“Yenabe karazu, Zuhalla.” Corvan looks directly at the Khaturian, who still refuses to meet his eyes.
Is it out of deference, or disrespect? I don’t think it’s the latter; the Khaturian’s demeanor is reserved and dignified.
But then he looks over his shoulder and yells something in Khaturian.
“You speak Khaturian?” I whisper, knowing Corvan can hear me perfectly well.
“Passably.” He slips his fingers into mine. “Zuhalla’s called them. They’ll all come out now—the warriors, clerics, shamans, and elders.”
“Why?” I feel like I’ve set foot in another dimension. This can’t be real.
“I’m the Kral. In their culture, I’m revered.”
“What is a Kral, exactly?” I glance up at him.
Behind the dark glasses, he looks a little miffed. “It’s… complicated. As I mentioned, it’s something akin to a god. They call me a son of Hecoa. They believe I’ve been granted this power for a reason, and so they rely on me to uphold peace in these lands. It isn’t blind worship, though. The moment they sense I’ve strayed from the path, they would hunt me down and destroy me at all costs.”
Oh? I stare at the Khaturian called Zuhalla in surprise. He’s as tall as Corvan himself; lithe and rangy and graceful. He certainly looks like he could do some damage with those curved swords of his.
Someone at least, is keeping an eye on the mighty Corvan Duthriss.
But…
“Can they even harm you, Corvan?”
“I’m sure they could. They have more than a few highly talented shamans.”
“Oh.” Through my tinted lenses, I stare in fascination as more Khaturians start to emerge from their dwellings. Some of them are like Zuhalla—attired in white leather and equipped with deadly looking weapons. They must be the warriors. Some of them are women, which surprises me, because in the Rahavan Empire, there’s no way a woman could become a soldier.
More villagers appear; male and female, both old and young, dressed in different styles of clothing; long fur coats, thick black and brown robes decorated with intricately embroidered bright geometric patterns, or sleek white leather armor. Their heads are adorned with warm fur hoods, their necks wrapped with brightly dyed scarves—green, orange, pink, red. Some of the men and women have adorned themselves with necklaces of polished stone beads in dazzling shades of blue.
They all have blue hair, in hues ranging from the palest sky-blue to deep cobalt. Khaturians keep their hair long; either loose, tied up in high tails—a style adopted by the warriors—or braided. Their eyes are striking—black sclera contrasting with lighter colored irises. Some have amber eyes like Zuhalla. Others have irises of pale green, or even white.
Now there are at least a hundred Khaturians standing before us. They look at me, but not directly at Corvan. He looks across the crowd, his expression cold and distant.
I get the sense he’s not entirely happy about this. Right now, he’s so different to the Corvan I’ve come to know. It’s as if he’s putting on an act; tolerating this spectacle for the sake of whatever we’re supposed to do here.
For my sake.
A woman emerges from the crowd and walks toward us. She’s tall and slender, with long, flowing hair the color of cornflowers. Her irises are pure white, and her skin is like polished silver. She wears a long grey dress, fitted around the sleeves and torso, with a flowing skirt that reaches her ankles, revealing boots made of deep green leather.
There are markings on her face—tattoos. Two dark blue stripes across each cheekbone.
I can’t even fathom her age. She looks similar to me in years, but at the same time, she seems much older.
She reaches Corvan and stops. Then she presses her palms together, fingers pointed toward the sky, and bows.
“Yenabe, O’Kral,” she says. Her voice is soft and musical, her tone both reverent and filled with authority.
“Yenabe karazu, Sylhara.” He doesn’t bow; he just stands there, lips curving into a benevolent half-smile.
I shoot him a skeptical look. Since when has Corvan been so adept at playing a god?
The woman called Sylhara rises to her full height.
Then she looks up, directly meeting Corvan’s eyes. Out of all of them, she’s the only one that’s looked him straight in the eye.
“I can see that your power has grown, my Kral.” Effortlessly, she switches to fluent Rahavan. “You no longer need to hide from the light of day.”
Corvan tips his head in acknowledgement, but says nothing. He just keeps that smooth, cryptic expression on his face, as if he’s wearing a mask. Why is he being so stiff and reserved? I don’t sense any hostility from these people at all.
I have no choice but to follow his lead.
“And you’ve brought an honored visitor.” Sylhara’s attention turns toward me. I look into her striking black and white eyes, and for a moment, I feel the force of her presence. She’s standing perfectly still, the wind tugging at her long hair, but it feels like she’s reaching toward me. A gentle pressure feathers the edges of my consciousness. All of a sudden, I feel strange; similar to the way I felt when I tasted Corvan’s blood, when the whispering voices intruded on my mind.
“Sylhara,” Corvan says, his voice ringing with authority. The strange feeling stops immediately. “This is Lady Finley Solisar, of Ruen. She is my Orama.”
A faint murmur ripples through the crowd. I don’t know what an orama is, but I can imagine it has something to do with us being betrothed.
My stomach feels funny. My chest swells with warmth. The way Corvan said it, his voice filled with pride and possessiveness…
That was genuine. It felt natural.
The Khaturian’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Orama,” she exclaims, a look of genuine shock crossing her features. She turns to me and offers me the same deep bow she did with Corvan, her palms pressed together. “It’s an honor, Lady Solisar.”
Sensing the formality of the occasion, I respond with a formal curtsey in the Rahavan fashion. “I’m honored to meet you as well, Sylhara.”
Corvan edges closer to me, placing his hand on the small of my back. It’s an intimate, possessive gesture, and oh-so deliberate.
Sylhara’s eyes widen, but she quickly conceals her surprise. “Allow me to escort you to the Meeting Tent. There will bean offering for you, my Kral.”
“We will gladly accept your offering,” Corvan says. “At the same time, I will speak with the elders and the elite shamans… including yourself, Sylhara Otian.”
Sylhara nods. “It is your will, O’Kral.”
“Lead the way,” he commands, waving his hand imperiously.
I can’t help but stare. He’s acting so different to the Corvan I know—the one that hates formality and titles.
And I’m very aware of the fact that not too long ago, Corvan’s people were slaughtering Sylhara’s people, and vice versa.
It’s chilling and surreal. The Khaturians may appear calm on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent of danger about them; I can’t ignore the fact their warriors carry wicked-looking blades and move with sinister grace; that their pale leathers that would make them all but invisible against the blinding white snow.