Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong (12 page)

They looked to be between the ages of around nine and fourteen.
 

A tangible veil of venna draped the field, the tensile fury emanating from each boy an unmistakable force of misery.
 

Liv took a hesitant breath. The bubbling conflagration of anger and despair inflamed her senses. It was the same mix of seething emotion that, at times, roiled off of Toran in waves.

Though not nearly as potent as the would-be daemon king’s touch, the sheer volume of venna present was staggering.

“Oh my gods, Anara,” she whispered. “Why are they kept like this?”

“Other than keeping them here, we have no idea how else to help them––how to show them a way out of this hell they’ve found themselves in.”

Stunned, Liv could think of nothing to say.

“No one had any idea what would happen once the faine were gone,” Anara went on to explain. “It was a sudden and cataclysmic break from the past… one from which the Vimora have never recovered.”

The doctor looked out over the field.

“Since the Cleansing, the infant mortality rate has skyrocketed, and it doesn’t get much better from there,” she said. “Like most of the Strong, Vimor daemons do not reach near-immortality until well after puberty. Between birth and that, well…” Anara’s voice trailed off. “It’s not pretty,” she continued after a moment. “Until the hormones pass, the younger males are too aggressive to be allowed alone in society, especially those without supportive parents.” She paused, her head tilted in thought. “No, aggressive is not quite the word,” she amended. “I think ‘hopelessly imbalanced’ is the best way to explain what’s going on with them.”
 

“How awful,” Liv whispered.

“Yes,” Anara said, nodding in agreement. “We try to keep the boys as long as possible, sequestered away like this to help them through the worst of it. But, at sixteen or so, when the hormones rage in full, it becomes near impossible to hold them. Most break free and leave.”

“Where do they go?”

“Most go off plane to fight in the wars between the Strong.” Anara leaned against the railing. “The others––if they manage to survive their rage––go to Baltia and work in the mines. Either way, it’s a hellish future for all but the luckiest few.”

“All caused by the annihilation of my people,” said Liv with a quiet, heartbroken breath.

“Yes,” agreed Anara just as quietly.
 

“And this is why he needs me here,” Liv whispered, remembering Toran’s desire to deliver an easier future for his sons.

“Yes,” Anara answered as she turned pleading eyes toward her. “This is why all of us need you.”

“I told Toran I’d stay…”

“No, I don’t mean for that,” Anara said, interrupting with a wave of her hand.
 

“What do you mean?” Liv asked.
 

The doctor fell silent, her aura a sudden mix of irritation and anxiety muffled in just the faintest tinge of guilt.

“What is it, Anara?”

Turning her face away, the doctor gazed out over the field.

“I’m just suggesting you spend some time here to work with these kids,” Anara answered at last. “They desperately need the calming influence of a faine. And I think the work would do you some good, too.” She glanced in Liv’s direction. “You know, it would provide some options––some autonomy––outside of what Toran can give you.”

“I’d like to help.” Liv gazed out at the children in the field, still a bit unsettled by her new friend’s restive emotions.
 

“Would you need more than this?”

“More than what?” Liv asked. “The venna?”

“Yes.” Anara nodded. “If Toran wasn’t in the picture, is it enough to give you what you need?”

“It just depends.”

“On what?”

On what kind of life I want to live, Liv wanted to say but didn’t.

For reasons Merus had never offered up for discussion, Toran’s closest friend had chosen to spend the bulk of his time on the edge of the Evential ‘el, the native home of the Enoth rock daemons. Though, to those who knew him well, Merus’s reasons were clear enough. Considering how his mother had met her end, it was no surprise that Merus would never feel truly at ease in the land of the Vimora.

So, it was to that far off ‘el that Toran had made his way to discuss the matter of the rebels.

Now, having just refused invitation into the old brick warehouse Merus called home, Toran rested against its dusty wall to wait. Knees slightly bent, he slowly rubbed his hands up and down the tops of his thighs, his nails dragging against the denim.
 

A giant orange sun hung low in the sky. Its rays were near eclipsed by great black clouds of smoke––clear evidence of yet another Sumari attack. Despite Venn Dom’s persistent woes, Toran knew he should consider the Vimora lucky in this latest round of war. Vast swaths of the Enoth’s once lush and fertile land––their villages, their pastures, their fields––had been burnt to the ground at the hands of the fire daemons. What was left of the ‘els proud clans now scraped for existence, gods only knew how, hidden away in the foothills of the Evential mountains.

A door creaked open.

At its sound, Toran pushed off from the wall only to turn immediately to lean against it again, this time on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Merus called out from the open doorway. “Is it the faine?”

“No,” Toran answered. “She’s awake.”
 

And she’s agreed to stay with me, gods help her.

“Good,” said Merus. “That’s good.”

Toran studied his dusty boots.

“What’s up, cousin?” Merus came to a stop a few steps away. He held out an arm, indicating the door from which he’d just come. “You want to come inside?” he asked. “Have a beer?”
 

“It’s nine fifteen in the morning,” Toran scoffed.

Merus lifted his chin and squinted into the murky sunlight. “Doesn’t look much like morning.”

“I don’t want anything,” Toran said. “We have important matters to discuss.”

Giving Toran a wary eye, Merus perched lightly on a low wall and lit a cigarette. He blew out a smoky breath. “Okay. Tell me.”

“Your brother and his men have been marked for death.”

The low hiss of a draw on the cigarette was the only sound that broke through the silence.

“Who has done this?” Merus asked at last.

“From what I’ve been able to gather, your father.” Just after his uncle had left him, Toran had made some inquiries. What he had heard confirmed the news. Unless his sources were lying, Narcyz was indeed behind the plot. Reighn the Cutter––an Enoth assassin of the savage McCannon clan––was, even now, mobilizing his men to strike.

“I see,” said Merus.

“Your father knows my weakness.” Toran stared past his cousin’s shoulder. “If his plan succeeds,” he continued, “you and I both know that I won’t be able to deal with that kind of slaughter.” He shook his head, suddenly unable to breathe. “Not now. Not when I’m so close.” He pushed off the wall and walked a few quick steps away. Clasping his hands behind his neck, Toran willed his runaway heart to calm, the prospect of his impending marriage rising up from nowhere to haunt him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Toran lied as he struggled to contain his unease, intent as always on shielding his emotions from his cousin. “I want the rebels found before the assassins can get to them. Then I want them pushed out of Baltia for good.”

“How do you propose to do that if we can’t kill them?”

Toran pressed his lips together.

“No. No. No.” Merus furiously stubbed out his cigarette before fumbling with the box to pull out another. “You’re not suggesting…”

“I’m not suggesting, Merus, I’m commanding,” Toran answered, the unspoken words that signaled Kellen’s death lingering heavy in the air between them. “In doing so, we’ll put Narcyz’s little power play to bed so that I can take my crown.” Ignoring Merus’s curse, Toran continued, “And, we’ll take back what your brother has stolen from me.”

“He didn’t take those territories from you.” Merus blew out an angry stream of smoke. “He took them from my prick of a father.”

“A technicality, and you know it,” Toran retorted, his hackles rightfully raised. “For centuries Kellen has attacked the council, Venn Dom’s lawfully installed ruling base. You know he must be punished.”

“With death?”

“Yes.”

Merus turned his head away.
 

“Your brother is a traitor to the crown,” said Toran. “His death sentence is not unearned.”

“He’s my brother, Tor,” Merus replied. “My father––that fucking sadist piece of shit––wants to destroy him. He’s always hated him, resented him.”

“Does that change the fact that there must be consequences for the path Kellen has chosen?” Toran knew that, as much as Merus cared for his half-brother, he’d never be able to reason his way out of that question. Not if Merus wanted to remain loyal to Toran's claim to the throne.

“So, what now?” Merus asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“You will find him for me.”

“So that you can slice open his throat if I do?”

Surprised at Merus’s temerity, Toran took a step towards him, a bite of venna piercing the air. “Are you questioning my order, Merus?”

“I’ll try to find my brother for you, my lord,” the daemon answered, his blue eyes flashing darker with anger. “But, should I somehow finally prove successful, perhaps you should just nut up and talk to him,” his voice began to rise with every word, “instead of ignoring his very existence like you have for centuries!”

“Talk to him?” yelled Toran in return. “About what? The fucking weather?”

“For the sake of the gods, Toran, open your fucking eyes.” Merus stood with his palms open, his own eyes wide with frustration. “Have you ever once considered asking him if he can shed any light on the prophecy?”

Toran lost his balance and staggered back against the wall.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Merus. “It was his mother, after all, who decreed it. He was there. He may know something else… anything…”

“Enough.” Toran threw up a hand. “It doesn’t matter what he knows or doesn’t know. The only business at hand is for you to find him.” He pegged Merus with a hard stare. “And,
this time
, you will succeed.”

Merus lifted his chin.

“Consider yourself warned,” Toran continued, stabbing a finger in his cousin’s direction. “You are out of excuses.”

“What are you talking about?”
 

“Don’t think I don’t know how you’ve deceived me all these years,” Toran accused.

“Deceived you?” Merus gasped. “How have I deceived you?”

Toran laughed without much humor.

“Let’s just say you need to try a little fucking harder,” he answered. He was done being lenient, done turning a blind eye to Merus’s failures when it came to finding his brother. Pushing off the wall, Toran swiped the dust off the seat of his jeans. “I’m authorizing you now to do whatever it takes––including stealing magic if you must––to find your brother and bring him to me.”

Silent and tense, Merus lit another cigarette, the yellow flare of his lighter illuminating his unhappy features.

“Do you understand me?” Toran demanded.

“I understand,” Merus answered.

“Good. But first, I need you to return home,” Toran said. “You’re to guard my faine until I return home tonight. Ales watches her now, but I need you to send him to Baltia. Tell him to gather up whatever he can get his hands on, as fast as he can.” He rocked on his feet. “The Sorcieri are demanding more.”

Merus cursed.

Toran raised his palm to stop him.

“I will deal with Feliks,” Toran promised. “Just tell Ales that I will meet him outside the Rimalda gates in a couple of hours.”

“Of course,” Merus answered. His voice was hard with bitterness. “I’ll take care of everything.”

He fell silent.
 

Knowing his cousin well, Toran braced himself for more.

“Tor, this thing with my brother,” Merus whispered. “I just wish…”

Toran turned on a heel and walked away.
 

“Wishing has never worked out too well for either of us.” Toran’s words were as bitter as the acrid smoke in the air. “Has it my friend?”

Even as young as five years old, Toran knew his parents’ marriage was not only loveless, but doomed.
 

The lack of love was of little concern; from birth, Toran was taught the fact that marital love equaled weakness. And, in the Vimora’s collective estimation, there was no place for weakness amongst the creatures of the Strong.

The doomed part of the equation? Well, that was another matter entirely. As it turned out, the end of his parents’ union had signaled the downfall of them all, leading ultimately to where Toran stood now: outside the Rimalda gates where, once admitted inside, he’d grovel––and pay––on bended knee for the privilege of the Sorcieri’s magic.

As it had his entire life as king-in-waiting, the humiliation burned.

Not for the first time, Toran wished he had done more to try to intervene in his parents’ affairs, to somehow stop the train wreck that had loomed just around the bend. But so immersed was he in the endless joys of childhood, Toran hadn’t paid much attention to the signs of their splintering marriage, one that had, he’d come to learn, hurtled towards disaster from nearly day one.

Looking back now, the cracks had been clear enough:
the tense and uncomfortable mealtimes where nary a word was spoken; barely concealed contempt when they did deign to engage in conversation; the slamming of doors, behind which throbbed the embittered pulse of anger.

All this, and more.

It was when Toran turned sixteen that the more public of their fights had started in earnest––though the altercations were decidedly one-sided affairs. While his mother had wailed and screamed and threatened and cried, his father had offered only stony silence.

Through all this discord, ran the matter of his father’s faine.

Since time immemorial venna-rich Venn Dom had been home to the gentle faine. Though native to the land, they were considered Other by the physically stronger––and supremely aggressive––Vimor daemons. As Other, the faine were required from time to time to offer up a token of their fealty: their fairest female to serve the House of the Tenn.