The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  Alessia furrowed her brow. “The son? Surely he no longer lives.”

  “He does.”

  Alessia could feel her hands shake. If the son was still alive, then, by law, he would be the rightful heir to the Eyrian throne. His father had seized power from his uncle by force. Would he concede power to a boy he has never even met? Alessia shook her head; she knew her father. He was a just king—or tried to be, for the weight of the crown can prove heavy at times—but he wouldn’t concede. He had held the throne for more than twenty years; there was no chance he would just let go.

  “But how can you be so sure?”

  Just as he spoke the words, the stranger Alessia had seen arguing with the General entered her tent, unannounced. His timing was immaculate; had he waited outside for the moment? The General was not happy to see him, and he muttered something in his own tongue, and while Alessia couldn’t understand the words, she believed she understood their meaning well enough.

  “Because Avalon has sensed his presence,” the man said, bowing again.

  “And who is this… Avalon, again? Also, who are you?” Alessia said.

  The General answered. “A magus of great power. He follows this bastard wherever his goes, like a loyal lapdog.”

  “Ah, General! You stole the words right out of my mouth. Err, well, almost the same words. But yes, I believe he told the essential parts. But yes, your highness, I am a dear friend of this ‘loyal lapdog’ as the General so gently put it. You can call me Raven. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Alessia massaged her temples. First shapeshifting assassins, and now the magi? What next, the gods themselves appear before her very eyes? Her world had turned upside down in just the few days. She now understood the reason why the war had been waged for this long. Surely his father knew the truth, too? It was a troubling thought. Had his father suppressed the knowledge—that a real heir had lived for all these years? It made no sense. The father he knew was not this petty a man like the General’s words implied. Something had been left unsaid, Alessia was sure of it.

  “And where is this… heir, now?” Alessia said.

  Raven looked at the General strangely. The General nodded. “This dog claims he is in your capital, of all the places.”

  “You must be joking,” Alessia said with her mouth slacking open.

  “Fate’s tricky sometimes, my lady. Avalon places the man’s—for he is a man grown now—current whereabouts somewhere in the capital. For whatever reason, the he made his way to Eyria. Perhaps he learned of his true heritage, finally? I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to ask him directly one day, my lady.”

  “You’re leaving something unsaid,” Alessia muttered. She reached for the glass of wine, but decided it was best to stop drinking for the night. She needed her wits about her. Or whatever was left of her wits. “If you’re here to give my cousin his throne, then why come here with the full might of your army? Why not send an envoy? Why murder my brothers?”

  Raven sighed. “I’m afraid, my lady, that is entirely my fault. I was tasked to find this prince, but alas, I was not fast enough to the dear General’s liking. He is not a patient man, I’m afraid. He thinks your father will not concede the throne willingly, so he took upon himself to find a… contingency.”

  “The Emperor gave you years, traitor, to find the boy,” the General growled. “And what did you have to show for yourself? Nothing. If it was up to me, I would have you flayed. That is what a traitor deserves, yes?”

  “I am truly sorry to disappoint you so, General.” The man bowed deeply.

  Alessia noticed he didn’t seem sorry, not at all. Was he mocking the General? Suddenly, the General stood up, casting one final, hostile glare at Raven.

  “I have no time for this,” the General said, baring his teeth. “Rest while you still can, my lady, for when the last of my troops arrive, we march towards Eyria with the full might of the Nubian Empire at my disposal. We’ll see what the stubborn old fool says then, for I will no longer tolerate this injustice your family has done to my dear Alleria. We will have justice, or Eyria will burn. This I vow.”

  Chapter 14

  Arin

  “How did we get ourselves into this mess, brother?” Arin contemplated, sighing heavily.

  When they first arrived in Eyria, the Royal Plateau had loomed in the distance—like a city in the clouds: unreachable, alien, forbidden. And here they were, in that very plateau, buried underground.

  The dungeon was damp, cold, dark. The guards had taken them there despite their objections, ears deaf to their whining. There were others here, too, but it was too dark to see them. Yet, the silent wailing, of men deprived of their sanity, was ever-present. Was this to be his fate, too? When he had sworn to Nijakim that they would find answers, this was not what he had had in his mind.

  The darkness around him was complete, but he could hear Nijakim pace around. He sighed. “We seem to have a habit of getting ourselves involved in things that does not concern us.”

  “So it seems.”

  Had it been a day or two since their imprisonment? Arin wasn’t sure anymore. There was no way of keeping track of time. He thought it inhuman: how could the king of this kingdom allow such treatment of its citizens? When Nijakim was imprisoned, he had been confided into his own house—under guard, yes, but he was still treated well.

  Until the elders chose to execute him.

  “We must make them believe us. We don’t deserve this treatment,” Arin said.

  “No, we do not. But be patient, Arin. We will find a way—somehow.”

  “Not this time,” Arin muttered bitterly, “they caught us red-handed—literally. I was kneeling over the poor man’s body, hands covered in blood. Even I would think us guilty.”

  They sat there, in silence, for what seemed like hours. For the first time since their escape from the mountains, Arin had time to think. He thought of Elder Kelmunir. He thought of the lessons he gave him. He had taught him all he was and shaped him into the man he was now. And how had Arin repaid him? He had been like a father to him, and Arin hadn’t always shown him the appreciation he had deserved. He had acted like a spoiled child with his tantrums and ill-thought words. And Nijakim’s parents… they had been so kind to him, treating him like a son, too. They had cared for him for the first year, before Elder Kelmunir had taken him into his home. Arin remembered nothing of it—he was too young. But every time he came to Nijakim’s home to play with him, his parents were there to welcome him with open arms. He still couldn’t believe they were dead. It was all so… sudden. When the masked men came, the Shields had been ill-prepared. All watched the festival. Had the invaders counted on that? But how could they have known? They had no enemies among men, at least Arin didn’t think so. Then again, what did he know? He should have stayed. He should have helped them. Why did Kelmunir order them to escape? Why did he have to sacrifice his life for Arin? It should have been Arin’s duty as a shield. And his final memory of Kelmunir… the sword through his stomach. How long would it haunt him, still?

  “Brother?”

  “Yes, Arin?”

  “How did the murderer change into that… maid?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There is so much we don’t know,” Arin groaned, leaning on the steel bars of their cage. They had no bed here, only the cold, damp floor. Thankfully, their imprisonment wasn’t completely inhuman; the guards brought them food regularly. It wasn’t enough to sate their hunger, but it kept them alive. And no matter how bleak their future looked like, he would do everything in his power to continue living. Giving up was not an option, not when he had at least one more person he cared left. And no matter how difficult it seemed in the present, he would overcome this challenge. The question was how?

  “Why do you think those men attacked our village?” Nijakim said.

  “I don’t know,” Arin sighed. “It makes no sense.”

  “I have a theory.”

  Arin cocked hi
s eyebrow. “What is it?”

  “This is purely speculation on my part,” Nijakim said, voice turning grim. “But I believe you might’ve been the reason those men destroyed our home.”

  Arin snorted. “That is not funny, brother. What have I ever done for anyone?” Arin found himself saying. He felt hurt, confused. How could Nijakim blame him of all people?

  “I know it’s painful, Arin, but try to listen—it is the only thing that makes sense to me. Think back to Elder Kelmunir’s words. We know your past is mysterious. A woman left you—an infant—in our doorsteps, whispering of men in pursuit. I don’t know how they found you after all these years, but I believe they finally did. As much as it pains me to say this, Arin, but I believe this to be the truth.”

  “That cannot be it,” Arin said, shaking his head back and forth. “It just can’t.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Nijakim said in a soft tone. He walked towards Arin, embracing him in a soft hug. “No matter how painful the truth.”

  Arin returned his embrace, swallowing his tears. Could this truly be the reason? It had to be something else… it just had to. He felt his arms tremble. Reluctantly, he pushed Nijakim away whispering him words of gratitude despite the hurt he still felt over his words. He locked his fingers around the pendant still hanging from his neck, the only memento of his mother. His heritage. It was just a lump of metal, but it was also his most valued possession.

  “Thank you, brother,” Arin said, trying his best to sound calm, composed. “As much as your words pains me, I appreciate them.”

  “It is what friends are for.”

  “How moving,” a voice from the darkness whispered, startling Arin. He turned around, quickly stepping back from the bars of the gate. There was a presence there, on the cage opposite to theirs. How had he missed it?

  “Who are you?” Arin whispered, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Show yourself.”

  A man covered in rags, only the faint overtones of his face visible through the darkness, reached through his bars and into their cage. Arin relaxed when he saw that the man couldn’t reach him, no matter how much he tried. There was something… odd about the way he looked at them. And he looked old. So very old.

  “Forgive me for startling you, younglings,” his voice trembled. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. An unfortunate habit you pick up living in this hole for as long as I have.”

  “Who… are you, old man?” Nijakim asked, his voice vary.

  “No one of significance. A man the world has long forgotten long ago. Pray forgive my curiosity, children, but have you done to deserve being thrown here, into this hole?”

  “We are not children,” Arin muttered.

  The man laughed softly. “You are to me. But I meant no offence, young man, forgive me. I merely observed how young you sounded.”

  “You cannot see?” Nijakim asked, sounding gentle. It made sense now, how his eyes looked right past them.

  “I can see two men standing before me. But your faces are blurry mess to me, I’m afraid,” the man answered, voice trembling.

  Nijakim was right, Arin realized. The old man’s eyes were blank, sightless. This made Arin feel more relaxed; the man was harmless. The stranger smiled as he seemed to sense Arin approaching the bars.

  “We did nothing. A wrong place at a wrong time. We are wrongly imprisoned,” Nijakim replied.

  “I see,” the old man said. He stayed quiet for quite some time, and Arin thought that he might have fallen asleep. Then he broke the silence. “I was wondering… what’s it like, the outside?”

  Arin groaned. He did not feel like speaking of the outside world, not while they laid here, caged. “The streets stink like old urine and feces. And no matter where you look, there are people there, and they all look at you with hostility. What’s there to tell?”

  “I see.” The man sounded disappointed.

  “Please, just indulge the poor man,” Nijakim said. “It’s something he can never see or do again, Arin.”

  “Fine,” Arin muttered, cheeks growing red with embarrassment. “What do you want to know, old man? Ask to your heart’s desire!”

  “Your accent… it is not from around here,” the old man said.

  “We come from far away. A village up in the mountains, with peaks shaped like fingers.”

  “Fascinating,” the man whispered. “In the mountains, you say? I, too, have visited a village up in the mountains in my youth. You’re not describing the Tree Peaks, are you? Oh, I still remember the snowy peaks: how the morning sun made the peaks seem afire. What would I pay to witness the sight again!”

  “You have been to my village?” Arin asked, tone skeptical. Sure, their village had the occasional adventurer, but Arin could count the visits with a single hand. And all of them had been turned away. There had been no expectations. Well, except him, of course. “Why does it seem like every man we across suddenly know where we live?”

  “Fate, perhaps?” Nijakim chuckled.

  The old man continued. “I have roamed though countless lands in my youth. I doubt there’s a nation I have not visited.”

  “And what was the village like?” Arin asked. He was clearly baiting them. There was no way he had visited their village. It was inconceivable.

  The man came back to the view, frail hands gripping the bars of his cage. He showed them a sly, lively smile. “Do you speak of the lower village, where the women and the old live, or the upper village, where men train to be Swords and Shields?”

  Both Nijakim and Arin gasped aloud. Those words he used… could he know? Who was this old man?

  “So, you have visited our village,” Nijakim acknowledged. “I must admit, it is rare for a foreigner to set his foot there. And to know our secret… well, I must admit, you have gotten my curiosity. Would you share your tale with us?”

  Nijakim sounded polite, genuinely curious. Arin had to admit that he, too, had become intrigued by this stranger.

  “I would be glad to share it,” the old man replied, voice proud. “Meeting you has brought back memories I have not thought of for years now. Decades. It was in my youth, I must have been not older than twenty. I was an arrogant, spoiled youth then, and my father did his best to make me more… humble. He sent me on a journey to the distant land of Rijalna, to act as an ambassador. But on the way there, a violent snowstorm caught us unaware. None of us were prepared for it; it appeared out of thin air. Our horses refused to pull the carriage through the blizzard. Never having seen such a storm, they grew restless, afraid. I did my best, but there are limits to how long you can control an animal several times your weight. We were stuck there, in a valley between the Peaks. You must know it, yes? Well, amidst the blizzard, I saw a light, up in the distance. We were lost, and it was our lone beacon of hope, so we set to climb the mountain.

  We defied the blizzard for long. Many perished. I alone survived. When the blizzard ended, my mind had grown feeble. Barely a limb I could move. But somehow, my body refused to give up—the struggle of a youth determined to yet live, I believe. I remember walking across the newly formed snowbanks, barely seeing in front of me. I felt so cold then. And then, I remember how the coldness left me. The world felt like it was in fire, and I along with it. I later learned it to be a condition of the body—a madness men can succumb to when subjected to extreme cold. The next thing I remember, I woke up shivering. A woman had brought me to the village. She took me home and nursed me back to health, saving my life in the process. That is how I learned of your village. And when I recovered my strength, I was sent away. I was sworn to secrecy on that day, and I have betrayed that silence only once before.” The man sighed, voice quivering. “Thank you, strangers, for indulging this man for however briefly.”

  “Arin.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My name is Arin, and this here is Nijakim.”

  Arin could see the old man’s lips curl slightly upwards in the darkness. “Well met, young Arin. You can call me Eldon
.”

  Arin could see the man reach over with his hand. He hesitated, but only in passing, and clasped his hand. He could feel the old man’s weak grip. He seemed so frail. Was he ill? Just as Arin let go of his arm, the pendant on his neck got loose, brushing the blind man’s fingers. He took a hold it. Arin tried pulling back but the man resisted.

  “This… pendant. Where did you get this?” The man asked, voice alarmed.

  Arin pulled back, taking it back from the old man’s fingers. “It is mine, old man,” Arin said, growing angry. How dare he touch something so intimate to him, without permission? “It belonged to my mother.”

  “Your… mother? But that cannot be! Tell me, young Arin, what was your mother’s name?” The man seemed to grow anxious, agitated. His breathing had grown shallow, and for the first time, Arin could hear the wheezing of his lungs.

  “He doesn’t know, Eldon,” Nijakim said. “He never met his mother. He was brought to our village as an infant.”

  “How many… years ago?”

  “I don’t know the day I was born, old man, but I was not older than a year when I was brought to the village. That was nineteen years ago, if you must know.”

  “Nineteen years!” the man cried. “I don’t believe you. You lie—you must.”

  “It’s the truth,” Arin replied, grinding his teeth. What had he said, to agitate the man so?

  “Oh, I see what’s going on,” the man raved. “This is my brother’s doing isn’t it? All these years, and he still has the guts to torment me so. Well, tell my brother I will have none of it. I will take whatever dignity I have to my grave; I won’t be a part of his games. Let me be, the both of you!”

  “What’s with you, old man?” Arin growled. “You’re acting like a lunatic. Have your years of imprisoned stolen your senses, too?”

  “Silence,” the man cried. “Leave me be.”

  “We speak the truth, Eldon. We do not know this ‘brother’ of yours, whoever he is. Please, try to see reason.”

  The man remained silent, sobbing silently.