Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  She pulled back. “Jerad, you’re hurt!”

  “Yeah. That too. But I ran this far, I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Jerad!” she cried. She pressed a hand to his chest, felt the warm blood oozing out. “Jerad, you’re not okay.” She glanced up at Alutan. “He needs help.”

  “Let me see,” he said quietly. “Lay back.”

  Jerad shook his head. “I’m okay. Whoever you are, I don’t—”

  “Jerad,” said Alutan. “Let me see.”

  The young man frowned, then pulled up his shirt without a word. Hyranna gasped.

  A flap of skin hung off his ribs, scored deep. Alutan pressed his fingers to the wound and his eyes fell closed.

  “Nothing vital is damaged, but you’ve lost a lot of blood. I need to bind that up now.”

  “Here!” Hyranna cried. She reached over Garden’s body and grabbed the bag still at his feet. In a moment, she’d extracted a roll of bandages and a flask of liquor. “Papi says it helps clean it out.”

  Alutan nodded and took both. “Lie back. On your side.”

  Jerad looked unhappy but did as was told. Alutan uncapped the flask and cleaned the wound, while her friend ground his teeth together. Then with expert hands, Alutan pressed the skin into place and bound it, passing the cloth around as many times as he could. He did the same on the arms, wrapping each with a sleeve of bandages from Jerad’s wrists to his elbows.

  “I’ll look at the cuts more carefully later, but it will hold for now. How do you feel?”

  Jerad gave a shaky smile. “Wonderful. Never better.”

  “Can you walk? We have to get back to Tandra.”

  “Tandra?” Hyranna cried. “Is she hurt?”

  Alutan looked at her through tired, heartsick eyes. “Mag is dying. She’s with him now.”

  They all glanced at Garden. The man was sprawled on the ground, and his face was turning a dull, bloodless white.

  Hyranna shook her head and scrubbed a few tears from her face. “Poor Tandra. Let’s get out of here, quick. I don’t even want to look at him.”

  She stood up and gripped Jerad’s hand, helping him up. But Alutan went instead to Garden and turned him over. He was ugly, his mouth still twisted in a sneer, eyes staring up.

  “What will you do with him?” he asked.

  Hyranna scowled. “Leave him for the wolves.”

  “You think we should?”

  “Why not?” Jerad asked.

  “Something from my past, long ago. To dishonour a human body, no matter who it belongs to, is to dishonour life.”

  “Garden wasn’t human,” Hyranna snapped.

  Alutan thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Some dehumanize others, and in so doing, themselves. I try not to do likewise. It is the Terryn custom to bury the dead, and so we will.”

  He bent and hoisted the corpse onto his shoulders as if he weighed no more than a cethul sack, then began trudging down the banks of the river.

  Jerad stared after him. “Who is that man?” he asked. “Do I . . . know him?”

  “You remember how Balduin Na-es went looking for his father?” Hyranna asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Well,” she nodded after Alutan. “It seems his father found us first.”

  Broken

  The Desert

  Year 457 after the fall of Kayr

  It is done.

  Andari ab’Andala Al’kah has gone to his death, and I, Eshala sai’Ethanai, have become the next Al’kah.

  The Avanir has been reborn, the first three have been Chosen and sent, and I have been left to tend the last legacy of our people. Somehow, we must build our lives anew in this place. We will plant our seeds and breed our animals. We will put down roots and build up walls.

  Somehow, I must teach the greatest people of this world to become nothing, content with nothing. To shrink in terror from the desert that surrounds them, lest they wander from their purpose.

  Somehow, I must teach them to suffer, endure, and die without protest.

  And above all, I must teach them a lie. I must teach them the Avanir has only one power. It has only the Renewing and the Lifewater. It has only the good.

  They must never see what I have seen. They must never see the exultation of destruction, the emptiness that devoured Andari ab’Andala Al’kah, together with the lifeblood of the Chorah’dyn herself.

  They must never see its power of undoing, the chance for vengeance against what I’ve made them. The emptiness. The Aktyr.

  They must never see the truth.

  Yet it calls to me. Still. Always. It will haunt my desires until I die.

  And on that day, when I can no longer resist, I will choose the next Al’kah and pass on what I have been given.

  May you be stronger than I.

  Everything, great Al’kah, depends on it.

  - From the Testament of the Al’kahs of Exile, set down by Eshala sai’Ethanai in the year 33 after the fall of Kayr, to be passed on in confidence from one Al’kah to the next, until our task is complete.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Ishvandu ab’Admundi

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi.” Neraia’s voice filled the Circle chamber. “You are standing here today, found guilty of sedition, conspiracy, rebellion, obstruction of justice, defaming the Avanir and blasphemy against Yl’avah and the Great Tree. You are found responsible for the deaths of fifty-six individuals, among them the Guardian Lord Umaala ab’Krushaya. Is there anything you have to say?”

  I stared at them through my swollen and bloodied face. Everyone was present but the Al’kah. Probably brooding somewhere in his chambers.

  “I regret . . .” My lips cracked, gaping with blood. I cleared my throat. Tried again. “I regret nothing. I will not apologize for declaring the truth to the people. That’s all.”

  I let the angry shouts wash over me, from Jarethyn, from others. I never even looked at them.

  “Be silent!” Neraia commanded, and a hush fell. “Ishvandu Ab’Admundi, the Circle has condemned you for your crimes. You will be scourged and hung by your wrists until death. Your execution, along with those of your accomplices, will take place tomorrow at dawn.”

  I knew it was coming, but its finality struck me. “I request exile. Let me die by Sumadi.”

  “No, ab’Admundi. You will die where everyone can see you. Where you will feel the shame of your actions. Take him away.”

  “They won’t forget me,” I said as they seized my arms. “They won’t forget the truth.”

  “The only thing they’ll remember is the ravings of a madman,” Jarethyn sneered, then I was forced from the chamber.

  I sat in the holds and stared into the dark.

  Someone was moaning—a long, low wail. I couldn’t tell who it was, but it set my teeth on edge. Worse because I couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t stop it. It just went on and on. You failed. You failed.

  “Sands, I hope they come for us soon,” Arkaya growled from a neighbouring hole.

  The moaning grew louder.

  “Yl’avah’s might, will you shut up?” she cried.

  “I don’t want to die,” the voice groaned. Jil.

  “Shit—you think any of us do?” That was one of the Labourers.

  Arkaya snorted. “If the alternative is spending a day longer trapped in this rathole with his pathetic whining.”

  “But they’re gonna kill us,” Jil moaned. “They’re gonna . . . No, no, no. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to—”

  “Shut up! Or I’ll come kill you myself!”

  The cries devolved into weeping.

  “Jil,” I said. “Stop. Please.”

  There was a dull thud, like someone throwing themselves against a wall. “I hate you.” Another thud. “I hate you!”

  This new declaration seemed to rally him. He began screaming it, slamming the wall, shouting my name and denouncing me. “This is your fault, Vanya! Your fault. Yours. Yours. I hate you! They’re going to kill u
s because of you. You hear? Don’t you tell me to stop, you sand-shitting bastard! I hate you!” This time, no one interrupted him.

  I clenched my teeth. I deserved it. I had led them here. I had done this. I had taken a terrible risk, asking them to stand with me. Asking them to risk themselves for the truth, daring to demand our freedom. Now they were dead because of me—or they soon would be.

  I had lied to the Circle. I regretted every death, every drop of blood. Mani and Antaru. Adar. The Labourers who’d stood with us. Even Umaala—yes, I could regret his death. I’d never wanted violence. But sands take me if I let any of them know it.

  Jil finally ran out of strength. He slumped into a panting mess, his groans muffled into the rock. Silence followed. No one felt like saying anything after that fitting tirade. I swallowed, feeling the weight of their animosity. I was their leader. They would die because of me. But worse—I had no intention of following them.

  I opened my hand. The light mocked me, throbbing behind my eyes, sneering at my weakness. How had it come to this? Sands, this was almost as bad as the ropes. But what choice did I have?

  Live or die.

  I let out a long, slow breath. I had already made my choice.

  “Shatayeth,” I whispered.

  I found myself blinking under a wave of heat. The desert shimmered. The sun bled down from the Bones. I was in Anuai. The outpost was empty, deserted. A wall of the camel yard had blown over and lay creaking in the wind.

  I trudged across the sand and dropped onto the well to wait for him.

  It was his bare feet I saw first. Last of the Undying. Immune to everything. Even the blasted burning sands under his feet.

  “So it went badly,” he said in that cool, dark voice.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say. I felt the heat spread up my neck, across my face, the burning humiliation of defeat. I wanted to shout my defence. What else could I do? They deserved the truth. I was trying to protect them, to be the Guardian they needed.

  But now, everyone who had ever trusted me was dead—or soon would be.

  My hands hung limp across my knees, my head bent. I couldn’t even look up. I couldn’t bear to meet his eye. “They’ve sentenced me to death,” I said.

  He laughed.

  My head snapped up, anger shooting into my eyes. “You think this is funny? You think watching my people get slaughtered is funny?”

  “It’s your stupidity, ab’Admundi. I warned you, but you didn’t listen. You thought that you—of all the Kyr’amanu—could actually change Shyandar.”

  “It was my duty to try.”

  He seized my shoulders, eyes cracking through me like a whip. “Then face the consequences, Guardian, and don’t come crying to me like a whinging rat.”

  He shoved me away.

  “But they’re going to kill me!”

  “Your choice.”

  “How is it my choice? There are no two options here, there’s only one. One. Do you hear me?” I leapt to my feet. “I’m not ready to die.”

  “I know.” His lip curled. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He turned away. I stared at his retreating form—like a slap of disdain. I felt it latch inside, twisting. Sneering.

  “No!” I started after him. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your back. I’m coming to you for help, you insufferable—”

  He struck me. The blow rattled my ears. I almost lost my feet. Without thinking, I lunged at him.

  He tripped me and drove me into the side of the well. My chin slapped the stone and he held me there, grinding my face down. His knife pressed to my cheek, its cold edge an instant of relief from the sun.

  “You came to me—for what?” His voice dripped in my ear.

  I struggled. There was pain in my jaw—sharp, like a cracked bone.

  “I . . .” I swallowed, tasting blood. “I came to you for help.”

  “For help.”

  “Yes. I’m asking you to help me.” I swallowed again. “I can’t do it alone. They’re going to kill me.” I grimaced. “Please.”

  He leaned close. “No.”

  The word slipped past without meaning. I shook my head. “What do you mean—?”

  “This is your mess, Ishvandu. I didn’t lead you into this. I will not help you out of it.”

  I clung to the wall, my world shrinking into a single stunned moment. He had humiliated me before. He had mocked me and broken me. But he had never abandoned me.

  “But . . . they’re going to kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re going to whip me and rope me up. They’re going to break my arms. They’re going to kill me!”

  Panic started building. Suddenly, I understood Jil. I was trapped, out of options. E’tuah had always been there. Dangerous, yes. Unpredictable, yes. But he had saved my life. He’d always been my last resort. If I had nothing left, nothing, I could go to him, I could swallow my blasted pride and he would know what to do.

  I never imagined he would refuse me.

  My breath tightened. “If . . . if you won’t help me, you might as well kill me now.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Yes! Why won’t you—?”

  He slammed me onto my back, shoving his knife under my chin. “You’re not thinking, Ishvandu.”

  “No?” My heart began beating louder. “No?”

  “No.” The knife slid effortlessly into my skin. Just a little further and he would end it. “What happens if I kill you here?”

  “I die.”

  “Do you?” He leaned close. “Do you?”

  Then it hit me.

  No. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t actually here. I could still retreat through the Unseen. Which meant . . . which meant . . . My mind struggled through the implications. My eyes sharpening on single random objects: a breath of cloud, a twisted tree, that mouth—firm, cruel, sneering.

  “You come snivelling to me for help,” he leaned close, “while you hold in your hand the most powerful tool in Shyandar. Use it. I only help those who help themselves.”

  Then the sun winked out and I gasped awake into the holds.

  They came for us at dawn.

  There were many footsteps, many blades that had come to claim us. I strained for the barest hint of who they were. My heart was thundering, making it difficult to hear. I would have one chance. Only one.

  Yl’avah’s might, let this work.

  “Him first.”

  It was Jarethyn’s voice.

  A few tense moments passed, then the ladder snaked down into the holds.

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi,” a voice ordered. “Come.”

  I took a deep breath and started to climb.

  The moment I crested the top, they dragged me up and threw me to the ground. They jerked my arms behind me, binding my wrists with vicious intensity. The cords cut into my skin.

  “Traitor,” someone muttered.

  Another spat at the back of my head.

  Let them. I knew what I had to do. I forced myself inward, struggling to cut off the pain, the humiliation, the hatred that burned against me like a scorching wave.

  They gathered the other condemned. Arkaya, Hamanda, Jil, a handful of rebels.

  They had barely stood me up when Jil saw me and pounced, driving me to the ground, fists flying.

  The Guardians were slow to pull him off. Someone laughed. “Even his own shitting rebels hate his guts.”

  The words cut deeper than I should have let them. Hated. I’d always been disliked. I was used to that. I was used to people scorning and mocking me, hurling insults, thinking I was nothing. But I’d never been hated before—not so broadly. It sank into me, twisting, hurting, tearing something away. And yet . . . and yet . . .

  They led us out into the yard. Guardians were waiting to escort us to the Flatrock. And the moment I appeared, their disgust rose up like a wind.

  “Traitor!”

  “Oath-breaker!”

  “Rebel.”

  �
��Traitor!”

  The cries poured over each other, muttering and shouting, insults and teeth and stamping feet.

  Hated.

  It was painful, yes—and powerful. I stood at the centre of their attention, commanding it, my presence twisting them into undisciplined fury. All on my account. It was strangely exhilarating. If that’s how much they hated me, it meant they feared me. It meant I had touched a nerve, shaken their security, exposed their lies. And if I’d done that—

  Maybe I hadn’t lost.

  I stood straight as they pushed me out into the yard. Jarethyn stepped up. He took a knife, then sliced my Guardian’s sash and tore off my robes. A hot breeze slapped my nakedness. They jeered and jostled me, shoving and snarling. Their fury grew quickly, perhaps enraged by my shamelessness.

  A Guardian stepped in front of us. “You killed my brother. You and your rats.” He spat. Wetness struck me in the eye and I couldn’t wipe it away. Shouts encouraged him. Someone shoved me from the side. I stumbled. I felt another hand, sharp and grasping. Another violent shove.

  Yl’avah’s might, they were going to kill me before I reached the Flatrock!

  Then someone stepped up beside me, hand on his keshu. “Get back!”

  Ab’Tanadu. The old outrider took my elbow—not gently, but with dignity, like a proper Guardian, and the crowd fell away.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  His grip tightened. “Don’t.”

  That single bitter word hurt more than all the rest. I said nothing. Him, I had betrayed most of all.

  He led me forward, marching beside me, out of the yard, through the front gates, and down towards the Flatrock. The others fell in step behind or beside, and I began to understand. Ab’Tanadu was my executioner.

  As the gathering appeared, I noticed Guardians at regular intervals throughout the crowd. Keshu were already drawn—a warning. Aggressive and unnecessary. The ground was still stained with the blood of the last uprising. That debacle would not be repeated here.