Second Son (The Minstrel's Song Book 2)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Brant froze. He gazed up at the figure with wide eyes. The man’s cloak fluttered in the breeze. The hood of the cloak fell back. Brant stared up into his brother’s face and saw a deep hatred in his eyes. A strangled feeling of helplessness welled up in his throat and he screamed.

  Brant opened his eyes at the sound of despair that wrenched its way out of his mouth. He threw up his hands as if to ward off an attack, but none came. Slowly, he lowered his arms and glanced about in confusion. He was still in his cave, surrounded by darkness. He crawled out of the cave. The Dragon’s Eye had set and bright stars dotted the great expanse of sky above him. He gazed up in awe, wondering at how many there were. He gave a shuddery sigh and sank down into a sitting position.

  “A dream, Rhoyan,” he whispered, not even noticing that he was referring to himself by his old name. “It was just a dream.”

  The memory of the nightmare clung tightly to him as he prepared to continue on. The wind had died down and he reasoned that it might be easier to travel by night. Thirst urged him to move now while it was cool. The darkness unnerved him, though, for it reminded him unpleasantly of the dark dream that he had just experienced. He began walking, directing himself to the west. As he walked, he tried to shake the heavy feeling of the dream, but his efforts did no good. His nerves grew frazzled and he began to pick up his pace a bit. Every shadow held terror within it and he kept looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. Forgetting the power behind his Oath, Brant allowed deception and fear to guide his thoughts even though he tried to tell himself that he was being foolish, that nothing was following him.

  A noise like footsteps behind him made Brant break into a run. He dashed across the sand, pushing his muscles to their limits. He panted, drawing breath through his parched mouth. The aethalons might have tracked him this far, they might be following him even now. Perhaps they were closer than he feared, perhaps they were gaining. He did not truly know or understand the extent of his brother’s hatred, how could he have believed he would be safe even if he did not return to Llycaelon? How could he have been such a fool as to think he could outrun them? They were warriors, trained for such a hunt as this, and he was but a boy, pretending to be a man. He would have to run forever. He ran on through the night, panic pushing him past what he imagined were the limits of his strength, terror urging even more speed out of his weary body. He longed to lie down and rest, but the fear at his heels would not let him.

  By the time dawn broke over the horizon, Brant’s steps had slowed to a jerky trot. His muscles screamed in agony, begging him to stop. His mouth tasted like dry sand and his thoughts had become like the sand that surrounded him. Though he struggled to remember what had been so important it slipped away from him like a wave breaking on the shore and then retreating. Breathing was difficult and his throat burned. His whole body hurt, and he knew at last that he could go no further. With a groan of defeat, Brant fell down and lay still. Death would be kinder than the aethalons, in any case, and he had known from the beginning that his desperate bid for freedom was just that, desperate and destined to fail.

  “Let the prophecy take me,” he whispered brokenly, “I have reached the end.”

  His eyelids fluttered closed and he let go of his fear. His eyes had only been closed for a few seconds when footsteps, real footsteps, brought Brant painfully back into awareness. His body was unable to forget its training though his mind was ready to accept defeat. He looked up, resignation in his dark eyes, but the sight before him was not what he had expected.

  A young man, perhaps in his late teens, with light brown hair and warm brown eyes, stood looking down at him quizzically. He was dressed in plain clothes and he carried a shepherd’s staff in his left hand. His eyes held a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. Brant stared back, his mind trying desperately to make sense of this odd situation.

  “Are you all right?” the young man asked. “Do you need help?”

  Brant groaned, but he quickly disguised the groan as a yawn and he stretched and sat up with an effort. “I … I must have fallen asleep,” he lied warily. Speaking felt strange, his dry tongue made his words come out a bit garbled.

  “You fell asleep? While in the Harshlands? Do you know how dangerous that could have been?” the young man’s voice was full of incredulity, but there was also a note of awe in it.

  “The Harshlands? They’re not that bad,” Brant coughed, still unsure as to where this conversation was going.

  The young man considered for a moment, and then he said, “You look awful. Do you have any place to go?”

  Brant looked at him blankly, not really sure he understood the question. “No,” he rasped warily, “I don’t have any place to go,” he paused again, not sure what else to say. Talking hurt, and he longed for a sip of water from the leather pouch hanging from the stranger’s belt. The young man stared at him expectantly and Brant realized that he was waiting for Brant to give him his name. He hesitated for a second longer, weighing the youth’s intent, and then he sighed. “My name is Brant,” he said reluctantly.

  “You don’t have any place to stay?” the young man looked surprised. “Well, you can come home with me then, Brant,” he rolled the name around on his tongue as if it tasted strange.

  “You don’t know me,” Brant replied. “Why would you take me in?”

  The other man shrugged. “I’m not sure. It just seems like the right thing to do.”

  “Do you often act on that sort of impulse?”

  “Sometimes,” the man replied cheerfully. “I’ve never been wrong yet.”

  “All right,” Brant replied. He would have agreed to anything if it meant a sip of water. “This is very kind of you.”

  His rescuer waved a hand as though to shrug off Brant’s gratitude. “Follow me.”

  Brant smiled back tentatively, and almost yelped in pain. The expression made it feel as though his whole face had cracked and now it simply burned as though a steady fire was playing over it. The pain nearly brought him to tears, but he choked it back and pushed it away. Then he stood up, pushing away his exhaustion as well, and followed the young man out of the Harshlands. Brant was surprised to find that he had been mere steps away from the edge of the desert. The contrast between the Harshlands and the sudden greenery of the forest was staggering, and Brant was not sure how much more he could take. He felt as though he had stepped out of death and into life, and this young stranger was the cearaphiym who had come to guide him home. Brant shook his head to clear it and winced in pain at the sudden movement.

  Brant was led to a comfortable looking little house. At that moment, to Brant, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, but the young man did not notice Brant’s expression of admiration. He seemed almost apologetic as they came within view of his home.

  “Here we are. I’ll have my aunt look at your wounds straight away.”

  Brant looked over in surprise. “My wounds?”

  “Your face... and arms... they’re rather scraped up,” the young man gestured and Brant looked down at his forearms, which had taken the brunt of the sandstorm. The skin was cracked and blistered. He wondered suddenly what his face looked like, but he didn’t ask. His rescuer continued, “It’s not very big,” he gestured at the house. “But then there are only three of us, so we don’t really need much space. There is an extra bedroom, though, which I’m sure you can use.”

  Brant would have settled for a bumpy rock or a patch of ground with roots digging into his back at that particular moment, so long as it meant he might be able to lie down and rest for five minutes without interruption. He kept this thought to himself though, feeling that it might not be quite the correct thing to say. Instead, he gazed at the little cottage and smiled, slowly and carefully this time.

  “It is a beautiful home,” he said truthfully.

  The young man expressed pleasure at the compliment and ducked his head. “I like it,” he replied.

  Brant follow
ed the lad into the house and instantly felt out of place. He became painfully aware of how dirty he was, covered in salt from the ocean and scoured by sand, his skin felt dark and gritty and he was sure his face looked as though it had come unsuccessfully through a forest fire. His clothes were torn and hanging from him in rags that were barely identifiable anymore. His hair had not been combed in weeks, and he was certain his exhaustion was written deeply into his eyes. The inside of the house was glitteringly clean and tidy by comparison, and Brant shifted uncomfortably where he stood, feeling more out of place than ever before.

  He was led into the kitchen where a man and a woman sat, drinking some kind of steaming liquid. They looked up and started somewhat at the sight of the apparition that had just entered their home. There was a moment of stunned silence and Brant cleared his dry throat nervously, feeling like a caged animal. He wondered briefly just how much energy it would take to bolt out the door and run back the way he had come.

  “This is Brant,” the young man announced, oblivious to Brant’s discomfort. “Brant, this is my Aunt Euphie and my Uncle Barr.”

  Brant raised a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said hoarsely.

  He wanted to say more, but fatigue and thirst overtook him and he could not gather the energy to say more. It was requiring all his strength just to stand there without falling. He swallowed dryly with a heroic effort and swayed where he stood. Instantly Euphie was on her feet and hovering around him concernedly.

  “Arnaud!” the woman exclaimed. “What do you mean making him stand here like this; can’t you see the lad is practically sleeping on his feet? Help me show him to the spare room, he can stay there for now. Wherever did you find him? In the Harshlands, you say? Oh my! No wonder he looks as though he’s been through a fire, I wonder how long he’s been wandering around in that awful desert? Do you need water young man? Here,” she filled a mug with water and pressed it into Brant’s hands, talking all the while. “Days, from the look of him. Arnaud, did he tell you anything about himself? Does he have any place to stay, oh poor dear; I wonder what has happened to him? I’ll wager he hasn’t had a good meal in weeks, look at him! He’s as thin as your staff! I’ll make my lamb stew tonight, that’ll put some meat back on his bones right quick. A poultice for his face, most definitely, and his arms, poor lad...” she kept up her one-sided conversation as she took Brant’s arm and directed him into a cheerful and cozy room.

  Brant did not have the energy to argue with anything she said, she was such a whirlwind. He simply buried his parched lips in the mug and drank deeply. The cool water within was the most refreshing thing he had ever tasted.

  “Here’s the room, and there’s the bed, best take off your boots before…” she looked at him and wrinkled her nose, “well, you definitely ought to have a bath, but I fear you’d fall asleep and drown in it. Oh well, no matter, I’ll just wash the bedding later. No, don’t argue with me, that’s a good lad. There you go; you look as though you could use a good rest. I’ll have some food ready for you whenever you wake up, just you sleep as long as you like.”

  She left then, closing the door behind her, and Brant stared after her with a lost look on his face. He did not understand why this family was being so kind to him. He shook his head; he certainly had a knack for finding friends in the oddest places. With a sigh he slipped his boots off and crawled into the bed. Its foreign softness enveloped him and he was asleep almost instantly. He slept long and deeply, and in this friendly house that was so full of compassion and love no dreams haunted him.

  Brant woke feeling refreshed and more alive than he had in a long time. He looked out the window and noted that it had grown quite dark outside. He could hear low voices in the next room. He pushed himself stiffly out of bed and walked out to the kitchen area. Arnaud was sitting with his aunt and uncle at the table on the far end of the room, in front of a merry little fire that was crackling in the fireplace. As he entered the room, the three of them looked up at him kindly.

  “Ah, Brant, we were just talking about you,” Barr said. “Come sit down, Arnaud was just telling us that you have no place to stay?”

  “That is correct,” Brant replied, sitting awkwardly.

  “Where do you come from?” Barr asked kindly. “Arnaud said he found you in the Harshlands, do you have any idea how dangerous that could have been?”

  “I am not familiar with the Harshlands,” Brant replied. “The only thing I knew about them was that I had to get across them.”

  “Well, it says a lot for your courage and your strength that you made it through alive.”

  “Where are your parents?” Euphie asked quietly.

  “Dead,” Brant replied. It was not exactly a lie. His whole family was dead to him, or rather, he was dead to them. It made little difference. Either way, he would never see them again.

  Euphie clucked in sympathy. “Well, you can stay here with us as long as you need.”

  “How are you at farming or tending livestock?” Barr asked. “I could use an extra hand, and I’d consider your help more than enough pay for a place to stay and three meals a day.”

  “I’m a fair hand at it,” Brant said, inwardly thanking Sheyardin. “I’ve worked on several different farms, no one has ever complained about my work.”

  Barr clapped Brant heartily on the back. “Welcome then. Here, Euphie kept some stew hot for you.”

  Brant expressed his gratitude and attacked the food, his stomach rumbling with forgotten hunger. He ate and drank his fill. When he was finished, he helped Arnaud carry buckets of water inside to heat over the fire and then pour into a large tub in a tiny room so he could take a bath. Euphie changed the bedding and Brant promised to help her wash the blankets he had dirtied on the morrow.

  “I laid out some clothes for you,” Arnaud said helpfully. “We’re about the same size, so they ought to fit. It will be pleasant to have someone my own age around. We’re a ways from most of our neighbors, and they all just have little kids.”

  Brant nodded without saying anything, but inwardly he was grinning. He knew that in theory, Arnaud was correct about his age. Although in Llycaelon, Brant was the equivalent of seventeen or eighteen years old, he wondered what Arnaud would think if he knew that Brant had seen more than twice as many years come and go.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  King Jairem stood on the high wall of his castle, hands behind his back as he surveyed what he could see of his realm. Utter silence encircled him. Finally he spoke, his quiet words resonating in the early morning air.

  “For forty-three years we have had peace. I have done what I can to build up this land and make sure our people prosper. Scelwhyn, my time is ending, I can feel it. Dusk is upon me and soon all will be dark. All I have accomplished is fading before my eyes and the future of our land, which once seemed so bright, has dimmed. I cannot help but fear that these forty-three years have merely been a blissful illusion, and that darkness lurks at the edge of our domain, waiting to seize us once I am gone. Scelwhyn, I cannot help but wonder: have I done right?”

  Scelwhyn stood a little apart from the king, staring at him through somber eyes. “I feel this same darkness, but then, I have always felt it at the edge of my awareness, for it has always been there. It grows closer as time passes, and darker, but I wonder if perhaps that is merely due to pride. As a wizard, I have had many more years than ordinary men. I am not immortal, but seeing kings rise and fall can create that illusion. I am coming now, at long last, to the end of my days as well, old friend. As my time grows short, I begin to panic, thinking I leave this place unprotected, as though my simple presence could be enough to hold back all that would threaten harm. I am like an overprotective parent who cannot let my child go, even though he has grown to full adulthood before my very eyes. I fear that I have lived too long,” the old wizard sighed heavily. “I have seen too much and understood not enough.”

  “Ah, old friend,” Jairem said, turning to his wise a
dvisor. “What are we but two heroes who have now outlived our usefulness? I think perhaps what this land needs is youth, a fresh view of the world through inexperienced eyes. I am content. When the time comes, I will pass from this world quietly, knowing that all this must go to my successor. But I cannot do that yet, for the question still remains, who?”

  “It is unfortunate that you have no direct heir. However, I have not been idle in these years since your wife passed on. I have been searching the record books and scouring the countryside, and I have found something that will perhaps cheer you.

  “There is a young man, living near the border of the Harshlands just south of the Aura Wood. He is a distant relation of your mother’s, son of a third cousin twice removed. He is definitely related to you by blood, albeit very distantly. His father was killed in a hunting accident and his mother died of a fever shortly afterwards, they say she simply lost the will to live when her husband died. The boy was only several months old at the time. He has been raised by a couple he calls ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ though in reality they are no relation to him. They were friends of his parents, and unable to have children of their own. They took the infant in without hesitation when his parents died. They are good, kind, honest people who have raised the boy with every advantage they could afford.”

  “You know rather a lot about this boy.”

  “I have long watched him,” Scelwhyn admitted with a mysterious air. “I think perhaps you should meet him, in disguise, of course. You may well consider naming this lad as your heir. I can guarantee nothing about him, but I believe you might find him to be exactly what Aom-igh needs: possessing strength and purity of intent, with a courage born of an inability to understand fear.”