They left the riverside and pushed on through the day and well into the night, under no illusion that stopping for anything more than a nibble was a sensible idea.

  Anxiety gnawed at Llew. She’d already been worried about his growing weakness, with no idea of when it would end. A ‘bug’ invented by Braph – of course – shot into Jonas on the tip of an arrow had already stripped Jonas of his Syakaran strength and speed. Braph had explained to her that it attacked the very source of Karan power. Llew barely understood her own Aenuk power, she certainly lacked any understanding about what had made Jonas the fastest and strongest man she’d ever known, but she couldn’t help the feeling that what made him Syakaran was integral to what made him him. And just where would this bug stop? He was merely ‘normal’ now. Had it run its course? She hoped so. And yet, if it had, did that mean she was too late to restore his powers? She couldn’t be. Too many people relied on Jonas being Syakaran. Llew’s ma, for one. Jonas’s son, also in Braph’s custody, was another. And all the Aenuks still held captive by Turhmos would need a Syakaran hero to show up and release them from their prisons.

  Now he had this sickly foot as well. Another side-effect of Braph’s bug? Or something from the fight? She didn’t know. But it seemed highly unfair for the world to be trying to kill Jonas in two different ways at the same time. She’d lost her ma as a child, and her pa had disappeared just when she needed him most. Since then, she’d never found anyone worthy of her trust and, yes, love. Yes, she needed his strength and speed. But even more, she needed him.

  Exhausted, hungry, and weak, they hobbled through the night and into the next day as fast and as invisibly as Jonas’s weakened leg allowed and always under the cover of forest while it lasted. But whatever head start the confusion over the fight between Braph and Aris had given them had passed. They were too slow, and someone must have realized they were both gone.

  Initially providing a source of drinking water, a little food, and the semblance of normality only bathing could bring, now the river gave them cover. Over its constant hiss they caught the clippings of shouted commands, acknowledgments, and dogs barking. Llew was painfully aware of the time she’d spent in the Turhmosian Aenuk dungeon, sleeping in their sheets, giving the hounds a taste of her scent. To make matters worse, spring was late in coming to Turhmos, or, rather, it was behaving exactly as spring did: like a hangover from winter.

  Llew supposed that was a small blessing. The cold drizzle that settled into their bones gave them no reason to sweat and dampened any odor they may have released to the hounds.

  Mostly, it seemed, the troops and dogs kept to the roads. But, occasionally, a group broke away, crashing through the undergrowth, and Llew learned that while she had little talent for tree-climbing, she did a not too shabby job with Jonas guiding her from below and, with a firm grip on her perch, she could even help haul him up after. He kept the pain and discomfort his foot was causing him to grimaces and clenched teeth, never once putting them at risk by crying out, even when Llew scraped an elbow on the bark and bruised her shin while clasping his hand. She healed off trees, too, but flesh was thinner than bark, the transfer quicker. Unless the tree was an Ajnai. None of those this close to Duffirk, though.

  Braph leaned over his workbench, flicking the tip of this new right index finger with that of his left. The metal pivoted on its joint easily. Too easily, as it folded nearly ninety degrees both forward and back. But that would change as his work continued. The three segments of the finger were attached to a longer metal tube that extended to a partial cuff. Beginnings. That’s all he had. One finger, five metacarpals, and an inelegant germination of a wrist of sorts. Yes, it was a start.

  And, really, what better way for a father to cement his relationship with his eight-year-old son than to work on a project with him. Orin brought the pair of hands where Braph brought the ingenuity. Working alone was more Braph’s style, but Orin was a good boy, a sensible boy, an obedient boy. And the power flowing through his blood …

  On the bench beside Braph sat a newly pressed crystal, so deeply brownish-red it appeared black. When the light hit it right, purple glints fired off its surface, reminding him of the crystals he’d made from Llewella when she had been carrying Jonas’s offspring. But he had no use for her toy jewelry, now. The power in the crystals he was getting from Orin eclipsed hers, though he would only know by how much once he drew it into his own bloodstream.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Braph breathed deeply at the mere thought of that power flowing through his veins, but denied himself an audible sigh with this son sat so close. Braph understood other people didn’t like that kind of thing.

  He’d already removed the device Jonas had helped him build and attach to his stump. That bracelet was designed for raw blood, not crystals, and it had been thrown together out on the road. The new device would be superior in every way, made in his own workshop with materials from suppliers he trusted. He’d removed it to eliminate the temptation to draw on Orin’s blood. The tubes of raw blood emptied quickly, the torrent of power so fleeting it was nothing more than a distraction from what he wanted to achieve.

  He spied over his shoulder to where Orin sat at his own end of the workbench, riveting phalanges together. The boy looked up, smiled. Braph smiled back. It was a relationship that worked. Orin wanted paternal approval, Braph wanted the power in the boy’s blood. And Orin was willing to give it. Unlike the Aenuks, Immortals didn’t need to drain life from outside sources to heal. They needed to eat. And eat. And Orin liked to eat: fruits, meats, breads, and cheese. Oh, yes, he liked his cheese. There was no need to restrain the boy. He simply got himself comfortable and inserted the needle, and ate. Braph had already amassed a small collection of his son’s crystals. So close, yet so far. His new device couldn’t be finished soon enough.

  The boy’s smile dropped into a thoughtful consideration, then he asked, “Does it really matter that you’re Karan and not Syakaran?”

  The question caught Braph off guard. He managed something of a smile while he schooled himself not to take offense. Being the half-brother of Quaver’s revered Syakaran hero would always be a sore point. He’d dulled it by moving to Turhmos – where Kara were loathed rather than revered; especially Jonas – and further by developing his inventions and, by extension, his mind. He was better than Jonas. He knew it. His brother knew it. The rest of the world was still in the dark. But that would change, and soon.

  “What that man said,” Orin continued, “that I was the son of a ‘mere Karan’. Does that mean I would be a better Immortal if you were Syakaran?”

  The boy certainly was more perceptive than Braph might have expected from an eight-year-old. Then again, Braph would be the first to admit he knew little of children.

  “But you’re not just the son of a Karan and a Syaenuk. You’re the Immortal boy who absorbed the power from another Immortal. You contain more power than any human has since Aris himself lost his powers the first time. And this time he’s dead, so he won’t be getting them back. There is no better Immortal,” Braph said. “You have more power than any other boy on the planet. You only need to grow into it. And by using that power on your behalf, I can ensure you do exactly that.”

  A smile played on Orin’s lips and he turned back to his work.

  Braph watched him awhile. He often wondered how much to share with his son. The boy was only young, after all, and Braph had spent far too little time with him to know him all that well. But in these few days they’d spent together in his workshop, Orin had proved himself a keen listener and learner, and now a true partner. In his son’s eyes burned the same fire, the same desire for greatness. Not necessarily to lord over others; mostly, Braph wanted recognition. Just what he’d always deserved, though never received when standing beside Jonas. But Jonas could no longer overshadow him.

  Braph placed the partial hand on the bench near his son, who snatched it up to attach the remaining fingers.

  “You will be a god among men, and your mother and I your heralds,” Braph said. “We will show the world the gifts great power can bring to those who follow, and I see no reason why we couldn’t end the rift between Turhmos and Quaver once and for all.”

  “Like heroes.” Two words and the glint of an eye reminded Braph he was talking to a child. How fleeting these moments of true camaraderie could be.

  “Exactly like.” Braph flashed a shallow smile and turned back to his designs.