I say nothing. It’s pointless. He’ll just beat me harder.
“Your mother is dead, Finley. There’s nothing left of her in this castle. Do not defy me again.”
The doors burst open, and Dorava comes rushing in, hiking her skirts up as she crosses the cold stone floor. She doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Lucar, come quick. It’s an emergency.”
“What is it, Dorava?”
“Aderick… he was climbing a tree. He fell. His leg is broken.”
I watch as the color drains from the baron’s face. He whispers something under his breath, before turning to me. He raises the cane, his hand trembling, but he doesn’t strike me again. “This is all your fault,” he hisses.
Then they’re gone, leaving me alone in the cold hall. And somehow, I feel terrible guilt for something I couldn’t have possibly done.
“Corvan, what are you doing to me?” I whisper, suddenly back in my own skin; acutely aware of his gloved fingers curled around mine, at the way he looks at me, with fire in his eyes.
“I’m doing only thing I could think of,” he says at last, and there’s a tiny crack in his voice. “I interrogated your father before I ordered him to leave. He told me the truth about you. About who your mother is.”
“Is?” The ground falls away from beneath me. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Because I have reason to believe that she might still live.”
My heart clenches. My father’s cruel words echo in my mind. If she despised father, then surely she would despise me, for I am his child, after all. “So she left me, then.”
“She didn’t leave you,” Corvan retorts fiercely. “I believe she was trying to protect you by whatever means possible.”
Hope flickers in my chest, but it’s too cautious to ignite.
“Finley, your mother isn’t an ordinary mortal. You have some of that in you. Of her. That’s why I’m bringing you to the people that know about magic. The Khaturian shamans might be able to explain why you reacted the way you did to my blood.”
What if I don’t want to know about it?
I don’t even know her name.
I still don’t know my own mother’s name.
“And what will you do, Corvan, when you find out what I am?” My voice trembles. The glorious day means nothing in the face of my desperation.
“I just want you to be strong,” he says softly, squeezing my hand. “But sometimes, if you don’t feel like being strong, that’s all right too, because I’ll always protect you.”
He leans forward, and I know his intention right away. I bury my face in his shoulder as he wraps his arms around me and holds me.
He just holds me.
And after a while, he whispers in my ear. “Aralya. Your mother—that’s her name. And I’m going to do everything in my power to find her.”
35
FINLEY
Corvan drops us right into the center of the bloody village.
Just like that, we’re in the middle of Niize, the mysterious heart of the Khatur.
We stand there amongst the brightly decorated houses, on a stone and gravel path that’s been cleared of snow. The scent of woodsmoke fills my nostrils. I smell baking bread and something else; something sweet and laced with exotic spices.
The wind swirls around us. Corvan puts his arm around my waist and holds me close.
I feel his aura of protection. I feel like nothing in this world could possibly touch me.
Ever since he told me my mother’s name, I haven’t been able to speak. But now I need to be strong. I need to find the fire that’s sustained me for so long.
It comes from anger, and something else entirely.
Corvan waits. He holds me and stands perfectly still; expectant yet patient.
And after a while, a man appears.
A Khaturian.
The first thing that catches my attention is the color of his hair. It’s pale blue, the same hue as a cloudless sky. Arranged in a high topknot, it offers a startling contrast to the silvery grey of his skin. His ears are slightly pointed. His eyes are angular, with deep black sclera and amber-hued irises.
The man’s coat is made from a thick white pelt, the collar trimmed with ebony fur of which the strands are long and silken. I can’t even begin to imagine what animal it might have come from—perhaps more than one—but it looks awfully warm.
Beneath his coat, he wears a suit of pale, supple leather—almost the color of the snow. A pair of sword hilts emerges from his back, just above his waist; I catch a glimpse of wickedly curved blades hidden in pale leather sheaths.
Lithe and graceful, he walks up to us, but makes a point of avoiding eye contact with Corvan.
“Yenabe, O’Kral.” His voice is deep and resonant. He gives me a quick, appraising glance as he takes a step backwards.
“Yenabe karazu, Zuhalla.” Corvan looks directly at the Khaturian, who still refuses to meet his eyes.
Is it out of deference, or disrespect? I don’t think it’s the latter; the Khaturian’s demeanor is reserved and dignified.
But then he looks over his shoulder and yells something in Khaturian.
“You speak Khaturian?” I whisper, knowing Corvan can hear me perfectly well.
“Passably.” He slips his fingers into mine. “Zuhalla’s called them. They’ll all come out now—the warriors, clerics, shamans, and elders.”
“Why?” I feel like I’ve set foot in another dimension. This can’t be real.
“I’m the Kral. In their culture, I’m revered.”
“What is a Kral, exactly?” I glance up at him.
Behind the dark glasses, he looks a little miffed. “It’s… complicated. As I mentioned, it’s something akin to a god. They call me a son of Hecoa. They believe I’ve been granted this power for a reason, and so they rely on me to uphold peace in these lands. It isn’t blind worship, though. The moment they sense I’ve strayed from the path, they would hunt me down and destroy me at all costs.”
Oh? I stare at the Khaturian called Zuhalla in surprise. He’s as tall as Corvan himself; lithe and rangy and graceful. He certainly looks like he could do some damage with those curved swords of his.
Someone at least, is keeping an eye on the mighty Corvan Duthriss.
But…
“Can they even harm you, Corvan?”
“I’m sure they could. They have more than a few highly talented shamans.”
“Oh.” Through my tinted lenses, I stare in fascination as more Khaturians start to emerge from their dwellings. Some of them are like Zuhalla—attired in white leather and equipped with deadly looking weapons. They must be the warriors. Some of them are women, which surprises me, because in the Rahavan Empire, there’s no way a woman could become a soldier.