to convince them of their idiocy. Theina led them. It was all her idea.” Torye paused. “Aris, don’t do what you’re planning. I can only imagine how angry you must be. I know how furious I would be if someone hurt Razhier. But their friends, they didn’t convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do. They’re not to blame.”
“What would you have me do, then?" Aris bit at the words, attacking them. "I cannot reach the Mourisiel and I must have my vengeance. Every drop of her blood they spilled, I will spill tenfold. It is the only thing I know how to do.”
“So do it with purpose," Torye said. "You don't have to be a blind executioner or a good-for-nothing assassin. You could choose to be something greater than your bloodlust for once in your life.”
Aris blinked slowly, looking as though her words had slid through him like blades through mist. “Where did you meet them? They must have some hidden meeting place in the city, the labyrinth below. Theina hinted at it but at the time, I didn't want to know.”
“I have already told you more than I should have. They swore me to secrecy.”
“Answer me!” Aris’ voice thundered, shaking loose stones in the walls and ceiling, and Torye stumbled back as though pushed by powerful hands. The demonic presence inside Aris came to the fore, turning his eyes cold and white, and chilling the room with magic such that the Havok stone’s fire briefly shuddered and blinked out.
Torye crumpled to the ground and searched for strength in huge gulps of air. Aris stood over her, in control of himself again, but the demon was never far underneath the surface.
“They did not meet inside the city," Torye whispered. "They followed the cliffs north from the eastern gate to a cave. You’ll not find it with that information alone. You’ll need to know where to turn off.”
“Razhier could show me."
“Damn you, Aris.” Torye struck the ground with her fist. “It is near a waterfall, behind a boulder marked with a red symbol. But this is foolish, Aris. They won’t be using it anymore. If what you say is true, the entire company was caught and executed. There is nobody left.”
“There is Fiskahn.”
“He helped them map the inside of the palace but that’s all.”
“He was part of it.”
“Leave him be, Aris. There is no reason…”
“I will find Fiskahn," Aris said. "I will kill him, and I will find any other conspirators who remain and kill them too. Get word to Razhier. If he tries to protect them, I will kill him. If you get in my way, I’ll kill you too.”
Camarei IV
Brothers
Thunder shook the
walls of Malquin’s wooden shack by the river, barely louder than the heavy rain falling on the roof. Inside, a candle’s dancing flame went untouched by the winds outside, providing the light Malquin needed to read the handwritten words scrawled inside a loose-bound book. Furs piled high in one corner served as his bed, buckets in the opposite corner held his waste, and dusty crates filled the others. The walls were bare save for one decoration; a torn and tattered piece of cloth with broad stripes of red and yellow, the colors of the Camarein army.
Malquin didn’t hear the pounding on the door over the storm, not even when the pounder struck harder and shouted over the wind, nor even when other voices joined in. Lost in his book, he heard none of it until one of the voices sang in a flawless, effortless soprano that cut through all the lower, heavier tones of the storm’s cacophony.
Immediately, Malquin discarded his book and went to the door. Three wide bolts of stonewood needed to be withdrawn before it could be opened. As he worked them, he shouted, “Be patient, please. I’m getting on it. I'll have you inside in just a moment, just please wait.”
When at last the bolts were drawn aside, Malquin flung the door open. A bedraggled group of travelers pushed their way inside, drenched and dripping and muttering. Malquin searched the faces within the hoods until he found the singer; an unmistakable woman with long white hair and occluded eyes.
“Ahlaha,” Malquin breathed. “You’re here. How did you…?”
“We knew where you were, Malquin.” Valkil said, flashing a quick smile through his sopping wet beard. “We knew all along.”
Malquin's smile soured. “Valkil. You’re unwelcome.”
“I know, I know.” Valkil shook his head, splattering water. He winced as though stung by some invisible insect and, wrinkling his nose, he glanced at the chamber pot. “Tey’s mind, Mal. Did our mother raise livestock? You could at least dump those once a cycle or so.”
“I don’t get many visitors. I don’t want any.”
“Good thing, too, because only your brother could love you enough to make the journey. Do you know how long we’ve been traipsing through this muck? Saw a lyzand the other night, you wouldn’t believe the size of it. Feeding too well, it seems.”
“Include it in your report to the Lady then.” Malquin crossed his arms. “Give her my regards.”
“Mal, we didn’t come all this way…”
“You’re unwelcome, Val.”
“It is good to see you, Malquin,” Ahlaha said, voice monotone and Moridah accent thick. Malquin felt a tinge of pride at her Camarein, which seemed to have improved measurably since he had taught her the basics, cycles ago. “It has been too long.”
Malquin’s gut wrenched. “I am sorry to say that it has not been long enough.”
“I see that. It is a shame that still you feel the same as you did before.” Without any tone to her words, Malquin didn't hear sadness in her voice, but he thought he saw it in the way she blinked and anxiously entangled her fingers. A familiar voice inside his head warned that he might only be imagining it, because hadn't he always imagined she felt something that she hadn't and wasn't that a mistake he had sworn a thousand times never to repeat?
“It is a shame,” Valkil said. “We really could use your help, brother.”
Malquin rolled his eyes. “You must be desperate indeed. What, have you finally lost the Lady’s favor? Has someone finally managed to show her what you really are?” He felt a rush of conflicting feelings, at once proud of himself for standing up to his brother and simultaneously regretful that he should say such things in front of Ahlaha.
“Mal,” she sang.
“No, it’s fine,” Valkil said. “The Lady knows exactly who and what I am, Mal. You really have been gone a long time if you’ve managed to convince yourself she ever held me in high esteem. You can take your jabs if you must. I'll survive them. Do your worst. But when you’re finished, let it be truly done so we can turn our attention on the future.”
Malquin seethed. “You don't get to tell me when to stop feeling the way I do. Are you so used to commanding others that you think you can issue orders to their very emotions? Gods, Val, you have incredible nerve coming here.”
“You have nerve to hide here,” Valkil challenged. “Two cycles now, do you know that? Two cycles. Have you had your fill of self-pity? Will you ever?”
Malquin lost himself to his anger. He charged with a wordless cry, pushing the others aside and grasping for Valkil’s throat. Valkil pushed his hands away but Malquin kept coming and together they tumbled to the floor in a heap of punching and jabbing limbs, shouting and grunting. Valkil’s companions scattered, yelling for them to stop but none wanting to risk injury at trying to break them up.
Valkil landed the first significant strike, an elbow to Malquin’s brow that split the skin and sprayed blood across the floor. With a fel roar, Malquin assaulted Valkil’s torso with a series of fast, powerful blows that forced Valkil to lower his arms. Malquin took the opportunity to strike him across the face. Malquin felt a rush of pride at the brief victory, but Valkil only seemed strengthened by the pain. With a cry, he kicked Malquin back, sending him sprawling into the table and chair.
Malquin tried to rise but wobbled, his breath taken by the table corner and his balance disoriented. Valkil came for him, fists raised for a straight-up fight, but instead Malquin dove and caught Valkil's ankle. With a twist and a yank, he brought Valkil back down to the floor; another brief victory, though Valkil managed to kick Malquin in the face with his free leg, and Malquin's teeth rattled.
One of Valkil's companions, a young man, rushed in and pushed Malquin back. Ahlaha went to Valkil’s side, and Malquin felt another rush of anger at seeing her hands on him. He shoved the young man away and spat at him. “Get out of my home.”
“No,” Ahlaha sang, eyes blazing up at Malquin and wrangling his spirit with a lasso of guilt. “You will make up now. Brothers should not fight like this.” Anger sounded strange in the sing-song Moridah language, as the notes themselves did not change to suit the speaker's temperament, but rage came off Ahlaha like heat from the Blue Star.
The tension loomed thick and choking, but Valkil laughed and at once it eased. “Malquin and I have always fought like that.”
“Not like that,” Malquin said, hand on his bleeding eyebrow. “You never used to be able to touch me.”
“I used to pull my punches, that’s all.”
“Liar.” Malquin chuckled despite himself. “You used to give it everything you had.”
“Well, you used to be heavier than me by no insignificant margin.”
“You’re saying I’ve softened up? The opposite is true.”
“No, I mean I have.” Valkil sat up with Ahlaha’s help. His eyes twinkled. “Retirement has softened the both of us, I think.”
“Perhaps it has." Malquin gave up on stopping the blood from his brow and let his hands fall limp into his lap. "What are you doing here, Val? Who are these people?”
“Shavyn, a student of mine,” Valkil said, pointing him out. “And Erona, from one of the independent villages.”
Malquin nodded to them in turn. “I’m sorry for this poor welcome. It is unbecoming of me.”
“Don’t bother, Mal. I told them to expect this.”
“It wasn’t hard to predict.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Valkil rose with Ahlaha's help, then stood with his arm around her. Malquin's stomach twisted at their closeness but he swallowed his emotions down.
Turning his attention on the youths, Malquin tried to keep the conversation going. “So who are you? How do you know my brother?”
“My village,” Erona said. “It’s been attacked.”
“Therill, Mal,” Valkil said, and Malquin shot him a doubtful glance. “And yes, before you ask, I believe it.”
Malquin scoffed. “You must be desperate indeed to use this as an excuse to get out of the Lady Verden’s court.”
“I am desperate for that very thing, it's true,
but it's also true that I believe it." Valkil's eyes twinkled with a familiar glint of mischievousness. "This could be a chance for us to do something meaningful again, Mal. It might even be the last chance.”
"Look at me, Val," Malquin said, gesturing to their meager surroundings. “I've changed. Like you said, I've softened up. You have too. We don’t do that kind of thing anymore, Val. We're too old. We're not the ones to go chasing after therill, even if they are real.”
“We could be,” Valkil insisted. "We were the best at it only a few cycles ago. That kind of thing comes right back. Trust me, you'll see. When we get back on the road, get you out of this virulent little coffin you've made for yourself, you'll find your old self. He's waiting just under the surface. Just give him a chance to come out."
Malquin righted the fallen chair and fell into it with a sigh. “What do you need me for?”
“We’re hunting therill, Mal. I wouldn't do this with anyone else. We played at this as children, lest you forget.”
“No," Malquin said, giving his own sly smile. "You didn’t endure that beating just to live out some childhood fantasies with me at your side. No, you need a hunter, not some old soldier like me. You want me to help you with Aioni.”
Valkil rolled his eyes. “Fine, then. Be practical. Yes, we need Aioni.”
“So you came to me because you're assuming she hates me less than you. I'm not sure that's true.”
“Yeah, well, I’m counting on it being enough.”
“And if Aioni won’t help, what then?”
“Then we find another way.”
Malquin and Valkil shared a look. As brothers, they could sometimes communicate this way, without words. In that moment, each understood what the other did; namely, that hunting therill was a suicidal endeavor with or without Aioni's help.
Malquin’s gaze flicked over to Ahlaha’s face, though he found it difficult to keep it there. "What about you? Why have you come?"
Valkil answered for her. "She is my wife, Mal. I couldn't just leave her behind."
"I would not be left," Ahlaha sang. "I was told there would be no more adventuring after the wedding. So I chose to come, to make this a vacation instead. And to keep an eye on Val lest he think to return to his reckless ways."
White Star Phase: Book One of the Ascendants Chronicle Page 6
