Inside was warm, a roaring fire blazed on one side of the oval room. Quill, a Volanti with greying feathers stood by the bed packing away ointments and medicines into a brown leather bag. He looked over at the young girl in the doorway, pushed his small round glasses back onto his beak and smiled.
“Glad to see you up and about child,” Quill said in a soft, comforting voice.
“Thank you,” she said, but looking past him to the bed.
Quill followed her gaze.
“He’s getting better. He was dreadfully weak when the scouts found him,” Quill turned back to Shaya as he carefully put the last of his potions into his satchel. “I’ll give you a moment, but I wouldn’t expect much of a conversation.”
Shaya thanked him again with a warm smile and shook the old bird's claw. He told her not to push herself, and as Quill walked passed, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Unblinking, Shaya moved closer to the bed. It had only been a few days, but it felt like months since she’d last seen Uncle Benjin’s moustached face. He was still and pale. His bandaged chest moved up and down as he breathed heavily. The dressing was fresh, but Shaya could see the dark skin that surrounded it. It was almost black, looking even worse compared to his pasty coloured body.
“Uncle Benjin,” she heard her own voice crack and gulped down the lump that was forming in her throat.
He lay motionless, except for the rising and falling of his barrel-like chest. Shaya carefully slipped her tiny fingers around his huge hand and squeezed his warm, clammy skin.
“You're awake,” said a familiar voice.
Shaya hadn’t noticed the little sprite laying on a satin cushion that sat on the bedside table. She grinned and brushed her fingers through her long auburn hair. Quickly Jinx flew over and threw her tiny arms around Shaya’s stomach.
“Jinx, you’re alright,” Shaya breathed through her tears “Your wing, I thought it was broken.”
“Nothing a few days of bathing in Sun Root sap couldn’t cure,” She smiled “I can still taste the stuff. Quill force fed me spoonfuls of it,” she stuck her tongue out and pretended to gag “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Shaya said dismissively “How is he?” She looked back at her slumbering uncle.
“Better than he was. He woke up for a while yesterday, and again this morning, Quill said that’s a good sign. Apparently, he’s getting stronger by the day.”
Shaya wiped a tear away from her blue eyes and let out a long, loud huff. They stayed and talked for nearly an hour. About Rayne, Shale, Rakmar. All the wonderful things they’d seen on their journey and all the horrors they’d witnessed as well. Eventually, they began to reminisce about times on the farm, they laughed a lot and cried a little. All the while, Shaya never let go of her uncle’s hand.
Soon Quill returned with even more potions and medicines than he had left with and quietly asked them to leave as he had to check on Benjin’s wounds again. Shaya reluctantly let go of her uncle’s hand, thanked the elderly healer for all he had done for them and left, closing the door with a soft click.
“So you haven't seen Rowan?” Shaya asked once they were outside.
“No one has. Once he woke up, he locked himself away, and has been there ever since.”
“Where is he?”
“The top floor, one of Monarch Avem’s guest homes,” Jinx gestured upwards.
Shaya followed her gaze, two floors above them seemed to be the highest point.
“I should go see him.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll speak to you.”
“I have to try.”
With a big hug, Jinx fluttered away. In the little time she hadn’t been sat at Shaya’s or Benjin’s bedside, Jinx had been exploring the wondrous peaks. The sprite said she wanted to continue investigating and flew down to the levels below. The tiny glimpse Shaya had seen of the Volanti’s homeland had been magical, and as much as she wanted to explore with her sister, she felt like she needed to see the prince. Or would she have to address him as King now?
♦ ♦ ♦
People would travel for miles to visit Bastion, a thriving city, famous for being the home of the kingdom’s first ruler, King Eobard. The architecture was beautiful. As if the stone and steel buildings had been handcrafted by the Gods themselves. Huge buildings made of smooth white rock, with towering metal spires that would gleam in the sunlight. All with sweeping swirls etched into each brick, to make it look as if the structures were formed from white stone waves. Also known as The City of Faith, Bastion was said to have been where Arrolyn’s dominant religion had begun. It was there that the kingdom's first temple dedicated to the creed that would become The Faith was built on the orders of King Eobard himself. After Minerva had been destroyed, Bastion took the mantle as the largest and oldest city in Arrolyn. Constructed aeons ago, it was now home to nearly twenty thousand people.
No longer.
The raging fire tore through the city streets, smashing against the buildings like orange and yellow waves on the shore. The roar of the blaze was almost deafening, it nearly drowned out the screams. People ran for their lives, leaving everything they owned. They fled in terror or trembled in their homes praying that neither the flames nor the monsters would find them. Rakmar’s minions were tearing the city apart, slicing and burning as they went, screeching with glee.
Rakmar stood in Bastion square, in front of the temple of the Goddess, watching the carnage that lay before him, an oddly calm expression on his scarred face. The once magnificent illustration of Arrolyn’s very best architecture and engineering crumbled and burned. The statue of the beautiful deity which had stood proudly atop the temple for thousands of years fell and crashed through the tiled roof. Debris and dust enveloped everything. When the dust settled, Rakmar hadn’t moved an inch, it was as if he didn’t notice the fire-ravaged city or the terror of its citizens. Nothing seemed to faze him in the slightest, as if the people meant nothing to him, which they didn’t. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts were on the children he had met at the lake. The boy had been such a disappointment. Why hadn’t the Goddess revealed herself? What had the boy done wrong? A twisted smirk twitched across his lips as he recalled the look of shock on the young prince’s face when he had learned of his father’s demise. Surely if Rakmar went back to his island off the western shore, the boy would come to him. Fuelled by hatred and revenge, the boy would come. A feeling Rakmar knew all too well.
He and his remaining minions had been heading towards the island he called home before he had decided to unleash some of his rage. Bastion was the unlucky city to be on his way. Also, it made a fitting sacrifice, as it was a city of religion. Within the walls of this vast city, thousands of people prayed to the Goddess twice a day, the thought made him sick. He was annoyed that he had let the children escape. Clearly, his fight with Rayne had weakened him more than he fought, or perhaps he’d been enjoying tormenting them too much.
Foolish.
He rubbed his neck, a dull throb pulsed where the girl had stabbed him. The bleeding had stopped, and the wound had closed mere moments after the children had vanished, but the pain remained. Was that a result of his battle with Rayne, or was it, something else? Who was that girl? Why was she travelling with the prince? How could she have pierced his skin with such a meagre blade?
For the first time in countless years, he felt tired. Not weak, but the ache in his neck seemed to snake its way around his body, leaving him weary. Rayne had been strong, worthy of the title of God. Perhaps it had taken so much of his strength to defeat her, that he had been left open to an attack.
But by a mortal child? That’s madness.
Rakmar’s thoughts were interrupted by something ramming into his legs. The sounds of the commotion around him rushed back as he looked down disgustedly at the pleading eyes of an old man. His face was almost completely covered in soot, and his shirt was torn at the sleeve, flecks of wet blood across his neck. Tufts of thin hai
r poked out of his head in haphazard white curls. The man clung to Rakmar’s leg as he cried.
“Please, stop please sir,” he begged through pouring tears.
Rakmar shoved him off as if flicking off a vile insect and the man collapsed to the floor. The fallen God stared at the pathetic creature in front of him, cowering like a frightened animal.
This is what mother wished to save? This worm at my feet? This is what I was banished for, so insects like this could grow old, feeble and pitiful. Sobbing like children, with no strength of their own.
“Please sir,” the old man cried “Please, I have grandchildren, they are only babes.”
Rakmar looked away, he’d had to share the same air as these things for far too long, to converse with them as well would be beneath him.
“Why are you doing this to us?” Asked the quivering, blubbering heap on the cobbled ground.
“Why?” Rakmar suddenly growled, a white-hot fury erupting inside him at the insolence of the old man. “I’ll show you why,” he lunged forward and grabbed the man by the scruff of his shirt and lifted him into the air effortlessly. The old man feebly tried to pull the God’s huge fingers apart as Rakmar carried him over to the temple’s rubble. He threw the old man to the ground, and he hit the stone hard. Weakly he tried to climb to his feet, but Rakmar shoved him back down with his boot.
“Pray,” the living shadow roared.
The terrified man looked up confused. Shaking he looked around until he saw the remains of the Goddess’s statue. It was missing a wing that was probably burning inside the blazing wreckage. It lay at what was left of the entrance to the building, her once beautifully sculpted face, now cracked and charred.
“Pray,” Rakmar repeated with increased rage.
The old man immediately got to his knees, put his trembling hands together and began to mutter quickly.
“Oh, Goddess of light, hear my prayers. Save us from this plight. Oh holy one, bring forth your divine hand to comfort and protect us in this, the hour of our greatest need. Oh, great healer, our shining star please I pray you have mercy and spare us from this darkness.”
“Enough,” barked Rakmar. The sound of the insect’s whimpering and pleading made the God’s grey skin crawl. The old man looked up at him, tears streaming down his filth covered face. “Now wait,” the shadow growled in a threatening whisper.
The trembling man looked around expectantly as more screams reached their ears. A group of Krarg smashed open a door and piled inside. Another building toppled in the distance, the sound shook the ground, and the windows of nearby homes rattled. Rakmar looked to the sky, waiting patiently. After a few moments, he snorted derisively and peered back at the feeble human at his feet.
“That’s why,” he said, a satisfied sneer crept across his face as he reached out and his shadowy sword appeared in his hand. A second later, the blade swung down, cutting off the man’s terrified pleas.
♦ ♦ ♦
It wasn’t until she started climbing the stone stairs, that Shaya realised her knee wasn’t fully healed just yet. It throbbed with every step and was accompanied by a light pop every so often. She began to feel a little light headed. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to get some food before she started her journey to the top of the peaks. The stairs, like the paths, were built into the rock walls of the giant mountains. Shaya walked passed a very elderly couple, their feathers as white as the snow that surrounded them, and a few children giggling as they ran down the steps. Apart from them, Shaya didn’t see many Volanti using the stairs.
As she climbed, she watched enviously as the bird people of the peaks flew around in all directions, seemingly without a care in the world. She had always wondered what it would be like to fly. It looked so graceful, so elegant. Annoyingly, flying was exactly how she had gotten to the peaks in the first place, but she had been unconscious for most of it. Besides, she wasn’t all that fond of heights and flying probably wouldn’t have agreed with her stomach. That didn’t stop her from wishing she could fly like the Volanti, sprout wings and shoot across the sky, feeling the wind on her face as she looked down at the world below. (She also wished she wasn’t scared of heights.)
She took her time, treading carefully, trying not to slip on the ice-cold whiteness that covered every step. Once she had managed the two flights of stairs to the top, she was exhausted. Panting, she realised she was sweating, even in the wintery weather. She wiped the cold sweat from her brow and continued down the winding path. As it snaked along the rock face, the pathway finally led to a massive stone building. Home to the Monarch and Matriarch of the Volanti people, Song Bird Hall. It looked as if it had been carved by hand and lifted onto the mountain by some colossal giant. Made from smooth light grey, almost white stone, it had a large balcony that wrapped all the way around the top floor. Above it, a single tower that ended in a spear at its tip. From a distance, it would look like just another peak of the mountains. Four Volanti guards stood watch by the large stone door. One glanced over at the young girl, she could see his yellow eyes peering at her through his metal helmet. Each guard had helms with long arrow-like points that ran down their faces like metal beaks. They also wore metal chest plates, with the Volanti symbol emblazed upon them in red, and long red capes that billowed behind them in the cold wind. Jinx had said Rowan was staying in one of the Monarch’s guest houses, Storm Bird House, just passed the hall. She could feel the guard’s watchful eyes on her as she walked by.
I guess they don’t get many outsiders around here, she thought as she quickened her pace.
There was a smaller structure around the corner of the giant hall, quaint by comparison. Again, it was made from smooth grey stone with a flat roof, two windows on either side of a wooden door. A handful of steps lead up to the doorway. At the bottom of them, stood a member of the Royal Guard from Ki, standing tall, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt. Elle must have sent word to her fellow soldiers. He watched as she approached.
“I’m sorry miss,” he said as she got closer “Prince Rowan does not wish to be disturbed.”
“I know, but he might speak to me. I’m-,”
“Benjin Greyborn’s niece, I know miss.”
“Then you know what we’ve been through together.”
“Some,” he admitted.
“Then you have to let me at least try.”
The guard hesitated, his fingers tapping on his sword as he mulled it over.
“Please,” Shaya insisted.
Finally, he nodded and reluctantly stepped aside. Shaya climbed the steps and with a sigh, knocked on the door three times. She waited, no answer. She knocked again,
“I said I am to be left alone, guardsman,” said the muffled voice of the young prince.
“It’s me,” said Shaya.
There was silence for a moment, then hurried footsteps approached the door. A loud thump sounded as the lock snapped back and the door flew open.
“You’re alright,” said the young boy.
Shaya’s eyes widened when she saw the state of her friend. His usually slightly scruffy hair was now a complete mess, and his eyes were bloodshot. His arm was in a ragged sling, one he’d been wearing for three days. He’d lost some colour in his cheeks, his face seemed paler than before, greyer. He looked gaunt as if he hadn’t eaten in days. He had changed so much, it was as if weeks had passed since she last saw him, but it had only been a few days. Grief took its toll.
“Come in,” he gestured inside, and Shaya obliged. Unlike the homes on the lower levels, that were small cutouts in the mountains, this was huge by comparison. The ceiling was high, the room oval shaped. The kitchen area was probably twice the size of Myana’s. A four poster bed sat on the far side of the room, the linen strewn all around. A fireplace taller than either of them was raging, making the room feel like a furnace. Shaya immediately slipped off her coat and hung it on the back of a dining chair that sat at the long oddly shaped table. Made of dark oak, it curved and weaved like a river, not a
single jagged edge on it, or the chairs for that matter. In fact, now that she looked around, Shaya realised that nothing had sharp angles. Everything, from the bedposts to the fireplace. Even the doors and windows all had curved edges.
Rowan closed the door behind her a little too hard and slammed the bolt back across the latch.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Rowan smiled at her, his face lighting up, just a little.
“How are you?” Shaya said with more than a little concern in her voice.
“Fine,” he said with a flash of a forced smile.
The prince walked passed her over to a large round table near the bed
and hunched over it. “My arm is still throbbing, but other than that, I’m well.”
As Shaya got closer, something caught her eye, something shiny. A crown lay on the floor, but it wasn’t Rowan’s. His sat on the bedside table, poking out from beneath a stack of papers. This crown had been ripped in two, bent and broken. Next to it, sat sprinklings of grey dust. She glanced at the wall and noticed a chip out of the stone. Shaya pictured Rowan throwing the crown at the wall in a grief-filled rage. It was his fathers.
Shaya stopped next to Rowan and looked down at what he was staring at. It was a map of the north-west region of the kingdom. It was old, hand drawn on a thick leathery piece of parchment. Evidently, it had been unfolded and folded a hundred times over. Little scribbles here and there marking new settlements or landmarks. On the far west side of the map, lay a shaded part, with the words Cursed Ruins scrawled across it. The remnants of the once great city Minerva. Beyond it, just offshore, like Rayne had said, was an Island. It was covered with drawings of lightning and rain, surrounded by waves. The young girl’s gaze fell on Rowan’s tired face. He stared blankly at the map, as if he wasn’t really looking at the parchment, but looking straight through it, lost in his thoughts.
“Are you sure you’re alright Rowan?” Shaya asked again.
He snapped out of his seemingly endless fog and shrugged slightly.
The Shattered Moon (A Divine Legacy Book 1) Page 25
