Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The door slammed open with a loud crash, the lock breaking. He stood in the doorway, his sword drawn, his black sable cloak thrown over one shoulder. He ran a hand through his midnight black hair and, in the sunlight that poured through the tower’s only window, he seemed to glow. His handsome features were full of worry. His stern gaze swept the room, a hero who would let nothing stand between him and his love. Deciding they were alone, he slammed his sword back into its scabbard without looking and ran to her bedside. He untied the ropes that bound her then knelt, clasping one of her hands in his, “My love, are you alright? Did those heathens hurt you?”

  “I’m okay,” she said and, in truth, she felt better than she ever remembered feeling. His hands were warm around hers, and she found herself blushing. “I knew you’d come.”

  “I’ll always come for you,” he said, his face earnest and open and somehow vulnerable, as if scared of what she might say.

  “Oh Quintin,” she breathed and then, before she could loser her nerve, she kissed him. He was startled at first, but then he leaned forward, wrapping her in his strong arms, and kissed her back. She’d never felt so protected, so safe.

  Slowly, he withdrew, and she looked into his eyes, so bright blue, like tiny chips of ice, yet somehow warm, and her heart fluttered in her chest. “Princess,” he breathed, “I’m not worthy of—”

  “Sir Knight,” she said, running a hand through his thick black hair. Divines, how she’d wanted to do that. “You are more than worthy.”

  He caught her hand in both of his, kissing the inside of it gently, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh, “I love you, Leandria.”

  “And I you.”

  She could feel his hand on her shoulder, gentle yet insistent. Her smile turned to a frown as she noticed that both of his hands still clasped her own. How, then, was he holding her should--“Leandria.” His mouth didn’t move, he only stared at her, adoration shining in those bright blue eyes, as if he’d somehow been frozen in that single, perfect moment. “Leandria.” Again the voice, a familiar one but not Quintin’s.

  “Leandria.” The voice was insistent now, worried.

  Leandria Parsinian opened her eyes with a sigh and looked at the figure sitting on the side of her bed. “Father?” She asked, her dream-muddled mind struggling to understand.

  Arafel Parsinian, Lord and Protector of the Anamandian kingdom, breathed a deep sigh. “Praise be to Andolesia.”

  Andolesia? The Divine of Health and Well-being? Leandria shook off the remnants of the dream and realized she was in her bedroom in the castle. She sat up in the bed, pushing her long blonde hair—mussed from sleep—out of her eyes. “Father?” She asked again, “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “No, no, my sweet. Everything is fine. It’s just … you lay there so quietly … I grew worried.”

  Leandria looked at her father and noticed the dark rings—more and more common of late—under his eyes. “I’m fine, father. You worry too much.”

  “I know, daughter,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair and she noticed, for the first time, that there were small patches of gray in it. He smiled, embarrassed, “I’m sorry. I know I am being foolish but sometimes I worry.”

  She sighed, fighting back an unexplainable feeling of foreboding brought on by the gray in her father’s once dark hair, and clasped his hand in hers. “I know, father, but truly you need not worry so much. I’m sleepy,” she said with a smile on her face to show that she was joking, “but I’m fine.”

  He laughed, “You remind me of her, you know. She always slept so soundly, the same as you, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. You take after her in that, as in so many things.”

  Leandria felt the pleasantness of the dream begin to drift away as she was faced with the familiar guilt. She’d never known her mother, Oriana Parsinian, who had died giving birth to her, but it was said the entire city had gathered for her funeral procession, grown men and women weeping openly as the veiled body was carried through the streets to the royal crypts. A woman well loved by her people, known for her compassion, for her dedication to helping the poor and sickly. A woman who, in her very birth, Leandria had murdered. Oh, no one had ever accused her of such, of course, but it was true just the same.

  “I love you, Leandria.” The words reminded her of the dream once more, of Quintin’s face, so handsome and so caring, of the way he’d looked standing in the sunlight, his cloak thrown behind him, his face held up in challenge like some hero of legend come to life.

  “Leandria?” Her father asked, “You look flushed, my dear. Here, I’ll send for the healers—”

  He was halfway to his feet already before Leandria overcame her embarrassment enough to grab his arm, “I’m fine, father, please. I feel great.”

  He hesitated then finally eased himself down on the bed once more, studying her, his thick black eyebrows crinkled in concern, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, father. It must have been something I dreamed, that’s all.” She felt her face begin to burn once more. Divines save me.

  “Oh?” He asked, “Well, it must have been quite a dream.”

  Leandria swallowed, “I’m sure I don’t remember.”

  He studied her for another moment then nodded, “As you say. I’m sorry I worry so much. I know that it can be chafing at times, being the daughter of a king.”

  She sat up in bed, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He smiled and, this time, it touched his eyes. In another moment, his smile faded, and he grasped her by the shoulders, leaning forward. “Your mother’s necklace. Where is it? Did you take it o—”

  “It’s here, father,” she said, startled by the urgency in his voice as she pulled the medallion out from underneath the fabric of her silken sleeping shift, “I’m wearing it. I always wear it.”

  He stared at the necklace for several seconds, as if trying to assure himself it was real. Finally, he released a deep sigh of relief, “Good. That’s good. You must never take it off, Leandria. It was your mother’s most prized possession.”

  “I know; you’ve told me.” A thousand times and more.

  He smiled, releasing her shoulders, and she fought the urge to rub where he’d gripped her, showing more strength than he’d intended in his fright. When she’d grown sick with fever a little over a year gone, her father had called on nearly a dozen healers and priests—old men and women renowned for their abilities—and demanded they heal her.

  It was an oddity to her that those whose profession was looking after the health of others always appeared in poor health themselves. She’d spent nearly a week of her life drinking the most vile substances imaginable, confined to her room, her days a procession of rituals, prayers, and chanting by old, men who always seemed to touch her more than was strictly necessary and old women whose preoccupation with babies was unquestionably terminal. Oh, what a lovely face. You’ll make such beautiful little ones, princess. Such a strong constitution, it will serve well in bearing a child, if you don’t mind me saying so, princess.

  In fact, she had minded, but she had kept her peace. After the longest week of her life, her fever had broken and that had been a miracle. Any longer and she suspected she would have become pregnant, an immaculate conception brought on by the endless nattering of old maids. Not an experience she cared to relive anytime soon. “Are you alright, father?” She asked, “You seem tired.”

  He waived a hand dismissively. For a man who worried so much over his daughter’s welfare, he seemed to place little value on his own—that worried her, sometimes. “I’m well, thank you for asking. Only, it seems that the older I get, the more tired I am and yet the less I sleep. Ah, but the Divines have a sense of humor, cruel though it is.”

  Leandria frowned disapprovingly, “Father, I don’t like it when you speak so. The Divines are merciful and kind—you of all people know as much.”

  “Are they?” He asked and something that looked very m
uch like rage twisted his face in a change so sudden that Leandria found herself recoiling.

  “Father? What is it?”

  As quickly as it had come, the rage—if that’s what it had been—vanished, and he sighed, “Nothing, daughter. Please, forgive an old man his eccentricities. As you say, the Divines are, of course, merciful and kind. It is they, after all, who taught our ancestors the rites, thereby saving us from the Fulmination. Now, let’s put it behind us.” He tapped her hand gently, “So, have you given any thought to what we discussed?”

  She raised her nose haughtily, in the way only the young can manage, “We discuss many things, father. I’m sure I don’t know to what you are referring.”

  The king let out a sigh, at once long-suffering and amused, “Although I’m quite sure you know exactly what I’m talking about, I suppose I must say it. Young Lord Malakson. I hear that he’s requested a dance from you at the Midyear Ball, has he not?”

  Leandria sniffed, “Maybe. I can’t recall.”

  “Ah, Lea, don’t pout. Is he truly so bad is that? From what I hear, the young noble ladies are quite fond of him, and you must admit, he did cut a striking figure on last month’s tourney grounds.”

  “So does a peacock, but I wouldn’t want to dance with one.”

  Her father’s eyebrows drew down sternly, but he couldn’t keep the chuckle from escaping. Finally, he sighed and shook his head, “A peacock. That is perhaps an … apt comparison. If not a particularly flattering one.”

  “Fine, fine, I retract it. I’ve got nothing against peacocks.”

  Her father laughed again, “Ah, Lea. You’re a very clever woman, though I think I might have been too lenient raising you. What would Matron Jacqueline say about such talk?”

  Leandria crossed her arms over her chest, “That woman is far too fond of her brush, and I am quite sure she has no understanding of its proper use.”

  The king smiled at that, and in that smile, Leandria saw a glimpse of the man her father was before her sickness, and it warmed her heart. “Yes, well, I suppose I must leave her to it, and you to your rest.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead then rose. He glanced at the door, and there was something in his posture, an apprehension, a tenseness, that unnerved her. When he turned back to her, she noted with regret that the haunted look was back in his eyes, “Go back to sleep, daughter. There’s still some time left before the sun will rise. I’m sorry for waking you.”

  “I don’t mind, father. I enjoy talking to you. And about Obadiah Malakson ….”

  He raised an eyebrow, an amused expression on his face, “Yes?”

  “I … I will try harder.” Anything, if only that haunted look will leave your face. Anything to see you happy again.

  Her father smiled, “Thank you, daughter. A dance, that’s all I ask. More than anything, I want you to be happy.”

  She nodded, “Yes, father. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps.” The king sighed, “Duties of state, yes? I’ve a meeting with Saliander Daven tomorrow morning and the man does love to talk.”

  Leandria frowned, “I’m sure I’ll never know what possessed the Church to appoint such an odious man as their Prefect.”

  He grinned, “Odious, you say?”

  Leandria rolled her eyes, “Fine, I suppose maybe that’s not the right word for a man who spends his idle hours rubbing flower oil on his skin. Still, you must admit that he’s about as likeable as a rash on the behi—”

  “Leandria,” her father said, his reproving tone belied by the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

  “Sorry, father, but I can’t make myself like the man. He reminds me of a perfumed snake, and to hear Clara and the other maids tell it, he’s too free with his hands by half. Not to mention the way he struts around the palace as if it’s his. I cannot understand why you suffer him so.”

  The king sighed, “You know as well as I that it’s not my place to dictate the Church’s actions. They are free to make their own appointments, even those appointments that seem … questionable. As for the perfume, well, Prefect Daven is an aged man, and the old often have their own eccentricities. But I will speak to him about his hands. Prefect of the Church or not, I won’t have him harassing the servants.”

  Leandria nodded, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought it up. That worried, haunted look was back in his eyes completely now, as it always seemed to be when the subject of the Church arose. “Clara will be pleased.”

  He nodded, “Good night, Leandria.”

  “Goodnight, father.”

  She watched her father depart, his shadowy form like a wraith in the darkness, insubstantial and wavering, somehow not quite real. The thought felt too much like a premonition to her, and she quickly forced it away. She closed her eyes, lay back down on her bed, and listened as the door closed behind him. She waited several minutes more, to be sure he would not return. Then, she rose, made her way to her closet, and donned a simple dress and boots. She’d told her father she would be nicer to young Lord Malakson, and so she would, but he would never have her heart. It was already taken.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Darkness lay snug across the street like a living thing. Each gust of wind its heavy breath, each flicker of shadows the shifts of its disturbed slumber and that was only right. It was a truth that the figure standing with its back against the wall of a tailor’s shop—now closed—knew well, had known for a long time. The darkness was never content, never satisfied. It was hungry, always. And if it dreamed, it saw visions not of moonlit glades or stars twinkling in the vast expanse of sky. No, if darkness dreamt, it dreamt dreams of red. Dreams of blood and screams and the silence that followed. That most of all.

  Lightning flashed somewhere close by, its thunderous roar a counterpoint to the syncopation of the heavy rain falling on the world like a shroud. The falling water danced on the cobbled streets and the roofs of the rundown tenements, a heavy, cold rain that was enough to drive even the most enterprising of pick-pockets and sneak-thieves to seek shelter. But the figure stood unmoved, and if it noticed the chill of the rain or the bite of the wind, it did not show it. Standing there in dark trousers and shirt, the hood of its black cloak drawn over its face, it could have been a shadow itself, or some revenant perhaps, one from a time long ago, awoken to find itself looking in at a world of which it has no part, of which it can have no part.

  The figure’s gaze rested on a house that looked no different than any of the others crowding the street. Inside, a candle burned fitfully, its flame a pitiful shield against the darkness. A stirring in the night, a sound almost so quiet as to be imperceptible, and the figure tilted its head to the side.

  A man approached, his massive frame visible even beneath the thick cloak he wore. His bald pate seemed to glow in the darkness as he lumbered forward purposefully. The light in the street was poor, but as he passed through the ruddy orange glow of a candle lit within another of the houses, his face became visible. Thick, heavy features, those of a man who spends his time brawling in alley ways and bars. His was the face of a street brawler which, of course, was exactly what he was. Or, at least, what he had been. It was a face that could have been etched from stone by an artist focused more on functionality than beauty. His lips were drawn into a thin, grim line, as they always were. It was a face not given to smiling or laughing, but one made for whispered threats and angry promises, and its owner had a soul to match. Harmen. Everyone that knew him knew it well—he was made for many things, but smiling was not one of them.

  He stopped beside the figure, following its gaze to the small house and its sputtering candle, “I thought I’d find you here.” A voice like rocks shifting against one another.

  He waited a moment, and when no response was forthcoming, he grunted. “We lost another one. Brent Teshran.”

  The figure did not speak, but if one had looked closely enough, he might have detected a slumping of the thin shoulders, a certain indescribable lessening, as if some vital part of hit had been sto
len away.

  “Anyway, the man doesn’t deserve your grief. A real bastard, so far as the Records go. A whore used to work out of Saint’s street’d be happy to see him get his throat slit. I say used to on account of she ain’t worked in six months, not since Teshran got it in his mind to knock out half her teeth. Hit her hard enough, often enough, one of her eyes doesn’t sit right no more. Our man says the Reaper did him nice and proper. Killed the bastard with his own poison, if you can believe it.”

  The Reaper. It was a name the figure heard often and one that seemed fitting enough for the man that bore it. As for Harmen, there was no pity there in that cold growl of a voice, not for the man and not for the woman either. Only a sort of grim satisfaction. “Anyway, serves him right, not taking your offer. How many times did ya try? Two? Three? Ask me, he wasn’t worth all that.”

  The figure finally moved at that, turning to stare at the big man. Harmen’s face grew pinched and uncomfortable in the moonlight under the steady gaze. “You’re wrong, Harmen.” A woman’s voice. Young, a smooth, silken quality to it that was there no matter the words. “We should have tried again.”

  Harmen grunted, “For what? Got what he deserved. Won’t nobody tell you different.”

  “It’s not about what he deserves. It never was. It’s about us, about who we are. It’s about a city of people—thousands of us—who walk around missing half of ourselves, of what makes us us. And do you know the worst part Harmen? We don’t even know what it is we’re missing. How many lives have those sacrificed touched, for good or ill? With each one we lose all that they taught us, lose a little bit of ourselves. How much more before there’s nothing left of us to lose? Our lives are ripples in a pond, Harmen. Even a man like Teshran has an effect and no it hasn’t all been bad. A friend of mine once told me that the past is the path we walk down to our future and, without it, we’re stumbling in the dark, liable to lose our way.”