The Bridge Beyond Her World (The Boy and the Beast Book 2) (5 page)

[…]A small number of Aeraphim did not turn away from the Makers, but the vast majority of my kind reject the weakness the Makers have made inherent in all things. Dependency, need, submission, obedience. That is why I say: serve me only as long as it benefits you. Obey your master until your eyes see a better path. But let me warn you. Be sure that a new path is worthy. A path that leads to power. If power is not your ultimate goal, then you’ve embraced the Divine Makers’ delight in weakness. With Power, comes control and self-fulfillment. Anything that forces you to reject your desires, this is slavery.

- Raith, to his human disciples, the Shadowmen,
Account of a Beast
, recorded by Augurus

CHAPTER 4

MELUSCIA

Praseme sat alone before a candle, her fingers working a needle through a rabbit skin blanket, her voice occasionally humming an unfamiliar tune. Meluscia reclined against the rock wall in the spies’ passageway, a pillow between her head and the cold stone. Remaining quiet, she listened to Praseme’s melodies. She guessed the blanket was for the baby and perhaps the tune as well.

Hours had passed since she first arrived. Already she’d gone and observed several other servants she’d grown to know over the last year. The night watchman, his wife and their five lively children were together in their cozy room, playing some kind of game with stickmen and dice on an old wool rug. Old Coriama, the gardener woman was asleep in her rocking chair, and next to her was her granddaughter, Tula, who came most evenings to aid her. Tula served with twelve scullery maids performing tasks such as cleaning furniture, washing laundry, and the weekly polishing of the throne room and its gemmed furnishings. It was Old Coriama who was served Meluscia’s portion of food this evening. From the remains on the table, it looked like roasted lamb. Beside it was an apple core, an empty basket that had likely been full of biscuits, an untouched bowl of seared pepper and squash, and a small plate with a sprinkling of brown crumbs where some kind of cake or pastry had once existed.

It gladdened Meluscia slightly, though she would have liked to have seen their faces when the food arrived. Sometimes she would ask Mairena who was going to receive her lunch or dinner, and then come here just before it was served. Those were always warm moments, and often Mairena herself would bring the food and speak the words Meluscia told her, but she would always draw out Meluscia’s name emphatically and then throw in a dash of praise. Meluscia didn’t mind. The joy and appreciation she saw on the servants’ faces was worth it all. She felt their love.

Meluscia had briefly left the spies’ tunnel, retrieved a blanket and pillow from her room, then returned and made a comfortable place to lie beneath the hole that looked into Mica and Praseme’s room.

A burning loneliness ached in her chest. These servants in many ways represented every person living in the Blue Mountain realm. She imagined every tiny knoll village and hamlet that dotted the Hold Kingdom was made of rooms just like these, each warmed by personalities and stories not too different than those found in her secret tunnel.

A cold draft rushed down the shaft of the cavern, and she brought the blanket up around her, wriggling deeper into the large pillow cushioning her back and head.

She needed this moment to breathe, this reminder of her people—who were not just suffering from a food shortage, but from the constant threat of the Nightmares. She shuddered, recalling the monstrous thing that had broken into one of her father's back paddocks, killing the night watchmen and eating two of the royal horses before being brought down by the spear riders. The Nightmares were becoming bolder. And more deadly. There was a family left to grieve tonight…

She could hear the soft whispers of the people around her.
She
could protect them, once and for all, bring the Verdlands and the Hold together. If only someone believed in her.

Once her father died, she would have no family other than Savarah. She thought of her father and the way in which she’d parted from him. She had spurned him on his deathbed, then departed with harsh worlds. It felt cruel now. He was her father, and no matter how betrayed she felt, did she want his last memories of her to be the ones she’d left him with?

She thought of the days ahead. Tomorrow, she would leave for the Verdlands. She would not let Valcere destroy her people without a fight. Savarah’s words came to mind, bringing a little smile to her lips.
Get Valcere’s warmongering ass off the throne and put the rightful heir where she belongs
.

She would do whatever she could to counteract the adversarial approach Valcere would take toward King Feaor. But what would work? Ideas flitted through her mind for a time, then grew tiresome as the hour ebbed, and her thoughts turned to Mica.

The memory of him so close to her. How the touch of his hands, even for so brief a time, had lifted her confidence off of the cold stone floor. She had felt strengthened…but only for a short while.

The night grew colder, and she slipped in and out of sleep. Praseme’s tune, so content, so satisfied with the life she had, seeped into Meluscia’s bones like a dull, throbbing ache. Taunting her. She had sought to sooth herself here, but was instead reminded of what she was losing. Again she thought of the freedom she now had, with the responsibilities of Luminess now officially taken from her. But the thought only made her bitter. She wanted to rule. She wanted to save her people the pain of war she sensed was just around the corner. To lead the people like Luminaries of history. Like Monaiella. She wanted the power to make peace.

And she wanted to be able to come here to this tunnel. To look upon Mica, and simply imagine being with him. To pretend that she was where Praseme was. She was so similar in size to Praseme, how easy it was to place herself down there. Even the slight paunch of her richly-fed stomach mimicked the faint swell of Praseme’s belly. At least for a little while longer.

Stop torturing yourself and make peace.

Meluscia called out in her mind to Jonakin, the imaginary lover she had created so long ago. For him to join her in the bedroom decorating her head. But it felt too unreal. Half-hearted. Her emotions were skewed and disillusioned by the day’s events. She tried to imagine Mica lying with her, instead. He was real. She wanted love that was tangible, to feel his arms embrace her…but Praseme’s glad melodies were a discordant sound reminding her that it was all a game, and that Mica would never be hers to have. It wasn’t long before cynical dreams, dragged her away, easing for the moment her unfulfilled ache.

_____

SAVARAH

Aszelbor’s naked body lay in a mound of ice within the meat room, dry eyes staring straight up at Savarah. She looked down at her one-time ally, the royal undercook—whom she’d poisoned—but her thoughts were focused intensely on the dangerous man beside her, hunched over the human carcass. She knelt beside Osiiun. His nose was by Aszelbor’s large lips. He pushed on the dead man’s chest and inhaled the released air.

“I smelled his breath and checked his body an hour after he died,” said Savarah. “I couldn’t detect anything.”

Osiiun glanced up at the soldier standing beside the meat room door and signaled for privacy. The lower rank soldier nodded and left. Savarah was alone with one of the king’s fiercest riders. And, like her, a secret enemy to the people who trusted them.

His words came quiet but fierce. “Aszelbor’s heart erupts, while simultaneously I receive a message that Orum wants to talk to me? I don’t like coincidences.” His eyes looked deeply into hers. “What would Orum need to tell me that he couldn’t tell you?”

Osiiun’s penetrating eyes unnerved Savarah. She felt a momentary sense of losing control and ran a hand through her hair to disguise her distress. “You have five
Quahi
waiting for you back at Praelothia,” said Savarah. “You are higher ranked than I; you must know something I don’t.”

He looked at her warily. “Where is Orum?”

“I had him hide in the old bear cave at Opal Gorge.”

“You brought him here? To the Mountain!?”

“He requested it.”

Osiiun’s eyes fell to Aszelbor’s bluish face. “I smell something I don’t like. Something tainted.”

“I am wary as well, but,” Savarah paused, as if in thought, “but I am eager for you to meet with Orum and hear out his message. His words might put us at ease.”

“Doubtful,” said Osiiun, and rose to his full height, nearly a head taller than her. His eyelids sloped down at the ends, giving him a contemplative look. Savarah had seen first hand the deadly cunning behind those disarming eyes. They hid his suspicion well. But even so, she thought she detected some small change in the way he looked at her.

“Let us go,” said Osiiun. “If something is rotting, I will root it out.”

CHAPTER 5

SAVARAH

The Opal Gorge was a slanting crack beneath the sheer eastern face of the Hold. It stretched half a day’s ride out toward the large valley that lay between the Hold and the ancient volcanic flow of black rock mountains that was Hearth’s Scat. There were many little villages of the Hold tucked amongst the dark porous rocks that stretched for days in mountainous piles amidst forest and muddy glades.

Savarah’s horse snorted as it neared the old bear cave, as if catching a vile scent. The porous black boulder was barely visible under the crescent sliver of moonlight. Savarah kept both hands on her reins, though she wished she could slip her fingers down to her knife. If it was anyone but Osiiun riding beside her, she could have done so unnoticed.

“Orum!” shouted Savarah. “It’s Osiiun and I.”

A torch in Osiiun’s hand sparked to life. A moment later, the blaze warmed the surrounding rocks with orange light. The cave stood dark and empty. Savarah dismounted, sliding the fawnskin quiver and her bow over one shoulder. Osiiun stayed on his horse. She sensed his suspicions rising higher by the moment.

Where was that damned razor arm? She’d given the creature specific instructions.

“Orum?” she called out again.

As she came to the cave mouth, she noticed the shackles that had held the creature lying broken in the dirt. The blood drained from her face. The stupid creature had found something to saw through the thick chain. A storm of rebukes ran through her mind. She had failed. She should have tried to kill Osiiun before poisoning Aszelbor—should have risked a battle of wits with the shrewd, bloated bastard instead of pitting herself against a brutal giant like Osiiun. There was no going back, Osiiun would know. He would see the tracks on the ground, the chain. She had to strike. Now. While surprise was still a possible ally.

Savarah took in one last calming breath, embracing what had to be done in the instant that followed. Slowly she turned, masking the left hand that deftly slid the bow from her shoulder. Her right flew for an arrow and her bow twanged.

The arrow sunk into the chest of Osiiun’s dark horse. The animal reared and crashed to the dirt. The torch landed on the ground, silhouetting her target. She loosed more arrows as she steadily moved toward Osiiun, firing down upon him from where he lay, one foot lodged under his horse. The big man swung his shielded arm guard, deflecting some of her arrows, each tipped with a different poison. Two out of five shots had gotten through his frenzied defense when a flash of movement caught the corner of her eye—a blur coming from the torch-bathed shadows to the left of the cave.

She reared toward the figure, fitting another arrow to the string. A dull white blade swung down upon her. She released the arrow prematurely, shielded her head with her bow. The blade cracked against the boned tip of her bow, snapping the oiled gizzard string, the force of the blow bringing Savarah to a knee.

The razor arm’s sunken eyes glowed in the firelight, its hot rotten breath washing over her face. It drew back its serrated arm and thrust it forward like a skewer. Savarah glanced aside the bladed arm with her broken bow as her right hand drew her knife, slashing its diamond tipped blade through the creature’s frail belly flesh.

It screamed, entrails pouring to the ground. Savarah finished the creature, driving the knife through its rib cage into its heart. It was an enormous act of mercy, considering it had broken her precious bowstring.

In the sudden silence, she turned to Osiiun. He yanked his foot free of the horse, and raised himself off the ground, sword in hand. She had only her knife and three remaining arrows, but no working bow to shoot them. Osiiun snapped off the shafts of the two she had shot into his shoulders. He stared at her as he did it, his face showing no hint of the pain he must surely have felt.

He stepped toward her, scooping up the dying torch in his free hand. “What turned you from the master?” he asked, his voice low, but unnervingly warm. Unlike her, he had mastered the theater crafts.

She moved back, keeping pace with his footsteps, angling away from the cave to what she recalled to be open space.

“What turned you?” he asked again.

She switched her knife to her left hand, drew out an arrow and flung it at him with practiced accuracy. He blocked with his armguard and the head splintered harmlessly from the shaft. Without a working bow, she didn’t have the speed to slip an arrow past his guard.

“Tell me,” he said. “Have you found a more powerful master? Have you been promised some greater reward?”