Oraeyn yawned and went to his bedroll where he fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
From where he lay by the fire, Kiernan let out a loud snore and rolled deeper into his blankets. His eyes were closed, but had they been open the look in them might have been called amused. In the darkness he chortled softly to himself.
“So, our warrior does not trust the fool, eh? But then, he trusts no one easily, least of all himself.” Then he sighed deeply and allowed himself to drift into sleep.
The Toreth was an hour past its zenith when Kiernan Kane woke to relieve Brant of his watch. As he approached, Brant moved slightly to allow the minstrel to sit next to him on the log, but he did not make any attempt to retire to his blanket. They sat in silence for a few moments, the warrior and the minstrel, alert for any sound or movement that was out of place.
Brant was barely tired. It felt good to be traveling again, good to be in a place where his skills could be put to their proper use. He felt more awake, more alert than he had in a long time. It had been too long since he had slept under the stars. At one time he had been content to live a simple life, to be a husband and a father. He had grown to love that life. But all of his reasons for remaining there had been stolen. Now he was where he was meant to be once more, and his heart was light, despite the threat they faced. He welcomed the risk; it reminded him that he was alive.
“You can sleep now,” the minstrel said, his voice soft. “I will keep watch.”
Brant had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had forgotten about Kiernan Kane’s presence. There was a long silence. It stretched into the night, but it was not altogether uncomfortable. Brant squinted out into the night and when he spoke again he did not turn to look at the minstrel.
“A long time ago you wished to tell me a story about a second son who was destined to become king. I would hear that story now.”
Firelight flickered across Kiernan’s face in eerie patterns. “You do remember then, I thought perhaps you had forgotten that meeting.”
“I did not forget the meeting, but I had forgotten the face of the minstrel. It was you who sent me on my first quest to find Yorien’s Hand.”
“You are mistaken if you believe that,” Kiernan replied. “I did no sending.”
“You knew I would go after the star, that’s why you told the story. What I would like to know is what you thought to gain by sending me.”
“I sought nothing.”
“I do not believe that.”
“Believe as you wish.”
Brant still did not turn or look at the minstrel, but even so he was studying the other intently. At length he spoke again.
“What of the second son who was destined to become king?”
“I think you already know that story, Warrior.”
“I would hear how your version of the story ends.”
“Many people believe they would like to hear how their stories end, but when they are given what they wish, they cringe from it and spend the rest of their time and strength trying to deny or avoid what they have learned. Nobody ever really wants to hear the end of the story, they simply want to hear that everything will turn out all right.”
“Will it?”
Kiernan sighed, and there was a world of meaning in that simple exhalation. “I can see much, Brant, but I do not see all. I have studied the stories and the ancient texts. Whether they are prophetic or not remains to be seen. Every story that I tell or pass along is true, and is intended to reveal that truth, but the result, the ending, is never clear. The stories shed light on what will come. They tell of the battle between what is hoped for and intended versus what is feared and altered. My stories are not for amusement, but if a story is not entertaining it is quickly forgotten, and that is never my purpose. I am not a wizard or a sage as you may wish to think. I am a minstrel. No more than that.”
“You are more than a common minstrel,” Brant accused softly. “You appear to be in your late twenties or maybe early thirties, yet you must be much older. I remember our meeting over thirty years ago and you look younger today than you did in Yochathain when first we met. I have heard many stories in my life, but none like the ones you tell. You speak of events from thousands of years ago, but they do not have the sound of stories passed down from father to son. Your songs make it sound like you were witness to these events, you tell the story as intimately as if you had been there. My whole life has been applied to training, studying, and working with little time for leisure or pleasure, and yet I could continue that effort for ten lifetimes and not have the command of so much knowledge and insight as you. The one conclusion that makes sense is that you have lived an unequalled span of life.”
The minstrel shrugged, his bony shoulders rising in a fluid, nonchalant motion. “Some are bound by time, others are bound by something else, but in the end we are all bound. You are mistaken on several counts, but I shall only address two tonight. First, our encounter on Yochathain was not, as you suspect, our first meeting. And second, I truly do not know the end of this story. I may know more than you, but that does not have to mean that I am your enemy. And as for the caliber of my stories and songs, well, perhaps I am merely a better wordsmith than any other minstrel you have had the pleasure of hearing?”
Brant whirled on the minstrel in sudden anger. “You are just like all the rest of them, never speaking clearly, never saying what you mean! The prophecy that destroyed my life, the lives of my family, of everyone I held dear, what was its purpose? Will I ever be free of its curse?”
“It is a gift you have been given, not a curse. The knowledge of yourself and of what you can become is never a curse, and neither are its words binding unless you let them control you.”
“I could not control the way others interpreted their meanings though,” Brant muttered bitterly.
Kiernan shook his head and there was deep sadness etched in every line of his face. “No, but then that is the nature of things. You cannot control the reactions of others, only your own.”
Brant sighed, his anger fading, replaced by a deep weariness. “So what have you sent us on then, with your words of the past and your hints of the future? Do you take us to our deaths? Oraeyn believes so. He has not said as much but I can see it written plainly in his movements and expressions when he believes no one is watching, perhaps he has had a vision of his own. Are you leading us to glory and triumph or to ruin?”
“Brant, I seldom lead... and never to glory or triumph. My hope... my purpose, is only ever to safeguard Tellurae Aquaous and its people. I do not know if this journey leads us to our deaths or to victory. I do know for certain that this quest is our best course of action and, in fact, our only hope.”
“I don’t understand what game you are playing, Minstrel, but I warn you to consider with care who you are up against if you mean to do harm. My life has been dictated by prophecies and the consequences are very real and very painful. I despise people like you who play with the lives of others and then leave them to deal with the ruin and clean up the mess you create with your words.”
“The words are not mine. I merely carry a message.”
“Not this time,” Brant returned fiercely. “Not this time.”
The minstrel met Brant’s gaze steadily and without flinching. His expression reflected care, not fear, at Brant’s harsh words. He blinked and turned away.
“Your strength will be needed,” Kiernan replied quietly, “but not against me, my friend. You judge me by things you have seen in the past. You believe I am playing games and you would like to accuse me of attempting to rearrange lives, of using your friends as pawns—but really you give me far too much credit. The pieces may be moving, but not by my hand. Our paths are indeed different, but our purposes are joined towards the same end. You are correct in believing me a fool, but I am not only a fool.”
“You must think me a simpleton then, if you expect me to believe that.”
Kiernan waved a hand in an
expansive gesture. “As I said, believe what you will.”
“Whatever else you are, you are not what you seem,” Brant said firmly. “You would have sent us off on this adventure alone if you could have.”
Kiernan’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I never protested coming along. I only let you believe I would, because I knew it was the only way you would let me join this quest. Be honest with yourself, would you have agreed to let me be your guide had I eagerly volunteered?”
Brant scowled into the fire. But after a moment, he had to admit the truth of the minstrel’s words. “I would not,” he muttered.
“You are worried about the wizardesses, and much of your anger towards me springs from that. Do not forget that one of them is the woman I love, too.”
Brant peered at the minstrel’s face, his gaze burning with the intensity of his stare. “I know who you are.”
Kiernan Kane cocked his head, unconcerned. “Do you? You really ought to sleep,” Kiernan said, “morning is closer than you think.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
A tiny, golden-haired child stood in the midst of the rubble and sobbed. Frightened tears streamed from his brown eyes and ran down his cheeks as he gazed about in shock, unable to move. He barely understood what had happened. All he knew was that he was scared, and he had been left alone. The creatures had come in the night; no one had been prepared for the horror that had been unleashed.
They had left nothing standing, sweeping through like a blanket of death, breaking things and hurting people with as little effort as thought. The destruction had been mindless and thorough; and above it all swooshed the glittering wings of the werehawk and his dreadful rider. It was just a town on the outskirts of Kallayohm. There was nothing special about Chensar. It was merely one of the many towns unfortunate enough to be in close proximity to the capital city. Except for this one child there were no survivors.
The child wiped a grimy hand across his face, leaving a smear of dirt and tears. Surrounded by the destruction of what had once been his home, the boy had no idea of what he should do next. A rush of wind ruffled the small boy’s hair as a large, winged creature swept across the sky. The child cowered in fright, thinking the evil creatures had returned. He had seen the werehawk, and it had filled him with unescapable dread. Its chill, unfeeling glance had grazed the boy and their cut had probably saved his life. His mother had shoved him towards the outside cellar, trying to get her baby to safety, but the boy had stopped, frozen as he watched the horror unfolding around him. It was then he had noticed the giant creature circling above him. He shrank away from its gaze, panic sending him stumbling backward; he had tripped and fallen down the cellar stairs and tumbled into a corner, hitting his head and losing consciousness. The were-folk had not seen him fall and did not believe anyone had made it to the laughable safety of the cellar. When the child had awoken, night was over and he was alone.
The little boy hunched down behind a piece of rubble, doing his best to hide beneath it; he gazed upwards, cowering. The large form passed over again, blotting out the cold light of the Toreth, closer this time. Then there was the soft thump of something large landing nearby. More tears escaped from behind the boy’s eyelids and streaked his dirty face.
“Hello, what have we here?” the voice was friendly.
“Go ‘way, go ‘way,” the little boy whispered pleadingly, his voice tiny and trembling.
“Come on out little one, I won’t hurt you.”
The child took a shaky breath. He was tired, he was scared, and he was alone, but the voice was kind. After a moment, he risked a peek out from beneath his piece of rubble. He gave an ear-piercing shriek at what he saw, and scrambled backwards away from the creature before him. A piece of rubble twisted between his legs, causing him to fall again. He sobbed, a wild, despairing sound, still scrabbling with his arms and legs to get away.
“Shhhh, shhh, little one, I am not one of the creatures that did this,” the dragon nodded his head at the destruction. “I am a friend.”
The child’s voice rose in a wail, his tiny hands held up in front of his face in a feeble effort to protect himself. The dragon leaned down and touched his hand with his hard, scaly nose, an unbelievably tender gesture for such a massive creature. It blew a warm, tender breath on the boy’s face and then pulled its head back, giving the child space.
The little boy’s sobs slowed; he peered up warily, wondering why he had not already been eaten. The dragon looked at him, making no threatening movement. Finding himself unharmed, the boy sat up and wiped a hand under his nose. Then he regarded the dragon quizzically. The creature’s eyes gleamed silver like the werehawk’s, but the face was warm and wise, and its gaze did not slice through him with that same icy malice. Although this creature was every bit as terrifying as the others, the child calmed as he began to realize that this beast meant him no harm.
“I am not one of them,” the dragon assured him again, keeping his voice to a quiet rumble. “I’m from Llycaelon, I was just out stretching my wings a bit when I saw what had happened here.”
The child’s face turned serious. “Lie… Lie… Liecane?”
The dragon sighed. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
The child looked confused. “You talk,” he said abruptly.
The dragon nodded his great head. “Yes, I talk. What is your name, little one?”
“Shane,” the child replied. “What your name?”
“My name is Khoranaderek.”
The boy cocked his head to one side. “Drek.”
“I suppose if that is the best you can do, you may call me ‘Drek.’ I come from Llycaelon.”
“Drek,” the child said proudly.“Liecane.”
“How old are you?” the dragon asked curiously.
The little boy scowled and raised a hand. After a moment of struggling to get it right, he raised two chubby fingers. Then he made a chopping motion with one hand on the other.
“Two and a half?” the dragon asked.
Shane nodded and made the motion again, a proud grin lighting his face. The dragon found the smile contagious. Shane cowered back from the sudden appearance of so many teeth and for a moment it appeared that he might flee. With an effort, Khoranaderek closed his scaled lips and pulled back once more, so as to appear less threatening.
“Well, Shane, would you like a ride? We can go back to Llycaelon and get you food and a warm, dry bed. And the king must be warned, whatever did this to your home may be on his way towards mine even now.”
There was a pause, then Shane seemed to decide that this creature was a friend, regardless of his intimidating size and number of teeth. After a moment, he reached up his tiny arms to be held. He looked pleadingly at the dragon.
“Drek, Liecane, hungwy.”
The dragon looked at the child with compassion. Then he plucked the child off the ground and swung him up onto his back, placing him securely between the large wings so he would not fall. With a flap of those great wings they lifted off the ground and into the sky. The boy squealed with delight and terror as he found himself lifted very high off the ground.
“Hold on!” Khoranaderek said, worried that the child was too small to understand. “Don’t fall!”
Shane leaned forward and squeezed his arms against either side of the dragon’s long neck. Then the dragon turned towards Llycaelon and began to make his way home.
❖ ❖ ❖
Dylanna, her thoughts were listless and required a great amount of energy to form, I must remember. I must remember my name. My name is Dylanna… why is that important? Dylanna… Dylanna… that is who I am… why do I care? What is so important that I must not forget? Why… Dylanna…
But it took so much effort to remember, and all she wanted was rest.
Dylanna… her mind clung to the name, but she did not know how much longer she would be able to remember.
❖ ❖ ❖
Th
e night on the small island was uneventful, and when dawn arrived the company ate a quick breakfast and set out again. The rest brought renewal with it, and they all felt much better for having gotten food and sleep. They had been flying an hour when Kiernan cried out with a shout that was a mixture of triumph and distress. The others turned to look at the minstrel in concern, Oraeyn half expected to see that he had tumbled from Rhimmell’s back, but the man was still seated on his mount.
“Down, we must go down!” he shouted to his companions. “We must land now!”
His voice was frantic, and he waved his arms as if he could make them all descend from the sky by sheer willpower. Oraeyn shot a questioning look at Brant to see what his mentor thought of Kiernan’s antics. Brant caught his glance and shrugged.
“Follow Kiernan,” Oraeyn said, making the decision. “But be cautious,” he added quietly to Yole.
The dragon began to spiral downwards. They broke through the clouds and Oraeyn saw a very small landmass below them. It was hardly even large enough to be called an island, it looked more like a large rock that the waves had not quite managed to cover.
“Kiernan,” Brant shouted, “there’s nothing down there!”
“Trust me,” the minstrel shouted back.
“It’s just a big rock,” Brant yelled. “There’s not even enough room for the seven of us to stand on it once we land. What could possibly be so important?”
“Leila and Dylanna are down there,” Kiernan’s voice floated to their ears above the whistling wind around them and the lapping of the waves below.
Oraeyn heard Kamarie catch her breath in surprise and hope. He looked down at the small landmass again, wondering if he had missed something. The small protrusion of rock had not changed, it was still tiny and bare and empty. He shook his head in disbelief, wondering what the minstrel had sensed. It did not seem possible that Dylanna or Leila could be hidden anywhere on the face of that ledge, but he decided it was worth a try.
“It can’t hurt to look,” Oraeyn called out, wishing he did not have to shout to be heard.
Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3) Page 14
