Chapter 20
ALARYK
“Is she all right?” Myzalla asked me quietly, her gaze flickering to Amaia, who stood on the edge of the road, her unseeing eyes pinned on the shadowy boundary of the forest beyond.
“She’s in shock,” I told her.
“Her eyes…” Myzalla said, trailing off. She frowned before peering up at me. “What exactly can she do, Alaryk?”
“We’ll talk later. But not now. Not here,” I told her, rubbing the back of my sore neck.
Samryn had pushed himself hard to reach Grymia quickly, soaring over the sea that kept Elysom and the Arsadia separated.
It wasn’t a long journey, but we’d encountered a storm system off the coast of Elysom. It hadn’t been pleasant.
But what I’d encountered in Grymia?
Even less so.
“Want me to escort her back to the hatchery?” Myzalla asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll take her.”
My wing commander blew out a sharp sigh, her eyes troubled as they swept the quiet village. “What are we going to do, Alaryk? He’s Dakkari. There was nothing in the exchange accords about this. How to handle it.”
“The crime was committed in Grymia,” I told her sternly. “He will be punished according to our laws.”
A punishment befitting the crime.
So, it would mean Ryak’s death.
“We can’t just sentence a Dakkari to execution. You know it’s more complicated than that,” Myzalla said, keeping her voice low.
“Doesn’t have to be,” I told her. “I’ll notify Elysom soon. And I’ll send a missive to Sarkin. Perhaps one of his riders will deliver my message to the Dothikkar himself.”
Myzalla looked troubled.
“For now, keep him closely watched. No one goes in without my approval,” I said.
“And what of Nevin?” she asked. “His friend? What of them?”
She gestured to Amaia.
“I’ll have an answer for you in the morning,” I told her.
“They can’t stay here,” Myzalla told me. “Not after this. It’s safer for them if they leave. And soon.”
“She stays,” I told her firmly. “And if anyone has anything to say about that, they will answer to me.”
“Don’t tell me you have feelings for the girl,” she hissed. “No lover is worth an uprising, Karath. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“She’s more valuable than you realize,” I growled, narrowing my eyes on her. “You know me better than that.”
Myzalla sucked in a long breath, centering herself. “Gethrin was a promising acolyte. He’ll be missed. A tragic waste. I hope she’s worth it.”
A flash of Saran’s anger, her palpable, stabbing grief, made me turn away. So Myzalla wouldn’t see the way my expression drew up.
“I’ll address the village in the morning about what’s happened. Will you stay with Saran tonight?”
“I’ll try,” Myzalla told me. “Though she might not want the company.”
I left my wing commander with the others, making my way toward Amaia, who had her arms wrapped around her body.
She stiffened when I came up next to her, but when she saw it was me, she turned forward again, peering into the trees.
“Are you all right?” I asked, turning her until she faced me, so I could study her fully.
She laughed, the sound disbelieving though there was no true bite to it. “You should be asking his mother that. Certainly not me.”
“It’s late,” I told her quietly. “Let me take you back to the hatchery.”
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want to go back there. Not right now.”
If she wouldn’t go back to the hatchery, then I would take her to my dwelling. But it would do us no good to be standing outside for the rest of the night. I pressed my hand to the small of her back. She felt cold, so different than how brightly she’d burned in the mountain.
“Come,” I told her softly.
“Not the hatchery,” she pleaded, looking up at me with panic I didn’t understand. “Please.”
“I heard you,” I assured her and then ushered her forward. She fell into step beside me as I wound us around the village, which was thankfully empty this far back, away from where most were gathered at the base.
We said nothing along the way, not even when she saw my dwelling come into view, its darkened windows and smokeless chimney looking uninviting. She didn’t say a word. Only climbed the short set of stairs as I shouldered open the front door.
Once we were both inside and I had the door bolted, she lingered inside the entryway, her head down, as I went to light the hearth and a few tapered wax candles for light.
“Why didn’t you want to go back to the hatchery?” I found myself asking once a soft bloom of golden light had chased away the colder shadows in the main room.
I gestured to the lounge area, which was much the same as since she’d been there before, and after she toed off her boots gingerly, she shuffled forward. She nestled herself down into the pillows, sitting on the ground, curling her legs beneath her.
“It’s too quiet at night,” she told me, her eyes pinned on an old snag in the rug. “I can’t stand it. Because it reminds me that I’m not home.”
I felt a sizzle of worry dart through my belly. Because if I had any say in the matter, she might never go home again.
But that was a dangerous thought. I shook off my protective riding vest, made of hatchling scales, hanging it up by the door. Then I went to join her. Though I desperately wanted sleep, I knew it wouldn’t come. Not after tonight. Not with what I knew loomed at dawn.
“I’ve been around people my entire life.
My family, our friends. I’ve hardly been alone.
And so, when I feel like this, it becomes more difficult to face that I am alone here.
Very alone,” she admitted, picking at a stray thread in the pillow.
I listened to her speak, wondering what growing up in a family unit like that would be like.
My own upbringing couldn’t have been more opposite.
Then she took in a steady breath and met my eyes head-on. “I know I didn’t kill him, Alaryk. But I’m the reason he’s not alive. I don’t know how to come to terms with that.”
“Amaia,” I said, my tone edging on warning. “You know this is not your fault.”
“When I have the ability to heal and I choose not to…then that certainly feels like my fault.”
“You’re not a god, Amaia,” I growled, catching and holding her eyes so she would understand. “You don’t get to choose who lives and who dies.”
Her lips parted, her eyes widening. “I didn’t say that. Only that there had been a choice and I’d chosen to do nothing.”
“People die every day,” I said simply, knowing the words might sound callous and cold, given the circumstances. “In Karak, in Harta, in Dakkar. Are you responsible for their deaths too?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But he was right there. For how long did he suffer? While I waited?” she spat, self-loathing evident in her tone.
“Do you want me to tell you that you’re a terrible person?” I asked, eyes narrowing on her. “That this is all your fault? So you can feel worse about a situation that was not your doing?”
“Of course not,” she whispered, eyes pained.
“Enough, then,” I said. “I don’t have patience for victimhood.”
She looked stricken by the words, staring at me wordlessly across the cushions. If I had to be cruel to make her see reason, then I would be. “I’m not…I’m not…”
“Don’t make his death about you,” I told her simply.
“It’s not about you. Do you understand? You could’ve helped him.
Just like I could’ve been here. Myzalla could’ve stopped the assault earlier.
But she let them fight, thinking it would get their pent-up aggression out.
But ultimately…Ryak, and Ryak alone, could’ve stopped.
And he didn’t. He’s a trained guardsman.
A trained soldier, a warrior. You think he doesn’t know his own strength?
He intended to harm, to kill…and he did.
It’s as simple as that. The only question is why. ”
Amaia flinched, but I thought that maybe the raw honesty of the words would prick her, make her see reason.
“Do you think I feel guilty?” I asked her.
“I…I have no idea what you feel,” she answered.
“I do,” I answered her, and she looked surprised by the soft confession. “I’ll remember Saran’s face and words tonight forever.”
Her lips parted, and it was a sentiment I knew she shared.
“There is more than enough guilt to go around. And you know what I’ve realized when I have more than a lifetime of it? It accomplishes nothing,” I continued. “Because in the morning, Grymia will want the truth. Grymia will want justice. And the guilt I feel serves neither.”
Amaia was quiet for a long time as the light of candle flames flickered across the walls. We were both lost in our own thoughts, and I debated what would come next, especially when it pertained to the female across from me.
“What will happen to Ryak?” came her soft question.
I regarded her closely. “If we were in Dakkar, what would happen to him?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “He’s a darukkar. A guardsman. A high-ranking one, from my understanding. The same laws don’t apply to him. Everyone knows that.”
“If he weren’t a guardsman?” I prodded, curious.
“Kor anir ji vorak,” she said quietly, the Dakkari words flowing like wine from her lips.
I straightened when she flicked her gaze to me.
“It means the way of the horde. In Dakkari hordes, if one murders, then they pay in their blood. All of it. He would be executed by a Vorakkar, a horde king. In front of the family whose son or daughter or husband or wife he took. But in Dothik…he would be sent to the dungeons, perhaps. It depends whose life he took, I suppose.”
“I prefer the way of your hordes,” I told her. “A life for a life.”
“What would they do in Harta?” came her hesitant question.
My gaze snapped to hers. I tilted my head back. “The Hartans value strength. The murderer would be cast into the wilderness. Anyone who wished revenge or justice could do whatever they wished to him if they hunted him down. But if he survived them all, then he would live and could return home.”
Her brows furrowed down into a troubled expression.
“If I have my way, Ryak will be executed,” I said simply.
She gasped, her head snapping up.
“We aren’t in Dothik. He is no darukkar, no guardsman, here. He is an acolyte in training. And he is not above our laws,” I said.
“And if that threatens the Heartstone Accords?” she asked. “The Dothikkar won’t take kindly to it. He’ll twist the truth. He already…”
“He already what?” I prompted, gaze pinned on her.
She took in a small breath. “He already looks for cracks. He thinks the Karag are too powerful with your Elthika. You know this. It’s no secret.”
My lips pressed. “If Elysom intervenes, then I will take their concerns into consideration. But they know it is ultimately my decision. Not much will sway me from it. I have my people to answer to. It is them I listen to, them I serve. No one else.”
“Then I don’t envy you,” she said quietly.
Very few would, I thought.
But this was the life that I’d chosen. The life that had chosen me, the moment my magic had bonded with Samryn’s during the illa’rosh.
I wasn’t one to believe in fate. But circumstance had forged me into what I was now.
“What will happen to us?” she asked next, after another long silence. “For me? For Brune? For…Nevin?”
That was a more difficult decision to make.
“It changes nothing for you,” I finally replied. “For your place here.”
We both knew I was lying, however. I would likely have to reveal the extent of her ability—when I had wanted to keep it secret—for Grymia to accept her. But I’d have to do it in a particular way.
“And Brune?” she asked.
I knew she was close friends with the farmhand.
“He would want to stay,” she insisted when I said nothing in reply.
“I haven’t made a decision yet,” I informed her, my tone hardening, shooting a pointed look.
“How would it look if you played favorites with the Dakkari?” she asked, frowning. “They already think…”
“Already think what?” I asked sharply. I let out a small laugh. “That you’re warming my bed?” Her cheeks heated. “Well, you have once before already, and you will be tonight. So what? What they think doesn’t matter. There’s more at stake.”
“You’re right—it doesn’t matter,” she whispered, shaking her head. She pressed her palms to her face, rubbing against her eyes. “What am I even saying? I care about my reputation here when someone is dead? I didn’t even know his name.”
“Gethrin Osa,” I told her. “That was his name.”
She peeked at me from behind her hands, understanding going through her eyes. She nodded solemnly. “Kakkira vor.”
Thank you, I knew it meant in her language.
“Amaia,” I said, regaining her complete attention.
“I already told you…I’m a selfish bastard.
” My expression was stern, I knew. “I don’t care how it looks if I keep you here and send the others away.
You’re more valuable to me than anyone else here right now.
I won’t deny that. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you here. I’m warning you now.”
Her expression settled into one of knowing and wariness. “You have me until the end of the exchange. One season. Nothing more. And even then, this might change things. If the Dothikkar calls us home, I will go. If I think I’m not safe here, I will leave.”
“Decisions can change.”
Especially if I set my mind to it.
“I’m serious, Alaryk,” she said, tone hardening. “I have a life back in Dothik. A family I miss. A future I’ve worked hard for. I won’t give that up so that I can be used.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said coolly.