Chapter 19: Facing the Truth
Demon Child story about an alien girl, a child conceived in violence, a child of a demon cast adrift among a warrior society. In this chapter Aylanna is reunited with Jhardron and travels with him as he confronts the truth of his birthright.
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"Wherever you go, my Khan, I will follow." The words echoed and repeated through her heart, a mantra that matched the pounding of the horse hooves on the hard stone road. As soon as she had voiced the words she had known they were the truth, that she would never leave his side again. Never had she such a clear vision of her destiny.
She rode behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his body, not because she was fearful of falling but because she wanted nothing more than to be close to him. The surrounding darkness was impenetrable, the few weak glimmers of light that shown behind tight shutters did nothing to push back the black. The relentless rain seemed to swallow up the feeble sparks just as it muted and dulled the sound of their passage.
Aylanna pressed her face against his back, seeking to touch his spirit, to see into his heart. But ever since that first rush of rage and grief at the death of Jhar'drakon he had been icily in control of his emotions. An almost tangible barrier had closed down around his pain. She did not push at this wall, partly because she was still exhausted from her exertions and partially because she was not sure she could push past his defenses, or if she even wanted to. She wondered at that, that he had the ability to do this, to shut her out, to only reveal himself to her on his own terms. Of all the people in her life, he was the only one that could do this. She wondered if this was why she loved him so.
The rain fell, it always fell. It had become such a constant that in many ways she had forgotten it. Her elaborate gilded dress clung sodden and cold to her skin; and she was grateful for his warmth and the heat of the horse between her legs. She had no idea where they were going and did not care. She closed her eyes and let the rhythms of the words, "Wherever you go, my Khan, I will follow," blend with the surge and thrum of galloping hooves. The fatigue was there, the dull ache of her spirit having stretched too far, the dullness of senses and emotions that had been assaulted, overtaxed and ultimately drained. She knew she was at the edge of her endurance.
As they rode through the darkness, the chill of the rain and the wind of their passage seemed to penetrate deeper and deeper. Aylanna huddled closer to Jhardron's back, trying to find some warmth and shelter. Her thoughts grew slower. She only dimly aware as the troop clattered into a wide torch lit courtyard and the resulting flurry of movement and noise as the buildings seemed to erupt with servants, warriors and endless other people, all crying out in grief as the news of the death of Jhar'drakon was discovered.
Jhardron dismounted leaving her sitting alone, shivering and swaying with exhaustion on the back of the stallion. When strange hands reached up and pulled her down, she staggered and tried to force her icy limbs to support her. But to her shame she could no longer prevail against this weakness, this dull irresistible exhaustion that had only seemed to grow in her heart and body, and she found herself crumpling to the ground. Instantly strong arms were there catching her and Jhardron's voice was in her ear, strangely anxious and intrusive. "Ha'akh, what afflicts you?"
Aylanna's heart lurched at that word, 'ha'akh'. She smiled in a kind of giddy, drunken exhilaration to hear that beloved rank once again, and strangely she mumbled in the broken, uncertain phrases that she had used so long ago when she had first learned the Bak language, "Not sick... head tired... leg cold..."
But he was already not listening, his attention pulled away by a high pitched scream. Still holding her close to his chest he whirled to face the form of a woman, and once again Aylanna was assailed by the surge of hopeless rage and grief that rose up for an unguarded instant as he looked at the form of a silver haired woman who had thrown herself across the dead body of Jhar'drakon. She had pulled away the cloak that enshrouded the corpse and was wailing in heartbreak. She lifted her tear stained face and cried out to the mute and shocked faces surrounding her, "How, how did this happen?" Her eyes fell on Jhardron, "Tell me, my son, whose hand has done this thing? Who has killed your father?"
Again the rage and grief thundered through the heart of the man who held her in his arms, but again just as quickly the gates were ruthlessly slammed shut. The only sign that she sensed of his struggle to maintain control was the sudden tensing in his body, the quiver in his muscles as he pulled her even tighter against his chest, somehow drawing strength from the contact of her skin against his, the weight of her body in his arms.
His voice was sharp and focused, "Bring the body into the house. Lay it out as befits a warrior who is slain in battle. Summon Jhar'granda. He is the head of house now. I will report to him of the events at the court of the Aga Khan."
He turned and marched in through a dark doorway, down a long hallway and into a wide room. He paused and again a shudder shook through his frame and he looked down into Aylanna's face, his voice low, for her ears only, "Little demon, I need you now more than ever. I need your magic and your loyalty." He put her down upon her feet and guided her to sit upon a chair in a corner. "Watch, listen, but do not speak unless I turn to you." And then his attention was pulled away as the entourage bearing the body burst into the room.
The still form of Jhar'drakon was laid out upon a black draped table. Servants went about washing the blood from his skin and an elaborate gilded breast plate concealed the horrific wound in his torso. Inside, here in the bare face of death, the movements were slower, voices lower, words more formal. Aylanna sat and watched, her eyes wide taking in the eddying movements of the servants and others whose roles she was not so sure of.
The older woman, the one who had called Jhardron son, sat motionless at the side of her husband, her head lowered now, her face concealed by her still rain wet robe but Aylanna could still keenly sense the endless throb of anguish that reverberated through her very being. Jhardron stood near her, but did not speak or touch her. He just stood looking down at her, his face blank.
Another mature woman appeared at a doorway and hesitated, staring into the room as if she was not quite sure of her welcome. Her eyes were wide and strangely angry. She narrowed her eyes and marched into the room and took up a place on the far side of the body from the others. Her voice was low, tense and oddly triumphant, "Your brother will be here soon."
The shrouded head of Jhardron's mother lifted briefly and the two womens eyes met. Her words were stiffly formal, "Sister wife, our husband lies dead between us. Cannot we, for once, forget our anger?"
"And must I forget that you did not even have the decency to come to me yourself with this grievous news, the murder of our husband? Must I learn from the lips of a servant that my husband is dead?"
