by Cayla Kluver
He laughed. “I told you I was tired, remember?”
“Yes, but as long as we’re here, I’d like you to show me something.”
“What might that be?” He came to his feet, and I dragged him toward the door.
“I want to see where Miranna was confined.” I clutched nervously at my blouse, unsure how he would react, for I had not been able to think of a tactful way to raise the topic.
He stopped, forcing me to face him. “Alera, do you really want to see that?”
“You told me she was well cared for here,” I bristled, my tone slightly accusatory. “If that’s true, then you have nothing to hide from me.”
Narian released me. “I didn’t lie to you. The High Priestess made certain Miranna was well accommodated. But she was still a prisoner. I just want to be sure that you are ready to see this.”
“I’m ready.”
Relenting, he led me out of the room, and we walked side by side through several corridors and down a flight of stairs. Had he not known his way, I would have been lost in the labyrinth. After a few more twists and turns, I found myself in a narrow hallway that was shrouded in darkness.
“This area of the temple isn’t used much,” he explained, and though I had felt certain that I wanted to see this just a short time ago, my spine now tingled with the eeriness of what we were doing. I would be exploring my sister’s cell as a guest in her prison.
To my surprise, Narian had only to push a small lever on the bottom of a torch on the wall to ignite it—the Cokyrians had invented a way to trigger a spark within the apparatus. He opened the door nearest to us, showing me a room that was simply but comfortably furnished. There were no thick rugs on the floor here, and it was smaller than the guest room in which I was staying, but it contained a bed and a desk and had an adjoining bath chamber.
“This is it,” Narian announced, letting me pass by him to enter the room.
I stood in the center of the floor, allowing myself to get a feel for the space. Only the window was unusual, for it was set high in the wall and covered by iron bars. Had I not known that my sister had been locked away within these walls, the room would probably not have made me uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to look more closely at the details that Miranna had likely spent months memorizing, but the dominant part drove me back into the hall.
“Let’s go,” I said to Narian, my throat tight.
He led me back through the maze, not speaking until we had climbed the flight of stairs to the floor where our rooms were located.
“Would you like to return to the guest room?” he asked, halting beside me on the landing.
Feeling better now that we had emerged from the past, I shook my head. “I’d like to see your quarters.”
“What? Why?”
I laughed at his expression. “Why? Because this is where you were raised! This is where you were a boy. If you don’t want to show me, I’ll understand, but it would tell me more about you and help me to know you even better.”
He scratched the back of his head. “Well…let’s go, then.”
“It’s all right if you don’t want to show me,” I said again, detecting some hesitation on his part.
“No, it’s fine. Really, I don’t mind.”
Bemused, I trailed after him into the opposite wing of the second floor from where my room was located.
When we reached his door, he went inside, leaving it open for me to follow. I stepped across the threshold and closed out the hall, then surveyed what lay before me: a lavish main room much like mine in Hytanica, with a fireplace; a rich, comfortable sofa upon which Narian settled; several armchairs; a carved wooden table scattered with papers; and two bookshelves stocked with volumes. Heavy drapes covered one wall, and when I crossed the thick rug that blanketed the floor to push the fabric aside, I learned the reason—they hid a set of large windows. I turned around and saw that an expansive mural covered the wall above and to the sides of the door. It combined horses, a sunrise and sunset, stars in a deep blue sky, noblewomen and men, creatures of myth and a Cokyrian flag into a single stunning piece of artwork. Intricate tapestries were common in Hytanica, but I had never seen anything approaching the beauty of this painting before.
Narian was content to let me explore, so I approached the table, skimming the papers atop it, which ranged from correspondence and scrawled notes to maps and battle strategies. Spying his bedroom beyond, which was open to the main room but secluded by a wall, I glanced at him for approval, and went inside upon his nod. His bed was built into a corner, on a raised platform, permitting access from only one side by what appeared to be a climbing net. Practical for a military man—and fun for a child.
He followed me, stopping in the archway to watch me explore his private space.
“May I?” I asked, crossing to his wardrobe, for I was curious about the style of his attire here in Cokyri, and he again motioned me ahead.
I glanced between Narian and the clothing inside the wardrobe several times, trying to understand the disparity. The Narian I knew dressed practically, ever a soldier, thinking of comfort and of blending into his surroundings. Yet he possessed a collection of rich clothing, the fabrics similar to what I would have expected to find in Steldor’s or my father’s wardrobe, not in his. Mounted on the inside of one of the doors were dress swords, and on the other, shelves that held jewels far more valuable than anything we had in Hytanica.
“Narian, this is…” I started, then shook my head in wonder.
“Ridiculous, I know.” He crossed to his bed and leaned against the netting.
“No!” I exclaimed. “It’s unbelievably beautiful.”
I pointed to an exquisite ruby ring and flashed him a smile. “This could have been my betrothal ring.”
His bath chamber across the main room was all that remained, so I backtracked and entered it. The extravagance to which I was accustomed within the Hytanican palace did not range so far as to include the depth and size of his bath, nor the unusual mosaic tiles set into the floor. But what struck me the most were the shelves filled with ointments and bandages, and the long table against the wall that was similar to what one would find in a physician’s examination room. He had in many ways grown up a prince, but this chamber was more telling of his past than all the finery in his wardrobe.
When I returned to the parlor, I felt strangely cold. Narian had once more taken up his place on the sofa, and I went to sit at his feet, wanting to be closer to the fire. He swung around and put one leg on each side of me, then started to massage my back. After a few minutes, he slipped down behind me to wrap his arms around my waist, and I leaned against him. He was warm and safe and all that I wanted. At times I felt that there was no world outside of him, and it was the best feeling I ever had. This was one of those times.
“Were you ever happy here?” I softly inquired.
“Yes,” he answered after a moment of thought. “I was—here in the temple.”
Though I had not handled seeing Miranna’s room very well, I again had a surge of curiosity about the Overlord’s Hall, which Narian had subtly referenced. But I did not ask him to take me there—seeing it would not help me, and it would not help him. He needed to forget that place.
“Then tell me something about your childhood. Something pleasant.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the vibration of his chest as he began to speak.
“I remember when that mural on my wall was painted. I was perhaps six or seven.
The High Priestess commissioned an artist, and gave her freedom to paint something colorful and unique, something that would amuse me. I was permitted to watch, but at that age…”
“Watching wasn’t enough,” I guessed, and he laughed.
“The artist was on a ladder, and she had her palette with her, but she’d left the majority of her paints on the floor. I was into them before she could say a word, and I spread paint everywhere. In my hair, on my clothes, the floors, the wall where she was trying to create her masterpiece, everywhere.” He was reminiscing now instead of just telling me a story, seeing it unfold in his mind. “I’d forgotten, honestly forgotten, that I’d been told not to touch the paints. Nan was furious—we were supposed to go to a banquet that night and I’d—”
“Nan?” I asked, and he tensed for a moment.
“That’s what I used to call the High Priestess, when I was young.”
Smiling at the idea, I nestled against him and said, “Go on.”
He continued the story, and I listened contentedly, eventually falling asleep in his embrace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
GAINS AND LOSSES
SHASELLE
It began not with a signal, but with a fire in the dead of night. Temerson had been sent to the edge of the military base to light his rocket, but first he had set the barracks aflame. Screams from Cokyrian soldiers trapped within echoed through the streets of the city, awakening men and women and children. Then three beacons soared silently into the air, all from different directions. They exploded in the sky, raining down sparks and ash, calling Hytanica to arms.
It wasn’t long before I heard shouts, followed by pounding, and the very foundation of our home shuddered. I raced out of doors and to the side of the house where my father’s office was located, coming to an abrupt halt at the scene before me. Men had broken through the foundation and were tossing weapons to each other, paying no mind to me. When the cache was empty, they marched off, some destination in mind. I scanned the neighborhood, watching other groups of men joining ranks, having broken into more stores of weapons, and I knew this was happening all over the city.
I stood still, debating what I should do. The question itself should have been an easy one—my mother needed me, my siblings needed me and it was my responsibility to help keep them safe. But excitement was now in my blood. If I returned home, I would end up waiting hour after hour with them for news, which really wouldn’t do anyone any good. Surely I could be of more use out here, gathering information, seeing the course of the battle for myself. Yes, that would be best.
My energy and senses heightened, I headed down the street toward Uncle Cannan’s house, hoping I would find Steldor or Galen there. While I knew they would keep me out of the fighting, I hoped that they would give me a weapon; then I would find a safe vantage point from which to watch, for I wanted to see my father’s death avenged, wanted to enjoy the sight of our men routing the enemy once and for all.
But as I drew within a square block of my destination, I came upon a troop of Cokyrian soldiers, likewise in well-ordered ranks, sweeping the neighborhood for rebels. I ducked down and hastily crawled under the front porch of one of the houses, praying they had not seen me and wouldn’t discover me. What I was doing was not safe; what I was doing could get me killed.
The noise level within the city continued to rise, until the din made my head throb—it was impossible to close out the pounding of feet; the shouts and screams; the clank of weaponry; the screeching of terrified animals; and the roar of fires and crack of burning wood. Gathering my courage, I emerged from my hiding place and headed toward the military base, feeling a morbid desire to see the destruction and chaos for myself. I didn’t get far before nausea and fear overcame me. Men were engaged in combat up and down the streets, their movements jarringly erratic in the flickering lights of the fires and torches. Blood sprayed off swords and daggers as they sickeningly pierced flesh, muscle and bone; and gasps of pain accompanied by the horrid, gurgling sound of blood-filled breathing assaulted my senses. I staggered to the side of the street, crumpling against a building, my hands covering my ears as I fought to retain my sanity. This was not at all how I had pictured our glorious revenge. This was unimaginable horror.
Then explosions rocked the buildings around me—Cokyrian powder, capable of killing many in a single blast. No longer wanting to be a part of this, I ran down the street in terror. Flames sprang to life, and I caught glimpses of men fighting and dying, any sense of an organized battle eradicated. The screaming and shouting was constant, like an avalanche of heart-wrenching sound. The smell of smoke and blood was overwhelming. The heat on my face brought beads of sweat to my forehead, and when I wiped them away, layers of dirt smeared with the moisture. This did not look or feel like my city anymore. This was a nightmare. This was like going back in time, back to the military training field, back to my father’s death.
His brother. The hand outstretched—
My feet pounded against the earth. I didn’t have time to think of Papa now. I needed to reach home—I should not have left when I saw the flares soaring through the night sky. It had been an idiotic, dangerous notion to try to determine what was happening.
Homes crackled and collapsed as I flew past them—fire spread quickly in this dry and windy weather, destroying what it had taken months to rebuild—and my house could easily be among them. A man stumbled out of an alley clutching his gut, blood running between his fingers, and I leaped aside. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to keep moving, not wanting to see, but my foot caught on rubble and I fell, hitting the stone of the street and scraping my hands and chin. Pain shot through my head and neck, then shrieks of misery rent the air and someone kicked me.
I rolled over to be met with an image so gruesome it could not be real, yet I knew it was. A Cokyrian soldier was on fire, moving frenetically in a dance of agony, her screams fighting to be heard against the deafening noise that surrounded me. Quaking, I buried my head beneath my arms, praying for her to die. When the shrieks were no more, I scrambled to my feet, my hand coming into contact with warm metal. I snatched up the dagger and started running again, one word pounding in my head. Home. Home. Home.
Adrenaline was feeding my body, protecting me from exhaustion. I’d sprinted across what must have been half the city and felt no need to slow or stop. The western residential district lay ahead, and I dashed down the street, praying no one would intercept me. I didn’t want to die by the sword. I didn’t want to die at all.
My home was up ahead, but I could hardly see it through the smoky miasma. I rushed up the walk, my mind whirring, for the front door was hanging off its hinges. Then a man in a Cokyrian uniform dragged my brother, kicking and screaming, onto our front stoop.
“No!” I screeched, and the Cokyrian soldier looked up just as I barreled into him, my dagger pointed at his stomach. Both the soldier and I hit the ground, and I felt warm, sticky wetness seeping over my hands. The man gasped and stiffened, then moved no more.
I thrust his body away from me, leaving the dagger buried between his ribs, and came to my feet, my entire body atremble. Celdrid was on his hands and knees, crawling back toward the door, sobbing, then someone wrapped an arm around his chest and picked him up. I leaped forward to save him a second time, but the man snatched my arm, saying my name. It was Steldor. The strength almost left my legs as relief hit me—he was alive, and he would protect us.
My cousin hurried us inside, where m
y mother was coming to her feet, blood trickling from her temple.
“Where are the others?” Steldor demanded as Celdrid struggled in his arms, confused and afraid.
“Thank God!” Mother cried, taking her son into her embrace. “The children are in the cellar. I sent them there.”
“The three of you, join them,” Steldor ordered. “You’ll be safer there than anywhere else. Hurry.”
Just before he pushed us ahead of him toward the stairway off the kitchen, I got a good look at him. His shirt was torn and bloodied, his boots grimy, his hair soaked with sweat. He’d put away his sword in order to help us, but I could see blood on its hilt—he had been fighting for his life.
“Where is everyone else?” I asked as Steldor all but forced us down the cellar steps. “Do you know if they’re all right?”
“No, it’s impossible to keep track of anyone.”
We reached the earthen floor of the cellar, and Mother passed Celdrid to Dahnath. The other girls were huddled together in the corner, wrapped tightly in a blanket. I gazed up at my cousin, and a noise caught his attention. He laid the fingers of his left hand against his lips, his right hand grasping the hilt of his sword. Then Grayden appeared on the stairs.
“Shaselle!” he called, rushing to join us.
“She’s all right,” Steldor told him. “Stay with them. Put boxes, bottles, anything that will hinder descent on the stairway, and move everyone into the wine cellar. Barricade that door, and do not come out until I return for you.”
“And will you return?” Grayden asked, coming down the last few steps.
“Yes.”
With that promise, Steldor flew up the staircase, disappearing from view with the closing of the door, shutting out the light and noise from above.
Mother, Grayden and I used whatever we could lay our hands on to block passage, while Dahnath herded Celdrid and the younger girls into the wine cellar, trying to stay their crying. We soon followed, closing and barring the door, then carrying crates and shelves to provide a further barricade, hoping no one would be able to break through. Having done what we could, Mother and I joined Dahnath and the huddled children, sitting close together, not daring to speak. Ganya curled up against me, her small frame shuddering, and I held her, sharing the warmth of my body with her.
