The best and only reason I have for attending Alban Korund’s trial is friendship. Once upon a time, and not so long ago, that might have been different, but you’ve changed our world so much. Give me some credit, Margrit. Time makes relationships complicated, but we rarely forget where we began. Now,” he said after a moment’s silence, “shall I come around to pick you up?”
“Please.” Margrit’s voice scratched, throat too tight for words. It was too easy to forget the Old Races weren’t human, at least for brief spaces of time. They moved too fluidly, but the eye became accustomed to that, and in their human forms, that was the only thing to truly mark them apart. The only thing, at least, until age and regret and pain showed in a vampire’s gaze, undoing all his humanity with a glance. Daisani had cut her open with honesty more than once, and Margrit doubted she would ever learn to stand against the inhuman depth he could show. “Please,” she whispered again. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Not at all. We should be there in good time for the awakening.”
Sunset, once a moment of freedom, was now only an awakening to a new, more dreadful prison than the one that kept him safe in daylight hours. Alban clamped down on a roar, wrapped up the impulse to reach out for comfort and clawed his hands against chains as he panted for breath. Iron did more than bind him: it seemed to weight him, making air harder to draw in, as if his lungs were full of cold metal. It denied him the simple ability to touch another gargoyle mind with his own, and for all that he’d given up that intimacy centuries earlier, being unable was a far worse fate than being unwilling.
Not that there was anyone beyond Biali for him to contact, and Alban had been barely more than a child when he and Biali had last been friends. Head lowered, hair falling in white waves around his cheeks, Alban dug taloned toes into stone and willed himself to stop trying to transform; to stop trying to escape thrums of pain. It was unnatural for a gargoyle to resist so much. Stone endured. Elements could leave their mark, but throughout time stone sat and waited, embodiment of patience.
A laugh he barely recognized as his own grated Alban’s throat. In the brief span of time since Margrit Knight had come into his life, she’d infected him with human impatience, a desire to see things done, and done now. His sympathy for that plight spiked. Once freed of restraints and set on his own lonely path, he would have to try a little harder to live his life at her speed.
At least he knew she would still have him. The frustration that had built in her at his adamant stance against speaking for himself pinched him as thoroughly as the chains did. She’d forgiven him even through the midst of her irritation, proving yet again that humans adapted quickly, even to the impossible. The weight of regret bowed his shoulders, and for a few seconds he ceased struggling against his chains, consumed by worry for mistakes made.
The door opened, bringing Grace in on a breath of cooler air. “Better today, love? You’re not fighting so hard.”
“Perhaps I’ve nothing to fight for.” Alban lifted his gaze but remained in his crouch, his eyes at the level of her ribs as she paced the room. “You’re agitated.”
“I am.” She came to a stop in front of him, then crouched, as well, making herself diminutive in comparison. “Grace might be able to get you free of those chains, Korund. But it’ll hurt like hell if it works.” Her eyebrows shot up. “It’ll hurt like hell if it doesn’t.”
“You think Biali won’t free me when the tribunal meets?”
“I think he wants to see you enter in chains, already condemned. He’s brutal, not stupid. First impressions count. He’ll want them to see you as a prisoner.”
“I am a prisoner, and rightfully condemned.”
Grace sighed in exasperation. “You’re easy on the eyes, but I don’t envy Margrit in dealing with you. Not all of your people are martyrs. Why are you?”
“Believing in our traditions doesn’t make me a martyr.” Alban tried without success to keep offense from his voice.
Grace, pacing again, spat a sound of disbelief. “You tell me, then. Are you so eager to walk in chains that I won’t try, or will we see what I can do?”
“My damaged pride would like to see Biali’s face when he discovers his trap didn’t work,” Alban muttered. “But if you can do this, why did you wait until now to offer?”
“Because Grace has secrets to keep, too.” The blond woman’s answer was hardly louder than his own. “You’ll close your eyes, gargoyle, and keep them closed. It’ll hurt.”
“Closing my eyes will hurt?” Alban asked lightly, then glanced over his shoulder at Grace, whose lovely features were drawn tight with anticipation. He murmured, “Forgive me,” then settled back into place. “They are closed.”
“Try to not lash out, then, love, and we’ll see what Grace can do.” Grace put her hands on his shoulders as if in warning. Alban grunted, tension rising even as he tried to stop it, but he nodded agreement.
Where Grace touched him turned to ice, burning cold that sank through him like a stone in water. It drew a gasp: gargoyles were not especially susceptible to temperature. To feel such chill with no warning or transition was as shocking as the cold itself. Grace, sharply, said, “Hold that,” and Alban inhaled again, breath catching in his lungs and holding there.
Cold flowed through him, worse than ice water in his veins; that, at least, would follow the pulse and beat of blood. This frozen touch sank in through muscle, through blood and bone, moving against nature and spreading as it moved. It clawed at his throat, digging into the iron that had become a part of him, and the iron turned to links of frigid crystal.
Stone crumbled under Alban’s feet, the floor tearing beneath his talons. His eyes had opened against Grace’s orders, but he saw nothing but gray in front of him; gray and tear-blurred dancing images of his own forearms, muscle cording and shuddering white with stone.
Pain did not begin to describe it. Cold transcended agony and left the middling discomfort of being bound by iron far behind. It tore down stone walls, and with their tumbling came a lifetime of emotion that he had carefully left behind.
He did not, of course, remember the first time he saw Hajnal, for she was his elder, and had always been a part of their mountain-born tribe. Small, for a gargoyle, and very dark for one of their kind. Her family name was Dunstal, black stone, and they shared an affinity for glassy obsidian and other black rock spat from the heart of the world. Their physicality reflected that, amber skin tones and black hair, making them stand out against a people whose coloring tended toward the pale. She had always been there, petite and lovely amongst her alabaster kin.
And Biali had always been nearby, a broad hulk of a gargoyle who rarely smiled, but always danced at Hajnal’s whim. Alban had become the younger brother to their duo, chasing after, laughing, learning: being a child, loved and safe in the tall, gray mountains. A score of years had gone by, until one day he was no longer a child, and his heart leapt to see Hajnal winging above their mountain retreat. Until he’d joined her in the sky and found more than friendship beneath diamond-cut stars.
The span of a human life passed in a blur, memories clouded with time. Alban grew older and broader and wiser, losing himself in his people’s histories, discovering the world beyond their mountains through memories shared by others. He became a warrior, trained by memory and by skirmishes too focused to be playful, but never intended to be made real. Even now, under a song of pain, his muscles flexed with the movements he’d learned, battle built into his body. But there was little enough to fight over, and he had more important things to think of, like the dark-haired beauty at his side.
He had not yet seen a century when it became clear that humanity, all unknowing, would hound his people into hiding and desperation. Even high in the mountains, mortals encroached on their every stronghold, and there were bitter arguments on how to survive them. Some counseled war, and Alban found himself on the opposite side, standing and speaking of tradition and the need to keep the histories safe. He did not doubt his prowess in battle, and, looking from face to face, he saw that no one else did, either.
No one, save one.
Alban, caught in a whirlwind of icy anguish, whispered, “No,” with what little breath he had left, and shuddered beneath the weight of unrelenting memory.
Biali should have won. Should have, with his age, his experience; with what he perceived as having to lose. But he had lost Hajnal long since, and Alban fought for her, and the future of his people, and when his blow shattered Biali’s face, Alban fell back and refused to fight anymore. Not for fear of exile, though Biali’s death would
