Love Lethal, Death Divine

Chapter 1

Liana

A white stag stood in the middle of the clearing like a harbinger of fate. Plumes of milky vapor rose from its nostrils, while the setting sun gilded its pristine coat and wrapped the magnificent animal in a luminous cloud.

Liana reined her horse in. Her throat tightened in a painful spasm, while the icy claws of panic gripped her chest. “No,” she whispered.

They were less than thirty paces apart, yet the stag stood perfectly still, undisturbed by Liana’s bow and arrows, its dark eyes fixed on her face.

She knew that stag. She remembered the silken caress and musky smell of its coat, the hard, velvety touch of its antlers when her fingers gripped them, the raspy wetness of its tongue when it licked her tears.

She had slept beside it on the bed of dry leaves for so many nights, wrapped in its safe warmth, her small head resting on its massive flank.

They went back a long way, the stag and Liana.

It was the last creature she wanted to see now.

The winter forest around them fell silent.

Liana’s breath froze into a still white cloud.

The pale orange sun hovered a finger’s breadth above the snowy peaks in the west. In the winter afternoon, it should’ve been sinking like lead, pulling the shimmering train of light behind it, revealing the night sky studded with brilliant lights.

Time slowed down, and then stopped, freezing the air around her, replacing it with the cold nothingness of the spaces between the stars.

Liana swallowed the rising dread and took a deep breath of the deathly still air.

“Go away!” she shouted. Her voice, high and resonant, shattered the unnatural chill.

She spurred her horse and charged towards the unmoving stag as the sun finally dropped behind the mountains.

Instead of crashing into the mighty animal, they ran through a cloud of white mist.

A lonely bird cried from the bare bough; the magic was broken. No trace of divine presence remained in the winter forest. The stag was no more than a wisp of fog, a trick of the dying light.

Liana rode on, drenched in cold sweat. This forest of gnarly old oaks—this lone, wild, wooded hill in the landscape of olive groves—used to be her refuge, her safe place. But now, as the shadows crept down the mountains and the night rolled over the winter landscape, she dared not look back.

The shard of fear in her heart moved a fraction, and the cold light glinted off its deadly edge. Gripping the reins so hard her fingers turned white, she rushed down the winding king’s road that lead from the hills to the deep bay and the walled town of Abia nesting there.

Liana’s brain writhed in panic, struggling to explain away the divine omen.

It was a coincidence, an echo, surely. There was no one to see her cry among the dark, craggy hills, but still she bit on her leather glove as the salty wind tugged on her braid and froze the tears on her cheeks.

Fate was catching up with her. She should have been more careful, she should have known.

She should have never let Amron out of her sight.

The walls of Abia rose before her. The massive gates were locked for the night, the torches above them lit. She paused on the drawbridge to compose herself, exhaled slowly, rubbed the tears out of her eyes. Then she whistled a short tune once, twice, three times.

“Who goes there?” A familiar voice; she knew all the guards at this gate.

“Liana.”

“My lady, you’re late tonight.” The sound of bolts lifting and a key turning in the lock.

Cold wind howled behind her, lashing the deserted hills, calling her to turn and ride back. There was no respite for her behind these walls tonight, no solace brought by the light, warmth, or human kindness.

“I was delayed,” she said as a small door opened in the big gate. She dismounted and led the horse through the narrow opening, turning her head away from the guard’s torch. “Has anyone come today?”

He knew what she meant. “No, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She threw a silver coin to him. A spark of hope tried to ignite in her lungs, foolish and futile. No news was not good news, not anymore.

She led the horse down the cobbled street. The winter evening chased people away from the windy corners and squares, but warm light seeped through closed shutters and the smell of fried fish and boiled kale wafted from kitchens. Tall, narrow stone houses huddled together for warmth and company.

The closer she got to the seafront, the more inviting the taverns looked, overflowing with music, wine, and chatter.

For a few reckless heartbeats, she was tempted, craving a distraction, a fleeting feeling of safety, but whenever her footsteps slowed down, the darkness inside her swelled and the wind pushed her onward, towards the main square, towards the palace.

She entered through a side door: another guard unlocking it just for her, another silver tossed for the trouble.

She left the horse in the stable, in the safe hands of the grooms, and climbed a narrow wooden stairway.

She gave a wide berth to the offices on the first floor, where busy clerks scribbled in their books regardless of the hour, and reached the private apartments on the second floor, where another guard just nodded, accustomed to her unpredictable comings and goings.

“Any visitors?” she asked him.

“No, my lady.”

The palace in Abia had been the grand seat of the lords of Larion for centuries, an image of power and wealth conjured up in white stone, with elegant arches, high vaulted ceilings, and stained glass windows, but it reminded Liana of nothing so much as a tightly run ship, a living mechanism where everybody knew their place.

Everybody but her.

She was the intruder, a creature of the woods, neither a clerk, nor a soldier, nor a servant. A lady who was not a lady, and a wife who was not really a wife.

She entered a string of rooms, empty and yet murmuring with other people’s lives, glowing with the silvery imprints of their footsteps; the warm, wooden chairs worn out by their touch; the glass panes breathed on by so many mouths.

A continuity which had nothing to do with her.

She had no family, no venerable ancestors, no name beside the one her mother had carelessly flung at her.

Her bedroom with large windows overlooking the sea, her massive walnut bed with green brocade curtains, her mirror in its gilded frame—all of it was just borrowed.

She had slid into this life sideways, a shadow, a traveler just passing through.

Liana sighed and took off her muddy riding boots, leaving them by the door, threw her cloak over a chair, and walked barefooted across the woolen carpet to the bathtub waiting for her by the fire. The palace did not agree with her tonight, but it was not the palace’s fault.

Every evening, the maids filled the bath for her with warm, fragrant water.

But when Liana touched it to check its temperature, her hand sank into a gray, ice-cold sludge.

The pungent odor of decay hit her nostrils.

Dark and deadly, like the sacrificial pond in the heart of the woods where they used to drown people to placate the hungry goddess.

A white hand emerged from the depths, grabbing at her fingers.

Liana jumped back with a yelp, tripped over the edge of the carpet, and fell.

Not waiting to see what would crawl out of the bathtub, refusing to even look at the cursed thing, she scurried to the nearest wall and lifted a corner of a tapestry, revealing a small door.

She clawed at the latch and threw herself into the darkness on the other side, slamming the door shut behind her.

Sprawled on the carpet, breathing hard, she waited for the wet lurch, the scratching, the creak of hinges. But the soft silence was interrupted only by her thunderous heartbeat.

Stagnant waters were the realm of Morana, the Goddess of Death. Ponds, moats, abandoned wells. And bathwater, apparently.

Liana hadn’t been hallucinating up in the hills and she wasn’t hallucinating now. Something was wrong. The world had become thin like a painted porcelain vase, she could see the shadows moving behind the fragile surface. The gods were knocking, looking for a weak spot.

“Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you.”

Time trickled in the darkness. Her heart struggled to find its beat while her eyes searched for comfort in the snug familiarity of the room.

Books and papers were stashed precariously on the large desk, under the silver moonlight that poured through the window.

A canopied bed dozed in the corner like a massive animal. Wind whispered in the empty fireplace.

Liana took a deep breath, reached for the tinderbox, and lit a candle. The light flickered, emphasizing the darkness rather than driving it away. Shadows danced across her hands and pooled in the creases of her shirt. The fear, the feeling of wrongness, grabbed her again.

The world was cracking around her. The stag, the bath water, this empty room that still smelled of frankincense and bergamot, as if Amron had stepped out a moment ago.

The desk where he used to sit and where she liked to sneak up on him, the bed where he held her in his arms while the waves murmured outside, the window where he loved to watch the clouds roll over the sea. His lingering presence in all things.

“What happened? Why didn’t you come home?” she asked.

Instead of an answer, she heard commotion in the other room.

“My lady, where are you?” Nina called with shrill urgency.

Liana opened the door and stepped back into her room. “Here.”

“My lady—” A soft linen bathrobe shook in Nina’s white-knuckled grip. Liana glanced at the bath, expecting some new horror, but the bathwater was clear and still, steaming gently. The darkness had retreated, there was nothing in there to scare the girl. And yet…