Son of Ereubus (7 page)

Jenner cut him off. “My Lord, please, I meant no slight to you. This just seems to make little sense.”

“Truly, it does not make sense for them to send in a seemingly innocent girl, one whom we would have little wish to harm. Do you not see the logic in this?” He pulled the sword from a sheath at his back and held it aloft for the council to see. “This sword was near her when she fell, she could not have come alone. Sending forces to reinforce the borders will not be enough. You know my sentiments on this.” Frustrated, Michael sat down against the large stone that served as the centerpiece of the room. Sighing, he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and stretched out his wings.

“You cannot lose your faith in the divide, my Lord.” Jenner gave Michael a tight-lipped smile, but the attempt at placating him failed.

“This is what the council wishes, for us to sit back and let them destroy all that is left of our world? Or is there another option that you are failing to tell me?”

Jenner frowned at Michael’s tone. “We have many ways of defending ourselves, the least of which is militarily. We will re-read the writings of the ancient ones, as tradition urges us to do in such dark times as these.”

Michael opened his mouth to respond when the heavy door to the sanctum opened and a young servant girl with the robes of a Bedowyn peered in at them.

“The healer wishes to tell you that the girl is in need of rest but will recover. She is awake, if you wish to speak with her.” Michael glanced at Jenner, who nodded and rose to join him.

“We will return and gather again at first light,” Jenner said to the remaining twenty-three elders as he joined Michael, who was already standing in the doorway.

The two men walked briskly through the hallway, neither of them speaking. They descended the stairs and entered the small room where Michael had left the girl. She was sitting up in bed, her face just as pale as before, but her cuts had been tended and she wore clean clothing. The broken-off shaft and arrowhead lay on the table beside her, blood still covering its surface. Michael winced at the sight and felt a twinge of remorse over wounding her, but as his suspicion of her lineage returned, his regret faded.

Jenner approached the girl first. She looked to be not much older than twenty-one, twenty-two at the most. At average height, Jenner was not as tall or overpowering as Michael. He knelt down and rested a hand beside her. “I can see that you are weary,” he said and turned toward the healer. “Have you given her something for the pain?” The old woman nodded. Jenner rose to sit on the edge of the bed. The girl’s eyes were glassy and she was having trouble keeping them open. “Where are you from, child?” he asked.

“Palingard.” Her voice was hoarse and ragged from exhaustion, a sound Michael knew well.

Jenner seemed to believe her despite what the healer had said, but Michael’s gut told him that her appearance in Adoria meant something grave indeed. “Then you are human? What name have you been given?”

“Ariana.”

Michael leaned into the door frame, his chest heavy as he listened to her talk. Suspicion turned to sympathy as she told Jenner about the siege. Her words were formed from a delirium far stronger than what the healer’s tonic would have caused. They were lucky she was making any sense at all, considering how jumbled her phrases were. It concerned him.

Michael lifted the cloak and stood closer to her. He took her chin in his hand and turned her toward him. “You were wearing this,” he said softly. “Where did you get it?”

“Chased me. Into the Nethers.” She furrowed her brow. “I fell. My ankle. He told me to wait until dark.”

Michael glanced wearily at Jenner. The girl wasn’t in her right mind. They would ascertain nothing while she was in this state. “She is tired, Jenner, far too tired to answer anything clearly. I am still concerned, and you know my intentions when we convene with the others on the morrow.”

Jenner nodded, thanking Aulora for her aid with the girl’s health, and started for the door. Michael, who’d stepped in front of him, whispered in an Adorian tongue his wish to know whether she had come alone. “
Ne dost narromai denlot ta allolost
.”

They had almost made it completely through the threshold when she said it.

“
Nigh allolost domay.
” It was barely a whisper and, had they been any farther past the door, it would have been construed as inconsequential mumbling.

“What did you say?” Jenner asked. Michael was too stunned to say anything and could only watch as Jenner sat down once again at her bedside.

“
I said — I entered alone
.”

Jenner smiled. “My wits, child! You are Adorian. I cannot imagine it. How could you have been left behind?”

“We spoke to each other in this … way. I was little. Before he left. No one but us.”

Michael walked around Jenner and took her face into his hands, resting his palms against her cheeks, elated beyond expression that she was not of dark blood. “Tell me. What name was given your father?”

“His name is Gabriel.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

T
HE
C
ITY OF
S
HADOWS

A

s dusk settled across the horizon, the Moriors flew like dark shadows in the air. The Dragees’ heavy frames pounded the earth, kicking up dirt and mire, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Garren was silent for most of the lengthy journey back to Eidolon, stopping as little as possible and speaking only when he was addressed with something that interested him.

Those who survived the siege were imprisoned at the back of the caravan. Held in iron cages, they sat listless, staring beyond their captors. Everything was as it should be, having captured more souls at less cost than many other conquests Garren had led. Yet, he felt ill at ease. He pictured the girl’s face, replayed her words.
Her actions were intrepid, if nothing else.
But what disturbed him more than anything was his own response. The sword had been in his hand, he had been ready to strike as he had been countless times before, yet nothing in that moment or any other could have forced him to wound her. Now, he kept envisioning her alone in the dark woods. The more he considered this, the more heated he became. Anger became fury as he outpaced the rest of his men, leaving his guards struggling to catch up.

Was this pity he was feeling? He might have once felt compassion for one of his own, but never for an Adorian.

It had been called the City of Shadows for centuries, and rightfully so. He couldn’t recall a time when it had not been saturated in darkness even in the full light of day. The woods, as if consciously aware of the ever-growing power of the Laionai, shrank away from the city’s borders. The scent of dampness and choking humidity only intensified as they grew near, the cold rainwater pooling in the barren fields from a lack of warmth to evaporate it.

There were two distinct sections to Eidolon. The outer courts housed the human slaves and the markets. Reminiscent of the poorest living conditions in Middengard, it was not a place where any respectable Ereubinian spent any length of time, aside from the wardens who spent most of their lives among the humans, or vessels, as they were often called.

Beyond the outer courts past the dividing wall was an ornate, richly decorated world full of the finest things any being could be afforded. With the whole of Middengard in service to the elite, no expense was spared in catering to them. There was nothing Garren could not obtain should he want it.

At the very center of Eidolon was the pristine temple of the Goddess Ciara. Built in brilliant, almost luminescent, white stone, it stood out among even the more elaborate structures surrounding it. It represented the Goddess’ righteousness and purity.

Garren handed over his Dragee as soon as he entered the inner courts, ignoring the salutations of those who milled about. Having grown used to their subservience, he felt their outward displays of humility no longer deserved his attention.

As soon as he was in his chambers, he summoned Tadraem. He knew his men were all exhausted, but this needed to be dealt with before their feast on morrow’s eve.

“My liege,” Tadraem gave him a respectful partial bow, smiling as Garren waved his guards from the room.

“You have impressed their eminence with your faith and perseverance,” Garren said stoically. “Assuming your acceptance, you will be granted the honor of becoming the new High Priest.”

Tadraem tilted his head. “I’m more than grateful, but, may I speak candidly with you?”

Tadraem was older than Garren, having taken him as his charge soon after Garren’s father, Seth, died. Though Tadraem rarely mentioned Seth, the two had been close confidants before his death. It seemed fitting, Garren supposed, that Tadraem would have taken the roles as his mentor and guardian after Seth’s death.

“Of course you may,” Garren thought it unusual that Tadraem would behave with such reluctance. He knew better than to ask permission to be forthright with Garren.

“Are you not pleased with your accomplishment? You seem rather … distracted.”

Garren was irritated that it was apparent. “Indifferent, perhaps. Palingard was much stronger when Ruiari was still a stronghold. It would be a stretch to call this anything more than unfinished business.”

Even he wasn’t convinced of his answer. Palingard was the last remaining province of any kingdom in Middengard, and while it held very little for them tangibly speaking, it had been of particular importance to Adoria, therefore it was even more important to Eidolon symbolically.

Tadraem had led the earlier failed siege on Palingard, and it was more than significant that they had now so easily destroyed it, especially considering Michael’s most recent efforts at thwarting their approach. Garren considered this as he revised his statement, realizing that this was a much larger victory to Tadraem than to him.

“You obtained this for Her Holiness years ago. If it were not for your decision to ride on Palingard then, Ruiari and Cornumas would not have let down their defenses. They made the mistake of thinking us ill-prepared instead of knowing the truth of why Palingard was lost to us in the first place.”

Tadraem seemed pleased with this response. “Then I will leave you, if there is nothing further. There is much thanks to be given to the Goddess, and I am certain we all need more rest than we can find before the morrow’s events.”

“Fair night, then. Please tell my ever-vigilant shadows that I’m retiring. I need to tend to this wound and, as usual, I would like to remain undisturbed.”

Tadraem stifled a chuckle as he bowed, then turned and left the room. It was no secret that Garren loathed his guards. Having grown up in near-anonymity, the constant shuffle of armored feet served as an annoyance more than a sense of security.

Garren began to pull at his breastplate. As soon as he was unclothed, he took a wash rag from the basin by his bed and lifted the bloody covering from his wound. Placing the wet rag across the now-open cut, he sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. His back and shoulders felt tight and uncomfortable, his hips and thighs strained from the ride. He removed the rag, took a clean piece of fabric and wrapped it in place. Then, wanting nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes, he washed up and put on his nightclothes.

He lay awake. Having taken the souls of many, Garren’s body still pulsated with the strength it wrought in him. He ran his hands through his hair, then rubbed them over his face. His eyes had returned to their usual shade of brown, lessening the violet color that was incurred by using his power, but his own eyes weren’t what he envisioned.

Her eyes had been unusually blue, nearly unnatural in shade and depth. They were beautiful, and had it been only esthetics, he might have dismissed his response as a result of his recent lack of physical release. But something else had gripped him as soon as his hand had touched her cheek. It seared him, piercing through years of apathy and indifference to everything save furthering Eidolon’s reign. Giving a name to the sensation was as impossible as being in the presence of the Goddess herself. He would find the very edges of it when, just as swiftly as it had seemed tangible, it would dissipate into the inconceivable.

He sat upright, resting his head in his hands. He remained like that much of the night, murmuring prayers to Ciara. He had never faltered like this. Known for his swiftness in slaying the Adorians, his failure began to haunt him. The Adorians had come between Eidolon and all that was rightfully theirs, so justice was dealt out with a righteous hand — his hand.

Garren spent the majority of the morning and some of the afternoon catching up on the less physical responsibilities of being High Lord. By the time evening had come he’d signed more declarations, petitions and judgments than he could count. It left his fingers feeling stiff and cramped. Still, no matter how many redundant papers he read or wrote he couldn’t force the questions about who the Adorian girl was, or how she’d wound up in Palingard, from his head. Nothing he could imagine made any sense.

Garren’s musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Aiden, one of his most reliable men and his friend. Aiden didn’t wait to hear Garren respond before opening the door.

“What are you waiting on? I haven’t eaten in two days!” Aiden said.

Garren laughed. Aiden was as tall as he, but thin as a rail. He could consume food endlessly and never gain an ounce. Garren knew for a fact that he had indeed eaten in the last two days — and not a scarce amount by any means.

“I’m sure you’re famished.” Garren walked past Aiden at the doorway and together they headed toward the main hall. He glanced at his guards, indicating silently that if they valued their lives, they should consider hanging back at least a few feet.

“They are waiting to honor you. Do you feel ill?” Aiden asked.