Heir to a Lost Sun: A Caverns of Stelemia Novel

by Riley Morrison

  The darkness became oppressive, the light from a dozen mushroom-stem torches scattered along the column barely enough to penetrate the gloom. The oxen were nervous and often had to be whipped to get them to move. Each man walked in tense silence, watching the shadows and side passages as if they expected something to leap out of one at any moment. The scouts met the column at every junction and chamber, having already scoured them for danger—but each time they reported seeing nothing.

  Kara had pulled her hood over her head and jumped at every unexpected sound. Morgon seemed to have lost all interest in her, the darkness around them occupying his attention.

  Aemon distracted himself from fear by reading a book using light from the torch fastened on a pole beside the driver. At other times, he studied the passing cave features and galleries, some so stunning they took his breath away. There were stalactites and stalagmites, flowstones, shawls, bell holes and the ever-present sound of dripping water. The only other sounds were the wagon wheels rolling over stone, hushed voices or the odd snort of an ox.

  Twice the road sloped sharply upwards. Guards climbed the water-slick slope to turn the wheel at the top. The drivers attached the wagons to a metal chain, and the men manning the wheel winched them up. It was back-breaking work and the men had to be regularly replaced by others. On the second such slope, Aemon took a turn on the wheel beside Veladan and one of his mercenary companions. The two warriors did most of the work, their muscles bulging.

  When the wagon was up, Veladan slapped Aemon on the back. “I bet that’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done, banker boy. Lot tougher than counting coins and scribbling on parchment, eh?”

  “Not really,” Aemon replied, growing sick of Veladan and his attempts to belittle others. “You would be surprised at how heavy gold bars can be. One bar is worth more coin than you will earn in your entire life, and yet holding them is as mundane to me as you holding your sword.”

  Veladan puffed out his chest like a rooster and took a menacing step forward. Aemon held his ground, knowing the warrior could not kill him, because if he did, Rubin would ensure he and his two comrades died horrible deaths.

  “You better flee back to your mommy, boy,” Veladan snarled. He loomed over Aemon and shoved him backward with his armored chest.

  Aemon wanted to cry out for the other man to leave him alone, but a quote from the great pit-fighter—and a personal hero of Aemon’s—Rexus of Acid Lake, came to him from the back of his mind. Never show your enemy you’re afraid. It will embolden them—and they will come at you all the harder.

  Climbing to his feet, Aemon positioned himself so Veladan could not knock him down again.

  The warrior shoved him harder, but through force of will, Aemon kept his balance. The warrior’s armor jingled as he suddenly roared with laughter. He slapped his hand on Aemon’s shoulder. “You’ve got more backbone than I thought, little lord. I’d have thought you’d wet your pants and run screaming all the way back to the capital.”

  He pushed Aemon away. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood or I’d have smashed your face in.”

  Veladan’s companion growled deep in his throat, “Get out of here, boy.”

  Aemon left. Only when he was out of the warrior’s line of sight did he stop to gather himself and anxiously bite his nails.

  That had been a close one.

  Their journey continued, and the caves became more wondrous. After seeing a particularly awe-inspiring formation of flowstone, Aemon decided the Limestone Caves were more beautiful than he’d ever imagined.

  Kara admired the cave features too, sometimes reaching out to run her fingers over one as they went by. Once, when a passing guard walked by with a torch, her green eyes shimmered like emeralds.

  She was perfect. Why would anyone want to hurt her?

  If only he had the confidence to talk to her more, so he could get to know her better. When he and Morgon left her in Deep Cave—they might never see her again. He looked away and swore under his breath.

  What would happen to Kara once they arrived? He and his friend would do what they could to help her, but once their tasks in the city were complete—they had to return to the capital.

  How depressing.

  Thinking of where they were headed, Aemon’s heart sank. Deep Cave was no place for her. The noble houses were constantly battling one another for control of the city. Though they usually kept the fighting off the streets, sometimes it moved from the shadows into the light—and innocent people died.

  Aemon ground his teeth. Here he was heading there to prolong the suffering and conflict. To the dark with Rubin for sending me on this mission and to my parents for forcing me to join the bank!

  Kara had said hired thugs were after her. Aemon might not be able to stay in Deep Cave, but perhaps when he got back to the Capital he could do something to help her. Maybe he could use his position at the bank to intimidate or bribe the merchant who hired the thugs and make him leave her alone. It might risk his job—but she would be safe from the merchant, and the bank’s power would be being used for a worthy cause.

  Working there afforded him few opportunities to do good deeds, and now that he had one—he should take it. No matter what it might cost him.

  At some stage, Kara slipped off to sleep but jolted awake when they went over a bump. She fell forward onto the floor of the wagon. Aemon moved to help her, but Morgon got there first.

  His friend helped Kara back onto her seat and she gave him one of her bright, toothy smiles. “Thank you. I’ve never ridden a wagon before. Guess I need to learn to hang on.”

  Morgon looked well pleased with himself.

  Aemon’s stomach clenched. How dare he gloat like that?

  What if his friend won her heart?

  Being the fourth son of a noble family, Aemon had always been overlooked, either for his older brothers or later, by more assertive young men at the bank. I am sick of it.

  Crossing his arms, he forced himself to stare at the passing wall. As time passed, the clenching sensation in his stomach lessened. He told himself to stop acting like a child. Morgon was his only friend, and now he felt jealous of him. Like he had his older brothers.

  Aemon snatched a book from his bag, opened a random page, and started to read. At least in books, he could forget the world around him.

  The day passed without incident, and they made camp in a large chamber. Thousands of other caravans had spent the night there over the years, leaving behind trash and burned-out torches. The air was rank with the smell of the cesspit further into the chamber and of rotting food left behind by earlier travelers.

  When everyone was settled and the night watch set, the cook lit a fire and made fowl-and-mushroom stew. Kara finished hers long before Aemon and Morgon had eaten theirs. Aemon offered to go and clean her bowl, for she seemed wary of the rest of the men around camp and tried to keep to herself. She handed it to him, and he left to clean it in a pool of water at the edge of the light.

  Did she trust him? He would not hurt her. He wanted to protect her, like a knight protected his lady, and help her in any way he could.

  Aemon found it odd Kara had woken such feelings in him. Perhaps he had read too many stories of heroes and heroines winning the hearts of their loves—and a part of him yearned to do the same. But he was no hero, nor did he have it in him to be one. He could dream of being a mighty champion all he liked, but the best he could hope for was to become a powerful banker who could buy the allegiance of heroic warriors and tell them what to do.

  Such a person was never loved. They were feared and obeyed. That was not what Aemon wanted out of life. He wanted to be remembered in the history books not as a dastardly banker but as a virtuous champion who helped people—even if through intellect rather than brawn.

  When Aemon returned to their wagon, he sat down and leaned against the wheel. Kara took a seat beside him, her hand touching something hanging between her breasts. He had seen her hand there many times and had become curious to
know what was there. But how would he go about asking her about it? She would probably think him nosy or asking to see her bust.

  Kara caught him watching her, and withdrew her hand. “What are ya looking at?”

  He winced, and looked at a limestone pillar glistening in the torchlight. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “You were staring at me.”

  His heart skipped a beat. “I was not.”

  She chuckled, “Don’t be like that. You can look at me if you want. Though surely there’s more interesting things around here. You’ve got a bag of books you could be reading.”

  He flattened his lips into a line. Nothing was more interesting than her—nor more beautiful. “I have read them all before.” He looked back at her. “You should get some sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Kara lay down and closed her eyes. Morgon returned from a trip to the cesspit, grabbed his blanket and draped it over her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  When Morgon grinned at her, Aemon bared his teeth. That no-good swine, he raged. There he is again, sucking up to her.

  His friend left to get another blanket and got talking with the cook. Aemon’s rage dissolved and he berated himself again. Morgon was his best friend, and he had never felt jealous of him before. Why start feeling that way now?

  He stretched his tired muscles. Why ask? He knew the answer. It was like in his books. He had read plenty of stories where someone came between two friends and tore them apart. Love could do strange things to people.

  Even him, it seemed.

  Aemon inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, thinking of how his life used to be so simple. He’d counted coins, filled out ledges, read reports and dutifully did whatever one of the senior bankers told him to.

  He needed to find a way to emotionally detach himself from Kara—like a good banker would. Otherwise, he jeopardized his friendship with Morgon, his mission to Deep Cave and his position at the bank. And if he lost those—he would have nothing.

  It would be hard to let her go—but necessary.

  Though it made his heart ache thinking it, she needed to go her own way once they got to Deep Cave so things between him and Morgon could return to normal.

  There would be no intimidating the merchant, nor checking on her after they left the city. She would be on her own.

  VELADAN KICKED HIM awake early the next morning. “Get up, you lazy bums.” When Kara got to her feet, he growled, “What is it you want in Deep Cave, girl? All you seem to do is eat our bloody food and give me sour looks.”

  She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have family there.”

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. “Who was it you needed my protection from, eh?”

  “I have a cousin in Stelemia who is jealous all the boys are interested in me, and not her. She sent some hired thugs after me—to, in her words, ‘make me so ugly, no man would want me ever again.’”

  Aemon almost laughed at the lie. It was so bad. Veladan seemed perplexed by her answer. How would he react?

  To his surprise, the warrior chuckled. “I give you this, girl—you’ve a quick wit about you.” He made a sweeping gesture at the darkness beyond the torches. “Watch yourself. Anything could be out there in the dark. Waiting. Watching. For the right moment to—”

  “Lights ahead,” someone shouted from the front of the column. Veladan drew his sword, then hurried back to the bank’s cart. Aemon and the other two climbed onto their wagon to get a better look.

  The driver stood on his seat and studied the approaching torches warily. “Looks like people a coming,” he said.

  They watched as two dozen people pushing handcarts approached the caravan from the direction of Deep Cave. Once the people were close, they held their hands up to show they were unarmed. Several guards walked over to talk to them.

  The people wore dirty, crudely stitched-together clothing made of animal skins. Aemon scratched his head in confusion.

  What were common folk doing in the Limestone Caves?

  The road was dangerous, and none appeared to be armed. Could they be fleeing the fighting in Deep Cave? Had things gotten out of control again?

  The guards let the peasants move on, and they began to file past Aemon’s wagon, pushing their worldly possessions before them. Their backs bent with fatigue, the peasants watched the play of shadows on the wall as if they expected one to spring to life and attack them.

  Aemon called out to a man limping along with a walking staff. “What happened to you?”

  “War happened boy,” he growled, and shuffled off before Aemon could ask him anything more.

  Once the last of the refugees had disappeared down the highway, the caravan broke camp and moved on. A few miles later, the road narrowed, leaving only a gap the width of a hand between the walls and the sides of the wagon.

  Water dripped from above, and it did not take long for everyone to become soaking wet. The caravan pushed on until the tunnel widened into a large chamber around twenty-second hour. There, they stopped to make camp.

  The darkness of the chamber devoured torchlight like a hungry beast, the stalagmites its teeth, the water dripping from them its saliva.

  Aemon cocked his head and listened. He thought he heard faint noises from somewhere out in the darkness, beyond the edge of the light. The noise from camp echoed off the walls, making it hard to know if the sounds came from the caravan or from somewhere deeper in the chamber.

  Trust the guards. They have done this before, and would know if something is amiss.

  By the divines, it was freezing, and his hands were wrinkled like an old man’s. Moisture dripped from his clothes, and his boots were covered in mud. If only he could dry his clothes without stripping off and hang them near the fire like others had done. The idea of getting naked in front of other people embarrassed him to no end.

  Aemon chuckled at the idea of Kara seeing him with no clothes on. She might not have seen a naked man before.

  He felt sorry for the mail-clad sentries guarding camp. The only way they could keep warm was to stand next to the torches set around the perimeter.

  Aemon went over to one of the cookfires to warm himself. After a few minutes, Morgon joined him. As they talked, Aemon looked around for Kara.

  Finally, he caught sight of her in the shadows beside their wagon at the edge of the camp. What is she doing? She did not appear to have a blanket. She must be freezing.

  He inclined his head in Kara’s direction so Morgon would notice her. His friend sighed, “I asked her to come to the fire with me, but she refused. I think she is afraid about being the only woman in camp.”

  So Morgon had noticed her standoffishness as well. If men looked at Aemon the way they looked at her, he supposed he would be wary and keep his distance too.

  Then again, was he any better than any of the other men in camp? He stared at her, and dreamed of holding her in his arms.

  Shaking his head, he left Morgon and got a blanket from the supply wagon. If Kara did not want to go into camp and get one herself, he would get it for her. The chamber was cold, and he had read stories of people freezing to death in their sleep. She needed to keep warm.

  Striding over to her, Aemon held out the blanket. It took her a long moment to notice his presence. She looked up and gave him a distracted grin. “Thanks.”

  Aemon returned her grin with an awkward nod. When he tried to say something, his mind went blank.

  I look like a fool. Say something!

  How was it he could overcome his fear of scum like Veladan, but not his fear of talking to women? He could count on one hand the number of them he had spoken to in his life—and most of them were family.

  Kara had been the first woman to look at him as more than a mere boy. To him, that made her special.

  Aemon dug his half-chewed nails into the side of the wagon. What did he have to talk about anyway? She would not be interested in him. He was a coin counter and a pampered noble—not a strong warrior or hands
ome ladies’ man.

  She wrapped half the blanket around herself but kept the other half open. “Don’t just stand there, Aemon. Come sit beside me. With two of us under the blanket, we’ll warm up faster.”

  His heart lurched. Kara really wants me under her blanket?

  “Sit, I won’t bite.”

  He sat stiffly, then draped the other half of the blanket around himself. She was cold and wet and shivered violently. “You should have gotten a blanket,” he chided. “You are freezing.”

  Kara rubbed her hands together to warm them. “I should’ve, I suppose.”

  She stared at one of the torches at the edge of the camp. After several minutes of silence, she said, “Tell me about yourself, Aemon. You seem different from the other nobles I’ve met.”

  “Different?”

  “Nicer and less stuck-up.”

  “Oh.” Her question took him off guard. What should he tell her? “Well, like Morgon said, I work for—”

  “The Royal Bank of Stelemia. I know that already, but there must be more to you than that.”

  Aemon ran his fingers through his wet hair. Was there more to him than that? He did his work at the bank, read books about great things others had done while dreaming he would one day do great things too—though knowing he never would. Other than that, he woke every day despising his parents, despising Rubin and despising the bank.

  His life felt meaningless.

  “Sadly, there is not much more to me to talk about. I am the fourth son of a noble family in House Pulmard. I grew up with an old personal tutor who taught me much of what I know.”

  “I haven’t heard of House Pulmard. Did you live in the Capital Spire? How close were you to the Halls of the Priest King?”

  Aemon was not surprised she had not heard his family name. They were mid-ranking nobles at best. “We lived a dozen floors below his halls.”

  “Did you ever see the Priest King? I heard he wears a crown of solid gold that has rubies and sapphires attached to braids made of platinum that hang from it like hair. Oh, and is it true no one’s ever seen his face? What about—”