She rubbed her neck gently with both hands, and her mouth hung agape. Her palms were a much lighter blue than the rest of her skin, and her tears fell into them.
“I am… Syonne,” she said, and she stared blankly across the room, as if she were remembering a name she hadn’t been called in so long.
“Syonne,” Kyrn repeated. He placed a hand on her forearm very slowly. “We need to go.” Despite its appearance, her skin felt smooth and cold to the touch, and she looked at him.
“He helped you,” Syonne said. “The one called Dralf.”
Kyrn nodded as he stood, gently pulling Syonne to her shoeless feet.
“Can you walk?” Kyrn asked, looking down at her, as she stood at the height of a child only four or five.
Syonne fluttered her wings, lifting herself off the ground, before setting herself back down.
“Right,” Kyrn said, feeling foolish. He looked around the damp room, easily finding the door Dralf had mentioned. He teetered a barrel closer and lifted himself up, beginning to unlock the door.
“Of all my time locked down here,” Syonne said quietly, “yet, that door has never came into my vision.”
“I can’t say I blame any treated as you were.” Kyrn grinned as the lock opened, and he shoved the door wide open.
Dralf stood in the cool night, a slow rainfall flattening his curly hair. His eyes didn’t share the same delight as Kyrn’s, though. Instead, they were open wide, staring down at Kyrn.
That was when Kyrn noticed the thick arm wrapped around Dralf’s neck, and Skinny’s fat face peered over Dralf’s shoulder. “What a great night!” Skinny laughed. “And I be thinkin’ this place was gettin’ dull.” He took a few steps back, the muddied ground sloshing under his weight. “Come on up, young Master Kyrn.”
When Kyrn stood on the ground with Dralf and Skinny, he saw Skinny’s arm, the one not nearly strangling Dralf, dropped low to his side holding an axe.
“Not only are ye a boy with a missin’ sister, good for business, mind ye,” Skinny said. “But a thief ye be as well.”
“Can one steal something that’s already stolen?” Kyrn asked. He watched Skinny contemplate the question and took a small step closer. “I’ve faced foes worse than you,” Kyrn said. And it was not until he’d spoken the words that he realized it wasn’t a lie. So, he continued. “Hunters of the Darkness. Howling beasts with fangs longer than your short fingers.”
He heard a quick gasp from Syonne behind him.
Skinny peered into Kyrn’s brown eyes before letting out a quiet humph. Then he tilted his head to Syonne, floating next to Kyrn. “Why don’t ye head back downstairs, ’fore it’s too late, girl.”
“I’ve got to sneeze,” Dralf interrupted, and though he couldn’t see it, Skinny cocked his head behind Dralf, squinting his eyes.
“A sneeze?” Skinny asked. “And I didn’t think ye could get any dumber.”
Dralf scrunched his eyes, lowered his head, and took in a deep breath, preparing for his interruption.
Skinny let out a sigh, convinced more than ever that he needed to find himself a new counterpart.
Kyrn, realizing that Skinny had truly been the less perceptive of the two dwarves, squeezed his cane even harder.
The back of Dralf’s head came up full-force, striking Skinny in the nose, and, when Dralf fell to the ground holding the back of his head, Kyrn saw that Skinny’s nose sat crooked. A deep red blood began to gush from his nostrils before he could raise his hand to his face.
But Kyrn was already in full-circle, spinning his body on one foot in the mud. His cane passed just over Syonne’s head, and her pure-white hair whipped with the wind. The wooden stick pounded into the side of Skinny’s head.
The fat dwarf fell to his side.
Dralf had risen to his feet, and he felt Kyrn grip his shoulder, trying to steady the dizzy dwarf.
“Get!” Dralf squawked. “I’ll handle this one. Been waitin’ a long time for me moment.”
“We can’t leave you,” Kyrn began.
“Ye can. And ye will,” Dralf said forcefully, as he walked closer to Skinny, still on the ground. Dralf looked back at Kyrn, then at Syonne. “Now, get!”
Kyrn grabbed Syonne’s small hand and began pulling her through the air. He stopped when he heard Dralf call after them.
“Master Kyrn,” Dralf shouted. “Me brother said ye might be passin’ through.” He smiled at the young man. “I’m glad ye did.”
Kyrn cocked his head with a confused stare.
“Next time ye see him,” Dralf yelled to Kyrn, “take care of Iafi, will ye, me young prince?”
Kyrn sensed a feeling in his stomach greater than Syonne’s flutter in the night. He nodded to Dralf and vanished into the blackness.
As Kyrn and Syonne distanced themselves from the cabin, the shouting of dwarves echoed through the night like sporadic nightmares. Now and again, a painful cry followed the shouts, and Kyrn couldn’t distinguish them between Dralf and Skinny. He prayed to any of the gods that it was the latter. He couldn’t live with another ally falling to get him to safety. No. Kyrn would follow his heart to his death, but not to the deaths of his friends. Old and new.
Kyrn broke the silence of their travel. “What are you?” he asked again.
“Me,” Syonne said. “I am only a slave.”
“I can’t imagine what it was like for you. But you aren’t a slave any longer.”
“No,” Syonne said, flying a bit in front of Kyrn. “I was a prisoner, until you released me.” She turned to Kyrn with sad eyes. “Which I am grateful for, young Kyrn, do not mistake me. But now I am a slave once again.”
Kyrn looked her over, studying her graceful movements, her wings glinting in the shrouded moonlight. “Slave to who?” he asked.
“The elves, of course.” Syonne laughed.
“I don’t understand.”
“I suppose not.” She turned briskly back around, her eyes now wide with excitement. “Oh!” she yelped. “You mentioned fighting monsters. Is it true?”
“Of a sort,” Kyrn said, astounded by her already seeming to forget the lodge. Forget her servitude.
“I’ve heard of such creatures, though not in this world. They’re not to be spoken of! Don’t tell.”
“That’s what Aldir said,” Kyrn mumbled to himself.
“Who?”
Kyrn walked on past, but Syonne flew quickly in front of him, staring Kyrn up and down. “What a beautiful name,” she said. “Aldir.”
“He was a friend to me,” Kyrn said softly. “We were attacked by those… beasts.”
“Well,” said Syonne. “If it is any consolation, my masters are beasts as well.” She began to cry. “I cannot go back.”
Kyrn let his eyes meet his boots. Would Syonne end up with Aldir if she stayed as well, he wondered? He felt a strange sensation in his chest, like something were trying to escape from within him. But it wasn’t that. It was on his chest. He jumped back and swatted at himself to knock off whatever had landed upon him.
His hand landed upon the scarab beneath his leather vest, fluttering wildly. He removed it, almost struggling to keep it in his hand, and its eyes shone brightly in his and Syonne’s face.
“Where did you get that?” Syonne asked, almost viciously.
“Back home!” Kyrn exclaimed, and he felt as if staring into the glowing eyes of the beetle were like staring directly into Abellia’s. “She’s all right,” he said with a laugh.
Syonne snatched the amulet and stuffed it back beneath Kyrn’s vest. “You must not let that shine in the night.” She grabbed his hand and tried to fly forward, but she was unable to move Kyrn. “Kyrn!” she shouted. “We must go.”
“Go where?” Kyrn asked, but he was still thinking of his sister.
“To the elves!”
“You said you weren’t going back. I’ll not have you returned to those who’ll enslave you again.”
“There are things in this world worse than servitude to the elves,”
Syonne said, as she tugged harder. “Especially with that thing around your neck.”
Kyrn slowly walked, only to halt her incessant pulling. “The elves have been lost for centuries,” he said.
“Have you forgotten where I am from?” Syonne asked. She grinned at him when he caught her mesmerizing eyes. “Quickly! I will show you.”
Chapter Eleven
The Other Half
Abellia woke suddenly in the night as the necklace around her pale neck pulsated slowly. It was the brightest she’d ever seen it, and it was the first she’d seen it light without her command. “You’re not supposed to work that way,” she whispered to the amulet and cupped it in her hands, as she sat up in her bed.
She peeked over at the small bed set next to hers. Elrich remained asleep. He was staying in her room while a small room was being prepared for him. The nobles of Stalholm had been shocked to hear that Abellia Fellenor of the city of Grimmrich would take temporary rule of Stalholm. And they were even more disheveled when she’d arrived with her younger brother, Elrich.
Through her short stay, many feared that this was King Ulzrich’s chance of seizing total control, but Abellia knew her father. She knew that was something he’d never hope for.
Abellia held the necklace—a large circle, etched with the outline of a scarab, where Kyrn’s amulet should be—tightly to her chest. It was where Kyrn should be. Here in Stalholm with her. Or, at least, with her father in Grimmrich. She laid back down and fell into dreams of whispering voices.
***
“This shall not be how things work in Stalholm,” an elderly man growled, as he leaned into the round table in Stalholm’s castle. His grey hair, thin as a fraying blanket, wrapped only around the sides of his head. “Barons are not replaced by young girls too afraid to step foot onto the city streets to see her own people!”
Abellia sat up, straightening her back, in her chair at the head of the table. She cleared her throat rather loudly, to remind the council that she was still present. “If a young girl replacing your baron is what your king demands,” she said, and she pretended she were seated at the High Council in Grimmrich to keep her composure, “then that’s what shall be, Lord Tymlan. Need I remind you that if not for King Ulzrich, you all would not be seated here today. It was he who stopped those that killed Baron Vougn.” Abellia folded her hands and rested them on the table.
“Your father did not stop those… things that attacked Stalholm!” Lord Tymlan spat towards Abellia. “No. We are alive, sitting here today,” he looked dramatically around the room at those seated at the table, “because that is what they bid. I saw them, fought them even, whether that is something any of you care to believe. Saw the absent look under their cold, steel helms. A void of pure hatred. They came here in search of something, of that I have no doubts.” Lord Tymlan rose from his chair, and it grinded against the wooden floor as it stuttered backwards. “Those things left on only two accounts: either they found what they were seeking,” he turned his back coldly to the table, “or, they did not. And, if it is the latter, they shall return.”
There were quick and sudden exclamations around the table, as if none of them had ever considered such possibilities.
Abellia hadn’t understood. She hadn’t seen these Black Knights with her own eyes. In fact, she’d seen nothing but the two meager goblins in Grimmrich. Still, she dreamed night after night of the Dark Ones’ return.
The Dark Ones. The name rang through her head like a shout bounding through a canyon. She held tightly to the sides of her head.
“Lady Abellia,” Lord Tymlan said, as his face scrunched while he inspected Abellia’s strange behavior.
Abellia slowly raised her head.
“Abellia,” the voice called.
Standing on the other side of the table, where Lord Tymlan had been, was a much taller figure. The metal armor from head to toe was grey as a winter wolf, with marvelous etchings down its sides like coursing veins. As her eyes met the figure’s face, she saw the helm was horned, black as those veins. And she realized that they were not horns, but pincers, rather, fitting perfectly into the scarab shape of the helm. The opening in the face of the helm was in the form of a misshapen cross, and beneath, like Lord Tymlan had said, was pure void. Nothingness. Nothing other than two, brightly glowing eyes.
“Find… him,” the voice hissed quietly, like steam expelling from a pot. “Lose… him.”
Abellia embraced her necklace, quick as she could, and it pulsed in perfect harmony with the Black Knight’s eyes.
“Lady Abellia,” Lord Tymlan said again, now closer to her. His eyes showed a steady concern for her. An expression which she had not seen from anyone during her time in the new city.
“I’m…” she began, as she tucked her necklace back within her dress. “I will be fine.” She looked at the others seated at the table, so many confused sets of eyes fixed only on her. “May we continue this conversation later?” she asked, though she hadn’t remembered what they were speaking of.
The entire table nodded in unison and rose from their seats.
“Of course, my Lady,” Lord Tymlan said, and bowed as she rose. “Rest. Find young Elrich, if you may. His training must ensue.”
***
Lord Tymlan walked briskly back to his quarters.
This is no place for a girl, he thought. It angered him exceedingly. He didn’t expect any less from a king, surely not. But what father would put his only daughter in a place such as this? Now, it was Lord Tymlan’s mess to deal with.
In his room, Lord Tymlan untied his cloak and tossed it aside to a small, wooden rocking chair.
“Is that any way to treat a guest?”
Tymlan hopped aside, startled as his cloak was flung back across the room.
“By the gods!” Tymlan exhaled. “How did you get in here?”
Alathain stood from the rocking chair, as he twirled a dagger like it were nothing more than a child’s toy. “You know who you’ve aligned with,” he said, and he slammed closed an open window, “and that is your first concern?”
“Do not come into my home,” Lord Tymlan said, and he watched Alathain sheath his dagger in his belt, “assuming you own me.” He sat at his cluttered desk next to the window. “You’re nothing but a ruthless mercenary. Your time will come when the Lords no longer need—” His idle threat was cut short when Alathain’s dagger dug into the desk, next to the quill pen Tymlan had been reaching for.
Alathain brought his face close to Tymlan’s ear. Too close for the petty lord’s liking, Alathain knew. “I like you,” he snickered. “You and I are much alike, I’ll have you believe.”
“We are not of the sorts,” Tymlan argued.
“But we are.” Alathain paced methodically behind him. “You serve the Lords well, so they say. Yet, you bow to no other servants of the Dark. Only the Masters themselves.”
Tymlan forced a chuckle.
“I find myself agreeing with that,” Alathain continued. “And if you can find yourself coming to terms with our common understanding, perhaps we can return to our business.”
Lord Tymlan’s shoulders raised and lowered as he let out an extended sigh. “Very well,” he conceded. He rose from his desk and plucked the dagger from it, and handed it back to Alathain.
“Now,” Alathain smirked, “does the girl have it?”
“Indeed,” Tymlan nodded.
Alathain pushed his hood off and took his place again in the creaking rocker. “And we don’t yet have it because?”
“We don’t have it because the Masters don’t yet want it.”
“Of course the Masters want it,” Alathain scoffed.
“Sure. In time. For now, they want it safe. Nothing more.”
“And in the hands of a small girl is safe?”
Tymlan laughed. He took pleasure in seeing Alathain’s struggle to maintain his composure. “Where safer than a place which none would expect?”
To his disliking, Alathain found himself agreein
g. But why would Lord Daen have sent him to retrieve it, he wondered. Unless…
“I must return to my duties,” Tymlan interrupted Alathain’s thoughts. “I pray you won’t be here when I return.”
Alathain smiled as the door slammed. He was alone again, and nightfall was slowly approaching.
***
Abellia flung her cloak around her shoulders, pulling her hood snugly over her head. She knew she wasn’t yet ready to face the people of Stalholm, not yet. But what was she to do, keep herself locked within her chambers until the next council meeting came about? That was something that she couldn’t bear.
She walked quickly through the castle, passed the guards with her head down, afraid of being stopped or, even worse, running into Lord Tymlan. He was kind to her. At least, kinder than the rest, enough so to be the only council member to stand up for her thoughts. Perhaps he was the only one intelligent enough to realize that dealing with her meant dealing with her father, dealing with the king. It seemed that most men within Stalholm didn’t care. They seemed to not even recognize having a king. And that alone bothered her the most.
Abellia’s soft palms brushed across the banister as she paced down the winding staircase. When she forced open one of the castle’s many side doors, she felt a sense of relief as the sun washed over her pale skin. It was a cool day, the occasional gusts even making it seem cold, but it felt nice; a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt since leaving Grimmrich.
For only a moment, Abellia wondered where Elrich was—most likely roaming the streets for any sense of trouble he could find. When they’d arrived in Stalholm, she’d made him promise to her that he would not stir up trouble like he’d done in Grimmrich, roaming the forbidden alleyways. Though, she knew it wasn’t necessarily his fault. No matter where they were, evil would seek out the kindest of hearts.
She knew she should find him. She knew that she should make sure he was safe, it was, after all, her responsibility. Though, in the moment, she only wanted to feel free.
Abellia roamed the streets of Stalholm as if she were a beggar from a far-off distant land. Like she’d snuck upon a boat from the West Lands, traveled far over the seas to start her life anew. In a sense, that was exactly what she’d done. She knew whole-heartedly that her father hadn’t sent her to Stalholm to rule. No, that would have been too easy. She and her brother had only been sent here to give the king more time to prepare for the Dark Times to come. To keep his children safe for the time being. Though, she couldn’t fully piece together why he’d sent Kyrn on such a far-flung adventure, full of danger and uncertainty. Sure, it needed to be done. That she knew. But Kyrn? Had their father had that much faith in the young boy? She could only guess, and pray that he would be all right in the end.
A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Page 10