River’s End ch 35: I Know These Flames

A girl’s voice. Sweet. Panicked. Excited. What’s she saying? Her words sound like bubbles popping through mud.

Gentle hands check my pulse at my neck, then inspect my spine. My shoulders. My hips. I don’t move. The smells of wet metal and fetid soil fill my nose, but I can’t find the strength to turn away from it.

“Carefully now,” a soft voice instructs. Hands push on me. I roll. A slushing sounds as my cheek leaves supple mud. I’m shivering, drenched and not exactly cold, but uncomfortable.

“Seallaii-na,” the gentle voice calls. “Can you hear me, Seallaii-na?”

If he calls me that, he must not be Seallaii-na. Where am—

Grenswa. A battle. Where’s Rosa?

My eyes shoot open, but I see nothing. Right, I’m blind.

I reach toward the voice. Grasp a shoulder. Haul myself to a sitting position. My head spins, breaths rapid and heavy. My gut heaves, and I fall to the side. Spittle drips from my lips. Nothing comes up. My stomach is empty. How long has it been since I last ate?

More hands are on me, rubbing my back. I just breathe. The voices are distant. I want to ask them where Rosa is, but air rushes in and out of my mouth with a hollow sound, no words formed.

I’m her mykta. I shouldn’t need their help to find her. She isn’t dead, or else I would never have reawakened.

She is in my mind, a distant star burning bright.

I stretch toward her. ‘Rosa?’

Fear. Not mine, hers, pools around me. I clench my jaw and try to see beyond it. An image forms. A face. Soft, round. Pale skin freckled beneath the shadow of a beard. Large eyes vertically split, irises the color of molten bronze.

He grins, sharp Shlykrii-na teeth flashing. Conical, fuzzy ears face forward, awaiting an answer.

‘Rosa, look at his ears. That’s a predator’s body language. Back away.’

Another face fades in, incomplete. The previous scene remains visible through gaping holes in her cheeks. The new visage is petite and framed by lavender locks cut beneath her chin like a vedia’s. Her eyes are bluer. Sharper. Colder.

‘So, you are Fredo. She does not need you. She does not want a failed mykta.’

‘Then let her tell me that.’

‘Why should she have anything to do with you?’

‘Because she’s terrified, and she does need me. You don’t even know her. You have no right to choose for her.’

Pain explodes across my cheek like being hit by a snowball coated in ice. I collapse in the mud, shaking, no strength in my arms. She can’t have actually slapped me. She is distant, just as distant as Rosa, but my face throbs. Something warm trickles from my left ear.

Hands are on me again, lifting me, voices everywhere.

“They’re both dead, the Onyx lordlin’ and the commander of the Onyx divisions.”

My heart twists. Beats faster.

“The commander’s crushed by a column.”

My fault.

“The lordlin’ bled out from a deep chest wound.”

Again, my fault.

“Shlykrii-nas,” a rumbling voice spits.

Dare I tell them what happened? That we fought off the Shlykrii-nas? They were retreating, and all three of us would have survived had it not been for Yol. Yol slashed Joqshon.

Because I tried to use Joqshon as a hostage. I held him still and let the assassin stab him.

I knocked over the column that crushed Yol.

I killed them. This isn’t mud and rain drenching me. It’s their blood, condemning me. Can’t the Grenswa-nas see that? How long before they point their weapons at me? They already tried to kill me once just for existing. Now that I’ve killed two of their own?

“We’re goin’ to lift you onto a cot,” the gentle voice tells me. “We’ll get you inside and patched and cleaned up.”

“I’ll walk,” I say. I want to run, but where to?

To Rosa.

Impossible. I can’t run through outer space. Every moment, she slips further away.

Will they take me to her if I ask?

Grenswa-nas have no space-faring vehicles.

I stand. The air is warm, but still I shiver. I pull the ripped toga tighter around myself. The fabric is slick, but it irritates the scratches on my chest.

Where am I supposed to go?

Small, cold hands take mine, and I tilt my head down as if I look at them.

“I’m Pullee.” The young girl’s voice rings sharp and a little raspy. “Rose called you Fredo?”

I nod.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Fredo. Rose’d be very sad otherwise. When the king said she could ask for anything, she asked for you.”

My breath stops, and warmth gathers in my eyes.

I swallow hard. “She does stupid stuff like that.”

“Lead him inside, Pullee,” an adult tells her. “If he falls, call us immediately.”

She tugs on my hand, and I follow, heart hammering. Do I trust them?

No.

Rosa loves Grenswa like some people might say their favorite animal is a scyuen. A scyuen will eat you given the opportunity. They have claws and a mouthful of fangs and venom for a reason.

Grenswa-nas are predators, too.

Pullee hauls on my hand again. As I step, mud squelches between my toes. This is just a little girl. Fragile. They trust me not to hurt her. They don’t view me as an outsider, not right now. They’re glad I’m alive.

Is it because of something Rosa did for them? Why would the king offer her anything? Because she brought a warning message? Did it help at all?

It didn’t help the Onyx lordling. I killed him. River Guardians don’t kill, yet I did. Yol was a monster, but Joqshon? He was terrified. He tried to protect those he loved. What he believed in. Now he will never move again. Those relying on him will have to rely on someone else.

I choke on my own breath.

Rosa. Rosa is counting on me. I have to find her. Rescue her. Bring her home.

‘Rosa?’ I reach for her again, but a wall made of lightning separates us. As I near it, the sting from the vedia’s slap rips anew across my cheek.

I straighten. Am I stronger than her? At the very least, I’m not riddled with holes. ‘Get out of the way.’

‘You are annoying.’

‘Not half annoying as you.’ I shove against the wall. Shocks leap into my skin, but I push harder. The barrier bends, crackling like glass.

Sharpness blooms between my ribs. My heart is gone. An empty void pulses where it should be, and I can’t move.

I fall from the wall and into darkness. Falling. Still falling. Heat tears through my chest.

‘Do you know it is possible to kill a mykta through our bond? I have done it before.’

When? Rosa doesn’t have a vedia or any other mykta.

‘It was a long time ago, and he was young. We both were, but he had decided to betray our neqhol.’

‘And who was that?’ I will my heart to beat. To drum louder than her nonsense. To plug the leak of warm, viscous energy gushing from me. ‘It couldn’t have been Rosa, so how did you survive ending the bond with that other royal?’

She laughs, but no mirth softens its edges. ‘As if you deserve to know the story. I will not share this star, not with you who cannot be trusted.’

Cannot be trusted? That stings more than any slap. More than any scrape or bullet wound.

‘Rosa can trust me. I’d give anything for her.’

‘Then leave. Stop fighting me and seal off the bond yourself.’ Clouds swirl in the darkness, a backdrop for her glowing image. ‘It will kill you, but you will not be a drain on her anymore.’

I gasp, motionless. Again, I am bleeding out.

‘You know a mykta requires a massive amount of energy to maintain, do you not? They siphon energy from their neqhol. They guzzle it like gluttons. It is like breathing for them. Cut off that flow for too long, and they die.’

I’ve heard that mykta draw power from their royals’ belief in them, but I’ve never felt myself steal energy from Rosa. Because our bond isn’t complete yet?

It’s the opposite now. Everything pours out of me and pools in this sea of darkness. Filling it. Overwhelming it. There’s a charge to this ocean, a tingle, like it’s about to explode.

‘Rosa!’ Every smidgen of hope floods my call, every scrap of my belief. In myself. In her. That she will hear me. That she wants me.

I sense her. It’s faint, but it’s my Rosa, like when I know she’s looking at me even when my eyes are closed. She’s scared. Her fear flashes through me and is gone again.

My sea vanishes, and I plummet. Choke.

The vedia’s clouds are on fire, and I know these flames. I know the crumpled ruins they form. My skin burns with the memory, and my eyes widen.

Everything pauses. Suspended. Waiting. Watching.

The vedia exhales. ‘You are not a mykta.’

No, but I can be whatever I believe I must be.

‘The keilan should have been killed.’

What’s a keilan? Rain in Menyazé, like mykta means tempest, vedia means wind, and neqhol means sea. Is that another group? Why are they killed?

I crash, something rigid at my back. I jerk. Gasp. My eyes snap open. Darkness. Darker than darkness. This is annoying. Where am I now?

“Calm,” an old lady says firmly.

I turn toward her cackled voice and try to sit up. “Where—”

Hands push me back, and I slap at them. A thud. Someone falls.

“I said calm, Seallaii-na. We’re only here to help.”

I still and allow them to lower me. Their touch is so tender, not like a predator’s is supposed to be. Their skin is rough. Sticky. Alien. My back presses against moist stone. A floor?

“That’s better. You collapsed, and it took three men to carry you, heavy Seallaii-na.” Is that a chuckle in her tone? Is she teasing me or genuinely annoyed?

“Fredo’d feel better if you called him by his name, Granny,” Pullee suggests. “And it’s better that they carried him in anyway. I think he’d’ve been too tall to fit through the cracks in the dollicia.”

Dollii? My breath hitches. She’s here? She’s hurt?

No, the little girl means the shields Dollii is named after, forged of the strongest metal and stone Grenswa can offer and designed to cover windows and doorways. That makes more sense. If shields covered the entrances to this building, the attacking Shlykrii-nas would have broken them.

I do wish Dollii were here, even if I know it’s impossible. She would have to stow away on a ship. Would she do that for Rosa and I?

If anyone can, it’s Dollii. But she’s not here. I’m alone.

Calm. I have to calm down. Be rational. Logical. Think. What am I supposed to do?

I force my breaths to slow. Deepen. Even out.

Pay attention. What is around me? I can’t see, but what do I feel?

My toga bunches beneath the small of my back, the top half of my body exposed. Scaly fingers rub salve into each of my cuts. It stings. It itches.

Pay attention to something else.

A breeze swirls by my shoulder. The little girl’s labored breaths. Grenswa-nas don’t breathe like that, not unless there’s something wrong.

Obviously, something’s wrong. Their world was attacked. Is that why this girl isn’t breathing right? Is the air in here not good? Or is there something wrong with her?

“You can sit up without punchin’ anyone now?” the granny asks, and I nod.

My arm won’t bend correctly. Gauze wraps it, restricts it, but I manage to sit anyway. Stale air dances with my movement. A warm, wet cloth wipes grime from my back. The aroma of spiced citrus surrounds me.

The rag drops lower, and the fragrance fades, pushed away by the sulfuric stench of death and fire.

Flames. Everywhere. Screams. Crumbling buildings. My tiny hands boiled and blistered.

No, I’m not there. I’m here, grown into a warrior. I can protect myself. Protect others. Think about something else. Anything else.

I exhale slowly.

“What’s that grimace for?” Granny questions. “Your back hurts?”

I shake my head. My shoulders hunch, and I bring my knees up to circle them with my arms. My left leg is also wrapped and won’t bend far enough. I rest my wrists and chin on my right knee.

It all hurts, but not as much as my heart. The physical sting is only because of the soap and salve, and that means the medicine is working, right? Even if it’s painful, the mud has to come off. Wounds must be treated before they become infected. They’re almost done anyway.

“Time for you to skedaddle, Pullee.” Air churns as the granny shoos her away. Sulfur battles citrus. I hold my breath but try not to grimace too much so the elder won’t notice.

“Why?” Pullee pouts. Why do I picture her with Rosa’s face, lower lip twisted out like when someone tells her to do something she doesn’t want to? I’m sure she looks nothing like Rosa.

“For decency’s sake, Pullee. He can’t keep wearin’ a muddy medical gown. For him to put fresh clothes on, he has to take these ones off.”

No one moves. My cheeks burn.

“I kind of want to see how he’s different.” Pullee grabs my hand and holds it up to show Granny. “He’s got scales like us, and so did Rose. I didn’t think Seallaii-nas had those. He looks just like an Amethyst, a really big Amethyst with hair like an Iron’s.”

“The scales are painted.” I yank my hand away. They feel weird, like gunk stuck on me. Rosa painted them. She took my hand and held it in her lap as a tiny brush added layers of shimmering purple to my skin. She swept my rebellious strands of hair away from my ears.

My stomach flutters.

She didn’t think anything special of it. So few people are allowed to touch her, she should think more of it. I’m not supposed to touch her either, yet I do. When it makes her blush or stammer, it means she notices me. It means she thinks of me as something other than a sidekick she dragged out of the dungeons.

I’m a person, a real person with real feelings and the right not to be gawked at by aliens. It’s enough that they cleaned every stitch of my body. They needed to, and I wasn’t conscious for all of it, but my skin remembers their touch.

I sit up straighter. “I can dress myself.”

A rustle sounds as the granny stands. “Understood, Seallaii-na. I’ll be in the hallway if you need assistance.” Soft fabric is set on my lap. She whispers, “I knew the scales’re painted. They don’t match the vibrancy of your eyes.”

My full attention leaps at her. It should look like I’m staring at her. Does it look that way?

“You can see my eyes? Do they look normal?”

“Shouldn’t they?”

My chin drops. How to tell her I’m blind. Saying it will make it more real. Should I even tell them? Lack of sight is a weakness a predator can take advantage of. They’re helping me now, but how long can I trust them?

“That focus,” she says slowly. “You can’t see?”

My eyelids slide closed. Should I confirm it? Can I hide it?

I shake my head.

“You should’ve told us. We can treat it. Come on, Pullee, we’re off to get some herbs.”

Hope swells. My blindness isn’t permanent. I will see again.

Cloth ruffles—a sheet across a doorway, most likely. How convenient it would be to see and confirm that, to glance about the room and know I am the only one in here.

Pullee’s muffled voice echoes in a hallway. “I’ll get to see him when he’s all fancied up then, like the Lady of Amethyst ordered, lookin’ all official like an ambassador of Seallaii?”

Ambassador? I can’t be an Ambassador. Should I protest?

Seallaii can’t know I’m here.

I should at least get dressed. Despite my claim, I’m not sure I can dress myself. The fabric Granny handed me is heavy and soft like velvet. There’s a lot of it, and I have no idea what the outfit is supposed to look like.

I stand, and the toga falls to my feet. At least that part was easy.

As the velvet unfolds, part of it disconnects and drops on the floor. I drape the remainder over my arm, then pick up the fallen piece. My hands trace its seams.

Pants. I step into them and tie the braided belt around my hips. Their light fabric moves easily. It drags the ground behind my heels, loose and long.

I’ll have to make sure I don’t trip.

The velvet is more difficult. A robe? I fling it over my shoulders and locate armholes. One hand slides into a sleeve that isn’t fully connected. The other misses the second cavity, tangled and awkward with a sleeve shoved in my armpit.

I pull back and angle down, getting it right the second time. Why have such long, wide sleeves if they’re open at the shoulder? They stretch all the way to my knuckles. At least they’re a lighter material like the pants. I’ll dunk them in everything. Especially since I can’t see.

With my arms properly in the sleeves, I hope, I smooth the robe. My fingers trace symbols pressed into the material around the neck and along the hems down my front. Flowers? Star bursts?

The robe ends at my knees and is meant to be worn open, I guess. There’s nothing to secure it.

I reach to pull my braid out of the back and find only the shaggy ends of my hair loose at my nape. Right, my braid is gone. Yol sold it. He was going to sell me off in pieces.

My fists clench. I shouldn’t have killed him, but I can’t undo it, and I don’t want to. I’m glad he’s dead.

That’s a horrible way to feel. I’ll be judged for it. If I don’t tell the Grenswa-nas I killed him, will they find out? Are there cameras? Did anyone else see? If they ask me about it, should I lie?

Lies only make things worse. They confuse and convolute. There’s already enough about my life I don’t understand.

You are not a mykta.

I know that, but I don’t know what I am.

The keilan should have been killed.

I’m panting. Can’t breathe. My left hand clutches the robe above my racing heart.

Pounding. That’s all I hear. I need to sit. Is there even a chair? Should I call the granny back? How? Do I just say I need her help?

Stop panicking. I need to think. Stay calm. Focus.

I sink to the floor, legs curled beneath me, palms on stone tiles. Their vibrations confirm what my ears take in. Footsteps. Voices. I’ll know if anyone tries to enter this room.

I need to go after Rosa, rescue her, but I can’t do that without a ship. Grenswa can’t give me a ship.

I can’t ask Seallaii for one.

The keilan should have been killed.

That explains a lot, actually. Even if I don’t know what a keilan is.

Continued in chapter 36: I Surrender

Thank you for reading!