The Heir of Ariad

by Niki Florica

  Distantly Elillian was aware of the Council, demanding response, of Ranril’s harsh voice, accusing him of treachery, of the Peacemakers of Ariad, attempting to pry information from a witness that had fallen silent. Kyrian of the Rain Realm stared unwaveringly at his feet, shoulders tense, dark hair glistening with sweat and clinging to his cheekbones in damp strands. She could not tear her eyes from him. Her father was silent at her side, and she sensed his faith wavering. He was beginning to doubt her, just as she was herself. The Ear of the Council could do nothing for the accused if he could not hear his case.

  She was numb as she watched Ranril stand, heard him shout to the Council his certainty that Kyrian of the Rain Realm was a servant of Tasnil, serving some dark purpose for his tyrant master. Kyrian’s gaze snapped up at this, flaming, but his jaw remained tightly clenched and he offered no response to deny the accusation. Shouts rose, disharmony mounted, and still he said nothing, as stubborn in his silence as he had been fierce in his defence of the Skyads.

  “Speak, Skyad!” Ranril shouted. “Or are you indeed the servant of the enemy, worthy of death?”

  “He will tell you nothing.”

  The voice was unfamiliar, belonging to none among the Naiads and not to Kyrian himself. All eyes turned to the shadows along the stone walls, where, in the falls’ mist, stood a slender, green-clad figure, leaning casually against the stone.

  Before the Naiads could protest, the uninvited witness stepped from the shadows and lightly descended the stair to the floor of the accused, passing so near to Elillian’s right she could have touched the armed sheath at his side. He smelled faintly of leaves, earth, and morning wind, his rusty brown hair ruffled about his ears and littered with fragments of bark and leaves, like the crown of a woodland king. He stepped lightly, indifferent to the eyes of the Council upon him, but through his radiated confidence Elillian sensed a deep darkness about him, as of one who walked too near to death.

  He halted at the base of the stair and turned to the Council, and his eyes glowed vividly, strikingly green in the light through the crystal falls. “Do not be deceived, lords of Dunbrielle,” he proclaimed, “for though this creature has defended your lady’s life he is a thief and a liar, as surely as I am a Robin. He will tell you nothing, for he guards his dark purpose like the slave of the Usurper he is. I know this more surely than most.”

  Arlyl’s gaze narrowed. “Who are you, son of Robinsdwel, to arrive unbidden at the Council of Ariad’s Peacemakers?”

  The Robin bowed low and touched a gracious hand to his ear. “Rydel of Robinsdwel, my lord, grandson of Camuel, and the victim of the treacherous thief who stands now before you in the garb of a Silver Skyad.”

  The Robin. The Robin. The very creature that Elillian had risked her life to find, the creature for whom the reckless, fearless Skyad had pleaded so desperately on the riverbank.

  Kyrian looked as if he would have strangled the new arrival with his bare hands were it not for the ropes that bound him, his black eyes spewing flame and his jaw so tightly clenched that Elillian could see shadow in the taut skin beneath his cheekbones. The Robin, in stark contrast, was an image of perfect control, his green eyes cool and unblinking as he stared up at the Council in utter innocence. A Green witness, worthy of trust. As faithful as a serpent guarding plunder.

  Nails biting palms, she fleetingly entertained the fantasy of strangling him herself.

  “Treachery,” Ranril murmured. “Did I not foresee it? Tell me, Robin, what is it that this Skyad has taken from you?”

  “My inheritance,” Rydel of Robinsdwel replied, gaze hard and unnervingly bright. “He has withheld from me the heirloom of my family in exchange for my vow of service. I was forced to comply, simply to claim what is mine. My people are now left defenceless, and already this creature has attempted to threaten them with his presence in Robinsdwel—” his tone blackened—“just like his filthy kin before him.”

  Kyrian’s nostrils flared. Elillian glanced downward to find her palms bloodless, pulse erratic with the war between her heart and mind, between her shaking faith and growing, prowling doubt.

  “It is proven,” Ranril purred in satisfaction. “This Skyad is no more virtuous than Tasnil himself, and if he shall not speak upon his own behalf, the Council must recognize the truth. This creature is a servant of the Usurper, and for his crimes the Ancient Law demands a traitor’s justice.”

  The Robin dipped his head demurely. “You have my most humble agreement, my lord.” He raised his eyes to the Council, and they were very nearly black. “I suggest death.”

  Elillian’s vision blurred, but Kyrian of the Rain Realm’s silence had drawn to an end, and he raised his eyes to pierce not the Robin but the cynical Naiad with a gaze of black flame, unblinking, fierce, and gleaming with fury. “I am not your enemy.”

  Ranril smiled. “Any Skyad is an enemy of peace.”

  “And what if I am not a Skyad?”

  Silence fell. The Naiads struggled to sift truth from deception in the trial that had swiftly become the most eventful in Dunbrielle’s history. Ranril’s gaze lessened to slits in his pale, sardonic face.

  Kyrian swallowed, and Elillian noted for the first time that he was trembling, though not, she knew, from fear. “I am a half-blood,” he continued, softer now, as if the words pained him to speak aloud. “My mother was a Skyad, but my father was—is—Green. I am only half Silver, tainted by Green blood. Tasnil would kill me before declaring me his servant.”

  The Robin stared at him, silenced by surprise.

  Ranril scoffed. “You may speak your Skyad treacheries until the sun falls, creature, but without evidence of your claim you remain guilty in the Council’s eyes.”

  Again Kyrian swallowed, and his eyes appeared strangely glazed in the pale light. “I have no evidence.”

  “His gift,” her father said suddenly, in his unruffled way, as if all the mysteries of the world were slipping into place behind his still blue eyes. “If he were truly Skyad he would be invisible in any mist to us, the earthbound. Let us see whether his Skyad gift shall support his claim.”

  Ranril paused, surprised, fascinated. “So be it.” He cast a cool glance in Elillian’s direction. “I believe we are in need of a mist.”

  Elillian glared at him, hating his surety that he could command her, like a child too young and inexperienced to be given true place among the wise. She considered refusing, but the eyes of the Council rested upon her, and in truth she knew she was as curious now as Ranril himself. So she stood, gauzy gown whispering about her bare feet as she turned her back upon the Council, cupped her hands beneath the falls, and whispered her words of command. “Y cylliandil-e ar misanthril, Guilyra.”

  Instantly the falls sputtered, scattering upon the stone threshold of the cavern, sending a plume of pale, sparkling mist into the air. The fog filled the cave in the blink of an eye, curling and billowing amongst the Naiads and drifting down the stone stair in clouds until the air was heavy with its haze. Elillian gazed down the stair to the floor of the accused, where stood the Robin, a green-clad figure wreathed in white, but beside him, where Kyrian of the Rain Realm had waited in silence, there was only mist and shadow.

  Elillian had known of the Skyad power to vanish into cloud and mist, for each of the Noble Races possessed a like gift, but it was unnerving, all the same, to see the mist and feel his absence, while knowing that he watched them with invisible eyes from beneath his invisible cloak.

  The Robin was the first to break from the stunned trance that had overtaken them all, and suddenly he was stepping forward, grasping a fistful of empty air, loosing his knife from its sheath. There sounded in the cavern the slice of a blade through cloth, followed by the wrathful gasp of a wounded warrior, and then, as suddenly as he had vanished, Kyrian of the Rain Realm stood before them, his white cloak lying sliced and crumpled at his feet.

  The mist surrounded him, white and silver, sparkling in the light of the dawn sun as the Robin stared at him in sati
sfaction, shreds of silver sky-cloak clinging to his knife.

  The truth faced them all, clear and unwavering as Kyrian of the Rain Realm himself.

  Half-blood.

  Arlyl the Tongue stood. “The time for riddles has come to an end, Kyrian of the Rain Realm, slayer of the black shepaard and warrior of Silver and Green. The Council is silenced, the witness has testified. Tell us now, in the name of Aradin, who are you?”

  Kyrian’s eyes flew to Elillian at the same moment she startled at a new presence beside her.

  A boy stood on her right, pale as winter stars and garbed in a white robe slung haphazardly over one shoulder. He was smiling at her through deep, crystal, cerulean eyes. Smiling, with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his bare heels while a light shone through his eyes as if from beyond him, from another world.

  “Hello, Elillian,” he said, with a wink.

  Time thickened to a dreamlike fog as the boy turned to skip lightly down the stair, his stride impaired by the too-large sword hung in the sheath at his side, swinging by his heels. She watched him pause before Kyrian, heard the murmur of voices through the fog as he spoke in hushed tones that Elillian would have given near anything to hear. Kyrian’s eyes were round and earnest. He dipped his head, whispered something unintelligible; despite being the taller and broader of the two, he looked somehow small in comparison to this slight, slender boy whose sword very nearly brushed the cavern floor.

  The boy drew the sheath laboriously from his belt and laid it gently upon the cavern floor, so encrusted with mud and filth its hilt was almost beyond recognition.

  Almost.

  Elillian stared as Kyrian’s eyes rose—abashed—to her, and the little pale boy, with his blue eyes snapping, lightly ascended the stair, smiled at her once more, and vanished into the sunlit falls. The Council of Peace drew a breath in unison, as if for the length of those ethereal, foggy moments each of them had forgotten how to breathe. Gilvonel’s brows were knitted and drawn, his eyes glazed with thoughtful confusion as he glanced about, blinking rapidly, as if surprised to find himself there, in the retreating fog of the Guilyra falls with an empty void in his memory. He had not seen him, she realized in a breath. The boy. The wisp. The phantom.

  None of them had seen him.

  Arlyl was the first to recover his voice, to shake free of the lingering threads of confusion. “Kyrian of the Rain Realm, will you or will you not proclaim the truth of your identity to the Council?”

  His challenge echoed in the deepest chasms of the cavern as Kyrian of the Rain Realm’s eyes sought hers, and Elillian of Dunbrielle’s heart seized to a pounding, drumming knot.

  He straightened, half-smiled, and turned to the Tongue, face damp and grey and hard.

  “My lord,” he said at last, softly. “I am the Heir of Ariad.”

  Seventeen

  And Moses answered and said, But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice: for they will say, The LORD hath not appeared unto thee.

  -Exodus 4:1

  The Naiads were upon their feet, murmurs of disbelief escalating to wrath as Kyrian’s palms ached in anticipation of the filthy blade lying upon the stone floor. He could feel the Robin’s flaming glare and was painfully aware of the murmurs rolling through the Naiad Council. Murmurs of treachery, of blasphemy, of death. But Kyrian saw only Elillian. Wide-eyed, valiant Elillian draped in glimmering silver, staring openly down upon him as if he were the flesh and bone incarnation of legend itself.

  The Council was a shouting chaos, and Kyrian did not attempt to sift the words from the roaring blur in his ears. He was aching with a heaviness that threatened to send him to his knees, blood seeping from the wound in his shoulder, reopened by the position of his arm behind his back. The Robin’s gaze was upon him—the worm—daring him, willing him to crumble before a host of witnesses. But he clung to the sight of Elillian of Dunbrielle, wreathed in the pale light through the falls, and between her faith and the Robin’s contempt he held to the strength to stand.

  Already the world doubted his virtue. Kyrian would not allow it to doubt his strength.

  Amid the roar of the Naiad Council, each demanding his attention at once, Elillian lifted from her stone and descended the stair toward him, lifting her silver robe above her bare feet. The Council was in disharmony, divided and fracturing despite their efforts of unity, and did not notice her descend in silence and halt before him, chin lifted high to meet his eyes. She had seemed taller upon her judgment stone, gowned in blue and shining silver, but now, standing there, she was again the Naiad maiden he had met upon the riverbank. The one who had refused to flee a demon in fear and the one whose kindness he had repaid with lies. His lips parted, but no words escaped them.

  She turned to the Robin and withheld a hand for his unsheathed knife. She was smaller than him, but whether by the rigidness of her expression or the fierce set of her shoulders, he offered no resistance as she reached forward to pluck the knife from his hand. It would have been comical, even ironic, but Kyrian was learning that Elillian of Dunbrielle was remarkably difficult to refuse.

  “Turn,” she commanded. He complied, smiling faintly as she sliced his bonds with a sweep of the knife and promptly returned it to the Robin with whispered thanks.

  “Thank you,” he said, wringing his wrists. His right hand was numb, but functioning.

  She knotted her hands and stepped away, avoiding his eyes. “Think nothing of it.”

  “Elillian—”

  “No.” Her eyes fell to the white fingers of his hand, then to the stone beneath her feet. “I am sorry,” she breathed, voice wavering. “Forgive me. I left you. I am a healer, and I left you in pain.”

  “Elillian of Dunbrielle,” Ranril cried suddenly, voice echoing upon stone and crystal spires, “what power have you to release the prisoner of Dunbrielle without the leave of the Council?”

  She turned, nostrils flaring, and Kyrian noted for the first time that complete silence had fallen in the cavern of the Council. All eyes now rested fully upon him. He swayed upon his feet and clenched his fists against a wave of nausea, swallowing the vomit in his throat as Elillian raised her chin. “This warrior is suffering,” she answered coldly. “I am a healer, Ranril. I can no longer bear to witness his pain.”

  “Strange,” Ranril replied coldly. “As I recall, you insisted upon healing him upon his arrival, yes?”

  Elillian’s lips parted as her face paled, but Kyrian stepped forward before she could answer, steadying himself with the Robin’s shoulder while the world swayed in his vision. “Yes, my lord,” he replied. “But for her safety and Dunbrielle’s she chose to await the trial. You see—” the Robin was rigid beneath his hand—“I have not shown myself to be overly trustworthy. I cannot deny the lies I have employed to protect my identity and that of this Sword of Kings. Your lady’s wariness was warranted—even wise—I assure you.”

  She sagged at his side. “Kyrian . . .”

  “Then you do not deny your claim?” responded the eldest Naiad, the first to speak. “You hold yourself to be the Heir of Ariad?”

  The one called Ranril scowled. “Blasphemy! We have seen no evidence of this claim.”

  The Robin glared his agreement, but the time for words had expired. With the little strength he had left Kyrian knelt to the cavern floor and wiped mud from the once-buried Sword, relief flooding him like an intoxicating wave at the sight of the glimmering golden hilt, the celestialis stones embedded in the pommel, the blade that shone like silver fire in the pale, morning light. The mud melted beneath his hand, exposing each exquisite, unmistakable detail, catching the light of every dawn ray through the falls as he pulled the sheath away. The Sword of Kings lay within his hands, a miracle in itself, returned from its burial place in answer to a desperate prayer.

  He was weak with relief and near to blind with blood loss, but Kyrian had never been more grateful for a second chance.

  The knife fell from the Robin’s hand and clattered to
the stone, and whether the unintelligible words that escaped his lips were a curse or a blessing in bird-speech, Kyrian did not know. The approval of Camuel’s grandson was no longer relevant. It was the faith of the Naiads that concerned him now.

  And his audience was watching.

  “This is your evidence,” he shouted, before raising his eyes to the Council, gripping the hilt with his cold right hand and hefting the blade high above his head. The silver edge glittered coldly, reflecting the purple crystal, and though it still did not glow Kyrian felt the slightest pulse of warmth enter his hand from the hilt—a small mercy from the King. It lent him the strength to lift the blade higher, drinking in the awestruck expressions of the Naiads as they beheld the treasure of Aradin, the symbol of the prophecy, the emblem of their hope. “I have come to claim the throne,” he proclaimed. “Tasnil has hoarded Aradin’s place long enough, and now the Good King is moving to end the reign of darkness and restore freedom to Ariad. From the King to my father, this blade has passed to me. It is my inheritance, and a symbol of his purpose.” His vision blurred, and Kyrian willed it to clarity. “I am the Heir of Ariad.”

  “Impossible,” the Robin breathed, and upon casting him a glance Kyrian found him staring, green eyes wide and intense and burning with doubt. “Impossible! The Sword of Kings vanished into the Green Lands with Brondro long ago. He is the Heir of Ariad—Aradin’s chosen. You have stolen it from him.”

  Kyrian was tempted to dare the Robin to repeat his words with the Sword of Kings at his throat.

  The green eyes narrowed. “How have you come by Brondro’s treasure? You cannot be the Heir of Ariad, not the one of whom the prophecy speaks. You have stolen this blade, or deceive us even now with your trickery.”

  “No.”

  “Then how has Brondro’s gift come to rest in your hands, Silver? It belongs to him. You cannot force your way to what is not yours by right!”

  “It is mine by right,” Kyrian spat. “I could not wield it if not for the choosing of Aradin himself.”