Alea resorted to mentally reciting poems—even her least favorites—and listing her favorite flowers. Thoughts encroached on her peace. It was childish, and she knew it.

A twisting tendril of Red Tearing

Sticky sweet on the lips then searing

Bunch of Bitter Knot bright and baleful

Can't find Cat Thumb, must be careful

Little pinch of Jani's Lute...

She searched for the rest of the line, her brow creased. A quiet knock scattered what was left of the midwives' recipe. “Who is it?”

“Arman. Had you any plans for the rest of the day?” He smiled when she opened the door and held up a tray of tea and food. He teetered on the threshold, as if uncertain whether he was welcome. “May I?”

She ushered him in. “How was your day?”

“Interesting.” He slid the tray onto her bedside table and took one of the mugs for himself. “Ma said you'd not been down, so I thought I'd bring you something.” He peered into his tea as he hoped it could answer his questions. “We need to have a talk, milady.”

“I know.” It was the last thing she wanted, really. Speaking anything aloud made it real. Inescapable.

“What happened?”

“They attacked me, said I wouldn't leave the city alive.” She still heard their voices, the last few words—threats—they uttered. “They couldn't risk word getting out about the Laen. I thought one might be Tomas, the cart driver. I wanted to fight them, like you showed me, but I froze. When did you arrive?” She waved away his answer. “He stabbed you and I realized something.”

“You wanted to fight.”

“I wanted to live.” She looked down. Her hands were remarkably still. The past months she spent uncertain of who she was. Ice pooled in her heart again, and her stomach lurched. Now she knew. It was unexpected, unwelcome, even, but it was a start. A darker part of her whispered now she had power to avenge her family's death. “My body was cold, and black fog erupted. It filled their lungs.” She shook herself. “The thought should sicken me, but it doesn't.”

“By the time I was home, I healed. Can you explain that?”

“You don't remember?” Her own memory was blurry, but perhaps more from horror than actual trauma.

“I remember fine, doesn't mean I understand it any better.”

“I don't either, really. I just put my hand on you, to stop the bleeding. Something rushed from me, mended your wound. I don't know anything else.”

“You fainted. I must have too, because the next thing I remember is Wes dragging me from the water and Veredy shrieking we were dead. They brought us here and Ver helped clean you up a bit.” He fixed her with a pointed stare. “The power was black.”

“Yes.” She refused to meet his gaze. She knew what he was meant. “That man mentioned black power.”

“Do you think perhaps you were the reason for the Laen's first visit to your ihal?” He leaned forward, but did not touch her. “You know what you are, and you know you need protection. Appeal to the Guild. Demand they shelter you.”

Alea finally looked at him, certainty coursing through her. There was one option left for her and she hated it. As much as she disliked Vielrona at first, it was the only thing she had left. “They’d throw me out on my ear. Any city that shelters me will be in danger. They might protect me if I begged, but I will not.”

Arman sat back, realization dawning. “You're leaving?”

She had to. If I stay here, you’ll die. All of you will. I can’t cause that again. “I've thought a lot today. I tried not to, but many things became clear.” Confusion and fear roiled in her mind, but outwardly she was nothing but calm.

“Where will you go?”

“I have no idea. The guard mentioned a town—Marl Kess? Perhaps I will go there and try to find him. I may be the Dhoah' Laen, but I need help.” Tumbling from her lips was the terrifying truth. She held out her hand, black power marbling her skin for a second before it disappeared. “I am the Dhoah' Laen.”

Arman ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “I know.” He offered her a faint smile. “Or some part of me did.”

“I am sorry for what I've done to change Vielrona. I'm certain I’ll do far worse.” She smoothed her coverlet. “Have you told your mother what happened?”

“No. She heard us return, but she assumed we were drunk. I suppose my antics when I was younger have bought us some time.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I don't know how. There's something else, something beyond what you are, I can’t explain.” When she made no move to interrupt he rubbed a calloused thumb over his teeth. “I think you are like a river over rocks—one eventually changes the shape of the other. I think you are changing me.” He paused awkwardly for a minute. “I don't know what to tell Wes or Kam. Damn, I left Veredy at a poor time.”

“Tell them the truth. I’ll be gone before long. Then things will return to normal. I’d hate to disrupt your world any more than I already have.” Her smile was real, but even she could hear the sorrow in her voice. “I think I need some time.”

Arman looked down. “I can’t imagine... Let me know if I can help in any way.” He rose and offered her a nod, almost low enough to be a bow.

Please don’t add bowing to the “milady’s” and “miss’s.” She shut the door behind him without another word. There was nothing to say, nothing she pulled from her throat sounded genuine.

Shadows crouching between her thoughts had origins, histories centuries older than she. “I know how precious you are.” Ahren’s words rumbled into meaning. In her childish romance, she thought he was flirting. Now the idea of Ahren flirting with the daughter of the Laen was laughable.

Certainty, sadness, even the dedication in his eyes and in her foster-father’s voice made sense. They knew. I was never a charity, a babe taken in as a favor. Guilt and horror eased then. They had known, they had always known, what lay in her veins. I could have saved them.

Bloodstained sand had scraped her palms, when she crawled toward the Laen, begging them to help, begging them to save her family, the children from the manor. Then someone grabbed me and…blackness. Not the blackness of unconsciousness, but of roiling dark power.

Turning her hand, she stared at the palm. No mark showed where power thundered to her rescue. Only the sickness in her heart from killing lingered. The others must have thought her power was the girl’s, separated by a few paces. Dhoah’ Laen. Black curls, ink beneath her skin, marbled over her palm, twisting between fingers for a moment, then disappeared with the thought. The idea was both unfathomable and obvious at once. She was no more precious to Ahren than air, than water in the desert’s heat.

She was necessary.

Φ

Arman let his feet trace old paths of his childhood while his mind wandered. Two months ago, he was certain of everything. Two days ago, he was certain of one thing.

Now he was certain of nothing.

He paused on the bridge and leaned on the rail, looking south. The river was sullen and gray, the shrubs along its banks pitiful in the winter cold.

Aching still echoed in his jaw and he tasted traces of blood. Up there, somewhere, was a city of her people. His eyes followed the line of the river through the notch in the mountains. He pushed himself upright and strode back over the bridge. Swinging one leg over the river wall, he dropped to the narrow bank below. Moving was better than sitting still and thinking. I could talk to Ver, but the voice in the back of his skull nagged. Wes and Kam would bombard him with questions, but Veredy was different. How can I tell her another woman's voice came into my head? Laen or not, it's strange. The stone blocks of the riverbank became rocky strand. His boots hissed on the damp, rough sand. One hand trailed alone the rocks piled at the bends, feeling the thrum of rushing water.

Soon he emerged into the steep valley of the notch. Before him lay what had once been Elanal. Toppled buildings were completely submerged or flooded. One was carved into a cliff face at the head of the valley. A spark of hope lit Arman's heart. Perhaps I could find something here, something that will help her find a guard, find her people. Maybe then she could leave, safely, and he could return to being simply Arman. He skirted the ruins nervously. They were less grand than he expected. No surging cold or churning heat struck him. He still felt their consciousness. He edged along the cliff’s base, finding the doorway nestled beside the cascading water from higher up.

Perhaps the Rakos have simply been hiding, been sleeping until she needed them. He snorted at the thought. The room beyond was dark and smelled of mildew. It was empty, save for a few smashed pieces of what may have once been a chair. Opposite was another doorway. This one led to curling, crumbling stairs. Arman's feet faltered on the steps. This is ridiculous. The accounts were all legends, mother's tales to teach children values and history. The stairs crunched beneath his boots. Nerves sang through him, adrenaline and some ancient animal instinct screaming that he was no longer the hunter here. He finally skittered into a large room. The weight of the little book in his breast pocket burned over the handprint scar.

Two statues stood at the end of the hall. They were not fine, made of precious metals or gems, but carved from simple stone. One stood in a water stained basin long since gone dry. Her hand was raised, the other outstretched toward the ground. Beside her, the man stood on a bed of dead coals. A groove ran around the woman's head, though the adornment was gone. Arman stepped closer to the male statue and fell to his knees. Gold gleamed on the man’s carved curls.

“Please, she needs you.” He did not wonder if he sounded stupid. “She’s here, she’s alive and knows who she is and fates, if there was ever a time, it’s now. Come back.” Silence answered.

Thank fates I didn't tell her I was coming here, hoping to find something. He moved closer, crouching on the rim of the brazier. The statue was familiar—the set of his jaw and the curl of a snarl on his mouth. Arman fumbled with the book. Sure enough, the Rakos on the cover was similar. Do you have a name? He flipped the book open and, with a silent apology to his father, slit the silk lining. The painting was the original, signed with Berrin symbols.

He froze when he saw the subject's name. Kierman Wardyn 657 Vil Ronna. He glanced up at the statue. Wardyn?

Heat exploded through his bones. He knew where he saw that expression before. It's mine. Gripping the statue's outstretched hand, he hauled himself onto the pedestal. His calloused hand slid the Crown from the stone head. Blood flooded his mouth, new teeth emerging between his dogteeth and incisors. Itching heat pulsed, and his bloody mouth curled into a wolfish smile.

Alea had her guard.