Nobody’s all good; there’s shades of grey in between.
But he’s never betrayed me. He’s treated me more respectfully than anyone I’ve ever known.
And with all the power he has over me, he could have done anything he wanted.
Did I ever have reason not to trust this man?
36
CORVAN
We sit at the head of the room, in chairs made from the bones and tusks of pachydar, the massive white-furred beasts that roam the valleys and tracts between the mountains.
A low table with a lacquered black surface stretches the length of the tent. The elders are seated on the left, on low cushions. The shamans are on the right.
Sylhara sits at the other end, directly opposite us.
After all, she’s the Kiza. The one that speaks to the gods on behalf of the people. Sylhara herself told me that she almost died once. When she was a child, she fell through black ice and into the frozen waters of the Lake Beyond the Peaks.
She says the Goddess of Death spoke to her.
That’s why she’s able to look me in the eyes. According to Khaturian lore, she’s been anointed. The others won’t. They believe I’m directly connected to the underworld, and thus I can’t possibly be treated as a fellow human—to do so would open a connection to Hecoa’s domain, leading them to an early death.
I’m bad luck, apparently.
I glance at Finley. She’s terribly tense. It’s completely understandable.
I’ve placed a huge demand upon her.
I wonder if I could have done things differently; given her more warning, handled matters more sensitively. But I’m not in the habit of beating around the bush, and sometimes these things are best dealt with by confronting them directly.
It’s imperative that I know what she is before my enemies do.
Why her blood does this to me.
“Let’s begin,” I say, raising the silver goblet that’s filled with the blood of a Khaturian. “I thank you for the offering. The essence of life itself.”
Sylhara quietly translates my words. The Khaturians tip their heads in acknowledgment.
I take a sip. The blood is still warm. It tastes pleasant, but not exceptional. Then again, I knew that would be the case.
Nothing can compare to her.
Finley’s eyes flick toward me. Her lips are pressed together in a disapproving line… almost as if she’s annoyed.
Surely not. She can’t be annoyed by this, can she?
I drink again, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Almost imperceptibly, she stiffens.
Are you annoyed that I’m drinking the blood of another, my sweet Finley?
Ordinarily, I would delight in teasing her, but now isn’t the time. If she’s truly feeling possessive of me, then it isn’t an unwelcome development.
I down the entire glass, making the Khaturians wait. Serves them right for putting us through all this fucking custom and ceremony. I play the role of Kral because it’s what’s expected; they need me to be this mythical figure, the one that will protect them from the dangers that lie beyond the mountains.
Out of respect for their traditions, I play the role.
According to their ancient wisdom, a being like me only appears in these lands when the world is facing great upheaval.
It’s how the gods keep the balance in the mortal world, apparently.
I set the cup down on the table. It’s probably for the best that I’ve taken this sustenance. I can’t drink from her now. Not when she’s in this state.
“Finley,” I say softly, leaning in so only she can hear. “Your sweet essence is the most exquisite thing I’ve ever known. By that alone, you own me. But I don’t want you just for your blood. In truth, I never thought that a woman like you could possibly exist. You’re everything I could have hoped for in a partner.”
She lets out a slow, shuddering exhalation. Her sweet fragrance surrounds me. Although her expression remains stony, a faint flush blooms in her cheeks.
I move closer, ignoring the stares of the Khaturians. My speech is low and rapid. They won’t understand me. Sylhara can’t hear me. “And I will have you again. If it were up to me, I’d have you and only you. Every day. Every waking moment. I would drown in your scent and take my fill until I was drunk off of you. That’s how I feel when I’m around you, Finley. That’s why you don’t ever need to fear me, or worry that I’ll abandon you. I will never. And if I drank this blood before me—this inferior offering, which is like a match-flame to your sun—it’s only because I don’t want to put you at a disadvantage right now.”
At last, she turns and looks at me. Her eyes are a rich shade of brown, shot through with flecks of amber and green. “Don’t leave my side,” she whispers, barely moving her lips, for she knows I can hear perfectly well. “And don’t let them beat around the bush. I’m not interested in drawn out ceremonies. Nor do I need to be treated like a delicate flower. Let’s get this over and done with. And if I come out of this as something unfathomable, well, you of all people will know how to handle me, right?”
Ah, there’s the Finley I’ve come to know. She’s breathtakingly fearless.
I look at the Khaturians. “Kohien ammanu.”
Let’s begin.
I switch to Rahavan. Sylhara can translate. “The reason for my visit here is simple. I’ve brought my precious Orama to you in the hope that you will share your vast and ancient knowledge with us. For although she is born of Rahava, her mother hails from over the Sea of Istrivan. From Batava. Although Finley never knew her mother, I’m reliably informed that she is a dryad.”
I wait for Sylhara to translate; for my words to sink in.
A low murmur ripples through the Khaturians. The shamans are all watching Finley with renewed interest.
One of them, a woman with a piercing white gaze and a short bob of pale blue hair, turns to Sylhara.
She speaks. I can understand the gist of it, but I allow Syhlara to translate anyway, for Finley’s benefit.
“Maiian tells me that your words ring true, because they’ve already sensed it—she’s no ordinary mortal. But if she truly is the daughter of a dryad and a human, then at this age, she should be manifesting her powers.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Finley says, loud enough for Sylhara to hear. “Maybe there was one time that I felt a glimmer of something; that I could possibly have magic in me, but it was so fleeting. I’ve never felt anything like that again.”
She turns and gives me a very pointed look.
Sylhara translates. The elders and the shamans nod in understanding, speaking softly amongst themselves in Khaturian.
I command Sylhara’s attention. “Can the learned ones enlighten us as to why this might be the case?”
The one called Maiian speaks. Something about ancient magic and seals.
She walks forward.
“Respectfully, she wishes to examine her,” Sylhara informs me in a cautious tone.
I take Finley’s hand. To my relief, she doesn’t resist. “Are you all right with this?”
“I want to know once and for all. If she knows something we don’t, then let her examine me.”
I watch Maiian like a hawk as she walks toward us. Carefully avoiding my gaze, the shaman presses her palms together and offers me a deep bow.