by Cat Bruno
Her question caught him by surprise, and he stumbled a bit as he stepped back again. Before she could make a decision regarding the girl, she needed to understand as much as she could. And only he knew what she sought.
“I can only assume that it was for her protection. You are asking me to try to understand something that has not yet happened! But, I can well imagine the danger one such as she might face. Why would she not come to me with this? Why has she not sought my help?”
“There are reasons that we are not meant to know our future, Conri, before the path clears in front of us. I have waited many moon years for one path to open, yet here I am set to embark on one that I never could have imagined. One that I do not understand, nor like overmuch, but do not fool me into thinking you know nothing of it.”
As he was still many steps from her, Conri raised his voice in answer, deep and rough, all traces of smoothness lost to the wind, “There is much that you do not know, Bronwen, which has kept you safe for many moon years, one of few gifts that I could offer. I have tried to let what happens be your choice, as I have done since we first met, but it is no longer so simple.”
He continued, “There has been a struggle of late within my people, and I fear that in the moon years to come, especially in the girl’s time, things will not be as they are now, or as they were. For moon years, we have not warred with mage or kin, but that is changing. Perhaps that is why I gave her the dagger, but I have not the same skill as she seems to possess and I know not what the future holds. In the end, I must answer to him, as all my kind must, and even I do not know what it is he seeks.”
A deep frown crossed her face then, wrinkling her forehead, and she cried, “Then I will ask him what he plans for the girl!”
Without a sound, Conri was upon her, and, in a blink of an eye, he had wrapped his arms about her, his mouth against her ear, hissing, “Be careful, Bronwen. Do not seek him. Do not even speak of him. He hears all, especially that which concerns him, and you long ago caught his eye. He might even know that the girl visited you this evening, and, as strong as she may be, even she could not hide from him. Do not draw any more focus upon yourself or the girl. There is only so much that I can do to keep you both safe.”
Conri’s warm breath tickled her neck, stirring the hairs on her arms to stand on end, her heart to flutter, and her eyes to water, with fear or anticipation, she could not tell. He stepped away from her, and closed his eyes.
In a voice edged in fire, he pleaded, “Bronwen, you must go!”
Yet she stayed. Images flashed through her head, jumbled and out of sorts. Herself, as a child, lying next to a small fire, Conri pacing around her. Later, after she had been brought to the Academy, walking across the sand, apart from the other kids her age, Conri walking softly in step with her. Next, an image of a small child, one that she could not ever seen, yet knew, eyes as green as the Northern hills, hair as dark as night. The child stood alone, clutching at the dagger, tears and dirt dancing on her cheeks, eyes ablaze with anger.
Then, the world appeared to darken further, and the twinkling girl from Willem’s painting replaced the crying child. Older now, she smiled, a look both saddening and uplifting, heartbreaking, yet reassuring. In her hand, unnoticed until now, she held a sprig of lavender, the tiny tendrils of purple blossoms gently budding as she knelt down beside an herb garden, although Bronwen noticed even through the foggy image that the girl was not on the grounds of the Academy.
So she is my daughter too, Bronwen thought, her life pulse quickening at the sight of the girl tending herbs.
Bronwen knew then what had to be done, and what she had to do. Only, now, she understood why she did it. Her daughter needed to live, to bring light to the shadowed world, to heal what the warring Tribe would destroy.
Closing her eyes and willing herself to be calm, Bronwen ignored Conri’s words, erased each picture from her mind that had been there moments before, and breathed deeply, inhaling all and nothing, the salty air tingling as it traveled deeper and deeper into her.
If Conri spoke, she could not hear him. If he moved, she could not sense it. If he touched her, she could not feel it. She breathed, knowing as if she had never forgotten, that meeting him many moon years before had changed everything. Bronwen readied herself, her mind clear and her face ablaze.
Finally, she lifted her head, her eyes rimmed in the golds and greens of the Eirrannian land, smoldering, and locked her gaze with Conri’s, letting his violet eyes read what was now written so clearly in hers.
Then, swallowing hard, Bronwen softly said, “Conri, you must keep her safe. I ask nothing more. Keep her safe. Promise me that.”
Bronwen watched unflinchingly as Conri’s eyes darkened from violet to a deep, dense plum, before turning deep ebony. Knowing that he struggled, yet, still, she needed his word and waited for his response.
Now that she had chosen, Bronwen felt a strange calm, and, feeling emboldened, she stepped forward, closer and closer, until only the misty breeze was between them, and she could smell him, his scent like nothing she could recall, a mix of Northern pines and the Tretorian salty air. Something deeper lingered, a smell older than the mountains, older than the sea, older too than the sand beneath their feet. As if he had been there when time itself was created.
When she reached up to stroke his fine eyelashes, amazed yet by the change, Conri was nearly undone, and she could feel his body shake beside her.
“Bronwen, you must decide,” he begged.
“Give me your word, that is all I seek. Promise to protect her and shield her, at all costs, even if you must never see her Conri. Keep her from the dark, until she learns the light. She shines, Conri, bright and true, yet she has no fear of the shadows. She will be of both worlds, yours and mine, and can bridge the two in peace,” she whispered.
He hissed, and she wondered if he had even heard her words, “You have my word, Bronwen. She will be yours.”
More he could not say, as his hands had escaped from his side, his long coat thrown to the side, dark and crumpled on the sand. She let her sight linger on the coat, even when she discovered his breath against her cheek, his hands on her waist. Even as he pulled her to him. Still she did not look to him, focusing instead on the dark coat as it lay on the wet sand. Bronwen felt no fear, nor any shame; nothing had changed. The wind still blew off the sea, the waves still lapped at the shore, the moon still shone, lower now, and the morning sun still peeked from beyond the sea, tucked under the horizon and waiting to rise. Nothing had been altered. Yet, soon, all would be changed.
Opening up in front of her, step by step, was a path, god-touched, and Bronwen was finally ready to walk it, she decided.
She collapsed then, letting him support her. When he began to undress her, she did not struggle, nor did she refuse. As if she was the sea, she let herself wash over him, in gentle waves, rolling and smooth. No words of protest were spoken, although she knew that he would not be able to stop now, even if she objected. She could feel his hands on her, the unnatural strength and power of them, even as he tried to contain it.
Where he touched her, she felt burned, his fingers like ice, yet blazing with flame.
As Conri lifted her tunic over her head, she looked just over his shoulder, smiling as her knife-altered shift landed near his black and sand-covered coat. When she brought her gaze back to him, willing herself to watch as her life shifted, Bronwen wondered what she would find.
Stripped of his coat and shirt, he stood unmoving for a moment in his snug-fitting breeches, pale and shining like a low moon. As he glistened under Luna’s kiss, Bronwen remembered the story of the goddess and her sons, one light, one dark. Before her stood one who was kin to the dark, yet, here, showered in the silver fingers of Luna, she saw no darkness in him.
And she kissed him.
As her lips met his, shadows consumed her, draping her in a thick, dense blanket, and the world around her turned foggy as a strange mist rose from the sea. Where his hands touched, dow
n her sides and along the low curve of her back, her skin ached, pulsing and pained. It was not unpleasant, she thought, only distracting, as her skin throbbed in response. A trail of ice followed where his fingers stroked, and Bronwen soon grew chilled, her skin cold and burning, and she shivered uncontrollably, until Conri noticed.
He moved his fingers in the air behind him, while one hand still lay at her back, and chanted words that she could make little sense of. But, within moments, the two were encircled in flames, burning freely and hovering above the sand, where neither wood nor tinder had been. The fire was warming all the same, the flames rising around them, flickering and towering. A lifetime ago, Bronwen would have feared the flames, she thought, yet, now, it was little more than a show of power, and she welcomed their warmth.
Soon, it was as if nothing existed outside the flaming circle. Not beach, not sea, not life, even. Quickly, she glanced at him, boldly, barely recognizing the man before her. Had the fire not contained her, she might have tried to flee, Bronwen suddenly thought, her life pulse thumping beneath her bare skin. His eyes were a black that she had not yet seen, bottomless and without reflection, without a whisper of light in them.
She knew not the man who stood before her. His body, long and lean, pale and silver, was still his. His hair, black and shining, fell across his shoulders, and his long fingers weaved through her hair, hands that she remembered. Yet, there was something about him that she could not name, more than just shadow, more than just need. As if they were not fully alone.
Spinning, Bronwen gasped, but still she did not try to flee, understanding that the girl would be created here, another path opening. Still, Bronwen longed for some sign, some word that she was not making a mistake.
None came, and the only noise that she could hear was her breath as it whistled through her lips. And, soon, Conri was upon her, whispering words that she could make no sense of, although they sounded similar to the ones he had used to summon the fire.
Pulling her toward him, he kissed her, hard.
It was not the same as when she had kissed him, and, after his first taste, he seemed unsatisfied. When he pulled her closer yet, she shook, her body so near to him she could taste the salt on his lips and smell the pine in his hair. Without words, he kissed her again, nearly devouring her with lips, tongue, and teeth. There was blood on her tongue, whose, Bronwen did not know, and her lips were swollen and sore, yet she did not back away from him. There was pleasure there, too, she thought, surprised.
Again, he kissed her, starting at her lips before sliding down to her chin, her neck, her exposed chest. Where his lips departed, his fingers lingered, touching and stroking. As he ran the long fingers over her lips, Bronwen tasted blood again, her own she now knew, trickling from her bottom lip, swollen and sliced, as if she had been clawed.
Had Conri not been cradling her in his arms, she might have fallen to the sand, as her knees weakened and her heart flashed. This is different, she thought, frightened, yet craving more.
Nothing else existed as he seduced her. Forgotten was the girl, her past, her life. Who she had once been. Nor could she remember what would soon be. As he kissed her, as his fingers reached for her, as he stood shaking and hungry before her, Bronwen forgot even herself. Light and dark swirled and danced, intertwined like ribbons, blowing in the wind, glowing within the fire circle until she could no longer tell where her body stopped and his started. Man became wolf; wolf became man. She became him, and he her. Yet, when she opened her eyes, it was still Conri who stood before her.
While she felt his fingers trail down her body, she also watched, as if from outside the circle, apart and safe.
Coming back to herself, Bronwen abandoned all restraint, all thought and control, until she was little more than a part of Conri. A vessel of power.
Rexaria. Over and over, the word echoed through her head, in languages and voices she could not recognize.
Sometimes, she could taste tears at the corners of her lips, as salty as the forgotten sea. Her body ached, sore and burning, but Bronwen realized that she no longer trembled with chills. Her arms still hung at her sides, afraid to explore, afraid, perhaps, of what they would find. Back and forth, she fought. Wanting to let her hands explore his body, yet trembling at the thought.
Finally, deciding to embrace her path, Bronwen wiped the tears from her face with the back of a raised hand and opened her green-gold eyes. And she let herself fall.
Falling is exactly what it felt like, as she let go and dropped.
Slowly lifting her arms, she reached for Conri’s face, still that of a man. Bronwen combed his hair from his forehead and cheeks, where it hung, covering his blackened eyes. Next, she forced herself to look upon him, to see him. To see whom he had become.
Behind those blackened eyes, Conri remained. There was no doubt, and if Bronwen had not found him there too, she would not have had the strength to continue, she knew.
Changed, god-touched, yet present. She kissed him, delicately, in contrast to what he had done to her, with a healer’s tenderness, weaving her light into his darkened soul, as if she could mend him.
Again and again, she touched him, letting her hands travel at will, without shame, with complete abandon, twinkling strands of light dripping from her fingers as she painted his skin. She could feel him quake where her fingers brushed. With longing or with pain, Bronwen could no longer guess.
As his god watched, so did hers, the Northern gods, ones she forgot or ignored, ones who did not fear the dark, but welcomed it as brother. Gods and god-kin who had both light and dark in them and did not hide nor did they cower.
Bronwen again looked to her hands, staring with blazing eyes at the glow that edged her fingers, soft and smooth as an orb-light. She had no talent for mage-craft, nor had she ever, nor would she when the night ended, she knew. But, she was not alone here, and that was enough to sustain her, to guide her, reassuringly, along her new path. If they were watched, Bronwen could not tell, and she tried to put the thought from her mind, which was easy to do once Conri pulled her closer.
The sky reddened, and the sun rose behind the sand dunes. The light that trailed behind her was brightening still, while Conri’s eyes seemed less dark under the shine from her fingers. When she attempted to speak, he silenced all that she would have said, stealing the words from her lips with a kiss that thundered above, around, and beyond them.
As dawn broke, Conri laid her upon the sand. Bronwen gasped as if the waves themselves had crashed into her, breath seized from her body. What was once bright soon darkened, and where she had just before spotted the sun, darkness lingered. Conri’s dark eyes glimmered, shining more dangerously than the atraglacia blade.
Again, the waves pummeled onto her, forcing her to cling to Conri to stay above the pulsating tide. He no longer watched her. He no longer whispered. He only moved, shattering Bronwen, then piecing her back together, over and over, broken into shards of herself, then, as he breathed into her, she would become whole again. Thrusting and pushing, panting and whispering, aching and healing. Apart then together. Two then one. Light and darkness mingling, until Bronwen knew nothing but gray, shadow and sun.
And then it was as if she knew nothing at all. As if she no longer breathed.
When it was over, Conri fell from her, landing on his knees in the sand, with his forehead hovering just above the ground, breathing hard and shaking. Neither noticed the black-winged bird streaking across the orange-streaked sky.
46
Rolling onto his side was more difficult than he thought it would be and pain exploded near his stomach, his skin raw and burning. The last thing that he had remembered was looking into the graying sky, and heavy rain falling onto the ship’s deck, causing his cloak to stick to his chest. He also remembered lots of running as large flashes of lightning darted across the sky. Straining his memory, he heard thunder and felt the slick boards beneath his booted feet, the boat rocking uncontrollably from side to side.
Yet,
he knew now that he had fallen and that he was brought here, where he now found himself lying on a small cot in a lemon-scented room. Bandages covered his upper body, from hip to neck, and were wound tight, so tight that he couldn’t move under the strain. His thoughts were often foggy, partly from pain and partly from the poppy milk the healers gave him, yet he knew he had been gone from the ship for a quarter-moon or more.
As he struggled to sit up, the entrance to his room darkened.
“Have you come with something to ease the pain?”
Silence followed his question, and Byron blinked, trying to dislodge the haze that had settled across his eyes. The pain grew worse, and this time he couldn’t stop the moaning that came from his lips, especially once the man neared him. Byron tried to scream, but his words were silenced with a quick gesture from the dark-clothed man who stood at the edge of his bed.
“It is no use, they cannot hear you. The room has been warded.”
Words as cold as ice and as sharp as a newly honed blade.
He screamed in protest anyway, over and over again, as recognition and understanding dawned on him. His throat was raw, yet he continued, until laughter cut him short, and he looked to see the man gripping the end of the narrow cot, laughing while his eyes darkened.
“Where you are from?” the man growled, laughing no more.
Byron stared at the man and stuttered, “What is it that you want from me?”
“If you want to live, you will answer me.”
Byron shook, trying to keep as still as he could manage, failing. His midsection stung with an intense, stabbing pain.
Dizzy and confused, he answered, “I am from south of here, a little fishing village named Tallaco. What is it to you, anyway? I did what was asked of me.”
“Tallaco? I shall find it when I am finished here. What of your wife? Is she there then?”
