Someday I'll Be Redeemed

by Kelly Blanchard

  However, all Honroth ever heard from his scouts and spies were reports of Theran's gluttonous behavior, tavern fights, ways with whores, and messy demeanor. Honroth knew exactly where his older brother was at all times, but Theran had once seized a scout that got too close and passed the message on through him, “Leave me alone!”

  Honroth had agreed on the condition that Theran return his handblade. Such power should not be wielded by a madman. Theran had spoken the secret word to release the bracelet from his wrist, and then he threw it at his brother's feet and stormed off.

  That was the last time Honroth saw his brother, and he recalled all his spies—except one. Since then, Theran's handblade—his only tie to the royal family of Cuskelom—remained locked in the vaults of the palace where only Honroth bore the key, and there he determined it to stay until Theran came to his senses and returned home.

  Now, the king's attention shifted back to the man before him. The ambassador had a good claim, but Honroth was not ready to make such an agreement. “And why should we consider anything you have to say?” He lifted his brows as he sat back in his throne. “After all, Jechorm is responsible for unleashing that Rakessat creature in our kingdom!”

  “It was a failed experiment, Sire!” The man was quick to reassure.

  Honroth's ire had been sparked, and he rose to his feet. He still recalled the attack of the creature—entirely made of metal and science, the height of fifteen men, and completely unscathed by any weapons. The creature's roar still tore through Honroth's memory, and he remembered watching his father, King Sindric, race into the hidden chamber known as the Porta Cosmica with the sword of his handblade drawn. Honroth had stared and watched in horror as the Rakessat twisted its torso and impaled King Sindric with its sword-like claw.

  Honroth snapped out of the memory and clenched his fists. His eyes flashed with anger. “An experiment? It was nothing short of a declaration of war! You would do well to recall how we have not yet required justice for your actions all those years ago.”

  The ambassador bowed low then straightened and met the king's fiery gaze. “Jechorm acted with your father's approval.” This made Honroth pause and crease his brows, and the ambassador took the opportunity to continue. “We had a joint agreement. He knew of Jechorm's superior weaponry, and we knew of his gifts in magic. We sought to combine our resources, and the Rakessat was the result.”

  “You had a machine of war target the World Orbs despite their naturally delicate state.” Honroth refused to back down. “You sought to steal one for your own, and because of that my father was killed, and my brother, Lorrek, gave his life to destroy your Rakessat—”

  “Prince Lorrek should have been able to successfully defeat it! He had magic.”

  “Oh, and destroy it he did,” Honroth spat out as he returned to his throne and took a seat. “He cast himself with the creature into the Orb of Oblivion, and from the other side he shattered the Orb, so no one could follow—and he could never come back. The kingdom of Jechorm is responsible for the deaths of both my father and my brother.” Honroth scowled at the ambassador. All reasons for an alliance with this kingdom had left his mind; he wanted nothing more than to shun the neighboring kingdom and have nothing to do with it for all it had done to Cuskelom.

  Heldon watched the negotiations break down and knew that he must intervene. His twin brother was too invested in the matter to see things clearly. Had their father not died in the attack ten years ago, and had Lorrek not given his life, Theran would not have abandoned his place as rightful heir to the throne, and Honroth would not have been forced to step into his elder brother's stead. After all these years, Heldon knew his twin had yet to forgive many people for their deeds committed long ago.

  The prince cleared his throat and gained the attention of the ambassador while he carefully avoided his brother's stare. “Ambassador, this war you propose is reckless and will cost countless lives for a worthless cause. All of this can be prevented if you pardon Prince Theran's claim to give you a weapon, which we cannot give to you.”

  “As we have said, all we ask is the handblade of Theran.”

  Heldon sensed Honroth open his mouth to retort, but Heldon beat him to it. “We will consider this.” He turned to his twin on the throne. “Sire, I suggest this meeting be dismissed. We have much to discuss amongst ourselves.”

  Honroth glared at him for taking matters into his own hands, but his brother returned the stare unflinchingly. Honroth cocked his head to the side, and Heldon gave the slightest shake of his head. Now was not the time to be concerned with pride.

  With a sigh, Honroth nodded. “Very well. Ambassador, we shall meet again in a day's time, and then we shall have an answer for you. Be gone—all of you.” He swept his gaze upon all the men of his court. They bowed and then backed out of the room.

  Only Heldon remained.

  Once the doors had shut, Honroth sighed loudly enough for his twin to hear, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Heldon, what do you think you are doing?” He dropped his hand and glared at his brother. “We will not give Theran's handblade to them!”

  “Of course not, Honroth, but...” Heldon slowly approached his brother. “If they speak the truth, and if Theran did agree to give them his handblade, he did so with a purpose. I intend to track him down and find out his intentions.”

  Honroth stared at his twin. Heldon used to admire Theran when they were younger—always ending up in taverns together and getting into trouble. They had ambushed their own friends on a road and stole from them only to laugh at their friends’ exaggerated version of the event before they promptly revealed themselves to be the terrors and gave back their money—thus landing in the dungeon of their father for a day with the hope of teaching them to respect others.

  Theran never learned.

  Honroth did not appreciate their older brother pulling Heldon into his messes, but after many attempts to right the wrongs they had done, he gave up. “They will learn—someday, and hopefully it's not too late,” he had told his mother one frustrating night when he came back dragging his muddy brothers into the palace and dropping them at the guards' feet. Since then, Honroth had distanced himself from their activities.

  Lorrek, however, lent a hand in a roundabout way, preferring to stay at a distance but using his gifts and skills to undo potentially dangerous situations—a lapse of memory, a spark of misdirection, and intentional misunderstandings. Every time Theran came out of a messy situation with a grin on his face, he found Lorrek waiting outside—quiet, non-judgmental, but with purpose. Heldon often told Honroth how he got the feeling that Lorrek was biding his time, waiting—just waiting—for the one time he would not come to their aid.

  For the last ten years, they had no Lorrek to turn to, and Theran saw his trouble all the way through to the end—along with his lost reputation.

  Over time Honroth watched Theran become harder and harder of heart. He cared for few others and took his pleasure in fights, drinks, and women, but Honroth was glad that their friend—an assassin by trade—had agreed to keep track of Theran. Since they knew where she was, they knew where to find Theran.

  Honroth nodded at Heldon. “Very well. You may go to Theran.” He rose to his feet but then pointed at his twin. “I expect you to give me a full report when you get back—and do not be gone very long. I don't want Theran pulling you into his trouble.” He lowered his hand and shook his head as he headed for the doors of the council hall.

  Heldon watched him leave then sighed and followed after him.

  The crown weighed heavy on Honroth—a weight not meant for him. However, Honroth carried it well.

  <~>~<~>~<~>

  In the bowels of the castle, deep within the ancient mountain, Heldon followed Honroth down a well-worn path. Torches lit the low-ceilinged corridor, and if he looked, Heldon knew he would see scratches on the ceiling and along the damp walls from when the Rakessat invaded. Yet, he pressed on—his attention never faltering from the present moment as hi
s brother and he walked down to the Porta Cosmica where the World Orbs were housed.

  Each kingdom possessed a certain gift. For Jechorm it was technology. Nirrorm had art, dance, music, and legend crafters. Athorim possessed pure magic. Serhon was home to renowned thieves and assassins. Talhon had its neutrality and peace. Cuskelom had unique means of travel from country to country, world to world, and to and from different realms: the World Orbs.

  “Remember, always have your handblade.” Their father's words rang in Heldon's ears, and he reached over to his right wrist to feel for the bracelet there. The black bracelet had no immediate appeal to it, but upon closer inspection, ancient runes etched across the metallic snakes that wound around his wrist and came together on the bottom in swirls. “The handblade is your way home. Touch the runes, and you will return. Remember, the handblade knows when threats arise and will protect you. Wield this weapon well.”

  That was a moment in his life Heldon never forgot. Though travel through the Orbs was limited, Heldon journeyed often enough with his brothers to be familiar with this form of travel. However, since Lorrek's demise, Honroth's ascension to the throne, and Theran's disownment of his family, they sealed the Porta Cosmica, agreeing not to use such methods of travel unless the situation was dire.

  The circumstances were grave enough now. Theran had made his way through the cities of Jechorm but then turned back through the forests of Serhon and Talhon, deserts of Athorim, and mountains of Nirrorm. Honroth had given Heldon only a little time to find Theran and return, but that journey alone would take more than five days one way by horse, so Honroth allowed his brother to travel through the Orbs.

  Finally, they reached the end of the corridor, and Honroth flipped through the ring of keys from his belt—one key, then another, and another until he selected one and held it up for inspection. It looked normal to Heldon—a skeleton key made of brass—but Honroth lowered it to the impressive double wooden doors and slipped it into the lock then turned it to the left. The door unlocked with a thud.

  He then withdrew the key from the lock, lifting both hands to the handles, and began to pull open the massive doors. The hinges groaned in the darkness from lack of use, and Heldon took one door and pulled it open while Honroth took hold of the other until both doors were pressed against the walls of the corridor.

  The brothers shared a look then turned their gaze ahead where blackness filled the doorway. The hollowness in the darkness whispered of a massive chamber just beyond the threshold. When they stepped in, a light from an unknown source began to glow, slowly brightening the chamber. Regardless of how many times Heldon asked where the light came from, the only answer ever given was, “Magic.”

  The light continued to chase away the shadows in this chamber which was carved out of a cave. Heldon's gaze went straight to the high domed ceiling with sharp pieces of rock jutting out at odd angles. His eyes skimmed across the walls and multiple levels, lined with shelves. Each shelf contained silver stands upon which sat colorful glass orbs the size of small melons. Each orb had a swirl of different colors. Only in Lorrek's presence had those colors come to life with a twist and a whirl, brightening and glowing as if beckoned by Lorrek's magic.

  Now the orbs sat dusty and silent.

  This place felt devoid from life—from magic.

  When Honroth motioned to him, Heldon realized he had fallen behind. He jogged to catch up to Honroth, who had stopped in front of a specific orb. Heldon looked down at it. It was smaller than the others, but the orbs representing the kingdoms—rather than the actual world—were always smaller. Brown and white swirled around the glass of this orb, and Heldon knew the colors represented the deserts of Athorim.

  He looked at his brother the king.

  Honroth nodded at the orb. “Go. Find Theran.”

  Taking a breath, Heldon let his hand hover over the sphere. Instantly his bracelet transformed into a scaled gauntlet, and the orb pulsed with life and fervent colors. The closer Heldon lowered his hand to the smooth glass, the deeper the colors twirled. His metallic fingertips touched the glass.

  A cloud of dust poured out of the orb and engulfed Heldon, swirling, twisting, whirling, faster and faster.

  Honroth stepped back from the sand-bitten wind and watched his brother vanish.

  In an instant the cloud dropped, and all the dust crawled back into the orb.

  Now Honroth stood alone in the Porta Cosmica.

  With a silent prayer for Heldon's safety and success, Honroth turned to leave this chamber, but his eyes fell upon the shattered remains of two separate orbs—one of blue, green, and white, and one of the darkest blue and black. The splintered pieces lay on their stands and on the floor, and in the reflection of those small shards Honroth still saw the events of that horrible day.

  No one had been able to hold back the monstrous creature called the Rakessat. It swatted them aside like flies. Its metal clawed fingers went straight for the blue and green orb, but Lorrek blasted the orb into fragments with his magic. Theran had shouted with a sense of horror at Lorrek's action, but Lorrek didn't stop. Using his magic and his agility, he gripped the fighting Rakessat's shoulders while at the same time opening the portal of the dark black and blue orb. Falling back into the gaping abyss, he pulled the creature in with him and blasted the orb shut from the other side. Honroth and Heldon stood stunned while Theran sank to his knees in grief. Lorrek had chosen the Orb of Oblivion, and he had destroyed his own path for returning. Now he could never come home.

  Shaking his head, Honroth pulled away from the memories and the shattered remains of the orbs. He left the chambers—careful to shut the doors firmly on his way out.

  4

  The cloud of dust dropped out of existence, and Heldon stood still as he took in his surroundings.

  Absolute desert—different shades of brown and white against a pure blue sky.

  However, in the middle of this forbidden place flourished a village with a small forest of trees and a wellspring of water. Heldon felt something different in the air. This was the home of pure magic. Here magic was welcomed, practiced, and perfected under the rule of King Caleth and with the guidance of his sister, Princess Anelm.

  Heldon nodded to himself. It made sense for Theran to come here seeking a magical solution to finding Lorrek, but that didn't explain why he was in an outskirt village rather than the royal palace. “There's only one way to find out.” Heldon headed for the settlement.

  Approaching the village, he located the nearest tavern and went inside. For all the beauty and magic of Athorim, it disappointed Heldon that such a lowbrow place existed here, but this was where Theran felt most comfortable, so he gravitated to these environments.

  Heldon stepped into the dim setting and looked around the room and at the tables for anyone familiar. Pale faces stared back. Their long blond hair—almost white—was a vast contrast to anything Heldon had ever seen before, and he shifted and dropped his gaze when he accidentally made eye contact with these strange people.

  Finally, his gaze fell upon the only dark-haired woman in the room. She sat near the front of the room at the counter swooshing around the heavy liquor in her mug. As if feeling his eyes on her, she shifted a little to look back at him and then moved her gaze to the seat next to her. Catching the signal, he drew near to her, settling down on the stool beside her. “Vixen.”

  For a long moment she didn't say anything but stared straight ahead at all the glass liquor casing lined up on the shelves behind the counter. The reflection on the casing acted as a mirror for her, so she was able to see what went on behind her without facing it. Finally, Vixen shifted her entire body to face Heldon. “Your brother is a coward.”

  “Which one?” Heldon gestured for the barkeeper to pour him a drink.

  “Theran.” The name sounded like a curse on her lips, but Heldon only nodded as he accepted his drink and tossed the man a few coins.

  “So, he is here.”

  Vixen nodded to a darkened doorway off t
o the side of the room. “Upstairs.”

  “He's not alone, is he?”

  “No.” Vixen looked back at her drink. When she moved, the cloak she wore shifted just enough for Heldon to see her signature silver scaled vest hugging her body like a corset. However, Heldon knew it was not merely an article of clothing but rather a weapon—each scale was a throwing blade, and she was proud of her unmatched skill at throwing knives and her oftentimes unchecked temper. Heldon knew to tread with care when dealing with this assassin.

  With a sigh, Heldon finished his drink then moved to rise to his feet. “Well, I must interrupt whatever it is he is doing. I have questions that cannot wait to be answered.”

  “Heldon, wait.” Vixen's hand snatched his arm, and he looked down at her fingers then up at her face, and she shook her head. “There's something you should first know—”

  “Well, well, if it's not the little Prince Heldon of Cuskelom,” a newcomer joined the conversation. The statement made Vixen curse under her breath and release Heldon's arm as she dropped her hand close to her body—no doubt ready with a blade.

  Heldon stiffened at the sound of the voice but slowly forced his gaze away from Vixen to the man—men—who had come from his right. Both dark-haired men favored darker shades of clothing and hoods, which was why Heldon had not noticed them during his initial survey of the room. They stayed in the shadows and waited like snakes for the right moment to strike; Heldon must have unwittingly triggered a confrontation.

  The prince pulled back his shoulders and attempted to mask any sign that they intimidated him. “Aradin, Dustal.” He nodded to the men. Upon closer observation, he noted each had their bow on their back and a quiver full of arrows—their preferred weapon. Heldon merely arched a brow. “What are you doing here?”

  “Helping Theran,” Aradin replied at the same time Dustal said, “Looking for Lorrek.”