Alliance of Serpents (11 page)

The man on the left pulled a small booklet
from behind his belt and began flipping through the pages. "Lurei,
Lurei," he muttered. "Ah, here it is. It says—Well, that's
interesting. Vultrel Lurei is listed in the deceased column."

Vultrel raised an eyebrow. When did the mayor
decide to start screening people before allowing them to enter the
village? "I can understand why you would assume that," he replied,
keeping his voice calm, "but I assure you that I am not."

"In order to be permitted entry this evening,
I'll need you to provide both of your parents' names and your
mother's maiden name," the soldier said through his grizzled black
beard. His stubby fingers looked like small sausages turning the
pages.

"My father's name was Eaisan Lurei, Master of
Blades, Captain of Honor, and my mother's name is Veran Lurei,
maiden name Nienas."

The other soldier, his narrow jaw framed by
an orange beard, eyed him suspiciously as the first searched
through the little book. Finally, after the two conferred briefly,
Vultrel was permitted to pass. "Thank you, Gentlemen," he said with
a polite bow. They eyed him with obvious suspicion, but neither
said a word.

The village was quiet, as was to be expected
at such a late hour. There were no militiamen patrolling the
streets, and the few men he did see were simply commoners out
enjoying the summer evening. Farmer Boyer and Clarissa stood near
one of the gates of their farm. Clarissa was swinging her hands in
a wild attempt to catch a firefly while her father lifted her above
his head. He nodded at Vultrel as he passed, though Clarissa was
too wrapped up in her game to even notice him. Several courts down,
Ben Mantes sat in his favorite rocking chair on the front porch of
his house smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He didn't seem to recognize
Vultrel, though the darkness and Vultrel's face of stone may have
had something to do with it. Vultrel nodded anyway. Ben was a good
man.
A great weapons master, too.

Vultrel's own home was dark; his mother had a
tendency to go to bed early. No doubt the empty house had been hard
on her, especially at night. Hopefully his return would lift her
spirits. It wasn't until he placed his hand on the doorknob that he
heard the soft murmur of voices floating from the rear of the
house. When he followed the dirt path through the short fence of
chicken-wire, he found his mother seated in a wooden rocking chair
his father had built, sipping tea and staring at the stars. Elayna
Sheeth sat across from her, staring blankly into her own tea. They
both wore their silk evening robes and shawls despite the heat.

Elayna shook her head as she spoke. "The
world just seems so . . . empty without them."

"I'm alive, Mother," Vultrel said simply.

Veran's eyes widened as she whipped her head
toward the alley. Elayna looked up as well, and their mouths
dropped in unison. "Vultrel?" his mother asked, softly. "My son, is
it truly you?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but she was
already on her feet, and she threw her arms around him with a wail
that could've been either euphoric happiness or overwhelming
despair. "It is," he told her, his voice just as soft. She cried
uncontrollably on his shoulder, murmured babble about dreaming and
his supposed demise mixing with her sobs. Tears rose in his own
eyes as he listened to her; there were times he thought he'd never
see her again, either. "It's all right, Mother. I'm home."

"We heard so many terrible things," she
sobbed. "We were told that you were killed in Cathymel with your
father! They said Arus killed Eaisan! There were even rumors that
aliens were involved!"

It was the moment he'd been preparing himself
for since making the decision to return home. If he was going to
keep Terranias' society from being corrupted by the knowledge of
what went on amongst the stars, he was going to have to create a
new reality not only for the people of Terranias, but for himself.
He'd rehearsed the story over and over for the better half of the
day. It was now or never. "Father was murdered by Sartan Truce," he
began, trying to beat down the butterflies in his stomach. "I
followed him to Cathymel, and during the battle for Castle Asteria,
Father was killed, and I was captured by the Mages. They tried to
take me back to their underground hideout under the Mayahol, but I
escaped once we reached the Narleahan border. One of the stablemen
there loaned me a horse, and I returned home as fast as I
could."

Veran's sobs intensified as though his story
was her final confirmation that her husband had been killed.
Vultrel hugged her tightly, desperately searching for some words to
encourage her while at the same time forcing down the lump in his
throat. Across from them, Elayna stood in front of her chair, her
face filled with anxious hope. "And my son?" The question came out
as little more than a whisper. "What of Arus?"

Vultrel took a deep breath as he released his
grip on his mother and stepped forward. "I tried my best, but I'm
afraid I failed." The tears were running down his cheeks now, and
there was nothing he could do to stop them. He kneeled before her
and bowed his head. "I failed you, I failed my father, and I failed
my mother, but most of all, I failed Arus. I'm sorry, Mrs. Sheeth.
Your son is dead."

It was hard for Arus to know how long he'd
been sleeping when he awoke. Despite the fact that the Aeden
Alliance measured time in the same way as humans on Terranias
had—Damien said it was the most common speed of planetary movement
across the universe—despite that, without the sun or the moon to
guide him, he felt as lost as a fish in the middle of the forest.
Still, he
felt
rested, so there was little reason to remain
in bed. Besides, he'd planned to spend as much time as he could
spare training his skills, and today was as good a time to start as
any.
The first day of my new life away from Terranias. Can't let
it get me down. I'm going to make the most of whatever
opportunities I'm given.

At least his mother would know he was alive
and well; that had helped him sleep more soundly, though he had
mixed feelings about his promise to one day return home. It wasn't
that he didn't
want
to, but the truth was that he didn't see
any way it would be possible in his current condition. He felt bad
including it in the letter without telling her exactly what Truce
had done to him, but he didn't want his mother to live out the rest
of her life with the despair of having lost both her husband and
her only son. Hope kept people alive, kept them going through even
the roughest times, and he wanted to give his mother the same hope
that he had that one day he'd be able to step foot on the soil of
Terranias again.

With a stretch and a yawn, Arus threw his
legs over the side of the bed and sat up. To his surprise, a stack
of neatly folded clothes sat on a small wooden dresser just beside
the door. He set his feet on the cold floor and went over to
investigate, scratching his head and yawning again. There was a
small hand-written note atop the garments.

Arus,

We had our tailor come up with some clothes
for you to replace your old ones. We tried to match your style and
taste based on what you normally wear, but if these won't do, we'll
be happy to provide you with something else. I'll be in the gym if
you need anything. Kitreena

Arus looked down at his own clothes. He was
long-overdue for a change, having worn the same blue tunic and
brown pants since being captured and taken to the underworld.
Stains of dried-blood surrounded his left shoulder, and various
rips and tears had turned the once comfortable garments into
tattered old rags. The new clothes were indeed similar to what he
was used to, both in size and style, though there were some colors
mixed into the pile that he sooner go naked than wear. There were
plenty of nice sleeveless shirts though, and Arus snatched up a red
one to go with a set of dark brown pants. There were even several
clean sets of smallclothes there for him, though quite different
from the Keroko style. It was understandable, though; there was no
way the tailor could've known what kind of underwear they wore
without asking.

He took the new set of clothes and headed
through the narrow door to the left of his bed where something
called a "washroom" was located. Damien had shown it to him before
he'd gone to bed. It was sort of an all-purpose room for personal
hygiene. Arus had wished he'd known about it sooner, and Damien had
apologized, saying that he'd been so busy with everything that has
been happening that he hadn't had the chance to explain it all. The
lights flipped on when he entered, illuminating the various devices
arrayed inside. There were three main fixtures, the "shower," the
"sink," and the "waste disposal unit," the latter of which he'd
found to be much more useful than the chamber pots back home. It
was the shower that he'd come to use today. A good cleaning was
long overdue.

Thankfully, Doc Nori's assessment of the
implant's resistance to water had been correct, and he made it in
and out of the shower with no complications. After running a brush
through his hair and cleaning his teeth at the sink, he donned the
new clothes and slipped on his trusty brown boots. His sword rested
on the counter across from his bed, and he examined it closely
before latching it to his belt. He'd given the blade a good
cleaning and a fresh polish before going to sleep, and the
razor-sharp steel glistened like new.

The memory of his sword piercing Eaisan's
chest flashed in his mind and boiled his blood. His master had
taught him to fight for truth and honor, virtues that seemed to be
fading from society. Arus had built his whole life around his
dreams of being able to help anyone who needed him. And his
mother—he missed her so—she'd always told him that he could be
every bit of a man his father was and more. But all of that paled
in comparison to one thing.
Vultrel, my best friend and
practically my brother, thinks I'm weak. And it was my weakness, my
bloodthirsty need for revenge that put this cursed implant in my
head. Well, there'll be no more of it. No more!
He would show
Vultrel he was not weak. He would show Eaisan he wasn't weak. He
would show Sartan Truce he was not weak. He would even show this
Kindel Thorus that he was not weak.

By the time he'd reached the gym, he'd gotten
himself so worked up that his fists were clenched and his eye was
thin. Thankfully the halls had been vacant, or someone may have
gotten the wrong idea from his demeanor and tried to detain him.
His only companion for the walk had been the clopping of his boots
across the floor. But that, in itself, had been strange. Why was it
so quiet? Where was everyone?

When the door slid open, his stone gaze and
fierce anger vanished under a wave of shock and amazement. Kitreena
had said she'd be training, but he had no idea her workout regiment
was so vigorous. A dozen pitch-black combat dummies were set up
across the open end of the gym, set in a random formation and each
with a weapon of some kind attached to their wooden hands. They
were separated only by a series of steel gymnast bars elevated
nearly six paces from the floor. The lights were dimmed, and she
was the only other person in the room.

As Arus stepped into the room, Kitreena, in
her snug black pants and sleeveless blue shirt, leapt to the first
bar and grabbed hold with one hand while wielding her whip with the
other. She swung her body forward, using the weapon to snap the
swords from the hands of the first two dummies with one hard snap.
As her body rose, she threw her legs over the next bar and released
her grip on the first. She rotated down beneath it, again using her
whip to lash out against the targeting dummies as she gripped the
bar behind her knees. Even upside-down, the accuracy and intensity
with which she used her whip were incredible. Her body rose again,
and her free hand gripped the next bar as her legs released the
previous. Over and over she went, from bar to bar, hand to knees to
hand again, sending an endless stream of weapons to the floor from
the hands of the training dummies. Her thick hair, tied in a smooth
ponytail, trailed behind her in a whirling streak of black. When
she finally released her grip on the last bar, her body spun
through the air twice before she landed in a squat only a few paces
away.

She didn't move a muscle, but her eyes turned
up toward him. "Oh, it's you," she said. "For a second I thought
I'd missed one. Early riser today?"

Arus struggled to find his voice. "Uh . . .
Yeah," he finally said. "I mean—Wait, what?"

Kitreena grinned as she rose to her feet.
"Still haven't gotten used to the time measurement around here, I
see. It's just past five in the morning. Anyone not on night duty
will probably be sleeping for another two or three hours." She
coiled the whip and hooked it to her belt with a thick leather
snap. "Is everything all right? Do the clothes suit you?"

Even sweating, she's still beautiful. Look
at her eyes, they're just mesmerizing. And her hair, she has such
perfect—! Shut up, idiot, she's waiting for you to answer!
"What? Oh, yes, they're perfect. Thank you very much. I'd like a
chance to thank the tailor, too."

She didn't mention her telepathic abilities,
but her cheeks were bright red. "I'll take you to meet him later,"
she said, wiping beads of perspiration from her forehead. "But
since you're up, would you like to see the simulator?"

He'd heard it mentioned by both Damien and
Kitreena, but he hadn't gotten a chance to ask about it. "What's a
simulator?"

The only response she gave was a stifled
laugh and a motion for him to follow her. Her voice drifted through
his head, however.
He's so cute and innocent, even with that
metal thing in his head. The girls were probably all over him back
on Terranias.
She glanced at him briefly, no doubt wondering if
he'd heard. He hoped his face wasn't as red as hers had been.