Consequences Within Chaos

by Derek Barton

  “Thank you for coming at any rate. I know I am not worthy of any of your attention or kindness. What can I help you with, Your Highness?”

  She cleared her throat and asked, “Do you know where my brother is? Or has something happened to him?”

  “I have not seen—” her words caught in her throat.

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Taliah restarted, “Sorry… Your brother left my quarters, but he did not tell me where he was heading. He was quite upset with me at the time. I truly regret my actions and for what I have done. You cannot find him?”

  Letandra hesitated and decided to not answer the question. It was best to keep the girl in the dark concerning her brother and any of the Throne activities.

  How can I know if the maid has been completely severed from this Auste person? Or could she actually know that Taihven was missing and had been captured and was fishing to see what the Court knew?

  At any rate there was no time to play games. Letandra had not found him anywhere nor picked up any trace of him.

  “How did you and Taihven meet up? Where was he?”

  “It was at your father’s funeral. I followed you two out of the city and then saw him trying to break into this barn.”

  “A barn? Where?”

  “It was some place near the forest where you guys separated in the woods. I think it was abandoned. He had climbed up a set of stairs, but fell and knocked himself almost unconscious.”

  “Alright, Taliah. Good day.” Her words came out curt, but Letandra was at odds how to treat the prisoner. The memory of Captain Ruessard and his horrific details about the Dock Attacks haunted her mind. She crossed to the doorway.

  She started to say “Get well soon, Taliah.” but the words would not have had any sincerity in them. Letandra left quietly.

  Now after three hours floundering in the dark trees she had found the barn.

  #3

  A wet towel wiped over his nose and mouth, but more blood bubbled out of his nostrils and down his lips. He gagged and coughed. Hot coals of pain bored into his body. Taihven tried to raise up, he had to get out of the tempest. Fires were spreading over his leg, across his waist and along his left shoulder. His eyelids were made of lead and he could not force them apart.

  Strong hands pushed at his shoulders and held him in place. He cracked open an eye in sudden panic.

  Four, lean males, dressed in identical, leather jerkin outfits, stood or knelt around him. They each had distinctive tan skin with a border of darker brown spots like a wild feline. Their hair was long, black or dark brown, and each had intense orange eyes, but were otherwise human-like. He also took notice of their ebony crystal knives sheathed in their belts.

  Taihven winced from renewed pain. One of the men worked to set an impromptu splint on his broken left leg. His knee answered and throbbed in fury.

  The moist cloth wiped at his chin, one of the men worked on two cuts that were crisscrossed upon his forehead. The four did not speak, but each hurried with a specific task and only made occasional gestures to each other. Often they looked over their shoulders and at the sky above in fright.

  With a rushed, but careful maneuver, they lifted the prince up and onto a makeshift stretcher secured between a pair of two mountainous grey wolves. The four men then climbed onto saddles on the canines. Taihven knew that they were taking him, but he did not care where. He was beyond worry — he was hurt way too bad to pose any threat or put up any fight. His eyes fell shut as another storm crackled to life overhead.

  The tan men urged the canines to move faster, but the galloping movements bounced the young man and his injuries flared even worse. The pain devoured him and he fell away into a faraway black world.

  ***

  His sleep was dreamless, but it was not restful. Taihven woke once again to a moist towel being wiped across his forehead. Sweat beaded along his face and pooled at the base of his neck. He wondered why he was not dead yet.

  “I have to do something to cool the fever from this infection. He will not survive much more.” A female voice called out, speaking to someone nearby.

  Taihven opened his eyes and stared with curiosity at the voice’s owner. She was a young woman, probably not much older than him that stood next to him. The girl’s hand was soft and her touch matched her voice. She was of the same species as the men, her face encircled by the same brown spots and was wrapped in a soft yellow, cloth material.

  “Rest now, rest. Close your eyes,” she cooed at him as he was lying in a rope hammock, covered in various animal furs.

  How does she know my language, Taihven pondered, but his eyelids obeyed her instruction.

  He felt her hand as she mopped at the pool along his neck. Suddenly he had a vision of his foreign nurse. In it, she was young, diminutive. Next to her laid a broken and bloodied older male. The arms were splayed out in odd angles and his neck was twisted to the right. Taihven got the sense that she was related to the male. She was crying and sobbing, holding the man’s head in her hands and lap.

  Another older female, dressed more like the males he saw earlier, appeared on a canine and dropped down from her saddle to run to her. “Oh, JaFraeda!”

  She scooped the child up into her arms and held her. “It is too late. He has gone graven.”

  The dream abruptly ended. Taihven watched as JaFraeda walked away from him and crossed the room. He found himself fascinated by the young nurse and stared at her back as she dipped her towel into a bowl of water. She was looking away, facing the wall and lost in thought. This was the closest to actual humans he had ever encountered in Aberrisc.

  Could the man in his dream have died from a tornado almost as he had? Taihven asked himself. Was it real and she was remembering that day?

  He was somehow reading her mind, living through her memory!

  “Keayfo brom’ada plussha.” She said aloud.

  “Brea thask cosha jaer.” Another female voice spoke from a connected room.

  The prince tried to raise up on his elbows so he could ask her, but the movement caused him to cry out from the core of his body. Never before had he ever felt such agony welling up within him. He fell back into the hammock as the breath was knocked from him. The room swelled and waivered as he fought to stay conscious. A spasm struck the prince and wracked his body. Blood dribbled out of the side of his mouth. His hand on instinct went up and swabbed at the blood trail. He stared at it, stunned by the deep red fluid on his fingertips.

  His nurse raced back to his side, gibbering in her foreign tongue. He could not understand her words now; he hoped she would go back to speaking his Dominion language. She used a fresh towel to clean his hand and face. Taihven grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes. “Am I dying?”

  “What?” she gasped.

  He had no energy to repeat it, but her thoughts spoke aloud in his mind. He was close, but she was confident that he would survive, but she was only guessing as he was not of her race. She was confused on how he knew her language.

  Taihven blanched at her assumption. He did not know her language – she knew his.

  Yet how did I understand her before?

  He wondered if somehow he had picked up another gift from his brief connection with the Balshazra. Did they give him their ability to know the language of anyone he touched?

  “You-you have lost a lot of blood from the hole in your side and your broken leg, but if I can stop the infection, you should survive.” She spoke slowly to him. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

  He nodded. She had not removed her hand and he quickly ascertained that they were called Duradramyn, the Wards of the Great Plains.

  “Our best healer is coming.”

  Too weak, he could not reply, but he smiled at her. He closed his eyes and fell unconscious in the thick furs.

  #4

  Letandra approached the same set of rickety stairs that Taihven fell from. She then found the double-wide horse doors. After two kicks the latch gave way and she pulled the
bar loose from its moorings.

  She unhooked her mace from her belt clasp and entered into the dark. Nothing moved or could be heard inside the barn or the horse stalls. It was damp, musty and cold and had not seen life in an obvious long time. Disappointed, she climbed up into the hay loft. No signs were there either. From the top though, she eyed a loop handle upon the cellar trap door.

  The metal loop was frozen in ice to the trap door. Letandra ran back down the stairs to it and whacked at the hard ice cap with her mace. It made a racket, but regardless, she smacked the ring with the weapon several times. The door finally came up with a prolonged whine.

  She spotted Taihven’s legs immediately. He rested up against a cellar wall and had a rusty chain wrapped around his wrists. He sat stiff and unmoving.

  However, as she sprinted down the steps to his side, she discovered another pair of legs. The Camiyaan laid upon his stomach next to the remains of a massive dog.

  “What happened here?” She wondered aloud as she knelt next to the slaver’s body and felt his neck – there was a faint, thready pulse. The man’s neck and face were cut open with series of grotesque gouges; his left hand nearly severed off.

  It must have been the bitter cold that saved him. She guessed and then paused. Do I save the man who would have sold my brother in another land like cheap furniture? How many lives has this one ruined – how many times do I look the other way when I could rid the world of filth like this?

  She twisted around on her heels to look at Taihven.

  “Oh Taihven! Who did this?” The princess gasped when she glimpsed his face.

  Thin block letters were carved into his forehead and cheeks.

  C H I L D O F R A P E.

  Dried blood from the letters caked on his cheeks. His pallor was pasty and clammy. More blood had drooled from his mouth; this appeared to be fresher and more recent. Her fears were starting to become reality. Something had happened to him during his episode here and in there. His body was still reacting.

  She shook her head. All that really mattered was that he was alive, even if he was again lost to her reality.

  From her belt, she retrieved her dagger and cleaved the single stretch of flesh and skin still attaching the hand. She then invoked a strong Mending incantation. The healing light flowed through her fingers and the glow passed over the slaver’s raw stump. “You better pray that I do not find out that you did this to Taihven.”

  Yet Letandra did not believe the slaver would harm his merchandise before the sale. Someone else had been here and violated her brother. This was beyond an act of war; the deed was an evil act for the sake of being evil. The Camiyaan would know who did this.

  She wiped away the tears of frustration and rage upon her face then focused on getting the prince’s hands free from the chains.

  Letandra draped his head into her lap. She held a small vial of water to his lips. The prince gulped it by reflex. When he finished the water, she fished out a jar of salve from her robe pocket. Another simple Mending concoction and not a strong one, but it would help refresh his hungry body.

  The cuts on his face and forehead healed, but left behind ugly pink and purple scar lines. After he returned, she would get him to the Menders to try and erase the words.

  The princess got to her feet and went back to the cot lying next to the cellar steps. She returned to her brother and studied him. His breathing was steady, but with a slight rasp. Perhaps he had gotten a bit of the Malay – he appeared to have been in this episode for quite some time. She tried to remember him having an episode lasting this long yet none came to mind.

  She shrugged her shoulders feeling helpless – she would have to reappear at the castle before her absence was discovered. However, leaving him here on the cot, alone and ill in the dark seemed extremely risky. He was vulnerable and defenseless.

  Searching again the loft, she found a chest which had inside several wool jackets. The princess covered Taihven as best she could.

  On the other hand, while he is in his episodes, his actions could be dangerous. What if he casts a fire-sourced spell of some type? Thoughts nagged her, but Letandra knew she had no choice.

  On the barn’s work bench, she found some paper and ink. When he woke, she warned him to stay hidden there. She would return with food and water as soon as possible.

  Letandra went to one of the windows and checked for any movement.

  Come back, Taihven. I need you! She whispered in the dark.

  She left the barn, relocked the latch bar and slipped into the cover of nightfall. On the back of her horse she carried the slaver back to Adventdawn.

  #5

  Fingers of ice sunk into the muscles of Taihven’s calf. The prince awoke in a haze, but found a flamboyant-robed Duradramyn male looming over him. The male was dressed in silken, black-purple garment with fringes of orange-tinted feathers. An odd, complex set of chains and hook piercings decorated his neck.

  Three other males and a female Duradramyn surrounded his hammock, each had individual crystals resting in their hands. These others were reverent and dressed alike in white shawls and similar tan leathers that he had seen before.

  The lead male arranged a set of sapphire crystals parallel to his open wounds. The name Gi’yandan came to Taihven.

  The bandages had all been cut and removed. For the first time, Taihven got a glimpse of how severe his injuries really were. Four sizable lacerations seeped and slowly bled. Reddish-purple bruises bordered the cuts. His entire swollen left leg was approximately triple its normal size. The prince felt another wave of cold energy pass through his wounds pulsating from the crystals.

  Next the healer started placing more crystals of purple and greenish hues around his body. The cold sensations in his leg muscles intensified, but otherwise, the process was painless. Taihven watched in pure fascination as he never experienced or had been in audience to any healing or Mending rituals like this. The group of four behind the healer commenced to hum and chant. Their harmony was precise and soon waves vibrated through the wounds, resonating in different rhythms from the various crystals.

  Taihven pondered if they were singing actual songs or incantation chants or were these random words. The pain through his leg and his shoulder eased for a brief time. Gi’yandan used a light touch and brushed his fingers over the open wounds and over the crystals in various combinations. He took note of Taihven’s attention and shot him a quick nod and smile.

  “JaFraeda dand. Cadalei dona Breakdon,”

  The young female nurse, JaFraeda came over to the healer and she extended a tray before her. It held two bowls: one of water and the second with a gooey, grey-orange paste. She snuck Taihven a smile as well, trying to put him at ease. Together the pair worked to put the paste onto the weeping wounds.

  The four singers picked up the volume of their chants. Another much younger, female nurse with honey colored hair, came in with a bundle of fruit which she set on a table in the corner. One by one the healers grabbed fruit and ate, but the singing continued. The healing session went on for an extended period.

  Their magic was bizarre and foreign to him. To others of his land like the Menders, they would have looked down upon the Duradramyn ritual as primitive or barbaric, but he was very grateful for their efforts. The wounds were healing. He laid back in the hammock with a lot less pain and soreness.

  Taihven extended his arm to reach out to the healer. “Gi’yandan, I can never repay you, but you have my eternal thanks.”

  The healer and the others jumped at the prince’s words and all fell silent at his statement.

  The Duradramyn healer stammered, “I had-had heard you might be able to speak our tongue. You are most welcome. In fact, this is an honor, Wandering Wolf. Do not fear, we will bring you through this.”

  Taihven now knew that Gi’yandan was formally called the Ara Yve Seld, Master of Song. He stared at the prince for a heartbeat and then broke his gaze to look at another male standing stiff and alert in the doorway. Until
then the youth had not noticed the man before and was not sure when he arrived at the door. The male was dressed in blackened leather weaved with wooden scales. Several weapons of ebony crystal hung from his belt. He nodded at Ara and then marched away.

  “I only want you to know that I am in your debt and will not forget it.” Taihven whispered, trying to ease any tension they might have.

  “Wandering Wolf, we were not aware you could speak our language aseaar jaeka adfa.” The Ara Yve Seld had stepped back to go to the table and his words immediately reverted into his own language.

  “Ajujue Ara Yve Seld ruadnoi xasxa.” He said as he turned away from Taihven and joined the group of healer-singers. From a pocket of his robe, he produced several jars which he handed to the others. All of them looked haggard and drained. The experience was wearing them down; several looked to be in some physical pain themselves.

  Gi’yandan walked back to the prince, stood next to him and put his hands high into the air. He conducted the others into another chant.

  “XADFAAA LIAD JO!” The stern Duradramyn had returned and barked out a sharp command; the chant was immediately broken.

  He walked in followed by two new arrivals. They were much older Duradramyn and their clothes were of beige and orange silk-like cloth weaved with crystals and silver medallions. The elderly pair were linked in arms.

  Gi’yandan looked over his shoulder at the four behind him and tilted his head toward the exit. They took his cue and filed out of the room. As they passed, they bowed to the regal Duradramyn couple.

  The female grinned at the male and stepped out of his hold. She had a gold highlight to her hair, wrinkles around her eyes and faint leopard spots around her face.