The Shadow Soul (A Dance of Dragons)

by Kaitlyn Davis

  Grabbing Ember's saddle, Rhen jumped into the seat. He had missed her. The only woman who had really ever held his heart.

  "Come on, Jin," he said, lightly tapping Ember's rear and outstretching his hand. The boy's eyes widened. "Come on, you rode her before in Roninhythe. There is nothing to be afraid of."

  Jin nodded absentmindedly.

  Rhen reached farther down, gripping the boy's hand and pulling him up before another protest could be uttered. He had work to do, and there could be no more delays.

  With a yelp, Jin settled in.

  "Hold on." Rhen jerked on the reins. Jin gripped the top of Rhen's shoulders forcefully, rather than holding his torso, but Rhen let it go. If the boy wanted to fall on his butt, that was his problem.

  "Prince Whylrhen," one of the guards yelled, but Rhen ignored him, urging Ember along and pushing his way through the crowd.

  The people smiled at him, meeting his eyes before they bowed, yelling out praises and kind words on his return. Rhen smiled, waving, reaching down to touch some of their hands, tossing a few silver coins out of his purse, cracking jokes.

  While his father and brothers remained in the castle, guarded and gated from the common people, Rhen had used them as the perfect escape. He was the third son, had fewer responsibilities, fewer expectations, and always worked on the reputation he had so carefully crafted since boyhood.

  Instead of tending to matters of court, he visited local shops to buy goods and sat at local taverns to drink ale. And because he refused to stay hidden and locked away, the people loved him—which annoyed his siblings and father to no end.

  During parades through the city, it was Whylrhen that was shouted above the others. The king believed it was purely due to gossip, to the fact that his name was on every father or elder brother's tongue…or every whore's. But Rhen knew it was more, so much more. He would never be one of them, of the common folk, but he was as close as they would ever get to royalty, and it was far closer than they had ever been before.

  So he let them touch his fingers, pet his horse, try to tell their life story in a short sentence, because it made them feel special and it made him feel connected to something larger. It was only after, when he passed through the white wall in the middle of the city and entered the noble quarters, that he felt alone, emptier for remembering that it was just another show, another character.

  The streets were quieter here. Men and women bowed, careful to pay him due respect. The children didn't run free and wild, but instead stood carefully beside their families as was proper. The clothes were more colorful, more voluminous, but life seemed dampened somehow.

  Rhen shifted in the saddle, nodding politely to everyone as they passed by, noticing a few curious looks at Jin—the Arpapajo. Did any of these people even remember that the oldworlders still lived? Northmore Forest was, after all, a long distance away. "What do you think of my city?" He asked Jin.

  "It is very…large." The boy sounded overwhelmed, his voice was meek, almost ill. "I don't know how I will ever find my way out—I mean, around."

  "No matter." Rhen shrugged. "I'll show you most of it. In a few weeks, it will feel like home. I know it. Besides, the city was built that way on purpose."

  "Hmm?" Jin asked, thoughts clearly elsewhere. But Rhen tried to put himself in Jin's shoes—almost any situation was rightfully overwhelming for someone who had lived most of his life in one small portion of a forest, away from the outside world.

  But for Rhen, muddy cobblestone streets lined with row after row of homes was just second nature. Likely taken for granted.

  "The city was built as a maze. Many streets turn unexpectedly into dead ends, or spin in circles so you might be turned completely around without realizing it. Just another method of defense. But the natives, they know where to go. And new travelers are all the more obvious to the king's guard."

  A horn sounded.

  Surprised, Rhen looked up, right into the blinding façade of the castle wall. The stark white burned his eyes, but it felt good in a way.

  The gates slowly started to open, cracking to reveal the lush green courtyard at the base of the castle, just behind its defensive wall. The stables stood a little farther to the left, out of sight, but the horses were sometimes allowed to roam freely. Not today. Today, the place seemed pure chaos. Servants scrambled back and forth, overloaded with baskets of food and laundry, and there were too many of them. Far more than usual.

  Stepping through the now open gate, Rhen saw guards from noble houses all over the kingdom dressed in all different colors.

  The Naming.

  And Rhen was most definitely the last one to arrive.

  Perfect.

  "Prince Whylrhen," he turned to see his father's courier bowed deeply, head nearly at the floor. "King Whylfrick would like to see you immediately, in the throne room."

  "Of course he does," Rhen said under his breath. The whole reason he had returned was to warn his father of the imminent danger to the kingdom, but until that moment, he had forgotten that a lecture would surely come first.

  There was always a lecture.

  Always.

  Louder, Rhen said, "Of course, Reynard, you can tell him I will be there immediately."

  "Thank you, Prince Whylrhen." The man bowed his head once more before scurrying off.

  Rhen helped Jin down before sliding from the saddle.

  "You'll probably want to stay behind me," he whispered to Jin, before making his way to the large stone steps at the front of the keep.

  When he was halfway up the stairs, the guards pulled open the entrance—two wooden doors almost fifteen feet high and decorated with intricate iron lattices. Behind him, Jin gasped. Rhen grinned.

  The castle was home. He was too used to these halls to be impressed, but it filled him with a sense of pride to hear Jin's reaction. And it was well deserved. The entry glistened with polished white stones, pearlescent in the daylight. Windows made of colored glass reflected around the small atrium, bouncing the four colors of the elements into overlaying patches. Giant tapestries depicting the red flag of Whylkin with its great bucking steed hung from the ceiling. And a grand staircase curved upward to the second level where the throne room sat.

  Two servants manned the space, bowing as soon as they saw Rhen enter. He nodded and moved on, tugging Jin with him. Best not to keep his father waiting.

  Hurrying up the steps, Rhen stepped into the long hall that led to the throne room—white walls decorated with expansive tapestries depicting the life of Whyl the Conqueror. Every battle, every victory, every milestone—everything history wanted to remember about his ancestor was written in threads, depicted through art.

  Later, he told himself, later he would explain them to Jin, would tell him the stories. But for now they rushed through, walking briskly toward the wooden door at the end of the hall, already held open for him.

  When Rhen entered the throne room, his breath caught. He had forgotten how majestic this space was—an inevitable side effect of avoiding the room at all costs. But he took one spare gaze to take it all in. The atrium was gigantic, at least four stories high and two to three times as long. Thick columns extended into the vaulted ceiling, crisscross woodwork danced above his head, and more tapestries lined the walls. There were no windows except for one—but what a window it was.

  Rhen let his vision extend, moving down the center of the room until the sculpted stone throne of Whylkin filled his view. The seat itself was small, and occupied by a man whom he glossed over, but the throne was another thing entirely. Carved from one piece of rock, it was at least two men high and four men wide, decorated with impressions of humans, horses, and cityscapes.

  And behind the throne rested a wall of glass revealing the most beautiful view of the city of Rayfort and the clear cerulean sea beyond the peninsula. On a clear day, the peaks of the Gates might be visible, a stack of pointed clouds piercing the sky.

  "Whylrhen," a stern voice commanded.

  Reverting
back to his four-year-old self, Rhen winced and straightened his shoulders, standing as tall as possible while he gathered the courage to meet his father's eyes. Slowly, he started walking forward, listening as his boots clicked against the stone, echoing across the room.

  The entire family was there, waiting for him. His mother, Queen Katrina, wearing a long bronze dress to match her eyes. His middle brother, Whyllem, slouched and relaxed. His eldest brother Whyltarin, with arms folded across his broad chest and feet planted wide. Just behind him, Awenine sat in a flowing blue gown, her blonde hair pinned elegantly atop her head. And in her arms, wrapped in a bright red swaddle, was Rhen's perfect little nephew—as yet unnamed, but the brilliant red hair poking out from the cloth named him a Son of Whyl in a way no words ever could.

  Hair just like Whyltarin.

  Just like Whyllem.

  But mostly, just like King Whylfrick.

  With a sigh, Rhen finally looked into his father's piercing gaze and stopped five feet back from everyone else. They would give no hugs until his father allowed it, though his mother offered a warm smile. Beside her, Whyllem offered a knowing grin and elbowed Whyltarin in the ribs, breaking their eldest brother's tough exterior. The two had always been close, a pair. At only one year apart, they spent six years together before Rhen was even born, a bond that was tough for a younger brother to crack.

  Trying hard to ignore them, Rhen bit his cheeks, waiting for his father to speak. But the king just watched, far too relaxed leaning back on the throne with his chin in his palm. The golden crown rested on his curling hairs. His silken robes were stark against the ivory stone around him. While his demeanor was deceptively lax, his eyes were hard and demanding.

  The silence was too overwhelming. Rhen urgently felt the need to explain himself, his absence. "Father—"

  "Were you not aware of Awenine's pregnancy before you mysteriously disappeared from home seven months ago?" The king's deep voice reverberated down the hall, sinking into Rhen's bones, making them shake.

  "I was," he said hoarsely. Rhen swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat.

  "Were you not aware that it takes only nine months for a woman to birth a child?" Whyllem snickered, trying to cover it with a cough.

  "I was."

  "Then you must not have been listening when your teachers discussed the Naming, one of Whylkin's most sacred ceremonies."

  Rhen frowned. "I was, but—"

  "Then why in the name of Whyl has the royal family and every nobleman in the kingdom been twiddling their thumbs for days waiting for the reckless third son of King Whylfrick to return home?"

  "Father, I—"

  The king sat straight, leaning forward and raising his voice. "I know. Young Calen was kind enough to deliver your message. Unmarked ships. Attacks in the forest. A devious plot for our throne. More like an irresponsible son wasting my time gallivanting over to the Kingdom of Ourthuro when he was needed at home. Needed for the one thing he was born to do—gift the throne to someone who deserves it. Someone who will use his power wisely. Not to sleep his way around the kingdom and pretend to be a hero."

  "Whylfrick!" His mother gasped. For a moment, he softened, hearing her voice, but then his eyes narrowed.

  "What do you have to say for yourself? To your brother, the future king?"

  Rhen opened his mouth, ready to let apologies spill from his lips, but then he paused. The words stopped, clogging his throat as though they refused to be said. He had apologized too many times. And this time, Rhen had been right. It was the first time in his life that he had more to offer than a lame excuse, than a lie. He finally had real information. And his father refused to pay attention, to think for a minute that Rhen could maybe be more than a disappointment.

  He stepped forward, stance strong, fueled by anger.

  "I've been gathering information. I've been tracking our enemies, keeping my eyes and ears open. I've been doing the one thing you've been afraid to do ever since Whyllysle died, ever since…" His eyes unwittingly flicked toward his mother, by accident, on instinct. The king's pupils expanded, turning his eyes black with fury. It was as close as they had ever come to their unspoken secret, and it was as close as Rhen was willing to get. He looked away, wishing to take it back.

  King Whylfrick stood, leaping down the steps to grab Rhen by his throat. Over his shoulder, Jin sucked in a breath, but Rhen held his, refusing to yield, to show weakness.

  His father pulled him close, breathing heavily while his face reddened, and shook him painfully. Rhen bit his lip, refused to blink even as his eyes stung.

  He had never seen his father like this. Angry, yes. Hurtful, yes. But now he seemed beyond thought. His nostrils flared. His face twisted in a grimace. His eyes clouded over, retreating to somewhere Rhen couldn't follow. And his fingers tightened, squeezing the air from his son's body.

  Protests filtered into Rhen's hearing, but they were dulled by the pounding thuds hammering his ears. His vision started to spot. But he would not, could not, fight his father. He just wanted to make him listen, to make him understand…

  Without warning, Rhen dropped to the ground. His legs gave out and he fell fast. Flipping over, he coughed, heaving until he could breathe normally, without pressure on his chest.

  Glittered brown swished into his vision, the folds of a voluminous dress.

  Rhen looked up to find his mother hanging on his father's arm, her hand cupping his cheek, her lips whispering softly into his ear.

  Slowly, the color drained from the king's face, returning it to a normal pale peach. The fog retreated. His mouth dropped open and his eyes sharpened, slipping down, down, down, until they met Rhen's.

  Haunted.

  That was the only way Rhen could describe the gaze.

  Haunted.

  Without a word, his father stormed from the room. His mother leaned down, kissed the top of his head, and chased after her husband.

  A hand slipped into view. A brown hand, naturally tanned, small, familiar. Rhen grabbed it, refusing to acknowledge the pity on his friend's face. Instead, he closed his eyes, and then opened them wide, turning to his brothers with a fake smile and an unnaturally cheerful voice.

  "So, can I hold him?"

  Awenine stood quickly, rushed over to Rhen with concern, and offered him the child.

  "My nephew," Rhen sighed, taking the small bundle into his bulky arms. He couldn’t believe how tiny the infant was, barely the length of his forearm. But he looked perfect, with eyes closed tight in sleep despite the chaos that had just occurred. A knot uncurled in Rhen's chest. It was worth it. Everything. A real smile spread across his lips, untainted and true. "Have you named him? Can I get a preview?"

  "The rest of the kingdom has been waiting for a week," Whyltarin said, stepping closer. "I think you can wait for a day. Father started the preparations. The Naming will be tomorrow morning at first light."

  Rhen handed the child back to Awenine before turning sheepishly toward Whyltarin. "I'm sorry for the delay, Tarin." Somehow apologizing to his brother was easy.

  "In truth," his eldest brother said, shrugging, "I think the lords were all too eager to eat the king's food and drink his wine. They'll likely be disappointed that it didn’t take you longer."

  "Some are likely disappointed I even showed at all," Rhen said, unable to hide the weight in his tone.

  Tarin reached out, placing a thick hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

  "I'm sorry for father. He acted out of line today, worse than I've ever seen. You've always been able to get under his skin, but he does love you, Rhen. Don't forget that."

  "He's got a fine way of showing it."

  Tarin opened his mouth, but Rhen cut him off. He had no mind to hear any excuses for the king, a man old enough to behave himself. Besides, Tarin didn’t know the same king that Rhen did. His brothers would never understand—their father had been a different man—happier, prouder, more loving. What a difference half a decade could make.

  "I have ne
ws, real news I meant to tell father, but I must tell you. Tarin, Whyllem." He looked farther back at his other brother. "I went to Ourthuro. King Razzaq tried to have me killed, and he almost succeeded. Captain Pygott is dead, as is his entire crew, and the only reason I survived is the boy standing next to me. His name is Jin, and," Rhen paused, flicking his eyes at the boy, "he is the last of the Arpapajo people. Everyone else was killed in an Ourthuri raid."

  He knew it was a lie, but it was easier than the truth. Especially considering that Rhen didn’t even know what the truth was. All he knew was that his brothers would not believe in some shadow figure, but they would hopefully believe in an attack by a known enemy.

  "Rhen," Tarin sighed. Rhen knew exactly what that exasperated exhale meant.

  "Tarin—" He stepped forward, grasping his oldest brother's broad shoulders. "You must believe me. I would never lie about something like this—please. I've been following information for months, truly, that is what I've been doing. And I finally uncovered a plot against us. King Razzaq is planning to attack, and I believe it will be very soon while all of the nobles are in Rayfort, distracted. He'll start with the outer cities before working his way here, to the capital."

  Tarin squinted and looked to his right, to Whyllem, to the future hand of the king—the brother he never questioned.

  Rhen's heart dropped along with his hands.

  He stepped back, watching his brothers engage in an unspoken conversation, until Whyllem stepped forward.

  "I believe you, Rhen." He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know why King Razzaq would do this, what motive he has, especially when he knows it is a war he cannot hope to win, but I do believe you."

  A weight lifted. Rhen's entire body felt light.

  "As do I," Tarin added, his voice deep like their father's, commanding like a king's should be.

  "Then we must act, immediately. Notify the lords, talk to father, spe—"

  "Rhen," Tarin interrupted, "I believe you, but that does not mean I will shout a war cry from the castle walls. I will speak with father tonight, but the Naming is tomorrow and that must be our priority. The lords cannot be distracted with talk of battles, by fear for their homes. All focus must be on naming my son the future king of Whylkin, on securing the bloodline and the throne. Once the ceremony is complete, we will discuss our options."