Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  Serwren placed her hand in Seddrill’s outstretched palm and allowed him to guide her away from the pillar. She glanced over her shoulder, back at Jorrell, before she had to turn and concentrate on where she was going. Jorrell watched her leave, feeling profoundly disappointed, sad and weary. Had the years been too many? Was there too much life between them now? Had their demise always been inevitable?

  “Here. You look like you could use a drink.”

  Cael pressed a full goblet of wine into Jorrell’s hand. Jorrell lifted it to his lips and drained it.

  “Good job I brought two,” Cael said dryly as he handed over a second goblet and motioned to a maid to refill the one that Jorrell had emptied. Jorrell only sipped at the second one; it wouldn’t do to lose control here with so many eyes on them.

  “Ahh, I see you met Seddrill.” One of the younger consuls - Rekseth, Jorrell thought he’d been introduced as - commented as he walked up to them. Rekseth was a pale man with a shock of wavy hair that was the colour of beech leaves in the season of Thyar, muddy green eyes and a haughty demeanour.

  “Rumour has it that those two were fucking for years behind old Bornsig’s back. The tale goes that they were caught practically fucking over the still-warm corpse of her husband. Only the gods know how long it’s been going on for. She was living in Bornsig’s country constituency for six years. The fat old coot had his cock in whatever young thing was unlucky enough to stumble across his path – he wouldn’t have noticed.” Rekseth’s tone was sickeningly, pretentiously superior.

  It was a good job that the goblet was bronze. If it had been crystal it would have shattered in Jorrell’s clenched fist.

  Jorrell was distracted from breaking Rekseth’s face by the arrival of Remmah. As ever, the diminutive consul exuded authority and poise, even though she only had half the height of the men who towered over her. “Hush yourself, Rekseth. Gossip is poison for idle minds.”

  Rekseth clearly did not think much of Remmah or her advice. He snorted and wandered off to find a more appreciative audience.

  Remmah smiled a genuine smile of welcome and laid her hand on Jorrell’s tense arm. “I’m glad you’ve returned safely, Jorrell.” She turned slightly to Cael. “And I believe I’ve heard of you.” Cael grinned at the implication in her tone and saluted her with his goblet. Remmah turned back to Jorrell. “I’ve nothing much of use to say, not here, not now, except this. You’re not the only one who’s been fighting a war. Remember that. I’m sure you’ve done questionable things during your time away. Remember, not everything is as it appears here.”

  With that enigmatic advice hanging in the air between them, Remmah gave Jorrell’s arm a squeeze, winked at Cael, who winked back, and melted back into the party.

  Jorrell was beginning to feel that the night had taken on the surreal edge of a dream. He was sure he would soon wake up in his freezing tent in Litt. His mind was whirling. He needed to know what had been going on in his absence. And he needed to find his sister. He’d been looking for Elthrinn, but it didn’t seem that she was in the ballroom. But then, she’d been a child when he’d left; perhaps she was here and he hadn’t recognised her. She would have grown so much in twelve years. She would be a woman now. He was looking for a child, or the child in the woman. The thought that he had walked by his sister, that perhaps she hadn’t sought him out because he’d passed her by in ignorance, made him profoundly heartsick.

  A large part of him was nostalgic for the simple life of a warring soldier. In the midst of war, one only had to stand up and fight. It was more complicated back in civilisation where a person needed to figure out who was foe and who was friend. The foes were not always the people holding their daggers to your throat.

  “Go and find her. You’ll be fucking useless until you speak to her again.”

  Jorrell actually jumped at the intrusion of Cael’s voice into his thoughts.

  Cael was watching him carefully, obviously intrigued, but not amused by his strange behaviour. Jorrell was sure he’d hear more on the subject before dawn.

  Jorrell scanned the room. He had at least a head’s height advantage over almost everybody in the room, but he couldn’t see Serwren. Seddrill, although tall enough to be spotted quickly, was nowhere to be seen either. Jorrell didn’t think that Serwren and Seddrill had left the room yet; he could see Ulli by Erkas’ side. No, if the rumours were anything to go by, they had probably sought some privacy.

  Feeling like he was a sneak-thief, but unable to focus his thoughts in any other direction, Jorrell went to check the balcony. He pulled up short almost as soon as he’s stepped through the open doorway, and quickly shut the tall, glass-paned, door behind him. Serwren was right there, in Seddrill’s arms.

  Jorrell felt a pain almost exactly like that of a knife being slipped between his ribs and into his heart. Serwren gasped, and her exhaled breath, carried on the evening breeze, tore at Jorrell's soul as if it were studded with nails, more so when he realised that it was a consequence of Seddrill sucking at her outstretched wrist. The blood toast. That vampiric fucker was drinking Serwren’s blood. She’d hardly said five words, and no fucking wonder. Two moons her husband had been dead. Caught fucking over his corpse indeed. She’d certainly found herself another warm body to cosy up to quickly enough.

  And on the heels of those evil thoughts full of bitter, rancid jealousy came Remmah’s warning, bolstered by the memory of a distant moment sat around a camp fire in a damp country, a moment when he’d learned that he shouldn’t believe everything he first assumed. But still, the sight of Serwren pressed tightly against that tall fucker made Jorrell want to start a brawl simply on principle.

  Seddrill released Serwren with a satisfied grin. The fucker licked his lips, naturally, and then he kissed her, on the lips. It was chaste, by Jorrell’s standards, but it was still a kiss. Seddrill disappeared back into the party through one of the other doorways, but Serwren did not immediately follow him, she lingered a moment on the balcony.

  Jorrell was seething with evil feelings. He should go back inside. He should drink. He should forget what he’d seen. He should approach her when he had some control over himself.

  Instead, he stalked up to her.

  Of all the questions and statements buzzing in his brain, he settled on the topic he thought might be the least inflammatory.

  “I haven’t seen my sister. How is she? Where is she? She was living with you, with him, does she witness that?”

  Maybe he could have been more restrained, maybe.

  Serwren was refastening one of those dainty cuffs around her wrist. She was wide-eyed with shock and surprise, and maybe, he hoped, a touch of guilt. She obviously hadn’t realised that her little performance had been witnessed.

  Jorrell felt as though he was outside of his body; he couldn’t seem to stop himself making things worse. He motioned at her jewellery.

  “So, now I see what they hide.”

  Serwren recovered herself. He could see her visibly filling with spirit, with fight, with indignation, and seeing that made him want her all the more.

  “This is none of your business."

  "The fuck it isn't."

  "I’ve done what I’ve had to in the name of survival. I’m sure that you are no innocent.”

  “I’ve had people actively trying to kill me for almost twelve years.”

  “It’s not been so very different for me.”

  That hurt him. He didn’t want to argue with her, but he couldn’t stifle his rage. He needed to deflect his emotions until he could examine them, although he was very aware that jealousy was a driving factor behind his rough manner. “Where’s Elthrinn?” he demanded.

  Serwren looked... guilty. “I tried to protect her.”

  “Serwren...” He didn’t like the threat in his voice, but it was just there, a low growl of menace, directed at the wrong person.

  Serwren was defensive now, regarding Elthrinn. She hadn’t been before on her own behalf. “No, she’s fine, I’m sure. Sh
e’s alive. Erkas had her betrothed to one of the wolves of Dorvek. Gorren, the second son of King Dorll.”

  “She’s to be married?” Jorrell asked dumbly. He wasn’t sure how such a thing could have happened, how it could have been allowed to happen. His baby sister had been used as a political pawn, and no one had prevented it.

  “She may be already by now. It’s been two moons since he sent her away.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” Again he was making demands of the wrong person, but the strains of the night had proved too much. His control was tenuous. He hadn’t known that he should prepare for such an emotional onslaught as this. He would rather have faced a hundred stampeding sand dragons.

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t know. I’d persuaded her to join the priestesses of Doohr. I thought she’d be safe in the temple. I didn’t find out what Erkas had done until it was too late. Please, Jor. I cared for her after your father died. She lived with me in the country for years as a sister, just the three of us. She was safe and happy there. I tried. Please believe that.” Serwren was beseeching, and she hadn’t deserved the need to plead her case. She hadn’t deserved the need to have her eyes glisten with tears.

  Jorrell wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe so much. And again he found himself desperately wishing for simpler time, strangely homesick for the battle front. Serwren was so earnest, her pleas were so sincere, that his anger and panic deflated.

  “Serry...” He reached out to touch her, but she flinched and shrank back. What was left of his heart shattered. He’d more than deserved such reticence.

  And then she was gone, slipping past him like a nimble phantom, through the doorway and into the ballroom to hide in the mass of the party. He saw her go up to Seddrill, saw the tall bastard wrap his arm possessively around her waist. Saw her whisper in his ear. Saw them call for Ulli. Saw them leave. Together. A family. Together.

  He watched from the shadows as she made her polite goodbyes on their way out. Serwren had reclaimed that imperious attitude, and she wore it like armour as surely as he wore a breastplate of bronze.

  Jorrell found it curious that Serwren didn’t touch anyone. As he observed her, he watched the way in which she avoided the casual touches that were so much a part of normal life. No fingers brushed her arms or shoulders. There were none of those thousand little gestures which routinely happened during his day. There was an aura around her that people instinctively did not breach.

  He wondered if he’d find the girl that he’d once known, that he still loved, behind that façade. Perhaps, if only he could maintain control long enough to persuade her to allow him to reach through it.

  She didn’t touch anyone but Seddrill. He saw that. He watched the way in which she let Seddrill touch her.

  Jorrell watched them until they disappeared through the main doorway and he couldn’t see them anymore. Then he went in search of Cael and the wine.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The daily meeting of the Forum continued to be the usual ridiculously theatrical production that it had been every day under Erkas’ leadership. Erkas loved to play the bountiful leader. He loved to order galas to be arranged and to give permission for sculptures and to grant random public holidays, but he paid little attention to the boring, relentless tide of issues which were the things that directly impacted on the life of his citizens.

  Erkas always allowed his cronies to speak first, and they were all well-versed in the topics that would attract his attention and garner his good humour. And after he had indulged their fripperies, posturing and self-indulgence, he would declare the Forum session closed, before any worthwhile business could be conducted.

  There had come a dangerous point when the vital workings of the city had not been addressed for some time. Problems had begun to accumulate and whispers of revolt had reverberated from street to street. Ellspith, Daleith and Remmah had approached Serwren first, hoping to find a sympathetic ear in another female. Serwren had promised to do what she could, and after much careful badgering and some extremely delicate baiting, she had attained the required decisions and agreements from her brother.

  And so now a farcical dance had begun. The charade of the public meeting continued, but afterwards, the consuls who required permissions for roads to be built, or funds for sewers to be repaired, would bring their requests to Serwren, while Erkas’ favourites would join him to drink wine and tell lewd jokes.

  In the beginning, Serwren had taken all the issues to Erkas, arguing the consuls’ points of view on their behalf. But as the desire for her to intercede had gained momentum, the advisors who looked after the public purse and who plotted buildings and roads and such had begun to advise Serwren directly. She was now in a position where she could facilitate most of the less obvious requests by herself. Of course, she couldn’t give permission for a great building, or a new thoroughfare, or anything so large that her brother would take note; those were arguments that she still had to make to him. But now she could do so with a much more authoritative voice, backed by all the information required to support the final decision.

  Speaking to her brother had become more complicated since she had taken Ulli to live in Seddrill’s house. Her brother believed, as many did, that she was Seddrill’s mistress. He had flown into a fit of rage and jealousy, one that had nearly resulted in actual physical harm to her, and Serwren had been afraid that he would actually bar her from leaving the palace. But in the end, Erkas had had to concede that he could not stop her without locks and chains. His original threat, to accuse her of their father’s murder, was not so powerful without the body as evidence. If he started ranting now, he ran the risk of making himself look like a lunatic, and just as guilty, since it was known that only the two of them had been in the room at the time.

  Serwren knew she was balancing on a razor’s edge with Erkas. It was only a matter of time before he snapped.

  Now, Serwren was sitting in her usual place in the Forum, relegated to the uppermost tiers, the place in which only people of the least importance could obtain a seat. She had ceased to mind. It gave her the opportunity to study the pantomime that unfolded before her without being observed. Although, on this day, her concentration was not as acute as it usually was.

  Serwren was distracted by Jorrell’s presence. She tried to tell herself that it was of no consequence that Jorrell had been invited to sit on the second tier, directly behind the consuls. After all, all the other Generals were with him, ostensibly so that Erkas could make a great show of welcoming them home and hold forth with a long-winded speech about how their victories had benefited Felthiss. But Jorrell had been invited into the midst of the action, and she had been dismissed as usual, even though it would be her counsel, her approval, that would be sought afterwards.

  Serwren allowed herself the luxury of studying Jorrell. She was fortunate to be on the opposite side of the room to him, so she’d had an almost unobstructed view, inbetween Erkas strutting around.

  Jorrell hadn’t been so tall, or so broad when he’d left Felthiss. But he’d barely been fully grown then. Years of fighting, of physical labour had added more mass to his frame than he would likely have achieved if he had been able to stay. But those blue eyes had never before had the capacity to hold violence in the same way that a diamond held its fire, not while she’d known him. They were a new feature in a face that was at once familiar and not. The brutality of his life was etched in deep lines. His black hair and the scruff of beard that shrouded his jaw were already threaded with grey.

  He was harder now, with an intimidating air of command that he almost didn’t seem to realise he exuded. His size in itself was imposing, but his manner demanded respect, and if not his manner, his scars. His knuckles and hands were crossed with white lines, and now that she could look with the advantage of light and without the disadvantage of their being in the middle of a dispute, she could see that there were similar white lines on his face. There was no mark that pulled the skin in any unfortunate way, but the
re was evidence that he’d sustained wounds to his face. Serwren couldn’t spy further evidence of the harshness of Jorrell's existence, thanks to the thick, deep red, woollen cloak topped with pelts from wild animals. Such a heavy garment wasn’t really necessary at this time of year, not during the daylight hours, and especially not inside, but it seemed that Jorrell would not be parted from it.

  Serwren had been shocked by his appearance at the reception the night before. She had known he would be there, Erkas had talked of little else for days in an effort to wrench a reaction from her, and yet still somehow she’d been expecting to see the boy she’d once known. A rugged, uncompromising man had appeared in that boy’s place.

  His immense presence, his sheer physicality, was almost too overwhelming for her. Most of the time, she wasn’t aware that she treated people in any different manner to any other person, but then someone would put their hand on her arm when she wasn’t expecting it and she would jump, and once or twice she had outright shrieked when someone had approached her from behind. She had come to realise that she had spent so long guarding herself and living in fear of attack, that she now rejected physical contact unless she initiated it, or was at least in control of it. And there was nothing about Jorrell that was not physical.