by Krista Rose
I was not ready- and in the end, it turned out not to matter.
KRYSSA
13 Llares 577A.F.
Reyce’s twelfth birthday dawned bright and beautiful, though threatening clouds quickly rolled in to darken the sky. I hastily took my leave of Vitric in the woods, determined to make it home before the rain. I clutched a plain box to my chest, encasing my gift for my brother: a whole cake iced with pink sugar, made for us by the Widow Ellisa, a treat none of us had had in years. I smiled as I made my way down the rutted path to the farm, my heart light.
The rain began to fall as I arrived, and I hurried inside. The others were waiting for me, gathered around Reyce. His arms were full of Kylee’s gift- a squirming kitten, which purred loudly as he stroked its grey fur.
He beamed up at me as I entered, shaking rain from my hair. “Kryssa, Kylee got me a kitten!”
“Yes, dear heart.” It had been my suggestion when she had come to me, fretting over her gift. “What will you name him?”
“I’m not sure.” He lifted the kitten so I could see it. “What do you think?”
I tilted my head, considering. “Well, the white stripe on its face looks kind of like a mask. What about Bandit?”
“Bandit.” He grinned and hugged the kitten to his chest, looking so much like the child he should have been that for an instant I wanted to weep.
Alyxen had crafted him an ornate box, painstaking engravings of his stories carved into each of the sides along with Reyce’s name. He had worked on it for months, and his eyes warmed as our brother traced the carving of a family of squirrels, cleverly made to look like each of us, riding on dragons beneath the fragile, handmade hinges.
Lanya’s gift was a new shirt, sewn from an old sheet I had been given by one of the villagers. She had embroidered intricate designs on the collar and cuffs, charms for luck and health and family. I had watched her make it, stitching by firelight long into the night after the others had gone to bed, her face rapt with concentration. She blushed when Reyce praised it as one of the most beautiful things he had ever owned, her eyes bright with pleasure.
Brannyn presented him with his favorite dagger, a small child’s blade Father had given him before our mother died. He had struggled with parting with it, though it was useless to him now, and it hurt him to watch as Reyce tucked it into his belt. It was one of the few reminders we possessed of what had once been.
At last, it was my turn. I handed him the box, watched his eyes go wide with delight as he opened it, the others crowding around him.
“It’s a cake.” Alyxen’s voice was reverent. “You got him cake.”
“It’s for all of us to share, but yes.” I smiled, pleased. “Happy birthday, Reyce.”
His eyes glowed up at me; for a brief moment, I was blinded as brilliant white happiness poured into my mind.
The front door slammed open, letting in the storm.
The happiness vanished.
Father stepped inside, water pouring from his skin, though it had failed to wash away the stench of ale, or the choking smell of the Crone’s potion that clung to him. He glared at us through narrowed, bloodshot eyes, his knuckles whitening on the whip as he shut the door.
“What is all this?” he rasped, stepping forward to poke at the gifts on the table. Bandit mewed piteously, and his face darkened. “What are you doing?”
I swallowed the familiar, choking fear. “It’s Reyce’s birthday, Father. We were just giving him his gifts.”
“Gifts.” He sneered, picking up the ornately carved box. I saw Alyxen’s hands clench into fists. “You call these gifts?” He tossed the box aside, and it crashed to the floor, the delicate hinges snapping from the lid, so that it flew apart in two pieces.
“Father.” I carefully pushed Kylee and Lanya behind me. “Perhaps you should go lay down. I’ll bring your dinner in a moment-”
“Shut up, you insolent cow.” He lifted the beautiful shirt and used it to mop the water and dirt from his face, staining it. Lanya let out a quiet sob as he dropped the shirt to the floor and stepped on it deliberately.
Reyce sat at the table, white-faced and frozen, clutching the small kitten in his lap protectively.
And then Father spotted my cake.
His face twisted with gleeful malice as he reached for it. My breath froze in my lungs, dread and certainty colliding, threatening to make me sick. I knew what was coming, could already see it building behind his eyes. Though I wanted to look away, I forced myself to watch as he carefully lifted the cake, his lips pursed in mocking contemplation.
His gaze turned to me. “You did this.”
I took a deep breath. “Yes, Father.”
“You stole it.” It was not a question.
I felt compelled to answer anyway. “No, Father. Widow Ellisa made it for me.”
He snorted. “Why would anyone make anything for you?”
“Father, please-”
He smiled, viciously, the cake looking fragile and innocent in his large hand. “Please, what?”
“Please, don’t do this.” My eyes burned with humiliating tears. I hated him, and more, I hated myself for begging. But Reyce’s face was so pale, and the others frightened to the verge of tears. Perhaps there was a little left in him that was still human; perhaps the monster would retreat for even a moment, and he would see us once again as his beloved children-
His anger flashed, and he hurled the cake across the room. It smashed, raining into pieces on the floor, lovely pink frosting smearing down the wall. Father’s face was smug and satisfied, like a spoiled child who had proven a point against an adult.
My hatred lit like a blaze, cold and fierce and uncontrollable, burning away my tears and the ashes of my dead hopes. This man was not our father- he was a beast, a monster wearing Malachi’s face, empty of kindness, or compassion, or anything at all that would have made him human.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped around the table and struck him across the face.
Father’s head snapped back, the sound of my slap echoing in the sudden dangerous silence. My hand stung, though I scarcely felt it, the air invigorating as I gulped it in, fear and fierce joy warring within me. His cheek flamed red, the mark of my palm clearly visible against the unhealthy pallor of his skin.
I waited for the rage.
It struck with the suddenness of a summer storm, his hands closing around my throat. I was sent flying, soaring through the air until I struck the wall. Dazed, I could only stare as Brannyn stepped forward to protect me and was knocked aside. Lanya yelled something, though I couldn’t understand it past the ringing in my ears, and Father uncurled his whip. The younger children cowered, afraid, and Brannyn was forced to step in front of them to protect them- away from me.
Father glared, but Brannyn’s face was defiant, only a trace of his fear remaining.
I tried to gain my feet, my vision wavering, worry for him forcing me to intervene. “Brannyn.”
“No.” His jaw was set stubbornly. “I won’t. Not this time.”
Brannyn. I let him feel my fear- not for myself, but for them. Some of the defiance left his gaze, and he nodded.
The others quietly began making their way to our room, their faces unsure and frightened and angry. Brannyn was careful to keep himself between them and Father’s whip, but his eyes remained on my face. I could sense the indecision tearing at him, and so I only let him feel my worry for the others, and not how afraid I was to be left alone.
At last the door closed behind them, the sound of the lock loud in the quiet.
Father looked at me, a half-mad smile on his face. “You can do that, can you? Just look at them, and they do whatever you want.” He took two steps forward and grabbed me by my hair, twisting until my knees buckled. “Stupid bitch,” he growled, his eyes feral and savage. “You should have let them stay. Now I can only hurt you.”
“I’ll never let you hurt them,” I managed, teeth clenched against the pain in my head. “I’ll kil
l you first.”
“Worthless whore,” he hissed. I barely had time to brace before the whip cracked down, leaving a trail of fire across my back. “How dare you talk to me like that? How dare you?” He struck me again, and again, the whip whistling as it sailed through the air before biting deep into my flesh.
I closed my eyes against the pain, trying to take myself away, to think of Vitric and his sea-colored eyes so the others wouldn’t feel me suffer. He would stop soon; he always did.
But the blows continued, on and on.
I felt something warm and wet begin to trickle down my back, the pain growing white-hot as it clawed at me with greedy fingers. The vision of Vitric wavered and vanished as my knees buckled completely. I grabbed blindly for the whip, to stop it, and it ripped the skin from my hands as Malachi yanked it out of my grasp.
I collapsed into a ball on the floor, trying to make myself smaller and smaller, unable to hear over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Pain sang through my bones like music, and I prayed that he would finish, that the beating would end at last.
He kicked me, and I dimly heard him shouting. “Scream, damn you!”
I tried to take myself away, to think of Vitric’s eyes and voice and touch, but it was slipping away. I could not remember his face or who he was. I forgot my siblings, my resolve, even my own name. All I knew was the pain, endless, constant, eternal. The screams built, suffocating me, until they burst through, tearing at my throat.
And still the beating continued.
I was going to die; I knew that now. I welcomed it, begged for it. I may have even screamed for it, I do not know. All I knew was that I would have given anything to make the torment end.
REYCE
Kryssa’s screams were ripping through my soul, stripping all that was good in the world from me until there was nothing left but ugliness. I shook with fear and rage and bitter hatred, her pain building like a crescendo in my head.
My hand was clenched around the dagger on my belt, the cool hilt comforting in my grip. I knew how much it had grieved Brannyn to part with it, how much he treasured it for the memory of our family when it was happy. I envied him the remembrance, for all of my memories were of fear. How many times had my father shouted that he hated me for killing my mother, when I would have given anything for him to have looked at me even once with love?
Kryssa’s hoarse screams tortured me, scattering my thoughts. I had no memory of my mother, only of Kryssa’s face. Her words, soft and gentle; even my first memory was of her voice in my mind.
Please wake up. Come back to us.
I loved her as I would have loved my mother, and clung to her comfort whenever I was afraid. She was my protector, strong and fair and wonderful.
And he was killing her.
The Lady had spoken of great darkness- but how could I face it, when I was so afraid of the shadow that haunted my life? I was too weak, too timid, unable to stare down the monster that was hurting my sister, shouting savage curses over her cries.
I closed my eyes and summoned my will. I do not want to be afraid.
My mind calmed, my thoughts suddenly clear of all but purpose as I stood and walked to the door. I shoved Brannyn and Lanya aside somehow, and opened it, only dimly aware of the fear on their faces as they staggered away from me. I could feel their minds, faint and distant as they reached toward mine, but my thoughts were hard like diamonds, and I could not hear them.
The dagger was clenched in my hand as I stepped into the great room, and I gazed at the man beating Kryssa, knowing that his reign of terror and hate had at last come to an end.
I would not let my sister die.
KRYSSA
There is a moment, on the brink of certain death, where we suddenly remember strange things. It was there that I found the memory of my mother, her sapphire eyes holding mine as she faded away. Kryssa, you’ll take care of them for me, won’t you? Promise me you will.
I’m sorry, Mama. I failed. I can’t protect them from this. You left me alone, and now I’m going to die.
The blows stopped, abruptly.
I was too beaten to move, my back wet and warm. Heat hammered against my face. Someone was speaking to me, but their words were far away, echoing in my mind until they were jumbled and confusing.
Kryssa! Kryssa, we have to go!
Lanya? My mind wavered at the edge of oblivion, struggling to escape. I knew I should protect her from my torment, but I could no longer remember why.
Brannyn, you have to come get her. I don’t think she can stand.
I can’t. Reyce.
Reyce? The fear in his voice pulled me back from the lake of nothingness my mind threatened to drown in. My skin was too hot, and my lungs began to ache. What’s happened to Reyce?
I could feel their reluctance, their hesitation. It frightened me, so that I fought through the waves of pain, uncurling myself on the floor and pushing myself to my knees. Reyce?
My eyes hurt to open. The light was wrong, staggered black shadows and intense reddish flames. My hands touched something slick and wet and dark, and I followed the line of it, oddly detached, to where it pooled beneath the fallen form of my father. The hilt of a dagger, dazzling in the strange light, protruded from his back.
I choked, and shuddered. His chest moved, faintly, and I looked away, unable to understand what I was seeing. Reyce? Even in my head, I sounded shrill and terrified.
Leave him. The white light of his thoughts was brutal and cold, and chilled me to my bones even in the oppressive heat. Let him die. It’s the same as he would do for us. As he almost just did to you.
“Reyce,” I croaked, tears running down my cheeks, burning as they found the scratches on my face. I had failed to protect him; I had failed my promise.
The monster had won, after all.
Lanya’s hands were on my arms, struggling to help me rise, her golden, gentle touch insistent as she urged me to hurry. Agony crashed over me like a wave, and I retched, my body violently protesting movement.
Brannyn, you have to help her, she can’t-
My mind struggled to focus. Something was wrong with the light; it was too bright for candles, in the wrong area for the fireplace. Why couldn’t I remember?
Brannyn!
I’m coming, but you have to take Reyce.
Reyce. The darkness tried to swallow me. Reyce, what have you done?
He won’t hurt you anymore. That blank, furious coldness, hurting me, making me gasp, so that I coughed and choked as the stench of smoke filled my senses, each spasm unbearable.
Then Brannyn was beside me, lifting me gently. Comforting darkness washed over me, and at last I knew no more.
BRANNYN
13 Llares 577A.F.
I cursed the rain as I trudged through it, wet and miserable and half-blind as icy droplets dripped from my hair into my eyes. Kryssa was still as death, and my arms trembled and burned from her weight, my hands warm with her blood. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other as I stumbled along the muddy road, my face and feet growing cold and numb, the night black and unfriendly around us.
I could not forget that awful moment when Reyce had shoved me from his path, unnaturally strong, his face emotionless as he had walked into the great room and plunged the dagger into our father’s back. Father had screamed and fallen to the floor, trying to crawl away, though Lanya said that the blade had pierced his lung. Reyce had watched, apathetic, until our father had at last collapsed, and then turned his gaze on me.
His eyes had been completely black.
There was nothing human in them. All the color had been drained from them, consumed by that terrible darkness. The smell of charred earth had surrounded me, and I had recoiled, my stark terror bursting through my hands in blue flames and setting the house to blazing around us.
Bright white light touched my mind, the pain of it piercing through my thoughts and bringing me back to the moment. I glanced at Reyce, nearly shuddering with relief to find his eye
s normal once more.
Our father is dead, Brannyn. Our concern now must remain only for the living.
I shook my head, pushing him out of it, and kept walking.
The Crone’s house loomed before us at last, the windows lit from within like malevolent eyes. Lanya hurried ahead of us to knock, so that the rest of us arrived as the door opened.
I had always hated the Crone. She frightened me when I was small, her skin sallow and sunken so that her face resembled a death’s-head, except for the gleaming black of her eyes, which reminded me of shiny black beetles.
But the nightmares she had given me as a child were nothing compared to the one she had forced us to live with for the last eight years. I glared as she gazed at us, her face expressionless.
“Do you have payment?” she asked at last.
“Kryssa’s hurt,” Lanya pleaded. “You have to help her.”
The Crone’s lips thinned. “I help no one without payment.”
I stepped forward, fury bubbling dangerously through my veins. “How about your life?” I asked, in what I thought to be a reasonable tone. Malice scraped at my bones. “You save our sister, and maybe I won’t kill you for all the damage you’ve caused.”
The Crone blanched, her calm shattered by my rage, and I shouldered past her into her house, the others crowding in behind me. She stared after us, remaining in the doorway, hesitant and muttering to herself.
The table in the great room was completely covered in the detritus of the woman’s trade: bottles of all sizes, jars of powders and ointments, scraps of parchment, dried herbs and insects and things I didn’t even want to begin to guess the nature of. Alyxen, sensing my intention, cleared the surface of it with a sweep of his arm, sending the objects flying, many of them shattering as they hit the floor.
The Crone jerked, wanting to protest but clearly afraid.
I laid Kryssa on her stomach upon the questionably clean surface, grimacing as I peeled my hand from her wounds. Her back looked even worse in the lurid light of the Crone’s fireplace, blood caked to her shirt, which hung from her in ragged strips. Even in sleep, which normally severed our connection, I could still feel her pain, beating against me like a fist.
