Chapter 1: Blind Lead
Rivuk turned the gilt-edged page of the ancient tome. He felt it slide into the flesh of his finger just enough to slice into it. Squeezing the finger, a sharp talon slid through the top of his flesh. Beneath the claw, a purplish line began to form. He took a piece of white tape from his desk and wrapped it around the wound. It would be gone in a minute. He dipped his blotting cloth in the denaturing solution and ran it over the page's edge, destroying any trace of blood that might still be there.
His eyes turned to the page. He'd finally found it! After spending the last few days buried in the tomb that was the palace's library, he'd finally found the text he'd been looking for. The Claws of Jericho, the heading read in the stylized script of The Enlightened Kilaros.
The large page was spanned by the illustration of a single blue arm, flecked with gold, its cruel claws shot through with lightning. He suppressed an involuntary shudder. Behind the arm was a water painting of the East Tower, half-destroyed, and the deep furrows caused by the claws as they'd raked the land, poisoning it forever. He'd seen paintings of Jericho's Claws before, but this was the only one done by a witness to Jericho's capture.
A golden ring on Jericho's middle finger was the only thing holding his dark-blue, fingerless, sleeved glove in place on his hand. The forearm was covered by the glove and wrapped in ornate chain of gold and leather. And there, set in the same precious metal, on the back of the hand was a large, oval stone of midnight blue shot through with veins of gold. An illustrator's license, they'd never recovered it, but many texts swore to its existence.
He knew it existed. He'd seen it wrapped around her exquisite milky-white wrist. He'd felt its smoothness against his arm as they'd danced. Felt its chill against his naked back as she'd wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, gripping him as though holding on for dear life as he'd pushed inside of her. The way her long legs wrapped around his waist, her naked breasts rubbing against his chest.
He fought back the memories. He couldn't think about her now. He didn't have time. He'd be called away any moment to do his duty.
His duty. By his first wife.
Her tower so far removed from that fantasy bedroom with his wilding.
The thought of it chilled the warmth of his memories. He'd need those warm memories soon. But not now.
He focused on the handwritten text split by the illustration.
In the morning of the fourth skell of Eranos Iuna, the city of Chrysantium was razed from Okeshi by Jericho, Cursed of the Immortal. The Bonat, Jericho, harnessed the lightning on each finger and wielded the streams of electricity as whips. Walls, arcades, houses, all were reduced to rubble in an instant. It was then he turned his wrath on the Grand College of Science, attacking the great East Tower of Learning and leaving it in ruin before the Korsuch war machines were able to distract him enough that King Zerline and Prince Baylaris were able to subdue him.
Jericho's origins remain in question. It is well documented that such power is not naturally seen in the Bonat. It is believed he may have been created in The Citadel as a tool of war. It has also been thought the stone on his hand may be the true weapon created by The Citadel. Regardless, the response by the Nobillo and Korsuch against such crimes against the Immortal was swift.
Jericho's body was turned over to the Temple of the Immortal to determine what perversions of the Immortal's natural law were inflicted upon him to allow his body to wield such power. The stone was not recovered with him. It is believed his Olaru companions may have absconded with it.
He took a section of the book in hand and turned back to a picture of Chrysantium, the part of the city that had once existed between the second and third walls. Turning forward a few pages, the four towers of the Grand College of the Nobillo stood out from the great, walled quads. The East Tower stood tallest and largest of the four, dwarfing the other three, as though intended to challenge The Citadel of the Bonat - that towering, gleaming white spire that once rose highest over all of Kirith until it was brought low by the war machines.
He frowned as he noticed a slight green tint to the windows of the East Tower.
He'd need to send a soldier to investigate. Someone who would answer only to him and not report his inquiries to his brothers. But such loyalty was scarce these days. He could only think of one, and he could not be without his Hest, not at this moment.
His wristband sounded. He pressed it. "Yes?" he asked.
"Your grace," Carak, his Hest, his long-serving second, answered. "The Princess, Nylest, requests your presence in her chambers."
"As expected. Tell her I will arrive shortly," he said, flipping through the pages of the book, past the fearsome, cat-like faces of Keptar - cat-like, the idea of a cat must've come from the human woman, for he knew of no such creature - the white and brown fluffed fur of the Southern Edethian, the smoothed brown and grey of their vicious Northern counterparts, the anatomical sketches of human males and females that did grave disservice to the latter, as he'd found. They were far more similar in form and feature to the Korsuch than he'd appreciated; though his wilding was, by far, more lovely than any Korsuch he had ever seen.
Even when covered by the blood of his soldiers, it did nothing to diminish her light to his eyes.
But her body, nude, standing before him as she told him she wanted to have his body inside hers, to copulate - have sex, as she put it -- it was almost time to indulge that memory. The softness of her skin, the way her body had yielded for him, the warm wetness as he penetrated her, deeper and deeper, deeper than he'd ever been inside a woman, neither his first wife nor his third. Her parts so different in that way. No wedge, no chamber, it wasn't designed for him, but accommodated him just the same. Not just accommodated, but welcomed him. He could feel his tessect rising.
It was still not quite the time. Soon, though. It would make the act of obfuscation better for Nylest, and for him, to let his memories of the young human woman, Lindsay Weaver, flow.
He took off the tape around his finger. The cut was gone, healed and vanished in the span of a few minutes. A spot of blood on the tape was all that was left to testify it had ever happened. Tossing it in the fire, he watched the orange flame and black ash consume it.
He deposited the book back on the shelf, walked through the archway, and spread his wings. He leapt up and, in a few flaps of his wings, rose through the long distance of the vertical, smooth-sided pit through the salt mine that led to the Royal Library. As he exited, he pressed his wristband and the thick metal doors closed and locked beneath him. He turned in midair and dove toward the bridge where Carak would be waiting to meet him and walk with him to his first wife's tower. It might only be a few seconds' flight, but it was worth the trouble of walking to not have to face his task alone.
* * *
"You sent for me," Rivuk asked, darkly, as he faced the rusty brown-haired woman sitting on the enormous bed cloaked in crimson dyed sheerlac fur.
"Yes," the woman said, standing. Her sheer red and black negligee flowed airily around her. She waved her hand dismissively at the towering, muscular creature standing beside the prince. "Your attendant may leave."
Rivuk turned to the creature. "Thank you, Carak. That will be all for the evening."
The creature looked down at the black-haired man with his gigantic, milky white eyes rimmed in puffy flesh from where his eyelids had failed to properly form, pale blue irises swam within, seeking the prince's bronze eyes for confirmation. Rivuk gave a slight nod.
"Yes, your grace," Carak said, turning. His right shoulder lurched up as he took his first step.
"You should do away with that attendant of yours. It is not becoming of a prince to keep a crippled Child at his side. He should have been killed on his return from the forest. Mutilating his own wings like that! What use is a Child of the Immortal if he cannot fight? Worthless, except to be butchered and fed to the others."
"You may say what you like about me, Nylest, but I'll not have you insulting my Hest. If you persist, I will leave and your child will lose any hope of a claim of legitimacy."
"The legitimacy of a child of the third prince is hardly worth anything at all. My children should be given their proper rank as the first heirs."
"The daughter of a merchant, no matter how wealthy, is not a match fit for the first prince. You knew that when you and he began."
