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"It's alright. Do you remember where you are?"
Ariana's side felt stiff, the skin pulled taut. When she shifted positions, a sharp stabbing sensation spread through her back. She glanced around the room, too groggy to comprehend much of anything and confused as to where the question had come from or what had just startled her.
"I'm not so sure that where I am exists," she murmured.
"What's the last thing you recall?"
She turned to see the disembodied voice had taken the shape of a winged man seated on the floor beside the bed.
She thought back, working her way forward and found that very little of what she recalled could be real, including her current circumstances. After much internal debate, she decided she'd been killed during the siege, maybe even falling to her death in dismount from Shadow, and this was some twisted version of an afterlife. For whatever reason, this struck her as funny.
She lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, and faintly smirked, too tired to put any real effort into it – besides, if this absurdity was to be her eternal fate, what difference would it make?
"I suppose if I were to narrow it down, the last thing I clearly recall was a city – nay a kingdom – " she paused, giggling, "that crumbled into ruins before my eyes. This was of course prior to stumbling into Adoria."
He rose and sat beside her. He seemed tense, which normally would have concerned her. All things considered, she couldn't have cared less.
"Ariana, you are not dreaming," he said softly.
"Oh, I'm certain that I'm not," she mused. I don't have the imagination to conjure swords hidden in the overgrown confines of trees or a well in which you can see mystical images – or men with wings.
He reached down, picking up something from the floor, and rested it in his lap. "Nigh narro iasc kier sellot tolay." I know this sword cannot be yours.
She shook her head, responding before the tongue he had used dawned on her. "Tu, ath ortho kulet…" No, it was hidden…
His head tilted sympathetically toward her, "The language you speak is dead to many of our own kind, and yet you speak it not only with fluent elegance, but use it when incapacitated."
Suddenly feeling both claustrophobic and flustered, she looked around her for anything that might serve as a weapon. Nothing. She found absolutely nothing around her save bottles of various liquids and dried plants hung along the entire length of one wall. She supposed she could try and beat him with some of it, but wasn't quite sure how that would turn out in the end.
She could tell by his clothes that he was wealthy. But is it just arrogance or does he hold a title? He had to know Father if he speaks this tongue.
"This is overwhelming for you, I anticipated it would be. But I sense that you're concerned for your safety, are you not? "
She sniffed. "I can defend myself, if that's what you are asking."
"I noticed." He grinned, rising from where he had been seated to lean against the wall nearest the hearth, casually tucking the sword behind him. "There are few who could lay claim to pulling a blade on me."
"In equal number perhaps are the women with whom you've had such spectacular precision of aim," she snipped.
His wide smile lessened to a tight-lipped grimace. "My deepest apologies. I see you do remember some of your journey."
She felt a pang of remorse at his response – not his words. The distress in his eyes made her regret her terse speech. So much like Sara.
Slowly, details began to crystallize. She realized that not only was he aware of her father's language, the one she'd always understood to be of his homeland and shared by only his closest allies, but he'd been addressing her by her given name.
"You said my name."
He gave her a partial bow. "And I have failed to tell you mine. I can hardly expect you to recall a conversation in which you weren't really a participant. My name is Michael."
She held still, waiting on him to finish. "Just Michael? Just plain Michael?"
A trace of amusement returned as a lilt in his voice. "Actually, since you ask, my full name is Michael Loren of Cyphrus, Archorigen of Adoria, begotten of Gabriel Briony of Leiden and Caelyn Edessa of Lipsius."
He studied her, holding his breath as he awaited her response.
She said nothing at first, staring at him dumbly, even more convinced that she was no longer among the living. "Archorigen?" Not knowing where else to go with his statement and wanting to avoid any more awkward silences, she found whatever word would come to her mouth and spoke it.
He shook his head, catching a deep breath. "Cyphrus is Adoria's capital, where an Archelder from each of the twenty-four provinces resides. The Archorigen is the elected sovereign." He moved away from the wall. "Did you hear what else I said?"
"Our parents have strikingly similar names – fascinating," she remarked dryly. "Let us assume for prosperity's sake that Adoria exists, that I am not hallucinating your extra appendages. It still means little considering my mother was from the Sutherlands and my father from somewhere in Lycus."
Michael's gaze lowered to the floor, his voice somber. "Caelyn… Mother," he corrected, "miscarried a child about eleven or perhaps twelve years before you were born. A male child."
The room started to grow smaller, shrinking until Ariana found herself short of air, the heat from the fire intensifying and her chest felt as if it would burst.
Michael continued, "I cannot venture to even imagine why he chose not to tell you your true lineage, or any of us here about your existence. But, Father was vigilant and sage in his discretion. There must have been a purpose." His brow knitted, and he glanced away from her. "He couldn't have foreseen his death. I don't believe it was his intention for you to find out this way."
She shook her head, still pressed for breath, and struggled to express her thoughts clearly. "My father isn't dead. I'm sorry, but we speak of two different worlds. I am not, nor have I ever been, a part of this one. I need air."
"It's cold outside," he said gently.
"And stifling in here." As she turned to slide off of the opposite side of the bed, a biting pain ripped through her lower back and shot up to her shoulder blade. Her eyes squeezed shut, a whimper slipping out.
Michael came over to the bed, touching her arm. "You need rest, maybe this was too soon. I'm – not very good at this sort of thing."
You imagine lost relatives often? She mused. "I just need to be outside of this room for a little while," she rasped. Koen lay asleep in the corner, his legs shaking as he dreamt, no doubt, of some great chase. She spied the cloak laying folded on the chair next to him.
Her head spun as her feet found the floor and her vision momentarily swirled black. He was right, though she wouldn't dare admit it now.
Holding back a groan, she walked carefully to the chair and had the cloak halfway over her shoulders by the time Michael reached her.
"Here, take mine. That one isn't suitable for the weather here, not to mention the panic you would cause by walking around in it." He slid his fur-lined cloak from his back, undoing the ties where his wings divided the leather. "I'm genuinely surprised you found it. Their elite are well trained and difficult to overcome. Palingard must have put up a fight to have killed one of such rank."
She remained still while he wrapped the cloak around her, angry that he would automatically assume she'd pried it off of some dead, unfortunate Ereubinian. She stepped back, holding out her hand.
"I could care less about the sword, but the dagger I want returned to me." She paused, and when he made no move to retrieve it, she felt the edge of her restraint crumble. "It has sentimental meaning, and it's rightfully mine. I think exchanging what is plainly more valuable in return for something that I've had for years, a gift mind you, is more than fair – it's outrageously generous."
Astounded, he turned and opened the drawer of the night table, pulling out her dagger. She took it as soon as it was offered and started toward the door.
"And just to make certain that you understand, I didn't find the cloak." Duncan would be more than entertained if he were alive to hear this.
She had pried the door partially open when he stopped her.
"Was this given to you?" he asked sharply, motioning toward the cloak.
She contemplated a sarcastic answer, but his expression belied his composure. Sighing, she turned back around to face him. "What else would I have meant?" she huffed. "He followed me into the Netherwoods, I fell, and after – brief conversation…" her mind wandered for a moment, his words coming back to her. You are not human. "He told me to hide until nightfall and shoved the cloak in my hands."
Michael's eyes for a split second lit with unbridled anger before returning to meticulously maintained stoicism. "What did he look like?"
Beautiful. "Dark hair, strangely colored eyes – violet. He had a scar." She traced her jaw, seeing it in her mind for the first time as she pictured him.
"Garren," Michael growled. "His motives were not benevolent, I assure you."
His sudden intensity led her to accept his gesture and she pulled his cloak tighter around her shoulders.
A knock at the door interrupted as she opened her mouth to thank him.
"I thought I heard voices," a gray-haired Adorian peered in, greeting them with a poignant smile. "Ah, the child is awake." He said melodiously. "Michael, have you spo…"
"No, I haven't." Michael waived Ariana over the threshold, motioning for the other Adorian to follow. "Do you mind escorting Ariana someplace where she could get some fresh air? Something has come up that needs my attention."
Jenner nodded, placing his arm around her shoulder. "I would be delighted. In fact, I know just the place." He looked down at her. "Though only if my lady wishes it."
She nodded, feeling at least somewhat at ease with him. "Please."
Michael, without another word, breezed past them, making his way up the stairs and around the corner before they'd touched the first step.
"Are you feeling better?"
She smiled. "I suppose."
"Good, good. I cannot imagine you remember my name. It's Jenner."
She nodded, relieved to be free of the cluttered room, its suffocating warmth, and Michael's chatter.
As they walked, she noted the shades of Jenner's hair varied from light silver to a sooty black, falling neatly plaited just below his collarbone.
Despite the softness about him, the gentle touch of one arm on her shoulder, she could not mistake the scars that marred his neck and hands.
He laughed, noticing her scrutiny. "He wasn't always this grave, and I wasn't always so old. Michael has lost a wife, as well as a mother and father." He straightened the hood from Michael's cloak, patting at the fabric once it was in place.
"This life – these sacrifices take a toll on all of us." He ran his finger across a particularly deep scar on his forearm. "Though bearing in mind those whom we have become united with under such trial makes it bearable, if not pleasurable. Give Michael time. This is not easy for either of you."
They came around the corner, passed through another door, and exited to a courtyard. The air nipped at them, whipping Ariana's hair around her face and neck. She considered correcting what had become a shared delusion, but decided against it. He seemed pleased to imagine her one of their kind, and she didn't have the heart to seem ungrateful for their hospitality. She had a hard enough time believing that their world was real and not some figment of ancient man's patently bored mind. She'd deal with the rest of it when she had time to let that thought grow conceivable.
They walked in pleasant silence for quite a while, wandering through well-kept winter gardens with snow-covered statues, all the while staying near the keep. All she could think about were the stories Sara had delightedly recited to her over the years, the wonder and faith that had been ever-present in her smile. Where are you now?
Passing through an arched doorway into a partially open pavilion, she heard a ruckus followed by grumbling, and what sounded like the pounding of a nail in wood.
Off in the far left corner, a wingless being stood, the apparent source of the displeasured ranting, a shadow obscuring all but the outline of his figure. As they neared, another – this one winged – stood next to the first, clutching rolled papers in his hands.
"All this time. All of this effort spent on… Doesn't he have someone else who can do this?" He pushed away the papers that had been held toward him in an uncoordinated gesture. "No, I don't have time to listen to it. It's meaningless anyway. You see what we have become. Slaves, servants in a realm that supposedly know nothing of slavery," he griped.
"But my Lord Braeden, it is the proposal of the Archorigen, and his wish for you to consider it."
"I was fighting battles before the boy was drawing breath. Archorigen or not, if it's that important to him then he can speak with me himself."
Mere steps were all that remained between them. Light streaming in from the octagonal opening attached to the lower spires of the keep illuminated tan skin, and weathered, war-worn features. He continued to mumble, oblivious of their arrival.
Ariana didn't notice Jenner's retreat as her hand gripped the dagger that she had pulled from her sleeve. She drew back and hurled it at the post, pinning the man's sleeve.
He wrapped his hand around the dagger to yank it free, when he slowly uncurled his fingers, exposing the gilded handle.
"You should recognize it," she spat. "Or has it been so long ago that you left us that your memory is dull?" She blinked back tears that were clouding her eyes, angry when she failed to keep them from rolling down her cheeks. The confusion, pain, and loss she could handle in due time – even the outrageous claims of familial ties, but this was too much.
Without turning around, he lowered his head to where his sleeve was pinned, and rested his head upon the post. "Ariana," he whispered.
"You might have been better off pretending that you haven't any knowledge of me, of any of us," she choked, "Where is my father?"
He removed the dagger and turned to face her. "I thought you were…" his voice faltered and faded against the sound of its echo.
"What, Duncan, dead?" she laughed bitterly. "I was told as much concerning your whereabouts, as well as father's. That lie is abundantly clear."
He started forward, a shamed expression on his face. "Ari, please forgive me."
"I'm not even certain what to forgive you for!" she said angrily.
She looked back at Jenner. "You led me here on purpose," she accused. "Do not act as though I am incompetent or too faint for truth."
Whirling back around, she glared at Duncan. "You knew better. Of all who have known me, you couldn't have forgotten what little patience I have for lies. Is what Michael speaks about me true?"
Duncan hesitated and she winced. Her exaggerated movements and the strain on her throwing arm had irritated her side. Biting back the pain, she snapped, "Answer me!"
"Yes," Duncan said gravely. "You are and will always be a full-blood Adorian."
The air seemed devoid of oxygen, her chest struggling to hold its own against her shock. The sharp, undeniable pain felt far too much like betrayal to be anything else.
He continued, "Ari, you have to understand that we were sworn to keep your existence from the Ereubinians. Your father had good reason for his actions. I never questioned that."
She shook her head. "My father can speak for himself. Where is he?"
His eyes glossed over. "I'm sorry, truly. I thought – I assumed you knew."
Had she been able, she would have left them then, gathered what little she still possessed, and taken Koen as far from this place as she could go. Though she wanted – willed them even – her feet would not move.
"How would I have known?" she asked softly.
What a foolish, foolish girl I've been. I should have listened to them. How many days, years were lost imagining that my father lived, believing that those who had told me otherwise were wrong.
Jenner rested one hand on her shoulder, turning her face toward his with the other. "I should have expected your father's spirit in you. Michael and I both thought a familiar presence would comfort you, not wound you. It seems perhaps we have not fully considered your feelings."
She turned cold eyes toward the man who had been like a father to her. "There was a time it would have."