Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn (37 page)

“Hey, Reiv!” Kerrik shouted from the nearby
hillside. “You’ll not find a bigger shell than this one today!”

Reiv grinned. “It is a fine one, Kerrik,”
came his customary reply.

Reiv watched as Kerrik and the other children
skittered from rock to rock, and he began to wonder if the caravan
already was treading on sacred ground. To his knowledge no one had
ever traveled so close to the mountains, except for Brina who had
only done so to save the life of her son Dayn. Were these
formations hallowed ground also, he wondered? And if those who
trespassed upon them were sinners, and thus destined to suffer for
all eternity, would children like Kerrik and Nely and Gem be doomed
to suffer also? Surely no god would willingly cause the suffering
of a child, Reiv reasoned. But he called the children down from the
hillside nonetheless.

Reiv directed the caravan along the
westernmost corner of The Black and toward the edge of the mountain
range. From there they continued along its border, until at last it
became dusk and Reiv ordered the line to set up camp.

The area surrounding the campsite was dotted
with pines, and the cool night air was a welcome relief from the
hot, rugged terrain they had recently crossed. Reiv surveyed the
encampment, trying to estimate how many souls had survived the
journey thus far. As was his custom each night, he walked
throughout the encampment, paying his respects, checking to see if
there were questions or needs, or to simply determine the state of
the line. During each inspection, he also made a point of speaking
with Yustes, who generally took up the rear. As he worked his way
in that direction, he heard a concerned voice calling his name. He
turned, realizing it belonged to Peyada, a woman whom he knew to be
close to Yustes.

The woman hustled in his direction. “It is
Yustes,” she said breathlessly upon reaching him. “He is ill.”

An unpleasant feeling gathered in Reiv’s
belly. “Take me to him,” he said, and soon found himself kneeling
next to the bedroll of the wise old Elder.

Reiv took the man’s hand in his. “Yustes,” he
said.

Yustes opened his eyes and forced a smile.
“Reiv,” he said weakly. “Not far now, eh?”

“No. Not far.” Reiv felt the Elder’s
forehead. It was clammy, but it did not feel hot, not like those
suffering from the fever. “Tell me what ails you.”

“Old age,” Yustes said, a hint of humor in
his voice. A cough spasmed from his lungs.

“Enough of such talk. You are not so
old.”

The Elder sighed, his breath rattling. “Old
enough to know when my time has come.”

“Well, your time will have to wait,” Reiv
said. “We must get you to Oonayei first.”

“Dear boy, even if my body does not make it,
my spirit will.” He turned his fading eyes to Reiv. “You will see
that it gets there, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course. But how?” Reiv asked,
wondering how he, of all people, could have control over someone
else’s soul.

“I am…a part of everyone you see around you,”
Yustes said haltingly. “We are all kindred spirits. If you get my
people there…then you get me there.”

“I will do what I can.”

“I know you will.” Yustes swallowed thickly.
“Peyada, water…please,” he said.

The woman, standing nearby, quickly brought
him a water skin. Reiv took it from her and tilted it to Yustes’s
lips. With Reiv’s assistance, the old man was able to lift his head
and take a sip. “Tastes sweet,” Yustes said. “But the waters of
Oonayei will taste even sweeter.”

“Yustes,” Reiv said hesitantly. “What if the
valley is not the place you think it is? What if Oonayei does not
exist?”

“It will exist if enough people believe it
does.”

“One cannot simply wish a place into being,”
Reiv said.

“Perhaps
one
cannot, but together many
can.”

“And if I cannot unite them in that
belief?”

Yustes smiled. “You already have, my boy. You
already have.”

Yustes died that night. His loss was
immediately felt. He had been a touchstone of hope for many, and
Reiv could not help but pray that hope had not died with him.
Burial rites were held under the stars. All who could, attended.
The Elder was laid to rest beneath a canopy of trees, protected by
the shade that their branches offered, blanketed by leaves against
the cold of the night. No stone was set to mark his simple grave,
but all who knew him would never forget his courage. He had given
his people the strength to turn their backs on oppression; he had
lifted their souls and had turned their hearts toward freedom. But
would that strength last?

The night was quiet and still when Reiv
returned to his own bedroll. He lay there, his eyes turned toward a
star-studded sky, but all he could see were worst case scenarios
blackening his mind. Would the Shell Seekers want to continue their
journey now that their spiritual leader was gone? Or would they
leave the caravan and stumble their way home by way of the route
they had already traveled? The Jecta, he was certain, would not
retreat; they would face certain annihilation if they did. But the
Shell Seekers had at least been given a chance to survive through
servitude to the King. Would they come to regret the choice they
had made?

“What am I doing?” he muttered. “I am such a
fool.”

He felt someone’s presence and looked up to
see Jensa standing next to him.

“You’re worried,” she said. She settled down
beside him. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Reiv lied. “What are
you
thinking?”

She lay on her side, facing him, her head
propped up by a hand.

The proximity of her body sent an unexpected
flutter to Reiv’s chest.

Jensa doodled her finger on the blanket for a
moment. “Well,” she said, “I’m thinking that you’ve spent so much
time seeing to everyone else’s needs that no one has seen to
yours.”

The rhythm in Reiv’s chest quickened. By the
gods, what did she mean by that?

“Tell me, Reiv,” she continued. “What do you
need?”

Reiv’s mind raced toward an obvious
conclusion, but rather than consider the ridiculous possibility of
it, he responded with a burst of laughter instead.

Jensa sat up angrily. “I’m sorry you find me
so
amusing
,” she said, and moved to rise from the
bedroll.

Reiv grabbed her arm and pulled her back
down. “Please; I am not laughing at you,” he said. “I am laughing
at me.”

“As well you should be,” she said.

“Well, I
am
a fool of a prince, am I
not?”

“At your convenience.”

“Very well,” he said. “What I need is to get
these people to the valley. That is what I need.”

“Well, at least in that you’re no fool;
you’re their savior.”

It was then Reiv’s turn to sit up. “I am no
savior. I am—” He stammered, not sure what he was exactly.

Jensa rose to her feet. “You’re that and
more. But I don’t think I wish to argue with you about it
tonight.”

Reiv lay back down and rested his hands
behind his head. “Well you were the one that came over here. If you
do not wish to argue, I suppose you had best stay away from
me.”

“Fine,” she said, and turned and marched
away.

Reiv pulled the blanket over him. The air had
become surprisingly cold since Jensa’s departure, and for the first
time he realized how very much he longed for the warmth of her body
next to his.

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Chapter 29: Inch by
Inch

D
arkness engulfed
him; it filled Lyal’s every pore. Like a great parasite it wound
its way through him, eating his flesh from the outside in,
expelling it in pieces from the inside out. It filled his lungs
with liquid ice. It coiled into his ears and mouth and nostrils. No
part of him was spared the agony that it dealt. It blinded his
memories and poisoned his mind; it stole his identity and replaced
it with fear. Pain was all that was left to him now; the rest had
been devoured, sucked from the marrow of his bones and spewed into
the blackness.

He was locked in an abyss, an endless
nightmare of darkness and despair. When he had first been cast
there, there had been no pain, only silence and fear and endless
night. In the beginning, he had prayed for light, thinking it would
bring him warmth. When none came, he sought solace in the millions
of lights that flickered behind his eyelids. They looked like tiny
stars, he thought, like those one might see in a foggy night sky.
Gazing at the miniature lights, he tried to imagine that he was
lying on the sand, staring up at the heavens, listening to the sea
as it stroked the shore, feeling the breeze as it caressed his
skin. He had clung to that fantasy for what seemed like a very long
time, playing it over and over until the rhythm of it lulled him to
sleep. Only then could he call darkness his friend, for when he
slept he dreamed, and sometimes the dreams held color and reminders
of what it was to be alive. But after a while the stars began to
fade, and the dreams grew vague and colorless, and all he was left
with was darkness again.

He had never been afraid of the dark, had
never really been afraid of anything. But it did not take long for
Lyal to wonder if he had simply been left to wither away in it. His
body screamed for nourishment and warmth, and the constant sound of
his own breathing, the only sound he could hear, was slowly driving
him mad. He crawled and crawled along the perimeter of his prison,
trying to claw his way out, but there was no escaping it. He prayed
and he begged, but the only response he received was the echo of
his own voice in his ears. It was then that he became truly afraid.
Was this to be his death—to slowly rot away in madness? He implored
the gods to release him from his nightmare, for surely that was
what this was—a terrible dream from which he would eventually
awake. If only the gods would send the sunrise! If only they would
rescue him from this damnable night and deposit him into the arms
of morning!

An eternity passed, but at last his prayers
were answered: light had finally come! A creak like that of an
opening door filled his ears, and a sudden flash of brilliance
blinded his eyes. He scrambled to his knees, awash with joy and
gratitude, but he quickly learned he had been betrayed, for the
light that came was indeed as bright as the sun, but unlike a
sunrise, it brought no warmth or the promise of a new day. It
brought cruelty and hate, and with that, unfathomable pain.

The light said not a word as it grabbed him
and slammed him onto a hard, cold slab. It asked him no questions
as it bound him in chains and tortured him in ways he could not
have imagined. It abused him over and over again, without regard to
his cries for mercy. Lyal screamed and he raged, but it did no
good. It seemed the more he begged, the more his tormentor took
delight in it. The light came to him frequently after that, each
visit laced with more cruelty than the last, and before long Lyal
was praying again. But now he was praying for darkness.

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Chapter 30: Dark Savior

T
he morning sun
streamed through the etched-glass windows of Whyn’s sprawling room,
splashing light onto its colorless walls, and rainbows into Whyn’s
colorless world. He sat up and shoved back the coverlet that was
draped across his legs. Like just about everything else in the
room, the coverlet was white, as white as the walls, as white as
the satin nightshift he wore, as white as the kingdom that she,
through him, was determined to rebuild. He planted his feet on the
floor and crossed the marble tiles toward the dressing table,
yanking his nightshift over his head. Attendants rushed from out of
nowhere to assist him, but he waved them out of the room with a
flick of his hand.

Before him stood a gilded mirror that reached
from floor to ceiling. Whyn stopped to gaze at his full-length
reflection, turning this way and that as he examined his naked body
from every angle. For all the physical abuse she had inflicted on
him over the past several months, he was pleased to note that his
flesh bore no scars, at least none that could be seen in a
mirror.

He stepped to the nearby dressing table, then
pulled out a stool and sat. A second mirror, equally elaborate but
smaller than the first, hung on the wall before him. Leaning toward
it, he studied his face. Still handsome, he thought: smooth skin,
straight nose, and his eyes—so blue. He eased back, keeping his
gaze upon his reflection. How long had it been since his eyes had
been so blue?

Glancing at the dressing table, he noted the
usual assortment of potions and face paints that littered the
surface, as well as the numerous hair ornaments and grooming tools.
He picked up a comb and raked it through his sleep-tangled hair,
but he did not attempt to braid or adorn it like he usually did.
Setting aside the comb, he moved his fingers to a paint brush, then
pushed it aside. Today he would apply no paint to his lips or
glitter to his eyes. Today he would dress as a king, not the puppet
of the entity that so frequently possessed him.

Whyn rose and stepped to a massive wardrobe
located along the wall. Turning the latch, he threw back its door.
Within the wardrobe were his finest garments. They had, in fact,
once been his favorites. There were velvets and satins and silks
and brocades, all exquisitely made. Most were dyed in shades of
gold and yellow, the traditional colors of his class, but there
were a few darker shades amongst them. Most he had worn when he was
a prince, but since becoming King, she had not allowed him to touch
them; it was a miracle she had let him keep them at all. He
fingered the garments, grateful to finally have the freedom to do
so, and rested his eyes upon a hunting tunic of emerald green. To
wear it would be such relief from the colorless garbs she usually
made him wear. Fortunately, today he would enjoy that relief.