Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ethram hadn’t set out to be a scholar. He’d been a goatherd in his youth. Granted, a goatherd that devoured every book set before him, but he was content exploring the mossy stones of ruined temples while his goats grazed on ancient hallowed ground.
But life had twisted and tangled, as life does, and his childhood village and the roaming mountain paths are far behind him.
His interest in the ancient, however, has kept pace with him.
He’d gained a mentor and stipend with his study of the ritual history of Elveresk, but his Luminary robes were won with a work no Esk-born scholar would have ever dared undertake.
But Ethram is not Eskan, and so he had turned over all the old, sacred stones of Esk as if it were just another ruined temple in a field.
He’d been bold, back then. He is less so now.
The incident in the archives years ago had changed that for him.
He cannot entirely remember what happened.
The memories are lost to darkness, and all he is left with are the scars of his injuries, and nightmares of pale claws and glowing eyes.
Ever since, though, he prefers to be alone.
No pets, no friendly neighbours, and no friends.
And no unexpected visitors in the middle of a storm.
So, he’d like to ignore the knocking. But although he’s an unpleasant man, he isn’t a cruel one. He won’t keep someone from a warm hearth in a storm like this one.
The kitchen door swings in as soon as he unlatches it.
The rain-swollen wood grates against the stone floor as a sodden shape collapses through.
The drumming rain sends an aura of haze drifting in after, dampening Ethram’s shirtsleeves as he crouches.
It’s a violent, seething storm, but it’s just water and wind, and so Ethram pays it no mind.
He’s far too distracted by what is sprawled across the threshold of his cottage. A man, he realises, dressed in a plain labourer’s shirt and trousers, and soaked through to the skin. Pale hair spills across the stone, shimmering with the faintest peach-gold hint. Like moonlight in autumn.
The rain is creeping in, pooling on the floor, and Ethram sets a hand to the man’s shoulder, rolling him. His hair is slicked to his face, and through it, Ethram glimpses a handsome sort of visage: stern-browed, straight-nosed, like one of the ancient statues in the university collections.
“Sir? Are you injured?”
Nothing.
Ethram sits back on his heels. He doesn’t want a stranger dying of exposure on his doorstep, but he doesn’t expect he can drag him in easily. His unwanted visitor is a tall man, and though he’s slender, he’s solid.
He reaches out unthinkingly and pushes the damp hair away from the man’s face. The man is awake in an instant, his eyes fluttering open and fixing Ethram with a clear gaze. Clear, and storm-deep. Pale as a winter morning. And angry.
Ethram throws himself back on instinct as the man twists to his knees. A flash of movement has Ethram flinching, but the stranger only grasps his shirt, clawing into the fabric with a thorn-tight grip.
Ethram has never seen him before. He knows that.
But he has seen those eyes. Winter-pale and gleaming. He sees them in his nightmares all the time.
The stranger’s grip tightens as he hauls Ethram forwards, and the wash of prickling pain over his skin makes him gasp. He remembers this too. It is what aether—the magical energy of an aetherstorm—feels like, only it’s not coming from a storm. It’s coming from the stranger.
He stands, dragging Ethram up as if he weighs nothing. He’s tall enough that his head is near brushing the ceiling, and Ethram’s socked toes skim the floor before he wrenches himself away. The man lets him go. Already, the rage is fading from his face, leaving only wary confusion.
“Easy,” says Ethram, holding up his palms. Fear crawls up his back, cold and familiar. He hasn’t a chance of survival if this man turns violent. Better to treat him how Ethram might have treated a raging ram in his youth. “You’re fine. You’re safe here.”
The man lets out a breath through his teeth. It’s a sigh, and it’s a hiss, and it’s a sound so unlike anything Ethram’s ever heard before. It raises a chill right through him. And then the man collapses again, straight down with a thud that sends one of the kitchen chairs toppling sideways.
Ethram swears.
And then he stays still for a minute more, just to check that his guest is truly out. He’d hit the ground hard, but Ethram isn’t taking any chances. Gods, of all the troublesome things to happen…he is ill-equipped to deal with visitors, especially injured ones.
When he deems it safe, he closes the kitchen door, drags the man in front of the kitchen hearth and stokes the fire higher. It takes about all his strength to do that much.
When he gathers his breath again, he fetches a blanket and his small pouch of medical materials, and sits down on the hearth beside the stranger.
Or is he?
Because Ethram has seen that pale flash of gaze before, he is sure of it.
Deep in the darkness, in the flooded archive tunnels.
In his nightmares, he remembers a glimpse of those eyes, and the sharp hook of clawed hands.
He remembers aether burning, and he remembers running like all the lost souls of the dead were chasing him.
And then he shakes his head, sharp and determined. It is nothing more than his own fears causing havoc. This man, this tall, strange man, is no monster. It has been years since the archives. Whatever horror he had disturbed in the dark, it is not still chasing him.
His guest is just a man soaked through by the storm. He needs help. And in the absence of terrifying scales and pointed teeth, Ethram has no reason to deny him.
He brushes a finger along an elegant jaw. Cheekbones that are a little too pronounced, and ears too sharp. Large hands that are graceful and long-fingered and tipped with sharp, pearly claws.
Just a man, Ethram tells himself, even as unease prickles across his skin. Even as he is sure that this person is not only human.
When Ethram had been fourteen and his home had fallen to the storms, the villagers had all fought for their lives.
Most had died, but together they had felled a brace of beasts before the end.
Huge, heaving things of storm-silver, with scales and wings and claws of murky cloud-light.
And once the storm had passed, Ethram had helped hack them apart, had broken them down for blood and bone.
They’d sold the harvest to Admiralty aether-traders, and he’d used his share of the takings to pay for passage to Esk.
And later, to buy admission to the university.
There had been nothing left for him in the village after that storm, and he tries not to think too much on those awful months now they are so far behind him.
But he still remembers the way the knife had felt, cutting through the scales. Remembers how those beasts had become nothing more than stained bundles stacked for sale. Remembers the scent of aethered blood, the way it felt when it touched his skin, blistering and burning.
And now, his kitchen smells familiar in a horrid, stomach-clenching way. Rain, and stone, and aetherblood.
He lifts the man’s hair and sees the wound, small and deep, bleeding through the shoulder of his shirt. When he touches it, the blood burns his skin.