Son of Ereubus (10 page)

“They fear me. Perhaps you should give credit where it is due,” Garren said between gnashed teeth. Aiden took a short breath, rubbing his arm where Garren had grabbed him and thrown him to the ground. They had just entered the south hall, behind the sanctuary, when Garren had come at him.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Aiden said. Garren scowled.

“I have never asked that you refer to me as Lord in private, but you are still to know your position. You may very well be my friend, but you haven’t the right to feign authority over any commanding officer, or counsel, or least of all me.” Aiden stood quietly, waiting for Garren to direct the conversation. “Don’t do this, Aiden. Don’t put me in this position. You know what my options are.” Garren knew that Aiden would not need him to finish his sentence. The Moriors dealt swift justice to those who stepped beyond their station. Aiden swallowed hard.

“I understand.” He bowed his head in submission.

“Then we are finished here?”

Aiden nodded, and without another word, left Garren alone in the hall.

Garren retreated to his chambers. He pulled off his boots, taking the dirty rag from where he had tended to his wound earlier and wiped some of the blood from the leather. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head in one hand as he let out a sigh. He felt the length of the day in his muscles and bones. His whole body was tired. If it weren’t for Aiden’s defiance, he might have fallen right to sleep, but his pulse had quickened as if from a nightmare and a raging headache made his eyes feel like they were being pulled from their sockets. He pulled off his shirt and pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

Leaning over the night table, he blew out the flame from the lamp, blanketing the room in darkness. As he slid beneath the cool blankets, his mind raced. What manner of madness were these visions — this behavior? He’d been in the inner sanctum, and still her presence would not leave him. He dared not reveal his concerns, as he didn’t have the luxury of truly trusting another. He knew there were far too many who were more than ready to take his place.

Frustrated, he bolted upright. The air hit his exposed skin and he realized that he had broken into a sweat. It poured down his bare chest and back. He rose and stumbled in the darkness to a vial that sat on the window ledge in the corner, next to a large wardrobe. He pulled the top away and lifted it to his lips, letting the liquid slide down his throat. It felt warm on his tongue. It was not something he used often, but as his power grew, he felt his body lessen in its ability to fall asleep on its own. All the strength in the world, and yet he could not keep his own eyes closed.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

W
HERE IS HE
?

“I

t’s alright. Do you remember where you are?”

Ariana’s side felt stiff, the skin pulled taut. When she shifted positions, a sharp stabbing sensation spread through her back. She glanced around the room, too groggy to comprehend much of anything and confused as to where the question had come from or what had just startled her.

“I’m not so sure that where I am exists,” she murmured.

“What’s the last thing you recall?”

She turned to see the disembodied voice had taken the shape of a winged man seated on the floor beside the bed.

She thought back, working her way forward and found that very little of what she recalled
could
be real, including her current circumstances. After much internal debate, she decided she’d been killed during the siege, maybe even falling to her death in dismount from Shadow, and this was some twisted version of an afterlife. For whatever reason, this struck her as funny.

She lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, and faintly smirked, too tired to put any real effort into it — besides, if this absurdity was to be her eternal fate, what difference would it make?

“I suppose if I were to narrow it down, the last thing I clearly recall was a city — nay a
kingdom
— ” she paused, giggling, “that crumbled into ruins before my eyes. This was of course prior to stumbling into Adoria.”

He rose and sat beside her. He seemed tense, which normally would have concerned her. All things considered, she couldn’t have cared less.

“Ariana, you are not dreaming,” he said softly.

“Oh, I’m certain that I’m not,” she mused.
I don’t have the imagination to conjure swords hidden in the overgrown confines of trees or a well in which you can see mystical images — or men with wings.

He reached down, picking up something from the floor, and rested it in his lap. “
Nigh narro iasc kier sellot tolay
.”
I know this sword cannot be yours.

She shook her head, responding before the tongue he had used dawned on her. “
Tu, ath ortho kulet
…”
No, it was hidden ...

His head tilted sympathetically toward her, “The language you speak is dead to many of our own kind, and yet you speak it not only with fluent elegance, but use it when incapacitated.”

Suddenly feeling both claustrophobic and flustered, she looked around her for anything that might serve as a weapon. Nothing. She found absolutely nothing around her save bottles of various liquids and dried plants hung along the entire length of one wall. She supposed she could try and beat him with some of it, but wasn’t quite sure how that would turn out in the end.

She could tell by his clothes that he was wealthy.
But is it just arrogance or does he hold a title? He had to know Father if he speaks this tongue.

“This is overwhelming for you, I anticipated it would be. But I sense that you’re concerned for your safety, are you not? ”

She sniffed. “I can defend myself, if that’s what you are asking.”

“I noticed.” He grinned, rising from where he had been seated to lean against the wall nearest the hearth, casually tucking the sword behind him. “There are few who could lay claim to pulling a blade on me.”

“In equal number perhaps are the women with whom you’ve had such spectacular precision of aim,” she snipped.

His wide smile lessened to a tight-lipped grimace. “My deepest apologies. I see you do remember some of your journey.”

She felt a pang of remorse at his response — not his words. The distress in his eyes made her regret her terse speech.
So much like Sara.

Slowly, details began to crystallize. She realized that not only was he aware of her father’s language, the one she’d always understood to be of his homeland and shared by only his closest allies, but he’d been addressing her by her given name.

“You said my name.”

He gave her a partial bow. “And I have failed to tell you mine. I can hardly expect you to recall a conversation in which you weren’t really a participant. My name is Michael.”

She held still, waiting on him to finish. “Just Michael? Just plain Michael?”

A trace of amusement returned as a lilt in his voice. “Actually, since you ask, my full name is Michael Loren of Cyphrus, Archorigen of Adoria, begotten of Gabriel Briony of Leiden and Caelyn Edessa of Lipsius.”

He studied her, holding his breath as he awaited her response.

She said nothing at first, staring at him dumbly, even more convinced that she was no longer among the living. “Archorigen?” Not knowing where else to go with his statement and wanting to avoid any more awkward silences, she found whatever word would come to her mouth and spoke it.

He shook his head, catching a deep breath. “Cyphrus is Adoria’s capital, where an Archelder from each of the twenty-four provinces resides. The Archorigen is the elected sovereign.” He moved away from the wall. “Did you hear what else I said?”

“Our parents have strikingly similar names — fascinating,” she remarked dryly. “Let us assume for prosperity’s sake that Adoria exists, that I am not hallucinating your extra appendages. It still means little considering my mother was from the Sutherlands and my father from somewhere in Lycus.”

Michael’s gaze lowered to the floor, his voice somber. “Caelyn … Mother,” he corrected, “miscarried a child about eleven or perhaps twelve years before you were born. A male child.”

The room started to grow smaller, shrinking until Ariana found herself short of air, the heat from the fire intensifying and her chest felt as if it would burst.

Michael continued, “I cannot venture to even imagine why he chose not to tell you your true lineage, or any of us here about your existence. But, Father was vigilant and sage in his discretion. There must have been a purpose.” His brow knitted, and he glanced away from her. “He couldn’t have foreseen his death. I don’t believe it was his intention for you to find out this way.”

She shook her head, still pressed for breath, and struggled to express her thoughts clearly. “My father isn’t dead. I’m sorry, but we speak of two different worlds. I am not, nor have I ever been, a part of this one. I need air.”

“It’s cold outside,” he said gently.

“And stifling in here.” As she turned to slide off of the opposite side of the bed, a biting pain ripped through her lower back and shot up to her shoulder blade. Her eyes squeezed shut, a whimper slipping out.

Michael came over to the bed, touching her arm. “You need rest, maybe this was too soon. I’m — not very good at this sort of thing.”

You imagine lost relatives often?
She mused. “I just need to be outside of this room for a little while,” she rasped. Koen lay asleep in the corner, his legs shaking as he dreamt, no doubt, of some great chase. She spied the cloak laying folded on the chair next to him.

Her head spun as her feet found the floor and her vision momentarily swirled black. He was right, though she wouldn’t dare admit it now.

Holding back a groan, she walked carefully to the chair and had the cloak halfway over her shoulders by the time Michael reached her.

“Here, take mine. That one isn’t suitable for the weather here, not to mention the panic you would cause by walking around in it.” He slid his fur-lined cloak from his back, undoing the ties where his wings divided the leather. “I’m genuinely surprised you found it. Their elite are well trained and difficult to overcome. Palingard must have put up a fight to have killed one of such rank.”

She remained still while he wrapped the cloak around her, angry that he would automatically assume she’d pried it off of some dead, unfortunate Ereubinian. She stepped back, holding out her hand.

“I could care less about the sword, but the dagger I want returned to me.” She paused, and when he made no move to retrieve it, she felt the edge of her restraint crumble. “It has sentimental meaning, and it’s rightfully mine. I think exchanging what is plainly more valuable in return for something that I’ve had for years, a gift mind you, is more than fair — it’s outrageously generous.”

Astounded, he turned and opened the drawer of the night table, pulling out her dagger. She took it as soon as it was offered and started toward the door.

“And just to make certain that you understand, I didn’t find the cloak.”
Duncan would be more than entertained if he were alive to hear this.

She had pried the door partially open when he stopped her.

“Was this given to you?” he asked sharply, motioning toward the cloak.

She contemplated a sarcastic answer, but his expression belied his composure. Sighing, she turned back around to face him. “What else would I have meant?” she huffed. “He followed me into the Netherwoods, I fell, and after — brief conversation ...” her mind wandered for a moment, his words coming back to her.
You are not human.
“He told me to hide until nightfall and shoved the cloak in my hands.”

Michael’s eyes for a split second lit with unbridled anger before returning to meticulously maintained stoicism. “What did he look like?”

Beautiful.
“Dark hair, strangely colored eyes — violet. He had a scar.” She traced her jaw, seeing it in her mind for the first time as she pictured him.

“Garren,” Michael growled. “His motives were not benevolent, I assure you.”

His sudden intensity led her to accept his gesture and she pulled his cloak tighter around her shoulders.

A knock at the door interrupted as she opened her mouth to thank him.

“I thought I heard voices,” a gray-haired Adorian peered in, greeting them with a poignant smile. “Ah, the child is awake.” He said melodiously. “Michael, have you spo…”

“No, I haven’t.” Michael waived Ariana over the threshold, motioning for the other Adorian to follow. “Do you mind escorting Ariana someplace where she could get some fresh air? Something has come up that needs my attention.”

Jenner nodded, placing his arm around her shoulder. “I would be delighted. In fact, I know just the place.” He looked down at her. “Though only if my lady wishes it.”

She nodded, feeling at least somewhat at ease with him. “Please.”

Michael, without another word, breezed past them, making his way up the stairs and around the corner before they’d touched the first step.

“Are you feeling better?”

She smiled. “I suppose.”

“Good, good. I cannot imagine you remember my name. It’s Jenner.”

She nodded, relieved to be free of the cluttered room, its suffocating warmth, and Michael’s chatter.

As they walked, she noted the shades of Jenner’s hair varied from light silver to a sooty black, falling neatly plaited just below his collarbone.

Despite the softness about him, the gentle touch of one arm on her shoulder, she could not mistake the scars that marred his neck and hands.

He laughed, noticing her scrutiny. “He wasn’t always this grave, and I wasn’t always so old. Michael has lost a wife, as well as a mother and father.” He straightened the hood from Michael’s cloak, patting at the fabric once it was in place.

“This life — these sacrifices take a toll on all of us.” He ran his finger across a particularly deep scar on his forearm. “Though bearing in mind those whom we have become united with under such trial makes it bearable, if not pleasurable. Give Michael time. This is not easy for either of you.”