Black as diamond, p.13
Black as Diamond, page 13
“You still don’t understand,” she signed, pointing up by her temple. “You never stop, never think—and now you’ve tangled yourself in a mess with a wraith and an assassin.”
“Asaru’s not . . .” He trailed off, truth and belief warring within him. Asaru had killed the king, and his culpability in that was clear as the cloudless Sky Court. Though another had guided the deed, his hand had committed it. A slick mass of guilt formed caverns through Wren’s heart as his brand itched, an insistent, commanding presence. He weakly added, “He was possessed.”
Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, as he recalled her proclivities, Rishé perked up. A glint flashed in her gaze as she inquired lightly on the topic of possession. Her mother had been human, but her father had been lulaik, and even though that combination of heredity rendered her fully human, she’d always been fascinated by their discussions of khetry. In between training, they’d spent hours in the guild’s reading room, poring over tomes and conjuring up the wildest of potential spells. They were drawn together by the simplicity of wanting to know more—about each other and the living threads that wove the world. Wren wanted that back. He hadn’t known how desperately he wanted it until he saw how Rishé brightened, if just for this tiny moment.
Then she clamped her mouth, closing up like a tome slammed shut, and averted her gaze. The infant spark between them fizzled, as did his useless hopes.
“Never mind, it’s fine.” She dropped her hands and muttered, as if to make the words hurt more, “I’ll ask Asaru if he’s willing.”
Wren was left staring after her as she moved ahead. Away from him. He shut his eyes and sighed as he squeezed to minuscule pieces whatever hurt swelled in his gut. It was only fitting. This was well due. He had left her first.
The Kingswood thinned out, though not quite disappearing. The Darandell trailed away, and they found themselves walking beside a wide road. On the far side, farmland opened into the distance, each field so vast it would take an hour to cross one’s length.
Comforted by the thickness of the wood, Wren lowered his hood to take in the distant rolling hills. Valyn was second only to Romia in its mass of arable land, in sloping valleys from which the realm received its pleasurable substances.
At the rumble of approaching wheels, four pairs of startled eyes shot to the road.
Wren stilled as a cart pulled by two stumpy horses slowed to stop at the behest of its driver’s curiosity. The cart was laden with baskets filled almost to overflowing with fruit and dusty red pepperstalk. A farmer, then. Common enough to stumble across in the hinterlands.
“Hail, travelers?” the farmer called, tentatively tossing out a half-formed wave that Wren found himself thoughtlessly returning. A particularly sharp elbow dug into his side, but he couldn’t help that his mother had taught him human manners, couldn’t help that over the years they’d become his own manners instead.
The farmer shaded his eyes and squinted. “Apologies for stopping y’all, but has anyone ever told you of your resemblance to—”
“I get that a lot,” Wren said warily, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “Apparently Rosatay and Eihron are interchangeable.”
Never mind that each Norvatti tribe had its own distinctive features. Never mind that the Eihrons had long since settled in Sterrock, whereas some Rosatay clans like the one of his birth continued to travel. Never mind the constancy of such comments, hammering insecurities into his very bones. Always an outsider, throttling the balance between being not quite Norvatti anymore but neither wholly Estyrian.
Wren tugged at his curls to hide the points of his ears, itching to shroud himself in the shadows again. His cheeks warmed in a familiar flustered irritation.
“My apologies. Just been hard for many of us since the king’s passing—feels like I’m seeing him ’round every corner. A good man. May he rise to Ishmer.”
The platitude echoed hollowly in Wren’s own mouth. Of the Estyrian afterlives, Ishmer was for the beloved dead, while the forgotten sank into Dis. Though the king may not have been universally loved, he would be remembered for centuries. Wryly, Wren wondered if the same would be said of him once his time had come. Doubtful. There was little he deserved to be remembered for.
“You know”—Eșarpe give me strength, Wren thought, his smile thinning as the man continued—“they’re saying the order didn’t even let Lady Sanawe see the body—too badly maimed. Shame for his sister, I reckon. Not even his wife’s spoken out, can’t imagine what Dowager Raine’s going through. Poor, poor thing.”
Wren’s gaze darted to Rishé for help, but he found there only muted amusement. For all his want of being a healer, he didn’t fare too well with the talk or sight of corpses. One could imagine any various ways the king had died, yet the cleanest was the worst: a blade through the heart. His own tightened at the thought as bile clawed up his throat. He drew the snakeskin around himself, twisting anxious patterns into the cloth. He’d rather be anywhere else.
“I’m sure they’re doing well,” he offered in a strained voice.
“Ah, but don’t mind me yapping.” The farmer waved him off before tipping his hat back. “May I ask where y’all’re headed?”
Palenisa pushed her way to the front, a menacing tower of black. “You may not,” she rumbled, lifting her chin to glower, two dots of blue under her hood.
“No disrespect,” the farmer said as he raised a placating hand. “It’s just, evening’s coming, and I was of a mind to offer y’all a place to rest your legs tonight.”
At a tug on his sleeve, Wren glanced over his shoulder to meet Asaru’s fierce eyes. Their bond blazed with his discontent. That accusatory gaze lit up every part of Wren, gut to gullet, with guilt. So he turned and let its fierceness burn his back instead as he accepted the offer. Rejecting the farmer would only have heightened the man’s suspicion of four lone travelers, he tried to rationalize to himself.
He endured the weight of the glare as they squeezed themselves between baskets smelling of vineyards and spices. He burrowed his face against his knees all the way to the farmer’s home.
The small farm was bordered by the Kingswood along two sides. Though landed, the people in the area were far from gentry, much less wealthies. Their abode was built into the base of a sloping mound with a golden field of wheat spread before it. In a way, it reminded Wren of his home, of his mother. In a garden at the rear, he noted a child about half his age tending to grafted trees heavy with nectar apples and bright quince. Wiping their brow, the child exchanged words with their father before the farmer led the four of them toward the barn.
The second level was packed tight with bales of bedstraw, sallow in the dim light. Grass and grain shoots littered the main floor, just soft enough to lie on. For a night, it would do.
A thin layer of discomfort hung in the air, thickening when the farmer’s child nudged the door open, bearing a tray in their arms. They set down a helping of bread garnished with pepperstalk, honey, grapes, and slices of aromatic pink nectar apples weeping with condensation.
Far more generous than expected. But Wren’s companions looked less than pleased, and though Rishé lowered both hands in thanks, her lips were thin, flat lines. The child responded in kind, signing back by scooping their arms into a curve. Before leaving, they paused at the door. Catching the look, Wren raised a brow, and they quickly scampered out.
Wren picked at a loaf of bread and braced himself. Not hard enough, unfortunately, as he came to regret the many decisions in his life that had led him there when the bickering started.
“I can’t believe you,” Rishé groused. She popped a grape between her teeth and he winced, shoulders rising. “What madness compelled you to keep talking? Do you have any idea how suspicious you sounded? We could’ve stayed in town or, better yet, the damn forest.”
Well, yes, he knew he was lacking charisma tenfold, but it was not his fault he’d been caught in unwanted conversation unawares.
Asaru hissed. Since giving Khensu mercy, he’d been somber, as if in deep, churning thought. But once again, his voice dripped disdain. “We should not have done any of this, forest or otherwise. Time is my utmost priority, and you—all of you—are wasting mine by the day.”
Rishé rolled her eyes and finished off the remaining grapes as Palenisa sat up sharply to point a claw at him. “We’re all on edge—at least those of us with sense.” She cast Wren a withering look and crossed her arms. “I don’t trust that man. Who the fuck stops at the side of an empty road like that? We could’ve been bandits for all he knew. No one’s that kind.”
“They can be,” Asaru said softly, glancing at Wren. He shook his head and touched his halo as Wren’s heart sped up. “But that is not the point. This was a foolish choice, and we are leaving before those two wake. No arguments.”
“I’m sorry,” Wren whispered, feeling properly chastised. He set the loaf down, no longer hungry. His stomach was an ashen pit, his tongue a tasteless gravel road.
He received twin scoffs in response, Rishé having turned away to burrow inside her suman as the other two angrily finished off the remaining fruit between themselves.
Picking at the tattered hem of his cloak, Wren sighed. The snakeskin was unraveling. Something sparked in his head, and he pulled the bone needle from his pocket, knowing full well his skill held no candle to the neatness of his mother’s craft. The banded fabric was beyond his capability to fix, so he focused only on what he could. He tried not to think of everything that required repair. Even as he tried to compare the work to the brand, it fell short. All the trouble he’d caused would need more than a joke of a needle and some thread. Khetry, viscous and alive, could not be untangled so easily.
In the tense respite, he let himself sink into the repetitive motion—pierce fabric, pull, flip; pierce fabric, pull, flip—as his eyes watered.
“Is that a spell?” asked a soft voice. He twitched. Blood beaded on his trembling fingertip, Palenisa too dreadfully close for his liking. She smelled of blood and cardamom and sweat, a strangely pleasant mixture that only served to worsen his anxieties. She sidled up beside him.
Sweat gathered on his palms as he gulped, shaking his head. “Ah, no. Just mending this so it, um, doesn’t fall apart.”
She hummed in something he dare not let himself think was intrigue. “With thread, not khetry?”
Blinking, he looked up through his hair. She watched his working hands, then, sensing his stare, rose to meet it. The blue of her eyes was less like the sky than he first thought. Colder, but not entirely frigid. Like multifaceted sapphire, many shades within the cool pools.
“I . . .” Wren gathered his thoughts. “Yes—I mean, no. I can’t mend with khetry; there isn’t a spell for that kind of thing. It’s too . . . simple.”
Cocking her head, Palenisa scrutinized him before tearing off a strip of cloth from the sleeve of her cape. When she raised an arm, it resembled an open wing, loose and feathery. “Can you turn this into a hair tie?”
Surprised, he took the cloth. It was waxy to the touch and shiny on the inside, with faint silvery stars he had to tilt it to see. Excellent craftsmanship, likely the hand of a Peskeli seamstress he was loath to wreck. But then, she had ripped it from her own cape.
Under her watchful eye, Wren deftly drew the sides of the cloth closed and passed it back, not expecting much of anything. Especially not the thanks she tossed his way, a pair of carefree words over the shoulder as she tied her hair up into a tail. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked down. Part of him remained unbalanced by her presence. But none of that stopped the smile that threatened his lips. A small thing, its fleeting existence a tiny step forward.
After some time, the barn fell silent, a featureless mass of malleable shapes broken only by steady breathing and the occasional shuffling of pages. By the wall where the moon peered between slats, Wren flipped through the primer. The nature of a curious man was not quelled so easily, much to his own shame and horrid displeasure.
Dilated eyes scanned the circle for the summoning spell, his head overfull with questions. The world had its natural laws, tending to disorder and misfortune over order and luck. How could he have been so foolish to believe there existed a spell to alter one’s fate, even momentarily? Everything was set in stone. He just hoped, wished, this backlash wasn’t equally as permanent.
With a sigh, Wren turned to the latter half of the primer, where the writing became more harried and frantic. He kept coming back to these pages, wrestling with himself over their validity. The notes theorized—speculated without basis, to be more accurate—about a so-called ritual required to become a Weaver. They included iterations of hypothetical spellwork and haphazard sketches of a needle imbued with blood through pure khetry. It was a fanciful wish.
But the summoning spell . . .
He frowned at the diagram. Hadn’t he learned his lesson the first time? He got what he deserved for tempting khetry. But still, what if there was a path to repentance? For his mistake, his impatience, his foolishness? A way to weave back into place all he had so carelessly torn apart?
Though Weavers were pitiable creatures, lulaik who sacrificed themselves for power, if the legends were true. He thought back to the green-eyed Weaver in Birinuyi, a sight he still struggled to make sense of. True, then. But rarer than rare. Weavers were pitiable creatures, yes, but so too was he. A sorry bag of blood and flesh filled with failure and fatigue. If this was the least he could do, he would gladly exsanguinate himself for the mere utterance of forgiveness from Asaru’s lips.
Idly, Wren touched his nose and his hand came away wet. He licked the blood coating his upper lip and wiped the rest away, red blending with the crimson of his sleeve.
Pain licked up his side, and he glanced up.
Bars of moonlight shone between the roof slats, illuminating Asaru. In the darkness, he was more shadow and highlights than a visible figure. Wren watched him bite his lip and then look up. Hazel eyes glowed, silver pupils dilated. The bond flared with a jolt as their gazes locked into place like an alignment of stars and circumstance.
Wren felt he had to say something. He opened his mouth.
Light flooded in as the barn doors flung open.
Palenisa shot awake, brandishing her staff as she bolted to her feet. Her entire body was alert in seconds. In contrast, Rishé struggled to follow, dragging herself awake with a hand over her necklace and her hair mussed at an angle.
The farmer’s child hovered in the doorway. Tense with clear panic, they hurriedly glanced back as a noise grew behind them. Muffled footfalls and voices deliberately kept low.
“The Black Order,” they whispered, voice tremulous. “I don’t know who you people are or what exactly you’re running from, but you should go. Now.”
This truly had been a foolish decision, and as usual, it had come time to reap what he’d sown.
As though thinking the same, Palenisa directed a piercing glare Wren’s way. He shoved the primer away and shut his eyes, bathed in regret. They slipped into the night just as the sounds of sentinels rounded on the barn. The draw of steel. The distinct mechanical cry of a tightening crossbow. Boots kicking open the doors, followed by the bark of an order. The whisper of metal and susurrating chains grew near. A bolt whistled through the air, missing them wide, though its meaning was clear.
A warning.
“Scatter,” Palenisa hissed. The edges of her caped figure melted into the black forest. Rishé donned her hood and did the same. Asaru grabbed Wren’s wrist, dragging him into the heart of the woods. With a yelp of surprise, he looked down at where they touched, his skin buzzing as his pulse jumped.
Dangerous.
Asaru wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met before. He was better. He was worse. His force was a demand, perfectly contained order only spun into chaos by Wren’s own proximal existence.
They wove carefully through the wood with Asaru as their guide and Wren trailing behind as if he were a stray note in the birdsong. His body moved faster than his mind.
This contingent was better, slicker than the ones before. They made their way through the underbrush in steady strides, calling out as they split apart to comb the forest. Warning bolts flew all around, above. Closer, closer, ever closer.
As a figure stepped from behind a tree, Asaru darted forward. His warmth was gone, and Wren’s wrist felt startlingly bare.
Asaru caught the sentinel unaware, kicking the sword from their hand. He grabbed it with one hand and pinned them against a tree with the other. Steel glinted blue as he flipped it right side up and plunged it through the sentinel’s neck before they could utter a single word. A waterfall of blood rained from the fatal injury, dying hands scrambling to snatch at life as it was quickly snuffed out.
There was barely time to breathe before a second sentinel rounded the tree.
Just as quickly, just as quietly, Asaru dispatched them too, but not before a dagger found a home in his shoulder blade, inches from his brand. Grunting, he snapped the sentinel’s neck and lowered them to the greenweed as if dancing sweetly.
The bond flared with pain, Wren stifling a gasp as if it were he who’d been stabbed. His was but a phantom of the true hurt, Asaru clutching his shoulder with a pinched expression. Gold spilling between his fingers glimmered in the moonlight like spilled coins.
Wren’s mouth tasted of acid. He vehemently, violently, purged the bodies from his sight and swallowed the bile with a sick grimace. “You didn’t have to murder them,” he mumbled into his collar.
“Needs must. I have a duty, and in case you forgot, I am being hunted.” Asaru squeezed his shoulder with a vicious grumble to stymie the bleeding. “Take the blade, if you like. Otherwise, let me do what I do best.”
