by Ellyn, Court
Kelyn sank into a bedside chair. “You killed him, Kieryn.”
Horror made the pain small, a drop of rain in a dark sea. “I what?”
“Master Odran said this only happens in stories, and it’s true. It seems impossible.”
“What is impossible?” Panic had balled up in Kieryn’s gut but now began unfolding its limbs, stretching and spreading. He sat up without using his hands and tried to catch his twin’s elusive eyes.
“You were like a storm.” Kelyn could barely contain his excitement. “Lightning flashed from your hand, that’s why it’s burnt, and you killed him. You didn’t even touch him, Kieryn, and you sent him flying, and he didn’t get up again. Smoke was rising from his chest. Then you passed out, and I jumped over the tables to get to you. You were hot to the touch. Not with a fever. With something else, and … ,” He shrugged, at a loss. “Rhorek’s all right. You saved his life. You were right about the third assassin. Da’s arrested Lady Bysana.”
“What?”
“I don’t have all the details. It’s all anyone’s talking about though. Were Bysana and the assassin lovers? Will Rhorek hang her for a traitor?”
Rumors. More pointless rumors. The empty words rang inside Kieryn’s head.
“They’re calling you a hero. But …”
“But?” Something wild and desperate, like a feral creature, clawed its way out of the panic.
Whatever Kelyn saw in his twin’s face took him by surprise. He attempted to laugh, but it was a shaky sound. “Well, you know how people are. Making up stories when they misunderstand something.”
“Just tell me, damn it!” The feral thing put a growl into the words.
“They’re whispering ‘avedra’,” Kelyn admitted.
The wild, desperate creature shrank to a shadow, and slowly Kieryn leaned back against the headboard and stared at his bandaged hand. He flexed his fingers, numb with silverthorn. How could the hand of a scholar kill a man without touching him? Yet it was so. He recalled the tale of the Dark Witch, the fire thundering from her fingers. The story was only meant to amuse children, wasn’t it?
The stories weren’t inventions of the West alone. Kieryn had read similar accounts in tomes from across the continent; even Etivva had brought stories from the sands of Harena, oral epics about sorcerous rainmakers. But Kieryn had discredited these tales as fanciful elaboration by bards and historians seeking to increase the interest factor of their works. He suddenly doubted his judgment. If people from all over Dwinovia knew of the avedrin, then saying they were myth was the same as saying Ana-Forah was myth. And no one in their right mind doubted the existence of the Goddess.
Elven blood. Isn’t that what it took to make an avedra? Humans and elves once coexisted. When they intermarried, avedrin resulted. That’s what the myths said, anyway.
Kieryn wanted to disappear beneath his pillows. “I’ll bet Da’s not happy.”
“He’s furious,” Kelyn said. He set his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and stared at his fingers. “Da’s denouncing anyone who speaks of it in his presence. He denies anyone in his family can be … you know.”
The twins chewed on the unspoken word in silence.
Then Kieryn asked, “What do you think?”
Kelyn aimed a half-smile at his brother. “I always knew you were odd.” He shrugged. “No, if you are … avedra … why aren’t I? It has to be something else.”
Kieryn nodded heavily. “ ‘Identical’ twins. But our eyes are different, our hair is different. I’m taller.”
“Are not.”
“Dragon shit.”
Silence.
“What about Mum?”
“She’s been pretty quiet about it. Trying to keep Da from breaking someone’s nose when they say the ‘A’ word. And she’s been up here every five minutes to see if you’ve woken up yet. I keep telling her you’re going to be fine.”
“What does Rhoslyn think?”
Kelyn scowled. “The Duchess doesn’t matter.”
“She matters to me,” Kieryn barked.
“I don’t know what she thinks, honest. I haven’t seen her since everyone scattered from—”
Kieryn held up a silencing hand. “Better yet, I don’t want to know what she thinks.” When he lowered his hand, he noticed Kelyn watching it warily. Kieryn tucked both hands under his knees.
A soft knock on the door spared him further shame.
Kelyn sighed. “If that’s Mother again, I’ll . . . I’ll throw her out the window.” He hurried away to the door, and from the vestibule floated a soft female voice, but it wasn’t Mother’s: “Is he awake yet? Can I speak to him?”
Kieryn’s belly leapt. From his bed he tried to peer around Kelyn to catch a glimpse of her. Coolly, Kelyn replied, “He doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“Kelyn!”
Grudgingly, his brother stepped to the wayside. Roslyn swirled past, a cloud of fragrant pink silk, and boldly assumed Kelyn’s vacated chair.
“Does m’ lord need anything else?” Kelyn asked, glaring, and prepared to plant himself strategically at the foot of the bed.
“Leave,” Kieryn answered. His brother’s eyes fairly screamed a warning at him. But he ceded the field and slammed the door on his way out.
“Forgive my brother,” Kieryn said, “He’s a barbarian. And a bit … overwrought after …”
Rhoslyn bit her lower lip. Her mouth was as softly pink as her gown, and her nails had been freshly dyed to match. She asked him, “How are you?”
“How are you?” he echoed. “I mean …”
“What do I feel about this?”
Kieryn raked a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious, and was unable to look her in the eye.
She shrugged a pink shoulder. “Well, it’s rather remarkable, isn’t it? You believe what everyone’s saying, don’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. And I had to see you, to tell you … it’s all right.” She floated from the chair to the edge of his bed. If anyone other than Kelyn came through that door … but that sort of scandal seemed the least of his worries.
“It’s all right that I killed a man,” he exclaimed, “no matter what his motives were?”
“I mean it’s all right that you are what you are.”
Kieryn shrank deeper into his pillows and said acridly, “My father doesn’t think so. What I may be isn’t supposed to be anything but fiction.”
“Who says?” Rhoslyn put a finger under his chin and forced him to look at her. Goddess, her eyes were stunning. Gold fire and green shade. “Listen to me, Kieryn. The avedrin are very, very real. They may be a people of legend, but only because they are so feared. They keep themselves secret.”
Kieryn blinked. “What do you know of these . . . these mysteries?”
“Mysteries, ba! My father keeps an avedra. Has for years. No one knows, because Zellel doesn’t want anyone to know. We keep his secret for him. Though I think Lord Erum and Davhin, and even Rorin the Dense, have long suspected. Zellel was a wanderer, born in Heret on some inland sea. When my parents were first married, Zellel came into Aralorr and saved my father and mother from highwaymen in Windgate Pass, so my father gave him a home at Windhaven. He’s lived with us ever since, helping Father with his business and councils and trials. Gives my father an advantage, you see, because Zellel can hear the thoughts of men. At least, that’s what he claims.”
Kieryn’s heart raced. “Hear their thoughts.”
“I tell you the secret because … if you come to Windhaven with me, Zellel might agree to train you. Or at least give you some advice on what to do with your gift.”
“Curse, you mean.”
“Zellel calls it a gift from Ana, but one that must be used sparingly and discreetly.”
“Because avedrin are feared. I don’t want to be feared, Rhoslyn.”
“But I don’t fear Zellel,” she said. “He’s a moody old man with odd ways. And I could never fear you, Kiery
n.” Carefully, she lifted his bandaged hand and pressed those soft pink lips to his fingertips. Curse the silverthorn for numbing them. He wanted to sweep her close, to forget his fear and his confusion, to taste her earlobes dripping pink pearls and smell her skin like night blossoms …
A fist pounded the door.
Rhoslyn released his hand. “Please consider it. You have two days to decide.”
Kelyn admitted himself without waiting for permission. Master Odran followed closely, black robes stiff and rustling. Laral brought up the rear, bearing a tray of scones and elk-meat broth.
Kieryn cast an irascible eye on his brother, then smiled warmly at Rhoslyn. “Thank you, my lady.”
She stood and received the proper bows, then closed the door without a sound.
“So what did the Duchess have to say?” Kelyn asked.
“Rot in the Abyss!” Kieryn retorted.
Odran’s furry eyebrows shot up. “Glad to see you awake and well, my lord.” He lifted Kieryn’s hand for inspection, but Kieryn snatched it away. “My lord, cooperate with me, please. It’s not like you to be contrary.”
Kieryn let out a sardonic chuckle. “Nothing is as it seemed, Master Odran.”
“Exactly so,” the physician replied. “If all the world were as it seemed, how dull.”
Kieryn relented with a sigh; Odran unwound the bandages. The blisters had shrunk, and the redness diminished. Kieryn looked on his injury for the first time. A bolt of lightning. A flash of fire. How had he done it? Could he do it again? But he didn’t want to do it again. He was terrified of his own hands. He turned away from the raw, seeping flesh, garish testimony of what he’d done.
Kelyn attempted a diversion: “You hungry?”
Sight of the broth nauseated Kieryn. He waved it away; Laral laid the tray on a side table, then receiving Kelyn’s permission, the squire departed.
Odran took note of Kieryn’s frown. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“No.”
“It shouldn’t. I laid on the silverthorn thick enough. All absorbed, too. Pains anywhere else?”
“No.”
Kelyn took hold of the carven post at the footboard. “Kieryn,” he began, hesitant, “you shouldn’t let this effect you so—”
“I killed a man, Kelyn! And I don’t know how I did it.”
Odran dropped the roll of bandages at Kieryn’s belligerence.
Kelyn told him, “Leave it for now, Master Odran.” After the old man had gathered his things and slunk away, Kelyn fell into the bedside chair and waited.
At last, Kieryn admitted, “I’m afraid. This, whatever it is, makes me afraid of myself.”
“I know,” Kelyn said softly, sadly.
“I’m afraid to take the chance that it won’t happen again. I’m afraid I might hurt you or Mum or Da.”
Kieryn appreciated his brother’s ability to listen, rather than give in to the urge to spout useless advice. The ancient stones of the castle shifted and settled. Candles flickered in silver sconces. “I know what you think of Lady Rhoslyn,” Kieryn went on. “But she told me about a man who might be willing to help me. To teach me how to prevent doing … whatever I did. But he’s at Windhaven.”
Convenient, said the narrowing of Kelyn’s eyes.
And he’s a wanderer, Kieryn wanted to add. All the way from the Land of First Dawn. How much he would’ve seen. How much he would know …
Kelyn cleared his throat. “I’ll only ask you to consider this before you decide: what are your true reasons for going?” Kieryn started to denounce his brother’s insinuation, but admitted that Kelyn wasn’t a fool. “Now, please, eat something before it’s cold. Then rest. Don’t think about it anymore tonight.”
Kieryn nibbled at a scone and sipped the broth, but the food didn’t taste the same; nothing was the same. Nor would it ever be again. A gift? From Ana-Forah herself? For what purpose? Surely the accident of birth determined who or what a person was. Did the Mother-Father really have a hand in such things? The first avedrin couldn’t have prevented who their parents were nor what they were as a result. And yet, could not Ana have spun a deliberate pattern, bringing elf and human together to create the powerful half-bloods? Mixed children might create a common ground, perhaps urge the two races to live in accord. If so, Ana’s intentions had been thwarted by the overriding hatred that humans and elves harbored for one another.
Kieryn had the sickening feeling that he was the residue from a plan that had failed. A blunder. And surely that’s how everyone would think of him. Maybe even Rhoslyn, given time. That she seemed to accept him even now, happily, vocally, was more comfort than Kieryn could express. He would never have the need to lie to her, pretend to be something he was not, and this alone rendered his heart wholly hers.
For what lady else would choose to love an avedra, fearsome sorcerer of forbidden lore?
~~~~
All night, the man Rhorek paced his chamber. But the king knew his War Commander had spoken soundly. Years ago, he should’ve taken care to choose a wife. His father’s sister, the Princess Mazél, had hoped Rhorek would marry either Maeret or Genna, but an old law forbade Aralorris from marrying close cousins. He had considered naming Rilyth’s son his heir, but Drem was a sickling, rarely able to leave his rooms. The weight of a crown would be an impossible burden for him. And Bysana. All these troubles might’ve been avoided had Rhorek been an honorable man. The pattern he had set for himself now resulted in disaster for his people. And now the consequences.
By the time dawn broke over the Drakhans, resembling a lady’s dagged silver sleeve, Rhorek had decided his course. Eating his breakfast, he accepted it. Allowing his squires to clothe him in cerulean robes, he grew inured to it.
~~~~
When Rhorek at last arrived in the Great Hall, Keth was confounded by the change that had overtaken his friend during the night. A haunted glaze dulled his eyes, his shoulders were stooped, and his commonly jovial face seemed to have become that of a tired, old man.
Escorting him to the high table, Keth lamented for him. He even wished he were as underhanded as Shadryk the Third; he could send his own assassin into Fiera and spare Rhorek the hard words that necessity compelled him to speak this day.
Rhorek didn’t bother consigning himself to the chair next to Keth, but leaned upon it as if it were a crutch. The highborns remained standing out of etiquette. He began without ceremony: “Today’s business consists of a new agenda. Likely—no, certainly—you have become acquainted with a host of rumors concerning threats to my well-being, and everyone of us witnessed yesterday’s astonishing events. The assassin disguised as a servant was only one of three men hired to murder the Black Falcon. Now all three await their funeral pyres. But there is … another who must be dealt with before we continue.” He paused, looking sick to his stomach; one thread at a time, he rebuilt his composure and called toward the main doors, “Master Steward, bring in Lady Locmar.”
Captain Jareg had insisted he secure her in the dungeons, the only place for a traitor, lady or not. Keth hadn’t argued. As far as he knew, Athlem had stayed with her throughout the night. Would Keth have been so loyal? He liked to think so, but he feared his rage and sorrow would’ve overcome his better character. Beside him, Alovi breathed an uneasy sigh; he found her hands clenched among her skirts and gave her fingers a gentle, secret squeeze. Her fingers responded, gripping his hand fiercely.
At the table reserved for the Tírandon family, Andett began to sob. Leshan pressed a kerchief into his mother’s hand and wrapped an arm about her quivering shoulders. When the prisoner entered the Hall, surrounded by half a dozen Falcon Guardsmen, Andett turned from the sight of her older sister.
Athlem walked gray-faced beside his wife. At the dais, he dropped to a knee, but Rhorek held up a silencing hand. “Our ears are deaf to further pleas.” Helpless, Athlem stepped aside, leaving Bysana exposed to the hungry eyes of the court and to the hurt on the Black Falcon’s face. She seemed oblivious to them all, star
ing through a private window onto her own despair.
“A lack of action,” Rhorek said, “may be as treacherous as wielding the blade. But because Lady Locmar was a passive participant in this murderous scheme, we do not feel justified in taking her life. Instead, we hereby sentence her to a lifetime’s confinement in the rooms atop Bramoran Royal’s north tower. She will receive no visitors. She will be waited upon by a deaf mute, that she may never endanger anyone again.”
Andett’s sobbing reverberated against the high ceiling as she sank into a chair, and Athlem gave a small nod, as if relieved he’d not witness his wife’s execution. Only Bysana objected. “Not at Bramoran.”
“Oh, yes, lady,” Rhorek replied, anger coloring his voice at last. “Where you may remember to your heart’s content. We find the punishment more than fitting.” He looked at Jareg. “Captain, remove her.”
Even after Bysana had gone, Andett failed to regain her composure; Leshan escorted her out. How the boy had missed his mother in the years he’d trained at Ilswythe. Not even Alovi’s attention could compensate. Laral seemed more tied to duty than to family. The older of Tírandon’s sons might yet be too tenderhearted to fill the knight’s hauberk adequately. If Keth judged Rhorek rightly, everyone was about to find out.
When the Hall was quiet again, Rhorek resumed, “Before one of the assassins was executed, he shouted the name of the man who had secured his services. The culprit is our ancient adversary, the White Falcon of Fiera.”
In one tumultuous uproar the highborns and squires voiced their outrage, their insult, their desire for vengeance. “Lunélion demands Shadryk’s head!” cried Princess Mazél.
“We’ll raze the South Bank,” Lander declared.
Keth raised a hand and gradually the Hall reclaimed a sense of order.
Weariness heavy on his shoulders, Rhorek said, “As is required by law, I will have your vote. Should you give me the majority, I will consent to write a letter to Shadryk the Third to inform him that his neighbors to the north have declared war upon him.”
