Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

  “One can always improve.”

  “That’s easy to say, coming from you. You’re good at everything.”

  “Am not.”

  “Name one thing you can’t do well.”

  Darion pondered. “I can’t play the lute like Master Kestrel. Or fire a bow as well as Master Triolyn. Or train an animal with Master Jeebo’s knack for husbandry.”

  “That’s because you never do any of those things. You never try. If you practiced, you’d pick up on them.”

  “The same is true for you,” Darion insisted.

  “It isn’t. I’ve tried and tried some things. I’m just not any good at them. The only things you ever struggle with are the ones other people always do for you.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with you,” Darion said. “Farming and survivalism and swordplay and all the rest are valuable skills for anyone to possess. Do you think your mother was adept at wielding a weapon when we married? I’ve been teaching her magic and combat the same way I’ve been teaching you. She was no expert at the start, either. Yet she stuck with it, and look at her now. You’re fortunate to be surrounded by such a varied collection of talent. You’ve learned more than many boys your age could ever hope to.”

  It wasn’t that Draithon didn’t appreciate everything he’d learned from his parents and their friends. He simply preferred not to waste his time or energy on some of those things. His true fascination lay with magic and its principles. Truth was, he’d come further in his arcane studies than the rest of his family knew. This was largely thanks to Masters Jeebo and Kestrel, who’d helped him obtain certain materials without his parents’ knowledge. Materials Draithon knew his father would disapprove of, should he ever get wind of them.

  One such item was in Draithon’s pocket at that very moment. A small journal with worn edges, patterned in purple florals, where he kept his notes on all the things Jeebo had been teaching him, along with several advancements he’d made on his own. The purple floral pattern wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it was the only one Master Kestrel had been able to procure during a previous trip to Cliffside Harbor. Draithon had been waiting for a chance to slip it into his bags for the hunting trip, but his father’s presence was making it difficult. “I’m not you, Father. As much as you may wish me to be, I’m not.”

  Darion’s expression softened. “I would never expect that. I’ve had the same troubles as you, you know. I daydream. I wander. I’m disinterested at times when I ought to be disciplined.”

  Draithon took a breath. He tried to be strong, but the pressure inside him was at its peak. Before he could say another word, he felt the tears coming, and he knew there was no holding them back anymore. “I try so hard to please you,” he sobbed, “and yet I always seem to fail.”

  Darion came around into Draithon’s stall. “Son. Son. Look at me.” He waited for Draithon to wipe his face on his kerchief. “If your mother and I are hard on you, it’s only because we want you to be ready for the days to come.”

  “The days to come?” Draithon said, sniffling. “You’re always talking about the future as though it’s a looming storm on the horizon.”

  “A name-day hunting trip,” Master Kestrel announced as he entered the stables. “Going well so far, by the look of it. Would that I might join you on this most illustrious of occasions. However, I’ve resolved to put as many leagues between myself and your lively father-son interplay as possible.”

  “Wait until your boys are grown,” Darion warned. “You’ll understand.”

  “By the time they’re Draithon’s age, my boys will be living on their own,” said Kestrel.

  Darion smirked. “Supporting themselves at fourteen, eh?”

  “One can hope.”

  “I wish you could come with us, Master Kestrel,” said Draithon. “The fireside will be awfully dull without your music to liven things up.”

  “We want the animals coming near,” said Darion, “not running away.”

  Kestrel laughed. “Your father is right. You won’t need my music. You’ll have his stories and Triolyn’s unceasing grievances to keep you entertained.”

  “Say, where is Master Triolyn?” Draithon asked, looking around.

  “Giving my Axli a shopping list for Cliffside Harbor and a purse of silver to pay for it.”

  “I often wonder what use the archer finds for some of his trifles,” said Darion.

  “As do I,” said Kestrel. “Then my thoughts lead me down dark paths, and I stop wondering. Triolyn is a man who enjoys his comforts. Strange though they may seem, I’ll be the last to raise an objection. The more time he spends on them, the less he spends grumbling.”

  “Seems he’s always on about some sore muscle or aching bone these days,” said Darion.

  “His body isn’t the only thing that’s going; his mind seems to be following close behind. He came over in his bedclothes this morning, as though he’s forgotten all about the hunt.”

  “Is Triolyn older than you, or younger?” Draithon asked.

  “Younger than me. Older than Kestrel. Yet he possesses more human blood than any of us. That’s why his age is catching up with him. Don’t fret, though. You know Master Triolyn; he’s like to complain about everything under the sun. He’s got plenty of good years in him yet.”

  “Will it be long before I grow old?”

  “Rather long, I should think. Between your mother and me, you’ve got elf, dwarf, and giant’s blood in your veins.”

  “Let’s hope the lad’s got the mind of a dwarf and the loins of a giant,” said Kestrel, “and not the other way round.”

  Draithon chuckled.

  Darion frowned. “Is there a reason you’re here, singer?”

  “Breakfast. It’s ready. Alynor claims there’s salt trout and porridge to be had for any who’ve a hunger.”

  Draithon made a face.

  “Worry not, my young friend,” said Kestrel. “When we return from Cliffside Harbor, we’ll have cheese and bread and ale, and maybe some wine from the islands as well.”

  “Would you bring me a book, too? As a present for my name day?”

  Kestrel appraised him with a look. “Ah, the boy knows his way round a bargain. Anything in particular you’d be interested in?”

  “Anything you can find. I should enjoy something new to read, whatever it might be.”

  “As you say, lad; in recompense for my absence, I’ll bring you back a fine gift.”

  Draithon dried the last of his tears and smiled broadly. “I’ll look forward to it. When will you be off, then?”

  “After breakfast. Same as you.”

  Darion gestured toward the doors. “Shall we?”

  When his father turned away, Draithon slipped his journal into a saddlebag before following him out. They emerged from the stables to find Westhane circling the training pen on the back of his yearling colt while Jeebo looked on. Migo was Westhane’s first horse, a dapple gray with graceful carriage and a haughty nature. Jeebo was helping him break the animal in, though Westhane appeared to be managing on his own.

  “That’s it,” Jeebo coaxed. “Be his eyes and ears. Show him how to trust you. Do that, and he’ll stay beneath you when the rest of the world doesn’t.”

  “Aye,” Westhane agreed, breathless.

  Darion leaned toward Kestrel. “See the way he rides? A natural. Look at that form. Look how he guides the animal’s temperament and brings it under his control.”

  Draithon was a decent rider now, but he hadn’t been at age seven. The proud look on Father’s face was like a dagger to him. In an instant he forgot every encouragement Darion had offered him in the stables moments ago. Words meant little when conduct spoke otherwise.

  Jeebo took Migo’s reins to let Westhane dismount. The yearling shook his mane and danced sideways, flustered from the ride. Westhane reached out to stroke the horse’s neck, then flinched away when Migo nipped at his fingers.

  “He’ll get used to you,” Jeebo assured the boy. “Give
him time.”

  “Westhane,” Darion called, waving from the far side of the ring. “Come and break your fast with us. See your brother and me off on our hunt.”

  “Can I come with you?” Westhane asked, darting across the pen and hopping onto the fence. “I should enjoy giving my new bow a tug.”

  “When you’re older,” said Darion, ruffling his hair, “I’ll take you on a hunt all your own. Your brother is fourteen now. That’s a big step in a man’s life. Were he a page boy in the service of a castle, he’d have shortly been taken to squire.”

  “Draithon?” said Westhane with a laugh. “A squire? For a knight?”

  Darion chuckled, then stifled himself. “Don’t laugh at your brother. It doesn’t become you. Or so your mother would say.”

  Westhane didn’t let up. “I imagine that poor knight would need a squire for his squire.”

  Even Kestrel laughed this time.

  “That will be plenty,” said Darion.

  Westhane vaulted the fence and came to stand beside Draithon. “Do you want to see who can run home faster?”

  Draithon looked down at his younger brother, hardly more than half his height. “I’m not going to race you. That’s a child’s game.”

  “You should win handily, then.”

  Draithon shook his head. “I don’t want to run. I’d rather walk.”

  “Come, Draithon,” Darion said, prodding him roughly. “Humor him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wants to have a little fun. You won’t see each other for weeks. The least you can do is try to be friendly for a few minutes.”

  Draithon sighed and set his stance.

  “There,” said Darion. “That’s the stuff. Ready?”

  Westhane crouched and gave a nod.

  “Go.”

  Draithon bolted off the line, taking an easy lead on his brother. He slowed to a jog, thinking he could maintain his advantage. Next he knew, Westhane sprinted up behind him and knocked one foot inward to hook round the other. Draithon tripped and sprawled headlong into the grass. Westhane darted past him, laughing and pointing as he sprinted the remainder of the distance to the cottage to achieve an unopposed victory.

  Picking himself up, Draithon dusted off his grass-stained leggings and hobbled home while Father howled with laughter alongside Master Kestrel and Master Jeebo. “It goes to show you,” he heard his father say. “Give your foe the means to recover, and he’ll take you up on the offer.”

  Chapter 2

  Alynor watched them come, men and boys, to the breakfast fire. Westhane was laughing and full of energy despite having given young Migo a thorough ride. Draithon was limping on his right leg, looking weary and downcast.

  Alynor left the fireside to put an arm around her eldest son and help him to his seat. “Are you alright, dear?”

  Draithon gave no answer.

  “Here. Sit down.”

  Draithon settled onto a low stump by the fire. The early autumn morning was cool yet, but the day was shaping up to be a beautiful one; too beautiful to spend toiling at the hearth inside, certainly. Alynor studied her son for a moment before returning to the fire to stir the porridge kettle. Draithon had become increasingly moody of late, though Alynor attributed that to his adolescence. Her baby was growing up, changing from a boy to a man, and there was little she could do but watch and let it happen.

  Jeebo, Kestrel, and Darion were discussing their respective plans over the coming weeks when they came near. At the sound of their father’s voice, Ryssa and Vyleigh scurried outside to greet him with hugs round the waist and thigh, respectively. Darion squeezed Ryssa tight and kissed her on the head, then hoisted Vyleigh into his arms and nibbled at her cheek, eliciting giggles.

  Vyleigh grabbed his beard and gave it a tug. “It’s scratchy on my face,” she said with a child’s lisp.

  “Is it? Are you certain?” Darion asked, attacking her again.

  Vyleigh giggled and squealed.

  Darion put her down and gave her a pat on the bum, then sat heavily with a grunt. “Gods, I feel as if I’ve aged fifty years in the last ten.”

  Alynor ladled him a bowl of porridge. “Am I the one who’s added so many grays to your beard?”

  “One of several.”

  She frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You keep me young in other ways,” he said, giving her an affectionate pinch as she walked past.

  Alynor hopped forward in surprise. “You are a very wicked man.”

  “Am I? You said differently beneath the furs yesternight.”

  She gawked. “That is not for little ears to hear.”

  “They don’t know what it means.”

  “I do,” said Ryssa. “It means kissing.”

  Darion and Alynor shared a smile.

  “That’s right, my dearest,” said Alynor. “You are too clever by half.”

  “Will you break your fast with us this morning, Master Kestrel?” Draithon asked.

  “I’m afraid I must away home. Axli wishes to see the boys fed before we head out on the road.”

  “And you, Jeebo?”

  “I believe I will join you,” said Jeebo, taking his seat on an empty stump. “Fare thee well in your travels, Kestrel. May Faranion’s light smile upon you.”

  “So long as the weather smiles upon us and my boys’ cries don’t attract every beast in Tetheril, Faranion is better left to his own affairs. Good luck to you men of Ulther on what is sure to be a legendary hunt. Now Draithon, when you bring down your first stag, be sure to keep the antlers. They’ll bring you good fortune.”

  “Save a branch from every tree you hit too,” Westhane said through a mouthful of porridge. “I expect you’ll be fit to dam the river by the time you return.”

  Darion reached out and dealt Westhane a smack on the head. “Mind yourself.”

  “Boys who speak ill of their brothers do not receive second helpings of porridge,” Alynor added.

  Westhane changed his tone. “Draithon is a fine archer, and I am sure he will bring down many, many stags for our winter stores.”

  “That’s better,” Alynor said, ladling him another portion.

  As soon as her back was turned, Westhane smiled arrogantly at his older brother. Alynor caught the look and almost said something, but she decided to hold back. She wanted to see how Draithon would react.

  To her surprise, Draithon ignored Westhane’s slight and started on his porridge. It was an odd thing to see such fire in Westhane and such calm in Draithon. There were times and places for both, yet her boys seemed to possess opposing shares of each.

  Triolyn emerged from Kestrel’s cottage across the glen, twirling an empty coin purse on his finger. He was still in his bedclothes and did not appear to be aware of it as he came to the fireside.

  “Good to know there are those less prepared for today than I am,” Kestrel remarked as he headed off toward his family’s cottage, whistling a tune.

  “Do you plan to hunt in your whites,” asked Darion, “or have you adopted a new strategy I wasn’t aware of?”

  “Wha—hunt? Was that today? Gods, I’d nearly forgotten.”

  “More than nearly, by the look of it.”

  “I’ll be back shortly,” said Triolyn, making a sharp turnaround for home.

  “What’s with him?” Alynor asked.

  Darion shrugged. “We all lose our heads now and then. Triolyn has simply chosen an important day to lose his.”

  After breakfast, the two traveling parties saddled up and met on the knoll to say their goodbyes. Heading west to the Tetheri port cities to sell baskets and leatherwork and barter supplies were Kestrel, Axli, and their two young sons, Lund and Lupin. Darion, Draithon, and Triolyn were bound in the opposite direction, toward the Wayfarer’s Table and the abundance of game animals who roamed the highlands of that wild place. Remaining behind at the hamlet in the secluded glen for the next few weeks were Alynor, Jeebo, Westhane, and the girls. Ryssa and Vyleigh bid the travelers g
ood fortune and kissed the baby boys before running off to play in the fields.

  “Do you want to use my new bow, Master Triolyn?” Westhane asked, offering it up to him.

  Triolyn took the bow in hand and gave it a stretch, sighting down the middle. “This is a fine piece,” he said. “Whoever made it must’ve known what he was doing.”

  Westhane gave him a percipient smile. “You know who made it.”

  “I believe I’ve forgotten,” Triolyn said.

  Westhane laughed. “You made it for me for my name day. Will you take it with you?”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” said Triolyn, tossing it back to him. “I suspect you’ll need it more than I. You’ve your mother and sisters to protect, after all.”

  “Take care of our women,” Darion said, “and be good for Master Jeebo. I want to see that yearling of yours broken in by the time I return. If you’ve done good work with him, I’ll take you out riding.”

  Westhane beamed. He ran over to Darion’s horse and held up a hand.

  Darion leaned over to clasp the boy by the forearm and gave it a firm shake. “It’s settled, then. A deal well-struck.”

  “Well-striked,” said Westhane. He held on with both hands while Darion lifted him off his feet, then lowered him down again.

  “My, how you’ve grown,” Darion said. “Used to be I could pick you up in one arm and sling you over my shoulder. A few more bowls of porridge and you’ll be taller than your brother.”

  On the back of his horse, Draithon looked away, pretending not to notice the camaraderie between them. Were Alynor to wager a guess, she’d say it was the only thing on Draithon’s mind. Her heart went out to him.

  She couldn’t blame her husband for finding more to admire in their younger son than their elder. Darion and Westhane were alike in every way. They shared a love for adventure and sport and combat, while Draithon had a creator’s mind and a craftsman’s hands. Possessed of a sharp memory and a penchant for detail, he preferred to dream and envision and fabricate. And where his talents lay, there also rested his desire. Alynor pitied him, for she knew how much he desired his father’s approval. Yet she knew this was simply the way of things; no one could be held at fault for the way their children had turned out.