Dayn winced. “Father, please . . . no.”
“Gorman,” Morna said, “the boy is tired and—”
“He will stay.” Gorman straightened his back and crossed his arms. “Morna, escort Eileis to her bed. Alicine, you’d best take yourself to your room.”
Alicine rose from the bench and made her way along it. She looked at Dayn, but said not a word. Dayn could not imagine what his sister must think of him. She was firmly committed to the Written Word, and was never one to question their parents or the teachings they embraced. She must surely hate him now.
“We will begin,” his father said. “Open the book.”
Dayn opened the book and scowled at the worn, parchment pages. He knew what each one contained; his father would be teaching him nothing new. Time and again he had read the sacred words, as he had been expected to since he was old enough to read. To the Kiradyns, religious training was part of their everyday life; there was little separation between the sacred and the secular. No one questioned it. There was no need. Everyone was perfectly content to believe and live by the tenets they had been taught.
Dayn’s distaste was apparent as his father directed him to a passage and ordered him to read it aloud. He complied grudgingly, determined not to look interested. When he finished, his father questioned him about the meaning of the text, expecting a detailed account of every word and phrase. After replying to his father’s satisfaction, Dayn was directed to another passage, and then another. And so it went, passage after passage, question after question. At first Dayn debated the issues, but after being put sternly in his place, he resolved to just agree with everything the man said. It would be much easier that way.
“Yes, Father, we are Daghadar’s chosen people,” Dayn said with a sigh. “The world wept in darkness until Daghadar made the world of Kirador for…” Dayn yawned and felt his eyelids grow heavy. He jerked his head and widened his eyes. “For us--the chosen people. All others perished.”
Dayn eased his gaze over to the kitchen window. It occurred to him that there would be chores to do in the morning. Though it was still dark, it seemed as if the sun would be up any minute. Would his father allow him any sleep at all? Just say what he wants to hear. Just say what he wants to hear. “Yes, I’m your son! Thank you for helping me understand.”
Gorman nodded and closed the book. “Get yourself to bed,” he said, “and in the future there’ll be no more foolish questions. Understand?”
“Yes, Father. I won’t question you again.” Dayn rose and moved toward the stairs, then paused. “Goodnight, Father,” he said over his shoulder.
“Goodnight, son. Now off with you.”
Dayn trudged up to his bed and threw himself upon it. The blanket, he noticed, had been folded back neatly. He looked in the direction of his sister’s bed on the other side of the room. She had not closed the curtain separating her side from his.
“Alicine,” he whispered. He shifted to his side and stared at her shadowy form through the darkness. There was no response. “Alicine?” he repeated. Again no reply.
Dayn rolled onto his back and rested his hands behind his head. He stared at the blackness, then squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep. But it was no use. He could not stop the events of the evening from churning in his head.
He rose from the warmth of his bed and reached for the blanket he had kicked into a wad at his feet. Pulling it around his shoulders, he crept toward the window centered on the wall between his and Alicine’s beds. He glanced in her direction. More than anything he would have welcomed his sister’s company, but her steady breathing told him she was fast asleep.
The floorboards felt smooth and cool beneath his bare feet, and he prayed as he crept across them they would not creak beneath his weight as they usually did. The night seemed eerily quiet as he lifted the window’s latch and pushed the hinges open. A breeze drifted in, playing at the hair on his neck. Even the blanket around his shoulders could not prevent the goose bumps from rising on his arms.
Dayn leaned against the window frame and gazed out at the sky. A spattering of stars dotted the fading darkness. “Are there any more messages for me tonight?” he whispered.
The sound of hushed voices diverted his attention to the porch below. It was his father and the Spirit Keeper, and their discussion seemed to be a heated one. Dayn cocked his head and leaned out. At first he could not understand their words, they were obviously trying to keep their voices low, but their tones were clear enough. He leaned out further and held his breath. He thought he heard his name and something about a cave, but the rest made little sense.
Then came the words that were all too clear, words that penetrated him with a cold far deeper than his skin.
Dayn staggered back from the window. The blanket dropped from his shoulders to the floor. His mind raced to replay the questions he had asked that night and the answers he had been given: you are our son, no one else’s . . . there are no others . . . the demons are nothing like us.
He stepped toward the window hesitantly and leaned out again, longing to know more, yet terrified of what else he might hear. But the only sound he heard was that of the front door opening and closing, then silence.
Dayn gazed out the window as though in a daze. The first rays of dawn were playing across the forests and hillsides. The stars were nothing more than tiny faded pinpricks now. Somehow the sky and surrounding landscape looked different, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Then he realized nothing would ever look the same again, at least not to him.
He made his way back to the bed and sank down upon it, his shaking legs no longer able to hold him. His eyes turned to the sleeping form of his sister. “Did you know all this time, too, Alicine?” he whispered.
Then his thoughts turned to his father, and an unfamiliar hatred filled his heart. “You lied to me, Father. All this time . . . you lied to me.”
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Chapter 2: Ruairi
The young prince of Tearia stood poised and ready, a long, etched sword clutched in his hand. A lion was crouched within feet of him, its body half hidden by tall, dull-colored grasses. The prince stared into the beast’s primitive eyes and raised his weapon high. The blade sparkled momentarily in the reflection of the light, then sang as it arced through the air.
“Challenge me if you dare, foul creature!” the prince shouted.
The lion did not move. Its cold stare did not waver.
The prince cried out and lunged at the beast, thrusting the blade to the fore. He yanked it back and repositioned his hands on the hilt, then wheeled again to face his foe. He stepped back, then leapt forward a second time, plunging the tip toward the creature’s heart. With a shout of victory he pushed it to the mark. Then there was silence.
The prince sighed and lowered the weapon to his side. His mouth hooked with disappointment. The lifeless creature had not even shuddered. “You never were much of an opponent,” he said to the image on the wall.
The fresco painted on the plaster was barely visible anymore, but it did not matter. The prince knew it well enough by heart. He had often stared at that picture as a child, pretending to be one of the Tearian warriors depicted with swords drawn against ferocious lions. But there were no more lions in Tearia, and no real warriors. The Tearian Guard was mostly for show these days, and there wasn’t anyone to be enemies with anyway; the Jecta peasants that lived outside the city walls had long since been beaten into complacency. The prince shook his head. Perhaps the time had come to put aside childish dreams.
He was fifteen years old now, a man, not a child, and this was to be the night of his betrothal. He knew he would never truly be a warrior. His future was already laid out for him. He was a prince, but would one day be husband, then father, then king. That was all he would ever be, nothing more, nothing less.
He crossed over to the dressing table and laid the weapon upon it, then traced his finger along the sword’s long, elegant span. Its rune-etched bla
de had slain many an ancient enemy; the leather-wrapped handle had been held by generations of kings. But what truly set it apart was the golden lion molded at the hilt, its image reflective of the history and power embedded within it.
The sword was called, quite simply, the Lion, but it gave its bearer a sense of power that was anything but simple. It had been in the prince’s family for generations and had recently been given to him by his father for his coming-of-age birthday. It was the only possession the prince owned that really mattered to him. But he would have been much happier if he’d actually had cause to use it.
He moved toward the window of the second-story bedchamber and gazed at the evening sky. The sun had settled behind the sloping landscape of Tearia, leaving the only light in the room that of a single lamp. He glanced up at the spattering of stars peeking out of the blue-black sky and leaned his elbows against the sill. From where he stood, he could see the range of mountains to the north, its purple peaks marching like an army along the horizon. He had never been to that sacred place. That was where the gods dwelt, and it was forbidden for anyone to go there, even a prince. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. If just one of the numerous gods that resided there would grant him wings to fly, he would be happy. But he knew it wasn’t likely.
“Ruairi?” a muffled voice said, followed by a tap on the other side of the door.
“Enter,” he replied.
The door swung open and a woman entered, a look of annoyance clouding her blazing blue eyes. “It is as dark as a cave in here,” she said. She swept past him in a swirl of yellow and marched toward a table near the window.
Ruairi looked at her, then at his bed, scowling at the golden tunic draped across the ivory coverlet, and the silver braided belt and amethyst clasps nestled next to it. “Why do I have to wear that thing, Brina?” he said. “It is so uncomfortable. The clasps, the belt, the—”
“Stop your complaining, nephew. What would you go down wearing? Only the undercloth wrapped around your hips?” She flitted about the room, lighting a second lamp, then a third. The room lightened to a sunny glow. “There, that should brighten your spirits,” she said, glancing in his direction. “Well, at least the room will be brighter.”
“Yes, thank you. My spirits are indeed brightened,” Ruairi said dully.
Brina faced him, her arms crossed, and looked him up and down. Her face was screwed up with displeasure, making the creases around her eyes look deeper than usual. Although she was his mother’s younger sister, to Ruairi Brina seemed older. She was not one to sit before the mirror all day applying potions to her face as his mother did. Even her white-blonde hair was piled up less meticulously than his mother would have dared worn it.
“Why the face?” Brina asked. “This is the evening of your betrothal, for goodness sake. You should be jubilant.” She crossed over and gathered up the day-clothes he had discarded onto the floor.
“Let the servants take care of that,” Ruairi said.
“Do not be ridiculous. Servants have more important things to do than this. You should be picking them up yourself, lazy child.”
“I am a man now. Do not forget I have just turned fifteen.”
“Very well, man then.” She dumped the bundle of dirty clothes into his arms. He tossed them back down to the floor.
“You never answered my question,” Brina said. “You are happy about the betrothal, are you not?”
Ruairi strolled over to the bed and plopped down on the edge of it, barely missing the neatly laid out tunic. “Of course I am. You know I love Cinnia more than anything.”
And in truth, he did. He had known Cinnia his entire life and had loved her almost as long. She was beyond beautiful, and his body betrayed him every time he thought of her, especially when his thoughts turned to their wedding night. It was the one thing he actually looked forward to. But the marriage would not take place for a year yet, as Cinnia was only fourteen and not yet of age. Ruairi rested his chin on his fist and raised a brow as a scheme worked in his mind. If things went as planned, he would not have to wait that long. Tonight was their official betrothal, was it not? He and Cinnia could slip away after the reception, perhaps to this very room where—
“What are you daydreaming about?” Brina asked, noticing the unusually happy expression on his face.
“What? Oh, nothing, Brina. I just have things on my mind, that is all.”
Brina slitted her eyes. “Well, those things had best not be any of your usual antics, dear nephew. You cannot afford to enrage your father tonight. He is still fuming from your last escapade, and if you were to do anything here in Labhras’s home . . . well, I cannot even form the words to describe the anguish you will suffer.” She gathered up the day clothes from the floor once more. “You had best be getting yourself dressed. Your father will be expecting you soon and—”
“Humph! Father!” Ruairi rose and grabbed the tunic, intentionally crumpling it in his hand as he did so. But he pulled it over his head anyway, wrinkles and all, and reached for the belt that would bind his waist in misery all evening. He wrapped it around himself haphazardly and stood facing Brina, his arms extended at his side. “There, I am dressed!”
“Well, you do not have to snap about it. I am only here to offer you some support. I knew the state you would be in tonight.”
“I am sorry. I just hate all these formalities.”
“What do you expect? You are a prince. That is what princes do.”
“It makes me feel like a pony doing tricks. I have no say in anything whatsoever.”
“I see,” Brina said as she crossed over to adjust his clothing. “And I suppose you had no say at all in this betrothal?” She tugged at the tunic that was bunched at the belt and hanging crookedly at his knees.
Ruairi rolled his eyes. “Dear, sweet Brina; you are so naïve. It is luck alone that allows me to marry the girl I love. If Cinnia were not the daughter of Father’s closest friend, I feel quite certain I would be getting betrothed to someone entirely different tonight.”
“Oh, you do not give your father credit. Close friend or not, if Labhras’s daughter was not to your liking, I doubt he would force her on you.” She smoothed the fabric, adjusted the belt, and pinned the clasps at his shoulders, pinching the material where it draped over them. “There, now you are at least presentable.”
Ruairi walked over to the dressing table, then grabbed up a comb and raked it through his long, red hair. He pulled his hair away from his face and bound it at his back.
“Your father will not want your hair tied back like that,” Brina said.
“It is too hot to wear it down,” Ruairi said. “Besides, everyone always stares at it. It makes me feel self-conscious.”
Brina shook her head. “Are you satisfied with nothing? It is not every day a child is born with hair the color of yours. You should appreciate your special gift.”
“Well, I despise it,” Ruairi grumbled. “Why could I not have been born with blond hair like everyone else?”
“Because you were born to be the Red King, that is why.”
“Regardless, if I had been born one minute later I would not have to put up with all this.”
The door burst open and King Sedric stormed into the room. “What is taking you so long, boy? The guests are waiting!” he bellowed.
Ruairi wheeled to face him. His father was a large man, tall and broad shouldered with flashing green eyes that were further emphasized by thick, arching brows. But he could have been half his size and still demanded attention.
Sedric eyed his son’s hair with disapproval. “Unbind your hair,” he said, motioning to it.
“But Father, it is too hot.”
Sedric stormed over and reached a hand behind Ruairi’s head. He yanked the binding from his hair. “You will wear it down, do you understand?”
Ruairi’s violet eyes flashed in his father’s direction, then he shook his head furiously, his long hair flying into a tangled explosion of red. “There, it is dow
n!” he shouted.
Sedric threw his arms up. “Brina, do something with him.”
Brina walked over to her scowling nephew. Spinning him around by the shoulders, she pressed him onto the dressing table bench to face the mirror. She picked up the comb and began to smooth his hair, then glanced at Sedric. “Do not concern yourself, Sire,” she said, nodding toward the door. “I will see to it he comes down looking like a prince.”
Sedric moved to the doorway, then turned to face his son whose back was still to him. “I expect you to be on your best behavior tonight, Ruairi. None of your foolish pranks. Understand?”
“Of course, Father,” Ruairi said. But the slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth indicated he had other ideas.
“Of course, Father,” a new voice mocked from the doorway.
Ruairi turned in response and grinned. It was Whyn, his brother, no doubt come to add his fuel to the already raging fire. But Whyn he could handle. They were twins, and Ruairi had, after all, been handling him ever since they had shared their mother’s womb.
“Go see the mess your brother has made of himself, Whyn,” Sedric said crossly. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him.” And with that the King exited the room, his loose blond hair flying at his back.
Whyn entered and stood behind his brother. “Why do you torture Father so?” he said. “He only wants what is best for you.”
“Who is torturing whom?” Ruairi said.
Ruairi watched his brother’s reflection in the mirror. To look at them one would never know they were twins. Whyn was blond-haired and blue-eyed, his features soft and gentle. Ruairi was the opposite, his hair bright red, his eyes violet, his features more chiseled. But their differences were more than physical ones. Whyn was much more prince-like: always saying the right things, always paying rapt attention to their father, always involving himself in the business of the great city-state. Whyn would make a much better king, but as fate would have it, the fiery prince was born one minute before the golden one.
Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light Page 3