Reiv’s heart lifted at the possibility of it, and he found himself practically sprinting to the door. He reached for the handle, then closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Please dear gods, let it be good news. Pulling open the door, he found himself face to face with the very person most frequently found at the tip of his imaginary sword—Whyn, his brother. But Whyn was now more than his brother. He was his enemy. So much for prayers.
Reiv shoved his hands against the door. He could not bear to face Whyn, not today, and considering the evidence of his own temper scattered about the place, he couldn’t trust himself not to throw his brother against the wall as well. But Whyn’s quick foot blocked his attempt and pushed its way, along with the rest of him, into the room. Reiv stepped back, fists and jaw clenched.
Whyn faced him and scanned the dimly lit room. He was dressed in his usual royal finery, a golden silk tunic draped down his body, jeweled adornments pinned at his shoulders. Reiv looked down at the faded black cloth that covered his own hips and felt the crimson rise to his cheeks. Whyn had never come to see him here before, and now here he was, eyeing the dismal apartment and his outcast brother, the former Prince of Tearia, now a Jecta look-alike.
“We need to talk,” Whyn said.
“And you need this many guards to do it?” Reiv said, motioning toward the several well-armed Tearian Guard at Whyn’s back.
“Oh . . . well, there has been some unrest as of late, and the Commander felt it necessary.”
Whyn turned and murmured to his escorts who nodded and departed the room, but not before shooting a look of warning Reiv’s way.
“Ruairi—” Whyn began.
“Reiv . . . my name is Reiv. Great pains are taken to see that I do not forget it, so—”
“I am sorry. Reiv,” Whyn said.
“What is it that you wish, my Lord?” Reiv thought he would gag.
“Please, do not address me as such. It is not necessary.”
Reiv shrugged. “What is it that you wish then, Whyn?”
“To talk. That is all.”
“I suppose it is a good thing that is all you want, as I have nothing left to give you.”
Whyn’s face went gray. Reiv felt a surge of satisfaction.
“I--I want to mend the bad feelings between us,” Whyn said. “Especially about the marriage. I want . . . I need to tell you that it is not what you think.” Whyn stepped toward him, an expression of desperation shadowing his face. “The wedding was not my idea. I swear it, Reiv. I fought against it. I did! But Cinnia and her father insisted. She had been promised the role of future queen. Father and Labhras worked out the details, and the Priestess approved them. I had no say in it, Reiv. Please believe me; I had no say.”
Reiv stared dumbly, his lips unable to respond to his brother, the great Prince of Tearia, now begging his forgiveness. He twisted his mouth with disgust. Had Whyn come expecting pity from him? Surely he knew he would get none, no matter how heart-wrenching his story.
Reiv shook his head. “No. You could have stopped all this. I am here by your will.”
“Gods, Reiv. Is that what you think? That I wanted this?”
“I think, and I know.”
“But, it is not true,” Whyn insisted. “I swear I wish everything was back the way it was. I wish you were the one getting married tomorrow, not me. But there is nothing I can do about it. You do not understand the position I am in.” Whyn stepped closer. “Remember how you used to complain that you never had any say in anything? Remember? Well, it is the same for me. Do you not see? I have to marry Cinnia, and I do not even love the girl.”
“But I do.”
“What can I do, Reiv? I cannot give you Cinnia. You know that. If I could change all of this, I would. But the Priestess . . .” Whyn swallowed hard. “You are still my brother.”
“No. Ruairi was your brother. And he is dead now.”
“My brother may be lost,” Whyn said. “But he is not dead.”
Reiv turned his face from his brother’s probing eyes. “I think it is time you left, Lord. I am sure you have more important things to do than talk to a ghost.”
Whyn nodded reluctantly. “Very well, but before I go, I want to leave you this. It is yours and you should have it.”
Whyn snapped his fingers at a guard who stood outside the door, then reached for the scabbard being held out to him. He pulled the sword from within it and held it out to his brother.
Reiv’s breath caught. It was the Lion! He could only stare in disbelief. Was Whyn actually giving it back to him? He felt joy at the thought of it, and found the rare emotion almost unnerving. But as much as he wanted to take the sword, he could not reach his hand to it. It was a peace offering on his brother’s part and were he to take it, he would be accepting the gesture. Reiv folded his arms across his chest.
Whyn laid the sword and scabbard upon the marble table. “It is rightfully yours,” he said. “Keep it.”
But Reiv did not move.
Whyn pursed his lips, then walked to the door. He stopped with his back to his brother, and stood silently for a moment. “You are still my brother, Ruairi,” he finally said. “When I am King, things will be different.” He squared his shoulders and stepped into the street. He did not look back.
Reiv closed the door and bolted the latch, then turned and leaned his back against it. His body was trembling now. The hostility he had managed to keep at bay during Whyn’s visit was erupting again, but this time killing a plant would not appease him.
He stepped to the sword and grabbed it up, trying with all his might to tighten his hand around the leather-bound handle. He swung it, slicing the air, but the weapon flew from his grasp and landed with a metallic clank against the floor.
Tears of anger welled in Reiv’s eyes. “Even your gift brings me nothing but grief!” he screamed.
He stormed over and picked it up, clenching the hilt in both hands this time, his brow tightening as he focused his attention on the grip. Taking a deep breath, he swung the sword, its gold adornment dimly reflected through the scant rays of light streaking through the room. He tightened his jaw, then thrust the blade forward with a twist of his wrist. A grin stretched across his lips as he straightened up, the weapon still held out before him.
“Yes, some day things will be different,” he said. “Some day I will see my enemy’s throat at the end of my sword.”
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Chapter 6: Summer Fires
The wagon stopped atop the last crest as its passengers paused to take in the view. Pastel meadows spilled down the mountainside, assimilating into geometric fields of barley and corn. Wheat danced to the beat of a symphonic wind. Azure waters shimmered in the distance. But Dayn took no pleasure in the beauty of the landscape. He could not seem to drag his eyes from the festival grounds just a short distance away. Even the colorful tents, spinning costumes, and snapping banners brought him no cheer. It was just a well-orchestrated whirlpool destined to suck him into a day of misery.
He turned his attention beyond the festival grounds to Kiradyn on the other side of them. The city was a place of religious blessings and frequent celebration, but to Dayn the high-pitched roofs of its dark buildings looked more like daggers, poised to kill any new idea that happened to drift down upon them. He shifted his gaze to the waters beyond the harbor. There white-capped waves beat silently, but mightily, against rocks that rose from the sea like monstrous spines.
As Dayn scanned the horizon, he realized he was searching for something, though he couldn’t imagine what. There was nothing beyond the rocks, only eddies that would suck you down, beasts that would swallow you whole, and tides that would pull you over the edge of the world. No, there was nothing to find out there. He would do better to look in the other direction
He slid off the wagon, relieved to stretch his back. Leaning his body to the side, he pulled the tightness from his muscles and moved his gaze to the mountains. Fear still stirred within him when he looked at those to
wering peaks, but these days it was a different kind of fear. No longer was it fear of the unknown. Now it was fear of what he knew to be true.
He turned his eyes away and bent to brush the dust from his boots. But an unsettling sensation took sudden hold of him, and he straightened back up. He felt as if he were off balance, like the ground was rippling beneath his feet. A peculiar image flashed behind his eyes, then faded to darkness. He shook his head in an attempt to retrieve it, but only a foggy illusion and a queasy feeling remained to indicate it had been there at all. He clutched his stomach and stared at the ground.
“Are you all right?” Alicine asked. She was watching him from her perch in the back of the wagon, her eyes wide with concern.
Dayn reached for the side of the wagon and took a deep breath. “I—I’m fine, I think. Just got dizzy there for a minute.”
Alicine rose from her seat and, lifting her skirt, stepped across the bundles of supplies. “Mother, I think Dayn’s sick,” she called out to Morna who had moved with Gorman to a nearby scenic overlook.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Dayn shouted in their direction. He didn’t want his mother to dote over him. It was probably just something he ate.
A cold wind whipped at his neck, its bite reawakening his senses. He pulled his collar close to his ears. The breeze felt oddly cool for this time of year. He turned to reach for the coat he had tossed into the back of the wagon, but a deep rumble, so subtle that at first he was not sure he had heard it, diverted his attention. He glanced up at the sky. A storm certainly would be welcome; then they could turn around and head home. To his profound disappointment, the sky was as cloudless as he had ever seen it.
“Did you hear that?” he asked Alicine.
“Hear what?” she replied.
Dayn twisted his mouth. Perhaps he hadn’t heard it either. Perhaps he had felt it rather than heard it. “Did you feel it, then?”
Alicine cocked her head and eyed him suspiciously. “Are you sure you aren’t sick? Your face is slightly green and—”
“No, I’m much better. Really.” He took another cleansing breath. The queasiness of his stomach and the fogginess of his brain were lifting, but he could not shake the uneasy feeling that still lingered. The fleeting image had left a faint imprint of a distant memory. If only he could remember what it was.
Morna and Gorman approached the wagon and stared at him with expressions of concern. Dayn assured them he was fine, much to their obvious relief. They climbed up to the front of the wagon and Gorman took the reins. “You ready to go, son?” he asked.
“I think I’ll walk, Father,” Dayn said. Maybe getting his blood pumping would help clear his head.
Gorman snapped the reins and the horse began the slow descent. Alicine settled back on her perch, her body swaying to the movement of the wagon. The wind ballooned her skirt, and she pushed it down with one hand while battling wayward curls with the other.
Dayn followed behind and eyed her warily. She looked especially pretty dressed in her festive best, or would have were it not for the suspicious scowl planted on her face, a scowl no doubt placed there for his benefit.
At last they reached the cluster of wagons parked on the south side of the festival grounds. Their clan always started their festival days there. That was where the Aeries met to catch up on the various comings and goings, to discuss the weather, the crops, and any other topic they hadn’t touched on since their last visit. Living closer to Kiradyn than the rest of them, Dayn’s immediate family rarely saw the other members of their clan, especially since Gorman was determined his children would acclimate more to Kiradyn ways. But still, Dayn’s family hadn’t given up their clan ties entirely, and always made a point of reacquainting themselves with them at the festivals.
Dayn lingered by the wagon and watched his father embrace his older brother, Nort, a burly man with handsome features much like Gorman’s. Both had their long black hair pulled into the popular single braid, and both wore tunics of forest green, the identifying color of their clan. From a distance Dayn could barely tell the two of them apart, they looked so similar. As he glanced around the crowd of people that milled about the wagons, some family, some fellow clansmen, it occurred to him that they all looked the same: same hair, same skin color, same style of clothing. For a moment, the realization took him by surprise. He was almost bored looking at all the sameness, and yet, more than anything he longed to be just like them.
“Dayn.”
Dayn glanced over to see Haskel, his least favorite uncle, heading his way.
“We haven’t seen ye in months,” Haskel said upon reaching him. He arched a dark brow. “Have ye been hidin’ out? Ah well, I suppose it’s fer the best.”
“No, Uncle. I’ve been busy.”
Haskel looked Dayn up and down and frowned. “Ye’ve grown taller, boy. Didn’t think it possible.” He shook his head. “I suppose ye can’t help what ye look like; it’s not like ye chose it.”
Dayn winced and nodded. He didn’t appreciate the reference to his height, but with Haskel he knew to expect nothing less. The man had never been one for courtesies, but who could blame him. He and his wife Vania were not skilled when it came to social protocols. For too many years they had lived in backwards isolation at their farm, caring for a son who wasn’t quite right. How the boy “wasn’t quite right” was not clear to Dayn; he had never been allowed to meet his cousin. But it was common knowledge that Eyan was dangerous, and no one dared breach the subject whenever Haskel or Vania were around.
“Dayn, Dayn, Dayn! My goodness, what a handsome young man ye’ve become!” Aunt Vania wrapped her short, chubby arms around his waist and squeezed him so tight he thought the contents of his stomach would squish into his throat. He grimaced at the pressure to his gut, but hugged her back without complaint.
After the family exchanged greetings and gossip, they dispersed and made their way in small groups toward the tents beyond. Dayn was grateful for their departures. If he’d had to lift one more little cousin ‘higher, Dayn, higher’, he was certain his arms would drop from their sockets.
Alicine shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Hurry up, I’ve got to get to the Pavilion,” she said. “The crowning is one of the first events scheduled and I have to get ready. My hair’s a mess.”
“You look fine,” Dayn said.
“Oh, what would you know. You’re a boy,” she said. The smile playing across her lips revealed she knew she looked fine. She just needed the reassurances of a mirror, that was all. Obviously a brother wasn’t quite the same thing.
Dayn laughed. “Fine. What do I know? By the way, your hair is always a mess.”
Alicine slugged him, making sure the knuckle of her middle finger was extended. Dayn grabbed his arm in feigned agony, twisting his mouth and rolling his eyes. Alicine’s face reddened at his dramatic display, but he kept up the act, even soliciting the aid of their mother against his sister’s cruel assault. Morna scolded Alicine absentmindedly, but Alicine puffed up nonetheless. Dayn grinned a victorious grin. The blow to his arm hadn’t even hurt, at least not as much as Aunt Vania’s stomach squeezing had, but it was so much fun seeing his sister riled.
“I’m sorry,” he said through the laughter bursting from his throat. “Really, you look nice. And your punches didn’t even hurt. You’re such a weakling.” He hooked his arm and bowed, but he wasn’t being sarcastic. “I would be honored to escort you to the Pavilion, oh beautiful Summer Maiden.”
Alicine smiled and looped her arm in his. “And I would be honored to have you as my escort, handsome sir,” she said through girlish giggles.
They walked arm in arm down the hill toward the great tent known as the Pavilion. It was massive in size, ten times the size of any tent on the grounds. Its color was a brilliant blue and its roof would have faded into the nearly identical sky had it not been decorated with red and green symbols and its posts not been topped with snapping flags. Along its sides were cracked and faded paintings that depicted scen
es of the Written Word, from Daghadar perched on a feather-like cloud, to a flood of fire and rock swallowing a screaming, white-haired demon. Dayn had seen these pictures on the Pavilion walls so many times in his life that he seldom took notice of them anymore. But this time he paused to look at the crudely depicted demon more carefully.
“Saying hello to your cousin?”
Dayn spun around and spotted Sheireadan leaning against a nearby support post. The boy’s muscular arms were folded across his chest and a cruel smirk was smeared across his face.
Dayn’s first impulse was to run—that was always his first impulse when he saw Sheireadan—but Alicine was on his arm and his pride would not allow it.
“Leave him be, Sheireadan!” Alicine said. “He’s done nothing to you.”
“He came here, didn’t he? That alone is enough to make me want to puke,” Sheireadan said.
Alicine removed her arm from Dayn’s and took a threatening step forward, her hands clenched.
Sheireadan curled his lip. “What are you going to do? Hit me in front of all these people? Oh, that would be grand. The Summer Maiden, picture of feminine beauty, fighting with a boy.” He laughed.
“Come on, Alicine,” Dayn said. He took her by the arm, attempting to usher her away, but she resisted and stared Sheireadan hard in the eye. Dayn tightened his grip on her. “I said, come on. There’ll be no fighting today.” He pulled her along behind him and headed toward the flap that led to the back of the Pavilion.
“You can’t hide, you know,” Sheireadan shouted after him. “That would be impossible for someone who looks like you, now wouldn’t it?” He laughed even louder than before, his delight apparent.
Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light Page 7
