Page 55 of Angel in Absentia
“Javelin,” she said. “He did this. His people. You know of him? You are an Insednian, aren’t you?”
Prince’s mask was now fully visible, his spindly body landing silently on the ground as if unfolding from behind the mask. He was high above her, limbs like tree branches reaching down and losing all permanence before touching the grass.
Javelin de Gal, The Breathless Eater. Yes. I recognize the work of his ilk.
Prince’s hand reached for her face, and though his fingers faded to nothing, she felt a coolness against her tear-stained cheek.
You have brought me this offering in exchange for a request. Yes? How might I be of service?
Clea swallowed, feeling raw. Her skin chafed against mismatched armor she’d worn all day. Her heart chafed against her grief. Her voice was as ragged as her soul.
“You,” she said, “you once fought Javelin’s kingdom. You all did, but not any longer.”
No. Not any longer.
“Then I have a request.”
A request? Why, of course.Prince’s mask lowered as if he were kneeling enough to level his mask with her face.You have been withholding such need, dear Princess, but you should know I would have welcomed a request much sooner if I’d known what you would offer.
Tears bloomed as she said the words. “I would like to invoke my debt. The Insednians are said to be devout in their own laws. Years ago, I healed one of their own.”
I recall,Prince said, his mask tilting before it swirled completely with an enlightened,Ah. I see.
Clea stood there and waited for his answer as he straightened.
“So?” she asked.
The bodies around her riled and rustled, standing as if he accepted her request. Clea glanced down worriedly as she saw Yvan’s corpse shift near her, the sunken form lifting.
“So?” she pushed.
I would give you our aid in a heartbeat, and I am certain you will have it,he said.But there is a formality that I must oblige. You must have known, dear Princess. There is someone I must ask before granting you aid of any kind.
“Who?” she asked.
You very well have already heard the rumors and yet you believe not.
“So, it is true?” she started.
Alkerrai al Shambelin.
Clea stifled a visible response, cursing inwardly as she looked away. She wasn’t consulting with a restless tribe of Insednians. Her request was going to the Warlord of Shambelin.
“That’s not possible,” Clea said. “The title is a formality. You have someone who has taken the title?”
No, dear girl. I’m afraid not. He is awake again.
He almost sounded sympathetic. She’d been unable to hide her distress.
By Cien, that wasn’t possible was it? The Warlord of Shambelin? The actual Warlord of Shambelin. The warlord of the land of light, a rumored Venennin often compared to a god of death.
Her hands curled into fists, her eyes scanning back and forth in front of her as if reading the declarations off an invisible page.
She wasn’t requesting aid from a symbol. No. She was requesting aid from a legend that had haunted history. She was requesting aid not just from the enemy of her people, but the enemy of the world. A ruthless warlord said to be one of the most powerful Venennin in history, a figure so often represented as a beast.
Did that change things?
No. It didn’t. Not really. Her people’s chances couldn’t get much worse than they already were.
