Son of Ereubus

by J. S. Chancellor

  “You look like him,” the human whispered.

  Garren rose to his feet and approached him, amused at the meaningless chatter. The moment he touched the man he knew. “Adorian.” Confused, he looked to the Laionai.

  “A new age has begun. This night’s worship, and this Adorian’s blood sacrifice, celebrates a turn of the tides for Adoria. An army of humans, legions of those whom the winged ones have for so long protected, will rise against them. Do not question the divide, High Lord, for Her Holiness has spoken in faith that it will fail them when they need it most. Your commanders have been given one year’s time to ready this army.”

  “Then blessed are you to be consecrated this night.” He glared at the Adorian and the vessels that struggled to hold him. “Tadraem has chosen well.” Dismissing them to the sanctuary, Garren turned back to the Laionai, and knelt before them. He repeated the prayer of Saint Ereubus, the sound of his words almost overpowering the sound of their exit as he was left alone.

  With nothing but the familiar walls of the inner sanctum to keep him company, he lifted his lips to the rim of the cup, sipping a small portion. A smile deepened across his face as he stood. He extended his arms, speaking the words to dedicate the spoils of his victory and the communion wine to the Goddess. As he did so, a light surrounded him, shimmering golden in the darkness. It started from the floor at his feet and wound its way up his body like a great snake, twirling and hissing as it went. He could feel the power surging through his veins, connecting him to the great Mortal Coil just as the Goddess had promised her chosen ones so long ago.

  But as he opened his eyes, just beyond the radiance that enveloped him, the face of another peered back. Her hair appeared as a burning red flame swirling around her face, her eyes a piercing blue. She wore a deep purple cloak, its hood concealing only a fraction of the light, far stronger than his own, that shone forth from her.

  Dropping to the ground, he brought his arm over his eyes in a poor attempt to shelter his face. A voice came from the vision, speaking what he thought to be Adorian, leaving his body shuddering in fear as he listened. Only when he felt both his own strength and the girl’s dissipate from the room was he quieted.

  Still trembling, he dropped his arm by his side and stared out into the shadows. His breath came fast and heavy, his chest burning from the exertion. He rubbed his hand over his breast, clenching his teeth. He had yet to regain his composure when he heard another voice outside of the room.

  “My Lord?”

  The guards. Garren struggled to his feet and rushed to the door, grasping the iron handle with his hands and bearing his weight against it to keep it closed. His tone belied his answer.

  “I am in prayer!” he barked. Garren felt his knees go weak, falling to the floor with his back against the wooden door.

  They made no protest. It meant nothing to him that the very act of doing so would likely gain him an entirely new set of faces to detest — ones far less willing to abandon him at his request. It was a wonder any of his guards lived to old age. It wasn’t until he looked down at his hands and saw the red hue staining his breeches that he realized what he had done.

  What little of the wine was left had settled into a shallow puddle on the floor. Groaning, he made a futile attempt to salvage it. Once it finally occurred to him that it was useless, he pulled a kerchief from his pocket to soak up what hadn’t seeped into the stone.

  Frustrated, shaken, his head filled mercilessly with the girl’s voice, he made his way to the kitchens with as much discretion as possible, considering his position. He found a suitable wine, allowing one of the Ereubinians serving there to refill the chalice.

  Garren hesitated in the doorway to the sanctuary before entering. It looked like service had begun long ago, but he had just entered the inner sanctum. Hadn’t he? He grew disoriented, unsure of how much time had passed.

  Candles were lit along the pews, revealing rows of vessels dressed in white robes behind all those of the lineage who attended. He had seen the humans in this attire for observance his entire life, knowing that though he would not live to see the day, it would come to pass; eventually humans would no longer exist in this state. There would be no need for separation, for they would all be of Ereubinian descent.

  Garren entered. He had taken no more than two short steps when, in complete accord, every human turned at once to face him. The room grew quiet as prayers hushed, the attention causing a succession of heads from the front of the room to turn also in his direction. Startled, he froze, trying to understand what had happened, but realized he would do better to ignore any significance in the event. After shaking himself from his shock, he walked to his seat beside Aiden, just a few rows from where he’d been standing. As he sat down, he realized that he had been holding his breath.

  “Garren,” Aiden whispered. He appeared horror-stricken at the humans’ recognition of Garren. “I believe we have something to discuss.”

  Garren said nothing. He remained unmoving, his head bowed, following along with the recitations.

  “Did you hear me, Garren?” Aiden asked.

  Garren glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “We will talk about it after service.” He bent his head back down, his eyes staring listlessly at the floor. He felt his friend lean back onto the pew and join voices with the others. After a few minutes, the room again grew quiet as the candles that lined the pews were blown out one by one. All that remained alight was a single flame on the altar. Garren lifted his head and watched as a tall Ereubinian approached, kneeling in front of it.

  The black-robed Ereubinian raised both hands into the air and spoke in the language of the Laionai.

  “Nech ordai neroman,” the words echoed in the sanctuary. From the sound of his voice, Garren recognized him as Kolevar, the retiring High Priest. From the center aisle, two more figures in similar garb entered the room with the captured Adorian between them, his head peering at the floor. The Adorian was clothed in white and wore a gold cloak. The cloth of his shirt had been gathered at his neck, revealing only his pale face, framed by the hood that rested on his shoulders.

  Garren watched, speechless, at the willingness of the Adorian, who was left standing untethered at the altar before Kolevar, who had risen. Was this not the same creature he’d beheld?

  Tadraem, who had been announced earlier in observation as the new High Priest, had already been given the blade that would take the Adorian’s life. As he came to stand next to Kolevar, his gaze turned to Garren, who suddenly realized that in his truancy, he had failed to bring the chalice to the altar.

  “My Lord Garren, it is only fitting that tonight’s sacrifice come from your hand, for no other is as proven in service or faith to Her Holiness.”

  When the knife was placed in his hands, he should have felt pleasure. When he lifted the chalice to the Adorian’s lips, he braced himself against rebellion, only to see him accept it of his own accord. Garren should have felt peace. Instead, the blade rested like a leaden weight in his grip. He swallowed an unnerving and unwelcome measure of disgust as he looked into the Adorian’s eyes, to see that beyond the façade of subservience was something far less understandable.

  You look like him, the Adorian had said.

  Unwilling to show reluctance, Garren did not hesitate in sliding the blade across the Adorian’s throat, spilling blood onto the unblemished sacrificial garment. Before taking his seat again, he paused for only a moment to allow the denial of any merit in the words.

  Aiden hit the floor hard. Garren rushed upon him, picking him back up by his collar, pinning him to the wall next to them, their eyes level.

  “You will not address me in that manner. Friend or foe, I will not accept it.”

  Aiden wordlessly lowered his face, peering down. The blood from the Adorian was still shining wet on the leather of Garren’s boots.

  “Our discussions are my preference.” Garren said, leaning in closer. “What brings on this insubordination from you?”

  Aiden l
ifted his head to face him. “They turned to you, Garren. Are you denying this?” Garren slowly moved off his friend’s chest, allowing him off the wall and to dust himself off.

  “They fear me. Perhaps you should give credit where it is due,” Garren said between gnashed teeth. Aiden took a short breath, rubbing his arm where Garren had grabbed him and thrown him to the ground. They had just entered the south hall, behind the sanctuary, when Garren had come at him.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord,” Aiden said. Garren scowled.

  “I have never asked that you refer to me as Lord in private, but you are still to know your position. You may very well be my friend, but you haven’t the right to feign authority over any commanding officer, or counsel, or least of all me.” Aiden stood quietly, waiting for Garren to direct the conversation. “Don’t do this, Aiden. Don’t put me in this position. You know what my options are.” Garren knew that Aiden would not need him to finish his sentence. The Moriors dealt swift justice to those who stepped beyond their station. Aiden swallowed hard.

  “I understand.” He bowed his head in submission.

  “Then we are finished here?”

  Aiden nodded, and without another word, left Garren alone in the hall.

  Garren retreated to his chambers. He pulled off his boots, taking the dirty rag from where he had tended to his wound earlier and wiped some of the blood from the leather. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head in one hand as he let out a sigh. He felt the length of the day in his muscles and bones. His whole body was tired. If it weren’t for Aiden’s defiance, he might have fallen right to sleep, but his pulse had quickened as if from a nightmare and a raging headache made his eyes feel like they were being pulled from their sockets. He pulled off his shirt and pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

  Leaning over the night table, he blew out the flame from the lamp, blanketing the room in darkness. As he slid beneath the cool blankets, his mind raced. What manner of madness were these visions — this behavior? He’d been in the inner sanctum, and still her presence would not leave him. He dared not reveal his concerns, as he didn’t have the luxury of truly trusting another. He knew there were far too many who were more than ready to take his place.

  Frustrated, he bolted upright. The air hit his exposed skin and he realized that he had broken into a sweat. It poured down his bare chest and back. He rose and stumbled in the darkness to a vial that sat on the window ledge in the corner, next to a large wardrobe. He pulled the top away and lifted it to his lips, letting the liquid slide down his throat. It felt warm on his tongue. It was not something he used often, but as his power grew, he felt his body lessen in its ability to fall asleep on its own. All the strength in the world, and yet he could not keep his own eyes closed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHERE IS HE?

  “I

  t’s alright. Do you remember where you are?”

  Ariana’s side felt stiff, the skin pulled taut. When she shifted positions, a sharp stabbing sensation spread through her back. She glanced around the room, too groggy to comprehend much of anything and confused as to where the question had come from or what had just startled her.

  “I’m not so sure that where I am exists,” she murmured.

  “What’s the last thing you recall?”

  She turned to see the disembodied voice had taken the shape of a winged man seated on the floor beside the bed.

  She thought back, working her way forward and found that very little of what she recalled could be real, including her current circumstances. After much internal debate, she decided she’d been killed during the siege, maybe even falling to her death in dismount from Shadow, and this was some twisted version of an afterlife. For whatever reason, this struck her as funny.

  She lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, and faintly smirked, too tired to put any real effort into it — besides, if this absurdity was to be her eternal fate, what difference would it make?

  “I suppose if I were to narrow it down, the last thing I clearly recall was a city — nay a kingdom — ” she paused, giggling, “that crumbled into ruins before my eyes. This was of course prior to stumbling into Adoria.”

  He rose and sat beside her. He seemed tense, which normally would have concerned her. All things considered, she couldn’t have cared less.

  “Ariana, you are not dreaming,” he said softly.

  “Oh, I’m certain that I’m not,” she mused. I don’t have the imagination to conjure swords hidden in the overgrown confines of trees or a well in which you can see mystical images — or men with wings.

  He reached down, picking up something from the floor, and rested it in his lap. “Nigh narro iasc kier sellot tolay.” I know this sword cannot be yours.

  She shook her head, responding before the tongue he had used dawned on her. “Tu, ath ortho kulet …” No, it was hidden ...

  His head tilted sympathetically toward her, “The language you speak is dead to many of our own kind, and yet you speak it not only with fluent elegance, but use it when incapacitated.”

  Suddenly feeling both claustrophobic and flustered, she looked around her for anything that might serve as a weapon. Nothing. She found absolutely nothing around her save bottles of various liquids and dried plants hung along the entire length of one wall. She supposed she could try and beat him with some of it, but wasn’t quite sure how that would turn out in the end.

  She could tell by his clothes that he was wealthy. But is it just arrogance or does he hold a title? He had to know Father if he speaks this tongue.

  “This is overwhelming for you, I anticipated it would be. But I sense that you’re concerned for your safety, are you not? ”

  She sniffed. “I can defend myself, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “I noticed.” He grinned, rising from where he had been seated to lean against the wall nearest the hearth, casually tucking the sword behind him. “There are few who could lay claim to pulling a blade on me.”

  “In equal number perhaps are the women with whom you’ve had such spectacular precision of aim,” she snipped.

  His wide smile lessened to a tight-lipped grimace. “My deepest apologies. I see you do remember some of your journey.”

  She felt a pang of remorse at his response — not his words. The distress in his eyes made her regret her terse speech. So much like Sara.

  Slowly, details began to crystallize. She realized that not only was he aware of her father’s language, the one she’d always understood to be of his homeland and shared by only his closest allies, but he’d been addressing her by her given name.

  “You said my name.”

  He gave her a partial bow. “And I have failed to tell you mine. I can hardly expect you to recall a conversation in which you weren’t really a participant. My name is Michael.”

  She held still, waiting on him to finish. “Just Michael? Just plain Michael?”

  A trace of amusement returned as a lilt in his voice. “Actually, since you ask, my full name is Michael Loren of Cyphrus, Archorigen of Adoria, begotten of Gabriel Briony of Leiden and Caelyn Edessa of Lipsius.”

  He studied her, holding his breath as he awaited her response.

  She said nothing at first, staring at him dumbly, even more convinced that she was no longer among the living. “Archorigen?” Not knowing where else to go with his statement and wanting to avoid any more awkward silences, she found whatever word would come to her mouth and spoke it.

  He shook his head, catching a deep breath. “Cyphrus is Adoria’s capital, where an Archelder from each of the twenty-four provinces resides. The Archorigen is the elected sovereign.” He moved away from the wall. “Did you hear what else I said?”

  “Our parents have strikingly similar names — fascinating,” she remarked dryly. “Let us assume for prosperity’s sake that Adoria exists, that I am not hallucinating your extra appendages. It still means little considering my mother was from the Sutherlands and my father from somewhere in Lycus.
”

  Michael’s gaze lowered to the floor, his voice somber. “Caelyn … Mother,” he corrected, “miscarried a child about eleven or perhaps twelve years before you were born. A male child.”

  The room started to grow smaller, shrinking until Ariana found herself short of air, the heat from the fire intensifying and her chest felt as if it would burst.

  Michael continued, “I cannot venture to even imagine why he chose not to tell you your true lineage, or any of us here about your existence. But, Father was vigilant and sage in his discretion. There must have been a purpose.” His brow knitted, and he glanced away from her. “He couldn’t have foreseen his death. I don’t believe it was his intention for you to find out this way.”

  She shook her head, still pressed for breath, and struggled to express her thoughts clearly. “My father isn’t dead. I’m sorry, but we speak of two different worlds. I am not, nor have I ever been, a part of this one. I need air.”

  “It’s cold outside,” he said gently.

  “And stifling in here.” As she turned to slide off of the opposite side of the bed, a biting pain ripped through her lower back and shot up to her shoulder blade. Her eyes squeezed shut, a whimper slipping out.

  Michael came over to the bed, touching her arm. “You need rest, maybe this was too soon. I’m — not very good at this sort of thing.”

  You imagine lost relatives often? She mused. “I just need to be outside of this room for a little while,” she rasped. Koen lay asleep in the corner, his legs shaking as he dreamt, no doubt, of some great chase. She spied the cloak laying folded on the chair next to him.

  Her head spun as her feet found the floor and her vision momentarily swirled black. He was right, though she wouldn’t dare admit it now.

  Holding back a groan, she walked carefully to the chair and had the cloak halfway over her shoulders by the time Michael reached her.

  “Here, take mine. That one isn’t suitable for the weather here, not to mention the panic you would cause by walking around in it.” He slid his fur-lined cloak from his back, undoing the ties where his wings divided the leather. “I’m genuinely surprised you found it. Their elite are well trained and difficult to overcome. Palingard must have put up a fight to have killed one of such rank.”