Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “They’re your people, Lina.”

  “They were. But you see the way they look at me now. What will they say? What will they think? What will I tell your son?”

  “Tell him I’m coming back.”

  “But a whole year!”

  “Maybe more,” Alutan frowned. “It’s a long road, and very long since I walked it.”

  Andalina’s eyes grew wet, then flashed with anger. “Alutan! Our son needs you!”

  “I know.” The words tore his heart. “But you know it too. The Chorah’dyn is weakening. It must be now. I may not get another chance. Even now may be . . . too late. And I have so many questions. Questions about us and our purpose.” He glanced back through the trees. “About our son.”

  Tears slipped down Lina’s face. Sometimes she seemed as old as the earth, older than Alutan, wise and powerful and strong. Then there were times he remembered how young she was.

  Alutan wrapped his arms around her and this time she didn’t pull away. Her fingers clutched the back of his shirt.

  “I know I can’t go with you,” she finally said. “But wait. Three years, or four. Then you could take him. He’s young, but more than capable. It would be good for him. He needs to be with his father.”

  Alutan frowned and shook his head. “Lina, you know where I’m going. It isn’t safe. I’ll be passing through Lendahyn territory, and through his. You can protect Balduin better than I. You know that.”

  She leaned back and looked him in the eye. “And who will protect you?”

  “I’m always protected.”

  “Not as much as you think. I know, Alutan. I see . . .” She traced a finger down the side of his face. “You’re strong beyond measure, but I’m afraid. Can you promise me you’ll be safe? Can you really?”

  He felt his stomach churn. His wife had a gift as well. She saw things, she knew things, and her foreboding carried the weight of prophecy.

  “You know I can’t,” he replied. “Still, I must go. Please Lina. I need you to understand, or I’ll never be strong enough to leave.”

  She frowned, and this time her face bore all the regal strength of who she was.

  “Live, Alutan. Whatever happens, live from the fullness of what you have and come back for him. Do you hear me?”

  Come back for him. Not her. Like she knew.

  He returned her solemn gaze. “I do, my love.”

  Later that night, when Balduin was asleep, they slipped away to the forest above Elamori to say their farewells. Gentle caresses turned to fierce need. Neither spoke their worries aloud—that her time, so tied to the Chorah’dyn’s strength, might be withering even now. But they sensed the desperation in the other, in the whispered professions, the clinging hands, lips eager to taste and touch and commit to memory the contours of the beloved’s body. To be one so fully in that moment that each might carry the other into the long days ahead.

  “My heart goes with you,” Andalina sighed, running her hands through his bright hair. “And my strength.”

  They parted in the early morning, he to gather what was needed, and Andalina to wake their son. When all was ready, Alutan knelt before him and took his shoulders. “Do you understand, Balduin? It might be a long, long time before I see you again.”

  The boy looked at him with solemn, blue eyes. He understood. He had his mother’s sight. He simply lifted one hand and pressed a finger to his father’s cheek. Alutan had learned to accept the strange gesture as a touch of affection, or perhaps a deeper, intuitive connection the boy could not describe. Alutan had already seen the first hints of Balduin’s attachment to the Unseen. Some of his mother’s gift, and some of Alutan’s.

  “I will come back. Wait for me, and I will come back.”

  They were the only words needed.

  Alutan knelt in the dark. Tears ran down his face. It wasn’t the memory he’d feared, but one far more powerful—a memory he’d clutched tight to himself for so many years, hiding it from the enemy, hiding it from himself, terrified to remember what he’d once known.

  He took a shuddering breath. Oh Maker, how have I forgotten? How have I let acts of love be severed from feeling? Let my heart stir again!

  Still weeping, he lifted his head. The way lay open. Not out of the labyrinth, but deeper in. He didn’t hesitate this time. There were two powers at work here, and he felt a new urgency.

  This was it. This was the answer. Fear could not stand against love. If it meant reliving every terrible and wonderful moment of his life, he would do it. To remember who he was. To remember his purpose.

  “I will save you, Hyranna Elduna,” he spoke into the darkness. “And then we will find Balduin together. I promise you.”

  The memories came faster now. Some of torment, some of love. He didn’t resist anymore. He let each wash over him, terrible as they might be.

  Most were dark, heavy, and painful. His life had been long—too long—and there was a great loneliness running through it. But the moments of light were stronger. Balduin was there, and Andalina, and brief snatches of his old life, when he’d had the respect of men and his heart was full, when he’d been called by another name, now trembling on the edge of forgetfulness: Kulnethar, son of Ethanir, Elder of Shyandar, healer, Kylan.

  Snatches of his life came and went, and he walked on, pressing deeper, winding further into the labyrinth. The dizzying journey felt like days, doubling and returning again, each new memory a key to unlocking the way forward. Days stretched into weeks. Pain upon pain. And then a flash of hope. And then more pain. The memories grew darker.

  Because the enemy knew it was losing.

  At last he came to it, the memory he’d been dreading. But now there was both expectation and readiness. This was it. Healing meant first exposing the rot.

  He took a step forward, and he was falling. The ground opened, and blackness closed around him. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. He knelt there, not sure if he should try to move. The dungeons beneath Ne’adun were sweltering with heat, but here cold seeped in from every side, squeezing his heart and freezing his breath. Then he heard a voice, a disembodied groan from the dark:

  . . . my son . . . my son . . . no . . . don’t . . .

  Pathetic. Pleading. Weak.

  Alutan wanted to shut it out, to forget and bury it away. But that wasn’t the answer. He took a deep breath, and let it come.

  His mind had done a convincing job this time. Too convincing.

  The nightmare had come true. Shatayeth unbarred the door and the sound of the small voice echoing in the dark was too much for him.

  “Papi . . .”

  Alutan’s breath was cut off, lungs tight. In the flickering half-light, his fevered mind hardly noticed the boy was no older than he remembered.

  “Balduin!” The name burst out of him in a rush of fear. He grabbed him and held him and tried not to weep, tried not to frighten the small child further. But the tears came anyway, against his will. “Balduin . . . Balduin-chi. It’s me. Your father. Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  The boy shook his head, and though he didn’t cry, Alutan could feel him shaking from fear.

  And then he was taken from him again. So quickly, so cruelly. Shatayeth said nothing, only dragged them apart and struck Alutan down. Alutan screamed in rage and despair, until his mind began to fight back, to reject what he was seeing.

  No . . . no . . . I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it! Let me out!

  He jerked and came awake. His hands and feet were bound, eyelids pinned open, staring through the cold, milky white orbs pressed against his eyes. Though conscious again, he could still feel the poison, leaking into his mind, warping Seen and Unseen to play upon his fears.

  The Avanir’s power fought, battling it back, but in his weakened state, it had come too late. How long? How long? He’d given Shatayeth nothing for years. Nothing at all. Until now.

  “That will do,” the man said and bent next to him. Cold hands unfastened the thing
from his face.

  Alutan squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in furious breaths. But Shatayeth hovered close.

  “Balduin-chi,” the Undying said quietly. He brushed a hand to Alutan’s brow. “A name should be enough. Aethen in origin, meaning bold and brave, blessed in the south-most realms. You couldn’t help it, could you? Ah. But you call him chi. Balduin-chi. Little brave one. An Imo’ani diminutive, implying he is a child. So north Ellendandur, and likely on a river, as the inland Imo’ani are fishers—and you would hide somewhere inland. Somewhere deep. As for age, he’s old enough to understand you, but not old enough to lose the term of endearment, and judging by your tone of voice, I would say . . . three or four years old.” He paused, and Alutan felt his heart shrivelling.

  “No,” he groaned, hardly able to get the words out. “Don’t . . .”

  “He is the one you protect. Above everything. How old do you think he would be by now? Eight summers, or nine? An impressionable age.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Outrage stirred. Alutan thrashed against his bonds. “He’s nothing to do with us!”

  “Oh, I highly doubt that.” Shatayeth’s voice was calm and cold. “Whatever he is, you ventured from hiding, and risked the long journey to the Tree on his account. Being your son, I imagine he’d carry something special indeed. I wonder if he remembers his father. Did you promise to come back for him? But that was years ago now, poor Balduin-chi. I wonder if he resents you for that. I wonder how malleable he will be.”

  “Never.” Alutan closed his eyes, grasping at his strength, his presence, whatever he could salvage. “You will never have him.”

  Shatayeth shrugged. “Then I will break him.”

  And with that, he left.

  For years, Shatayeth had held him prisoner in Ne’adun, tormenting him. At first for the novelty of it, then out of curiosity, like a scientist exploring his tools. Will this kill you? Will this break you? He probed Alutan’s weaknesses, words dropped here and there, patient questions.

  Now there was silence. Now there was only waiting in the blackness. The flickering blue light went out. The tight walls closed around him. No food, no water, no living thing to speak to. Nothing but the inner fire to sustain him, and his fears to eat away at his heart.

  Alutan remembered all of it. Every moment. Torment a hundred times worse than any pain Shatayeth had inflicted. Andalina would protect the boy. Andalina would protect him. But what if she were already gone? The Chorah’dyn’s presence had gone cold. So what of his wife? If her cloak of protection were stripped away, Balduin would be vulnerable. What lies would Shatayeth subject him to? What torment? He could see it. A boy without his father. And the stranger would come, speak lies to him, lead him away. Your father abandoned you. Your father never knew you.

  No, no, my son. My son!

  But it was inevitable. And when Shatayeth never returned, he lost hope. He went wild with dark imaginings. He tore his hair, he screamed, he beat himself against the walls.

  “You lied!” he shrieked to the light inside him. “Liar! What more do you want? You said I would be bound to the Aktyr’s fate, but I failed, so just let me die! If you won’t help me, leave me! Do you hear? Leave me! I never wanted this! I never asked for this! Let me die, let me die!”

  He pounded his chest, sobbing and raging against the fire that still burned there, against the gift, turned against him now like a curse. All he wanted was his son, and if he couldn’t have that, then the sweet oblivion of death. At least madness. At least let him forget. Let him become a creature, clawing at black, impenetrable stone, without words, without thoughts.

  Instead he was left, buried alive in this tomb. Forgotten. A failure. Knowing everything. Knowing and seeing and seeing again. Every fear. Every regret. Everything. Everything.

  Alutan opened his eyes. His face was dry. No more tears for that time. It was over. Yet deep, aching sorrow pressed on his heart, cracking it open until it bled.

  “Forgive me,” he groaned into the dark. The power within was no mindless force. He’d known that from the beginning. It was alive, a moving, breathing thing that worked with him: a part of him, yet distinct. What words could ever undo his faithlessness? He tried anyway.

  “Be with me. Be the strength I need. For Hyranna. For my son.”

  “Father?”

  The voice cut through his meditations, terrifyingly real. Alutan’s head came up with a jolt. There was a faint light ahead. He thought he could hear footsteps, see a figure’s silhouette, moving towards him. His heart started to thrum, beating painful life back into his lungs.

  “Balduin?” he cried.

  Impossible. Balduin was nowhere near this place. It was Hyranna’s mind he sought in the Unseen. Even still, he staggered to his feet. His hands began to shake. “Balduin! Balduin, is that you?”

  He stumbled forward. His control was slipping, his careful rationality. His arms ached to hold his son. Oh, Maker, let it be true!

  There was no reply. No figure in the dark. But he knew what he’d seen. For an instant, there had been a young man—not his tottering child, but a grown youth, hair wild, as red as his mother’s, the barest glimpse of an arm, half a face.

  The vision was gone now, but he clung to it like a man dying of thirst who glimpses a distant shimmer of water. He staggered towards the light. It wasn’t the flickering blue, or even the pale, ghostly grey of when he’d first entered. There was warmth in it, like the morning sun. Hurry, a voice urged him. Hurry now. She needs you . . .

  He emerged blinking into a forest. It was immediately familiar. It was the forest above Elamori, the tall, stately pines and spruce, the silver groves of birch and feathered ferns, rippling with liquid light, so wondrous, so perfect it was almost painful.

  For a moment he stood, staring at the beauty around him. He’d never seen it like this, as if trees and rock could breathe life into a soul. No, this was how she saw it. Hyranna Elduna. This was her home. Her memories now.

  Yet marred . . .

  Something brushed his mind like the stench of death. He’d finally crossed through his own pain—and into hers.

  “Hyranna?” he called. He expected his voice to tremble, but it rang strong. He scanned the forest.

  There. That way. There was a cliff edge, where the forest plunged into a gully, and he thought he sensed her on the other side. Not far now. He started to run.

  He never saw it coming. Something struck from behind, driving him to the ground. Strong arms tore at him, wrenching his head. Fingers dug into his face, twisting, pulling, murderous, straining to snap his neck.

  Alutan gave a roar as he twisted. His inner fire moved with him, lending him strength to fling off his attacker. The thing sprawled on the ground, landing on all fours. It looked human. It looked like a boy.

  Its head snapped up and black eyes burned at him.

  Alutan’s stomach clenched. It was a boy—a twisted parody of the boy he’d once known, his friend from the desert. Vanya.

  The hair was a wild, black mess, face pinched with hatred, mouth pulled into a snarl. Scrawny limbs flexed and crouched, and Alutan sensed the seething power of the Aktyr. This was it. This was his enemy.

  This wasn’t the first time he had seen its mocking face. This creature had consumed his friend—but was as much a product of Ishvandu’s darkness as it was a force in itself.

  “Coward!” the boy sneered, every muscle tense, ready to spring. There was a wild glee beneath the ferocity. “You think you’re something special, don’t you, Lel-na! But you failed, and now you’ll get your wish. I can do it, you know. I can kill you. End the pain. Isn’t that what you want, Kylan?”

  The boy-thing that wasn’t quite Vanya cracked its mouth open into a sickening smile. Its tongue flashed out for an instant, licking its lips, its whole body trembling with anticipation.

  Alutan scrambled to his feet.

  “You’re not Ishvandu.”

  The boy chuckled, mocking and abrasive. “Wrong. I am Ishvandu. At least the pa
rt that survived. And I’m the Aktyr. And even a little of her. Wonderful, wild, fierce Hyranna. Heh. She’s stronger than Ishvandu ever was. But don’t tell him that—we wouldn’t want to bruise his pride.”

  “What did you do with her? Where is she?”

  Its teeth flashed. “Dying somewhere, I imagine. Or trying to. It’s quite painful, you know. Hardly a favour to drag her back for more. Just let her go.”

  Alutan met the cruel black eyes. “Get out.”

  “Make me.”

  “Get out, or I’ll kill you.”

  “Really?” It giggled. “Me? You’d kill your only friend? After all we’ve been through? What happened to your love and kindness, Kylan? Or was that just something to ease your conscience?”

  Now it was Alutan’s turn to smile, and there was no more warmth in it than a Guardian’s blade. “Love has two sides—didn’t anyone ever tell you? You’re not Ishvandu, and you’re not Hyranna either, and right now you’re standing in my way. Are you prepared to find out what that looks like?”

  The boy-thing smirked, arms flexing as it began to circle around Alutan, closing in like a wolf. “That’s new! I like it. About time there was a little murderous spark in you.”

  Alutan turned with it. “I enjoy looking my enemy in the eye. You’ve caused a great deal of suffering. Where Hyranna is concerned, that’s finished.”

  “Oh, is it? Heh heh heh, silly Lel-na. You couldn’t beat me before. You think you can beat me now? Now you’re weak. Now you’re out of practice. And I’ve just been warming up.”

  There was a snarl, a gleam of pride—then it sprang.

  Alutan dodged the first wild strike. He staggered back. The thing rounded on him, fingers bent in unnatural claws, each dirty fingernail chewed on and warped into jagged edges. It struck.

  Alutan grabbed for it, swinging with a clenched fist.

  He hit air.

  Knuckles slammed into his side like a knife. The creature danced around him, spun. Nails raked his cheek.