It wasn’t unlike Hadwin to put up a fight, but Elespeth hadn’t expected him to put up a fight now, when he couldn’t even damn well fight! That said, he didn’t intend to make this easy for her, and while she could have dragged him back into the sanctuary had she seen fit, she feared injuring him further with the use of such force. “Why do you have to choose now of all times to be stubborn?!” The former knight growled at his struggle and resistance. “It is bad enough I have a husband who is willing to put his own life in jeopardy to grant favours for people who never once asked for them; can’t you at least have a little respect for self-preservation?”
This was not a battle that she was going to win--at least, not one that she would win without causing unintentional damage. Hadwin wasn’t moving, unless it was toward the palace, and not the sanctuary. “You can barely walk, you idiot; you’re not there yet. Just how far did you think you were going to get? And where will it get you to be too weak to fight off Rowen if she finds you as you stumble over your liquid limbs, all the way to the palace?” Of course, she had known Hadwin long enough to realize that there were no words that would convince him when he’d already made up his mind. Even Teselin, at this point, likely couldn’t sway his opinion. This presented only two options: continue to put up with his struggling, which would likely only result in further injury, or give in to his wishes, and help him proceed more safely than he would going alone.
“Why do you choose to be such a huge pain in the ass at the worst of times?” Elespeth hissed a sigh and ran a hand through the front of her hair, which had fallen loose of her braid. It was difficult, getting used to it long when she’d had it short for almost a year. “Fine; we’ll go find out what you want to know. But we will be staying out of trouble, got it? I’m not sure I could take on your sister as a wolf. At the first sign of danger, best I can do is incapacitate her, and we hightail it out of here. Understood?”
With Hadwin’s agreement, the former knight helped straighten his posture, and called back toward the open door of the sanctuary, where Teselin had run to see what was going on. “Teselin--tell Alster I’ll be back. We’re going to find out what’s going on; I’ll fill you in when we return.”
It was a slow trek from the Garden all the way back to the palace, where citizens seemed particularly confused, and some startled by the recent news. Fortunately, they had someone addressing their concerns--or, at least, trying. “Haraldur! Vega!” Elespeth called over the crowd. She caught Haraldur’s attention, and the Forbanne commander stepped to the side, leaving his wife momentarily to placate the distressed Galeynians while he addressed the two of them. “Do you know what is going on? Did Locque really turn her back on Nia and Rowen?” As it turned out, he didn’t have much more information than either of them did. But it didn’t take knowing the details to know how Rowen would react to what was very clearly a rejection.
Out of the corner of her eye, the former knight spotted another familiar face. Bronwyn pushed past a handful of people to be within speaking range of Elespeth and Hadwin. It was good to see that she was safe… for now. “Bronwyn… what do you think Rowen is going to do? Your brother here is panicked, along with the rest of the population. Did you hear what Locque said? Is there a chance that this is all just smoke and mirrors, and she has no intention to let Rowen go at all?” Bronwyn didn’t seem to think so; and perhaps Hadwin’s reaction hadn’t been exaggerated.
“If this is as bad as it looks… then this entire kingdom needs to be on their guard. You and Hadwin in particular, but also anyone at the Night Garden who had dealings with your sister while she was ‘healing’... Who was the Gardener who was tending to her?”
As it turned out, that very Gardener was approached by her superiors not long after the announcement was made, and visibly rushed out of the Night Garden with little explanation. “There is more security within the palace; stay there, for now, until this situation gets sorted out. It is safer for you to be here than in the Night Garden.”
“Safer? I’ve worked with Rowen; even if she is upset over this occurrence, she would have no reason to come after me. She is troubled, but not irrational.” Breane had argued, but the decision had been made; and evidently, Senyiah had sanctioned it.
“The trouble is, we don’t know what has happened, or what she will do. This is only temporary--and we haven’t been particularly busy in the Garden, lately. You won’t be missing out on anything.” The senior Gardener smiled, although there was worry in his eyes. “Just stay here long enough for us to get a better feel for how to proceed. I’m sure it won’t be long, and you’ll have the Dawn Guard and the Forbanne soldiers to protect you. It is more than Senyiah and the Night Garden can offer, should you get hurt.”
“But nobody dies in the Night Garden…! Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to stay there, if you are worried for my life? Here, I can die, and there is nothing the Garden will be able to do about it!”
The other Gardener shook his head. At this point, he seemed to be getting impatient with her arguments. “Please trust in our judgment. Rest assured, Senyiah will send for you again when we are sure it is safe.”
And that was where he left her: inside the open gates of the palace, which was surrounded by guards who had overheard their conversation, and were likely to stop her if she tried to head straight back for the Night Garden. Feeling helpless, put off and slightly betrayed, Breane sighed in defeat and turned away from the entrance to round the corner. It was difficult to keep tears from gathering in her eyes, and she took off her glasses to wipe her sleeve across her face. If only she had managed to get through to Rowen… If only she’d been better at her job. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
A familiar voice startled her out of her moment of self pity. Prince Sorde stood before her, and had taken note of the distress that had gathered between her brows. Breane quickly composed herself. “I was told to stay at the palace. Because the Gardeners are somehow afraid that Rowen will come after me. It’s… ridiculous. She might be unstable, but she wouldn’t do that. I was never her enemy.”
His offer for a place to stay did not take her by surprise; it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d find a temporary home with the Sordes. But… that was just it. Temporary, and neither of them were her family. It was embarrassing that he seemed to have taken pity on her since that incident, and made her all the more angry at her tears. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. The Gardeners made a mistake. If they’re so worried for me, then I shouldn’t be here; I should be in the Night Garden. I’m not wrong, am I?” She tried her best to stand up straight, but she was still just over half of his height, it seemed. There was no acting tall next to someone like Haraldur. “I belong in the Night Garden; not in the palace. I’m… I’m going to find someone, and I’m going to make them listen!”
Rowen’s question took her off guard; not for the absurdity of it, but because it had never been something the summoner queen had considered. ‘Need’... had she ever needed her? Had she ever needed Nia, at that? Certainly, their cooperation had facilitated her plan. It had run far more smoothly to have the Master Alchemist spying and relaying information, and Rowen carrying out the uglier details of her gaining traction by way of intimidation. Could she have done it without them? Possibly; probably. But the process would have taken longer, and even for someone for which time really did not matter, she was tired of waiting. She had patiently waited for over a century for the kingdom to reveal itself again… and there had been no point in further delaying what she was entitled to: her home, her people. Even if she was no longer the person she had once been, it was still hers. “What I needed was my kingdom.” She said, after a moment of contemplation. “Your cooperation and Anetania’s facilitated my plan, and for that, I am forever grateful for you. However, Rowen… if you are conveying the need to be ‘wanted’, particularly by me, then you must know that the ‘witch’ you met a year ago, with that past frame of mind, could never have ‘wanted’ you, so much as found you useful. That was who I was, then. But finally achieving what I have wanted for so long, I believe, has allowed me the space to grow, that I had not had before. So if being wanted or needed is what you require, now… then you must understand the need for the changes that have taken place in me. A year ago,” she hesitated, contemplating her words, and the message she was trying to convey. “I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at your departure. I’d have seen it as betrayal; I’d probably have killed you for it.”
Despite her claim to ‘change’, the summoner queen certainly had no qualms about mentioning violent past intentions in passing, as though it was no big deal and yielded few to no consequences. “I hadn’t thought I would ‘need’ anyone. I hadn’t thought that I would ever need approval or acceptance from the people and the place that had thrown me out centuries ago. But this is what takes place, once you achieve a long sought-after goal. You form new goals, when it becomes clear what matters to you the most. The people of Galeyn… I understand your point of view with them. I also understand and trust your assessment. Just as I trusted your assessment with regard to the necromancer; I simply hadn’t thought he would be harebrained enough to cross me.” A flicker of that old anger glimmered in her otherwise dull, brown eyes. Eyes as forgettable as the face and body she wore. “You must believe me when I say I will not fall for that again. Contrary to what you might think, I have not lowered my guard in changing my approach to ruling. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing is said or done in this kingdom without my knowing. Eventually, that information trickles down to me. If I am answering your question truthfully, then… I do need you. But perhaps not in the way that you would expect, or want.”
Locque crossed the room to take a seat upon a stool next to a vanity that didn’t appear to have been used at all since the beginning of her rule. Dust had collected upon the surface and the mirror; no one was permitted into her chambers to clean. “I have decided to change my approach because I have realized that what I want to rule is a kingdom; not a prison. And for that, I will eventually have to gain favour of the people. Breaking their spirits is not an option: none of the death or tragedies they have experienced over the past year has brought them any closer to me. I got what I wanted through violence and force: I do believe that, at the time, it was necessary in order to get me to where I am today. And for that, I have you and Anetania to thank for facilitating that path. But… whatever you might think of the Master Alchemist, she is right: it is not sustainable for what I want now, and that is to be a part of this kingdom. Not an outlier, overseeing it from a distance.” Could she really blame the population if it had taken them this long to hear words from her lips alone? She had been speaking through Nia and acting through Rowen for too long: and that was precisely the problem.
“I believe you. I believe the Galeynians harbour hate and resentment in their hearts for me. But they have not seen or heard me yet: they’ve seen you, and Anetania. And that is why I said what I said today. It is why I finally stepped up to the position I should have assumed a very long time ago. What I need right now isn’t your ability to kill or terrorize: I need your cooperation, and Nia’s. I think I am finally on the right path. Although, since this is not a path that you appear to agree with, I must ask, Rowen:” The witch searched the young faoladh’s face; but she wasn’t sure what she wanted to find, or even if she would recognize it if she found the right sentiment. “Do you need me? Will you continue to work with me, through this transition?”
She got her answer; and she wasn’t surprised. If only Rowen had followed through with the treatment she was receiving at the Night Garden… would that have made a difference? “Our visions have always differed. Hasn’t your agenda always revolved around the demise of your brother? Know that I will not interfere with that endgame, if it is still what you want. But if you can be patient with me, and with this process… I do think that we can make this work. Between us, and Anetania, and this entire kingdom. Rowen, I have not lost faith in you.” Then, in quite an uncharacteristic gesture, Locque extended a hand to the wolf. “Do you really mean to say you have lost faith in me?”
The summoner queen had her answer as soon as Rowen left, quietly as a ghost, and closed the door behind her.
At the moment of Elespeth’s breaking, when she relented and let him do as he wanted, Hadwin ceased the struggle and slapped on his signature grin, which smudged the hard edges rimming his eyes, but did not eliminate them. So she didn’t want to fight him in fear of causing damage; perhaps there was some advantage to looking positively wretched, after all. “Oh yeah, I’m a little shit, but what else is new?” He cooed his approval as he landed an arm, an arm that previously fought out of her grasp, around her shoulders, like they were two chums on a jaunt to the pub together. “Thing is, Elly, I’m not sorry. The timing is bullocks all around, for everyone. You really think if I wait another day, or week, or month, I’ll discover a time that works best for this kingdom’s chaotic schedule? Psh; I’ve been sitting on my ass long enough. My patience is spent. And come on; give me some credit.” He affixed her a look of mock affront. “I’m a risk-taker but I’m not suicidal...anymore,” he coughed at the little footnote of an amendment. “It’s broad daylight, for one. We’re surrounded by Forbanne soldiers, for another. I can’t die in the Night Garden, and outside of it, if I fall and scrape my knee, it’ll heal right quick. And I got you watching my back. There are worse times to act than now, believe it or not. So come on, my minder; lead the way.” He tilted his head and delivered a wink that most would find charming if he didn’t currently resemble a diseased, emaciated dog, drowning in his own sweat. “You bet I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He didn’t put it past Teselin to run to the open doorway of the sanctuary and question the sanity behind his venture in so poor of a condition, but he waved off her concerns and leaned against Elespeth as though she were not his crutch, but a wall he fancied for a casual pose. “It’s just a quick in and out. Well—not as quick, but if I get tired, I’ll hitch a ride on a Forbanne’s back or something. At any rate, we’ll be back before nightfall.”
While he adopted an air more in keeping with his laissez-faire disposition, having stabilized from his earlier bout of borderline mania, Hadwin still pushed his pace, refusing to have Elespeth see him as deadweight. A lesser man would achieve a snail’s crawl in the same position, but the faoladh, despite hacking the whole way and taking occasional breaks to refill his lungs, maintained a somewhat consistent, somewhat mobile gait—helped along by his unwilling partner, of course. All things considered, he did quite well for himself, only stopping to dry heave in the bushes three times. Eventually, they arrived at the palace entrance, where a throng of gathered people, reeling from the wake of Locque’s surprise speech, were aided by Forbanne, Dawn Guard, and a few familiar faces.
“Elespeth.” At her beckoning, Haraldur politely withdrew from the small crowd forming around him and his wife. “And,” he lifted a brow at Hadwin, but said nothing more about his shambling appearance, which looked as if he’d rolled out of a grave. Taking the duo to a secluded, quieter spot along the outer palace wall, where Galeyians wouldn’t bother them, he revealed what he knew of the queen’s speech, but the information was sparse. “All we know is what Locque dictated to the crowd; a straightforward apology, and a promise to be more of a presence. Her first public decree was to distance herself from Nia and Rowen. She also took responsibility for Rowen’s recent actions. And...that’s about all we’ve heard. Nothing on Rowen, or her whereabouts, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Before anyone could reply, Bronwyn trotted over to them from across the way, giving Elespeth a hurried greeting and Hadwin, a bewildered stare. “What the hell are you doing, walking about?” She snapped at her brother. “You should be resting.”
“Yeah? Like I could rest,” he bit back with an immediacy that belied the slight sway in his overtaxed body and the involuntary twitches that threatened to cede control of his tenuous muscle function. “She visited me the other day, you know. Rowen,” he sighed, removing the stringy clumps of damp hair clinging to his forehead. “Spelled out, in no uncertain terms, exactly what she thought of me. Already, she was careening downhill, but getting rejected like this...it’s only gonna push her downhill all the faster. Watch yourself, Bron. This won’t end pretty.”
In response to Elespeth’s inquiries, Bronwyn swallowed down her trepidation and nodded, her voice grave. “Hadwin’s right. Rowen’s slow to trust, and even slower to forgive. If she interprets Locque’s decision as a betrayal, which she will, then we have to assume no one’s safe, and everyone’s a target. Especially you,” she gestured to Hadwin, who shrugged as if the news were commonplace. “Maybe Teselin. Me. You,” she included Haraldur in her estimate. “Nia, too. And yes, Breane might not be safe, either.” The Forbanne Commander bristled, reflexively gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword, the rune of protection etched on the pommel rubbing against his palm.
“We’ll establish a perimeter, my Forbanne and I,” Haraldur said. “And I’ll send soldiers to guard everyone who is at high risk.”
“I ought to give Nia a head’s up, too,” Hadwin stuck his hands into his pockets, searching for the resonance stone linked to the Master Alchemist. He found it, but when he brought the rock to his lips and spoke, no gravelly response chimed in from its coarse facade. “Fuck; she better have brought the damn thing with her when she hightailed it out of the palace. Well, no matter,” he pocketed the stone. “I’ll get Al to contact fancypants. He should be in the know, anyway; Ro loves to munch on D’Marians when she’s on a rampage. Though,” he wobbled on one foot as he turned to face everyone, but somehow maintained his balance, “I’ve got a feeling he already knows. That Cwenha statue’s got eyes; I can feel ‘em.”
Their temporary reprieve near the wall was soon compromised as several Galeynians, recognizing an old face, flocked over to them, all eyes trained on Hadwin. “What can I do for you?” The faoladh tilted his head at the new company, adopting a neutral tone as his golden gaze scanned their fears and the intent behind them.
“Leave. That’s what you can do. You and her,” the grizzled-faced gentleman, who acted as the de facto spokesman, leered also at Bronwyn. “You wolves have caused us nothing but trouble. If you care about us at all, you’ll go and take your horrible sister with you. Locque let her go; so see her the rest of the way out of here, and then don’t come back!”
“We are not our sister,” Bronwyn stepped in, better suited to play peace-keeper than her brother. “We understand the harm she’s brought you and we want to put an end to her self-perpetrating violence and upheaval, but please, if we divide ourselves into an ‘us vs them’ mentality, then we are falling into her trap.”
“And how can we trust you? Either of you?” The spokesman’s mouth curled into a sneer. “When you’ve done nothing but protect that wench from the very get-go? When you’ve teamed up with her and turned a blind eye to her
Bronwyn opened her mouth to retort, but Hadwin stuck out his arm, silencing her as he tried a different approach. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t see what that has to do—“
“—Fine, whatever,” he interjected. “I’ll call you ‘Whiskers.’” He nodded at the man’s unkempt beard, its length pointing in several different directions.”So, Whiskers, I hear your complaint loud and clear. Let’s go for a little stroll, you and I. Tell me your plans or, hells, beat the living daylights outta me if you need to vent it out. As I am, I guarantee you I can’t put up a fight. You and your lads can take turns painting the floor red with my vile faoladh blood.”
“What?” The man spluttered, taken off guard by the request. “Is this some sort of wolf trick?”
“No trick, Whiskers. I see it more as a gesture of goodwill. You’re right pissed and I’m giving you a golden opportunity to blow off some steam, or lend an ear to your troubles, or roll with verbal abuse after verbal abuse...whatever’s your flavor. But I will promise you this much.” He grabbed the man’s shoulder with a suddenness of speed that startled him, given that Hadwin didn’t look formidable even to a rabbit. He leaned in close and whispered so lightly, Bronwyn’s sensitive ears couldn’t pick up on his frequency.
Whatever information Hadwin had passed to his recipient, the intensity and conviction in his determined whisper seemed to buy the whiskered man’s attention—at least long enough for a conversation. “It’s Frederick,” the man growled. “My name. Let’s go.”
“Wait here,” Hadwin told the bewildered trio. “Won’t be long. Old habits, y’know,” he winked, as if to suggest an entirely different and more suggestive reason for singling out an irate man in a crowd.
Luckily for Hadwin, no one followed, but not for lack of curiosity or suspicion. Another surge of Galeynians descended upon Haraldur, Bronwyn, and Elespeth, forcing their attention on addressing their needs—until Hadwin re-emerged not a half hour later, still standing, but barely, leaving one to wonder exactly what had transpired between him and the angry Galeynian. “Think I’ve heard enough,” he gripped Elespeth’s arm and nudged her out of the crowd. Panting from the exertion, he leaned heavily against her back, taking care not to unseat her balance from the weight. “Do me...a favor,” he wheezed. “Get me a Gardener. I’m gonna have to be wheeled back to the sanctuary. But hey, before you give me that ‘I told you so,’ look...I kept up pretty fucking admirably today...despite my limitations.” He emitted a pained cough, but didn’t cease his babble. “So...tomorrow. Let’s train. And don’t tell me ‘No.’ Cuz I’m gonna do it anyway.”
Hearing both Bronwyn and Hadwin’s opinions on the likelihood of their sister lashing out and retaliating had doubly motivated Haraldur to revisit his conversation with Senyiah regarding Breane, only this time emphasizing her safety as a critical concern. Fortunately, the Gardeners had already anticipated the possibility and released their young charge from her duties, citing Rowen as the chief reason for the necessary precaution. Of course, he didn’t expect Breane to respond to their decision with grace and listened as she vented her plight, sympathetic but not agreeable.
“Breane...how well do you know Rowen? Do you think you know her better than her sister? Her brother?” It was not an accusation but an observation, meant to frame the situation in a clearer perspective, however much appealing to a young girl’s logic centers amidst her upset seemed a futile task. “They’re the ones who warned us to take heed, and I am of a mind to agree—and I never agree with Hadwin on anything.” A half-hearted attempt at humor, but it fell flat, as he knew it would. “Rowen will be looking for you in the Night Garden. While it’s true that it will protect you from harm,” or worse, but he dared not conjure the thought into words, “you would also be out in the open, exposed. From a strategic angle, it’s more difficult to guard you there than inside the palace, behind multiple layers of security.”
He slid a few steps forward, careful not to lead with a heavy foot. Though he did not march towards her as a soldier aiming to intimidate, neither would he be dismissed, because this wasn’t a negotiation. “Respect that the Gardeners, all of them, including the Head Gardener who sanctioned this decision, are doing this for your own safety. Will you challenge them, or will you accept your standing and come with me.” No upward inflection followed his words because he asked no question, nor desired an answer. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s been decided, Breane. We’ll discuss your options once we’re inside, but right now, we are in the middle of an emergency, and I’m sorry, but you’re sheltering with us. This is protocol.”
Behind her, two Forbanne soldiers materialized from their posts among the shadows, a not-so-gentle reminder that the young Gardener hadn’t the authority to dispute the decision made on her behalf. “This isn’t permanent,” he reassured as he sidled beside her, placed a guiding hand against the small of her back, and urged her forward, at his step; the Forbanne lurked behind them, bookending the procession. “But it’s necessary, for now. You’ll find no safer place in this kingdom than the room where my children are.”
The final image of Locque’s extended hand burned itself into Rowen’s skull as she rushed down the corridors in an effort to escape: the palace, the Night Garden, everyone in this cursed kingdom. Oh, how that little kindness almost beguiled her into accepting another chance from Locque, but she’d cycled through too many chances and not one made any difference. What was the point in humoring this repetitious game when every time she lost, the consequences were too devastating and numerous to tally? When the tiniest pieces of purity she guarded against the darkness like a greedy magpie were snatched out of her nest as payment for her failed gamble, and thrown in the yawning chasm below, never to be freed again?
Time after time, Hope materialized at her side and, in bold candor, said, “You are not lost.” And each time Hope offered to lead her through the woods, it released her hand and left her, abandoned, in the densest thicket, to the creatures of the dark who fluttered from their perches and sank their talons into her flesh, demanding and demanding that she release them into the world, lest she never find respite long as she lived. And how she begged, and pleaded for mercy, but the creatures gurgled in their sadistic delight and clamped down harder until she cried her agreement to carry out their will—and the pain abated. It abated, and she glimpsed light streaming through the forest canopy, and Hope filtered down again, hand outstretched, to say, “You are not lost.”
No more losses. No more cycles where the result always dumped her, face first, into that thicket of horrors, pockets robbed of yet more of her trinkets and treasures. She was skipping that step, the most soul-crushing phase of them all, slapping away that misleading hand of Hope, spitting at its feet, and turning away to escort herself into that dreaded place, the sole place where she belonged. “Welcome back,” the creatures purred; her tormentors had become her servants.
And she knew what to do next.
She wanted Nia dead. By her own hand. But the simpering whelp sequestered herself in the woods somewhere, too pathetic and cowardly to allow the crowd of rioting Galeynians to trample her into a bloody pulp. She was in hiding, yes, but it was easy to draw her into the open.
During her flight from Locque's chambers, she transited a familiar shape in the darkness, one always guaranteed to startle and stymie her to a halt. That cursed statue of her first kill in Galeyn. Cwenha. A reminder, forever encased in stone. The floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the plinth cast a long, moonlight-warping shadow upon the figure’s serene face, creating severe furrows on her marbleized brow, a grotesque downturn in her dour lips, and a glint of something...supernatural and vengeful blazing in the hollows of her eyes.
“You’re not real,” she stumbled backward, almost tripping over her feet. “It’s the moonlight. The shadows. You’re not real.”
The eyes seemed to narrow into slits. On her pedestal, she looked down at her observer. Condescending. Judging. Remembering.
“What are you looking at?!” She seethed. “You’re fucking dead. I killed you. This is a statue. You’re nothing but stone!” In a fury reawakened, she snatched a decorative sword from its plaque on the opposite wall and swung it at the statue. Owing to the trajectory—the sculpture easily exceeded her in height—she could only reach the meticulously carved feet, but she struck with enough force to chip off two toes before a shuffling sound in the distance alerted her to an approaching soldier. Dropping the sword, she stole off into the night, located the closest exit, and fled the palace, her speed too swift and stealthy to generate detection. She ran and ran, until she reached the edge of the woods behind the village outskirts, and she shook into her wolf skin, not caring that she tore up her clothes and left them littered on the forest floor. Now uninhibited, she tore off, expertly dodging trees, and headed for the D’Marian settlement.
To see what could be done to Aristide Canaveris.
Breane wasn't sure what she expected in revealing the source of her frustration to the looming Eyraillian prince. He was a good man; he was someone who seemed like he genuinely wanted to understand, but he was also commander of a heavily armed guard, and was not one to take security measures lightly. The entire kingdom was frantic with the news that the summoner queen had revealed; the possibility that Rowen Kavanagh would retaliate at her perceived rejection and being ousted, and it would surely take its toll on the community. Aside from Sigrid Sorenson, who continued to act under Locque's thrall, the young she-wolf was the leading reason for all of the deaths that the kingdom had suffered--including those in Braighdath. They had every right to be frightened, but the young Gardener didn't feel like she was wrong. Rowen had never exhibited aggression toward her; resistance to help, at first, but Breane had never pushed her services, for it was firmly against Gardener protocol. You couldn't force someone to heal: their cooperation was imperative in the process. She had been there when Rowen had wanted or needed her, and kept her distance while checking in often when she was not needed. In fact… she felt confident in saying she probably had a better relationship with her than anyone else, possibly including Teselin. The young Kavanagh sibling might have been a danger; but she didn't feel as though she was a danger to her.
"I may not know Rowen as well as her siblings… but I also saw a different side of her that they haven't. She could've harmed me at any point in time in the Night Garden. I don't feel like she is going to harm me now." Although she answered honestly, Haraldur's opinion did not appear swayed in the least. The unyielding Eyraillian prince--and Forbade commander--had already made up his mind. He hadn't even considered changing it when he had asked her what bothered her. It had never been up for negotiation… He was just as committed to the idea that she was in danger as Senyiah was!
Breane was not one who was used to taking a stand; but she wasn't going to accept being walked all over by other people's decisions! "Prince Sorde, I appreciate that you are worried, and I do appreciate your concern." The young Gardener stood as tall as she could, used the most mature tone that her twelve-year-old voice was capable of. It wasn't much, for a girl of her age and stature. "But I am not in danger of Rowen. I can't speak for everyone else, but I know the best place for me is in the Night Garden, where I belong." The only place she felt she belonged; the only place left for her, when this kingdom's spell had taken everything else she'd ever had. "Please excuse me."
She would speak with Queen Lilica, who would have the jurisdiction over Senyiah’s decisions, at least to some extent. The Galeynian queen was reasonable: surely she would see her point of view, and agree that it was imperative she remain in the Night Garden.
No sooner did she turn away from Haraldur Sorde that she was met with the impassible bodies of two Forbanne soldiers--both tall and muscular like their commander. No doubt, if she tried to side-step and hurry away, they would apprehend her. “...what is this?” She voiced her thoughts aloud, and turned back to the Eyraillian prince, alarmed. “You can’t… did Senyiah ask you to do this? Why?” Disbelief and betrayal flooded her youthful face, and she irately brushed her tangled black hair over her shoulder. “You can’t be serious. Forgive me, Prince Sorde, but I don’t have to go anywhere with you. I can see to my own safety!”
Haraldur, however, was not giving her a choice. He already had a hand at her back, urging her along toward his family’s suite. She could have turned tail and run; she could have tried to evade him and the two Forbanne soldiers with longer legs than her who would no doubt give chase, since they acted upon the will of their commander, it seemed. She could have struggled if they grabbed for her, but… that was a public embarrassment she was not willing to suffer.
With no choice but to keep moving forward, she finally found herself back in the Sordes’ quarters for a second time when she had never wanted to be there. Certainly, they were kind and welcoming to her, and they hadn’t held it against her when she’d completely breached her professional demeanor and broken down in tears… Was that why he suddenly had decided to take it upon himself to see to her like she was something pitiful, in need of direction and authority? Had she not proven herself enough as an autonomous individual? It was just like the Gardeners. He didn’t see her as capable; he just saw her as pathetic. Someone else to pity.
“Oh--Breane.” Vega had just finished laying the twins down to sleep when her husband returned with a Forbanne entourage--and an unexpected guest. Well, it was reassuring that the both of them seemed to be taking the necessary precautions, since Locque’s speech earlier. “So happy to have you back here. Are you hungry? There’s--”
“Why are you doing this?” The young Gardener didn’t have the composure left to continue to take this violation of her freedoms with grace. The small girl turned on the big man, tore the spectacles from her face, and stared up at him with incredulous, dark eyes of someone who felt too betrayed to care how she was coming across. “Why? You… you don’t even know me, Prince Sorde. Neither of you do. What happens or doesn’t happen to me shouldn’t be any of your concern, because we’ve only met a handful of times. We’re practically strangers who have run into one another a few times… What gives you the right to determine how I stay safe?”
Perhaps it wasn’t her place to ask the reasons for where Haraldur Sorde placed his interest; it wasn’t her place to ask what or who mattered to him, and why. But it wasn’t his place to suddenly insert himself into her life, and act like he… Like he… “I… I don’t care that you’re royalty from another kingdom. This isn’t your kingdom, you do not rule, and have no right to make decisions for me. You’re not my father!”
She didn’t realize the impact of her words, on him or on herself, until they were out. Silence followed her outburst, save for the sound of Klara wailing from the next room, who mustn’t have been asleep too deeply to have been disturbed by the outburst. Vega immediately retreated to deal with the fussy baby, and Breane immediately felt guilty--not just for waking up the infant, or for losing her cool, but for what she had said. Even if it was true… it didn’t make it right.
Stepping away from the Eyraillian prine, she took a seat on the windowsill, replacing her spectacles on her face. It was easier to think more clearly when her vision was clear. “...Prince Sorde, you’ve been very kind. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate that you let me stay the night when… I wasn’t feeling very strong.” She looked down at the tips of her boots, too ashamed to look him in the eye. “But… I am not your responsibility. Your responsibility, your attention, your concern should all be for your babies. And for your wife. Please, you should treasure what you have and hold onto it. Because… you could wake up one day, and it could all be gone.”
Nia might have hidden herself in the recesses of Galeyn’s forgotten woods, just outside of the farmlands and out of sight of the Galeynians whose scorn she had doubly earned through Rowen’s actions. But it was a small kingdom, and even smaller by night steed, and news traveled as fast as breath on the air. And one could bet she had been keeping a close eye (or ear) on Locque’s next moves as she navigated life as a ruler without a voice of reason. She was prepared for the worst, half-expecting the summoner queen not to follow through on her advice, but--lo and behold, she awoke one morning to a buzz in the air that she couldn’t ignore.
Or, rather, it was a buzz on the table of her tiny caravan, just feet from her bed. The resonance stone she used to connect with Ari was abuzz--and, by the position of the sun in the sky, it wasn’t night at all, but sometime in the afternoon. Seemed as though she had yet to really recover from her forty-eight hours awake; or maybe something about having only the responsibility to lay low and disappear out of the Galeynian social consciousness had her finally relaxing her guard just enough to actually… well, relax. But the incessant buzzing of the resonance stone wouldn’t wouldn’t let laziness get the best of her, so with a reluctant yawn and stretch, the Master Alchemist rolled off of the mattress and picked up the stone.
“How long have you been trying to reach me? Will you be mad if I told you I just woke up?” She drawled into the stone, running a hand through her pillow-mussed hair. “I know, I should probably get off my ass and…”
This wasn’t the casual call about wanting to see her that she’d been hoping; to find a quick minute of intimacy and companionship. Nor was it about Nadira’s plan to ingratiate her to the D’Marian crowd and earn some form of protection status among the citizens of Stella D’Mare. Something far more serious was afoot. Evidently, Locque had followed her advice: just as Nia had suggested, she’d publicly announced that she was distancing herself from the Master Alchemist as a result of the accusations lobbed at her. But it didn’t stop there: for not only had she renounced Nia… but Rowen. Which was backlash that she was certain the youngest faoladh most likely hadn’t considered, in her attack on not only the Galeynian queen and her advisor, but on Nia herself. And Rowen Kavanagh was not one to take rejection lightly.
No… no, no, no, Locque, no! Panic seized Nia, and she dropped the resonance stone onto the table with a loud clack that probably hurt poor Ari’s ears. This was bad. This was not what was supposed to happen. As much as she wanted the summoner queen to distance herself from the single worst influence at her fingertips… this just wasn’t the way to do it! “Rowen’s going to be pissed. No, she was already pissed, and she… she is going to act on it. This is bad. This is…” Ari was saying something, his voice buzzing like a fly through the resonance stone, but she wasn’t registering any of the words through the sound of her own pulse pounding in her ears. Grabbing the stone from the table, she talked over whatever the Canaveris lord was trying to warn her about.
“Ari, listen to me--listen! Stay where you are. Stay in the settlement, inside your villa, and ensure that all entrances are secure. Keep your mother, your niece and your nephews nearby--keep Lazarus nearby. Do not leave, do you understand? Do not leave your home!”
Before she could hear Ari’s reply, Nia threw on a tunic and her boots, pocketed the stone, and took a steadying breath before stepping outside of her little hideaway. The spring afternoon was still and quiet, a stark contrast to the hysteria occurring in the Kingdom’s capital. There was no sign of a single soul anywhere nearby… but that did not mean that Rowen wasn’t lurking. Waiting for her to step out and let her guard down so that she could attack the reason for her dismissal from Locque’s services. Even if Nia hadn’t made that very suggestion, there was no possible way that Rowen wouldn’t put two and two together and accuse the Master Alchemist of planting that seed in her mind. Locque… why did you not think of the ramifications of this! And this was precisely why she had been hesitant to leave the summoner queen to her own devices: because ever since Locque had gotten what she wanted, she hadn’t had the foresight to understand how her actions would reverberate into future consequences.
Nightfall was still hours away, but if Rowen sought her out, then that would be exactly when she would anticipate the Master Alchemist (or anyone else she was after) to run. She was close enough to the D’Marian settlement that it shouldn’t take more than an hour to reach it if she really stressed her horse to move at full gallop. She could reach it, reach Ari, safely… if Rowen was not lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting for this to happen. With only the knife in her boot as protected, Nia mounted the night steed and set off for the D’Marian settlement--before Rowen did, if luck was on her side.
Nia rode hard and didn’t stop until she reached the settlement, and even then, did not tack her horse up in the communal stables, but rode it directly to the Canaveris villa. No sooner did she enter the premises and dismount the steed that she was met with the pointed weapons of the villa’s guard. Good--this was good. Ari had taken her warning seriously, and there was no sign of bloodshed. “Where’s Ari?” She asked, her hands raised in front of her, palms facing forward to make it clear she wasn’t readily armed. “Is he alright? Are the Canaverisis all alright? Please, just tell me, and I’ll leave immediately--”
That was when Lazarus stepped outside, with Ari close behind him. The latter demanded that the guard lower their weapons and grant Nia access to go inside. The Master Alchemist’s heart raced with relief to the point where she was almost light-headed with it, but she wasted no time rushing inside the villa with the Canaveris Lord and his manservant. It wasn’t safe to be out in the open--not for anyone. It had brought her a modicum of relief that she had taken note of so few D’Marians out on the streets. News of Rowen’s dismissal must have reached the Settlement quickly… and they’d taken appropriate measures to protect themselves. Even if Rowen had specific targets in mind did not mean she wouldn’t cut down everyone in her path to get to them.
“Ari…” Relief stole the breath from Nia’s lungs, and she pulled the Canaveris lord into a tight embrace as soon as they were inside, heedless of the reaction of his watchful mother who was also in the room. “Ari, listen to me. If Locque pushed Rowen away… she is going to go after the people she hates the most. I know I’m at the top of the list.” He didn’t need to go into detail of about how she was in danger. She knew full well that she had become Rowen’s target--and, as a result, so where those whom she cared about the most. It was no secret to the vengeful faoladh that the Master Alchemist harboured strong feelings for Ari. “But that means that so are you. Please don’t worry about me--I’ve become damn good at running and hiding, but Ari, she is going to go after people I care about to get to me. Until Rowen is stopped, you must keep your guard up tenfold. Increase security around your home and within your community. Rowen is most dangerous as a wolf, but don’t underestimate her as a girl. Don’t leave Lazarus’s side.” She pulled away just enough to hold him at arm’s length, fear and sadness swimming in her brown eyes. “...I need to get out of here. I won’t put you and your family in danger. I don’t know… when I can see you again. But I’ll have the resonance stone, alright? You’ll need to keep your flare-ups under control, because it’s too dangerous for me to come and help you. Do you understand?” Nia cupped his cheek with her palm. “I won’t let her hurt you to hurt me.”
“As did I.” Haraldur nodded his assent, agreeing with Breane’s assessment of Rowen’s differing disposition back when she sought healing in the Night Garden. “I’m not disputing the fact that she demonstrated a willingness to change. It took me aback, enough to consider giving her a chance. But everything changed the moment Hadwin returned her fears.” He slid out of the blotchy ink stain on the floor where the light didn’t reach and stepped into a bright patch, illuminated by the sconces hanging on the walls. The angle coaxed out the green in his eyes, the color of a budding field doused in spring sunlight. “She wanted to be free of it. The darkness. But she never had faith in the Night Garden’s healing methods—and this, I regret to say, includes you.” The austere lines of his face, worn like a uniform whenever he donned his commander’s mantle, disappeared in sight of Breane. “She was doing well in the beginning because the fears that haunted her were gone. This is a detail we can’t forget. The Night Garden was always secondary to her progress. I’m not implying you failed—you might be the only person who didn’t fail her—but it was obvious she didn’t want help anymore, once her miracle cure-all was reclaimed. We couldn’t force her to heal, nor force Hadwin to stay sick to maintain her agreeableness. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the truth, and now we must face a more immediate and threatening truth; she’s obviously unhinged and wants to inflict harm. Whether you believe she won’t hurt you is irrelevant, Breane.” He lowered his head to catch her gaze and see if any of his words reached her, but their disparate heights and proximity complicated the gesture, and he was unable to tell. “We’re taking precautions...I’m taking precautions because I know exactly how it feels to be a target of Rowen Kavanagh and I wish it on no one. It is her specialty to isolate her victims, cull them off from the herd, so as a preventative tactic, we do the opposite. We stay together. The Gardeners can’t vouchsafe you in the Garden, but I have the soldiers and the manpower to properly shield you. Until the threat blows over, this is our strategy, and it’s one I can’t compromise—not for your safety.”
There was nothing else to say, because nothing else would convince her of the practicality behind his protection. Without seeing them, he sensed the betrayal in her spectacle-hidden gaze, and felt her body stiffen underneath his well-meaning hand of guidance. It’s for your own good, he almost said, but what twelve-year-old wanted to hear that? Instead, he muttered an apology as they, the Forbanne included, headed for the Sorde suite at the end of the hallway. A few hours later, Rowen would tear through the area, and if Haraldur had this foreknowledge, he would feel a mite less guilty about stealing away a young woman’s independence, but at the moment, his convictions did falter, but the waver was like a tiny ripple in the river, too inconsequential to change course.
Together, they reached the chamber door and Breane’s temporary residency. As they entered, Vega, not quite anticipating the arrival of their guest (and Haraldur couldn’t inform her beforehand when his actions thus far had been largely impromptu), greeted the young Gardener as though this were all a normal occurrence, bless her, and even offered to serve her some supper. Not surprising to either Vega or Haraldur came Breane’s bristling response, one that had been churning and stewing in her during their short journey home, expanding and ready to burst. Her protestations had the unintended effect of stirring poor Klara from her slumber, prompting his wife to skitter back into the room whence she came to redo the goodnight. And they had the intended effect of deflating some of Haraldur’s natural height and stature. In place of the indomitable Forbanne commander and Eyraillian Prince was a man exhausted, a man who desired rest, both in the physical sense as well as in the spiritual sense, and had received none of it for the majority of his life. Nodding once to his Forbanne men, they wordlessly exited the chambers, stationing themselves in the hallway before closing the door shut, leaving their commander alone with a girl who had every right to complain about unfairness. Because she wasn’t wrong. It was unfair, and he wasn’t her father.
It gave him pause to wonder. Was he trying too hard to impose on her an unwanted and despised father-figure? Perhaps he confounded and confused her true needs; of independence and fierce inner-strength, which he selfishly ignored because—why? Out of a sense of guilt? Of duty? Of pity? To make amends for the children he butchered, for young Shayl who he buried in the sun-blasted landscape outside of Tadasuni and Andalarian lands, far from the home of her Sybaian sisters? Of his sister, Klara, bundled in threadbare blankets and shivering from a chill that would strip her life, as cutting as the winter winds which battered the paper-thin windows and threatened to tear them into strips? Did he see aspects of himself in her, lost, alone, orphaned and robbed too soon of childhood whimsy?
Yes. Yes to all.
Turning to a chest in the corner of the room, he began removing his armor, piece by piece. First, his bracers, then his pauldrons, the cuirass plated across his chest, and the grieves around his ankles, and the belt containing his sword until he was bare, save for a light tunic and trousers that cushioned the armor beneath. Without the trappings deeming him as a commander, a warrior, he appeared, though still tall, much smaller, more accessible...and vulnerable. Rounding back on his involuntary charge, he approached her spot near the windowsill and sat across from her, bridging the disparity to something more equal, and level.
“Breane, no doubt you are a very capable and accomplished young woman,” he began, his voice soft to reflect the removal of his hard carapace. “I’m not trying to undermine your work or your tireless and impressive deeds. Neither am I trying to replace...well, your father. You’re right; I have my own children and they are my utmost responsibility. But,” he looked down at his hands, running a finger over the jagged incision across his wrist which had grown puffy with time, “I swore an oath, on my sword, shortly after I abandoned the Forbanne, to never harm another child. To always protect them, should their lives be endangered. I understand that the moniker of “child” no longer applies to you. It’s something that wears away when your innocence is lost. In that vein, I stopped being a child when I was eight.”
“Still,” he hid the scar beneath his sleeve and leaned against the window, “it’s difficult for me to ignore the fact that you’re young. And...you might not want to hear this, but, at this age, you aren’t meant to shoulder everything yourself. Let me at least help you to shed some of that burden. It’s not that I pity you or believe you can’t handle yourself; it’s because I understand what it’s like to be alone—the type of aloneness you build for yourself to keep other people out.” He gazed at the barely visible reflection of himself mirrored in the warped panels of the window; the shadow, trapped like ice beneath the surface of a frozen lake.
“You don’t need them, you repeat under your breath. They can’t help me. They can’t replace what I lost. So you live, content with your independence, but later on discover that your independence is a lie. It’s a cocoon, and there’s only room for you inside. And by then, you’re an adult who hasn’t emerged when everyone else has, and you have to spend the rest of your life unlearning your self-taught lessons, dismantling those walls...and it’s tiring.” He tilted his head at Breane, some necessary movement so it wouldn’t bob forward, chin to chest, in its desire to do just that: to nod off and sleep. “As a healer, you will be hard-pressed to heal anyone if you can’t locate the parts within that cry for attention. Just as I learned I couldn’t protect people by keeping my distance. That I couldn’t save without first saving myself. A wise person taught me that; she was your age, and a healer like you.” He afforded her the curve of a smile, equal parts fond and sad, for the Sybian girl he couldn’t help; who wasted like a hush in the night because she accepted his pain and its heft rewarded her with an unmarked gravestone.
“I’m a work in progress, but...I think I’m well along. I’d like to pay it forward, and lend you a hand, too. But only if you want it. I’m afraid keeping you here is non-negotiable, for now, but after things are safer outside, we’ll discuss your next steps together, alright? You, me, and Senyiah. Does this sound like something with which we can agree? Perhaps, while we’re here, you can help me with something.” Out of his pocket, he pulled out the heart-shaped leaf he’d absently plucked out of the air, its strange purple pigment almost humming in the light. Normally, stray leaves severed from their home tree wilted, their ends curling inward like pages of a book burning in flame, but as a testament to its origins, it retained its vitality, fresh and lively as though still rattling on the tree. “I’ve made a decision; to be a Gardener. That is...I can’t say anything is official until I take this leaf and brew it into a tea--as per Senyiah’s instructions. I haven’t the slightest idea what to expect, but if I should find myself ‘chosen,’ or however it works...I could really use your help. How about it, Breane?” The shadow of the smile he presented her earlier spread, blossoming into something traceable and genuine. “Would you be my mentor?”
Even before Alster contacted him with the news, Ari had taken initiative, and prepared the village accordingly.
All thanks to his pebble golems, he caught the wisps of Locque’s speech, and the whispers that echoed them long after taking root in the kingdom’s collective consciousness. He heard-tell of Rowen’s descent of reason, the worrying declarations of her emancipation from societal expectations, and also witnessed her partial destruction of the statue he’d crafted of the late, beloved acrobat of The Missing Links, which pained him to watch. Not that he couldn’t fix the shattered toes, but his pride came from carving the sculpture using one, untampered slab of marble; an add-on would cheapen the work and its integrity. While there were larger worries afoot, Ari still found room in his heart to mourn his art, especially when he imbued each piece with a trace of his essence, a magical signature to go alongside the engraved whorls and loops, branding his name. Perhaps living the majority of his days a partial construct of relapsing-remitting stone attuned him to the violent fracturing and breaking of any rock resembling that of a person, possessed of limbs and a face and a legacy.
But he hadn’t the time to dwell upon his losses as an artist when the situation required a leader to assume unflinching control.
Weighing the heady implications of an unbound and revenge-driven Rowen, Ari released a missive, posted in the square, informing everyone to stay inside their homes, to answer the door for no one, and to leave only for essential reasons. Should the situation grow dire, he also drew out an evacuation map leading down to the Canaveris-designed tunnels criss-crossing beneath the settlement, bade everyone to memorize the directions--as well as the evacuation order--before a certain hour, at which time he would burn all trace of the missive’s contents. For his safety, he established a guard consisting of offensive magic-based Canaverises, Stella D’Mare’s finest battle mages, and the Forbanne on-site, around the perimeter of his villa. Lazarus, who always remained nearby or on standby, never left his side, trailing him to every appointment and into every room.
During his patches of downtime, he never ceased trying to contact Nia via resonance stone, his worry plummeting with every call unanswered. The practical half of him reasoned that she was replenishing herself on much-needed sleep, but the other half catastrophized the worst-case scenario. What if Rowen had located her caravan in the woods and...and…?
On his umpteenth try, she answered. Thank the gods she’d answered!
“Nia,” he said, breathless, though he hadn’t been running. “You’re al--awake,” he remedied, “And yes, I am quite cross with you!” It was easier to hide his concern under a blanket of anger. “Though you are not at fault, every wasted hour sans a reply about struck my patience. Listen--” And he told her what he learned from the palace, including Locque’s speech, her renouncement of Nia and Rowen, and the very real possibility, backed by Hadwin, Bronwyn, and Alster, of the she-wolf’s likelihood of violent retribution. He flinched when Nia dropped the stone and the feedback screeched strident chords into his ears, but he persisted as he spoke louder, trying to cut through her panicked warnings to be heard until the end, because he wasn’t yet finished.
“Whatever you do, do not come. Stay where you are safe. The moment you leave, Rowen can track you. Are you listening? Nia, Nia, Nia!” Nothing. No acknowledgement. Then--silence. The resonance stone ceased its reverberating buzz, went cold and dead in his hand.
“Damnation,” he cursed, and attempted to reach her a second, third, fourth, and fifth time, with no reply. To mitigate the all-too-familiar tingling throb of a flare-up, he downed a swig of wine, paced about his office, and threw himself into busywork until a few hours later, when a small commotion outside sprung him to action. Accompanied by Lazarus and his mother, he advanced to the villa’s entrance, heart sinking at the sight of Nia on the other side of the guards’ barricade. He had hoped she would take heed of his warnings and remain sequestered in her caravan, but not so. And for what reason had she to arrive in person? To check on his wellness? A simple call on the resonance stone could have confirmed as much!
“Stand down,” he commanded the guards at the entrance. “Let her pass.” The guards acquiesced to his request lowered their weapons and magic, and allowed her passage. Beckoning her to follow, he, Nia, and their small entourage entered the villa proper and gathered in the closest room; the parlor. No sooner did he shut the door behind him than he felt Nia scoop him into a tight embrace, a gesture he would have returned, were his back not to her, and his arms uninhibited. He was keenly aware of Nadira’s eyes boring into them from across the room, but she had enough decency to hold her tongue.
“Nia,” he whirled to face her, firmly grasping her hands in his. “Why did you come? Do you realize you’ve created a map of your whereabouts?” He gazed hotly into her eyes, his brow about to splinter. “If you are so convinced she will attack me to draw you out, what of this meeting, then? Have you not already drawn yourself out?” He released a troubled breath, and her hands. “I told you to stay behind, Nia. She knows where you are; I am sure of it. And wherever you go, she will follow. Now, you must remain here!” Reaching for her shoulders, he stayed her in place, hoping the physicality of his gesture would deter her from leaving. “Have you seen the premises? My villa is heavily fortified, and we have a network of tunnels running beneath our feet. She cannot catch your scent from under the earth, Nia. Nor can she break through solid walls, should we hide you behind one. Please realize; you are safest here, where we have the tools best able to shield you.”
“And if Rowen Kavanagh begins killing D’Marians in her effort to bargain for her target, what then?” Nadira swished forward on her skirts, raising an eyebrow. “There goes our attempts to salvage Nia’s reputation. She will be henceforth associated with the loss of D’Marian life, and no citizen would dare to rally in her favor--or in yours, Ari, once they learn you are harboring her at the expense of the people you have sworn to protect. If you intend to preserve this community, Ari, we must release Nia, and trust that her self-preservation is as pronounced as her tongue. Let the she-wolf chase her; this is not our fight.”
The young Gardener could hardly fathom every moral and ethical code she had broken in confronting Haraldur Sorde the way she just did. Not only had she broken her professionalism as a Gardener for the second time, but she had personally sought to emotionally wound him. Making it clear that his kindness and involvement in her life meant so little to her, and belittling him compared to the family that she had lost. This wasn’t at all like her, but since Rowen had left her care, so much of the young girl’s fragile confidence had been shattered. She was a Gardener because she wanted to help other people. Because it was easier to help other people and to focus on their problems than it was to dwell on her own problems. And while she was not exactly intimately aware of Haraldur’s demons, she knew enough to understand that her words would hurt him--and she regretted them terribly. Unfortunately, regret could not make up for what was said, so instead of being defensive, she silently watched as he removed his armor in what appeared to be defeat, and listened to his rationale.
“I used to think that childhood was a given. It was something we all experienced early in life. But I guess… those of us who lose it early on realize that that’s not always the case. It’s a privilege. So then… why would being young be so sacred? Why is it always ‘save the women and children’? I’m no different than you or anyone else. I’m no more sacred or important, just because I’m twelve, or because I lost my family. I understand your reasons for wanting to see me that way, but… we need to face the truth. I’m no more or less important than anyone else. My safety is no more or less important.” She tried to argue, but that wasn’t the point that Haraldur was trying to get across. He worried not only for her safety, but for her future as a happy and functioning individual. Why was he so worried right now? Sure, it was all still very fresh in her mind: that day she opened her eyes to masses of confused and disoriented people. Lovers finding one another again, families running into one another’s arms. She’d looked and looked, one day, and the next, and the next. Surely she’d find them, she thought--at least she’d find her brothers and sisters…
But she hadn’t, and no one had come for her. And Breane felt as empty today as she had the day she realized she would not be getting them back, ever. That would change, though. In a few years, when she was an adult, there would be other things in life and other people who required her attention more than her sadness. Whatever Haraldur thought, she wasn’t doomed to live in a shell of semi-existence… was she? “It could be a lot worse for me, you know. Galeyn is a small kingdom it is close. We all take care of each other.” Though even while she believed her words, her voice sounded small. “It could have been that the Night Garden never spoke to me. I could have been taken in out of sheer pity and duty by some family who hadn’t really wanted me, like other children who had lost their parents. I could have been put up to work that I hated. I know… I understand that you want to make things better for me, Prince Sorde, but things really aren’t all that bad right now. I mean… on a small scale.” She didn’t need to go into detail regarding the fact that Galeyn was currently living in fear of its summoner queen.
“I’m not alone. The Gardeners look out for me… sometimes too much. But, if I have come to learn anything… is that no one is guaranteed a fair chance at life. We are born--and that is all. Whatever happens after that is neither fair nor unfair. Whether you grow up in a fulfilling family or abandoned early… it just is what it is. Perhaps that is a dark way of looking at it, but… being young and without my family does not entitle me to special treatment or attention. It just means… that I must navigate life differently. That’s all.” Her voice was as placid as it was sad. It was something she had clearly come to terms with a while ago, but that did not mean it still did not hurt a little. Especially when seeing the happy family that the Sordes were raising. Even an Eyraillian princess and prince, and both commanders of their respective fleets, could find the normalcy of domestic living with their children, against all odds.
But what Haraldur was doing now… she realized it was not solely for her, because he felt sorry for her. It was for him. To make good on the promise that he had made to himself a long time ago. While she was not familiar with his history, there were, of course, whisperings of what might have occurred during his time as a Forbanne soldier. And if by some means her cooperation helped heal whatever scars lingered from his past… then wasn’t that her job? To help? Maybe he was right. Maybe… they could help each other.
Breane’s dark eyes fell upon the leaf in his hand, one she immediately recognized as coming from the Night Garden. That he kept it so sacredly on his person must have meant something: and as he explained, it became more clear. “You’ve accepted the call of the Night Garden?” Her voice shot up a tone in surprise. “With everything you’re already doing… with managing a family and soldiers, you also want to be a Gardener? I mean, if the Garden has called to you, then of course it is in your nature, but are you sure you want more responsibility? Because, prince Sorde… the responsibility of a Gardener is one that takes its toll. Especially…” Her shoulders drooped again. “Especially those times when, no matter how hard you try, it turns out you cannot help someone.”
“Haraldur will be delegating some of his responsibilities as commander to me. He’s overworked as it is, and I’ve become stir crazy with the amount of time I’ve spent in this palace with two screaming twins.” Vega had reemerged after coaxing a fussy Klara back to sleep, with plates in her hands as she set the dining table at the other corner of the room to prepare for dinner. “Whatever you can do to help him, Breane, please feel free to be an advisor. Frankly, I think it would be better for both of us if I delegated more tasks to the twins’ nanny, was more of a presence in our defensive forces… and if Haraldur was in a better position to find a little bit of peace.”
“I… I hardly feel like I am qualified to be an advisor. I’ve only been a Gardener for a year, myself.” The young Gardener stammered. “Wouldn’t… wouldn’t speaking with Senyiah be more fruitful? I don’t know what kind of mentor I would be. But I guess, if you have any questions… then I can do my best to answer them, throughout the process.”
Nia Ardane never thought she would see the day that she would agree with Nadira Canaveris, who had finally found a perfectly sound reason to condemn her life. Under any other circumstances, she’d have been bitten and furious--but not this time. Because she and the Canaveris matriarch were on the same train of thought, pondering the exact same thing. It had been a risk in and of itself to make her way to the D’Marian settlement, be in broad daylight or in the dark of night: a risk not only for her, but, as she was well aware, for Ari and the D’Marians as well. Everything she had to say could have easily been conveyed through the resonance stone, and it wasn’t as though Ari himself was blind to how the D’Marian settlement was already compromised. With or without her arrival, it would no doubt be a target of that vengeful faoladh girl, for she knew it contained what--or rather, who--Nia treasured the most. He’d had the good sense to take necessary precautions, but every second she spent standing in his presence was putting the both of them at risk. Nia knew this… she had known this before she’d ever left the safety of her little caravan.
And yet… she had to see him, one more time. Because she didn’t know where this chaos would lead, or how long it would be before she could see him and hold him again. And if she was once again going to find herself on the run, then she needed something, one last encounter, one last look at him, before she resumed fleeing for her life.
“It doesn’t matter where I go or where I stay. She’s got a good nose; even if I hadn’t left the caravan, it would only be a matter of time before she would find me.” The Master Alchemist explained sadly, knowing full well that the kingdom that had been her safe haven for the past year was no longer safe for her at all. “Either way, my scent leads to the caravan. I’ve got ways to dampen my natural smell, but Rowen isn’t easily deceived. Not as a girl and certainly not as a wolf. I came here because I needed to see for myself that you were alright, and that you were taking this all seriously. Not that I ever doubted you; by the looks of the abandoned streets, you’ve certainly got this under control.” The corner of her mouth tugged upward in a sad, yet acknowledging, smile. “You, of all people, know and value your citizens enough to be sure of how to keep them safe… which is why--I can’t believe I’m saying this, but--I have to agree with your mother. My staying here will put too many at risk.”
Nia settled her comforting hand on Ari’s cheek, her heart swelling with the sincerity in his dark eyes. When was the last time someone had valued her so much that they personally sought to hide her from harm? It was commonly thought that a person’s true nature was revealed when they were faced with danger. It wasn’t only about fight or flight; it was about who you chose to preserve, to protect. There were those who valued their own lives or feared death far too much to chance being hurt or dying, even at the expense of other people. So they would run or hide without lending a hand, in hopes of outliving whatever terror threatened them. And then there were those who chose to fight--sometimes for themselves, but in fighting for themselves, they also fought for the means to continue to protect those who could not fight to preserve their lives. It wasn’t even a difference between soldiers and civilians, for she had seen many a soldier in her time turn tail and flee, and many a civilian stand up and fight for themselves and those who needed their protection. Regardless, there was no right or wrong answer when it came to facing danger, and you could never blame someone for their knee-jerk reactions for self-preservation. Ari and Nadira were neither soldiers nor civilians; really, Nia wasn’t even entirely sure that either of them could fight, if their lives depended on it. Nadira was not wrong for wanting to be proactive in her approach to survival, as well as the survival of those beneath her. And Ari… against his better judgement, he wanted it all. He wanted his people safe, but so, too, was he willing to take such a stupid risk to ensure her safety. He didn’t fight, and the extent to which he could protect her from Rowen’s wrath really remained to be seen, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to try. Even if it put him in danger.
“If I stay--and Rowen will know if I’m here or if I’ve left--then she will tear through every household in this settlement to find me. Underground or not, I’d only be putting others at risk. Others including you.” Oh, how the idea of hiding away safely with the object of her affections appealed to her. To know she could fall asleep easily without wondering if a wolf would tear out her throat… but, would she sleep so easily, knowing that she was putting Ari and his family at risk? “You’ve already done so much for me, Ari. And I still intend to redeem myself in the eyes of your people. But we’ve all gotta be alive for that to happen, yeah? And it’ll happen. Wait for this to all blow over. I can’t guarantee that someone else isn’t going to die by Rowen’s hands, but I do know this: Locque promised an end to bloodshed. And if the wolf takes a life, Galeynian or otherwise… I don’t think she’ll let that slide so lightly. I wouldn’t put it past her to put out an order to have Rowen apprehended… or worse. Let this play out; let her chase me for a while. I’m really good at running and hiding. I promise, you don’t have to worry about me.”
It was with the utmost reluctance that Nia finally pulled away, taking a step back. “It’s gonna be alright. Rowen will be stopped. And then… we’ll just pick up where we left off. But for now, I don’t want you to worry about me. I need you to worry about you, your family, and your people. Promise me that you will not let your guard down, not even for a second. Not even if you think it’s safe, because I guarantee, it isn’t. Keep up your security measures, and keep your family close.”
Hot pressure pushed on the backs of her eyes. No--no, she wasn’t going to cry, because this situation would not endure. The emergency measures would not last. Rowen Kavanagh would not destroy the future she had with Ari. “I’m going to need to get rid of the location stone that you used to find me, and I probably won't have the resonance stone available for a little while. I can’t risk having even the vaguest link to me; or else Rowen will use you to get to me. But know that just because you can’t find or speak with me… I’m still there. I’ll find you again when it is safe.”
Heedless of the Canaveris matriarch and her disapproving stare, Nia closed the distance between herself and Ari one last time to place a hand on the back of his neck and capture his lips in a desperate kiss. There was no fighting off tears this time: the trickled down her cheeks like little rivers, and gathered underneath her chin. “I love you.” She didn’t care who heard it; didn’t care if Nadira rolled her eyes or turned her nose up at the words. They were true, and they needed to be said, if it was the last he would hear from her for some time.
At that, Nia hurried out of the villa, before the moment came where it would be impossible for her to leave at all. Hurrying past Lazarus and the guards, she returned to where she had left her horse, mounted the beast in a single leap, and sent it galloping out of the D’Marian settlement. You wanna play with me, Rowen? Then let’s play. Just try and catch me, you little bitch. She silently seethed, letting her hatred for the remorseless young faoladh fuel her for the first time. I’ve been running for over ten years, from people more dangerous than the likes of you. This will be a fucking breeze.
Haraldur stifled a sigh, looking again to the window, and the dark reflection, trapped. He wasn’t sure he was able to get through to Breane when she so willfully refused to allow herself to mourn for the child lost, and deflected by adopting a philosophical, almost nihilistic, view on life. He supposed that’s where they differed. Yes, he agreed with her gospel, even touted it himself; that every human born had no control over where their destinies would lead, and surrendering to the crushing reality was oft easier than pretending any higher power cared enough to single you out for exclusive punishment. In practice, that was what he believed. Survive, or die. That simple proviso burned its single-minded command behind his eyes, and he obeyed it blindly during his years of servitude, because nothing else mattered. But now, everything mattered, including his experiences, his years lived, the toil and the torture and the unrelenting nature of it all. To perpetuate the idea of inherent meaninglessness meant he would pass on the same harmful message to his children, and he wanted more for them. Wasn’t it the goal of any parent to provide a future better than the ones they lived? To plant the seed of endless possibilities, to sow the fields with bounty and plenty, to light the sky with a sun that shone brighter and painted the world as vibrant, hopeful, and most important of all, warm?
“Yes, it could be worse. It could always be worse. But that’s no way to live. To ignore or belittle everything you experienced because you should be grateful it hasn’t yet reached catastrophic levels? Isn’t that stifling, knowing you must bury the pain, having no platform to release it, simply because you feel you have no right to complain? And what will you say, when things become so horrific, you don’t have the luxury to consider how bad you have it? That’s the truth for many Forbanne. That was the truth for me.” He wasn’t trying to elicit pity, but to prove a point, though he wasn’t sure Breane would grasp it, when he openly challenged her coping mechanisms of altruism and selflessness to a fault. “To say you could have it worse is a privilege. So why not use that privilege to say what you mean? To admit when it’s bad, to celebrate when it’s good? Do so now, when the chance is ripe, because you might lose that chance if something should, heavens forbid, silence you.”
Poor choice of words. Immediately, an image of a black, crumbling necklace coiled atop a child-sized ditch conjured itself in his mind, a reminder of the last girl lost, a girl who also refused to receive help or healing and her stubbornness robbed her of time. However much time remained for a Sybaian healer wasn’t important; it was that she would rather die than inconvenience anyone. Perhaps her grief over losing a sister contributed to opening her arms for Death’s embrace, perhaps not, but it always bothered him to watch as she abandoned the fight--and he could do little else but shovel dirt over her lifeless face and pack the plot until flush with the ground.
Burying people. A talent he wished he never had, for to go without implied he lived a charmed life bereft of hardship, but there was no denying the fact that he excelled at the task.
“I have to strive for that possibility, Breane,” he blinked away the gravesite and looked to his young, unwilling charge. “If everyone accepted that life wasn’t fair, then no one would seek to improve it for the younger generations. We save the children because they carry our hopes and wishes for the life we want them to lead. A life made easier, more navigable. We can’t necessarily prevent tragedy, but if we build a strong enough foundation beforehand, maybe they’ll have a greater chance of overcoming adversity because the support will be there—in whatever form that support takes, be it a parent, a guardian, a purpose, a home, wealth, health, or all of the above. That’s what I fight to preserve. You’re who I fight to preserve. So you’ll have everything you need to thrive, despite what happened before. That’s what I mean.”
He twirled the curious purple leaf by its stem, its almost iridescent sheen kaleidoscopic in the lantern light of the chambers. But before they ventured too far in discussing the expectations of a Gardener, Vega returned to the main room, plates in hand. Pocketing the leaf, he stood from his impromptu seat by the windowsill, freeing the space for Breane--who was probably grateful his bulk no longer squished her against the glass--and assisted his wife in arranging the utensils, the water decanter, and the tin cups, three sets each, on the table. “Vega’s already started her trial run as interim commander--a few days ago, in fact,” he nodded, tucking a cloth napkin beneath the plate nearest to him. “I won’t be able to start my training as a Gardener until matters here at the capital stabilize--and that’s only if drinking this leaf-infused tea confirms my eligibility as one--or however it works. But as I prepare for the transition, I’m interested to know about your experiences, starting out.” Pulling out a chair, he gestured for Breane to join them. “Senyiah is a busy woman, and she’s been a Gardener for a long time, but you’re likely one of the newest additions, am I right? Then, who better to prepare me than someone who knows what it’s like to start out, fresh and new? There are some insights only you could teach me, I’m sure.” He patted a hand over his pocket, where he stored the leaf. “I’ll brew this leaf into a tea tonight, and...we’ll see what happens from there.”
While Ari was not immune to reason, hearing Nadira’s cogent argument and receiving Nia’s wholehearted agreement set him off balance, such that he reached for his cane leaning against the wall and pinned it, in a two-handed grip, before himself, in hopes of alleviating the pressure bubbling in his legs, its effervescence at a worrisome and teetering boil. It was as he feared; the moment where he had to make the burdensome choice. The D’Marians or Nia? He fooled himself into believing he could manage both, that he could figure out a method of integrating the disparate and keeping everything he loved in one organized and harmonious place. But for all Ari’s idealism, he wasn’t a fool, and understood that sacrifices sometimes meant sacrificing others for the survival of the group, as terrible as the admittance tasted on his tongue. Nonetheless, it still strung to retract from Nia his promises to offer her shelter and acceptance, only to pass what very well could be her death order. He knew she didn’t fault him for prioritizing his people, nor could he stop her because she wasn’t his people, and he, not her sovereign. Even so, something in him broke to utter the following words.
“Surely, if I had access to more time, I could devise a strategy fit for your interests as well as the D’Marians. Alas,” his eyes fluttered, downcast, ashamed to meet his lover’s gaze, and even less deserving of her featherlight touch tickling his cheeks, and which he may not experience for a while, if ever again, “I...must do what is right for my citizens. Though you are in accord with my decision, Nia, I cannot begin to express my regrets, knowing I have failed you in your greatest need. Please take the utmost care. I have faith in your resourcefulness. We will see each other soon.” A sorrowed but hopeful smile touched his lips, though his eyes refused to follow suit. Like glass, they shone, overbright, reflecting not only the light but their pane-thin fragility and the hairline cracks threatening to shatter. Their lips touched, then pressed, eager and hungry, and for a steady moment, he didn’t care about his audience or their disapproval, Nadira and Lazarus both. He cared only about stretching their indefinite farewell to lengths beyond measuring, beyond quantifying by minutes in a day, or a year, or a lifetime. To have this stolen fraction exist in a little pocket of nowhen, of everywhen, accessible to themselves and themselves alone. But their lips had parted, and it ended, and the only remaining memento hummed into his ears, in three delicate but powerful words. I love you.
Heat, but not the uncomfortable sort preceding a flareup, pooled in his cheeks and spread, rash-like, to his throat. This time, he did sway on his feet, as though struck by an invisible wind. How would it be possible to release her now, after she spoke the phrase he yearned for her to say, in earnest?
“You will find that the feeling is entirely mutual, Nia,” he said, a half-laugh catching his throat in place of a half-sob, as he placed a finger under one of her eyelids and captured her tears. “I beg of you to return, safe and unmarred. We shall not tarry, either. Upon your triumphant reentry, we’ll resume our plans posthaste.” With extreme reluctance, he retreated a few steps, unblocking the door. “My only request is that you do not rid of your resonance stone. Better to have confirmation of your status, however grisly, than to go on dreading the unknowable, and worse-imagined, possibilities. Should you need guidance, I want you to have a way to seek help. Please,” his eyes pleaded, “or I will resort to begging.”
But he never received an affirmative, a decline, or even a cleverly designed lie before she lanced out of the doorway, leaving him in her wake, bereft of a proper goodbye. Perhaps it was for the best for them both, their resolve swiftly slipping and growing more difficult to grasp. His feet danced on the threshold, wanting to give chase, to steal another piece of their finite time, but a finalizing clap on his shoulder stymied his movements.
“I slipped a pebble golem into her boot when she was inattentive,” Nadira’s voice, whispered and hushed as though not to disturb Ari’s vacillating emotional state, stated. “Too small for her to notice any discomfort. Contrary to what you may believe, I do not wish her dead. I am not one to allow a promising investment leave my sight, after all.”
Rowen stumbled through the doors to the inn, clothes tattered and caked with dirt and fresh blood. It dribbled from open slashes across her exposed arms and legs, forming spatters on the freshly swept floorboards. As she hobbled forward, she hugged her torso, as though to prevent her guts from spilling into a messy heap of offal at her feet. Owing to the morning hour, no one lingered in the common hall save for the proprietor. Osric had barely flipped the sign from outside his establishment to “Open” when he looked up at the urgent clattering of the bell above the door. If he was initially surprised to receive such unusual company at this hour, his mouth gaped open, rewriting his surprise into incalculable shock.
“Help,” Rowen whispered, her throat hoarse. “Please.” She squeezed her torso harder and hunched over herself, coughing until they devolved into wet hacks. A mixture of blood and saliva dribbled down her chin. Every step she managed, another smattering of sticky ichor stained the wood a bright mahogany.
It had been a few days since she declared Nia her enemy and since then, she had taken decisive action to excise that little blight on humanity from existence. But oh, did the shit-strain not make things easy for her. Rowen valued the chase, appreciating that anything worth the fight was worth hunting. So she was patient at first, and methodical. An endurance huntress at her wolfen core, she knew how to keep pace and how to wear down her quarry, to corral them into a corner, or to nip at their haunches as their pace faltered, and slowed, and died. In that respect, Nia didn’t disappoint.
What differed from the typical fare came down to who was really corralling whom, in the end. After a few days on the prowl, the technique the Master Alchemist employed was obvious from the get-go, but Rowen indulged the woman, assured she would misstep at some point and leave a gaping hole of an opening to stage an attack. But ever since she emerged from hiding to predictably check on her D’Marian lover (a man she would have loved to kill in response to that cursed statue in the palace, but he was too well-protected to inch close, and she was in no mood to tear open the settlement to bait him into the open), Nia sent her all over Galeyn in arrangements so ridiculous and absurd, they could only be translated as an open taunt. Come and get me, she seemed to say, replete with that infuriating grin. Rowen hated, loathed nothing more than being made a fool.
So she changed her tactics.
Remembering Nia’s fondness for the place, Rowen located the inn at the outskirts of Galeyn, waited for the proprietor, Osric, a name dreamily spouted on Nia’s lips for the famous pies his establishment reputedly sold, to emerge from his family quarters next door, and open the front door for business. Owing to the unrest all across the kingdom, precious few travelers passed through the village, leaving the majority of his clientele as locals, farmers, mainly, who would pop in for a pint or meal at all times of the day. Lucky for Rowen, no one had arrived early. His wife was next door, and the roads were clear of people—save for someone Rowen was banking on to linger nearby.
Embracing her most celebrated role as a young, child-aged victim, she smeared mud across her face to mask her features, rent her skin open with strategic slashes that looked worse than they were, and squeezed her stomach to conceal the dagger and its wicked sharp edge from view. Over the years, Rowen learned that she could suppress her faoladh healing, which was perfect whenever she staged the wounded deer act but didn’t want to ruin the authenticity by having her wounds stitch closed after a few short minutes. Drumming up some tears, she continued to shamble forward, closer and closer to Osric.
The kind-hearted man behaved as expected. Not that one had much of a choice to act differently when faced with a bleeding young woman in their inn. He ducked under the bar, unearthing bandages, needles and thread, scooped some water from the open barrel, and was at her side in moments, kneeling down to assist her. “My child, what happened to you?”
He reached for her bleeding arm, but she cried out and shook her head, squeezing her stomach like a vise. “T-there was a wolf,” she stuttered, barely audible amidst her tears. “The one everyone’s looking for. She, she...I was only trying to get home!” She leaned against Osric’s shoulder and sobbed. And when he rested his hand with care on her shoulder, a fast but urgent comfort, knowing he needed to address her wounds, she unspooled her arms and, while he was distracted, jabbed the concealed knife into his exposed jugular, slashing with expert finesse. He didn’t even have the time to register shock on his face before his eyes shaded over and he fell, a dead weight on the floor—because he was dead, his throes nothing but a mutter, a gargle. A quiet end for a quiet life. She had no qualms against him, hence the merciful nature of her kill, but even she couldn’t deny how much she enjoyed watching the pulse deaden beneath her fingers, and the flecks of darkness escape from his expired body. Free. He was free, released from the madness of an unjust world. She marveled upon the beauty expressed by his facedown corpse, the still pools of his blood, giving herself a few brief moments to appreciate her handiwork.
Not one to linger, she stood, releasing the restraints of her regeneration and allowing herself to heal before she lost too much blood. Taking the pail of water from beside the unresponsive Osric, she scrubbed away the blood and the mud from her skin and from the floor, but only her own, stripped off her soiled clothes, and threw them into the hearth to burn. Leaving the scene almost exactly as she rendered it sans her involvement (she commandeered the bandages to remove any evidence that could be traced to another source), she turned away, grabbed a traveler’s cloak from the rack to bundle her naked body, and escaped from the back door. As timing would have it, Nia made her entrance a few minutes later—just as Rowen had made an anonymous call to the home of Osric’s family, who, in response to an emergency at the inn, entered to the sight of the Master Alchemist...standing over a warm corpse.
Leaving the D’Marian settlement that night was one of the most difficult things that Nia had had to do in a long time--and she’d had to make a lot of difficult choices since she’s set out on her own to try and preserve her life, as per Celene’s wishes. She wasn’t sure why, but when she stepped out of Ari’s villa, not to return for an indeterminate amount of time, it struck home in feeling all too reminiscent of the day she had fled her family’s home upon that tall hill in Ilandria. She had left with the feeling that she might never return… and that feeling had stayed with her. It wasn’t one easily forgotten, and she felt it all over again, stepping outside in the charged evening air of the D’Marian settlement. The tears that had begun to flow didn’t stop, but she was fortunate in that quiet sobs weren’t wrenched from her lungs until she was clear of the villa and the settlement. Why did this feel so much like leaving home all over again? In fact… why did it feel harder than it had before?
It’s because they’re all still alive. Because there was nothing left for me in Ilandria… but there was so much potential in the D’Marian settlement. There was a future with Ari, one that she had dreamed about, and now… now, she didn’t know when she would see it, or if she ever would. She had faith that he would be alright: nothing got past Lazarus, and the villa was more than adequately guarded. Someday, someone would rid the Canaveris lord of his curse, even if that someone didn’t turn out to be her. And yet… that was what made this so difficult. Knowing that she was now forced to turn away from what could have been a very happy life, all in order to protect the people she loved the most. She loved Ari enough to let him go, if it meant keeping him and his family safe. What happened to her now didn’t matter, because this had never been Ari’s fight.
It’s too early to give up. I can’t concede defeat now. The Master Alchemist tried to tell herself, in a futile attempt to put an end to her tears. Rowen can hunt forever… but I can run forever. And eventually, she is going to realize that I am not worth her time--or, she will be stopped. Whatever comes first. And when it is all over… I’m going to come back to you, Ari. This is not the end.
She wasn’t wrong. In the handful of days that followed, Nia did not return to the safety of her tiny caravan, knowing that that would likely be the first place Rowen would check, tracing her scent trail all the way back to the tiny dwelling. Instead, she did as she had intended, and sent the vengeful she-wolf on a wild goose chase, stopping only in increments of hours at a time to rest. With her night steed, she traveled but in the day and in the dark of night, around and around the borders of the kingdom, throwing off her scent by the means of just leaving it everywhere she went. It would be easy for a wolf to pick up on the smell of someone if it differed greatly from their surroundings, but when what seemed to be the entire area of a kingdom bore that scent, pinning down the source was infinitely more difficult. So she rode and rode, with no real destination in mind, only hoping that Rowen would be the one to tire or lose interest first.
And the wolf wasn’t the only one capable of tracking or reacting to scents. The night steeds appeared to be so well trained in detecting danger that she found the horse reluctant to tread through areas where a wolf had passed. And considering that there were so few predators in Galeyn’s nearly entirely “meatless” kingdom, she could only think of three distinct people who would cause the steed to react with such aversion when they encountered these scent trails--and she had a feeling that two of those three people had yet to leave the central kingdom.
So this game endured for days, this chasing and running and dropping and picking up of scents, when finally Nia noticed that her pursuer had stopped… well, pursuing. The night steed no longer avoided vicinities that bore Rowen’s scent, which suggested she no longer roamed the kingdom in search of her preferred prey. However, this did not come as a comfort to Nia; no, Rowen would not be giving up that quickly. The wolf had likely decided to change tactics… and the Master Alchemist had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly what that tactic was.
In a sleep-deprived panic (for she’d hardly averaged more than six or so hours in a twenty-four hour period for days), the first perimeter she skirted was that of the D’Marian settlement. It was certainly not above Rowen to target those closest to her in order to draw her out into a trap… and who else would Rowen target but the very object of Nia’s affections? It therefore came as a surprise that when she circled the area in question, keeping her eyes and ears open for discord and panic, her senses were met only with silence. People were still in hiding, there were no signs of dangers or attacks or bloodshed, and while she did not enter the area itself for fear that she might attract the attention of the faoladh, it did not seem as though the Canaveris villa had let its guard down in the slightest. Had she been wrong? Had Rowen just grown bored of this senseless chase and given up? It didn’t make sense that everyone close to her heart would seem so safe…
Wait. While Ari was by far more important to her than anyone else in the kingdom, he was not the only citizen she had come to care for. There had been someone else, before him, who had welcomed her into their life like she was home. Someone she hadn’t seen in a long time, but whose cozy establishment she had been yearning to visit ever since she had been banned from it. A cold terror gripped her heart at this realization. Rowen had been well in the know that Osric’s tavern had been Nia’s restaurant and drinking spot of choice, since long before Locque had revealed herself to the kingdom, and she had been around to see how deeply it had affected her when she was told she could no longer visit it. Why, oh why, hadn’t it occurred to her that Rowen could possibly see him as a target to draw her out?!
The Master Alchemist set off into a gallop early that morning just after circling the D’Marian settlement, just as the sun was cresting the horizon. With a lack of darkness, the night steed galloped no faster than an ordinary horse, and it took approximately an hour to make it from the settlement to the village where Osric’s tavern stood. It was quiet in the vicinity, as was typical for any early morning before shops opened, and probably more common these days with the entirety of Galeyn knowing there was an unhinged, killer wolf on the loose. She’d noted that even the farmers were cautious about rising too early and staying out too late. Good; this was good. If Osric and his family heeded the same precautions, then Rowen wouldn’t have the opportunity to find him in a vulnerable position to attack.
Nia’s heart sank further, however, when she brought her steed to a halt just outside of Osric’s tavern. The door was open on a crack; someone must have been inside… But was there really reason to be concerned? It wasn’t atypical for the man to open his establishment to customers just before it was time to cook breakfast, so that he could get a head start on cooking up some food before his hungry regulars arrived. It had been so long since she’d been one of his regulars… but if she walked in there right now and he showed disdain to see her, then she would leave happily, knowing he was safe.
“Osric?” The Master Alchemist called on the man’s name as she approached the door. This could be a trap: and if it was, then she would be walking right into danger, right into Rowen’s bloody hands, but she had to see for herself. She had to see that Osric was alright--
He wasn’t.
Nia froze in her tracks at the sight of the familiar man who she had cared about like an uncle, lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor, as he’d bled heavily from his neck. His eyes were wide open, but unseeing, and his skin was beginning to take on a sickly pale tint. He was dead… but it looked as though he hadn’t been for long. “Osric? Hey… hey, come on, now. You can’t… you can’t be…” Her voice trembled. Her entire body trembled as she staggered toward the dead man, her vision blurred with heavy tears. “C’mon, old friend, don’t do this to me… don’t do this! Not before… not before I could make it all up to you. Please…”
She fell to her knees, and denial gripped her tightly by the throat. She could fix this; yes, she could fix this, she could bring him back, maybe he hadn’t been dead for too long… With trembling hands, she rid herself of her fingerless gloves, tossing them aside like they meant nothing to her. Nevermind they had been like a second skin for years; suddenly, nothing else mattered but those who actually mattered. “I can fix this. I can… I can make it better…” Nia touched Osric’s face; still warm. She could… she could…
What? What could she do? Who was she kidding? Osric was dead. And she was not a necromancer, and there was no amount of magic or alchemy or Master alchemy that would fix this. No amount of anything, barring divine intervention, that would return breath to the man’s lungs and blood to his veins, and life to make his heart beat again. She knew that, she knew it well, and yet her mind raced to find the loophole. After all, alchemy--Master alchemy, at that--was all about loopholes. All about manipulating matter, changing something that did not want to be and was not meant to be changed into something else. Why… why did this have to be different? Why did she have all of these skills, and yet, none of them could make a difference when it mattered the most?
“Osric… Please. You can’t…” She choked on her words, which battled with her sobs. “You’ve got a family… you’ve got to be alright. You…”
“What… what have you done?!”
Yes, Osric had a family. A wife of many, many years, a son who was a few years her junior (at one point, Osric had joked about setting the two of them up together; back in the day, she hadn’t been entirely sure it was a joke), and a ten-year-old daughter. And all of that family had descended the stairs from their home above the tavern to set tables and get the establishment ready for customers, and stood several feet away from the Master Alchemist… who knelt near the dead body of their husband and father.
“P-Papa… Papa…?” The young girl, who had inherited her father’s round cheeks, appeared to be crying quietly, clinging to her mother’s arm. “Papa is… is Papa okay? Will he be okay?”
“You… you did this.” Osric’s son, full of grief and fury (and rightfully so), took a step forward. “How long have you been planning this? He told you never to come back here… were you really so bitten? That if you can’t be here, spending a king’s ransom on food, then no one should be?” His face, while pale with shock, had begun to turn red. “Murderer! Have you been one all along? You worship the Witch in the palace… I should have known we would be next!”
“Please… it’s not what it seems.” Tears still streaming down her face--tears that meant nothing to his family who had nothing to go on aside from their estranged former customer kneeling over the dead body of their family member--Nia stood up slowly. She wasn’t holding a weapon, but she had knelt in Osric’s blood. It was on her clothes, on her hands… even if they knew it had been Rowen, what did it matter? Rowen had done this to hurt her. Osric was dead because of her. She might as well have been the one to drive a knife into his throat. “I would never hurt him. I would never hurt any of you! I wanted… I only came by to tell you all to be careful… I was too late. I… I’m…”
There were no words. There was nothing that she could say or do that would change things. That would bring Osric back, or make his family understand, make them believe that she felt their pain, and partook in it. Oscric’s daughter had dissolved into sobs; his wife could hardly placate herself, let alone the young girl, and his daughter looked like he could kill. Maybe she should have let him; the thought briefly crossed her mind. Why should she deserve to get away unscathed when an innocent man was dead, and his family would never fully heal from that wound? Why should she go on? Because I promised Ari. I told him I would see him again. I promised Ari…
She had someone to whom she eventually had to return; she couldn’t throw her life away. Before she knew what she was doing, Nia fled the scene like the very criminal Osric’s family probably thought she was. Vision still blurred from tears, she leapt back onto her horse and kicked her heels into its flank to urge it into a gallop.
“Rowen!” She yelled. Osric had not been dead for long; the she-wolf had to be nearby, and she was only armed with a tiny knife in her boot… but if she had to fight, she would. Someone needed to put a stop to this--to Rowen. “You’re done! Do you realize that? Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve fucked yourself over, you little bitch--you killed a Galeynian! You killed one of Locque’s people, when she decreed there would be no more unnecessary deaths!” Nia pulled her steed to a halt and listened for any disturbances in the area. “Locque will know--maybe she already does. If she wasn’t through with you before, then she will be now, and you already fucking know that nothing and no one can protect you from what she is capable of! So was it worth it? All because you were mad at me? I certainly fucking hope it was! Because Osric’s life might be over…” She gripped the reins so tightly her hands ached. “But so is yours!”
After a few days, the mess of supernatural chills present in Alster subsided, enough to discharge himself from the sanctuary and return to his and Elespeth’s quarters. But the transfer was far from a smooth one, as the palace-wide unrest trickled through every available crack and spidered into the corridors, sparing no one its reach. At least in the sanctuary, a bubble of sorts had surrounded the perimeter, filtering out the worst of the news, but in the palace proper, no such barriers existed. Anxieties ran high in everyone, from the guards, to the Gardeners, and the attendants. Rowen’s messy departure, coupled with Locque’s sudden declaration of involvement, stirred once-latent concerns into a foamy froth. Even Hadwin, a typically unfazed figure, was on edge, flying into frenzied runs beyond his fitness level to outpace whatever haunted him. No one need ask to understand that it was his youngest sister who dominated his thoughts and his drive.
Meanwhile, Alster tried to follow Elespeth’s advice and keep his distance in a bid not to smother people with his overzealous attempts at “helping.” There was precious little to do, anyhow, save for periodically checking in on Chara and Lilica, who had withdrawn their authority and their voice for the time being, allowing Locque undisputed reign over her podium. The summoner-queen seldom consulted them about anything in the first place, they explained, so it didn’t seem to matter what advisory position they held when it was ceremonial at this point; merely for show. Unpopularity, too, influenced their hermetic retreat. A temporary status, they assured, but if tensions continued to spike, then the temporal nature of their surrender could not endure.
Alster was still in bed before dawn that morning when the resonance stone on the nightstand vibrated and brightened to an urgent shade of red. Nowadays, most calls seemed urgent, but this one in particular gave him a sickly feeling, clinging to his stomach.
He didn’t even manage a ‘Hello’ before Ari’s commanding tone cut through the garble of the stone with surprising crispness and clarity. “Deploy a contingent of soldiers to outer Galeyn—Osric’s inn. Do so with due haste.”
“May I ask your reasoning?” In mid-sentence, Alster was throwing on his clothes and splashing water on his face to wake up and smooth back the tangles that developed in his hair overnight. “What’s happening? At this hour, I can get Haraldur to send some Forbanne to the site, but I need more information.”
Ari’s impatient voice had overlapped Alster’s inquiries, his habitual-to-a-fault politesse and etiquette hewn off at the limbs. “Rowen Kavanagh is in the area and she intends to kill. Nia is in danger and others might be, as well. I cannot act, but you can.” A poorly-concealed note of desperation hung heavy in his voice. “Do so, now.”
Alster was out the door in seconds, heedless of Elespeth’s state of wakefulness or even if she was following close behind. At a half-run, he arrived at the Sorde family quarters, harried and breathless as he tried to convey to the Forbanne guards at the door the importance of waking their commander. For their part, they didn’t hesitate and in moments summoned Haraldur to the entrance. Perpetually awake, even while resting—an infuriating skill bequeathed to him as a father of twins—Haraldur was already in his armor by the time he met with Alster.
“What’s the emergency?” He adjusted his belt, clinking sword and scabbard into place.
“Rowen is on the move and ready to kill. We have to fortify the area surrounding Osric’s inn as soon as possible. We don’t have permission or clearance but it’s in everyone’s interests to prevent another senseless murder. Let’s go.”
“I’m on it,” Haraldur grunted his agreement. He turned to the two guards. “Stay here. Look after Breane in my stead and inform Vega of my whereabouts.” They saluted, fist to chest. He centered his attention on Alster. “We ride immediately.”
Rowen understood the risks involved. That if she killed a Galeynian, she would forever fall from Locque’s good graces and, at worst, face swift retribution from her very capable hands. Nonetheless, it would be interesting, to watch the summoner queen’s dilemma unfold, even if she served as the catalyst—and paid for it with her life. And if she should die, just before her memory faded, she hoped to see the sparks of conflict appear in those impassive, nondescript eyes. A conflict that confused and twisted her priorities. Galeynians were, as her claim, to be cared for at all costs, but the leniency she’d given Rowen bespoke of something approaching care, and that care spat in the faces of the people she sought to rule and protect because it put them in direct opposition to a danger she willingly invited into the palace. Rowen never pretended to value lives, Galeynian lives above all. They bled the same and their vices, no different from what one found outside the so-called peace-loving kingdom. She respected Locque’s rule in accordance with their alliance, but now that the summoner released her from duty...well, she had no pesky affiliations to worry about anymore. Let Locque chase her—if she would. And if she didn’t, or refused…
...If she refused…
Rowen hoped she would refuse. Not only for her self-preservation, but as a reply to a question she hasn’t realized she’d asked. What am I to you? If Locque responded by sparing her life, then the answer was clear: I’m more important than Galeynian citizens. But if that were the case, what would she do with that information? Rowen had made her bed; there was no turning back from everything she’d done.
But if she had accepted her destiny long ago, then why was she so invested in gaining Locque’s pardon?
They were questions she hadn't the time to analyze at the moment, as she was too busy fleeing the village unseen. Finding a strand of bushes off the side of the road a little ways north of the not-so-quaint-anymore hamlet, Rowen squatted down into the brush and...and waited for her prey to arrive.
If Nia perished by a member of Osric’s family, or a lynch mob, she didn’t mind. She wasn’t picky about who landed the final blow as long as it was her orchestrations that contributed to her victim’s death. Nonetheless, it would make for an infinitely more satisfying kill by her own hand.
The sound of a single horse cantering out of the village caught the attention of her sensitive ears. As the horse neared, so too came the challenge to emerge from her hidey-hole and confront her, face-to-face. In the thicket of her bushes, Rowen smiled. Perfect. Oh, how Nia delivered herself, bow-wrapped like a Yuletide present. And to think, she played at Nia’s little game when she could have done this, all along, reaping faster results!
It wouldn’t be long before the steed, in its increasing nervousness, blew her cover, so she rustled out of the bushes, showing herself, but standing off to the side of the road because she wouldn’t stupidly give Nia an opening to attempt to trample her with the hooves of her horse.
“Oh, I’m done, am I?” She snarked at the Master Alchemist, patently unmoved by her words. She even opened her mouth in a mock yawn. “If Locque knows, then she knows. That’s not my concern right now. You’ve deliberately stood in my way at every turn, cozying up to Locque like a fucking parasite, licking her boots and filling her head with all this ‘peace and goodwill’ nonsense. Doing everything possible to turn her away from me.” Her snarl was filled with venom and curses as she stalked closer, remaining parallel to the woods for the terrain advantage. “And guess what; it worked! You should feel so proud. Enjoy that feeling while it lasts, because it’s an accomplishment that has a heavy cost: your life. I hope you said goodbye to your lover—who has been deceiving you, by the way,” she stated with such dead-faced clarity, one would have difficulty accusing her of lying—because she wasn’t. “Since the beginning. He never stopped in his pursuit to oust Locque from his throne. And now that I was able to get close enough for a look,” she left that implication where it hung; Nia was free to draw her own conclusions on what damage a ‘look’ could wreak for an opportunity killer, “I’ve caught a juicy detail; he’s been spying on us all along...and delivering the information to Alster Rigas.”
As if on cue, a sudden rumble on the road alerted Rowen and her quarry to a cavalcade thundering in the distance. While evening had not struck—far from it—the steeds galloped with such swift fervor, it was as though they’d borrowed the strength of night hours premature.
“Forbanne,” Rowen hissed. Her entire body quaked in rhythm with the road, livid at the interruption. If she struck Nia now, the approaching forces would surround their scuffle in moments, apprehend her, and prevent the oh-so-satisfying completion of her task. Even she wasn’t gifted enough to dole out the fatal blow on a woman who hadn't yet dismounted her horse before the soldiers closed in, formulated their barricade, and smothered all escape routes. Grinding her teeth, Rowen turned and retreated into the woods, disappearing out of sight right as the Forbanne cavalry slowed their advance and encircled Nia in a protective ring.
Leading the charge, Haraldur and thirty of his most capable soldiers dashed through the Galeynian countryside on battle-trained horses, bred for speed and hard riding, regardless of day. Accompanying them was Alster, who insisted that he come, and Elespeth, whose adeptness on a horse exceeded her husband’s by far, and who Haraldur allowed to accompany them, given she and her passenger could maintain the grueling pace for hours on end, resting only in short intervals to recharge their mounts. They agreed, but brought up the rear for the majority of the trip until Haraldur realized it had been intentional. A strong, favorable wind pushed at their backs, urging along the formation for the hours they spent on the road. The influencing gusts, conjured, no doubt, by the Rigas mage, streamlined their travel and helped them reach their destination in a fraction of the time. Or...they would have reached Osric’s village, if not for the obstruction in the middle of the road.
Fortunately, it was one of the people for whom they were searching, alive and uninjured. Raising an arm, he signaled the Forbanne, and their magically-aided wind, to slow and halt their forward advance. Obediently, everyone braked as one and fanned out around Nia, capturing her in a circle of hooves and pointed steel. Dismounting from his steed, Haraldur headed over to Nia, non-threatening but also impassive, neutral, in disposition—strictly professional. “We’ve had reports of Rowen sighted in this area. Have you seen her? Are you unharmed?”
He listened as she recounted what happened in the village; that she had killed the friendly innkeeper, Osric, in a bid to lure Nia into the open and excise her from existence, but the plan was cut short at the first sign of the Forbanne’s approach, prompting her to flee into the woods. “And this just happened?” After receiving confirmation in the affirmative, Haraldur turned to his soldiers. “The ten of you,” he gestured to one-third of the circle, “go to the village and secure the area. Help, as needed, Osric’s family and his burial rites.” Saluting fist to chest, the ten selected Forbanne withdrew from the circle, nudged their steeds into a gallop, and sped down the road en route to the village. “The rest of us will scour the region in search of Rowen. We’ll apprehend her. Dead or alive—I don’t care.”
He nodded to Alster and Elespeth, who had also dismounted to join the discussion in the circle’s center. “The both of you, stay with Nia. I’ll assign five Forbanne as your personal security detail in case Rowen tries to return and finish what she started. You should be more than safe with them, Nia,” he said while stepping into the stirrup of his steed, leaping over the saddle and grabbing hold of the reins. “We’re putting a stop to this she-wolf. Now.” Without another word on the subject, he rallied his soldiers, all but five, and directed them further down the road, where they would plan to make camp and search the woods extensively for their fugitive culprit.
With their entourage now greatly diminished to five Forbanne, the Rigas couple, and Nia, Alster, figuring he should break the uneasy silence, stepped towards the hunted and pursued Master Alchemist. “You’ve been at this for a few days, I believe. No; you’ve been at this for over a decade. We’ll follow your lead. If you want to hide, we’ll find a place. If you want to give chase and catch her...we can do that, too. She doesn’t have the aid of Locque on her side; not like the last several times we’ve tried to locate her. It shouldn’t be long before we drag her out in the open.” He dipped his head, sighing at the road as if it in particular caused him great grief. “Normally, I would motion to spare her life, especially as it should fall to Hadwin and Bronwyn in terms of what should be done with her, but she killed a Galeynian, and she’ll kill again. Haraldur has the right idea. We have to stop her by any means necessary. And if that means her death...then so be it.”
Rowen knew they were looking for her.
And they were gaining on her: about fifteen Forbanne, all told, from her keen ear and nose account—plus Haraldur Sorde. How fitting that he, her first victim in Galeyn, should lead the charge to her annihilation. It only proved that the Night Garden was, indeed, not her friend, if the resurrected man himself, one of its greatest supporters and advocates, sought to end her life. But she wouldn’t just sit down and die, no matter how steep her odds. No—she was far from finished or defeated.
For, she found the beginnings of a new and effective strategy.
She found a hostage. A willing one.
Somehow, young Breane, the Gardener who failed to unblacken her abyssal heart, was wandering the very woods she’d taken refuge in that late afternoon, searching...calling her name. How she got there, she couldn’t say, but she wasn’t about to reject this most fortuitous turn in her luck.
So she emerged from the dense forest foliage, and made herself known to the foolish girl.
“Breane,” she stressed, her features softening. Yes, let her believe she was actually relieved to see her. In a way, it wasn’t a lie, but for entirely different reasons than the naive Gardener assumed. “Have you...have you come looking for me?” She stretched out each syllable, injecting the right amount of incredulous, curious, and...concern. “But why? What do you want? Are...are you here to capture me, like Haraldur Sorde and the others?” She expertly wore away her initial surprise, allowing it to transition immediately to suspicion and borderline hostility. “To play on my sympathies and hope, only to turn me in and watch me killed? Why should I trust you? Give me one good reason. No, several good reasons. Prove it to me, Breane. Right here. Prove you’re on my side—and maybe I’ll believe you. Maybe...I’ll go with you.”
Elespeth had never been a deep sleeper, and the low vibrations of the resonance stone that Alster kept close to their bed was enough to draw her out of even the deepest of sleeps. She was awake before her husband had stirred and answered the call. Aristide… what did he want? She couldn’t quite make out the garbled, distorted words, and at this point Alster hhad resonance stones connected to several other individuals, but it was unmistakably the voice of the Canaveris lord. He sounded panicked and frantic. “Alster…” The former knight whispered when at last he put down the stone, jumped out of bed, and scrambled to dress and wash. She had no idea what there was to be panicked about, but whatever it was, this urgency could not be good. “What’s going on, Alster--hey, hold up!”
Before she so much as threw her legs over the side of the bed, her husband was practically out the door. She was not about to let him tackle whatever emergency had been presented to him alone, so she hurriedly threw on a tunic, her boots, and grabbed her leather armor and sword as she rushed out the door after him. Her practiced skills as a knight made her capable of hurrying down the corridor after the Rigas mage while simultaneously fastening the protective leather around the vulnerable parts of her body. “Alster! What did Aristide want?” Her husband managed to hurriedly explain on what appeared to be the way to Haraldur’s chambers. Something about Rowen--and that was all she needed to know.
“I’m coming with you,” she insisted, as if it weren’t already obvious, from the way she was on his heels. “Like hell am I going to let you deal with Rowen Kavanagh alone.”
Upon arriving at Haraldur’s suite, the guards did not give Alster any trouble when he explained the urgency of the situation occurring in a small village not far from Galeyn’s farmlands. The Eyraillian prince immediately came to the door, along with his wife, who appeared equally concerned. “Rowen? Rowen has killed again? Haraldur…” She placed a hand on his arm, or at least tried to, but he crossed the room too quickly to grab his armor. “Haraldur, I am coming with you. You cannot possibly face Rowen alone.” She had to insist, despite that he had asked her to stay behind to watch over young Breane. The Eyraillian princess did care about the young Gardener, but having almost lost her husband to the vengeful she-wolf was still something that was too fresh in her mind. “Please…”
“He won’t be alone, Vega.” Elespeth spoke up to reassure her friend. There was a fierce gleam in her green eyes. “I, for one, will not let Rowen lay another finger on anyone; the Forbanne can accompany us. But this may well turn into a crisis… and your children need your fierce protection right now. Use that ferocity I know you have to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”
Vega opened her mouth to protest, but Elespeth’s words were too sound, and she could not find an argument. Instead, she said, with a little bit of defeat, “Only with you would I trust my husband’s life. Please, the lot of you… you had better return without injury.”
With a brief farewell, Vega let Haraldur go as he accompanied the Rigas couple to respond to this morning’s crisis, just as Breane had roused from sleep and wandered out of her bedroom to see what was going on. “Your Highness… where has Prince Sorde gone? Is everything alright?”
“Breane, once again, you can simply call us Vega and Haraldur. No need for formalities.” The Skyknight sighed, and turned to face the young Gardener. She tried hard to keep deep concern from lining her face so as not to worry the young girl. “Don’t worry yourself; nothing is amiss. Haraldur simply has duties to attend to.”
“So his leaving… it doesn’t have to do with Rowen?”
Vega paused. She didn’t want to lie to Breane… but what other choice did she have? How would it serve the young Gardener to find out that the she-wolf had already taken yet another life? There was nothing she could do; it would bring nothing but strife for her to worry over something beyond her control. “Of course, we are all very on guard because of Rowen Kavanagh right now. He’s checking on a disturbance near the farmlands. It could very well be nothing.”
“Oh… I understand.” Breane fidgeted with the sleeves of her gown. Not the usual, pale Gardener’s garb; she wore a simple tunic that Vega had managed to find for her, in hopes of providing her with a slightly more… ‘normal’ girlhood experience. Twelve-year-olds didn’t typically go around dressed in ceremonial garb like adults twice her age. “Can… is it alright with you if I help the palace staff clean around your home, today? I just… I really need to do something, You--er, Vega. I want to feel… useful.”
“Of course--Breane, of course you can, if that is what you want. But please don’t feel obligated.” Vega couldn’t help but sigh in relief that the young Gardener asked no further questions regarding Haraldur’s retreat. “You are not here to earn your stay; you are here as our guest.” She knew better than to call her ‘family’, considering her outburst from before, and how hard that had struck her. But if it kept her busy and kept her mind off of feeling like a captive… “Of course, I am sure the serving staff will welcome the help. It’s amazing what kind of mess two infants who can scarcely walk yet can make.”
The young Gardener’s face lit up. “Thank you. I’ll start before they get here; your dining area can always use a good sweeping.”
Vega felt immensely reassured to watch the dark-haired child run off to fetch a broom. She wasn’t playing or making merry; perhaps she’d forgotten what it meant to be young. But this was easily a step in the right direction.
Rowen had to be nearby. The increasing nervousness of the frantic Night Steed was enough to let her know that they were traipsing into danger. Finally, after circling the area near Osric’s tiny yet loyal village for only a handful of minutes the horse reared and whinnied, and refused to go any further. A child ran down Nia’s spine. I can outrun her, but I can’t take her on and win… but I have to try. Someone has to try!
Lo and behold, the very object of her hatred and pain made herself known as she emerged from some nearby brush. The little bitch was stealthy and good at hiding; Nia had known that just because she couldn’t see or hear her did not mean she wasn’t lurking, plotting, waiting for that opportune moment to strike. The small knife from Nia’s boot was already in her hand. She couldn’t use it as adeptly as she knew the faoladh could use bladed weapons; she probably also wasn’t fast enough. But she would try. Let her come at her, and if this was the last day she breathed air, then she would be taking Rowen down with her. She could melt her skin and bone with her bare hands. She could emulate Ari’s curse and turn her to stone. Could make her blood boil in her veins. The Master Alchemist was not a fighter, but she was a Master Alchemist. And that alone made her dangerous. “You’re a fucking moron, you know that?” She hissed, drawing the horse back to calm the poor beast, that seemed just as afraid as she was. “I didn’t stand in your way, Rowen. You did a perfect job of that all by yourself. You’ve never stood with Locque; you just didn’t oppose her. It’s not the same thing. She never wanted endless bloodshed. What she wanted--what she wants--is a kingdom. With subjects, not hostages. I stand with her because I knew from the very beginning that that was at the heart of her endeavours, regardless of what it took to get there. I knew this, and that is why I chose to believe in here. All you saw was a free pass to spill more and more blood, completely unhindered--but you should have known that wouldn’t last. And now it’s over. Whatever you think you’ll do to me, you’re still done for. I might never leave this kingdom alive… but neither will you. And you know the worst part, Rowen?” Nia narrowed her eyes and gripped the reins of her horse. “You had a chance at real happiness. At overcoming the power your Sight has over you. Hell, even I believed in you, for a while… and you blew it. Because you’re fucking weak, and it’s easier for your to hate and wallow in pain than it is to try and heal.”
There was little that Rowen could say that would make her feel any better or worse at this point. The thought that she might not make it to see Ari again was bad enough; she hardly batted an eyelash at the lies the stupid little wolf spewed in an attempt to make her doubt her loyalties… and her love. “Nice try. I don’t care what you think you see with your Sight; it fucks up the world enough for you that you can’t even see it clearly.” She scoffed, the corners of her mouth drooping into a scowl. “I know Ari. He’s just barely on good terms with Alster Rigas. And I know for a fact that he wouldn’t dare pursue some ridiculous plan to dethrone Locque, because he wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize me. Whatever Alster Rigas has up his sleeve is his own problem, and even if he succeeded in doing away with the summoner queen, Ari would go out of his way to protect me from the repercussions. I’d bet my life and my sisters’ lives on that. So you can take your bullshit elsewhere, because I’m not buying it.”
The sound of heavy hoofbeats startled both the murderess and the Master Alchemist out of their fugue of shared hatred. Someone was coming this way… but who were they after? Rowen… or her? I’m covered in Osric’s blood… no one but me knows that Rowen is to blame. Before she could even finish that thought, Rowen was gone. Leaving her alone like she had never been there… covered in Osric’s blood, just like she had intended. Not only to draw her out of hiding, but to frame her.
She barely had time to tuck her knife back into her boot and put her hands up before she was surrounded by Forbanne soldiers, and their leader. Another man who had been wronged by Rowen; who had almost lost his life to her. Was there a chance he would listen? Or would they arrest her immediately?
Nia’s sigh of relief was audible when the Eyraillian prince dismounted and bade his soldiers to stand down. She lowered her arms; they trembled, as if she were under physical exertion. “She’s here. She was just here; she must still be here, because she’s not that fast.” Her voice, like her arms, trembled, and it was all she could do not to let tears spill down her cheeks all over again. “She killed a man. Go look in the tavern. I’m covered in his blood because I tried… because I wanted to help him. She killed him, because she knew it would draw me out of hiding.”
Was she unharmed? Yes. But was she alright? Far from it. She didn’t hear a word Haraldur said before he and his men took off, to do… whatever it was they set out to do. Kill Rowen, help Osric’s family. Both. It wasn’t until Alster spoke up that she even realized the Rigas mage and his wife was there. They had dismounted their horses; she should have dismounted as well. But she was frozen where she was, and couldn’t be sure that she could move her own. Her limbs felt at once leaden and floppy. “I can’t give chase. It doesn’t matter if I catch her; she’s a fighter. I’m a runner.” Finally, the tears she’d kept at bay began to fall anew. She could scarcely draw breath without sobbing. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, with me. If you’re seen with me, the villagers will see you as an enemy. They think I killed Osric; I’m covered in his blood. His family already thinks so.”
“Then let us help you, Nia.” Elespeth, for once, did not approach the Master Alchemist with hostility. For the first time since they’d met, her face and voice were full of concern. “We can protect you--or we can hide with you. I… we all heard Isidor’s response to Rowen’s claims. I know you’re not guilty the way she claimed you are, even if Locque has renounced you.”
“Again, I don’t know what you’re doing here; here, with me, when I’m not the one who’s dead. I’m not the one who just lost family. I’m not the one deserving of help! Are you an idiot, Elespeth? I’m the fucking reason Osric is dead, even if I wasn’t the one who killed him!” Nia’s voice tore from her lungs, sounding as wounded and hopeless as she felt. “Go and help his family. I don’t deserve compassion any more than Rowen deserves mercy. Just… just go!”
They weren’t going to leave; but she had no intention of staying with them. Before either of the Rigases could respond, she dug her heels into her horse, and took off into a gallop, in the opposite direction of where Haraldur had headed.
Breane had never intended to spend the day helping to clean Vega’s suite. She wasn’t interested in keeping busy; she was interested in finding a way out. It was through the palace staff, and insisting she help retrieve cleaning supplies and gathering what they need, that the young Gardener managed to get lucky and sneak out, under the pretense that she had to find some dusters, as she’d “accidentally” spilled water on the one the staff had brought, rendering it useless for its purpose. By the time Vega realized she was gone, she’d have been too far gone and out of sight to pursue.
Frankly, she was surprised she’d gotten away with it. The Forbanne soldiers hadn’t stopped her when she’d waved the ruined duster at them and gave her poor excuse before hurrying down the corridor… and out one of the side doors of the palace. Seizing one of the smaller horses from the stables, she took off at a gallop toward where she’d overheard Haraldur and the Rigases discuss Rowen.
If Rowen was in trouble… if Rowen had gotten herself into trouble, then it meant she was not only alone, but she was desperate. She needed someone to look out for her, someone who would advocate for her and help her before vengeful hands took her life for taking that of another’s. Breane was not comfortable with what the young faoladh had done, if she’d truly killed a man. But if that in and of itself wasn’t a cry for help, then what was? I let you down before, Rowen. I won’t let you down again.
Arriving at the forest border in a whirlwind, she abandoned her horse, who didn’t seem to want to venture any further, and set off to find Rowen on foot, before someone else did. If she happened to encounter Haraldur… well, then she would tell the truth: that she was not returning to him and his family. Not if he would not let Rowen seek the help she needed.
“Rowen… Rowen! Are you here?” She called, searching this way and that. “It’s Breane, I just want to talk! If you’re here, will you come out?”
Just like she hadn’t thought she would get away from the palace, she hadn’t thought she would find Rowen. And yet… there she was. The she-wolf responded to her call, looking tired and cautious. How long had she been running? How long had she been dealing with this burden on her own…? “Rowen.” Breane sighed and took off her spectacles, wiping the lenses on her sleeves. “Look, I don’t know what happened… I only heard a little bit. Enough that you might be in trouble, and I was hoping I’d find you before they did. Haraldur and the Forbanne. They’re out to get you, Rowen, and if they find you…” She trailed off. There was no need in stating the obvious. Looking down, she turned her palms face up. They were as empty as she felt. “Rowen, I… I know I failed you, in the Night Garden. And I have to live with that. But maybe I can help you now. I know what it feels like to be alone. I know it changes your behaviour for the worst. We don’t have to go back to what we did in the Night Garden. Tell me what it is you need to heal. I want to help you get there.”
Alster shook his head, undeterred by Nia’s attempts to protect their reputations through associating with her. Like Haraldur, he also harbored no doubts about her innocence concerning Osric’s death, because he, Haraldur, Elespeth, Hadwin, Ari...even Isidor—anyone who knew the Master Alchemist a reasonable amount—understood she would never resort to wanton and unjustified violence, especially against a Galeynian; moreso when they represented someone dear, like the newly departed Osric. When weighing Nia and Rowen on the same scale, there was no speculation as to whose blood-spattered coins tipped the scale to a dangerous teeter. Rowen was overladen, heavy with the iron and rust of her many kills. Learning that she had killed again surprised absolutely no one, and Nia’s efforts to shoulder responsibility fell on unconvinced ears.
“If you recall, Nia, my reputation has already been ruined; I ruined it, in the D’Marian settlement. Associating with you can’t ruin it any worse,” Alster explained gently, trying to reason with the rattled woman before she spooked and jetted down the road. From the looks of how severely she leaned over the saddle, reins clutched in her trembling hands, the possibility was all but guaranteed. “You’re among people who are well-accustomed to hatred, suspicion, to exile and ruin and running from the arrows pointed at their backs. Elespeth is right; we can help you.” He slid one foot forward, aiming to creep forward at incremental intervals until he stood in front to obstruct her escape. The five Forbanne Haraldur left as their personal guard shuffled in their mounts, sensing the energy shift in their unstable charge and preparing to pursue as soon as her flight response activated. “If you don’t want our compassion, then reject it, but don’t reject good sense. What good is offering yourself for the slaughter when we’re trying to prevent further carnage? How will your death unite a kingdom already fraught with fear and unrest? We need to neutralize the threat; not bow down to it. Do you understand? You fall down, and Rowen has eked out another victory. Osric is dead and it’s tragic, but it’s no one’s fault but Rowen’s.”
His brow tightened in reaction to his emphatic sentiment. Oh wasn’t he a hypocrite, spouting encouragements to deflect guilt when he, meanwhile, was so determined to assume responsibility for every wrong ever occurring under his nose that was marginally connected to him? Regardless of his hypocritical tactics, he was intimately aware of the nature of her panic and her desire for rectifying wrong-doing through self-persecution. He sidled a little closer to her mount, hoping that his gradual proximal gains would seize, or at least delay, her need to run. “She’s going to keep killing, Nia. We have the means to bar her from more meaningless deaths. Whether that’s by protecting you or by joining the search party, we can end this bloody chapter in Galeyn’s history, together. What’s after tomorrow is not important right now. Let’s get through today in one piece. I understand there is someone waiting for you, who would be devastated if you came to harm or worse.”
She wasn’t listening. In the late morning light, he was close enough to watch her pupils contract into the size of pinpricks, so reminiscent of a hare standing on the threshold of its final moments, no force capable of yanking it from the precipice. One moment, she was with them, and the next, she was a blur of movement as she and her steed launched down the road—but she did not travel alone. The five Forbanne, already anticipating this inevitably, goaded their horses into a gallop fractions before she started, easily overtaking her speed and stultifying her escape by imprisoning her within an impassive barrier of horses. One soldier plucked the reins out of Nia’s hands, wresting control, and began the process of pacifying the jittery and upset animal into calm obedience, while the other four forcibly removed Nia from her mount and lashed her arms to her sides with rope, making certain not to allow her hands to touch, and then her legs. By the time Alster and Elespeth joined the tableau, following along on horseback, the Master Alchemist had already been demobilized, disarmed, and stripped of her personal effects with expert efficiency.
“This isn’t necessary!” Alster butted in from behind, trying to appeal against the soldiers’ overzealous detainment of a person who was decidedly not a prisoner, but to no avail. Like their commander, they were stubborn; stubborn in their methods and stubborn in their interpretation of orders. Nor could Alster raise a hand to impede the five men when their magic resistance rendered the Rigas mage useless. Not that he couldn’t manipulate outside forces to gain an advantage, but he only disagreed with their handling of Nia. However, when it came to her apprehension...he wasn’t all too opposed. In a way, she wanted to experience punishment. Why not acquiesce to her wishes? If she wasn’t deserving of compassion, then surely, she wouldn’t complain about the rough treatment afforded to a prisoner.
“We are under orders to protect you, Master Alchemist,” one particularly scar-pocked Forbanne stated. He had transferred their involuntary charge to his saddle and draped her, facedown, in front of him like a sack of flour, pinning her in place with a firm but not cruel hand. “The means aren’t important. Commander Sorde did not specify. Comply, and we’ll loosen our restrictions. Refuse, and we’ll maintain these strict measures. Until Rowen Kavanagh is dead, you remain under our close observation. For now, we can afford you no freedoms.” His eyes flicked to Alster and Elespeth. “We can’t take orders from you, Rigas.”
“I’ll talk to Haraldur about it, then. He isn’t far. And at lead give Nia the dignity of sitting upright on her own.” His hardened expression softened a little at the defeated—in more ways than one—Master Alchemist, bound and folded into a compromised position, like a hostage taken by highwaymen for a ransom. “We’ll get you out of this state, Nia, but you’ll have to stay with us until the worst is over. Can you agree to that? We stand the best chance together, not separated. Rowen picks off stragglers...and,” he looked nervously over his shoulder, at the not-too-distant village where Osric lived...and died, “that place won’t be a friend to you, either.”
Rowen’s shoulders tilted into an unimpressed shrug. Breane’s “confession” did nothing for her because it had little to do with her. It was all about Breane and losing face as a Gardener in front of her much older peers. Anyone could swap positions with Rowen and Breane would form a personal attachment to them because she had failed, not because Rowen herself meant anything special. She wasn’t important. A mere instrument, an accessory, to measure a Gardener’s accomplishments. But her instrument played a broken tune. Perhaps, it was broken from the start, a defect in the wood, warped from an uneven luthier’s hand. Breane never would have succeeded in fulfilling her hope-laden promises because no one ever did.
“Save me your guilt,” she blew her lips into a buzz of dismissal. “I don’t want it. So you failed. Who hasn’t? You’re just one soul in a long line of disappointments. Don’t take it personally. There is something you can do for me, though. A way you can help me,” she checked the dirt under her fingernails, feigning disinterest. “It’s true. Haraldur Sorde and the Forbanne are out to get me. There’s no mincing words here; they want me dead. But if I’m dead, then I truly can’t be helped—you, included.” She dropped her hand, and the pretense, trading detachment for interest as she captured Breane’s dark eyes in her infernal pools of red. “The prince of Eyraille is very fond of you, as he is with most children. It makes sense; he’s killed so many of them in the past and now he’s overcompensating by sticking his neck out for every single young one he stumbles across,” she said, a casual lilt in her flippant tongue. If the young Gardener didn’t know the details of her wannabe caretaker’s bloody history, it fell on Rowen to inform her. What better gift than the truth? The rest of Galeyn didn’t feel the same, apparently. And neither did Locque.
“You might not think so, but you hold a lot of sway over him. If you’re with me, and you refuse to stand aside or stand down when they crash through the brush and aim their weapons to kill me, they won’t do it; he won’t do it, if there’s a chance he causes you physical harm. Be the shield between him and me, Breane,” she touched the Gardener’s arm. How it felt so frail beneath the strong grip of her fingers, so liable to bruise or to snap, if she applied the pressure just right. “Convince him to let me live. If you can do that,” a twitch of a smile formed on her ironically bloodless lips, “then you won’t have failed me, after all. In fact, you might end up being the sole person in this whole bloody kingdom who gives a shit about my right to live...to survive.”
The encroaching rustle of over a dozen men converged from all directions of the forest, like the cry of cicadas overtaking the melody of a summer’s night. An appropriate comparison; they were all insects, the Forbanne. Insects she had been wanting to squash ever since Mollengard’s invasion of Collcreagh, when they snatched her from her home and tortured her for information on her clan. Elevated position notwithstanding, Haraldur Sorde represented the accumulated evils of the conquering nation that no manner of polished boot soles, fancy titles, the birth of twins, Galeynian adulation, or elemental connections to the forest could erase. She should have kicked his name into the dirt alongside Chara Rigas, Lilica Tenebris, and Nia, but she, admittedly...was afraid. The Night Garden obviously favored him; it restored his silent heart to steady, healthful beats and encouraged his regrowth. From the broken trunk emerged a mighty shoot, and it easily supplanted its previous incarnation, overtaking the decay to climb and expand and climb and expand, into a tree too hardy and more impervious to death than its predecessor. Targeting Haraldur Sorde a second time was not only unwise, but foolhardy.
However...she could still hurt him. Wasn’t he the reason she was forced to abandon all her wonderful staging and leave the clown of a Master Alchemist alive to ruin the performance? The offense was a grave one...and he needed to pay a price.
With Breane’s cooperation, they stayed together, hands clasped, in the middle of the clearing, and waited for the inevitable arrival of Haraldur’s search team. Sure enough, the Forbanne under command secured every possible exit point and lowered their crossbows toward the center of their man-made circle, at the wanted wolf standing in the middle, relaxed...and assured. Haraldur pushed through the formation, hand raised in a “hold-fire” gesture, as his wide eyes settled not on their quarry...but on Breane.
“Breane,” he sucked in an incredulous breath. “What are you doing—get away from her now!”
“She’s with me,” Rowen said, fiddling almost carelessly with a dagger she’d withdrawn from her inside pocket, its blade stained in Osric’s blood. To placate Breane, she offered a side-wink as though to say, It’s only a prop. “She came all this way to see me because she actually cares if I live or die. My one and only defender.”
“Says the person who killed an innocent innkeeper to get to Nia and is waving around his murder weapon like it means nothing,” Haraldur bit, his voice venomous enough to corrode steel. “You had plenty of defenders, and you alienated them all. What did you expect would happen after you campaigned to ruin reputations and literal lives?”
“Don’t preach to me about good morals, kinder-slayer,” she punctuated the unflattering nickname by stabbing the air with her dagger. “There’s no hiding everything you’ve done from my eyes.”
Haraldur shook his head, unfazed and unmoved by her baiting words. “We’ve been through this before, Rowen. You keep striking with the same knife, it’s bound to lose its edge and grow dull. The difference between us is past and present. I did those things. You still do. Breane,” he appealed to the young Gardener who, comparatively, was easier to bargain with than the reason-starved she-wolf, “whatever she said to you, it’s a lie. She has no interest in changing her mind or her ways. She’ll discard you the second you’re done being useful. Step away,” he said, his warning growing dangerously urgent as his eyes pleaded, begged for Breane to listen...while his hand reached for his own throwing knife.
“I don’t think so.” Rowen turned her dagger inward, resting it against Breane’s throat. Haraldur froze. “Hands up, Commander Sorde. And tell your men to do the same. I’ll be able to tell if you’re deceiving me, so you’d better comply.” Pursing his lips so hard they disappeared, Haraldur raised his hands and signaled the Forbanne to lower their weapons. All crossbows fell to the forest floor in a collective clank.
“Let’s compromise,” he said, eyes darting between Breane and her captor, his mind frantically processing what to do. “We won’t kill you, Rowen. But you have to come with us to the palace as our prisoner. Maybe Locque will have mercy on you if we go now.”
“Fat chance,” she growled, clamping the helpless Gardener closer to her side, trapping her into the commitment. The press of cold steel prickled the delicate skin of her throat, threatening to draw blood. “If I return, I’ll end up dead for sure.”
“Not if you’re in the Night Garden,” he hissed, less out of malice, more out of pain. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. “No one can kill you within its limits.”
“You think I’m that stupid, huh?!” Her seethe tightened the grip on the handle of her blade, bleaching the color from her shivering knuckles. “The Night Garden? When I, during my convalescence, saw nothing but the various ways it could strangle, smother, and poison me in my sleep? I know what it’s capable of, Commander,” she mocked. “Everyone knows what it did to the necromancer. So I’ll tell you my conditions. You let me go, let me free, and I’ll let her go, never to have you or your Forbanne pursue me again.”
“We’re cooperating with you, Rowen.” He gestured to his disarmed soldiers, then himself. “You are free to leave whenever you want. We won’t give chase, you have my word; we’ll turn around and go, but only if you release Breane.”
“I don’t believe you!” she snapped, blood-red eyes darkening. “I can see your untruths, clear as blood in the water. You’ll stab me as soon as I let go!”
“Not if you spare Breane!” He was losing Rowen; losing her to an impenetrable fog of suspicion and mistrust—and her features reflected the change. She was becoming unhinged. Too far gone to save from the fathomless sea of her self-inflicted darkness. Little else but black vapor swam in those ultra-reflective orbs, like watching smoke dance in crystal. It was as he remembered them, the night he nearly lost everything. Still, he tried. Tried to clear the fog, tried to present her with straight facts. “Why else would you parade her around me as your hostage if you never trusted that we’d back off and release you? What is the damn point!?”
But it was as though she didn’t hear him. Could not hear him. “All negotiations are off!” And then she whispered into Breane’s ear the final words she would likely hear. “He let you die.”
Haraldur was fast, but not fast enough. In the time it took him to draw his throwing knife and embed it into Rowen’s shoulder, by the time he yelled for his Forbanne to charge, by the time he closed the distance, the faoladh slid the knife across Breane’s throat, rippled into her wolfskin, and sprinted into the forest at a pace too breakneck to follow on foot.
“Take her down now!” Haraldur roared to his pursuing men. “Don’t come back until she’s dead!” He caught Breane before she fully crumbled to the ground, immediately staunching the flow of her gaping neck wound with his hands. But there was too much blood to suppress and the light was already guttering out of her dark eyes. “Stay with me, Breane! We’ll get you home. To the Night Garden!” He tied a kerchief around her throat and lifted the dying girl to his chest as though cradling her, cocoon-like, against his body would stave off the worst of her injury—but he knew where the end would lead. He’d been around death all his life to know what she suffered was fatal.
And nothing, nothing...could change the outcome.
It was so strange, how in a matter of months, Alster Rigas and his wife had gone from whole-heartedly despising her for her associations with Locque, to wanting to… protect her? Spare her from Rowen’s wrath? And why Haraldur Sorde of all people would care to secure her well-being was so far beyond her understanding that she couldn’t even begin to fathom it. Perhaps it was simply that the man’s (and the kingdom’s) collective hatred for the young Faoladh was so much greater than his disdain for anyone else. If she died, if she let Rowen get to her, then that was, as Alster said, another win on Rowen’s behalf--and Haraldur didn’t want her to win. Neither did Alster or Elespeth. Rowen was responsible, both directly or indirectly, for interfering with their lives: this had nothing to do with actually wanting to help the Master Alchemist. It had everything to do with not letting Rowen get what she wanted again. And as much as having a common enemy could draw people together, Nia had no interest in being protected by Alster, Elespeth, or the Forbanne. She didn’t want their help; she didn’t want to be around anyone. Osric was dead. The first person to make her feel welcome in a place that was supposed to be her new home was dead… and all because of her. And she just didn’t care about anything else right now.
Just as she had faith in her own survival abilities, so, too, would they have to trust her to take care of herself. Nia hadn’t forgotten her promise to Ari and wasn’t about to go and get herself killed, and it would be easier to run and hide on her own than surrounded by a group, even if the others disagreed. So she took off on her steed, with the intention to continue her disappearing act for the time being--but the Forbanne soldiers had other plans. The Master Alchemist didn’t get far before the Forbanne soldiers surrounded her and seized control of her horse. She didn’t even have the opportunity to run, before one of them hauled her off of the steed and bound her arms to her sides, and her legs together, the same way they would as if they’d apprehended a criminal. Then again… wasn’t she responsible, however indirectly, for Osric’s death? If not for her, he’d still be alive. His family would still be whole. Maybe she deserved this, but… but that fierce survival instinct that had served her for well over a decade kicked in her fight or flight mechanism, and she could not allow herself to be rendered vulnerable by these people, even if they were under orders to protect her.
“Hands off! I am in charge of my own survival and safety, and I did not ask for any of this!” She growled, struggling to get her hands around the loops of the rope. She could start a fire; burn them off of her body, and make a run for it. If they really intended to protect her, if they were truly under orders not to see harm come to her, then they wouldn’t harm her to force her to comply. They’d have to let her run. “I am under no obligation to go anywhere with any of you! The fuck does Haraldur Sorde care if I live or die, anyway?! His cousin is still under Locque’s control, and it’s not like I’ve done anything to help her. This is just an excuse for petty revenge under the guise of wanting to ‘protect’ me!”
That was the truth to which the Master Alchemist subscribed; she couldn’t think of any other reason that the Forbanne Commander would want her under his careful watch. But, as for Alster and Elespeth… what role did they play in this? Sure, they probably didn’t like her; it wasn’t like she had ever really counted on their unshakable friendship, as much as she’d assumed they were willing to lay down their arms against her since Alster had begun cooperating with Ari. Yet what brought them here now, aside from their dedicated friendship to Haraldur? In fact… how were any of them here now, arriving at such a convenient moment in time? Just moments later, and she would’ve surely been engaged in a battle to the death with the little wolf bitch. Not to mention, the landscape was bathed in morning light, preventing the Night Steeds from galloping to their fullest potential. They’d have had to have left the palace no later than an hour ago to arrive here before sunlight bathed the kingdom in its warmth. Even with magical intervention, to make it here now… they’d have had to know of Osric’s death the moment he’d succumbed to Rowen’s knife. Or, at the very least, they’d have had to have known around the same moment she’d found out, and even then, some magical intervention would probably have been necessary for them to have shown up at exactly the right minute. That would at least explain the presence of the Rigases, considering the Forbanne and their Commander did not possess magic capable of speeding up travel...
Whatever had incited their arrival, Nia was keenly aware that she couldn’t ignore it. Was this just some weird coincidence? Had they had another reason for sending the Forbanne, their Commander, and two powerful Rigases to this general vicinity, completely unrelated to Osric’s death? Or… was there something going on to which she just wasn’t privy?
“Why are you here?” From her uncomfortable position laid out across the Forbanne soldier’s horse, Nia craned her neck to look up at Alster and Elespeth, the former who both tried to advocate for her better treatment, without advocating for her freedom. “Did you suspect this was going to happen… to Osric? Did Rowen somehow tip you off? I know I should have seen this coming… I was too late. Did you see it coming?”
The vengeful little wolf’s biting words had taken root in her mind, even if she hadn’t believed them for a moment. Rowen knew where to strike where it hurt: her trust. Because trust was not something she freely offered to anyone, and she knew she had taken a great risk in instilling trust in Ari, let alone Alster and Elespeth. The worst part was… what she had said suddenly seemed far more feasible than she was willing to admit. “Rowen tried real hard to break my faith in you guys, y’know. In Ari, too. I’m not gonna fall for her bullshit, especially not when she’s spouting shit that involves Ari. Said that the lot of you had teamed up to spy on Locque--on the palace--all this time. I don’t buy it, because that shit wouldn’t go unnoticed by Locque, for one, and for another… Ari wouldn’t compromise my safety like that. Locque wouldn’t be happy with me to know I’m fraternizing with enemies. So if this were really happening, it could mean trouble for me--more trouble than I’m already in. Which is why I’m willing to give you all the benefit of the doubt… because Ari wouldn’t put me in danger.”
Wouldn’t he? Didn’t he choose to protect his people over you? The opposing voice in her head was that of Rowen’s. She fucking hated that little bitch for getting into her head for even a moment… and she wouldn’t buy it. This was what Rowen wanted: for her to doubt her friends. Her lover. She wouldn’t let her divide her comrades and conquer them one by one. Nia had been playing at this survival game for way too long to know that. “So tell me why you’re here. I’m going to assume it’s not because you’re been spying on everyone. I feel like you’ve got better things to do than that.”
“Believe me, Nia, you’re right. We do have better things to do than preoccupy ourselves with what you’re up to.” Elespeth took the usual no-nonsense, no-patience tone she typically used around Nia, in hopes of further deflecting the Master Alchemist’s decisions without outright lying. “But if you think Haraldur, the Forbanne, Queen Lilica, and the Dawn Guard haven’t been keeping a close eye on every corner of this kingdom since Locque ousted Rowen Kavanagh, assuming that we are all in danger, then I’ve given you too much credit to your intelligence.”
“Okay, now there’s the Elespeth I’m used to.” This appeared to placate her and put her suspicions to rest… for the moment, anyway. The Master Alchemist hazarded a tight smile, but it was short-lived. “But, back on topic… get me the fuck out of these ropes, and give me my damn horse back! He’s the only reliable and safe company I’ve had for days, now.” Nia craned her neck to glare up at the Forbanne solider. “I don’t care that you’re following orders--Haraldur Sorde is not my Commander. Nor am I his responsibility, or yours. I answer to Locque. And I’ve done a damn fine job of this whole survival thing for over a decade. So give me my shit back and go make yourselves useful hunting that bitch of a wolf!”
“Rowen, that’s why I came to find you. Because I knew Haraldur was set out to look for you… and I wanted to find you before he did.” Breane tried to plead with the young faoladh. I…” She looked down at the tips of her boots, ashamed at how little she realized she now knew. “I didn’t know he’d killed children. I know that the Forbanne have done terrible things… but it’s different now. Rowen, he doesn’t want to kill. He doesn’t even want to kill you… but you’ve made him feel like he has no other choice. You killed another innocent person… why? Does it really satisfy you? Is death the only thing you think is beautiful enough to see?”
A shield: that was what Rowen wanted of her. To be a shield between her and Haraldur… but how did that fix anything? In the short term, perhaps, but there was still work to be done in the long term. “I won’t let him hurt you, Rowen. I promise because I do believe in you--but don’t you see? I can’t be your shield forever. He won’t stop pursuing you if he thinks you’re a danger. I’ll do what I can to protect you now… but, please, you need to commit to some long term plan. We can work it out on your terms. When you were in the care of the Night Garden… I feel like I really saw you. The real you, and I don’t think that person is lost…”
Before she could finish her thought, they were surrounded by hoofbeats, pounding the forest floor just like Breane’s heart pounded in her chest. The Forbanne… damn, they were fast! Just when she’d thought she’d gotten to Rowen in time, too…
Haraldur was in front of them before either of them could think of running. The young Gardener had counted on the possibility of running into him… but she hadn’t thought she would shoulder the guilt of it so soon. He’d only wanted to protect her; but she wanted to protect the one he wanted dead. “Haraldur, please… Rowen has made mistakes. Terrible ones. And Galeyn might never forgive her, and neither will you… But… killing her is not the answer! Killing has never been the answer. So why are you still resorting to it? You can’t tell me you didn’t see the real Rowen, back in the Night Garden. That person… I know that person is still there. And I cannot give up on them. Gardeners… do not give up on people.”
She was telling the truth. She believed it, wholeheartedly… even when the young faoladh, who she’d really thought could maybe, one day, be her friend, turned her knife on her and pressed the cold blade to her throat. Breane held her breath, afraid to exhale lest it apply too much pressure and cut her. Surely… surely, this was just for show. She wouldn’t really hurt her--and Haraldur wouldn’t let her get hurt. It was simply the action of a desperate person who was full of all the wrong emotions and afraid for her life. That was what she told herself, over and over again, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart in her ears. She could scarcely hear anything else over that throbbing. Haraldur and Rowen were… arguing? Negotiating? She couldn’t tell the difference, let alone what they were saying. Was there anything that Haraldur could say to make her let down her guard, enough to take that knife away from her throat? She wasn’t sure; particularly not when Rowen had no real reason to trust him. But… Rowen could trust her. She knew she could trust her, or else, Breane never would have come looking for her.
“Rowen… do you remember what you asked me? Back in the Night Garden?” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, and it trembled along with the rest of her body. “Do you remember, when you were with me and Teselin? You asked me to show you something beautiful. Rowen, there… there are still beautiful things I want to show you, in hindsight. Things I didn’t think of at the time. I know, this world is unforgiving… I know that very well. But there are parts of it that are still beautiful. Will… will you let me show you what is still out there?” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Of sadness… of fear. “You don’t have to give up…”
Rowen wasn’t listening. Rowen couldn’t hear her; she couldn’t hear Haraldur. She couldn’t hear anyone through her own fear. But Breane heard her, and her words, cold and spiteful, before the faoladh drew that knife hard across her throat.
She knew only pain. The sensation of falling; struggling to breathe. She wanted to speak, to tell Haraldur how sorry she was, but no words came out; only blood. Out of her throat, her mouth… I just wanted to help her. I just wanted her to be okay. If she can be okay… then maybe I can be okay, too. The young Gardener, her glasses having fallen from her face and onto the ground with her collapse, could scarcely make out the face of the kind man who had wanted so badly to protect her, as her vision had begun to darken, regardless of her poor eyesight. She didn’t have time to feel betrayed, or hurt, or anything but confused; and soon, she didn’t feel anything at all, though momentarily did register the sensation of someone’s body close to her own. Holding her like they cared.
When was the last time someone had held her like her existence mattered? A long, long time ago… before Galeyn disappeared. But now, Galeyn was back…
And, ironically, it was suddenly her time to disappear.
Nia’s pleas and demands for release passed over the Forbannes’ ears like the tickle of a breeze; barely acknowledged and wholly inconsequential. The de facto soldier in charge replied, but out of obligation and not so out of a need to reconsider the wishes of their charge. “These are our orders. Setting you free is against our orders. Only Commander Sorde can issue us new orders.” Anticipating a struggle, the Forbanne maintained his firm hold on the Master Alchemist’s back, preventing her from rising on her own. The other four soldiers flanked her on all sides, prepared to subdue her in a variety of methods, but which all amounted to the same result: rendering her unconscious.
“And we do intend to see him and advocate for your treatment, Nia,” Alster said, cantering alongside her on a steed controlled by Elespeth, upfront. “Once this hunt for Rowen reaches its end. But I think it’s in everyone’s best interests that we don’t stray until the threat is neutralized. I don’t doubt your strong survival instinct and your formidable capabilities as a Master Alchemist, but it’s necessary we preserve our energy. It’s no secret that nonstop running on little food and sleep, coupled with any hypothetical uses of your Master Alchemy in self-defense, will compromise your stamina, and it’s vital we take no unnecessary risks around Rowen Kavanagh. She’s proven herself too deadly and dangerous, moreso when acting solo. And frankly,” he glanced across to Nia, whose position forced her to face the ground, making dignified conversation a little difficult, “I don’t think you’ve made enough of an impact on Haraldur to justify invoking his vengeful hand against you. The man’s too busy and exhausted to add ‘personal vendetta’ to his long list of tasks. If anything, it’s Rowen who’s invited his ire, and it’s the reason why he doesn’t want you to become her next victim. There’s no ulterior motive, if that’s what you believe.”
It turned out, it was exactly what she believed. Or suspected, anyway. Her next inquiry, followed by the speculative evidence she’d heard about from Rowen, took Alster by surprise. He froze, which encouraged a new flood of shivers to assail his body as if emboldened by the sudden cessation of activity. How would Nia—how would Rowen—know about the pebble golems? He cast a mind shield spell over Ari and Nadira both when he saw them last. While he could never confirm the strength or efficacy of his experimental casting, he had an adequate amount of faith in his formula and execution, perfectionist that he was. But if Rowen’s Sight could ignore his well-executed protective barriers and carve into the truth uninhibited, then...what else had she been privy to, and why hadn’t she exposed them alongside Lilica and Chara during her campaign to vilify Galeyn’s non-Locque related (barring Nia) rulers and advisors?
Unless...the spell didn’t work on Ari. A man whose composition consisted of inorganic matter could, theoretically, develop a resistance to certain avenues of magic. Just as one couldn’t protect a rock from psychic interference—a rock couldn’t think—or heal a rock from injury—a rock couldn’t heal—Ari, who existed as a strange hybrid, a chimeric half-human, half-golem with unstable biological components, might, depending on his body, also possess a variable and unpredictable reaction to magic in general, ranging from resounding success and resounding failure. And if that were true...it complicated his case, significantly. Alster almost wanted to reveal his newest and concerning, hypothetical detail about the Canaveris Lord’s curse, but that would require admitting to conspiring with Ari, and, besides, now wasn’t the time or the place to carry on about procedures as if they were colleagues exchanging information in the library. So he suppressed his revelations, straightened out his expression in front of Nia, who tilted her head to appraise his innocence—or lack thereof—and hid his sigh of relief when Elespeth diffused the tensions and managed to divert suspicion from them. He didn’t want to sabotage their shaky truce, but keeping silent wouldn’t paint him in a favorable light, either, so he adopted his wife’s model and told his spin on the truth.
“We’re not your enemies, Nia. Not me, not Elespeth, not Haraldur, and definitely not Ari. You’re right. He wouldn’t deliberately put you in danger. In fact, we’re here because of Ari. We’re connected through the resonance stone. If Rowen believes that long-distance correspondence through magical means is a form of spying, then there is nothing I can do to convince her otherwise.” He shrugged his shoulders, also shrugging away the residual shivers clinging to his skin. “Ari informed me of the danger you were in, predicted where Rowen might go, and assumed you would follow. We’re fortunate to have reached you in time. But we can’t push our luck—that includes you, Nia. That’s why it’s so imperative not to leave. There’s no reason to run if it’s not necessary. Besides,” he motioned to the Forbanne guard, who formed a mobile prison around where she lay, strapped and useless atop the leader’s steed, “You’re bargaining with the wrong people. You won’t change their minds, and neither can we. I have no power here; Forbanne are magic-resistant. This isn’t a fight you want to have, Nia, trust me. Opposing the Forbanne is...not wise.”
It wasn’t supposed to happen again.
This time, it was going to be different. This time, he would uphold his years-ago promise and protect the innocent, protect the children, as penance for his sins, and succeed. He did everything right, didn’t he? Learned to skew towards optimism, shun pessimism and believe in attracting good fortune by the simple but effective power of faith. Trusting his wife’s mode of thinking, he adopted the Eyraillian philosophy of surety and certainty and premeditated victory. But maybe his faith wasn’t ironclad. It presented too many flaws, too many doubts, and he questioned its ability to shield him, to shield others, in battle. Maybe that’s why he failed.
Why? Why did he always fail? Why couldn’t people just stay alive around him? Why was he always cradling bodies and shuttering eyelid under which the eyes no longer retained their luster and spark? Was it divine punishment? Some perceived slight he made to the gods at birth, who then rewarded him with endless bad luck? He held his sister, Klara, when she died. He held Vega, too. Shayl. And now…
And now…
“Breane,” he whispered to the dead thing in his arms, though she knew she couldn’t hear him—would never hear him again. “I’m so sorry. I...did everything wrong. Again. I should have killed her the second I saw her. I shouldn’t have spoken to Senyiah on your behalf and had her remove you from the Night Garden. I...should have done so many things differently. After all this time, I’m still…”
I’m still…
“I’m still a piece of shit...who can’t save a damn thing. Forgive me, Breane. You deserved better than this. You deserved better...than me.”
As was so customary, he pressed the child’s eyelids closed, smoothed her disheveled hair, and laid a gentle brush of a kiss upon her clammy forehead. Withdrawing the canteen clipped to his belt, he cleaned her small but precise neck wound, lapping up the fresh blood, warm and still flowing, still gushing, until he’d done all he could to make her appear less gruesome. Less...dead. Retying the blood-soiled kerchief around her throat, he rose from the underbrush and turned in the direction of the road where he and his soldiers had traded their horses in favor of stealthily navigating the dense forest on foot. He took not even two steps before he heard a crunch underfoot. Looking down, he saw them, her spectacles, the last preserved piece of memorabilia that she owned...and here he’d gone and wrecked it, too!
Shifting the body ever-so-carefully in his arms, he crouched and lifted the spectacles by the stem, hoping they were relatively intact or at the very least, salvageable. Hoping he didn’t destroy them beyond all recognition.
The lens popped out of the frame, piece by shattered piece, and the wire, warped and protruding in multiple directions, was too misshapen to close. Defeated, Haraldur nodded in resignation, pocketed the ruined glasses, and silently headed for the road, steeling himself for what awaited him after the long ride back to central Galeyn. The news he would have to share with Vega. The body he would have to present to Senyiah.
And to think, he wanted to be a Gardener…
No wonder why nothing happened when he drank the leaf-brew tea a few nights ago. The Night Garden didn’t believe him to be a good fit, and surely...it was right. I couldn’t even help one of your own. What good am I to you, if I was unable to do something so simple?
The return journey to central Galeyn felt especially long and, as if the lithe and almost weightless second passenger added the tonnage of bricks upon the poor steed’s back. At least, it was how Haraldur felt; a heavy, ponderous load he couldn’t shake or lift, no matter how much he tried to think of his wife and his children, who eagerly awaited his arrival. How Kynnet’s eyes would crinkle with delight at seeing his father, content in knowing he was nearby; how Klara would demand he throw her skyward, trusting he would always catch her. But right now, reminiscing about his children wasn’t enough...not when a dead girl leaned against his arms. A girl without a family, for whom he wanted to provide a home.
He reached the gates of the palace just as the sun threw itself upon its self-made pyre, surrendering to death and the dark. No sooner had he dismounted and gained his bearings than a passing Gardener saw in his possession the body once belonging to Breane, her face growing pale and ghostly.
He didn’t want to discuss what happened. No, he didn’t want to do anything at all but douse the flame and fall into blackness. If he couldn’t see anything, then did it ever really exist? This day—and other days like it, before? Gone. Obliterated by the abyss?
The Gardener, to her credit, understood his inner peril, asked for no clarification or details, and guided him to Senyiah.
But someone had gotten to the Head Gardener before him.
When he entered Senyiah’s Night Garden-facing quarters, he faltered in his approach. Vega was in the other woman’s company, discussing, he assumed, the young Gardener’s status as a missing person. They didn’t need to wonder for long. As he passed through the doorframe, a grisly sight in blood-spattered armor and a lifeless form dangling from his arms, the conversation lapsed into speechlessness. He would have loved nothing more than to let the scene speak for itself, but it merited some attempt at an explanation. So, bowing his head, he opened his mouth, and said only one thing. It was all he could manage.
“Rowen.”
Rowen.
Though stultified and clipped, Haraldur’s one-name statement carried enough resonance to catch the ear of someone who lurked outside of the door. Hadwin, who had taken to prowling around the Night Garden whenever possible for exercise, happened to see the defeated Forbanne Prince arrive, carrying the corpse of the young Gardener who once cared for his sister. It didn’t take a strategist to determine what happened, but to hell with speculation; he wanted to hear the condemnation link her to the death of Breane. To hear it aloud gave him a renewed sense of purpose; that Rowen was well and truly beyond reason, beyond redemption—and he was out of time. While he was flouncing around the Night Garden like a drunken flower, building up his pitiful strength at a pitiful speed, Rowen was out there, killing two people, two Galeynians, in one day and confounding elite Forbanne soldiers.
He didn’t know exactly how it played out between Haraldur, Breane, and Rowen, but he could hazard a guess, because he detected the frayed ends of it when they confronted each other behind the sanctuary a few days ago. She had lost her mind. It was gone, stripped by the wind, scattered and shredded and impossible to recover, impossible to restore.
Tonight was the night. He wasn’t ready, but it had to be tonight. Before she offed someone else. Before someone else offed her.
The odds were ugly, but he’d gained some Galeynian cooperation. Old man whiskers, it turned out, had a wide reach of influence, and if Hadwin asked the right people, of which he all knew by name, they’d set him up with whatever he needed, as long as he kept his promise.
I’ll take care of Rowen, he’d whispered into Frederick’s ear on the day preceding Locque’s speech. Help me make it happen.
He knew someone else who could help, too, but the fact remained if he’d even deign to help at all.
But there was one way to find out for sure.
Exiting the Night Garden, Hadwin headed for the palace. A few days of high-intensive exercises had strengthened his gait, but not at the brisk pace he once enjoyed. With a tiring half-trot, he reached his destination. Adequate timing, all things considered, but dammit, he had to be faster! Optimized. Properly equipped. Enhanced. To throw regular recovery into the rubbish and yet still come out swinging.
Which inevitably led him to Isidor’s door.
Not surprisingly, the latch was in a locked position. The shut-in really meant it when he declared that everyone leave him the hell alone. Unfortunately...Hadwin couldn’t abide by that wish.
But he’d at least do things the polite way and knock first...before straight up trying to lockpick his way inside.
So he rammed a fist against the wood frame, a battering ram of a call too powerful to ignore. “C’mon, Isidor; I know you’re awake! And if you weren’t before, you definitely are now!” His distinct timbre drifted through the timbers like little knives gouging the surface. “Yeah yeah, not supposed to disturb you, but hear me out. I’ve got something...I need to do,” he said, vaguely, his voice lowering to a still-audible hush. “And you can help me do it. Without ever leaving your room, mind. I just need some stuff from you. Whatever you’ve got. Whatever can make me a fucking force to be reckoned with. But you also see, I can’t die. Tes can’t have me die; it’ll break her apart. Now, it’s up to you if you wanna scream ‘Fuck you,’ through the wood because you’ve got every right to despise my guts, so if that’s what you decide, then I’ve got a parting request for you. In the event I don’t make it,” he checked the corridors for eavesdroppers but found none save for patrolling Forbanne, “then look after her for me, yeah? Tes. Be there for her. She needs someone who sticks around till the end. I wanna be that bloke for her, but...well,” he smiled wistfully to himself, “nothing’s a sure thing in this world, ain’t it?”
The resonance stones… of course! Of course Rowen would spin that in her twisted little mind and call it ‘spying’! But she had known of the resonance stones, knew who used them, including Nia herself. Her scathing little comment really had been to try and create dissent and mistrust between her and her allies. Just hearing that explanation from Alster’s lips put her at ease infinitely more than she had been before, and made her vulnerable position feel considerably less compromising. And of course Ari would reach out to Alster if he was concerned for her safety. She hadn’t picked up her resonance stone in days, not since she had last seen the Canaveris lord, for fear that it would give her position away. He was looking out for her from afar, even while he couldn’t see her. Why had it ever crossed her mind that there was a chance she couldn’t trust him? If he trusted Alster, Elespeth, and Forbanne commander enough to look out for her, then she had no reason to question his judgement.
“Ha--of course. The resonance stones… The little bitch is paranoid as fuck. I knew she was just trying to get under my skin.” The Master Alchemist sighed, frankly relieved to know that she wasn’t surrounded by compromising company… despite that the Forbanne saw fit to treat her like a fucking prisoner. “Look, I’m grateful that you all showed up when you did--even you knuckleheads.” She gestured with her head to her; Forbanne surrounding her. It was starting to hurt to crane her neck to make eye contact with anyone. “I don’t think I could’ve taken on Rowen on my own. I’ve got my talents, yeah, but I’m not much of a fighter. So much obliged for scaring her away and all. But… seriously, this is kind of overkill, wouldn’t you say?”
Of course, she was referring to being tied up and restrained at all angles, which Alster had said he didn’t exactly agree with (as far as he would say, anyway), but as before, her request was not met; it didn’t seem to matter how aggressively she asked. “Okay, alright--you win. I’ll stay with the lot of you ‘for my own protection’. Not that I have any idea why your Commander would give a shit about the likes of me. Sounds like kind of a strange order, but hey… I guess I shouldn’t complain at having armed guards looking out for my safety. I’ll cooperate.”
Still, nothing. The Forbanne made no move to release her from their overbearing hold. Perhaps they didn’t believe her; or maybe they were just asshole. "Ah… hello? Anyone? Alster, Elespeth, help me out here. The blood's rushing to my damn head--my vision's getting all fucked up."
"You did say that you'd release her, pending her cooperation." As much as Elespeth would have also preferred to keep the Master Alchemist better contained, it wasn't humane to keep her in that particular position while awaiting orders from Haraldur, when they had no idea as to his expected return. "She did just agree to cooperate."
"She hasn't given us reason to trust her." One of the Forbade argued. "Words mean nothing."
"What? We'll what the fuck do you want from me?" Nia groaned, and dipped her head in defeat, letting it hang to take the strain off of her neck muscles. "I thought Ari called on the lot of you to help me, not make me miserable!"
It took a little more convincing from the Rigases to give the Master Alchemist a break. Alster hadn't been kidding: the Forbanne answered only to Haraldur, and she wouldn't find herself out of shackles anytime soon. However, Alster's practiced diplomacy and smooth way with words did convince them to at least allow her to sit upright--although they were none too gentle hauling and repositioning her body like she was a rag doll. But she was lucky there'd only be bruises to show for, right? Better than a slit throat, courtesy of Rowen Kavanagh.
"Really? This is as good as it gets?" Via sighed, and looked down at her arms, bound fast to her sides. "Ari will be pissed off to hear his cry for help treated me like a prisoner."
"I'm not sure he'll be pleased to hear you tried to run away from his help, either." Elespeth commented and raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. "Count your blessings, Ardane. Like Alster said, we're not your enemies."
Nia laughed out loud, sharp and humorless. "With friends like you, dear Elespeth, who resents me for not suffering enough--yes, word travels, you know," the Master Alchemist leveled her with a knowing look, "who needs enemies, right?"
The colour drained from the former knight's face. There was no excuse or backpedaling from words she'd known she had said. Words that Alster had recommended she confide in Nia, so that she and the Master Alchemist could find an understanding. She should have taken his advice. "Nia… I never should have said that--"
"Out loud? No, that's something you probably should've kept to yourself. But, hey, no one can fault you for the way you feel! At the very least, I hope this," she nodded at her bound hands and feet, "makes you feel a little better. I don't have it as good as you think, especially not now. Wouldn’t you agree?"
“Can we just… Nia, you’re right. I’ve been in the wrong with you--about you, toward you, and we should work it out.” Elespeth, her shoulders dipped in shame, raised her hands in defeat. “And we will--but first, let’s survive the rampage that is Rowen Kavanagh’s wrath. All of us. And when it’s safe, you can… I don’t care. Throw shade at me, deliver a hit, whatever it takes to make you feel better. If we can survive. So can we please just focus on survival for a second?”
“Sure, Elespeth. Not like I have a choice in the matter, right? So I’ll just… sit here.” Nia lifted her shoulders in a shrug, since it was the only motion she could really make with her limbs bound. “Surviving. It’s what I do best.”
By the time Vega realized that something wasn’t right, that too much time had passed since young Breane had left to retrieve simple cleaning supplies for the serving staff, it was too late. She acted as quickly as she could: ordered a lockdown on the palace, along with a search party to find the young Gardener, but she was already long gone. They realized as much when taking inventory of the stables, and noting that they were short one horse. The majority of Forbanne had been deployed with Haraldur, and between those that remained, along with the Dawn Guard, no more could safely be spared. So out of desperation, the Eyraillian princess left her children with their nurse, and did the only thing, the one, last desperate move that she thought might make a difference.
“Lilica.” Vega didn’t stop moving until she tracked down the Galeynian Queen in one of the palace’s upper corridors. She was out of breath by the time she managed to find her; the dark mage wasn’t in her chambers. News of Osric’s death hadn’t evaded her; it seemed as though she wasn’t sure how to proceed with the news, either.
“I know,” she’d said to the Skyknight. Her dark eyes were frantic, but her voice was quiet. “I know of the man Rowen killed… I know.”
“Not him. Breane--the young Gardener. She’s gone, Lilica, from the palace. I think she has left to look for Rowen. Do you understand what I am telling you?” Vega closed the distance between herself and the Galeynian Queen in the corridor. “Galeynians are dying. There is only so much you can do with the power that you have. I can’t believe I am saying this… but this has gone too far. You need to appeal to the other half of the power. I hate to put you on the spot… but no one is better equipped to address it than you. Step up, Queen Lilica.” In a bold move, she reached out, and grasped the Queen’s shoulder. “It is time for you to step up, now.”
Following her encounter with the true Queen, the Skyknight Commander rushed to the Night Garden, coming to find that Senyiah and the Gardeners were already well aware of the situation regarding Breane. There was nothing to be done at that point but hope that the girl, wherever she was, was safe, and that all would turn out well…
But Haraldur returned that Night. And it was everything… everything they had feared.
“Breane…” Senyiah’s voice was reduced to a shaky whisper of disbelief. Rowen, was all Haraldur said, but as soon as everyone took note of the small, still being he carried in his arms, they knew. They knew what had happened to her. “Breane…”
“It’s my fault. I’m to blame…” Vega murmured, tears welling in her eyes at the sight of the young who, just that morning, had been alive, and well, and full of energy. “I didn’t watch her closely enough. I trusted her to stay with me and the twins… not to leave the palace. I… I am so sorry…”
They were not alone with their grief for long. The door of Senyiah’s quarters opened, and in stepped Lilica… in the company of none other than Locque. The two Queens, standing together, for the first time. Lilica said nothing, motioning with a hand to the lifeless form in Haraldur’s arms. “Two Galeynian lives have been lost today. A man named Osric, near the farmlands. And this… she is… she was a Gardener. A child Gardener. Both of them,” she turned her head to face Locque, “killed… at the hands of Rowen. The faoladh that you chose to trust.”
The summoner Queen just stared, eyes wide, at the dead child in the Forbanne Commander’s arms. A child. A Gardener. Just like… just like… “...I was a Gardener.” Locque spoke so quietly, it was hardly audible as a whisper. “I was… like her.”
“Locque. It is time to act. Your people trust you to protect them: how are you going to do that?” Accusatory as the question was, Lilica kept her voice neutral and soft, for fear of inciting Locque’s wrath. Nonetheless… the words needed to be said. “How are we to proceed?”
The summoner Queen remained silent. Perhaps she didn’t hear, so trapped in her dismal thoughts at the sight of a dead child, murdered by Rowen. Or, worse… because she didn’t have an answer.
“Locque.” Lilica repeated. “What do--”
The summoner Queen gave no answer. Her face was unreadable as she turned, and hurried out of the room, just as quickly as she had come. No answer, to plan, the summoner Queen left the small party with their grief, and her kingdom with their now deep-seated fear and panic.
Isidor was not unaware of what was taking place outside of his chambers; but neither was he able to make a difference (or so he thought), and thus, did not interfere. Since his grand announcement to the kingdom, embarrassment had kept him to himself, as he had second thoughts about whether he should have said anything at all. This kingdom was falling apart; but it wasn’t his kingdom, and these were not his people… so what should he care? Why did it still bother him so much, and why wasn’t it easier for him to take steps toward leaving for his tower? Was it Teselin? Or hopes that Tivia might return? Or Alster’s pleas for him to stay…?
Ironically, these thoughts exhausted the Master Alchemist such that sleep finally found him, and he spent the past couple of days in and out of blissful, dreamless unconsciousness. To think, all it would take was spending everything that he was worth, and feeling free with nothing left to give, to allow him a shred of rest? Yet, just as ironically… now that he’d found rest, someone saw fit to disturb it. Replenishing sleep was just not meant to be for Isidor Kristeva, with the acquaintances he had made since arriving in Galeyn…
He awoke to loud banging on his door late that night. Incessant knocking… and a voice that he wished he could forget, let alone ignore. “Fuck…” He muttered, helpless but to listen to Hadwin’s reasoning as to just why he should help him this time. It would have been so easy to tell the reckless faoladh that he could deal with his own problems, but Teselin… would Teselin ever forgive him, to learn that he hadn’t helped someone she cared for so dearly when he was in need? Did he need her forgiveness? Could he live with himself to live with her eternal resentment…?
Moments of silence followed Hadwin’s words. He didn’t need to answer the door; he could have left the faoladh on his own, without an answer either way. He could have… but since when had he ever said ‘no’, let alone successfully ignored a request? In any case… he wasn’t fool enough not to realize that the kingdom’s safety had taken a turn for the worst very recently. A kingdom that he had yet to leave. Didn’t this, then, affect him too?
The door opened with a quiet click. Isidor stood before the man who was responsible for his downward spiral (at least, he needed someone other than himself to blame), and adjusted his spectacles on his face. “You want to kill your sister; you want strength to kill Rowen.” It wasn’t a question: there was no other reason Hadwin would be here right now than to ask for strength. “But you can’t, as you are, because you haven’t recovered. And that’s why you’re here: you want me to restore your strength, and then some. Well, you’re in luck, because it just so happens that what you want is possible--but not without risks.”
Opening the door wide, Isidor silently invited Hadwin inside, and quietly closed them into his chamber. “I can enhance your strength, your agility, your eyesight--whatever you want, temporarily. But to do so will put tremendous stress on your body. Though if you plan to run headfirst into danger, regardless of whether you are prepared for it… then I suppose the risks don’t matter to you.”
Adjusting his spectacles on his face, Isidor took a seat at his desk and opened a notebook to a blank page. “I’ll enhance your fighting performance based on your natural physical prowess. Bear in mind, the effects will only last about a day, and as soon as they begin to wear off, you must return to me. You won’t survive coming down from the temporary enhancements on your own, so if you do manage to survive whatever it is you are planning, you’ll be in my care for no less than a week afterward. You’ll receive gradually reduced doses until your body returns to its baseline. I’m not going to pretend that process won’t be uncomfortable, at best. And don’t think for a minute I’m going to go out of my way to make it better for you.” Scribbling a few notes and alchemical symbols on the blank page, Isidor glanced sidelong at the wolf. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain that I am doing this for Teselin, and not for you. Not only because she is fond of you… but because it is only a matter of time before your sister loses her mind enough to target mine, as well. I can’t have her in danger. I couldn’t live with myself.”
Putting down his quill, he folded his arms across his chest, silently grateful he’d gotten what rest he had prior to Hadwin’s arrival. He’d be awake for the remainder of the night. “Leave me with some of your blood; I’ll have a serum by morning. It will be rushed, and there will undoubtedly be side effects, but time is not on our side.”
Silence was preferable to Haraldur, and desirable. Recounting that fateful afternoon in even the faintest of details was enough to discourage his tongue from lifting to produce a grunt of sound, let alone a coherent string of sentences or words for the remainder of the evening and of other evenings to come. But seeing Vega, tears of guilt springing into her eyes as she spoke her confession, encouraged him to become more forthright with his information—however it might damn him.
“I watched it happen.” He closed his eyes to shield his vision from the dead girl lolling in his arms, but he didn’t like what he saw in the darkness, either. Recollections rippled like the wind on water, but the images still visible under the surface were mirrored and warped. In the water mirror, Breane’s death was sloppier, his reaction time, slower, Rowen’s eyes, bloodier. “I had Rowen surrounded in the woods. We had her, but she took Breane hostage. I stopped the kill order. We negotiated—her release for Breane’s life. I complied, but it wasn’t enough. And...Rowen killed her. Rowen killed her to spite me. So it’s my fault. If we shot first, if I had acted before Rowen drew her blade…” He opened his eyes a slit, but realigned his gaze to the floor, too ashamed to meet the too-pale face of the girl he damned by his inaction. “I failed to protect Breane. I failed to do the bare minimum. My negligence killed her. More than playing father figure, more than replacing her as a Gardener, this was how I best could have helped her. And I let her down when it mattered most. This death was preventable, but I botched the execution. And I have nothing else to say but...I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Breane,” he secured his grip around the lightweight body, afraid that any slackening of his muscles would cause her limbs to pop out of their sockets and break what little cohesiveness remained in her empty vessel. Despite this worry, he still refused to relinquish her, to lower her down on the bed or pass her into Senyiah’s care. But before any attempt of an exchange could occur, the door to his left clicked open and in walked Lilica...followed by Locque.
Among a being so volatile and unpredictable as the summoner queen, Haraldur stiffened into his soldier persona, masking his emotions and presenting himself as a man devoid of everything but straight facts and reason. When Lilica prompted her successor, imploring she manage the situation, it took all of Haraldur’s willpower not to react to her utter lack of a response.
“Your Majesty, Rowen Kavanagh must answer for her crimes,” he said, an urging disguised from a shout. “Left unchecked, she’ll destroy more innocent lives. Galeynian lives.” In the end, he compromised between compliance and rage, and went instead for a growl of defiance. “My soldiers are hunting her as we speak.” And to her retreating back, he declared, “Because if you won’t do anything, we will.”
“Wow, look at you, quick on the uptake. I must say, you’re in peak form tonight. Exactly what I want to see,” Hadwin effused as the Master Alchemist unlocked the door and invited him inside. Not that he had too many doubts about Isidor’s reluctant willingness to assist one of his least favorite people in all of Galeyn, but even so, he calculated a chance, however slim, that the careworn shut-in would tell him where to shove his request. Both were in keeping with his character, but Hadwin was chuffed, to say the least, that Isidor’s concern for his sister exceeded his resentment.
The moment the door closed shut, locking the two in forced proximity with each other, Hadwin dropped the easygoing pretense. This wasn’t a pleasure call, though frankly, they never shot the shit together, and likely never would. Isidor was far too gloomy, to start—though Hadwin might have been to blame for the personality shift.
“So we’re on the same page. Perfect. I’ll get right to it.” The faoladh stepped further inside, grasping the backrest of an unused chair for a little support. Since getting back on his feet, he refused to use a cane for balance, preferring to bang around from wall to wall until he fell or figured it out. But when it came down to standing at rest, he couldn’t quite equalize his two feet to stay without teetering, no matter how he positioned them. “My sister’s on a rampage. I heard it all. She killed that sweet ol’ innkeeper in the farmlands and butchered the kid Gardener who was helping her recover. Papa Sorde’s in a state. Locque came around to check the kid’s corpse, but she’s not gonna do shit about Ro, so it’s up to me. Because you’re dead right.” He leaned forward on the chair, the intensity of his golden eyes catching the lantern light in a yellow moonglow. “There’s no telling when she’ll come for me, or Bron, or Briery...or Tes. About fucking time I put her out of her misery. ...like I should've done all along.”
At Isidor’s mention of ‘risks,’ Hadwin blew out an airy chuckle, unswayed by the news—wobbling limbs notwithstanding. Unlike his usual fare, the laughter rang uneasy, hollow, half-formed. “Ah, you crack me up, Isidor. Like any of that shit’s gonna deter me one bit. I know what I’m in for. Like I wasn’t in the worst pain of my life for a month straight. What’s a little extra squeeze? Do me a favor and don’t go easy on me. Take me for all I’m worth if it satisfies you. We’re not pals, as you’ve so eloquently pointed out, but you can bet I’m in it for Tes. I’d stake my life on her safety, if it comes to that—because I’ll fucking drag Rowen to the grave with me; she ain’t escaping this time. I’ll bury my monster, whatever the hell it takes.”
He landed a hand on the table; it jolted from the force of his slam. His lips pulled into a grimace of a grin, twisted and possessed of a demonic energy that already transformed him into something grotesque, warped by the burden of his responsibility and the path it paved for him—into hell. “So pump me full of your serums. Don’t fucking hold back. Give me strength, agility, and hypersense. I wanna sniff her out from halfway across the damn kingdom and hear the shiver of her bones when she runs. Enhance my healing so she can pock me full of holes and I won’t even fucking bleed. Do all these things and I’ll pay the consequences with interest. Hells, it’s your opportunity to take some free shots, fuck me up good and proper, so I say go big and don’t squander your chance for revenge.”
He pushed away from the table, from the chair, recovering his equilibrium by sheer adrenaline alone. “And just to make this a true gamble...get it done sooner. Before dawn; before everyone wakes up. Every minute’s precious, and I’m not just speaking for Rowen’s next victim. The longer this takes, the sooner Tes is gonna realize I’m up to something and she’s gonna get herself involved. I don’t care if what you make for me’s imperfect; as long as it does the job, I’ll take it all the same.” From his belt, he withdrew a dagger and held it to his palm. “Where do you want me to bleed? And there’s more of it whenever you’d like, cuz I ain’t leaving here until it’s done. I’ll give you your space,” he jerked his head toward the antechamber which designated the bedroom, “but I’m not leaving.”
True to his word, he never exited Isidor’s chambers, but also true to his word, he opted not to breathe down the Master Alchemist’s neck and relocated to the next room to pace, from corner to corner, because anything was preferable to sitting, still and alone in his thoughts. Prior to arriving at Isidor’s quarters like a true stray dog begging for a bone, he’d settled a few affairs. Knowing Teselin would awaken in the sanctuary and notice her idle-averse companion was missing, he’d recruited a few palace attendants loyal to the slow-burning Galeynian resistance movement—started by Frederick and his followers—to cover for his absence. He stationed a few of those attendants near the sanctuary, Bronwyn’s quarters, and Briery’s quarters—an extra few sets of inconspicuous, unassuming eyes to help pinpoint sinister goings-on from any shadows possessing teeth, or a dagger. But their main function was to ensure no one, not Tes, not Bronwyn, not Briery or the Missing Links, set foot outside the relative safety of the palace. Relative insofar as Locque didn’t blow her top and lose her shit, true, but Hadwin’s reach had its limits and Tes wasn’t stupid, either; sooner than later, she would realize exactly what his disappearance meant and no walls or spies or Forbanne would hold her at bay.
It occurred to him that he could have injected the sleeping summoner with the sedative Senyiah had entrusted to him, the sedative used in the event of an emotional outburst imprinted on the weather in the form of destructive storms, but he didn’t want to leave her defenseless...or reeling from his betrayal. Because, yes, she would interpret it as a betrayal if he subdued her without word and then wandered off to his possible death. Already, he was treading on thin ice, putting himself at so much risk and trading his barely stable health to snap his sister’s neck before she collected an even grander pile of bodies, but if he succeeded, then it didn’t matter. Rowen would be dead, and he would have upheld his promise to Vitali. I’m looking out for you, chickadee. I’m looking out for us. You wouldn’t have the stomach for what I’m about to do, so I gotta go out there and do what’s necessary. Rowen’s my mess. It’s on me to finish what I started.
He fingered the ends of his shoddily-knit scarf, the only gift Rowen had ever given him. Though the weather ceased the necessity for a woolen neck covering, Hadwin stubbornly kept the itchy thing on in an act of defiance...and an act of love. A foolish part of him hoped her darkness-blighted Sight would pull a reverse effect and retreat behind the sun, giving her the clarity to actually trust that he wore that crimson banner of pride for her. He had no ulterior motive other than to remind, not manipulate, his sister that, for him, at least, their lifelong bond was real, not fake or fabricated.
I’m doing this for you, Ro. To save what little of you that isn’t poisoned and rotten. To let you leave this shitty world by the hand of someone who cares, and drain you of this clinging darkness.
Isidor was nothing but efficient. Two hours before dawn-break, he completed the requested serum, which he presented to Hadwin, albeit with a disclaimer. As was true for any rushed product, doubly for this one, he couldn’t promise an experience free of side effects, especially considering Hadwin’s current, far from peak, condition.
“Bah, you don’t have to tell me twice,” the faoladh dismissed with a hand wave. “Wanna know how many dubious things I’ve put into my body over the years? I’ve dealt with all the bad trips. It’s worse when you’ve already got the predisposition to see things that aren’t there—thanks, moonsight—and you can’t figure out if that shark in the sky is someone’s fear or just something you cooked up yourself. So hit me up.” He pulled up his shirt sleeve, exposing the veins in his arm for injection. “Or well, hey, you’re iffy around this kind of shit. I’ll do it.”
He plucked the syringe out of Isidor’s hand and, at his instruction, pumped the bilious liquid into his bloodstream, and waited. The waiting part was the worst, and he would have taken off by now because he didn’t have all day and wanted to beat the sun before it burst its morning salutations into the sky, but what was the point in bolting out the door before either of them could check the efficacy of the experimental serum? So he sat, and drummed his fingers on the tabletop, and banged his knees together, to an irregular rhythm in his head...until he stopped, and his eyes grew wide as the room around him...changed.
The hermit alchemist’s chambers never boasted great lighting, a sparse few lanterns scattered here and there, but Hadwin wasn’t bothered; his vision at night or in dark spaces outperformed that of a regular human’s, allowing him to distinguish shapes and depth when his companions saw only blurs. But now, with the significant shift occurring in his body, he saw a room buzzing and electrified with activity. No—seeing was just scratching the surface. The walls crackled, the wood beams under the paint and plaster shifting, settling, deteriorating under the munch of tiny insects, gnawing with their tiny incisors. Dust motes hung in the stale air, so thick he could extend his hand and draw them aside like curtains. Half-filled bottles in hidden boxes, in hidden shelves, revealed their contents; cinnamon, clove, lavender, ground-up rust and charcoal and silver powder and leather. When he rose from his chair, in his haste and excitement, he knocked over the empty ampule where the serum was once stored, but recovered it mid-air, barely after it skimmed off the surface. It was like catching a snail, its movements minuscule. But just as easily as he scooped up the falling vial, it crumpled in his grip like a dead, desiccated leaf, becoming glassy residue in his palm.
“My bad.” He wiped the dust on his trousers. Hell...even his voice sounded different! Like he accumulated frequencies and tones that didn’t previously exist, before! “This is something else.” He curled and uncurled his fingers, the veins protruding from his skin in contrast. In vibrant contrast. “I can see colors. None of that muddy shit I see all the time. Like, green, and red, and some other shades that don’t have names. Fuck—ok, ok, I gotta get my shit together.” He was yammering, his words flying off his tongue, and his heartbeat roared in his ears and the world was so damn loud! He opened the door and sent the heavy oak swinging out of control and against the outside wall. It banged, alerting anyone within the vicinity of his presence. “Shit. Well I can't say what you've done for me's not effective. Anyway, this is my cue to beg the hell out of here. I’ll be back before I turn into a pumpkin, rest assured. But if I don’t,” he shrugged, “well, you know how the story ended.”
Saluting his supplier, fingers flicked against his temple, Hadwin turned and breezed down the corridor, too fast for anyone to stop or question him. He skirted past the soldiers instituting a palace-wide lockdown, Forbanne, Dawn Guard and the royal guard, all told, and hopped the closed gates in a leap of impressive athleticism. It was the first time he felt like himself in well over a month, spry and speedy and ready for a fight, his muscles limber and receptive to the shifting of his weight limb to limb...but it tasted bittersweet in his mouth. And as he sailed down the road and plunged into the dark, predawn forest—only it wasn’t dark for him, but a beacon of sensory activity, glossy like prisms reflected in a million overlapping bubbles—thoughts filed down to one single arrow-tipped point, nocked and ready to lance forward, undodgeable and inevitable.
I’m coming for you, Rowen. You’re dead.
...And so am I.
As a rule, Isidor didn’t ‘rush’ anything. A rushed job seldom to never yielded favourable, lasting results, and Master Alchemy in particular was not the place to cut corners considering the impact it had on the body. When applying Master Alchemy to a living being, you were toying with life and well-being. A single slip-up could mean the difference between a life enhanced and a life cut short. You didn’t fuck with modifications made to people, and you certainly did not give yourself any impossible deadlines at the cost of safety. Under any other circumstances, Isidor would have happily told Hadwin to shove off in any manner of colourful words, because he had little right to ask him for any favours, let alone demand that he come through right this moment. And, were it not for the fact that this situation involved Teselin, he probably would have.
But, although begrudgingly, Isidor had to admit that Hadwin was right. They had no time: they were already out of time. Rowen had begun her rampage, and there was no guarantee that she would stop anytime soon. She hadn’t stopped at Osric; she probably wouldn’t stop a Breane. And not only could Isidor not afford to let her go after his sister (the least he could do for her, despite their tenuous relationship, was to help her survive), but, as much as he hated it… neither could he let Rowen sink her fangs into Hadwin. Because that would absolutely destroy Teselin. So, by ensuring the infuriating faoladh’s survival… so, too, would he be ensuring his sister’s happiness and well-being. He had already let Teselin down in so many other irrevocable ways… and if the one person in her life happened to be the one person that he despised, well, his feelings didn’t matter.
“Oh, I have no qualms about hurting you. I lose sleep over a lot of things, and that wouldn’t be one of them.” The Master Alchemist snorted, ignoring the way Hadwin slammed a heavy hand upon his desk in emphasis. “But I’m afraid that can’t be my goal. Because hurting you hurts Teselin. That said, I can’t guarantee it’ll be particularly comfortable. Generally, physical changes to one’s body aren’t, especially when they take place rapidly. But it’s like you said: you’ve been bedridden with worse pain. Much to my own dismay, I cannot rightly anticipate that this will bother you much at all. Consider my warning a courtesy and a formality; you’re right to think I don’t give a fuck about what you actually feel.”
He did look up from his desk and papers, however, at Hadwin’s demand to get the task done sooner. Fortunately for the faoladh, the dreamless sleep that the exhausted Master Alchemist had finally been able to achieve had put him in a slightly better mood that afforded greater tolerance for Hadwin’s bullshit. It was for that reason, combined with an understanding that they had run out of time, that prevented Isidor from making a colourful comeback and telling him where he could shove his demands, prior to booting him out of his room. “Nobody tells a Master Alchemist how fast they should work,” he said at first, his face deadpan, and ran a hand through his shoulder-length inky hair. “Because you can’t rush concentration. On those grounds alone, I should tell you to go fuck yourself and leave me be. But beyond that… what you’re asking for is already risky, in and of itself. The more time I have, the better I can refine the serum to work out any potential side-effects it might have. It’s going to take a toll on your body, regardless. Finishing it before dawn is more serious than what I would even call a ‘gamble’; at the very least, something like this should take no less than a day. And you’re going to have to face my sister for your recklessness, regardless of how soon I get this done. But…”
Isidor removed his spectacles from his face and polished the lenses with the corner of his tunic. It had been some time since they’d been properly cleaned; he hadn’t found the time nor the clarity to concoct a solution to render the glass sparkling and as good as new. “I can’t risk my sister becoming a target of your sister--and, frankly, it doesn’t really matter to me how much you suffer. Should you react badly, Teselin might blame me for agreeing to help you at all, but that is neither here nor there. I might have helped, but it was ultimately your decision, and for a reasonable cause. Again, I state these cautions as a formality. So that neither you nor Teselin can blame me if things go wrong.”
Reaching into a drawer below his desk, he withdrew a clean, empty vial topped with a cork. “Fill this halfway with your blood.” Isidor handed him the vial, pretending that the knife in Hadwin’s hand didn’t make him feel queasy. Pretending that blood in general didn’t make him feel queasy… Too bad he was absolute shit at pretending. “Also, standing over my shoulder and tapping your foot impatiently is a great way to get me to work at my very slowest. I do not require an audience.” He indicated the door with a nod. “Get out. I don’t care if you camp outside the door, I don’t work with lurkers breathing over my shoulder: I’ve worked alone for well over a decade. When I am satisfied I have what I need--and I guarantee, it is going to be beyond perfect--I will let you know.”
Hadwin didn’t have the luxury of arguing with the person who was going to get him exactly what he wanted, so the faoladh complied and left the Master Alchemist alone. More of Isidor’s room was a workshop than it was a bedroom; although Lilica had kindly given him space in the now abandoned dungeon area to perform his alchemy, since Locque’s takeover, he had aptly avoided venturing anywhere outside of his chambers if he could help it. Gradually, his workshop several floors below had begun to bleed into his bedchambers, until the place was, at this point, little more than storage for books, ingredients, and tools, with a corner dedicated to actually doing the work, and approximately half of a bed for sleeping (the other half was occupied by yet more books and papers that he had yet to organize and put away). Isidor preferred it this way: he could do what needed to be done without having to risk encountering anyone (Locque included). He could work without prying eyes, without expectations hanging over his head. It was the closest thing to the comfort, solitude, and security of his tower that he could have, short of actually being there. And, frankly, he found he did damn good work in that small space allotted to him, so there was no chance in hell that he would jeopardise the quality of what was going to be an already rushed product, just because Hadwin was antsy and refused to leave him alone until he got what he wanted. After all, for better or worse, his name would be attached to whatever happened to Hadwin. If things went awry, whether or not the fault would lie on his shoulders, he at least would not be faulted for doing his best with the time that he had.
And, to his credit, he came through. Dawn would not break for another two hours or so, and what he had was… well, if nothing else, it was stable. It would be compatible with the faoladh’s strange physiology (and what little he knew of it; this was the first time he’d ever developed a serum for someone who was other than human), and it would deliver its intended effects, hopefully long enough for Hadwin to get the job done. It was what would occur in the aftermath that he couldn’t be sure of… but, the faoladh seemed prepared to take that risk.
Hadwin was not far, and not difficult to find. He called the wolf back into his room when the vial of serum was loaded into a syringe and ready to go. “Now hold on.” He pulled his arm and the serum back before the faoladh could grab for it, impervious to Hadwin’s impatience. “I don’t care what you’ve put into your veins before. This substance has my name and reputation attached to it, so I’m not going to hand it over until you understand exactly what you’re getting yourself into. Sit down.” He nodded to the chair at his desk, and stubbornly stood aside until the wolf-man complied. “Typically, temporary physical enhancements are childsplay in my field. They’re reliable and they deliver, and at worst, require a few days of bedrest and gradually reduced doses to recover from the abrupt change. But I’ve never crafted one for someone… other than entirely human. Not for someone with quicker reflexes or a better sense of smell, or the uncanny ability to heal at the rate that you do. That is all new to me, and this,” he gestured to the syringe with his free hand, “this is new to me. On a good day, with adequate time to prepare, I would be hesitant to give this to you without failsafes at the ready, but we do not have that luxury right now. So listen very carefully at what I am about to tell you, because for my sisters sake, I will not hand this over to you if you intend for it to be a suicide pact with your sister. Do you understand?” He looked Hadwin dead in the eye, his dark irises glittering with conviction. “Do you promise me, on my sister’s life, that you do not intend to die? Don’t try to pull any bullshit. I want the truth, and I want to hear it.”
Isidor didn’t relent until an exasperated Hadwin promised--on Teselin’s life, at that--it was not his intention to take out Rowen, and to let himself expire shortly after. The Master Alchemist couldn’t be left alone to pick up the pieces of his sister when she shattered from finding out that Hadwin was gone… or the pieces of what was left of this kingdom when her magic took control. “I’m holding you to your word,” he said at last, as he handed Hadwin the syringe to inject himself (which sat far better with him; veins and injections still made him want to vomit, after all this time). “It should take effect fairly quickly.”
Truth be told, Isidor wasn’t sure what to expect. Whether the transformation would be painful, or simply ineffective, with his lack of knowledge regarding faoladh biology. But as Hadwin’s eyes widened, it became clear that something was happening… It couldn’t be perceived by the naked eye, whatever change was taking place in the wolfman’s body, but in upsetting the ampoule sitting on the edge of the desk, exactly what had taken place to temporarily alter Hadwin’s physiology was evident. The faoladh caught the tiny glass bottle so quickly, Isidor almost didn’t see the movement… and when he opened his hand, that class had turned to dust, a fine powder that spilled from his open palm into a small pile on the floor. Gods, the Master Alchemist thought with both awe and terror. Have I actually created a monster?!
Well, on the bright side, this was purely temporary. If Hadwin set out to do what he’d claimed, there would hardly be any time to misuse this temporary gift. “Great--so glad for you that it worked. Now listen--really, listen.” Isidor leaned on his desk and took a steadying breath. “For an average person, a serum like this would last them at least twenty-four hours. But that will not be the case for you, since your body metabolizes substances so quickly. At best… and this is just a guess, but I estimate that you are going to start feeling as though you are going downhill in about fifteen hours. By this time tomorrow, you won’t be in good shape. So whatever it is you have to do--do it fast. Do you understand?”
The Master Alchemist positioned his body in front of the door to make a point that he wasn’t about to let Hadwin leave until he had heard him out; every detail that mattered. “And when you’ve done your deed, you need to return to the Night Garden immediately. When the serum wears off, you’re going to crash, and it won’t be pretty, because I didn’t have time to work out the worst of the blowback you’ll experience from this serum. You’ll need the Night Garden’s stabilizing energy, and you’ll need my assistance to help your body return to its natural rhythms over the next week and a half at the very least. Enhancements such as what you are experiencing do not come without an immense price to pay. I can’t stress that enough--do you understand? You promised me this wasn’t suicide. So I expect you to follow through and return in one piece. Am I making myself clear?” Isidor narrowed his eyes, and finally, stepped away from the door. “There is pain worse than death if you break Teselin’s heart. She’s already lost one brother. And there isn’t enough left of me to be enough for her, if you are no longer a part of her life.”
As soon as Hadwin had the opportunity to take off, he was gone… and it was only once he had left that the Master Alchemist realized he needed to disclose what he had done, and what Hadwin had planned. A wise person once said it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission… It wasn’t as though he had many allies to lose, to begin with, but he did hope that those who saw him as an ally as of now wouldn’t condemn what he had done for the faoladh.
So Isidor did something completely uncharacteristic and left his room, in search of… well, anyone familiar, be it Alster, Queen Lilica, or even Hadwin’s elder sister. The palace was chaotic with patrons and serving staff running about, but it wasn’t until he ventured outside and headed toward the Night Garden, prepared to come clean to Teselin, that he found someone else first.
“...Alster?” The Rigas mage’s name was a question on his lips just as he approached the Night Garden. Alster and Elespeth were astride a horse, accompanied by several Forbanne on their own horses, and… Nia Ardane, her hands bound to her sides. “...what is going on?”
“Isidor! Lovely to see you. Don’t worry--they assure me I’m not a prisoner, and this is merely for my “safety”. The other Master Alchemist winked her sarcasm. “Apparently I can’t be trusted to keep myself safe from Rowen, so I’m in the company and care of these hospitable Forbanne, Alster Rigas, and an Atvanian knight that is sour I haven’t suffered enough yet. I couldn’t possibly feel more loved!”
“Another time, Nia. Please.” Elespeth groaned, and took in the sight of the Kristeva alchemist, who looked as though he was looking for someone, or something. “Isidor, what brings you out here? Is something wrong?”
“I just need someone to be in the know of what I’ve done for Hadwin.” Isidor sighed, feeling the weight of guilt on his chest already. “He wants to… deal with Rowen, himself. So he asked if I could help. And I agreed, because I know that my sister will eventually be one of her targets, too. I provided him temporary physical enhancements… but I had to rush, and I am not certain they will last as long as fifteen hours. When the serum wears off, he is going to be in need of help, and I made him promise that he would return alive. Someone is going to need to ensure he returns alive, if he survives this encounter with his sister. For Teselin’s sake.”
“Wait--Hadwin is going after Rowen? As in, right this moment?” Elespeth’s eyes widened, and she was suddenly more alert than she had been all day. “Then he’ll be headed for the forest. Rowen took off around the western border. Alster,” her eyes were both a plea and an apology as she turned toward her husband. “...stay out of danger. I’ll be back.”
Without another word or explanation, the former Atvanian tugged on her horse’s reins, turned the animal around, and proceeded to gallop in the direction from which they had come. She couldn’t forget that Hadwin had been there in her time of need. Had it not been for him, she’d likely have died of exposure. It was a debt she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to repay… but, now, maybe she would find that opportunity.
During a rare moment of reflection afforded to her after overtaking her persistent Forbanne pursuers, Rowen was beginning to regret what she’d done to Breane.
Different from her usual targets, the young Gardener did nothing wrong. Nothing that merited a premature death. Even her past victims, the kindhearted innkeeper, Sigrid Sorenson’s well-meaning whore, and the cantankerous but beloved Missing Links acrobat all carried in them enough darkness to justify ending their lives. Adulthood did that to you; it disconnected you from childhood innocence. For every person who wandered away from the purity of youth, either by the chronological and inevitable march through mortality over the years—like Osric—or the much quicker corruptible route reserved for the truly wicked—like Nia and Hadwin—they became less and less redeemable, and begging to be erased from the earth. But Breane was barely out of childhood, experiencing both loss and a responsibility too heavy for her to wield without stumbling. Rowen felt bad for her. Hells, Rowen liked her. Believed in her, more than the other dredges of humanity who pretended to have her best interests at heart.
There are still beautiful things I want to show you…
Those words were among her last, and if not for the Forbanne and their meatheaded commander bearing down on her, maybe they would have made an impact, in the moment, and Breane would still be alive.
But the truth was, she felt the impact now, and there was nothing Rowen could do about it. She might have weaseled her way out of killing a no-name innkeeper who only Nia and his family cared about, but killing a child Gardener to spite Haraldur…
How would Locque let her get away with that?
Alas, daylight faded, gloaming into night, and night lost its structure, dissolving into yet another day.
No one came.
No one but the sinister whispers in the woods kept her company. Active regardless of the time, they projected their long shadows across her feet, ensuring she always walked in shade even when the bright sun aimed to kiss her skin and light her path.
What now?
Even if Locque didn’t come for her, there were others who wouldn’t let her live. Not Nia, not Haraldur and the Forbanne, whose trail she just barely managed to shake.
And not…
Hadwin?
A distinct scent caught on the breeze and funneled it through the trees, alerting her to the fast-approaching figure who seemed to ride on the air thermals like a Night steed at full gallop. But the sun was already well on its way to zenith-point, and she didn’t smell any accompanying fibers of horse hair. No, he was a solo traveler, and he, somehow, managed to unearth her hiding place beyond the borders of Galeyn, far from roads and so deep in the forest that the trees buffed away the telltale signs of her existence via their natural springtime perfumes and broad-leafed barriers that beat back the wind. How…? Last time she saw him, he could hardly move, let alone perform supernatural feats!
Dammit, she cursed to herself. Others must have contributed to his augmented abilities. The Rigas mage or...a Master Alchemist. They had come for her, after all…
By sending the worst person for the job.
How desperate were they, thinking that Hadwin, even when primed and polished and sharpened on a whetstone, would stand a chance in hell against her? He hadn’t the stomach to do her in, much as he thought about it, and considered it, and sometimes planned for it, but in the end…
She was made to defeat him. And while the circumstances were less than ideal, he had saved her a trip. Now that she answered to no one, let alone Locque, she couldn’t very well leave Galeyn for good without taking care of some unfinished business. Nia notwithstanding, Hadwin was originally first on her list of people to die, and he was coming alone, wrapped and shining like a Yuletide gift arriving early. And with no one else for miles, as far as she could tell...because she knew how he operated. He wanted an audience alone, no interlopers, no one to interfere. And though it could be a trap, she doubted it, because Hadwin worked solo, and anyway, making herself scarce wasn’t an option when his speed and sharpened sense of smell were impossible to outpace.
So she stopped, sat down, shifted into her human skin, naked and unarmed (her dagger discarded in the woods when she last transformed)...and she waited.
A russet-colored wolf barreled through the dense brush, frothing at the jowls from overexertion, the fur on his body rippling in steady heaves and waves. But despite his seeming exhaustion, he remained unaffected by the demands screaming for his attention. His accelerated heartbeat beat so loud, she heard its drumbeat thrumming as assuredly as her own.
“Hadwin, what did you do to yourself? All of this...to kill me?” She breathed, and her concern wasn’t entirely an act. “And I bet I couldn’t ask you to stand down for a minute...to talk to me as a human, before you eliminate me for good? You have me cornered, anyway. I’m at your mercy. So can we talk—one last time? A last request...if I deserve that much?”
A noisy snort expired from his nostrils. Yes! She was getting to him. And sure enough, his perspiration reeked of alchemical tampering, of pungent chemicals mixed and concocted in a dank workshop. No doubt it was Isidor’s handiwork. The shut-in was probably sore at her for exposing his twisted liaison with Nia to all of Galeyn and willingly lent his aid to a man he despised in an act of revenge. She confirmed some of the truth dancing on display in her brother’s yellow wildfire eyes—because even fire cast a shadow, and she saw the darkness. His intentions.
Her eyes widened, and fear clamped her chest.
He really was serious about killing her. More than he ever showed it in the past. So much so, that he tampered with dangerous alchemy to gain a killing edge. If she fought him, or fled, in his current condition...she would end up dead.
But surely, she could change his mind! And the effects of his enhancements weren’t permanent; they would wear off in time. In hours! She’d talk him down, delay him until the effects disappeared. Hadwin loved distractions, loved shooting the breeze, yammering away the livelong day with his flapping mouth!
“Come on, Hadwin, you always like to get the last word in. You’re not going to end things without saying a peep?” She elected for a little humor. A titter of a laugh. “That’s not like you at all! I mean, I’m not even resisting. You could have me in seconds. Let’s enjoy the time we have—please?”
He budged, but only to stalk closer, his paws pressing into the ground, leaving their deliberate imprints in the loamy dirt. His muzzle curled, exposing his canines, canines that never once aimed to snap in her direction. On the contrary, they always spread with mirth, his grins as wide as the banks of a river in the spring melt; engorged and thawing. He knew how to unfreeze her heart, but not to clamp it shut.
“Very funny, Hadwin. But we both know this is not how you want things to go down.” She rolled into a crouch, planting her hands forward on all fours. “You might decide to stay as a wolf, but that doesn’t matter because you won’t resist for long. I’ll wait. It speaks volumes that you haven’t done shit to me yet.”
She took advantage of his hesitation, his intense silence, to keep talking, to keep him engaged. “Look, I didn’t mean to kill Breane. I didn’t want to kill that innkeeper. Your alchemist supplier got caught in the crossfire, but I was trying to get to Nia. To Haraldur. No one’s on my side, here. They’re all traitors. No one gives a shit about anyone other than themselves. But they lie. They lie to your face. They claim they do care, and that your feelings are valid, but it’s all bullshit said to make them feel like they’re contributing. To make them feel less alone, and less shitty about their own miserable lives,” she growled, revealing her own human set of canines to hide the heat building behind her eyes—but to no avail, because in that heat roasted her fear, and his eyes flashed knowingly. “But I’ll drop my vendetta, Hadwin. I’ll leave Galeyn and never return if you let me go. Technically, we’re not even in Galeyn! Who’s to say I wasn’t already attempting to leave this place for good? It’s not a bad deal, no? I’m out of your hair, and I get to live.”
He didn’t step down. Didn’t back off. Didn’t ease up. When she spoke again, her voice pitched, notes of desperation carrying her pleas. “Do I have to spell it out for you? This isn’t new, Hadwin. All my damn life, I’ve been afraid! I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid to trust people because even the most well-meaning will let you the fuck down because that’s human nature! Everyone is fucking irredeemable. Even you. Especially you. You let me down the most, with your silver tongue and cozy lies, ensuring me I’m fine when I never was fine! I was never going to be fine! You could have been my savior. Hell, you can be my savior right now by letting me go, but you’re choosing to follow the model of every other disappointment that’s walked into my life. So why not?” She laughed, tears streaking out of her eyes, blurring her vision, darkening it, casting her into that forest with the shadow creatures who snacked on her soul and never relented, no matter how much she screamed to stop.
I want to be a good person. Let me be good. Give me a chance! I still need to find it! To find beauty. A reason to believe in this world!
Chance? Those shadow heads surrounded Rowen, leering, gleeful, cutting. You had every chance, and you blew each one. We never made you do anything. We only exist because of you.
In hearing that affirmation, that confirmation that she ruined everything beautiful that walked into her life because she brought the darkness wherever she stepped, not the other way around, she...snapped. “Fine! Be like our whole damn family. Be like mam, who fucked you. Be like da, who fucked me. Do it, and I’ll curse your name. I’ll haunt you like mam haunts you, and you’ll never know peace as long as you’re alive! I’m capable of cursing you because I’m evil. I’m fucking evil! So kill me, Hadwin, and I’ll destroy you from the inside out. Take my darkness and let it infect you, infect your new family and everyone you care about. Let you bring about their downfall! It’s what you deserve. Hell on earth is what you deserve!” She summoned the darkness, his darkness, and projected it at him. A final goodbye present. An ugly, petty, torturous farewell, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.
Life had betrayed her at every turn. So what better way to return the favor than to make a mockery of its gifts and spit her reprisals at its chosen advocate as she willingly went down to spite creation?
You gave me nothing but pain, Life, so fuck you! I’m glad to leave. I only wish I fools have hurt you worse!
She went and tolled her damage. Took as many people with her as possible and hell, really did make a name for herself in the short span of time she was active. She only wished to remove Hadwin alongside her, but this was the next best thing. Make him suffer. Make him wish to die, as she had succeeded in doing, before.
Did peace exist for her on the other side? Did beauty?
No, she didn’t think so. Not for the likes of her. Because she had her answer. The promise of beauty was a sham. The only thing guaranteed in life was the absence of pain.
Of death.
So as Hadwin finally charged her, shaking off her darkness projection, his speed blinding, she didn’t resist. She let it happen. Let him tear her ribcage apart, let him spatter her heart and make a mess of everything while she felt nothing but relief in knowing it was all over.
It was finally fucking over.
It would have been better if she fought. It would have been better if she ran. It would have been better if she did anything else.
But she didn’t. She did worse. She offered herself as a sacrifice, a barbed-tip of a sacrifice guaranteed to shoot thorns into his skin and bury themselves into the bone, becoming part of the bone, never to be excised or forgotten. He almost broke his self-imposed gag rule, to shake into his human form and remind her of the unnecessary attempt to crush his spirit via casting her aspersions and forcing him to relive every wrong he ever committed because he damn well knew, already. Yet...what she said was effective, and it was as he anticipated. She didn’t need a knife to gut him. Even as he straddled her unresponsive body, massacred to bits by his unparalleled strength, he shivered in memory of her parting blow, afraid of its truth.
Would the darkness drain from Rowen’s body, as planned, only to enter and infect him? Would he inherit his sister’s disease, or acquire her vengeful spirit sitting on the shoulder opposite his mam, a second set of jagged glass teeth to gnash and condemn?
He backed away from his handiwork. Her torso had imploded from the crush of his jaws, sending her insides into a macabre spiral pattern of gore, coating the leaves, the ground, himself, in red, so much red. There was no finesse in his murder. No clean-cut swipe across the throat to ensure the integrity of the corpse and grant mourners something to bury. No, he defiled her, transformed her into an unrecognizable pulp too shredded to lift her body and transfer her elsewhere without having her fall apart in his arms.
He backed a few more steps. A few more, still. The longer he stayed, staring at Rowen’s glassy eyes, her expression frozen into a rictus of terrifying finality, of raging acceptance, the likelier he’d be damned, doomed to die. The man in him wanted to stay and bury his sister, give her some version of final rites, but the animal, the survivor in him, wanted to run.
So he ran.
He ran to escape, ran for his life, ran to forget, ran for the sake of running, of moving, always moving, he needed to move and never stop because to stop meant defeat, to stop meant she would find him, to stop meant death, and he couldn’t die, he couldn’t die, he promised not to die!
In running, he lost track of sense and he lost track of time. He’d become a feral creature now, operating purely on instinct and on fear, but he didn’t realize the shooting pain in his limbs, the sudden sluggishness of his gait, the shroud of exhaustion tightening his muscles, until too late. The sun plunged below the horizon, stripping the light from the sky, but sloppily, leaving bloody streaks overhead. Much as he was determined to run despite the physical shutdown of his body, he couldn’t outrun the sky, or what he’d done, and…
Pressing on was pointless. So he stopped and allowed Isidor’s serum to render him into nothing…
And into nothing he would have become if not for the whinny of a horse and the voice of its rider filling in his failing ears. Unbeknownst to him, he’d collapsed on the road and…
His wolf eyes blinked up at the woman dismounting the horse beside him. Was that…
Elespeth?
With the last vestiges of his strength, he shifted into his human form, the sickening cracking and rearranging of bones requiring twice the amount of time and energy to perform. But he’d managed the feat, at the cost of everything, and he lay, useless, twitching, an unbearable ache taking over his beleaguered body. And yet...he couldn’t let things end this way. Not without breaking his silence. Maybe in breaking the silence, he could break Rowen’s curse before it had the chance to roost and breed. So he turned his head to the woman who he thought was Elespeth, though it was hard to tell when darkness enclosed, dropping its oppressive weights on his internal organs, his lungs, and he squeezed out a whisper. A declaration. An announcement.
“Rowen’s...dead. Dead…” His too-heavy eyelids sagged, then closed.
And was he dead, too?
I promised. I promised Tes!
But he wouldn’t wake up.
While Elespeth was a capable knight, fighter, and soldier, unlike the faoladh that she now sought, she had never been much of a tracker. In the split second that she’d made the decision to take off in search of Hadwin, who was no doubt in danger on many fronts, the former knight hadn’t considered just how long it would take to find him, especially as night bled into morning. She hadn’t slept: she wasn’t sure that anyone in the kingdom had slept, when word had gotten out that Rowen was loose and on a rampage, but adrenaline coursed through her veins at such a great extent that it felt reminiscent of that blasted herb she had once been so dependent on, and she wasn’t going to give up anytime soon.
A small handful of Forbanne had accompanied her, not on her request, but in following orders from Haraldur to track down Rowen, upon realizing the surest path to her would be through her brother's pursuit. Dawn had broken by the time they’d made it out to the farmlands and proceeded to scour the area for any signs of the young she-wolf, or Hadwin, but they had no luck pinpointing either of the wolves within the kingdom. And when they reached the forested western boundary of Galeyn, Elespeth had begun to lose heart. It was as if Hadwin and Rowen had disappeared completely: one had fled, the other pursued, never to be seen again. What was most frightening was the possibility that this very well might be the case. What if he hadn’t gone to kill her, but had convinced her to leave? To flee from the danger of the bounty now on her head? The ex-Atvanain didn’t want to believe it, but… the possibility was just too great. Who would want to be responsible for the death of their own sibling? She had only indirectly been responsible for her brother’s death, and that haunted her to this day. Hadwin… he couldn’t live with another haunting. It would break him, and maybe running away with his guilt, from Teselin, and Bronwyn, and everyone who cared about him was more tolerable than having Rowen die by his hand.
It wasn’t until the small party wandered just beyond the Galeynian border, to the point where their horses found it difficult to navigate the trees and brush, that they came upon half of their reason for departure from the central city--the Forbanne’s reason, at least. While they had not found Hadwin, the bloody scene they came upon was solid proof of the faoladh’s loyalties, and where they were aligned. Rowen Kavanagh--or what was left of her--was strewn about a small area between two trees, her body broken and ripped open like a doll whose stuffing was carelessly discarded. It was not the first time Elespeth had witnessed a body in such a state of mutilation, but it turned her stomach, and she was forced to look away and cover her mouth and nose lest she start to retch. There was no doubt as to who had done this to Rowen. The Forbanne were efficient and relatively clean in their killing: they did the job and did not mess around. No one could have rendered the youngest faoladh in such a state… save for a wolf. Another faoladh. Hadwin had done this to her.
“...she’s gone. You’ve done your job; I’m not in need of any protection.” She said to the soldiers, but they already seemed to understand before she even ventured to explain. “Go and tell Haraldur what… who we’ve found. I’m going to continue looking for Hadwin.”
With any luck, the Forbanne Commander would not require proof, for Rowen was in far too many pieces to retrieve and bring back to the palace, as no one had thought to bring a sack in which to lug a dead and disemboweled body. Kicking her steed into a gallop, she retreated from the area and ventured back the way they had come. There was no breaching this barrier past the outskirts of Galeyn by horse, anyway: the steeds could not venture through the thicket of the brush, and she would be of no help wandering around aimlessly on foot. She had to believe that Hadwin had not left the kingdom. That he had not killed his younger sister, only to abandon Teselin and all of his friends and comrades. He had too much to live for: he’d said as much to the young summoner, and there was no telling how terribly his disappearance would affect her, and what her magic would do to this kingdom and its people as a result. Hadwin might have been reckless, but he was far from stupid, and he’d known exactly what he was doing. Perhaps what he hadn’t been able to anticipate was how terribly it would all affect him… and what he would end up doing as a result.
“Hadwin!” Elespeth called his name over and over again, over the galloping of the steed’s hoofbeats. “Hadwin, please! Where are you? Hadwin!”
She’d been calling for what felt like hours. Her body was exhausted; her voice had grown hoarse, and she was beginning to lose it altogether… and then she spotted something in the distance. A form, a lump, a contrast against the green grass of a field in the direction of the palace. Her heart lurched, and she directed her horse toward it, calling again. “Hadwin… is that you? Hadwin!”
It was him. He was completely naked, which she assumed had to do with shifting from his wolf form after destroying his sister, but a cursory once-over as she hurriedly dismounted revealed that he was unharmed. But that did not mean that he was well.
“Hadwin…” She had left in such a hurry, it hadn’t occurred to her to retrieve a blanket for him in case of finding him in his human state. The man must go through so many clothes… But that was the least of her concerns right now. How long had it been since he had taken Isidor’s dosage of that serum? Had she really been searching for him for almost fifteen hours?
“Come on. Not today--you don’t get to die today, Hadwin.” Her words were firm and harsh as she knelt and lifted his body from the ground. She was grateful for all of the extra training she had gotten in from training Alster, and later, keeping fit with Bronwyn; otherwise, she wasn’t sure that she’d have been able to lift his weight high enough to drape him over her horse. “Not today, do you understand?! There are too many people counting on you being alive! You could’ve left me for dead; you didn’t.” After positioning his unconscious body up against the horse’s neck, she took a seat behind him, using the weight and positioning of her own body to keep him in place so that he would not fall. “So I’m not leaving you for dead, either.”
It must have been a combination of fate and luck that she’d come across him at all, that he had managed to wander back within the boundaries of Galeyn, and that they were close enough to the Night Garden that, even in the daylight, they might make it to the Night Garden in time--’might’ being the operative word. Elespeth wasn’t familiar with Alchemy, and she didn’t have Alster’s or Isidor’s ability to gauge someone’s wellness in detail just by touching them, but in knowing that the faoladh had not been well to begin with, she could only guess that he needed intervention as quickly as possible. But Rowen… she looked to have been dead for hours, bloodless and grey as she had looked. He could have made it back in time to receive Isidor’s help before it became crucial…
Perhaps part of him had wanted this. To run and run and run himself to death for what he had done to his own flesh and blood. On one hand… Elespeth sympathized, and she didn’t blame him for how he felt. But that didn’t mean she could give him what he wanted. Breane would be the last life that Rowen would take: and the former knight was determined not to let the little bitch take Hadwin down with her, post-mortem.
It was around the same time that Elespeth had left to find Hadwin that Teselin had awoken in her chambers to find that Hadwin was missing. Considering the chaos that stirred since the Gardeners had been alerted of Breane’s death, it was a mystery as to why she hadn’t awoken sooner. The palace was rapt with panic, voices and footsteps never ceasing outside of her door, like people were running without knowing where to run, or what to do.
Springing to her feet, she hurried out the door and glanced about. Hadwin wasn’t well; he really couldn’t have gotten too far on his own, right? The palace was only so large, and even if he left, he was still limited in his mobility. “Hadwin--have you seen Hadwin?” She asked several passersby, but none claimed to have any idea as to his whereabouts--those few who took the time to speak with her, at least, but so many were wrapped up in their own panic that they didn’t even hear her speak.
The young summoner scoured the palace, looking everywhere she was allowed, and even places where she wasn’t sure she’d be granted entry… but, nothing. There was no trace of Hadwin anywhere, and in her gut, she knew that he would not be found within these walls. So in a panic, Teselin, completely barefoot, made her way toward the heavily guarded gates of the palace.
She didn’t even make it halfway when she was intercepted by Forbanne soldiers. Of course, she, like Breane, had been cautioned not to leave, for fear of becoming one of Rowen’s victims, since the young faoladh had tenuous ties to them… but she couldn’t afford to stay put! “Please---you have to let me go! Hadwin shouldn’t have left, either! He could be in more danger than me. I need to find him!”
“Teselin…” Isidor, Alster, along with the Forbanne escorting Nia (who was no longer bound at the feet, at the very least) had turned a corner just as the young summoner was trying to force her way past the massive bodies of the Forbanne guarding the door. Seeing her brother out of his room was enough to avert Teselin’s attention, and give her a little bit of hope. Maybe they would help…!”
“Isidor--Alster, I can’t find Hadwin. I don’t know where he is… I’m afraid he might be in danger.” She spoke her words so fast they ran together. “Have you seen him? Do you know where he could be? We’ve got to find him, he could--”
“Teselin.” Isidor stepped forward and gently laid his hands on her shoulders. “We know where Hadwin is and what he is doing… Come with us. We’ll fill you in.”
The small group opted to congregate in Alster’s chambers, as they were larger than that of Isidor’s, Teselin’s, or even Nia’s, and were more securely protected against outside ears listening in on private conversations. True to his word, the Kristeva alchemist came clean to his younger sister about the reason Hadwin had approached him, and what he had done for him. Having anticipated she might not take it well was yet another reason why they had chosen to speak in Alster’s quarters: to offset what damage her magic might do if she lost control. True to Isidor’s concerns, she was upset, but… more in the way of being hurt, rather than shocked.
“Why? Isidor… why did you do it? I… I just lost Vitali. Vitali is gone. I’m never going to speak to him again, and there’s no chance that he can ever be part of my life, but Hadwin… Hadwin promised me he was through trying to destroy himself.” Her lower lip quivered, and she sank against the wall. “Rowen will kill him, Isidor! Is that why you complied? Why you ‘helped’ him? Because you knew that there was no way he would ever survive this?”
“I did it because the child Gardeners is dead, Teselin--and I didn’t want you to be next!” Isidor blurted the words out before he could think about what he was saying. It was perhaps the rawest expression of care that he had for his younger sibling whom he hardly knew. He knelt to her height where she stooped again and rested his elbows on his knees. “It’s… like you said. Vitali is gone. You’ve got Hadwin to lean on, but… when it comes to family, all I have left is you.” He smiled sadly and removed his spectacles to polish them on the corner of his shirt. “I know you wanted to be close, at one point, and I ruined it. Much like I ruin every relationship that comes into my life… but it doesn’t mean I don’t care, or that I don’t still want to help you. I couldn’t let you become another casualty. And beyond that, Hadwin… I think he wanted to be the one to end his own sister’s life. It was something he felt he had to do, and he’d have found a way, even without my help. Contrary to what it might seem, since I don’t particularly like him, I’m rooting for his survival.”
This seemed to deescalate whatever intense emotion was building inside of the young summoner. She looked up from the floor and studied her brother’s face, wondering if she’d actually heard him correctly. That he and Hadwin were for once, not at odds, but in agreement over one thing: her survival.
“Elespeth and some of the Forbanne have already gone in search of Rowen and Hadwin: the Forbanne to deal with Rowen if need be, and Elespeth insisted on watching out for Hadwin.” Isidor went on, looking emotionally drained as he straightened his posture. “He’s looking out for you too, Teselin. I made him promise he would make it out of this alive; I wouldn’t have lent him my services if he hadn’t.”
“I’d trust your brother on this one, hon’. Hadwin’s not gonna let you down. Elespeth’s not gonna let him.” Nia piped up from her own corner of the room--still bound at the arms. “But, hey, now that we’ve taken care of Hadwin’s well-being, and y’know, Rowen’s probably as sure as dead, how about we lift this ‘protection’ clause and give me my arms back? Heck, I’ll stay where you want me to stay, hide where you want me to hide… anything that’ll grant me some freedom of mobility!”
Upon arriving at the palace at dawn, following Rowen’s brutalization of Osric the innkeeper, Alster was relieved to be among allies and no longer stuck wandering the forested roads with the hyper-militant Forbanne quintet and a slighted Nia who aired out her frustrations by snarking at his wife.
“Please—we’ll settle this dispute later,” he said, several times and counting, for the duration of their return journey. “I’ve already spoken to Elespeth about this, Nia. If you had waited around to hear the conclusion of our discussion, maybe you would have also heard her admittance of wrongdoing and her resolve to make amends. And yes, this will happen, but right now it’s important that we focus on an uncomplicated venture back to the palace. Can we do this? We’ll find Haraldur, get him to loosen your binds,” he nodded at Nia, “and we’ll go from there.”
Only, life didn’t want to comply with Alster’s idea of ‘uncomplicated,’ and rather, preferred to do the dead opposite by twisting already tangled matters into a double helix from which none could wrangle themselves free. On their entrance to central Galeyn, they’d barely stepped into the Night Garden before learning of young Breane’s tragic death at the hands of Rowen, something they didn’t even have the chance to digest before none other than Isidor came to fetch them about a related matter.
“Isidor.” But surprise to see his friend up and about, despite his declaration to disappear from the public eye, soon transitioned into dread because whatever impelled the recluse to leave his chambers wasn’t borne from a sudden change of heart. “...What happened?”
As it so happened, Hadwin happened. And nothing Isidor had reported put Alster or any other person present, at ease. “He...what?! Oh no,” he clutched his temple, “this isn’t going to end well. We have to—“
But Elespeth was way ahead of him, and conveniently omitted the ‘we’ from the equation as she remounted the horse they’d dismounted just moments ago and stated her course of action. “El, let me come along. I can help you track them faster—“
But she was gone, and the sigh of frustration deepened into a grumble. “Now I know what it’s like dealing with me. Fine. Lesson learned,” he said to no one in particular. “She sees this as an opportunity to repay what he’s done for her. I’ll grant her that. If things grow dire, I’ll be able to travel through the ether realms to reach her and Hadwin. In the meantime, we’ll have to keep an eye out on Teselin. There’s no telling what this news may do to her.”
They located the summoner near the front gates of the palace, desperately pleading with the Forbanne to allow her passage outside the heavily-fortified palace in search of her wolfen comrade. “Teselin,” he said almost in unison with Isidor. “Come with us. We’ll talk where it’s private.”
He guided the small party to his and Elespeth’s chambers, a fortification in its own right, at least by magic-related standards. Imbued with his own celestial essence, it acted as a dampener to other magical influences while simultaneously bolstering his power. If Teselin experienced a visceral reaction and manifested it within the perimeters of the room, he was confident in his warding capabilities, which would isolate the foreign magic and wrap it in silk like a spider capturing a fly in its web. He developed the trap not for Teselin in mind, but Locque, in the unlikely event he could lure her into his room. However unlikely, he didn’t regret the elaborate setup because it afforded him practice, if nothing more.
Allowing Isidor to dispense the news, Alster stood in between the two siblings, readying to act or to step in if the situation required mediation or clarification. But both parties handled themselves well without the need for intervention. Teselin didn’t immediately lose herself, and Isidor’s confession managed to assuage any potential spikes in her emotional state. Though now was not the time to point it out, Alster was pleased with Isidor’s bold disclosure of his concern and dedication to his estranged half-sister. For all the Master Alchemist proclaimed his preference for isolation, citing his abject unsuitability in all matters involving other humans as the main reason m, he had done an admirable job conveying his thoughts and feelings to someone who needed to hear them. If only the timing was better, but alas...time seldom behaved as it should, and late trumped never.
“I’m with Isidor, Teselin. Hadwin cares too much about you to throw away his life needlessly,” Alster added, weighing in. “If he truly wished to die, he wouldn’t have enlisted Isidor’s help. And Isidor wouldn’t have helped at all if he wanted Hadwin’s death. Why would he, when the faoladh means the world to you? The serum gave him a fighting chance. In his condition, he would have pressed on anyway, and hurt himself in the attempt to reach Rowen—because with or without Isidor’s help, he already made up his mind. He realized Rowen couldn’t live if her continued survival meant she’d one day hurt you, or him, or Bronwyn or Briery. As her brother, Hadwin felt an elevated sense of responsibility to remove her from this world. Whether as penance, or a mercy killing, I couldn’t say, but it’s what he wanted and we’ll have to trust that he’ll return to us. And I trust that he will,” he smiled, stabilizing Teselin by laying a gentle and comforting hand on her shoulder, “because I trust Elespeth.”
Nia’s loud request knocked Alster out of his quiet reassurances, forcing him to look over his shoulder at the still-bound Master Alchemist. The lone Forbanne guard, one of the original five who insisted he accompany Nia inside Alster’s bedchambers, seemed more agreeable to the prospect of releasing the woman’s arms than he was on the road, so long as she continued to cooperate and remain within their custody until confirmation of Rowen’s death. Moments later, her ropes were loosened and removed, but as though to compensate for her uninhibited arms, the guard loomed closer, anticipating escape.
“Haraldur’s nearby, Nia,” Alster said, sensing the Master Alchemist’s discomfort. “Let’s find him; I’m sure he can call off your extremely vigilant guard.”
Meanwhile, Haraldur was responding to a disturbance reported at the palace’s West Gate. Since Breane’s death, and his promise to Locque of taking matters into his own hands, permission or not, he had thrown himself into his commander duties, shirking rest to ensure every corner of the palace and Night Garden was guarded to the teeth. With apologies to Vega and his children, he set off, delegating soldiers and instituting lockdowns for non-essential personnel until further notice. When he caught wind of Hadwin’s rogue mission, and Elespeth’s pursuit to locate him before too late, he sent a small Forbanne escort after her and considered following suit...until the ‘disturbance’ distracted his attention long enough to investigate.
When he reached the West Gate, he wasn’t too surprised to see Bronwyn, unbound hair in a frizzy halo around her head and her tunic rumpled. She’d just tumbled out of bed, it seemed, but nothing about her mannerisms indicated grogginess or exhaustion at all.
“Let me through!” She spat, her hands knotted tight into fists, as though seriously weighing her chances of getting into fisticuffs with an armed elite guard. “Those are my siblings out there! I have every right to be out looking for them! Dammit, you let Elespeth through but didn’t even think to include me! You need me. I can track them. Let me do something! It’s my family. It’s my blasted fucked-up family! Fuck!” Frustrated tears pricked at her eyes and in her blind rage, she reared back her fist…
Haraldur circled behind her and caught it in his hand. “Stop,” he warned. “If you strike them, they’ll retaliate. You’ll be down in seconds.”
She gritted her teeth and whirled on the Forbanne Commander, wrestling her hand out of his hold. “Haraldur! They’re under your orders. Tell them to stand down. I have to go and you damn well know it!”
“I know,” he said, a calm, cool reply devoid of emotion, offsetting, and disarming, Bronwyn’s fury. Quickly losing traction against someone who didn’t feel as incensed as she, the eldest Kavanagh sibling began to putter, running out of steam—but not out of fight. To lose the fight was to lose what she was fighting for. Them. And she couldn’t, she couldn’t…
“So let’s go.” Haraldur signaled the guards to open the gate. “Together.”
Owing to her general ineptitude in riding a horse (she technically could ride one, but it didn’t matter if no horse ever fancied her), Bronwyn mounted the saddle behind Haraldur as they proceeded to scour the Galeynian countryside, keeping a comprehensive count of only five other Forbanne for company, for maximum speed efficiency. To retrace their steps, it took two hours to arrive outside Osric’s village in west Galeyn, and a half-hour to relocate the site where Breane died. Haraldur waited astride his steed, eyes pulled away from the incriminating blood smears on the ground, while Bronwyn dismounted and sniffed her environs to catch Rowen’s lingering scent on the air.
“She went further west,” she announced to Haraldur and his small team. “From what I understand of Galeyn’s geography, west is dense, impassive wilderness. It might take us some time to comb the area. By horse, it will take longer.”
“That checks out,” Haraldur nodded his confirmation. “An envoy from the team who originally pursued her reported that they lost the trail farther on from this point. They found a deer path through the brush. Wide enough for horses. Go on ahead of us, Bronwyn. Tell us where to go from there.”
The joint efforts of Bronwyn’s tracking and Haraldur’s leadership guided them to the correct location, a long process taking several more hours. And as soon as they neared ever closer to Rowen’s location, Bronwyn’s brow creased with worry. “I smell...blood. A lot of it. Her blood.”
And when they arrived at the thicket, it was too late to do anything but observe the carnage. Rowen’s body, what remained, stained the scene, a massive hole rent open at her ribcage, limbs splayed and almost pulled undone like fibers of still-fluffy bread connected to the loaf. And while the attack itself was violently executed, only the heart had been tampered with; splattered like a grape under a set of extra-powerful jaws.
Bronwyn stared at the ruins of her sister, amber eyes widening in horror. She placed a hand over her mouth, gagging back the reflex to choke, to retch, to sob, to scream—to do a mixture of all four. Respecting her need to digest the image and to mourn, Haraldur stayed silent, and gave her the space to be alone with her sister. Not that he could say anything approaching kind or supportive. Nothing she would want to hear. She’s dead and I feel...empty inside. Absolutely empty.
Finally, he spoke up. “We’re able to transfer her body for burial. We brought enough sacks for the task. If you’re ready...we’ll prepare the body.”
Bronwyn stumbled to her feet, dazed. Her eyes were dry. She never cried; didn’t know how to treat her sister’s death, or her brother’s methods, or the fact that he was gone and no one knew where. “Who would have her, Haraldur?” She said, her voice sharp, like she was sucking in a knife stab to the gut from the sister who loved to deliver them. From the very dead sister at her feet. “Who would let us bury her? She wouldn’t be welcome in the Night Garden; she wouldn’t be welcome anywhere in Galeyn.” She squeezed those dry eyes shut, shuttering away the gruesome vision of her sister’s gutted body, but too late; the sight would haunt her for the rest of her life.
“We’ll find a place for her. Even murderers deserve peace. It’s…” he paused, swallowed, gripped the pommel of his sword. The carved rune of protection pressed against his palm. He finished the thought to himself. It’s what Breane would have wanted.
“Then...we’ll take her. We’ll take her,” she repeated, a lost whisper, directed nowhere. As though receiving an answer in the woods, one that scraped against her ears and delivered a smart pinch with knobby, branch-like fingers, she jerked back into herself, shaking off the fugue. “But my brother, we have to find him, too! Elespeth was here. I think she got here after the fact. There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign of her blood, or Hadwin’s blood. Blood or not, he can’t be ok. He’s not ok.”
After they handled Rowen’s remains and slipped them into a body bag, they headed off again, in search of Hadwin. But they never found him. Bronwyn had his scent and followed it, but it led to erratic loops and whorls with no straight and direct path to the palace...or anywhere. Given what she heard about the serum Isidor gave him, news she learned from Haraldur, who heard from Elespeth—no one had informed her directly, but it was an issue she would deal with later—he needed to return to the palace straight away, not lollygag around for hours while the serum’s effects flushed out of his system and robbed his energy! Already, he was so weak, en route to a recovery he’d scarcely begun to tackle. How much would this kill his progress? And if he didn’t return to the palace in time, were his chances of survival…
Better to leave the dreaded question unsaid. Hadwin wasn’t stupid enough to let himself die after the disaster that was Apelrade. He wouldn’t…
...Were he operating with a clear head.
“It’s getting dark.” Haraldur interrupted Bronwyn’s inner doom prognostications and pointed to where the sun plunged, disappearing, under the western horizon. “Let’s return to the palace. There’s a chance Elespeth found Hadwin and safely delivered him to the Night Garden.”
“And what if he’s still out there, and we leave him in the dark and the cold?”
“He’s not.” Haraldur frowned at his statement of confidence, glancing over at one of the trees off the side of the road. “He’s not, but if I’m wrong, we won’t lose too much time making detours when it’s night.” He raised the reins of his Night steed for emphasis, and flicked them, spurring the horse into a gallop before Bronwyn could decide what to do next.
They made it to the Night Garden in less than an hour, after being gone all day, and Haraldur either guessed correctly or had some innate sense of knowing, because Elespeth, surrounded by Gardeners, was helping to hand over the naked, unconscious, and blood-streaked body of Hadwin from his crumpled-up position atop the saddle, right as they entered. She didn’t wait for Haraldur to steady his steed to a full stop before vaulting off the mount and rushing over to the small congregation.
“How is he? Is he alive?!” She demanded of the Gardeners, of Elespeth, who confirmed that yes, he was, but utterly spent from his usage of the serum and in dire need of the sanctuary’s healing guidance, in addition to the assistance of the Master Alchemist responsible for the serum’s creation.
“Say no more!” She didn’t want to chance a closer look at her brother, didn’t want to see the defeat dragging haggard lines over his face, replacing his long-established mirth lines, didn’t want to wonder if he might never wake up, didn’t want to linger on the blood he wore of their sister, their sister who he...who he…
It didn’t need to be done this way! Not like this. Not…
She ran out of the Night Garden, but hadn’t searched for long when she practically rammed into Isidor, Alster, Teselin, and Nia, who were currently en route.
“Whatever you did to my brother, it’s time that you undo it. He’s in the Night Garden and he’s a sorry sight. But he’s alive.” She grabbed Isidor’s arm and dragged him along, while the others followed helplessly. Her jaw pestled; try though she might to grind her anger against her teeth and keep it engaged there, she loosened the hinge, and her fury. “How long have you all known? How long? And why was I the last? Why did I have to find out through rumors in the hallways? Why was I uninformed, and left behind, when Elespeth got to go on her own without asking me, his own damn sister, to come?! Do you think me so weak and useless? That I’m better off forgotten and abandoned while my only family tears each other apart? And I have to stand by, yet again, as a know-nothing, good-for-nothing spectator?!” And there they were; the tears she’d so desperately tried to fight all day. They gushed down her face with a vengeance and no matter of suppression could stopper the flow. When they arrived at the sanctuary, she released Isidor in favor of gripping the walls, requiring something stable, inflexible, to support her struggle to stand strong and show everyone her ability to handle tragedy without falling apart, without losing herself, but she fooled no one—and that was why they looked down on her, why they couldn’t trust her with the news. Because they all thought she was pathetic.
And they were right.
They made it in time. Elespeth had been having her doubts; Hadwin’s breathing had grown shallow, and his pulse had been weak, and although she’d found him around sunset, at a point in time where her Night Steed’s preternatural velocity would be imminent, a part of her worried that there wasn’t enough time. She wasn’t a Master Alchemist, she didn’t know what Isidor’s serum had done to his body, or how that would pair with the weakness he had been experiencing prior to his body being alchemically modified. Could the Night Garden and the Gardeners even help him if his state was caused by something so out of the ordinary? And what would Teselin do when she found out just how close to death he’d come yet again… and if he survived?
The former knight’s only coping mechanism was to turn her mind off for the duration of the journey from the farmlands all the way to the Night Garden. She was doing everything she could for Hadwin; worrying about what might or might not happen would not change the outcome. You had better fucking live, you son of a bitch. Her heart was in her throat the entire time, with that mantra playing over and over in her head, because, like Teselin--like Browyn, probably--she somehow could not fathom Hadwin’s removal from the picture of life. Not when she had not repaid her debt to him. If he lived through this… at least they’d be even.
She pulled the Night Steed to an abrupt stop just outside the sanctuary, where confused and concerned Gardeners closed around the naked and unconscious form of the faoladh. He was still breathing; his heart was still beating. It wasn’t too late. “Isidor… the Master Alchemist, he gave him a serum. Something to enhance his physical prowess.” Elespeth stammered to Senyiah, who led the proceedings of Hadwin’s treatment as soon as they got him into the sanctuary. Her face still bore the signs of shock upon learning of young Breane’s death; how she was able to jump right back into work after learning of the loss of her youngest underling was a marvel to everyone. But perhaps that was what being a Head Gardener entailed: being ready to help anyone, at any time, at the Garden’s beckoning. “Can you help him? Can the Garden keep him stable? We can’t… we cannot afford to lose him. We’ve already lost so many…”
“He will remain stable, but if his body has been alchemically tampered with, then it is up to the Master Alchemist to counter what he has done.” Senyiah explained with little emotion in her voice. “Go and retrieve him immediately. We’ll have a watch over the faoladh throughout the night.”
Fortunately, it just so happened that Isidor was not far away at all when Elespeth turned Hadwin over to the Night Garden and Gardeners’ care. No sooner had Hadwin arrived that so did the small congregation of those invested in his life… Bronwyn included. Unfortunately, the Master Alchemist was entirely unprepared for the vitriol that Bronwyn threw his way.
“H-He insisted… on destroying Rowen himself. Please believe me, but with or without my help, there is no possible way I could have stopped him.” He stammered, shrinking under Hadwin’s elder sister’s frantic glare. “I customized a serum to his physiology to enhance his strength, his speed, his senses… it is a formula commonly used among Master Alchemists for clients who request temporary physical enhancement. And it is usually safe, provided that they follow through with the Master Alchemist’s care in the aftermath, but I… I didn’t have a lot of time. He demanded the serum before dawn. I did all I could do… and it seemed to have worked. But there was no time to mitigate the side effects…” Isidor looked down at his boots to avoid Bronwyn’s scathing gaze. “And you faoladh, you metabolize substances at a much faster rate than an ordinary person. The effects were bound to wear off far sooner. B-but there is no need to panic, yet. Elespeth delivered him in time.”
From an inside pocket of the vest he wore over his tunic, he presented another clear vial of amber liquid. “Get this into his bloodstream immediately. It will start the process of easing his body back into its usual rhythms. There will be more, over the course of the next few weeks, but this is all that I had time to concoct for now.”
Bronwyn snatched the vial almost as quickly as he presented it and handed it to a Gardener, who proceeded to follow through and inject the substance into the unconscious faoladh’s body. For now, the only thing to be done was to keep Hadwin stable, allow the Night Garden to support his vitali life functions, while Isidor’s serum, over the next few weeks, reversed the damage caused by the serum. It would be a waiting process with no guarantee as to how the faoladh would ultimately fare in the aftermath. According to both Isidor and the Gardeners, death was unlikely, but the Master Alchemist confessed that he had never provided the serum to anyone in such a compromised state, before… so the waiting game was on. And no one was comfortable with it.
To make matters worse, the small party of supporters--Elespeth and Isidor in particular--had to shoulder the burden of guilt in light of not informing Bronwyn of her brother’s whereabouts and intentions before setting off to retrieve him. And it only occurred to Elespeth in hindsight that they may have tracked him down far sooner with Bronwyn’s heightened sense of smell, had she simply made a quick trip to the palace to enlist her help. “Bronwyn… we all panicked. I… I panicked. I didn’t think to get you to come along before I took off.” The ex-Atvanian spoke slowly and carefully. She understood the extent of Browyn’s grief, for not only was she sure the eldest faoladh had come across the remains of her little sister, but now her only surviving sibling was clinging to life through the Night Garden and Isidor’s serum. Her frantic hysteria was justified. “Had I sought you out… maybe we’d have found him faster. You’re a far better tracker than I am. I just… wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. If you need to blame someone, please blame me.”
“And me.” Isidor offered quietly. He’d plunged his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. “I should have gone straight to you after administering that serum. But Elespeth… the important thing is, she got him back in time. It is not too late. His recovery would have taken weeks, regardless of who knew or who found him first.”
But Bronwyn wasn’t listening. Not to Elespeth or Isidor, and Nia who, now entirely free of her bonds, had chosen to accompany the party to the sanctuary, could see as much. She knew that grief. That helplessness that one only felt when their entire family was falling apart around them, and there was nothing they could do about it. It was how she’d felt upon learning of Celene’s death. And then Palla’s death… and then on watching her family be cut down in front of her, as she watched helplessly from her hiding spot. It was a feeling that followed you, not one that you could outrun or rid yourself of. It would follow Browyn, just like it had followed Nia. And that feeling… man, did it fuck you up in the worst possible ways.
The Ardane woman stepped forward and put her hands on Bronwyn’s shoulders to steady her as she swayed against the wall. For fear that the woman’s legs might give out, she managed to guide her to sit on the cot next to her brother. “I know the feeling. It fucking sucks, doesn’t it? Feeling like you’re useless and helpless to do anything for the people who matter to you. I wish I could tell you it gets better or it goes away… hell, I wish there had been another path for your sister. For Hadwin, too. But here’s the thing. Here’s what matters.” Nia sought Bronwyn’s golden gaze and held it. “It’s not too late. Hadwin’s gonna live. I know this because he’s too fucking stubborn to die, and he’s got too many people to live for. I believe Isidor when he said he wouldn’t have offered to help unless your son of a bitch of a brother promised he’d bring his ass back here in one piece. No one thinks you’re useless. The problem is, no one here is thinking at all. We’re all just reacting because there’s been way too much death today, too much is up in the air, and no one knows what is going to happen.” No one knows how Locque is going to react to all of this, was what she meant to say, but refrained from pointing out the obvious. Not even me… and that’s what scares me the most.
The inkeep was dead. The child Gardener was dead. Galeynians were dead… because Rowen had killed them, after the summoner queen had promised the kingdom reprieve from any further necessary bloodshed. And now, Locque stood alone in the council chambers, and she didn’t know what to do.
Time meant nothing as she stared out the window at the setting sun until it disappeared into the darkness of night. Nia was gone, and Rowen had killed… what was she supposed to do? If only she hadn’t let Nia go. If only she hadn’t turned away Rowen… would this all have happened? Would she so easily have lost her tenuous grip on this kingdom?
There was a knock on the door of the councilroom. It shook the summoner queen out of her mental fugue, and she turned to see the Forbanne commander standing in the doorway… and in his arms, a sack that was seeping with blood.
She knew what he was going to say before the words came out: She is dead. There was no question as to who ‘she’ was. Haraldur had said he was going to set out to deal with Rowen since she would not… what else was to be expected? But she did not smell murder and death on the Forbanne Commander. And perhaps that was what had spared him a surge in her wrath: that he was merely the messenger, here to provide her proof of his words. Haraldur Sorde had not killed Rowen… Earlier, in her fugue, she had been vaguely aware of the Master Alchemist--the one who was not Nia Ardane--and Rowen’s brother speaking. Collaborating. Locque had not seen him as a threat in his condition, but… leave it to a Master Alchemist to change that.
Hadwin Kavanagh was responsible for Rowen’s death.
“So she is.” Came the summoner queen’s terse reply. It did not appear as though she was holding in anger, but rather, shock. Her plain face was impassive, but her body was rigid as a board. “I acknowledge your evidence, but I have no wish to see her in this state. Take her away… now!” She only began to lose patience when Haraldur hesitated a beat too long to leave, with the bleeding sack still in his arms. A trail of Rowen’s blood would stain the floor of the palace. She wondered how much of that blood was on her hands, versus Rowen’s brother’s. If I hadn’t renounced you… would you still be here, Rowen? Or would your Sight have held you hostage until the very end?
Locque did not remain alone for long following Haraldur’s departure. Another figure soon occupied the doorway--one that had sought her out earlier. From whom she had turned away, when she besought her to take action.
“I saw Haraldur leave. So you must already know…” Lilica took it upon herself to invite herself inside of the council chamber. After all, it was still--partially--hers. “Rowen is dead. But that does not put the kingdom’s fears to rest. Locque… you must answer to them. If you truly care about this kingdom that you want to call your home--”
“It is my home.” Locque interrupted, and turned abruptly on her heel to face Lilica, but the Tenebris daughter did not stand down. “It has always been my home. Even if its people have seen fit not to make it so.”
“If you want Galeyn to believe in you, then you must give them a reason. Turning away Rowen and Nia for their transgressions is not enough, if you would let Rowen kill… if you would not give the order to stop her.” The Galeynian queen was not shaken by the intensity in Locque’s eyes. She was through with being afraid; and as for stepping up for the people of Galeyn… she could say the same for herself. Someone had to say something; someone had to do something. “I am not telling you what to do. I can’t; no one can. But Rowen’s death is a harbinger of what you can expect if you refuse to be decisive. The people are going to pave a way for themselves, if they cannot trust that you feel it is in your interests to keep them safe. Galeyn is terrified, and grieving, and they want answers. Now could be your last chance to show them that you are the ruler Galeyn deserves. So,” she took a few steps back. “Will you? Decide quickly. Before it is too late for you… or worse, for this kingdom. If you don’t wish to stand alone, and you want support, then you know where to find me. But whatever you choose… you must be decisive.”
With a final, respectful nod, Lilica turned and made her way back to the doorway, where she paused on last time. “I know you don’t seek my counsel, but it would be wise to respond no later than tomorrow morning. Before the people give up and decide to invest their faith in someone else.”
Lilica left the council chambers that evening knowing that her words would have an impact. But what she didn’t know was how they stirred the seed of jealousy, paranoia, and anger that had been steadily growing in Locque for some time… and that was about to bloom into something devastating.
Bronwyn knew she was being unreasonable, but it felt freeing to yell, to punish the people even peripherally responsible, to blame everyone for leaving her in the dark when logically, she understood that time was of the essence and action trumped premeditation. Hadwin needed assistance and she was thankful for his loyal coterie of companions and allies, who fished him out of the muck and dragged him to the best place in the world for recovery and care. This, she didn’t argue about; all she wanted was the disclosure, the head’s up, but no one save for Haraldur, who happened to be in the area and had no choice, delivered her the details concerning her brother’s reckless and destructive decision. It harkened her to the days of Clan Kavanagh, where she toiled and labored without question, always obeying, always dutiful and loyal, only to receive, for her pains...nothing. Among her fellow subordinates, she was always the last to know about important matters. Where to build the new clan house, which crops to plant and harvest, which wares to prepare to deliver to the city for market day. Even for mundane tasks, people would...conveniently forget she existed.
“It’s cuz you’re dense as a brick, Bron,” Hadwin often teased whenever she questioned how he always caught wind of clan projects before she did, even when he seldom participated or wasn’t even there. “Got the personality of one, too. You’re so invested in blending in, that when you succeed, you get miffed about blending in. Well then, what’ll it be? You can’t be invisible and seen. Pick one.”
I’ll pick more than one. I want respect. I want to belong. I want…
To be loved.
But how did she deserve love when she couldn’t keep her family together? When Rowen leered at her and called her extraneous and then, almost severed her spine like she was nothing? When Hadwin had moved on and acquired a new family, tolerating her out of obligation to his past? And now, with Rowen dead and Hadwin in critical condition, where did that leave her? Who could she run to no one would have her, if no one trusted her to manage her own family? And why, oh why, did she shoulder the responsibility of the Kavanagh name, when they rejected her involvement at every turn? Stripped of her name, who was Bronwyn? Who would she be if she lost her last living sibling? Chief had already rejected her. With Hadwin gone…
She didn’t know how to be alone.
“I know exactly how he is!” She clapped her thunder at Isidor, the unfortunate recipient of her misdirected frustrations. “And believe me, I’d love to let him have a piece of my mind, too. More than that. Just to get an explanation as to what he was thinking!” She clawed fingers through her unkempt hair, her shivering fists eager for a target, for something to strike or squeeze or shatter. “He didn’t have to be the one to do it. He wouldn’t have gotten far if you hadn’t enabled him to do it!”
No. That wasn’t true. She remembered the day he forced himself to attend the aftermath of Locque’s renouncement speech, despite the limitations inflicted on his weary bones and muscles. The toll it took on him showed in the tilt of his eyes, the pained stitches in his brow, the glisten of perspiration over his lip, and the hollows gouged from his pale cheeks. He looked horrible, like a spectre risen from the grave, but because he seemed so desperate to carry on as normal, she thought little of his attempts to address the irate Galeynian in that flirty, irreverent way he favored.
You’re dense, Bron.
She wanted to scream for overlooking his faux deviant behavior, an obvious misdirection masking the truth from her deeper scrutiny. He wasn’t coming on to that whiskered Galeynian, no. He was conspiring with him. And if Isidor hadn’t supplied him with the serum, Hadwin would have approached that Galeynian for help, instead. And that begged the question; just how long was he plotting to kill Rowen? How long had she seen the signs and summarily ignored them?
You’re dense, Bron.
“I just—give me that!” Losing the thread of her argument against Isidor, but too afraid to relent, to lose her edge and dissolve into a despairing fit, she grabbed his proffered vial; adrenaline alone could have ground the fragile thing in her hand into dust, just like her brother had done while under the influence of the serum. Fortunately, she handed it over to a Gardener before it succumbed to the pressure of her vising fingers. “If he’s gone, if this ends him, I’ll never forgive him! He killed our sister, but at what cost? What fucking cost?!”
Another voice joined in, impelling Bronwyn to swerve around at the newest wash of excuses. “You panicked. Right. Of course. I’ve...heard enough.” She dipped her head, losing patience with everyone’s insufficient explanations. Insufficient...because Rowen was still dead, and Hadwin wouldn’t wake up. Not anytime soon, in his abjectly compromised condition. He was getting better! He was getting better, and so was their relationship, and then he had to throw it all away! “It doesn’t matter. He’s here now. You found him.” Without me. Because I’m too useless to make a difference. In Apelrade, he would have jumped, would have died, if it was just me. Teselin saved him. Elespeth saved him. And I just stood there. “Thank you. Why am I even surprised? This was always going to be the outcome. ...It was never my fight.”
Defeated, she allowed someone—she no longer cared who—to escort her into the sanctuary and coax her into the bed beside Hadwin. Since his transfer into the care of Gardeners, he had been rinsed clean of their sister’s blood and dressed in a gown for modesty and warmth. Seeing him, statuesque, his chest still, imperceptible breaths indicating little life, little vitality, Bronwyn couldn’t help but view the bed as his tomb and him, sporting a funereal shroud of white, its corpse. Come on, Hadwin. Twitch. Groan. Make some flutter, some movement. Anything! You’re not a fucking boulder. You’re a leaf in the wind. Always rattling.
But he didn’t hear her silent encouragements...and remained a boulder.
That was when she noticed the woman who helped her inside, to the bed. Nia Ardane. She was talking to her, relaying, relating, and Bronwyn...listened. “Even if they did involve me...what help would I have been?” She stroked her arms, removing the requisite chills that appeared when she revealed that bit of truth, as far as she’d come to know. “Hadwin deliberately kept me out of it. He kept everyone out of it. That’s what hurts more. That he thought he needed to protect me. That he thought he couldn’t trust me to help resolve this, as a family. And you know what? He was right not to involve me. Because I would have fucked it up.” Her fingers bent backwards as she applied fingernail pressure on her upper arms. “No one tells me anything...because at the least, I’d make no difference, and at the worst...I would have ruined everything. I can’t fault him, or Isidor, or Elespeth, but dammit, I want to! I want to find people to blame because then I don’t have to blame myself for being so, so...dense!”
The tears flooded her lips in earnest, now, and, in her abject desperation, her weakness, her overwhelming loneliness and confusion and grief, she turned to Nia, leaned against her shoulder, and let herself mourn, all of it; her broken family, the fall of her sister, the sorry state of her brother...and herself. In that moment, something in her was pierced and sunken, floating to the seabed of the deep, abyssal sea. Lost. Unrecoverable.
And for a time she ceased tracking, she clung to a woman she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust, but she felt too betrayed, too wary of the others, and cried while the opportunity afforded itself. Because even she could sense, outside the serenity of the sanctuary, a shift in the air, like an oncoming storm. Since experiencing Teselin’s apocalypse at Apelrade, she’d always been sensitive to the pop and tang of ozone preceding her destructive magic—only it wasn’t Teselin she detected.
This felt bigger.
Haraldur was serious about arranging burial rites for the recently-departed Rowen Kavanagh—not so much out of respect of her violent legacy, but to honor her next of kin, and to mourn the person Breane thought existed, beneath the fathomless layers of fear, hatred, and mistrust. Superstition, too, drove Haraldur to the practice, having long-believed that if the dead were not properly put to rest, they would never sleep and spend eternity wandering the earth, tormenting the living. Prior to his long venture with Bronwyn, he was in the midst of discussing Breane’s cremation ritual with Senyiah, requesting involvement as penance for allowing her to die—if the Head Gardener deemed it appropriate, considering his negligence had been what killed her. But he didn’t have the chance to follow-up on Senyiah, nor broach the subject on Rowen, which he feared would be met with some backlash. In figuring out what to do with the body, which remained in his possession—everyone was too busy to accept it from him—he made a decision, albeit a poor and reckless one, to visit Locque, bundle in hand.
To mitigate the liberal leakage of blood, he bound the blood-soaked body bag in several other bags and draped a dark shroud over the packaged remains, aware that no one would care to see, especially in passing, any indication of the gore that squelched and pooled around inside it.
“Locque.” She answered his summons at the second knock, swerving open the council chamber doors. He quit referring to her as ‘Your Majesty.’ It never felt right on his tongue. Especially now. “Rowen Kavanagh is dead.” He didn’t bother to specify who did the deed; the who behind her death mattered less than the death itself, and besides, she appeared to have an inkling as to the true culprit. “I don’t expect you to peak under this sheet and assess the damage, but she needs a burial, and no one else will take her.” At her snap of a dismissal, her flat rejection of the body he held, he didn’t leave right away; he lingered a moment before replying, a loud rumble of defiance. “It looks like you won’t take her, either. You were a Gardener, Locque. If you care to return to your roots, then I invite you to attend the funeral of a fellow Gardener...and that you open some space for the young woman in my arms who served you. She will be buried separately, of course, in a quiet ceremony—if that. I doubt I will have much Galeynian support. But she will have a burial. Come or don’t; it’s up to you. What is important, though, is that I see you for Breane’s funeral. Tomorrow. In the Night Garden.” Something unspoken hung in the air. Words he didn’t say, but implied. If you’re not there tomorrow...you’ve lost my support. You won’t dangle Sigrid over my head anymore.
You were never going to give her back.
After somehow convincing a Gardener to house the Gardener-killer in the morgue overnight, Haraldur returned to his family chambers, blood-smeared and beyond exhaustion. How long was it since he last slept?
But sleep was impossible, out of reach. Too much had alarmed him. Strange sensations in the Night Garden, prickling at his skin. Whispers. Runes appearing in the branches. Hagalaz. A storm. Algiz. A warning. And he wasn’t about to take any more chances.
“Vega.” He burst into their bedchambers. She couldn’t sleep, and neither did the twins, as if they, too, sensed a disturbance in their surroundings. He no longer felt guilty about his loud, clopping steps. “We need to find shelter for the twins. Somewhere safe, where no one, no force of nature, can touch them. I don’t trust it here. The trees are buzzing. There’s a shift in the wind.” His voice grew dangerously low and his green eyes intensified. “Now. We have to hide them now.”
While Lilica was off trying and failing to instill responsibility and leadership in Locque, Chara was preparing for the worst. All this time, she stood by, waiting for the other foot to drop because, unlike Lilica, and Nia, and their expended attempts at coaxing something halfway respectable, socially competent, and morally upstanding out of the usurper queen, Chara didn’t give a fig, and instead, counted down the days until the sorceress’s self-annihilation—which seemed forthcoming by how she handled the latest news, the spate of Galeynian murders implemented by the psychotic little shit who Locque spoiled and pampered like a lap dog.
Good riddance. Took you long enough, Hadwin. How many people had to die before you finally returned the favor?
Unfortunately, Chara thought of no contingency plans, no methods by which they could collectively defeat Locque because banding together meant drawing her attention. Alas, she was tired of tiptoeing around the volatile woman, for months, going nowhere and paying the price for her cooperation with scandal and her loss of respect in both Galeynian and D’Marian communities. Nevermind Lilica’s backlash, an ongoing issue spurring daily demonstrations outside the palace walls demanding answers, statements, apologies. In the end, Chara owed Locque and her post-mortem protege no loyalty. Absolutely none. And she would gladly take advantage of Locque’s present vulnerabilities in their long-term bid to usurp the usurper. This was what they were waiting for, right? The opportunity?
She was ready to fight.
“Chara.” Alster blinked sleep out of his eyes when she arrived at his chambers, knocking. “I suppose any effort to sleep will be in vain, tonight.”
“Frankly, I don’t even know how you can sleep right now.” She swept inside, not bothering for a formal invite.
Alster sighed and closed the door behind them. Elespeth was hunkered down in bed, unresponsive, and he hadn’t wanted her to rouse after a long and arduous day of hard riding in search of Hadwin. Fortunately, she didn’t stir. “Necessity. It’s been a long day. A long few days. If we don’t gain our strength now, while it’s still feasible, we’ll fall easy prey to our own weariness above all else.”
“Noted. Then I pray this won’t take much of your time.” She relocated to the sitting room and lowered into a chair, speaking only when certain their conversation wasn’t being monitored remotely, something Alster confirmed with a nod. “We must be ready to act. As soon as tomorrow, or the day after. I anticipate...the worst. And I cannot wander headlong into battle woefully unequipped.” She twirled the ends of her shoulder-length hair, almost ashamed to share her neglectful practices with her magically prodigious cousin. “I’ve yet to understand the magic you’ve bequeathed me in the Night Garden. Rather, I’ve been far too busy to grant myself a moment to meditate and practice. A day, let alone an evening, is not sufficient enough to learn of my latent capabilities, but guide me in the correct direction, and I shall do the rest, independently. Teach me, as you’ve taught me before...how to use my magic.”
