*
As she lay in bed that night, Fayr cradled her aching cheek and wondered about all her father had been through. She had never really thought of it much before. She had always feared him too much to wonder about such things.
Today, her fear of him dissipated. Today, even though he had stricken her across the face, she did not feel afraid anymore. She only felt angry.
How could he let Kyne discover the truth at the same time she did? Kyne had only been asking questions for a few days now. She had asked for some ten years or more. She’d had no choice but to shut her mouth and force her mind into solitude. She had drowned her emotions in the neverending struggle to seem “happy,” and as a result she’d grown increasingly troubled and confused inside, for she never understood why she must do it. Why couldn’t she be happy like everyone else in the first place, always and without effort?
It was all her father’s fault. He was a cruel and terrible man. She had always known it, deep down, but she had never dwelt on it until now. She had always been intimidated by his power and by the great secrets he harbored. Tonight she understood that he clung to his secrets like a pirate clings to gold. He was selfish and greedy, and he used his knowledge to control everyone else.
People would do anything to obtain happiness. But if we had it already, why would we care?
She understood now what he meant by that. King Joyhan used safra to control people, and his ancestors must have done the same. Fayr should have figured out that much already. Her own mother was the most obvious example. Joyhan used safra to control Queen Lilyana all the time.
When Fayr was twelve years of age, she had discovered her father fornicating with a palace maid. It had been quite an accident, and no fault of her own. She had merely been wandering around the palace, twiddling her fingers and bored out of her mind. Whenever she was bored she liked to walk down the Striped Corridor. It was a hallway painted with gradient shades of orange, red, and gold. Lashing these colors with sharp contrast were jagged stripes of black. The entire corridor was made to mimic the fur of a tiger. It was both gaudy and elegant, simple but magical, and whenever Fayr walked through the place, she felt as elegant as one of the great cats herself.
Yet on this day, she had glimpsed two figures far down the hall, locked together but undulating with movement. She took a few steps closer before she realized what they were doing. She had seen people have public sex before. In Dearen, people rarely took the time to retreat to a private bedroom if the mood overcame them. She witnessed it most often with visiting nobles, who would often become so exhilarated by the safra in their system that they no longer knew how to contain themselves.
But this was not a visiting noble. Nor was it a foolish commoner. It was her own father, and Fayr didn’t realize it until she had merely passed them by. There he was, his purple hair thrashing as he moved, his cheeks red and flushed, his hips pumping rhythmically towards this total stranger, who seemed so be-spelled by safra that she was half-asleep.
“Father?”
She shouldn’t have said anything. She just couldn’t help herself. She was so shocked by his behavior that her reaction came out unchecked. Perhaps she hoped that when he turned and looked at her she would realize it was another man, perhaps wearing a wig to mimic the king. But there was no mistaking the face that turned towards her.
King Joyhan paused, clutching the woman to him like a shield as he looked upon his daughter. “Get out of here,” he snarled.
She obeyed. She fled, even though he stayed behind, apparently determined to finish what he’d started.
When Fayr next encountered her father at dinner, he acted as if nothing had happened. Fayr tried to convince herself of the same thing, that night and several thereafter. But she could not forget her father’s flushed face, the maid’s glazed eyes. And over time, the fact Joyhan acknowledged nothing bothered her more than anything else. So at last, she confided in her mother.
A shadow had flickered over Queen Lilyana’s face. It was a strange sight, to say the least. Lilyana almost always smiled. Her face was practically stuck in that expression. Yet all the sudden, her lips drooped, her nose tightened, and her brows knitted together.
“Let’s talk to your father about this,” she said, “and see what he has to say for himself.”
For a fleeting moment, Fayr felt hopeful. Perhaps whatever was about to happen would not be good, but at least it was something. Anything to resolve the feelings stirring inside of her ever since she caught the king with the maid. Anything to reassure her that she was not crazy for feeling disturbed.
So they’d confronted King Joyhan. Lilyana had introduced the issue with a grave tone of voice. Then Fayr had related what she’d witnessed, her words fast and jumbled with excitement. All the while Joyhan listened with that blank expression of his, the one he was so skilled at faking.
When the mother and daughter were finished, he picked up a chalice from his bedside. First he sprinkled into it a sparkling pinch of safra. Then he poured plum juice over it, stirring the concoction calmly. When he was finished, he walked to his wife and placed it in her eager fingertips.
“I am sorry, my love,” he said to the queen. “It was a moment of weakness. Do you forgive me?”
Lilyana took a sip of the glittering liquid. She sloshed it in her mouth and closed her eyes as the drink slid down her throat. Her brows unraveled. Her lips curled into a smile. When she opened her eyes again, they were clouded over, as if filled with the Haze itself. “Oh, I forgive you, darling.” She reached up and brushed his purple beard with her fingertips. “It is a beautiful evening. No need to let this spoil it.”
Thus the matter had been settled, and no one ever brought it up again.
Now six years later, Fayr’s fingers dug into her bedsheets. Her teeth gnashed together as she felt all the anger, all the confusion she’d ignored throughout her lifetime rising suddenly to the surface, threatening to drown her.
She needed to stop thinking about it. She needed to accept the fact that tomorrow, at long last, she would learn the truth behind safra. Even though this made her excited, anxious, and angry all at once, she needed to stop obsessing over it so that she could finally get some sleep.
Then a yell shook the air.
For a moment, she thought she had imagined it. Who would scream in Dearen? People under the influence of safra could still feel physical pain to a degree, but normally they remained so calm they barely reacted to it. This voice had been wrought with agony and fear. She knew how such a thing sounded, for she had made a yell like that not so long ago.
She waited and waited, wondering if she had imagined it. Perhaps it had only been an echo from her own haunting memory.
Then it came again.
She started and jumped out of bed. Her heart nearly leapt from her chest. Struggling to keep a level head, she scrambled over the floor to her wardrobe. She wore only a thin silk gown, which left most of her legs and arms bare. It was low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and she knew that in strong candlelight, it was practically see-through. The cool night air made the little hairs prickle all over her body as a sense of vulnerability came over her.
She didn’t have time to change clothes. She knew that danger lurked nearby. She could not afford to tarry. She must investigate immediately.
The Wolvens killed my family, the king had said. And they won’t stop until our entire bloodline is extinct.
A sheen of steel in the moonlight caught her attention. It was an ancient baselard, or short-sword, the hilt of which glittered with diamond shards. For years it had hung on her wall in the name of decoration. Now she looked upon its sharp edge and knew it was the closest thing she might find to protection. She reached up and grabbed it. The jewels of the hilt were cold in her fingertips.
Holding her breath, she crept out into the hallway.
Torches blazed into the darkness. The Royal Chambers, somewhat ironically, were the simplest compartments in the entire
palace, probably because they belonged to the first and oldest section. The walls were made of rocks from the cliffs of Vikand. Though the jagged edges of stone had been smoothed, dark lines splintered the grainy surface, hinting at the might of the great crags her ancestors tamed. Here and there, gold and jewel decorations broke up the daunting black space, casting flashes of ruby red or emerald green into the shadows. These decorations, normally pleasant, only ceased to distract and irritate her as she walked slowly over the stones. Now that the echoes of the first yell had faded, she heard nothing but the wind as it stirred against the rocks—that and the sound of her own breath, ragged and shallow, which only seemed to intensify the harder she tried to control it.
She tripped over something on the floor. The baselard swayed in her grip and she watched its tip dance towards her. She barely managed to catch herself, but not soon enough to keep from imagining impaling herself on the blade as she fell. What a fool she was! She did not even know how to hold a sword, much less use one.
She looked back to see what she had tripped on and found a dead body.
She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming.
The body of the guard was familiar. She couldn’t remember his name. He was a fool and an oaf who stuffed himself daily with both food and safra. Sometimes he told funny jokes, which was the only reason she had granted him the honor of guarding her bedroom. Now he lay sprawled on the floor, his plump lips hanging open in death, his blood pouring out from a wound in his chest. She leaned closer and saw metal shard sticking out of the wound.
A shadow moved.
She turned and ran.
The whole world spun around her. She did not even know where she was going; fortunately, her feet led her of their own accord. If her guard was dead, the assassin must have passed through the Royal Chambers. But if Fayr was not yet dead …
She swung open the door to her parents’ bedroom.
“NO!”
The sheets were strewn every which way. A flame danced on the floor where a fallen candle struggled for life against the stones. Its bright red light illuminated the face of her mother, white with death. Her lips still smiled, even as blood trickled from them.
The king lay face-down on the stones, a sword protruding from his back. Fayr recognized the weapon as one which had decorated the walls of the king’s bedroom, just as the baselard in her hands had decorated her own.
She backed out into the hallway. This was a nightmare. It had to be. Her close encounter in the woods gave her bad dreams—that was all. Things this awful didn’t really happen. The assassin had been chained and shackled. He couldn’t have gotten free. He had also been dazed by all the safra she flung in his face. Then her father had tied the anti-safra kerchief back over the assassin’s mouth …
A rattle scraped her eardrums.
She turned and saw a dark shape standing by her brother’s doorway. His torso was bare, the skin gleaming gold in the torchlight. He still wore dark leather around his legs, glittering with spikes. His hand was on the doorknob to Kyne’s room. But at the sound of Fayr’s gasp he turned. She saw that the bottom-half of his face was covered by the familiar kerchief. Above this, his eyes caught the light and blazed red.
“KYNE!” screamed Fayr. “RUN!”
Then she followed her own advice.
She not only knew that the assassin would come after her; she hoped it. If this was a nightmare, let the Wolven kill her and wake her up. If not, then at least by dying, she may save her brother. And at least, by dying, something—something—would happen.
Her feet carried her from the stones of the Royal Chambers to the great expanse of the Fountain Foyer. Hundreds of candles glowed in a ring around the chamber, casting a soft amber glow on the waters that sprayed from the mouths of stone figures. Tigers, lizards, and wolves spat colorful streams into the white de-saturation of moonlight. She glanced over her shoulder past the thrashing tendrils of her hair to see his dark shape running towards her. She clenched her baselard until its diamonds bit the skin of her palms and pushed her bare feet faster.
The thrusting of her legs took her from the Fountain Foyer and into the Garden of Delights. Here vines and flowers cascaded down a stone staircase into a jungle of blossoms and foliage. It was a maze in its own right, and most people were happy to get lost in it. Deep in the Garden of Delights, one could feast on the fruits of its trees and bushes, drink from its glittering fountains, and never come out for days. A thick canopy of branches and vines made one easily lose track of where he entered or where he might exit.
Except that Fayr knew the maze by heart.
When she had run far enough into it, she pretended to trip.
She chose the spot carefully. Here, the pebbled walkway was softened by velvety red soil. The fall was painful, but not too much so. As she sprawled into the dirt, she threw the baselard under a bush of Sweet-Sickle flowers. This, too, she chose on purpose. The bush’s seeds, buried within its blossoms, shone with a soft green light, casting a mossy glow wherever they grew. The aroma of Sweet-Sickle flowers was rumored to awaken the senses and stir one’s desire.
Belatedly, she realized this would not matter if her attacker still wore his accursed kerchief.
She did not know what else to do. Her bare legs felt like jelly from the hips down. She had run as far as she could bear to run. Not only because she was exhausted and in shock, but also because it did not seem right to keep running from the still-bleeding bodies of her mother and father. What else could she do now but turn and face her attacker?
His footsteps padded closer. She could hear his breath, coarse and heavy. She remembered suddenly how her father had injured him with a knife to the shoulder. Surely he had lost a lot of blood, and the pain of his wound must be draining him.
“It won’t hurt so much if you breathe in some safra,” she said, rolling onto her back to face him.
Her voice felt like someone else’s as it rang from her throat. She wasn’t sure where her own confidence came from. She only knew that she had no other ideas besides this one, so she might as well try it.
His shape cut a jagged silhouette against the dim Haze. He took another step forward, bathing himself in the soft aquamarine glow of the Sweet-Sickle bushes.
As she stared up at him, Fayr felt her body tingle all over. Her fingers played with the flimsy folds of her night-gown as she pulled it up her thighs. Perhaps she was simply getting caught up in her own act. Or perhaps, unlike the safra, the Sweet-Sickle bush held at least a little sway over her senses. Whatever the case, her skin came alive with sensation, and her heart pounded with excitement. She felt the tickle of her hair against her shoulders. She felt the cool night air brush the tender skin of her chest. Her nipples tightened and became super-sensitive against the soft caress of her gown. She hoped the Wolven noticed this, too.
His eyes became very wide, so that a clear ring of white shone round the red irises. The metal weapon in his hand jerked, then fell into the soil.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”
He groaned and sank down onto his knees. She wondered if the spikes caused him any discomfort as they stuck into the dirt. If so, he did not show it. He watched in a daze as her fingers continued to play with her gown. She pushed herself up onto one elbow, allowing one strap of her gown to slip down her shoulder. Her other hand caressed herself, up, up, up, until her finger nearly touched the sensitive tip of her own breast.
“I know the truth,” she said. “You’re very tired. You’ve come all this way, through so many trials, yet you cannot even enjoy the pleasures of Dearen, now that they’re right beneath your nose. Don’t you want to? Don’t you wish to enjoy yourself?”
His hand searched the soil for the fallen piece of metal. Blood rolled down in his shoulder in a dark, viscous stream. His fingers found the weapon, but then he played with it, gently, almost caressing the steel. His gaze did not stray from her body.<
br />
“You think I am mad at you? I am not as mad as you think. My father told me about your family bloodline. You are only doing what you were born and raised to do. It is the same with me. Except that I don’t want to be like my family. I despise the Violenese, my own ancestors. I hate them for this curse they’ve given me. I hate my father for raising me in their shadow, never even giving me the knowledge to choose a fate for myself. I am glad that … I am glad that he’s dead and I want to thank you. I want to thank you for freeing me.”
The assassin reached out and grabbed her shoulders. He pushed her down with a forceful shove. Her arms splayed out on either side of her body as he pressed her to the earth. He straddled her again, the metal spikes of his thighs ripping her gown. It was almost like the exact scene she’d experienced earlier today, except that this time, he did not hold the metal to her neck. Instead, his bare hand gripped her flesh. At first the pressure of his touch was crushing. Then it softened to a light caress. His hand trailed down her her throat and paused against her chest.
The violence of her own breath made his hand rise and fall with her bosom. His red eyes stared pointedly at her nipple. Then, with little warning, he wrapped his hand around her breast. She gasped, arching against his touch involuntarily. A warmth seemed to spread from his palm through the whole of her body. She wondered if he could feel her heartbeat pounding up toward his hand.
“You won’t be able to enjoy it with that stuff around your nose,” she breathed, even though she wasn’t sure whether that was true. “Nor will you be able to kiss me.”
He grew very stiff all the sudden. His nails dug into her skin. Perhaps she had overdone it. He leaned down, the spikes of his thighs digging into her ribs until she squirmed with discomfort. “Two more,” he hissed. “Just two more, and it is finished forever.”
Fayr’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the baselard.
He leaned back, twirling his metal shard across his fingertips. His eyes still bored into her chest, but now it was because he aimed to stab her in the heart.
“Goodbye,” she said. Then she swept the blade across his throat.
It was a clumsy, unpracticed movement. But her desperation served its purpose. The blood sprayed, the assassin thrashed, and his own weapon flew from his grasp.
She crawled out from under him, scrambling through the soil to get away. She closed her eyes, clamped her bloody hands over her ears, but she could still hear his groaning as he died. She lurched as her sorrow overcame her. A terrible cry ripped from her throat as her rage and despair burst from her body; hot tears swelled from her lashes and dripped, glittering, into the soil of the gardens.
2
The Wolven Way