Grave Debt

by T. G. Ayer

If I had to think about it, I'd say it felt very much like that feeling I get when I sing—if for argument's sake my warbling were to be considered singing—on a note that's a fraction too high for my vocal chords. This strange vibration and lightheadedness was something akin to euphoria—which I had little doubt a mediocre voice such as mine certainly did not deserve.

  I took a second long slow breath, glad to find the pulsing didn't increase—nor did it decrease but I wasn't in the habit of having high expectations.

  Life lately had told me I was shit out of luck if I thought every bad came with a bunch of good thrown in because the universe loved Kai Odel.

  I sniffed at the thought then adjusted my limbs, urging my body to roll slowly onto my back. The low lines of the sun's rays spotlighted the thick variegated strokes of soot and burned wallpaper as they flared out from a dusky centre, implied the time to be mid afternoon, the added silence within the house only served as confirmation.

  I needed to get up and check on Mom—we'd both been herded upstairs to bed by Dad and Grams, neither given time to speak, to properly confirm the other was truly well, had really survived the strange horror of the Division 7 lab.

  But my body refused to obey my mental instruction, insisting on staying put, muscles languid and thick as glue, joints afire with a strange inexplicable heat. I shifted again and tilted my head to get a more expansive view of Logan's artistic rendition to my right, a better view than the peripheral vision a single eye had provided.

  Another long slow breath and half a dozen weary heavy-lidded blinks later and I was studying the scorch-mark the way you would stare at a painting hanging on the wall of a museum or an art gallery, the way you'd scrunch up your face and nod to maintain the illusion of approval all the while wondering why in the world art connoisseurs believed ten splashes of red paint on a rusted piece of corrugated iron was considered a true example of modern art.

  But today my expression wasn't in confusion as to the classification of that art but rather the creation of it.

  Logan's explanation the previous night of the creation of the scorch-mark had simmered in the back of my mind, the memory swathed in an entirely different scent of pain. I'd stopped by at the house before Mel was to jump me to the Chief's pre-arranged minivan for transport out of Chicago, and I'd hoped that Logan would have had some explanation for the glaring absence of any form of concern for my health and well-being on his part.

  His absence at the hospital had wounded me deeper than I'd expected it to—and I'd always believed myself to be a very reasonable woman, even within a relationship. As such I would have thought Logan's non-reaction to my at-the-time dire medical state, would have had little to no consequence to me.

  I knew well the depth and breadth of his love for me, knew the trust we'd grown and nurtured, and around which we'd built our love, our passions, and I knew that such an absence of action on Logan's part would have had a multitude of possible reasons.

  And yet, his explanation of having been asleep for most of the time that I'd been in triage and surgery hadn't sat well at all; it niggled, like the feeling of having something stuck in your throat no amount of swallowing would dislodge it, and every time you swallow you get the odd sensation that its still there—not so much a physical feeling but rather a strange knowing, an awareness of its presence even when you have confirmed that nothing is there.

  At least nothing that you can see with your own eyes.

  And I'd accepted his words with an understanding I didn't feel, with an awareness that the balance of things had shifted slightly, not so much as to tip the pair of us into an ocean of turmoil, but just a fraction enough that the world beneath our feet now tilted at a strange and unnatural incline. A change of which neither of us could feign ignorance.

  A change of which we'd both shared in making.

  I blinked a few times, then scrunched my eyes tight, ignoring the spiking of pain in the dark recesses of my brain, the sharp snick that bore a strange malice, as though my pain was sentient and would inflict further agony if I gave it half a chance.

  I raised my shoulders and torso, and let out a soft groan during the valiant battle to sit upright, one that proved a full skirmish with an army of agonizingly sharp lances striking deep within my brain.

  My body screamed, muscles shrieking, joints grating as it fell beneath the onslaught of pain. But my mind—as my mother had happily noted not too long ago—was strong and determined and infallible.

  So I made it all the way to a seated position, legs swung around with my feet now resting on the rug, left foot sinking into thick cool pile, with the right swallowed up by the warmth of the sun-soaked half. I smiled at the incongruity of the sensations, a foot immersed in cold while it's partner was soaking in heat—definitely something that confused a person's brain, that much was sure.

  I cleared my throat and reached for a glass of water from the nightstand. It was a little unsettling that Dad had put me back into my own bedroom—which had housed Logan until just this morning.

  A part of me wanted to sink back into the bed, find the hollow in the mattress that Logan's body had created, where the heat from his fire-sweats had sunk into the foam layers, melting and reforming them to remember the shape of his form. That same part of me wanted to spill the unspent tears that I'd held back with every fiber of my being, wanted to breath in what scent there was left of him within this room.

  But even as I struggled with that temptation, I knew I didn't have the luxury of time. Mel's reminder that the djinn awaited our help in Mithras was the other thing I'd kept on that overcrowded backburner, a reminder too that I needed to check on the tracker.

  From what I'd been told, in snippets of conversation with the Chief, Chloe, Grams and Dad, Mel's exposure to the lighting had sent her on an uncontrolled astral journey. The details of that experience were sparse, as from what I'd also been told, the tracker had fallen unconscious and had been encouraged to sleep as much as possible.

  Grams had assured me that Mel was fine, that her brain activity was still within the normal elevated range for a master teleporter and that—other than unrequested astral travel at the most inconvenient times—she had not appeared to have suffered any lasting physical damage.

  Which was probably not the case when it came to me.

  More sparks flared in my brain as I pushed to my feet, then reached for the robe at the foot of the bed. It was then that I registered that I'd been stripped of my outer clothing and was now wearing a pair of bright pink hot-pants and a neon green tank.

  I grimaced. Whoever had dressed me needed a good talking to. The colors alone were enough to give me a headache, and I had to wonder if this was Lily's idea of a welcome-back-to-the-land-of-the-living prank.

  With short jerky movements I drew the silky knee-length robe over my gaudy underthings, glad that this particular garment had come in a more neutral shade of shimmering copper. The only reason I was not currently rolling my eyes was I knew all too well such a movement would have incurred the wrath of the pain-demon that had taken up residence inside my brain.

  So instead, I tied the silken belt around my waist and knotted it hard before limping slowly toward the door. I found soon enough that activity became easier to endure the more I was in motion, and I was able to leave the room and cross the hall to Greer's old room where Dad has sequestered his other patient.

  Mom.

  Chapter 7

  Sienna led Logan down the halls of the grand Palace of Krytis, where the luxurious furnishings were only slightly less ostentatious as that of his bedroom.

  “So what was the deal with the powder-blue decor?” he asked in a stage whisper as they strode across a long carpeted hall.

  Logan had awakened refreshed and ready, and after a quick meal of a spiced rice dish filled with raisins, nuts and chicken, he felt ready to face his aunt and Great Uncle.

  Sienna glanced over at him. “It used to be your room when you were a baby. For some reason, Aunt Lyra thought that baby bl
ue was appropriate for a grown man.”

  “What color did she choose for you?”

  “She didn't get the chance. I was here when the decorators arrived. They’d swatched your bedroom first, thank goodness.”

  “Thank God for their man-comes-first way of thinking,” Logan whispered again.

  Sienna snickered. “Now, you just behave yourself.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to be the ones in charge?” teased Logan.

  Sienna’s face had taken on an expression of such seriousness that he’d felt a sudden stab of pain in his heart. Was it possible that they’d lose each other to their duties even before they got a chance to enjoy having found each other?

  Now, his sister rolled her eyes at him. “Let’s just get through this without Lyra losing her shit. Smooth sailing will be a good sign.”

  “Is she that bad?”

  “Not all that bad. She’s just used to running things, and of course, now we’re here and we’re taking over the reins, I think she might feels like she’s no longer useful, no longer needed. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “Which could also mean she’d feel as though she was never wanted in the first place,” muttered Logan.

  “Exactly.”

  Logan grunted. “Which would make her a desperate woman,” he said dramatically. “And everyone knows, a desperate woman is a dangerous woman.”

  Sienna chuckled. “I think you have the wrong queen. Lyra’s kind to the core. Her heart is in the right place. But there are people on the council, in the service of the queen, hell even across the damn realm, who have made it clear to her that she never deserved to rule. She’d worked her frickin’ butt off, making sure she looked after the realm, hoping all that time that the Grygyns, would find us.”

  “Grygyns?” Logan frowned. “Er...that like secret agent trackers or something?”

  Logan’s question faded away as they reached the large double doors, also made of gold. The doors were carved to resemble the trunks of a tree, though within the knots glowed gemstones and lines of precious metals.

  Logan grunted softly. “Never thought the tales of dragons being fond of gold were true.”

  Sienna didn't reply. Instead, she just glared a warning at Logan and paused as the doors were opened for them. An armored guard saluted, slapping his open hand onto his breastplate and remained unmoving as Sienna and Logan strode past him.

  “Was I supposed to salute back?” Logan asked out the side of his mouth.

  Sienna didn't reply. A man's loud baritone rang out across the large hall. “All hail Queen Synestra of the House of Yl.” The guard paused, cleared his throat and said, “And her Majesty’s most welcome guest.”

  Logan had almost forgotten Sienna’s name. He’d been reminded of his own true name, his Royal designation as the son of a great ruling family in Drakys by Darcy last night. But he tried to think of himself as Lyandr, or Sienna as Synestra, and his brain just refused to obey. And even now he had to force himself to refrain from wincing at the sound of it.

  Good thing he managed to pull it off as on the dais ahead of Logan and Sienna, a man and woman rose from a pair of golden chairs as the Royal name had been called.

  The woman was tall and curvaceous, though her eyes held a weariness that Logan assumed could only be caused by the weight of an unwanted crown.

  Unless she had wanted that crown after all.

  Then Logan and Sienna had to watch their backs.

  The pair drew to a stop before the dais, but the two occupants had already descended and were standing on floor-level, waiting to greet the arriving siblings.

  Lyra held out her hands. “Ah, Lyandr, my boy. You're the very image of your dear father. I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you.” Logan leaned in for the hug the woman appeared intent on giving. When she finally did release him, Logan was almost certain she was going to ignore Sienna. Or perhaps wave her away. Because, for the briefest moment, Lyra had given Sienna an odd glance.

  Then Lyra turned red and cleared her throat. “I do apologize, Synestra. I fear I have become far too used to treating your majesty as someone in the service of the royal family.” Lyra bowed and remained there as she said, “If you wish to serve a suitable punishment upon me, General Vyrian will advise what options you have to select from.”

  Sienna's mouth had dropped open and she was shaking her head as she stared at her aunt. “I...punishment?”

  “Yes, my dear. I have treated you to one of the highest insults. I will happily take the punishment. And in fact, I quite likely do deserve a lot more for the years during which I was rude to you.”

  Sienna finally found her breath and stepped toward their aunt, grabbing her hands and forcing the older woman to straighten. “Aunt Lyra, please. There's no need for punishment. This is nonsense.”

  Lyra shook her head and refused to look up. “There may well be. I was a real bitch toward you, your majesty.”

  Logan let out a choked laugh, though he managed to turn it into a strangled cough.

  Sienna shook her head again. “Come now, Aunt Lyra. This is ridiculous. What’s gotten into you? We do need to stop this. You can't keep apologizing for the past. You had no idea who I was.”

  Lyra hesitated for a moment, then nodded and straightened at last, though her cheeks were still pink. Logan cleared his throat. “I'm assuming such problems could be avoided in future merely by refraining from being a bitch to anyone at all, don't you think?” asked Logan softly. The general’s head snapped up, the old man struggling to control the grin on his face as he met Logan's eyes.

  Meanwhile, Lyra was nodding and smiling. “That is very true. I shall endeavor to adhere to those rules, Sire.”

  I'm not sure I like Aunt Lyra in this subservient from. She's making me uncomfortable with all this groveling. Especially when she’s never really been unkind to me. Not in any way to justify her constant apologies.

  Logan grunted, a little taken aback at the sound of Sienna's voice in his head. A little warning would be good before you jump into my head.

  What? Did you expect me to knock?

  Logan swallowed the urge to laugh again, glad when the old general stepped forward for his introduction.“I'm Vyrian, Sire. I have had the utmost pleasure in managing the reins for your armies. Though, I too am glad Your Majesty is now here to relieve me of these duties.”

  Logan raised a hand as he smiled at the older man. “I'm sure you've been doing a fine job, Great Uncle, and I don't think it's wise to rush into things. Especially before you show me the ropes.”

  Vyrian nodded slowly, though his gray eyes turned a pale silver and his expression grew more weary—if that were possible. Logan cleared his throat. “Would you be so kind as to remain at my side in an advisory capacity until such time as I feel comfortable to handle things myself. I'm certain I will need the wealth of experience that you've amassed in the the years in which you've looked after the armies in my stead.”

  Old Vyrian nodded, the skin beneath his neck wobbling as the man smiled weakly. “At the risk of appearing rude, would Your Majesty be kind enough to learn fast? I fear I am not long for this world.”

  Sienna's face darkened and her amusement at the man’s request disappeared to be replaced with fear. “Vyrian? That's not something to joke about?”

  “Why not my dear? A Drakyr lives a long and happy life. I'm fast approaching my 350th year and I can't lie that these last years have been good to me. The death of your dear mother had ramifications that were more than any of us had expected.”

  Sienna patted the man's arm, the gentle touch drawing a smile from the old general. “We'll learn fast, Uncle. I promise.”

  The old general smiled down at Sienna, his affection for Logan's sister obvious in the man's eyes. Then Vyrian straightened as he looked over at Logan. “Your Majesty, do you wish to tour the barracks and watch the men in training?”

  Logan glanced at Sienna and then at Lyra. “Is this the process or is there something more formal tha
t needs to take place?”

  Lyra smiled and waved her hand. “There really isn't a process as something like your ascension to the throne has never happened before. There is no precedent so we'll have to play it by ear. There will be an ascension ceremony which will take place in the Stone Palace as soon as you're ready. It's mere formality at any rate.”

  Logan glanced at Vyrian and then at Lyra. “Is there time for us to discuss a few concerns. I'd like to be briefed on the political atmosphere—from what Sienna has said, I believe there are elements of concern?”

  Lyra blinked and then glanced over at Vyrian before letting out a slow sigh. “Uncle, I do believe you've been right all along.” Then the tall elegant blonde let out a soft growl and stamped her foot. “Myrlin’s balls. The Azure Lakes!”

  Logan and Sienna exchanged glances, first of concern and then of amusement as the pieces fell into place.

  “Well, my dear. You've always been a little too confident. Let this be a lesson to you,” Vyrian smirked and winked at Sienna before saying, “I'm assuming you'll arrange delivery of the painting by tonight?”

  Lyra paled, then reddened in two spots on the crest of her cheeks. “Of course, I will, Uncle. I'm a woman of my word.”

  Vyrian inclined his head, though his smile still lingered. Then Lyra brightened as she strode over to the old man and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Now, dearest Uncle, might I enquire as to the distribution of your possessions when you do depart the mortal realm? Could I perhaps request to be named in your legacy as the recipient of The Azure Lakes?”

  “And why would I do that, Lyra?” asked the old man as he led his niece toward a set of double doors along the back wall of the Throne Room.

  Lyra glanced up at the old man, an eyebrow arching in shock. “You wish to leave the Lakes to Kylin?”

  Vyrian harrumphed as the pair strode inside a small meeting room. “Point taken, girl. Perhaps we ought to cancel the delivery. Though it's still mine until I breathe my last.”

  Lyra narrowed her eyes at the old general, then let out a breath. “Agreed. You strike a hard bargain, you old badger.”