Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (14 page)

“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 emptied 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.

He brushed himself off, then surveyed the
alleyway. The stables were located at the far end of it, so he
hobbled in that direction. He would get Gitta, the horse in his
care, and ride out of there. But he needed some sort of plan. There
would be guards posted at the gate, and he would be riding a horse
that didn’t belong to him, with a sword he wasn’t supposed to
have.

The stables were quiet as Reiv crept into
them. His feet barely made a sound as they padded across the floor.
The sweet smell of hay mixed with the pungent smell of horse filled
his senses. He breathed it in deeply.

“Gitta,” he whispered as he rounded the wall
to her stall. “There is my girl.” He opened the half-door and
entered the enclosure. The horse whinnied and stomped her foot.

“Shhh, quiet now,” Reiv cajoled, stroking her
velvety, black nose. “We are going on a little adventure. Would you
like that?” The horse nodded as if to say “yes.” Reiv laughed and
hugged her neck. “Of course you would, but you will have to play
along now. I might have to do a bit of fibbing.”

Gitta snorted, blowing a wad of warm snot
onto his arm. Reiv scowled and eyed her with playful contempt. “Oh,
yes, like you have never fibbed about anything. I seem to recall a
time when you acted like you had not been fed when in fact you
had.” He pulled her ear affectionately.

He bridled the horse, but did not bother with
a saddle. He rarely used one; he loved the feel of her muscled
girth between his thighs when he rode. Grabbing a handful of mane,
he leapt atop her back, then kicked his heels into her ribs. She
trotted out of the stall and through the stable doors. Reiv reined
the horse to a halt and scanned the street before him. Empty. He
would have been grateful except for the fact that he knew it was
because everyone was at the temple grounds, there to celebrate the
wedding of Whyn and Cinnia.

Thoughts of their wedding night stirred the
hostility in Reiv’s blood. The need for escape became
all-consuming. He envisioned the horse, he on its back, streaking
through the streets, crashing through the gates, carrying him to
the fields then on to the forbidden mountains. He dug his heels
into the horse’s ribs. “Hyahh!” he screamed.

The animal reared up on its hind legs and
danced about for a moment, startled by the harshness of her
master’s command, but equally thrilled by the promise of a swift
run. She bolted forward, kicking dirt from beneath her hooves, and
galloped down the narrow street.

They rounded the last corner full speed, Reiv
leaning into the horse and clinging to the black mane that blew in
such contrast to the long red one at his own back. They must have
been an incredible sight, the two of them racing like a comet
toward the gate.

Stupefied guards fell over themselves as they
scrambled to swing open the gate for the approaching storm of horse
and boy now screaming for them to make way. The men jumped out of
their path, one falling onto his back, another with mud splattered
across his startled face. The guards could only stare in disbelief
as the cyclone of red, brown, and black sped past them.

Reiv whooped and hollered, delighted at how
simple it had been to escape the city gates.

“Well, Gitta,” he shouted as though she could
understand him over the sound of her thundering hooves, “we did not
even have to fib, now did we?”

He felt quite pleased with himself and pushed
all doubts from his mind. He was out of the apartment, he was out
of the city, and he was free—for now.

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Chapter 9: No Turning Back

“
S
tupid, stupid,
stupid.” Dayn shook his head and scowled at his once shiny boots.
For two days now they had wrapped his feet in agony, and he
couldn’t wait to peel them off. He limped to a rocky ledge
alongside the river and eased his aching body down, but the cold of
the rock quickly reached through his trousers, adding even more
discomfort to his misery. He yanked at the boot straps and untied
them, then pulled off his soggy boots and socks. His feet were in a
terrible state: white and shriveled and covered with angry
blisters. He glared at the boots, plotting a scheme for their
disposal, but he knew he had no choice but to keep them, so turned
his attention to his wounded feet instead.

He picked at a bit of blistered skin, then
dabbed the blood that had begun to pool around it. He wiped the
stickiness across his trousers. “I’m such an idiot,” he muttered.
“Why didn’t I wear the old ones?” He heaved a sigh. “You know why,
dolt; in case you saw
her
. A lot of good it did you. Now
here you are, out in the middle of nowhere with injured feet, no
coat,
and
no girl.”

He wiped again at the sore, but his efforts
to clean it only succeeded in exposing more raw skin. He twisted
his mouth in consideration of the numerous blisters that covered
his toes. Perhaps if he soaked them for a while. He scooted down
the rock and lowered his feet into the river, gasping at the
frigidity of the water.

Dayn eased back and propped his hands behind
his head. The sun peeked out from behind a smattering of clouds,
bathing his face with warmth. He knew he should continue on, but he
could not will his limbs to move. His eyes grew heavy as his mind
drifted. Images of home began to float through his consciousness,
tempting him to turn back from his folly . . .
curled up in a
nice warm bed, covered with fluffy blankets . . . or sitting by the
fire . . . with clean, dry clothes . . . and a heaping plate of . .
. of lamb and potatoes . . . and . . .

“Dayn! Dayn! Where are you? Daaayn!”

Dayn awoke with a start, the rhythm of his
heart pulsating in his ears. For a moment he dared not move, but a
faint voice echoed in his mind, reminding him of the reason he had
awoken in the first place. He sat up and shook his foggy head, then
glanced around. There was no one there. It must have been a
dream.

He looked toward the bend where the river
disappeared behind a cluster of trees. The mountains that peeked
over them seemed closer now; surely the cave was not much further.
He rose and stretched his body, forcing the stiffness from his
muscles, then reached for the boots. Glancing between them and his
blistered feet, he regarded them both warily. Perhaps his feet
could do with a reprieve, he reasoned. He stuffed the socks into
the boots, then tied the long leather straps together and swung
them around his neck.