Hands of Flame n-3

by C. E. Mutphy

  But Daisani dismissed her suppositions with a soft answer of, “Nothing that has any importance any longer. The best and only reason I have for attending Alban Korund’s trial is friendship. Once upon a time, and not so long ago, that might have been different, but you’ve changed our world so much. Give me some credit, Margrit. Time makes relationships complicated, but we rarely forget where we began. Now,” he said after a moment’s silence, “shall I come around to pick you up?”

  “Please.” Margrit’s voice scratched, throat too tight for words. It was too easy to forget the Old Races weren’t human, at least for brief spaces of time. They moved too fluidly, but the eye became accustomed to that, and in their human forms, that was the only thing to truly mark them apart. The only thing, at least, until age and regret and pain showed in a vampire’s gaze, undoing all his humanity with a glance. Daisani had cut her open with honesty more than once, and Margrit doubted she would ever learn to stand against the inhuman depth he could show. “Please,” she whispered again. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. We should be there in good time for the awakening.”

  Sunset, once a moment of freedom, was now only an awakening to a new, more dreadful prison than the one that kept him safe in daylight hours. Alban clamped down on a roar, wrapped up the impulse to reach out for comfort and clawed his hands against chains as he panted for breath. Iron did more than bind him: it seemed to weight him, making air harder to draw in, as if his lungs were full of cold metal. It denied him the simple ability to touch another gargoyle mind with his own, and for all that he’d given up that intimacy centuries earlier, being unable was a far worse fate than being unwilling.

  Not that there was anyone beyond Biali for him to contact, and Alban had been barely more than a child when he and Biali had last been friends. Head lowered, hair falling in white waves around his cheeks, Alban dug taloned toes into stone and willed himself to stop trying to transform; to stop trying to escape thrums of pain. It was unnatural for a gargoyle to resist so much. Stone endured. Elements could leave their mark, but throughout time stone sat and waited, embodiment of patience.

  A laugh he barely recognized as his own grated Alban’s throat. In the brief span of time since Margrit Knight had come into his life, she’d infected him with human impatience, a desire to see things done, and done now. His sympathy for that plight spiked. Once freed of restraints and set on his own lonely path, he would have to try a little harder to live his life at her speed.

  At least he knew she would still have him. The frustration that had built in her at his adamant stance against speaking for himself pinched him as thoroughly as the chains did. She’d forgiven him even through the midst of her irritation, proving yet again that humans adapted quickly, even to the impossible. The weight of regret bowed his shoulders, and for a few seconds he ceased struggling against his chains, consumed by worry for mistakes made.

  The door opened, bringing Grace in on a breath of cooler air. “Better today, love? You’re not fighting so hard.”

  “Perhaps I’ve nothing to fight for.” Alban lifted his gaze but remained in his crouch, his eyes at the level of her ribs as she paced the room. “You’re agitated.”

  “I am.” She came to a stop in front of him, then crouched, as well, making herself diminutive in comparison. “Grace might be able to get you free of those chains, Korund. But it’ll hurt like hell if it works.” Her eyebrows shot up. “It’ll hurt like hell if it doesn’t.”

  “You think Biali won’t free me when the tribunal meets?”

  “I think he wants to see you enter in chains, already condemned. He’s brutal, not stupid. First impressions count. He’ll want them to see you as a prisoner.”

  “I am a prisoner, and rightfully condemned.”

  Grace sighed in exasperation. “You’re easy on the eyes, but I don’t envy Margrit in dealing with you. Not all of your people are martyrs. Why are you?”

  “Believing in our traditions doesn’t make me a martyr.” Alban tried without success to keep offense from his voice.

  Grace, pacing again, spat a sound of disbelief. “You tell me, then. Are you so eager to walk in chains that I won’t try, or will we see what I can do?”

  “My damaged pride would like to see Biali’s face when he discovers his trap didn’t work,” Alban muttered. “But if you can do this, why did you wait until now to offer?”

  “Because Grace has secrets to keep, too.” The blond woman’s answer was hardly louder than his own. “You’ll close your eyes, gargoyle, and keep them closed. It’ll hurt.”

  “Closing my eyes will hurt?” Alban asked lightly, then glanced over his shoulder at Grace, whose lovely features were drawn tight with anticipation. He murmured, “Forgive me,” then settled back into place. “They are closed.”

  “Try to not lash out, then, love, and we’ll see what Grace can do.” Grace put her hands on his shoulders as if in warning. Alban grunted, tension rising even as he tried to stop it, but he nodded agreement.

  Where Grace touched him turned to ice, burning cold that sank through him like a stone in water. It drew a gasp: gargoyles were not especially susceptible to temperature. To feel such chill with no warning or transition was as shocking as the cold itself. Grace, sharply, said, “Hold that,” and Alban inhaled again, breath catching in his lungs and holding there.

  Cold flowed through him, worse than ice water in his veins; that, at least, would follow the pulse and beat of blood. This frozen touch sank in through muscle, through blood and bone, moving against nature and spreading as it moved. It clawed at his throat, digging into the iron that had become a part of him, and the iron turned to links of frigid crystal.

  Stone crumbled under Alban’s feet, the floor tearing beneath his talons. His eyes had opened against Grace’s orders, but he saw nothing but gray in front of him; gray and tear-blurred dancing images of his own forearms, muscle cording and shuddering white with stone.

  Pain did not begin to describe it. Cold transcended agony and left the middling discomfort of being bound by iron far behind. It tore down stone walls, and with their tumbling came a lifetime of emotion that he had carefully left behind.

  He did not, of course, remember the first time he saw Hajnal, for she was his elder, and had always been a part of their mountain-born tribe. Small, for a gargoyle, and very dark for one of their kind. Her family name was Dunstal, black stone, and they shared an affinity for glassy obsidian and other black rock spat from the heart of the world. Their physicality reflected that, amber skin tones and black hair, making them stand out against a people whose coloring tended toward the pale. She had always been there, petite and lovely amongst her alabaster kin.

  And Biali had always been nearby, a broad hulk of a gargoyle who rarely smiled, but always danced at Hajnal’s whim. Alban had become the younger brother to their duo, chasing after, laughing, learning: being a child, loved and safe in the tall, gray mountains. A score of years had gone by, until one day he was no longer a child, and his heart leapt to see Hajnal winging above their mountain retreat. Until he’d joined her in the sky and found more than friendship beneath diamond-cut stars.

  The span of a human life passed in a blur, memories clouded with time. Alban grew older and broader and wiser, losing himself in his people’s histories, discovering the world beyond their mountains through memories shared by others. He became a warrior, trained by memory and by skirmishes too focused to be playful, but never intended to be made real. Even now, under a song of pain, his muscles flexed with the movements he’d learned, battle built into his body. But there was little enough to fight over, and he had more important things to think of, like the dark-haired beauty at his side.

  He had not yet seen a century when it became clear that humanity, all unknowing, would hound his people into hiding and desperation. Even high in the mountains, mortals encroached on their every stronghold, and there were bitter arguments on how to survive them. Some counseled war, and Alban found himself on
the opposite side, standing and speaking of tradition and the need to keep the histories safe. He did not doubt his prowess in battle, and, looking from face to face, he saw that no one else did, either.

  No one, save one.

  Alban, caught in a whirlwind of icy anguish, whispered, “No,” with what little breath he had left, and shuddered beneath the weight of unrelenting memory.

  Biali should have won. Should have, with his age, his experience; with what he perceived as having to lose. But he had lost Hajnal long since, and Alban fought for her, and the future of his people, and when his blow shattered Biali’s face, Alban fell back and refused to fight anymore. Not for fear of exile, though Biali’s death would set Alban on that path, but because they were so few, and forgiveness, surely, could come with time.

  It was not exile, then, that drove him from his mountain home, but a hope of understanding humanity; of finding a way for his people to live amongst them in safety. Hajnal joined him and they left the mountains, left the valleys, left the landmass humans called Europe, and on the continent’s western archipelago they found friends, both mortal and not, whose secrets would change Alban’s life forever.

  Arguments, fresh and sharp, rose up through memory: Hajnal’s distress at Alban’s choice to step outside the gargoyle collective in order to protect a child born out of species. She knew, of course; had known Sarah Hopkins, as she had known the fiery-haired dragonlord and the smooth, dark vampire. But it was Alban who had linked to their minds, Alban who had become so intimate with them, and Alban whose memories would condemn them if they were exposed to the depths of history. Hajnal’s, riding closer to the surface, carried far less weight, and could be kept from the gargoyle memories with a modicum of effort. She didn’t have to—didn’t choose to—exile herself from their people in the way he had. But as long as she remained with him, he wasn’t alone.

  Hajnal’s death ricocheted through that, tearing chunks of Alban’s heart away and leaving emptiness in their place. Biali, as deeply wounded by it, had never, would never, forgive the lost battle that had paired Alban and Hajnal for life. That had, in his mind, set Hajnal on the road that led to her death.

  Exquisite, the memory of that death. It was made of icy razors, cutting apart Alban’s every heartbeat as he roared her name helplessly. As she told him to leave her, and, most terribly of all, as he did, and in doing so, condemned her.

  Generation after generation of humans passed while he stood apart, the scant handful he dared watch over always dying violently, until Margrit.

  The bright memory of her presence in his life seared through him, hotter than even the ice. Something cracked within him, vast shattering like stone too long under duress. A terrible shout broke free, the clap of stone breaking apart, and ice released him.

  Alban collapsed forward, trembling with exhaustion and the weight of too many memories. Every part of his body ached, as though he’d been splintered and put back together again by some rough stonemason with Pygmalion dreams. Stone did not weep easily; not often; not at all; and he could reach no further than a wish for that release. Not sobs; that was beyond him, but the weary slow slide of tears down granite features would be a relief, if only he could find his way there.

  Instead he pushed up to hands and knees, then shoved back into a crouch, one hand planted against the floor to balance the empty shell his body felt like it had become. That was all: he could do nothing more. To have done that much seemed a triumph. His chin rested against his chest, eyes too heavy to open. Rest would come with dawn, no sooner. Iron bound him to his waking form, forbidding him the release of silent stone. He held on to that thought, concentrating on it beyond fatigue that came from his very bones.

  Grace moved from behind him, soft brush of leather and silent breath of air. “Korund.”

  “Leave me.” It took effort to form the words. Too much effort to open his eyes and meet her gaze. “I only wish for solitude, Grace. I have nothing left to spend.”

  “Alban.” She moved again, her scent coming closer, leather creaking with action. “Open your eyes, gargoyle. Let’s have a look at you now.”

  Weary beyond words, Alban forced heavy lids to part, and stared without comprehension at the long links of iron chain in Grace’s hands.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Don’t ask,” Grace murmured, long before Alban had the presence of mind to do so. Only when she spoke did he lift a hand to his neck, mind still empty of understanding.

  No thickness of chain distorted the flesh there. Aches faded from his body, no more distant song of iron knotted in stone. Alban shifted to his human form, muscles clenched in anticipation of pain forbidding the transformation, and instead Grace squinted at the soft implosion of air as his mass changed. She looked drawn and haggard, fine lines he’d never noticed before standing out around her eyes and mouth. “You freed me.”

  “That was the plan, wasn’t it?” Grace stood, all languid poise, and Alban came to his feet to catch her elbow as she swayed. She said, “Thanks” without a hint of grudgery, while Alban gazed down at her, trying to remember if he’d ever heard that word pass her lips before. She smiled faintly and made as if to shake him off, though she didn’t protest when he maintained his careful grip on her arm. “I wouldn’t want to do that every day.”

  “Grace, what did you—”

  “I said don’t ask, didn’t I?” The vigilante woman pulled away, more awkward than he’d ever seen her. “We all have our secrets, Korund. Let me keep mine.”

  Alban let his hand fall. Grace stopped on the far side of the room, arms folded beneath her breasts as she turned back with challenge in her gaze. “Margrit asked what you were,” he said softly. “The first time we met, under my Trinity chambers. I said you were human. I wasn’t wrong.” The last words formed a question, though the inflection supported Alban’s confidence in Grace’s answer.

  She shook her head, one sharp motion, and after a moment, Alban nodded. It took longer to quell curiosity and bow to her wishes rather than ask more questions. Margrit would be proud of him for at least wondering. The thought brought a brief smile to the fore as he spoke. “Very well. I’ll only thank you, then, not press you.” He folded a hand at the back of his neck, massaging muscle that still held strain from captivity. “But perhaps I’m coming to learn that some burdens are easier borne when shared.”

  “Ah, and don’t I know it. But you’re not the one for Grace to make her confessions to, gargoyle. Someday, maybe, you’ll hear it all.”

  “Until then I am in your debt.”

  Grace tweaked a smile that did away with some of the fatigue written on her face. “Now that’s a thing I like the sound of, Alban Korund. Pity there’ll be no collecting that debt in the ways that would be most fun.”

  “You are incorrigible, Grace.”

  “A girl’s got to have her fun somehow.” Grace flashed a brighter smile, clearly recovering from whatever she’d done to free him, and just as clearly relieved Alban had agreed not to pursue it. He thought she would have to find some kind of answer to offer the tribunal, as a woman with the ability to break a captive gargoyle free would be of interest to all of them, but he, at least, could respect her wishes.

  “Are you ready?”

  “No.” Alban exhaled, then shook off his human form for the gargoyle. “No, not at all, but it seems I have very little choice. So be it. Take me to my leaders.”

  Grace was still chortling over that as she led him into the trial chamber, the same room he and Margrit had been brought to a few months earlier when Grace had first apprehended them in her tunnels. Now, though, there were no human children littered about, but, rather, more denizens of the Old Races than Alban had seen in one place in centuries, save the selkie show of strength a few weeks earlier.

  Six gargoyles presided, none of them friends. Amongst them, dividing them, sat Chelsea Huo, her apple-wizened face calm and her nut-brown eyes dark with sorrow.

  Janx and Daisani sat together, an unusual show of camarader
ie for two ancient rivals. The gesture filled Alban with pleased bemusement; he had hardly expected to see either of them, much less presenting a front. Both inclined their heads in acknowledgment as Alban entered; it was more than the tribunal itself had done.

  Opposite them, on the other end of the gargoyle arc, stood a scattered handful of djinn and selkies. Alban knew none of them, save one: the amber-eyed male who had recently held Rebecca Knight’s heart in his hand, and who had only been stopped from doing murder by a vampire’s blood. That he was there; that anyone beyond the gargoyle tribunal was there, sent a warning through Alban. There was more at stake than just his exile.

  Grace was the only human in the room. Regret seized Alban’s heart and held it a long beat, then slipped away in a moment of clarity. It was better, perhaps, for Margrit to not attend. She would only be frustrated with his course of action, and he had no real wish for her to see him condemned. That he stood so bore less shame than watching her as his people made it moot.

  A shift signaled the last arrival’s entrance. Alban followed a dozen people’s attention as it turned to the other door in the room, knowing who he would see. He stood, in part to lord his height over Biali, and in part to make certain the other gargoyle saw Alban was free of chains.

  The scarred gargoyle faltered in his stride as he entered, curled lip losing some of its sneer as he took in Alban’s unbound form. Alban permitted himself a faint smile that darkened Biali’s countenance again, and he stalked across the room to take up a position opposite Alban. For a few seconds the room was still, each being present sizing up the others and assessing the power balance. Then one of the gargoyles shifted, drawing attention to himself, and spoke in a voice like flowing lava, hot and deep.

  “Who calls this tribunal?”