The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  Her uncle lifting himself up with the help of Alessia and the boy Raven had called the lost prince. She could see the boy was worried for the man. The reality hit her then: they were blood, weren’t they? This brave boy who had saved them all was her cousin. And this old man was his grandfather. She was not alone. She might have lost her siblings and her father, but she had family left, still.

  “My brother is dead,” the former king shouted. His voice was clear and loud. Regal. “But the royal bloodline of vas Nerian is not. We stand strong. And while the hard days may be still ahead of us, I promise you, we will persevere. Eyria will persevere.”

  When the former king’s words no longer echoed in the silent halls, General Devalt vas Eridian knelt. “Long live the King!” he shouted.

  The men and women standing around them followed in suit, kneeling or bowing before the three last members of the royal family.

  ***

  At dawn, two days later, the armies of the Nubian Empire reached the outer walls. Arin could feel the vomit in his mouth. Never had he witnessed such a gathering of men. And these men, if the old man’s plan failed, would soon siege the city. Arin didn’t like Richard’s plan one bit, but he understood the necessity of it. It was a gamble, but a worthwhile one. A truce. Arin knew next to nothing about the lands and feuds of the two nations, but even he knew the losses today would have to be grave.

  All three of them stood by the city gates, watching. The three remaining members of the family he now a part of. The thought was still so foreign, alien to him. It also filled him with shame: what right did he stand here, alive, when Nijakim laid dead? When all this was done, he would grant his closest friend the burial he deserved.

  “What are you feeling?” the woman Arin now knew as Alessia asked quietly.

  “Fear,” Arin said, swallowing. “I’ve never seen such an army.”

  “I have,” Alessia replied. “Far closer than I dare admit.”

  “It is good I lack sight, then,” King Richard vas Nerian chuckled next to them, suppressing a cough.

  The royal surgeons had done their best, and the King’s complexion had grown better, but the persistent coughs remained. Alessia had pulled Arin aside to tell him that his grandfather’s lungs were inflamed—pneumonia she called it. A disease of the lungs. She hesitated when Arin asked how long the old man had left. Her lack of words was enough an answer to him.

  Hours passed, and the advancing army grew close. It was no longer a horde of ants, standing on a distant hill, but a formidable force at their doorstep. They stopped a fair distance from the walls, making camp. A single man rode with a colorless, white flag towards the gates, signaling their desire to parley—just as Richard had predicted. Alessia had described their leader a fearless warrior, but if his convictions were real and honor guided his actions, he just might listen to their proposition.

  Words were exchanged, and a meeting was orchestrated. Finally, as the sun was about to set, a hundred men walked through the gates that now stood ajar. The citizen cowered in their homes, peaking behind closed curtains, as armed men marched through their streets. Whatever happened tonight, it would be a day for the history books. The decisions made here today might either doom or save their nation. Whichever was the case, the scholars of Eyria would record this tremendous event. And he, an orphan from a distant village, would be the one to stand in the middle of it, hands trembling. It should be Nijakim here, not me. He was the one for words and diplomacy, not I.

  Their meeting was to be held at the Grand Plaza of Eyria. There, Arin saw the man that could be none other than General Rud’ak ner Aldruin standing guard, waiting, watching. A little while later, the King of Eyria arrived with an honor guard of the same size. The King raised his hand, and the guards stopped. His footing was uneven and slow, but he walked onwards with regality—like a king. They walked to the foreign General who now held their future in his hands. He, too, had left his guards behind, and now only the three of them met at the middle of it, the entirety of Eyria holding her breath in anxious anticipation.

  “It is not possible, our meeting,” the man growled once they were close enough to recognized each other.

  “But it is,” Richard replied.

  “Where is your brother? Twenty long, painful years I trusted his word as one of honor—that the murderer of my niece was avenged. And here, you show me another betrayal before me. Tell me—kinslayer—a single reason why I shouldn’t execute you here and now, and lay siege to your homeland?”

  “This boy here,” the King answered.

  The General frowned, only now truly seeing Arin for the first time. Gone was the unkept, dark beard of his, along with his filthy, torn robes. For the first time since he had left his home at the Three Peaks, Arin looked like the young man that he was—shaven, clean, handsome.

  “You don’t mean,” the General whispered, eyes widening with sudden comprehension.

  “I do,” the King replied, coughing slightly.

  The General took Arin in his arms, palms held on his shoulders, eyes looking for something. A moment passed in silence; it seemed like an eternity to Arin.

  “Surely this is but a ploy? Another betrayal?”

  “It is not, Rud’ak. The boy is whom I claim him to be.”

  King Richard nodded, and just like they had agreed, Arin showed the pendant he had inherited from his mother. It glowed faintly with dawn’s radiance. There was no hint of the magic Arin knew laid dormant within it, but he knew it was still there. This final gift from his mother had saved his life. Without it, the kingdom would have been lost.

  “It can’t be… I thought the pendant lost. But I would recognize it anywhere. It was Alleria’s… where did you get this, boy?” the man whispered.

  “It was given to me by an elder of my village several years ago. Kelmunir told me it belonged to my mother, so he gave it to me.”

  The General’s fingers clutched the pendant far more strongly than Arin would have liked, and he feared he might snatch it away, for there was hunger in his eyes. This man, no doubt, knew of the power it held, too. Much to Arin’s relief, the man withdrew his fingers. The General smiled.

  “The son of my niece. I thought you lost.”

  Arin wanted to say something, but he didn’t find the words. What could he say to a man such as this, whom he knew nothing of? All these men and women around him—and none of them truly knew who he was. What he thought. What he liked. There was only one man who had known. And now he was gone. But whatever was to come, Arin would endure it. After all, he had promised.

  “I survived,” Arin mumbled as a reply.

  The man grunted, grinning. Arin could see the admiration in his dark-brown eyes. It was admiration he felt he didn’t deserve.

  “My brother is dead,” King Richard said, interrupting their shared moment.

  The General pursed his lips. Did he suspect something was amiss? “What has happened?”

  “A man they call Raven killed him. He masked himself as the King and tried to take my brother’s place. Thanks to my grandson here—and a certain fearless Northman—we survived. Eyria survived.”

  Arin could see Richard left some parts of the story untold. After all, who would have believed if they were to talk of gods? Honestly, Arin himself had hard time believing all that truly had happened.

  “So, the bastard finally had a bite too big for him to handle,” the General snorted. “Good.”

  King Richard nodded. “We must talk.”

  “Talk.”

  “Now that Alleria’s son has been returned, I want you to take your armies with you and leave.”

  “I must admit, I have almost missed your bluntness, you old bastard.” The General shook his head. He paused, looking at Arin for once more. “No,” the General finally replied.

  “You must,” King Richard whispered, coughing violently. Arin held out his hand for the old man, but he refused. Once the fit passed, he stood high once more.

  “You’re weak,” the General s
aid, face consorting with disgust. “Weak of mind, weak of body. You seem lucid now, but what’s to stop you from succumbing to the madness of your mind once more? Who will you kill—or burn—then? You don’t deserve to lead Eyria.”

  King Richard nodded, his wrinkled, leather-like face quivering with emotion. “Aye. I do not. I agree with you, old friend, which is why I, as of now, I relinquish my crown.”

  General Rud’ak frowned. “And who’s to take your place?”

  “This boy, here. He is, after all, the rightful king.”

  The General’s eyes narrowed. “You would give up power, just like that?”

  “I would,” Richard replied, voice brimming with conviction.

  The General shot a glance at the gates of the city, eyes looking to the distance. Arin could see the smoke raising high above the city walls. There, just outside, his armies prepared, waited, rested. Arin knew then why the man seemed so hesitant. Sure, finding Arin might have been his wish, but would his men understand if he chose peace instead of war? The man was a warrior—just like Arin—and he, too, had felt the thirst. Would the General’s armies march back without a single spoil? Arin knew the answer well enough.

  “No.”

  “I understand,” Richard said, nodding. “Which is why I have another proposition for you.”

  “Talk.”

  “I, King Richard vas Nerian of the kingdom of Eyria, hereby relinquish my crown, and give it to my grandson, willingly. Just like you said, old friend, my crimes are too great to go unpunished, which is why I surrender myself to you—and to your Emperor, willingly, to do as you please.”

  “No,” Arin gasped, eyes widening with shock. Was this what the old man had in his mind, to give himself up? This was his plan?

  “I accept,” General Rud’ak ner Aldruin replied, voice grim. “I do not forgive you, but I accept. Justice has been met here, today. And, as for tomorrow—,” The General looked at Arin, eyes filled with fondness. “It is up to you, child of Alerria.”

  ***

  Ronan gasped for air, looking around the unfamiliar room around him in alarm, expecting find an enemy coming for him. He tried to reach for his axes, but they were nowhere to be seen. The events of the last few nights came rushing back to him—the shock, betrayal, death. But he was alive, wasn’t he? Somehow, he had survived. They had won. But at what cost?

  “I was starting to worry you’d never wake up,” a familiar voice said.

  It came from the corner of the room, where Ronan saw a familiar man sitting, waiting. But the voice didn’t fit the man. How could this haunted shell of a man be his friend? Long gone was the meticulously shaved face of his, and his combed hair. And those haunted eyes…. “Rose,” Ronan whispered.

  “Aye,” Rust grunted, voice breaking with emotion.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Save it,” Rust whispered, lifting himself up slowly. “Tears have been shed already. What’s done is done. Mourning’s not going to bring her back. Nothing will.”

  “Still,” Ronan muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Raven,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “You’re still going on about all that?” Rust shook his head with disbelief. “We won. You exposed the bastard for what he truly was. We foiled his plan. Eyria is saved.”

  “He must pay, Rust. He will pay.”

  “You stubborn old fool. You saw the same I did. The man has a god on his side. Who can kill a man such as him?”

  “So have I.”

  “Do you?”

  Ronan could feel the doubt in Rust’s words. Then, finally, he realized what was wrong. The voice, where was it? For the first time in decades, his mind felt clear or the taint, free. His madness was gone.

  Ronan wept with happiness. He felt the embrace of his friend’s arms, and he heard his comforting words in his ear: “You’re not alone in this, Ronan. We will get through this. There is more to life than revenge and grief, you’ll see. Not now. Not tomorrow—but eventually you will.”

  ***

  Alessia smiled, fingers tracing along the smooth, silken surface of this strange, exotic plant her mother had imported from the gardens of Anra’diel, half the world away. It was strange how something so foreign would survive in an environment completely apart from where it was taken from, but this plant not only survived—It thrived here. It was a fighter.

  She, too, was a fighter, wasn’t she? She had survived much. Lionel, Rewalt, Edgar—even her father. She had lost them all. She wanted to think herself tough, but she knew she was anything but. Only one thing kept her going now.

  “My lady.”

  “What is it?” Alessia asked without bothering to look.

  “Your… cousin’s coronation is about to begin. You are attending, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, right,” Alessia replied, waving Leah away.

  Just a few more minutes, Alessia thought, breathing in the sweet, musky smell of the flowers nearby, savoring the moment. Just a moment longer.

  “My lady,” Leah repeated, sounding sterner.

  “Yes, yes,” Alessia sighed. “I suppose they can’t start without me, can they?”

  Soon, my dear. Soon.

  As soon as her carriage made it to the inner courtyard, Alessia felt the pull of her special place draw her in. The feeling was almost overwhelming, but her pet wasn’t going anywhere, was he? As soon as her duty was finished, she would be free to visit him again, to do as she wished. It was the only thing that kept her sane. That, and her new trinket—the one that had saved her from Avalon’s spell. However, as Alessia had only recently discovered, it was not even close to the limits of what this relic could do; she could transform herself to look like anyone she had touched, as long as she could imagine the person in her mind’s eye. The only tricky part was learning how to control it. But she was determined to learn it. Master it. Raven said that there would be a cost. But so what? A knowledge like this is worth every sacrifice.

  The carriage came to a halt once it circled around the marble fountain. The doors to the inner keep were now standing ajar. Countless men and women and child poured in, noble and poor alike. The new king had opened the gates of Royal Plateau to everyone. It was noble but naïve of him. Still, she knew the new king meant well. But still, the decision of her uncle to leave their kingdom in the hands of this boy was inconceivable. How could a stranger such as him rule a kingdom of this size—with no experience?

  I must do my best to help him lead, our future depends on it.

  Now that the threat of the Nubian Empire was over for the foreseeable future, they had no imminent enemies—at last those she knew of. But other nations would try to take advantage of them now. The next few years would be tough, but Eyria would persevere. Any change in power can leave a nation vulnerable, and Alessia had no doubt spies were already trying to infiltrate them. It was up to her to root them out, and what better way than with her newly-found abilities?

  “My lady.”

  Alessia raised her head, smiling as General Devalt offered her his arm. “Thank you, General.”

  “Of course.”

  Once they reached the throne room, Alessia felt her heart skip a beat. The room was filled to the brim. Line after a line, men and women stood there, motionless and silent, eyes kept at the throne where this boy-king sat, waiting nervously. Alessia could see how full of fear this boy was, but once he saw her enter, he seemed to relax.

  Alessia let go of the General’s arm, and she walked to boy’s side. She faked a smile.

  “Thank you for coming,” the boy-king whispered.

  “Of course, cousin,” Alessia answered, gently touching the boy’s arm.

  Close to twenty guests still came inside. But once the General raised his hand, the guards posted at the doors nodded, closing them. The crowd was ushered into silence.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Terribly so.”

  “Alessia chuckled. “You should be. The nobles here might act kind, but I assure you, they only seek to deepen thei
r pockets. But don’t worry, I will help you.”

  “Thank you, Alessia.”

  The coronation itself was short and to the point. The crown of her father was given to Alessia by the General. She, in turn, placed it atop the boy-king’s head. The crowd applauded, and people laughed and joked. Alessia herself couldn’t partake in their happiness. All she could think of was the funeral of her father, held mere hours before. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.

  Once the festivities ended, Alessia feigned exhaustion, retreating to the one place no one else dared follow her.

  To her dear Rubaron.

  ***

  Eldon vas Nerian, the newly crowned king of Eyria walked alone, doubts and fears his sole company. The name sounded odd to him—hollow, meaningless. But that was the name Richard had told his father had named him, and it was the one he had to use now that he was crowned king. But what of his old name? Was he to forget Arin, along with his past? No. That wasn’t something he would do. Abandoning his past also meant leaving behind Nijakim and Kelmunir, along with anyone he had lost. No matter what they called him now—or the clothes and the crown he wore—he was still the same boy from the distant village of Kun’urin.

  Arin walked down the steep road of the Royal Plateau, his new bodyguards following him discreetly at a distance. Not many recognized this fledgling of a king yet, and Arin was glad for it. He felt nothing like a king, no matter if he wore a crown. On his way, he thought of the man who had shown so much kindness to him, and he chose to take a detour. He passed through the Valley of the Forgotten, smiling at the man who had sheltered him there. He returned the nod, knowing full well the tragedy this orphan boy carried with him.

  Arin entered the colosseum where the fated tragedy had happened. He knew Nijakim's dying words well, for he still heard them whenever he closed his eyes. But for Arin, words were not enough; he had to see the truth with his own eyes. He had suppressed a part of what he had said, mainly to shield himself from their significance, fearing what it would mean.

  Arin held back his tears as he saw the bruised body of Nijakim, a single wound through the chest, a pool of dried blood soaking the sand crimson. His orders had been clear: to leave his body untouched. Arin wouldn’t let anyone else touch the man who had meant the world to him. He could have blamed the High Inquisitor for his demise, but it was not his blade that had ended Nijakim's life. He wanted vengeance—yearned for it even—but he had a duty now. A responsibility. Nijakim was his best and only friend, but now he had become nothing but a memory.