by C. A. McHugh
“A dangerous pursuit for you.”
Ceryst tried to slap the back of his head, but Raimel managed to dodge the knight’s open palm.
“Please continue. I’m always curious to learn what ideas are simmering in that head of yours.” The cheeky tone in Raimel’s voice belied his interest. Ceryst didn’t share much, but when he did, he always surprised Raimel.
“If I were going to make a strike against the king, I’d have one of two options.” Ceryst pointed his finger to the gathering below. “The first would be to do it blatantly, in broad daylight, in a crowded place like this, to instill as much fear into the hearts of the onlookers as I could.”
“Not unheard of, considering our enemy.” At the height of his power, the Raven Bringer had slaughtered entire towns and commanded an army of followers.
“Yes, but this isn’t the same enemy we’ve dealt with before. He’s been weakened. Why else would he hide all these years?”
Raimel nodded, replaying the most recent message from the Raven Bringer. Yes, it lacked the punch of its predecessors, but it was still effective. “He may be weakened, but he is who he is.”
“Even so, if I were in his position, I’d set a trap. Strike where there would be less interference, but still public enough to make a statement.” Ceryst curled his hand into a fist and stared out into the crowded temple.
“Oh, you mean like in the inner sanctuary when Aerrin goes to retrieve the fire?”
Ceryst snapped his attention to him, his brows knitting together. “That might be the most intelligent thing I’ve heard from you in the last decade.”
He picked Raimel up by his tunic and shoved him toward the stairs.
“I was only joking.” He tried to halt, but Ceryst kept pressing him forward. “No one is allowed in there except the High Priestess and the king.”
“Which makes it the perfect location for a sneak attack. Now move.”
Raimel braced his long arms along the walls of the stairwell, creating just enough resistance to stop their progress. “Think this through, Lone Wolf,” he pleaded, using the code name Ceryst had gone by since going into hiding.
“You already said thinking wasn’t my strong suit.” He jabbed his elbow into Raimel’s upper back.
A stream of fire flowed from between his shoulder blades, and the air whooshed from his lungs. The lapse weakened his grip just enough for Ceryst to force him down the rest of the stairs.
Once they reached the main sanctuary, Raimel brushed the wrinkles from his threadbare clothes. “A kind ‘excuse me’ would’ve worked.”
Ceryst gave another grunt, his attention focused on the marble enclave behind the main altar.
“Since you’ve decided not to think this through, how are you going to get in there?” Raimel asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Ceryst turned and gave a half-smile that made every fiber of his being rise up in protest. “Lucky for me, I have someone who’s pretty good at slipping into places that are off limits.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
***
Aerrin dismounted and stared at the white marble façade of the Temple of Mariliel. Inside, the bright murals and colored glass windows were warm and welcoming, but the outside appeared cold and oppressive. A shiver coursed down his spine, and he fought the urge to climb back on his horse and return to the palace.
“Want me to walk you through this one more time?” a familiar voice said beside him.
He turned to find his uncle regarding the temple with a somber gleam in his blue eyes. “Maybe.”
Altos grinned down at him, returning to his usual carefree manner. “I was your age the first time I had to light the fire, so I remember what it was like. I’d even inscribed the incantation on the inside of my sleeve.”
Aerrin would’ve laughed if he wasn’t in the same position. Instead, he lifted his sleeve just enough to reveal the letters on his arm.
“I see I’ve taught you well,” Altos said with a half-hearted laugh. “Come on and get it over with. Then we can go home and stuff our faces at the feast. Maybe dance with a few lovely ladies while we’re at it.”
Aerrin nodded, not trusting his voice. Something in his uncle’s comments sparked a flame of melancholy in the center of his chest. Perhaps he was lucky in that he’d never known his parents. He’d only heard tales of them and seen the official portraits hanging about the palace. He didn’t mourn them when they were murdered. He only mourned the lost opportunity of knowing them.
Altos, on the other hand, had lost both of his brothers within a matter of weeks and was forced to assume the royal duties when he was Aerrin’s age. Not as king, but as Prince Regent. And for a man of little worries like his uncle, it was a burden he’d been all too happy to shed once Aerrin expressed interest in assuming more responsibilities.
But right now, Altos was there when he needed him. His uncle placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re not ready for this—”
“I am.” His response came out strong, determined, and his resolve followed suit. “It’s time I started acting like a king.”
“Then let’s go.” Altos turned and climbed the stairs to the temple.
Master Binnius came alongside him, the solid thud of his walking staff announcing his arrival. “After you, Your Majesty.”
Aerrin pushed the last of his doubts away and began climbing the stairs. Two rows of royal guards kept the crowds surrounding the temple from descending upon him, but they couldn’t quiet the hundreds of voices crying out for his attention. They were the poor and needy of the city, the ones he should take pity on and aid. As much as it pained him to do so, he ignored them until their voices blurred into a discordant din. If he dared take the time to listen, he’d feel obligated to attend to their needs, and he’d be here all day. His time was better spent attending to the welfare of the many than each individual. He kept his gaze fixed on the golden doors of the temple and moved with an unwavering purpose to his steps that did not invite interruption.
The High Priestess of Mariliel greeted him with a curtsey when he arrived. Her gossamer green dress floated around her slender figure, but it was the kindness in her face that captured his attention. Mariliel was the mother goddess, and her representative on this plane was the perfect living embodiment of what she stood for. Even her voice was calm and soothing. “Welcome to the temple, Your Majesty.”
The other priestesses followed her example, their green dresses forming pools of material along the portico. Those that had been blessed by a visit from the goddess always claimed that she wore green, earning her the nickname, the Green Lady. Her handmaidens followed her example in their attire.
Aerrin lifted his hand to indicate they could rise. “Are you ready?”
The High Priestess’s gaze flickered to Master Binnius before nodding. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
They were all waiting on him. As king, he’d be at the head of the procession. For the hundredth time that day, he fought the urge to run away. But when he turned, he found his uncle watching him with an understanding none of the others had. An encouraging nod from Altos was all he needed to reaffirm his confidence. If his uncle could perform this duty at fifteen years of age, so could he.
He squared his shoulders and marched into the temple.
The sanctuary was just as crowded as the stairs, only most of the occupants were the well-dressed nobility and gentry of the kingdom. They didn’t reach for him or call out his name as he passed. Instead, they all lowered their heads with a bow or a curtsey in revered silence as he moved down the center aisle to the altar.
Sweat prickled the back of his neck. His whole life, they’d been watching him. Judging him. Waiting for him to make a mistake they could pounce upon. His uncle had been given a pass to indulge in his music and poetry because he was nothing more than the Prince Regent and co-ruled with the Privy Council.
But Aerrin was the king. He was supposed to be the man his father had been. A warrior. A master mage. A man respecte
d by those of high and low estate.
A man whose boots he doubted he’d ever be able to fill.
He knelt before the statue of the goddess, those uncertain thoughts whirling around his mind like a maelstrom. Please help me, Mariliel. Please guide me. Please shape me into the king I need to be. Please don’t let me fail.
As he ended his prayers, he looked up into the serene face of the goddess and knew peace. The turmoil in his heart evaporated, and he exhaled with a sigh of relief. The goddess had heard him, and she would provide the assistance he needed, both now and in the years to come.
He rose and nodded to the High Priestess. It was time to retrieve the fire from the inner sanctuary.
But when they arrived at the sealed doors, the High Priestess bowed her head and stepped back. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I wish to allow another to enter in my stead.”
“And who would that be?”
Master Binnius stepped forward with an amused glint in his eyes. “Me. After all, I am a priest of the goddess.”
And for the second time that hour, Aerrin’s gut twisted with realization that the old mage was hiding something from him. “Why the change?”
“Just providing a familiar presence to assist you, if needed.”
His heart sank. In other words, Master Binnius was going to cover for him in case he messed up. “I find your confidence in my abilities to be less than comforting.”
“It’s not your abilities that concern me.” Binnius swept his gaze along the closed doors, his expression unreadable. But the blanching of his knuckles around his staff spoke of his unease. “Let’s not delay the ceremony any longer than necessary, Your Majesty.”
Aerrin drew in a deep breath and nodded. The golden doors opened, and he stepped into the dark, crypt-like room.
***
Ceryst’s heart stuttered to a stop when he saw Aerrin. Since being forced into hiding, he’d only seen him from a distance, but now that he had a chance to see him up close, it was like staring at the reincarnation of Brendon.
Well, almost. There was a shy uncertainty to him that reminded him of Liera.
A well of grief rose into his throat, choking him with emotions he preferred not to experience. By the goddess, he missed his best friend. Brendon understood him better than any person he’d ever met.
And Liera. He bit back the bitter laugh in his mind. She’d shown him what gentleness and compassion meant. At one point, he’d even fancied himself in love with her, even though it was painfully clear she only had eyes for Brendon. And when she married his best friend, Ceryst had gained her as a friend, too.
They were gone now, but his vow still remained intact. He would protect their son to his dying breath.
He crouched in the rafters of the inner sanctuary next to Raimel, watching the ceremony play out below. Binnius, not the High Priestess, accompanied the young king, a strange but comforting change of events. A grin played on his lips as Aerrin pushed up his sleeve to read the sacred incantation meant to bless the fire.
Just like his father had.
The seconds ticked by, and nothing happened. To anyone else, it would’ve spelled relief, but it only added to his unease. The Raven Bringer was up to something. Why else would he have gone through the trouble to contact Raimel?
Aerrin summoned the fire and lit the ceremonial torch. Light filled the room.
And that’s when Ceryst saw the glint of a metal bolt loaded in a crossbow in the opposite corner.
Raimel’s breath hitched.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
Ceryst leapt down to the floor, his attention focused on the boy he was sworn to protect. He rushed to the king, racing the assassin’s bolt. In between his steps, he thought he heard the click of the crossbow, but it didn’t deter him. Everything probably happened in a matter of seconds, but it felt like an eternity to him. With the king’s life on the line, every moment counted, and he couldn’t move fast enough.
Aerrin turned to him, his eyes wide. The boy crumbled when Ceryst rammed into him.
A rush of cold air grazed his cheek, followed by a stinging burn.
They fell to the floor with a solid crash of limbs and slid into the far corner.
Ceryst held his breath until Aerrin moved beneath him.
Then chaos erupted.
A boom behind them signaled that Master Binnius had shut the doors.
Above, Raimel battled the assassin, balancing on the thick wooden timbers. The glowing red eyes of their enemy left no doubt to his alliance. The assassin followed the commands of a man they hadn’t bothered to fear for over a decade, and his presence confirmed the truth Ceryst didn’t want to admit.
The Raven Bringer had returned.
Raimel and the assassin wrestled for control of the crossbow with a series of grunts until Master Binnius’s spell connected with the red-eyed enemy. A shriek of pain echoed off the polished marble walls of the small room, and a dark shadow fell to the ground with a bone-cracking crash.
Raimel followed with his sword drawn, landing as silently as a cat. Together with Master Binnius, they approached the still form. The mage nudged it with his staff, and a curse flew from Raimel’s lips.
The same curse reverberated through Ceryst’s mind. Whatever information the assassin held had died with him. But at least he’d failed in his mission.
A pair of fists pummeled his chest, and Ceryst rose from where he’d been shielding Aerrin.
The young king jumped to his feet, his features twisted into sputtering rage. “Explain yourselves.”
“I don’t think there’s much to explain,” Binnius said in a nonchalant manner that was impervious to the king’s ire.
“Who are these men, and why did they attack me?”
Raimel sheathed his sword and replaced the stands of long brown hair that had fallen free from the leather tie holding them back. “I like that. We saved his life, and he’s accusing us of attacking him.”
Ceryst retreated back a step, but his attention never wavered from Aerrin. The boy appeared unharmed, and his worst fears had not come to pass.
Several loud bangs sounded from the other side of the golden doors. “Your Majesty, are you safe?” a man shouted. “Open the doors”
“Master Binnius?” Aerrin asked, arching one brow in a manner that dared the mage to defy him.
All that vanished when the assassin’s body burst into flames. Aerrin yelped, appearing more like the boy he was than the king he was trying to be. He pointed to the pyre with a shaking hand. “Who did that?”
“No one, Your Majesty,” Raimel replied, his voice calm despite the growing panic on the other side of the door. “Demons self-incinerate when they die.”
Aerrin’s eyes widened, and his breath hitched.
Raimel made a tsking sound and shook his head. “Master Binnius, what are you teaching them at the Academy these days?”
“I’ll gladly explain everything when we return to the palace.” Binnius ushered Aerrin back to the ceremonial torch that still burned on the floor where he’d dropped it, a look of warning on his weathered face directed at Raimel. “Right now, you have a royal duty to perform.”
Aerrin dug in his heels and stopped short of picking the torch up. His blue eyes glittered like ice in the torchlight. “Fine, I’ll do what I came here to do, but once the cauldron is lit, I want answers. And I want them from all three of you.”
“Ooh, a royal summons.” Raimel rocked back on his heels with a cheeky grin on his face. “Don’t think I’ve ever received one of those before.”
“Shut up,” Ceryst growled. The more demands the king made, the more dangerous his predicament became. If he showed up at the palace, he was as good as dead once someone recognized him. But if he didn’t, he’d lose any chance of redeeming himself.
“Yes, yes, yes. Everything in good time. But for now, I think it wise not to let anyone know what has occurred in here.” Master Binnius sifted through the embers of the assassin with his staff and pul
led out a chain with a pendant on the end. The mage grabbed it and stowed it in his pocket. “Once we are back at the palace, we shall have a very revealing conversation.”
“It had better be, considering you three ruined the ceremony.” Aerrin picked up the torch and nodded to Binnius. “Open the doors so I can light the cauldron before the sun sets.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.” But the mage waited until Ceryst and Raimel hid in the shadows before casting a spell that opened the doors at a snail’s pace.
Ceryst didn’t have to tell Raimel to get them out of there. As soon as the king’s back was to them, he felt the nauseating and disorienting tug that accompanied a trip to the realm of shadows. Raimel had always kept a tight grip on his jerkin the few times he’d taken Ceryst there. The realm appeared to be nothing more than a blur of black and white, but it wasn’t a place he cared to stay in any longer than needed. His limbs turned cold and heavy, and despair clawed at his soul. If Raimel hadn’t been tugging him along, he would’ve been tempted to fall to his knees and surrender to whatever evil lurked there. Such was the power of that place.
He knew time moved at a different pace in the realm of shadows, but when Raimel pulled him back into the mortal world, his body ached as though he’d sprinted from one end of Dromore to the other with a fifty pound pack on his shoulders. And yet, they’d only managed to go a few feet to the middle of the spiral staircase. A loud cheer echoed through the sanctuary, and he peeked out in time to see Aerrin lighting the cauldron.
His lips twitched. Despite almost being killed, the boy had pulled off the ceremony like nothing was amiss.
Raimel plopped down on the stair above him and massaged his temples. “I can’t keep doing that.”
“Why?” Ceryst asked, his gaze never leaving the sanctuary. If there was another assassin hiding in the wings, he wanted to spot him.
“Because I’m being watched.” Before he could elaborate, he drew in a pained breath through his teeth and pressed his palms over his ears.
It was enough to force Ceryst to turn away from the ceremony. “What?”
