Though his hair was as thick as ever, it was now streaked with gray.
“I can imagine how confusing all this is,” Arman continued on, “but you must keep in mind her place.” Here, he paused. “I couldn’t help but notice the other night that you have already broken with tradition.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The door,” Arman answered slowly, purposefully enunciating the two simple words. When he had visited Toran’s private chambers, he had been surprised to find that his nephew had installed a normal working door in the chamber of the faine. It was as if Toran actively sought to make his faine more at ease with her captivity.
Arman thought it an exceedingly naive thing to do, but he’d work with it.
“I don’t owe you any explanations.” Toran rose from his chair and planted his hands on his hips, ready for a fight.
Arman sized him up.
“I’m just trying to warn you,” he chose to say, “to guard against what this faine will try to offer you… that sense of ease… None of it is real, none of it is true.”
“What I do with my faine is none of your concern.”
“Ah, but it is,” Arman continued, undaunted. “This kingdom’s future is at stake. Being the predator she is, this faine will try to twist you up inside to take advantage of your feelings, to steal your strength. For the sake of the gods, you stood witness to your own father’s destruction at the hands of his faine.”
At that, his nephew clenched his jaw.
Satisfied, Arman softened his voice. “And, given your curse,” he said, “I’m sure the promise of the faine is a heady temptation indeed. It’s something you may even come to crave like the very air you breathe.”
Toran's venna pulsed like lightning in the room.
“Fight against this, son,” Arman counseled, carefully balancing the tight rope between push and pull. “Do not be confused by any perceived feelings for her. She is simply the means to your end.”
“My end, Arman?”
“The means to your destiny, of course,” Arman replied, quickly smoothing over his gaffe. “You know what I mean.”
“Quit trying to imply that I don’t understand what is at stake here,” Toran answered. “Unlike others before me, I understand my duty.”
“Exactly!” Arman clapped his hands together. “You are the Tenn, the strongest of the Strong. Unlike my brother, you will never fall under the thrall of a faine. Thus, there is much reason to rejoice.”
“Good gods, give it a rest.”
“Are you not eager to become king?” Arman couldn’t help himself; the barest tone of mocking escaped his lips.
At it, Toran narrowed his gaze, his searching eyes locked on Arman’s face.
Arman held his breath.
“It’s not that,” Toran answered after a moment.
“Ah, it’s your bride, then.”
Toran turned away.
“You shouldn’t look at marriage as a prison, son,” Arman said amiably to Toran’s back, once again secure in the fact that his nephew would never suspect a thing. “You will be free to be with others. As with all royal Vimora unions, after your initial marriage night, coupling with your bride is purely an every-now-and-then burden you must undertake to ensure the purity of your offspring.”
Toran said nothing.
“After marriage,” Arman continued, “you may choose to lay with a host of your kind, hearty daemon females ready and willing to serve your needs. You could even do so before, if you’re so inclined––once you work things out with your faine, of course.” He bit back a smile. “I don’t see where you get this idea that you owe faithful allegiance to the marriage bed.”
“Really, Arman? Can you not?” Toran turned back to face him. He leaned forward and rested his knuckles on his desk. “Why the fuck are you here?” he asked. “I don’t need a marriage counselor.”
Mimicking Toran's stance, Arman placed two gnarled hands on the other side of the desk, eager to get down to the real business at hand.
“I’m here,” he said, “because we have a problem.”
*****
For once, his uncle’s familiarity felt all too patronizingly smooth.
It grated.
Arman knew full well that it was infidelity that had landed them in this mess in the first place.
Yet here Arman stood… taunting him.
“Tell me what you have come here to say.” Toran raised his voice. “Now.”
“The Sorcieri are unhappy,” Arman answered.
“Really?” Standing up to his full height, Toran folded his arms across his chest. “What else is new?”
“Narcyz is behind on our payments,” said Arman. “Again.”
Toran let out a stream of curses.
“How is this my problem, uncle?” he asked at last. “Isn’t it you who rules alongside him?”
The air in the room throbbed as a pulse of his uncle’s venna collided with his own.
They stared each other down, the dual council a sore subject as always for everyone involved.
“He will not be reasoned with,” Arman growled at last. “You know this.”
Oh, Toran knew alright. The entire Mythos knew Narcyz was an intractably pompous ass. Most refused to deal with him. Thus, the Vimora’s near friendless existence.
“He’ll not be reasoned with because he knows you’ll ask that I step in to save his hide,” Toran retorted.
“Yes,” Arman drew out. “But now Feliks refuses to negotiate future terms. He’s threatening to drop the protection spells completely.” Here, the old daemon paused before adding, “If he does, the entire eastern half of Baltia will be exposed.”
“We’ve faced worse before.” Toran waved him off. “Merus can handle what magic we have of our own to shore up defenses. Only if things go south will I speak with Feliks.”
“It may not be that simple,” Arman replied.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It seems that Narcyz has had a change of heart.”
“About giving me Sarai?” Out of nowhere, Toran’s own heart leapt.
“No, not about that,” answered Arman, a small smile playing at his lips.
“What are you talking about?” Toran found himself for a moment confused, the fine hairs on his nape standing at attention. He could swear he could feel the old man’s smugness.
His uncle’s next words jarred him back to reality.
“I’ve heard from reliable sources that Kellen and his band of rebels have been marked for death.”
“What the…” Stunned, Toran fell back into his chair. He opened his mouth. Then closed it. “And, you think Narcyz has called for this?” he finally managed to ask. “He doesn’t have the authority to pass a death sentence. Only the king can…”
“He may not have the authority,” Arman interrupted coolly, “but he has the coin.”
“Why would he risk this? It doesn’t make any sense.” Toran shook his head. “You yourself said that having them killed would…”
“Who else then?” Arman challenged. “Who else would want them dead?”
“It would serve the Sumari to pay to take them out,” offered Toran.
“Yes, but why would the fire daemons not just be content to let you battle the rebels? As they continue to probe the borders?”
“Because they know that I can’t risk killing Kellen’s men.”
“They would know this how?”
Toran had no answer to that. Outside the borders of Venn Dom, the driving cause of his curse was well buried beneath centuries of subterfuge and deflection. Only a handful of people, Narcyz included, knew of his weakness.
“It seems to me,” said Arman, “that this is simply Narcyz signaling he’ll not give up Baltia without a fight.”
Again, Toran had no answer.
“Perhaps we should look at this as an opportunity,” Arman ventured after a moment. “Strategically speaking, the rebels would most likely disband should something be
fall their leader…”
“I’m not doing Narcyz’s dirty work.” Toran was quick to dismiss his uncle’s suggestion. Narcyz had pursued his son for centuries, seeking to destroy the daemon for untold sins that went way beyond Kellen’s war against him. Toran would be damned if he’d do Narcyz the favor of taking the daemon’s life.
As if reading Toran’s mind, his uncle offered up, “I’m just saying that perhaps it would be best if you cut off the head of the snake now… when you are at your strongest.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“The faine will change things, son,” said Arman. His voice grew harsh as his argument from earlier came crashing to the fore, his venna sizzling in time with his anger. “It’s what they do.”
This, Toran could not deny, a spark of his own venna hissing resentfully in the air.
Arman wasn’t finished.
“I’ll remind you, too,” he said, “that you have every right––indeed, it’s your godsdamned duty––to protect what’s yours.” Arman shook a crooked finger in warning. “Kellen isn’t stupid. He and his rebels will come for your faine. I shouldn’t need to remind you that if that happens, you will never have what you want.”
Toran stood quickly and turned towards the window.
As he looked out upon the vestiges of his ruined and dying kingdom, he could see that he could allow nothing to come between him and his crown. Given his curse, mass bloodshed within the Vimora must be avoided at all costs in the critical months ahead.
Killing Kellen was the smart play, plain and simple. Accomplishing such a task would be easy enough once he finally set his mind to do it.
He’d just have to get Merus to…
Toran nearly choked on his next breath.
The rest of Arman’s arguments faded into nothing as a different reality of what this meant set in.
Despite the fact that it was obvious that Kellen had to die, all Toran could think was, What the hell am I going to tell Merus?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After leaving Toran to his work, Liv made her way down the bridge that separated Caisteal Vimora from the village below. Despite each step that took her further away, she could feel their connection. It was as if an elastic band stretched between them––a taut, yet gentle tug beckoning her back to his presence.
The sensation was exhilarating.
After a confusing night spent alone––her first conscious night in Venn Dom––Liv was also heartened by his behavior this morning. Though he looked as tired as she felt, Toran seemed much more focused, stable even––so at odds with how he’d been yesterday before abruptly leaving her dazed and alive with his venna.
When the two daemons had shown up, she had also felt Toran's instinctive urge to protect her. The heat of his venna flowing between them had calmed her heart, feeding her, giving her strength.
That meant something.
So, encouraged by the difference a night had made, Liv hadn’t wanted to leave Toran's side.
Unfortunately, the other two daemons’ oppressive presence overpowered any thoughts of staying. While today Toran’s uncle had held his emotions close to his vest, there was no doubting his was the evil energy she had sensed when she had first found herself in Toran's room.
In the Elder’s case, his aura had reeked of depravity.
Neither were to be trusted.
Just as Toran had stepped up to shield her from Diogo’s malevolent gaze, Liv too felt an instinctive need to protect him, to speak up about her concerns, to explain to him her ability to sense…
She gasped.
Liv doubled over and retched, her stomach revolting at the fetid stench of despair that clung like garbage to the village she used to call home.
Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, she blinked back the sting of tears as she took in the devastation before her.
Physically, the village had changed little since the night Liv had been spirited off the plane.
Small, quaint thatch-roofed cottages still lined the narrow cobblestone streets. But gone were the pleasant shops and easy-going denizens. Gone, too, were the bustling sounds of commerce and the welcoming air of a vibrant community.
Now, it was practically a ghost town. Its quaintness belied its very feel, which was mean and sinister––and sadly defeated.
The Elden who were out on the street eyed her with sullen suspicion wrapped in apathetic savagery. It was as if they yearned to do her harm… if they could just summon up the motivation to do so.
Goosebumps erupted across her skin.
As she turned to flee, Liv was shocked to see a spark of life in the form of a young daemon boy running her way. The child, who looked to be no more than five years old, ran on happy legs, giggles streaming from his mouth. A few yards behind him, a young daemoness followed in dogged pursuit.
“Where do you think you’re going, Josea?” She yelled in his direction, no venom in her voice. “Come back here, you little monster.” Seeing Liv down the way, she stopped and waved. “Hey there, can you grab him for me please?”
Eager to help, Liv moved quickly into the path of the fugitive, corralling him in her legs.
Out of breath, the female caught up with them. Reaching down, she hoisted the boy into her arms. She was strikingly beautiful, tall and statuesque with deep chestnut hair highlighted with just a touch of auburn. Heavy bangs draped across her forehead as straight, longer locks fell just past her shoulders. Strong boned but exquisitely feminine, she had stunning sapphire eyes that flashed with humor.
“Thanks,” she said with a smile. Turning to the boy, she said, “Josea, you can’t just take off whenever you please. I know you’re a big boy but you can’t play in the street! Let’s get you home.” The child continued to squirm, now laughing as she tickled him.
“He’s adorable,” Liv said. Still locked tight in the potent grip of Toran's venna, Liv took the child’s small hand in hers, reveling in the feel of his baby-soft skin. “Is he yours?”
“No, this little guy doesn’t belong to me. I’m his doctor.”
“His doctor?” Liv asked. “Is he sick?”
“No, he’s fine. The others were busy with the other kids, so I figured I’d better grab him before he escaped off the ‘el entirely.” The daemoness smiled again. “I’m Anara. I run the hospital here in Venn Dom.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Liv.”
“You’re Toran's faine, right?”
Though she blushed, Liv nodded.
“Well, Liv,” Anara said with a warm smile, “welcome back to Venn Dom. I’m happy for you both.”
Liv blushed again.
Her smile leaving her face, Anara glanced up and down the road. “Look,” she said, “I’m not sure you should be wandering around here alone.” Hitching the boy higher on her hip, she gave a nod in the direction she’d come from. “Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll give you the lay of the land?”
And, just like that, Liv found herself walking beside the doctor.
“I can’t believe how much this place has changed,” Liv said. Though she’d been gone nearly six hundred years, time passed slowly in the Mythos. It would have taken a near-cataclysmic rift in the status quo to give rise to such devastating decay.
“I was born a couple of decades after the Cleansing ended.” Anara shrugged, confirming Liv’s suspicion. “I hear it used to be nice.”
“It was,” Liv answered, “once upon a time.”
“You know,” the doctor said after a moment, “I’ve never known a Venn Dom other than the one that exists today.”
Liv said nothing as they walked along the path.
“Look, I know I’m being nosy, but I can’t help it.” Anara swept out a hand with a shrug. “I have to know… how did you survive on the human ‘el? Without exposure to the venna?”
“I don’t know if you’d call it surviving,” Liv replied, not minding the female’s curiosity. She had questions of her own. “I got by. At the end, before I was found,
I worked at a mixed martial arts gym as a massage therapist.”
Anara looked her over with an appraising eye.
“That’s a very smart coping strategy for dealing with your acute neuropathy.”
“Acute neuropathy?” Liv had never heard her condition described as such. “Is that what’s wrong with me?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘wrong’ because it’s simply a condition caused by lack of adequate nourishment,” Anara answered. “But, yes, I believe your inability to process touch is a dysfunction in your peripheral nerves, which causes the acute numbness.”
Anara was certainly correct about the numbness.
“I’m assuming you were able to feed off of the energy of mortals more efficiently through physical contact, thus allowing you to maintain some semblance of tactile sensation, not to mention your consciousness.”
Once again, Anara was correct.
“Can I ask you another question?” Anara glanced in Liv’s direction.
“Sure.”
“How did you escape from here?”
“To be honest,” said Liv, “I don’t remember much.” Just barely fourteen years old and terrified of the utter chaos around her, Liv had lived in hiding from the moment the Cleansing began. She had been passed from one faine family to the next until, one day not too long after hearing of her mother’s death, she had been taken from her bed in the dead of night. The only thing Liv remembered clearly was a barrage of emotions from the confused and conflicted spirit who had delivered her out of Venn Dom.
“You’ve probably blocked most of it out,” Anara said quietly. “I’m sure all of it was quite traumatic.”
“It was,” Liv agreed.
“Perhaps someday your memory will return.”
“Perhaps.”
They walked in silence up to an enormous brick structure surrounded by a low rock wall. The building was painted a soft yellow and featured two rows of white-curtained windows. Despite its cheery facade, a sense of sadness draped it like a veil.
Liv could hear the sound of children playing.
“Is this a school?” she asked, grateful for a change of topic. She didn’t remember this place at all from her youth. It was definitely new.
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