The 39th Day of Valemord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

ADRENALINE CARRIED ARMAN UNTIL he re-entered the city. Excitement and certainty left his body in a rush and he steadied himself on a lantern post. Every headstrong promise he made as a boy was dwarfed by this choice. This was different from fighting, different from promising to marry Veredy when he was grown. I can never go back from this. It was not a choice. Something called him, and he answered. His blood answered. If Alea left the city, he would follow. No, he corrected himself, When the Dhoah' Laen leaves the city her Rakos guard follows. Perhaps there was no distinction between the two, but imagining one slowed his racing heart.

He ran his thumb over his teeth again. The new points scraped his rough finger, longer than any human teeth had a right to be.

He had to tell Wes and Kam something, had to explain himself to Veredy. Fates, I was going to ask her to be my wife—in earnest. In the darkness of his confusion marriage was as distant as summer. Whatever his relationship was with Veredy, would be different now, and must wait again. It was fully dusk, and Arman was too tired to face his friends. There was one task left, however, before he could retreat to home.

The Farrow house was a small cottage on the edge of the Uppers, but it bore the marks of old wealth. It took two knocks before the door jerked open. Confusion, fear and anger shadowed Thada Farrow's features. “What is it?”

It was an expression Arman was far too familiar with. “Evening, Mistress Farrow.”

She blinked at him, recognition flitting across her face. “Arman, gracious I didn't even recognize you.” She ushered him inside, her face falling back into darkness. “Can I take your cloak?”

“Thank you, but no. I can't stay long.” The clean, lively house he remembered from boyhood was dim and cluttered.

She drifted into her kitchen. “Forgive the state of the house. I can't seem to find the energy, not after Maren....” She shuddered. “He was such a good boy, I can't understand what happened.”

Dread rooted itself in Arman's stomach. Farrow's dead. He didn't want the survivors here and now he's dead. Even with strong denial, Arman knew the truth. “I was horrified to hear the news.”

She glanced over, as if she already forgot he was there. “Certainly. You two were close as boys. Not as much recently, but he always spoke highly of your family.” She gave him a weak smile.

“I'm actually here to see his brother. Is he in?”

She nodded. “He's taken it hard, but he's a strong boy.” She leaned up the stairs. “Hiram? Arman Wardyn is here to see you.”

A long pause followed, then a door opened softly upstairs. Hiram was the image of his older brother. The shadows on his face matched his mother's. His faint smile did not reach his tired eyes. “Hey, Wardyn.”

“Hey.” Arman held out the note he hastily wrote before knocking. “I'm sorry about your brother. He was a good man.”

“What's this?” Hiram peered at the paper but did not open it to read.

“You're interested in the smithy, and we could use some help. Bring this to Wes and he'll find you some work.” Arman shifted awkwardly and heaved a sigh. “Very well, I should be going.” He paused at the door. “I'm so sorry, Mistress Farrow. Really, I wish there was something .... I'm so sorry.”

Φ

The knock on his door startled Arman. He contemplated pretending to sleep. He was not ready to face his friends again, let alone Veredy, and his mother's compassion would break his tentative composure.

“Arman, are you there?” Alea's voice was gentle.

He opened the door, leaning on the frame. She was a stranger, there were a thousand things he would never know about her. And yet she was the only one who understood a fraction of the horror and power rampaging across his mind. The same terrible secret bound them. “Are you feeling any better?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. I guess better, a bit. You look like something the vultures’ pecked over.”

He glared at her with mock anger. “That's a new insult.”

“No, it’s Sunamen.” Her smile was more open than he'd yet seen. “Do you need to rest, or may I come in?”

He opened the door wider and ushered her in before flopping back onto his bed. “I'm sorry I'm not a better host right now.” He watched her take a seat. “This is an interesting reversal—you checking on me while I lie, depressed in bed.”

“I just lived through a massacre, Arman, what’s your excuse?” Her eyes glittered with wry humor. At some point she had changed into breeches and a short dress. The look suited her.

“I went looking for something to help you. What I found was unexpected, but pieces fit where there were only questions before.” He held the roughly repaired book of tales out to her. “What do you know of the Rakos?”

She took it, but only looked at the cover. Thoughtful reservation tinged her gaze. “They're dead. That’s why the Laen struggled so much lately.”

“Well the man painted there is Keirman Wardyn. He lived in Vielrona when it was still a Rakos garrison. I hoped I could wake him, or call him somehow. In a way I did.” The scarred handprint on his chest burned, pulsing with his heart. “You need a guard, Lyne'alea, and I’m it.”

“Arman, your loyalty is astounding, but this weight isn’t yours to bear.” Her words stopped when he drew the crown from under his pillow. Hammered gold shone in the lamp light. Green, veined agates and ivory studded the side. Its beauty, like Vielrona's, was simplicity and strength.

“It's our weight, together. I'm not choosing to act as your guard. My blood is bound to yours. This is the Crown of this world, of the Rakos, and it is mine to bear.”

Fear and pity flooded her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know. I feel powerful and whole. And a bit odd. My damned teeth hurt, and I’m fevered.” He sighed. “I'd imagine you understand. I still feel lost, though my path is clearer than ever.”

“Trust your instincts, Arman. At least hear me—I trust them.” She held the book up. “Mind if I borrow this? I’d like to know more about this strange creature protecting me.”

“Of course.” He winced, and asked, “Can you please keep this between us? For now.”

“Of course,” she echoed. Her smile was gentle as she left, but her words stayed, ominous, in his mind. Am I a creature now? Is it possible to be only partly Rakos, or does the chaos consume you?

Φ

The 40th Day of Valemord, 1251

The Village of Marl Mere, Athrolan

Clouds shadowed the road ahead. An'thor spent so many years traveling, both as hunter and hunted, he did not know how to stop. Albi'giran disappeared a week before to find his own people, leaving An’thor alone with his thoughts. Now there was only one place left he could think of to go. The lights of the town ahead glittered in the dusk, a speck of warmth in the cold landscape. A decade passed since he last rode this way, but the gravel sounded the same under Theriim's hooves.

Marl Mere was twice the size of Marl Kess, but nestled in the mountains south of Athrolan, it was far less exposed. He supposed that was why Elle chose it. Her house lay on the village edge. It was closer to a hovel than a house, he supposed, but home was home. Dismounting, he drew his horse under the overhang serving as stable and woodshed. As he removed Theriim's tack he whistled the opening strains of King's Wrongdoing. The silence inside the hut sharpened. “Aye, it's me, girl.”

She waited in the doorway when he rounded the front. He offered a tired smile. “It's been a while. Missed me?”

Her hair was more silver than black now and her eyes haunted, but her smile was bright. “An'thoriend Domariigo, I thought only the end of the world would bring you back to my doorstep.”

His expression darkened. “Well, you weren't wrong.”

Grief flitted across her face, but surprise did not. “I suppose you should come in. Supper’s almost ready.” She locked the door behind him and helped him out of his cloak. “I assume you won’t put the serious topics off until after we've eaten.”

He laughed humorlessly. “You know me too well.” He went to the fireplace and put the kettle on before rummaging through the cabinets for tea leaves.

“Please, make yourself at home.” She smiled wryly and handed him two mugs before sitting back in the chair. “And pour me some while you're at it. You keep catering to me and I'll begin to wonder why I never married.”

“Your son's father was a genocidal maniac who declared war on your race,” he reminded her mildly. “Really, I'm amazed you keep forgetting.”

She threw a narrow glance at him. “Why are you here? What's this about the end of the world?”

An'thor paused in his tea making but did not turn around. He only said it the once and was not prepared to do so again. “Elle, I need you to return to Le’yne. For good.”

“I most certainly will not.” Old rebellion lit her tone and he almost grinned. “They don't even know I'm alive. This is as much of a home as anywhere else, and I'm happy here.” She looked away. “At least, happier than before.”

“This is different, Elle.” He set the cups out and poured the water before taking the chair opposite her. “I wasn't lying about everything ending. She was a little bit of a thing from Emala. The Mirikin found us in Marl Kess. We made it to the edge of the Hartland, but they shot her. I tried, I swear, but she's dead.” He glanced up at her. “Elle, the Dhoah' Laen is dead.”

Her expression was carefully neutral when she met his eyes. “With all due respect, An'thor, you’re wrong.”

“Elle, her lifeblood drenched my hands—I'm fairly certain I’d know!”

“It’s a pity that girl is dead, but she wasn’t the Dhoah' Laen.”

“She had Liane convinced.”

“The true Dhoah' Laen wasn’t raised among our people, An'thor. No one knows about her.”

“How do you know then?” Something horrible akin to hope unfurled between his ribs and he clenched a pale hand on the chair’s arm. He was too old to hope, too old to be enchanted with prophecies and legends.

“Because she’s my daughter.” Elle's silver eyes were luminous in the dark hut. “And I’m the one that hid her. “

An'thor realized he leaned forward, clinging with desperation to Elle's words. “If you're lying, if you're just hoping, I swear my heart won’t recover this time.” He steadied himself with a slow breath. “When did you bear a daughter?”

“Bren was six when his father was crowned. I was only a few weeks pregnant—in the human way, again, but I knew this child was different. I could feel her. I kept up the ruse of being human well enough, but I was scared for her. I told him what I was.” Her voice caught on the ragged edges of past heartbreak. “And so, the war began.”

“You told him?” This was a twist An’thor had not expected. “Why?”

“It was just rumors, at first. But people wondered about me. And I was young—younger—and thought our love was strong enough to stop a genocide.”

An’thor could have scoffed, but he did not. He remembered youthful hope too, and the thought that romance could conquer every storm.

“I think you know how wrong I was. He was so desperate to get out of his father’s mighty shadow. So, I left Bren, traveled south to deliver her, and found my way to Cehn.”

An'thor stared at her, incredulous. “Liane stopped there two months ago. She thought it was a sanctuary.”

Elle's brow quirked. “And why do you think they thought that?”

“You said they didn't know about the girl.”

She shrugged. “They knew Cehn sheltered me. They did not know I left something behind.” Power lit her expression. It was easy to forget, in her little house, what she was. It was easy to chalk her dark hair and pale skin up to Athrolani blood. There was no questioning her race now.

“Fates, Elle, when were you going to tell me?” She kept the world's greatest secret for decades. Any mother would. He put his head in his hands. “Cehn was razed to the ground two months ago. There were barely a dozen survivors and they're scattered in Vielrona.”

Her eyes blazed with cold and a smile twitched on her lips. “Go back. I believe you forgot something.”