Second Son (The Minstrel's Song Book 2)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Rhoyan looked into the green eyes that stared out at him with such a mixture of compassion and determination. Suddenly he saw why Seamas loved this woman so much, and in his heart he could not bear to cause her pain. His presence in Llycaelon would only be a curse upon his brother, who would never be able to believe that Rhoyan truly did not want his throne. Seamas was one to whom power was appealing, and he would never understand someone who had no use for it.

  “I will leave,” he said at last.

  “Rhoyan!” Dru burst out in shock. “You cannot leave! Do you not see? The prophecy binds you here; it is your duty to your people to take your rightful place on the throne. Your brother…”

  “My brother is the rightful heir to the throne,” Rhoyan said heatedly, cutting off Dru’s tirade. “The prophecy says nothing about the second son having to be the king; in fact, it doesn’t say anything about me at all! Dru, the prophecy doesn’t even mention the House of Arne except for the hint about the ‘Eagle’s pride’ which could mean anything. Seamas is the one who was meant to be king, not I. I have studied under a dragon, I have studied prophecies. They are often riddles, and extremely difficult to interpret. I also know this: prophecies are set in stone. They come to pass whether you fight them or no. Hear you what I say: this is his time. If my leaving will help my brother to rule well and justly and to uphold this land with all of his heart and strength, as he was born to do, then I will leave. I have no wish to be king, and though I would dearly love to see my family and my home again, neither do I wish to torment them with a moment of my presence just to abandon them again. Better if they believe me dead.”

  “Better for whom?” Dru demanded.

  “Better for them!” Rhoyan knew that he was shouting but he could not seem to lower his voice. “Better for Seamas! Better for me! In fact,” he whirled to face the two warriors, “what ranks are you?” he asked.

  “We are both Aetoli,” Tobias replied, his tone quizzical.

  “Very well, with two Aetoli witnesses I rename myself! I have not passed through the Corridor, but I have held a star. I have not taken the tests, but I have killed scores of were-folk, defeated a dragon, fought a hydra, and faced an army of seheowks and lived to tell the tale. Perhaps you will tell me if that is an acceptable test for my rite of passage. May I rename myself under those terms?”

  Tobias stared at him, awe and a new type of respect filling his eyes, he nodded once. “More than acceptable,” he replied. “I for one will stand as witness to your renaming.”

  “And I, too,” Llewana agreed.

  “Then I name myself Brant,” Rhoyan said. “A firebrand, a warrior, and a wanderer. I name myself thus. Rhoyan is dead, and Brant is born of his ashes, let the old name pass away, let it be nothing more than a distant memory. Thus you may tell my brother that I am dead, that you have seen Rhoyan die, and no lie will be on your lips.”

  “Brant,” Tobias said, “henceforth shall you be called Brant.”

  “Brant,” Llewana echoed. “Rhoyan is dead.”

  In silence they stood there for a moment, staring at each other in a strange awkwardness. Then Tobias reached out and clasped Brant’s hand.

  “Let none call you ‘boy’ after this. You are a man, by your trials and by your new name.”

  “I entrust the three of you here with my name, the only three living in Llycaelon who know of it. I will leave tonight. Can you get me a boat?”

  Tobias nodded. “I have a small vessel that will suit you.”

  “I am coming with you,” Dru said suddenly, “wherever you are going.”

  Brant shook his head and faced Dru, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, my friend, you cannot come this time. No one yet knows that you are with me, you are a free man at last, take this gift of freedom and live your life. Delmar could use a good sailor like yourself, I’m sure he would give you a place on his ship if you don’t want to stay here in Llycaelon.”

  “I could never stay here now,” Dru said in distaste, “not now that I have seen what my homeland has become,” he glowered at Llewana and Tobias.

  “Then go with Captain Delmar,” Brant said.

  “There’s an idea,” Dru said. “Why not go with him? He’s offered you a place on his ship.”

  Brant shook his head sadly. “I would not burden him with my troubles. And you cannot come with me, Dru, surely you understand. I must disappear, and it is easier for one man to disappear than two.”

  “Yes, and it is easier for one man to get killed by himself,” Dru argued. “Where will you go? Tell me that at least: where will you go?”

  “West,” Brant said simply.

  Llewana’s eyes grew wide with shock, she gasped slightly. “Not… not across the Stained Sea!”

  Brant nodded grimly.

  “No!” Dru exclaimed. “That sea is cursed.”

  “I am a friend of the myth-folk,” he explained patiently, “the curse was not meant for me.”

  “It’s too dangerous for you to go alone,” Dru tried one last time to change the young prince’s mind, but he could see that his efforts were in vain.

  “Dru,” Brant’s voice grew exasperated, “you cannot come with me. I will not allow it. As your prince, I command you to let me be.”

  Finally, after a long, stubborn moment, Dru nodded. “Very well then. Good-bye, Rhoy… Brant, best of luck to you.”

  “I will miss you. You have been a true friend.”

  “Time grows short,” Tobias said quietly. “Let us find your boat.”

  Dru stared hard at the man. “You see that he gets off safely, do you hear me? If anything happens to him, I will come after you, and I will find you!”

  “From one warrior to another, and on my honor as the Commander of the King’s Helm, your friend and your king will safely set sail this evening,” Tobias promised.

  Brant followed as Llewana and Tobias led him to his new anchorage. The Dragon’s Eye had set and they moved swiftly and silently under the veil of darkness. As they reached the dock, the Toreth had just begun to lift over the horizon and Brant’s heart began to pound in genuine excitement. He was about to embark on yet another adventure, and the thrill of the unknown tugged at him even as his sadness at the frightening turn of events hung about his shoulders.

  “Safe journey to wherever you end up,” Tobias said. “I am sorry we had to meet under such circumstances, I feel we might have been friends, had things been different.”

  “Thank you for everything, I am in your debt.”

  “Farewell, Brant,” Llewana said quietly. “I too, wish things might have worked out differently.”

  “Best of luck and happiness to you,” Brant uttered the traditional words of well-wishers at a wedding. He kissed her cheek lightly before stepping into the boat. “I am proud to have you as a sister,” he said, suddenly smiling, “Seamas chose well.”

  The darkness hid Llewana’s blush, and she raised a hand as Brant unfurled the single sail and pushed the boat out to the open sea. He would not travel the way he had come, he knew there were lands beyond the Stained Sea, for Sheyardin had spoken of them, and he had long wished to journey there and see those mysterious places, lands that had long lain unexplored. He turned only once to answer Llewana’s wave, and then he faced west once more, his eyes brimming with tears.

  INTERLUDE

  “And so the page turns,” Kiernan Kane said quietly, finishing his tale and laying down his mandolin.

  The king of Yochathain clapped softly. “A beautiful tale, Singer.”

  Kiernan Kane bowed with a flourish. “I suppose,” he said doubtfully, “I’ve always thought it lacks an ending.”

  “What did you say the tale was called?” one of the noblemen asked.

  “It is a story with no name,” the minstrel said with a laugh. “I’ve always called it ‘The Minstrel’s Song.’ I think it has a nice ring to it, don’t you?”

  “You say the story lacks an ending,” the king said p
uzzled, “what did you mean?”

  “Only that any story with loose ends lacks an ending, or wants one, it generally ends up amounting to the same thing,” the minstrel replied lazily. “Since the reign of Artair, none have sought the crystal fire, and we have seen no more High Kings, either.”

  “Do you think there will ever be another High King?”

  “Another High King? Oh, perhaps. But who knows? High Kings only appear when they are needed. Do you think we need one?”

  The faces of his audience were serious and thoughtful. Kiernan laughed and flung some brightly colored scarves into the air, causing them to dance between his hands and then making them disappear altogether.

  “But why ask me? Do I look like a fortune-teller?” he held out his hands and his face became pained. “Forbid it! I am a minstrel, and I answer to a much higher standard!”

  The crowd laughed appreciatively at his joke. Kiernan Kane flipped to his hands and stared at the king from his upside down state.

  “Your Majesty, I must beg the answer to a pressing question.”

  “What would you ask?” the king’s voice was amused.

  “You must not think me rude, Sire,” Kiernan Kane warned.

  “What would you ask?” he said more warily.

  “Why is Your Majesty upside down?”

  The gathering of courtiers in the great hall roared with laughter. They clapped and clamored for more. Kiernan Kane tumbled to the floor in an impossible tangle of arms and legs, and then he sprang up to his feet again nimbly. He gazed around at the crowd and yawned.

  “Ah me!” he exclaimed. “How frightfully bored you all must be!”

  The courtiers stared at him for a moment, not sure whether they ought to be offended or not. Then the king roared with laughter and the rest of them managed to chuckle a bit as well. The minstrel’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Well, I am through. I thank you good people for your audience, but I never stay in one place long. There are stories out there that want telling, and endings that want finding, so I must be off!”

  “Where are you going?” someone called out.

  “Ah,” Kiernan Kane said, “now that would be telling!”

  He pulled something out of his colorful sack and there was a great puff of smoke and the sack disappeared; in its place, two doves flew up into the air, circling one another. The courtiers were so taken with this astounding trick they hardly even noticed that the minstrel had disappeared as well.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Brant did not realize he was being followed until the next afternoon. As he stood in his boat he suddenly saw the great sails appear over the horizon behind him. He stared long and hard, trying to make out the shape of the sails; as the ships drew closer, he recognized the crest on the flags as that of the House of Arne. For a moment his heart soared on the wings of hope. He had the sudden, wild thought that his brother was coming to bring him home, to explain that it had all been a misunderstanding, and that the prophecy had nothing to do with either of them. But after that single moment of hope, reason took over and Brant’s heart sank once more. He knew the truth of the matter: someone had seen him leave, or had guessed, and Seamas had sent his men to make sure Brant did not try to return. Desperation welled up in his heart. Seamas may not have given the order to have him killed, but he doubted Seamas was on the ship that followed him. Accidents could easily happen, and commands of protection on the great seas were little better than no protection at all.

  Setting his course, Brant headed into the wind, urging all the speed he could from his canvas. His vessel did not have the power of the ships behind him, indeed, he was dwarfed by their ominous size. However, he could change course more readily, and his small craft was certainly more difficult to spot, thus making him more difficult to track. Night fell, and Brant made as much use as he could from the cover provided by the darkness. Every nerve was on edge. Experience taught him not to rest if he wanted to survive. He sped on through the darkness, slicing through the waves with speed born of desperation. He changed course often through the night, following the stars and using every trick he knew to coax all possible speed from his ship.

  Morning showed that he had put a great distance between himself and his pursuers, but the sails of his enemies could still be seen, tiny and distant across the waves. Brant did not allow himself to relax his vigil or sleep. Late in the morning a storm sprang upon the sea, pouring a thick blanket of rain upon his head. It was not a major storm, and he weathered it without incident. When the storm was over, he could spot no trace of the ships that had been hunting him.

  The days wore on; Brant slept as little as possible. During his waking hours every bit of his energy was thrown into putting distance between him and any ships that might still be searching for him. Fatigue was becoming a real problem, but he kept on, stubbornly refusing to give up. His waking existence became a blur, his eyes always felt as though they were half-shut, but he refused to let them close all the way. He stole only an hour of sleep at a time, and those brief respites were few and far between.

  On the morning of the twelfth day a storm howled into existence during one of his short periods of rest. Brant felt the wetness of the rain seeping into his clothing and he woke, shivering. He stared at the furious waves that rose up and threatened to capsize his boat. Exhaustion and cold dulled his thoughts. Hardly even knowing what he did, Brant tied up the sail on his craft and pushed himself into the forward cabin to escape the storm. Curling up onto the mattress, he was asleep before the drawn up blanket reached his chin.

  Brant had no notion of how long he slept. It might have been minutes, hours, or even days for all he could tell. He might have gone on sleeping for much longer, but a sudden lurch and the sound of splintering boards woke him. Recollection of his capture by the Ramblers spurred him to full wakefulness in a heartbeat. He was up and out of the cabin in one fluid motion, ready to face this new danger.

  His boat had been blown into a natural harbor of an unknown land. The hull of the ship had battered up against the great rocks lining the shore. The ship was stuck amongst the rocks. In spite of the raging waters and the obvious damage, Brant tied off a rope and lowered himself over the side to see if his craft could be salvaged. A quick examination gave Brant his answer, the vessel was beyond repair.

  He climbed back aboard and quickly grabbed every supply he could find, stuffing it all into his pack along with the coil of rope which he loosed from the mast. Finally, he closed the sack, slung it and his canteen over his shoulder, and dove into the water and away from his foundering vessel. He swam towards land until the water grew shallow enough to walk, and then he waded the rest of the way in.

  Clambering some ways onto shore, Brant stopped and took in his surroundings. A vast desert stretched in every direction. The land was lifeless and still, an ocean of golden sand and a sea of windswept rocks. He was trapped. The path behind was now closed to him with his craft resting on the ocean floor, and he had no ship or protection for the journey across the barren ocean. At length, he shouldered his pack and began to march forward across the great, sandy plain.

  As he strode purposefully through the great wasteland the sun beat down on his dark hair, and the heat strove against his strength. The pack grew heavier with each step. The air was so hot it shimmered around him. By midday his meager water supply ran out. Still he trudged doggedly on. His parched throat ached. His tongue felt as though it had swollen to twice its normal size. His eyes burned from staring at the bright sand for so long. He had lost track of how much time had passed since he left his boat, but he knew he had to keep moving if he wanted to survive... no... if he wanted to defeat the prophecy that seemed determined to shape the course of his life.

  Out of nowhere, a gust of wind blew sand up over him, and he staggered backwards as the tiny grains hit him with more force than he would have believed possible. He threw up a hand to shield his face, but soon found that his arm could
only offer little protection against this new enemy. The wind picked up even more and the stinging grains of sand tried to embed themselves into his skin. He pulled his tattered cloak up around his head, using it to cover his arms and face. He fought his way along, looking desperately for a shelter where he might outlast the windstorm.

  Every second he remained in the open brought a new wave of torment. The skin on his face and arms stung for his cloak could not keep out all the tiny stinging daggers. He could feel the driving sand peeling his skin off. A formation of rocks rose up into the sky, a small overhang jutted out from the rocks and he crawled under it. It was just large enough for him to lie down under, and it faced away from the direction the wind was blowing. The immediate relief from the whipping wind and the biting sand was more than welcome, and Brant breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

  It seemed like only a few moments passed, though it must have been hours for when Brant opened his eyes he saw that the Dragon’s Eye had long since set. He sat up, heart pounding wildly, unsure of what had woken him. Invisible spiders crawled down his neck and he looked up slowly. A tall figure, wearing dark robes, stood over him menacingly. He gasped and tried to run, but he was boxed in on all sides. The shelter that had provided him refuge from the windstorm had now turned enemy and there was no place for him to go.

  The dark figure leaned down and grasped Brant’s shoulder roughly. The touch burned and Brant gasped in pain, trying frantically to throw himself backwards, away from the cloaked figure. He succeeded and rolled out of the cave. Stumbling forward he tried desperately to run, but his legs would not obey him. The sand sucked at his feet, making it impossible to move quickly. His breath was now coming in ragged, hopeless gasps. His lungs felt as though they were on fire.

  He glanced back over his shoulder and a new wave of terror hit. His enemy did not seem to be having the same trouble he was having. The tall, menacing figure glided smoothly above the sand, gaining on him with frightening speed. The sand sank beneath Brant’s feet and he fell. He tried desperately to scramble away from the figure. He could not get up quickly enough. With surprising speed, the figure was standing over him. A blade flashed out, coming to rest against his throat.