Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  From what I could see, Ishvandu had never made it to Anuai.

  I dismounted and hitched my camel near the well. I hauled water and drank. I explored the Guardian’s quarters. I found dust. Shadows. A bare cellar. Then I stood for a long time in the entrance, peering into the harsh light and feeling the emptiness of Anuai in my bones.

  I was in the desert. Alone.

  I took a long, slow breath.

  I was alone. And soon worse would come than the punishing heat. Soon the shadows would fall. The depths of night. Was I ready?

  I shivered despite the midday sun and settled down to wait.

  The shadows lengthened. I drank slowly. I picked at the rations I’d brought, though I wasn’t hungry.

  Ishvandu, what have you done?

  I heard my own voice, shocked and horrified. I felt the crowds closing in on me, their anger seething and dangerous.

  He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t betray his own people like that.

  Yet the smell of blood, the bodies, the chaos, my own fear. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Yet he already had.

  I gasped awake, shivering.

  Alone in the desert.

  I sat up. The night was clear, the stars like needles against a black tapestry—black like the Avanir at Kaprash. Black and empty and cold.

  “He isn’t here.”

  I jolted in spite of myself. I tried not to react. I was expecting this. But if I were wrong . . .

  I stood and stared into the dark behind me, deeper into the stone quarters.

  “Where have you taken him?” I demanded.

  There was no answer, but a shadow emerged soundlessly on bare feet, a glinting knife at his side. I ignored the tightness of my chest, forcing myself to look away, to resist the urge to run.

  “He’s alive,” I said. “He can’t be far. I will find him.”

  “Are you sure you want to?” His voice slipped through me with practised disdain.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I won’t let him pretend you are the only one he has left.”

  Shatayeth laughed. “A noble sentiment. Until he kills you.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Are you so sure? He’s killed before.”

  “He was trying to escape. He was desperate and afraid. That doesn’t make it—”

  “He killed Breta.”

  Words shrivelled in my throat.

  “He pushed her off the wall,” Shatayeth continued. “Simple. Efficient. A few too many secrets to trust her babbling tongue: the Avanir, me, Ishvandu’s little betrayals.”

  I shook my head, feeling breathless. “You’re lying.”

  “If that comforts you.”

  “I . . . I . . . No.” I looked at him. “It was Sumadi—”

  “Was it? You think they attacked only her? A single victim, a single attempt in all of Shyandar?” He laughed. “Your loyalty to him is grossly misplaced.”

  Breta. I had cleaned her body. I had twisted her limbs back into place. I had shrouded her and walked by Ishvandu as he bore her body to the South Grounds.

  He had been so cold.

  But Breta had been his friend. He had stood watch with her and hadn’t been fast enough to save her. He blamed himself, that was all.

  But hadn’t I wondered at that look in his eye? Not of a warrior grieving for the dead. Not of a mourner.

  I shook my head. “No. He wouldn’t. He . . .”

  “He did,” Shatayeth said. “And he will again.”

  I staggered out to the well, desperate to get away. The desert fell around me, hushed and still, but poised. As if the nearness of that man caused the air itself to tense. I trembled as I pulled on the ropes. The creaking of the pulleys sounded harsh, piercing. I drank. I splashed my face. I tried not to think about his words. But why would he tell me such things? Why?

  He wanted me to turn around and go back. He wanted me to abandon Ishvandu. Give up on him. Leave Shatayeth free to use his own machinations against him.

  I drank again—angry, trembling.

  I wouldn’t.

  And if it were true? If Breta . . . If Vanya had . . .

  I slammed the bucket back into the well. No. I wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t.

  I sank against the stone. Tears burned my face.

  I wouldn’t.

  Yet that look in his eyes. I remembered that look. Something I’d tried so hard to forget. Not of mourning or grief. Not of anger, or horror, or regret. None of those things. But of sheer, undignified, guilty relief.

  Shatayeth did not come again—that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching.

  I ate and drank. I tended the trees along the ridge. I irrigated them. Slowly, as the days passed, I began to explore further and further into the cliffs.

  The rational part of me knew I should go back. Alis was waiting for me. Alis—and my life as an Elder, a respectable person, a man of authority and learning.

  So what was I doing here? I should let it go. Ishvandu had chosen his exile; did I really think I could convince him otherwise? It was foolish. Baseless. And my rations were starting to dwindle.

  Yet I persisted.

  I started to climb along the cliffs, poking into every cave and crevice, convinced Ishvandu was close. I started to go further and higher. I started to wonder if he was trapped somewhere, even held captive by that man.

  That’s when I found it.

  It was evening. I knew I should go back, but I forced myself to scale one more cliff, one more ledge. I crested the top, the highest I had yet been. The sun shone behind me and down. I followed it with my eyes, and there, far below, I found myself staring into the brightest blue I had ever seen.

  I stood stunned. Water. It was a lake. A lake in the desert. In the cliffs. Just like Ishvandu had claimed. A lake surrounded by green.

  Of course. The source of his water that first time, when he and Breta had strolled so mysteriously out of the desert, soaked and dragging a week’s supply of bulging sacks. Everything fell into place. Ishvandu wasn’t in Anuai because he was down there. He was bathing in fresh springs, eating fruit off the trees, and sheltering in the cool cliffs.

  The only question was how to get to him.

  The cliffs were steep and jagged. From where I stood, I’d have to climb down a sheer rock face, and back up another, then navigate my way over a field of loose boulders. I hadn’t brought much in the way of supplies. But I knew now where the valley was, and if I explored more in the morning, looked for a different way in . . .

  Yes. I had to be smart about this. No point injuring myself and getting trapped somewhere to die alone.

  I turned to climb back down the cliff. I slid over the edge. I found a foothold. I shifted my weight, and just as I began to lower myself to the next crack, something gave. My foot dropped out beneath me. I scrabbled uselessly against the bare cliffside, found nothing, and with a single, terrified gulp of breath, I plummeted into the rocks below.

  I was dimly aware of being carried. Then dragged. Then propped against something cold and hard.

  Someone was speaking to me. A finger snapped by my ear. I groaned and drifted, unable to pull myself towards the sound.

  “Kylan!”

  My mouth moved, but the shadows clawed at me and dragged me back into wretched, nauseating darkness.

  By the time I struggled out of unconsciousness, night had fallen. I woke with a shiver. I was sitting against the well, and the first thing I noticed was a bandage tied clumsily around one hand. I groped for where it hurt the most and found another around my head. Without moving too much, I tilted my head first one way, then other, searching for my rescuer.

  “V-vanya?” I called weakly.

  There was no answer. Yet I sensed a tightening in the dark. A sudden stillness. He was behind me.

  “Vanya, I know you’re there.”

  I swallowed and tried to move, but instantly, my head started throbbing behind my eyes. I grimaced and lay still.

>   “I need help,” I gasped. “I’m . . . I’m thirsty.”

  No answer.

  “That’s okay. I can wait.”

  Pause.

  “Take your time.”

  Pause.

  Somewhere a night-bird hoo-ed into the silence. I drifted. My eyes felt heavy, my whole body was falling into the ground. The tension behind me began to ease. I heard a long, slow breath.

  “Thank you,” I said in a quieter voice.

  Silence. Waiting . . . waiting for my next words. I swallowed and licked my lips, choosing carefully.

  “You were trying to do the right thing, Vanya. You were trying to tell them. It went badly, and now you hate yourself for your failure. For the things you did. The people you . . . you killed. The others who died because of you. I’m sorry.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry this is how it ended.”

  The presence tightened behind me.

  “Now you think there’s nothing left for you. No one but him. You’re wrong. There’s a chance for you, my friend. One chance. Forget his lies. You can’t undo your crimes, but you can let go. The people you hurt, the Guardians you killed, your kiyah, and . . . and her. Breta.”

  A sharp intake of breath.

  “You can’t carry that burden on your own. It will destroy you. But Kaprash has already begun, and soon there’ll be another Choosing. If . . . if what you say is true, it’s your duty to follow them. Speak to the Chorah’dyn. The condemned have the same chance as everyone else. Come forward. Present yourself to the Avanir to be Chosen. Everything gets wiped out. Everything. Not even the Al’kah could touch you. And you’ll be free to follow her. Free to find her.” I paused. “Wouldn’t you want that? To find Tala? To be with her again?”

  The breath quickened. I felt its burst of anger, of longing.

  “You can do that. You can take that chance. It’s the only chance you have left, besides following him.”

  I grimaced against a burst of pain. I clutched my forehead. The pounding intensified in a wave, coming stronger and stronger—before falling away into a dull throb.

  I fumbled for the water beside me. I closed a weak hand over it. I felt sick, but I forced myself to drink, to let the coldness slip inside. Then my arm dropped and I waited until I could speak again.

  “Soon,” I whispered, “he’s going to tell you to do something. He’ll try to convince you it’s the only way. The Avanir is powerful. Always powerful. Even in Kaprash. We . . . we’ve been doing a lot of reading, Vanya, and this isn’t the first time he’s tried this. Right now, it’s a wild and dangerous power, drawing people . . . like you. Some say it speaks, like it has a mind of its own—but it’s a lie. Listen to me now, Vanya, because this is important. Are you listening?”

  Silence.

  I surged on. “The Avanir at Kaprash: that power is you turned against yourself. The ultimate destruction. If you don’t go mad and kill yourself, it gets worse. Worse than Sumadi. Nyashal tried, and she ripped out her own eyes. Blood, Vanya. It demands blood and broken oaths, and it will have it, and if you think this is bad, these things you’ve done, they will be nothing compared to what you’ll do next. Listen to me, Vanya. Please. There is another way. A better way. Wait for the Choosing, and you might see Tala again. You’ll get answers. You’ll be safe—yes, even from yourself.”

  He was holding his breath. Utterly silent.

  “But take the Avanir now, and it will destroy you. Like a . . . a poisonous thorn protecting the fruit inside. You’ll die before you ever taste it.”

  Silence.

  “Do you hear me?”

  I struggled to look around.

  “Vanya, please. Just say you hear me. Say you’ll think about it. Say . . . say something, you blasted stubborn idiot!”

  There was no answer. There was no breathing. No listening. Whoever had been sitting behind me was gone.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Ishvandu ab’Admundi

  I watched Kulnethar ride out at dawn. He was slumped and in pain, but I had left him everything he needed for the trip home. Full water skins, fresh rations, a camel saddled and ready to go, even a few drops of medicine I’d scrounged from Mani’s supplies. Not that I knew what it did, but Kulnethar would, and he’d understand the gesture, even if the draught was useless.

  It was enough to get him home. Get him to some proper healers. Back to the Temple where he belonged.

  “You know what you have to do,” Shatayeth said.

  I nodded.

  “It has to mean something. It has to hurt. You have to break one thing in order to make another.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s the way of the Avanir, the way of all things. Power . . . for power.”

  “Yes—I know.”

  “It has to be him.”

  I watched Kulnethar dwindle into the desert. The only one in all the world who still cared for me, who still trusted me. Foolish enough to risk his life for me, even now.

  My head dropped, my stomach churned, and this time, when I spoke, it was no more than a whisper: “I know.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Kulnethar ab’Ethanir

  I couldn’t sleep.

  I rose quietly and slipped into the terrace overlooking the garden. I stood for a long time, gazing at the treetops, listening to the wind moan against the cliffs and the leaves rattle like old bones.

  Kaprash again. It had reigned barely three weeks and already the air itself felt brittle. Already, they’d drained the lake into the cisterns. Already, rations were tight, fists closed, eyes downcast with dread.

  I massaged my aching head. It still pinched and stabbed, like a shard of skull had been chipped off, working slowly into my brain. The outer wound had healed, but inside . . .

  I winced as it flashed again.

  It kept me from sleeping. Eating was unpalatable.

  I lowered myself onto the stool near the ledge and let the unquiet dark surround me, listening, watching. I couldn’t sleep, and tonight it was more than my head. I found myself thinking of the desert. Of my nights in Anuai, alone. Almost, I’d begun to hear it—the weight of solitude, the whisper of dust and dying things, the swirling ache, not entirely wrong about the world.

  Part of me wished I had stayed. Just a little longer. Ishvandu had heard me that night, I know he had. Another day or two and he might have shown himself, might have spoken to me.

  But another day or two and I might have been dead.

  I sighed, wondering if I had failed him. Wondering if he was out there, even now, shivering under a dark sky, wretched and alone. Alone, but for him.

  Sands take Shatayeth. Even if I had to disobey the Elders, I’d sneak back into the Library and find a way to defeat him. I would.

  “Kylan . . .”

  The whisper snuck up beside me. I gasped and leapt off my stool, nearly flinging myself into the garden below.

  A hand snatched the front of my robes. In moments, another was across my mouth, and two familiar dark eyes peered at me out of the shadows.

  “Don’t. Shout.”

  We stood for a moment, bound in mutual shock. I hadn’t expected to see him here of all places. After all, he was a killer now. A rebel. An exile, condemned to die. Aligned with Shatayeth Undying himself.

  And now he was here in my rooms.

  Slowly, he lifted his hand, eyeing me. “Are we good?”

  “Good? Ishvandu ab’Admundi,” I hissed. “We are far from good. What in the sands are you doing here?”

  Ishvandu glanced over his shoulder, through the curtain to where Alis slept. Then he edged into the darkened corner of the terrace. He moved differently than I’d ever seen him. His limbs were wound tight, on edge, not the relaxed readiness of a Guardian, but like an animal.

  “Kylan, I . . .” He swallowed. A hand flashed over his brow. “Kylan, I need h-help.”

  He stumbled over the last word. He touched his forehead again. An odd gesture. Nervous and fearful. Deeply bothered.

  A warning flared
through me. Something was wrong.

  “Is it him?”

  Ishvandu hesitated, then gave a quick nod. He shifted again, stepping away from me into a thin haze of moonlight. That’s when I noticed his robes were different—coarse and plain, wound around him in layers like an outrider, but no red Guardian’s sash, no embroidered edges. And his hair had been severed. Black, damaged ends stuck out from his head. The braids were gone. Cut off, torn out. He looked wild, fierce. Broken.

  I wanted to weep.

  “Vanya—”

  “Don’t!” His teeth flashed. “Don’t use that tone with me. Don’t you dare! Save your pity for these fools you’re stuck with.”

  He looked away, and his ferocity shrivelled as abruptly as it appeared. It was happening. Ishvandu was finally starting to go mad.

  I forced myself to breathe, to think calmly. He was here for a reason. Admitting his need for help was wildly out of character, and if I didn’t want to lose him now, forever, I had to handle this carefully. I had to be steady, direct, confident. Everything Ishvandu longed for right now. Everything he needed.

  “So what is it then?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m not.”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “The Sending stone. I’m using the stone. I need to speak with you, Kylan, and it can’t be here. It can’t . . .” He touched his brow, then leaned forward. “I’m afraid.”

  “About what?”

  “The things you said, Kylan. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and . . . and I don’t think I can stop myself. It’s getting stronger now. I thought it would be weaker in the desert, further away, but it’s not.”

  “You mean the Avanir?”

  He nodded wretchedly.

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to tell the Al’kah everything you know. I want you to surround that stone with Guardians.”