The Gauntlet Thrown

by Cheryl Dyson

  ******

  The first thing that convinced him he was alive was the pain. Waves of it pounded into him and cascaded through every part of his being. His entire body screamed with it. The second thing that convinced him was the face he saw looming over him as soon as he opened his eyes.

  “I wondered if you would to decide to live,” a voice said. Brydon struggled to focus both his sight and his mind. His vision was blurred, unwilling to focus, and his mind was preoccupied with pain. When he finally succeeded in clearing his vision, he saw a strikingly handsome man with brown eyes and neatly trimmed dark brown hair.

  “You are alive, are you not?” the man asked.

  Brydon glanced around, very slowly, to take in his surroundings. Even that minute movement introduced a new throbbing to his head. “It... seems that way. Where am I?” Speaking was an effort. The walls and ceiling looked more like a cave than a room, but Brydon lay upon a soft bed. Oil-burning lamps adorned nearby tables that were carved in ornate designs.

  “You are under the mountain, not far from where you fell,” the man said. “You are lucky this cave is here. I am not sure you would have survived being carried much farther.” He stood up and walked to a crystal wine decanter on the nearest table. He was dressed in a cream-colored shirt and breeches with a sash and cloak of cerulean blue. The cloak was clasped with a golden chain and a large onyx brooch in the shape of a panther’s head. He poured a goblet of wine and brought it to Brydon.

  “Drink slowly,” he ordered. “You were sorely injured and need food to regain your strength, but this will help ignite your appetite.”

  Brydon drank, grateful that the pillows kept him slightly elevated. Only a trickle or two spilled down his chin and he handed back the goblet. It was only then that he noticed the bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs and left shoulder. His head was also bandaged, as well as his right leg. His whole body throbbed with pain and his vision swam in and out of focus.

  “What happened to me?” he asked.

  “You fell from the cliff,” the man said.

  "Right,” Brydon said, frowning at the fuzzy memory of his fight with Reed. He recalled nothing at all of his fall from the mountaintop. "I meant after that."

  “You must have tried to stop your fall. Your left arm was completely out of its joint. Some of your ribs are broken and your torso is lacerated by a very deep wound. Your leg was impaled by a branch and torn quite badly. Your head was bleeding, so I assume you knocked it on something. Aside from your other cuts and bruises, that is all. Surprising, considering the distance you fell. I think the branches, while causing some damage, helped to slow your descent. We brought you here and, luckily, Nykar is a skilled field surgeon. He put your arm back into the shoulder and tended you.”

  “Nykar!” Brydon exclaimed fuzzily. “Then you are...”

  “Yes. I am Rakyn, Prince of Darkynhold and the Black City. Sleep now. I will bring food when you awaken.”

  Brydon felt himself unable to protest and sank back into oblivion.

  Later he felt the touch of cool hands on his temple and words murmured like rote. Then the hands and the voice withdrew. He was alone. He slept.

  When he awakened fully the next time, both Rakyn and Nykar were present. They allowed him no questions, but fed him thick broth rich with meat and greens. Brydon could eat but little, though it was delicious.

  “You lost a lot of blood,” Nykar informed him. “The branch tore a goodly chunk from your leg. You need to eat to build your blood strength.”

  “You are quite pale,” the prince added. Brydon ate as much as he could stomach and set it aside.

  “How long have I been here?”

  Nykar looked at the prince before replying. “Thirteen days.”

  Brydon sat up in alarm, only to fall back as blackness assailed him. He fought to stay conscious and succeeded, although drenched with sweat and shaking from the effort.

  “Thirteen days? What about Shevyn? Toryn? Where is Toryn? And Alyn and the gau—”

  Rakyn held up a hand. “Shevyn was taken by Reed, most likely to Ven-Kerrick. Parmittans took your Redolian friend, and the gauntlet as well. The Akarskan girl is in the palace of my brother, Keev."

  “You know about the Gauntlet?”

  Rakyn nodded.

  “Why didn’t you stop them?” Brydon cried. His head throbbed.

  Rakyn shrugged. “I was not here. Nykar witnessed your battle with the Parmittans. If he had made his presence known, he would have been killed or captured like the others. He waited until all had departed and then searched for you. He brought you here, tended your wounds, and made haste to find me. Since then we have improved your accommodations in hopes that you would survive. I have sent my men to discover the fate of your friends. Frankly, I would rather have the gauntlet in Parmitta than in the hands of my brothers.”

  “The gauntlet is safe from your brothers, but what of Alyn, the Akarskan girl?”

  Rakyn smiled wryly. “Do not fear for her. People here have a superstitious awe of Akarskans and Keev is no different. She will most likely be safe and well.”

  “Most likely,” Brydon snarled, far from comforted.

  “You wish to save them all single-handedly? You cannot even stand. Go, if you must. If not, you may stay here and learn.”

  Brydon was not sure if he liked the prince. He scowled. “Learn what?”

  “Learn how to control that talented mind of yours,” Rakyn stated.

  Brydon stared. “What do you mean?”

  //This is what I mean,// the prince said in his mind.

  Brydon stared. "You are Vai."

  “Half Vai. There are few of us, but we do exist. Your gift needs to be trained, and soon. When you were in the Black City, I could hear you screaming for your friend Toryn. Everyone within a league and a half could pinpoint your exact location without half trying, if they had the ability. Unfortunately, by the time I sent Nykar for you, you had moved on.”

  “What do you know of these powers? Who are the Vai?” Brydon asked eagerly.

  Rakyn shrugged. “The Vai are a mysterious race. There were more of them at one time, but they were all but exterminated in superstitious battles of the past. The Vai disappeared from history for a long while, but I suspect it was more a matter of them hiding their talent, or ignoring it, in order to avoid persecution. At any rate, yours must be tempered if you are going to meet with Reed again. He is a master.” Rakyn’s words were as bland as a bad storyteller’s and Brydon, even in his weakness, sensed the prince had given him a watered-down version of the truth, if not an outright lie.

  “Why do you want to help me?” Brydon asked.

  “I have a use for you, of course. Like all Silveran princes, I do nothing without a motive. I do not want Reed to have a hand in what is to come. He is clumsy and greedy and it is not in my best interest for him to succeed." His words confused Brydon even more.

  “’In what is to come’?”

  Rakyn nodded. “You shall be the one to deal with that, also. But first, Reed. If you fail with Reed, then the rest will not matter.

  ”

  “Can you see the future?” Brydon asked, suspecting he would get no straight answers from Rakyn, who Rakyn, who smiled for the first time.

  “No. But I make it my business to know everything that goes on, not only in Darkynhold and Silver, but everywhere. I have contacts that can sometimes see possible futures. I like to cover all potential outcomes.”

  “You can teach me how to use this gift until I’m strong enough to leave?” Brydon asked.

  “I can teach you until you are strong enough to want to learn more. We begin tomorrow. Sleep now.”

  Despite wanting to ask more questions, Brydon felt his strength slip away and slumber claimed him. He dreamed of Shevyn and Reed, and of Toryn in the hands of the Parmittan warriors, and wondered desperately what he should do.