Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (9 page)

He was housed in the outer quadrant of
Tearia, near the Jecta dormitories, the stables, and the buildings
that housed some of the Tearian Guard. The general Jecta population
was not allowed within the walls of Tearia; only employed laborers
and certain skilled craftsmen could even step foot there. Few Jecta
lived there permanently, except for Reiv, who by definition had
become one. But he did not consider himself Jecta and swore he
never would.

He glared over his crossed arms and down at
his barely clad body. To look at him one would have certainly taken
him for a Jecta. His hair was not blond, his skin was no longer
smooth, and he seldom wore a tunic anymore. Now he was usually clad
in a cloth tied about his hips. It was the most sensible thing to
work in; he had learned that early on. Over time, his skin had
adjusted to the heat and the sun, though it never turned the golden
brown of a Jecta. It preferred to stay a rosy pink.

Reiv hated his job in the fields, but it was
the days when he was away from them that he hated the most. On
those days, he found himself stuck in the apartment, bored and
restless. Today was one of those days, as had been the past five,
and it was taking its toll. The entire week had been proclaimed a
holiday, so most of the Jecta laborers and craftsmen had been sent
home to Pobu. Even Brina was not able to come and see him as much
as she usually did. She was obligated to attend a multitude of
festivities with the family and had explained to him she would not
be able to slip away easily. The family, Reiv knew, did not approve
of her visits.

What now?
He scanned the meager
contents of the white-washed room: the old chaise he was sitting
on; a cross-legged stool pushed against the wall near the door; a
small marble table, scrubbed rough from use and misuse; an old oak
table in the kitchen, its two low benches pushed beneath. His mouth
compressed with displeasure. Not very princely quarters, but then
again, he was no longer a prince. No longer was he Ruairi, the Red
King. Now he was Reiv: Reiv the Foreman, Reiv the Jecta, Reiv the
Nobody. He crossed his arms, tucking his gloved hands beneath them,
and fought the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

What now?

He asked that same question almost every day,
but the answer rarely changed. “Well, fool, now you have something
to do. You can clean up the mess you made,” he said. He trudged
back to the atrium, then stopped to scowl at the first pile of
debris that lay at his bare feet.

A sudden pounding on the door made him jump,
and he spun to face it. He wasn’t expecting anyone; no one other
than Brina ever came to see him. She’d said she would come, but not
until much later, and this rap was loud, not soft like Brina’s. He
thought not to answer it, to deny he had even heard it. But a
second, bolder knock alerted him to the possibility that maybe,
just maybe, someone had come bearing good news for once: news that
Cinnia could not live without him, news that his family wanted him
back, news that he was Ruairi again, Prince of Tearia.

Reiv’s heart lifted at the possibility of it,
and he found himself practically sprinting to the door. He reached
for the handle, then closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.
Please dear gods, let it be good news.
Pulling open the
door, he found himself face to face with the very person most
frequently found at the tip of his imaginary sword—Whyn, his
brother. But Whyn was now more than his brother. He was his enemy.
So much for prayers.

Reiv shoved his hands against the door. He
could not bear to face Whyn, not today, and considering the
evidence of his own temper scattered about the place, he couldn’t
trust himself not to throw his brother against the wall as well.
But Whyn’s quick foot blocked his attempt and pushed its way, along
with the rest of him, into the room. Reiv stepped back, fists and
jaw clenched.

Whyn faced him and scanned the dimly lit
room. He was dressed in his usual royal finery, a golden silk tunic
draped down his body, jeweled adornments pinned at his shoulders.
Reiv looked down at the faded black cloth that covered his own hips
and felt the crimson rise to his cheeks. Whyn had never come to see
him here before, and now here he was, eyeing the dismal apartment
and his outcast brother, the former Prince of Tearia, now a Jecta
look-alike.

“We need to talk,” Whyn said.

“And you need this many guards to do it?”
Reiv said, motioning toward the several well-armed Tearian Guard at
Whyn’s back.

“Oh . . . well, there has been some unrest as
of late, and the Commander felt it necessary.”

Whyn turned and murmured to his escorts who
nodded and departed the room, but not before shooting a look of
warning Reiv’s way.

“Ruairi—” Whyn began.

“Reiv . . . my name is Reiv. Great pains are
taken to see that I do not forget it, so—”

“I am sorry. Reiv,” Whyn said.

“What is it that you wish, my Lord?” Reiv
thought he would gag.

“Please, do not address me as such. It is not
necessary.”

Reiv shrugged. “What is it that you wish
then, Whyn?”

“To talk. That is all.”

“I suppose it is a good thing that is all you
want, as I have nothing left to give you.”

Whyn’s face went gray. Reiv felt a surge of
satisfaction.

“I--I want to mend the bad feelings between
us,” Whyn said. “Especially about the marriage. I want . . . I need
to tell you that it is not what you think.” Whyn stepped toward
him, an expression of desperation shadowing his face. “The wedding
was not my idea. I swear it, Reiv. I fought against it. I did! But
Cinnia and her father insisted. She had been promised the role of
future queen. Father and Labhras worked out the details, and the
Priestess approved them. I had no say in it, Reiv. Please believe
me; I had no say.”

Reiv stared dumbly, his lips unable to
respond to his brother, the great Prince of Tearia, now begging his
forgiveness. He twisted his mouth with disgust. Had Whyn come
expecting pity from him? Surely he knew he would get none, no
matter how heart-wrenching his story.

Reiv shook his head. “No. You could have
stopped all this. I am here by
your
will.”

“Gods, Reiv. Is that what you think? That I
wanted this?”

“I think, and I know.”

“But, it is not true,” Whyn insisted. “I
swear I wish everything was back the way it was. I wish you were
the one getting married tomorrow, not me. But there is nothing I
can do about it. You do not understand the position I am in.” Whyn
stepped closer. “Remember how you used to complain that you never
had any say in anything? Remember? Well, it is the same for me. Do
you not see? I have to marry Cinnia, and I do not even love the
girl.”

“But I do.”

“What can I do, Reiv? I cannot give you
Cinnia. You know that. If I could change all of this, I would. But
the Priestess . . .” Whyn swallowed hard. “You are still my
brother.”

“No. Ruairi was your brother. And he is dead
now.”

“My brother may be lost,” Whyn said. “But he
is not dead.”

Reiv turned his face from his brother’s
probing eyes. “I think it is time you left, Lord. I am sure you
have more important things to do than talk to a ghost.”

Whyn nodded reluctantly. “Very well, but
before I go, I want to leave you this. It is yours and you should
have it.”

Whyn snapped his fingers at a guard who stood
outside the door, then reached for the scabbard being held out to
him. He pulled the sword from within it and held it out to his
brother.

Reiv’s breath caught. It was the Lion! He
could only stare in disbelief. Was Whyn actually giving it back to
him? He felt joy at the thought of it, and found the rare emotion
almost unnerving. But as much as he wanted to take the sword, he
could not reach his hand to it. It was a peace offering on his
brother’s part and were he to take it, he would be accepting the
gesture. Reiv folded his arms across his chest.

Whyn laid the sword and scabbard upon the
marble table. “It is rightfully yours,” he said. “Keep it.”

But Reiv did not move.

Whyn pursed his lips, then walked to the
door. He stopped with his back to his brother, and stood silently
for a moment. “You are still my brother, Ruairi,” he finally said.
“When I am King, things will be different.” He squared his
shoulders and stepped into the street. He did not look back.

Reiv closed the door and bolted the latch,
then turned and leaned his back against it. His body was trembling
now. The hostility he had managed to keep at bay during Whyn’s
visit was erupting again, but this time killing a plant would not
appease him.

He stepped to the sword and grabbed it up,
trying with all his might to tighten his hand around the
leather-bound handle. He swung it, slicing the air, but the weapon
flew from his grasp and landed with a metallic clank against the
floor.

Tears of anger welled in Reiv’s eyes. “Even
your gift brings me nothing but grief!” he screamed.

He stormed over and picked it up, clenching
the hilt in both hands this time, his brow tightening as he focused
his attention on the grip. Taking a deep breath, he swung the
sword, its gold adornment dimly reflected through the scant rays of
light streaking through the room. He tightened his jaw, then thrust
the blade forward with a twist of his wrist. A grin stretched
across his lips as he straightened up, the weapon still held out
before him.

“Yes, some day things will be different,” he
said. “Some day I will see my enemy’s throat at the end of my
sword.”

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Chapter 6: Summer Fires

T
he wagon stopped
atop the last crest as its passengers paused to take in the view.
Pastel meadows spilled down the mountainside, assimilating into
geometric fields of barley and corn. Wheat danced to the beat of a
symphonic wind. Azure waters shimmered in the distance. But Dayn
took no pleasure in the beauty of the landscape. He could not seem
to drag his eyes from the festival grounds just a short distance
away. Even the colorful tents, spinning costumes, and snapping
banners brought him no cheer. It was just a well-orchestrated
whirlpool destined to suck him into a day of misery.

He turned his attention beyond the festival
grounds to Kiradyn on the other side of them. The city was a place
of religious blessings and frequent celebration, but to Dayn the
high-pitched roofs of its dark buildings looked more like daggers,
poised to kill any new idea that happened to drift down upon them.
He shifted his gaze to the waters beyond the harbor. There
white-capped waves beat silently, but mightily, against rocks that
rose from the sea like monstrous spines.

As Dayn scanned the horizon, he realized he
was searching for something, though he couldn’t imagine what. There
was nothing beyond the rocks, only eddies that would suck you down,
beasts that would swallow you whole, and tides that would pull you
over the edge of the world. No, there was nothing to find out
there. He would do better to look in the other direction

He slid off the wagon, relieved to stretch
his back. Leaning his body to the side, he pulled the tightness
from his muscles and moved his gaze to the mountains. Fear still
stirred within him when he looked at those towering peaks, but
these days it was a different kind of fear. No longer was it fear
of the unknown. Now it was fear of what he knew to be true.

He turned his eyes away and bent to brush the
dust from his boots. But an unsettling sensation took sudden hold
of him, and he straightened back up. He felt as if he were off
balance, like the ground was rippling beneath his feet. A peculiar
image flashed behind his eyes, then faded to darkness. He shook his
head in an attempt to retrieve it, but only a foggy illusion and a
queasy feeling remained to indicate it had been there at all. He
clutched his stomach and stared at the ground.

“Are you all right?” Alicine asked. She was
watching him from her perch in the back of the wagon, her eyes wide
with concern.

Dayn reached for the side of the wagon and
took a deep breath. “I—I’m fine, I think. Just got dizzy there for
a minute.”

Alicine rose from her seat and, lifting her
skirt, stepped across the bundles of supplies. “Mother, I think
Dayn’s sick,” she called out to Morna who had moved with Gorman to
a nearby scenic overlook.

“I’m fine, Mother,” Dayn shouted in their
direction. He didn’t want his mother to dote over him. It was
probably just something he ate.

A cold wind whipped at his neck, its bite
reawakening his senses. He pulled his collar close to his ears. The
breeze felt oddly cool for this time of year. He turned to reach
for the coat he had tossed into the back of the wagon, but a deep
rumble, so subtle that at first he was not sure he had heard it,
diverted his attention. He glanced up at the sky. A storm certainly
would be welcome; then they could turn around and head home. To his
profound disappointment, the sky was as cloudless as he had ever
seen it.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Alicine.

“Hear what?” she replied.

Dayn twisted his mouth. Perhaps he hadn’t
heard it either. Perhaps he had felt it rather than heard it. “Did
you feel it, then?”

Alicine cocked her head and eyed him
suspiciously. “Are you sure you aren’t sick? Your face is slightly
green and—”

“No, I’m much better. Really.” He took
another cleansing breath. The queasiness of his stomach and the
fogginess of his brain were lifting, but he could not shake the
uneasy feeling that still lingered. The fleeting image had left a
faint imprint of a distant memory. If only he could remember what
it was.

Morna and Gorman approached the wagon and
stared at him with expressions of concern. Dayn assured them he was
fine, much to their obvious relief. They climbed up to the front of
the wagon and Gorman took the reins. “You ready to go, son?” he
asked.