The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “I don’t think I believe in coincidence,” Sim answered bitterly.

  The Uellade regarded him stoically. In the rich moonlight, her large chocolate eyes seemed to shine like polished obsidian. “Did you know that Nehrea is the first Collora in over a thousand years?” Sim shook his head. “From the time of the first Collora, Cerseay Diaknowa, who helped destroy our first true enemies, the Daikhir, there was always a Collora to guard our clan. For thousands of years, when one Collora passed from the world, another was immediately named in her place. Then Desirmor came. For the first time since the age of the Daikhir, darkness ruled the world and threatened our clan. We watched as he destroyed the Alexidus monarchy. We watched as he eradicated the Harvens. Then he turned his assault on all beings of light. Trivals were rounded up and forced to swear allegiance. Those that refused were fed to his dark beasts, the Borlicon. Eventually, he came for the Dahara. Realizing that we could not survive this new evil, our last Collora, Braille Ruvere, sacrificed her life in the creation of a new gift -- our ability to disappear. Shielded from the eyes of men, we have remained hidden for these many years, reading the wind, waiting for the dawn of a new age, for the arrival of a new Collora.

  “In the past, the Ritual of Cerseay was always performed with a Harven present. Because of the devastation Desirmor inflicted upon your ancestors, we would have been unable to properly name a new Collora. You may not believe in coincidence, Siminus, but you must consider the circumstance. For the first time in over a thousand years, a woman born to be Collora comes before us, and she just happens to be traveling with the last living descendant of the legendary Harven race. This is much more than coincidence, Siminus. This is divine providence. You have come to us as you were meant to.”

  Sim mulled over the Uellade’s words. There was sense in what she said. He couldn’t deny that. He just couldn’t bring himself to accept that his fate was unavoidable. If that were true, then all of the choices he’d made in his life, all of the successes and mistakes, all of the love and loss, had been carefully measured by a greater power. The very idea made him angry and frustrated.

  “I can see the conflict in your eyes, Siminus,” the Uellade said, compassionately. “Go back to your tent and rest. The light of a new day will always reveal a new path to take.”

  Sim got up and walked away. He wasn’t ready to go back to his tent, so he decided to take a walk. The gentle breeze was cold, but he didn’t mind. The chill was a reminder that he was a man of flesh and blood, not an instrument of fate.

  His feet led him up the slowly inclining field until he could see the makeshift village of the Showtokan. He took a seat in the grass and watched the fire burning in the center of the circle of tents. It flickered and flared in the steady breeze, creating a visual display of choreographed shadows dancing with spellbinding grace across the tan tent walls.

  Something Bella had told him once, several years before, when he first had asked about leaving the inn, found its way into his thoughts.

  “Life isn’t about the choices we make. It’s about the choices we don’t make.”

  It had seemed like just another one of her cryptic parcels of wisdom, and he had never put much thought into what it meant. Bella had been much more than the wife of an innkeeper. She had been the leader of the Da’suri, a coven of trivals who fought for the light. Sim didn’t really know anything more than that, but it was enough. He could always see in her an undeniable strength and an infinite well of patience. He wished he had known who she really was. There were so many questions she could have answered.

  “It’s about the choices we don’t make,” Sim whispered to himself. Did Bella believe in prophecy and fate? Was she trying to tell him something that day? His parents had tried to raise him shielded from the harsh reality of his destiny, but perhaps they had given him clues along the way. Sevin and Bella had often spent time lecturing him on morality and tolerance. Were they shaping him into a decent kind-hearted man, or were they preparing him for the strangeness and diversity, the desperation and darkness, he would encounter when the world came calling?

  Thinking of his parents made Sim feel alone. He looked from tent to tent in the little village, vaguely discerning the shape of a person here and there. Where was Enaya? Was she sleeping? Probably not, he thought with a small laugh. She was probably sitting up worried, fretting over what had become of Nehrea and him during the ritual. She hated not knowing every last detail of everyone’s business. No doubt she was giving Givara an earful right at that very moment.

  He found himself missing her. She was bossy and difficult, but most women Sim had known in his life acted the same. He had come to enjoy her insufferable qualities which were easily outweighed by her exquisite beauty. Her blonde hair was as soft as spun silk, whether she was fresh from a bath, or just waking up from a night of sleeping on the ground. He thought of her eyes, blue and purple like two sparkling sapphires. Her smile made Sim forget about his woes and regrets, if only temporarily.

  Earlier, he had attempted to define their relationship. Enaya had often held his hand or slid her arm around his back over the past several days. The signals were clear. Touching of hands, subtle stares when she didn’t think he was looking. These were not gestures of mere friendship. Sim was naïve about the ways of the world, he could concede that much at least, but he was no stranger to the affections of women. He had lain in the fields beyond the city limits and in the hayloft of the barn behind the inn, many times with girls who had desired his affection.

  He was sure he wasn’t imagining the chemistry he shared with Enaya, but something held her back. Perhaps she believed he wasn’t worthy of her affections. She was a noblewoman after all, accustomed to wealth and fineries. He was the son of an innkeeper, a poor, simple rube, with no refinement or affluence. All he truly had to offer her was danger. In his company she would always be hunted, forever on the run.

  But that wasn’t good enough for him. If the difference in their prospective stations within society was behind her reasoning, then she was being woefully obtuse. In the wake of being discovered by Prianhe, her status was no longer worth anything. She was a traitor to the crown, certain to be stripped of her titles and sentenced to death. Within the confines of society's prickly pecking order, Enaya was no better than him. They were the same.

  Sim dismissed his thoughts of Enaya. Her rejection, though he had expected nothing less, had stung. He had taken a chance and put his feelings out on his sleeve. If it was friendship she desired, then friendship she would have. There was always Nehrea, after all.

  Nehrea was dark and sensuous. Though she appeared outwardly as nothing more than a seductive beauty, a morsel of flesh to be coveted and savored, Sim sensed that there was something deeper. She walked and comported herself with such brazen confidence that it was easy to miss the signs of fragility. There was pain and an inchoate self-loathing hidden behind those deep brown eyes that taunted him with possibilities. At times she appeared to dare the world to question her fortitude, and other moments, when Sim sensed a scared little girl wanting desperately to be held.

  That’s what truly appealed to him about her. He had always been attracted to women that needed his strength. He had an inborn need to protect the weak that he couldn’t explain. Confidence in a woman was fine, but it was damaged femininity that truly called upon his heart. And Nehrea was dripping with it. Perhaps it had something to do with her relationship with Governor Cantor. Had she been forced into his arms, or had she gone willingly?

  Sim stood and took one last, long look toward the village of cone shaped tents then returned to his own tent. When he lifted the flap and walked in, he was startled to find Nehrea waiting for him, lying naked on the thick furs that made up his bed. She sat up when he entered and regarded him with eyes heavy from tears. She lifted a slender arm toward him, imploring him to lay with her.

  For a moment he stood dumbfounded, unsure of how to react. Her body was magnificent and his desire for her was undeniable. How would Enaya
feel if she found out? He imagined her anger, the astonished look of betrayal that would flash across her face. She had made her choice, he thought bitterly. If she took offense to his affections for Nehrea, then she had no-one to blame but herself. He didn’t owe her chastity. They were nothing more than friends. She had been very clear with him about that.

  Feeling emboldened as he pushed away his hesitations, Sim undressed, holding Nehrea’s eyes with a smoldering gaze. Then he went to her and gave in to passion. Her desire for him was insatiable, and they fervently made love long into the night. When at last he could give her nothing more, she fell asleep in his arms.

  For a time, he lay there softly running his fingers through her thick, black hair. He breathed her in, remembered the way her lips had tasted, savored the warmth that seeped from her body pressed firmly against his. Not once, before he finally drifted off to sleep, did the thought of Enaya Relador cross his mind.

  Chapter Twenty Four: The Girl Who Bleeds Light

  The artifacts in Yennit Relador’s treasure room, hidden behind a false wall in the library, were both extensive and impressive. There were glass cases displaying unrolled parchments, each with their own mysterious writings or sketches. Some cases held maps detailing the land from ages past, including one very old rendering, worn and distorted, that appeared to show the world when the land was one solid continent. Along one wall, there were weapons of every type, some ancient relics from battles fought during man’s earliest days, others simple expressions of a blacksmiths master craft. Bejeweled axes and halberds, broad swords and short swords with intricately etched runes and crests, and daggers built more as accessories to show off wealth than for actual protection, sat on shelves or hung from pegs in the wall, each with their own specific historic significance. Against another wall, there were statuettes and figurines, depicting kings and queens, children at play, fearsome creatures and possible gods. Yennit had pottery, some as pristine as the day they were created, and other pieces so worn and broken they were the lone footprints of some ancient culture and civilization lost to the harsh boundlessness of history.

  Yennit believed in history. It was enduring and meaningful, unceasingly consistent. Everything you needed to know to understand the world around you, or foresee the future ahead was written in the past; civilizations rise and fall, kings and queens take power and throw it away, the rich persevere while the impoverished struggle to survive.

  There was the time of the three kingdoms, each led by a warrior queen, each undone by their lust for power. The Paracles, known in modern times as the Paratamians, were mountain dwellers who ruled before the Reikkans rose to defeat them. In ancient days, there were the Daikhir, dark creatures who enslaved primitive man, until they were defeated, some believed, by the Dahara, in an epic battle on the very land where the city of Nal’Dahara now stood. Through countless centuries, and scores of civilizations, one truth always recurred -- those that sought power and dominance, eventually fell. Some were undone by war, others by poor leadership, and in the case of the three queens, even divine intervention.

  Yennit looked upon his treasures and considered this simple truth. Desirmor was destined to fail. History was very precise in its consistency. Though he had ruled for a millenia and his power was unequaled in the annals of time, even he couldn’t rule forever. History wouldn’t allow it.

  And now there was Maehril.

  It had been two days since she had revealed the true extent of her ability, and the buzz around his manor house had not died out. All around the house and fields, awed whispers, stories exaggerated beyond even the unbelievable reality of what had occurred the night the manor was attacked by rovers, floated off the tongues of every worker and servant. Though everyone had their own way of interpreting what had happened, there seemed to be a consensus opinion regarding the ‘girl who bleeds light’. She was the Creator made flesh.

  When she passed through the halls of the house, a shy and unassuming teenage girl, her eyes perpetually wide with an insatiable curiosity, servants bowed their heads in reverence. Several of his people had brought sick children, even sick animals to Maehril, expecting that just by her touch, all of their ails would instantly be cured. Though she seemed overwhelmed and often frightened by the attention, certain that she wasn’t capable of performing the tasks, embarrassed to even try, Yennit had noted with growing bewilderment that every person and animal walked away cured of their ills. She was adamant that it was coincidence and beyond her control, but the evidence was staggering. She was actually healing the sick, simply by touching them.

  There were trivals who could heal. Most major cities and towns had at least one infirmary where these healers worked. They were capable of miraculous things, but even they had limits. For some reason, healers seemed limited in the field of disease. Bring them an open wound or a broken bone and they would mend it in an instant, but a victim of a plague was as good as dead. It was a flaw in the power, or so he had heard it said.

  But Maehril was different. There was no end to her miracles, and unfortunately, Yennit knew it would bring unwanted attention. Rumor of her abilities, try as he might to conceal them, had almost certainly spread beyond the demesne of his estates. How long would she be safe with him? How long until Imperial soldiers came knocking on his door, ready to drag the unregistered trival off to Castle Desirmor to stand before the judgment of the King?

  Yennit sat in a cushioned chair in the center of the room, sipping a glass of brandy, a vintage bottled on his estate. On the wall directly in front of him was a shield. It was crafted of iron and covered in raised gold. It depicted his family crest; a gaelsend, with its claws bared. The fearsome bird of prey, native to the Harven Mountains to the north, was a cunning predator, the only bird known to hunt in groups. Like wolves, the gaelsend spread out their attacks, encircling their prey until there was no avenue of escape and then shared the kill.

  Looking at the shield made Yennit think of his father. His father had been a selfish, unloving man, a quiet disciplinarian, and a ruthless disciple of Desirmor. During his childhood, the only conversations or interactions Yennit had with his father were the lectures and subsequent beatings he was given for misbehavior. Perfection was demanded at all times.

  Theirs had been an unloving relationship. His father looked upon him as though he were an investment rather than a son. His youth had been joyless, filled with constant lessons in a quiet house. His mother had died when he was just a toddler, and it had been the steady stream of governesses that had reared him in the absence of a paternal figure.

  Over dinner each night, when his father wasn’t away from the estate, Yennit was given lectures that were meant to shape his view of the world. His father was a firm believer in the superiority of the wealthy. Desirmor was held up on a pedestal as though he were a living God. Power, his father often told him, belonged to the wealthy. Those with means were simply better than those without, and he who had the most wealth, deserved the most power.

  Yennit was raised to kneel before King Desirmor as a willing disciple, and though he always felt conflicted about his father’s philosophies, it wasn’t until he met his wife, that his opinion truly changed.

  Dorothy was the daughter of a lower level noble who owned a moderate fleet of fishing vessels that docked out of Merrame Bay. They were only sixteen when they met, and he would smile for every day of his life whenever he thought about the first time he saw her brilliant sapphire eyes.

  He had gone in his father’s stead to handle a minor negotiation with Dorothy’s father over the price of seafood purchased by the Relador estate. Dorothy’s father had been a kind man, he could see that from the first, but he needed to heed his own father’s example and comport himself with a cold, humorless detachment. There was no room in negotiation for emotion. Throughout the talks, Dorothy stood at her father’s side, challenging him with her virulent stare.

  After the business was finished, she escorted him back to his horse. Unfazed by her obvious vehemence, Yennit wa
nted to see her again. She told him clearly that she found him rude and boorish, and quickly dismissed his invitation to join him for dinner. The rejection had been painful, but Yennit was not so easily dismayed.

  He found every excuse he could to ride into Merrame Bay, searching her out, and following her around like a lost puppy. After several months of enduring his dogged courtship, she finally agreed to meet him for a ride through the countryside. It was on that day that Yennit’s eyes had opened truly, for the first time.

  When he asked why she was so dismissive of his advances, Dorothy had very plainly explained her aversions to men who held philosophies like his. The Creator didn’t create money, she had told him. Man created money, and thereby, set the order of wealth, middle class, and poverty. She spoke fearlessly, and at length, about the horrors against humanity that Desirmor had wrought. Then, though in later years she would admit that she could never explain why she had spoken so openly with him that day, Dorothy told him about the Harvens and the imprisoned Princess, Harmony Alexidus.

  That conversation had set the course for the rest of his life. He found the lore of the Harvens fascinating. He became obsessed with history, making the collection of artifacts his passion. He married Dorothy and learned on the night of their wedding her most intimate secret. She was a living legend descended directly from the bloodline of Harmony Alexidus. The revelation had only deepened his already undying love for her. They had a son, Laurent, who gave them a granddaughter, Enaya, each carrying the weight of a prophecy, centuries old, on their shoulders.

  It was the thought of Enaya, his precious granddaughter, which had brought him down to his treasure room. In a moment of clarity, something he should have realized from the start, Yennit came to understand a very simple truth. If the prophecies were true, and he believed in them absolutely, then Enaya must be with the last Harven, guiding him on his path of destiny. This young man, Sim, as Maehril had named him, carried a heavy burden, and death and destruction would follow his every step. Enaya was strong, like her mother and her grandmother before her. She was smart, resourceful, and had been raised in preparation for her destiny. Yennit was confident that she would do well, but he feared for her life. Though he had seen only bits and pieces of the prophecy, nothing he had read ensured her survival. Who could say what ruin the Harven would cause on his path to his final confrontation with Desirmor? His heart went out to his beloved granddaughter, and he said a quiet prayer for her safety.