“If you don’t mind my saying,” the Captain began, not even risking a glance up. The man, who’d seemed so fearless the few times Leandros had spoken with him, shook. “There’s…something wrong with her. Something unnatural. I wouldn’t let her up here if I were you.”
Rheamarie and Leandros shared a look.
“Uncle,” Leandros said, stepping forward, “I believe Rhea and I ran into the same orinian on our way here. The Captain’s right; I think she means trouble.”
Amos looked to Rheamarie, waiting to see if she had anything to add, but Rheamarie shook her head. “I didn’t see her. Leandros did.”
After a moment’s thought, Amos turned back to the Captain. “Remove her weapons, if she has any, before bringing her up here. I can’t turn away an official messenger from Orean, but keep extra guards outside the doors.”
When the Captain was gone, Amos sighed. “Governor Ness, it seems we’ve reached my reason for coming sooner than anticipated.”
Leandros sat forward, intrigued. Ever since he’d learned they were going to Illyon for this trip, he’d suspected it had something to do with Orean. According to rumors back home, the ever-high tensions between Illyon and Orean were getting higher. They fought over allocation of valley resources, regulation of Illyon’s factory smoke, hunting restrictions. The list went on.
Governor Ness informed the rest of them that Orean now threatened to withhold resources— this must be the King’s reason for visiting.
Leandros twisted his ring around his finger as he listened, his attention never leaving the governor.
“Stop fidgeting,” Rheamarie said under her breath. “You’re just giving them more reasons to criticize you.”
Leandros blinked at her, then dropped his hands. “This may come as a surprise to you, Rhea, but fidgeting isn’t a crime.”
She was right, though. Even here at the edges of Alfheim, alfar were known for their rigidity – don’t smile, don’t fidget, never say what you mean or let anyone see how you feel. Leandros had a long history of flaunting these rules; he’d made the mistake of traveling in his youth and lost much of Alfheim’s prized restraint in the process.
As if he needed more reason to be viewed as an outsider.
“Amos brought you along to observe, didn’t he?” Leandros asked. “I believe he meant the meeting, not me.”
“Still not sure why he brought you,” Rheamarie grumbled.
“Because he’s not so cruel as to leave me behind,” Leandros said. He turned his back on the room, leaning out the open window and looking down at Illyon laid below him like a map. Directly below Leandros, only a ten or so foot drop, was a long, flat overhang that jutted over an empty courtyard.
Rheamarie glanced over, followed his gaze. “Planning an escape?” she teased. “I’ll create a diversion, but you’ll owe me another trip into town. One that doesn’t end in a wild hunt.”
Surprised, Leandros laughed. The sound had always been too mischievous for his own good, especially in Alfheim. If fidgeting was taboo, laughing openly was worse. He flinched and glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard.
They had, of course. A few looked openly scandalized, others just annoyed, but all had fallen silent.
“Forgive my nephew,” Amos said, pulling the room’s attention back to him. “He’s so enraptured by Illyon’s beauty that he forgets himself. I, too, forget, and each time I come to visit am given the pleasure of discovering it anew.”
The diversion worked, and Leandros breathed a sigh of relief.
Rheamarie hid her mouth behind her hand, likely hiding a smile. “You’re always making him defend you.”
"I know that," Leandros snapped.
On top of his current embarrassment, this struck an old, frayed nerve with Leandros. Briefly, anger flared and simmered inside him, fueled and fanned by shame. He turned to the window again, unable to look at the golden king.
Rheamarie was right again, but he didn’t need her to remind him. He reminded himself every day: he was only here – only alive – because of Amos Nochdvor’s good graces.
His gaze caught on another city, miles off, settled at the base of a blue mountain. Orean. While Orean matched Illyon in structure, its high castles even made of the same sparkling silver bricks, it was larger, cleaner, freer. It fell past the province border, past Amos Nochdvor’s rule.
If he ever made a mistake even Amos couldn’t forgive, he could flee to Orean. It was a nice city; he’d been, a few times. He was sure they’d welcome him.
But where was that messenger?
“The good news is that after that between the orinian and that little outburst, father’s probably forgotten all about us arriving late.”
Leandros pursed his lips. “If you make me laugh again, I’ll kill you.”
“Ah, but who would defend you then? Father certainly wouldn’t.”
Before Leandros could reply, the doors opened.
The smell hit first, like rancid meat and spoiled perfume. Rheamarie gasped and covered her nose. All at once, everyone turned toward the open doors. A cloud passed in front of the suns, blocking the light that had flowed and sparkled so freely through the room and steeping the doorway in shadow. Out of the shadows stepped Orean’s messenger.
It was undoubtedly the same woman Leandros saw in the market. She walked with a jerky sway, a puppet guided by an inexperienced puppeteer. Her uniform, decorated with Orean’s insignia, looked too old. It was frayed, riddled with holes and stains, and made in a style that had been antiquated even when Leandros last visited Orean, nearly a hundred years ago.
When she lifted her veil, a noble near the door fainted on the spot, landing in a heap of heavy skirts.
The orinian was pale, almost translucent, with wild curls bright as blood. Same as all orinians, she had long, calf-like ears and swirling birthmarks stretching across her skin. But unlike other orinians’ marks, they weren’t natural, neutral-colored and benign. Her birthmarks were open wounds, deep crevices that cut across her exposed skin. Where muscle and bone should have been visible between them was instead a strange magma that pulsed through her body with each beat of her heart, swirling and hypnotic.
Her eyes, alight with the same scarlet glow, fixed unblinkingly on the King.
She smiled, only half of her face twisting into the expression, the other side of her mouth cut through by one of those twisting wounds. She stopped in front of King Nochdvor and dropped into a stilted curtsy. As if the movements, wounds, and sickly decaying smell weren’t enough, there was something else off about the woman. Something Leandros couldn’t put a name to – it gave him that same sick feeling he’d experienced before, in the street. It felt like walking barefoot in snow or wandering alone through haunted ruins. It was malicious, harrowing, unsettling. Powerful. It lurked behind her eyes and his in the swirl of that strange crimson glow. It had Leandros’ hair standing on end and his hand going to the revolver he wore at his hip.
“Guards!” Amos Nochdvor called into the hallway, voice breaking on the word. Leandros hadn’t heard so much emotion in his voice since…well, in a very long time. Backing away from the orinian, he yelled louder, “Guards!’
There was no answer from the hallway beyond, only creeping fingers of blood spreading across the threshold of open doors.
When the orinian took another jerking step toward the King, one of the nobles bravely moved to block her way.
“Don’t!” Leandros warned, but too late. The orinian caught the noble by the throat, her graying hands mottled with decay, and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing. She smiled the same twisted half-smile as before.
Everyone backed slowly away.
“Put him down!” the King ordered. “Just tell me what you want!”
The orinian tilted her head to one side, thoughtful, and released the noble. He collapsed and his companions dragged him hastily out of her way. “Very well,” the orinian said, her voice unexpectedly sweet, childlike. Her accent felt almost as old as her clothing, or as the strange presence behind her eyes, staring out through them and using her like a shell. “I want you. Will you come with me?”
Leandros drew his gun, thankful he’d grabbed it for their trip into the city. He trained it on the orinian. “Don’t move any closer.”
The orinian dismissed Leandros with a glance and approached King Nochdvor.
Leandros fired.
The shot echoed through the room, the bullet hitting the orinian’s shoulder. She stumbled, losing her stride, but didn’t so much as glance at Leandros or the wound, gaze still fixed unblinkingly on Amos. She continued on, barely slowing when Leandros shot her again, and again, stopping only when she stood close enough to Amos to touch. She pressed a single finger to his chest and the King shuddered and crumpled like a broken doll.
Rheamarie cried out and started toward Amos, but Leandros caught her by the wrist.
Rhea struggled against his grip, shouting at the orinian, “Get away from him!”
Others rushed to the King’s aid, but the orinian swept her arm through the air and let loose something like lightning, something glowing with the same scarlet as the magma under her skin, something that hung suspended in the air around herself and the fallen king, forming a closed circle. It cracked and sputtered and grew brighter, stronger, hotter while the orinian crouched before Amos. She hoisted him off the ground, threw him over her shoulder, and when she did, the flames surrounding her sparked and flared, nearly singeing those who still stood close enough.
Despite her struggling, Leandros dragged Rheamarie further back, stopping when the backs of his legs hit the windowsill. The flames were losing their shape, flaring out further.
As Leandros watched, the orinian gasped, the sound pained. Leandros thought he saw her glowing eyes flicker entirely to black, but before he could get a better look, before he could do anything, she disappeared into thin air and took King Nochdvor with her.
Rheamarie struggled harder against Leandros. He didn’t budge, instead staring at the flames that still hovered in the air. They popped, sending molten sparks flying. Not a second later, they popped and flared again, this time spreading so far that Leandros could feel their heat. While the others only stared, Leandros made his decision. He turned, caught Rheamarie by the waist, and launched them both out the open window.
Rheamarie screamed.
A few fleeting seconds later, they hit the long overhang hard, Leandros landing painfully on his shoulder. Rheamarie disentangled herself from Leandros. “Are you mad?”
Her words were drowned out by a final pop from the upper room, followed by a boom that shook the overhang. With it, a jet of flame shot out the windows, shattering them and sending shards of glass flying. Rheamarie screamed again and ducked her head, Leandros hiding his face as well, shielding himself from the glass and the heat.
When it was over, Leandros was the first to push himself up. Below them, servants and guards rushed into the courtyard, shouting and pointing up at the ruined hall. Rheamarie let loose a shuddering sob, but Leandros could only stare in horror at the charred bricks of the tower, no longer sparkling.
Amos was gone.
What were they supposed to do now?
Comments (11)
See all