21. The Blow Beneath Doctrine #2
'Not even the Sokar,' he signed.
Auryn’s gut twisted, not just from the guilt of interfering with Kailorien’s duties, but something else. Something was wrong. The mana in the room coiled like a snake about to strike.
A cold draft curled through the far alcove.
A flash of movement. The sound of glass shattering.
“Down!” Auryn shouted, throwing her hand toward the nearest row of tables. A shield flared into place as a hail of arrows slammed against it, shattering on impact and spraying mana across the floor like fire.
Auryn’s Reskala moved with the speed of a sound wave.
One lunged toward the source of the arrows, the other drawing a greatsword in a gleam of runelight.
Lu’ma gasped as a second arrow zipped past her shawl and buried itself in a spool of silk.
Auryn grabbed her arm and pulled her flush against her own body, wrapping both of them in a flame ward.
Two more figures, robed in grey and crimson, burst from behind the curtained storage shelves, weapons gleaming, hoods soaked with mana glyphs.
Solutus. Their ivory masks marked them as rebels, along with the horns on their belts.
She hadn't seen many of them, but Kailorien had often spoken about what they wore.
The Crafters shrieked, diving for cover. Auryn spun, casting a second shield between them and the attackers.
A blurred shape appeared some distance away. A third figure—slimmer, faster—ran across the back hall, cradling something wrapped in deep gray cloth. A bundle. No, a package. Not attacking or casting. Running.
Auryn pushed Lu’ma down into a crouch, wound the ward tight around her body, then broke into a sprint, breath catching in her throat, fever forgotten as adrenaline pounded in her veins.
“Stop!” she shouted, throwing a chain of lightning at his heels.
It hit the tile beneath his feet, and he lurched sideways, rolling to his feet. Auryn gritted her teeth, raising her hand to fire off another spell, but she was a split second too slow.
She wasn’t trained to fight like this. Though she spent endless hours studying magic, reading about it, and learning its shape, she had no combat expertise. Her casts were powerful, but drained her quickly. Already, she was breathless; dizzy.
Her next cast sputtered.
Weaving answered her call in its place.
She wound strings of light around the man’s feet. He fell with a scream, slamming his head into the floor. Her Reskala were on him in a flash—restraining him—and as Auryn skidded to a halt in front of him, he spat red blood at her feet.
“Sokar,” he snarled. His porcelain mask had cracked, showing bloodied teeth. “You call yourself Radiant, but you are nothing but another Enslaver.”
The shock of him speaking staggered her just enough to hesitate. He had no choker on his neck. No Batcher.
"Why come here?" she asked, her voice tight. "Why risk your life to steal gowns and break looms?"
"You bathe in the blood of those beneath you," he spat. "Spectacle! All of it a spectacle! We will strip you bare, Enslaver. We will take everything from you. The Resh'Agar will be free of your vile light!"
Only those of Holy Blood were allowed a free voice in Krystopolis. That this man spoke so clearly implied something worse than any of them had suspected about the Solutus rebellion. How many others were there that broke Doctrine like this? How had they managed to subvert the will of the Flaeme?
She should have ordered him captured. Arrested. Contained for interrogation. But before Auryn could act, one of her Reskala swung his greatsword with a feral growl and cleaved his head from his body.
It rolled.
And rolled.
Stopping at her feet.
Bumping into her toes.
Blood seeped hot into her silk shoes.
The man’s face looked up at her, set in an eternal grimace.
Auryn stood frozen in time. The very air seemed to throb and pulse. The floor tilted up and down. Her heart thundered in her throat.
The package fell to the floor from the body’s limp hands, more crimson blooming beneath it. Lu’ma crept forward, reaching toward it.
Auryn caught her wrist.
“No,” she said sharply. “Do not touch that.”
She turned to the Reskala next to her.
“You,” Auryn said. “Give Us your dagger.”
She gestured to the blade strapped to his waist. He nodded, unsheathing it without protest. Auryn took the weapon in one hand, her magic coiled in the other.
She knelt.
Cut.
Unwrapped.
And there—folded like they’d been taken fresh from the Loom—lay her gowns. Perfect. Untouched. All five. The silks glimmered, blessed and crafted with such care that for a heartbeat, Lu’ma gasped in relief.
'They are whole,' Lu’ma signed. 'They are undamaged.'
Auryn didn’t look away from them. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel awe at the sight. Every one was beautiful. Ethereal. No less lovely than the one she’d Woven for herself to attend the Pouring of Grace. In their lines and seams, she witnessed Kailorien’s love for her.
And wanted to weep with loss.
She straightened.
“Indeed,” Auryn said, her voice flat. “Whole. And poisoned.”
The Resh’Agar’s bedchamber hummed with the aura of the Shields when Auryn entered that night.
The fluxhearth burned low in the corner, casting gold across the polished floors.
A lazy breeze moved the sheer curtains drawn across the balcony arch, stirring the silence.
She shifted her long damp braid over her shoulder, fresh from the cleansing halls.
Her skin was scrubbed raw after the incident in the Lustrate.
She hadn't wanted to taint Kailorien's bathing pool with blood, so she'd taken refuge in the nearest temple, bathing there with Lu'ma's assistance until she felt clean enough to see him again.
Her muscles ached. Her side throbbed. The blood from the battle was gone, but her guilt refused to give her peace.
The Resh’Agar himself cast that ward—the Crafter’s words echoed like a bruise across her thoughts. Unknowing though it was, she’d interfered directly with the Resh’Agar’s directive. Would he be angry? Offended?
He didn’t tell me. How could I have known? No one tells me anything of import…
She stepped barefoot through the sitting room and paused at the archway. Kailorien sat at his desk in full armor, the glow of his crystal-lamp casting his features in sharp relief. Blue runelight danced over diagrams and war maps, a managram of the Shield Conduit hovering above a disc to his right.
He did not look up.
“Kailorien,” she called.
“So, you’ve returned,” he murmured.
No reprimand. No fire. Just that deadly calm that always meant something worse than fury.
“I suppose you’ve heard. About the Lustrate.”
“Naturally. Your Reskala reported to me immediately, and even if they hadn’t, I would have known regardless.”
Auryn bit her lip. His calm was…maddening.
“I had no choice,” she countered. “They were under attack.”
“I know.”
She hesitated. Waited for the weight of judgment. For the words, 'You dishonored my authority.'
None came.
“I cast shields,” she said. “I protected the Crafters. They would have died. The Solutus were there. One was carrying a package. The gowns.”
Stars help her, she was rambling now.
He stood. Slow, like a predator uncoiling.
“They were poisoned," she said. "But I had them taken back. Not to be destroyed. Just cleansed.”
“I know.”
He stepped around the desk. She flinched when he neared. Her body trembled beneath the silken shift. She hadn’t realized how cold she was.
“You cast while ill,” he said. “Untrained. Alone.”
“There was no time to send for help.”
“You were supposed to rest.”
“I have duties, Kailorien. I—”
“Auryn,” he snapped.
She went still. Dared to look up into his burning blue gaze.
His voice dropped, rough with emotion. “You are mine to protect. Even with Reskala at your side. Even when I am not with you. Had I been there—” He stopped.
Started again. “You cannot imagine what it felt like—being told after the fact that you unraveled the seal I placed. That you walked willingly into a place I locked down.”
She turned away, throat tight. “Would you rather I had obeyed and left them to die?”
“No.” His voice denied the thought. “Never.”
Silence stretched—long and pained—merging with the shadows on the walls.
At last, she said, “You weren’t there.”
He closed the distance between them, his heat and aura charging the air like bottled lightning. One by one, his hands settled on her shoulders.
“I should have been.”
“I needed you.”
“I know.”
“But I handled it.”
He nodded. “Yes. You did.”
Her breath hitched. “Do you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“But…your ward.”
He took a breath. “Auryn, do you realize the danger you were in?”
“They wanted the gowns, not me. Probably to tamper with the Holy Blood. To humiliate us in any way they can.”
A beat.
“And who poisoned them?”
She leaned into him, body sagging as the adrenaline faded. “You know the answer to that. There’s nothing you can do to stop them.”
The Companions were beyond reproach. Sacred vessels. Prized commodities. Bred in cycles that spanned decades. The loss of even one was considered a city-wide tragedy. And to punish one? For what? For doing the same thing others did with equal force but less flair?
Unheard of.
Treason.
The Resh’Agar had no say if they wished to play their petty schemes.
“Kail,” Auryn whispered. “I’m…very tired.”
He caught her, guided her to the bed, and pulled the blankets over her.
“I told you before,” she whispered, already fading. “I’m going to change things.”
His hand brushed her brow. “You already are.”
She slept with his fingers still tangled in her hair.
Kailorien worked late into the night. Nothing unusual for the Resh’Agar, who rarely slept at all. But tonight his exhaustion weighed on him, and Vargrún’s scar on his nape itched and throbbed.