Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light

by Tracy A. Akers

  Eileis sighed, then raised herself up from the floor and hobbled to an overstuffed cabinet across the room. She reached in, shuffling and restacking parchments as she dug to the bottom of the pile. The great leather-bound book she pulled out was old, its pages brittle and yellow with age, its leather cover held together with a length of frayed twine. A grin spread across Eileis’s weathered face. “At last,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “At last.” She walked over to Gorman and Morna and laid the book before them, then settled back down on her mat.

  Alicine watched her parents as they stared at the book, their faces a mixture of fear, curiosity, and confusion. It was clear they did not know what the strange book was, but Alicine knew. It was ancient writings of Kirador, writings whose histories dated back even before those of the Written Word. Eileis had shown it to her once, but that had been years ago, and Alicine could remember only bits and pieces of it now. There were stories in it, that much she recalled, stories about people of old, strange tribes of races long gone, consumed by the fire and rock of a wrathful god. Some were historical while others were fiction, based on legends and ridiculous prophecies, prophecies that had never come true, prophecies long since forgotten. Alicine leaned her ear in closer. Why in the world was the Spirit Keeper showing her parents the book now?

  “Now, Gorman, you shall have your lesson,” Eileis said.

  “We have no time for lessons, Eileis,” Gorman said. “Dayn revealed himself and is missing. We have to find him!”

  “You will not find him and you must not try to,” she said. “Dayn is not missing. He is returning to the cave.”

  “What?” Gorman gasped. “To the cave? How do you know this?”

  “It was told to me. I knew it before he left.”

  “Then I’ll find him!” Gorman said.

  “No,” Eileis said, “you will not.” She unbound the twine that encircled the ancient book and opened it, then turned back brittle page after brittle page. “Aha . . . here,” she said, pointing a gnarled finger.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Gorman said.

  “Silence!” Eileis snapped. She shot him an angry look then turned her gaze back to the parchment. “Now, read.”

  Gorman moved his eyes over the page for a moment. “An old folk song. What does this have to do with Dayn?”

  “Perhaps a great deal. I think there’s more contained in these words than most realize.”

  “What nonsense are you talking?” Gorman said.

  “These verses contain a message. A message of truth.” She eyed him darkly. “But you seem to have difficulty with that concept, don’t you?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Didn’t you tell your wife that you rescued the infant Dayn from a demon-witch?”

  “That’s the truth,” he said defensively.

  “Is it?” Eileis asked. “Are you so certain the demon was not simply a woman? A woman like any other?”

  “Impossible. She was white-haired and pale-skinned. Only demons are like that, made that way from years of living in the darkness.”

  “But Dayn is white-haired and paled-skinned, and he never lived in the darkness, except that which you made for him. But you insist a demon gave you this child. Curious thing for a demon to do. What, may I ask, did this witch-woman think you were, Gorman?”

  “What does it matter what she thought?”

  “Answer my question,” Eileis said.

  Gorman swallowed deeply. “She--she thought I was a god.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But you let her think you were. You let her think she was giving her child to a god. Would a demon have done such a thing?”

  “I don’t know what a demon would do, but I do know Dayn revealed himself as a demon today.”

  “Who said Dayn revealed himself?”

  “Sheireadan said—”

  “Sheireadan--ha! His words are empty air.” Then Eileis’s face took on an expression of concern. She gazed down at the book, still open to the passage, and said, “All we can do now is wait.”

  “Wait? Wait for what?” Morna exclaimed. She had been quiet throughout the conversation between her husband and Eileis, but now her temper was flaring. “You accuse my husband of lies, then you tell us we can’t look for our son? Are you mad?”

  “I believe this passage contains a message, a kind of prophecy. I believe Dayn has a part to play in it. The fact that he was brought here—by you, Gorman—and the fact that he may be going back to where you found him tells me something’s at work here.”

  Gorman and Morna stared at the Spirit Keeper as though she herself was a demon-witch. Then Gorman turned the conversation back to his utmost concern. “Regardless of what that passage says, we can’t let Dayn go to the cave. He won’t know how to get there! He’ll get lost! There are night creatures, there are dem—”

  “He’ll know to follow the river,” Eileis said.

  “My god, the boy doesn’t even have the sense to take a coat, or food, or—” Gorman was suddenly on his feet. “I can’t just stand by and do nothing! I have to find him. He won’t survive out there.”

  Eileis rose and Morna followed her lead. Alicine watched as the three of them argued in the shadows. They argued about the validity of the passage Eileis had read, over whether or not they should look for Dayn, about the boy’s chances of survival. Alicine listened to their words, but the meaning was only beginning to register in her mind. Dayn was born of a demon-witch? Impossible. Perhaps their father had rescued him from some strange woman, but her brother was no demon. And what was this nonsense Eileis was saying about him having a part in some old prophecy? The Spirit Keeper was surely confused. And to simply sit back and allow Dayn to go to the forbidden cave alone? Alicine straightened her spine. That would not happen. Not while she could stop it.

  She turned from the window and looked toward the mountains. It did not matter what her parents did or did not decide. It did not matter what the Spirit Keeper commanded. She would find her brother, with or without their approval.

  She raced back to the wagon and reached inside for the bag containing the lunch her mother had prepared for them that morning. Then she flung it over the horse’s back and threw a water pouch and Dayn’s coat next to it. After unhitching the horse from the wagon, she dragged out the box that had been her perch. Climbing onto it, she hiked up her skirt and swung her legs over the horse. She grabbed hold of the reins.

  “Horse, you’ll have to go just a bit further today. We have to go find Dayn,” she said.

  The horse rocked its head, and before Alicine could kick in her heels, it took off full speed. Alicine leaned in, clinging to the horse with all her might, her golden skirt swirling behind her. She would find her brother and she would bring him home, home where he belonged.

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  Chapter 8: Flight of Fantasy

  The blanket was pulled over Reiv’s head, daring even the smallest ray of light to trespass beyond it. The sanctuary he had created in his bed was a necessity, at least to his way of thinking. The moon had been annoyingly bright, and the invasion of its rays upon his dark mood warranted additional protection. Even the drape that separated his room from the atrium had failed to deter the glow creeping beneath the hem, and so he was left with no choice but to sweat within his hot cocoon.

  As Reiv stared into the emptiness, the only sound he could hear was that of his breath quickening to a pant. Perhaps the nausea swelling in his gut was from the heat, or lack of air, but he didn’t care. It would be morning soon, and then he would just as soon be dead anyway. When the sun rose in all its glory, Cinnia and Whyn would be wed, and he would have nothing left to live for.

  Gods, Reiv thought, just push it from your mind. It does no good to dwell on it. He tossed to his side, hugging his knees to his chest. Push it from my mind? How can I? Today Cinnia will belong to Whyn. He will put his foul hands upon her and . . .

  Reiv clenched his
eyes, willing the image of them to disappear, but it was no use.

  Maybe there is still a chance. Maybe with the Lion. Cinnia is probably waiting for me at this very moment, waiting for me to save her. His eyes flew open to the darkness, but his mind saw a far brighter vision. The fantasy consumed him, and for a moment the delusion brought him solace. But then a cold voice whispered: You know he already has her.

  Reiv flung the blanket to the floor. “Enough!” he shouted. “Enough!” His body was drenched with sweat, and the air that rushed to envelop him felt cold and clammy against his skin. He shivered and raised up, then twisted around to the edge of the bed. He sat there, bare feet planted on the tile, his hands clinging to the side of the mattress.

  “You need to get a hold of yourself,” he said, shaking his head to clear the foolishness. “There is nothing you can do about it.” But the voice that had nagged him earlier returned, and the thought of rescue turned to that of revenge.

  He stood and moved to the trunk located at the edge of the bed. It was old and large, with intricate depictions of ancient tales and children’s stories carved into its graying wood. Its original owner was unknown—Reiv had inherited the trunk along with the rest of the furnishings in the apartment when he moved in—but in a way the carvings gave him comfort. There were no lions, much to his disappointment, but he still gazed at it at times, staring at it the way he once stared at the fresco in Labhras’s guestroom. But that fresco was long gone, burned to the ground with the rest of the house, and the trunk was the only source of fantastic adventures he had anymore.

  He lifted the lid and leaned it against the wall, taking care to scuff neither. The Lion lay within its scabbard, wrapped in a faded tunic Reiv rarely wore, hidden beneath a second blanket the temperature seldom warranted. He reached in and pulled the bundle out, then unwrapped it and slid the sword from its sheath. He held it up and rotated it, the imagined power of the weapon surging through him.

  Reiv set the sword down and pulled on his gloves, determined the focus of everyone’s fears would be on the sword in his hand, not the scars upon them. He took no time to don appropriate attire; the cloth around his hips would have to do. Snatching the weapon, he stormed through the doorway of his room and into the blackness of the living area, then headed for the front door. He would stop the wedding. He would save Cinnia. Then he would get his life back.

  He jerked open the door and paused. The street was quiet and empty and draped in gray pre-dawn shadows. Tightening his grasp on the hilt, he took a determined step, but a burly arm was suddenly thrust before him, knocking him back a step.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” a gruff voice ordered. “Get yourself back in there now.”

  Reiv felt his body go rigid. Guards were posted at his door!

  “How dare you order me about,” Reiv said with forced authority.

  “I dare at the behest of the Commander,” the guard said. “And his orders are that you are not to leave here ‘til next morning.”

  “I am no prisoner! I have committed no crime. Now, out of my way.” Reiv pushed against the guard and took a step past him, but a second guard grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back.

  “You heard the man,” the guard growled. “Get yourself back inside.”

  Reiv clenched the sword in his hand and eyed the guards with an open desire to murder them both where they stood.

  The burly guard looked at the sword in Reiv’s hand then at the crazed expression on his face. “You are not supposed to have that,” he said. “You know Jecta are not allowed.” But he ceased the reprimand when the other guard mumbled something in his ear.

  Reiv panicked. What if they tried to take the Lion from him? What if he lost it again? “It was a gift from the Prince himself,” he said. “He is well aware that I have it. Do you question his authority?”

  “No,” the burly guard said, “I do not question my prince’s authority. Only yours.”

  “I have been inside for six days now,” Reiv said in a suddenly contrite voice. “I have to get some air. I am smothering in there.”

  “What does a sword have to do with getting some air?” the second guard asked.

  “Nothing. I—I will put it back,” Reiv said. And indeed he would, if they would just let him go. He still had two hands to strangle Whyn’s scrawny neck with, didn’t he?

  “You will put your whole self back,” the burly guard said as he shoved him back through the doorway. “Now, no more nonsense from you.”

  Reiv staggered back, struggling to keep his balance. His face went hot with humiliation even as his chest ballooned with rage. Before he could think what he was doing, he rushed toward the guards, a scream of unrestrained fury tearing from his throat. But he quickly found himself on his backside on the floor, the sword knocked from his hand and slung beneath the chaise some distance away.

  The guards laughed as Reiv lay sprawled on the ground before them. “Settle yourself down, Jecta, or we will settle you for good,” one of them said as the other slammed the door between them and their confrontational prisoner.

  Reiv rose and threw himself against the door, banging it with his fists, but he knew it would only serve to entertain his captors. He stopped and leaned his forehead against the wooden barrier, then glanced over his shoulder toward the atrium. He turned and forced his feet to the partition. Pulling it back, a knot of realization welled in his throat. The sky was peach-colored now; the sun had risen. The wedding would take place soon. Perhaps it already had.

  As Reiv stared at the dreaded morning sky, it occurred to him that the opening above the atrium might be a way to escape his troubles. If he could just climb over the roof, he would be free from this miserable place. He felt desperate to escape, even though he knew there was no hope of stopping the ceremony now. The temple was located in the inner quadrant, much too far to reach before the sunrise ceremony concluded. But regardless of the wedding, he refused to be anyone’s prisoner. He would take himself out of there. Out of the city. Away from the memories and the painful knowledge of what had happened. What was still happening.

  He rotated his body and scanned the opening above. It was too high for him to reach without assistance. He twisted around and searched for something, anything, to stand on. There, the table! A rickety thing, the atrium table’s plank top was bowed by the weight of potted plants covering almost every square inch of it. Reiv rushed over and extended his arm, intent on sweeping the thirty or so botanicals to the ground. But then he realized, the crash of pottery would surely draw the guards’ attention. One by one, then two by two, he removed the plants and gently set them on the ground. Then he dragged the table toward the corner of the atrium, gritting his teeth at the noise it made as it scraped along.

  He moved it beneath the roof’s overhang and eyed its location from the perspective of where best to swing himself up. Lifting a knee to the table’s edge, he glanced down and realized he did not have the sword; it was still where he had dropped it. He rushed over to the chaise and spotted the golden Lion’s head jutting out from beneath it, then grabbed it and scrambled back through the atrium. He skid to a halt.

  “Gods, the scabbard,” he said, realizing he would need both hands to pull himself up to the roof. He laughed to himself, amused by the fact that he had stormed out the front door earlier without it.

  The drape to his room was still drawn. He threw it aside and made his way to the bed. The scabbard was nestled in a pile of clothing he had pulled out of the trunk earlier. He secured it at his waist then slid the sword inside.

  He headed back to the atrium and climbed onto the table’s top. He reached his arms up, but his fingertips barely touched the edge of the tile roof. Then, on tiptoe, he stretched as far as he could. No good. He was tall, but not tall enough.

  What now? There was that old familiar question again. He jumped off the table and headed back to the bedroom. The trunk would give him the additional height he needed to pull himself to the roof. Tunics and under-things went flying as he empt
ied it out. The trunk proved to be surprisingly light, much lighter than the table had been. He set it atop the table with a thunk.

  After he had clambered up and balanced himself upon the trunk’s arched lid, he grabbed hold of a row of terracotta tiles and pulled himself to the edge of the roof. He swung a leg over and rolled onto his back. He lay on the lumpy tiles, grateful for the progress he had made thus far, then eased into the sitting position and assessed his surroundings. He would have to head to the right, he reasoned, then back toward the alley behind the apartment building. Otherwise the guards would see him. And if they did, he would end up right back where he started, albeit probably stripped of any furniture to stand on, or even worse, tied to a chair.

  Reiv rolled onto all fours and crawled slowly across the tiles, struggling to secure his gloved fingers between them, but a sudden landslide sent him scrambling. He grabbed for anything he could cling to as tiles crashed to the floor beneath him. He held on, squeezing his eyes against the inevitable plunge. To his profound relief, the landslide stopped, and he was left prone and motionless.

  He opened an eye, barely daring to breath. “Gods, please don’t let them have heard that,” he whispered. But there was no sound from the apartment. Maybe the guards thought he was having a fit. Maybe this time his reputation for temper had paid off.

  He continued his ascent, testing each tile, and made his way to the other side of the roof. He eased down on his belly, feet first. Somehow going up had been much easier. He slid to the edge of the roof where he stopped himself with his toes, then peered over his shoulder to scan the alley below. No one was there, but neither was there anything for him to climb down onto. He contemplated his next move, then lowered his body over the edge and hung on for one precarious moment. Squeezing his eyes shut, he released his fingers and plummeted to the ground.

  He landed hard, hitting the ground with his heels, then fell back and banged his head against the earth. For an instant he thought he saw stars and the strange memory of a bright light flashing across a night sky. But then it disappeared and the certainty of the early morning sky above him, as well as the hard cold ground beneath him, jarred him back to reality.