River’s End ch 41: Until My Dying Breath

This was an awful idea. I have no clue how to care for a baby of my own kind, let alone an alien baby. They keep telling me it needs to eat, and I know that, but don’t Grenswa-nas nurse?

The moment I give up this hostage, they’ll attack me.

Plus, if he eats, he’ll have to poop, and I don’t want to have to deal with that.

He doesn’t move much. His tiny tail curls around my wrist, holding tight as if he fears being dropped. He kicks me every once in a while, particularly when I make a noise. Even through his soft blanket, he siphons my heat. It’s like holding an ice cube. An intricately detailed ice cube that never melts.

I wish I could see him and confirm the tiny features are real. I’ve seen many small things. A berry is little but packs a powerful punch. His fingertips are smaller than a berry, digits like short stems, but he can wrap them around my thumb. His skin is pliant and sticky, dotted with infinitesimal scales.

He coos. He sounds like a giggling flute.

I wish I could have shown him to Rosa like she wanted. But telling her about my sight is like telling her I’m broken. Irreparable. Useless. Maybe my eyes will heal by the time I see her again, and I’ll never have to tell her.

The damp cloth over my eyes is supposed to help, right? It’s itchy. Don’t mess with it. It’s not a prank or a trap. If they didn’t believe in its healing power, they wouldn’t have tied a similar one around the infant’s arm.

Guilt slithers as the memory rises: A screaming woman jumps at me, scratching. The wet, unfamiliar dagger slips, and the tip touches the baby’s shoulder. An unholy wail slashes my eardrums—two high-pitched, clashing tones like a pair of rapiers impaling me from either side.

The prince’s voice rings, choked on pain and terror. It is wrapped in earnestness and authority as he orders all to back away from me. Even the infant quiets.

The dagger is firmly back in my grasp, held higher and further away, ready to slice at anyone who nears again. Someone helps the prince stand, and he gasps as he rises enough to see the baby’s wound.

The reaction is odd, so familiar, yet out of place. For Grenswa-nas, who do not usually breathe through their mouths, it’s not a natural response, instead a learned quirk. It’s a habit, not a reflex.

I feel the fire in his glare even if I cannot see it. His words are sharp enough to fell an ancient tree with one swipe. “Return my child to me.”

I angle the dagger toward him. Its leather handle creaks. I hope it catches the light.

“I need to send a message to Seallaii and Shlykrii. When you set that up, I’ll return him.”

The prince agrees, insisting the baby’s wound be addressed. Of course, I let them. I’m not heartless. I don’t want the child to die.

Yet, I know my disadvantage. I am only one person surrounded by a crowd. This is a prince. Some of his retinue must be trained in combat. While I’m bigger and stronger, they are wily and swift. They’ve already nearly killed me once.

And I can’t see.

My heart races, breaths quick and short. Each movement of the crowd feels like a bug on my skin. They’ll jump me at any moment, crawl over me, pin me to the ground. They rip apart my every thought, attention sundered in a million directions.

I barely hear the prince telling me the transmission will be set up. It will take time.

“Please, don’t hurt the child.”

The fear trembling in his voice makes me want to crumble in on myself. Again, I’ve only proven I am a monster.

Lord Lokma would be ashamed of me.

I’m ashamed of myself. That I’m not eloquent enough to sway the crowd with a word or a smile. That I have to resort to threatening this innocent baby. Who keeps cooing at me.

I tilt my head as if glancing down at him and am rewarded with a squeal. Are all newborn Grenswa-nas this noisy? This responsive?

Regardless, hearing that almost-laughter fills my heart with inexplicable glee. My pacing pauses. My trapped finger wiggles, eliciting another squeal. Warmth glows from within me. It pushes my face into a smile against my will.

A noise. A footstep?

My smile drops. “Who’s here?”

Only the breeze answers, strong with an unfamiliar, bitter scent. It’s the mix of herbs being ground far below this balcony. The prince thought it would be safer for all if I waited here away from the crowd.

It’s not a trap. They won’t risk hurting the prince’s child. Calm down. The prince gave you his word.

Rosa thinks I should trust him.

I step forward, toes curling over the edge. I don’t think there’s a railing. How far up are we? The herb crushers sound distant. A drop that would kill. There should be a railing.

The wind whistles through a lattice to my right. Leaves rattle, smacking wet and heavy. Curtains whip above and on either side of me.

Tap-tap-tap.

I whirl, left ear tilted toward the sound. Another gust. More irritated leaves and dancing cloth. Another series of soft footfalls.

Or do I just imagine it? Paranoid. Crazy.

Now I’m thinking in circles. Sit down and figure out what to say in the transmission.

The floor is hard. What is it? Diamond?

If the Grenswa-nas had a race called Diamond, would their eyes and scales be clear?

Focus, Fredo.

“You don’t kidnap a Sine and get away with it.”

Does that sound like a dramatic enough opening line?

I’d be addressing Shlykrii more than Seallaii. I’d be speaking for Seallaii, and that’s not my place.

What is my place?

A fake mykta.

Something sharp touches my neck. A shadow drapes across my back. It blocks the daylight’s heat.

“You’ll hand that child to me.”

It is a trap after all.

I throw my weight backward as my hand slips behind the assailant’s wrist and pushes it away. My neck stings.

My head grazes his chest as he swivels around me. His shoved arm wheels wide as the other swings close. The air warns me, and I block, wrist striking wrist. He wears a vambrace with cutouts like a cheese grater, and the metal presses into my unprotected flesh.

His feet tap the floor with hardly a sound. He is airborne again, twisting at me like a drill. His blades sing for the wind. A low hum. I scramble back, focus on the sound, and catch his arm. His momentum flows to my feet, guiding them in a circular waltz as I fling him over me.

Tap-tap. He launches off the column behind me, blades leading. I duck, a punch aimed upward when he should be passing overhead.

My fist flies through empty air.

Something strong and slender captures my wrist—a tail—and yanks it behind me. A sharp tip meets my side, threatening to slide beneath my ribs.

The thick fabric of my robe rips against it as I turn, an arm crunching in my grip. He kicks. Again, I take the momentum and add it to my spin as I slam him to the ground. My hand slips past his elbow. His shoulder. Finds his neck.

Fire tears through me, and I’m thrown back. I hit the floor at least a body’s length away and roll, trying not to squish the prince’s baby. The child screams, but I barely hear him. My ears ring.

What was that? Electricity is intrinsic to the Grenswa-na immune system. Can they discharge it in an attack?

I cough, heartbeat irregular and jolting. My tongue is numb. I’m drooling, facedown on the smooth floor, a wailing baby cradled beneath me.

Something deep within tells me to protect him, but it makes little sense. This kid isn’t mine, isn’t my kind. Why should I care? Why do I feel like this world would fall apart if this attacker took him? Hasn’t he come to rescue the child from big, bad me?

My arms shake.

Over my own staggered gulps of air, he chuckles. “It works. You saw it, Master?”

No response. Who is he talking to? Not me, though from the angle of his voice, he looks right at me. He plods closer. I listen for another but hear only the baby’s cries.

“He doesn’t seem the reasonin’ type.” He’s next to my head. Too close.

I roll.

“You see the way he moves? A warrior through and through.”

The dagger sings again and clinks as it strikes the floor. A sliver of warm stone lashes my cheek as I grab at my opponent’s front.

“He’ll follow orders to the end without questionin’ them.”

He slinks aside, but I capture his vest. My fingers weave through the net-like fabric and haul him forward. It tears as he tries to bound away.

“It’s no use tryin’ to convince him of a cause.”

His tail chokes my forearm and forces my fingers to straighten.

A hum to my right. I lean out of the knife’s path. A foot finds my torso, and I curl in, knee blocking a second blow. My flat palm knocks aside a bladed third.

Not wanting to get shocked again, I drop back quickly, but he stays with me. Another leap. A barrage of feet from all directions.

Come on, Fredo, block. Counter.

I hit nothing. I can’t hear him over the baby and my pounding heart. He is everywhere and nowhere. I am clumsy and heavy.

Another knife zings past my ear.

“Enough!” I throw my foot in a sweeping arc.

It connects. There’s a sound like a deflating balloon. A series of thuds as my enemy collides with a lattice. Vines snap. Fabric tears. Several things pound the floor.

All falls still.

Is there another? Why didn’t they double-team me? Did they underestimate me? Is the other scared now? Will he retreat? Or is he more skilled and more cautious?

The title “Master” would denote such.

“He’s right about you?” An older, grainier voice, devoid of all compassion, comes from everywhere.

I whirl and sink into a ready stance, head tilted and ears on full alert. My eardrums are about to burst from the beating wrought by the baby’s cries. I rock him, wishing he’ll be quiet. He only squeals louder.

The omnipresent voice comes again. “You’re a mindless fighter who can only follow the plans others set out?”

“I make my own decisions.”

I chose to hold this baby hostage. No one told me to do that.

Because it was stupid.

A footstep. I spin toward it, but another clunks behind me. Or was that my imagination?

Please be quiet, baby.

I hold him closer and bounce him gently. Slowly, his wails fall into sobbing hiccups.

Doors whoosh open and crash against the walls. Authoritative stomps herald the presence of at least two.

“They’re right,” the one in the lead announces, stopping on her toes just in front of me. Her voice rings like the chime of a bell, delicate yet powerful. I retreat a few paces, left ear pointed toward her. “His color’sn’t definable.”

Hadn’t Rosa wanted to know the baby’s color? What does this woman mean it isn’t definable? Don’t their colors mark their race? What does that signify for one with an indefinable color?

Voice like a knife—small, sharp, and thrusting—the other responds, “Just like that girl to create such an absurd thing. It even has silver hair like its moth—”

A slap ends her rant, echoing into silence. “Watch what you call an absurd thing. He’s my grandson. You’ll afford him the respect that merits, Lady of Onyx, and if you can’t find it within yourself to speak of Princess Niiq with honor, then restrain yourself from mention of her at all.”

“Princess Niiq?” the Lady of Onyx seethes. “Timqé’s disowned and banished, even if you couldn’t find the strength to send him away properly. He’s no longer a prince, no matter how many—”

Another slap. “We’ve lost Hent!” The cry shatters on the name and rains in quiet sobs.

Even quieter, the Lady of Onyx inserts, “You’ren’t the only one feelin’ this way. We lost Joqshon.”

I flinch at the raw pain in her voice. It pours acidic guilt over my head.

“At least you got to hold him and whisper goodbye.” Her words are an ember buried deep in the ashes. Barely detectable, they burn nonetheless. “We can’t even find Hent’s body. My husband’s dead, and Timqé’s all we’ve left.” She draws a deep breath—again something that makes her seem normal when I know she is not. “The terms of his banishment stated that if he fathered an Opal child, he could be restored.”

The Lady of Onyx gestures toward me. “This’sn’t an Opal, no matter how much you wish it so, My Queen.”

“Who’s to say this’sn’t what an Opal infant looks like?” Beads and cloth rustle as the queen steps toward me.

“This’sn’t what Hent looked like.”

“I’ll say this’s what Hent looked like. I’ll testify it until my dying breath.”

“That’d be a lie, My Queen,” yet another female voice announces. It is soft and bright, like a ray at sunrise.

The newcomer strides toward me, and my unease doubles. When did I redraw the prince’s dagger? I point it at her.

She stops a little more than an arm’s length away. I feel her hurt almost like I feel Rosa’s. “You’d deny a mother the right to look upon her own child?”

I lower the weapon. “You’re his mother?”

She slides closer and touches the baby’s face. “My little one, you’ve Timqé’s eyes, his all-devourin’, livin’ blue. And your scales’re amazin’! Seallaii-na, could any gemstone match this brilliance?”

“I...can’t see it.”

“Oh, how rude of me. It’s an iridescent palest of blues, like you can see any color hoverin’ over it dependin’ on the angle.”

I try to hold the image in my mind. If I paint it vividly enough, I can show it to Rosa. Is it like oil floating on water? I can’t come up with a stone like that, but...

“The shells of many aquatic haliotis have a similar sheen. Like abalone. Earth-nas use abalone shells in jewelry.”

“A creature and a jewel,” the princess gushes. “Perfect. Abalone.”

“That’s to be his name, Niiq?” The Lady of Onyx snorts. “You’ll call him after some alien shellfish no one’s ever heard of?”

Niiq’s hair swishes as she shakes her head. “No, Mother. Abalone’s his race.”

“Idiot girl, you can’t just make up a race.”

“Watch me, Mother. Watch us.” No trace of doubt mars the statement. It is both a plea and a warning. Her determination and confidence are so dazzling, I can almost see them. I want to see her succeed. I want to help her.

The second attacker’s taunt echoes, and I scowl. I’m not a mindless warrior, only able to follow.

If the accusation is false, why does it bother me so much?

“Abalone could be better than Opal.” She glides closer, both hands on her child now. I don’t want to interrupt her. I want to hear her explain. “We don’t know anything about Abalone. Endless possibilities hover before him. He doesn’t’ve to fill a mold.”

Lack of expectations, she means. The child won’t know who he’s supposed to be. Like me. I know nothing about my origins, about what I am. It’s terrifying and confusing.

How can I word this so she’ll understand it’s not something she should want for her son? Should he live the lie of being an Opal? Probably not, but at least he would have something to aspire to.

Niiq’s arms slither around the baby, and she starts to pull him away.

My grip tightens. “I’m not stupid. I know I’ll be attacked the moment this child is safe.”

“Timqé gave you his word the transmission’ll happen, didn’t he? Then it’ll happen.” Is she pouting? I can’t tell, but I picture her with Dollii’s no-nonsense face. The one she puts on when Rosa suggests some crazy theory.

“Right, you’d show them my corpse’s slit throat.” I rub a sleeve over the slice on my neck. I don’t know if it’s bleeding or just wet, but I hope they can see it.

“Someone attacked you?”

“He’s still lying over there if you want to have your doctors look at him.” I gesture toward what’s likely a pile of leaves and ripped curtain behind me. “I’d apologize for kicking him so hard, but I don’t feel like it.”

The Lady of Onyx rushes a wide circle around me and drops alongside the mess. As she digs through soft-sounding objects, I angle so she isn’t completely at my back.

She freezes, releasing whatever she holds. “This’s an Iodine.”

That’s an Essentia race, right? The neon purple kind? Purple hair would be hard to miss. He must have been buried pretty well for them not to have noticed as soon as they opened the doors.

“He’s alive?” the queen asks.

Please say yes. I can’t have killed another one. Not when they’ve already lost so many.

The Lady of Onyx doesn’t answer. How hard can it be to tell if someone’s dead?

I step toward her but stop as another stranger approaches.

Really, Fredo, how many people do I know here? This is a whole world of strangers. Find a better way to refer to them.

“Seallaii-na, the transmission’s about to begin. Prince Timqé’s waiting for you to follow me,” Bell-toes announces. It’s a stupid moniker but fitting. He must have tambourines sewn in his pant legs. Just remember not to call him that out loud.

I still don’t know what I’ll say in this transmission. Even if I did know, I might not get to say it. Who are they contacting? The princess will take one look at me and order me killed.

Bugs crawl over my insides, touching things with their tiny pinchers.

Calm down, Fredo. I can do this. I have to. Deep breath.

I straighten my shoulders and nod in Bell-toes’ direction. One step. I’ll have to go around Niiq. Come on, Fredo, do something right for once.

As I pass, I shift the baby into her arms. Her smile is a bonfire. Her unspoken questions pop like embers.

“It’s a show of faith,” I whisper and move on. Don’t make a big deal of it. Don’t attract the attention of the wrong people and make me regret it. Just be happy.

“Thank you, Fredo.”

I stumble. She used my name, not Seallaii-na. Why does that mean so much more than her rote thanks?

With a tiny nod, I hurry through the doors, following Bell-toes. I wish he would walk faster, even run.

Behind me, the baby cries. It’s melodious but sharp. A hook laces through my soul.

The next room isn’t far. It has an odd static cling as if the insects from my stomach have called others to come explore my skin. Every hair stands on end.

“Where’s my son?” The prince’s question is an ax to the air and any shred of calm I have left.

I turn toward him. “With his mother.”

“With Niiq? You made sure it’s Niiq. She’sn’t some random woman who claimed to be his mother?”

I shrug as if I don’t care, but the gesture is a lie. “The queen called her Niiq. So did the Lady of Onyx. They have an odd relationship.”

He relaxes a little, and a small whine escapes. He must have triggered one of his injuries. One I gave him? Or was he already injured in the attack?

“Sorry for snappin’ at you,” Timqé whispers. “You’d believe I actually wished Seallaii-nas’d return?”

Regret and hope weave one blanket and drape over me. It’s not mine, like most of the time I know Rosa’s emotions aren’t mine. They’re not hers either.

It smells, and I wrinkle my nose. “If I believe that, then I also believe your wish came true.”

I listen carefully. Is there any way to block out the blanket? It’s unpleasant.

The prince’s nod sets off a chorus of jingling beads. “Rose claimed she’s a royal Sine and you’re her mykta. This’s true?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve how much influence on Seallaii?”

What should I tell him? Do I admit I’m nobody? Will he cancel the transmission?

If I pretend to be someone I’m not, that will crash down on me. If I claim to have power, this prince will expect me to use it. When I can’t, I’ll have made us both look the fool.

“None,” I answer in the smallest voice. It fits my status. “I’m not even supposed to be here, and if the princess recognizes me, she’ll have me imprisoned or executed.”

“Because you’re a traitor?”

The accusation stings, softened by the confusion that encases it. He’s not judging. He just needs to know.

“Because I’m nobody, and apparently for a nobody, bonding with their Sine is a crime.”

He nods again, swivels toward a console, and leans on it. “You’re expendable. Or worse, they’d prefer it if you died. They expected us to kill you. The message you brought’s false. Seallaii doesn’t care about us or may even’ve helped in this attack. Callin’ them mightn’t be the right thing to do.”

He presses buttons. Don’t you dare cancel this call.

“Rosa is worth a lot to them.” I pour every smidgen of confidence I have into the sentiment. The words grow stronger. “They’d never throw her away, and if nothing else, they’ll hold Shlykrii responsible for taking her.”

Is he looking at me? Stand straight, Fredo.

Beads rattle as Timqé shakes his head. “You believe your princess’ll order you killed if she sees you, but you want to call her anyway?”

“I have to rescue Rosa, and I can’t do that without them.” Be brave. Don’t let him see me shaking.

“What does Grenswa get out of this?”

“We’ll call the Shlykrii-nas out for what they’ve done, and Seallaii can make them—”

The beads sound like rain. “We don’t want anything from Shlykrii except to never see them again. I understand your desire to help your…whatever Rose’s to you, but as for Grenswa, we need to pick up the pieces we’ve remainin’ and rebuild. I’ll call Seallaii. I’ll call Shlykrii. I’ll say what needs to be said while you wait quietly in the background and hope your princess doesn’t notice you. In return, you’ll do something for Grenswa.”

I flinch. “What can I—”

“You’ll be this generation’s Sjaealam and support me as king.”

No, jaw, lock. Don’t drop. “Sjaealam was a Sine. He was River Guardian, and I’m—”

“You’re Seallaii-na. That’s all they’ll see. Please. You’ren’t nobody here.”

I stomped on him. I hurt him. Yet, here he is, asking me to be on his team. Saying I’m important.

My heart pounds. I want to help. Be useful. Be somebody.

I extend a hand in search of his shoulder. I want to feel his pulse, feel that he’s real. “No more sending assassins after me?”

Timqé steps back. “What assassins?”

“The Iodine stealth assassin he defeated.” The queen approaches amid a rustle of fabric and beads. “Understand, Seallaii-na, that unsavory creature of darkness wanted to abduct the child to use him in some maniac’s plot.”

I pivot halfway. “You didn’t send him?”

“You think we want you dead?” Timqé grunts. “How’d that help us?”

I don’t know what I think. I wish someone would tell me who’s on what side. Is there something I can rightfully punch? I really want to punch something.

My fingers curl with restless energy. Can they see them within my big sleeves? Are they even looking?

Never take your sight for granted. Look at everything and appreciate the fact that you can see anything because it’s so annoying when the light shines for everyone but you.

I feel it on my skin—a high contrast, warm like melting butter and cold like winter’s breath. Spotlights. For the transmission.

A bigger fear wallows in my gut.

“You didn’t leave Niiq alone, did you? There was a second assassin.”

Continued in chapter 42: Is This What They Call Bluffing?

Thank you for reading!