Enemy Known

by Butler, J. M.

  Chialao circled the box, the lamp clasped tight in her left hand. Her gaze remained fixed on Shon. "Here you can ask whatever you wish. Just remember that what once is seen cannot be unseen. What would you like to see?"

  The uneasiness within Shon had not faded. Yet this was not a time for a faint heart.

  Matthu fidgeted. He remained at the foot of the staircase, watching Shon with wide eyes.

  "I want to know how to find a way to be with Amelia," Shon said. "What question should I ask, exactly?"

  Chialao nodded. Stooping beside the mouth of the box, she whispered words Shon could not hear.

  A flash of fire sprang up in the room. Matthu barely clenched his eyes shut in time before he was swallowed up in the wave of images. Shon fell forward, clutching at the wall to keep from falling. Flashes of blue, yellow, silver, green all blurred before him. Faces streaked in almost indiscernible patterns. Sometimes he thought he recognized them. The smell of ash and wine filled the air. He closed his eyes and opened them again, trying to focus.

  A singsong voice called to him through the mass of images. "Shon, Matthu, come play with us."

  "Why are you sad?" another voice called.

  "Shon, Matthu, don't be sad," a familiar voice whispered. "Aunt Ellyan will be fine."

  The haze of color cleared, and Shon found himself staring into a small garden with flowering bushes, long-reaching ivy, and fragrant herbs. He saw himself as a young boy sitting on a stone bench. Matthu, no more than four, was underneath the bench, his head tucked against his knees.

  Shon pulled away from the scene, but as he turned, the only thing he could see was the garden. This was his aunt and uncle's home in Nalthume. Father had sent them there when Mother became ill. His throat tightened. "What's going on here?" Shon demanded. He ducked to avoid a flowering blue plant that hung near his head, but he passed through the trailing fronds. "Chialao, this doesn't have anything I need to know. This has nothing to do with Amelia."

  His little cousins ran up to his younger self, tugging his long blue sleeves and begging him to come play. "Come on, come on! Don't you want to play with us?" His younger self struggled to smile, trying to play the part of the strong oldest cousin but on the verge of breaking.

  Enu crept under the bench and pulled on Matthu. Matthu burrowed deeper, turning his head away.

  Shon gritted his teeth. "Chialao!" he shouted. "Where are you? This has nothing to do with anything."

  The younger Shon calmed his cousins, all under the age of ten. "We'll play later," he said.

  "You'll play Ayamin with us?" Enu flung her arms around his neck.

  "Ayamin! Ayamin!" the other four chanted.

  "Maybe tomorrow," Shon had said. It had been difficult to convince them, and all five protested, clasping their hands, hugging him, jumping up and down. But at last they went on to play in the orchards, leaving him alone.

  Well, not entirely. Matthu had still been there underneath the bench. And the younger Shon had been annoyed by this as well, but he hadn't tried sending his brother away.

  "You wasted that whole day feeling sorry for yourself, Shon, didn't you?" Chialao stepped out from behind him, the lamp still clasped in her hand, its flame far dimmer. "You had plans for an escape. The brave young Ayamin to be. But what happened? It would be another four or five years before you followed through on those tests?" Chialao clicked her tongue. "You dream of monsters, villains, and dragons. Of proving yourself and saving those you loved. And yet you have never really succeeded. Not on the points which mattered most to you."

  "What does this have to do with Amelia?" Shon demanded. He struggled to control his rising temper. "I don't have time for this."

  "You don't see the connection?" Chialao stood behind the younger Shon. "You spent hours feeling sorry for yourself and concocting plans to return home to save your mother. But there was nothing you could do. Returning to your family home actually put you in more danger. Danger your father and mother specifically intended you to avoid. There was nothing you could do to save her, and your actions only threatened your own life."

  Shon struggled to swallow. He remembered those plans vividly. He tightened his fists at his side. "I asked —"

  "The meslu fever took your mother irrevocably, just as Naatos has taken Amelia. She has moved on from you. Pursuing her puts you at risk of death. If you want to protect her, then live and do not die."

  A fly buzzed near Shon's ear. He went to wave it aside, but it passed through his hand. He closed his eyes, waves of pain washing through him. "No. That's not how this will end."

  "Show him what happens to Amelia if he dies," Chialao commanded.

  The garden and the boys were at once swept away, and the scent of ash returned. Images blurred, and then fire struck. For a moment, the brilliant column of flames and smoke spread and engulfed the room. Then it flashed back into a single line and vanished.

  Shon now walked along a dimly lit stone hall. Breaths sounded ahead of him, soft and slow at first but then becoming louder, as if he neared someone.

  Amelia rounded the corner. She was less than a foot away from him, her chest rising and falling with swift breaths. She wore strange leather armor, similar to the kind WroOth wore except thinner and more pliable. Burn marks singed her arms, chest, and neck. She'd been wounded in several places. Blood and ash stained her cheeks, her neck, and her garments. She held a dagger at the ready, her expression cautious.

  A tall man lunged at her, coming up from behind Shon. Flames rose from his palms and arms. The ground shook beneath them, and a forceful blast of silver-streaked wind struck Amelia in the chest. She crashed backward but held onto the dagger. Shrieking, she struggled to hold him off.

  Shon attempted to seize the stranger, but his hands passed through. The man attacked Amelia viciously, his long blond hair flying over his face and sticking to the blood spatters.

  Amelia fought as best she could, but he had gained the advantage early. Within moments, he seized her by the throat, slammed her hard against the stone, and plunged her own dagger into her heart.

  The scene went black.

  Shon gasped in a horrified breath. Who was that man? He had never seen him before. He hadn't seen his face. Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, Shon struggled to focus. He had to remember this.

  But the chamber lightened again. This time he stood in a circular chamber made of similar stone. In the distance, water dripped, and the air smelled damp and bloody. Children sobbed, their voices growing louder.

  Turning, Shon saw four children bound to the wall with thick black chains. The youngest was a toddler, no more than three. The oldest was a girl between twelve and thirteen who struggled to keep from crying. The other two boys were about eight or seven. All had black hair and blue but bloodshot eyes.

  "It's going to be fine," the oldest said thickly. "We'll be fine."

  "Momma!" one of the boys shouted. "Momma! Daddy!" his brother chimed in while the youngest simply wailed.

  What was this?

  Shon paused as Amelia ran into the chamber, this time in a dull silver peasant gown. Relief flooded her face the moment she entered. The choruses of "Momma" left no doubt as to whose children they were. But Amelia had no sooner burst in when the same man attacked. This time Amelia fought with greater fury, but it was harder to watch. Every blow she received made the children cry and scream louder. But though flames flowed from the man's hands and set the fabric of Amelia's gown on fire, she did not pull away. She at last tore one of the metal charms from the man's shoulder and plunged it into his throat. He collapsed to the ground, choking and grasping at the wound. Pouncing on him, Amelia ground the flames on her arms into his chest and throat to put them out, and then stabbed him again and again.

  Shon's stomach tightened at the violence. This wasn't the Amelia he had fallen in love with. Why was she here alone? How did his death send her to this place?

  Amelia pushed off the dying man and rushed once more to the children. But as she neared the
youngest, she collapsed. Her injuries appeared superficial, but blood flowed freely from her elmis. Struggling up, she unlocked the chains, but her motions were clumsy. She fell again.

  Footsteps clattered in the hall. WroOth ran in. He looked as if he had been in battle as well. He dropped beside Amelia and turned her onto her back. "Naatos! AaQar!" he shouted. "They're in here." He lowered his voice, looking back to Amelia. "Stay calm, little sister, you'll be fine. You will."

  Amelia put her bloodied hand on his face. Already she was death pale. "Get the children out."

  It went black, and then the scene began again. The images continued to streak around him. This sequence of events played out over and over with countless variations. The chambers changed, sometimes from the hall to the great circular room. Occasionally Amelia was accompanied by other warriors, sometimes by Joseph. In some, Amelia wore armor and fought with weapons. In others, she was dressed more simply with an exposed neck and arms. In all, there were children. Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes four, sometimes five. But they were always dark-haired and light-eyed. And Amelia was always attacked by the same man. A tall man with long blond hair and a haunting voice that chilled Shon's soul. Sometimes she killed him. Sometimes he killed her. But no matter whether she won, she always died, and whoever was with her in the beginning always perished.

  And she never reached her children.

  With each death, Shon cringed. It was as if the dagger was plunged into his own heart or the fire burned along his arms. He couldn't stop any of it, and it showed no signs of stopping. Fear clutched at his throat. Putting up his hands, he clenched his eyes shut. "What does this have to do with my dying? Are you saying that if I die, I can't protect Amelia? Am I supposed to protect her? Show me what happens if I live! Show me how I can save her and be with her!"

  More images and scenes flashed before him. The scents changed, ranging from fallen rain to musty dirt to peeled oranges. Some were scents he could not place. The sounds streaked through his mind as well, too fast to recognize. The scenes themselves became nothing more than colors, blurring and whirling around him. His head began to throb with their increase, and the mass became cacophonous.

  Then he was falling.

  Someone grabbed him. Matthu's voice called to him, the words garbled and his volume muted as if he was miles away at a cavern's edge.

  Chialao's voice spoke into his mind with a singsong rhythm. "Already lost, already lost. She has already left you. Your love is lost. In more ways than one. But your lives are still combined. So if you die, then she will die. And there remains no hope for her. Even if you live twice."

  Shon's voice stuck in his chest. No words came, even to his mind. Only the sensation of falling through layers of light and color with the perpetual thud, shrieks, and scents of thousands of battles and deaths playing out at once.

  "Chialao." A deep voice boomed. "What have you done?"

  6

  Kuvaste

  The trip back toward Polfradon was tense. Naatos forced himself through his more challenging transformations, starting with the fearsome night gleaner with its six eyes and multi-horned snout. Alternating between flying, running, and swimming added significantly to the challenge. WroOth soared high in the sky in his favored red fire dragon form while AaQar chose to swim through the river as a large silver serpent.

  Naatos ignored them both. The day had spun out of control. He wasn't even sure he could piece together the precise track that had brought him to this place, and Amelia's behavior brought no clarification. She had been so vulnerable in the halls of her mind, so close to accepting him. But she had barely responded with anything more than hostility when she saw him again. What would it take to convince her? His thoughts were fragmented, heated, painful in their monotonous repetition. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

  Naatos lunged higher into the air, spreading the eight wings of the night gleaner and letting them catch on the wind. For several moments he soared, letting the currents whistle and rattle against him. Then he snapped his wings shut. Closing his eyes, he dove toward the stone valley below.

  The clatter and hiss of the wind should have calmed his enraged thoughts. The subsequent rush of gravity dragging him down should have elicited some terror or surge of emotion to distract him. But neither did anything. Rage burned hotter within him, tightening his lungs and constricting his chest.

  At one time, this exercise had given him great difficulty. More than once, he had struck the jagged rocks, split his skull, and shattered his bones. Over the years, he had developed the necessary senses that warned him when to pull up or transform. And when that warning pulse passed through him, he did not even open his eyes. He simply shed the night gleaner form and shifted into a veldrok wolf.

  Naatos took to the ground with long loping strides. The coarse rocks grated beneath the pads of his paws. Opening his eyes, he saw the river valley in shades of red. To his surprise, AaQar had returned to his state of rest and now walked along the shore. Naatos shook his head with distaste. Running up alongside his brother, he snorted derisively.

  AaQar only cast a casual glance at him and continued with his slow even stride.

  Curse him! It was as much AaQar's fault as Kepsalon's and Amelia's that this was such a travesty. And why hadn't WroOth simply seized her and flown back? He had had time to set a tree on fire and to let her write a letter, but not to bring her back? Naatos sped forward.

  The wind whistled above him. All at once a great force slammed into him from above.

  Pain sliced through his side and across his chest as the gravel and rocks cut into him. Naatos dug his claws into the riverbank and lifted his head, snarling. Blood poured from his side as his flesh knit back together.

  WroOth landed on the nearest slate crest. Folding his wings against his red scaled back, he thrust his chest out but tilted his head in a questioning manner. "Kuvaste?"

  Naatos shook his head. Dirt and gravel flew from his thick black fur. Hackles bristling, he crouched. "Kuvaste," he growled.

  WroOth roared, spread his wings, and leaped into the sky. Naatos threw his head back and howled. This was what they should have done as soon as they left Amelia.

  Jumping into the sky, he became an emerald storm drake. Wings exploded from his back, and lightning throbbed within his chest. Spiraling into the sky, he searched for WroOth. He listened, his ears pricked intently for the sound of his brother's attack. Yet there was nothing except the sound of his own breaths. WroOth had improved. Naatos almost smiled.

  The night surrounded him. The stars and moon shone with their full fervor, and not a single cloud offered refuge. Yet WroOth was nowhere to be seen or heard.

  Down below, AaQar continued walking along the river, now using a large branch as a makeshift staff. The sight of his brother moving like an elderly man only fueled Naatos's rage. AaQar should have been kuvasting along with WroOth. Yet there he was, trudging along like an elderly Awdawm who only had the day of his death to anticipate.

  Suddenly the wind changed to Naatos's left. Naatos thrust his wings back as the very sky seemed to move toward him. Blue fire streamed out, frosting and arcing through the air, though there was no visible dragon. Naatos's rage dimmed with pride at his brother's accomplishments. He hadn't even known WroOth was working to master the stellat wyrm, a dragon with chameleon-like abilities and ice fire.

  Naatos spun through the air and unleashed an arcing blast of lightning and fire. It exploded through the sky. The light revealed the faintest outline of a dragon moving beneath him. Naatos dove down and then banked to the right, cutting WroOth off. He snapped his jaws over WroOth's wing.

  WroOth's scales flushed through a rapid series of colors—brilliant green, glaring red, glowing yellow. He roared and twisted around. His scales no longer reflected the starlight. They were only a dull blue now.

  Naatos shook WroOth's wing viciously. The bone snapped, and Naatos leaped off. WroOth bellowed and crashed to the ground. Gravel
and stones clattered around him as dust rose up. Lunging downward, Naatos tackled him. They crashed and rolled down the mountainside along the length of the river. Furious adrenaline surged through Naatos. He bit at WroOth again, catching his forearm in his jaws. A single bite snapped it.

  WroOth howled. He lashed his weighted tail up and struck Naatos in the head, disorienting him. WroOth bit into Naatos's wing, severing the tendons. Snarling, WroOth turned and dug his claws along the silver scales of Naatos's belly.

  Naatos kicked WroOth back and leaped to his feet. Dust rose around him, coating his scales and jaws. Blood streamed from his wounds.

  Hissing, WroOth rattled the scales on his forearms and tail, his eyes glowing blue. Already most of his external injuries had healed. Naatos's wounds had bound themselves too, leaving only the blunt pain of the inner muscles and tissue knitting back together. More importantly, a clarity was seeping into Naatos's mind. The kuvaste was working.

  Circling, Naatos kept his gaze fixed on WroOth. The wings of his form slowly reknit, becoming whole once again.

  Then he saw AaQar only a short distance away, walking toward them. In the moonlight, AaQar looked like a ghost.

  Naatos strode toward AaQar. "Kuvaste."

  AaQar blinked slowly. He folded his hands before himself.

  WroOth sprang up beside Naatos. "Come, AaQar. Kuvaste!"

  Still AaQar did nothing. He stood there as passive as a statue, not even blinking.

  "Have you no teeth, o very old one?" Naatos demanded. "Are you thinking you can no longer fight?"