by C D Beaudin
The crowd separates for them, the travelers walking through. Aradon keeps his hood over his face so no one sees him.
They walk on a dirt path up a hill. The hall of the Tanea rests on the top, in the center of the village. It’s not a big hill, but it looks over the entire city.
The wooden architecture is ornate, the dark oak wood smoothed down and carved by an expert craftsman. Blue paint lines the door frame in intricate designs. Two guards, wearing red wraps, their muscular figures standing tall, open the doors for them.
Inside the hall, rugs of every color rest on the wooden floor. Rounded pillars hold up the tall roof, more blue designs painted on the surface.
I have a feeling blue is the color of the chief. Awyn thinks as she looks at all the bright blue designs. At the top of the pillars, purple flags hang between the twelve pillars, a picture of a white lotus sewn into the fabric.
Guards and servants stare as they walk through the hall. Tables with bountiful food sit, and pitchers of wine are in the hands of the servants. Four doors at the front of the hall rest on each side of a wooden throne, with a white lotus painted on the head. Exotic animal skins hang over the back and arms of the throne, black and white stripes on one and coarse fur with brown spots on another. Smaller, shorter seats are beside the throne, pillows, colorful sheets, and pelts lay atop the wooden slates.
No doubt where his wives sit. Awyn’s attention is captured elsewhere when a drum beats. At the front of the room in the right corner, a drummer stands. A door is opened by a guard, and out walks the chief.
His skin is hazel, hair black as a crow’s wings, and as long as his shoulder blades. Jewels hang from his neck, and large, golden cuffs are around his wrists. The large man wears a tribal patterned wrap, and he takes a comfortable seat on the plush throne.
Following him are no doubt his five wives, for they wear beautifully made gowns of different colors, and jewels hang around their brows and necks, earrings and bracelets decorate their ears and wrists. Rings of different sizes sparkle in the candlelight of the chandelier above them. Their skin sparkles as if they were elves. They take their seats on either side of the chief.
“Chief Toccama, these travelers have business with you.” Ojaylac bows, standing aside, joining the rest of the elders who stand at the right wall.
The chief looks at them. “What brings you to our tribe during wartime?” His voice is powerful and booming. His eyes flit to and from the cloaked Aradon.
“My Great Chief, I am Dreema. We have come a far distance, all the way from Thasoe.”
“Thasoe? That is a distance,” the chief agrees.
Dreema steps forward. “I and the dwarf are new to their troop, but the elf, the man, and the girl have faced many troubles.” He steps aside, indicating Awyn to step forward.
She looks at the chief, and nervously swallows. “I am Awyn, Your Majesty. I have come all the way from Kevah.”
Gasps fill the hall. “Kevah?” Toccama repeats with a challenging tone.
“Yes, Great Chief. I have come on behalf of my father and my kingdom.”
Murmurs and surprised voices fill Awyn’s ears. “So, the rumor is true. The Princess of Mera has escaped.” His face is softer.
“Yes, but, Chief, I have come to ask a fav—” Before she can ask the chief for his army, Aradon steps in front of her.
“Great Chief, we have not come to ask anything of you, only for the bow and arrow of the Bowman.”
A second round of gasps arise, this time from the chief as well, and his eyebrows furrow.
“Who are you to ask for such a dangerous weapon? Who are you to wield it!” His voice has anger in it now.
Aradon takes a deep breath and rips off his hood. One of the wives yelps, and the servants panic. Guards rush to him, grabbing his arms. The chief is standing now, fury and astonishment in his eyes.
“I have come to claim what is mine!” Aradon demands.
“You demand nothing of me. You come in here with your hood drawn, hiding your shameful identity, and you make demands to the man who was your father for six years!”
“You are not my father. Stop pretending that you are. I am Aradon, son of Hared, grandson of Egar. You will show respect for the King of Nomarah!” Aradon’s outburst surprises the crowd, and it even looks like it takes him by surprise.
The hall is silent, only the sound of Aradon’s and Toccama’s harsh, angry breathing can be heard. Eldowyn’s eyes are wide, for he probably never knew this fact about his friend. The chief looks at him and does something unexpected. He bows, and the rest of the hall follows him.
“I am sorry, My King. I was out of line.” He repents, and Aradon nods.
“I am sorry for my outburst. It was not appropriate,” the Red Warrior states.
The ones who bow, straighten up, and the chief takes a seat.
Aradon levels his eyes with that of the chief’s. “If you wish me to leave, I will go swiftly and quietly, but I wish you would not disregard my friend because of my unkingly actions.” Even as the king, Aradon shows respect to authorities.
The chief looks over to Awyn. “Princess, is it my army you seek? To win back your kingdom?”
Awyn, still shocked at the way they treated Aradon when he yelled, is caught off guard. “Y-yes, Great Chief.”
Understanding floods his eyes. “Then I will let Aradon stay here, and I will give him his bow when it comes time, I promise.” He walks to Awyn, placing his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eyes. “Daron was a good friend of mine. I will do anything for his daughter.”
Tears fall down Awyn’s cheek. Her own friend, Neodyn, couldn’t spare his army for her, but this wiser, older, friend of the family, is willing to help her.
“Thank you.”
The sun is higher as the morning turns to afternoon. A cool breeze blows through the city. Tapestries whip in the wind and dresses and wraps snap and fold. Aradon hoists the saddle off his horse. Awyn unbuckles her satchel, taking out a map. On the map is everywhere she has been, a keepsake a guard gave her when she was in the cell. On it is almost every town and city in Mera. Also, some of her recent travels in the Dark Woods, Thasoe, Kawa Valley, Arleaand— which isn’t shown on the map, probably because it was believed to be a myth. And now the Tanea. She puts a red ‘x’ by the name. As she folds her map, putting it in the leather satchel, swinging it over her bag, a voice cries from the village.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” The voice is young, and female. Awyn scans the village, trying to see who it came from. The voice rings out again, “Where is he?”
This takes Aradon’s attention. Still holding the saddle, he walks out from between the horses, also looking for the voice.
Through a small crowd, someone shoves. When the figure is seen, a beautiful girl emerges. Her hair as black as Awyn’s, drops to her waist. Her skin, hazel, her eyes, bright gold, with small specks of white. Blue designs are painted on her chin, forehead, and on her hands. She wears a red, white, and orange patterned skirt, and a tight red top that reveals her abdomen. Her eyes are wide, and she stares right at Aradon.
The Red Warrior drops his saddle.
“Aradon?” Her voice is sweet, but seems unsure, as if she’s in a dream. “Aradon!”
“Sefa!” he calls. She runs to him, jumping into his arms. With her arms around his neck, and her hand gripping the back of his head, she smiles. Her legs are wrapped around his waist. They look at each other, smiling, and their lips touch. Awyn watches as they break their kiss, and Aradon smiles like she’s never seen him smile before.
He’s in love.
Chapter Seventeen
The night sky is vast with stars, the moon full. By the ocean, the full moon always lasts a night longer. A giant fire flames, a common tradition among tribes. Girls dance around the flames, twirling different colored scarves.
Awyn agrees with the common observation that Sefa is the prettiest of all the girls in Tanea. Her mother was Toccama’s favorite wife, and she
bore two children, his oldest child and only son, Errek, and his oldest daughter, Sefa. Her golden eyes take after her mother, the rare coloration dating back to the Second Age, when the legend says the elves made golden statues of people, and then Lord Aiocille brought them to life. Not all Taneans are blessed with the color of gold, but the legend remains the same.
Her black, curly hair dances while her feet move rhythmically to the sound of the drums. A purple scarf in her hand, she twirls and whips it, her movements streaming smoothly together like a river. Her eyes glow in the firelight.
Aradon watches her, his smile seeming to be permanent—it hasn’t disappeared since they reunited. He lounges on a bed of pillows and rugs, where the royal family is situated on occasions such as these. Errek sits next to him, his own wife sitting beside him.
“You left in quite a hurry, last time,” Errek says loudly, the music and laughter nearly drowning him out.
“I had no choice, since I sort of destroyed half the village,” Aradon replies, his usual distant tone gone.
A booming laugh comes from Errek. “True. My father was livid. If you were not the king, he probably would have killed you.”
Both of them laugh at this.
Awyn sees something in Aradon she hasn’t seen before. Happiness. I mean, he’s laughed and smiled, but now his eyes are lit up.
Next to her, Dreema watches the dance, clapping and laughing, one of Sefa’s sisters feeding him a cluster of grapes.
Awyn leans over to him. “Why are the people here so loyal to Nomarah?” she asks.
He glances at her, still clapping to the rhythm of the music. “In the late Second Age, Aradon’s family had built up a small army. Tregan, he was the heir at that time. When the Tanea were under attack by the warlord Zaroon, he gave up his chance at Nomarah’s throne, and fought for their safety and freedom. The battle was won in favor of the Tanea, but Tregan was killed in battle. Ever since then, the Tanea have showed great respect and loyalty to the kings of Nomarah.” Aylah, the princess serving Dreema, drops a green grape into the wizard’s mouth.
Eldowyn watches this exchange on the other side of Dreema, his own princess beside him. A silly grin is on his face, a grin Awyn has never seen the elf emit. She feels a set of hands clutch hers and sees Sefa above her.
“Dance!” she says, joyfully.
Before Awyn can refuse, she is twirled into the dance, a scarf in her hands. She stands there, eyes wide, feeling horribly awkward. She has only danced on her father’s feet when she was a child. Awyn looks over to see Aradon, Dreema, and the elf all looking at her in amusement. She glances over at Hagard, who is drunk to the point of no return, laughing along with a table of equally inebriated men. She looks back at the three watching her, and a smirk slinks across her face.
Determined to prove them wrong, she takes the scarf, twirling it in the air as she moves her feet to the music. Her arms flow as a breeze rushes through, the giant flames blowing. Her hair dances along with her movements, the flow as graceful as an eagle in the sky, plastering awe on the faces of her friends who had laughed. She knows she’s good. Really good.
When she bounces back to her seat, out of breath, they all stare at her.
“What was that?” Eldowyn asks.
Awyn looks at him, a smile on her face. “Hey, you were the ones laughing. I never said I was a bad dancer.” At least she hadn’t out loud.
“I just never thought you would be the dancer type,” Eldowyn says.
Awyn scoffs. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Eldowyn’s lips grow thin, eyes wide.
“I think what our elf friend means is that you are more of a…warrior, than a dancer,” Aradon chimes in.
Awyn isn’t sure whether to be offended or not. She narrows her eyes coyly. “I certainly hope that’s a compliment.” She forces a smile, and yawns purposely. “Well, on that note, I’m going to head to bed. My guess is that we’ll have a big day ahead of us.” She stands up, just as Sefa sits down, the princess snuggling up against Aradon. “Thanks, Sefa.” She smiles, for real, this time.
“For what?” She looks up, her golden eyes blazing with the firelight.
“For giving Aradon some joy.” She glances at Aradon. “I’m glad one of us has found happiness.” She turns, pushing down the deep seed of jealousy inside her. Not of Sefa, but for Aradon.
Every shred of happiness is torn away from me. But he seems to have found it. And I’m glad for him, even if I wish the joy could be mine.
Morning comes, and Aradon rolls over on the bed, seeing Sefa beside him. Her black hair is sprawled over her back and shoulder, only the strap of her light blue, satin nightdress visible. He wraps his arm around her and feels her breathe.
“Good morning,” he says gently. He lifts his arm as she turns to face him, resting her head on her hand, the other on Aradon’s arm.
“Good morning.” She smiles, then sighs. “I missed this. I missed you.” Her eyes are sad, and Aradon’s guilt floods back.
“I didn’t want to leave you, but I was worried for your safety.”
She shifts closer to him. “But I’m safe when I’m with you.”
“No. I am unpredictable. Being a Besged is dangerous. It has qualities I haven’t discovered.” His bluntness doesn’t faze her.
Sefa places her hand on his cheek. “You are too serious. You worry too much.” She kisses him. “Stop protecting everyone.”
Aradon knows he will have to leave again. He leans closer, kissing her. When they break, he looks back into her golden eyes.
“Let’s just spend the time we have together. We can worry another time,” she says, and a small smile spreads across her lips.
“Okay.” He relents. They touch foreheads, staying in the moment for a little longer.
Awyn steps out of the wooden bath, wrapping the purple robe around her. The servants here laid out a set of clothes for her to wear. She pulls on the violet skirt, and a tight blue and white patterned top that doesn’t cover all of her torso. Not at all the Meran style, making Awyn slightly uncomfortable—but now’s hardly the time to feel awkward.
Awyn walks over to the mirror, tying half of her hair in an up-do, the rest hanging down, curly and silky. She ties a pair of leather sandals onto her feet, and grabs her sword, closing the door as she leaves her room.
Outside, she walks out to the army grounds, where the soldiers practice daily. She spies a thick, short wooden pole. Slash marks are cut into the wood. She looks at her sword, and with pent up rage she swings it at the pole, cutting into it. She beats it over and over again, the sword cutting farther and farther into it each time.
Suddenly the stake morphs into Revera, and Awyn stumbles back in surprise.
Her lips curve in a smile. “Hello, Awyn. Lovely to see you again.”
Awyn remembers the raspy voice. “Revera.” Awyn blinks, thinking she’s hallucinating. When she opens her eyes, Revera is still there. “You are playing with my head, right?” She grips the sword, her knuckles turning white.
“Why would I play with your mind? I’m as real as you are.” Her smile morphs into something wicked. “Or him.”
Awyn’s brow furrows, and she looks behind her, seeing the purple eye. Sweat starts leaking from her pores. She turns back to Revera.
A taunting laugh comes from those blood red lips.
“Are you trying to destroy me?” she yells. When will this torment end? “Must I die to finally have peace?”
Revera smiles. “Now you’re getting it.”
Awyn turns from her, avoiding eye contact with the purple demon behind her. If this war is to end in her death, she’s going to die fighting. “If you are as real as I am.” She looks at her father’s former courtier. “Then this won’t hurt.” In a flash Awyn slashes the sword across Revera’s stomach.
The elf stands there, silent, eyes wide. Revera shakes, looking down. Blood seeps through her ice-blue dress. Her jaw tightens, and she falls, her body disappearing.
Awyn, sh
aking herself, looks behind her in fear, seeing the eye staring at her.
“Are you Zyadar?” she asks, probably opening a world of trouble for herself just by saying his name.
“Yes.” The demonic voice rings in her head.
She gulps, knowing she’s face to face with the start of evil.
“Then I tell you this. I am not afraid anymore. I have no fear left.” She knows her face betrays her words, but something inside her rings true. She isn’t afraid to die, at least not right now. Maybe someday. But right now, she will remain fearless. “So go ahead, give me nightmares. You can’t destroy me so easily.” Though, she can’t see it, she can almost feel him smile.
“Challenge accepted.” In a puff the eye disappears, a scorch mark of a circle below where the eye hovered. She turns away from it, the wooden pole’s back with the slash marks where Awyn cut Revera shown on the wood. When Awyn blinks, she can see the bright, glowing purple eye. She wrenches her eyes open.
What have I done?
Eldowyn, Dreema, Hagard, and Aradon are on the dirt road at the base of the hill. Awyn walks up to them, sheathing her sword, wiping Revera’s blood off her hands on her skirt. The skirt turns black as the crimson clashes with the bright shade of violet purple. But the blood is still stained pink on her hands.
“Awyn, we were about to go up to the hall and plan our atta…” Eldowyn’s voice trails off as he sees her hands. The four of them stare at the bloodstains.
“What…is that?” Eldowyn asks, probably knowing very well what it is, but wanting to hear the reason behind it.
“Um, blood. I was practicing my swordsmanship when...” She stops. They will think I’m crazy. Last time it was just a dream, now it’s real. “When I accidentally cut myself.”
“You cut…yourself? With your sword?” Aradon asks.
Sure, it’s not a common injury, but she had to come up with something.
“Awyn, if there is something wrong, you may tell us,” Dreema states, inquiry in his voice.
