Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light

by Tracy A. Akers

  Then Dayn heard it again. He turned and scanned his surroundings, rotating in a slow circle. The noise, now coming from different directions, was intensifying in both volume and rhythm. What had at first sounded like two sticks being beaten together, now sounded like hundreds—maybe thousands—echoing through the woods.

  Then he saw it—movement—behind the trees—a dark shape racing in and out—running noisily through the underbrush—running his way. Dayn turned and forced his legs into a sprint. The ruts at his feet seemed to test every step. He willed himself to run faster, but his limbs felt as though they were weighted by stones. The clacking increased and he doubled his efforts, his speed finally matching his panic. But as fast as he was running, he could not shake the creature that was darting between the maze of trees.

  Dayn ran blindly up the winding path, dodging unknown objects that appeared out of nowhere. He tripped and threw out a protective arm, then caught his balance and staggered forward. Glancing back, he realized more than one creature was pursuing him. Shapes were all around him now, and they would soon be upon him.

  “Daaayn,” he heard an eerie voice howl. “Daaayn.”

  Demons! Dayn’s throat constricted with fear, forcing his lungs to labor even harder. He could see little in the blur of the trees as he ran past, but in the silvery light he knew he must be shining like a beacon. Should he hide or should he stand and fight? He had no weapon and he had never won a fight, not with anyone or anything. How could he possibly expect to defeat a pack of demons? But before he could consider his options further, something pelted him on the side of the head, knocking him off balance.

  He tripped over his own feet and fell hard to his knees. Another object hit him on the back of the head and threw him forward. He moved to scramble up, but was pushed down as a nameless weight leapt upon his back. He struggled, but could not release himself from the crushing pressure to his spine.

  “Daaayn,” the voice above him said. But it no longer sounded like that of a demon. And this time it was followed by laughter.

  Dayn was rolled over roughly as Sheireadan removed his boot from his back. Staring up at the pack of black-haired boys that surrounded him, Dayn could see they all carried sticks, except for one who carried a sack. The others reached into it, laughing and hooting, and grabbed up handfuls of the dark stuff it contained. Dayn threw his arms across his face as his body was pelted once more.

  Sheireadan knelt down and grabbed Dayn by the front of his tunic, digging a knee into his gut. With a free hand he reached into the sack being held out to him and smeared the foul smelling stuff across Dayn’s face.

  Dayn gagged, realizing in an instant it was manure. He wrestled to free himself, but a hand shoved him down, slamming his head to the ground with a painful thunk.

  “Will you never learn, spawn-boy? Stay . . . away . . . from . . . my . . . sister . . .” Sheireadan said, striking a blow to Dayn’s face with every word he spat.

  “We—were just—talking,” Dayn sputtered. But he knew the minute he said the words that he had made a mistake. No one disputed Sheireadan, not even his friends.

  Sheireadan rose and planted his boot on Dayn’s chest. “Just talking? What right does an abomination like you have to even breathe the same air as her?”

  Dayn spat blood and manure from his mouth and clawed at the boot that was crushing his chest like a boulder. He could barely breathe, much less answer Sheireadan’s question, but his efforts for relief were greeted only by increased, grinding pressure to his ribs.

  Sheireadan glared down with dark, narrow eyes, then twisted his scowl to a sinister grin. He winked at the other boys who laughed and nodded their approval. Reaching his hands down to the front of his own trousers, Sheireadan fumbled for a moment. Then he spread his legs and relieved himself upon Dayn in one long, pelting stream.

  Dayn gasped as warm urine ran down his face, neck, and chest. The boys’ laughter echoed in his ears. He went sick with humiliation. Sheireadan had done many cruel things to him in his lifetime, but this was by far the worst.

  “There, demon spawn,” Sheireadan said, tucking himself back into his pants. “Now the rest of you matches your hair.”

  The pack tossed their sticks onto the huddled form at their feet and turned away, chortling as they strutted back to town. Dayn curled himself up, clutching his ribs as he listened to the boys’ voices fade into the distance.

  He rolled onto his back and lay motionless on the cold, damp ground. The only warmth he could feel was that of the blood and urine running down his face. Staring up at the canopy of stars that blanketed the night sky, Dayn wished more than anything he had wings to fly. He recalled all the times he had been abused by Sheireadan and the others. It was more than the issue of Falyn, Sheireadan’s younger sister, he knew. He was fifteen now, and the harassment had been going on for as long as he could remember. Most of the residents avoided him when he went to town, whispering and crossing the street as though he would contaminate them in some way. He looked so different. His eyes and hair were pale, while everyone else’s were dark. And he was tall, taller than even the tallest man in Kirador. The details of his birth were a great source of gossip; few believed his birth had been a natural one.

  “Why am I so different?” he asked the stars as though they could answer.

  Then he saw it, blazing across the night sky, a great stream of light, its dazzling colors of red and gold coursing through the heavens. He stared as it streaked past, its brilliance reflected like sparkling stars before his eyes. But just as quickly as it had ¬appeared, it vanished into the blackness.

  “Are you my answer?” he asked, wondering if Daghadar, the Maker, had finally seen fit to acknowledge his pain in some mysterious way. “Well, your answer is going to have to be better than that.”

  He lay for a long while, staring up at the stars, searching for another sign of the magnificent light. But he saw nothing more of it and realized, message from the Maker or not, he had to be getting home. He pulled himself up and staggered toward the path.

  It seemed to take hours to reach the last crest, but when he did he paused to gaze at the timber house nestled in the mist below. Its windows shone with a cozy glow from the firelight within, and a stream of smoke spiraled from the chimney, dissipating into the cool night air. Dayn smiled, the warmth of the house matching the relief he felt at the sight of it.

  As he drew nearer, he heard the familiar chimes tinkling their tunes on the porch that wrapped around the house. His mother had placed them along the beams to ward off demons. Too bad something as simple as a chime could not ward off his own. He limped across the yard, his stomach heavy with dread. Father would be furious; Mother would cry, of course; and Alicine, his sister, would threaten revenge against his attackers, and probably get it. In their childhood, Alicine had frequently kicked Sheireadan’s tail on his behalf. But Alicine was fourteen years old now and spending more and more time with herbal lessons and friends. Dayn didn’t want his sister defending him anyway. That was almost as humiliating as the beatings.

  The door of the house swung open and slammed against the wall at its back. Alicine bolted through and ran across the noisy planks of the porch, her wool skirt lifted almost to her knees. She jumped across the steps at the porch’s end and sprinted across the yard toward him. Her long, black braids bounced wildly at her back.

  “What happened?” she cried. She eyed Dayn up and down, then frowned and wrinkled her nose at the stench of him. “Never mind . . . as if I don’t know.”

  Alicine looped her arm through his, but Dayn shrugged it away. The way she constantly mothered him made him feel like a baby. “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Fine? You call this fine?” She grabbed his arm and hooked it back through hers. “We were worried. It was getting so late.”

  Dayn glanced up and felt his throat constrict. His mother was standing in the doorway, her silhouette outlined by the light of the fireplace burning in the room behind her. Though he could not see her face
clearly, he was certain it was etched with worry. Then his father moved to stand behind her, his huge shape swallowing the light at his back. Dayn felt fear mixed with shame. His father would not be proud of him, he knew.

  “Oh, my poor boy,” his mother cried, her dark eyes scanning his battered body. “My poor, poor boy.” She moved toward him, her arms extended, but Dayn’s father placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “Leave him be, Morna,” he said. “He’s not a baby.”

  “But Gorman, he’s hurt!”

  “It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. The boy refuses to fight so this is what he gets for it.”

  “Well he doesn’t deserve this.” Morna shrugged her shoulder from her husband’s grasp and moved to usher her child inside.

  “I’m fine, Mother. Really,” Dayn said. But he wasn’t so sure. From the expressions on their faces, he knew his injuries, and the filth that covered him, looked bad. He hobbled to the kitchen table across the room and eased onto the bench, leaning onto the tabletop for support. His attention was suddenly directed to a visitor sitting in the corner and he jumped up, his shame returned tenfold.

  “Spirit Keeper,” he said, bowing his head and clenching his hands to keep them from shaking. It was bad enough facing his parents, but to have Eileis, the Spirit Keeper, see him like this was beyond humiliation. The tiny, aged woman just looked at him and smiled.

  “I—I didn’t know you would be here,” Dayn stammered.

  The old woman raised herself from the chair and walked toward him, pulling her patched and faded shawl about her thin shoulders. “It was time I came,” she said.

  Dayn looked down at his feet, then back up at Eileis whose stare felt like heat on his face. But the kindness of her expression eased his fears. She was always good to him and would surely understand what he was feeling. The Spirit Keeper had a way of knowing things others could not. She was, after all, healer and advisor of the Kiradyn people and possessed wisdom beyond that of any ordinary person.

  “Please, Dayn,” she said, waving him back to the bench, “don’t stand on my account. You need tending to and I see your mother’s anxious to treat those wounds.”

  Dayn glanced at his mother who now stood beside him holding a bowl of water and a handful of cloths. Alicine was at her side, clutching a bottle of herbal remedy. Dayn lowered himself back onto the bench and sighed. Now would begin the ritual of his healing, traditionally performed with great drama by his doting mother and younger sister.

  After his treatment was complete, Dayn’s mother stepped back and surveyed him with concern. Dayn looked at her reluctantly. Her braided hair was somewhat disheveled and her face more lined with worry than usual. He felt a pang of guilt. His mother had always been frail, having lost many infants to premature births. It was a wonder she had managed to conceive him and his sister at all. What kind of son was he to cause her such grief? He slanted his eyes in his father’s direction and knew by the man’s expression that he was thinking the same thing.

  “Now go upstairs and change into some clean clothes,” his mother said. “And for goodness sakes, clean the rest of that filth off you. There’s water in the basin in your room. I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

  Dayn nodded and moved toward the stairs that led to the sleeping quarters above. The ascent was difficult, as more pain had set in, but he protested when Alicine tried to help him, and limped alone up the planks to the bedroom that they shared.

  He headed for his bed, longing for the comforts of the feathery mattress. But then he thought better of it. His mother would have his head if he soiled the sheets. He stopped alongside it and stripped off his grimy tunic, then tossed it to the floor. Balancing his weight against the bedpost, he pulled at his boots, cursing them under his breath. They were soaked through, and the long laces that snaked up his legs were twisted into knots. After struggling for several minutes, he managed to kick the things off, then went to work on his equally soggy trousers.

  Undressed at last, Dayn stood before the reflective plate on the wall and stared at himself in the lamplight. Turning this way and that, he inspected his face and body. His normally pale complexion was spotted with bruises, and his blond hair was darkened by the filth still clinging to it. He wiped the dirt from his neck, then fingered the flower-shaped birthmark that remained there. That is where Daghadar the Maker kissed you, he recalled his mother telling him when he was little.

  “Kissed - indeed,” he groused. “Who would want to kiss me?” Even without the bruises he would have still looked ugly, he thought. The fact that his mother and sister told him time after time he was beautiful had done little to change his opinion of himself.

  Dayn finished wiping himself off and pulled on fresh clothes, then made his way down to the kitchen where everyone was gathered at the table. No one said a word as he trudged to the bench and sat. A plate of meat, cheese, and bread had been prepared for him, but he could only stare at it.

  “Eat, son,” his mother said.

  “I’m not hungry,” Dayn grumbled. He frowned at the plate, then pushed it away.

  “You heard your mother,” Gorman ordered.

  Dayn scowled and shoved a piece of bread into his mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately. He could feel the eyes of everyone on him, analyzing every chew. The bread scraped down his throat, but he did not reach for a second piece.

  “Why am I so different?” he asked.

  His question was met by stony silence and awkward expressions. He had asked his parents this question many times, but they always managed to give him some evasive explanation. Maybe this time they had finally run out of them.

  “Dayn, not tonight,” his mother said. “It’s getting late and--”

  “Please, Mother. I need to know.” He looked at her with pleading eyes, but she turned her face away.

  “You heard your mother, it can wai—” his father started to say.

  “No, it can’t wait!” Dayn shouted. He sprang from the bench that would have toppled if Eileis, who sat next to him, had not quickly steadied it. “Now! I want to know now!”

  Gorman pushed up from the other side of the table and splayed his hands across the tabletop. He leaned in threateningly. “You will not speak in such a tone in this house.”

  Dayn glared at his father, noting the redness of the man’s face and the purple bulges in his neck. Dayn held his ground for a determined moment longer, then sank back onto the bench. “I have a right to know, Father. I’ve waited long enough.”

  Gorman stiffened, his tan face blanching at his son’s response. A stern man, his children always showed him the utmost respect. But now his son was challenging him, and it was obvious Gorman had not been expecting it.

  Morna rose and placed a hand on her husband’s arm, then glanced at her son with anxious eyes. “Dayn,” she said, “we’ve told you before. The fact that you look different is simply because that’s the way Daghadar made you. There is no other answer to your question. You are who you are.”

  “Well, then, who am I—exactly?”

  “You’re our son, nothing more, nothing less,” Gorman said firmly.

  “Am I your son? I mean your real son?” The words almost lodged in Dayn’s throat. He’d finally asked the question he’d never had the courage to ask before.

  For a moment Gorman seemed to struggle for words, but then he responded with indignation. “Of course! Who else’s son could you possibly be?”

  “Could something have happened that...could I be from someplace else?”

  “Where else could you be from?” Gorman said. “You know there’s no place else but Kirador. You know the rest of the world was long ago destroyed, burned into the sea during the Purge of Aredyrah.”

  “But maybe there could be other people somewhere. People like me.”

  Gorman banged his fist on the table, causing the dishes to rattle and the people seated around it to jump. “There are no other people, Dayn,” he shouted. “Have you learned nothing during your r
eligious training? Have you learned none of the Written Word? By the Maker, boy, you know the people of Kirador are the chosen ones, the only ones deemed worth saving by Daghadar. You know there are no others!”

  “But what of the demons? They’re others . . . aren’t they?”

  “What are you saying?” Gorman said. “Are you implying that your mother—?”

  “No! No, Father, I only meant—”

  “Now you listen to me, boy.” Gorman leaned across the ¬table and stared Dayn hard in the eye. “You’re our son, do you understand? Our son, no one else’s. The demons are all that’s left of the minions that cracked through the earth during the Purge. They are twisted creatures, abominations, nothing like us. They survive only to serve as reminders of what can happen if we don’t heed the Maker’s message. There are no others, Dayn.”

  Dayn lowered his eyes. “Well, I don’t believe it,” he said.

  The round of gasps that reverberated around the table left Dayn cringing. No one had ever uttered such blasphemous words, certainly not in this household.

  Eileis rose from the bench and walked around it. She had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, but all eyes turned to her now. “Gorman . . . Morna. Don’t be overly concerned by your son’s budding independence. He’s at the age to be questioning. It’s a natural thing.” She turned to Dayn and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a gift of the Maker, Dayn, as we all are. Daghadar is wise and has a purpose for us all. It’s late, child. You’re tired. Take yourself to bed. Things will look different in the morning.”

  “No,” Gorman said firmly. “The boy’ll not take himself to bed. He’ll sit at this table until I’m satisfied he knows the Written Word and understands it.”

  Gorman stormed over to a cupboard across the room and yanked open its door. He pulled out a large, leather-bound book and dropped it onto the table.