Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn

by Tracy A. Akers

  Whyn rose and stepped to a massive wardrobe located along the wall. Turning the latch, he threw back its door. Within the wardrobe were his finest garments. They had, in fact, once been his favorites. There were velvets and satins and silks and brocades, all exquisitely made. Most were dyed in shades of gold and yellow, the traditional colors of his class, but there were a few darker shades amongst them. Most he had worn when he was a prince, but since becoming King, she had not allowed him to touch them; it was a miracle she had let him keep them at all. He fingered the garments, grateful to finally have the freedom to do so, and rested his eyes upon a hunting tunic of emerald green. To wear it would be such relief from the colorless garbs she usually made him wear. Fortunately, today he would enjoy that relief.

  He removed the tunic from the wardrobe and brought it to his nose, breathing in the scent of what he used to be. A rush of memories filled his mind, but there was no time to dwell on the past. He pulled the tunic over his head and belted it with a fine chain of gold, then draped a velvet cloak of the same emerald color upon his shoulders. After securing it with a brooch, he pulled on his best deerskin boots and hurriedly exited the room.

  Outside the newly-built palace wing that housed Whyn and his personal servants, a guard stood at attention, prepared to escort him to the nearby catacombs. At one time, the catacombs had only housed the remains of the dead. Later, it had imprisoned political enemies as well. But the recent earthquake had very nearly destroyed it. Only recently had it been cleared of enough rubble to bring the tunnels, at least somewhat, to their original state. The catacombs now held a single prisoner, the only one worth keeping, and as was Whyn’s daily custom, he was heading to see that prisoner now. But this time his purpose in visiting was far different.

  The guard, torch in hand, escorted Whyn through the narrow entrance of the tunnels and down a dark, winding corridor. It did not take long to reach the cell of destination. After securing the torch in a metal bracket on the wall, the guard lifted a ring of keys from a nearby peg. He unlocked the door to the cell and shoved it open, then grabbed the torch and moved to usher Whyn inside.

  “Hand me the torch,” Whyn said. “Today I go in alone.”

  The guard hesitated, but knew better than to disobey. “As you wish, my lord,” he said.

  “And the keys,” Whyn said. He snapped his fingers, then took the ring being held out to him. “You may leave, but wait at the entrance. And keep alert should I need you.”

  The guard bowed and retreated into the shadows.

  Whyn held out the torch as he stepped into the musty cell. It was small, and thick with the miasma of human waste and utter despair. A sudden movement and the rattle of chains directed Whyn’s attention to the far corner.

  “Lyal,” Whyn said gently.

  Lyal scrabbled along the wall, trying to distance himself from the glaring light turned in his direction. But the chains at his ankles allowed him no retreat.

  Whyn reached a hand toward him. “I am not here to harm you,” he said.

  Lyal recoiled against the wall, his chains stretched as far as they would go. “Stay away from me,” he rasped. His eyes, anguished in the glare of the torch, blinked wildly.

  “Does the light hurt you?” Whyn asked. “Here, I will move it further away.” He placed the torch in the bracket outside the door.

  Lyal stared up like an animal caught in a snare. To look at him, one would have thought he was. His hair was filthy and matted, and his once handsome face was swollen with bruises. His body, thin and weak, was caked with his own excrement and infected with the bite marks of the vermin that shared his cell.

  Whyn stepped closer. He squatted down and fingered Lyal’s tangled hair. Lyal cringed and jerked from Whyn’s touch.

  “I regret that she did this to you,” Whyn said. “But you must understand; it was not me; it was her.”

  Lyal turned away, cowering against the wall.

  “Look at me, Lyal,” Whyn said firmly. “I want you to see me as I truly am.”

  Lyal eased his eyes toward him. “I see only a murderer and a tyrant,” he said, then flinched as if expecting a blow.

  Whyn sighed. “She is that, and more. But she is gone now.”

  Lyal’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, gone?”

  Whyn rose and turned in a slow circle. He stopped, his hands beseeching Lyal to gaze upon him. “Do you not see? I am all man now; no longer am I man and she-witch!”

  “How can I…trust you?” Lyal said. “After what you did—”

  “After what she did,” Whyn corrected. He knelt before Lyal. “I swear to you. I have freed myself of her. It was no easy task, but I have done it!”

  “What is that to me?” Lyal asked cautiously.

  “Freedom.”

  Lyal’s eyes grew wide. “Freedom?”

  Whyn held up the ring and jangled the keys. “I have come to set you free. But before I release you from your chains, you must promise not to run or to do me harm. An armed guard waits for us at the entrance. He will escort us back to the palace where you will be given a hot bath, clean clothes, and as much food and drink as you desire. I owe you that, and more. But if you betray me in this, Lyal, the only bath you will find yourself in will be that of your own blood. Do you understand?”

  Lyal hesitated, then nodded.

  “I swear to you on my father’s grave,” Whyn said. “I only wish to help you.” And with that he twisted the key and released the prisoner from his chains.

  * * * *

  Lyal followed Whyn toward the palace, every agonizing step a reminder of the abuse he had suffered. At times the guard escorting them had to prop Lyal up and half-carry him. Other times Lyal was left to stumble along on his own. The blinding glare of daylight, coupled with the fogginess in his head, forced him to keep his bearings by training his eyes on the green cape that fluttered before him. The King was but steps in front of him, well within his reach. But even had Lyal possessed the strength to raise a hand to him, for some strange reason he no longer possessed the desire.

  Whyn turned and gazed warmly into Lyal’s eyes, and Lyal could not help but meet his in return. When Whyn had first presented himself to Lyal shortly after his capture, the King had not seemed human at all. His eyes had been red and demonic, like a beast from another world, and the cruelty in his soul had been etched upon his face, much like the ancient ritual of scarification. But now the young King appeared handsome and gentle and kind. Was it possible that Whyn spoke the truth? Had he truly been possessed by an evil entity, but now was rid of her?

  “Here we are,” Whyn said as they approached the palace door.

  Lyal shifted his gaze to the rose-colored building before them. Though the palace was currently nothing more than a single wing that housed the King and his servants, based on the construction going on around them, it would soon return to its original grandeur.

  As Lyal glanced around, he recognized the faces of many of the slaves that toiled in the rubble and rising frameworks of the structure. Most of them were Shell Seekers, though they no longer wore shells around their necks or kohl around their eyes. One by one they stopped their work and watched as Lyal passed. There was pity in their faces, he realized, pity for him. It filled him with humiliation, but then anger rose to take its place. Why should they feel pity for him? he seethed. Were they not the ones whose backs would soon be striped for stopping their work? Was he not the one who would soon be bathed and fed and pampered by the King himself? He turned his eyes forward, determined to ignore their penetrating stares. He had paid his dues, certainly more than the rest of them. None of them had endured the abuse that he had. Not one of them had been thrown into a dismal cell, their body ravaged and tortured in ways they could not imagine. Only he had suffered that. Only he was due the restitution of the King.

  Two guards pushed open the great double doors leading into the palace wing. Whyn entered and Lyal followed. “Prepare a bath for our guest!” Whyn barked to the servants now hustling around them
.

  Lyal gazed, awestruck, at the cavernous foyer. It was wide and high-ceilinged and decorated in elaborate tapestries and elegant furnishings. Lyal slowed his pace as he drank in the magnificence of the entryway.

  “Come…come,” Whyn coaxed. “No need to linger in the hall.”

  Lyal stepped more quickly, but was suddenly aware of the grime that coated his skin and the stench that clouded his body. How could he bring such filth into a place like this? He hunched his shoulders as though, like a turtle, he could hide within himself.

  Whyn glanced back, recognizing his discomfort. “Do not feel unworthy, Lyal,” he said. “It is not your fault that you are in such a state. You should be proud of the way you stood up to her.”

  “Proud?” Lyal said. If he had had the stamina, he would have laughed.

  Whyn stopped and turned to face him. “You endured much,” he said. “I regret I was a party to it, but please know that all the while you were suffering, I was suffering also.”

  Lyal lowered his gaze and remained silent.

  Whyn gathered Lyal’s face into his hands, forcing Lyal to look at him. Lyal’s first instinct was to jerk away, but as he stared into the endless blue of Whyn’s eyes, he found it impossible.

  “Do you think I enjoyed tormenting you in that filthy cell?” Whyn asked. “Well, I loathed it. Every moment of it. She made me do those things to you, Lyal. It was my punishment as much as it was yours.”

  “Your punishment?” Lyal asked, realizing that in a strange way, he was beginning to feel pity for the King.

  “Yes, my punishment. You see, I said the one word to her that she does not like to hear: ‘no’. And for that I was forced to abuse you in the muck and the stench of your cell.” Whyn released Lyal’s face. “But now I shall help you forget the pain and the humiliation you endured. And in so doing, perhaps I shall forget it also.”

  Whyn turned his attention to a nearby open door. Serving girls scurried in and out of the room beyond it. “Ah,” he said. “I believe your bath is ready.”

  He led Lyal through the doorway and gestured toward a large bathing cask located beneath a window of frosted glass. Thick steam rose from within, beckoning Lyal to the comforts of the tub. But he could only stop and stare.

  “Come,” Whyn said. “Do not be shy.”

  Lyal slowly approached the cask. More than anything he longed to strip off his clothes and dive in, to scrub his body free of the grime and the vile memories of the cell. As he drew nearer, he noticed flower petals floating atop the water’s surface, adding their essence to the scented candles that glittered the room. On a nearby chair, soft fluffy towels were stacked, and against the wall a large poster bed, thick with comforters and downy pillows, invited him to it.

  He was soon surrounded by serving girls who undressed him and led him to the cask, all the while caressing him with gentle hands. Had he been in a better state, he would have enjoyed the attention and risen to the occasion. But as he was now, he felt only shame.

  Lyal entered the tub as directed, and slowly rested the back of his head against the rim. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the comforts of the water and that of the hands now sponging his body from head to toe.

  “Drink, good sir,” a soft feminine voice said.

  Lyal opened his eyes to see a golden goblet suspended before him, held in the delicate hand of a pretty young serving girl. He sat up and took it from her with a nod of thanks, but his hands were shaking so badly he did not know if he could hold it.

  “Here, allow me,” the girl said. She wrapped her hands around his and tilted the goblet to his lips. “The King wishes you to drink this. It will hasten the healing of your wounds.”

  The wine tasted sweet on Lyal’s tongue, but the aftertaste was bitter and strange. It stung his lips and burned his throat as it made its way down, and for a moment he felt the need to retch. But then a cool cloth was placed upon his forehead, held there by caring fingers, while others massaged eucalyptus oil into the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. Lyal felt his body relax and his mind drift. Again the wine was held to his lips, but this time his body accepted it without complaint.

  “Well done, Lyal,” Whyn said. “You shall soon feel better.”

  The voice jerked Lyal back to reality. The King was still in the room, he realized, standing near the cask, watching as the girls massaged the pain and filth from his body. Lyal swallowed thickly. Heat rushed to his cheeks. For a moment he thought to cover himself with his hands, but as he looked at Whyn, he realized he felt no shame or fear toward the handsome young ruler, only gratitude and affection. It was Whyn who had rescued him. It was Whyn who would protect him now. No longer did the King seem like an enemy or an abuser. If anything, he seemed more like his friend. Whatever of Lyal that Whyn wanted, Lyal would give to him, and gladly. Whyn was his savior now. And gods willing, Lyal would be his.

  ****

  The banquet table was covered with more food and drink than Lyal had seen in his twenty-something life. As he stood in the doorway, he could not help but gawk at the feast that filled the room before him. The King had said he would be well fed, but never in Lyal’s wildest dreams could he have imagined this! Surely others would be attending, he reasoned; this could not be for him alone. But other than the dozen or so servants scurrying about, he appeared to be the only one there.

  He was escorted to a massive high-backed chair at one end of the table and invited to sit. A goblet of wine was immediately placed before him, the jeweled decanter from which it was poured well within his reach. An identical chair faced him on the opposite end of the table, and he could not help but pray the King would soon be sitting in it.

  Lyal moved his gaze from the empty chair across the way and toward the lavish feast. At the center rested a mound of roasted fowl, cooked to a golden brown. The aroma of it was so enticing, Lyal was certain he could see it wafting through the air. Clusters of fat, purple grapes surrounded it, and on either side red apples and freshly picked figs were arranged in bowls as large as wash basins. There were assorted cheeses in shades of white and yellow and orange, and buttery rolls and braided breads displayed on large polished plates. Chocolate pastries and pastel sweets could also be seen, stacked like miniature castles throughout the lavish spread. The sight and smell of it filled Lyal with such longing, he found himself battling the urge to literally attack the table.

  Lyal gripped the arms of the chair, but he could not help but fidget. It was not from the overwhelming desire to eat. It was not even from the abuse his body had recently suffered. It was more from the discomfort of the clothing he had been ordered to wear. He was dressed in a dark, high-collared blouse, hugged at the torso by a pewter-colored vest, his legs wrapped in form-fitting leathers. The outfit was similar to the uniforms worn by the Tearian Guard: dark, stiff, and molded to the body as if cast from metal. When the clothing had first been presented to him, he had protested; never before had he worn anything so…Tearian. But the serving girls had insisted that he wear them, probably because Whyn had instructed them to do so, and miserable or not, Lyal did not wish to displease the King. And so he had allowed the girls to dress him and paint his eyes and braid his hair, all the while listening to them twitter about how handsome he was. Only then had he begun to feel less self-conscious about the uniform he was wearing.

  Lyal ran a finger under his collar, arching his neck to relieve the tightness pressing against his throat. The room was unbearably hot, he thought, no doubt due to the ridiculous amount of clothing he had on. He glanced toward the fire that roared in the fireplace against the far wall. Its heat seemed to permeate the room in shimmering waves, much like that which reflected off the beach at high sun. Throughout the room and scattered across the table, tapered candles flickered, adding more warmth to the aura of heat that filled the room. Lyal grabbed up his wine goblet and drank down its contents, then poured himself another. But all the sweet liquid managed to do was send another flush to his skin.

  A lone figure
suddenly shadowed the doorway. The servants dropped to their knees and bowed their heads to the floor. Lyal set down his goblet and rose, shoving back the chair with a thrust of his legs. He stepped to the side and, taking the servants’ cue, lowered himself to the floor and pressed his forehead to the tiles.

  Other than the crackle of the fireplace, the room was quiet as the King strolled toward the banquet table. He stopped before Lyal and bade him rise. “No need for formality,” Whyn said. “You are my guest. Sit. Eat! Whatever you desire, it is yours.” Then he turned and headed for the chair at the opposite end of the table.

  Whyn sat, and Lyal followed his lead. A servant filled Whyn’s wine goblet and stepped back, decanter in hand. Whyn raised the goblet to Lyal with a smile. “May this humble meal please you,” he said, then snapped his fingers to the servants. “Fill this man’s plate and be quick about it!”

  Lyal’s eyes bulged as a plate piled high with food was placed before him, but his insides could not help but clench. It had been so long since he had eaten anything, he did not know if his stomach would tolerate it. But then he recalled the drink the girl had given him, and Whyn’s assurances that it would help him heal. Since drinking the potion, he could honestly say he had felt no pain in his body or his mind. In fact, his flesh no longer bore evidence of his abuse, nor did he recall much about it. It was as if he had reverted to what he was before, or perhaps he had been born anew. Regardless, at this moment it was as if none of it had ever happened. The only thing different about him now was that he felt unconditional loyalty toward the man sitting across the table from him.