Trials of the Twiceborn (The Songreaver's Tale Book 6)

by Andrew Hunter

  The old familiar warmth of blood flowed down Marla’s throat, mingling with the strange new sensations now frolicking about in her stomach. She felt as though it might all come back up at any moment, but the blood seemed to steady her. She took several slow, deep breaths as she waited for harmony to return to her insides.

  “You enjoy?” Brother Tuan asked, his coppery eyes glinting with pleasure.

  “Yes,” Marla said, and then she burped loudly.

  The two draconic monks laughed merrily as Marla covered her lips with her hand and blushed.

  *******

  Marla emerged from the bathhouse, still a bit shaken by her first encounter with solid food and her digestive system’s unfamiliarity with the whole process. Fortunately, the monastery’s resident physician, the motherly little Sister Mae, had stayed by Marla’s side throughout the whole ordeal. Now, as she faced the pink glow of sunset above the mountain monastery, she decided that she would eat a bit more sparingly in the future, or perhaps just stick to drinking blood.

  “Marla,” her father called from the shadows of the dormitory entrance as she approached.

  “Father!” Marla cried, rushing to join him in a hug.

  He wore his red robes, embroidered with his name-rune, but had left the hood behind. He smiled as he looked down at her, brushing his fingers over her dark hair. “You’re up early!” he said.

  “Something happened to me,” she whispered, “The sun doesn’t hurt me anymore!”

  “What happened?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length.

  Marla started to answer, but the sound of footsteps on the path behind her gave her pause.

  “Sister Mae,” Marla’s father greeted the approaching physician.

  “Good Evening, Brother Berrol,” the silvery-haired woman in her blue robe said with a smile, “I think your daughter is recovering quite well from her infirmity today.”

  “Infirmity?” he asked with a look of concern.

  Marla blushed.

  “It seems our food did not agree with her,” the draconic woman said with a sharp grin. She reached over and patted Marla’s stomach. “She will eat slower now, I think.”

  “Food?” Berrol demanded.

  “Yes,” Marla answered quietly, not meeting her father’s gaze.

  “You do not have the belly of a pig!” Sister Mae admonished Marla, “You cannot eat as if you do.”

  “Thank you for caring for my daughter, Mae,” Berrol sighed.

  “She is a good girl, Berrol,” Sister Mae sighed, “but she needs her father to teach her these things.”

  “I know,” Berrol said quietly.

  “Good,” the draconic physician said as she turned to Marla again, “Now, if you have any more problems, you run fast to the bathhouse, and send someone to find me while you do what you need to do.”

  “Yes,” Marla said, blushing an even deeper shade of pink.

  “Good,” Sister Mae said, waving her goodbyes as she headed off toward another dome.

  Berrol watched her go before looking at his daughter again. “I take it she showed you how to use the...” he said, his voice trailing off as he gestured awkwardly with his hand.

  “Yes,” Marla answered.

  “Oh,” Berrol said, “good... I never really thought I would need to explain that one to you.”

  “Is it like that every time you eat?” she asked, feeling a little sick at the memory of the after effects of her morning’s meal.

  “Oh, no,” Berrol said, looking a bit confused, “Is this the first time that you’ve tried to eat food?”

  Marla nodded.

  Berrol scratched his head. “And this has something to do with whatever happened to you?” he asked, “The thing that changed you?”

  Marla nodded again.

  “And, is this the same thing that brought you here?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “We should go somewhere and talk about it,” her father said, putting his hand on her shoulder as he guided her toward a shadowy garden path.

  “I don’t think I want to eat anything else ever again,” Marla sighed.

  “But you were hungry today?”

  “I felt like I was going to die if I didn’t eat something,” Marla said, “It wasn’t quite like going without blood for a few days, but...”

  Berrol stopped suddenly and knelt beside her on the gravel path. He had tears in his eyes when Marla looked at him.

  “Father?” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Marla,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you and your mother. I can’t imagine what the two of you had to go through without me there, but...” He shook his head. “There’s no excuse for it.”

  Marla put her hand on his shoulder and leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, “I found you, and, somehow, we’ll find our way home together.”

  Berrol Veranu pulled his daughter down into a tight embrace and buried his face in her shoulder, weeping softly as he held her. Marla closed her eyes and breathed in the downy scent of his iron-gray hair. Wherever home was, she finally knew how it should feel to find it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Road to Braedshal

  Garrett awoke just before dawn to the sound of whispering voices.

  “You can’t let him get inside the city!” Mirion hissed.

  “This is how it has to be, Mirion,” Sir Baelan sighed.

  Garrett opened one eye to see the two Astorrans moving furtively in the pre-dawn gloom, striking camp in preparation for another day’s ride toward the castle at Braedshal. Sir Baelan had apparently already donned his armor. For all Garrett knew, the man probably slept in it.

  “Just because he gave you his sword doesn’t mean that he’s harmless!” Mirion insisted, “He’s a sorcerer, Sir Baelan! The King isn’t safe anywhere near that monster!”

  Garrett stifled a laugh, pretending to still be asleep as he watched the big knight and the angry young woman pack up to leave.

  “He must stand trial for his crime, Mirion,” Sir Baelan said quietly.

  “Crimes!,” Mirion spat.

  “What happened to Jons was no crime, Mirion!” Sir Baelan shot back with a hint of anger in his voice, “He died with honor, sword in hand, in contest with an armed foe. You need to accept that!”

  “No!” Mirion said, no longer bothering to keep her voice down. She pointed her finger at where Garrett lay in his bedroll. “That... thing there has no honor... and Jons died trying to stop him from reaching our king... and now you want to bring his murderer right into the royal court... Tell me, Sir Baelan, how is that not treason?”

  “Enough!” Sir Baelan roared, spinning to face her, “That is enough!”

  Mirion fell back a step, her eyes blazing with rage as she stared at the big knight.

  “I am honor-bound to deliver this man to justice!” Baelan said, jabbing his finger toward Garrett now, “and I will do that, with or without you!”

  Mirion started to speak again, but Baelan cut her off.

  “Return to Hawkskeep, Mirion!” Sir Baelan growled, “Tend to your lord’s estate!”

  Mirion’s face fell as she took another step back, seeming almost to shrink into herself.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Why not?” Baelan demanded.

  She looked up again, and Garrett could see the glint of fresh tears in her eyes in the dying light of the campfire.

  “Why can’t you go home, Mirion?” Sir Baelan sighed, his voice gentler now.

  “Because I am no longer welcome there,” she whispered fiercely. She reached up to rub a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, “She sent word to me before we had even...” She began to cry.

  Baelan moved forward to put his arm around her as she wept against his shoulder.

  “She took Jons back to Hawkskeep, Sir Baelan,” she sobbed, “She took him, and I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye...”

 
Sir Baelan said nothing, but held the young squire as she cried.

  Garrett at last pretended to stir, but kept his silence as he slowly got to his feet and began to gather up his things.

  Mirion sniffed and wiped her eyes. She did not look at Garrett, but pulled gently free of Baelan’s arms to return to her preparations for the day’s ride.

  Baelan took a deep breath and scratched his head. “We ride on to Braedshal, via the old greenway,” he said, “We shouldn’t see many people on the road today, but, if we do, follow my lead. I’d prefer to avoid being seen.”

  Garrett nodded.

  Mirion remained silent as she tightened the strap of her saddlebag and then climbed astride her horse.

  Sir Baelan kicked dirt over the already dying campfire and then pulled on the woolen cap that Ymowyn had given him to replace his lost helmet. He gathered up the leads of the three packhorses and then grunted as he swung up onto his mount. He took a moment to shift the collection of swords hanging from his saddle to make room for his armored knees.

  A few minutes later, Garrett managed to calm his horse enough to climb into the saddle. He nudged the agitated beast toward the knight waiting at the edge of the little hollow where they had spent the night.

  Mirion’s horse made no move to follow.

  “Mirion?” Sir Baelan called out as he and Garrett turned to look back at the Astorran girl. She sat in her saddle with a hollow, red-eyed look on her face.

  “Let’s go,” Sir Baelan said.

  “Where should I go?” she asked hoarsely, “I have no place here anymore.”

  Baelan’s jaw tensed.

  “I’m not even an Astorran now, am I?” she rasped.

  “Don’t be foolish, Mirion!” Baelan said, “You are as Astorran as any of us.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “Sir Jons was my country... my only lord... and my only home. I am nothing now without, him... bereft even of that little grace he gifted me... that one small title to which I could cling and pretend that I was one of you.”

  “You are still a squire!” Sir Baelan shouted, “You still have a place in service to our king!”

  “A squire without a knight?” she laughed bitterly, “A squire with no lord, no keep, no colors?”

  “You are my squire now!” Baelan snapped, “I claim you as Jons’s friend and by right of my office!”

  Mirion stared back at the knight, dumbstruck.

  “And, as my squire, I expect you to remember your oath,” he shouted, “and serve your king!”

  “Y-yes, m’lord!” Mirion stammered, looking thoroughly shaken. She quickly reined her horse forward, hastening to join her new master.

  Garrett’s horse followed a short distance behind Sir Baelan’s, and Mirion moved to the rear, probably wishing to keep an eye on the prisoner, or perhaps just to hide her tears from the others.

  Garrett rode with a bemused smile hidden in the shadow of his hood.

  A poor choice of squire, the voice in Garrett’s mind mused, This Baelan shows further weakness.

  He just feels sorry for her, Garrett thought.

  Pity is often the downfall of lesser men, the Spellbreaker’s voice chuckled in Garrett’s mind.

  I think it was a nice thing to do, Garrett countered.

  Which does nothing to improve my estimation of your worth, Brahnek’s voice laughed.

  Did you ever have any friends? Garrett asked.

  The voice in his mind seemed taken aback.

  I’m sorry, Garrett thought, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.

  I know what you meant, the voice answered, It’s just that I haven’t thought about that in a very long time.

  I mean, you had to be a kid at some point, right? Garrett laughed inwardly.

  Yes, Brahnek chuckled, I was young once... very briefly.

  Where did you grow up? Garrett asked.

  In a monastery... full of angry zealots, Brahnek’s voice answered.

  Were there other kids there? Garrett thought.

  Yes, many... boys, like me, our little heads stuffed to bursting with dreams of glory, Brahnek laughed, The monks certainly knew how to weave a good lie... I learned a great deal from those sour old men.

  Your parents sent you there?

  I suppose, Brahnek said, or perhaps they died, who knows? I was too young to even realize that I had parents... perhaps I just assumed that I had been called into being by the righteous will of the monks themselves, the way the dragons of old sang their war-bred monsters into existence out of empty air.

  What did they want? Garrett asked, The monks, I mean.

  They wanted us to be dragon slayers, Brahnek said, They shaved our heads, dressed us in dead men’s armor and sent us out into the cold with a spear in our hand and a prayer in our heart. Most of us died on the way to the front... the few of us that did live long enough to see a real dragon... yes, I had a few friends.

  You were a dragon slayer? Garrett wondered.

  I thought we had established that long ago, Brahnek scoffed, Were you not paying attention?

  Well, yeah, I knew you killed dragons, Garrett thought, I just figured you did it for fun or something. I didn’t know it was your job.

  Brahnek laughed. That is enough storytelling for one day, he said, I grow weary of such pointless... sentimentality.

  Tell me about one of your friends, Garrett insisted.

  Why?

  I dunno, Garrett sighed inwardly, I can’t really talk to these people, and I’m really bored.

  Very well, Brahnek relented, One of the boys I knew from the monastery was a club-footed simpleton by the name of Perdle. You remind me of him.

  Thanks, Garrett growled silently.

  I mean that in a good way, Brahnek insisted, well, for the most part... Perdle, you see was an incurable optimist... He could barely walk in a straight line, but the boy was absolutely convinced that he was going to be the greatest dragon slayer that ever lived.

  Why did they send him to fight if he couldn’t walk? Garrett asked.

  At that point in the war, Brahnek laughed, the only requirement to become a dragon slayer was your ability to act as a moving target. They fed us into the grinder, hoping that, for every hundred of us they threw at them, one dragon would fall. They were lucky to get such good odds as that.

  Why would you do that? Garrett demanded.

  It made sense, really, Brahnek sighed, You can always make more foolish young boys to replace the ones you lose, but dragons... once you take one of them down... well, let’s just say, they aren’t making any more of them.

  Oh, Garrett thought.

  Now, elves and war-bred, Brahnek’s voice chuckled, that was the real problem.

  What do you mean?

  Elves can breed, Brahnek said, not quickly, mind you... not like us, but they can replenish their numbers, given enough time, and, given their longevity, you’d often be facing elven foes who were the veterans of countless battles... some of those devils were ancient... and they remembered every trick and tactic they’d ever learned!

  War-bred, on the other hand, while they weren’t particularly clever, were nightmares incarnate. The dragons vomited them up by the thousands. Fortunately, you’d seldom have to face elves and war-bred at the same time... they never got on well together. Still, I realized that, if the dragons ever came to the realization that they could simply slip into the shadows and send their creations at us instead, it would only be a matter of time before they wiped our race from the map.

  What did you do? Garrett asked.

  I took matters into my own hands and set out to destroy the dragons’ allies before the dragons could realize their true potential, Brahnek answered.

  Were the monk guys all right with that? Garrett wondered.

  I did not seek their counsel in the matter, Brahnek laughed.

  You could just do what you wanted to?

  I was a veteran by that time, and a general, Brahnek said, My lieutenants followed me, not the Order. I did not
set out to arrange it that way... it just came to pass, almost as if that was what fate demanded of me.

  Oh, Garrett thought, but... what about your friend... they guy with the foot?

  Perdle? Brahnek said, Oh, he was long dead by that point. A dragon bit his head off in the Battle of Kriessland Pass.

  That’s a horrible story! Garrett groaned inwardly.

  Most stories are, Brahnek said.

  Never mind then, Garrett thought. He looked out across the rolling fields of a nearby farm as their horses emerged from the forest, and the morning mist began to lift.

  I think I’ll get some rest then, Brahnek’s voice sighed, I imagine you’ll be needing me when we meet this prince of yours.

  Maybe, Garrett thought, You know the plan?

  I wouldn’t call it a plan, Brahnek chuckled, but it should serve our purposes well enough... I’m sick of all this... chivalry nonsense. Let us bare blades and be done with it!

  Yeah, Garrett sighed, feeling a little twinge of uncertainty in his belly.

  Cheer up! Brahnek laughed, You’ve not yet had the pleasure of sitting upon another man’s throne! I assure you it is a most satisfying experience, especially when the seat, and the blood, is still warm.

  Ugh, Garrett shuddered.

  Brahnek’s laughter died away into the silence of Garrett’s troubled thoughts.

  Garrett rode on in silence, starting to feel the first real pangs of hunger. “Did we skip over breakfast this morning?” he grumbled.

  “I attempted to rouse you, Deathlord,” Sir Baelan said without looking back, “but you preferred to remain sleeping.”

  Mirion snorted derisively behind Garrett.

  “Oh,” Garrett said, “I don’t remember.”

  “We will stop again in a few hours,” Baelan said.

  “Oh,” Garrett said, not willing to give the knight’s new squire the satisfaction of further complaint.

  To keep his mind off of the restless hunger in his belly, Garrett studied the land around him as they rode. To his left, a low hill rose away into the thinning mists. Long rectangular swatches of different colored crops gave the hill the appearance of a patchwork quilt. The farmland came all the way to the broad swath of lush grass beneath their horse’s hooves. This curving road of green served as a boundary between the farmlands to the west and the forest to the east.