by A. C. Smyth
“Are you saying my son is mad?” Deygan’s face twitched.
“No, Sire. Say instead that His Highness has shut himself off from the world. It may have been his choice initially, or it may not, but I think he could not come back now even if he wanted to.”
“But you can cure him?”
She drew in a long, slow breath. Healers could not cure minds, only bodies. She could pretend to minister to him, to draw the charade out for another day or two until Deygan lost patience—but after all, what would be the point?
“No, Sire. I am afraid I cannot.”
The look on his face was as clear as any death sentence.
Sylas was led from his room, barefoot, his hands bound behind him. This was it, he told himself; he was going to die. He hoped he would make a good end—wondered if anyone would tell his mother. Word of the Aerie’s destruction would have reached the desert by now, and she would be beside herself with worry.
When he entered Jaevan’s chambers, Ayriene knelt on the tiled floor of the anteroom with Deygan looming over her. Jaevan was to one side, with a middle-aged woman in attendance. At his age, Jaevan should have progressed to a manservant. King Deygan obviously felt he had regressed to a nurse.
“This is none of Sylas’s doing, Sire,” Ayriene said. “If Prince Jaevan has indeed been damaged, though in truth, I cannot see how, then the fault is entirely mine.”
He could not let her do this. “No! Mistress Ayriene, I must have done something wrong. I must—” Guards pushed him to his knees beside her. The floor was cold and hard.
“Silence!” Deygan shouted again, drops of spittle catching on his moustache. “If you speak unbidden, Chesammos, I shall have you gagged. Do you understand me?” Jaevan whimpered and the woman shushed him. At a gesture, the guards withdrew, leaving the five of them alone.
Sylas bowed his head. “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon.” His knees hurt already. He wondered how long Ayriene had been kneeling, how much her knees must ache. Could a healer heal herself? Maybe she could heal the bruises as they formed. A strange thought. Fear made his mind distance himself from the gravity of the situation.
“Your concern for your apprentice is admirable, Mistress Ayriene, but his guilt cannot be denied. He only narrowly escaped punishment over the attempted poisoning; you can hardly expect me to be lenient.”
Jaevan whimpered again and Sylas held his breath. With his eyes, he implored Jaevan to speak, only speak and make his father be merciful. But Jaevan’s eyes were sad and dull, not their former sparkling green.
“Spare the boy, Deygan,” Ayriene said, and Sylas froze, expecting anger and harsh words from the king at the use of his forename. “Kill me, if you must punish someone, but let the boy go.”
“You are worth ten of him, Ayriene. Twenty. The boy is Chesammos, and you are a talent. For your skills, I might be prepared to keep you alive. You would have to renounce changing, of course, swear fealty to me.”
“Here the boy may be nothing, but in the Aerie he was my equal. No—” She shot a sharp glance at Sylas before turning back to Deygan. “Not in ability, maybe. But at the Aerie all are equal whether man or woman, fair skin or dark. Casian never quite understood that, I fear, and sought advancement based on his skills outside the Aerie. I trust he will find fulfillment with you instead.”
Casian? Was she trying to tell him something? No. Surely Casian had not been involved in what he had seen from the battlements. However estranged from the changers, he would not assist in their slaughter.
“Casian has been raised to command the king’s guard,” Deygan said. “The Aerie’s loss is my gain. I see potential in him, even if you changers did not.”
“And this advancement commenced when, if I may ask?” Ayriene’s voice was cool, but polite.
“I know what you prod me for. You want to turn your apprentice against him, for some reason which escapes me. Well then, yes, he led the assault on your Aerie. Did a damn fine job of it, too. We came out of it with scarcely any damage to men or horses, thanks to him.”
Sylas stared at the floor, willing his stomach not to empty. Casian had led the attack? He thought of what he had seen—the flames licking up into the sky—and what he had not seen his own mind supplied for him. Men and women running and dying. The walls of the Aerie crumbling. The herb gardens where he had spent many happy hours trampled underfoot by Deygan’s horsemen. Was it all gone?
“The Aerie is rubble and the changers are slain. They deserved it, in the end. They supported rebellion and those who would harm my sons and me.” He turned to address Sylas directly. “They are dead, boy. There is no Aerie any more.”
Jaevan let out a low moan and wrapped his arms around his chest. Sylas was sure he understood what his father had said. Jaevan had not completely gone. He was just locked away inside himself where no one could reach him, waiting for Sylas, or someone, to find the key that would release him.
“I will have my dues, Ayriene. Your boy has taken my boy’s life from him, and I will take his in return. But because he has meant so much to you and to my son, I will grant him death by the blade instead of the noose.” He grasped the hilt of his sword, the pommel adorned with a single large cabochon linandra. Ridiculous, Sylas thought wryly, that he should notice such a thing when the blade could separate his head from his shoulders at any moment. The sword slid from the scabbard, the steel almost silent against the oiled lining. Sylas swallowed hard and made the Lady’s sign as best he could with his hands bound. Begging the Lady for strength to meet his end with dignity, he squeezed his eyes tight shut and waited for the slash of the blade.
The air split, but it was not Deygan’s sword that did it. Jaevan’s voice raised in a cry that raised hackles on the back of Sylas’s neck. It was a howl so primal, so heart-wrenching, that his eyes shocked open and fixed on the prince writhing nearby, his attendant trying without success to restrain him. Jaevan broke free and flung himself at Sylas, clinging to him, looking back over his shoulder at where Deygan stood motionless, sword half-raised.
“Get off him, boy,” he said, “Take my son away, nurse. He does not need to see this.”
The attendant knelt beside Jaevan, crooning softly like a mother to a babe, trying to prise his fingers from Sylas’s arm. Jaevan’s fingers gripped tighter, until Sylas was sure he bore the marks of Jaevan’s fine hands on his skin.
“I…cannot, Your Majesty,” she said, the colour mounting in her fair Irmos face. “I beg pardon, Sire, but he will not come.”
Deygan swung the sword in irritation and the woman flinched, anticipating the edge of the blade.
“Jaevan, let go, my prince,” Sylas whispered urgently, not wishing Deygan to overhear him, yet trying to make Jaevan listen over his howls of terror. “Your father is angry, and he may hurt your nurse if you continue.” But Jaevan clung on, tears streaming down his face.
“Guards!” Two men-at-arms came in at the run. “My son is overwrought. Please take him to his bedroom.”
They managed to drag him away from Sylas then, but Jaevan screamed, thrashing and kicking until the guardsmen had little choice but to place him on the floor for fear he would harm himself. As soon as he sensed them loosing their grip, he was back, arms round Sylas’s shoulders, his body forming a barrier between Sylas and Deygan. Jaevan’s eyes glittered, not just with tears, but with a steely determination.
“Damn you, Chesammos! What is the meaning of this?”
“I think he is trying to save me, Sire.” Bizarrely, Sylas could hardly keep from smiling. Jaevan loved him. He loved him enough that his feelings could break through whatever ailed him to protect his friend from his father.
Deygan sheathed his sword and stepped forward, taking hold of Jaevan’s shoulders. He pulled, trying to ease Jaevan away from Sylas.
“Come now, boy. It goes with being a king. Somet
imes dispensing justice is hard on the justice giver as well as the judged.” Jaevan sobbed and held tighter.
Sylas gnawed on his lip. That was easy for Deygan to say. He wasn’t the one kneeling on the floor waiting for his head to be severed. He shifted position. With the prince’s weight added to his own, his legs were going numb.
“King Deygan,” Ayriene said. Sylas started. He had almost forgotten she was there. “Your son is begging for mercy for his friend without any words being necessary, Sire. Does this not prove to you that your son is capable of understanding? Of communicating in his own way?”
“Damn it! It proves he can howl like a wounded animal. Come on, boy. Let go now!”
Deygan gave a mighty heave. For all the king’s slightness he was a trained soldier, and stronger than his looks might suggest. Jaevan was again wrenched from around Sylas’s neck. No sooner had Deygan pulled him away than Jaevan resumed his preternatural wailing: a sound to chill a man’s blood.
Sylas swallowed hard. He had never pretended to be brave. His nerves were stretched taut and he wanted to scream at Deygan to do it—to put him out of his suspense and kill him. His gaze only shifted from Deygan’s face to look nervously at the sword.
“Be quiet!” Deygan shook his son by the shoulders. “Be quiet, do you hear me? You shame me, carrying on like this.” He turned to Ayriene. “If I let you go, do you have something that can calm him? A sedative? Something to make him sleep?”
She narrowed her eyes, watching the king closely. “And what will you do when he wakes up to find his best friend dead? Do you plan to keep him sedated indefinitely?”
“He has formed an attachment to the boy that will pass. Casian is to be Jaevan’s companion, as much as his duties will allow. Jaevan will soon forget about this heathen.”
Jaevan’s agitation increased once more. Sylas did not ask Deygan’s permission to speak, but addressed the prince directly.
“Please don’t, my prince. If your father has made up his mind then this will not change it. I would not have my last sight be of you in such distress.”
Jaevan’s breath came in heaving gasps, his sobs wrenching themselves from his chest, but he turned to regard Sylas.
“Calm yourself, Jaevan. This way time will not age us. Our friendship will always stay the same.”
The prince let out a strangled whine at that and slumped to the ground, his face in his hands. Sylas considered going to him on his knees, but his legs protested, and keeping a wary eye on the king, he got unsteadily to his feet. Crossing the floor to Jaevan he squatted close by, talking softly as the prince rocked back and forth.
“Untie me,” said Sylas, then as Deygan hesitated, brows drawn so far down his eyes were almost entirely hooded, he spoke louder. “Untie me. I swear I will do nothing to harm either of you, or to escape. I swear on the Lady.”
Deygan drew a dagger from his belt and cut the cords that bound Sylas’s hands. Rubbing his wrists, red weals showing where the cords had chafed his skin, Sylas dropped to the floor beside Jaevan, whose agitation had increased again at the sight of his father drawing his dagger. Sylas drew Jaevan’s head to his chest, and the young prince sobbed his despair.
Sylas stroked the silver-white hair, and rocked the boy in his arms. Omena’s wings, he was a child, for all he was a prince. Just turned thirteen, and not a man by Irenthi laws for another three years, the boy had lost a brother and now he feared losing a friend as well.
“Quiet now, Jaevan. All will be well. I will take care of you.”
The prince’s sobs quietened, until he was calmer, if red-faced and puffy-eyed.
“He will leave us now,” Deygan said, and Jaevan drew breath to howl once more. “No! You have made your point. If you will calm yourself for him and only for him then I must rethink. But there is a price to be paid, and someone must pay it.”
“Go,” Sylas said gently. “I will come to you later. If His Majesty allows.” He glanced quickly at Deygan, who scowled, but nodded.
“You may see him later, but first I need you here, and him elsewhere.” He gestured to the attendant. “Take Prince Jaevan and see that he is bathed and given clean clothes. He needs to freshen up after this…incident. None of you will speak of this. If I hear a word of gossip about the castle, I will have your tongues cut out and then I’ll hang you. Do I make myself clear?”
The guards bowed themselves from the room, and the attendant ushered Jaevan out also. He took one final look over his shoulder at Sylas before leaving, and Sylas gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. When the guards and Jaevan had gone, Sylas went back to his place beside Ayriene, wincing as he returned to bruised knees. Had he overstepped himself? And what did Deygan mean, he would have payment?
Deygan loomed over the two kneeling changers. “It seems my son has saved you, Chesammos. I grant you your life on three conditions.” He held up one finger. “First, you will attend my son. You will be housed in a secluded hunting lodge of mine with your own small staff. You will make no attempt to leave and will communicate with no one outside the staff.”
He paused, and Sylas nodded his agreement. “Of course, Sire. May I let my mother know where I am?”
“No. As far as she is concerned you died in the destruction of the Aerie. If it becomes possible later to release you, then you will tell her you escaped and hid until you deemed it safe to make yourself known.”
“Sire.” Sylas’s stomach did a slow roll. He would cause his mother more pain, where all he had ever wanted was to make her proud and give her the life she deserved. But he had no choice.
“Second,” Deygan continued, holding up two fingers, “you will continue your studies. If there is a cure for my son anywhere in your changer knowledge, you will find it. All the books regarding changers and all the healing books in the castle library will be made available to you.”
So even if he was a prisoner he could continue studying to be a healer someday. That sweetened the pill a little.
“But Mistress Ayriene would be better placed to make such a study, Sire. Will she be staying at the hunting lodge too? May she continue to instruct me?”
Deygan sniffed and scratched his forehead, which was creased into thoughtful wrinkles once more.
“You didn’t understand, did you, boy? I have spared your life, but I will have recompense for my son. If it is not you then it will be Mistress Ayriene.”
Mistress Ayriene! No!
When he turned to look in horror at her, she was already watching him. She had known. She had realised this would be the price of saving him. But he was not worth it.
“And to prove your good faith to me, young man, it will be you who strikes the blow.”
Chapter 32
It took Ayriene a few moments to realise what Deygan had said. A few moments before the fear gripped her heart and would not let go. Not fear for her own life—that had been forfeit when she returned to Banunis—but for Sylas. She had been so opposed to taking him on, but over the months she had come to think of him almost as another son.
Miralee had warned her that Sylas would cause her death. And there was Yinaede’s seeing: ‘He will save us.’ Although a tiny part of her had doubted, she had been sure Sylas would walk away from this, whatever Deygan threatened. But to get the lad to do it—she couldn’t believe Deygan would be so cruel. This was a test—one Sylas must not be allowed to fail. Whatever Deygan had promised his son, the king would not stand for failure. If either of them were to leave this room alive, Sylas must do as the king demanded.
“No!” Sylas found his voice at last. “No, you can’t make me do that. I won’t do it. Mistress Ayriene, I would never harm you.”
“You must, Sylas.” The calmness in her voice surprised and pleased her. “Miralee saw this happen.”
His face contorted, grief and disbelief warring on his feature
s.
“Miralee saw me? Your daughter? But I’m not important enough to have a seeing about. Why didn’t you tell me? And why would you come back, if you knew this would happen?”
Because even the lowest can change history. Because a seeing does not consider rank or skin colour. Because Sylas was so much more than he gave himself credit for. In a strange way it gave Ayriene comfort. If Miralee had been right about this, then maybe Yinaede was right too. If Ayriene’s death would lead to the changers surviving, it would be worth the sacrifice.
“Because sometimes knowing your future is harder than not knowing it. And because sometimes the meaning of a seeing only becomes clear when it happens. Yinaede saw you too. She said you would save us. We need you to live.”
“But, Mistress,” he swallowed hard, his hands clutching at his shirt. “I am a healer, or will be one some day, maisaiea-yelai. Did you not make me swear to do no harm? How can I harm you, of all people?”
“You can, because you must. If not for me, then for Jaevan. He will need you.”
She found herself fascinated by his hands, twisting and turning, leaving creases in the sweat-stained linen. The boy had the strong, capable hands of a Chesammos labourer, yet they could mop a fevered brow or make up a poultice as well as hers. Whatever Deygan made him do in this room, he could still do good in the world.
“If Jaevan is to be cared for by someone, after all that has happened to him, would you prefer it to be you or Casian? Who would have his best interests most at heart?”
He flushed, his golden-brown skin reddening, and he dropped his eyes from hers. Her heart sank. He still loved Casian, after everything. With his feelings so conflicted, who could tell what he might do. All she could do was trust. He was an honest man, this Chesammos. He would make the right choices, when it came to it, or the changers were doomed.