Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light

by Tracy A. Akers

  “By the gods, what have you done this time?” his father shouted.

  The redness and fury in the man’s face left Ruairi weak.

  “Father, I—”

  “No excuses, boy!” Sedric clutched the front of Ruairi’s tunic and pulled him forward, then slammed him back against the wall.

  “It was an accident!” Ruairi cried. His eyes darted toward the room at his father’s back. It was completely engulfed in flames now, and clouds of smoke were rolling into the hallway. Servants attempted to make their way in with buckets of water, but were driven back by the heat and smoke.

  Ruairi’s father jerked him away from the wall and pushed him down the smoke-filled corridor. It was difficult to see through the haze, but clearly the fire and pandemonium had spread. The shapes of the guests were all around them now: pushing and shoving, tripping and falling, screaming and shouting. Ruairi stumbled, but was yanked back up by his father who steered him to the right and into the garden beyond.

  Ruairi staggered out, choking and fighting for breath. Sedric still clutched the back of his tunic, and Ruairi soon found himself face down on the grass. His father knelt beside him and rolled him over, then pulled him up by the shoulders and shook him violently. “Do you realize what you have done? Do you realize you have destroyed a man’s home and endangered every guest in it?” Sedric threw him back to the ground with disgust.

  Ruairi felt a great lump in his throat. “Is everyone out?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “We can only pray.”

  Ruairi sat up and scanned the gathering crowd. Many faces were covered with soot, and he searched them for any sign of familiarity. Whyn was nearby . . . and Brina . . . Mother . . . but, Cinnia?

  He jumped to his feet and leaned around, craning his neck to see through the sea of dismal faces. But he did not see Cinnia. He directed his eyes to her bedroom window. A candle could be seen on the sill, its delicate flame flickering against a pallet of orange. Terror seized him. What if she was still in her room? What if no one knew?

  “Where is Cinnia?” Ruairi cried to his father. “Have you seen her? Is she out?” He moved in the direction of the house, but his father grabbed hold of his arm and held it tight.

  “You are not going anywhere!” Sedric shouted. “You have caused enough trouble.”

  “But, Father. Cinnia…she is not out here!” He looked back into the crowd. “Where is Labhras? Did he get her out?”

  “Of course he got her out. I got you out did I not? And you did not even deserve it.”

  Ruairi was stung by the words, but he knew his father was right. He had risked everyone’s lives with his foolishness tonight. A sudden scream turned Ruairi’s attention from his own self-loathing to the open window above. It was Cinnia—still in her room—the room where she had been waiting for him.

  He jerked from his father’s grasp, but Sedric regained his hold. “You will not go back in there,” Sedric ordered. “Let the servants take care of what must be done. There can be no risk to you, understood?”

  Ruairi shoved his father away and staggered back. “It is my choice, Father!”

  Before Sedric could say another word, Ruairi spun around, ran toward the corridor, and disappeared into the smoke.

  The hallway was a poisonous tunnel of fumes that stung Ruairi’s eyes and forced him to breath in slow shallow breaths. He pulled his tunic up over his nose and held it, then squeezed his eyes shut as he reached a hand to the wall at his side. The wall was all he had to guide him; if he just followed it, he knew he would eventually reach the stairwell. Timbers popped over his head, leaving him with the uneasy feeling the ceiling would soon collapse. He risked a glance at the corridor behind him. The screams of the guests seemed a thousand miles away.

  Ruairi forced his feet forward, but tripped over an unknown object and fell hard to his knees. The feel of the wall disappeared, and he felt around desperately for it. Hope was rekindled when his hand came to rest upon the smooth stone surface of a step.

  He clambered on all fours up the stairwell, praying for a pocket of fresh air. His head was spinning, and his lungs felt as if they were about to ignite in his chest. He reached the top and fell, sprawled upon the tiles of the upstairs hallway.

  Ruairi peeked open an eye, then rose and dragged in a lungful of air. It was fresher than what he had left below, but it still left him doubled up with painful spasms exploding from his chest. Clutching his gut with one hand, he pulled the tunic back over his nose with the other.

  He staggered in the direction of Cinnia’s room, keeping below the perilous cloud roiling above his head. But then he froze. Parts of the hall ceiling were raining down in chunks before him, and fire had completely engulfed Cinnia’s door. Ruairi glanced around for something to use as a battering ram, but there was nothing. His eyes shot upward. Flames were racing along the ceiling toward him. Time had run out.

  He sprinted toward the burning door and shoved it open with both hands, using every ounce of strength he could muster. The door slammed against the wall at its back, sending sparks spinning into the air. The momentary but intense pain of Ruairi’s hands at first surprised him, but he forced it from his mind and ducked through the doorframe. He could barely see Cinnia through the smoke. She was lying, face down and unmoving, on the bed across the way.

  “Cinnia! Cinnia!” He ran to her and rolled her over, but she made no response. Gathering her into his arms, he clutched her body close to his, then headed for the window. A timber crashed in front of him, pulling part of the ceiling down with it. Billows of smoke and bright orange embers roared and funneled around them. Ruairi staggered back, then turned toward the doorway. Sucking in one last breath of air, he raced through it and disappeared into the raging inferno beyond.

  Ruairi didn’t remember getting Cinnia out of the burning house. The next thing he knew he was kneeling over her on the cool, damp grass of the garden. A crowd of onlookers surrounded them, their mouths either covered by their hands or hanging open in disbelief.

  “Why is no one helping?” Ruairi shouted, turning his eyes angrily in their direction. Then he noticed their attentions were not focused on Cinnia, now lying on the grass. They were focused on him.

  He glanced down at his hands and cried out, then staggered up. The gasping crowd shuffled away from him, muttering words of shock and pity. Ruairi held his hands up and inspected them. They looked strange, rough and black, red and blistered, but he could not understand why. He laughed nervously. Were they burned? Curious how they did not hurt.

  The horrific pain of the injuries suddenly matched his terrifying realization of them. His stomach lurched and his legs went weak. He fell to his knees, shaking, and dropped onto his back. The world spun wildly as his mind struggled to cope with the pain that enveloped him. He forced his gaze to the star-filled sky above, anywhere but the disgusted faces staring down at him.

  Wings. Dear gods, please just give me wings.

  Then he saw it, for a fleeting moment, a great gold and red light blazing across the heavens. His eyes widened, and he wondered dreamily whether the vision might be the wings he so desperately wished for. Then his eyelids closed and he felt himself drift into blackness.

  It would be a long time before he looked into that sky again.

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  Chapter 3: The Dread of It

  Dayn sat on a chair by the hearth, nervously tapping his feet. It wasn’t his usual habit, the tapping of his feet, but this morning he felt more than a little anxious. He leaned his head against the chair’s high back and gripped the arms as if clinging for life. He had promised to go to the Summer Fires Festival to see his sister crowned Maiden, and there was no getting out of it now.

  He stared into the hearth and narrowed his eyes. The mountains of charred log looked like miniature landscapes, he thought. Perhaps like those of Aredyrah a thousand years ago when the mountains spewed fire and rock, or perhaps like that place where the demons lived now. Dayn shivered, reminded of w
hat he was.

  It had been a year since he had been accosted by Sheireadan and his pack on the path, a year since he had overheard his father and the Spirit Keeper on the porch. He’d never spoken a word of it to anyone, not even to Alicine in whom he once could have confided anything. He’d chosen to keep the secret tucked within his heart, and had isolated himself at the farm instead. Strangely enough, his parents had allowed it. His mother no longer sent him on errands to Kiradyn, not since he had told her months before that he refused to go. Even his father didn’t argue the point anymore, though it was clear he noticed a disturbing change in his son. But now, weakened by his sister’s tears, Dayn found himself going to the biggest festival of the year. And the dread of it was unbearable.

  The festival started at sunrise, as most did, but his father insisted they not leave in the dark. Dayn was relieved; that meant less time to endure the ordeal ahead. They were just waiting for Alicine now and, thankfully, she was taking longer than usual to get ready.

  Dayn looked down at himself and surveyed his clothing from chest to toe. Determined to go to the festival looking his best, he had bathed in the pre-dawn hours, gritting his teeth against the chill of the bath water. He’d rubbed his shivering body with quince lotion and had even put sweet-smelling herbs under his arms (something he usually scoffed at.) His pale, shoulder-length hair was parted and tucked behind his ears. His face was scrubbed as clean as he could get it. Even the birthmark on his neck seemed paler. He wore his best tunic, the forest green one with the decorative plaid border, and had pinned it with a bronze curvilinear brooch. His best boots were polished, their long leather straps wrapped in a meticulous pattern up his brown woolen trousers. He had never looked better, and maybe Falyn would think so, too. That is, if he got up the nerve to approach her.

  Dayn watched as his mother strolled from the bedroom to the living area. Beads tinkled and petticoats swished with every step she took. Her indigo dress was the only nice one she owned, but in it she looked truly lovely. It was long-sleeved and high-collared, as was the fashion with Kiradyn women, and the gold-braided bodice hugging her waist outlined her slender figure. Colorful ribbons were woven into the two long plaits of her hair, and she had lined her eyes with black pencil. Dayn could not help but smile as she fluttered about the room. He had not seen her this happy in a long time, nor this beautiful.

  A clamor directed Dayn’s attention to the front door. His father’s voice could be heard on the other side of it, grumbling about the fool horse. Gorman burst inside, dressed in his festive best, but still complaining about the horse, when his face broke into a wide grin. He strutted over to Morna and pulled her close, then lifted her up and swung her around. The beads that adorned her boots tinkled a playful tune as she twirled.

  “You’re as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes on you,” Gorman said. He set her down and planted a kiss on her lips. It wasn’t a common custom for people to show this type of affection in front of others, even their own families, but Gorman was clearly in love with his wife, and this morning he did not seem to mind whether or not his son witnessed it.

  Watching his parents laugh and dance across the room, Dayn felt a sudden admiration for their devotion to each other. He wondered if he would ever feel a love like theirs, but he pushed the thought from his mind. There was no sense in thinking about such things now. He was only sixteen, and it would be months before he was old enough to court. That is, if anyone would have him.

  “Isn’t your mother beautiful, Dayn? Have you ever seen her look so radiant?” Gorman asked.

  “Yes . . . I mean, no . . . I mean, she looks very beautiful, Father.”

  Morna blushed and slapped her husband playfully on the chest. “You boys are embarrassing me. Now then, are we all ready?” Her eyes scanned the room, then she headed toward the stairs.

  “What could be keeping that girl? Alicine, it’s getting late, dear,” she called up the stairwell. “Do you need some help with your dress?”

  “No, Mother,” Alicine’s muffled voice called from the room above. “I’m almost ready.”

  Morna strode over to a three-legged stool and pulled it next to Dayn. She fluffed her skirt and sat down in a billow of blue. For a moment she seemed hesitant, then she said, “You look very nice today, son.”

  Dayn smiled and nodded, but did not reply.

  “I know you don’t want to go, Dayn,” she said, “but I think you’ll have fun. Surely things have settled down between you and Sheireadan this past year. Just stay with us, dear, and everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  Dayn looked at the hearth, tracing the outline of the imaginary mountains with his eyes. “Just stay with us, dear,” his mother’s voice echoed in his mind. Like a child.

  “Son?”

  This time it was his father’s voice, and Dayn was surprised by its unusually gentle tone. He glanced up to see his father standing next to him with something cradled in his hand.

  “Son, I want you to have this,” Gorman said. “Now that you’re sixteen, I feel it’s time you had it.”

  Gorman stared into Dayn’s face with such intensity that for a moment it was almost alarming. Dayn turned up his palm and waited with uneasiness for the token of his father’s generosity to drop into it. Gorman paused, then placed the object onto his son’s outstretched hand.

  Dayn sucked in his breath. It was the brooch, the one of the cat-like beast he had admired for as long as he could remember. The ornament was gold and molded with the finest detail into the shape of a mythical beast: a four-legged creature somewhat like a large cat, with a long tufted tail, fangs, and a great head of hair. It was eternally poised to pounce, claws outstretched, its mane blowing in an imaginary wind. It was the most valuable thing his father owned, and Dayn couldn’t believe the man was actually giving it to him. He hadn’t even been allowed to see it since he was a child.

  The only time Dayn had ever seen the brooch was when he was six years old, but he had never forgotten the details of it. He and Alicine had been playing a hiding game in the house one rainy afternoon when he stumbled upon it while pushing himself behind the dresser in his parents’ room. In his haste to move the cumbersome piece of furniture, he knocked over his father’s jewelry box, the intricately carved one that held his brooches, belt buckles, and torques. He remembered fingering the brooch that tumbled out amongst the other baubles onto the floor, mesmerized by the shine of its gold, intrigued by the beast depicted in its design. But his father had grabbed it from him and tossed it back into the box, ordering him never to touch it again. Dayn hadn’t been allowed to see it since, but he remembered it well enough to make up childhood stories about it. On more than one occasion he had found himself at the end of his mother’s wagging finger for drawing chalk pictures of it across his bedroom wall.

  Dayn stared at the brooch, unable to take his eyes from it. An overwhelming guilt washed over him. He had treated his father so coldly this past year, and now the man was giving him this precious gift. “Father, I . . .” But a rising lump in his throat prevented him from saying the rest of the words, words he didn’t know how to express anyway.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Dayn,” his father said. “It’s yours now.”

  “Here, son,” his mother said, leaning toward him. “Let me help you pin it on.” She reached over and removed the bronze brooch Dayn had pinned to his shirt earlier and replaced it with the gold one. She stood and stepped back, smiling, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  Dayn gazed down at the shiny beast clinging to his breast and traced it with his finger. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  Alicine descended the last few steps of the stairs, holding her full skirt up over her slippered feet. Dayn rose, grinning, and glanced at his parents who were staring, misty-eyed, in their daughter’s direction. His little sister did indeed look radiant.

  “You look…nice,” Dayn said, then felt his face blush. He wasn’t accustomed to complimenting his sister on he
r appearance.

  Alicine displayed a smile of satisfaction. “Well, I should. I certainly worked long enough on this dress. Goodness knows how many bottles of potion I had to sell to buy the material for this thing.” She laughed and strummed her fingers across the skirt.

  The dress was of harvest gold and decorated at the bodice, hem, and sleeves with hundreds of tiny white flowers, each meticulously embroidered. She had worked on them every day for months. The bodice was laced with a dyed yellow cord pulled into a bow, accentuating her developing bust. Delicate, ivory lace trimmed the collar that reached to her chin as well as the tips of the long sleeves that stopped in a point at her wrists. Her ebony hair was braided into one long plait woven with colorful ribbons and embellished with flowers strategically placed. She had even dotted her lips and cheeks with pink and outlined her eyes in black as her mother had.

  Dayn felt uneasiness in the pit of his stomach as he watched his sister. She was no longer a girl, but a young woman, and he wasn’t particularly pleased about it. It would only be two short years before Alicine was seventeen and allowed to court. She would have no difficulty finding a beau. Dayn was certain of that. But what of himself? He might never find someone willing to accept his differences. What would he do then? Spend the rest of his years with only his aging parents to keep him company?

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Alicine said. “It’s getting late.” She lifted her skirt and pushed open the front door with her foot, taking herself, as well as the flowing yards of golden material, through it.

  Dayn followed his sister and helped her up to the bench of honor in the back of the wagon. The wagon was hitched to the stubborn mare that snorted and stomped the ground. The old gray was the only horse they owned, and for a moment Dayn wondered if the poor thing would be able to manage the load. In addition to the four passengers, the wagon was loaded with food, water, and bottles of remedy to sell at the festival. Dayn shook his head. They could get to town faster by walking, but he plopped himself onto the open gate of the bed anyway, and dangled his feet into the dirt.