Domor imagined. Rigid talons were hooked at their ends, stained in the wet darkness of Jerul’s life. Its own blood had crusted black upon its wounds. The stubby snout of its nose protruded just a little from beneath the wide, yellow ovals of its four main eyes. In the center of them was another, which was the color of old milk, pale and muddy with clouds.
Jerul poked at it, a trickle of oily liquid ran from the corner, pushed out by the warrior’s touch. “The Eye of the Night. It was how it could see us so easily despite the dark.” The warrior pried at its closed mouth.
A multitude of sharpened fangs sat in three rows inside its mouth, its jaw stretching under Jerul’s relentless pressure to reveal them all.
He whistled as he released the jaw, only to have it snap shut like a trap. “I’m grateful to have only felt its claws.”
Domor agreed as Jerul flipped the beast onto its belly. A carpet of short quills covered its back, each sharpened end tipped with the ooze of red. Jerul leaned close and sniffed, pulling away quick, his nose scrunched.
“Poison.” Jerul grasped the corner of its shroud of robes and tugged the entirety of it off the edge of the raft. The bundle sunk fast and drifted out of sight beneath the glassy surface. “Its barbs are a defense against anything that might try to make it prey. We’ll find no sustenance in its meat.”
Domor stared at the water, then back to the canopy above. If such a beast needed to be wary that it be made a meal, he hoped to never see what might feed upon it, for the Bulraths alone had been frightening enough. His eyes flickered back and forth along the twisted branches as he searched for some sign, a measure of assurance their battles were over, for the moment at least. Though the branches trembled and shook with the movements of unseen creatures, the forest sounds echoing off in the distance, he saw no threat emerge.
He stood rigid, afraid to turn his gaze away. Jerul tugged at his robes and drew his attention. He turned to look at the warrior and Jerul pointed to the river, without a word. His face spoke volumes.
Tiny bubbles fluttered in the water, bursting open with whispered hisses as they reached the surface. Nearly invisible tendrils of steam wafted just above the river. Domor looked a little closer and felt gentle waves of heat flutter against his cheeks and brow. As they watched, the bubbles grew bigger. The wisps of steam coalesced into a low-lying fog that hugged the water. Domor turned to look at his blood-companion.
Jerul drew in a timid breath. “The Tumult has come.”
Chapter Sixteen
For fifteen years, Arrin had dreamt of his return to his homeland. He’d traveled far, selling his sword wherever he could to earn enough coins to get by and to keep his mind active, but each night, whether it was the starry sky of a distant battlefield or the thatched roof of a raucous inn that hung over his head, his thoughts were always on Lathah.
For the first time in all of those long years, the towering walls of the city surrounded him once more, the smells of his people invaded his nose as they had long ago, and there was the clank of Lathahn soldiers at his back as had been so common when his life had meaning, but now, he could only wish to be gone.
The prince had ruined him with his news of Malya. The sorrow which burdened him now eclipsed that of his first lonely walk to the gate toward exile. Malya had married and borne sons that were not his. The thought circled inside his skull like the ravens over a field of war, picking at the carcass of his desiccated heart.
He felt the first spark of anger ignite inside him, its light shimmering in the deep well of his despair. For the first time since he’d left the Crown, having just passed the gate of the Sixth, he raised his eyes.
Maltis walked at his side and matched Arrin’s torpid pace, spewing venom at the lieutenant and his royal guards any time they dared to hurry Arrin or draw too close. Arrin glanced over to catch the commander’s gaze and gave him a nod of thanks before turning his stare forward.
His life outside the walls had been wasted on a fool’s dream. How could he ever have imagined that Malya yearned for their reunion as he did? It was clear now his existence had been a lie, their relationship a dalliance to be cast aside when it best suited her. Their child had been taken from its rightful parents for that lie. His stomach roiled and he felt fury fluttering through his veins.
Ahead of him, though his mind failed to grasp the truth of what his eyes saw, a woman in a dark cloak stood in their path. At her sides were two men in gold, armored as were the prince’s royal guard.
Arrin’s escorts came to a sudden halt, Maltis staying close at his side, grasping vainly for his sword that had not yet been returned.
“I would speak with Arrin Urrael,” the woman said without waiting to be addressed, her voice drifting clear into the wells of Arrin’s ears.
He focused his eyes and pushed away the anger and sorrow that clouded his vision. There Malya stood before him, not in a dream as she had for years, but in the flesh.
“By order of the prince, he is to be escorted from our land without delay,” Lieutenant Santos answered with graveled insistence, he and his men stepping forward.
“Prince Olenn is not yet king, might I remind you. While my father, your true monarch, yet lives, you will acknowledge my authority as princess of the Lathahn people, and you will obey my orders, as given.”
Santos set his jaw and came to stand just feet before her, staring into her eyes with contempt. Though his anger at Malya still stoked the fires in his breast, Arrin felt a fury coming over him at the audacity of the lieutenant. No matter their history and woes, Arrin would have no one mistreat Malya; no one.
He willed the collar to life, but a flash of gold and the shuffle of boots around him stayed his wrath. From the darkened alleys nearby, a score of men in golden chain stepped from the shadows, silver blades in their hand, though held without obvious menace. Their bare steel was sufficient to convey their meaning.
Santos, who’d dared challenge Malya, looked at the newcomers. A snarl curled his lip. He glared and gave her the barest of nods at the realization he’d lost the upper hand. “As you wish, my lady, but be assured the prince shall hear of your ill-advised visit.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. So sayeth, do as you must, soldier, but clear the path first.” She waved him away.
Her men closed upon the prince’s personal guard, reinforcing the edict by sheer dint of numbers. Arrin’s escort drew back a ways at Santos’s insistence, but hovered in the streets, their faces twisted in frustration and anger. They muttered quiet amongst themselves. There would be a reckoning, no doubt.
Malya’s guard moved away as well, giving her as much privacy as they dared. She looked to Maltis, the hint of a smile gracing her full lips. “I thank you for your loyal service to the rightful rulers of Lathah, Commander Maltis. Might I have a moment alone with Arrin?”
Maltis bowed. “Thank you, my lady. Of course.” He stepped to the side, casting a quizzical look to Arrin before he would move any further.
Arrin drew himself up and nodded to his friend. The commander backed away a short distance to linger with Malya’s men. Arrin’s attention fully on Malya, he met her gaze. His emotions exploded into a savage war within him, his thoughts roiling tumultuous inside his mind, a thunderhead of contradictions.
Malya stepped forward, coming to stand but a foot from his turbulent chest, her crystal green eyes locked upon his. “Though I know what you must think of the value of my words, given what my brother has no doubt told you, I am truly sorry; for everything.”
His own eyes filling with tears, Arrin clenched his jaw and said nothing, worried his voice might betray him. He knew not what emotion might battle its way through the chaos and take hold of his tongue. He feared its revolt.
“You must know I did not marry for love; not initially. You were my heart.”
“ Were,” he repeated as he reined in his tongue and found his voice. The word tasted bitter.
“I had thought you dead, Arrin,” she confessed. “Men of my father’s, whose loyalty I had no cause to doubt, claimed to have found your body in the hills to the south, just months after your exile.” She silenced a sob. “I demanded he bring your body home, but he refused. He would not have you return, neither dead nor dust. He commissioned soldiers to give you an honorable burial, but it was all he could be moved to do.” She laid a tiny hand on his chest. “And now you are here, fifteen years later; alive.” She sniffed quietly. “What would you have of
