Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  A slight jingle caught Brophy’s attention and a flood of recognition washed over him.

  “Where’d you get that?” he demanded, pointing at a multicolored pouch swinging from Trent’s belt.

  “Where? I bought it in the Long Market, you ninny. This is Siren’s Blood.” He pointed to a hand that no longer held a bottle. Frowning, he spun around and snatched a second bottle off the table next to his bed. “Siren’s Blood,” he repeated.

  “Not the liquor, you idiot. That money pouch. Where did you get it?”

  Trent looked down again. He seemed to get stuck for a second staring at the mirrored pouch, but recovered nicely. “This?” He yanked at the pouch on his belt, pulling the strings tight. It rattled, full of silver. Trent laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. It was a bad night, Brophy, a bad night. But some good things happen on bad nights, you see?” He furrowed his brow. “Or something like that.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Some tiny idiot from Vizar”—he waved his hand at the window—“across the Great Ocean…He left it in the shit stall. Might as well have thrown it down the hole.”

  Brophy studied the pouch. It was the same purse he’d returned to the Vizai merchant. It couldn’t be coincidence.

  “Did you see who dropped it?” Brophy asked, not sure if he should tell Trent his side of the story. “Did you try to give it back?”

  “Give it back? You’re such a child.”

  Brophy didn’t laugh.

  “Aww, Broph!” Trent frowned. “Ohndarien lives by milking pennies out of slavers and pirates. I just milked this one a bit harder, that’s all.”

  “We don’t milk them,” Brophy said, in an even voice. “We provide a unique service at a fair price.”

  Trent sneered. “Don’t be an idiot. We’ve got the world by the balls, and we’ve grown fat by what we can squeeze out of them.”

  Brophy almost threw the bottle at the wall behind Trent’s head. “If you hate Ohndarien so much,” he yelled, “why don’t you go back to Physendria where you belong?”

  Trent wobbled as if slapped in the face.

  “If you were a true Heir of the Seasons,” Brophy continued, “you would have been at the ceremony last night. You would have seen Celidon off to the Test. You would have lent your spirit to help him!” Brophy paused, breathing hard. “Why weren’t you there?”

  “Because I’m going to die in that hole!” Trent shouted back. He flung his bottle of Siren’s Blood across the room. It clattered off the wall, spun across the balcony, and disappeared over the edge. His red-rimmed eyes were haunted, and his lip trembled.

  “Those bitches will snuff out my torch just like Celidon’s. I can just see it. My father will stand there, staring at my dead body, wondering how such a weakling could be his son.” He threw his hand again, as though it had something in it. It spun him around and he stumbled into the bed. He didn’t try to rise, but lay there half-on, half-off the mattress. His head lolled on the rumpled blankets, staring across the room. He seemed to be looking to some far-off place.

  “I’m going to die for that bastard, and it still won’t be enough…” he murmured.

  Brophy stood there, dumbstruck. A long silence stretched between them. Trent stared at the ceiling as though he were seeing the whole thing playing out before him. Brophy walked to the table and gently set down the half bottle of Siren’s Blood. He knelt by the bed and put a hand on Trent’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Trent,” he said, “I didn’t know that you thought about the Test that much.”

  Trent shrugged his hand away and leapt to his feet again. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Be a hell of a sight, though, wouldn’t it?” He ripped open the front of his shirt, sending buttons bouncing across the stones. “A red diamond, right here. What do you think?” He thumped his chest. “And me walking up to my father in the Hall of Windows, and saying, ‘Hop down off that chair, Dad, and kiss my skinny ass.’”

  He laughed uproariously, and cast about for the bottle he’d thrown out the window. Not finding it, he looked toward the balcony.

  “If we have to die tomorrow, we might as well get drunk today, though, eh?” he announced. “Isn’t that a proverb from that one book…”

  “The Leaves of Karfel. No. It’s not.”

  “Well it should be,” Trent said, leaping from the floor to the balcony railing. He wobbled there for a second, then leapt for the tree five feet away. He tried to grab a limb, but jumped too high. His forehead hit the branch with a dull thud. Brophy winced and rushed to the railing as Trent plummeted to the garden fifteen feet below.

  Trent lay laughing in the bushes at the base of the tree, his head next to the full bottle of Siren’s Blood.

  “Almost cracked my head on it!” He giggled. “I’m not sure which I’d rather lose.”

  Brophy let out a breath and shook his head as Trent rose to his feet and tottered toward the garden gate. Brophy jumped to the rail and leapt easily to the branch. He shinnied quickly down the trunk and ran to catch Trent as he slipped through the gate and into the city.

  Brophy was only a few feet away when Trent turned around and saw him.

  “A race!” he cried, and took off at a sprint. “Last one to the Night Market is a serpent’s ass.”

  Brophy growled inwardly. Trent loved to run when he was drunk. It was one of his more annoying traits. Dreading the effort this might take, Brophy steeled himself and followed.

  Trent sprinted all the way along the shore to Donovan’s Bridge. The wine lent wings to his feet. He dodged among their neighbors, tossing the bottle of Siren’s Blood high into the air and rushing forward to grab it. Brophy didn’t catch up with Trent until he was halfway across Donovan’s Bridge, balancing atop the railing.

  “Where are you going?” Brophy asked, pulling him down.

  “To pay my respects,” Trent said. “I’m going to the Hall.”

  “That’s a bad idea.”

  “I’m full of bad ideas,” he replied, shoving Brophy back and dancing across the bridge.

  Brophy followed his friend as he spun and wheeled through the Night Market. Trent didn’t stop twirling until he was halfway up the curving staircase to the Wheel.

  Krellis’s son grew sedate on his walk up the stairs. He was silent and sober as they entered the Hall of Windows and approached Celidon’s body. The Heir of Winter was laid out on a bier in the very center of the Hall, next to the Heart. He was dressed in a white robe and covered with winter flowers.

  Brophy heard the quiet singing of the Heartstone in his mind. The song stayed with him wherever he went, but it was always stronger in the Hall of Windows. He had never been able to make out any words in her song, but today the tune seemed lost and forlorn.

  People hovered in groups, speaking in quiet voices. Trent went directly to the bier and stared at Celidon’s corpse.

  Brophy steeled himself, preparing for Trent to do something stupid. Brophy would drag him away if he had to.

  The bottle clinked as Trent rested it against the bier and stared down at Celidon’s peaceful face. Slowly, Brophy joined him. Celidon didn’t seem harmed in any way, but there was a faint scent of burned flesh. Brophy swallowed and tried not to think of what Celidon’s chest looked like under the white velvet doublet.

  The two friends stood there for a long while. Finally, Trent broke the spell. Pulling the cork from the Siren’s Blood with his teeth, he carefully poured a drop onto his index finger and touched it to Celidon’s lips.

  “Happy dreams, cousin,” he said in a husky voice. “Happy dreams…”

  With that, Trent left Brophy alone at the bier. He lingered for a moment, but found no words for the brave young Heir of Winter. Without a sound, he turned and followed his friend out of the Hall.

  Once they were in the garden, Brophy spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Trent,” he said. “I’m sorry about what I said before.”

  “I know,” Trent replied. He shrugged. “Me too. I should hav
e been there. It was important.”

  “You were there,” Brophy said, as they walked together toward the wide stone steps. “Just in your own way.”

  Trent stopped just before the long, winding staircase. He looked at his feet and Brophy waited.

  “Broph?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you really hear it? The Heartstone singing?”

  “Yes. Every waking moment since…a long time now.” Brophy didn’t want to talk about that fateful moment, not after Trent had laughed about it.

  “I’ve never heard it. Not a single peep.”

  “I know,” Brophy said slowly. His heart ached for his friend. He tried to imagine taking the Test without the encouraging call of the Heartstone.

  “I’ve never belonged here, Brophy. It’s never been my home.”

  “Trent, that’s not true.”

  “Don’t lie, Brophy. You’re really bad at it.”

  Brophy looked down at his boots for a moment, frowned.

  “I’m not an Ohndarien, and I never will be,” Trent said, “but my father is determined for me to take that Test. He still dreams of going back to Physendria and reclaiming his father’s throne. He wants me to hold his place on the council while he’s gone.”

  “Has he told you this?”

  “No.” Trent shrugged. “Not directly. But he has a way of saying things without saying them.”

  “But Physendria is such a horrible place.”

  Trent’s lip curled, and he gave Brophy a sidelong glance. “It wasn’t always like it is now. They’re just going through a hard time.”

  “Trent, they’ve attacked Ohndarien a dozen times. It’s a bloody culture. All they know is violence. If we didn’t have Coelho’s walls—”

  “You don’t know, you’ve never been there!”

  Brophy paused, let out a breath. Why was Trent defending Physendria? He’d been a small child when Krellis brought him to Ohndarien. He hardly remembered anything about it. “Why does your father want to go back there? What does he care about the Physendrian throne?”

  “Every country deserves a good king, and my father knows he’s the best man for the job.” Trent laughed abruptly. “Even I would make a better king than Phandir.”

  “But we need Krellis here.”

  “I know. And that’s why he’s got it all backward. My father should stay in Ohndarien where Baelandra and everyone else loves him. But with his help, I could go south.”

  Trent fell silent as an old couple holding hands passed them and headed down the stairs.

  “My uncle has more enemies than friends down there,” Trent insisted. “With a few good men and plenty of gold, we could reclaim the Physendrian throne. It would be bloody, but we could make it quick and contained.” Trent took a deep breath through clenched teeth. “I could hold the throne in my father’s name. I could keep the fifteen families together. I could get rid of that vile Nine Squares contest and improve the lives of our people. With an Ohndarien alliance, Physendria could reopen trade routes with the Summer Seas. With reasonable taxes the country would flourish…And then,” Trent continued, “once your father and the other brothers returned, my father could come south and…join me.”

  Brophy put his hand on Trent’s shoulder, squeezed. Trent looked at him with a fierce determination in his eyes that Brophy had never seen before. The two boys stared at each other for a few moments until a flicker of a smile turned the corner of Trent’s mouth.

  “It’s a good idea,” Brophy insisted. “You should talk to your father about it.”

  Trent shook his head.

  “Really, you should.” Brophy insisted.

  Trent took a moment before speaking. “You’d go with me, Brophy, wouldn’t you, if I did that? You’d watch my back while I tiptoed through those vipers. I know I could do it if I had you behind me.”

  Brophy tried to picture himself in Physendria, standing next to the throne, with Trent sitting on top of it. He couldn’t hold the image in his head.

  “And I’d help you find the Lost Brothers,” Trent insisted. “We could do that first. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours.”

  Brophy let go of Trent’s shoulder. Trent had always seemed so brave, but at this moment, on the verge of doing something truly heroic, Trent seemed suddenly vulnerable. “You know I’ll always be there for you,” Brophy said. “No matter where you go.”

  Trent let out a pent-up breath and dropped his gaze. “Thanks, Brophy,” he said to the floor. “That means a lot.”

  “We should get home. Talk to your father about this.”

  Trent nodded. “All right, but not right now.”

  “Trent—”

  “No, Broph, not now. Not with Celidon still lying on his bier. These plans can wait. For a little while at least.”

  Brophy nodded.

  Trent paused, then said in a lower voice, “Will you do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you get drunk with me? I feel like an ass drinking alone. And I really need to stagger around for a while before I’m ready to face…everything.” He paused. “I know you don’t want to. But will you? For me?”

  Brophy didn’t say anything for a long time. Trent seemed to be a statue, staring at his boots.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you have anything good in that bottle?”

  Trent looked up. He smiled.

  Brophy grabbed the Siren’s Blood and took a long pull.

  11

  THERE’S ANOTHER one!” Brophy shouted.

  “Where?” Trent spun around so fast he nearly fell.

  “There! There!” Brophy pointed to the dancing point of light in the air above Trent’s head. “It’s mine!”

  Both boys jumped at once, trying to climb one another in midair. Brophy felt a tingle up his arm as his hand just missed the twinkling orb. The delight only lasted a moment before he crashed to the cobblestone streets with Trent right on top of him. The boys fought like two cats in a bag before collapsing into uncontrollable laughter.

  Discovering the sparklies was the high point of the day. He and Trent had been chasing the floating white lights through the Long Market for hours.

  Brophy didn’t believe in the sparklies at first. The way the clouds turned into naked women wasn’t real. The little faces that popped out of the harbor weren’t real. The potato lady’s foot-long nose wasn’t real, either. But he and Trent both saw the sparklies, so they had to be real.

  Brophy rolled to his knees, trying to breathe. He’d been panting for hours. Hours and hours. He couldn’t ever seem to catch his breath, mostly because he couldn’t stop laughing. Or was it because they kept running? They had run all over the city since morning and now the sun was about to set.

  Trent scrambled to his feet before Brophy. He raised both fists above his head and jumped up and down in mock triumph.

  “I caught it!” Trent shouted, twirling around so everyone could see his face. The Long Market was still packed, and a small crowd had gathered to see what was going on.

  “I, Lord Trent the Mighty, have captured the elusive sparklie!”

  “No!” Brophy scurried on his knees and clambered up his friend’s back to get a closer look. “You’re a liar. Let me see.”

  Trent spun away, tucking a fist into his armpit to protect his treasure. He stumbled two steps backward, tripped over a wagon tongue, and flopped into the dusty street.

  “No,” he announced from the ground. “It’s my sparklie. I caught it and I’m going to eat it.”

  Brophy jumped on him. “You can’t eat it,” he said, wrestling with his friend, trying to wrench his hand open. “You can’t eat a sparklie! You’ll get too happy and die. Everybody knows that!”

  More than a dozen people paused to stare at them. Trent rolled to his knees, shrugging Brophy away.

  “No, no, no,” Trent shouted. “I’ll eat it and stay this way forever!”

  “No, no, no. You’ll die,” Brophy insisted. “You’ll swell up and
pop like toasted corn.” He reached for Trent’s hand again, but his friend twisted away.

  “Oh no, I won’t!”

  “Oh yes, you will!”

  Trent jerked around, suddenly putting himself nose to nose with a pair of merchant’s daughters who had crept close to the action. They squealed and fled between the legs of a towering man from Faradan. The bearded trader shook his head with an amused scowl.

  “Do you think I’ll die?” Trent asked the children, completely oblivious of the frowning giant above him.

  The smaller and braver of the two girls shook her head.

  Trent popped the sparklie into his mouth with a guilty grin.

  The wide-eyed girls stared at him.

  Trent’s brow wrinkled, and a queer look came over his face. Slowly, he grimaced and fell to his hands and knees. His body spasmed. Brophy drew a quick breath.

  The smaller girl’s bottom lip crept forward into a worried pout. She gripped her father’s leg. Trent looked up at her, eyes watering, lips tight. She clenched her father even tighter.

  Trent opened his mouth, suffered through two strained pants, and let loose a monstrous burp.

  Brophy and the little girls collapsed into fits of laughter.

  The rest of the crowd broke up and moved away, many with amused smiles, some in disgust.

  Merchants and buyers from a dozen cities had been staring at them all day. Brophy had decided early on that the ones who smiled were the “kid-inside” kind of people. They were little bubbles of joy moving about the city. Sparklies floated around their heads, and Brophy loved them like sisters and brothers. Others glared at them with disapproving frowns. Trent decided they were the “dad-inside” people. Sparklies ran from them, and they were to be avoided at all costs.

  The giant from Faradan, definitely a “dad-inside” kind of person, scooped up his daughters and left. The two girls peered around their father’s huge shoulders at Trent, who was making funny faces at them as they walked away.

  Brophy felt his heart swell in his chest. Trent had to be the best friend in the whole world. No one could have fun like Trent. No one could laugh like Trent. No one was so fearless, so funny, so much of a young hero about to emerge.