by Niki Florica
The cavern felt suddenly cold.
Aradin stood with a creak of leather and crossed the cavern to the far wall, where he paused to place an effervescent hand upon the stone. As if on command, the wall blazed to life; flowery, silver runes appeared at his touch and wove across the stone like threads unravelling. The runes were Skyad but the words were Adamun, exotic and beautiful in the silvery, ethereal script. The moment Kyrian’s eyes touched the wall, they sounded to life in his head, deep and rolling, rising and falling, a chant in a voice that was not his own while Aradin watched him, silent.
He who bears the Sword of Kings, unworthy of its power,
Shall suffer righteous judgment by Aradin’s icy fire,
But he who bears the Sword of Kings, with heart of Silver-Green,
Shall bear the world to utter peace as loyal have foreseen.
When darkness falls o’er land and sky and dying is the earth,
And Silver hope forgotten lies aside forgotten mirth,
When tyrant king in silence waits upon a wicked throne,
And dark hearts fester darker while the loyal wait, alone,
When kingdom cries and kinship dies, and death’s dark blade is near,
‘Tis then that, born of fear and love, the chosen shall appear.
With bloodied hands the Heir shall flee his home amid the Skies,
And find the strength of tainted veins within a traitor’s eyes.
He alone shall claim the throne from evil tyrant hidden,
And he alone shall taste, untouched, the waters long forbidden.
With Sword in hand, across the land shall journey chosen king,
Aside a creature tempting death in silent suffering.
Through pain and love, and bitter death shall come the blood of legends,
To unite a kingdom rent by blood and restore peace to the heavens.
He who bears the Sword of Kings, unworthy of its power,
Shall suffer, flesh and spirit, by Aradin’s icy fire,
But he who bears the Sword of Kings, the chosen of the Skies,
Shall bear the world to utter peace when Blood of Legends rise.
The prophecy of Aradin drew to a close, its last whispers rippling into silence as the Woodsman’s eyes gleamed with power. It was his foretelling, his covenant—the promise left to all his followers when he had ceased to walk among them in physical form. Melkian had heard it once, long ago, though he remembered only fragments, the rest long forgotten. Kyrian had memorized them, when each new day had dawned in hope of the coming of the Heir, the one who would free them, destroy Tasnil, and reclaim the throne. If only Melkian had remembered the rest. Then he would have known.
Bloodied hands.
Forbidden waters.
A heart of Silver-Green.
Kyrian clutched the cavern floor as the world swam dizzyingly before his eyes.
The Heir of Ariad. The bearer of the Sword of Kings. Aradin . . . the Woodsman . . . He thought—
“It is you, Kyrian.”
He choked, shook his head, tried to drown the voice in a thousand protests as Aradin stepped nearer, terrible and fierce and all-consuming in glowing, golden majesty.
Impossible to refuse. But more so to accept. Surely he could not mean what his eyes and voice and hands seemed so clearly to be saying, to be demanding. What the prophecy itself had foretold.
Surely Kyrian of the Rain Realm—warrior, half-blood, outcast—could not be the Heir of Ariad.
“The time has come, Kyrian,” Aradin declared, larger somehow, as if the cavern had reduced in his splendour. “More than twenty years in the shadow of the Usurper, my kingdom has endured. Many who once believed have lost faith, and some who were once without faith now cling to my promise of deliverance. Tasnil’s days of darkness draw now to an end, where all ties shall meet in a final battle to rival the Dawn of Days. You, Kyrian, are the instrument of my inevitable victory. You shall bring freedom to our world.”
Kyrian stared at him, half-senseless with disbelief and abnegation. “No,” he breathed, shaking on hands and knees, face turned to the glow of the King. “No, I will not. I am not the Heir. I cannot be the Heir. You seek someone else, someone stronger, my King. Surely there is another in this world with faith greater than mine—someone who has not wronged you as I have. There must be someone else!”
“There is no other.”
“It cannot be me! Woodsman—Aradin—I am a murderer. I fled Rosghel to escape my own execution. I am a fugitive of the Storm Lord and my own people, and you ask me to return to them? To demand their allegiance, after all I have done?” He pleaded with his stare. Implored. “You ask me to be their king?”
Aradin gazed at him, undaunted. “You are not a murderer, Kyrian. Not anymore. Considering yourself through the lens of your sin shall only taint the gift.”
Kyrian drew a ragged breath, struggled for words, conceded. “Forgive me, my King,” he said at last, bowing his head again. “But you must understand. I may be pardoned in your eyes, but my people, the Storm Lord . . . to them I am still a murderer and a fugitive. To them I am still deserving of death, and . . .” He trailed away, willing himself to breathe, suddenly dizzy with groundless fear.
Aradin’s gaze softened, if slightly. “And?”
His jaw clenched, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse, low, and breaking with shame. “I am not my father,” he whispered to the stone. “I am not noble, not valiant, not selfless. I did not flee my sister and Melkian to obey your command, my King. I fled to protect myself.” He cringed, closing his eyes against a film of tears. “I have always protected myself.”
Leather creaked, heat blazed against his bowed head, and once again Aradin King of Ariad lowered himself to Kyrian’s pitiful state. “Not always.”
Kyrian hesitated, then dared to look up. Aradin was smiling at him. Not as a King to a crumbling, broken mortal no worthier than dust, but lovingly, compassionately, intimately. Like a father to a prodigal son. “I know what you have done, Kyrian,” he said softly. “All of it. I was there.”
Kyrian could only stare and breathe.
“I watched you surrender your day’s ration of melsith for a raving miner to whom you owed nothing. I watched you risk both pain and pride for the protection of the same defenceless creature. I watched you fight, and bleed, and hesitate upon the threshold of death, and I watched you break. Strike after strike, memory after memory, wound after bitter wound. I was there. Always there. Then, now, always.” A pause, and his face glowed brighter. “You think yourself unworthy, Kyrian, but you do not see as I do. I have watched you fight a war from childhood for your father’s name and mine. I have seen you risk all for the defence of the innocent, against the ways of your people. It began with children, but it shall end with Ariad.” He paused, thoughtful and proud with fatherly love. “Kyrian, you do not know your value in this world, but I do, and I have crafted this purpose with only you in thought. You are not your father. This is true. You are weak where he was strong . . . but you are also strong where he was weak. I do not err in my choosing, Kyrian. The truth remains that I have chosen you.”
Kyrian shook his head. Stared at his hands. Allowed the unshakable words of Ariad’s King and Creator to sink irrevocably into his mind, his heart, his blood. He despised himself, now more than ever, for doubting the existence of the King, for questioning Melkian’s faith and fighting so long to be Skyad that he no longer knew what it meant. No longer knew who he was.
He swallowed and clenched his teeth in grim determination. “I cannot do it alone.”
“And you need not.” Aradin stood and extended a hand to pull Kyrian to his feet, sending a surge of hot power through his veins and down his spine. “Rosghel has drifted far since your escape two nights past. It is now to the west, across the river, and moving swiftly toward the Azure Sea. Much land lies between you and the skyladder, land you do not know. Journey north. Find Rydel of Robinsdwel, your brother.”
“I have no brother.”
Aradin’s eyes glinted. “His grandfather was Camuel the Robin, a loyal follower and a messenger of mine. Camuel was a great warrior and friend, the first Green to walk upon the clouds, but his grandson may yet eclipse his legacy. Trust him.” Straightening, he gestured for Kyrian to retrieve the Sword of Kings from its place upon the cavern floor. “You must be strong, Kyrian, and rely upon my power which lies within the Sword of Kings. Your journey shall be difficult, laden with a pain you cannot now imagine, but I shall be with you as I have been with you since the day my servant Brondro left the Skies.” His voice was firm, noble, but it held a subtle softness that reminded Kyrian dimly of hazel eyes, flashing smiles, and laughter in the dark. “Do not fear, Kyrian. Do not doubt. With my strength, nothing is impossible. You are of greater importance now than you shall ever know, but rely upon my power, remember who you are, and you shall not fail. That is a promise.” He winked. “I always keep my promises.”
Kyrian nodded, unconvinced, but heartened by the faith of his Creator. “I shall try, my King.”
“Good.” Aradin straightened, folded his arms, and suddenly he was not a golden King but a dusty, brown-clad Woodsman, soiled with red dirt and smiling through bright hazel eyes. “Your father awaits you beyond the cavern’s entrance,” he finished, his voice soft and bright again, like simmering laughter. “He has waited long for this day, my Brondro. A Man after my own heart.”
Kyrian stooped to retrieve the Sword of Kings, jolting as a hot surge of power flooded his veins at the touch. When he stood the Woodsman was waiting, a leather sheath in hand. “The Sword must be protected from unwelcome eyes,” he explained. “By journey’s end all the world shall know of the rising of the Heir, but for now secrecy is your ally. As long as the Heir and the Sword remain unknown, you shall hold the advantage of surprise.”
Kyrian sheathed the Sword and tied the belt to his waist, dimly aware that he belonged that way, with a weapon at his side and a purpose in his heart. He still wore his black Rosghel silks, embossed with the proud insignia, and was thankful now that his father had not yet found him Adamun clothing. He would hardly feel a warrior without them.
The Sword’s glow dulled in the sheath to a dim, silvery sheen, casting the cavern into shadow once again. “My King,” he said at last to the dusty, all-seeing Woodsman, “will we meet again?”
Laughter in the dark. Soft, light, and dancing with humour. “We shall, indeed, Kyrian. I am never far from you. Simply seek and you shall find. I am always there.”
He allowed himself an almost-smile and dipped his head in reverence. “I still do not understand.”
“No.” The Woodsman gazed at him. “Not yet, perhaps, but you will. For now, you must take solace in the knowledge that you, and no other, are chosen. I do not make mistakes, Kyrian. You shall understand this before the end.”
“There will be an end, then?”
The Woodsman’s grin widened. “That is for Kyrian of the Rain Realm to decide.” He sobered. “Remember who you are, Kyrian. Look to the past for the answers of the future, trust in me, trust in my servants and you shall understand. I created you, I chose you, and I am with you. Then, now, always.”
Kyrian nodded. The Woodsman’s face shone.
He blinked, and he was alone.
Nine
And Moses went and returned to Jethro his father in law, and said unto him, Let me go, I pray thee, and return unto my brethren which are in Egypt, and see whether they be yet alive. And Jethro said to Moses, Go in peace.
-Exodus 4:18
Brondro was waiting at the mouth of the mines, perched on a boulder with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his hands, one knee pumping like bellows. Smoke was rising from the chimneys of the Adamun cabins behind his silhouette, into an azure sky washed golden by a dying sunset.
Kyrian raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare as he weaved through the fallen debris, smiling halfheartedly when his father’s gaze swung around to light upon him. Brondro stood, a thousand questions roiling in his brown eyes, but when he spoke they spilled from him in a statement, a fact, heavy with twenty years of waiting and two days of knowing. “It is, then. You. I thought it might be you.”
Kyrian’s feet stalled beneath him. He pressed a hand to a fallen boulder and drew a breath, fighting to bury the thought of the thousands, the suffering multitudes like his father and his people whose fates were now tied to this day. To him. The suffering faithful like his father, who had withered the last twenty years in wait for the mighty Heir to rise and spare them from death.
Twenty years of waiting, and all for Kyrian. Not a king. Not a legend.
Just him.
A steady hand grasped his arm and he opened his eyes to the face of his father, intense with conviction and wisdom that only a servant of Aradin could possess. “Do not think of the grand design,” he cautioned in his quiet, firm way. “It is not for us to know, and attempting to foresee the future of this world through our limited sight will only drown us in despair. The fate of Ariad belongs to Aradin. He knows what he is doing, and we are never entrusted with more than we can bear. Trust me, Kyrian.” He smiled wanly. “I know these things.”
Kyrian swallowed, drinking in the words and stowing them for the days ahead. “He spoke of a creature to the north. Rydel, a descendant of Camuel in Robinsdwel. Do you know of him?”
A shadow crossed his father’s face at the name, the flicker of a wound unhealed. “Yes,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I know of him. He’s the grandson of Camuel of Robinsdwel. Near to your age, I would think. I met him once, when with Camuel I came to Robinsdwel after fleeing the Skies with the Sword. He was a child then, little older than you and Salienne, but I remember he was something of a strange one.” He shrugged, a gesture of digression. “I remained in Robinsdwel until Camuel could guide me to the Adamun survivors, with whom I have remained to this day.”
“And Camuel?”
The shadow returned, and this time Brondro Tarmilis looked away. “Tasnil discovered our haven and sent a legion of warriors to destroy it, but Camuel knew of the attack and he came to our refuge to warn us. He fought by my side and refused to retreat even when the battle grew grim.” His hand rose to his neck, where hung a slender, silver chain that Kyrian had not before noticed. “Camuel surrendered his life for the Adamun that day, a debt I can never repay. I could never send word to his grandson for fear of Tasnil and his spies in the Lands. Not without endangering the Remnant further.”
He grimaced, dragging a hand over his face, and Kyrian waited, sensing a deep loss, a friendship that Melkian’s tales had left unspoken. Camuel was dead, then. A martyr for the cause of the King and of Men. He wondered if his guardian had known, or if the Robin messenger of Aradin had been forgotten beneath the treachery of Brondro Tarmilis and the lost Sword of Kings. Not even the grandson knew of his death.
Brondro drew a breath and released it, as if to anchor himself, before pulling the silver chain over his head and withholding it to Kyrian without ceremony. It shone dully in the faint light of dusk, gathered in a silver pool upon his Sword-burned palm. Unadorned, save for a single pendant—an emerald leaf, engraved with strange runes that Kyrian could not read. His father placed it in his palm and closed his fingers about the necklace. “It was Camuel’s,” he explained softly, reverently. “It is the rightful heirloom of his grandson, and if you should find him, I ask that you would give him his inheritance—” he paused, jaw flexing—“with my deepest regret. Tell him . . . tell him I wish I could have brought it myself.”
Kyrian opened his fingers to examine the chain, and blinked when he found something else in his palm—a corded leather pouch, tangled in the metal links. “What is this?” he asked.
His father tucked his hands beneath his arms and replied, “The last leaf of Angdeline, tree of light and healing. I have kept it for years, never quite knowing why.” He smiled. “I expect I have kept it for you.”
Kyrian pried the pouch open, his thumb grazin
g something soft and yellow curled against the leather. “When shall I use it?”
“In your hour of direst need. It belongs to the Heir now. You shall know the time.”
Kyrian examined the leaf for a moment, then slipped both cords over his neck and tucked the pouch and pendant beneath his collar. His father’s hands fell lamely to his sides. “Night will soon be upon us,” he said. “You have been hours within the mines . . . It would be wise to depart while there is yet light.”
Kyrian stared at him, realizing with the force of a fist to his ribs that somehow it was happening again. He was leaving again, vanishing again, not as a fugitive but as the bearer of a great purpose, as his father had before him, so many years ago. The Adamun village rested in drowsy silence against the red blaze of the gorge, and for a moment he wondered what his future would have held if the Sword of Kings had never touched his hand. If he would have set aside his warrior past, donned the forest garb of his father’s people, and lived the life of which he had once dreamed—with a father and a place, and a noble people willing to accept him as he was. Perhaps he could have been content here, as one of them, without a purpose or a calling, or the reason to bear a weapon at all.
One hand sought the Sword’s hilt and was met by a blaze of warmth.
Perhaps he would never know.
“Is it a long road to Robinsdwel?” he asked.
Brondro shook his head. “Less than a night’s journey as the river flows. But you must tread carefully. The North Wood has withered, but still teems with life. In the mist of the Nelduith you could travel unseen for as long as the distance to Robinsdwel.” He raised a brow. “How is your Skyad gift?”
Kyrian grimaced. “Weak.”
“I suppose I’m to blame for that as well.” Brondro raked his hair. “Forgive me for your Adamun blood, Kyrian, but you may be thankful for it before the end. All the same, until then—” he produced from behind the boulder a bundle of glimmering silver-white—“this may prove useful.”
A shred of a laugh tore from his throat as he unravelled his sky-cloak to study in the sunlight, strangely ethereal and exotically pure in this world of dust and stone. He felt his father’s eyes upon him as he clasped it over his chest and adjusted its weight on his shoulders, a Silver warrior once more. “Thank you.”
