The Elder Blood Chronicles – Book Three(46)

Jala froze and looked down at the half eaten tart and then to Valor with a look of mild pleading. “Please don’t suggest it’s poisoned. It tastes too good to be poisoned,” she whispered as she examined the tart critically.

“It’s not poisoned.” Vaze assured her.

“Which is exactly what someone poisoning you would say,” Valor returned dryly.

“She is halfway through the tart. If I had actually poisoned her and she asked that, I wouldn’t deny it was poisoned. I would say ha-ha I win,” Vaze objected.

“He has a point,” Jala agreed as she took another bite of the tart. The filling was still warm enough to steam in the chill air.

“You are correct to be suspicious, though, Valor. I commend you on that. You swore on your friend’s lifeblood to keep her safe and a death oath is the most sacred word a man can give. So what can I do to put your mind at ease?” Vaze stood slowly and folded his arms behind him looking at Valor with a calm expression.

“Tell me why you are here to help her, for one,” Valor said, his tone still rigidly formal. His eyes had narrowed at the mention of the oath, and Jala couldn’t really blame him. She had been the only witness to those words, and she had told no one of them.

Vaze leaned closer toward Valor and summoned a small globe of light in his hand. Holding it just under his chin he pointed to his eye with his free hand and blinked a couple of times. “Do you see that?” he asked. “Purple or violet eyes. It’s a mark of his blood. Magdalyn had violet eyes just as her daughter does, though Magdalyn chose to hide them.” Standing straight once more Vaze flexed his free hand and the shiny black armor began to ripple and then parted like oil on water revealing the muscular pale flesh beneath. “So is this.” Vaze said quietly as he drew a small line across his forearm and watched pale gold blood well in the wound.

“We are kin?” Jala breathed, staring at Vaze in shock.

“Your Uncle, to be precise. Magdalyn was my half-sister. War tends to breed during every conflict. Most of the children die in their mother’s wombs but a scant few have lived. Magdalyn was a product of the Goswin fall; I am a product of the Veyetta war,” Vaze explained. “Three Divine were locked in the Barrier. Of the three of them, only one has chosen to bring progeny into existence. You and I are proof of his determination to spread his blood.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jala whispered, trying to force down the growing pain in her chest.

“How cruel would that be to a child? To tell you who I truly am, and then leave you behind, regardless. Had I told you then, you would have believed yourself unworthy and that simply wasn’t the case,” Vaze said with a shake of his head and crouched once more in front of his pile of assorted goods. “Sit, Jala. I’ll explain a few things as I cook. Listen closely because I will not repeat what I say and these words stay between us.”

Jala sank slowly to the blanket and stared at Vaze, her mind reeling. How different would her childhood have been had she known there was someone that actually cared about her. Father Belson had cared, of course, but as a priest cares for an orphan. It hadn’t been true love and she had known it. Then of course, there was no guarantee that Vaze actually cared more than what was required, either.

“I said listen, Jala. I can see your mind working. You are forming your own conclusions before I have time to explain. You might as well sit too, Valor, rather than lurking above me with that glare of disapproval on your face,” Vaze said as he motioned toward the blanket Jala sat on.

“Make it good or I may help Davrian in the fight against you,” Valor growled and sat slowly down beside Jala, his glare fixed on Vaze.

“Where to begin?” Vaze sighed and began making a small fire in front of him. “I was born in Veyetta when it still stood. I was three days old when Lutheron took me from the castle. The following morning the Stormlord descended on the city and killed everyone that showed loyalty to my line. Lutheron raised me in Fionahold. For years he was like a father to me. A strict one to be sure, but one that I respected.” He paused again and carefully unwrapped a haunch of meat and spitted it. “I began my training at age six. Wooden swords and then magic, and so it progressed. When I was twelve I began to have strange dreams.” He glanced up at Jala meaningfully and she nodded slowly. “At first they were vague and unsettling and I took them as nightmares and didn’t speak of them to anyone. No self-respecting twelve-year-old boy wants to admit to being afraid to sleep. As it turns out I didn’t need to say anything. After a week or so of sleeplessness, my lessons began to falter and Lutheron scolded me, saying nightmares were no excuse for clumsiness.” Pausing once more, he seasoned the meat and glanced up at Jala again. “I hadn’t breathed a word to anyone and magic is not allowed inside the Fionahold. I had to travel into Faydwer for my lessons on magic and yet Lutheron knew of my dreams. I let it go, simply believing he had broken rules. He is second in command, after all, so I figured it was allowed. As I grew, however, I noticed other instances with Lutheron and his odd magics and eventually I determined what he was.”