Fate's Hand

Sum: In the beginning Vladimir Taltos uses his witchcraft to compel a young jhereg to him in hopes of gaining one of her eggs. We know Vlad's tale, this is the jhereg's side of the story and her plight through life and destiny.

Disclaimer: this world belongs to Steven Brust, but most of the characters in it will be my creation, since the author of Vladimir Taltos never touched on this particular story, since it revolved around Vlad's adventures.

A/N I'm a writing junkie, I'm into new things, give me a break or four; I'll need it…so bear with me please; It's my first fanfic. My thanks for your patience.

. : Prologue : .

The little jhereg was flying. Her steel colored scales were only glimpsed in the darkening clouds as she swooped and plunged, accelerating her speed and whipping about in the ever-present wind. One might use the term, 'swoon'. She flew. But to describe her properly, one might say she was soaring over the clouds, her forked tongue flicking over her serpentine muzzle, tasting the air as it forced its way passed her, accommodating her figure as she swam through it. Her leathery wings flexed in the sky, sending her to swirling into the clouds, nose-diving, her small body not longer than three hand-spans long, pointed downward as she plunged headlong into the ground from her altitude. She was elated. As of now, her destiny was set. A destiny, at last!

She swooped low enough that her claws reached out to graze the ground with her marks, the tingles of stalks sprouting proudly from the earth brushing against her underbelly, the air passing around her, fitting her into its pattern of movement: all these things were precious to her. She knew now that she would not wither and die a faceless jhereg, a nobody in the deep jungles of her former home. She was heady with the sensation of accomplishment – despite the fact that she did nothing but follow her inborn instincts. Instinct, one might add, that jheregs learned to endure and heed all years of their life. She had been dubbed a name, as well. So proud she was.

Too proud, one might accuse. Alone in the skies with only her thoughts for company she knew not a word that the others whispered in evil hisses behind her back, condemning her fate with Death, riddling her journey with mortal danger. One hundred and seventy three years of individuality and impetuous youth, vanished in one misfortunate event, preempted by her enemies. Such would be her fate, if she remained in the dark. If only she would open her eyes to the danger suffocating her unbeknownst. If only she would comprehend the deep root of jealousy bred in youths' heart as she walks by. If only she would be less carefree than she was. If, if, if. One might even argue that if it weren't for her young careless attitude with life, she would never have had the ill luck to achieve such a stroke of inspiration and pity, turning a kind heart to a Kynn Leader in disguise, leading to the preposition thatchanged her life, or undergoing the Mystery because of her benevolent behavior towards a faceless stranger. Perhaps she would have lived an old life. Or perhaps she will in spite of all.

She swirled, her jaws open, entertaining the idea of freedom, of simply flying away from the road she was intended, and leaving the young one in need of a Hunter. Such thoughts were banished as quickly as it had been thought, her determination and pride of Honor far too great to even consider flicking her tail a different way and flying Southward. Towards adventure, she traveled, the ground racing below her, the trees a blurry image of green, nothing but the wind and the altitude of any significant importance. Nothing much else mattered but her Destiny. She was Determined.

The steely, metallic taste of determination filled her tongue and sounded loudly in her ears. It was getting dark. She checked her descent to land delicately on the ground, her clawed feet barely imprinting the earth she traveled. She was almost as light as air. Her wings, steely scaled and pale leathery skin, folding above her head as she tread lightly on the ground, her nostrils filling with the unusual scents of the place, filtering all the aromas into separate categories, deciding which route was troublesome and which were useful. Thus she had trained to do.

The area around her was not familiar in the least. Everything was new and she was hard put to keep a stony face and stay on the trail she made. Wandering off would only result in distraction. Distractions always led to failure, and in this particular situation, failure meant death. Even in the falling darkness, she could see the place was riddled with blue. Just blue. This puzzled her enough that she paused in her travels to consider this phenomena, looking at the setting sun and then towards the lurking shadows, trying to understand the complexity that led to blue air. What mist is this? She inhaled deeply, greeted only with unfamiliar scents, and none of them clearing up her confusion. So she settled down and sat, thinking hard on this. She was prone to such inconvenient habits.

The sun sank deeper; its golden light painting the western skies in colors of orange, yellows and faintly, robins blue. Not so deep as the lurking shadows. The encroaching darkness from the east spilt up into the sky in a slow battle that was always won by not-light and always lost as the dawn came to chase the Moons from the sky. Such was the Cycle. As the little jhereg mused on this, Time not deigning to breathe down her neck for speed, the bloody orb of red descended lower over the horizon, sudden flashes of light cascading in a golden shower onto the darkening woods, creating more shadows in its wake as the green forest was swallowed whole by the dark.

Only when her mind had dwelt deeply into the oddity of the blue tinge touching every living thing around her, darkening her own color to a deeper, darker hue, did she come out of her reverie. Her conclusions were conjectures at best, comforting lies at worst. So admitting, she concluded that as a result of the perpetual shadow overcastting the wood, she figured it was due to this and of the angle of the sun that this blue hue was born. But then, she knew with utter certainty that her musings were childish considerations and nothing to be taken too seriously for their idiocy.

Magic must be intertwined with the phenomena, but her thoughts had moved on. Her scales pricked upwards from the sudden drop in temperature and she ran, darting between trees into the place of roots, crags, and green.

The floor was invisible. Not invisible in the usual, magical sense, but hidden under layers of rocks and hidden plants, leaves and vines. Roots entangled together to create the perfect complexity in design, each vine or root writhing alive on the trail, nesting surprises to be avoided, their twitching members hardly figments of the imagination. They writhed together in varicolored tones of brown, green and black, all touched with that fantastical blue of mists hovering over the ground. Large round trunks of pale, pale bark or roughened shells, as wide – or wider – than an Easterner's waist and standing tall clustered in groups, trembled lightly with the aura of the living. Their branches reached high up as if praising the sky for the glorious light it bestows upon the earth, each branch alive with leaves and greenery, all with a slight blush of red on elegant curves of the leaf, blocking out the light even as they praised it. Old, primordial sap running through veins, thickening with the slow beats of the trees' living breath. The trees were alive here. They shared pain, agony, peace and freedom, all warbled into one massive community stretching for miles.

The jhereg paused again, cocking her head against the vibration of breathing as if from one monstrous beast and could not help but quake in her bones from the shuddering sighs of the trees as she passed. She held her wings tightly to her body as if for comfort in the foreign place of singing, breathing trees.

Sprouting from the intricate weaving of life came the strong, smooth green stems that pushed out of the earth's soil and opened into large rounded canopies of leathery material, the huge leaf a pale green with veins of brown sap throbbing with life beneath the skin of the plant. Atop the plant's canopy blossomed a huge flower of the likes the jhereg had never seen until that moment. As of now, it coiled, folding away with the light, its crimson colored petals tucking away from the darkness, hiding in its green shelter. The jhereg tries to imagine what the crimson flower would look like when it opened up to the sun, but could not. It only posed as another riddle to be solved.

She walked around the shoots and trunks of the forest, stepping lightly on the roots and vines, never stepping too long in one place for fear of harming the lifeblood of the realm. She was a mini-creature beside all these tall creations that towered easily over her. She was intimidated by the lack of familiarity and hurried along in the cool atmosphere, feeling dew drops already forming on her still wings and unmoving scales. She feared decay, then.

It smelt of damp woods after a good flooding had passed by, the scents of creatures, plants, soil and mud all churned together into a smell of the graveyard before the dead arrive; a fresh scent of overturned earth in the air that would have lifted her heart had she been in her home. As it was, it only caused discouragement. The jhereg refused to feel fear, even when it was right below the surface, ready to boil over and spill outwards. Verra preserve her. She was very much afraid.

The silence unnerved her a great deal. There were many creatures that were far larger than she, and they crept in this familiar wood, silent as a soft breeze. She imagined their eyes on her and knew only fear. She tried in vain to squelch it when thunder clapped loudly above her, ringing in her eardrums until she thought she must have gone deaf. She let out a squeal as she darted further into the darkened Wood. The sound chased her, its continual rumbling, knotting her stomach and making it churn unpleasantly, bowels clenching tight in fear, her sharp claws digging into the ground.

She dug in her claws and ran faster. It was a unique tool given to her kind by the creator. The sharpened, narrow, needle-like spears on their paws were not used as a means of protection or weaponry – in fact, if weapons were in dire need their poisoned fangs normally kept the creatures at bay long enough to escape. No, the claws had an exceptional use. It was common knowledge that after a meal, jheregs could not fly because of the added weight, and it is because of this they make use their claws. Like Easterners with small spikes in the bottom of their soles for better grip in the ground, the claws allowed the little jhereg a faster, steadier speed with which to run away when chased by predators larger than they themselves were.

The little jhereg put this tool to use and ran for all her little heart, fear pumping in her chest as she tried to outrun the rumbling thunder clapping in the sky, and the flashing of light in the darkened night. Then it began to rain. One would think that with the heavy layers of leaves and branches that it would be relatively dry in the underbrush. One would be sorely mistaken. The first fat drop of rain that slipped through the coverage fell thickly on her head. She started and stumbled forward. Despite her fear, determination burned through everything and she set her jaw, searching thoroughly for any place of shelter.

The rain continued to fall in heavy drops, at irregular times, seeping through the coverage and making the intertwined roots difficult to walk through. Soon, she was trudging through mud and as small as she was, it became an onerous task. She seethed, her chest expanded in an ever-growing anger as her black beady eyes searched the darkness for a place devoid of water, of any form of liquid. Her little eyes were keen in the dark and she absorbed every significant detail as she passed, her wings held above her to shield her as best she could from the rain. This was terrible. This was the darker, morbid part of adventure she had never accounted for.

She looked at creatures off all kinds, trying to stay away from the more dangerous ones simultaneously keeping her stomach from leading her astray from her task. She needed shelter. She would have missed it if it hadn't been for the flash of lightning and clapping thunder that scared her out of her wits for a moment. She charged forward in that moment of mindless fear and collided with a canopy flower. From what she could tell, it seemed to have been knocked over on its side, and then the stench of burnt water reached her nostrils and she almost balked. She was too exhausted to do so, however, and it was this exhaustion that saved her.

The charred stem remained tilted over, the canopy crushed slightly, but still rising above her short frame and curving downward in a low dip, keeping the water at bay. The flower tumbled over and lay in the mud. The rain burnt her eyes and she narrowed them into slits to keep as much rain from them as she was able.

The flower bud was easily three times her size, perhaps four, but again the metallic tasting determination bubbled inside of her, reminding her of her destiny. She cannot die here. So thinking, she snapped her jaws around the bud stem and tugged on it. Stuck fast in the mud, it didn't budge at first, but her poison was spreading uninhibited throughout the wilting flower with moldy flesh, the jhereg was able to pull violently enough to get it to move. She dragged it under the small canopy and allowed herself the small pleasure of smugness. It soon dispersed. She was still wet, hungry, and exhausted.

She chewed on the flower petals, gnawing on the closed flower, using her claws to open it up until it was in wilted shreds, its crimson strips in a decent pile, discolored with patches of decaying brown and burnt black. The little jhereg snuggled among the petals; sleep engulfing her like a huge beast.

-------

Solschia drew her raincoat about her, staring dully at the storm raging around her, her eyes narrowed in annoyance. From the inn came the soft noise of people, speaking together, laughing, drinking, and living. They all breathed with life, each having run from the storm to hide out in the Forbearance Inn. The sound of life running through them made her almost sick, the sensation only heightened by her psionic link with the drunken bastards. Her mind was too great for this. She shut that part of her down, trying to ignore the belching, the farting, and the grinning through yellowed and decaying teeth.

She was seeing only the morbid people in her mind's eye, however, ignoring the silent watchers in the corner, sipping their ale quietly. The boisterous ones always caught her attention. The thunder sounded loudly above them, everyone but the bartender jumping in their skins from the sudden deafening sound that echoed eerily before fading. The rafters were rattling from the brutal force of the winds, the rain at a slant, pegging anyone who dared to stand too far from the Inn's door. Just as Solschia was getting ready to move on and sleep off her growing irritation, the storm had to poke at her one more time. This vindication of the storm was purely psychological, but it mattered little to Solschia, for to her, the storm openly mocked her. She had glimpsed a flying creature on her travels but the storm had come upon her too suddenly to give much more thought to it.

But the storm thought it should remind her of her loss. With a clash of thunder, a blinding streak of light descended from the clouds, zapping its target into a charred ruin. In the seconds after the flash of light, Solschia saw creatures scuttling away, their glacier eyes gleaming from the light before they ran from it. This put her on edge, and she ground her teeth together in further annoyance, working into outright fury.

She had intended to go hunting today. There were rumors of Yendis and Chreothas roaming the woods and Solschia had wanted their hides to dry on her rack. They would have made great trophies. Not anymore.

"Solschia, glaring won't make it go away. You should relax and have some wine!" a young, rather handsome man said to her, standing shakily from his seat to lurch towards her, parting from the small knot of people playing cards. He placed his arm around her neck and grinned at her. He emphasized his point by hoisting the mug of wine in one hand up toward her lips. She turned her face away from him, her eyes hardening, unamused by his antics.

"Don't make me kill you Aryne." Was her only open reply to him.

"You wouldn't kill your only brother, would'ya?" he was still grinning drunkenly. She plucked the mug from his hands and poured it on the floor, looking at him challengingly as she tossed the mug aside.

"Try me." Her voice was cold with pent-up fury.

Aryne reddened in sudden explosive anger; his emotional control always disappeared when he was getting tipsy. "I've had enough of this shit, Solschia. Just because you are irritable and grumpy does not mean you have to grump and snap at me!" he huffed and cursed her in sailor's argot before pulling the mug from the floor and chucking it at her. His aim had always been near impeccable and it hit her on her cheek before gravity took its toll and it fell with a clatter to the floor. She froze, unmoving for a moment. It seemed Aryne hadn't been as drunk as she thought. She glared at him and he sneered in reply, taunting her silently. "Piss off Solschia." And he walked away, turning his entire back to her. That alone was an insult to her ability.

As mature as she liked to view herself as, her brother had always been able to urge her to childish behavior and without a thought she lunged at him, her arms locking around his neck, her weight bringing him down to the floor as he struggled in her lock. Her knee spread his legs apart to keep him from getting leverage, but she had forgotten her brother's resilience. As she was struggling to get her knee between his legs to keep them spread, his chin had been digging into her arms, until it was his mouth against her arms, not the vulnerable flesh of his neck. He jerked his body to the side, pushing off of the floor and slithering in her hold, his legs sliding over her knees and locking around her hips, rolling them both violently to the side. They were both jarred, but Aryne was the first to recover as he pinched his sister's weak spot in the flesh of her upper arm.

Her grip loosened considerably and his arms were ready for it. He grabbed her and held her down, his drunkenness gone as if it had never been. He looked at once annoyed and delighted. He kissed her nose. "Oh, Sister. You can beat the shit out of me in staves, fencing, and probably even daggers, but wrestling and grappling has never been your strong suit." He tut-tutted at her and in the face of his condescension she kneed him in the groin. Even in the awkward position, he stiffened and she used the moment to push him off violently. She stood haughtily.

He was pushed several feet away and he made a small sound, very faint as he curled on his side, looking balefully up at her, from the floorboards. Again she forgot her brother's resilience. He muttered. "I need a drink." And he hauled himself to his feet slowly, ignoring her anger, picking up the thrice-dropped mug and handing it to the bartender. He refilled it. Aryne nodded thanks. "You know Solschia, you are one very mean bitch."

"We go hunting in the morning. Get ready." Solschia said into the silent inn, her voice cold and distant. She turned then and walked towards the room she shared with her brother. She left Aryne sitting back at a cards table, looking rather smug for a person who had gotten kicked in the groin.

"Yes Ma'am." Was his only flippant reply as he picked up his cards again and peered at the combinations he could make. He had the potential for a winning hand – especially because he felt his luck was on him.

In another bout of childish anger she took off her boot and threw it at him. Even though her aim wasn't as true as her brother's it hit his head. He shook his head to rid of the blurry vision tilting his chair to lean on its two hind legs he yelled after her receding form. "BITCH!"

She made a gesture that set him laughing and the chair slammed down to all fours. He took another swig before settling down to play. In the next four hours he won a well-preserved bow, several dozen arrows and information concerning the wild creatures roaming the haunted wood. In the last four hours he lost several imperials to drinks and a nicely made dagger, which he was never able to win back. All in all, he did well, and was well pleased by the time he struggled up to the room, still rather fuzzy around the edges as result of the mugs and mugs of drink he had consumed in the duration of his playing streak, and stumbled up the stairs and opened the door. He had intended to fall into bed and sleep it all off before true morning came.

As he stepped inside he was drunk enough, and it was late enough, or early depending on the perspective, that he was a little slow to take in his surroundings. He looked around, starting on his left – for he had always been prone to his left hand – and listed the things in his head. Door, dresser, bed, carpet, window, bed, table.

A moment passed as he stared dully at the room before his mind awoke to find someone conspicuously absent. He ground his teeth and started cursing, fluently, looking at the missing equipment and coming to the obvious conclusion that his sister was an idiot, a hotheaded, prideful idiot. He looked at the closed window and crossed his arms, unsure whether or not he should go after her. Served her right if I didn't….

Despite these thoughts, he knew as well as she, that he would follow. Not only had he sworn – and thus he would become an oath breaker otherwise – but also it was his weakness to follow his sister into the torrid streams of hell. He just loved her so.

He grabbed one of his many loose white shirts and pulled it over his head, having taken off his grubby brown one. Taking off his current pants he pulled on another set of darkened lambskin and tucked them into his hunting boots. Once dressed he ambled over to the closet, rolling his eyes and still muttering about her idiocy when he opened the closet door and pulled out a trunk from the back. It was roughly about five by one by two hand-spans and fit in near perfect union with his traveling horse. He rummaged in his pocket and took out a set of keys, flipping through them idly as he looked for the correct one. The little silver key was inserted and the trunk popped open smoothly. Inside were weapons; his favorite little toys.

"Aliera is going to be mighty pissed." He muttered irritably as he strapped on his long pointed daggers to his forearms, buckling its sheathe so it wouldn't chafe as he moved. Once satisfied he slid a saber down his back in its spine sheathe, one dagger in each boot, and strapped the two sheathes to his thighs, sliding one long pointed dagger in each sheathe. With a sigh he took out his fencing sword and slid it home at his belt. Taking up his raining coat he put the hood over his brown hair and with a wry twist of his lips, opened the window and leapt out of it, landing at the bottom with a mud sinking plop.

"Solschia is going to owe me, BIG time." He muttered similar things repeatedly as he walked through the mud going towards the Wood. Sometimes he wished he never thought so much like his sister. It was prone to happen, since they had shared the same womb. She had been born five minutes before him, which makes her the older, but it never ceased to unnerve her when he had been the better at wrestling or grappling or at the bow and crossbow. Her aim wasn't up to match with his. Aryne thought it was ridiculous that she had to be the better because she was the older, but it was true in many ways. He sighed again, at once glad of this psionic link with her, and hating it at the same time. Without it, he could be his own man with a reputable skill; with it, he could only be one half of a whole. But a weapon was a weapon no matter how off center it made one feel.

He stood at the edge of the forest, looking in, holding the raining coat tightly against him, glaring much like she had been doing earlier, at the rain. Hunting was all well and good, but he wasn't of the ill sense. He didn't want to die. In fact Solschia had diagnosed him a worrier. In his opinion it was ridiculous. A stranger might think otherwise, watching him stand at the edge of the Wood, looking in with accusation.

Taking hold of the link between him and his sister, he felt it out, reaching out to her. "Solschia? Where are you?" Was the psionic call he cast out toward her.

There was no answer. He felt the psionic link, lying inside of them, a mental connection that allowed them communication. He also knew she was purposefully ignoring him. That grated on his nerves. "Solschia, my oath!" He shouted mentally at her. There was still no response. No response, at all. He felt around, knew her alive, and plunged deeper into the link, struggling to find the problem.

Then he fell to his knees. The psionic link between the two was tight and deep rooted enough that what happened to one, affected the other. If he didn't hurry, both their minds would be burned out, irreparably damaged. He ran. Forgetting the rain and the coat flapping wildly around him, he ran, his eyes squinted against the torrent of rain falling from the sky. He screamed for her, his voice getting hoarse from raising it above the loud drum of rain and he sent psionic after psionic calls, desperately asking for her to answer.

No reply came. He stumbled over the roots, cursing the trees and ducking once in a while under the canopied Stylias. The crimson flowers had always annoyed him, since they came up to his ear level. He was forced to duck under them, getting further soaked as he bent his 5'8 frame, his brown hair plastered to his face. The rain hid his tears as he searched for his sister.

He prayed not to get caught in a Chreothas web as he floundered in the wood, disoriented. He saw nothing but green and brown, the shadows hiding details that may have allowed him to find his sister. As it was, nothing was forthcoming.

Thunder sounded above him, startling him as he trudged on, struggling not to run. "Solschia!" he cupped his hands around his mouth to further enhance the sound, letting out a strangled cry as he listened and heard nothing. Unable to see the ground properly, his foot snagged on an upraised root, and he fell face forward into the roots, the slimy coverage from the rain smearing all over him and he hauled himself slowly to his feet. It was four in the morning. Dawn should be coming soon. "I need a drink." He muttered, pulling the coat around him, all slick with mud, sap and moss smeared on his face.

He took two steps forward without looking and the ground gave below him. He had stumbled across the slight gorge and he slid on his back, screaming the entire way as he fell down those many feet, the darkness keeping sight from him. He knew not when he would stop. He was only aware of the mud clogging up his pants, the soles of his shoes wearing thin, the roots and vines and hidden rocks jamming into his body as he sped past them on his back. The wind was howling with him, screaming as he screamed, terror racing in his heart as he rushed headlong down the steep incline without a thought to how to stop. Whip-like branches were swatting him; scratching his face as he moved passed and his head hit a rock for the fifth time. This time, he blacked out momentarily, the world spinning out of control as he lost sensation of his body.

He woke mere moments later with the sensation of vertigo still imprinted on his body. Everything was still black, but it was not the blackness of unconsciousness but of darkness, of not-light. His body ached from the recent beating of nature, his body facedown, and he pushed with his left arm off of the ground. He pushed hard enough that he rolled onto his back, his lungs breathing heavily. He groaned and curled onto his side. His head throbbed with a massive headache circumnavigating the wound in his head, rushing outward in painful ripples whenever he moved or even twitched a muscle in his face. Aryne's body was bruised and numb from cold. Pain was too small a word for it. 'Agonized exhaustion' was perhaps the correct phrase. He moaned again, unable to keep the sound from passing his lips and his mind fluttered at the edge of unconsciousness. One conscious thought escaped him before he passed from the world of reality and into his dreams. He was safe for the moment.

-----

Light trickled through the leaves. Rays of sunshine sent glorious golden waves towards the heap of a person, shedding light into the shadows and dispersing them, banishing them until the night came again. The day was just beginning. The person lying in a hapless heap wore a muddied raincoat, curled in a mangled way, his eyes screwed shut in pain as he slept. His hair was brown; his face clearly handsome despite the caked mud and grime hiding his features. His body lean and not so tall as one would expect. Then he groaned again and blinked milky blue eyes at the sunshine, bolting upright after a moment.

He was sitting upright for several long moments, struggling to remember why he wasn't at the Forbearance Inn, sleeping in a cozy, warm bed. Or more accurately, why he was bashed and beaten, disheveled and disoriented in a wooded area he didn't recognize. An answer for any of these would have been most appreciated, then. Fate or the Gods were disinclined to answer him. A wriggling thought wormed its way in his mind and he whispered, "Solschia." Before his mind woke with a start and he lurched to his feet.

He fell down rather suddenly, jarring his already beaten body further. His head still pained but he pushed passed the mundane aches of the body and stood – admittedly a little shakily – and tried to grab onto the psionic link to his sister. He found it, a bare thread pulsing in his mind. He reached for it, sending out warm fuzzy feelings, trying to keep it alive as he looked around the area he found himself in. He needed to get out.

What he found was rather discouraging. Surrounding him was a naturally made v-valley. A river had flowed through this place, once upon a time. Not so, anymore. He wondered if he should have been grateful. The commonly found roots, branches, and vines woven together above the ground were at least a sign he hadn't left the area he had been at previously. The tree trunks were darker than the pale, smooth flesh of the trees' predecessors and the leaves were similar in shape, size and color. The difference was in the texture, where as the ones closer to the inn were smooth and soft, these were leathery, like bat wings. Small things only noticed by hunters or trackers. Even the Stylias were sprouting proudly from the ground. The closest wall to him, inclined steeply, was barely climbable and he despaired of trying it with his aching body. He looked to the other side. The valley swooped downward considerably before rising up to the incline horizontal with the wall nearest him. Then it rose steeper or just as steep as the closest wall. He was trapped.

"Solschia, help me find you." He said to her psionically.

The answer was small and tentative but he locked onto it, his relief just as palpable. He saw rocks protruding from the vined slope and following the direction indicated – his focused mind was like a compass with Solschia both the needle and the destination – and pulled on the vine experimentally. It held – barely. Clenching his fist in a bout of concern he clutched the vine and hauled himself up the first two feet before planting his feet solidly against the protruding rock. Using any crag at his disposal he kicked his foot in the tight niches and straining his sore thighs he slowly scaled the wall. Once, he missed the vine and skidded down many feet before his shoulder and armpit got snagged in a looped, tangled vine. His knees had locked from the jarring and now they, too, hurt.

He reached up and found nothing but air. He tried not to look down and temptation won. He almost lost his balance when he craned his neck to look down and lost his footing from the mental freeze it had given him. He felt the cold wind gusting behind his neck. He shivered in fear before he grasped the taut vine and heaved himself up. His eyes peaked over the lip of the gorge and nearly fainted from lightheadedness. He had made it. He kicked with his foot and swung his body over the ledge. Rolling over and onto his back he rested his right hand and wrist on his forehead, breathing harshly from the unsought for exertion it had caused him. He cursed his sister for the mess she had made…and then felt ashamed. They were too intimately linked at the moment to feel anything but love and worry for her.

When he had caught his breath and a semblance of strength had returned to his limbs he rose to his feet and pitched forward following the line towards his sister. He found her, eventually. She was breathing as harshly as he had been, her hair not the dark brown of his own, but a pale, pale yellow, nearly white in the golden light cascading through the meshed branches above them, leaving her awash in golden light. His breath jammed in his throat and he dropped to his knees next to her. Her breathing was shallow. He touched her tentatively, recoiling as if struck by the sound it had produced and biting the inside of his cheek he pushed her over onto her back. Her skin was filled with green and brown decay. Poison.

He looked around, warily. There weren't supposed to be any of them around here. Solschia's eyes fluttered open and saw him but they held no recognition – no matter that they had been together since their birth, a part of each other always inside of them. She seemed to gather herself and he felt the slightest of tingling on the psionic link they shared. It was an image and he forced it to grow in size, memorizing it, the picture sent to him burning his soul, branding him for life. Then she breathed again. Once, twice…none. He looked at her dully, watching her blue eyes glaze over in death. She had cut the link that had kept her alive with him.

Taking a shuddering breath he took out his one of his daggers and pressed the point of it into his blue and discolored hand. Blood, as red as the crimson Stylias, pooled in his palm. He dipped his pinky in it and traced sacred designs on her face, starting with her forehead and tracing slowly down her cheeks and around her mouth, to end at her throat. Text written to one another at one's passing. He made the same design on his own face, following memory and reflex, his heart empty. Aryne looked at his sister and leaned down, keeping the tears from falling and laid a gentle kiss on her dead lips.

"Goodbye, my dearest one." He said softly to her and laid his raining coat over his sister. He was standing when he noticed the bite that had killed her, vile poison blackening her veins as she died. His anger and gorge rose with him and he made another oath, another vow.

He stood and slipped the dagger into its sheathe and began searching for the Forbearance Inn. There he intended to get some sleep and food. He vowed to kill the little creature that had murdered his sister. A little steely creature that was already dead, but did not yet know it. His target would be the jhereg with the broken wings. He would kill it. Or else he would be foresworn.