Chapter Thirteen ~ Good Intentions
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right.
– Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas
Rath slipped down the darkened street, away from the crowd of citizens, hood raised to cover the telltale marks on his cheeks, and gloves on his hands to conceal the rest. It was the third such gathering he'd attended in the past weeks, and the vague sense of dread he'd been experiencing since before he became a Vaneth and began his first assignment was starting to crystallize. The murmurs of unrest that had plagued the kingdom for years, had graduated from whispers to shouts, from conversations in darkened corners to mobs in city squares, and he, like the other Vaneth, feared that violence would soon follow.
None of the complaints were new, nor were they all in the wrong, or the right, but the undercurrents were different. There was an edge to the words and glances exchanged by the leaders that was new, and it made the back of his neck itch with warning and his fingers seek instinctively for his weapons. For all its apparent randomness and natural progression, there was an organization, a structure, to the growing rebellion, and that meant a guiding hand, a leader. He had his own suspicions on who that leader might be, but suspicions and prejudice, no matter how well honed his instinct was, weren't enough, and he needed to find evidence of treachery before he could report to the Council.
It was time to take a more active role. He had remained a passive observer so far, now he needed to play a new role, that of a participant, a believer in the cause, so that he could work his way into the inner circle of whatever conspiracy was hiding behind the people's unrest. In their society, deception was difficult and rare, even those with the smallest gift could see auras, and bloodline marks could not be removed, nor concealed easily. But he hadn't spent nearly two decades in training for nothing, and he could produce or hide any aura reaction, along with knowing how to alter his marks and appearance to assume any station he chose.
If his suspicions were correct, the leader of this rebellion had similar training, which should have been impossible. However, it wasn't his duty to determine the how, but the who and why, and he would find the answers he sought.
~x~
The stone was rough and cold beneath his knees, and only twenty years of training enforced discipline prevented him from showing his distaste at having to bow to another man for the first time in his life – the Vaneth were not subservient by nature. The heavy tread of boots reached his ears, along with the clank of a sword on armor, and he felt a flicker of excitement in his stomach, ruthlessly suppressed from displaying in his aura. Finally, after months of playing the rebel, he was going to meet the man behind it all.
"This is him, my lord, the one who's been so helpful in training the recruits." It was the gravelly voice of the leader's second in command, Nikolas, who was the highest ranking member of the organization Rath had been in contact with to that point, and a bull of a man, barely shorter than himself with ropy muscles and a menacing face. Nikolas was well trained in street fighting, but lacked formal military education, a fact that Rath had used to worm his way into the inner circle.
"Well, let's see this miracle worker then." Another voice drawled, silky smooth and very familiar, sending a surge of elation and tightly wound anticipation burning through Rath's veins as he rose to his feet and calmly met the gaze of the man he'd been hunting for over a year. His suspicions were correct, and the eye witness testimony of a Vaneth was enough evidence under current Antarian law to convict, although there had been vague whispers lately that concerned him regarding the public's opinion of the Granilith and its servants. But, those whispers could be dealt with after Kivar, the new Council darling and Vilandra's lover, was revealed as a traitor to the crown, just like his father.
He only hoped that Vilandra forgave him for being right.
~x~
Cursing viciously under his breath, Rath pressed harder on the makeshift bandage over his ribs, slowing the seepage of blood from the knife wound Nikolas had given him, and darted to the next shadowed corner of the street, making his way slowly towards the Palace grounds and the Granilith chamber so that he could present his findings. Damn the man all to hell for being such a paranoid bastard and going through his things, finding the knife stamped with the official Vaneth seal that Rath, damn himself too, had foolishly left unattended.
A slow and cautious hour later, he finally made it to the Palace grounds, and stopped, hiding in the shadow of the gate, frowning as he saw that the outer doors to the Council chamber were closed and barred, guards posted outside, signaling a closed session. He had received no warning of a Council meeting, and all Vaneth were notified, undercover or not.
A coil of unease wrapped around his spine and he slipped his hand into his tunic to grab the knife that had betrayed him earlier that day, sending his power searching outwards, and recoiling in shock when he felt the malevolent pulse of energy blocking him from seeing into the Council chamber. Something was horribly wrong. 'Vaneth! To the Council Chamber!' He broadcasted silently, before stepping out of the shadows and striding across the courtyard, lifting one eyebrow demandingly at the four guards blocking the door.
They shifted uncomfortably and glanced at each other before one gathered up the courage to speak. "Sorry, my Lord, we're not supposed to let anyone else in."
Rath smiled, slow and dangerous, and raised his right hand, palm out, letting his power flicker enough to make the sigil on it glow. "No one has the right to bar me from the Council, and any attempt to do so could be construed as treason against Antar." The guard blanched, eyes darting nervously as he tried to avoid looking at the knife still held casually in Rath's left hand, and after another moment of hesitation, gestured for the other guards to unbar the door, then bowed jerkily as Rath swept past them.
The moment he stepped across the threshold, he felt the turbulent emotions and power he'd been prevented from sensing before, and his heart seized in his chest as he saw dead bodies surrounded by pools of blood, a few surviving Council members huddling in a corner while rebels threatened them at knife point, and worst of all, Kivar dueling an already wounded Zan while Vilandra held a knife to Ava's throat.
He was too late to save her from herself, but, gritting his teeth, he swore he would not be too late to save Ava, or the throne. Hefting the knife in his left hand, he threw it with deadly accuracy at Kivar's unprotected chest. Vilandra saw his movement and with wild eyes, threw Ava into the path of the oncoming blade, which slid into the pale flesh of her throat without a sound, blood bubbling as she clutched at it for a moment before collapsing limply to the ground.
Rath cried out and lunged forward, barely noticing Kivar slicing Zan's head off when he turned to try and save his fallen wife, frantically trying to heal his first friend, and biting his tongue so hard it filled his mouth with blood when he realized that her spirit was already gone. Spitting a crimson mouthful onto the stone floor, he rose sinuously to his feet, eyes cold and dark and aura crackling with power as Zan's fallen sword flew to his hand.
Kivar took a step back and Rath swung, a vicious overhand blow, not aimed at the leader of the rebellion, but at his lover, who had betrayed her own family in cold blood, carrying out sentencing and punishment with one stroke, a stroke that proved to be fatal in more than one way. The sword caught in her rib cage and Kivar lunged forward with his own sword before Rath could free it, the blade sliding cleanly into Rath's heart.
The traitor grinned triumphantly and Rath released the last of his power in a concussive blast that brought the ceiling of the Council chamber tumbling down, before sinking into endless black, the blood of everyone he loved on his hands.
Michael gasped, heart pounding painfully in his chest as he was wrenched suddenly from the vision of his former self and back to the present, the sound of Isabel retching reaching his ears as he tried to catch his breath, hands cold and clammy with sweat. Blinking to clear his blurred vision, he saw Isabel bending over the trash can, Kyle rubbing her back, his face pale, while Liz had reached across the circle to pull a shaking Ava into her lap, carding her fingers soothingly through the blonde's hair as she met Michael's gaze, shock and horror in their dark depths that he knew matched his own expression.
Rising to his feet, Michael strode across the room and rested his hand against the back of Isabel's neck, sending a wave of healing energy through her, quietly amazed at his new grasp of his powers, even more honed than they had been under Ava's tutelage. His sister shuddered and wiped her mouth, but refused to look up, so with a brief glance at Kyle who nodded and took a step back, he pulled her into his arms, hugging her fiercely until she broke down and sobbed, hands tightening convulsively on his shirt.
"That wasn't you, Isabel," he murmured into her hair, wishing for just a second that he'd never opened the door to their past, that they'd remained ignorant if it meant that his family didn't have to go through this pain. She tried to shake her head and pull away and he just held her tighter, voice gentle but implacable as he continued. "You are incapable of that kind of betrayal."
Eventually, her sobs quieted, and after brushing a kiss across her forehead, he handed her back to Kyle, who guided her to the couch and wrapped his arms around her, no longer bothering to try and hide the closeness between them as he whispered quietly to her, blue eyes dark with sorrow and determination – Michael knew his sister was in good hands.
Turning back to the other two girls in his living room, he lowered himself back down beside them, cautiously meeting Ava's shuttered blue gaze, not sure how to handle the surge of affection he felt for her now that he knew just how much he'd cared for her in their past lives. "Are you okay?"
A tiny smile flickered across her face and she nodded, but didn't let go of Liz, who was still comfortingly stroking her hair, and nibbling thoughtfully on her lip, making Michael's attention sharpen as he wondered what she had seen in the visions that he'd been too overwhelmed to process yet. "Your dream." The brunette stated quietly when he raised one eyebrow questioningly, and he searched his memory, then rocked back in surprise as he realized the implications of her words.
His very first memory, the night Rath was marked as a Vaneth, he'd had a vague, disquieting dream that left him pale and shaking and unable to remember the details, just as Liz had been awoken every night for the past few weeks.
Sighing wearily, he scrubbed a hand across his face, frustrated by the fear and anger and resignation he saw in Liz's beautiful brown eyes, emotions they'd all felt far too frequently of late, and that he knew would be sticking around for a while to come. Apparently they'd only seen the tip of the iceberg when it came to the meddling of the Granilith, and hell if he knew what to do about it.