by A Corrin
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Bonding Time with Kayle
I was one of the last to fall asleep. My head rested in my hands, and I stared through the tree canopy at the stars, lying on my back and feeling infinitesimally small. My scalp had begun to prickle and itch more lately, unaccustomed to the scruffy length of my hair. I could feel how disheveled it was becoming with my fingers. I wondered what Nikki would think of it.
Homesick and lonesome, still struggling to remember what the Ranker had said that was nagging at me so much, I rolled to one side, the pine-needle-packed ground awkward against the alignment of my spine and hip. In truth, I was probably the loneliest guy there. The squadron all knew each other, as did Peter, Kayle, and Mariah. I still had stubborn questions that wouldn’t go unanswered and had to take on my new responsibilities and knowledge with a mute acceptance. No one was there to have empathy with me, to sit down with me and just listen to what I had to say. Tomorrow I would have to start getting to know everyone better, especially if my very life was to be held, at times, in their hands. I needed to have friends—not just allies. I imagined myself as a fluffy bunny cupped in Kayle’s palms and then him crushing me with a dark smile.
The dying fire at my feet crackled, and sparks burst upward on a path of smoke. Peeking down, I saw Kayle poking at the fire’s ashes with a stick, stirring them around blankly. Speak of the devil…I may as well start with him. I had something I wanted to tell him anyway. Kayle nudged a bag out of his way with his foot and sat down. He stared into the flames, teasing them, and took a deep breath through his nose.
Clearing my throat, I sat up slowly as if just awakened, and stretched. Kayle shifted his gaze to me, blinked languorously, and resumed his scrutiny of the fire.
I approached him in the same manner one might approach a stallion that they’re afraid will kick. He was acting totally oblivious to me, even as I sat down beside him. I watched the stick slowly get licked up by flame, its tip consumed by the satiny curtains of orange and yellow.
Reaching out one hand, Kayle made intricate motions, almost as if trying to pop his knuckles or stretch out sore joints. But in the current of fire above his stick, there appeared a break in the ceaseless pattern of swaying flames. The unearthly reddish light flickered, died. Smaller tongues briefly blazed to life, only to be followed by another form.
Eventually, Kayle had formed a griffin head above the burning stick, facing us. With one opening and closing of his thumb and forefinger, the griffin spread wide its beak, and shut it again. Dissolving this picture, Kayle started on another, this one becoming a shamrock. The four petals looked as if burning.
“Whoa, that’s cool!” I whispered reverently. Kayle shrugged and curled his hand back around the stick with the other. Studying him out of the corner of my vision, I spoke awkwardly, hating feeling like the underdog. “I, um, I actually think I have you to thank for me finding out how to morph the right way and use my power today.”
“Oh, really?” Kayle murmured mildly.
Clenching my fists and taking a breath, I went on.
“When you burst into the inn, and you were on fire, you said, ‘Good morning, sunshine,’ remember?”
“Barely,” Kayle said.
I shuffled a bit and continued in a lower voice. “My mom used to tell me that in the mornings. It’s one of the last things I remember her saying before…she…”
Kayle interrupted me, and I was surprised to see sympathy in his eyes, which were finally focused on me.
“Aye. I know. Peter told us all about you and your…mother.” He briefly looked away, as if finding the subject awkward.
I tried to act like I wasn’t uncomfortable.
“Yeah, so…thanks.”
“You’re very welcome, Jonathan,” Kayle replied seriously.
Not waiting until my courage gave out, I blurted, “Why do you hate me, Kayle? What have I ever done to you?”
Kayle actually laughed a real laugh: the sound was faltering, short, as if it weren’t made often.
“I don’t hate you. I just like things quick and efficient. When you came, it’s like we had to start all over again, had to school a wee, naïve babby.” His face turned hard. “It’s just the way I am.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
Kayle hunched forward, closer to the fire. The flames were mirrored in his vacant, glassy eyes, dancing madly.
“I was born into a wealthy family a few leagues from Belfast. We had maids, stewards, an ancient butler… They all loved me and my parents and my older brother, Shane. One of the maids, Cynthia, was always caught sneaking Shane new treats from the kitchen. She was an excellent cook. And once, I saw the pair of them carving their initials into an old tree on the grounds. They loved each other. Dad sort of frowned upon Shane for falling for a maid, but the more my father saw of Cynthia, the more he gave in. No one could dislike her for long. At first, I hated her for stealing Shane from me, but as I learned to entertain myself, I came to sort of like being alone.”
Kayle lay back, using the bag beside him as a pillow. I couldn’t relax; I had a feeling that something bad was going to happen in Kayle’s narrative. He was speaking too simply, too…past tense for a happy ending.
I turned around to face him better, curling my legs into a crisscross and leaning forward. He spoke again, and I shut my eyes, envisioning his words.
“Our manor was big enough to get lost in. So big that Mother, for the first long years of my life, restricted me to my bedroom and the lower floors—so that she knew where I was at all times. We had expensive furniture, only the finest pure-bred Connemara ponies, and acres of beautiful, rolling green fields. No matter how hard she tried, Mother couldn’t keep us from exploring the grounds. It was there I spent most of my time trying to find a banshee or a leprechaun.
“For my eighth birthday, Mother bought me a piano, imported straight from India with bright-white ivory keys. It was one of her attempts to culture me. But my brother and I were wild children. It was in our blood to climb trees, chase foxes, and wrestle in the dirt.”
I grinned, but Kayle took a deep breath, shivered, and went on, face contorted into a mask of disgust and anger.
“When I was twelve, an anti-Irish British mob came. They always had their marches in town. If anyone Irish was caught outside, they’d have their arses kicked to near death and then be dumped on the side of the street for the family to find later. But on this one day, when my brother was in America looking for a university to go to so he could make connections, get a job in life that would support Cynthia and him, the British came through the fields past our house.
“It was evening, and I was out on the lane trying to find a lizard to bring home. I heard many loud footsteps coming my way, and around the bend came a group of men. They were halted by a guy in front, who was smiling down at me.
“‘Wot we got ’ere chaps? A li’l lucky boy?’ I hadn’t done anything to them, didn’t know who they were, but they quickly surrounded me and began to beat me. I was shoved to the ground and got kicked in the face, and the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to a starry night, lying bruised, bleeding…half-alive in the ditch right beside a dead rabbit. I had foolish revenge on my mind, and followed the lane to my house, only to see that it was on fire and ringed by the same mob.”
“No,” I gasped. Kayle didn’t respond—didn’t even look at me.
“Screaming in fear, worried for my family, I tore at the men, pelting them with rocks. One of them, he was plastered, simply picked me up and tossed me into the fire too.”
I recoiled, but Kayle didn’t acknowledge it and went on unemotionally.
“I didn’t feel anything; there was no pain. But I saw pictures, colors, the fire dancing around me and licking up past me into the exposed sky. Smoke filled me; timber crashed around my fallen body, but I couldn’t move.
“I beheld the sigh
t of a pure-white griffin. A pillar of fire came from his beak and flew right at me. I looked away, ready to feel it hit my face, but it never did. I opened my eyes to my destroyed home and discovered that life had returned to my legs. The fire had gone out. I climbed outside over timbers and ash and ran as fast as I could toward the city, choosing not to think about the vision I’d had. It had to have been brought on by the fumes of the smoke, right? It’s what I told myself.”
“And you weren’t hurt at all?” I asked, incredulous.
Kayle shook his head. “Not a burn on me.”
“What did you do in the city? Did you alert the police?”
“Oh, I meant to. I reached the city in the late morn, exhausted, mad with grief, and followed a crowd down the main street where they were gathering to watch a parade. But you know what? The parade was led by a bunch of bloody Britons! The same sort that had killed my family with fire. I had the bloodlust. I tried to get to them so that I could rip them apart with my own two hands, but a group of people beat me to it. I was stunned, frozen in place, watching them.
“Someone shouted, ‘Erin go bragh!’ and then the British were pelted with bottles and stones that had the names of people written on them. As soon as the coppers came, the pack had vanished. But so had I.
“I had followed them down an alley, told them I wanted to join, but many were dubious. They said I was too young and soft, that I couldn’t understand what they were fighting for. But a woman stepped out of the crowd and convinced them that I did. It was Cynthia. She was the only one beside me to have escaped the burning of my house.”
“What about your family? Your fortune?” I couldn’t imagine what it had to have been like for Kayle, leaving behind the ashes of what had been a wonderful life to run and gun with an embittered, violent fringe group.
“It was all smoke, Jon,” Kayle said. He didn’t sound angry—just tired. “Smoke and char. There was nothing there for me anymore, no bodies to bury, nothing for me to reclaim.”
“But you had to have at least an inheritance or something—”
“I didn’t give a shite about money. What I cared about was causing the same pain I’d felt. My world had burned—and I just wanted to see the rest of it burn too.”
I studied him quietly for a moment, feeling for the first time like I really, truly understood him. We had more in common than I could have ever imagined.
“So...did Cynthia take you in?” I probed.
“They all did. I grew up under their care. An orphan adopted into a strange new family of sorts. When I needed food or shelter, I found an Irish family that supported our cause and stayed the night in return for the promise to ‘keep up the good work.’” He added in a mumble, “Whatever that was.
“One day, Cynthia told me of a planned raid on a new British police station downtown. I met the rest of the gang, and we joined together, setting fire to the place and breaking the windows. Little did we know that the police had snuck out a back way and began firing at us.
“One had Cynthia in his sights and was ready to pull the trigger, but I shoved her away, told her to run. The bullet intended for her hit me instead. I felt it slice between two of my upper ribs, punch through something inside me, and exit out my chest. I remember a shock wave of pain, my legs giving out. I remember staring at the blood on my hands, and I couldn’t believe that it was mine. The noise died. My sight winked away. The last thing I saw was the fire eating up the police station, clawing at the sky. And I woke up here.
“At first, I didn’t believe what I was told. Just as you didn’t. I saw myself as a nobody, with no great purpose or destiny. I was perfectly fine with doing what I had surely been intended to do and dying. But I met Mariah, and, uh, she knocked some sense into me.” Kayle looked over at Mariah’s sleeping form and smiled softly. My own heart was aching as if run through with a sword.
“Gosh, Kayle…I had no idea…” I started meekly. “You had—have—every right to—”
“I don’t hate anybody. Not really anymore. Except the darkness in people’s hearts. The Rankers. They’re the ones that started everything, that really ruined my life,” Kayle said.
“I agree.” I nodded gravely, thinking of Garrett and feeling fury course through me. “Thanks for telling me your story.”
At first, Kayle moved as if he might pat my back, but he stopped and only half-heartedly put on a moody scowl.
“Ah, you would have read my mind eventually anyway.”
I grinned, feeling happier than I had in a long while. “How long did it take you to master your ability?”
“Well, at first all I could manage was a few fireballs,” Kayle replied. He gave a casual snap of his fingers and the fire sparked. “Then, with practice, I could start making—”
I sat bolt upright with a sharp gasp, making Kayle jump and roll up onto his knees with fluid, silent grace. “What?” he gasped, looking wildly around us.
“Master,” I said. The conversation the werewolf and the gargoyle had had came flooding back into my brain. “Master. Master—Liege Master! Who is the Liege Master?” I spun on the spot to stare at Kayle. I must have looked crazy because he leaned away from me, his mouth working but nothing coming out.
One of the Samurai nearby grumbled and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Others had started to stir awake, muttering about the racket I was making.
“Peter!” I said, half-crawling half-running over to where he had rolled onto his back, massaging his face. “Peter, listen, the Ranker! He said something to the werewolf about a Liege Master!”
“What?” Mariah croaked nearby, one of her eyes barely squinted open. “What are you talking about, Jonathan?”
“They have a damn master!” I cried, striking the ground with a fist. A bird sleeping in a nearby tree gave an alarmed caw and flapped off, startled by my shout. Silence fell heavily around us. I took a breath, scouring my memory.
“The Ranker wanted to kill me...but the werewolf said that would go against the Liege Master’s plan.”
Peter frowned down at his legs. The fire shone off of his silver eyes and there was something sharp about them, as if he were searching through his memories, too.
After a long minute, he said, slowly and carefully, “King Brody discovered very little about the so-called Liege Master before he died. All of our information indicates that it’s an idol or god that the Rankers worship.”
“I thought Garrett was their leader?” I asked.
“He is.” Peter held one hand up toward me as if to calm me down. “The Rankers have only ever attacked under the command of a series of generals. King Brody, in all of his years fighting them, never saw hide nor hair of any kind of Ranker king or master. There’s never been one in our centuries of combat battling nightmares.”
“But it has a plan,” I said, an edge to my voice. “Their Liege Master has a plan, they said.”
“And we are disrupting it,” Peter said, “Right now, by taking their clues. Even if this…‘Liege Master’ is calling the shots, it’s Garrett who is carrying out his plans, and it’s Garrett we need to destroy. Our God is more powerful than theirs, and our prince too, once he’s been trained up a bit more. You’ll see. We have the upper hand. We’re doing okay, Jonathan.” He tapped my arm with his fist reassuringly, but now the wheels were turning in my brain. There was something more...one more connection I needed to make.
“Prince,” I said. I felt the eyes of the squadron fixed on me. Kayle’s eyes were intense and hawk-like, as if some of my intuitive fear had passed over to him.
“What is it, son?” Peter urged.
“‘He’s appointed Garrett to take his place,’” I repeated. “That’s what the werewolf said…” I had assumed at the time that the werewolf had meant the Liege Master’s place, or that Garrett had taken his place in some kind of position in readiness for the next phase of the Rankers’ plans. But now that I thought
about it, the inflection had been all wrong.
He’s appointed Garrett to take his place. The werewolf had been trying to prevent the gargoyle from killing me because it would interfere with the Liege Master’s plans for Garrett to take…
“That’s it,” I said. It felt like I’d been punched in the gut—my voice came out in a weak wheeze.
“What?” Peter leaned forward and some of the soldiers nearby gathered closer with concern as my eyes flickered white with fear and shock.
“That’s why Garrett’s been watching me, that’s what his plans are. He’s going to take my place.” I looked up at Peter, locking eyes with him and seeing the truth dawn in his mind too. “Garrett is going to try and take my place as King of the Land of Dreams.”
Epilogue
Leagues Distant, in a House in a Tree
The old man gazed up at the gigantic wheel suspended on the wall of his hut. The sun was just rising, peeking in through the windows, illuminating the thick wooden wall behind him and the painted scrawls upon it. When daylight had illuminated enough of the wheel for him to identify the minuscule details carved into it by ancient, long-dead hands, he frowned and leaned closer, ready to study the fine marks.
He saw a broken crown resting in a pool of blood—but a bright, shining one suspended in the air above it. Seven shadows surrounded by seven flaming torches. Yes, the old prophecy—it had broken with King Brody, its mysterious verses dying with him.
The old man glanced at the image of the floating crown again. Or had it? Had the old prophecy, the one discovered years upon years before and lost to memory until the arrival and ascension of King Brody, actually been referring to someone else? Eagerly, hungrily, the man shuffled closer, reaching up to touch one of the sections of the wheel but stopping himself a few inches from the heavily lined painted and carved bark. What else was there? What was to come? How did the future read?
He saw a crimson fang, a grave, a golden feather, a fiery sword, sigils and symbols that he didn’t understand, more and more the longer he looked.