by C D Beaudin
Awyn walks into her room, closing the door to the hectic harem behind her. The wooden walls glow in the light of the crystal chandelier above her, but the windows bring in the most light, looking out onto the village. Wooden houses and huts are honeycombed around the hill, and some into the forest. People bustle outside, carrying baskets of fruit and cooking meat.
The room has a large tapestry mandala on one wall in vivid blues and purples, where the bed sits. A fire place nestles in the corner, empty. With the window open, a breeze sweeps in, and Awyn sits on the bed, a faded purple blanket spread out below her. She grabs her satchel from the bedside table and takes out a picture she drew. It came from the cell—she’d always had it with her in case she was ever released and couldn’t get to her drawer.
A picture drawn with coal, of her family. Her father’s handsome smile and eyes look at her, and beside him, her mother. It’s not as clear of a picture, since Adara spent most of her time in her room, alone. Awyn never understood it, but she knew she had been extremely depressed.
The memories when her mother was still alive were bittersweet ones.
“Allie! Did you make any cookies?” Awyn had asked, her small feet running to the tall counter. She’d climbed up on the stool and stood on her tiptoes to look over the counter, where Allie, the cook, had been preparing a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
“Awyn! You know these are for the nobles’ children. They have a tour of the palace today.” Allie, a young woman, had tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. She was Awyn’s favorite servant. But Awyn treated her more like a big sister.
“Can I still have just one?” Awyn had pleaded, looking up at Allie.
The servant had sighed, knowing she couldn’t resist Awyn’s pleas.
“All right, just one!” She handed her a golden-brown cookie, with chunks of nut and chocolate within it. “Now, go to Emmera, she’ll give you a glass of milk.” Awyn, with her six-year-old feet had skipped over to Emmera, another young cook.
“Hello, Princess. What may I do for you today?” she said, her red hair tousled in a messy up-do, grease shining on her forehead from cooking all day, cinder specks on her cheek.
“Allie said to ask you for a glass of milk.”
Emmera smiled, pouring the jar of milk into a pottery mug and handing it to Awyn. “Here you go.”
Awyn had taken it and sipped.
Suddenly she’d heard a loud thud. She’d dropped the mug, and it had shattered into little pieces, the milk spilling everywhere.
“Awyn!” Emmera yelped.
Awyn had started running out of the kitchen.
“Mother!” she’d screamed. She’d hurried up the stairs and through the door that opened to a large hallway, running as fast as she could around the corner. Awyn had passed George, an older guard, but her father’s good friend. She stopped, grabbing his arm. “Hurry! Come with me. Mother’s in trouble.” She hurried, holding onto George’s hand, running through the halls of the palace.
When she got to her mother’s room, she tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Her mother’s guard stopped her.
“The queen is not to be disturbed.”
George pushed him to the side, kicking down the door.
Awyn ran in, rushing behind the bed where her mother had lain, blood coming from her stomach, a dagger in her hand.
“Arghhh!” Awyn had wailed. “Mother. Wake up!” She’d shaken Adara’s shoulders. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Tears had fallen down her cheeks. “Mother!”
The guards rushed to her, and George had picked the queen up, running out of the room.
The other guard held Awyn’s hand. “She’ll be all right,” he’d said.
Awyn had looked up into his brown eyes. “How do you know that?”
The guard had said nothing, only squeezed her hand to reassure her.
Adara had been fine, thankfully. She’d made a good recovery physically. But her depression seemed to get much worse. She’d gone to see her brother shortly after she’d tried to kill herself. After that day, until she died, Adara didn’t spend much time with her daughter, and it strained their already fragile relationship. But Awyn never stopped loving her. She was her mother, after all.
Her mother and father each have a hand on her shoulders in the picture. Awyn presses it to her chest, a tear trickling down her cheek.
I still love you, Mother.
She sniffles, folding the picture, and putting it back into the satchel. Outside, the day is beginning to fade. Sleep. The thought of closing her eyes is daunting. After her first nightmare, Dreema made it so she wouldn’t dream. But the spell has worn off, and now her mind is vulnerable once again.
Will Zyadar try to win through my dreams? Or will he terrify me in my waking hours? Awyn grips her sword handle, still resting in the sheath at her belt. She closes her eyes. Raea. If you care for me at all, please protect my dreams as I sleep tonight. Please.
She walks out of her room, shutting the door behind her.
The night seems to be troubling for the entire group as she joins them in the workshop. They look at Awyn like she’s a rain storm, with lightning threatening to strike at any minute. Crashes of thunder could cause an earthquake if she moves even the slightest. The staring grows too intense for Awyn.
“Stop!” The yell surprises them. “Just stop!” She looks back down at her sword that she’s sharpening. She knows what they fear. Zyadar. Revera. The evil that seems to want her. But they shouldn’t be afraid since Awyn is the one having to bear it all. She sighs, looking up at them. “You don’t need to feel bad for me. I am strong. I can bear this burden. I always have, right?” She looks at Aradon. “I know you want to help, but even you know that there is nothing you can do.”
Her gaze shifts back to her sword. Her reflection blurs as a tear falls on the blade, and her eyebrows crinkle in confusion. She’s not crying. She’s not even tearing up. Why—
The tear morphs. An eye. The eye. It melts, engraving the blade with the outline of an iris and pupil. The mark is stark black. A shiver crawls down her spine. Before anyone sees the marking, she flips the sword over to the other side.
Glancing over at the others, they continue to sharpen their swords, and Saine is honing his arrows. Aradon completely ignores his, which seems weird to Awyn, but then she remembers that Toccama will be giving his weapon to him, whatever it is. Maybe she’ll ask him for his old bow.
“Saine, were you trained as a Red Warrior?” Awyn asks, curious and anxious to change the subject, though, by his expression it was the wrong choice.
He looks up at her, and Aradon looks like he’s stifling a laugh. “Uh, something like that.”
Awyn’s look indicates he needs to give her more information.
He sighs. “I was trained to fight from birth by my father, who was a Red Warrior.”
At this, Aradon looks surprised and is now content to listen.
“He didn’t want me to be trained by the Master. So he trained me himself. I was killing before I got chest hair,” Saine says, a hint of pain in his voice.
“Who was your father, if I may be so bold?” Awyn asks.
Saine looks uncomfortable, but he answers, “Rosh.”
Aradon’s jaw tenses, but it’s Eldowyn who exclaims, “Wait, your father was the famous Marksman? He never missed a shot, even from a hundred yards away. He’s a legend!” the elf says.
“Yeah, he was a great man. My hero,” Saine says solemnly.
Aradon’s eyebrows furrow. “Was?”
Saine sighs. “He was killed. By another Red Warrior. He strayed away from the Red Warrior customs and rights. So he was killed off,” Saine says painfully.
Aradon stands up abruptly. He walks away, looking somewhat steamed, Awyn notices.
Hagard looks up from his ax. “He’s like dat many a times. He just goes off witout sayin’ nutin’.”
They all look at the dwarf. Saine puts the last arrow in the sheath, and jumps off the wooden tab
le, walking through the stables and out after Aradon.
He finds the Red Warrior agitated outside the stables. The light from inside glows behind them through the open doors, with neighing and hooves banging.
“Aradon—”
The Red Warrior scoffs. “I will never be able to get away from my past, will I?” He looks at Saine. “I never knew he was someone’s father. Back then I didn’t even care. I had a mission, I took it, I completed it. I always completed the mission. And at the end of the day, I was the one with blood on my hands, and they were the ones who slept like babies.”
Saine leans against the wooden post. “The Red Warriors—the trainers and masters, at least—they just want others to do their dirty work. I knew the first time I met you, that you were the one who killed my father. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to tear your head off.”
Aradon chuckles, making Saine smile. “But I didn’t. We both learned when fighting is necessary and when it isn’t. Even now, I don’t kill unless I have to…most of the time.” He grabs an apple from a barrel, cutting a piece off with one of his many knives he keeps on his person.
Saine ponders a thought. “You know sometimes people just irritate you. I mean it would be so much quieter to just slit their throat.” He takes a bite of the apple. “Of course, I am a man now, and that would be immature.” He swallows. “Mm, juicy.” He walks back into the stables, tossing the apple into a stall for a horse to eat.
The moonlight shines over the bow, illuminating the bronze in the light. The stone pillar has a bed of silk fabric where the bow rests. The bronze sparkles, and the twelve arrows around it gleam. The elder picks up the arrows, one by one, putting them in a sheath. Another elder gently picks up the bed of silk, not touching the bow.
Dreema accompanies them as they walk silently through the woods, where the bow had lain guarded for safekeeping. The sound of drums grows louder and louder as they near the city. The green grass is cast with the silver glow of the crescent moon above, with trees on either side as they cut through the woods.
Crowds line their pathway as they walk through the village. The steady, haunting sound of the drums are loud as they make their way up the hill to the hall. The doors are open, and inside the hall, torches are lit, and many servants, guards, elders, princesses, and wives line the walls. Toccama sits on his throne, his son and eldest daughter beside him. Dreema falls away to stand off to the side with Awyn, Eldowyn, and Hagard.
Aradon himself stands next to the chief, waiting for his legendary weapon. As the two elders approach, they kneel before the chief. Aradon walks to them with his cloak fastened, ready for the ceremony. Dreema watches as his fingers brush over the smooth, cold bronze. Aradon picks it up, power seeming to rush through him. He grabs an arrow and walks behind the elders, aiming the bow out of the hall door. He bends it with no effort, as if it was regular wood, and lets the arrow fly into the air.
Clapping fills the hall, and the drums continue on.
Toccama stands, announcing, “The Bowman has returned!”
Chapter Nineteen
Servants cower silently as Revera thunders down the halls of the palace, her black dress trailing behind her. Her hair hangs loosely down her back with the crown of silver, red-painted leaves on her head.
The purpose of her visit is not one Tamon will enjoy. Her vision was clear; he’s going to die. Revera must make sure of that if her plan is going to proceed further. She can’t kill him herself, unless she wants all potential servants to be frightened off.
She turns the corner, heading toward the throne room at the end of the white corridor. Guards stand straighter when she passes, and servants shrink into children. She bursts through the doors, finding Tamon on his throne…sleeping.
“Tamon. Wake up!” she yells, storming up to the throne, slapping his face, and waking him in a flurry of surprise.
“What? Revera! When will you stop thundering into my palace—into my rooms?”
Revera has no patience for him, but she must summon some if he is to trust her, like all those years ago. “I have come to warn you the heir to Nomarah is destined to kill you. I had a vision of this…unfortunate, happening.”
“And this man is going to kill me?” Tamon gasps.
Revera sighs. “My goodness, you’re a quick one.” He’s no doubt frightened and angry, because he thought he was immortal now he’s king and has a sorceress on his side.
He paces on the marble dais, where the two thrones sit. The throne room of Kevah is empty, save the king and the sorceress. “Well, I need to double every guard in the city, and at Vergo’s Pass!”
“Doubling the guard won’t be of any use, Tamon. They will be able to sneak in here like rats in the winter.” She walks over to him. “No, Lord Tamon. Doubling the guards won’t be enough.”
“It’s King. King Tamon.”
Revera rolls her eyes in disgust. “Whatever. Being ‘king’ won’t help you much when a sword is stuck in your chest!”
Tamon turns an ugly shade of purple in his fury. “What would you have me do? Triple the guards? Four times as many? Five times?” With no answer from her, Tamon rubs his temples, looking truly worried now. “Surely not six times as many as I have now.”
“Tamon, you need not double, triple, or however many times to add to your guard.” She turns to him. “You only need one warrior to protect you. A warrior who will have precedence over our friends who want to destroy us.”
“Who? Who is that great of a warrior?” Tamon asks, pleading with Revera.
She smiles, a new plan forming in her mind.
“You want me to guard Tamon?” Kepp says, a chicken wing in his hand. The dinner table is spread out with a feast, and Revera sits at the other end.
“Why wouldn’t I? You are the best warrior I’ve ever known,” she flatters him, and Kepp scoffs.
“Now we both know that’s a lie. I’m good, but not good enough to beat my brother, and a Red Warrior.”
“I disagree. I think you would be fine. And plus—”
“Okay, Revera? I’m a much better liar than you are, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here” Kepp asks, dropping the wing on his plate.
Revera sighs. “Fine. Tamon is not taking care of Mera, he is destroying it. If he dies, it wouldn’t be the end of my plans, since they extend far beyond Mera.” She leans in closer. “I tell him you are the best, he believes us, and you protect him. That Red Warrior, and brother of yours come storming in, swords ready. Tamon dies, it’s a weight off my shoulders.”
Kepp bites a small, steamed carrot. “Sounds good to me. Only, what are we going to do with the Delcah?” he asks.
Revera sits back, a smile on her face. “Let’s make him watch. Could be good sport if one of them dies in the process.”
Kepp nods but has a thought. “There is the matter of the princess.”
Revera groans. “Oh, how did I forget about her! Well, I suppose we can just kill her. That was my plan all along, except that stupid Tamon didn’t have the guts to do it nine years ago.”
“Good plan.” Kepp absentmindedly bites into the chicken.
The stables are busy with soldiers. Within them is the armory, which is surprisingly vast with different kinds of weapons and armor.
“We may look like a simple village, but when it comes to battles, we are fully equipped,” Toccama had said earlier that day.
Aradon walks through. Soldiers sharpen swords and spears, others clean armor, the shiny metal glinting in the sun from the large open door. Grooms tend to the horses, while the clang and hiss of the fire and water sound as the blacksmiths fix old and create new weapons.
He walks to a wooden table, where a set of armor and a sword is laid out for him. They won’t be leaving until tomorrow but getting a feel for the armor is something Aradon has always done when he’s fought in battles.
He slips on the chainmail, securing it tightly with a thick leather belt. And buckles up the left and right shoulder spaulders, the picture of
the white lotus painted on the metal surface. Slipping on the bevor, the metal covers his mouth, and he grabs his sword.
His boots slide across the floor—the leather making them slippery as he gracefully practices his swordsmanship. It’s a dance, the sword the deadly partner. People start to watch, the way his feet move silently, and his arms flow through the air, the sword quiet, but willing to slash or stab any enemy.
With a clang he drops his sword and grabs the bow from its holder slung over his shoulder. Grasping an arrow from the sheath, he lets it fly against the wooden back wall where the arrow pierces the wood. Aradon takes a short breath, straightening up. He puts the bow in the metal hold, and the dance is over.
As he takes his armor off, Sefa approaches him. “My soldiers will follow you into any battle, you know that, don’t you?” she asks as she unbuckles his left spaulder. “They will die for you.”
With this, Aradon looks at her. “I do not ask them to die for me, but for Awyn.” They eye each other for a moment, but Aradon turns back to his sword, cleaning it.
“But it is you they have allegiance to. Not the Princess of Mera. My father may love his late friend, but you are their king.” Sefa gently touches his arm. “My king.” She kisses his cheek.
He turns to her, his hands on her small shoulders. “I could be leading your father, brother, and people to their deaths. We may not be fighting Revera, but Tamon won’t give up his throne easily.”
“Tell me, why are you doing this?” she says thoughtfully.
Aradon regards her, thinking for a moment. “I am doing it because I have a duty to my friend. I feel like we have both been through a lot, and if I can somehow help her redeem herself, then I can too.”
Sefa smiles. “Then remember that when you have doubts. Where you go, we go. What you fight for, we will fight for, also. Trust in us. We are your family.”
A small smile spreads across Aradon’s lips. “What I said before, about Toccama not being my father. I was wrong. He may not be blood, but he raised me into a new man when I was too ashamed to go to my real father. I will be proud if he thinks of me as his son.”
