Second Son (The Minstrel's Song Book 2)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  “Yes, but even I doubt myself at times.”

  “Abilities such as yours must be a heavy burden.”

  “A burden they may be, Sire, but their weight does not bend my back, I am a healer, it is what I was born to do, it is what I love to do. More than that, it is who I am.”

  “Then you are a lucky man indeed.”

  Jhasen straightened. “You summoned me?”

  “Lords Nills and Bors came to visit me earlier, they brought me a disturbing rumor.”

  “What rumor was that, Sire?”

  “Apparently my son, Rhoyan, has been spotted. It seems he may be alive, and traveling home as we speak.”

  “I have heard these rumors,” Jhasen said.

  “Why did you not inform me then? You have always been honest and trustworthy, your advice has always been shrewd and welcome. Why did you not tell me of this?”

  “My king, your health was on the knife’s edge of peril. I could not know how you would react to such a rumor. Please believe that I did not keep this information from you out of malice or a desire to deceive. It was in the best interests of your health alone.”

  Stiorne gave the old physician a calculating look. “I don’t have much longer, do I, Jhasen?”

  “My lord?”

  “Don’t play games with me, please. We’ve been friends for far too long, you should not feel the need to spare my feelings,” the king chuckled and then sobered. “I have a decision to make, and soon, while I still have the ability.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  King Stiorne’s expression grew troubled. “What would you have me do, Jhasen?” he asked. “I have not the time to wait for the dead to return from the grave. The minstrel has not visited in many years, and now, when I need his advice the most, he is nowhere to be found. The people need a king, and Seamas has learned much in these past few years. He has been a good leader while I have been ill. The people trust him. They know he is there for them.”

  “Aye, Seamas has been a great leader, and true to your wishes. He honors you with his words and actions. He has become a man that any father would be proud of.”

  “I have always been proud of him, Jhasen,” Stiorne chided. “No prophecy could change that.”

  “I know, Sire. I am merely trying to help.”

  “I am dying, Jhasen,” Stiorne said with a sigh. “The people need a king; a man true and strong. It is time to make room for a younger man, a man who has the energy to care for the people and lead them. Even though my health may return, even though I may yet recover, I can never be the king I was before this illness. I must pass the crown on to one of my sons. But which one?”

  “Only you can decide that, Sire.”

  “Jhasen,” Stiorne said quietly. “What if we have been reading the prophecy wrong all this time? When Rhoyan was born, the minstrel visited us, it was the last time he was here, and he hinted that we have been misinterpreting the prophecy, and more even than that. But what if he is wrong? What if... what if the prophecy is true?” Stiorne growled and some of his old vigor seemed to return to his face. “I wish I had never heard the cursed thing!”

  “Sire, you are not on death’s door just yet.”

  “Thank you, Jhasen.”

  “May I speak to you plainly? As a friend?”

  “Always.”

  “If my advice matters at all, I do not think you should allow the prophecy to sway you. Both your sons are worthy men. Either would make a wonderful king. You can be proud of them both.”

  Stiorne stared off into space for a long moment, at length he nodded. “I am, Jhasen, I am. More’s the pity. Thank you for your listening ear. You have always been my most trusted advisor, and a good friend. I am glad to know you will be there for my son as well, he will need a friend he can turn to and trust.”

  “You are most welcome, Sire,” Jhasen said.

  He puttered around the room, the companionable silence of men who have been friends for many years between them as Jhasen attended to measuring out medicine, folding linens, stacking dishes, and various other small tasks. The king watched his friend for a while, an amused look on his face.

  “You can leave that to the servants, you know.”

  “I know. But I do not like leaving my duties to others.”

  “I can appreciate that. We two have ever been alike in that respect, my old friend.”

  Jhasen did not look up from his task. “Perhaps that is the real trouble for Your Majesty. Is it possible the prophecy is just an easy excuse not to make a decision at all?”

  The king chuckled. “Trust you... you know me too well.”

  “Forgive me, Sire, if I overstep myself.”

  “No forgiveness is necessary, Jhasen. You have made your point.”

  “Thank you, Sire. You sound weary, I will leave you now.”

  The king nodded and lay back as Jhasen left the room, letting his eyes fall shut. “My son,” he whispered, just before he drifted into sleep.

  There was no warning. Pain sliced through Jhasen’s awareness as he stepped out of the king’s chamber, closing the door softly behind him, and then he was kneeling on the floor, staring at the sword protruding from his chest. He blinked his eyes, unable to comprehend what had just happened, his thoughts reacted dully and he stared in fascination as his clear blood dripped down onto the white marble of the floor.

  “I am sorry, Jhasen,” the voice seemed to be coming from across a great distance, “but you are trying to turn my father against me.”

  “Seamas?” Jhasen’s thoughts were stunned as he looked up and he saw the dark face that seemed to float above him; his vision was growing dim, but he could still make out the features of the familiar face.

  “I am sorry it had to come to this,” the words came as though from a great distance, and there was true sorrow in their tone, “but a traitor cannot be allowed to live.”

  “I am… no traitor,” Jhasen gasped.

  “No traitor?” Seamas’ voice was incredulous. “You were overheard just now. I know who my true friends are, and it is apparent you were never one of them. You have done everything in your power to keep me from my rightful place on the throne. Who would you promote over me? Rhoyan? The ‘second son,’ the fulfiller of the prophecy, the great hope of Llycaelon? Perhaps I am the great hope of Llycaelon, did you ever think of that? I can make this land strong once more.”

  The physician looked up, blinking through the haze of pain. “Who was listening, Highness? What did they hear?”

  “You were heard trying to persuade my father to wait for Rhoyan, to heed the prophecy instead of naming me heir.”

  A small chuckle escaped Jhasen’s bloodless lips. “You have been betrayed, Sire, but not by me. I have ever had only your interests at heart. I kept the news of your brother from your father. He learned of it from a source other than myself. I counseled your father not to allow the prophecy to sway his decision... I assured him that both his sons were worthy, and that the decision was his... his alone.” Jhasen gasped in pain. “But why listen to me? I am killed… more sorrow to you.”

  Seamas stared at the old physician in horror and opened his mouth to speak, but the man was beyond hearing anymore. Jhasen’s breath ceased and he fell forward onto the floor. Seamas reached out, a helpless gesture, as if to catch the old man, but he jumped back in stunned alarm as the air itself sparkled around the physician’s prostrate form. Watery light shimmered around the body, and Seamas was forced to cover his eyes to shield them from the brightness.

  When he was able to open his eyes once more, the physician was gone. In his place lay the snow white form of a great horse. The mane and tail shimmered with silver and the coat sparkled like firelight. Seamas dropped to his knees in fascinated wonder, for he had never seen anything so beautiful. Then he noticed the horn.

  A great silver horn protruded from the center of the creature’s forehead. It gleamed brightly for a moment, and then fell dark, changing from si
lver to a dusty gray. The hooves were cloven, and Seamas’ mind screamed at him what this must be. He shook his head in disbelief, not wanting to admit that the impossible had just transpired, but his logic worked against him this time, and he could not deny the truth.

  “A unicorn,” Seamas breathed in fear. “A creature that should not exist, a creature of children’s stories, and yet, here it is. No wonder he never seemed to age, no wonder he was so skilled at healing,” he whispered.

  The body of the great creature suddenly burst into bright blue flames, sending Seamas reeling backwards against the wall away from the heat. Suddenly he remembered a story that his mother had read to him when he was very young, at the time it had meant little to him, but now it struck him deeply. The story had been about a great hunter who went around killing dangerous beasts and protecting his people. He had been tricked by his enemies into killing a unicorn, and when he realized what he had done he had wailed his lament into the night: “Woe to that man who raised his hand in violence against such a creature. To kill a unicorn is to kill peace itself. And woe is me, for I am that man, and never shall I know peace more!”

  Seamas shuddered violently. Then he returned to his chambers and wept bitterly. He spent the next few days wandering the palace grounds in a daze. Had he been deceived? Had Jhasen been true? The questions piled up in his mind, threatening to bury him beneath their weight.

  Several days later, he received a summons from his father. Heart pounding wildly, Seamas stood at the doorway, wondering what awaited him. He took a deep breath and walked through the door into his father’s chamber.

  “My son,” King Stiorne said quietly as Seamas entered the room, “I heard about Jhasen, is it true that he has left?”

  “He has disappeared, and we can only assume that he has returned to his home, perhaps to die. He always said he would, and he was not looking very well the last time I saw him.”

  “Strange, he seemed in good health and spirits last time I spoke with him. But perhaps my own illness clouded my vision. I only wish he had thought to say good-bye, but he always had his own ways of doing things.” He changed the subject abruptly, “How is thy lady, Llewana?”

  “She is well.”

  “Son,” Stiorne’s voice grew serious.

  Seamas looked up in concern. “Yes?”

  “When are you going to ask for her hand?” The king’s eyes twinkled and Seamas felt a bitter-sweet pang as he suddenly recognized his father as he had been before the illness.

  Seamas responded thoughtfully, “It is a fearsome thing. I have already spoken with her father, but that was easy compared to the prospect of asking her…”

  “Aye,” Stiorne said quietly, “I remember how difficult it was for me.”

  The two men laughed together for a moment, and then Stiorne turned serious once more.

  “Seamas.”

  “Yes, father?”

  “I have come to the end of a great decision. After long thought, and upon listening to the advice of my wisest and dearest friend, Jhasen... My dear son, I am naming you as my heir. You are the one to whom I pass my crown.”

  Seamas swallowed hard and closed his eyes; he had prepared for this moment his entire life, but found himself unable to speak. His mind reeled at the enormity of his father’s trust. Then his father’s words sank in and he looked up sharply.

  “What did you mean about Jhasen’s advice?”

  “He has been the one urging me to choose you,” Stiorne replied. “I know you are aware of the prophecy of the second son. Jhasen advised me not to let it sway my decision... and after long thought, I find that I agree with him. You have been king in all but name these last few years, it is time to make it official.”

  “Ah,” Seamas felt his throat closing. His heart pounded in his ears like the drumbeats of death. Woe! Woe! Woe!

  “I only ask one thing,” the king said quietly.

  “Anything,” Seamas choked out.

  “Speak to Llewana soon. My strength is failing and I would like to see my son wed. I believe thy lady would appreciate being able to stand with you as your wife on the day you are crowned king.”

  “I will go speak to her now,” he promised.

  “Excellent. Let me rest now, I am tired.”

  Seamas turned to leave, but Stiorne’s hand on his arm stopped him. He turned and gazed into his father’s eyes.

  “Seamas?”

  “Yes, father?”

  “I am proud of you, my son.”

  Seamas managed a smile. He strode out of his father’s room. As soon as the door had shut behind him, he looked around wildly, and then he fled.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Colas met Dru and Rhoyan as they crossed his yard. He stared at them in wonder, his eyes large and curious. His face fell when he saw the burden Rhoyan bore.

  “Seheowks?”

  Rhoyan nodded, unable to speak. Calla’s body had grown heavy and breathing had become a difficult task. Colas held out his arms.

  “Let me take her,” he said quietly.

  Rhoyan tried to refuse. “This is my job,” he said hoarsely. “It is mine…”

  Colas laid an understanding hand on Rhoyan’s shoulder. “I, too, have carried the dead,” Colas said quietly, “and you can hardly stand.”

  “Is there a place…?”

  “Yes, it is just behind the house, follow me.”

  Colas helped the two men dig a grave for Calla, and together they lowered her into the ground. Rhoyan found a large, flat stone and he placed it over the grave carefully. Then he stood back and stared down at the fresh pile of dirt, and his heart was full of emotions he struggled to hide.

  “Rest quietly, rambler daughter,” Dru said in a low voice, “the memory of your smile will forever gladden the hearts of those you have left behind.”

  Biting back tears, Rhoyan spoke softly the ancient words of his homeland, “May Cruithaor Elchiyl welcome thee home, sweet one, and mayest thou find peace at last.”

  Together, they returned to the house. Rhoyan shook off the darkness that had fallen around him. In his heart there was an open wound that would not soon heal, but in front of him lay the end of his journey and so inwardly he mourned, while outwardly he turned his face towards life.

  “Has the ship left?” he asked Colas.

  “It set sail right after the great storm.”

  “Then it is as I feared. My foolish pride and my selfishness brought us here, and now it has trapped us here.”

  “There is another ship coming,” Colas’ mother said suddenly, her voice sounded thoughtful and far away. “The captain was a friend of my husband and he stops here every few months to check in on us and to trade with us.”

  Rhoyan’s spirits leapt at this news. “When is he coming next?”

  “Day after tomorrow at the latest,” the woman said. “He might be persuaded to take you at least to the nearest port, in fact, I am sure he would.”

  Two days later they spotted the great sails of the expected ship. Rhoyan and Dru raced with Colas to the shore where they waited impatiently as the captain boarded a smaller boat and rowed his way to the beach. When the small boat came close enough, Colas raised a hand and hailed the man at the oars.

  “Captain!” he called out.

  The man raised his hand and waved back. “Colas! Is all well?”

  “All is well, sir, and mother has a bird cooking.”

  The man’s white teeth glinted against his wind and sun-darkened face. “Ah, now that is what I like to hear, boy! Who is that there with you?”

  “Some new friends I want you to meet.”

  When the man reached the shore, it was difficult to tell who was more surprised. There was a moment of shocked silence as Rhoyan and the captain stared at each other. Colas looked back and forth between them and then began to speak.

  “Captain Delmar, I’d like you to meet…” but the captain cut him off.

  “Aye, we’ve met,” h
e held his hand out to Rhoyan. “Though when I saw you last you were but a lad, I see before me now a man.”

  Rhoyan shook the captain’s hand heartily. “This is my friend, Dru. Dru, this man taught me everything I know about boats. And, as I recall, he offered me a job once.”

  Dru gaped. “A job? You? Offered you…?” he stopped, quite unable to go on for a fit of laughter had come upon him.

  Captain Delmar looked puzzled, and perhaps a bit hurt. “The boy learned sailing quicker than anyone I’d ever seen,” his voice was defensive. “Why wouldn’t I offer him a spot on my ship? Even if I did know he wouldn’t take it right then.”

  “You offered a job to His Highness, Rhoyan of the House of Arne!” Dru managed to gasp the words out between great guffaws of laughter.

  Captain Delmar stared at Rhoyan in disbelief. “Your Highness?”

  Rhoyan ducked his head. “Forgive me for deceiving you, Sir, my apprentice-master bade me keep my identity a secret. For my part, I was honored to be offered a spot aboard the Silver Hydra, especially since you didn’t know who I was.”

  “The prince of Llycaelon aboard my ship and I never even guessed at it. Well, I am doubly at your service now, Your Majesty.”

  “Please,” Rhoyan said, “we are friends, and my friends call me Rhoyan.”

  “Fair eough, Rhoyan, let’s go see what Colas’ good mother has cooked for dinner.”

  Over a wonderfully delicious meal, Rhoyan and Dru related their travels to Delmar, who was very interested to hear all that had happened to them. After they had finished eating, Delmar leaned his chair back and gave a long, low whistle.

  “Well, that’s a story if I ever heard one!” he said, directing his gaze at Rhoyan. “I knew something interesting had happened to you the moment I saw your face. Just a few years ago, a handful of days really, you were but a mere boy setting off on a journey into the world for the first time. You were wide-eyed and your face was aglow with your innocence. But when I stepped out of my ship today I saw eyes that have known sorrow, and a face that has learned the true depths of grief and regret. You look ages older, lad.”

  “I feel ages older sometimes.”