“Nothing to worry about,” Torin said.
“You must think I’m as stupid as a snail,” Kerrik said.
Torin sidestepped him and headed to the trunk at the foot of his cot.
Kerrik followed him with crossed arms and a disgruntled face. “I’m a member of this family, too,” he said. “Just because I’m seven doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to know if something’s wrong.”
“It can wait, Kerrik,” Reiv said.
“You too?” Kerrik said. “You should be on my side.”
“What side would that be?” Reiv asked.
“The side that says we’re family and family shouldn’t keep secrets from each other! I sure don’t keep secrets from you, Reiv.”
Brina swept into the room. “What is wrong?” she asked with alarm. “It is not Dayn, is it?”
“No, Brina, it is not Dayn,” Reiv assured her.
Reiv turned his attention to Torin who was gathering up personal items and shoving them into a bag. “Torin…you may as well tell the boy. There is no way to keep it from him."
Torin paused, his back rigid. He tossed the bag onto the cot. “Very well,” he said. “Farris is dying of the fever, Kerrik. And Mya is very ill. I’m going there to take care of them, and Nely and Gem.”
“Farris…dying?” Kerrik’s eyes filled with tears. “Will you get sick, too?”
“I have every intention of coming back safe and sound. Mya and Farris need a friend by their side, and Nely and Gem need someone to keep them safe. They are scared little girls right now. They have lost their Father, their brother is sick, and now their mother. Nannaven is old, Kerrik; she cannot handle them by herself.”
“I don’t see why you have to be the one to do it,” Kerrik said. “Aren’t there others who could help?”
“A lot of people are sick right now,” Torin said.
“Then I’ll come with you. And I’ll help you make them well.”
Torin pulled Kerrik into his arms and held him tight. “You are a brave warrior, little brother,” he said, then released him. “But you cannot go with me.”
Torin grabbed the bag, slid his short sword into the belt at his waist, and headed for the door. Once outside he stopped to say his goodbyes. He embraced Jensa and kissed her on the cheek, then did the same with Kerrik who was trying very hard to be brave.
Brina hugged Torin’s neck. “Be safe,” she said, “and please get word back to us if you can. We will not sleep a wink until you do.”
“Torin,” Reiv said, “take Gitta at least. She is swift and will get you there safely.”
He turned to fetch the horse, but Torin stopped him.
“No,” Torin said. “I may not have time to see to her needs when I get there, and there is too much risk of her being stolen.”
“But—”
“Listen, Reiv. I expect you to take care of things in my absence. If you need me, you will be glad to have the animal. I have traveled the road many times at night and on foot—you haven’t. I want you to be able to reach me quickly if need be.”
Reiv nodded reluctantly.
Torin disappeared up the path, leaving them all to pray for his safe return. But Reiv did not know if prayers would be enough; some things in life, and death, were already fated. He could only hope that this was not one of those things.
Back to ToC
Chapter 11: The Torch
Torin hustled up the dirt road, working to outstep the nightfall that would soon be upon him. The road between Meirla and the encampment could be treacherous for the unseasoned traveler; it wound unevenly throughout the hills between the city and the sea. But Torin was well-acquainted with its unpredictability—he had made the trip to Pobu often enough—and his legs were strong and his eyes keen. But on this day he was oblivious to the pits in the road, the occasional washed-out rut, and the sudden dips from the grooves of carts and wagons. For that matter, he was barely aware that he was putting one foot in front of the other.
He turned his focus from the dark corners of his mind toward the vivid colors of an evening sky. To the west, the horizon cast a golden glow that blended to shades of pink, then to the rich indigos of night. To the north, the direction he was heading, a blackening sky flashed an occasional white, revealing the approach of an early autumn storm. Torin quickened his pace, praying the lighting of the funeral pyres would not be hastened on account of it.
He turned his thoughts to Farris, and the surrounding landscape all but disappeared. It occurred to him that Farris could be on one of those pyres, his body just moments from the reach of a torch. An image of his son’s laughing face blossomed in his mind, then dissolved into charred ruin. A groan escaped Torin’s throat. “I won’t let you down,” he said. “Not this time.”
But Torin knew he had let Farris down, many times. He recalled how Farris had often begged to go to Meirla with him. “Teach me to dive, Torin,” he would say. “I want to be a Shell Seeker like you.” But Torin had always refused him, insisting the boy’s duty was to follow in his parents’ footsteps and become a potter. Farris, however, had no interest in clay. He had other interests, and one of those was the sea, a place he had never been to but knew well from Torin’s tales. Why didn’t I take you? Torin lamented, but he knew the answer. There was too much risk that the truth would be revealed, too much risk that his own feelings would be laid bare for all to see.
Torin’s and Farris’s true relationship had been a carefully guarded secret, but the boy was the pride of Torin’s heart, a secret he now regretted more than any other. Their resemblance to each other was undeniable, though Torin had at first tried very hard to deny it. Mya and Eben were fair-complected for Jecta, and Farris was tawny-skinned and black-haired like Torin. That in itself was not enough to call paternity into question, but as the boy grew older it was all too clear that his handsome features, as well as the telltale cock of his right eyebrow, were not traits he shared with Eben, but with Torin, his father’s best friend. It was never spoken of between them, but there was no way Eben could not have known.
Torin swallowed the regret, but memories of the past clawed through him, tearing open old wounds. Eben and Torin had been friends since childhood, both having been orphaned at an early age. They, along with Torin’s younger sister Jensa, and Mya, a girl they had met on the streets, were a ragtag group of urchins until Nannaven, the Spirit Keeper, took them in. They had grown up together, but over time Eben’s and Torin’s feelings for Mya evolved beyond friendship. There was jealousy and rivalry between them, each trying to separate the other from the object of their affection. But when an incident with a Tearian guard left Mya scarred, both boys united for her welfare and put their differences aside.
Torin was sixteen when he and Mya became lovers. But it did not seal their future together. Torin was prideful and quick tempered, and in a jealous fit at having seen her with Eben, packed his belongings and headed to Meirla. He had not really meant to stay there, had not intended to become a Shell Seeker. It was only an attempt to trick Mya into choosing a mate once and for all. And choose she did. But it was not him. Two months later she was married to Eben and blossoming with child.
Torin closed his eyes, trying to suppress the pain. There was nothing he could do about the past. Eben was dead, it was too late to make restitution with him, and now maybe Farris was as well. All Torin could do was hold his son for the first and last time; all he could do was beg Mya’s forgiveness and promise to be at her side now and for always. He clung to the hope that it was all a mistake. Perhaps it was another child that was dying, not Farris. Perhaps it was another woman who lay ill, not Mya. He fabricated a scenario of arriving to find his loved ones safe and sound, of them laughing at his foolishness. But then reality bullied its way in, shoving hope aside, and he knew the fantasy was only that.
He reached the last rise. The encampment was just below him now; it would not be long before he knew. He hurried down the hillside, all the while scanning the landscape before him. Hundreds of camp
fires dotted the darkness, throwing orange glows upon a field of makeshift tents and the slow moving shapes of people working their way between them. Torin’s eyes moved over the area as he sought a sign of familiarity. It had been too long since he had been there. How in the world was he going to find Mya and Farris in all this sameness?
The entire Jecta population lived in the encampment now, except for the Shell Seekers who lived on the coast. The first city of Pobu had been leveled during the earthquake weeks before. There had been a great battle between the Jecta and the Tearians that day, but the gods had sent their wrath and cut the fighting short. Torin knew the gods were wise; their vengeance had proved to be a blessing. The Jecta could never have hoped to defeat the Tearian Guard. Only the total destruction of the city of Tearia had given the Jecta freedom from their enslavement. Afterward, a peace treaty had been signed with Reiv’s brother, Whyn, who was the King of Tearia. There was singing in the Jecta encampment then, and laughter and hope for a future. But now with the plague taking so many, Torin wondered if such joy would ever be felt again. He certainly did not think he would ever feel it.
On the hillsides beyond the encampment, great bonfires glowed in a semi-circular pattern. Pyres, Torin realized, though he had not expected to see so many. He whispered a prayer that his son was not amongst them. If only the gods would allow him time to tell Farris he loved him, to say it with Mya as witness, perhaps then he could find some forgiveness. But Torin knew that even if he reached Farris, it was probably too late. Farris was dying. Perhaps he was already dead. The thought filled him with anguish, and his mind scrambled for relief from the pain. He envisioned his own sword, pointed at his chest by his own hand, pressing through his ribs, piercing his heart, freeing him from his guilt. Only then would he be truly united with his son. Only then would he be able to say the words he never had the courage to say to him in this lifetime.
Torin felt tears of weakness prick his eyes, but he brushed them aside and lifted his chin. He could allow no one to see him like this. It was bad enough that Reiv had witnessed it, but here no one knew his frailties. He slid his usual stoic mask into place. Here he was Shell Seeker. And being Shell Seeker meant strength.
He wound his way into the encampment. It was nothing like he remembered. It was quiet now, except for somber voices and an occasional wail of grief. The faces staring back at him were haunted and dull, and the air no longer held the scent of venison roasting on spits. Now it held the stench of death. He glanced at the people he passed, ignoring their soft pleas and outstretched hands. There was no time to offer help or condolences—what could he do for them anyway? But it was hard to ignore the inner voice telling him to turn and run in the opposite direction.
“Torin!”
The voice spun him around, and he was relieved to see Nannaven hustling toward him. He smiled in greeting, but then the smile slipped from his face.
The old woman planted herself in front of him. “Gods, boy,” she said. “I told you not to come. Why didn’t you listen?”
“Where are Mya and Farris?” Torin asked, scanning the tents beyond her.
“You shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing you can do.”
Torin felt a lump of dread. “Where are they, Nannaven?” he asked. “Please…tell me.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Very well. What else can I do.”
Torin followed as the Spirit Keeper turned and led him to a nearby tent, but when they reached the portal, he found himself immobile and staring at the canvas. It was as if it had become a wall of rock, and his common sense refused to walk him into it.
Nannaven pushed back the flap. “Did you expect it would be easy?” she said. “Go on now.”
Torin pulled in a breath and ducked into the tent. The interior was warm and thick, and smelled of urine and sweat. A lantern hung in the center, its solitary flame casting a feeble glow.
Two little girls lying on pallets in the far corner sat up with a start. Nely and Gem stared wide-eyed at Torin. Nely, the youngest, began to cry.
“There, there,” Nannaven said as she moved to her. “It’s all right.” She knelt and gathered the child into her arms. “It’s Torin, come to check on you.” She smiled and nodded at Torin. “You see? It’s not the Torch…not the Torch.”
Gem rose and shook her tiny fist. She was only five, but her determination seemed well beyond her years. “I will kill the Torch,” she said defiantly. “I will kill him with my knife.”
“Hush, now,” Nannaven said to her. “Do you want to scare your little sister?”
“What’s this talk of the Torch?” Torin said to Gem. “You’re too little to concern yourself with such things.” His eyes moved over the room toward a pallet where he could see Mya. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and labored.
“I’m not too little!” Gem shouted, drawing Torin’s attention back to her. “The Torch will try to burn Farris, but I won’t let him!”
“Farris,” Torin whispered. His eyes shot to a nearby blanket, and he instantly recognized the form beneath it. He rushed over and reached down to throw back the cover.
“Torin—no,” Nannaven said. But it was too late.
Nely buried her face in the old woman’s shoulder, but Gem marched over to Torin’s side.
Nannaven rose and moved to usher her back. “Come, Gem,” she said softly. “Torin needs to say his goodbyes.”
Gem took a step toward Nannaven, then turned to Torin and said, “Don’t let the Torch take him, Torin. Don’t you dare.”
“Never, Gem. I promise,” he replied.
Torin stared at Farris as though in a dream. He searched the boy’s face for a sign of life, but it was gray and still. He knelt and ran his thumb over Farris’s pale lips, then along his eyelids and brows. “What a fine man you would have been,” he said. He placed his palm on the boy’s chest, determined to feel it rise and fall. But there was nothing.
Torin shook his head in disbelief. “This cannot be.”
The world came crashing down around him. Everything became a blur. Torin pulled Farris into his arms, sobbing like no man had ever sobbed before. “Give him back to me!” he cried to the gods. “Give my son back to me!” But the gods had already taken possession of the child’s soul, and there would be no returning it.
“Torin,” a voice croaked.
Torin turned to Mya, who was now awake.
He rose with Farris still in his arms and moved to her side, then laid Farris next to her and settled beside them. He smoothed back Farris’s hair. “You are my son,” he said to him.
“He loved you,” Mya whispered. “Very much.”
“And I him.” Torin moved his gaze to Mya. “I love you, too. You know that, don’t you?” He leaned over and gathered her face into his hands, then brushed his lips against hers. It was the kiss of death, he knew, but it no longer mattered to him. Death would be welcome if it took him to that place where Mya and Farris would soon be dwelling.
Their lips parted. “Torin,” Mya said. “Please, no.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“You are my heart, Mya,” Torin said. “Now and for always.” He drew her into his arms and held her close, the heat of her body radiating through his, the salty taste of her sweat lingering on his lips.
Suddenly there was loud shouting outside the tent, and the rise and fall of shadows darting past it. Screams rent the air; the sound of horses thundered in the distance. Torin eased Mya back onto the pallet, then rose and rushed toward the exit.
He glanced back at Nannaven who was still standing with the girls at the far side of the tent. “Stay here,” he ordered. He stepped through the flap and surveyed the commotion going on around him. People were screaming, running, and pushing, but no one seemed to know where they were going. In the distance a fiery glow filled the night sky. Darks silhouettes of horses and riders flashed across flickering palettes of orange.
Torin grabbed a man running past and stopped him short. “What’s happening?” he asked.<
br />
“Guards!” the man said, trying to catch his breath. “The King’s guards!” Then he pulled from Torin’s grasp and stumbled into the thickening crowd.
An explosion of thunder reverberated through the air. Lightning crackled like skeletal fingers across an ebony sky. Torin’s eyes shot upward, then toward the bonfires that dotted the distant hills. A line of torch fires could be seen snaking from the pyres toward the encampment, winding like an iridescent serpent around its perimeter.
Guards on horseback lumbered between the rows of tents, their long swords cutting a bloody swath through the crowd. Others, torch in hand, followed behind, igniting tent after tent into billowing flames.
A whir of arrows sounded overhead, their sinister shapes all but invisible in the darkness. One thunked an inch from Torin’s foot. He jumped back as more sailed across the sky.
Torin realized the Guard were drawing near, their torches and weapons just moments away. He pulled his short sword from his waistband and rushed toward the advancing soldiers. The arrow-riddled bodies of men, women, and children littered the ground, but he leapt over them without hesitation. A guard on foot barreled in his direction. Torin sank his sword into the man’s chest then shoved him aside. Two more moved in, but Torin stopped them with a shout and a determined swipe of his blade. Others approached, but Torin aimed his weapon, daring any man to come nearer.
The guards continued toward him. Torin backed away slowly, keeping his blade ready. The line of soldiers stared at him with steely expressions, but their smirks were nothing compared to that of the horseman riding toward him through a swirl of lurid smoke.
The young man on horseback was no guard. His clothing was pale and fine, not dark and metallic like the Guard, and the color of his hair and the shine of the glitter painted around his eyes were as bright as the mid-day sun. But his eyes bore no warmth. They were icy blue and cold as the deepest sea, and seemed in such contrast to the boyish features of his face.
Torin drew a sharp breath. “Whyn!”
Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn Page 10
