Second Son (The Minstrel's Song Book 2)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Rhoyan had no idea how far he was from home, since his journey with Sheyardin had been made with such speed and ease. Originally, he had thought he was merely a few months from the shores of Llycaelon, but now he feared he was much farther than that. The weight of this knowledge seemed nearly enough to sink the little boat that was his only hope of getting home.

  A few hours later, without warning, his tiny craft slammed into something beneath the water’s surface, throwing Rhoyan forward into the mast. His head took the brunt of the fall and it was a few moments before he could comprehend what had happened. When he managed to clear his head, he saw water pouring in through a large, jagged hole in the front of his vessel. He began bailing the water out desperately, but realized instantly that it was a lost cause. He stood in his sinking ship and stared at the mass of land. He was still a few miles from the shore, but his options were limited. Abandoning the already half-submerged boat, he began swimming towards his destination with strong, steady determination.

  By the time he reached the shore, he was exhausted. Rhoyan pulled himself up onto the shore and blinked the salt water out of his eyes. There was a copse of small shrubs nearby, he crawled into it. Curling up in the meager shelter it provided he closed his eyes. His whole body was sore, and his head was throbbing from where he had struck it. He knew he had to keep going, that sleep with a head injury could be dangerous, but he needed to rest, if just for a minute or two.

  Rhoyan woke to a babble of voices and a throbbing in his head. He could not see anything but a wooden board a few feet above him; however, he had the distinct impression that he was lying down and being carried by others. When he tried to move he discovered that his hands had been bound and that sitting up or even turning his head was impossible. For a moment he struggled against the ropes that held him down but something sharp dug painfully into his shoulder. A loud voice barked at him and Rhoyan got the hint. He blinked into the sky, trying to figure out who was poking him, but he could see nothing. He ceased his attempts to sit up or turn his head and tried to focus on where he was and what had happened to him. It was obvious that he was somebody’s prisoner, the task now was to find out whose prisoner he was and how he was to make his escape. When his captors saw that he was no longer attempting to escape, they covered his prison with something and Rhoyan was plunged once more into darkness.

  Without the use of his eyesight he strained to listen to the conversations of his captors, trying to determine something of his predicament. He had no trouble hearing them, for they certainly were not keeping their voices very low, but slowly he realized that they were not speaking in any of the dialects he had learned. This foreign speech was completely unintelligible to him. Rhoyan growled softly in frustration and held himself rigidly still to keep from thrashing about. He had patience and he could wait. He consoled himself with the thought that he had learned many other languages as Master Sheyardin’s apprentice, this new one should not be too hard. Rhoyan’s lips tightened into a line of grim determination as he began to plan an escape. He would learn the language without alerting his captors to the fact that he understood them, understanding them without their knowledge might give him a small advantage.

  The cart he was in bumped along for a good part of the morning and well into the afternoon, and Rhoyan’s back and shoulders were covered in bruises by the time his captors stopped for their evening meal. Whatever it was that he was lying on was growing unbearably hard but Rhoyan remained quiet. He lay as still as he could, on the slim chance that they might think he was dead and leave him behind. His legs ached from disuse and his stomach growled noisily as the smell of cooking food wafted into his prison.

  Just as Rhoyan thought he might faint from hunger, light flooded into his prison and he felt himself being lifted. Then he was outside and being seated on a log. The brightness of the late afternoon Dragon’s Eye left him blinking in pain for a moment since his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark interior of his prison. When he could see clearly again, he peered around the campsite with interest.

  All around him people were bustling about and tending to caged animals or other prisoners. He was sitting among several other men who, like himself, were bound hand and foot and blinking groggily. The man closest to him leaned over and muttered a quiet greeting. Rhoyan kept his face impassive, not wanting to give away anything about himself or his past, but inside he had received a shock. The man was speaking in Llayic. Rhoyan stared at the man in what he hoped was polite ignorance and shook his head.

  “I don’t understand,” he said in the Gryphon tongue, and shrugged.

  The other prisoner looked disappointed. “Ah, and here I thought you might be from my homeland, you’ve got the look, the dark hair and eyes… oh well. Guess you don’t understand a word I’m saying, eh?”

  Rhoyan furrowed his brow, attempting to look puzzled and perhaps a little bit stupid, and then he shook his head regretfully. “Of course I understand you,” he said, still speaking in Gryphonese, “but I don’t want to let everyone know where I am from. I am sorry that I cannot tell you this. Since you are from Llycaelon I regard you as a brother, but what I do, I do for your own good, as well as for mine.”

  The other prisoner laughed. “Guess that’s kind of what I sound like to you, huh? Well, I suppose we can still be friends, eh? We won’t understand each other, but we won’t get into any arguments either!” he chuckled at his own joke. “Too bad, I haven’t found anyone here who speaks Llayic, I’ve learned a little bit of these barbarians’ language, but talking to them is difficult. When I saw you I was hoping… oh well.”

  Rhoyan stared at the man, trying to figure out what to do. He still did not want to give anything away about himself, but this man claimed he had learned a bit of their captors’ language. Rhoyan needed any help he could get, but still he hesitated, wondering if this stranger could be trusted. At length, Rhoyan decided he would try and speak with him later when there were less of his captors around to hear. He would rather apologize for the small deception later than give any advantage to his enemies. So he simply informed his fellow captive in Gryphonese that he was sorry he could not speak in Llayic right now but that he hoped they would get a chance to talk later.

  When Rhoyan finished his short monologue the big man yawned. “Well, I think we’ll get along just fine. Neither of us seems to mind the fact that we can’t understand a word that the other is saying,” the stranger grinned and pointed at himself, “name’s Dru. I come from Northern Llycaelon near the Deep Woods.”

  Rhoyan pointed at himself, “Roy,” he said, shortening his own name to disguise it.

  Just then, a child came over to Rhoyan and jabbered something quickly at him, motioning with his hands. Rhoyan pretended not to understand the motions, forcing the child to repeat what he had said. In his mind, Rhoyan repeated the strange sounds, committing them to memory and attributing meanings to them, only then did he raise his bound wrists.

  “Feeding time,” Dru said, “well, at least they feed us well. Don’t worry, Roy, the food here isn’t bad, though I’m not saying it’s good either, mind.” The tall Llayic-speaking man laughed heartily at his own joke, then sobered and said, “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not laughing at you, but I think you know that. It’s just that I’ve had to get used to talking to myself to keep from going insane. Humor helps me with that.”

  Rhoyan listened with half an ear, more intent on what the child was up to. With a length of chain, the child fastened one of Rhoyan’s hands securely to the log that he was sitting on, and then he undid the ties that kept Rhoyan’s hands bound together. The child continued on down the row, instructing each prisoner in a similar manner. Next came an older boy with a cart full of steaming bowls, and Rhoyan understood why he had been given the freedom of his hands, it was so that he could feed himself.

  Once again, Rhoyan feigned a lack of understanding when the boy barked an order at him. The order was repeated and Rhoyan complied with the instructions to hold
out his hands. He was pretty sure that he now knew the word for “hands,” and though it did not seem like much, it was a start. He knew the rest would not be so easy, but he hoped it would not be as difficult as some languages had been. He shook his head with a silent laugh, he had learned Old Kraïc, this could not be any more difficult than that.

  When they had been left alone to eat, Dru glanced at him shrewdly and then leaned closer to Rhoyan. “You’re learning their language, ain’t ya?” he whispered quietly. “Making them repeat every command like that. Well, it’s smart, is all I can say, uncommon smart. And I doubt these Ramblers will ever suspect a thing. You’ve certainly earned Dru’s respect today, you have.”

  Rhoyan liked this outspoken man instantly and he hoped they might become friends. For now, though, he held his peace and remained silent. Rhoyan had not been raised by aethalons for nothing, he had plenty of patience, and he could afford to wait.

  The stew he had been served was good. It seemed to be a mix of noodles, vegetables, and some kind of meat he had never encountered before. It was tangy with a distinctly salty taste, but it was easy to chew. Rhoyan picked up a piece of the meat and then looked at Dru questioningly.

  “Learning Llayic too then, are you?” the man asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, you just tell me to shut up when you get sick of my voice then. The meat in the stew is hydra. Apparently it’s one of their specialties, these Ramblers; they serve it in everything I’ve seen them cook.”

  Rhoyan thought about the hydra he had wounded and kept eating. He thought it was ironic that here he was, eating the creature that had tried to eat him. The situation was even funnier because of the fact that Rhoyan had never truly believed there were such things as hydras until a few days ago. When he was finished with his stew, his captors returned, took his bowl, and rebound his hands. Then his feet were untied and he was told to get in line with the others. He ended up being placed next to Dru, at least he would not die from lack of conversation.

  As they walked, Rhoyan located his sword. It was lying on a cart, along with many other interesting items that had probably been stolen as well. His leather vest was also on the cart and Rhoyan grimaced, hoping that the Ramblers had not discovered the gryphon feather. His captors had allowed him to keep his boots, which apparently were too worn to be of value and Rhoyan was grateful. They had, however, removed the dagger hidden inside his left boot. The daggers he had strapped to his wrists were gone as well. These Ramblers were leaving nothing to chance.

  They marched for the rest of the day and Rhoyan noticed that many of the other prisoners were exhausted by the end of the long day’s march. To keep himself from standing out, Rhoyan did his best to appear as tired as the rest. Trained warrior that he was, the long march had been nothing to him. In fact, he was actually less tired by the end of the day than he had been at the beginning; he decided it might not be wise to let the Ramblers know this. So he breathed a deep sigh of relief when they were told to halt and he fell almost immediately to the ground as though completely spent. His captors came over and told him to get to his feet, an order he politely ignored until they repeated the command and poked him with a spear.

  As night fell, each prisoner was fastened to a tree with a long length of chain attached to his left foot. Rhoyan lay down using a root for a pillow. He stared up at the brightly gleaming constellations, finding Yorien easily. In his mind, Rhoyan repeated the story of the outcast king to himself while he waited for his dinner. The story comforted him, its familiarity enfolding him in its arms and holding him in this strange land far from home.

  When Rhoyan received his bowl of stew, he ate slowly, scanning the area for Dru. To his delight, he found the man nearby. He decided to wait for most of the Ramblers to fall asleep first, and then he would try to get Dru’s attention. Darkness soon fell over the camp and the Ramblers went to their tents and wagons. Slowly the fires died and even the guard seemed to be having trouble staying awake. Apparently they were in fairly safe territory, nobody seemed to be concerned about guarding either the prisoners or the carts full of stolen goods.

  Rhoyan crept to the spot where Dru was and peered into the darkness. The man was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. His breathing was not even so Rhoyan knew he was still awake. He picked up a small pebble and tossed it lightly so it landed on Dru’s stomach.

  The man started as though an arrow had hit him. “What!” he exclaimed, rather too loudly for Rhoyan’s liking. The man sat up in confusion, rubbing his eyes and muttering angrily to himself. From what Rhoyan could hear, the extent of the man’s tirade had something to do with squirrels and acorns. A moment later the man seemed to realize he was being watched. His eyes swept the camp until he found Rhoyan. His teeth gleamed in the darkness as he crept over to where Rhoyan was crouching.

  Rhoyan put a finger to his lips and Dru nodded and lowered his voice, “Can’t sleep eh? You’ll get used to the hard ground. It’s worst when it rains, but at least it hasn’t been too cold yet.”

  “I’m quite used to sleeping on the ground, Dru,” Rhoyan whispered urgently with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “We need to talk.”

  The big Llycaelon could not have looked more surprised had a squirrel suddenly started talking to him. He rocked back on his heels and just about fell over. His eyes grew wide and he shook his head in confusion.

  “You can’t make me believe you just learned Llayic from listening to me talk today, so don’t even try,” he said shakily.

  “Of course not,” Rhoyan replied calmly. “Listen, I don’t know anything about this country, or these people and I don’t want to give them any information about myself if I can help it. Some of them may understand Llayic, even if you haven’t heard them speak it, and I don’t even want them to know where I’m from or who I am. Like you guessed earlier, I’m working on learning their speech so that when I do eventually talk it will be fluent enough to shock them the way I shocked you tonight.”

  “I see. Then you are from Llycaelon?”

  Rhoyan nodded. “You’re not upset that I didn’t speak to you earlier?” He needed a friend in these strange lands, and he hoped he had not alienated the one person that qualified.

  “Nah, forgiven and forgotten, after the way you explained it, I guess I understand, though I’m not sure why it matters if the Ramblers know where you’re from,” he chuckled softly, “I do feel kinda silly though, talking to you all day like you didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “Everything you said helped me learn something about our captors. It was very helpful.”

  “So, who am I speaking to?”

  Rhoyan hesitated, wondering how much he should say, Dru seemed like a good enough sort, but caution seemed the wiser course. However, he had already lied to the man once, and Rhoyan did not like the idea of doing it again. Finally he decided to tell at least most of the truth. If they were to be of any help to each other at all, they both had to share some kind of trust.

  “I am Rhoyan, of the House of Arne,” Rhoyan admitted. “I was journeying to the Nameless Isles with my apprentice-master to fulfill the requirements of my rank as Kestrel. Unfortunately, while we were traveling, my apprentice-master died. He told me I was worthy to face my rite of passage, and that my last test is to make it home safely. My boat foundered a few miles from shore and I had to swim the rest of the way. The next thing I knew, I was in the hands of these Ramblers.”

  Dru’s eyes were wide and he let out a low whistle. “You are the prince? The crown prince of Llycaelon? Well then, no wonder you don’t want these Ramblers knowing who you are! They’re tricky ones, mind, they’d do anything for a good trade. I suppose they’d try to use you to get something out of the king if they knew who you were.”

  “I’m not the crown prince,” Rhoyan corrected him, “that’s my older brother, Ky.”

  “I could have sworn that I heard…” Dru trailed off, looking slightly confused. “That doesn’t matter I suppose. Well, the next step
is to have a plan for escaping these rogues. What do you have in mind, Your Highness?”

  Rhoyan grimaced. “First of all, my name is Rhoyan. I have to ask you to please call me by my name, or better yet, call me Roy like I told you earlier. I don’t want anyone else to know who I really am.”

  Dru nodded in agreement. “Sorry Rhoyan, I got a bit carried away for a moment.”

  Rhoyan thought about ordering the man to call him Roy to further protect his identity, but after a moment he decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble. “I plan to petition for my release as soon as I can speak the language well enough,” Rhoyan began, but Dru cut him off.

  “You don’t know these Ramblers, Rhoyan, they’re ruthless. Ruthless and vicious as angry gryphons. And they’re crafty, cunning as dragons. You don’t want to mess around with them. They’re not evil, but they are a hard people. They live a nomadic lifestyle, and they ain’t above trading anything, even human slaves, ‘less you hadn’t figured it out... that’s what we are right now: slaves for trade. Even if you can get to a point where you understand their language, you still don’t understand their trade or their way of life. Begging your pardon of course, but your plan will never work.”

  “Then what do you propose?” Rhoyan asked after a reflective pause.

  “As soon as you learn the language a bit, we could sneak out by dark. We’d need to take some cloaks and cover our faces; then if we’re stopped, we can speak to them in their language and make them think we’re part of their group. It wouldn’t be till morning when they discovered us gone that they’d realize what we’d done,” Dru said, “and that would be the sweetest part of the whole plan.”

  Rhoyan thought about it for a moment, of course there were several important details that Dru was not thinking of, such as how they would get out of their chains, but he did not point out that flaw, since he had no alternative.