A Promise of Vengeance

9. Subterfuge

Subterfuge

Vallah

1364 AE (After Exile)

First Cycle of the Second Moon

Third Calendar of Light

It had been more than a thousand years since the exile from Nelstar, and too much of that time had been spent in the Forbidden Lands wandering through nightmares and battling beasts never meant to live.

Aentarra du Savarra shivered with the memory and felt the all-too-familiar streak of pain that haunted her mind. She didn't know if it was the time spent in the Forbidden Lands or if it was the oath she had sworn against the Lights, but something had pushed her to the brink of madness.

A smile cracked her face then vanished with a gasp as whispers from ages past slithered along well-worn paths in her mind.

The Others! How did they get here?

She braced herself just before the strike.

A stab of pain shot through Aentarra's mind, clawing inside of her. It wracked her body. Her arm fell limp at the side and both legs collapsed. The left side of her face went numb, lips drooping, eyes sagging. Blood trickled from her ear. Something foul oozed from her nose, but she failed to stop it before it slipped past her lips and into her mouth. Rancid. Bitter. She tried to spit but had no control of her muscles. Vibrations rocked her head—like a gong calling the faithful to the temple on Lenorda. Pain prevented her from focusing, from regaining control. She remembered rocking in her father's arms, her mother's soft voice. The love of siblings and friends.

More pain. Nothing worked.

It was then that her father's words came to her, a whisper from beyond the grave.

“Avenge me!”

She forced her teeth into a grind, pried her face up, then focused again. Du Savarras don't die like this. She mustered her power, focused on one spot in her mind, then dispatched an unrelenting assault. Before long the battle was won. The siege ended.

A long sigh escaped her lips as she wiped clean the sweat and blood. The attacks had grown more violent of late—more frequent, too, and the pain lingered longer. When she felt it coming she fought it fiercely, albeit, to no avail; it always came, and it brought the pain with it. Bone-wracking, flesh-rending pain.

It was midday before she got to her feet, and even that proved to be a struggle. She wondered anew about the Others, and how they followed her from Nelstar. They had plagued her father, but that was worlds away.

How did they cross the Forbidden Lands?

Those thoughts stirred memories from deep within, images she fought to hide. Her mind slipped a thousand years back in time and unknown light years away to memories that lingered like yesterday's rain.

She remembered the Lights' verdict, condemning them to the Forbidden Lands, and she remembered the Oath she swore, even where she stood in the Great Hall when she had sworn it.

Great Hall

Never mind that she'd probably not live; death was but a summer itch to the loss of honor.

Once again she found herself uttering the oath on impulse. It had become her mantra since the Lights killed her father. It had become her life. For the thousandth time in as many days the words slipped past her lips. The ritual commenced.

“An oath of life I swear by Blood to be an oath of death,

And each page of the Sacred Book I whisper with each breath.

To the Seven Lights of Nelstar—this day I swear your death.”

Aentarra's Oath

Warmth washed Aentarra's body. Her shoulders relaxed, skin smoothed. A slight orgasmic tingle—a smile. If the Lights thought banishment would stave her vengeance they had forgotten what it meant to be a du Savarra.

She shook her head to clear the fog. This would require a day or more of pondering, but she could ill afford the time. If she were to ever get back to Nelstar she must first deal with Lukaan and the other Banished Ones. Only then could she wreak her revenge. Aentarra shuddered as tendrils of flame danced across her fingers. She forced her mind to focus then made her way toward council chambers.

Blue silk rode on a current of air and flowed with her every movement, like a spider's web fluttering in a gentle autumn breeze. Aentarra sauntered through the room, heels clicking on the white marble floor, while hair as dark as a raven's wing tickled satin-smooth shoulders. Walnut eyes flanked an Endoran nose—strong and perfectly straight—and stared at the ten inert souls filling all but four of the seats surrounding an ancient blackthorn table. The finest swords from each noble house enriched the otherwise drab walls, and on the table in front of each chair lay a dagger encrusted with priceless emeralds, their blades tainted by the Blood of ages past.

Once she had counted them among her allies, but they had lost the will to fight, and the centuries had dulled their vengeance. Now they served a different purpose, a more noble cause.

Aentarra ran a slender finger along the back of Kiris's head, tickling a neck that could no longer respond. A shame this had to happen, though it was only a matter of time. The thin smile returned to her face. "Only three remain." She sighed, fingering the emeralds on the dagger of House D'Norta. Pity their line had to end, she thought, but her smile hid no pity.

Aentarra spun toward the door, alerted by the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor. Mesan, one of the three that remained before she could pursue Lukaan.

The air in the corridor pulsed, a transient interval that allowed Mesan quick entry, yet limited the disturbance. He had no wish to keep a rift open with Aentarra around. The thought provoked an instinctive response that enveloped his body in a shield while he scoured the surroundings to ensure no deception awaited. It was wise to be cautious with Aentarra. He stepped toward the massive wooden doors that guarded the council chambers. Mesan's confidence grew with each successive step, as did his curiosity. Why meet here?

His long strides carried him into the room without hesitation. "What is it you wish, Aentarra? I have no time for your antics."

By the time he noticed, it was too late. He never saw the slicer hurtling toward him. Not that it would have mattered; he could muster no defenses at this point. The slicer pierced the shield Mesan had constructed then bore through his skull to the proper depth in his brain. Mesan's glazed stare froze in place and his body slumped to the floor.

Aentarra placed him in the appropriate seat, and once again let her gaze sweep the room. Eleven sets of lusterless eyes met her dark gaze. Her father's words from so long ago tickled her memory.

“Weak hearts beat in the chests of cowards, and forgiving minds dream only of redemption.”

An instinctive nod displayed her approval. Another piece of her plan had fallen into place.

She had no time to gloat, though, there was much work yet to do. Dangerous work. If she wasn't careful she would wind up as dead as her father. But she knew that the road to salvation grew crowded with the aged and sick and weak. The powerful trod the road of vengeance. She had sworn an oath against the Lights, and it was one she intended to keep. It was one she had to keep. And Lukaan must be the first to die. Even if I have to kill every pitiful mortal on this planet.