His face twisted and he turned away. Winslow took three polite steps to the left and turned to face the street, allotting them a small bit of privacy. Guilt sunk deep into his chest when Rorant turned back. Dorian wondered how he had managed to convince himself that his father could move on. The man had other children to occupy his time after all, what was one less? It was only now, watching his father struggle to form words that he realized how wrong he had been.
"Father ... "
Rorant held up a hand to stop him. "It is all right, Saldorian. I understand enough to know that I will never fully comprehend the painful years you spent away."
And then he turned, leading them down a sharp alleyway formed between two large houses. They curved around several different alleys before the man stopped, pulling himself close to the wall and hiding in the shadows. Dorian and Winslow mimicked the movement. Rorant gestured to the center of the alley just opposite their position and waited.
Bryva stood there, inspecting a large crate. Just beside her was a tall, well-built man in a hooded cloak. The hood could only hide the man's hair. His face was fully visible - smooth, baby-fine features, dark eyebrows, and a nose that seemed flattened into his face.
Dorian knew what was in the crate before Bryva pulled one out. There was only one thing that could upset his father this badly. Still, the sight of the sword as she tilted it, inspecting how straight it was, determining the weight of it in her hand, made the knot in his stomach clench into a rock. The only way to avert total disaster was if Elsie revealed herself as the Heir Apparent. And if Elsie did that before her Ascension Day then Reonne would flee with the Dellidus and Magnellum would be in real trouble.
"Tell me you are not involved in this," his father whispered.
"I cannot," Dorian ground his teeth, fighting for an alternative.
Winslow startled them both, "Nor can I." When he noticed their gazes on him he tugged once on each glove and whispered, "What can I say. I'm in love with the woman. Brazen, fierce ... Fates, I could tell you about passion until you're both blushing ... it hardly matters that she's Untalented."
Giving his friend a smirk, Dorian turned back to the deal in the alley. Elsie was not in sight but he knew she was there. His magic seemed to hone in on her presence and there was no doubt in his mind that she knew he was present as well. This connection between them could not be hidden from each other. Whether she liked it or not, she already did trust him. Or her Talent did at least. The rest of her would follow in time, he was certain of that. Just as he was certain that he trusted her in turn.
"You place me in a difficult position, Saldorian." Rorant whispered.
"They look decent enough," Bryva said to the Seller.
"Of course they are! Fit for the Bedim themselves, worth every penny."
"And now we come to price," Bryva put the sword back into the crate. "We agreed on thirty thousand."
"It's gone up to forty-five."
Winslow hissed, "Thirty thousand! Fates alive! That's more than my annual allowance."
"Thirty thousand," Bryva closed the crate and turned to face the seller.
"Forty."
"Thirty-seven is the maximum here."
"Done," the seller outstretched his hand.
Bryva hesitated and something clenched in Dorian's stomach. There was an oddity about the movement that caught him. It was too deliberate, like a signal or something. He thought for a moment that it might have been the signal for his father's men to advance, but Rorant looked as taken off guard as the rest of them. Whatever was about to happen had nothing to do with the Warders hiding near the alley.
"You are Bryva Gelgova," the seller said as she took his hand. He did not release the hand, keeping her at arms distance. "Also known as Elsie Delgora?"
Dorian inhaled once, sharp and began to search the shadows.
"Delgora," his father whispered and there was a note to his voice that told Dorian the old man had pieced most of the puzzle together now.
Only his father didn't know there were Bedim lurking around, all of them now bent on the contract against Elsie's life. A contract that even Dorian knew originated from Reonne. His mind flashed to the family tree for House Lorant. He hadn't looked at the paper since they'd arrived at Winter Tournament, but he was suddenly bothered by the thing. Somehow, some way, House Lorant was tied to the deaths in Delgora, tied to everything; he just couldn't connect the dots.
Not without Elsie, anyway.
"Where did you get that name?" Bryva kept hold of the arms dealer.
The dealer's eyes widened in panic, and he started to glance at the shadows. "E-Elsie Delgora?"
The alley erupted into movement. Rorant surged forward, calling out for his men to surround the buyer and seller. Dorian kept on his father's heels, searching every nook and cranny in the vicinity for signs of the Bedim, and he knew that there was a Bedim near. His immediate worry was for Elsie - the real target in the situation - but he focused on Bryva. The woman was somehow being mistaken for the real Elsie, which he might thank the Fates for if she survived the night.
He was standing right beside her when it happened. Rorant ordered a search of the surrounding area, Warders moved brisk and professional through the alley in response, and Bryva relinquished the seller into Rorant's care. Winslow moved to her opposite side, giving her a grim smile that Dorian imagined was the man's way of saying she owed him one.
"Father, we need to move her." Dorian nodded to Bryva. "The bastard was signaling someone."
Two small objects hit Bryva mid-chest and Winslow had to scramble to catch her fall. Elsie's voice shouted from somewhere high and across the alley. Everything distorted at once as Elsie went blurring through the street, catching a shrouded black mass of a man as he'd been moving in on Bryva for a confirmation shot. A breathless moment later and the nearest wall cracked under the impact of the Bedim Knight. Debris pattered to the ground from the high rooftop, showering around the two as Elsie began bashing the man's head against the wall.
Dorian's first thought was that she looked like every nightmare he'd ever had. Every ditch he'd crawled through, every sleepless night he'd spent, every sunless hole he'd rammed himself into just to stay alive came crawling back into his awareness. She looked just like one of them, garbed fully in her Bedim clothes, furiously pounding away at the assassin before her.
Winslow sunk to his knees with Bryva's body, shouting at her to try reviving the girl. Conflicted, Dorian hesitated. His friend's anguish struck him in the core and he almost reached for Winslow. But then the wall shook again as Elsie shoved the Bedim against it.
Dorian took a deep breath, and began to advance on Elsie's position. He could sense her fury from where he was. It was fueled by a bottomless pain that reached out to him, wrapped around his magic and threatened to consume him. She slammed the Knight against the wall again and spurred the movement with her own Talent, making the wall shudder. The Warders were watching, uncertain who to defend anymore, looking to Rorant whose main concern rested on confiscating the weapons and restraining the seller.
"Elsie," Dorian moved closer to her, and she began to calm.
Chest heaving, face spattered with blood, she looked at him. Her hands still held the Bedim by the lapels, but the man was limp and gone. He caught her gaze and held it while he took the final steps to her. With slow, careful movements he made her release the Bedim, whose body folded to the ground. As much as he wanted to he didn't dare hold her. Not yet.
"No, no, no," Winslow's voice rose.
Elsie turned and abandoned him, moving off to stand where Winslow cradled Bryva in his arms. He'd removed the darts from her chest and placed one shaking hand over the wounds. Pebble and splinters crunched under his feet as Dorian followed her. Dorian watched her crouch in front of Winslow and pick up one of the discarded darts. She tested it against her tongue. Frustrated shame battled through her grief, he felt the emotion from her.
"Dorian, help me," Winslow looked up at him. "I can't heal he
r."
Elsie reached forward, pushing a stray hair away from Bryva's face. "If only one dart had made its mark there would have been a chance, Lord Agoston. She took two. My sister was dead before she hit the ground."
"We should get her out of the street," Rorant said from his left.
Dorian glanced at him. They both knew he meant Elsie, the real Elsie, and not the body in Winslow's arms. There was a small amount of relief in the fact that he wouldn't have to explain. With a silent nod he moved to Elsie's side. She leaned against his leg in response, gazing at Bryva with a transfixed stare that raised the hair on his neck. Reonne was a dead woman that much was clear.
"What in Fates is going on in my town?" Lord Ivan Lorant burst into the alleyway. Fury cascaded from the man as he took in the scene, clearly understanding everything within a breathless second. His eyes found Elsie. "Is this the Bedim responsible?"
"My Lord, this is a complicated issue," Rorant stepped forward. His body created a barrier between Lorant and Elsie, which seemed to aggravate Ivan further.
"There is no complication. She's a damned Bedim. Arrest her." Ivan reached out and grabbed a pistol from the nearest crate. "On second thought, execute her on my orders. Guilt is clear as day."
Elsie let out a breath through her teeth, the sound reaching him as a hiss. Dorian noticed the undercurrent of hatred she had for Ivan and looked up at the Lord. This, he thought with dawning clarity, was the connection between the Delgora deaths and House Lorant. She began to draw on his Talent, which distracted Dorian enough that he glanced down at her.
"Yetakupo," she murmured the transport spell.
There was no swirling of magic, no announcement of her intentions, no great poof of smoke to bid her farewell. One moment she was beside him and the next she was gone. A heartbeat later and a thunderous crack rent through the street, knocking several of the Warders off their feet and forcing Lorant to grab the crate for support. At the end of the alley a sewer grate exploded open, steam shooting out as one of the pipes burst far below the road.
"Mother, Maiden, and Crone!" Rorant sent him an accusing glare. "Is she a House Witch or a Bedim?"
Dorian smirked down at the empty space beside him. Their combined Talents had caused an indention in the cobbled street, spider cracks zigzagging away from where she had knelt. Not only had she managed a transportation spell, but she'd taken Bryva's body with her. Winslow sat just beside him, arms empty and looking justifiably startled.
"I think she would say she's a little of both, father," Dorian said.
"House Witch?" Ivan sounded horrified.
Looking at the man's face, the pale shock and stricken features, Dorian put the final pieces together. House Lorant had more children than any other, but only two had been blessed with magic. Dorian didn't know the names of all of them since he'd only gone to school with the two Talented offspring. It didn't matter, really. He would stake his life on the theory that Vicaress Reonne was one of the Untalented children of House Lorant.
The only mystery left was how the ambitious, murdering woman had managed to get her hands on a Dellidus.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She spent the night alone, high up in the mountains with no care as to when or how she would return to Lorant. Those were problems that seemed far removed from her. First there was the matter of Bryva's passing. With slow, deliberate care Elsie created the ceremony of burning, sending Bryva into the afterlife as though she were one of the Witch-Born. Some of the higher nobles might have balked at the action, believing that burning an Untalented was sacrilege.
But Elsie knew at least one other had been burnt as a Witch-Born. The Fates had not come down to punish Naharia when Nessa was burnt. And if the Fates had an issue with her actions then Elsie truly hoped, from the depths of her being, that they would come to correct her. Angry was not the word for her current state of mind. She would confront the Fates body and soul, let them curse her or kill her, whichever they chose.
In her opinion she was already cursed and death would be a welcome release.
But the Fates did not come.
Long after the fire had died and the wind had carried Bryva Gelgova's ashes away, Elsie stood at the precipice of the mountain. Snow gave her subdued light, casting the vista before her in soft colors and pressing the cold deep through her clothes and into bones. Still she did not find shelter, merely crouched down to view the sights that greeted her. It wasn't long before the weighted clouds above let loose their moisture and flakes filtered from the sky. Everything became very quiet then. As though the Fates were mourning with her, the stillness of the snowfall became some sort of living sepulcher, touching everything in sight with the loss that Elsie felt in her very core.
How was she ever to tell Naharia, the woman who had been her mother for the bulk of her life, that she had caused the death of her last surviving daughter?
"How do I do this alone?"
For a moment there was nothing, just the soft patter of snow meeting earth and the distant sounds of the wind through the valley below. Elsie felt the silence as if it were a part of her, calm and still in spite of the aching pain in her chest.
"You are not alone."
If his voice had been silk it could not have felt better. She stood again and turned to face Magic. The glow of moonlight reflected off his pale hair, accented all the more by many flecks of snow. It took a moment for her to focus on the man and not the charm. Behind him, standing under a copse of trees was Fate. She stood as the old Crone, hunched over a cane, staring out over the expanse below.
So they had come after all.
"If you intend to curse me for burning an Untalented then I am ready," Elsie watched Magic until he was at her side.
There was no denying his power when he stood so close. It was written on his face in a golden glitter so fine one would never see it from afar. Elsie recognized the symbols etched in his skin; wards. Wards keeping something confined. More than that, she thought restlessly. Her Talent became utterly still in his presence.
"We have no desire to curse you, Elsie Varene Delgora. The ties that bound you to Bryva Gelgova were stronger than that of mere relation." Magic clasped a wrist behind his back and focused out at the valley. "She will be honored in the After."
Elsie stared at him for a moment. "Why have you come then?"
"To bring you hope."
"Hope for what?" The bitterness in her voice caused him to glance at her.
When she met his eyes the whole of her being gasped; wordless, ageless, she might have stood spellbound forever, absolutely void of lucidness. He turned again to face the view but the impact of the moment left her breathless and dizzy. It was only after a silence that she heard him, deep in her core, touching that part of her that would always belong to Him; her Talent.
Hope, he said.
But he did not define it.
Her Talent began to wake.
Hope, he said again, perhaps for Delgora, perhaps for something more.
"You have paid a dear price for Delgora," he said aloud.
It took her a moment to concentrate on the physical again. "The Bedim know me now. Reonne will not mistake me a third time. I have paid in vain."
"How will the Bedim know you?" He asked. "Only Artimus Berkuska knows your true identity."
"The braziers are still lit."
"Extinguish them."
"How?"
"They are tied to your Talent. Ask it to quiet the braziers."
"But my Talent has a nature of its own," Elsie argued. "I do not command it."
"Yet you are unified."
She frowned at him. "If my magic listened to a word I said it would have stayed clear of Saldorian Feverrette."
Magic laughed then and the world seemed to twinkle with the sound of it. "That, dear Delgora, is not a matter of your Talent but a matter of Fate."
"I do not understand," Elsie glanced back at where the Crone stood vigil under the trees.
Magic turned as well, a look of p
ure adoration in his features. "Fate is the ultimate Story Teller. Most days she tells simple stories. Stories of laughter where a person is affected only by the circumstances closest to them. Some days she remembers that every story has an ending to it. And then, dear Elsie, there are those rare stories that she likes to tell." He shifted to slant a blue-gray eye down at her, "Stories of incomparable courage, of love that runs deeper than that of the common person. Yours is such a story, Elsie. And Bryva's part in this tale is ended."
"Then Fate tells a tragedy?"
"Every great story is touched by tragedy." He stepped away from her now. "The Fates wish to speak with you. Understand, Elsie Varene Delgora, that the Fates encompass every extreme of human nature. She is one part evil, one part good and one part indifferent."
Elsie glanced at where Fate waited beneath the pines. To her knowledge, the two Gods had never confronted anyone in private before. Magic arrived at the birth of every Witch-Born to bless the child with however much Talent he deemed appropriate but was otherwise out of public view. Fate Herself was rarely seen even inside the Median Temples that had been erected in her honor. Elsie felt both humbled and flattered that they had come to her.
"You are permitted to ask her one question," Magic said, gesturing for her to go.
"What?" She glanced between Magic and Fate and started to panic. "Speak to Fate?"
Magic chuckled again and nodded over to the pines. "Yes. Speak to Fate. She has waited some time for this moment; try not to keep her waiting further."
"But, won't she already know my question?"
"Just because it is written into the future, doesn't mean it cannot be altered. And the knowing of something foretold never cheapens the actual event. In fact, it builds the moment for Fate. Now go."
With tentative steps Elsie made her way to the patch of pines. The Fates seemed to battle with each other, Mother, Maiden, and Crone filtering through the physical image before her. They were still shifting when she reached them.
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