Chapter 24 - Where Next?

  “Up there,” Viper said. “The alley to the left.”

  Aaron followed the directions coming from within his shadow. He trudged through an empty street, exhausted and hurt, leaving footprints in sand left by the first two sandstorms. He'd been fortunate. The guards at one of the city's side gates hadn't yet heard of the commotion from the front gate. He'd been let in before the second storm hit, taking refuge within a guardhouse and disappearing with a purse of coins before the storm had fully passed. His tracks were easy to find but Viper assured him that no one would bother following when a third sandstorm was about to hit.

  Aaron ducked into the shade of the alley, grateful. He pressed a sweaty and blistered palm to the nearest wall and leaned over, letting out ragged breaths of hot air. Thrust from the cool winter temperatures of Seldar to the arid desert kingdoms in the south. Abundant heat sent flashes of fire through his mind. Not the loving Flames of a shrine, but the all-consuming ones from a mere hour ago. The ones that had burned holes into his clothes and singed parts of his arms and back.

  “Are you well?” the raspy voice asked, rising out from the ground as a lump of black like an unusual rock in the night. He materialized into a human form with wisps of physical shadow trailing down his sides and disappearing just as steam.

  This boy, Viper, was about the same height as Aaron. He nodded. “A little hot.” He rubbed his damp neck, flinching at stinging pain. Soot was smeared on his hand along with more sweat. Aaron shuffled forward, black coat bundled in his arms and a few stolen knives hidden inside. “A little thirsty too,” he grumbled. His new ally nodded and led on down the jaded alley. Dark red glyphs marred crumbling and cracked walls of sand on either side. Markings similar to the ones on his iron pendant. They nudged ancient whisperings in his mind. “Chronary…” he murmured, making out fragments of words through the trickles of knowledge flowing within him. Incoherent and undecipherable. He couldn't make sense of them. Yet.

  “You know of it, then?” Viper asked, pausing.

  “Know…”

  “No?”

  Aaron frowned. “No, not that no. Er, I mean I know, but not really, so no?”

  The Shadow Walker tilted his head. He actually smiled. Aaron recalled the boy screaming as he stabbed down on a dead body. Viper's black clothes had spotted stains of blood all over it, though hard to see. “Da said your kind has memories. Solid visions of the past that our Spoken History can only mimic.”

  My kind? The bloodline of House Zz'tai? Lera had never explained it for reasons Aaron could now guess. Though he still didn't want the throne of Xenaria, there was something gnawing there. Something in the crevices of his thoughts urging him to reclaim what was rightfully his family's. Not mine, but belonging to my name. A cursed name that had gotten two of his mothers killed, and stolen the beauty from another. A name that had brought ruin to his life when he was finally beginning to grasp the concept of joy. What would happen to Carmin and Isabelle now? And what of Mely with half her face burnt?

  “Aarondel?”

  “The memories are vague,” Aaron muttered, feeling his eyes water again. Pathetic. I'm pathetic. I couldn't protect anyone. And I got Temelia and ma killed. “I've only recently begun receiving them. I can't decipher the markings on the wall, sorry.”

  Viper nodded before carrying on down the alley. “I don't need them deciphered. They were used to trap me and my da in the Umbra. I… I got my da killed because of greed.”

  Aaron saw Viper's fists close. His already raspy voice gained a sharper, spiteful edge. The way he stabbed that body… Viper had seen his vengeance through to the end and he still felt hatred. What misery brought the two of us together? Aaron too had completed his vengeance. He'd seen his knife sink into Orion's eye. And yet, all he felt now was emptiness. A void that made him long for nothing. How were two empty husks meant to comfort each other? “We're cursed, you and I,” Aaron muttered. “Hunted for who we were born as.”

  Viper said nothing. He trudged forth until he came upon mounds of sand. He fell upon his knees and began clawing at them with his hands. He clawed at each mound, revealing bodies of men wearing the starry cloaks of Astral Union soldiers. With each body revealed, desperation slipped into Viper's grinding gasps. He at last stopped when uncovering the body of a lean man in all black attire.

  Aaron thought his new friend might wail, but he just sat on his knees, staring. “Your da?”

  Viper nodded, sweeping the ground with his hands. His black gloves turned a muddy gold. He pulled out two damaged black iron blades and hugged them.

  The wind whistled overhead. Sand swirled around, rising into air like an ominous spirit manifesting. A scraping of the approaching storm wall slowly grew in intensity, bellows of the sky accompanying. The third storm, or third claw of Shuari as gatehouse guards had called it, was approaching.

  “I won't be able to bury him,” Viper croaked. “There will be guards and soldiers in this alley when the storm ends.”

  Aaron swallowed a lump. He hadn't buried his own mothers. Two whores. Temelia and Lera were likely still sprawled on the cobbles, uncared for, as their place of work —their prison— burned down before them.

  Viper continued deeper into the alley until he came to a dead end —a small one floor house without any windows. Aaron followed him inside and latched the shoddy door of wood planks shut. Inside, he found a familiarity. Darkness like the corners of his former residence wherein he would practice hiding. A strange comfort.

  “You have a Flame of your own?” Viper asked. Aaron could barely make out the Shadow Walker's figure wiping down the black blades before sheathing them in their scabbards. “Our History suggests you don't receive one until adolescence. How old are you?”

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  “Thirteen,” Aaron answered. “It's not my Flame. I stole it from my mother.” I don't even know how to use it. I just wanted to protect the coat and it suddenly glowed before the sands tore it apart.

  “There's some water left in the jug over in that corner. Should be some cups there too.”

  Aaron peered in the corner, following the black outlines of where Viper's arm was pointed. The dark carried a comfort, but it was adopted. The Shieda clan were born in it, owning the shadows from when they first were capable of constructing coherent thought. Viper could probably see much better in the dark than the average human.

  Aaron walked over to the jug, pausing as he realized his knowledge of the Shieda were not his own, but from memories older than himself. He shook his head, bending over to grasp at the metal jug's handle. It had a wide base and a slender neck the length of his arm. These memories will take a long while to get used to…

  Aaron searched for a cup to use when the storm wall hit. The inch wide space beneath the door was covered. Starved of light, the room turned pitch black.

  ***

  Viper sat down on his father's bed, twin blades in his lap. The wooden door rattled as the storm raged. Thousands upon thousands of coarse sand grains scraped against the roof. The young prince shook his head this way and that in what appeared bewilderment. Viper could make out Aaron's figure, but not his facial expressions. Aaron raised the jug's tip to his mouth and tipped its entirety over, taking a long drink. Ah, so he was searching for the cups. I should have gotten them for him. I'm his weapon now. A servant.

  Viper dragged his fingers along the length of his father's scabbards. Weapons he'd frequently trained with. They were familiar to him, but he wasn't yet the same build as Vi'Din, wasn't yet quite as strong or fast. The blades were nameless, as all weapons should be. Or so was Vi'Din's philosophy.

  To name a weapon was to fetishize killing, to glorify it, to raise it above acts of benevolence. Not even the headsman —no matter how vile the victim on the chopping block— took pride in his actions. They killed with a mask, because there was no pride or honor to be gained from killing. Because killing was a dark deed. Because violence only bred further violence. Executioners knew this, but they carried their tasks faithfully, because someone needed to.

  And then there were warriors, soldiers, warlords and generals. Revered as the best of men, lauded as heroes, but beyond the illusory crust people craft for them, they are naught but killers. The soldiers protecting, and the soldiers attacking, they're one in the same, Vi'An. Viper recalled those words as if they'd been said just yesterday. Father's philosophy. A whimsical wish, to imagine a world without soldiers, without conflict. “You were smart, da,” Viper murmured, holding the twin blades to his chest, “But you weren't pragmatic. Or was it that playing the headsman tore at you? Was it that you wished you were born in another's skin, than a Shadow Walker's?”

  Viper lay back on the bed. He had a headache. And a heartache. Dents and bruises he thought sleep might repair. But he couldn't fall asleep now. He and Aaron would need to find somewhere new to stay. This place would soon be teeming with city enforcers. And potentially more Union soldiers. Viper sighed, raising his weapons above his head. He'd gained vengeance. He'd killed Lacerta. Stabbed down in the man's chest as he'd stabbed a child some few years ago. He didn't feel sick like he had then. He neither felt relief. Just emptiness as his rage bled away.

  An emptiness that he welcomed. He would need to slay his emotions if he was to function as a weapon. He sucked in a deep breath and suppressed his heartache into submission.

  Viper stood up and shuffled over to the chest where Lacerta kept his wealth. He filled empty pouches with as much coin as he could before attaching them to his belt.

  “Coins?” Aaron asked, still holding on to the water jug. “I stole the guard's purse for nothing. Well, not like city guards are good people anyway.”

  Stole? Viper grit his teeth and opened his mouth, a lecture on morality at the tip of his tongue. No. I am Aaron's weapon. He couldn't question his master's actions. Besides, hard luck they were going to get by forever without stealing.

  Viper abandoned all sense of morality that'd been ingrained in him by Vi'Din. Perhaps one day, when Aaron and he were in positions of power, those teachings might return, but for now, they were two hunted children trying to survive. Whether that meant becoming thieves or cutthroats was irrelevant.

  Forgive me, da. But you asked me to live. It was your last wish, and I'll see it through as best I can.

  “The storm is slowing,” Aaron said, standing up. “Should we leave?”

  Viper nodded. “Yes,” he then said, remembering that Aaron probably couldn't see well. Threads of light could be seen from beneath the wooden door as the scraping on the roof lessened. Viper created improvised packs from pillowcases and filled them with water skins and pungent smelling dried fruit. They could be rotting, but that could be checked at a later time.

  “Where do we go?” Aaron asked.

  “Wherever you lead.”

  “Isn't this your city?”

  “My city? Now there's a grand thought. Technically your city, Aarondel Zz'tai. The Xenarian Empire spanned this far south once upon a time.”

  Aaron frowned, the lines on his face just barely becoming visible. “Am I to be your master then?”

  “Yes.”

  Aaron sighed. “Your faith in me is misplaced. I wear the name of an ancient Empire only. I have none of its strength or cunning or wisdom. I cannot lead us to anywhere proper, if that is what you seek. If a child wears his father's shoes and carries his father's spear, he does not suddenly become the head of the house. No. He must earn those, prove that he is worthy of them, and only then…” he cut off, staring down at his own shoes as if they were a few sizes too big. Viper looked down and noticed Aaron's boots did seem larger than the feet of a boy his age. “Flames!” Aaron spat. “Those words aren't my own! Why am I speaking so stiffly like a rod's been shoved up my rear? I hate these memories. I hate them so much. I… I don't want this. I don't… I just want a friend right now,” he finished softly. “Not a servant.”

  Viper swallowed. Friend. He said it again. “I want a friend too,” he muttered. “I've never had one of those.”

  Aaron scratched his head, wisps of sand falling out. “I don't think I've had one of those either.” He held out his hand. “Friends?”

  Viper shook it, wondering if becoming friends involved an official ritual like this just as merchants shook on contracts. Friends or not, he was still a weapon. He was an empty shell and could only follow Aaron wherever the young prince decided to go. “So what happens if a child is forced to wear his father's shoes and carry his father's spear?” he asked, curious.

  “That… ugh,” Aaron began. More light began spilling in from beneath the door. Viper saw Aaron scowling as he tugged his hair. “He must adapt to it, or he forfeits his life.”

  “Then we will adapt. Adapt to whatever life has in store for us.”

  “I guess so. My life, I think, is all I can call mine now.”

  Viper nodded, opening the door to a sand filled path. Adapt to whatever fate decides to fill this void inside our hearts with. Even if it is bloodshed. Vi'Din was wrong. Killing wasn't an evil act. Some people killed others to survive. That would make surviving an evil act. It was the law of nature. A predator could not start eating grass one day. It needed to kill. Just as humans do. Humans, in the end, were just another breed of predator. A predator of insatiable appetite. It was, after all, in human nature to desire more, to take it by any means necessary. And the more people wanted, the more readily they fought over it. Vi'Din got that part right. Violence bred further violence.

  But a world without soldiers? Without killings?

  Impossible.