The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  Feeling rather foolish, I stared hard into the mirror. My reflection glared back. Did my eyes always look that haunted? As I never used a mirror, not even to shave with, I didn’t know. My yellow hair hung as wild as a horse’s mane past my shoulders, and my cheeks appeared as hollow as a starved crone’s. No regal, princely appearance for me, I reckoned. I certainly never acted regal.

  Turning my face slightly, I concentrated on a narrow gash along my left jaw. A cut from the whip, no doubt. Lifting my right forefinger, I traced lightly along its length.

  I willed it to heal.

  My skin tingled as though hundreds of tiny fireflies danced along it. Heat grew and spread, burning, yet not with a fierce, savage heat. Rather the warmth felt akin to a cat’s paw after waking from a nap: soft heat with a mild, tender pressure. Under my finger the wound knitted, melded, closed and vanished. In the mirror, I witnessed it fold in upon itself, turn into a faint red line before disappearing altogether. No trace of it remained.

  However, whatever magic I called up continued, its warmth spreading, seeking other injuries, turning a wicked abrasion into a simple reddish scrape before it, too, popped out of existence.

  “Whoa, Nellie,” I said softly.

  With an effort, I pulled the power back within me, shut down my will and took a deep breath. Like the cat returning to its nap, I felt it coil back, draw away and return to slumbering deep within me. Yet, it left behind an odd sensation. I cocked my head, trying to puzzle it out. The Flynn in the mirror frowned and his eyes narrowed. I hadn’t changed, but I didn’t feel the same. I was still Flynn, still looked like a wild mountain man, still burned with horrible pain from whip and father, and yet I felt –

  – joy.

  Yes, I felt joy. I felt exhilarated. I wanted to laugh and dance and love. A giggle actually popped from my lips before I knew it approached. I examined myself closer. The haunted look in my eyes wasn’t there anymore. Could the handling of magic actually bring a person true happiness? Van certainly seemed a happy enough fellow, even if Malik appeared as sour as month-old milk. Maybe it didn’t work the same on Centaurs.

  I brought myself back to the present. If I, and those I loved, were to survive, not only must I hide my new-found powers, I must heal myself of the worst of my injuries. If using magic made me happy, then I, above all, must remain the old, nasty Flynn whom no one liked. Even if I liked myself better, I must hide that, too.

  I peered once more in the mirror, and forced a dark scowl, narrowing my eyes. Ah, there you are, you rascal. Prince Flynn the Despised.

  “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I muttered, focusing my will on my back injuries. “Time to play.”

  I slumped before a roaring bonfire, poking a stick into its deep red coals. I feigned exhaustion, yet felt exhilaration. Through the twelve long hours in the saddle, slumping as I did now, I pretended an agony I didn’t feel. Oh, my back itched incessantly and the knot on my forehead kept a thumping headache locked within, yet those were mere annoyances compared to what I’d truly feel had I not healed the worst of my own father-inflicted injuries.

  The exhilaration I felt came from practicing my rediscovered powers. Through slitted eyes, groaning now and again, I rode Bayonne, the real one, and lifted stones with my mind. Passing across a flat hilltop, I informed a winging falcon where I’d seen a careless rodent. She stooped, wings flattened to cut wind resistance and dropped, unseen from above, onto her unlucky prey. Upon entering a thick grove of heavy pines, tall oak, and thickets of brambles, I parted branches from Bayonne’s face without lifting a hand. Behind me, Blaez muttered imprecations under his breath as those selfsame branches whipped across his face.

  He thought me merely inconsiderate.

  Pretend pain exhausted me more than real agony. My slump created a crick in my lower back that I yearned to straighten and stretch. I grew bored playing with rocks and breaking dead tree limbs. Murdering an innocent ground squirrel with my fist squishing its heart felt downright dull. With every magical feat I mastered, I grew more and more adept. I utilized less and less effort to accomplish a task, and soon a mere thought brought the result I wanted. Under the very noses of those who swore to slay all magic and its creatures, I rapidly learned how to wield my own.

  Finian ordered me to accept that idiot Blaez. He and two others from my father’s royal cavalry soldiers, Galdan and Hogan, accompanied me on my quest to kidnap, yet again, Princess Yummy. For my own protection, I ordered five of my own questionably loyal henchmen to also tag along: my newly fletched men, Buck-Eye and Kalan, and my other well-paid men-at-arms: Rade, Boden, and Torass, watched my back most carefully. Kadal, who died to protect me, offered them new incentives to keep me alive.

  When two from the previous expedition, Lyall and Todaro, begged to accompany me, who was I to refuse them? I hiked their pay and their brows, in the hopes it also increased their loyalty to me several-fold. Dead princes tended to not pay their debts. Live ones – well, Prince Flynn was reputed to be filthy rich. Naturally, I fostered those interesting rumors.

  “Why are they going north?” Blaez muttered, his hands busy with his toys.

  I flicked a glance across the blazing fire. He sat on a large rock, much as I did, pouring an odd granular mixture into large, hollowed out bamboo reeds. Picking small rocks from the earth at his feet, he dropped them into the current hollow tube. He added small sharp nails from his saddlebags, and splinters of bone from the deer Lyall shot with his bow and we ate for our supper. Blaez peered down inside, shutting his left eye, and nodded sharply to himself.

  He cut a length of waxed string, and stuffed one end in the open mouth. Permitting a length to dangle down the side of the bamboo, he sealed the mouth with hot wax. Setting it carefully aside, he began another.

  “What’re those?” I asked, my voice dull.

  Blaez answered by scrubbing a new tube with sand, added his dark mixture, scouted for more rocks, funneled a handful of nails down inside and sealed the result with more wax. He carefully set it on the growing pile beside his rock chair and began another.

  “Those things won’t go off?” I asked. “By accident? Will they?”

  “Not unless I want them to.”

  Blaez flicked me a swift glance before returning to his task. A sudden ah-ha moment struck me between the eyes like a fist.

  That bad boy has magic, I thought, gleeful. He’s trying to hide it as much as I was.

  I pretended not to notice and returned my attention to the fire.

  Behind me, the men tossed dice to determine camp duties. A flick of my mind set the tossed dice spinning until Buck-Eye and Torass’s chosen numbers lay face up, winning them the right to clear away the remains of dinner. With identical sighs, they set about washing up as Boden erected my tent and Lyall curried Bayonne and his own chestnut mount. Rade and Hogan hauled water, fetched wood for the fire, and sought the comfort of their own horses and Commander Blaez’s black stallion.

  How powerful was Blaez? He obviously knew a great deal more about magic than I did and no doubt practiced his craft without alerting anyone. Could I beat him if it came down to a fight? My father still wanted my head on a pike, and owned Blaez body and soul. No henchman could save me from death if Blaez forced my brain to hemorrhage just by thinking about it.

  Camp duties finished, the men sat around the huge fire, cross-legged on blankets and pallets, and drew weapons. They sharpened swords, checked arrows for bad fletching, tested bowstrings, set hidden throwing knives securely under arms, along steel-covered wrists, inside tall boot-tops. Muttered voices, discrete as to not disturb me, spoke of who might catch the third, the least desired watch, that night; whose horse out-travelled whose and a ribald jest or three. I tuned them out.

  “North,” Blaez muttered, not looking up. “I don’t like it.”

  I didn’t either. A direct route north would take Yummy and her friends deeper into the Shin’Eah Mountains. In following, we’d ride across tall, treacherous peaks where a sudden ice storm might
lock us down until we starved. We didn’t need the Atani Shifters to kill us, the ugly mountains would do their dirty work for them. Then Finian would kill Fainche, and Sofia.

  “We go north until told different,” I said, my voice as weak as I could possibly make it.

  “Huh,” Blaez snorted without looking up.

  “Father’s information must be correct,” I murmured, not quite certain just how my illustrious sire got his intel that Iyumi and her pals rode hard for the north. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, either. “He has good spies.”

  The half moon rode high, burning bright in the eastern black velvet of the night sky. Forest tops obscured its lower half, yet it drowned the stars nearest it. With soft chuckles and a tossed jest, my men settled into blankets on pallets, hoping they weren’t picked for first watch. Although the first was easiest, the men were broke-backed weary and craved sleep as they never craved a woman’s pleasure.

  Soft, I muttered to myself. As soft as bean curds. How they managed the hard life of mercenary soldiers was beyond my immediate comprehension.

  “I’ll never sleep,” I muttered. “I’ll take first watch.”

  Blaez flicked me a glance then returned to his life’s work – bomb making. Buck-Eye nodded and offered me a half-salute. My murder of Sim and obvious strength to bear up under the pressure of extensive wounds offered me a rare respect they didn’t want to admit. Throughout the day, Blaez never once questioned a decision of mine, followed my lead and obeyed my every order. Where I led, they tagged along like obedient little hounds and shit when I told them to.

  Though I wanted very much to crawl into my fur-lined pallet under my covering tent and sleep for two weeks, a sudden urge to be alone struck me. I wanted away from that camp and those treacherous, conniving knaves like yesterday.

  I staggered to my feet. No sham this time. My legs below my knees fell asleep as I poked the fire with a stick. None present knew my hand never touched the stick to begin with. I groaned aloud as fresh blood tingled into my lower legs, ankles and feet. Balance escaped me as I tottered away into the darkness outside the fire.

  “Get your rest,” I said, my tone commanding, yet still weak. “Blaez, that means you.”

  Muttering and cursing, Blaez tucked his deadly toys into a canvas sack and lay down on his pallet of pine boughs and wool blankets. After tossing and turning, drawing his blanket up to his chin despite the night’s mild temperatures, getting himself comfortable, he finally lay silent and still. His snores might wake the dead, but I hardly complained.

  Something out in the woods, alive in the darkness, called to me. I cocked my head, listening. In my ears, I heard nothing save the soft sough of the breeze ruffling through the trees, the hoot of a hunting owl a short distance away, the live crackling of the fire and exploding pine knots. Very far away, a wolf howled, its soulful cry wavering on the night air. Another wolf answered the first, and I found myself dreadfully fascinated by the sounds.

  Yet, when I listened with my other, more sensitive, hearing, I heard my name called. Flynn. The two sounds, the howling wolf and the night wind carrying my name on its breast gave me the sudden shivers. What the hell? I rubbed my upper arms, chilled, despite the warmth of the mid-summer evening.

  “Buck-Eye,” I said, my voice deliberately quavering. “You’re second watch, Galdan, you’re third.”

  I didn’t wait around to listen to the grumbles of those chosen, or the happy chuckles of those who’d sleep sound all night. As though in great pain, I staggered into the darkness outside the firelight. I glanced back. Per my orders, the men curled into their pallets near the blazing fire, tossing a few ribald jests back and forth as they snuggled beneath blankets, heads pillowed on saddles.

  Once out of the firelight, I dropped the weakling sham and straightened my back. Raising my arms above my head in a long, soulful stretch, my spine popped audibly. The relief it brought felt exquisite, and I sighed deeply. Damn but it felt good to stand upright and walk firmly again. My back still itched abominably, and I paused long enough to scratch it against an oak tree. My skin too soft and newly healed for much than a quick up and down and sideways rub on the tree, I dared not do more. As it was, the fiery burn flared higher, making me wish I’d left the bloody thing alone.

  Following my gut, I turned abruptly right. My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and with the rising moon behind me I saw easily. Dodging rocks and scrub oak thickets, I wended my way through the forest, ducking my head to avoid bumping my goose-egg on low overhanging branches. Even in the dense forest, my vision adjusted accordingly and I saw fairly well. Enough to not bark my shins, walk into a low-lying limb, or trip over a rock, anyway. The light wind brushed through the tree tops and whispered my name, though the wolves had long since quieted.

  Within a few hundred rods, I stumbled upon what appeared to be an old path. Not a game trail, I was certain, for it le`d away from water and grazing, and climbed high toward the hill a mile or so away. It appeared to be a beaten path – leading to what?

  My gut and the voice on the wind ushering me on, I traipsed along it, following its relative smoothness uphill. The trail steepened, winding its way around heavy boulders and tall trees. The vegetation fell away slowly the higher I climbed, and its sharp angle gave my lungs and legs a much needed workout. Did I call my men soft? Where was my horse when I needed him? Right now, I’d be happy to ride Van.

  I huffed and puffed my way up, the trail folding back upon itself several times to avoid clumps of pine and elm, or clusters of fallen rock. Though the moon shown down only half-full, its light, and that of the bright stars, gave me plenty to see by. I avoided deadfall, worm-etched signatures burrowed into the bone-white skeletons of long-expired tree trunks. The light wind brushed pine boughs against my face or shoulders, as though caressing me in passing. Flynn, it called, whispering in my ears. The wolf howled, its cry resounding much closer. I drew my cloak closer about my neck, glancing around uneasily. Wolves don’t attack healthy humans, I reasoned, loosening my sword in its scabbard. Why didn’t I make a torch to carry? Fire made a very handy weapon against fanged, furry things.

  I worked my way higher, the moon-lit hilltop beckoning. Just a little further. Happy my back no longer ached, for I needed both it and my relatively strong legs. My lungs requested a leave of absence, but I denied them and forced them into subservience. If I survive this, I swear I’ll give up drinking, gambling and chasing women.

  Er, perhaps I’ll give up drinking and gambling.

  “Flynn.”

  I heard the voice now, with my ears. Did I hallucinate, hear things that weren’t truly there? I cocked my head, listening hard. It wasn’t the wind, nor was it the wolf howling, near or far away. It was a woman’s voice and spoke from beyond that rocky ridge.

  My sword in my hand, I slowed my pace. I climbed but cautiously, following the beaten trail around the crown of the hill. I approached the ridgeline, keeping my body low and not exposing myself against the moonlight. Creeping like a flea along a hairline, I slinking from one shadow into another, peering over the low stone wall with only my eyes showing. I hid my sword in the shadows, praying its starlit gleam hadn’t been seen by the occupant in the clearing.

  Two forms stood by the light of a dancing fire at the crown of the hill. I peered around, seeking more human shapes, more potential enemies. The hilltop itself was ringed by a low stone wall, half crumbled by time and weather. Beyond the fire lay the ruins of an ancient building, fallen timbers drying to dust amid the broken stone walls of the collapsed structure. Only what appeared to be a stone altar remained intact on the far side of the blazing fire.

  “Flynn.”

  The taller of the two shadowed forms spoke, without turning. I knew that voice. I knew that slender frame silhouetted against the fire’s dancing light. I recognized that thick fall of blonde hair that fell to her hips, mantling her in gold. As regal as any goddess, and as beautiful as a spring dawn, Queen Enya watched the moon rise higher as I breathed h
er name, a sigh as much as a word.

  “Mother.”

  She turned. With the fire and moonlight behind her, I saw only a dark silhouette of her exquisite, chiseled features. Her white teeth gleamed as she smiled. “My son.”

  Sheathing my sword, I stumbled out from behind the wall’s inadequate protection. What the hell is she doing here? “What the hell – Mother?”

  Lifting her right hand toward me, she invited me to take it. Once I cleared the wall and advanced across the stone-less, treeless clearing, I clasped her fingers. Tripping over the small child at her feet, I glanced down once in confusion before her melodious voice cancelled all brain activity within my head.

  “You’ve accepted your gift, Flynn,” she said, smiling, her hand warm within mine. “I’m pleased.”

  “What are you doing here? What gift?” I asked, stumbling over my tongue, glancing from the child to her and back again. “Who’s this kid?”

  Her pale slender finger over my lips silenced me as effectively as a gag.

  “In due time, my son,” she said, her voice calm, solemn and sure. “I’ll reveal all, and answer your questions. But for now, accept what is and be silent.”

  Though a dozen, more, questions rose as far as my mouth, I shut them off, shunted them aside and waited. It’ll come, I thought, if you have patience enough. Few can sit still on dire secrets for long. I was no exception, loth as I was to admit it.

  As Enya shut her eyes and tilted her head back as though communing with the stars, I studied the small boy at her feet. With his left fist gripping a fold of her gown, his right thumb corked securely in his mouth, he studied me in turn. Two years old, maybe, I thought, offering him a sly wink. A grin blossomed around the thumb and his solemn eyes crinkled at the corners. He’s a cute little bugger, whoever he was.

  A sturdy lad, his shock of brown hair curled thickly over his ears and neck, and his huge dark eyes watched me with calm trust. He wore a light green tunic made from good cotton, and small black breeches. The light breeze lifted his tiny cloak, and ruffled the hair from his eyes. Those eyes. I frowned slightly. They reminded me of someone –