My wearing red garners as much attention from my kin as my whitened hair does, but I pretend not to see it. If I pay attention, I’ll see how far outside of this clan they have pushed me. And if I think about that, I’ll weep for the company of my comrades, the only ones who ever accepted me for what I am: a weapon.
The guard will not question my sneaking off the grounds. He won’t follow or try to stop me as Chamira did. I look back over my shoulder and connect with his tracking stare. His honey-colored eyes gobble up the distance between us as I wave a dismissive hand. His sandy blond hair falls across his eyes with the nod, hiding their meaning.
I disappear between the trees. The sun will soon chase away the shadows. Light will absolve what I’ll do in this darkness. The moon catches my eye; a pearl in the sea of deep blue above. I stifle my grief and replace it with the familiar rush of adrenaline and angst in my blood.
2. ABSOLUTION
Tonight, I will take matters into my own hands. Pausing at the bank of the River Liri, I flinch as a thought jumps into my head. Rubbing my hand over my eyes does little to wipe away the image, but I must ford the river every time I make this journey.
I wade into the frigid water and recoil. The chill makes me want to turn right around and go home. A shiver quakes under my skin, and I question my decision. Should I have stayed with the fallen warriors? The thought of their frozen faces chills me more than the water that laps at my knees. Keep going, Keres.
I choose the shallowest parts and tiptoe across fallen logs, staying out of the icy grip of the river as best I can until I’m across.
As I approach my destination, pulses of energy reach me like a scent wafting on the wind. A thrumming begins in my stomach and my bowels turn to water as the strange sensation ravages my nerves: The wards.
I do not shy away from the magical energy or the rising panic it creates in me. Anyone else would flinch at the sight of the decrepit hut, ruined beyond repair. A normal person would retrace their steps. They wouldn't take their eyes off the utter darkness behind the shattered windows. It sucks the starlight in and extinguishes it. Anyone else would heed their burning instinct to run, like a mare from a serpent— from the whirling tendrils of shadow that reach for passersby through the open door. That hungry door, swinging and creaking on its hinges.
Striding through the doorway, I disregard the claw marks dragged over the threshold. The pitch dark throws its hands over my eyes and the door slams shut behind me. The mirage spell melts away, falling like scales from my eyes. The atmosphere around me glimmers and morphs into a clearing in the forest. An illusion blown away by the wind of realization, the hut disappears. Beyond the veil of magic, a loft perches in the branches— content as a sparrow in a ship mast. A welcoming family behind the deterring wards.
I shake the chill from my back and arms. The sight of the house in the trees would usually pull a smile from the corner of my mouth but not tonight. The full moon settles on the roof. Every star of my favorite constellation winks into the clearing. The appeal of the night sky is useless in cheering me up, paled by the sight of my aunt.
She stands at the foot of a staircase that winds around a burly tree trunk. She’s been waiting for me. My last visit was over two weeks ago. How she knew I’d be coming tonight boggles me. Her silver eyes beam even brighter than the stars. Not with joy at my return, but with fervent power awaiting release.
I’ve stood at the foot of a mountain and looked up. I’ve knelt before a shrine to a God and begged. I’ve looked into the eyes of Elven victims and their murderers, my prey. No experience compares to standing in front of the woman who raised you and seeing your very origin in her eyes.
My mother’s sister may not have birthed me, but she’s wrought everything I am. She sees pain and fury where I hold back tears. My aunt knows the names of my fears and the depth of my despair. She’s raised me in my mother’s stead to face those fears and rise when I fall. Her eyes have looked on me with pride more times than with discontent. But the look she gives me now breaks me down to nothing: Understanding.
Ivaia understands the pain I bear each time I come to her after an attack on my people. She is not part of the clan, but she pays attention. Not only does Ivaia understand the loss of someone dear, she understands the darkness in my mind quickly filling the void created by yet another death. Midnight thoughts, as innumerable and bewitching as the stars. She sees the shadows my emotions are dragging my thoughts into. She steps forward with that mother-knows-all expression and embraces me, darkness included.
For the next few minutes, I’m aware of nothing else but the mesh of her gown as it grates my wet cheek. Her hair smells of lavender. Fingers caress my scalp. Her skin cools my fevered soul. She bears all my weight in her unfaltering arms. As my shuddering voice quiets, I realize she’s singing a song from my childhood.
My mother, her sister, died when I was a child. Ivaia was a little older than I am now. I look into Ivaia’s eyes and remember the first time I saw her. I had just woken up days after mother’s death and was shocked, thinking she was somehow at my bedside, alive again. The same long golden hair and a wide smile. But the voice was startling, unlike my mother’s. Ivaia spoke as if she didn’t know how to interact with a child:
“Your mother’s gone now, but I’m not. Your sister locked herself in the garden. Gods know what for. We can still see her through the gates. But never mind that. I’m here now. We never met, dear Gods, where are my manners?”
She stooped awkwardly at the side of my bed. “I’m your mother’s little sister, not the older one. Your father knows I’m here and has approved me taking you back to my house, not the castle. It’s a hut…”
“I don’t want to leave,” I said.
She swatted away my rejection like it was an insect.
“Rubbish, darling. Look at you! So ill and grimy even Mrithyn didn’t want you. It’s only for a few days.” She dragged the covers off my shivering body.
“Come now, put on this shawl.” She tossed a red bundle of fabric onto my head. “You’ll end up right back in the earth if you don’t bundle up. Weather’s turned against us. Seems Nerissa is mourning your mother.”
That was that. She swept me up with a swish of her long black skirts and cloak.
Ivaia isn’t rough with me now like she was then. She allows me to regain my footing and scrub my face with the backs of my sleeves. Taking my hand, she leads me up the stairs of her home. Much like the first time I visited her loft, I stare at each step. One plank of wood more unsteady than the next as they wind up and up around the grand tree she’s chosen for her stairwell. When I was small, I thought I’d fall through the spaces between the steps. She held my hand like this when I lost my mother, and now again after I lost my closest friend.
The lanterns in the house cast whimsical shadows over the eclectic furniture. Plants brought in from the forest crawl along the walls and hang from the ceiling’s wooden beams. Many have grown wilder since the last time I was here. A few more pelts have been added to the furs lining the floor.
My uncle lounges shirtless between two long-leafed plants. One hand holds a book to his nose and the other is tangled in his shoulder-length blond hair. A fire crackles in the pit, toasting his toes. I toss my belongings to the side of the doorway and fall onto the cushion the same shade of green as my eyes beside him.
“Ah, there you are, Keres,” he snaps his book closed and perks up. “We were expecting you a few days ago when we heard about the ambush.”
His eyes dart between my tear-stained face and Ivaia’s somber one.
“How many?” He asks.
For too long a moment, the only sound is of the fire chewing on the wood.
“Nine,” I say.
The door behind me clicks shut and my aunt catches my eye as she removes her shawl. In the light, her silver eyes seem almost clear, tinged with blue. Her golden hair, twined and braided in sections, falls to her shoulders in an edgy chop. It hides her long, pointed ears.
; The heavy fur slips off her frame. Her dress looks like it’s made of cobwebs. Long, delicate, and the same silvery blue of her eyes. It clings to her curves and covers only what it must. Her arms remain bare, and slivers of her long legs are exposed through slits in her dress. Most of her full chest and flat belly is on display, bearing fine ink markings like Riordan’s. Some are simple, colorful stains. Some are black, dense line-work. All are illustrations of the things she loves in life. Stories on her skin.
A broad silver band crosses her brow, taming her mane, with coin shaped pendants dripping off it. A heavy, intricate necklace to match it rests at her throat. Tiny, silver ingots line her ears from lobe to cartilage. She’s gorgeous, exotic. Almost nothing of her resembles our family in the West. As she intended.
Riordan and Ivaia look at each other.
“Keres lost her childhood friend among the nine.” She abandons the heavy fur cape, losing it in the menagerie already warming the wooden floors.
“Katrielle?” Rio’s hand goes to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Keres.”
He leans forward onto his knees and reaches toward me. I grip his hand and am rewarded with a consoling squeeze.
Before we speak, Riordan insists on setting a miniature feast on a mat before us. He passes me a cup of something hot. This tea is my favorite: lilac and honey. Its fragrance seeps down my throat and brings up her name.
“Katrielle…” My throat tightens again but the soothing warmth of the tea lures out all the fire in my words. Ugh. I wish I could disappear right now. Their bulging blue eyes are begging me to divulge feelings and be vulnerable. I wipe my eyes and straighten my spine.
“The Dalis ambushed them. Kat and eight others were scouting close to the clan Hishmal. The Dalis seem to be moving south.” I glance to the ceiling, seeking an easier way to talk about her death. A way without crying.
“Maybe spreading out? Once they breached our borders, we shouldn’t have assumed they would stop.” Rio thinks aloud.
I shrug, “Whichever direction they’re going, their presence is growing too quickly. We’ve been watching them. Running routine perimeter check once a month. A group would go out and gather as much information as they could about their encampments. Each patrol found more discouraging information as time passed.”
Ivaia takes up a spot on the floor and leans against Riordan’s knee.
“The nine who went out sustained fatal injuries after colliding with a Human patrol. Getting information from them was too difficult. All we could guess was the strength of their warriors and weapons, judging by the wounds they inflicted,” I say, taming my voice.
I hate this. The Dalis presence is a blight. I can’t stop emotion from breaking through my words, the same way we can’t stop them from staining the land with innocent blood.
“You said nine?” Riordan asks. “I thought Indiro never sent out troops of an odd number. His superstitions and all.”
“He doesn’t,” I say. “I was to be the tenth that day.”
“It was a full moon,” Ivaia says.
“Oh.” Riordan nods, closing his eyes.
“Indiro accompanied me to mother’s grave that day, as he always does. I keep thinking I should have been there with them instead.”
Riordan makes a clicking sound with his mouth in disagreement.
“You cannot change the outcome.” He tries to reassure me.
I swallow hard, my mouth getting drier. “We couldn’t push them for more information as they died. They were maimed. How they made it back to camp is beyond me.” I ball my fists. “The Dalis see us as animals or less, here to be butchered. But they cannot see how much less civilized they are for thinking so?” I ask.
Ivaia’s eyes wander to the floor where her fingers wind in strands of the fur rug. Riordan presses his fingertips together in front of his nose, closing his eyes in thought.
My face feels hot and my skin stings where salty tears ran their course. “I don’t think they were far from home when the attack happened. Kat… they impaled her through her side. We couldn’t remove the weapon— didn’t know if we should. Their injuries were beyond anything we know how to heal. Chamira’s efforts were extraordinary, but even her concoctions and magic were ineffective.”
I think back on my harsh words to Chamira. She tried everything she could, I know she did. I watched her try for two days.
“Two days,” My eyes blur against my will. “She hung on, stuck with that thing jutting out of her. Until she started coughing up blood and—”
Two sets of hands reach for me as I fight back a sob. My chest hurts. She was my dearest friend. Closer to me than my sister.
“I know,” Ivaia says as if I’d been thinking aloud.
I hold my breath and blow it out through pursed lips. Needing to focus, I look at them and tell myself not to cry. It’s remarkable how alike their eyes are, how they give off the same energy.
They’re both fair headed, but his coloring leans more toward a warm rich color, and hers is a cool platinum. Their eye colors are inverted but the same: Hers are silver, streaked with blue. His are blue, sparkling in places like crystal. Two sets of diamonds. They exchange glances.
“I don’t understand this,” Riordan stands up.
Ivaia shifts backward to lean on her hands. “What statute of brutality is justifiable?” She counters.
“Oh, come on, Iv. What’s changed in the last few months? They went from bartering with us to butchering us. The clans have always been right where they’ve kept us. Under foot. We’re at the ends of their swords and at the mercy of their king. His hostile mood swings are tearing our land asunder. Every day we fight for our way of life against the North. That’s the point. These attacks are happening more frequently and unprovoked. They’re happening every damned day!”
Rio is right. The darkness of Men spreads throughout the forest uninhibited, and there’s no ray of hope for the Elven clans as we toddle on the brink of extinction. Merciless hands ushering us closer to the edge.
“Man is perching in our forest, armed to the teeth, setting up military camps among the four remaining clans,” Riordan continues. “This is war. One we didn’t ask for.”
Ivaia glares at him. “If you don’t count our spying on them as provocation.”
The Elven Kingdoms responsible for protecting the clans have withdrawn military force. Their absence has allowed these Human territories to scar the landscape. I’ve been wondering, more and more angrily, why they do not come to our aid. Granted, the Dalis don’t attack clan campgrounds outright, but anyone out walking in the woods is fair game.
The Elven Armies could match the Dalis in weaponry and force— an advantage the clans don’t have and desperately need. Clan-dwelling Elves are docile, bound by traditions of pacifism. Our warriors will defend the clans, but they are not trained or equipped to grapple with an army. Only I possess heightened senses and combat prowess, gifts from the God of Death. The sole predator that can match them, but a lone wolf, nonetheless.
I’ve read of the Elves that came before us; their blood ripe with magic beyond what we know now. Ancient texts claim they were more connected to the Gods too. However, our ancestors protected their secrets so well, they’ve been lost even to their descendants. The Children of the Sunderlands’ Forest today are simple folk. I suspect great power lies dormant in our blood. But there are centuries of nonviolent tradition barring us from awakening it.
“The Dalis are wiping us out! They’re taking over the Sunderlands. Who knows if this loft will even be safe anymore, come a few more months?” Riordan argues.
“What’s changed is they’ve got a securer foothold now. They don’t have to worry about us fighting them off, because we can’t,” I say, wiping my nose. “They used their dealings with us as leverage. They sowed seeds here. Now, we’re outnumbered and overpowered— they don’t require a reason to fight. They’re just picking us off like pests. It’s not like the Kingdom has done anything to thwart them. The Queen is allowing Men to scar
our homeland. Why won’t she come to our aid? She knows we cannot match the Dalis in brute force.”
Riordan pauses, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other planted on his hip. His linen pants hang low off his hips making him seem even taller. “Keres is right. An entire sodding army has squatted on their doorsteps and there’s no word from anyone.” His words always come faster the angrier he becomes, along with a flurry of gestures.
“The Cenlands have sent word—” Ivaia tries.
“Okay, let me rephrase. Help hasn’t come from anywhere. No one is coming. Your niece sits on the throne, half her mind gone out the widest window! When the clans need their kingdoms most, she’s revoked the crown’s protection. If her mother could see—”
“Enough,” Ivaia says.
“No, Iv. It isn’t enough. Gods know what Hero is doing or what she’s planning, but our people are perishing every day. It is not enough.”
I agree with Riordan. Something isn’t right with my cousin. But considering her current situation, little could be right.
“Ivaia,” I try to ease the tension building between them. “You know the Ro’Hale Kingdom better than any of us. You may not know Queen Hero, but you know everyone else there.”
I look at Rio, “You know your brethren in the Knight Order. Can either of you think of what might be going on around Hero since her mother died? Hero’s not the only one suffering the loss of Herrona, the entire kingdom must have felt it.”
“I don’t know why Queen Hero hasn’t helped the clans, despite her duty to. It is not my job to guess what could go wrong with an entire kingdom. Especially not one I haven’t been a part of for more than a decade. We all have our roles, Keres. You know yours,” She says, avoiding my question and my eyes.
The Sunderlands Page 2
