Black as diamond, p.8
Black as Diamond, page 8
Quickly catching his breath, Wren pulled off one of his earrings and worked it into blue chalk between his fingers. He spared a nervy glance through the net of the willow’s pendulant branches. The steps for the spell floated into his mind’s eye—chalk for the spellwork and a small splash of blood as an additive. The mixture gleamed on the mossy trunk as he finished painting the circle. It was a light one, and the lighter the spell, the faster the charge. He just needed to open something that already existed. He pressed his bloody palm into the circle, and it glowed white. As though being drawn, the sketch of a door impressed itself into the wood. Above the sound of his own panting, Wren heard the groan of some deeper mechanism working beneath the false tree.
Creaking on dry hinges, the impression sank in with a click, click, click. A curtain of moss rustled over the entrance that appeared. Wren swung his hand through the greenery and discovered it was an illusion. Asaru followed suit before stepping through the illusory moss without hesitation and disappeared into the tunnels beneath them.
Wren made to follow but paused. Hesitated, just for a moment. His heart was a moth threatening to beat free of his chest; the sentinels sounded even closer. He found himself looking back. Past the branches and through the trees, his home, Sika, was a green smudge in the distance. He thought of Floret, Zanna, his mother. Each left behind by a string of his own misgivings, each innocent to the chaos his curiosity wrought.
I’m sorry. Wren slipped through the hidden door. The last thing he saw before the door shut was a firework bursting across the sky, sparks like the horror of a summoning.
I am so sorry.
II
Under
Pressure
Asaru
Time was hard for Asaru to quantify in the dank tunnels. It felt like they had been traveling for over a day, ceaselessly walking, sometimes half running in his case, as they moved farther and farther from Sika. Closer and closer to Alvarys.
There was little time for talking or sleeping or eating. As such, silence reigned, though his ears were filled with the sound of the rushing inside himself. Every part of him was alight with residual adrenaline, alert and wired as his fingers and toes still buzzed from the lingering effects of that fire spell. Perhaps he would crash soon, until then he had to keep moving.
It was only when his shoulder blade prickled in irritation that he slowed to a stop and looked back. In the dimness, lit faintly by a trail of bell-shaped blue flowers that cast the tunnel in moonlight, Wren lagged behind farther than Asaru would have liked. One would assume, for having such long legs, he would be able to walk at least a bit faster.
“We should . . .” Wren said, hand over heart. “Rest, just for a little while. Please?”
Asaru frowned. Most of his time as a warrior he’d fought remnants on his own, dealing with only himself. With just himself for company, it was easy to forget that other people weren’t the anomaly, he was—both on Aedyton and elsewhere, it seemed.
“Fine,” he said begrudgingly as the other man planted his hands on his knees and gulped stale air. He had to wonder, with the walls of these tunnels seeming too tightly packed, where the air came from. Those entrances like the one they had come through? If he closed his eyes and stood in place, he could almost feel a thin stream of warm breeze trickling from somewhere farther down.
Leaning against the wall, Asaru crossed his arms and allowed himself a single moment of stillness, like dew that hung on the end of a leaf. He shut his eyes, held his mind closed from vulnerabilities. The drop fell. Hazel eyes fluttered open, slit pupils dilated in the low light.
Wren tilted his head back. The column of his neck formed a smooth curve, covered half by the scar and half by freckles he was unable to see clearly in the semidarkness. Frowning, Asaru glanced down where they had come from. Both sides of the tunnel were nearly alike, earthen floors and dirt walls embedded with a lusterless gray rock that seemed to disappear among the vines that hung from the ceiling. It looked like a place between places, its only purpose a temporary passage.
“Where are we?”
“Birinuyi,” Wren said, rummaging through his satchel. He pulled out the rolls of bread Sabine had given them and handed one to Asaru. “These tunnels were used as a safe haven during the Crusades, for lulaik fleeing rogue Aspects. The walls, um, the flintrock, it’s said to dampen the smell of khetry.” He bit into his roll thoughtfully. “And Weavers too. But I doubt that part.”
Weavers. Those rare, pitiful lulaik who sought power beyond what they knew, even at the cost of great, unknown sacrifice. Tenat had told him Weavers were legends, mere tales to laud the achievements of those daring few lulaik who had fought in the Founding War, if they ever truly existed. The doubt rang true—after all, the power over life and death? That went against every single one of the cornerstones.
Though he tried not to entertain conversation, he found himself inquiring further, compelled by a simple curiosity. Gathering information, as it were—he was a stranger to this continent. “And after these Crusades, what happened to the lulaik? I did not see many of you during my . . . time in the capital. And you”—he raised a brow, taking in all of Wren’s unassuming nature, finding little that hinted at his eresh keyel ancestry, save for the leaf-shaped ears—“seem to try very hard not to stand out.”
“We’re still around. As you can—I mean, well, um, you know.” Avoiding his gaze, Wren picked at the half-eaten roll. Wren ran his tongue across his small sharp canines. “History isn’t my strong suit. I have—used to have—a friend who would know.”
Asaru’s throat was thick with bread—and some emotion that he wanted to force himself not to feel, but it still came over him, nonetheless. An emotion far too close to sympathy for his liking. He didn’t know why he’d asked. Because it’s something Alvarys would do. Prying the answers he needed from others in all his charismatic congeniality.
“So, um, your brother.” He blinked back his surprise as Wren continued. “You said you were looking for your brother?”
Uncrossing his arms, Asaru cast a pensive look at the ground. The bisected end of his tail dusted the earth as confusion swelled within him and determination calcified in his gut, weighed down by an anxious dread at what the missing members of the Tetrarchia could mean. They’d taken the beacon—but the vial, that curse, had devastated every other person in the room. His hope was that the wretched violence hadn’t touched Alvarys. It was a hope to which he held fast because he had to, for his own sake and his brother’s.
“I was sent to the embassy on an assignment and found every single person there dead from a curse,” he said flatly. Relay the facts, force down your feelings. Like he had taught himself to. “My brother and one of his squad members was missing. Along with a beacon they were sent there to find.”
“Ah,” Wren replied.
“Do you comprehend why I cannot afford any delay?”
“Well”—Wren pressed his pointer fingers together, chewing his lip—“getting you to the Guild of the Living Body isn’t a delay. You’re, um, poisoned. And you’re being . . . pursued by the Black Order. We—you—can lie low in their neutral territory until the search dies down.”
“No.” A growl rose sharply in the back of Asaru’s throat. The brand tingled, an almost familiar static that sent a shiver up to the base of his skull. The presence wasn’t there, but its tackiness would forever linger. “I will let you take me to this guild. I will let you treat the poison. And then, I will find Alvarys.”
Wren reached out haltingly, surprise coloring his expression before he timidly stepped closer. “Oleander poisoning can be fatal. And curses are rare. How do you know it’s really a curse?”
“Because I have seen it. And eresh keyel cannot lie.” Before Wren could respond, Asaru bared his teeth and snatched Wren’s necklace, wrenching him down with a cry. “Listen close: I was sent here to complete a task. You have bound us, and that is something I cannot fix. Finding my brother is the most important thing there is. If you derail me further, I will not hesitate to leave you behind—backlash or not.”
For a moment Asaru glanced at the moon-shaped pendant between his fingers. The stone was cool and luminescent against his scar-riddled hand. He brought his gaze back up to Wren’s wide, startled eyes. He was close enough to notice that the left was not completely gold—a few carmine flecks swam in the iris like a banded gem.
“Nod if you understand.”
Wren nodded.
Asaru shoved him away and kissed his teeth.
Cowed, Wren stared at him with a strange look. Trepidation and a not too small amount of fear were plain on his face, and something like regret tightened Asaru’s throat. He forced himself to swallow it.
“Is”—Wren coughed, rubbing his neck—“is violence always the answer?”
Staring at his trembling hand, Asaru clenched it. “If needs must. They often do.”
Phantom touches brushed his jaw, and a chill ran through Asaru from head to toe. He flexed his hands to ward it off. Strange.
They rested far apart that night. The next few days—maybe two, maybe three, maybe more—were spent in a similar suffocating silence. The walls were too close, the ceiling too low. With each step, the pain in Asaru’s side intensified, and he slowed his breathing to compensate as the wrappings grew wet. Dutifully, he overlooked the pain. Pressing a hand to his stomach, he forced himself onward as the subtle ache soon sharpened. It was the worst he’d had, he could not lie, but he’d overcome it regardless.
After a few more hours of walking, Wren finally led them aboveground.
Like flowers peeking through the dirt, they climbed through an overgrown trapdoor. The span of the sky was a welcome sight, and Asaru’s wings longed to greet the clouds. They had emerged in a glade dotted with trees beside a babbling creek. The pale trees were ringed with brown spots that resembled eyes, hundreds of them, watching, and Asaru could almost taste the grass scent in the air. They walked a little ways, light morning mist clinging to their ankles in the underbrush.
Asaru doffed his hood and let out a sigh. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Wren was kneeling by the creek, collecting water in a flask. Wren had replaced the snakeskin cloak with an embroidered woolen coat conjured from his satchel. Under the sun, he looked unassuming for someone who’d broken one of the cornerstones.
Tempted to touch his brand, Asaru frowned.
“I need to clean your wound and replace the bandages,” Wren said.
“I am fine.”
Incredulous, Wren stared at where Asaru kept his hand pressed to his wound beneath his cape. It bled, fresh gore seeping through the soaked bandages. Both men winced. “You’re not even trying to hide it. Sit down and just let me help.”
It seems someone has a hint of a spine. As he perched on a moss-covered boulder, Asaru was mildly impressed by the firmness of Wren’s tone.
Wren bound his hair into a low tail and unfurled a roll of supplies. He selected a few violet petals striated with gold and mixed them with soap and oil in a mortar to create a salve pink as the dawn. He worked efficiently, tactile in his healing practice. Grimacing, Asaru wanted to shed his skin, wanted to shy from his touch as the bandages were removed. Hands made of dream-darkness and a chant by a familiar voice congregated in the corners of his brain. With each layer removed, the strips of cloth were more blood soaked.
Asaru held still as the gold was wiped away, salve slathered in its place over the faded bronze starburst of his injury. As he was wound back up in clean bandages, he couldn’t help but watch Wren’s focused expression. There was an intimacy to this kind of healing. Hands on skin, fingers across flesh, red strings taut between healer and patient.
A pinching sparked down his back between his wings and he doubled over, shoulders quaking from the sudden rush. Eyes wide, his hands flew to his nape, clutching at the lifeline of his halo. Startled, Wren hissed, rubbing at his own neck as that spark of hurt flared through the bond.
“What’s . . . happening?” he croaked with pained eyes.
“The curse,” Asaru muttered through clenched teeth. I must have been infected, perhaps even the moment I stepped inside the embassy. With trembling hands, he pulled aside his braid and hesitantly brushed the shard of black diamond that had sat among his halo stones for as long as he could remember.
Other warriors had found it impossible—unnerving—that he could wear in his halo the same mineral that burned the rest of them with a single touch. “Unnatural,” he’d been called each time he plucked black diamonds from the corpses of remnants and tossed them into the sea. All but shunning him, save for Alvarys at his side.
Does it feel bigger? He couldn’t tell without seeing, but he could feel tendrils of raised skin, keloids snaking from the stone like some parasitic growth. He prodded around the shard, but each scratch of his nails only hurt him more.
A glance down at his hands confirmed what he knew to be true. Matching those on the corpses at the embassy were black marks like hard stone crawling up his wrists and speckling his scarred skin. Death already clawing at him from beyond the veil.
Bumps rose over his skin. A deadline he hadn’t even known loomed.
Resignation was easy to bear. Asaru looked up at Wren, who had been staring at Asaru’s newly blackened fingers. “Do you believe the curse exists now?”
Tense and quiet, Wren nodded.
A wet sensation streamed over his lips. Confused, Asaru brushed his nose, but it came away dry. He looked up when Wren cursed. Twin crimson rivers flowed down Wren’s chin, staining his teeth. He tilted his head down and wiped a bloody smear across his face.
This bond was getting thoroughly irritating.
“Are you well?”
“Just overheating.” Wren pinched his nose. He ducked into the brook and splashed water over his mouth. Blood drifted on the slow current, then disappeared. “When lulaik go too long without casting a spell, we overheat. Side effects include headaches, cramps, and bleeding, unfortunately.”
Not the curse, then. Good.
Drawing his knees to his chin, Asaru looked aside. “Where are we? How soon can we continue?”
Wren hummed a moment. “We should be near Anseme. It’s the closest town to Sika and the Ausran border.” He donned his hood and slung his satchel over his shoulder. “There’s a morning market there, and I really need, um, I really should refill our supplies. I’ll be quick. I promise.”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
“Don’t you want to eat something other than days-old bread?”
“I eat what I am given.” He shrugged. He wasn’t picky.
“All right . . .” Wren furrowed his brow. “Well, I’ll just be . . . down there . . .” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “You probably shouldn’t go past the tree line.”
“I am quite aware I am a wanted man.”
“Um, right! Yes, OK—I’ll just . . . I’m going now.” Spinning, Wren trekked down the slight hill on which the glade rested. Even as he grew smaller in the distance, his hunched shoulders seemed to radiate embarrassment.
For a few minutes, Asaru made a round of the glade, redoing the wraps on his arms and legs, before he grew too curious to be quelled. He stayed well away from the tree line, but from atop a rock, he could make out the town on the slope below.
The creek flowed to a river beside the town, dotted with figures milling about in the market. At the center of its major was a fountain, a plinth with a statue sitting atop sprouting from it. He squinted, and its features sharpened.
It appeared, from this distance, to be a veiled woman clutching something in both hands. But its most striking feature was the familiar disk of gems that framed her head like a sun. He recognized the motifs from a story Tenat once regaled him and Alvarys with. About the human who wanted to become eresh keyel but turned to worshipping them instead. Abbess Ariadine.
Many humans had taken great interest in Aedyton’s first warden, Madib. If he recalled correctly, Ariadine had been particularly devoted, proclaiming Madib a goddess rather than the mortal—however great—she was. Her faith spread virulently, but the story ended when the Sea Gate rose, and Tenat seemed to know no more after that.
When he thought of the strange shrines he had seen in Sika, altar bowls filled with aur, food, and flowers, Asaru wondered what had changed. The only gods he knew were the Triumvirate, and they were less so gods than deified eresh keyel.
Tapping a claw on the rock, he followed the sun to gauge how much time had passed. And before long, Wren was picking his way back through the trees, much more cheerfully. A smile curved his face—One that should be there more often, flashed an intrusive thought. As Wren approached, the smell of venison wafted to Asaru’s nose, and his mouth watered. Venison was rarely imported to Aedyton, and there were no animals that were not sacred to the Triumvirate on the island.
But as Wren approached, two figures appeared out of the forest behind him.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Wrongness swelled within him, and khetry brightened.
Asaru darted forward and shoved Wren back just in time to avoid a strike of lightning. The momentum tumbled them both down the hill. Rolling, rolling, rolling over each other. They came to a stop beyond the tree line below, at the edge of the town’s major, which brimmed with merchants and common folk.
He quickly found his footing, his face wet. His nose throbbed—likely broken—and inside his mouth was a pool of blood he spat aside along with a tooth. The singed tatters of his cloak hung from his shoulders. He ripped it away with a growl, revealing his wings quick as a snap. Behind him, a human screamed, and the rest of them followed. With a glance over his shoulder, he saw the market was quickly emptying at the sight of him. So much for staying unseen.
