9. Bloodless
Bloodless
T he past? Maybe. Earth? Definitely not.
Declan felt the flat of a sword smack across the length of his bare back. Pain–sharp and stinging–radiated up to the top of his head and down to the tips of his toes. The second smack against his naked chest had his breath leaving his body. The three quick blows to his thighs and then a fourth against his left calf nearly caused him to fall to his knees. It was only then that he moved.
Or rather, had a chance to move.
He backflipped out of range of the sword, sweeping up two wicked curved daggers that lay in the black sand, before he landed in a cat-like crouch. He rose up on the balls of his feet with the two daggers ready to fend off the next blows from his opponent: a white-haired elf with skin so black it was almost blue. The elf had volcanic red eyes and wore light chitin armor stained a dark purple. The armor hugged his powerful frame. A section of it jutted up from his chest plate to cover his neck.
So it is harder to cut his throat or sever his head from his body , Declan knew or remembered or… something.
“Oh, now you want to fight?” The elf let out a harsh grating laugh at the end of saying this.
Declan wanted to ask who this elf was. Were they enemies? They must be enemies. Deep in his heart, he hated this man despite not knowing who he was. And the man’s red eyes reflected that hatred back at him.
Where were they? This place of velvety black shadows and stars–no, not stars, but glowing lichen–spread out above their heads. He could hear the slap of water against rock from somewhere to his left. And there was the whir of wings cutting the air somewhere out of sight. A sheer black wall rose up behind him cut open by a massive iron gate that was firmly shut as if to stop him from escaping.
Why were they there? To kill each other. To end something. Of that he was sure. But when was this? It was not now. Because he was smaller than he should have been. A foot and a half shorter at least. And his arms were reed slender though still muscled. He looked like a child .
Was this a memory then? It seemed so real . He could feel the sand shifting beneath his strappy sandals. He ached with the pain of those blows–and earlier ones he could not recall–at that moment. He sensed a whole life behind him that he did not remember.
So if this was not now , what was now? He also couldn’t remember another now. But there was one. He was sure of that. Someplace and sometime far from here for which he was… grateful . A life with light and laughter. Love and friendship. A place that was not this endless, cold dark where he was alone.
Despite having all of these huge questions that needed answering, he found himself growling at the white-haired elf, “I’m always ready to fight!”
“Fight… what ?” The elf demanded.
Declan’s jaw tightened. His teeth ground together.
“You!” he spat out. “Always ready to fight you !” Those red eyes glowed a sulfurous red and Declan added, “Master Vulre.”
The honorific was demanded even though both of them knew he didn’t mean it. While this elf was clearly more skilled than he was, to be someone’s Master meant that there was a desire to teach as well as to learn. And he knew in his bones that Vulre did not want to teach him.
Master Vulre… Vulre… Vulre Vultorus… The name floated in front of his mind. More information poured in, Master of the Venomthorn Academy and Blood Knight to Lady Ashryn Zinsandoral.
This was gibberish to him and yet it was not. He felt the emotions behind these words as if they meant something very much to him, especially Lady Ashryn. While his hate for Vulre was like a brand on his skin, his love for her was just as strong. But then the elf–Master Vulre, evidently–was speaking again, dragging him out of his thoughts.
“Always ready, are you? Well, I am sorry, but it is too late!” Vulre hissed, shaking his long white braid back over his shoulders.
Declan felt a similar length of hair brush against his right shoulder. He looked down at it.
White… My hair is white? That’s not right. I’ve never had white hair… Have I?
Vulre spat out, “Those blows you were supposedly ready for would have severed your spine, had your intestines spilling onto your feet, not to mention that your legs would be cut out from under you. So you see you are already dead! The fight is over!”
Declan’s cheeks burned with the humiliation of his failure. His mind offered up every excuse he could think of, including the largest one, which was that, despite his words to the contrary, he hadn’t been ready. Because he’d been… he’d been… What had he been doing?
It was bright. So bright. Burning. Awful. Acid poured over my skin. Bones on fire. I couldn’t move. And then… then another light. So much brighter. Him!
Was that the real now? But if it was, it could not have affected this fight. But as fast as those thoughts occurred to Declan, they were gone, especially who this “him” was. There was only the faintest memory of eyes so blue that they couldn’t be real.
Blue as the clearest sunlit skies…
But that, too, made no sense. He had never seen the sky where the Sun burned. Velvety darkness surrounded him where he crouched on the soft black sand of the… Selanar, the training circle. That’s what this was. The training circle at the Venomthorn. And in the sconces that surrounded the circle, were lumen stones that crackled and flared, giving off purple and gold light. He’d heard that there were worlds where stars bathed everything in golden light.
But I’ve never seen sunlight.
Yet he knew he had. Or would. Or… The thoughts fled like water down a drain.
“Lady Ashyrn took you in. Gave you a place here even though you were abandoned by your own parents! We feed, clothe and train you! But what do you give us in return? Nothing ! You are weak! You are useless at magic! You are nothing !” Vulre snarled.
Every word Vulre said was like a blow to Declan’s heart. He felt like he was being staked to the ground. Bleeding out.
It’s true. I’m nothing. Even the Awakening has passed me by…
Again, nonsense concepts to him, but he felt the grief of them. He was weighed down by them like anchors tied to his ankles in the ocean.
“It was a mistake to accept you! All you do is bring danger to this place!” Vulre shouted.
His head shot up. “D-danger?”
And, for a moment, Vulre froze as if what he’d said was a mistake. Vulre rarely made mistakes, Declan knew that much. But the elf’s volcanic hatred of him had perhaps opened his lips too much.
“One who cannot protect themselves is a burden on all others who can! We must put ourselves at risk to keep you alive! And you–you will never be a Blood Knight to one of the great families! So your upkeep will drain our coffers dry!” Vulre spat, but while those things might be true in this bastard’s mind, that wasn’t what he had meant. Declan was sure of that.
“What danger do I bring?” Declan demanded to know.
“I told you–”
“I know when you lie,” Declan interrupted, his eyes narrowing at the elf.
Vulre jerked back as if Declan had physically struck him. “How dare you speak to me like that, jadir !”
Jadir… orphan… bastard… of no blood… bloodless. That’s what it means. The greatest insult one can use against another, his mind whispered.
“I speak to you in the way you deserve,” Declan glowered at him.
Vulre again was stunned as if physically struck by Declan’s words. And he knew he was insulting the elf at the same level Vulre had insulted him. Vulre was the Master. He was jadir. But he did not care. He would not give honor where it wasn’t due.
Even if it killed him.
Declan felt a wild desire for Vulre to strike him down. He was jadir. That’s what he would always be. Better to die on the point of Vulre’s blade than disappoint and be a burden to Lady Ashryn. Yet another part of him seethed .
I will not die. I will kill him. And we will see who is bloodless, that part of him that was dark and cold whispered. Let go.
Leg go? He frowned. Of what?
His inner voice did not answer.
“You will be turned out!” Vulre shouted. “I will tell Lady Ashryn you ran away. Ungrateful wretch that you are!”
“No!” The thought of Lady Ashryn thinking he had left her, scorning her generosity and kindness, felt like acid on his soul.
“You think you can beat me, jadir?” Vulre taunted as he lightly spun his sword in one hand. “Even if I do not use any magic against you, you will die at the end of my blade in a moment.”
No magic… I have no magic… Even if I can defeat him with my sword, he will use his power against me and I will be done, Declan knew.
Let go, the voice in his head urged yet again.
Of what? He asked back once more.
“You have no family! You have no name! You are a sputtering spark in the darkness! And when I snuff you out, no one will even notice!” Vulre laughed.
No family… For a moment, Declan remembered a woman, bleeding out, against some cabinets and… and there was another woman before that. But he couldn’t quite see her. Couldn’t quite…
No name… He could not for the life of him remember his name.
I am jadir.
I am nothing.
Except he wasn’t nothing. He was still here. Still alive. And there would be a future. A future… He just had to get there.
Let go! The voice demanded.
Something cold bloomed in his chest. He put a hand over his heart. For a moment, he remembered–or knew or something –that the other novices at the Venomthorn had claimed to feel something similar when they Awakened. When their magic found them. Claimed them.
Except they didn’t feel cold. They felt heat…
The cold spread. Icing him over. And with it, the pain, the fear, the grief numbed and they seemed to disappear altogether. He was ice. He was darkness. He was… ready. To let go?
“You missed one. I am also dead,” Declan whispered, repeating the line Vulre had said earlier. “You forgot that. You killed me already, remember?”
Vulre’s red eyes narrowed in confusion. But then he grinned, a slash of a smile on dark lips. “Yes, and you are dead . How could I forget that?”
“One shouldn’t forget the dead,” Declan found himself saying. “For they have nothing left to lose.”
And, for a moment, Vulre looked surprised whether at his words or tone, it was unclear.
Danger. I bring danger to you? No, I am dangerous to you, Declan thought.
But then Vulre grunted and nodded, gesturing with that sword for Declan to attack him. Declan relished all of this in his deep freeze.
Unlike Vulre, Declan had no armor. He wore a thin piece of silk around his loins and those strappy sandals on his feet. Plus, that sword gave Vulre a lot more reach than his simple daggers. So Declan would have to be quick. Move in and out before Vulre could strike.
The sword the elf wielded was thin and black, nearly three and a half feet long and only an inch wide. Strangely, it didn’t shine like weapons made of metal usually did. In fact, it seemed to draw in the feeble illumination in this place and snuff it out. But it was more deadly than any blade he carried.
Declan’s shoulders shifted as he remembered the smack of that sword against his bare skin. He knew welts were rising from where he’d been hit. If he looked down at his bare thighs and calves, he would see similar raised and reddened flesh. These wounds would swell even more and eventually burst before crusting over and itching for days.
It could have been worse, his mind whispered . He could have cut me and the drugo poison would have had me vomiting my guts out.
But the pain was nothing. Because he was ice. He was dead…
Declan darted towards Vulre. The wind was like a caress on his frosted skin. The sword struck out like an adder, but he effortlessly twisted out of its way. Sand exploded where he had been as the sword clove the ground in two. Declan dove forwards. He struck the outside of the elf’s right leg with one dagger, slicing through the chitin, and cutting into the flesh beneath. Vulre gave out a sharp, hissed cry of surprise and pain. Declan had drawn blood from Vulre for the first time.
And he was not done.
He turned his body so that he was rolling behind Vulre. The sand rose on either side of him like a tidal wave as he slid. He stabbed at the armor’s weak points behind Vulre’s knees. The first dagger sank into Vulre’s left leg. He twisted it, feeling both the armor and the tip snap , but Vulre’s shout of pain made it worth the loss of the full blade. The dagger in his other hand went for the right knee, but Vulre reached down and grabbed him by his braid.
Declan did not yell even as the elf yanked him up and around. The broken dagger went flying out of his hand, but he did not let go of the other one. He held on for dear life. Or dear death.
Time seemed to slow. Vulre wrenched him around until Declan was in front of him. He held Declan above the ground by the braid. The pull on his scalp should have been agonizing, but the unearthly chill remained, deadening him to all pain and fear.
Besides Vulre had given him an advantage.
Declan wrapped his legs around the elf’s waist and dragged that bigger body towards his own. Vulre hadn’t expected him to do this so he didn’t resist at first. Another mistake. Two mistakes in one fight.
Two mistakes too many, the voice inside of Declan gloated.
Then he swept down towards the elf’s throat with his dagger, sliding it behind the guard and against his soft skin.
Let go, the voice urged.
Vulre’s red eyes locked onto Declan’s. “Dead… again.”
Declan wanted to say, “Yes, yes, you are. But not again. First time.”
But then he felt the flat of Vulre’s blade slap against his ribs. Vulre could have stabbed him in the heart. He still could.
Kill him, the voice told him. Don’t wait. He will cut you in half.
“Yes, dead , jadir,” Vulre hissed. His volcanic eyes glowed hotly and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
Let go. Let go! LET GO!
Declan let out a laugh, sharp and bitter that had Vulre growling, but he didn’t care. “I may be dead, but so are you .”
He pushed the sharp edge of his dagger against Vulre’s unprotected throat. Vulre grunted. The smile was gone. They stared at one another in silence. And the wheels in each of their heads turned.
In Declan’s, he knew that to kill Vulre… where would that lead? He would lose his place at the Venomthorn. Lady Ashryn would never forgive him. The other teachers and novices would hunt him down. He would not only be jadir, but truly dead. Forever dead. With no one and nothing, not even this little speck of life.
For Vulre, the loss would be less certain, Declan thought. He doubted that Lady Ashryn would believe he ran away. And her powers would have allowed her to find him. Or his body if Vulre took his life. And though he was jadir, for some reason, Lady Ashryn didn’t treat him as such.
“So two dead men! How very typical for our people,” a female voice rose up behind Declan. “Victory in defeat!”
Declan twisted his head around to see her, but Vulre chose that moment to drop him. Declan just managed to land on his feet, but it took all of his strength to rise up and turn to see her. His heart was thumping hard in his chest. Not from the exertion of the fight, but because of… her .
“Lady Ashryn,” Vulre said, his voice so different when he spoke to her compared to when he did to Declan. Almost reverent. No sneer.
The moment that Declan laid eyes on her, he felt a welling of warmth. She was dear to him. For a moment, another face flashed before his mind’s eye. The woman crumpled before some cabinets. Bleeding out. He shook the thought away even as his chest went tight. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, the same as Vulre was doing.
She was as tall as the other elf, but not quite as broad though her sleeveless black dress showed muscled, pale arms. Her tall, black boots stirred the sand as she walked into the training circle with them. Her white hair hung down past her waist. It was braided tightly across the top of her skull but was loose otherwise in long, glorious waves. Her red eyes glowed like witchfire, but the skin around them was crinkled into what almost looked like a smile.
“Rise,” Ashryn said with a touch of amusement in her voice. “Vulre, you’re bleeding.”
Declan glanced over at Vulre who was getting up more stiffly than he normally did. Blood trailed down the outside of his armor. There was likely far more pooling in his boot. For a moment, Declan imagined he tasted that hot blood on his tongue. He swallowed thickly. He’d bested Vulre.
But we’re both dead, he reminded himself. Does it matter? I still won.
You did not let go, the voice sounded disgusted.
“It is nothing, my lady,” Vulre lied.
“ Nothing ?” One of her delicate eyebrows rose. “Then you do not require healing?”
“No, my lady. It is but a scratch… ahhhhhh,” Vulre let out a groan of pleasure as green light encircled his wounded leg and healed it. “Thank you.”
“You should be apologizing in addition to thanking me, Vulre,” she scolded.
“My lady?” Vulre lifted an eyebrow.
She put a finger underneath his chin. “For lying to me. I cannot have my Blood Knight grievously injured like that and still be able to rely upon him.”
“I–no, of course, Lady Ashyrn,” Vulre quickly said. His eyes darted to Declan and his lips flattened when their eyes met. “I am sorry. But it was–”
“If you say a lucky strike, I will truly be quite cross. No one gets a lucky strike against you,” she said with a pointed look at Vulre. Declan felt a welling of pride, but it was mixed with something else. “Why don’t you go train some of the other novices? I believe that your job here is done. For now.”
Vulre bowed low. His eyes were again on Declan. They were filled with… something. Declan couldn’t discern the emotion. Not the usual hatred. But something perhaps more dangerous. Vulre spun on his heel and left the training circle. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that Lady Ashyrn turned to him. Her red eyes flickered over all of his wounds, but no green light of healing appeared in her hands and traveled to him.
“I wish I could heal you, too,” she said quietly.
“The pain is good,” Declan said as he lifted his chin up.
He knew, somehow, that novices of the Venomthorn were not to be healed. They must experience the agony of the blows they failed to block.
“Is it?” She didn’t sound so sanguine about that.
“It teaches,” Declan repeated words that sounded rote to his own ears.
“That is what they say,” she agreed, but her expression reflected quite the opposite.
She brought her hands together in front of her, lacing her fingers together as if to stop herself from reaching for him. The jeweled rings on her fingers glittered in the low light of the lumen stones. The silver bracelets that ran up and down her bare arms shimmered, too.
“Will you walk a little with me? Perhaps we can go sit in our favorite place?” Her face lit up at the idea.
He felt another burst of warmth. Their favorite place! It was something secret they shared. That she shared with him. He did not think she had such times with other novices. “Yes, whatever you wish, my lady.”
“It is what you wish for, too, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Of course! It is an honor to be with you,” he assured her.
“Oh, an honor . I was hoping that maybe you liked being with me,” she joked.
“I do!” He hastened to add. “I truly… truly do.”
Another smile lit up her face and she gestured for him to walk beside her. He sheathed the one dagger that remained in the side of his loincloth so that it brushed against his bare thigh.
They walked in silence out of the circle and up the winding path of black stone that led them up to a cliff top that overlooked a vast black lake and on the other side of that lake was a city. Declan stared at it with a sense of awe and recognition .
The city was made up of mushroom-shaped buildings, but they were hundreds of feet tall, and made of glowing glass. Orange, green, purple, red, gold, all the colors of the rainbow. They illuminated the endless night of the massive cavern. Boats with purple sails drifted over the black waters towards the city of light and disappeared into its many canals.
“Every time I see Nhamashel, my heart lifts,” Ashyrn said as she seated herself on a large boulder. She let her long legs swing back and forth almost like a child.
He found himself smiling at that. She didn’t allow others to see her so unguarded. Not like she let him. She caught his smile and returned it. She patted the rock beside her.
“Sit with me,” she requested.
He tried not to groan in pain as he sat down a foot away from her. The wounds on his back were throbbing and his thighs were numb. The chill was utterly gone.
You did not let go, another disgusted sigh.
He saw her frown and her hands glowed green for a moment as if the urge to heal him was too great to hold it back. But she did not use the magic upon him.
“So… you bested Vulre,” she said with a touch of pride in her voice.
I may be jadir, but I draw blood from the best, he thought, but there was still a bitterness on his tongue.
“He did not use his magic against me,,” he answered.
“Aren’t you a strange, young elf!” She laughed almost delightedly.
Elf, he thought. But then that thought was gone.
“S-strange?” He frowned. He did not want her to think him strange or different or anything like that.
“Most would be crowing over such an achievement,” she said with a knowing smile. “But not you.”
He stared at the reflection of Nhamashel in the water. “It does not feel like a victory.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will only cause him to hate me more and I am not yet strong enough to defeat him and survive,” Declan admitted.
Unless you let go, the voice whispered.
She blinked slowly. “He does not hate you.”
“It is not my place to contradict you, but…”
“But?” she smiled.
“He hates me,” Declan answered simply.
This was a fact. It was non-negotiable. It was not just Vulre’s taunting words, but his actions. Yet to list those to her would sound like grievances and he was grateful to be in the Venomthorn and not out on the streets or dead in the water or wild.
“You think this because he is harder on you than on the other novices?” she asked. “He singles you out for more training, does he? Has you spar against three instead of one? Makes you the hunted instead of the hunter in all the chases?”
All of those things made little sense to Declan, but he nodded his head to confirm them. There was more to it than that though. Flashes of less food, a ragged blanket, constant harassment by the other novices went through his mind. But he mentioned none of them. Again, he had no family, no name, nothing. He was jadir. Yet she had taken him in. She was kind to him. She wanted to heal him even though he had bled her Blood Knight.
“You realize that those things have also caused you to be the first to ever cause him to bleed, don’t you?” she asked.
He froze. “First?”
“Yes, first . No novice has ever done that. And here you did it.” She was smiling broadly and nodding as if this was something she had expected all along. “So young. And you did it.”
Declan frowned. “Perhaps it was a lucky strike–”
“No.” She covered one of his hands with hers for a brief moment. “No, it was not. It was a sign of things to come.”
“I don’t understand. The other novices are… are so much more ahead of me,” he admitted softly.
“Oh?”
“They all have their first Blood Weapons. I have been… been unable to… create one,” he told her.
Surely, she knew this! He had been certain that Vulre had told her with great relish how he kept failing. Over and over again. Despite all that they had given him. She had given him. The dagger at his hip was borrowed. Just like the loincloth and the sandals. None of it was his.
But the victory against Vulre was. It was mine.
“And I have not experienced the Awakening.” He pressed a hand against his chest.
She nodded almost thoughtfully. “Those must seem like grave failures indeed. You must believe that there is something wrong with you.”
Declan’s head snapped towards her. His breath caught in his throat. “Do you think something is–”
“No.” She looked at him full on and took both of his hands in hers. Her hands were warm and she was gentle with him. No one was gentle with him. No one touched him at all unless it was with violence. At least not in this now. “I am going to tell you something that few know or remember…” she half smiled, “or pretend not to anyway.”
“What?” His eyes flickered over her face, trying to discern if she really thought something wasn’t wrong with him. Was she lying? But why would she?
“Vex could not perform a single spell until he was three times your age,” she confessed with an almost girlish glee.
Declan blinked. He knew that name. Vex. Xelroth Vex. The Night King. A face with blond hair and round glasses swam up before his mind’s eye, telling him excitedly about this Vex…
“Our… our king?” Declan asked.
“Yes, our king–the dark god himself–could not perform a single spell! Not even conjure a wisp to light his way! Before him, of course, there were no Blood Weapons. He was the first to create them,” she explained with a distant look on her face as if remembering this. “But, again, he did not forge his first until an age had passed. His family thought him a complete Null. Yet we now know that he is the greatest Mage that has ever existed and likely ever will. So, you see, you are in good company.”
“But the king is…”
“The king? And you are just you?” She laughed. “Yes, but before Vex was the king, before he was who he is now, he was a boy. Struggling to find his way. Desperate to be accepted, but knowing… knowing he might never be. Underestimated and looked down upon. Yet he became…” Here, she paused and licked her lips. “Well, he became what he became. But his greatness is unmatched. He began from nothing. Just like you.”
“You truly think I could be… be so great as King Vex?” Declan’s voice showed his hope and his uncertainty. That seemed so outlandish to him.
Vex. The Night King. The boogeyman. That’s what Finley described him as. Wait! Who is Finley? Finley…
Her expression was almost sad as she said, “Oh, yes, I am sure of it.” She squeezed his hands again before releasing them. “If Vulre is harder on you than the others it is because… because I have asked him to be.”
He stared at her. “You…”
“The world that Vex has created for us is hard. So very hard. And you must be able to defend yourself,” she explained. “I have tasked Vulre with this.”
“I thought perhaps it was because…” Here, he paused.
“What?”
“Because I told him that I wanted to join your Blood Knights, Lady Ashryn,” Declan got out, his throat thick with emotion. “I would give my life for you. You who have given me everything…”
Her red eyes searched his face. Her expression was strange. Not pleased or displeased. Just… empty. His heart sank. Had he just made a terrible mistake in confessing such a dream?
He stammered out, “But that is… if you do not think… I realize I am no one, but I owe you everything and–”
“You owe me nothing,” she cut in and was abruptly standing. She looked at him. “When Vulre tests you, when he pushes you, when he wants more from you than seems right or just… know that it is my–my caring for you that is causing him to act that way. It is the only thing I can give you: a chance to let your strength grow.”
Then she walked away. He was left blinking after her. Too stunned by her words, too confused by their meaning, to know what to make of them. He stayed on the cliff, gazing at Nhamashel, and thinking on her words until the wind chilled him to the bone.
Stiff and sore, he got down from the rock and began making his way back to the large, black building beyond the training circle. Unlike the buildings in Nhamashel, the Keep of the Venomthorn was made of dull, black stone and had sheer walls with only slit-like windows. He would get a loaf of bread and creep up to his tower room, hopefully to sleep and not to dream.
He was just exiting the path when he heard the softest scuff of a boot against the ground. He went to drop low and draw out his dagger, but his wounds slowed him down and he was caught around the throat before he’d lowered himself an inch. An armored vambrace held him tight.
Vulre’s voice filled his right ear. “You told her that you want to protect her, did you?”
Declan could not speak, because he could not breathe. Vulre’s forearm was cutting off his ability to draw in air. His feet frantically kicked at the armored legs, but no luck there. He reached down for his dagger.
“But you are her greatest weakness,” Vulre hissed. “You are the reason that she will die . So the best way to protect her is to kill you. Dead again.”
The dagger was in Declan’s hand and he drew it back to strike.
Only he wasn’t being held around the throat. There was no path. No training circle. No Venomthorn Keep. He was crouched on top of a… a bed? And Vulre was not there. But there was a figure in gold and crimson who was staring at him from across the room.
Him…
Eyes as blue as the sky.
Hair as golden as the Sun.
King Aquilan Fairlynn, Ruler of the Aravae Empire, Star of his People…
The kitchen knife was in Declan’s right hand. Not a dagger. The knife from his adopted parents’ kitchen. The one he’d killed dozens of Leviathan with. No longer was there a tattoo of it on his forearm.
The knife…
Was in his hand…
Pointed at the Sun King’s throat.