by Ben Wolf
He glanced around. Rulfran’s snores still sounded from the other room, and Ferne’s mother was nowhere in sight—probably still in the kitchen.
“Someone stabbed me,” he replied quietly.
Ferne covered her mouth, and her eyes widened. “Why would someone do that?”
Mehta exhaled a ragged breath. How could he explain the complexities of the Xyonate lifestyle to a child? “It’s complicated.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They—” Mehta hesitated. “—they wanted me dead. They didn’t succeed. That’s all you need to know.”
Ferne opened her mouth to speak, but her mother’s stern voice filled the room.
“Ferne, come away from him.”
Ferne recoiled from Mehta and complied immediately. She walked across the room to where her mother stood, her head drooping, still carrying her book.
“Lunch is ready,” her mother said. “Go on. Say the blessing and eat.”
With her head low, Ferne slipped past her mother into the kitchen.
Ferne’s mother stood there, staring at Mehta. He was used to hard stares from people far more dangerous than this woman, but something in her eyes chilled Mehta’s soul.
“I would appreciate if you’d refrain from speaking with my daughter while you’re here. You may be our guest, but she is off-limits,” Ferne’s mother said. “Do you understand?”
Mehta didn’t want a fight. He nodded.
She turned and went into the kitchen, and a door latch opened behind Mehta.
He looked back, on edge, and saw Rulfran emerge from the room. Mehta relaxed.
“Good morning.” Rulfran yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Feeling better today?”
Well, I was. Mehta nodded again.
“Join us for lunch?” Rulfran motioned toward the kitchen.
“Your wife already brought me some soup.”
“Ah, Elanil.” Rulfran smiled and patted his round belly. “Always the consummate hostess. She serves alongside me as the High Priestess of Laeri. She’s equally hospitable and kind in the service of the goddess Laeri’s patrons.”
Mehta raised an eyebrow. If you say so.
Rulfran donned a goofy grin. “And she’s quite the beauty.”
“Yes.” Mehta couldn’t argue that point. Elanil was unquestionably beautiful.
“Please, join us anyway. You’re our guest. It will be good to talk with you some more.”
“I don’t want to impose.” Nor do I want to spend any more time here than necessary.
It wasn’t that Mehta disliked them. In fact, little Ferne was growing on him. But he felt out of place, like a dagger jammed into a knife’s scabbard.
“Please. I insist.”
Rulfran did a lot of insisting. As someone trained to obey those in authority without hesitation, Mehta found himself drawn to honor Rulfran’s requests—especially in light of how last night had taken a positive turn.
“Alright,” he said.
“I don’t think I got your name amid all the commotion last night,” Rulfran said.
Requiem. “Mehta.”
“Mehta? What a unique name. It’s a pleasure to formally meet you.” Rulfran smiled at him and motioned for him to lead the way to the kitchen.
Mehta would’ve preferred to follow, but he obliged Rulfran yet again.
When Mehta walked into the kitchen, he noticed Elanil’s shift from pleasant to concern, then to somber, then to the low burn of frustrated fury.
Great.
Mehta looked to Rulfran, and Rulfran pointed toward an open chair situated between Elanil and another empty chair. Mehta sat in it, and Rulfran sat in the other empty chair, separating Mehta from sitting adjacent to Ferne—except now she sat directly across from him.
She’d noticed him when he’d walked into the room, but she quickly averted her gaze and refocused on her plate.
The meal came and went, with Mehta sitting there in silence while Rulfran did most of the talking. Elanil spoke on occasion, usually in response to something Rulfran said, but Ferne scarcely said a word.
As he finished his soup, Rulfran said, “Mehta, I’m sure you’ve realized by now that your shoulder is healed.”
Mehta nodded. “Some sort of magic, I’m told.”
“The purest magic. A blessing from Laeri herself,” Rulfran said. “To those of us who dedicate our lives to holiness and study, the goddess endows miraculous powers, not the least of which is healing.”
Mehta said nothing. He just listened.
“It comes at personal sacrifice to those of us who aren’t yet as experienced. That’s why I had to sleep so long this morning. Using Laeri’s blessings to heal you really drained me.”
“I’m sorry,” Mehta said.
Rulfran waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not looking for an apology, my friend. I’m simply explaining my absence. I was pleased to be able to help.”
Mehta hesitated. How should he respond? “Well, thank you.”
“I would have liked to heal the wound in your side, but I fear my powers are not that advanced. To try to heal something so severe might…” Rulfran shook his head. “…well, I’m not sure what it might do to me.”
“It’s fine. I will heal, or I won’t.”
Ferne looked up from her empty plate with wide eyes, but a scowl from Elanil severed Ferne’s gaze.
“Ferne,” Elanil said, “Why don’t you go play or read?”
“But I want to stay here.”
“Ferne,” Elanil repeated.
That was all she said, but that was all it took for Ferne to comply. She stood from her chair, grabbed her book, and headed out of the kitchen.
“Close the door behind you, please,” Elanil called.
A moment later, a tiny arm reached across the doorway and shut the door.
“What is it, Elanil?” Rulfran asked.
“We need to discuss a few things regarding our guest’s stay in our home,” she said.
“Please,” Mehta held up his hand. “There’s no need. I’ll go.”
“What?” Rulfran shook his head. “Of course you won’t go. You’re not well.”
“I think it’s best if I do.” Mehta locked eyes with Elanil, whose face remained emotionless. “I don’t want to impose any further. I’ve already been too much of a burden.”
“No, no. Certainly not.”
“Rulfran.” Elanil reached over and put her right hand on top of his left hand. “If he is determined to leave, perhaps we should let him.”
She glanced at Mehta again, and her eyebrows rose slightly.
Mehta got the signal. “Your hospitality has been most generous, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Rulfran studied Mehta, then he studied his wife. “I think I understand.”
“What’s to understand, darling?” Elanil said. “He wants to leave.”
Rulfran put his right hand on top of Elanil’s, which still rested on his left hand. “My dear, do you not wish him to stay with us?”
She smiled at him. “Now Rulfran, why would you ever think that?”
Mehta didn’t like where this was heading. He stood from his chair. “Please. I can leave. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“No, Mehta. You will stay,” Rulfran said, his voice firm, all while staring at Elanil. “At least until my wife truly speaks her mind.”
Elanil’s smile faded.
Now Mehta really didn’t want to be there.
“Well, my dear, let’s hear it,” Rulfran said.
Elanil pulled away from him and sat back in her chair, rigid in body and expression. She hissed, “I don’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
“He is a Xyonate. He serves Xyon, the god of death, darkness, and the Underworld. Xyon is the eternal enemy of Laeri,” she said, “and you invited one of his followers into our home.”
Some part of Mehta wanted to correct her and tell her that he’d left the Xyonates, but he remained silent. Though he’d abandoned the San
ctum and Xyon’s followers, much of his old life still festered within him like a cancer.
Yet in all his years of training, Mehta had never been taught that the goddess Laeri was Xyon’s enemy. For the clerics to have left out such an important detail confused Mehta.
“I did not invite him, dear wife,” Rulfran said. “I brought him here myself. He would have died in the alley where I’d found him if I had not. Would you have preferred that?”
“Of course not.”
She said it without even a hint of hesitation, but Mehta wouldn’t have held it against her if she had wanted him dead in the alley.
“And are we not called by Laeri to heal the sick, care for the wounded, and feed the hungry, shelter the poor, and—”
“And show kindness to strangers and foreigners. Yes, I know the scriptures as well as you do, Rulfran,” she muttered.
“And yet you wish him to leave?”
“I never said that.”
“You said you didn’t trust him,” Rulfran pressed. “Why would you want someone you don’t trust to stay?”
“I—Rulfran, stop it,” she said. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to help someone in need. That’s all. We help people all the time.”
Mehta bristled at Rulfran’s words and at the heightening tension lining their conversation. He didn’t deserve anyone’s help, and he certainly didn’t want to drive a wedge between these good people.
“But never in our home, Rulfran. You didn’t consult me. You didn’t ask me if I’d agree with you bringing a Xyonate—a murderer—into our home.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” Rulfran countered, his voice more level than it had been. “It was the right thing to do.”
“By him, maybe.” Elanil pointed at Mehta but didn’t look at him. “But not for us. Not for your daughter. You put her at risk by bringing him here.”
Rulfran turned to Mehta. “I’m sorry you have to hear all of this.”
I wouldn’t be hearing it if you had just let me leave, Mehta thought, but he didn’t dare say it aloud.
“So you’ll apologize to him but not to me?” Elanil snapped.
“Why would I apologize for doing good?” Rulfran shook his head. “I couldn’t let him die.”
“You didn’t have to bring him here.”
“If I had left him there, more of the Xyonates would have found him and killed him.”
“Yes. That’s what Xyonates do.” Elanil’s gaze flitted to Mehta, then back to Rulfran. “They kill.”
Rulfran turned to Mehta again. “Are you going to kill us?”
The suggestion, combined with the tension in the room, aroused Mehta’s thirst, but he replied, “No.”
Rulfran looked at Elanil again. “There you have it.”
Elanil scoffed. “And you believe him? Just like that?”
“He has given me no reason to distrust him thus far.”
“He’s a Xyonate, Rulfran!” Elanil almost yelled.
“And we serve Laeri,” Rulfran matched her volume. “I could not stand by and let him perish. Not when Laeri so clearly placed him in my path. As a high priestess in her service, you of all people should understand that.”
“And you should understand, as a father and as a husband, that bringing an assassin into your home creates a colossal risk to our family,” Elanil fired back.
“I’ll go,” Mehta interjected. He had to say something to stop the argument, or the growing thirst might overwhelm him.
“No, you won’t,” Rulfran said. “You’re not well.”
“Rulfran,” Mehta said, “you’ve been kind to me, but I can’t divide your family. I’ve already divided too many families.”
Elanil scoffed again, but Mehta paid her no mind.
“You’ve helped me enough,” Mehta continued. “Please, let me go.”
Rulfran paused, motionless. He glowered at Elanil for a moment, then he turned back to Mehta and slowly nodded his head. “Very well, but only on the condition that you allow me to give you some coin for your journey.”
Mehta shook his head. “I can’t—”
“I know, I know. You can’t take my money. But you’re going to.”
Mehta frowned at him, but he’d endured enough arguing, and the thirst had finally begun to subside. If taking the money would get him out of there faster, he’d accept it.
Elanil nodded at Mehta, and pain flared in his side. For the first time since he’d met her, he resented her. Though he didn’t want to stay, he couldn’t deny that his body could’ve used the extra rest.
But he wasn’t leaving without his knives. “If you’ll bring me my belongings, I can leave now.”
“Of course.” Elanil stood and rounded the table—on the side opposite of Mehta—and headed toward the kitchen door.
She opened it, revealing Ferne standing there.
A man stood behind her with a gleaming knife to her throat.
Chapter Five
Elanil gasped and staggered back, then she took a step forward.
The man, whom Mehta recognized as Creed, one of his Xyonate brethren, pulled Ferne back and pressed the knife against her neck. He wore dark strips of fabric wrapped tightly around his body and legs, leaving his tan, sinewy arms exposed.
Ferne yelped, and Elanil’s advance stopped.
“Please,” Elanil said. “Let her go.”
“I’m not here for her or for you,” Creed’s scratchy voice said. His dark, conniving eyes focused on Mehta. “I’m here for him.”
Mehta processed the situation in an instant—Creed wasn’t alone. He couldn’t be. Xyonates weren’t prideful as individuals, so there would be no cause to confront Mehta without bringing along reinforcements.
So Mehta would have to sift Creed and anyone else with him before he could escape.
That door was the only way out. The kitchen was a self-contained room with no windows or other doors except for the pantry door on the opposite side of the room.
Furthermore, Mehta noted no obvious weapons within reach. He would have to wait to disarm whichever Xyonate came for him first.
His wounded side would multiply the difficulty of all of that. It would hamper his mobility. His speed would dwindle. His precision might falter.
Mehta’s response to his initial assessment was simply to back away from the table. Right now, space to move was his ally.
Creed’s devilish eyes watched him, and he urged Ferne into the room. Another Xyonate entered behind him, then another. Then another.
Fable and Mantra—two male Xyonates—and Hymn, a female.
Mehta had hoped for only one more. He would’ve had a chance against two of them, but fighting four Xyonates seemed impossible in his weakened state.
The terror etched on Ferne’s face sent a shock of guilt into Mehta’s gut. That girl and her parents would unquestionably die today.
And it will be my fault.
They’d tracked him here, somehow, and if they experienced the thirst like he did, they’d sift everyone in sight like a pack of wild wolves tearing into helpless prey.
But maybe he could bargain for their lives. He had to at least try.
“Let her go, and I’ll come with you,” Mehta said.
Creed snickered. “What do you care if she lives or dies?”
“She’s innocent. You want me.”
“No one is innocent, Requiem. Don’t you remember the clerics’ teachings?”
“She’s young. Let her live her life.”
Creed brandished an insidious smile. “Why let her live when I can honor Xyon with her death?”
Elanil gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
Creed laughed again. “Don’t worry, priestess. You will accompany her to the Underworld soon after.”
“Creed, you can either take me and live, or you can try to sift these people, and you will perish instead.” Mehta said it with far more confidence than he felt. He hoped his reputation within the Sanctum would sow uncertainty in th
eir minds. Maybe it would be enough to dissuade them from attacking.
And maybe his thirst would serve him for once, instead of the other way around.
Creed glanced at his fellow Xyonates, and they glanced at him.
Perhaps Mehta’s bluster had worked.
“If I die,” Creed said, “I will die with the honor of serving Xyon.”
Mehta’s fists clenched. Fanatics. He hadn’t realized how insufferable they were until he was no longer one of them.
A voice shouted something from behind Mehta—Rulfran.
Mehta didn’t recognize the words, but a stunning flash of light ignited within the room, blinding Mehta. He tore at his eyes, trying to see through the searing brilliance, but to no avail.
Shuffling footsteps pattered across the kitchen floor and past him before he could react. They were too loud to have been one of the Xyonates but too quiet to have been an adult’s.
Ferne must have escaped Creed’s grasp.
A hand grasped Mehta’s wrist, and he rolled his wrist and broke free from the grip. Then he realized he could see again. Rulfran stood next to him, and Ferne clung to Elanil.
They stared across the room at the four Xyonates between them and the way out, all of whom rubbed their eyes, blinking, desperate to see once again.
“Now’s your chance,” Rulfran whispered.
Mehta took Rulfran’s meaning. Rulfran’s blast of light had evened the odds. He started toward the Xyonates, fully able to see.
Creed blinked and shook his head, inching forward as he did. Mehta approached him with perfect silence.
Then Creed stopped, blinked again, and slashed his knife at Mehta’s torso.
Mehta jumped back, out of its reach.
“I see you, Requiem,” Creed said. “You’re a dark haze, but I see enough of you.”
From Mehta’s right side, Fable launched toward him with a pair of golden-handled daggers extended.
Mehta ducked under his first swipe. He blocked Fable’s second attack, bracing both his forearms against Fable’s arm, stopping his motion. Mehta’s hands shifted and grabbed ahold of Fable’s wrist.
Mehta stepped under Fable’s arm but pulled it with him, put pressure on the pommel of the dagger, and stripped it from Fable’s hand. Now Mehta had the weapon he needed.
Mantra’s curved sword sliced toward Mehta’s head, but Mehta parried it away with his dagger. As Mantra began a follow-up swing, Mehta ducked low and slashed the dagger across his leg, just under his left knee.
