by J. C. Owens
She turned her head and again, as they had in the corridor, she and Shaynith-una stared at each other, silent and still, as though they were communicating on some other level, as perhaps they were.
Though this was their mother, the knight’s brothers, Tar and Spensa, seemed to show no interest in her, though they remained poised, as though perhaps she were a greater threat than Brenaith realized. Or had they been warned by Lutan that she held a great threat to their blessed brother, to the shadow knight they guarded? Shaynith-una, Brenaith was coming to realize, was the hub around which this fortress turned. Whatever the rest of the shadow knights might be, this one, the only true son of the god, was revered, almost worshiped. The few times Brenaith had seen him with his brothers, it was hard to tell if they saw him as their god-given duty, or if there was much more of a bond. They seemed more at ease with him, and he in turn was more himself than usual. Perhaps neither of them realized what they felt.
If Shaynith-una was closed to emotion, perhaps his brothers also held that impediment.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.
The woman did not attempt to touch the knight, as she had in the corridor. After moments of silent staring, she stepped away and moved further into the room.
Brenaith found himself striding forward almost mindlessly, bowing at the waist as an echo of his noble past. “My lady, would you like to sit?”
She fastened those luminous eyes upon him, and he had the feeling that she had his measure within mere moments, making him shiver. Her regal iciness held a degree of her son’s emotional distance. Perhaps Shaynith-una’s cold manner was not completely a result of Lutan’s blood.
Brenaith pulled a chair out and indicated it with a flourish of one hand, a gesture that seemed almost from another life, rather than his own past.
Her long dress, blue silk if he had guessed correctly, rustled across the carpet as she approached, each graceful step seeming as though she glided rather than walked. A trait her son had inherited. Seeing her now, Brenaith thought there were a great many things that Shaynith-una had inherited from his mother and wondered how many more lay unseen, unknown to his master?
She seated herself with calm aplomb, and Brenaith slid the chair in with courteous words, moving to seat himself to her left, and indicating the tea that his master had with every meal.
“Would you like some tea, my lady?”
She watched him in silence for a moment, before nodding, her expression never changing. Brenaith served her, blinking as he viewed his master and his brother still by the door, observing the proceedings with incomprehension and some suspicion.
It was some moments before Shaynith-una approached, eyes fixed upon his mother with something that looked like caution.
Brenaith could only agree. This close, it was evident that she held her own power. She demanded respect without ever having spoken, something Brenaith had only encountered in his new master. Yet even he seemed wary. If this elf held this much power, how had she ever ended up here, imprisoned by the demon god? What twisted path had led her here to such a fate, far from her people?
His gentle heart ached for her, and perhaps she sensed some of that, for her eyes softened ever so slightly as she watched him.
No one spoke as she sipped her tea, taking her time. The silence became oppressing, demanding, but she never showed any sign of breaking. At last, in her own time, she put down the empty cup and sat back, fingers upon the arms of the chair as though it were the finest of thrones and she the queen. Certainly Brenaith felt like he was her subject, and not a high one at that.
Her calm stare moved to Shaynith-una. “You called for me, asked that I be brought to you. What is this regarding? You have never done this before. Why now?”
Shaynith-una was silent for long moments, as though gathering his thoughts, or perhaps unsure how to proceed. His glance slid to Brenaith. “My bloodservant has agreed to teach me of emotion, so that I may understand it, to leave no weak spots in my mind, to be able to decipher what my enemies are thinking.”
One elegant brow rose sharply, and her eyes pierced Brenaith deeply.
“And Lutan will allow this?” The faint disbelief in her voice echoed Brenaith’s own doubts.
“He sees the need, but wishes me to retain necessary distance.” The knight’s tone was even, no sign that he understand the impossibility of such a thing.
“I see.” Her look returned to Brenaith. “You are his new bloodservant. You are bound?”
He nodded uncertainly, casting a quick look at his master.
“I believe so, my lady.”
She looked at Shaynith-una, who nodded. “The bond is secure.”
Something flickered in her eyes for the briefest moment, annoyance, anger, Brenaith could not really tell.
“So you wish me to tell you of my people. In order to barricade yourself against them, against me.” The tone was ice itself.
The knight looked at her, tilting his head once more, and Brenaith could practically see him trying to understand her meaning.
Her lips tightened—and then her gaze fell upon the book, open on the table. Her eyes lit to fire, her body tightened for the briefest of moments, before she blinked, and it was gone.
“You have my book.”
Shaynith-una’s eyebrow rose in a perfect imitation of the elf’s. He drew the book toward him, running a gentle hand over its cover. “I was not told it was yours.”
She viewed him with cool detachment. “If you had, would you have burned it?”
The knight’s head snapped up, the sheer horror on his face proof beyond doubt that he held great reverence for his library, if nothing else.
“If you had valued it, Lutan would have ordered it destroyed, and you would have done so, in his name.” There was no anger in her tone, only grim certainty.
The shadow knight put one large hand over the cover, in a silently protective fashion, but he did not deny the words.
She held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he gave it to her, eyes alight with newborn curiosity as she stroked the cover even as he had, almost as though she could feel his touch upon the leather.
It was a curiously intimate gesture, whether deliberate or not.
She opened it gently, a small smile gradually forming on her lips, as she turned page after page. Whatever this book might be, it held great meaning to her.
“This was with me when I was captured, when Lutan took me.” The words were so soft, Brenaith could hardly hear her.
She looked up at her son. “He has gloried in telling me of its desecration, destruction, and yet, here it is. It surprises me that he would allow you to have it.”
Shaynith-una leaned back in his chair, watching her closely, no reaction to her admittance of capture or that her presence here was not by her own will. Perhaps he already knew that, perhaps he was just not capable of empathizing, Brenaith could not tell.
For himself, his heart went out to her. What strength she must possess to still have her mind intact, to be as whole as she seemed to be. Whatever inner scars she bore, she bore them with a grace greater than Brenaith had ever managed.
She rose to her feet and wandered away from them, book in hand. Occasionally she would pause, read something silently to herself and smile, then turn the page once more. The end of her rambling was at the great fireplace, the pink stone so out of place in this dark fortress. She leaned against the stone as though gaining strength from its presence, then turned yet another page.
Her face lit up, and she looked over her shoulder at them.
“You would learn of my people? Come then, both you and your bloodservant. I will show you this picture. It explains a great deal of what you both wish to know.”
Brenaith rose to his feet uncertainly, glancing at his master for permission. The knight seemed to see nothing wrong in the matter, as though her acknowledgement of Brenaith was not out of the ordinary. Perhaps she had been close to his former servant, or perhaps she did not a
gree with slavery…
Either way, Brenaith was pleased to be included. He very much wanted to understand the elves, to learn about them. Such a gift was beyond price, beyond anything that his people had known.
He approached her with respect, bowing his head, before coming to her side so that he would be able to view the book more easily. Shaynith-una was hard on his heels, curiosity large in his expression.
They both hovered at her shoulder, peering down at the pages. She began to read, softly at first, then with more force, something in her tone that made the hairs on the back of Brenaith’s neck stand on end.
Power. Great power.
Blue light flashed over them, making him cringe back, cover his eyes. He heard shouts from Tar and Spensa, heard Shaynith-una’s curse, his pained cry.
The room seemed to spin, objects flew around them in widening circles, the blue light beginning to hum, to become more solid, shutting off more and more of their surroundings, encasing the three of them in a blinding ball. Brenaith heard sounds, voices speaking the elven language, chanting even as the elf woman was. The hum rose in pitch, rotating faster and faster.
There was a roar of sound, of fury, and Lutan’s energy filled the room, dark, black power slamming against the blue light over and over, the god’s wrath making Brenaith sink to his knees, hands over his ears, crying out at the sense of darkness that strove so mightily to reach them.
“You are too late,” the elf laughed, triumph in the sound. The blue light exploded, and then Brenaith knew no more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brenaith woke to a soft haze of blue light. He blinked, stared, fought to bring his mind into connection with his surroundings. There was softness beneath him, a bed, and for a moment he assumed he was back in Shaynith-una’s rooms. But as he rose to an elbow and glanced around blearily, he realized he was somewhere completely new.
The room was spare in its decorations. A few tapestries covered the stone walls, the bed he lay upon and a small table with two chairs were the only furnishings. Wool carpets covered the floor, but they seemed worn and threadbare, as though they held little worth.
The blue light shone along the fringes of the space, enclosing all sides completely.
Brenaith’s breath caught. It was imprisoning them.
The small sound of a whimper caught his attention and he sat up completely, realizing to his relief that he was still completely clothed.
To his shock, Shaynith-una huddled by the door, almost curled into a ball, rocking back and forth mindlessly, stark terror in his eyes. His long claws were splintered and broken, and the damage to the stout door showed he had dug at it in a bid to escape the confines of the room.
Brenaith was up before he could rationalize his actions, stepping carefully until he could squat in front of his master.
“Master?”
Those maddened eyes slowly slid to him. “Where is he?” One battered hand reached out to yank him closer. “Where—is—he?” The words tore out of him, hoarse and ragged, as though he had perhaps been shouting, or indeed, screaming.
“Who, my lord?” Brenaith was completely confused.
“My father. Lutan. Where is my father? I cannot sense him, cannot speak to him. He is just—gone.” The devastation in the tone tore at Brenaith.
“I do not know where we are, master. Do you? Perhaps that will explain…”
Shaynith-una’s eyes turned dark red, and he shoved Brenaith away, pushing himself weakly up the wall, and turning to beat a bruised fist upon the wood.
“This is some elven trickery. My bearer, she did this. She took me from my father, and now she blocks me somehow. This should not be possible. No one is as strong as he, no one should be able to separate us like this. He will find me. He will get me out of here.” There was an edge of desperation in the tone, fear of how this had been accomplished.
Brenaith realized, with equal rising fear, that madness was closing in upon his master, that the removal of his father, so much a part of his very being since birth, had left him on the precipice of insanity.
And he was here, imprisoned alongside him. The elf, she had realized that he was blood bound, that they could not be apart. She had taken him for that reason, and now he was with a maddened being who could tear him apart so easily.
“Master, it is all right. I am here. You are not alone. We will find out what has happened, and go from there. You are all right.”
The knight turned his head, a snarl contorting his lips, looking at him from wide, staring eyes that gleamed with madness. “You. Your teachings. You wanted her in that room.”
Brenaith cried out as splintered claws sank into his forearm, dragging him closer.
“What did you do? Take me back. I need to go back!” Long fangs dropped into place, looked ready to tear into Brenaith’s flesh.
“I did nothing! I swear! I could not hurt you like that. You have been in my mind, you know there was nothing of this.” Brenaith shuddered, almost sobbing at the pain…
The claws withdrew abruptly, and Brenaith staggered back, cradling his arm protectively, panting, eyeing his master, fully expecting another attack.
The knight leaned weakly against the door, blood slowly dripping from his claws, breath heaving, body trembling.
“No,” he whispered. “There was nothing of harm in you.” The crimson eyes dimmed, the fangs withdrew. Miraculously, his anger seemed to veer away from Brenaith.
Brenaith found himself reaching out a shaking hand, grimacing at the renewed pain. “Come, sit. You can do nothing right now, and battering yourself is not going to help in any way. Come.”
Shaynith-una paused, shooting a look of longing at the door, then held out a hesitant hand and took Brenaith’s. He allowed Brenaith to lead him to the bed.
The knight sat like a broken puppet, eyes dull and hazed over. Brenaith looked quickly round, saw a basin of water off to the side with towels and cloths hanging beneath it. He brought it back and set it on the floor, then soaked a cloth and gently took one of the bleeding hands in his, trying to ignore the pain of his own arm.
Shaynith-una showed no reaction to what had to be very painful, his shattered visage never changed, he simply stayed still, staring at the door, as though it held all the answers he so desperately wanted.
Brenaith winced when he saw the torn flesh, the claws broken and jagged, looking as though several had been close to being torn out completely, their base bruised and swollen.
Fumbling at his waist, he was relieved to realize his small eating knife still hung there. Useless for much else, it was good for this.
Carefully, he trimmed each claw, grimacing when several of them began to bleed sluggishly, as the quick was re-injured.
He was thankful for his master’s stoic demeanor. He had never been good with wounds. He could not really say why he was doing this in the first place. He could have just avoided the knight at the other end of the room.
But to see someone in such agony of mind and body was nothing he could ignore. Tynan had often teased him, saying he had too gentle a heart for a warrior, and in many respects, he had been correct. He had always wanted to be a soldier to protect, never to harm.
Finished, he tore the cloth into strips, carefully binding each finger, and hoping that someone would come with food so he could ask them for ointment to prevent infection.
Did children of the gods get infection?
So many things he did not understand about this being he was bound to. So much that remained a complete mystery. And now, everything had changed. Whether for the better or worse, once again, he was on a new path.
He drew a deep breath. The last change had brought him to Shaynith-una, who despite appearances had been a far kinder master than Stratlin ever had been.
Now, he could only wait and see what fate brought him once again.
He rose off his complaining knees and sat beside the knight. He cleansed his own wounds and carefully wrapped them.
Shaynith-una slowly turned
his head. It was shocking to see fear in his eyes; it felt wrong, as though he should be above that.
“What are you thinking?”
Brenaith froze, blinking. “I’m thinking that I am once again on a new path I did not choose,” he whispered.
“I cannot hear you, cannot read what you are thinking,” The knight’s voice rose once more, panic tearing at his control. “Why? What have they done to me?” He dropped his face into his hands, body trembling.
They sat in silence, Brenaith in shock, and yet relieved. That was the hardest part of being in this bloodbond, that his thoughts were not his own.
He shot a glance sideways. But for the knight…
That, by itself, could drive him mad. Everything he was, everything he excelled at, all that he had been bred for, gone. Nothing familiar, nothing of what he had known.
“Why did they not just kill me? I am their enemy. Why take me like this?” Shaynith-una raked a hand through his disheveled hair, only mussing it further.
“I do not know.” He felt helpless over that, because his master’s fate would determine his own. If, by some chance, the demigod could die, Brenaith would follow him into oblivion, such was the nature of the bond. He had never considered that the shadow knight could be killed. It seemed impossible.
“My shadows,” his master raised a trembling hand and gestured to one by the far wall. “I cannot feel them, they cannot feel me. They do not respond. What am I now, that my shadows cannot sense me, do not do my biding?” He licked dry, cracked lips and his eyes widened. “My sword. Where is my sword? If someone touches it, they will die. I have left it, I must never leave it.” His breath began to come in forced pants.
“Master, we will sort this out. We will find out what happened. I know that this is terrifying, but you have to stop, have to think and not just react.”
The knight stared at him, perhaps once more trying to read his thoughts, then he looked away, face drawn into grim resignation. “They have destroyed me. My father told me long ago that if I am ever torn from him, if I ever, foolishly, wanted to leave him, I would die. I have to have his energy, have to have his essence replenished within me. Without him, I will cease to exist.”
