Kaykolvayshti, the Rookery. Since
time beyond memory, the ancient stronghold was the capitol of one of the most
powerful clans in Zarya. Glowering over
the usually placid waters of
Jurnia glanced at the slender man at her side. Noting that his expression too closely resembled that of a man traveling to his execution, she frowned. “It’s not that bad,” she complained.
The Lopayzom gave her one of those innocuous but irritatingly sunny smiles. Having traveled with him for a couple of months now and given her new-found intimacy, she was starting to tell the difference between those smiles of his that only sat upon the surface and those that actually reflected some measure of internal happiness.
Her frown deepened. “I’ll make sure it’s not that bad,” she vowed.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Kara murmured, amber eyes remaining focused on the distant fortress below. The two of them stood on a tree-scattered hillside, the forest giving way to meadowlands on the edge of cultivated ground. Having wanted to keep the Raven Chieftain—and his mysterious ill-wisher—in the dark as to their arrival for as long as possible, the newly-married couple had kept off the road and traveled along little-known forest paths. “It’s just that the last time I was here, I truly went no further than the town outside the Rookery’s gates. This will be the first time ever I’ve actually crossed that bridge and been within the Rookery’s walls.”
Jurnia nodded, her emerald eyes shifting back to stare at what used to be home. Though “home” was now wherever her husband was, a deep sense of melancholy filled her at the sight of the ancient stronghold. Not only was the reality of her marriage sinking in just a bit more, but Kara’s words also brought to mind the grief-filled memory of her mother’s funeral. The majority of the clan had held Chaiya in high regard; as a reflection of that, her funeral had taken place in town at the lake’s edge rather than on the far side of the Rookery’s island. At least this time, I have a chance of making my final memory of home a happy one. Though she certainly didn’t go as far as to tell herself that her father would openly embrace a Lopayzom son-in-law. The vendetta might be officially ended, Iryasitru might have formally made peace with Arjunayazu, but the Raven Chieftain still harbored his anger somewhere deep down.
She shifted her travel bag on her shoulder. “Well, we’re not accomplishing anything by standing here. I want to get a real bath and sleep indoors tonight. And I really want to show you around the Rookery.” She smiled at Kara.
His answering smile was a bit weak. Rolling her eyes, she turned and started briskly through the thick grass; after a moment, she heard the faint rustle of cloth, and knew he was following her.
“Some clans have been scattered or had to move their clan seat for various reasons, like political friction or natural disaster, but the Rookery’s been here as long as the Empire has,” she confided cheerfully.
“I heard that somewhere,” he murmured.
“It’s kept in perfect repair. Some families are hesitant to improve on existing buildings, but the Kaykolom are quite proud of moving with the times and rebuilding to include new innovations,” she lectured on. “The town started off as the camp for the laborers who first built the fortress, and it grew over time to include the farmers and other folk who support the Rookery. When there are major renovations underway, some of the Rookery’s residents will move out and live in the town.”
“Mm,” Kara said noncommittally.
“The bridge is the main route into the fortress grounds, of course,” she continued. “However, if you look, you’ll see that there’s a small dock near the bridge on either shore. That’s for the ferry. If the Rookery’s attacked in force, there are provisions made to sink parts of the bridge so that the enemy can’t use it. The ferry can still be used to travel across the lake during or after the siege, until the bridge is repaired.”
“Mm.”
“It can withstand a siege for at least five years. There’s a well inside the walls, and many storerooms for food and other supplies. If it’s fully garrisoned, there’ll be almost five thousand troops inside, with room to spare for the support personnel.”
“Mm.”
“Are you hearing anything that I’m saying?”
“Mm.”
The sound of her wooden sword catching him upside the head was similar to whock. He toppled over sideways with a distressed “Ara?”
“Pay attention!” Jurnia admonished him.
“I was!” Kara yipped. He stared at her with an expression of wounded pride while rubbing a hand against the spot where she’d hit him. In light of her continued glaring he burbled, “It’s as old as the Empire, always repaired, renovated, with a ferry and a well in the walls.”
“The ferry isn’t in the walls,” she protested.
“You know what I meant!” he yelped, preparing to duck in case she decided to clonk him one again.
“Hrmph.” Satisfied she truly had her husband’s attention, Jurnia turned and began striding towards the still-distant town. “Anyway, it’s been proven to be one of the most impregnable fortresses in Zarya. Never once has a force breached its defenses, and—”
“I could probably get in there,” the redheaded swordsman said, voice bland, conversational.
“As I was about to say,” the garnet-haired Herald chimed in, “though assassins have gotten in on occasion, those times have been few and far between.” His words, however, made her think about what he’d said had been his adopted father’s purpose in raising the boy—and she shivered. The thought of a Khuradasu hell-bent on Kaykolom destruction was a sobering thought indeed.
She looked sidelong at Kara, who was brushing bits of grass off his clothes. He definitely didn’t look like a harbinger of doom right now, but a chill ran down her back at the thought of assassins creeping through the halls of the Rookery. Only the thought that her message must have been received and her chieftain alerted to his danger kept her from running frantically down the hillside and across the basin of the lake valley to reach the fortress as quickly as possible.
Yet she still felt the urgency, the sense that time was growing dangerously short. Though she didn’t break into a run, her strides became longer, anxiety flickering in her eyes. It was already afternoon, sliding steadily into evening; it would be dusk before they actually reached the gates of the Rookery itself, winding their way through the farms that formed a patchwork on the rich soil of the large valley.
Amber eyes stayed focused on the Herald’s slender form as Kara hurried to keep up. Something had unsettled her—that much was obvious. Probably the reminder of what had been my intended fate . . . Angry at the Demon’s Claw for being his wife’s likely source of upset, his own expression turned slightly grim as he dropped into that loping, distance-eating stride of his.
It took a few minutes for Jurnia to realize that something had changed in the immediate atmosphere. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kara’s somber expression and the turmoil in his normally bright aura. She started to open her mouth to ask him what was wrong, and hesitated as her mind ran back over their exchange and leapt to the first obvious conclusion.
“I’m not upset at you,” she said quietly, reaching over to take his hand. “I’ve just . . . got a bad feeling, like time is running short. I want to get to the Rookery as quickly as we can.”
He paused mid-stride. “A bad feeling?” he inquired, head tilting slightly to one side in a characteristic gesture of questioning.
Jurnia halted as well, unwilling to let a sudden distance break her grasp on his hand. “I can’t explain it any better than that—”
“No need,” Kara interrupted, his attention focusing for a moment on the distant fortress. “I don’t get the sense of anything lurking about or on the prowl, but we are a good distance away still.”
“Then let’s go,” she encouraged, tugging on his arm.
He nodded and the newlyweds hurried forward, their paces covering ground at a decent clip while they remained hand in hand for a short while. But eventually the need for haste outweighed their desire for continued contact. Though Kara could easily outdistance his wife despite his slightly shorter height, he matched his pace to Jurnia’s. Together they loped down the meadow-covered hillside, the long grass and wildflowers stirring in their wake.
Once they reached cultivated land, Kara slowed a bit to allow the Herald to lead the way. Tended fields were a universal sign that one no longer traveled upon unclaimed, public land but rather upon private property. Here on the ground that supported her home clan, Jurnia held the full authority of her office and her blood ties; it would be far easier for everyone for it to be obvious that the redheaded swordsman was there as Jurnia’s guest.
That the dark-haired woman was blood-kin became equally obvious the longer they traveled. Families working the fields paused in their labor as the couple passed; the peasants’ hair and auras were very similar in hue to that of the woman Kara followed. Greetings and gestures of welcome were given and returned warmly and cheerfully as Jurnia made her way closer to her former home. It seemed as if everyone they encountered knew the Raven Herald on sight.
For the Lopayzom, it was both interesting and depressing. He couldn’t help but wonder if this warmth and sense of belonging had been the lot of the Fox in better times, and some of the sense of loneliness and grief borne so long by his adopted father became clearer. Yet there was also hope. Both he and his father were now married; in time, perhaps, there would be more Lopayzom walking the earth.
They reached the outskirts of the town of
More greetings awaited them—or rather, awaited the slender Herald—as the couple walked along smoothly cobbled streets between neat squares of wood-framed buildings. Here many of the structures were two stories, with shops on the bottom floor and living quarters for the merchants’ families above. A number of public bathhouses were scattered throughout, allowing the frugal businessmen to save on the cost of private ones if they so wished. The somewhat narrow lanes testified to the antiquity of the site, but the town wasn’t claustrophobic by any means. And everywhere they went, people smiled, waved and called out a welcome to their chieftain’s representative. For her part, Jurnia seemed quite alert and happy, returning greetings with easy familiarity. The only people who offered her more formality than adding “Lady” or “Herald” before her name seemed to be merchants and travelers from out of town, recognizing her only by the welcome she was receiving from her kin.
Kara was receiving his share of curious glances, but no one seemed worried or alarmed by his presence at all. Here, at the very heart of Kaykolom home ground, he could finally see exactly how much authority Jurnia commanded; indeed, he could almost feel it like a tangible thing, her hand spread out to protect and legitimize his presence. He might have protected her through all their journeying, but the situation was reversed here. It was not unreasonable to believe that a single word from his companion could exert more power than his sword. Should someone make an attempt to harm Jurnia here, the entire town would defend her without hesitation—from the youngest child who could understand what she was, to the most feeble elder sitting quietly in the sun.
On the way through the market square, Jurnia suddenly let go of Kara’s hand and turned to neatly catch a pair of glossy red apples that had been tossed without warning by a grinning older fellow whose raven-black hair had gone gray at the temples. The fruit seller laughed as Jurnia shot him a mock-chastising look before continuing on her way. She passed one apple over to Kara and bit into the other with a contented sort of look. “He’s been doing that since I was old enough to have decent coordination,” she said cheerfully.
“You’re very well-known here,” Kara remarked inanely.
“Well, this has been my home ever since I was born.”
“Everyone seems to know you, and they all seem very fond of you.”
Jurnia stopped in her tracks and turned a sharp stare on him; her voice was very low, meant only for the two of them. “I know where you’re going with this, Kara. I made my choice, remember? Knowing what I was giving up, I chose you above all else. Don’t trivialize my choice.”
His gaze slid away from hers, a silent acknowledgement of her words. She gave a little nod and continued on up the street, her eyes now fixed on the Rookery, its outlines sharp and clear against the rapidly darkening sky.
She knew her chieftain and his routines. At this moment, he would have finished his last workout of the day and bathed in the company of his men-at-arms, discussing the training session. She didn’t even have to close her eyes to visualize him clearly; his black hair would still be damp, but his springy bangs would already be arching out towards his temples like wings, framing his high, broad forehead and echoing the distinctive, sharp lines of his eyebrows. Dressed in clean, simple clothing, he would be walking from the soldiers’ bathhouse through the training yard, moving through the airy corridors of the fortress towards his private quarters with a preoccupied look in his violet eyes. He always spent some time in his study at nightfall, going over the day’s paperwork, sometimes looking out the large windows to the small, private garden that was enclosed by the layout of the chieftain’s quarters. This was the right time of year for his wife to be away visiting her elderly parents, though Jurnia knew that the woman had been quite ill for some time. If she had indeed gone on her usual visit, she’d probably taken their children with her—all except Iryasitru’s heir, possibly.
Even the guards stay outside the doors of the chieftain’s quarters. Irya likes his privacy. But nobody else will be there, nobody except maybe his heir, and he always follows the same routine every day unless something major happens to disrupt it . . .
Without her conscious volition, Jurnia’s steps had quickened. The sense of urgency pressed on her awareness, every beat of her heart whispering hurry, hurry, hurry. He always followed the same routine, every single day, and simple observation or casual conversation with a servant could reveal that information. He always spent time in his study, behind his closed doors, separated from his guards—
She was almost running now, her breathing coming in quick, short pants. Irya was a creature of habit; she remembered years and years of watching him, following him, curious about this man who she had felt such a strange tie to. When her mother had finally told her the secret, it had seemed like such a simple and obvious answer to the question that had plagued her.
Are you my father?
She had never asked him that question, never revealed that her mother had told her the truth, never called him “Father”. He was always “Iryasitru”, or “Irya”, or “Your Grace”, or a number of far less polite epithets if they were arguing. It was only in the absolute silence and complete privacy of her own mind that he was simply “Father”.
Anything that threatened him, threatened part of her as well, and Jurnia could not tolerate that. He might be arrogant and high-handed and stubborn, but he was her chieftain and her father and she would not, would not, fail him.
“Hurry,” she whispered, and hardly knew that she spoke aloud. Yet beside her, a constant figure in the corner of her eye, the small red-haired swordsman paced her without comment or complaint, matching her speed.
They passed through the massive outer gatehouse with no incident; the almost bored-looking Kaykolom warriors took the hint from the Herald’s hurried stride and let them pass with only cursory nods and bows. Once through the L-shaped courtyard, they crossed the sturdy wooden bridge that linked the island to the mainland. Kara’s amber gaze noted the subtle but telltale signs that confirmed what Jurnia had said about the bridge being constructed so that sections could be deliberately sunk. He knew, as he crossed, exactly which sections would be destroyed and which would remain.
The far side of the bridge lead to yet another gatehouse constructed around an L-shaped, narrow courtyard. More Kaykolom warriors stood easy guard; they too let their chieftain’s top-ranked herald pass with silent bows. Thank the Goddess Heralds are known to be the most loyal of servants, Kara thought, his gaze straying to an appreciative observation of his wife’s backside as she hurried into the outer complex.
Something caught his attention then, and he abruptly stopped. Shifting focus inwardly, he scanned outward for whatever it had been that had sparked in his awareness.
Jurnia took a couple paces more before she realized her redheaded shadow was no longer with her. Coming to an abrupt halt, she whirled, prepared to harangue her husband for dawdling when time was of the essence—then froze the moment she caught sight of him.
Gone was any trace of the silly, clueless wanderer mask he wore in an attempt to convince the world he was harmless. He stood with feet braced slightly apart, his body in a pose of stalking wariness, amber eyes scanning the distance like a predator searching for prey. Had he been an actual fox, she would have sworn he’d be sniffing the wind for a scent.
“What is it?” Jurnia asked, dread filling her.
“The Chieftain’s quarters. Where are they?” The soft voice floated to her on a note of steel.
She flicked her eyes upward, scanning the skyline of the maze of buildings for the tall keep. Sighting it, she pointed in its direction. “Over there, between where we are now and the main keep.”
“Middle complex then,” the Lopayzom murmured. He’d expected as much; most nobles tended to have their private quarters between the outer support staff and the military heart of a citadel.
“What is it?” she repeated, voice rising slightly in worry and insistence.
“There’s an aura too dim out there, like it’s trying to hide. I’m getting the sense of something on the hunt.” Kara fixed his wife with his amber gaze. “Run. Go warn the warriors assigned to safeguard the middle complex that there’s someone lurking about. I’ll track down this aura.” I can move much faster without you.
For once, she didn’t argue or even hesitate to do as she was told—a rather significant indicator of just how much she trusted her husband. She nodded once, caught his travel bag as he tossed it to her, and bolted for an archway. If there was any part of the Rookery that Jurnia didn’t have permanently etched into her mental map, it would have to be a very small part. She’d explored the place so often as a child that she could probably walk from end to end of it in her sleep. Getting from the outer complex to the guard posts of the middle complex wasn’t going to take her very long at all.
Even as he felt her violet aura begin to move away, Kara gathered his spirit energy into a tight focus. His own presence dimmed out to the faintest of flickers as his power was internalized and harnessed. From a standing start, he leapt high into the air; his sandaled feet landed with the faintest of sounds on the tile roof of the two-story building next to him. Another Avatar-empowered jump and he was perched atop the structure. Locking mentally on his prey’s faint aura, he ran like the wind atop the roofs of the clustered dwellings and shops of the outer complex; fluid, superhuman leaps carried him across from structure to structure.
Had any of the Kaykolom glanced up and seen the little figure racing along the skyline of their ancient home, they would have only seen a faint blur of orange hair and green clothing. The same mechanism that focused his power to limits beyond most Avatars also helped increase his stealth as he moved: his aura was contained like an eclipsed sun, showing only the dimmest of coronas; the outlines of his body were blurred and easily missed or ignored as a trick of the light; and his footfalls were as loud as snowfall.
He jumped from rooftop to rooftop, dashing across the porcelain tiles as sure as a mountain goat on a craggy hillside. Sensing his prey’s growing anticipation, Kara prayed he’d arrive in time.
Iryasitru sat comfortably upon his favorite cushion in his study, his lean body clad in the somber, dark clothing he’d favored since Chaiya’s body had been brought home for burial. Always a man of action and few words, he’d become even more of a cipher since then. Many of the Kaykolom saw him as a man in quiet, perpetual mourning.
Eyes so dark they seemed pupil-less scanned over the writing upon the piece of paper he held; in brighter illumination, those same eyes betrayed their true color: a green so dark it appeared black. His still-drying hair hung loose to the middle of his back, the black highlighted in the glow of lightstones with an iridescent red. Already his long bangs were dry, the locks fanned out around his handsome face in a manner reminiscent of outspread wings.
He held both a dark beauty and a charisma that encouraged loyalty and respect. Though many clans now feared the quiet man peacefully reading in his study, those that knew him well—and his very own clan—viewed him in a very favorable light. For nearly three decades he’d guided the Kaykolom ship of state well. The only true blot upon his record was the relentless destruction of the Lopayzom in revenge for his younger sister’s murder.
The Raven Chieftain frowned slightly. Setting the report back down on the low table resting on the mat-covered floor next to where he sat, he picked up another of the day’s correspondences from his kinsmen’s manors. But his eyes remained unfocused even though he unfolded the letter; his attention was caught elsewhere by something sparking Avatar senses.
Something’s not right. Irya’s frown deepened as he cast outward. Something was up in the ancient fortress’s middle complex. He could feel the growing unease and alarm in the somewhat distant auras surrounding him. The opened letter was returned to the low-legged redwood table, unread. Unadorned black silk whispered as the Raven elegantly rose to his feet. Bringing Jurnia’s warnings to mind, he wondered if someone had somehow slipped in past his clan’s defenses and was even now wreaking havoc among his kinsmen. Though such breaches were rare, they did happen.
Worried far more for his clansmen’s safety than his own, Irya walked over to the paper and wood panel covering the large window of the office. Tugging it aside, he stood framed by the opening while scanning outward with all senses.
Nothing moved in the well-kept, peaceful garden there in the center of the chieftain’s complex. High above, the sky was cloudy as twilight deepened; here and there a glimmering star could be seen through the clouds. He sensed nothing near, though he could feel that those entrusted to the protection of the fortress were stirring in alarm; their distant shouts to one another confirmed they were on the hunt.
Never one to stand idly by, Irya was a man who truly led by example whenever possible. Determined to assist his clansmen in hunting down the threat, the dark-haired chieftain was just beginning to shut the window and turn away when a sudden flare of battle-ready spirit energy caught his attention. He instinctively looked toward the source of the sensation. Someone stood braced on the roof of the building opposite where Irya now paused, the dark clothing blending into the late twilight sky. The Raven’s dark green eyes widened in shock as the figure pointed an arm at him, the other hand coming up to grab near the wrist.
Irya knew what was coming. The man was obviously an assassin and equipped with what amounted to a streamlined crossbow. Built into a bracer and powered by a combination of spirit energy and spring-loaded mechanics, the weapon was capable of firing a thick, metal bolt through a wooden plank once it was discharged by pulling back on the heavy bracer. Though the arm-bow was a one-shot only weapon, it was favored by the warriors of the shadows because it was not bulky and it was lightweight.
The bolt was already in flight. Irya could do little more than slide a foot back to widen his stance and brace himself for the hit. Fear flooded through him; few were the times he’d faced a situation so inherently lethal, and fewer still were those moments when he’d been caught so completely off guard. But the panic was almost instantly gone as his warrior’s spirit took over. If he was fated to die in this moment, he would die in a manner befitting a Kaykolom chieftain.
But the hit never came. Just as he sensed the projectile was about to strike, a sudden blur of orange and green dropped seemingly from Heaven itself into the garden outside to intercept the bolt. Irya watched, dark eyes wide in astonishment, as the blur slid back from the force of the hit. Coming to a halt, the sight resolved itself into the image of a short, slender, girlish-looking man with orange hair pulled up in a warrior’s topknot, well-worn clothing in shades of green covering him, and a spreading stain of blood over the little swordsman’s right shoulder where the thick metal bolt was now embedded.
“Get back,” the redheaded stranger ordered, his voice just above a whisper but carrying easily nonetheless. The steely tone easily matched the golden glow in his harsh, narrowed eyes. “Get into the interior and get some of your kin around you. He’s failed now, but if you present another opportunity right away, he may try again.”
Irya shook himself out of his stupor, instinctively stepping away from the window—but doing so in a manner where he could still observe the red-headed newcomer.
The little stranger kept his gaze upward, toward the place from where the assassin had struck. Reaching up with his left hand, he firmly grasped the bolt sticking out of him. With a war cry and a flare of sunlit Avatar energy, the young-looking swordsman yanked the short, stubby arrow out. As the bloodied projectile fell to the ground, the stranger turned and gazed for a moment at Irya.
Those eyes were the most feral the Raven had ever seen, full of lethal
power without being insane with bloodlust—a startling contrast to the youth’s
otherwise soft appearance. Nodding in
approval, the redheaded youth turned his gaze away, staring back up at the
roofline across the garden. “Jurnia will
be happy to see you are still whole and well.
Now retreat to a better-guarded place and await her. I’ll see to keeping the assassin from
escaping the Rookery.” Golden power
flared again—but still under such intense focus that Irya could get no sense of
the young man’s clan—and the Raven watched in some amazement as the short
Avatar raced across the garden. With a
graceful leap, the redhead landed on the tiles of the first story
overhang. Another leap took him to the
top of the two-story structure; he swiftly disappeared in hot pursuit of the
man who’d boldly attempted to kill one of the most powerful chieftains in the
Irya retreated even further, mind still somewhat numb from the close call and the stranger’s appearance. Grabbing up his own sword from where it rested against the wall, he stormed out of his study. For now he would retire to the audience hall in the chieftain’s complex. That the youth mentioned the Kaykolom Chief Herald made Irya certain of one thing: the small, girlish warrior with the fierce eyes had to be the fabled Demon’s Claw; after all, Jurnia had mentioned traveling with Khuradasu for weeks now. He’s certainly not what I expected, even with Jurnia’s descriptions of him.
Arriving in the audience chamber, Irya found it a center of some activity. Already a number of the guards assigned to the middle complex were there; the chamber was the only entrance point for the chieftain’s quarters from the outside for those not determined to break through a window or a wall. Shouts of relief and happy greetings swirled around him as his men could see that their chieftain remained healthy and unharmed. He faintly smiled at them in return as he sat himself down upon the ancient Raven Throne.
At almost the same moment, Jurnia stormed through the door from the outer complex. She was dusty and disheveled, her usual neat braid half-undone, spots of heightened color on her cheeks from her run through the city, issuing orders in her clear voice. The servants and guardsmen who were following in her wake were either nodding in acknowledgement or peeling away from the train to carry out her commands. She glanced toward the throne, and her eyes brightened. She called out even as she spun in mid-stride to approach the dais.
“Irya, you’re all right? He reached you in time?”
“I assume you mean Khuradasu. Yes.” He watched her as she crossed the floor.
Seen in the soft, diffuse glow of the lightstones, Jurnia’s hair seemed very black, showing flashes of its true dark red only when she passed close by a source of light. Her eyes were a deeper, richer green than Chaiya’s had been, and she burned with energy where Chaiya had been serene and reserved, but nevertheless, the resemblance to her mother was strong indeed in Irya’s view. He could see himself in the girl as well—the set of her eyes and the line of her jaw were as familiar as his own reflection, and whenever they’d argued, he had seen that resemblance become even stronger.
Of all his offspring, she was the one of whom he was the most proud. Though her presence at the Rookery was unexpected, it brought him great pleasure seeing her again, especially since not only did she seem healthy and well, she seemed to glow with a happiness not before sensed. All their past conversations about her desire to have none other than the renowned Demon’s Claw came back to him; he knew, in that moment, he would have to let her go. If the young man he’d glimpsed in the garden was truly what she desired, and desired her in return, Irya would have no real choice but to accede; he knew full well that Jurnia could match him for stubbornness. That she would be so happy in her chosen life eased his heart. As her father, he cared very much about her welfare. Since Chaiya’s death, the silent answer to Jurnia’s unspoken eternal question had hovered between them, unanswerable as long as his wife lived. He did not love her as he had loved Chaiya, but he would not publicly dishonor her.
He frowned then, knowing he had to warn Jurnia. “He intercepted the bolt shot at me, then ran off after the assassin, determined to keep the killer from escaping. Hopefully his wound isn’t too serious.”
She froze, one foot on the bottom step of the dais. “The bolt that was shot at you—” The color drained from her face. “He’s hurt? He ran off after an assassin and he’s already been wounded? Did you see how bad it was? Where did he get hit? Which direction did he go?” The questions tumbled over each other as she looked around wildly, as if she planned to dash off in immediate pursuit.
Her impulsiveness reminded Irya much of himself in younger days. “Don’t you trust him, Jurnia?” the Raven mildly asked.
The Kaykolom Herald whirled on the man sitting upon the ancient Raven Throne, her expression one of outrage and indignation. “Of course I do!” she snapped.
That’s my Jurnia. Always quick to defend that in which she believes. Though his smile remained unseen, Irya’s low voice held a faint note of approval and amusement. “Then trust him to know his business. I’m certain he trusts you to stay by me to be sure the assassin doesn’t get another opportunity.”
“But, Irya—” she protested.
“As for your questions,” the dark-haired chieftain quickly added, interrupting, “He was hit in the right shoulder just high enough to miss his lung and low enough to not endanger the major blood vessels below the collarbone. He pulled the bolt out and continued on as if it were nothing. Last I saw, he was leaping over the guest quarters opposite the garden from my study. I can see why the lad’s so legendary. He’s quite impressive to watch.”
Her eyes virtually glowed. “Isn’t he magnificent? He’s even more than all those stories have claimed him to be.” She frowned again. “But I don’t like the thought that he’s chasing some hired killer with an injured shoulder.”
One corner of Irya’s mouth quirked upward in a faint smile. “I would think you were ill if you did like that thought. But again, he’s not some inexperienced boy. I’m certain he’ll not push himself beyond his limits.”
“No, he’s not inexperienced, but he’s so stubborn. He knows how important it is to ensure your safety, and I’m worried he might push himself after all.” She gnawed her lip distractedly. “Maybe I should go after him.”
“How?”
“How? What do you mean, how? By going in the same direction he went.”
Irya looked at her for a moment. “About the only way you’re going to go in exactly the same direction is if you suddenly grew wings and flew.”
She gave him a disgruntled look. “Not the exact same direction, then.”
He smirked back, content to have scored a point. “As I said, last I saw he was heading over the guest wing opposite my study. I assume they were heading toward the outer wall on that side of the complex.”
“I’ll go in that direction and see if I can catch them, then. You stay put.”
He smiled far too sweetly in response. To her trained eye, her giving him orders rubbed him the wrong way. “First Khuradasu, now you. You’d think I wasn’t the chieftain around here.”
His daughter put her hands on her hips, eyeing him for a long moment in a way that he normally recognized as being prelude to an argument. Then she made a beautifully graceful obeisance. “If it please Your Grace to remain here in the safety of your guardsmen’s attendance, it would most greatly put my mind at ease whilst I go in pursuit of the miscreant who has dark designs upon your health, my lord.” Amazingly, she managed to keep from sounding even a little sarcastic.
“Save the fancy speech for the other clans. Fine then, if you’re so determined. Just be careful and don’t get in their way.”
She shot him a bit of a dirty look. “I don’t even get credit for trying to be courteous?”
His smile this time was genuine, a hint at how much he admired the woman she’d become. “Of course.”
“Well, good. Now stay out of harm’s way. If this . . . this animal succeeds in his task, it’ll be disastrous.” She turned and half-ran for the door that Irya had only recently come through.
Blood ran down his skin, mixing with sweat, but he paid little attention to his wound. The pain only sharpened his focus, helped him remain determined to catch the one who would dare strike at an Aizvaryan chieftain. The assassin was fast, but Khuradasu knew he was swifter. From rooftop to rooftop he leapt, his feet running across the ceramic tiles as silently as a mouse. Homed in on the other killer’s aura, the redheaded swordsman worked on intercepting the other’s path. He fully intended to get between the other assassin and the outer wall of the Rookery.
The area immediately interior to the ancient fortress’s wall was a green, open space maintained both as a garden and a break to allow catapult ammunition and the like to sail over the walls and land without damaging the buildings. Reaching the edge of the final rooftop in his series, the Lopayzom dropped to the earth and made his way though the greenery. There he lay in wait, watching for the other manhunter’s arrival.
Soon enough the other man slipped into the night-shrouded clearing. Golden eyes narrowed dangerously, Khuradasu stepped out into the open in silent challenge to the other assassin’s right to pass. The other warrior was a head and a half again as tall as the Lopayzom, slender and clad in tight-fitting black clothes. A large, round, pointed hat obscured his features, as did the black scarf wrapped loosely around his lower face and neck. Deep blue eyes stared back at the little challenger with a gleam of contempt. “You again,” the unknown assassin murmured. “A determined annoyance, aren’t you?”
Khuradasu shifted his stance slightly, readying for a clash. “And a bold annoyance you are, to take a contract on such a one as the Raven.”
“It’s all about the money,” the assassin replied. “And who are you to question my right to my prey?”
The Lopayzom’s right hand drifted close to the hilt of his still-sheathed weapon. “Khuradasu, first-ranked among the shadow warriors of Derkarya.”
The other assassin hesitated. Momentarily startled, he took a shuffling step back before sliding once again into a ready stance. “Modest, aren’t you, claiming first rank in only Derkarya.”
“It is simply the truth.”
“Well then . . . I, Jivalu, third-ranked of Zarya, must insist on passing. I’ve lost the opportunity this night.”
“I can’t allow you to continue to hunt the Raven,” Khuradasu responded. “Nor can I allow someone as bold as you your freedom.” As challenger, he was obligated to strike first; he dashed forward swift as the wind, sword remaining sheathed until the very last moment. Steel glittered in the faint, ambient light as the edgeless weapon slashed the air in a tight arc.
With a clang, Jivalu easily blocked his small opponent’s strike. Almost easily blocked were the following thrusts and slashes, though the taller man found himself becoming hard pressed as Khuradasu continually increased the rhythm of his attack. Steel rang out into the night as the flurry was barely countered; grunting, Jivalu broke the attack and scrambled back for a breather. His little opponent seemed hardly slowed by the wound in his shoulder, and didn’t appear winded in the slightest. Unsmiling, expressionless, Khuradasu watched him with those sharp, alert golden eyes.
The outside attack came as a total surprise to both warriors. There was a flash of steel and the distinctive sound of a meaty impact as a knife embedded itself in Jivalu’s right shoulder. To his credit, the only sound he made was a hiss, issued between his teeth, as the unexpected weapon struck. In almost the same moment, amethyst power flared, released from tight control.
Jurnia walked soundlessly from the shadows, one hand still extended, the
other sleeve pushed back to reveal the knife sheath strapped to her
forearm. Her hair had come entirely
loose from its braid during her run, haloing her face in a cloud of
What few people tended to remember was that Jurnia was temperamental, not stupid in the least, and above all else, she was a Herald. From the cradle, she’d been taught how to observe, to absorb detail and memorize it for later review. She had been traveling with a man whose ability to close his aura down was virtually unsurpassed, and even in her most temperamental moments, Jurnia never, never stopped cataloguing everything around her with all the senses at her command. Despite her anger at the attempt on her chieftain’s—her father’s—life, and the news that her husband had been injured by the same attacker, Jurnia had known that she would get no second chance to level the field. Locating the Lopayzom had been almost frighteningly easy, given how skilled he was at hiding himself; she had an advantage that no one else in the world could have, however, in that she had taken a spark of his essence into herself during their wedding ceremony, and that spark led her unerringly to the wellspring of its golden light. Her effort to mask her approach, combined with the tight attention focus necessitated by the fight between the two warriors, had ensured that Chieftain Nizaisa’s sharp, well-balanced gift would again prove itself useful.
The Zaryan assassin snarled as he whirled in the direction of both the unexpected attack and the new presence. Reaching up, he pulled the dagger out; the Kaykolom maiden had indeed evened the field. Blood began to seep through his clothing in the same area where crimson stained Khuradasu’s green shirt. “You bitch!” Jivalu snarled, grip tightening on his sword as he glared at the young woman.
“Your opponent remains here,” Khuradasu reminded, his voice as cold as the glint in Jurnia’s eyes. Fluidly, effortlessly, the redheaded warrior circled around the taller assassin; he took up a stance between Jivalu and the Raven Herald.
“There’s been interference,” the black-clad manslayer growled.
“You attempted to murder one of the most important men in the
“You were wounded,” she said in an eerily calm tone; as ever, she was completely unafraid of the most terrifying man alive. “Now he’s wounded too. Fair is fair. I’d like the knife back, please. It was a gift from Chieftain Nizaisa.”
Jivalu’s grip shifted slightly on the dagger. For a moment, it looked as if he intended to throw it as she had, with intent to do harm; then he snorted and flipped the weapon toward her in an exaggerated underhand toss, as if she was too far below his notice even to deserve a wounding. Without changing expression, Jurnia simply held out her hand, palm up, making no real effort to intercept the dagger’s arc—but the weapon changed direction in midair like a bird returning to its mistress, dropping gently into her hand. She never took her eyes off the startled-seeming assassin as she knelt to wipe the blood on the grass before returning the knife to its sheath.
It would have taken a whole herd of wild horses to make Jurnia show just how astonished she was. The crooked, knowing grin Nizaisa had worn as she dropped the sheathed knife into the Herald’s lap came back to mind.
If you get a chance, you might find out just how much of an advantage it can be, the young-seeming Snake had said. Jurnia was definitely inclined to believe her.
A catch in his breath and a widening of his eyes were the only betrayal of Khuradasu’s astonishment. “Interesting toy,” he murmured, focus shifting back to the conflict at hand. “Now stay back,” he ordered. Lowering his sword to prepare for a strike, the little redhead dashed toward his opponent.
Jivalu hissed, dodging to the side. He thrust forward, hoping to intercept the other warrior.
Khuradasu halted, then moved just enough to allow the taller assassin’s blade to go whistling past an ear. A few strands of orange hair floated to the ground while Khuradasu ducked under Jivalu’s sideways swing. Flipping his sword so that the pommel pointed to the sky, the Lopayzom jabbed forcefully upwards. The cherrywood-decorated hilt slammed hard into Jivalu’s throat; the black-clad warrior staggered back, choking.
It was enough to make the Zaryan manslayer’s focus waver. Momentarily hunched over and fighting for breath, his red-hued aura became noticeable, the totem within glaring angrily.
Khuradasu hissed. “Zardulom? I refuse to believe Prince Hiranyu has anything to do with this sordid affair!”
The choking subsided and the tall Tiger straightened. “Oh, he’d be angry beyond belief knowing of this. He thinks those of us of the Dark Tiger bloodlines should content ourselves with guard duty and intelligence-gathering.” Jivalu settled into a fighting stance, dark blue eyes glittering but his face remaining pale. “For untold generations, we Dark Tigers have helped our more royal cousins maintain peace and prosperity not only by guarding the strongholds from the shadows but also gathering information on Zarya’s enemies and reaching out beyond Zarya to eliminate threats. Then along comes dear royal cousin Hiranyu who insists we come out of the shadows and confine ourselves with more peaceful pursuits within Zarya’s borders. It’s sickening. He’ll weaken us all.”
The Lopayzom’s eyes narrowed. “His Highness the Tiger strives to make Zarya even more civilized than before. The Empire is at peace; Zarya has long been a part of the Empire. The Tiger is right to ask those of the clan in the shadows to step out into the sunlight.”
“Another idealist, I see,” Jivalu spat, aura all but disappearing again as his focus returned. “Do you honestly think ones such as the Dark Tiger are no longer needed? If so, then you’re a fool despite being a first-rank shadow warrior yourself.” With a flash of steel, the assassin sprang at his smaller opponent.
Jurnia watched, wide-eyed and intent, as the duel picked up speed. The two men circled and closed, backed and turned, in a complex dance that was set to the music of their clashing blades. Khuradasu had a definite advantage in his unbelievable reflexes, even discounting the fact that he was an Avatar fighting one who was not gifted with such abilities. Jivalu was older and had obviously studied a different fighting style; his focus was almost frightening, his whole attention fixed on the other warrior. It was as if he was shutting out everything in the world except for his opponent . . .
Jurnia’s hand strayed toward her sleeve.
Without even seeming to look at her, Khuradasu said, “No.” His voice was no louder than a normal conversational level, and his tone was quite calm and ordinary, but the single word froze her as if he’d shouted it in a rage. She scowled rebelliously, but dropped her hands back to her sides.
It was enough to give the well-trained Tiger an opportunity to strike. Even as the Lopayzom was bringing his blade back up in a defensive stance, the dark-clad assassin darted forward. Blood flecked the ground while Khuradasu gasped in pain; Jivalu’s sword impaled his opponent’s right shoulder, making the wound already there worse.
Khuradasu stumbled back, left hand clutching the injury the moment his shoulder was free of the other man’s blade. Coming to rest in a kneeling position, the orange-maned warrior gritted his teeth and concentrated on ignoring the pain. Jurnia’s anguished, angry cry rang out as she snatched the knife from her sleeve, already knowing that she simply could not move fast enough to effectively counter the Tiger assassin.
With a shout of triumph, Jivalu dashed toward his fallen opponent. Just as he slashed down, Khuradasu’s huddled form suddenly seemed to blur and disappear. “Eh?” the Zardulom gasped, abruptly getting the instinctive sense of danger from above.
“Hammer Strike,” intoned a soft voice, seemingly from the heavens, rife with the sound of doom. The edgeless blade hit Jivalu square on the top of his pointed hat, flattening it before slamming into the Zaryan’s head with a resounding crack. The Tiger crumpled into an unmoving heap on the ground as Khuradasu landed as light as a cat on his feet. The Lopayzom stared down at unconscious assassin for a long moment, eyes glowing golden under his shaggy orange bangs.
Jurnia skidded to a halt beside the small man, her eyes wide and frightened—for him, not of him. She reached toward his shoulder and then stopped, looking down at the man on the ground. “Should I scream for the guards?”
“Go and bring them here. I’ll make sure he stays out of it so that he can face justice,” Khuradasu replied softly. He remained in a state of wariness, glaring down at his unconscious foe, seemingly unaffected by his wounds.
Jurnia nodded, walked over to the gate which led into the courtyard, leaned out, and literally screamed, “Guards!” As unconventional as it was, this was immediately effective; Khuradasu heard the sound of running feet within seconds.
Her actions were certainly not what he’d expected. The Lopayzom blinked a few times, startled, the golden glow in his eyes dimming as he was unceremoniously pulled from his warrior’s focus. Apparently so intent had he been on following the spirit energy trail of his foe and then intercepting him, Kara hadn’t noticed just how narrow the strip of greenery just inside the walls was along this stretch of the fortress’s outer boundary. He stared, confused, at the dark-haired Kaykolom. “But if they were that close, why didn’t they come with the sound of fighting?”
“I told them not to,” she said absently, trotting back over to him and gingerly pulling the slash in his shirt open to get a look at his wound. “They were supposed to wait until I called for them. They’d have only been in danger otherwise, and I didn’t want them in the way.”
He absently nodded, still blinking in that adorably confused way he had at times while Jurnia tugged on his cut and blood-stained clothing. With his focus gone, his shoulder began throbbing with every beat of his heart. “Ara,” he murmured, closing his eyes and pulling away from Jurnia so that he could clamp his left hand against it. He could feel his blood running warm and slightly sticky down his trunk.
“Hold still,” she said brusquely. Drawing the knife again, she cut at his shirt, removing the cloth around the wound even as the guards rushed through the gate, fanning out to form a loose ring around the two of them. Three men descended upon Jivalu with a distinct rattle of chains. Ignoring the activity around them, Jurnia rolled up the fabric, heedless of the blood staining her fingers, and pushed the makeshift pad between his hand and the open gash. “Press down and hold this there.” Without turning her head, she shouted, “Medic!”
Responding in a seemingly automatic fashion to the call, one of the guards broke from the ring and approached, pulling a small sack off his belt and holding it open for Jurnia. It wasn’t unusual for guardsmen to have some rudimentary knowledge of medicine, at least enough to provide first aid to an injured comrade, but the Kaykolom evidently had gone one step further and equipped some of their household soldiers with actual medical supplies. Jurnia wiped her bloody hand on her hip and reached into the bag for what she wanted.
“What should we do with the prisoner, Lady Jurnia?” one of the men asked, Jivalu dangling between him and his partner like a sack of potatoes.
“We’ll take him to Irya first,” she answered distractedly as she pushed Khuradasu’s hand away and laid a thick pad of fresh linen against the wound, starting to wind long strips of bandaging around his shoulder to hold it firmly in place. “I need more light. Someone go tell one of the physicians to meet us. We’ll be in the audience chamber—he’s still in the audience chamber, right?—Good.”
“Jurnia, it’s really—But honest, I—Jurnia!” poor Kara stammered, flustered at the sudden attention his wife was giving his wound. Certainly it hurt and was deep, but he’d sustained similar wounds before on the bloodiest of the Dragonfly Conflict’s battlefields, and he was unused to such fussing. All the times before he’d either been roughly patched up by field medics or was alone, having to withdraw somewhere to rest undisturbed as his Avatar abilities began to knit his body back together.
“Shush,” she told him without taking her eyes off what she was doing.
Sighing in exasperation, his expression took on the look of someone long-suffering as he stood still for his wife. A shame about the shirt. There’s another one too ruined to keep, and I’m beginning to run out of clothes . . .
“We’ll see about getting you a new shirt,” Jurnia said, and for a moment, Kara wondered wildly if she could read his mind now. “This one’s a wreck,” she added, “and some new clothes certainly wouldn’t be too much to ask of the Raven for the service you’ve rendered.”
“I wouldn’t think about imposing upon his generosity . . .”
“Then it’s a good thing that I would, isn’t it? Let’s get inside so I can see what I’m doing.”
“But, Jurnia, I’m already asking enough out of him as it is,” Kara protested even as his wife stepped around behind him and started pushing him forward. Taking the hint, he quickly sheathed his edgeless sword; he managed to do so gracefully despite being shoved forward and coming very close to looking like he was going to get his legs tangled up in the cherrywood scabbard.
“All right, then, we won’t ask him. I’ll just send directly to the tailor and have him make up some new clothes for you.”
“Ara?” He glanced over his shoulder at her; the effort was almost enough to make him lose his balance and trip over his feet. “Won’t he get angry at that, Jurnia?”
“What, the tailor?” she asked, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Of course he won’t. It’s not as if he’s not going to get paid.”
“Not him. Iryasitru,” Kara clarified.
“Why would he get angry?”
“Because I’m a Fox and taking advantage of his generosity?”
“How is it taking advantage of his generosity to buy new clothes from the tailor?” She steered him deftly through the maze of two-story wooden buildings crowded about the middle complex and the chieftain’s apartments in the center. “It’s not as if you’re asking him for the money.”
It had to be something of an entertaining sight for the Kaykolom. After all, everyone knew of their current Chief Herald’s stubbornness, and it wasn’t often someone of her stature could be seen shoving someone else through the ancient fortress’s grounds. That the young man being so bullied was downright good-looking in a cute, endearing sort of way despite his obvious injury made it even more of a spectacle, especially to the tittering Kaykolom women. Given that Jurnia’s demeanor was about half irritation and half solicitous concern, it was all the more amusing.
“No, but I am asking him for you. That’s certainly all I wish.”
“I will arrange for you to get new clothes,” she said in carefully measured tones that hinted she was reaching the end of her patience, which had always been a commodity in short supply for her to begin with. “It’s not Irya’s business what I choose to do with my own money, whether or not he’s amenable to your request.”
“But I don’t deserve you spending your money on me . . .”
The look she turned on him was enough to scorch metal. Leaning quite close to his ear, she hissed, “You’re my husband. What’s mine is yours, and vice versa. Remember?”
Eeee, he mentally yelped. Audibly gulping, he fell silent and just let Jurnia push his slender form forward. Though an inch shorter than her and somewhat girlishly soft in appearance, his body was deceptively heavy—another testament to his hidden strength. Though he was easy to move, considering he was cooperating with her.
“That’s better,” she muttered. The doors of the audience chamber stood open, but not unguarded; the men on either side recognized Jurnia and let them pass unchallenged.
Kara couldn’t resist flashing the stern, grumpy-looking Kaykolom standing watch one of his bright, sunny, clueless grins while Jurnia shoved him towards the audience hall. Underneath the silly act, he was making sure his aura remained under tight control. Now would not be the time to let slip that the man in their midst was one of the two remaining Lopayzom.
Jurnia caught the cheery grin and rolled her eyes heavenward. “That’s not the way to maintain your frightening reputation, Khuradasu,” she muttered.
“Heh.” He glanced over his shoulder, giving his wife the same sunny smile. “So’s pushing me into the hall like an errant child.” She focused that stare on him again, then glanced up toward the dais.
Give her father credit for trying to remain as serious and formal as a clan chieftain was expected to be when greeting a stranger to whom he owed a blood debt. Irya was sitting relaxed on the Raven Throne, leaning forward and resting his chin on a hand. Only the fact that his long fingers covered his mouth and his deep green eyes were sparkling with amusement betrayed his internal laughter at the sight of his daughter marching the orange-haired stranger into the large chamber. “I see you found him with little trouble. What of the assassin?”
“He’ll be along shortly. The guards are bringing him.”
“Even better news.” Irya sat up, suppressing his smile. He’d seen how fierce the little man could be; that he was so docilely allowing Jurnia to manhandle him spoke volumes of the relationship that had developed over the past few weeks between them. The Raven was certain that if Khuradasu didn’t wish to be pushed around, even the headstrong Jurnia would give way to him. Even so, he could sense an accord between them that put his father’s heart at some ease.
Jurnia steered the swordsman to a bench near the dais and leaned pointedly on his good shoulder until he sat down. An older woman carrying a physician’s satchel came briskly through the door, nodded respectfully to her chieftain, then changed course. After one measuring glance, she did not try to take over from Jurnia; she simply began speaking quietly with the young Herald. A few moments later, six guardsmen entered the chamber in two columns, the middle pair lugging the Tiger assassin between them.
Now would probably be a good time to actually act like Khuradasu, Kara thought as he thumped down on the bench. Pushing aside the sunny innocence of the mask of the clueless wanderer, the Lopayzom wrapped his innate prowess and subtle menace around himself like a cloak. The eyes he turned on the Zardulom were cool, harsh—a gaze befitting one who had stalked other humans from the shadows. The other assassin was awake, though groggy, and he made no resistance as the guardsmen dropped him unceremoniously on the floor before the dais.
Ignoring the chained man, the Raven chief looked toward Khuradasu. “I owe you my life,” Iryasitru said formally. “That is a debt which is difficult to repay. If there is anything that you desire that is within my power to give, you need only ask.”
The young man inclined his head. Though he had spend time and effort, put his life on the line, to safeguard the dark-haired man enthroned before him, Kara had done so both for the stability for Zarya and because it meant so much to the slender woman now pressing clean cloth against his wounded shoulder. Still, he had also journeyed to Kaykolvayshti specifically to ask for—now belatedly—permission to marry his Chief Herald; that Irya now presented him with such a perfect opportunity was something Kara could not resist. “Chieftain Iryasitru, of all the wealth and treasure of the Kaykolom, there is but one precious thing which I desire.” He reached up to where the garnet-haired woman was tending his wounded shoulder, laying one hand gently over hers. “I ask that you grant me Jurnia, daughter of Chaiya, to be my wife.”
Iryasitru had seen that coming; he nodded slightly in acknowledgement. A hundred arguments with Jurnia had driven home the point that she would only consent to marry Khuradasu; it was vividly obvious, from the touches and glances passing between the two, that Jurnia had truly won her heart’s desire. The more he saw of the two of them together, the more he realized his unacknowledged daughter’s fondest wish had come true.
“You ask a great boon indeed,” he murmured, “but one perhaps of equal value to the gift you have given me. I believe that ‘Khuradasu’ is but your warrior’s name, earned in the heat of battle. Before I give up my Chief Herald, I would like to know into whose keeping I surrender such a precious thing.”
“Of course, Your Grace. It would be unthinkable to ask you to grant such a request otherwise.” He rose from the bench and gently moved Jurnia’s hands away, obviously intending to make himself known in a dignified manner; the young Raven scowled at him so fiercely that he actually blinked in surprise, and she went right back to cleaning the blood from around his wound. There was a hint of resignation in the amber eyes that met Irya’s dark-green gaze. The Raven Chieftain—having dealt with Jurnia for nearly twenty years himself—returned the younger man’s glance with no small amount of sympathy. Khuradasu drew himself up as best he could with the persistent girl still working on his shoulder, and again inclined his head with noble grace. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, the young redhead proclaimed, “I am Karavasu, son by adoption to Lord Arjunayazu, Chieftain of the Lopayzom.” To further back his claim, he released his mental hold on his spirit energy, allowing its full brightness to shine within Avatar senses, the red fox totem peering outwards calmly but warily.
There was a hiss of indrawn breath, and hands went to swords as the guards began to react to the revelation. They froze into immobility as Jurnia turned nearly a full circle, sweeping a dangerous stare throughout the chamber. Kara remained as still and calm as before; only the slightly brighter gleam of his aura in Avatar senses betrayed his readiness to battle for his life should the Kaykolom decide to no longer honor the permanent truce.
Shock, consternation, disbelief, astonishment—these were all words that described some aspect of the expression that bloomed on Iryasitru’s face. Completely bereft of his usual reserved dignity, stunned into wide-eyed immobility, he gaped stupidly at the redheaded youth. He could not have been any more surprised than if the boy had announced himself to be the Goddess’s own son incarnate on the earth. “Lopayzom!” he choked out.
The guards in the room immediately knew that they had not really seen the Kaykolom Chieftain’s uncharacteristic reaction—if they wanted to go on being able-bodied guardsmen, that was. The Raven was a man who took his pride seriously.
The assassin on the floor started laughing, amusement overwhelming the discomfort of his wounds and binding; this levity did nothing to ease Iryasitru’s mind.
“Isn’t it amazing, Irya?” Jurnia said cheerfully. “Surely it’s a sign from heaven, approving of the peace between Fox and Raven.”
“It’s madness!” The Chieftain erupted out of his seat. “You have always enjoyed baiting me, Jurnia, but this is going to extremes!” It was Chaiya and Samjayna all over again, the Lopayzom snatching from him things dearest to his heart. Yet even now, in the center of his astonished outrage, part of him not only had no desire to rekindle his youthful, vengeful folly, but realized what had developed was somehow fate, an inevitable accounting of past deeds.
The cheer vanished instantly from the Herald’s face. “This isn’t baiting you, Irya,” she said in a chillingly sweet tone. “I’ve told you for years that I would marry no one but Khuradasu. Now, he’s saved your life and he’s asked for a reward that’s well within your power. I want to marry him, and your honor demands that you accede to a reasonable request.”
“Reasonable!” he half-shrieked. “This is a Fox, Jurnia!”
“Lord Arjunayazu’s a Fox too, Irya, and you dealt well enough with him. And he hadn’t even saved your life from an assassin’s bolt. I wasn’t entirely joking about the peace between the two clans—there’s surely no greater way to indicate that the conflict’s over and done with.” She slipped her hand into the youth’s; Kara reinforced their concord by lightly wrapping his right arm around her waist, though he remained on alert. “It all works out. I get what I most want in the world, you can repay some measure of the debt you owe, and there’s no further question that Lopayzom and Kaykolom are no longer enemies.”
“You don’t know what they’ve done!”
“They’ve died, Irya,” she answered flatly, and the Raven chieftain nearly flinched at the ice in her voice. “They’ve all died, except for Arjunayazu and Karavasu. Don’t think for a moment that Chaiya neglected to tell me why, either. I know that your sister’s death triggered the bloodiest internecine war that’s been seen in Aizvarya for centuries. But she’s still dead! Kaykolom warriors slaughtered Lopayzom warriors—and women, and children, and old people, and Samjayna is still dead! Are you proud of that? Are you proud that you ‘honored’ your sister’s memory by sending hundreds of innocent people to the afterlife with her?”
Her words sounded so very much like Chaiya’s that Irya did flinch. Over and over, the gentle black-haired Herald had begged Iryasitru to stop the killing, to let reason rule him instead of emotion—and over and over he had refused to listen, had driven his people to kill and kill until the ground was drenched in Fox blood. He’d been young, proud and arrogant, emerging from a vicious political battle to take rulership of the clan when his beloved younger sister had been murdered. The cost of proving to the Raven, to Zarya and to Aizvarya as a whole that he was strong enough to lead had been high, but none had challenged his power since. Though the Fox had withered, all but extinct, the Kaykolom had prospered in the intervening years. But underneath it all, he somehow knew Samjayna would have been horrified at what had been wrought in her name.
Jurnia’s free hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. “You owe the Lopayzom a great deal for all the sorrow you’ve visited on them, Irya! Giving up one Raven woman to bring more Fox children into the world is the least you can do!”
The assassin was laughing harder now. As a single unit, the two Kaykolom and one Lopayzom rounded on him; green and amber eyes blazed in concert with fierce Avatar power. For some reason, Jivalu seemed to find this even more entertaining.
“Be silent!” Irya snapped at him.
“Oh, I’m ever so sorry to offend Your Grace,” the Tiger wheezed between peals of laughter. “But this is the most wonderful drama I’ve seen in years! All these years after his sister’s death, the great Iryasitru is still blaming the Lopayzom!”
Silence fell, broken only by the assassin’s laughter. The implication of his words had not been lost. The guards around the room seemed to have turned to stone; only four people in the room appeared to be alive rather than statues.
“I blame those who are responsible for her death,” Irya said in a slow, leaden tone.
“But you take out your frustrations on the Fox?” Jivalu laughed even harder.
“Are you saying,” Jurnia asked in a low voice, “that His Grace’s sister was not murdered by the Lopayzom?”
He stopped laughing and looked from face to face, eyebrows rising. “You really didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
A sly grin moved across Jivalu’s mouth. “Oops. My, I’ve said far too much already.”
“You haven’t said nearly enough,” Irya murmured, his deep green gaze burning into the assassin.
“You’ll just hang me, Your Grace. The other party wouldn’t be so merciful if it were discovered that I blurted out a few secrets. Far better that I keep my mouth shut.”
Jurnia stared at him, her mind working very fast. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said with exaggerated casualness. “We could just let you go.” She raised a hand slightly to forestall Irya’s startled response. “Of course, this ‘other party’ might believe that your life was spared because of some important information that you rendered up in exchange for a pardon.”
The Zardulom’s mouth shut with a snap. Dark blue eyes widening, he stared at Jurnia.
“Would that be inconvenient for you?” she inquired solicitously.
“Just hang me,” he muttered.
“If you talk, we’ll give you a quick and clean death. If you don’t, well . . . I couldn’t say what this ‘other party’ might do once we set you free.”
“You are an unbelievable bitch,” he spat.
Kara started forward, but Irya was much closer, and surprisingly fast for a man his age. He was down the dais steps before the Lopayzom even got out of Jurnia’s reach, and the kick he unloaded into the pit of the Tiger assassin’s stomach even made the seemingly frozen guards wince as the man doubled up, making a retching sound.
“You will not speak to my—Herald that way,” he hissed, and anyone who caught that split-second hesitation, as if he’d nearly said something else, would not have commented on it even if they’d been on the rack. Without visible effort, he reached down and dragged the black-clad, chain-bound assassin up to eye level by a double-fisted grip on his shirt. “You will tell me what you know of my sister’s death.”
Wheezing, Jivalu stared back in cold rage.
“He’s clearly afraid of this ‘other party’,” Jurnia said thoughtfully.
“That’s as it may be,” Irya said in icy, measured tones, “but that ‘other party’ isn’t here. I am.”
Jivalu looked into the Raven Chieftain’s eyes. What he saw there made him blanch. Iryasitru had not hesitated to order the destruction of an entire clan in repayment for his sister’s death; that impulsive eruption of fury twenty-four years ago had been the last major outburst of the man’s temper. Jivalu was not looking at the cool, reserved chieftain—he was eye to eye with the Fox’s Bane, and he could see nearly two and a half decades of choked-back rage boiling in the depths of those near-black eyes. Suddenly, the consequences of revealing old secrets seemed like nothing next to the consequences of not speaking.
“We’re straying from the point,” Jurnia murmured sweetly. She raked an icy stare over the man who was dangling like a helpless puppy from her chieftain’s grip. “Whatever that offal has to say, I’m sure he’ll benefit from a bit of time to organize his thoughts. All else aside, the man who just saved your life has told you what you can do to repay the debt you owe him, and you haven’t given your answer.”
Irya wanted very much to throttle the truth from the man, to shake the replies possible out of his would-be murderer. Chaiya’s words came back to haunt him, her belief in her later years that perhaps some third party had been responsible for the brutality visited upon the always sweet and kind Samjayna. The elegant chieftain froze, feeling suddenly cold inside; suddenly torn between a need to know the truth and a desire to flee from what that truth was, he simply let go of the man.
Jivalu fell hard to the mat-covered floor, the chains clanking while he thudded into a dark-clad heap. The wind knocked out of him, the bound Tiger could only wheeze and gasp for breath.
Green eyes almost as black as night focused upon the chieftain’s headstrong daughter. That expression was there in those eyes, the one she recalled whenever he read the crumpled and worn message bearing news of the destruction of the last Lopayzom village. His face was under control, but his eyes were filled with that terrible weight that words could hardly describe. “One who has every right to rejoice upon my death has instead shed his own blood to safeguard it,” Irya began, his voice low, subdued. “What he has asked for is certainly within the bounds of my power and my honor, but could never even begin to repay what he’s done.” He turned his gaze to the orange-haired Fox that had so thoroughly captured Jurnia’s heart. “You are one of rare honor, to come to the defense of one who had ruthlessly hunted your clan. You are a credit to your clan and to your father, His Grace the Fox.