Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  “Have you seen your brother today?”

  After their silence, it took Serwren a moment to realise that she was being spoken to. “Not since yesterday.”

  “Remmah isn’t happy with either of you.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she is. She said as much.”

  “Are you not well, daughter? You hardly ate any of your meal. Are you ill? Is that the explanation for your inattention in your studies?”

  “No. I’m not ill.” Serwren did not look at her father. Her attention was fixed on the stem of her bronze goblet. A design of ivy had been worked into the metal; the vine twined round the stem and crept over the bowl of the vessel.

  Dimacius lounged back in his chair. “Ahhh, you’re pining then.”

  Serwren was disappointed by his mocking tone. “Don’t say it like that, Father. That makes it sound so childish.”

  “It is a childish infatuation.”

  Anger gave her energy that she hadn’t had all day. She looked her father in the eye. “No, it isn’t.” She was uncomfortable speaking of this without Jorrell by her side. She felt that it was unfair somehow to pre-empt the plans that they had made so carefully, but she would not be denigrated without responding. “We love each other. We’re in love.”

  "You’re too young to know what love is."

  “No, we’re not, Father. We want to marry. Jorrell plans to come to you when he returns from the Isle. We wanted to do this the right way.” It was all Serwren could do to keep her voice steady. Although she felt passionately that her father was dismissing her feelings out of hand, she knew that if she allowed her voice to waver, if her tone became strident, he would assign anything she said to a tantrum.

  “The right way? The right way would be to do as your father bids you. The right way is not wasting your time with such a dissolute young lad.”

  Serwren took a deep breath to retain a calm she was rapidly losing. “He isn’t that. How can you say that? You know him. He works hard. He’s intelligent.”

  Dimacius appeared to remain unmoved. He hadn’t shifted in his seat, and he continued to sip his wine with infuriating nonchalance. “And he’s showing no signs of growing up and becoming a man. Of course, his father and I have observed your little dalliance, and we both expect you to grow out of it. Tell me, Serwren, has he mentioned how he plans for the two of you to live?”

  Serwren stumbled over her words. She did not have an answer ready on her tongue. They hadn’t discussed such practicalities in detail yet. “Not exactly, but he will, and he supports my ambition to join the Forum.”

  Her father scoffed. “It takes years to become a successful consul, and that is subject to the whim of the people. What if you are not successful?”

  “What if I am?” Serwren countered. She wanted to hope that her father was trying to show her objectivity, but she was overwhelmed by the painful disappointment that he had no faith in her abilities.

  “You’ll starve first. If you marry Jorrell, you won’t live in this house. And I can guarantee that his father won’t take you both in. You’ve both grown up being cosseted here. Neither of you know anything of life. I hope he turns out to be skilled at goat herding because that is all that will be left to the two of you.”

  She would not cry. She would not cry. Serwren repeated that affirmation over and over, even as her eyes itched with forming tears. “Father, why are you being so cruel?”

  “Life is cruel, Serwren. Were life kind, your mother would have been alive to disabuse you of this vapid fantasy long ago. What I say now, I say with kindness. The sooner that you learn these lessons, the better. Duty is everything, duty to your parents, your family, to the people, your neighbours.”

  Serwren angrily swiped at an insubordinate tear. “What about your duty to see me happy?”

  “I look to that. I do not see a happy future for you if you bind yourself to Jorrell.” Her father appeared to be immovably assured in his assessment of the situation.

  “I do. I see a future for us.” Serwren said with a certainty that was tempered by the tears she was failing to hold back.

  “Serwren...”

  “No,” she interrupted her father. “I know that you intend to find me a husband. You won’t care if I like him, let alone love him.”

  Her father finally moved. He leaned forward and placed his goblet on the table, perhaps more heavily than he’d intended. “Love is not important. Respect is important. The ability to coexist, to live together, is important. Your mother was chosen for me. We barely knew each other before our wedding, yet we were happy for our brief years.”

  “How did you know?” Serwren asked bitterly. “Did you ever bother to ask her? Or did you just tell her to be happy, and expect it to be so?”

  Her father’s face darkened at her scornful tone. “How dare you speak to me like that. I am your father. I know what is best for you. And if you cannot be civil, you should go to your room.”

  Serwren was more than ready to make her escape, even though she knew her exit was somewhat petulant. “Very well.”

  She put her goblet on the table, not caring that it tipped from her shaking hand and rolled along the wood, splashing wine across the table and onto the floor. Her father made no move to stop her as she fled from the room.

  The tears flowed, and she hiccupped her sobs as she ran down the corridors. She quickly gained the safety and respite of her own room, but she could not cease her crying. The fear and frustration that had been plaguing her all day would not be mastered.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been brought up as she had. She hadn’t asked to be born to the First Father. All Serwren wanted was to marry someone that she loved; she really didn’t think that was too much to ask. Her father was being deliberately and unreasonably unfair. Neither she nor Jorrell had ever had a chance to learn more of the world, kept as they had been in a gilded cage.

  Serwren had never been prohibited from walking through the city, or from travelling into the countryside, but her father would have been furious if she had attempted to do so alone. He never insisted on a formal bodyguard, but a man servant or maid was expected to accompany her, at least. Her father always said that she could never be too careful.

  Serwren had absolutely no idea how to make her father take her, or her relationship with Jorrell, seriously. And she couldn’t get word to Jorrell; she couldn’t inform him of her father’s attitude, or warn him of the cold reception he could expect on his return.

  She felt impotent and weak, and was angry that she been put in the position of feeling so. In a feeble effort to exert some control, Serwren began her usual nightly routine. She undressed and donned her thin shift. She untied her waist-length, chestnut hair and battled with its natural curl as she brushed it out for the requisite number of strokes.

  When a knock came at her door, her heart skipped a beat. She hoped it wasn’t her father; she had no wish to see him or to continue their argument, not before she’d had chance to regain her composure.

  Serwren opened the door to reveal Erkas, holding a wooden bowl filled with pieces of fruit.

  As she was asking the question, “What are you doing here?” Erkas stepped past her and into her room.

  “Close the door, sister. It’s letting quite the draught in.”

  Serwren dumbly did as her brother instructed, still wondering why he’d come to visit her.

  “Erkas, why are you here?”

  “Can’t a brother visit his sister without some sinister motive?”

  Serwren did not believe for one moment that her brother did not have an ulterior motive. How sinister it was remained to be discovered.

  She regretted that something had gone sour in their relationship. They had been close once, as close as children who had shared a womb could be. She didn’t know when that had changed. No, that was a lie, she did know. It had changed when they had begun their schooling, when Jorrell had become a part of their lives, part of her life.

  Serwren had not for
gotten that she and Erkas had been inseparable for the first seven years of their lives. Left without a mother from their first breaths, they had been cared for by a succession of nurse maids. They had been each other's whole world. They had slept in the same crib and later the same bed. If any of the maids had tried to separate them, they had screamed or held their breath until they turned purple and their carers gave in. They had barely needed words to communicate with each other, always almost instinctively knowing what the other meant or needed.

  Then their duo had become a trio. Briefly, it had looked as though Erkas and Jorrell might become close friends, but the first time that Serwren and Jorrell had hatched a plan to do go exploring in some forbidden corner of the palace had marked the turning point. Erkas had become withdrawn. He had started to refuse to speak to either of them.

  He had sulked for a while, then he had begun to surreptitiously bully Serwren, pinching her or pulling her hair when adults had their backs turned. That had continued only until Jorrell had intervened and beaten Erkas until he was bruised and bleeding. After that, Erkas had become much more insidious in his attempts to make Serwren’s life miserable, holding her responsible for his hurt, rather than Jorrell.

  Now, when not indulging his ambitions to rise through the political ranks of Felthiss, her brother’s sole motivation seemed to be to cause as much trouble as possible for her, so it was a mystery as to why he should suddenly appear at her room laden with smiles and gifts.

  “A brother could, but it is unlike you, dear brother, to do something so familial.”

  “Now Ser, that’s simply not fair. You know I love you.”

  “I know that it was likely you that nudged Father in my direction when I was stroking the gryphon. I doubt he would have seen me otherwise.”

  “It was a vicious beast, Ser. You were in danger.”

  “I was not, and well you know it.”

  “Anyway, I thought you might need some cheer, and I hear you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I brought you these.” Erkas placed the bowl of fruits on her dresser.

  “You’ve spoken to Father?”

  “Not as such.”

  “Then how...?”

  Erkas interrupted her. “You’ve been crying, sister. Your eyes are all red.”

  His voice was soft, and yet it wasn’t soothing; it was like the hiss of a snake before it struck. When he reached out to touch his fingertips to her cheek, over the tracks of her tears that had not quite dried, Serwren pulled her head away and stepped back out of his reach.

  Erkas expression changed from dreamy concern to utter contempt, as quickly as a cloud passing over the sun. “Really, Ser, you thought you would marry Jorrell. I’d credited you with more sense than that.”

  “Erkas, how did you know? Not that this is any of your business.”

  “But it is my business, sister.” The last word was said as an endearment, but sounded like a threat. “You planned to run away with that son of a whore? He doesn’t deserve you, sister. He never has.”

  Serwren backed up as her brother advance d on her. She was scared now. There was a glint of madness in Erkas’ eyes.

  “I don’t know what you mean. Erkas, brother, what’s wrong?” She tried to make her tone calm and soothing, but she was still full of emotion from her argument with their father, and the building fear and her utter confusion wasn’t helping. She suddenly wished that she had paid literal heed to Jorrell’s warning and had armed herself with a knife from the kitchens.

  “I heard you tell Father that you plan to marry him.” Erkas disdain for Jorrell was so thick that he couldn’t even name him.

  “How did you...? How could you....? Brother...?” Serwren was sure that someone had cast a spell on her. A witch must have tipped the hourglass of her life upside down; she was drowning in the trickling grains of sand. He hadn’t been in the room when she’d been discussing Jorrell with their father. Serwren wondered how on earth he’d heard their conversation. She continued edging backwards, trying to evade her brother, but the backs of her legs hit her bed. She was trapped, and Erkas, who had obviously gone insane, was still advancing towards her.

  “You’re mine, sister. How dare he lay his filthy hands on you.” Erkas features were twisted in a snarl, almost beyond recognition. Spittle was flying off his lips when he spoke.

  How could he...? Serwren froze, suddenly completely sure that her brother had seen Jorrell coming to her room at night, and that he would tell their father, if he hadn’t already.

  “You’re mad.” Serwren murmured, almost to herself.

  Her whisper was not quiet enough, though. Erkas heard it. He growled, and before Serwren could comprehend the movement, he’d swung his arm and backhanded her across her cheek. The force of the blow knocked her backwards; she spun, stumbled, and landed on her bed. Whatever Erkas did, when he wasn't sequestered with his books, obviously involved some degree of physical activity. Although Erkas did not appear to have the potential to be as broad of shoulder as Jorrell, his frame was beginning to be dense with muscle, and there was strength in his arm, painful strength... dangerous strength.

  “You’re mine. He can’t have you. You’re mine.” Erkas muttered the litany over and over as he followed her down on to the bed.

  Serwren tried to twist away, but he dropped down over her, onto her. She tried to scream, but he slammed one hand over her mouth. She kicked and rolled, anything to dislodge him, but he was so much heavier, so much stronger. She felt him grabbing at her shift, felt his hand fumbling between their bodies. Erkas was still repeating the same phrases over and over.

  He was her brother. Her twin brother. They had shared a womb, for Aweer’s sake. He couldn’t. Surely he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Her mind refused to believe it, refused to accept the inevitability of what was happening until the burning pain stabbed through her, in her. The pain was all she could think about. Agony combined with disgust to form a rancid stew. Erkas pushed his sweaty palm over her mouth, muffling her screams and grinding her head into the mattress. It took all Serwren’s concentration just to breathe. Her attention was devoted to drawing air past the vomit that swelled in her throat.

  Erkas body juddered, and she felt... Serwren couldn’t give the thought room to complete itself. With a long, low groan that held something of triumph, Erkas clambered off her and stood by the bed, arranging himself, tucking himself back into his trews.

  “You’re mine, sister. Never forget that you’re mine.”

  As suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone.

  Serwren’s mind could not count the moments that she lay on her bed, her body still twisted and exposed as Erkas had left it. As horrific awareness returned to her, she curled onto her side into a ball, drawing her knees up to her chest. Pain lanced through her as she moved.

  It took her longer to be confident that she had the strength to move, that she could stand the hurt that moving would bring. But she had to move. Had to. She could not stay there. She was vulnerable. She could not stay.

  She unclenched her body, and immediately bile rose in her throat as she felt the stickiness between her thighs. She fearfully looked down to find a mess of blood and other fluids smeared on her and on the bed. Serwren blindly grabbed a handful of the sheets to wipe between her legs.

  She didn’t feel any more clean when she was done. She would never feel clean again. She pushed herself to stand. She didn’t think that she was still bleeding. She didn’t care. She could not stay in the room. She couldn’t stay where that had happened. She could not sleep on that bed.

  She could not be naked, either. She struggled into the clothes that she had worn that day, wrapping her shawl securely around all of her exposed skin. In doing so, she bumped against her dresser. The bowl of fruits that Erkas had gifted to her wobbled and overturned. Pomegranates and figs rolled out and off the table, and bounced onto the floor. Some of the riper, softer fruits splattered across the tile when they hit the unyielding floor. Serwren didn't even notice the gloopy devastation. />
  Her mind was too full of terror, shame and loathing for sensible, rational thought. Acting purely on an instinct borne of a habit from her childhood, Serwren raced and tripped on bare feet through the palace, to the stables. Ignoring the inquisitive whickers of the residents of the stalls, who objected to having their sleep disturbed, Serwren made straight for the stall that was occupied by her mare. She opened the solid gate with clumsy, trembling fingers and slipped inside. Barely acknowledging the nudge of welcome that she received from the animal, Serwren curled up next to her horse, half burying herself in the musty straw. She tucked herself between the hooves, against the warm flank, but she did not sleep.