Chapter 5: A Night Man Comes

Sephren Hallen

Sephren waited for the prisoner to arrive. Or do I want him to come? All he knew was he was desperate. Desprate enough to call upon a man he despised, a man that felt likewise about him.Sephren wrapped a bandage around his thumb where he had picked at his skin. Surely Gien followed his orders earlier to send a message to the prisoner. He hadn’t given this task to Jerrvo for good reason. He trusted him without question, the difference between Jerrvo and Gien was that Jerrvo would follow orders and take into consideration what was best. Gien would just follow orders.

Was this too desperate a plan? Sephren worried, controlling his breath so he would not fall into panic. The box of memories that contained the prisoner reeled trying to come open. Whisps of those memories hit him, effected him, but they were small enough to purge. Until a few weeks ago Sephren thought this man dead, he had hoped he was dead.

Sephren handled his soulhilt, it was certainly possible he would try to kill Spehren tonight. If that was what was to happen, it was what happened.

If I am murdered tonight, at least the marriage will be delayed. Sephren loosened his shirt and attached his soultap to his chest. The device was a shallow disc that sat strapped to the wearer's chest, honing and focusing the wearer’s soulenergy for projection. Before the invention of the soultap about a century ago, it took years of training to project a soulblade for a few moments.

The cold sun metal disk tightened the skin along his chest. Attaching the soultap wire to his soul hilt he let the hilt of his soulblade hang on his belt. Logically, Sephren did not know why he was worried. The man he called on had been in a cell for more than three decades, and at least two decades older than him. There was little chance he would be much of a threat. Yet. Sephren knew the man. Although he would be seventy or more, Sephren knew the man would, could, do what he asked: Create chaos.

Chaos was Sephren’s last hope to free his daughter. Chaos was a dangerous bet with untenable, incomprehensible, outcomes. Chaos would have to do. Sephren told himself.

Sephren could not sit, so he slowly paced his large room. Waiting. The window or the door. Sephren told himself. And there is a guard at the door. He had given the prisoner a few stipulations. Do not harm his family, and to keep killing down to a minimum.

There were many tales about making deals with devils. None ever ended well. Foolishly, Sephren had made devil’s deals twice in his life. The first with Halnt, the second today.

Though his fingers were bandaged, Sephren tried to pick at his fingers.

He will come. Sephren told himself.

Jerrvo’s plate was wearing on him. Still, Jerrvo found it easier to stay in motion when he was worn like this. Stopping meant it was harder to get back into motion.

Amich talked to a woman in simple clothes and dark hair. She had straw on her gown, and she thought he heard a Hestavan accent as he passed. From the bits of conversation Jerrvo heard he would have assumed she was a horse trader, but she dressed too simply from someone of that profession.

Vanryn met Jerrvo in his pace around the room. “We should probably get the princess in soon. She has another long day tomorrow.”

“You’ll have better luck taming that beast than I.” Jerrvo found her in the crowd, she had stopped dancing, now she drank and listened with a small group of younger adults as Papos shared a tale. She still had a drink in hand, but she was no longer drinking by the bowl.

Vanryn, elegant in her deep blue gown, went over to Allinna and within a few words interchanged and convinced the princess to follow her.

Allinna leaned on Vanryn in a show of affection as much as support.

“That was quick.” Congratulations Jerrvo.

“Blue here.” Allinna patted her chest, too drunk to know what she was doing. “Drives a hard bargain.”

Jerrvo chuckled. “I haven’t heard her call you Blue since before you went to university.”

Vanryn, obviously uncomfortable with the amount of public affection Allinna was showing, stood painfully stiff. “I don’t hate the moniker.” Vanryn looked at her gown and nails. “I have been known to wear a specific color.”

Jerrvo led them to the exit. “How did you convince her to leave?”

Vanryn’s lips titled into a light smile, “I have been known to recite Nisvan history when I am inebriated.”

“You promised to get drunk with her tonight?”

Vanryn leaned in to whisper. “That is the thing, I promised I would, not that I would do it tonight.”

“So devious.” Jerrvo mused, putting his hand on the exit door.

Suddenly Papos’ voice raised above the chatter in the room. “The princess is leaving, let us bid her a good night!”

The banquet hall cheered in raised glasses and farewells. Allinna bowed in a show fashion. “This will be the last time you see me before I am whored out!” Allinna said in drunken joviality.

Mauln Halnt’s booming laughter raised above the rest. Jerrvo saw Lekin shrink in his chair. He hadn’t moved all night.

Vanryn held her cousin aloft as she stumbled through the door. As Allinna left the banquet she raised a crude gesture to the crowd, they cheered approvingly as if she had told them she loved them.

Jerrvo breathed a sigh of relief as they exited the banquet hall into the cool open air of the Hollow. His sweat became cold as they made the short walk up the hill to the palace. Allinna murmured drunken things to Vanryn, who spoke little but gave regular tokens of interest. Movement helped Jerrvo think. In Jarrakarta there was a proverb: the faster one’s heartbeat, the purer one’s thought.

Flashes of memories pulsed in Jerrvo’s head. Barefeet on red clay. Grass up to his chest, hunting with the lions. The solid grain of his iklwa in young uncalloused hands.

Burning. He tapped his head lightly, knocking the dark thoughts away.

Entering the palace the doors were held by two guards, Tren and Clood. Vanryn stood in the center of the painted floor crest. Her dark blue dress contrasting to the Green and golds of the prancing stags on the Synallean crest. Sephren thought the seal needed repainting, but Jerrvo thought the dulled rearing stags gave a weathered aesthetic that showed that Synall had survived. Perhaps that too was a cultural difference.

Vanryn turned to him. “Let’s get her to your room.”

“But you said you’d tell me history drunk.” Allinna complained.

“My dear.” Vanryn caressed her arm. “I didn’t say tonight. You needn’t another drink for next week.”

Allinna crossed her arms and pouted. It was more acceptable since she was drunk, though it was not uncommon for her to pout sober.

Jerrvo and Vanryn stepped up the stairs and Allinna followed, crawling up on all fours. She had started doing this as a child as it was easier, then like many things from childhood, she just never grew out of it.

Passing a guard named Hill, Jerrvo ordered he keep watch at Allinna’s door tonight.

Vanryn walked in with Allinna into her room. Jerrvo didn’t care to try to eavesdrop on what was being said. Jerrvo made polite conversation with Hill, although he despised maintaining small talk. He knew the benefits of showing interest in the lives of his men.

Not more than fifteen minutes later Vanryn exited Allinna’s room. “The princess should be sleeping soon.” She paused as they walked out of earshot from Hill. Vanryn’s deep voice near a whisper. “Her window is locked from the outside. There is a guard at the door. I would not put it past her to devise an escape, but in her state I don’t expect her to be able to sleuth around the palace tonight.

Jerrvo grunted a response. Vanryn’s room was just around the corner from Allinna’s, she stepped slower as they turned the corner. Stepping closer to Jerrvo she bumped him, seemingly accidentally. Jerrvo knew better than that. Mistakes that Vanryn made were all too intentional.

She stopped at her door. Looking up she gave a soft smile.

“Are you worried?” Jerrvo asked, hands behind his back.

Vanryn placed her finger at the corner of her jaw. Her pensive gesture. “In what way?”

Smiling Jerrvo should know better than to expect a straight answer from Vanryn. “About Allinna and Sephren.” Jerrvo clarified.

“Do you mean to ask if I think Sephren or Allinna are planning something?”

Jerrvo nodded. “I suppose. Aren’t you too tired to ask all these questions.”

Vanryn snickered. “Shouldn’t you be?” Reaching out, Vanryn paused, as if the decision to brush Jerrvo’s breastplate with the back of her hand was a monumental decision.

To Jerrvo’s surprise, and hers, he put his hand over hers. Placing it on his chest. Her heat pulsed out in orange waves on his plate. He couldn’t feel her individual fingers through his gauntlet but he wished he was not wearing armor at this moment. When he was tired he was never as certain what kind of relationship he wanted with her. He thought of their engaging conversations on philosophy and theology. Her thoughtful questions…

Yet he was also flooded with memories of her growing up. The disparity between her before Honlynn died and after. She was the same, only darker. Pain changed people, it wasn’t always something to mended out.

Jerrvo shook, coming out of his reverie. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, he just knew that more time had passed than he processed. Swallowing, he spoke. “I should make my rounds before I can sleep tonight.”

Vanryn nodded.

“Goodnight. Let Ardor reside.” Jerrvo turned on his heel, stepping away with long strides.

“Jerrvo.” Vanryn said softly. Causing him to turn. Her lips stammered, not knowing what to say. “Make certain you sleep tonight.” Jerrvo saw her golden irises in the soul lamp light. “Tomorrow won’t be what we think.” She didn’t know how she knew that, she preferred to not make decisions on emotions, but this feeling appeared to be something she could bet on.

He nodded. “That is what I fear.” And stepped away.

Sephren was unsure how much time had passed. Once the sun had left the hollow telling time by Sunmetal weight was useless. Still he paced. Or sat. Or tried to read. In his anxiety five minutes could have been hours.

Sephren smelled cool fresh air, feeling the breeze flow into the room. He hadn’t heard the window open. Turing Sephren straightened himself, doing his best to posture regally.

A short stone faced man in tattered robes stood like a monument by the window.

The low lamp light filled the cracks and valley’s of the man’s stone face. Sephren fought to step forward in confidence, not back. He ordered his leg not to step back. Compromising his foot returned to where he picked it up from.

The low rumble of colliding rocks came from the stone-faced man’s mouth. “Finally, you ask your old master for assistance.” Bare feet scratched on stone. “You ought to have called me from that cell when Halnt campaigned against you. That should have been a swift war.”

Sephren breathed more erratically as he stepped closer.

“Instead you drug it out and then yielded to him what he wanted.” The man spoke stiffly, like his face was made of something inflexible. Inflections and intonation were void from his face and voice.

“You know nothing, Zaleth.” Sephren tried to speak with confidence, though his voice shook. Pausing, Sephren composed himself. “You didn’t live that war. You never lived in war, you’re just a faux holy man from Malkalbi.”

The stone-faced man stepped within arms reach of Sephren. Then leaned in slowly to him. “Is that all I am?”

Sephren swallowed, blocking any gumption to respond.

“You call me the night before your daughter’s wedding. In your letter, your first one in three decades, you ask me to stop the wedding. Create Chaos. Only don’t harm my family. Those were your words.” He stepped around Sephren, inspecting him. “Now tell me. What could you give me that I want?”

“Freedom.” Sephren said softly.

The sound of an avalanche replaced the stone-faced man’s laughter. “What do I need freedom for?”

Shifting Sephren hastily tried to discern what he could want. Trying to hide his fear, Sephren squeezed the four-sided die in his pocket.

“I had hoped you would come to me.” Zaleth stopped pacing in front of Sephren, leaning in uncomfortably close. Though the crest of his head barely reached Sephren’s neck he felt small next to the Stone-faced man. “I had no need of your key you placed in the letter. Taking a large step back the Stone-faced man was silhouetted by the lamps behind him. “I became more in that cell. You are still destined to be the Tzarn. I can teach you this power I have.”

Sephren said nothing. Trying to swallow his fear.

“You don’t believe your old master has grown more powerful. I must show you then.” Zaleth breathed deeply. Then touched a chalice near him. As he pulled his finger away it followed it as if connected by a string.

Sephren’s eyes narrowed. “What trickery is this? You are a soulweilder. Not a Heightener.” Recalling legends, Sephren didn’t believe they could ever be true. What he saw seemed like proof. You could learn all three soul powers.

A wave of fear snapped over him. Heart beating out of his chest, Sephren began to sweat. His breathing tight. Suddenly the sensation mellowed. Sephren now felt jaded, empty. Sephren recognized what it felt like to be pulled emotionally. Recognizing this he was able to dull the effects of the manipulation. His melancholic string being pulled, Sephren whipped a tear from his eye. Now he had all three Soul powers. A mythical impossibility. Hadn’t Vanryn said that myths often had truth in them?

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Terrified at the power Zaleth had to bend people, Sephren began to regret and fear the devil he had loosened. If he was this powerful he could have left at any time. Sephren clenched his fist around his Ardor dice, feeling his skin break. Why come now, only because I asked?

Zaleth’s gray eyes stared at Sephren like orbs of marble. His voice rumbled. “The three soul powers are more connected than we think. You only need to die and offer your boon to Kizmet to receive them.” The stone-faced men's square frame lurched forward a step. “Light your blade Sephren.”

Seprehn crossed his arms. Obstinate.

“You ask for your master to come, and you ignore his orders.” He sneered, “I shouldn’t have wasted my time on you. You were too much a coward to be the Tzarn.”

Brushing his hair back Sephren tried to fight his command. Fear was the tool of manipulation. He didn’t need to pull to control Sephren; the roots of control were far too deep.

Sephren had attached his soultap thinking he might have to defend himself. Fear swallowed him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Slowly Sephren pulled the soulhilt off his belt. The soulhilt hardly looked any different from a bladeless hilt of a regular sword. Inside the hilt were lenses that focused the user's soul energy outward.

Mentally reminding himself how to ignite it. Sephren inhaled, gathered his energy, holding it in the palm of his hand. Like blowing water out of a straw it took an initial pulse to force the liquid out to start the stream. Similarly there had to be an initial jolt to start the flow of energy out.

Like embers coming to life, amber light filled the room. Sephren’s soulblade formed slowly, starting as a low sputtering of amber light then shaping and growing to that of a longsword. A long sword that was bright amber in hue and two inches broader than a steel blade.

Naturally, Sephren fell into a defensive stance. The edges of the sword were of a solid glassy material. His soulhilt vibrated in a familiar way against his hand. Oddly, Sephren smirked. Holding his blade gave him a new confidence. The metal handles of Sephren’s dresser vibrated lightly in the sword’s resonance.

“Punny.” The Stone-faced man dejected. Holding his fists out in front of them he spread them apart. An impossible white light formed like a solid rod between his hands. The Stone-faced man’s light effortlessly drowned out the light of Sephren.

Hiding his face, Sephren tried to force his eyes to adjust. The light was like the noon sun. No, brighter, whiter than sunlight. Sephren fell against the wall, deactivating his balde. “This is what I learned in the hole you threw me in.” He held his blade out, aided with no soul tap. Where Sephren’s blade was controlled and uniform Zaleth’s was erratic, like white fire spitting from a kiln.

Where Sephren’s blade caused metal in the room to vibrate lightly, Zaleth’s erratic blade made metal in the room tremble.

With a clap, the Stone-faced man dissipated the light. His right hand which held the blade smoked. Sephren smelled a waft of burnt flesh. Zaleth’s voice boomed like cracking rocks. “You are one of the first to see my power.”

Sephren’s mind and body caught up with each other. He slowly unflayed himself from the wall. Straightening his jacket to appear together, he urged himself to calm. Holding his soulhilt Sephren knew he was too deep to back out.

A deal with a devil to free myself from another deal with a devil. Sephren brushed back his dark graying hair. He hoped he only looked half as frantic as he felt.

Sephren thought he could hear Zaleth’s face crack as he smiled. His voice was deep and hollow. “I will do as my Tzarn asks.” Zaleth performed the slightest bow. “Justice is owed towards me, do not think I will not make an ask of you; an ask you cannot refuse.”

Sephren’s eyes began to adjust to the dim soullight of the room. Zaleth turned and walked to the window. “I still believe the prophecies.” Zaleth’s granite face turned back to Sephren. “You will be the Tzarn. The lord of kings, uniter, bender, destroyer.” His voice cooled to a whisper. “I am simply your herald, the one who refines you.”

“Take whatever revenge, or justice, you want against me. Only leave my family out of it.” There was a power in Sephren’s voice, he almost didn’t recognize himself.

Zaleth stalked to the window sill. Licking a snake-like tongue in satisfaction. “I dreamed of revenge. Oh, I pondered. I became a visionary in making the balances right.” He licked his lips, moisture cracking his dry skin. “I never dreamed you would be asking for my revenge. The gods are surely for me.”

“Then be off. You have work to do.” Sephren said, turning away from his mentor.

Zaleth stepped back, seemingly taken aback. “You would treat me like some nightman, something you throw away. I am more than that to you Sephren.”

Sephren found it easier to speak defiantly to his abuser when he did not face him. “No you are not.”

The Stone-faced man stepped behind Sephren. Though Zaleth did not touch Sephren, the skin on his neck and back tensed.

Glancing over his shoulder Sephren looked at the short man disgustingly.

“You will be the Tsarn.” Zaleth whispered. “The prophets and gods cannot be wrong. I know what was revealed to me. Therefore, I cannot be wrong. You are the one to break the world, and bind all people together as one. My duty is still to assure your ascension. Tomorrow you will begin that journey again.”

Sephren faced his old mentor. Coals of suppressed anger sparked in him. Pushing his mentor away from him, Sephren found the blocky man unmoving. “You raped my mother, killed her. Told me to kill my father. I should have killed you. But I hated you too much for that.” Sephren paused, not in fear, but in efforts to restrain the ire in him. “Your king gave you an order. Or is your fealty to another. Perhaps yourself?”

The Stone-faced man smiled, like a snake preparing to bite. “Yes, that is the Tsarn prophesied.” He stepped out slowly. Ducking out the window he let himself fall to the ground.

The moment Zaleth left, Sephren released his tension. Panting frantically, he collapsed onto a couch. A familiar feeling rested over him. A familiar feeling he wished he could have forgotten. There was an inarticulate dread he felt when he signed the treaty with Halnt, where he signed his daughter away to end a war. He saved thousands of lives, but ruined one. How could he justify that? Sephren felt that same dread now. Zaleth, though wicked, was a man of his word. Allinna would not marry Lekin. Sephren did not fear for his own life. He was well past caring about that, he feared the snare he would wrap those he loved in. What good was it to save your daughter but trap those near to you?

Philosophical and semantic debates were not something Sephren cared for. One debate that Jerrvo and Amich contested was this: was it better to seek the most good for the most people, or all good for all people. The former was a game of numbers, pragmatic, the latter an ideological statement. Sephren rolled the four sided dice in his hand. He knew too well kings did not have the luxury of ideals.

Standing Sephren looked out his open window. Too deep in his thoughts to notice the curtains billowing on him. “Principles are the leisure of those who don’t bear the weight of making the choice.” Sephren threw the dice out the window. Luck was a figment, his actions would determine his fate. “I loathe the choices I have made.” War's mind reentered Sephren. “But they must be made.”

Chapter 5: Something lost, something given

Nylla, of course, never wanted to be a prostitute. It did feed her horse. Once she could get Barty looking healthy, she could start studding him out. And once she could do that she could start living. She had been in this cycle twelve years. She did what she had to. She survived.

Mauln Halnt had paid for her that evening. With the agreement that he would at least entertain the idea of letting Barty mate with some of his stock. She was unsure if it was irony, or some cruel fate, that she had been hired by the reason she was a prostitute. The Tyrant had not tried to bed her, yet. So far he had only watched in an armchair as his son tried to prove his manhood to him. Nylla feared what she might be compelled to do if he did touch her.

Mauln Halnt’s dark eyes shifted from her and then to his son. Lekin sat crying on the floor next to the bed. Nylla lay on her back mostly exposed; her shift still covering her pelvis, not that she cared for decency anymore. She was pretty enough to be a prostitute, not that one had to be exceptionally pretty for that. She thought herself as perfectly average in all aspects. Living in small villages had a tendency to cause you to look perfectly normal. It was not what Nylla looked like that bothered. It was what laid deeper.

What I have seen, Nylla thought wishing she had something to smoke, would end most men. Nylla did her best to blink it away. Her thoughts were not on what she was experiencing, currently, but what had been experienced. Old thoughts had a power difficult to quell. She noted the candelabra, glowing with warm soullight. Gently she felt the texture of the sheets. They were far nicer than anything she had slept in perhaps ever.

“Your accent.” Halnt spoke suddenly. Lekin whipped tears from his face. “Your Hestavan?”

Nylla stared at the ceiling. Clenching her jaw. Nylla moved her eyes to the Tyrant. She wanted to be certain that he knew how much she hated him. “Yes.” Her voice too hollow to be her own. “You are the reason I am here.”

The Tyrant, he only smiled at her hatred. He had burned Hestave because he could. Burned her family's stock of horses. Forcing her into a life of poverty. For men, poverty meant petty crime, or if they had a clean record it meant military service. For women, there was always a horrid survival in whoring oneself. Nylla had processed this much in her years of prostitution; when the choice of death or anguish was laid before her, she continually chose anguish because at least she was experiencing something.

However much she despised Mauln Halnt she could not help but feel sympathy for the poor boy that lay on the floor. As she shifted onto the floor next to Lekin she did her best to cover her breasts. The lad was obviously uncomfortable with nudity. She sat close to the boy, but gave him space. “I don’t think any less of you. If anything I appreciate your gentleness. Intimacy is difficult.”

Lekin nodded, but his eyes remained locked away from her. A sheet covering his nudity.

Nylla peeked her head over the bed. “Lord Halnt. I think Lekin, your son, would be more comfortable if you were not here while he…practices.”

Halnt groaned loudly, wiping sweat from his brow and unbuttoning his loose white shirt more. “Of all the women I have laid with the one I am legally married to had to be the weakest. Gah!” He cursed in phrases Nylla had never thought possible. “Dying in childbirth- well I know where your weakness comes from.” Halnt shook his head.

Halnt clapped his hands and tore off his shirt, not taking the time to remove it properly. “Watch this Lekin, this is how you bed a woman.”

Nylla’s head went elsewhere.

Nylla’s father always told her she had a heat to her. She was always calm, but never tameable. She remembered a bully steed she kept, it bit and stole from the more passive horses. It took nearly a year but she taught the cruelty out of that horse. She didn’t want to teach cruelty out of Halnt; there would be no Halnt without the cruelty. Nylla did want to stand to him, and push back against him. She learned that horses and men were often similar. If you stood to a bully they too were spineless. Nylla slowly stood powerfully against The Tyrant.

“No.” Nylla said sternly. Her voice echoed around the stone chamber. Lekin jumped and started to scoot away with fear in his eyes.

Halnt’s eyes grew big in a hungry kind of way.

Nylla remained stern, yet wholly calm. “You cannot do this to your own son. What cruelty are you? Forcing him to bed me so you can approve of his manhood. Then dissatisfied, forcing your son to watch you bed me.”

Mauln’s mouth hung slightly agape. Shocked that anyone would stand against him.

Nylla’s hand twitched as she tried to find more to say.

Halnt boomed with laughter. “If you have such anger against me. Then kill me.” The Tyrant put his hand to his mouth in laughter. “Killed by a whore. Now that would be quite the tale.” Stepping toward Halnt continued, “come now. Let me quiet you.”

As The Tyrant reached to grab Nylla, she reacted thoughtlessly. Swiftly, she swung her fist. Halnt lurched back covering his nose. Nylla gaped, impressed she had just punched Mauln Halnt.

Lekin’s jaw dropped. His heart raced a different pace, not fear, but a kind of awe that someone would stand up for him.

Nylla noticed crimson blood on her middle knuckle. She laughed in defiance.

Huffing, Halnt blew blood off his lips. Blood had already begun to trickle onto his smooth muscled chest. “Ah. He said with a look of pleasure. I have not had a woman touch me like that in too long.”

The massive weight of what Nylla had done now lay on her. Fluidly, she reached for a candle stick and swung the heavy weighted end in front of her in defense. She stood in front of Lekin who looked at her in awe.

Slowly the bloody faced Halnt stepped toward Nylla. Somehow she remained composed outwardly. Being too focused on The Tyrant in front of her she did not hear the window creaking.

Halnt stepped within her reach and she swung the candlestick in front of her. Halnt effortlessly stepped out of her way. He was close enough that Nylla could see that, while mostly hairless, Halnt’s chest was not smooth. Like a practice hide, Halnt’s chest was scarred and berated.

Nylla did not see the short man enter through the window.

Swinging frantically Nylla aimed to keep the Tyrant at bay. Mauln Halnt laughed gleefully toying with the terrified woman.

Suddenly, overwhelming light filled the room. Nylla covered her eyes with her hand. Peeking through her fingers she saw Halnt was equally as phased.

Halnt turned facing the light. “Who the hell are you?” Halnt roared. The short man said nothing. Nylla thought his face could have been cut from dark granite.

Reaching for his massive claymore leaning on the wall Halnt swung the sheath off at the intruding man.

The intruder cut the sheath in two with his spitting white sword. Then managed to parry Halnt’s thrust in a single motion.

In a second motion from the stone-faced man, Halnt’s sword fell to the floor. Accompanying the clang of the sword Nylla heard a second sound; a mellow thwack.

Looking away, Nylla covered her eyes to avoid seeing another man die. Nylla felt a gust of wind. The force gusted her to the floor. Light filled all her eyes, skewing her sight.

Throught the light she saw a man of dark granite. The man’s right arm held an erratic spewing soulblade of pure white. Heat like a stove radiated off the blade. Fearing to see her own death coming, Nylla peeked out from her fingers. The spewing blade was at Halnt’s throat. Lurching to attack, Halnt stopped himself, knowing it was futile. The man holding the light spoke with a rumble. “You still fit into the plan but I will kill you if needed.”

To Nylla’s surprise Halnt froze.

The stone-faced man stepped over something Nylla could not see. The heat from the blade intensified from warm, to burning as the man approached.

Nylla backed up against the wall. Not knowing where to flee, she collapsed to the floor as he stepped closer. Surrendering, Nylla dropped the candlestick.

Lekin whimpered behind her. Though her chest was tight with fear, she shifted to protect him. The man disengaged the soulblade. The air cooled suddenly. The room was suddenly too dim.

Black spots filled Nylla’s eyes as they adjusted.

Seeing the shape of a man approaching, Nylla lost her calm, her voice panicked. “What do you want with us?”

He crouched to their level, and with his right hand reached into his belt, pulling out a white flower. An Absarka flower. The hand that reached toward her was burnt and blistered. Could that be from the soulblade? Nylla feared to look at the assailant's face, studying only the white flower and the burnt, blistering, arm.

“I am Zaleth. Give this to King Sephren Hallen.” His voice sounded like cracking rocks. “You will do well enough as the judge.”

Nylla stayed frozen in place. Realizing her shoulder strap was falling she adjusted it, but couldn’t bear to take the flower. Lekin whimpered and howled behind her.

The man sneered. Nylla thought he heard Lekin whimpering behind her. Impatiently he said. “Do you understand the Absarka tradition?”

Nylla’s mouth was dry, unable to form words. She nodded affirmingly. This was a formal challenge to a trial. A trial she would have to adjudicate if she took it. A trial that would result in someone dying.

“Then take it.” The man said with a bite of annoyance.

Shakily she reached her hand out and took the white flower from the blistered red hand. The man stood from his crouch and turned. “We will meet at the land bridge over the Verit river.”

The man left and Nylla could not feel relief. Though she did not see the man’s face, Nylla knew she could recognize the intruder by his gait alone.

Standing slowly Lekin fell onto her blubbering thanks for protecting him. She wavered after pushing the boy off of her. Uncertainty, fear. Her legs trembled beneath her.

Like embers creating a new fire Mauln Halnt began to curse and rouse himself.

Find a guard, find Lord Hallen. Nylla left the room walking with purpose.

Outside the room, Nylla heard Halnt’s profane curses echo through the halls. Fearing the White-bladed man would find her if she did not act quickly enough she stepped into a methodical run. Her bare feet slapping on the stone floors.

Guards roused towards Halnt’s room yelling. Nylla held the flower before her in reverent fear. Two guards holding pikes rushed past her. Typical. She thought. People often ignored a prostitute. She stepped after them repeatedly yelling, “I need you, I need you!”

Before entering the room the guard finally turned to her, seeing the white flower in her hands. He cursed softly. “Who.” He questioned. Nylla heard the other guard gasp as he entered the room.

“Lord Hallen.” Nylla said, gasping for breath. The guard grabbed her, leading her away. Her mind moved quickly. My Barty! She panicked for her horse. It would be dawn soon he would need to be fed. Fear snowballed in her mind that she could be misunderstood, she could be thrown in jail or imprisoned for what she is doing. She tried to shake out of their grasps but could not. She tried to tell the guards about Barty but she reverted back to her Leklieven.

She feared, worrying how she would survive. How Barty would survive. You always survive. She reminded herself.