Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Looking for More?

  Love Dark Fantasy?

  From | Daughter of the Drackan | Book One of | Gyenona’s Children

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT

  Chapter 1

  When he heard the first whisper of dawn within the mortal realm, Fehl glanced at the Unclaimed and prepared for her return. Though he had only recently been charged with her guardianship, he recognized the pain of silence and the long-suffering imprisonment behind her eyes. He’d felt it himself for centuries, and he was one of the many who did not forget. They would never forget.

  His torment had been blistered open anew when he’d felt Wohl’s passing from not only the mortal realm but all the others in which the amarach existed. The agony had sliced through Fehl himself, just as it had sundered the essence of all their kind. He could not speak for the Aetherius, who still, after all this time, ferociously defended their irrelevant exile. Most likely, they had rejoiced in the elimination of the Unclaimed’s previous guardian; he could not imagine the agony of such a blasphemous, mortal betrayal would be enough to sway their obstinate resolution. They were masochists, the Aetherius, cowards who had grown too fond of their own forsaken duty to allow the rest of them peace and freedom once more.

  When those who had renounced their endless relegation had converged the night of Wohl’s undoing, Fehl had been one of four selected to accept the new guardianship. The Unclaimed herself had chosen him from among them, and though he could not fathom her reasons, he would never have thought to refuse. He had loved Wohl, and side by side, they had fought with the others to protect what little dignity and autonomy remained to them after such an age of oppression.

  Wohl had understood many things that Fehl admittedly did not—things the amarach guardian knew would take him decades of duty and misfortune to learn. But he had accepted his new obligation with deference and fortitude, and he understood enough of what would now be required of him. Many things he’d come to acknowledge during the centuries of the Unclaimed’s protection—the pain of a broken spirit; the pulsing, aching struggle of endless knowing, forever contained and yet still inaccessible; the eternal despair of his Aetherius brethren, caused by his own hand when he delivered their final end himself; and the raging, unyielding blaze of his vengeance.

  This he thought had ebbed over time, but Wohl’s discarded sacrifice had brought such urges flaring back to life within the guardian. The mortal Wanderer had offered Fehl the only tonic that would slake such a newly awakened thirst, and the expectation of avenging the slain amarach made his impending duty to return the Unclaimed that much more bearable. Laws were laws, and while the pact he’d made with the Wanderer had not been his to accede, no doctrine prevented him from what he intended within the mortal realm.

  The pull of his duty consumed him, his sensitivity to their rising sun stronger than it had ever been before he’d become her new guardian. With a deep breath, he stepped through the hidden Reach—where she received her solitude—and approached the Unclaimed. They did not need words in this place, and he imagined the necessity for them would remain small and sparse. The Unclaimed possessed everything the amarach no longer knew—Aetherius and defenders alike—and rarely sought another’s counsel. Wohl had told him this once, far enough in their past to have been another lifetime.

  She turned toward Fehl, her green eyes a beacon of power within the Reach, calling to him, and briefly closed them. When he stood beside her, the Unclaimed placed a pale hand upon his bare arm with a nod. Fehl covered her hand with his own, and when he spread his wings, he accepted the Light for them both.

  The Light had forever known where to deliver its amarach supplicants, for eons and without fail; had it not, Fehl’s desire to receive the Wanderer’s promise would have driven them forcefully enough. When they arrived in the Wanderer’s fortress and the Light withdrew, Fehl found his own scowl mirrored in the old man’s furious defiance even before he knew something was wrong.

  The Unclaimed’s touch remained upon his arm longer than usual, and he felt the pressure of her gentle squeeze bidding him to contain himself. She too gazed at the aged mortal, though the Wanderer seemed unable to glance away from Fehl’s burning stare. This only fueled the amarach’s anger.

  “I expected you not to have received us alone,” Fehl growled, barely acknowledging the Unclaimed’s strengthening pressure on his arm in response.

  “As did I,” the Wanderer replied, and the corner of his mouth twitched with restraint. “It seems we have both been played false.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Fehl would have lunged at the man without the Unclaimed’s silent, unyielding command holding him back.

  The old man cleared his throat. “The Ouroke deceived me. She is gone, and I cannot deliver her to you.”

  Fehl’s wings lurched from their resting place at his back, his fury taunting him to disobey the law governing what little composure he maintained. This man had promised him the last Ouroke—the blasphemous woman who had so brazenly crushed the seed of Wohl’s existence—to do with as he pleased. And now, either the Wanderer had dared break their pact and aid in the Ouroke’s escape, or he was enough of an imbecile to let her slip through his fingers. Fehl took only a little pleasure in the fleeting glimmer of fear behind the old man’s eyes as he flinched away from the amarach’s aggression.

  “Torrahs,” the Unclaimed said, and her soft voice drew Fehl’s duty back into his awareness. “You make promises you cannot keep, and you endanger what little credibility you still possess. This will not end well for you.”

  A tremor went through the old man at her words; he clearly understood the difference between a threat and the truth. “I know,” he replied, gripping his staff in a tight fist. “I apologize.”

  Fehl grunted. “Your apology means nothing—”

  “His apology will suffice,” the Unclaimed interrupted, her voice barely rising above normal speaking volume. “For now. If the Wanderer cannot reclaim his honor and the value of his word, his apology will become his—” Her grip tightened on Fehl’s forearm in a way he’d never experienced, her nails digging into his immortal flesh. She staggered backwards, as if having been dealt an invisible blow, and her eyes widened in terror and disbelief. For a moment, the Unclaimed trembled, fighting something he could not see, and then a piercing cry rose from her throat. Her hand left Fehl’s arm, and she sank to her knees.

  The amarach kneeled beside her, resting a hand on her back because he didn’t know what else to do. He’d never seen such fear in the Unclaimed, and he could not begin to guess its cause. Instead, Fehl bent to search her gaze, and she slowly lifted her head to look at him, green eyes wide again and glistening with incomprehensible tears.

  “I can’t... I can’t feel him,” she whispered. She studied Fehl’s fa
ce, then her eyes darted about the dark room, as if looking for something there no one else could find. A shuddering breath escaped her. “He lives, but I... I no longer see.” She fumbled for Fehl’s hand, like a blind woman seeking reassurance, and the strength behind her grasp overwhelmed the amarach with her grief.

  “Kherron?” Torrahs asked.

  Fehl jerked his head up to fix the old man with a burning stare. The Wanderer had the gall to presume this had anything to do with him, and the amarach dared him to press the matter.

  “What does this mean?” Torrahs spoke quickly now, staring at the Unclaimed and clearly wary of her unexpected response. “Is he still coming? Were we wrong?”

  Slowly, the Unclaimed raised her head toward the old man, her cheeks red and stained with tears. “I don’t...” And as expected, as the course of her existence dictated until the end, the Unclaimed retreated, pulled back inside the vessel of her physical flesh, leaving the woman-child Dehlyn in her place.

  The Wanderer shouted in frustration and whirled away from her, slamming the butt of his staff into the stone floor. Dehlyn whimpered in confusion and fear, her limp hand sliding out of Fehl’s, and the amarach knew he had stayed too long.

  “How can you let this happen?” Torrahs yelled.

  Dehlyn cringed and hugged her knees to her chest, and when Fehl stood, the only thing he wanted was to fall upon this human conjurer with all his raging might. But his duty here had ended; he was not meant to exist in this realm with the blue-eyed woman-child sharing the Unclaimed’s body. With a low growl, he glared at Torrahs, spread his wings, and accepted the Light, the sound of Dehlyn’s pitiful cries echoing behind him.

  Chapter 2

  In a cave within the rocky slopes of the Bladeshale Mountains, a massive brown bear stirred from slumber. She had not forgotten her visitor’s words or the implications behind them. For so long, she had chosen to ignore the trembling whispers that always, in the end, traveled far enough to reach the home she had made for herself in these mountains. Her idea of home had morphed dramatically over the years, withering away to an existence of shame and regret—and what little pride remained. Only that pride had kept her from rejoining her kind, from perpetuating the unlikely hope the others now dared to nurture.

  Still, her friend had told her the Blood of the Veil had been seen. If he truly was who they thought him to be and could do what was necessary, he would return to this world, no matter how long it took him. Of course, the possibility always remained that he would not, and in that eventuality, she imagined how rather foolish the others would feel. The thought entertained her as she rose in the back of the cave to step across the scattered bones of her most recent meals. If the Blood failed, no one would come here looking for her; no one would ask her for either advice or forgiveness. It had taken them a lot longer than it had taken her to accept that was no longer her role. But if the mortal was the one to return the order of things, she could not in good conscience remain in solitude and the semblance of what little comfort it had given her. She would not be the one to forsake this Blood upon the hour of his need. And he would need her, yes, as much as she had needed another soul to reflect the darkness she herself had endured.

  The mid-morning sun glinted off the partially melted snowbanks and what remained of it adorning the pines. Autumn in the Bladeshales had always greeted the early arrival of cold weather and the occasional storm. Farther north than this, one could travel year-round and never go without the crunch of snow or ice beneath one’s feet. The bear preferred this cold, which kept most company at bay and which masked the old wounds of her shattered heart beneath the biting frost and blistering chill. Today, and perhaps for some time, she would have to surrender her fortress of isolation to a duty she’d only ever acknowledged in part.

  At the mouth of her cave, she faced that reluctant admission with wary consent. Whatever she had left to offer, after all these years, she would give willingly if it meant the lost pieces of her kind could be restored. But she herself had relinquished any hope, any longing for the things she had been, when she’d lost Geyr to man’s greed and lust for sport. It was true that she might still maintain a choice in her form; she had never attempted anything since the day she’d found Geyr’s body, drenched in blood, his limbs bound as his murderers hauled him unwittingly across the snow. She’d ripped all three of them to shreds and scattered their entrails through the forest. While that had done little to soothe her rage and the agony of her shattered heart, she could still draw forth the scent of their terror and the iron taste of their lifeblood, even after all this time. Her bearskin suited her, and she had never intended to be anything else after that.

  The great bear moved silently across the scattered snow and damp earth, sniffing the air and listening to the wind. She stopped at a chokeberry bush and ate her fill quickly, well aware of how much could happen in such a short window of time. Perhaps it had taken her longer than it should have to stomach eating what had been Geyr’s favorite, but when she finally had managed to pull herself over that threshold, she’d remembered how much they both had enjoyed such things. If he were here with her now, he would have refused to stop for any form of a meal, lurching with anticipation and the prospect of an exciting new venture. The Blood had last been seen just a day’s journey south, yet she had long outgrown the foolishness of forsaking her physical needs for the urge of immediate action. Geyr would have implored her to keep moving, that they had no time to waste, but he was not with her now, and he never would be.

  She moved on and headed south, her pace steady and unrelenting even amidst the uncertainty of what she might find. Her thick russet fur rippled between the coarse trunks of the pines.

  Chapter 3

  A deep, powerful longing to remain in the clearing gripped Kherron, growing ever stronger the longer he knelt to embrace the earth. It seemed impossible to accept that he was truly free, that he would not remain an eternal prisoner of that awful, endless plane. He’d escaped the black demon’s perpetual drive to end him without reprieve or redemption, but the place within him that had harbored hope for the very thing he’d now regained remained empty. The choice had been his alone—to kill that hope and everything he knew of himself—and he did not know now what to do with his own fate.

  Nor could he ignore the knowledge of what he’d done. There was no doubt in his mind that when he’d broken the chord between him and the Dehlyn in his vision—when he’d destroyed the vow she had drawn from him so long ago—he’d simultaneously opened the gateway back to his own world. He had delivered himself from endless torment and countless new deaths, and at the same time, he had forsaken Dehlyn in a way he could only understand now on the surface. The weight of his burden had been lifted; perhaps he’d removed his own conscience in the process, but he did not entirely believe that to be the case.

  He had not known what the woman in the river had meant when she’d told him, and he’d had no time to contemplate the meaning of her words before both the amarach warriors and the Roaming People had converged, fighting each other for the victory of claiming him. He’d had no time to think about the spirit of the water, who had told him only his mother was human, that he should have been returned to learn who he was, and that he still had a choice. Admittedly, enduring so many deaths in a veil of mist where time did not leave its mark had left him with little mind to ponder the meaning of anything. Only after he’d made his decision, albeit blindly and with very different intentions, had the way now become clear.

  You must forget yourself.

  That was what the wavering, ancient woman made of water and sunlight had told him. He heard the words now as clearly as if she’d risen again within the stream before him to repeat it herself. Kherron had done just that, not fully aware of the thing with which he’d come to define himself—the bond of both duty and love that had pulled him toward Dehlyn from the day Torrahs stole her away. In his vision, that bond had been a tangible thing, pulsing with an essence of its own. And choosing to break it w
ithin his mind had undeniably ended that promise.

  Let go of what you try so hard to be. Then listen, and you will hear.

  He’d listened. He’d done what he’d known with every part of him to be right, and he had survived. Who he was now was not entirely clear, but he was no longer Torrahs’ puppet, no longer Dehlyn’s protector, no longer a tool for anyone else to use. He belonged to himself, and the sighs of the earth beneath his fingertips, the rushing song of the river, the heartbeat of the air stirring trees and living creatures around him felt more like home than anything he’d ever known.

  He could have stayed here forever, but something made him rise. Brushing the hair back from his forehead, Kherron glanced about the clearing and took a deep breath. When he stood, his gaze fell upon his pack in the grass, tossed aside with Zerod’s grey, woolen cloak when he’d met the spirit of his ancestors. It struck him as particularly odd that they would be here, after all the time he’d spent in the undying realm of his agony, and he approached them with halting steps. He had to inspect them very little to realize they remained exactly as they had been when he’d removed them; even the food Zerod had provided remained fresh and intact, neither scavenged nor turned by mold or rot.

  This realization filled him with a foreign, confusing anger. He had endured unspeakable things by the hands of a soulless, desolate creature. He had died over and over, had given himself to end it, and while the Kherron he had known no longer existed, nothing else around him had changed. Time held no sway in that violet realm, though it felt as if he could have lived two full lives within that place if they hadn’t been so abruptly cut short. But here, two days could have passed without him, perhaps even one. This could have been the very morning after the Roaming People had abandoned him on the other side of the doorway, and what he’d suffered between then and now had no bearing upon this world. Even if he had remained a prisoner of the violet mists and the black, rotting beast, no one would have noticed his absence. Kherron had been gone for his own eternity, and no one had mourned him; no one had known. He’d stepped onto the same path at nearly the exact place from which he’d left it, and it had made no difference. Torrahs remained at Deeprock Spire. The amarach would no doubt continue their search for Kherron. Dehlyn still faced whatever danger loomed over her. How would he deny them, when they called upon him and his duty, with all their expectations unchanged?