Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong (10 page)

Venna from three separate souls rocked the room. The two older daemons, shocked and appalled, gaped openly at the faine. Toran, completely gobsmacked, stared mutely at her upturned face.

“Now, I feel like going for a walk down to the village,” she continued brightly. “I’m eager to see how it’s changed these years I’ve been gone.” She tilted her head and smiled wider in invitation. “You want to come? I can wait until your business is done here. It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
 

Turning his head slowly, Toran looked out the lead-glass windows that lined the wall.

The sky was as blue as the venna in his veins.

He would have never noticed.

Angling his head back in her direction, Toran lost himself for a moment in the ocean of her eyes. Despite his scrutiny of her, he was the one who felt exposed and raw at their encounter.
 

From deep within his stupor, her very presence messing with his insides, Toran found himself murmuring, “No, you go ahead. I’ve got things I need to do today.”

Leaving him with a small smile, she nodded his guests a curt goodbye.

As Toran watched her walk away, the oddest sense of
something
pinged inside his chest.

It felt like the barest hint of…
joy
?

*****

The euphoric haze that now enveloped his nephew was a sight to behold.

It was as disgusting as it was promising.

Arman also recognized it for what it
truly
was––a potent reminder of how delicately he must approach his tasks at hand.
 

There was no question it was risky to push his nephew into the path of a full-blooded faine. Yet, while others would believe it was playing with fire, Arman was fully intent on lighting the fuse.

“The faine,” Diogo sneered into the silence, “she is to stay with us, I see.”

Par for the course, Toran ignored Arman’s old friend, years of unspoken animosity burning between them. Instead, seeming to shake himself out of his stupor, Toran picked up the phone and dialed. “Ales, she is headed to the village,” he said into it. “Watch her.”

Arman lingered off to the side, watching, waiting, biding his time.
 

After setting the phone back inside its cradle, his nephew took a seat and tapped his mouse, his monitors coming to life.
 

As Toran attempted to go about his business, Arman let his gaze rest heavily upon him.

“What are you looking at?” Toran growled at last.

“Take care, son,” Arman warned, figuring now was as good a time as any to get his true plans underway.
 

“State your business, uncle,” Toran answered, sifting through some papers. He glanced up and jerked his chin towards the door. “Then both of you leave,” he ordered. “I’m busy.”

Arman held his ground.

“Diogo, give us a moment, please,” he murmured. Per his plan, he had met in secret with certain Elden to negotiate a temporary reprieve for the faine. It had been a contentious meeting, but the Elden had eventually, if begrudgingly, accepted Arman’s terms. While Diogo was certainly on board, Arman saw no reason to completely tip his hand.
 

This next conversation had best be had in private.

As the door clicked shut, Arman heard Toran blow out an irritated breath.

He smiled.
 

“You know,” he began, “the connection between a faine and her Strong during feeding can be very intense, even sexual in nature.”

“Sweet gods!” Toran roared, taking the bait. “We are not having this conversation.” Tossing a pen across his desk, his nephew leaned back and pulled his fingers through his thick black hair––the exact same hair Arman had enjoyed in his centuries of youth.

Though his hair was as thick as ever, it was now streaked with gray.

“I can imagine how confusing all this is,” Arman continued on, “but you must keep in mind her place.” Here, he paused. “I couldn’t help but notice the other night that you have already broken with tradition.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The door,” Arman answered slowly, purposefully enunciating the two simple words. When he had visited Toran’s private chambers, he had been surprised to find that his nephew had installed a normal working door in the chamber of the faine. It was as if Toran actively sought to make his faine more at ease with her captivity.
 

Arman thought it an exceedingly naive thing to do, but he’d work with it.

“I don’t owe you any explanations.” Toran rose from his chair and planted his hands on his hips, ready for a fight.

Arman sized him up.

“I’m just trying to warn you,” he chose to say, “to guard against what this faine will try to offer you… that sense of ease… None of it is real, none of it is true.”

“What I do with my faine is none of your concern.”

“Ah, but it is,” Arman continued, undaunted. “This kingdom’s future is at stake. Being the predator she is, this faine will try to twist you up inside to take advantage of your feelings, to steal your strength. For the sake of the gods, you stood witness to your own father’s destruction at the hands of his faine.”
 

At that, his nephew clenched his jaw.

Satisfied, Arman softened his voice. “And, given your curse,” he said, “I’m sure the promise of the faine is a heady temptation indeed. It’s something you may even come to crave like the very air you breathe.”

Toran's venna pulsed like lightning in the room.
 

“Fight against this, son,” Arman counseled, carefully balancing the tight rope between push and pull. “Do not be confused by any perceived feelings for her. She is simply the means to your end.”

“My end, Arman?”

“The means to your destiny, of course,” Arman replied, quickly smoothing over his gaffe. “You know what I mean.”

“Quit trying to imply that I don’t understand what is at stake here,” Toran answered. “Unlike others before me, I understand my duty.”

“Exactly!” Arman clapped his hands together. “You are the Tenn, the strongest of the Strong. Unlike my brother, you will never fall under the thrall of a faine. Thus, there is much reason to rejoice.”

“Good gods, give it a rest.”

“Are you not eager to become king?” Arman couldn’t help himself; the barest tone of mocking escaped his lips.

At it, Toran narrowed his gaze, his searching eyes locked on Arman’s face.
 

Arman held his breath.

“It’s not that,” Toran answered after a moment.

“Ah, it’s your bride, then.”
 

Toran turned away.

“You shouldn’t look at marriage as a prison, son,” Arman said amiably to Toran’s back, once again secure in the fact that his nephew would never suspect a thing. “You will be free to be with others. As with all royal Vimora unions, after your initial marriage night, coupling with your bride is purely an every-now-and-then burden you must undertake to ensure the purity of your offspring.”

Toran said nothing.

“After marriage,” Arman continued, “you may choose to lay with a host of your kind, hearty daemon females ready and willing to serve your needs. You could even do so before, if you’re so inclined––once you work things out with your faine, of course.” He bit back a smile. “I don’t see where you get this idea that you owe faithful allegiance to the marriage bed.”

“Really, Arman? Can you not?” Toran turned back to face him. He leaned forward and rested his knuckles on his desk. “Why the fuck are you here?” he asked. “I don’t need a marriage counselor.”

Mimicking Toran's stance, Arman placed two gnarled hands on the other side of the desk, eager to get down to the real business at hand.
 

“I’m here,” he said, “because we have a problem.”

*****

For once, his uncle’s familiarity felt all too patronizingly smooth.
 

It grated.

Arman knew full well that it was infidelity that had landed them in this mess in the first place.
 

Yet here Arman stood…
taunting him.

“Tell me what you have come here to say.” Toran raised his voice. “Now.”
 

“The Sorcieri are unhappy,” Arman answered.

“Really?” Standing up to his full height, Toran folded his arms across his chest. “What else is new?”

“Narcyz is behind on our payments,” said Arman. “Again.”

Toran let out a stream of curses.

“How is this my problem, uncle?” he asked at last. “Isn’t it you who rules alongside him?”
 

The air in the room throbbed as a pulse of his uncle’s venna collided with his own.
 

They stared each other down, the dual council a sore subject as always for everyone involved.

“He will not be reasoned with,” Arman growled at last. “You know this.”

Oh, Toran knew alright. The entire Mythos knew Narcyz was an intractably pompous ass. Most refused to deal with him. Thus, the Vimora’s near friendless existence.

“He’ll not be reasoned with because he knows you’ll ask that I step in to save his hide,” Toran retorted.
 

“Yes,” Arman drew out. “But now Feliks refuses to negotiate future terms. He’s threatening to drop the protection spells completely.” Here, the old daemon paused before adding, “If he does, the entire eastern half of Baltia will be exposed.”

“We’ve faced worse before.” Toran waved him off. “Merus can handle what magic we have of our own to shore up defenses. Only if things go south will I speak with Feliks.”

“It may not be that simple,” Arman replied.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It seems that Narcyz has had a change of heart.”

“About giving me Sarai?” Out of nowhere, Toran’s own heart leapt.

“No, not about that,” answered Arman, a small smile playing at his lips.
 

“What are you talking about?” Toran found himself for a moment confused, the fine hairs on his nape standing at attention. He could swear he could
feel
the old man’s smugness.

His uncle’s next words jarred him back to reality.
 

“I’ve heard from reliable sources that Kellen and his band of rebels have been marked for death.”

“What the…” Stunned, Toran fell back into his chair. He opened his mouth. Then closed it. “And, you think Narcyz has called for this?” he finally managed to ask. “He doesn’t have the authority to pass a death sentence. Only the king can…”

“He may not have the authority,” Arman interrupted coolly, “but he has the coin.”

“Why would he risk this? It doesn’t make any sense.” Toran shook his head. “You yourself said that having them killed would…”

“Who else then?” Arman challenged. “Who else would want them dead?”

“It would serve the Sumari to pay to take them out,” offered Toran.

“Yes, but why would the fire daemons not just be content to let you battle the rebels? As they continue to probe the borders?”

“Because they know that I can’t risk killing Kellen’s men.”

“They would know this how?”

Toran had no answer to that. Outside the borders of Venn Dom, the driving cause of his curse was well buried beneath centuries of subterfuge and deflection. Only a handful of people, Narcyz included, knew of his weakness.

“It seems to me,” said Arman, “that this is simply Narcyz signaling he’ll not give up Baltia without a fight.”

Again, Toran had no answer.
 

“Perhaps we should look at this as an opportunity,” Arman ventured after a moment. “Strategically speaking, the rebels would most likely disband should something befall their leader…”

“I’m not doing Narcyz’s dirty work.” Toran was quick to dismiss his uncle’s suggestion. Narcyz had pursued his son for centuries, seeking to destroy the daemon for untold sins that went way beyond Kellen’s war against him. Toran would be damned if he’d do Narcyz the favor of taking the daemon’s life.

As if reading Toran’s mind, his uncle offered up, “I’m just saying that perhaps it would be best if you cut off the head of the snake now… when you are at your strongest.”
 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“The faine will change things, son,” said Arman. His voice grew harsh as his argument from earlier came crashing to the fore, his venna sizzling in time with his anger. “It’s what they do.”

This, Toran could not deny, a spark of his own venna hissing resentfully in the air.
 

Arman wasn’t finished.
 

“I’ll remind you, too,” he said, “that you have every right––indeed, it’s your godsdamned duty––to protect what’s yours.” Arman shook a crooked finger in warning. “Kellen isn’t stupid. He and his rebels will come for your faine. I shouldn’t need to remind you that if that happens, you will never have what you want.”

Toran stood quickly and turned towards the window.
 

As he looked out upon the vestiges of his ruined and dying kingdom, he could see that he could allow nothing to come between him and his crown. Given his curse, mass bloodshed within the Vimora must be avoided at all costs in the critical months ahead.

Killing Kellen was the smart play, plain and simple. Accomplishing such a task would be easy enough once he finally set his mind to do it.

He’d just have to get Merus to…

Toran nearly choked on his next breath.

The rest of Arman’s arguments faded into nothing as a different reality of what this meant set in.

Despite the fact that it was obvious that Kellen had to die, all Toran could think was,
What the hell am I going to tell Merus?

After leaving Toran to his work, Liv made her way down the bridge that separated Caisteal Vimora from the village below. Despite each step that took her further away, she could
feel
their connection. It was as if an elastic band stretched between them––a taut, yet gentle tug beckoning her back to his presence.

The sensation was exhilarating.

After a confusing night spent alone––her first conscious night in Venn Dom––Liv was also heartened by his behavior this morning. Though he looked as tired as she felt, Toran seemed much more focused, stable even––so at odds with how he’d been yesterday before abruptly leaving her dazed and alive with his venna.