Brother, Betrayed

by Danielle Raver

  “Sire, did it harm you?” a soldier demanded from beside him, and Syah realized them again. He checked them, seeing they had approached the dragon with weapons ready. As he found his feet, the king’s attention returned to the dragon, nervous at its coming reaction to his men. But as his eyes met the dragon’s golden gaze, he saw in them something else. The soldiers looked back to their king, seeing the spell had come over him again. Before they could gain their courage to attack the dragon in an attempt to break its hold on their king, Syah recovered and spoke to calm them.

  “I’m all right.” The soldiers loosened when Syah spoke and stood on his own, but when the young king turned to them they gasped. His eyes were dripping red tears and his face was pale and hollow.

  “Sir…”

  “What did it do to you?”

  “We’re getting you out of here.” Syah felt them begin to take his arms again, surrounding him protectively.

  “Wait,” he said, taking hold of their hands and removing their grips. “It did not harm me. And it will not harm any of you, if you follow my instructions. Lead it into the cellar and bring it raw meat and water. We will need healers to aid us. We will have to cut him open in order to save him.”

  “Save him? What do you mean?”

  The soldiers looked back to the dragon, lowering itself to the ground, waiting. They turned as their king began to leave them, going back towards the castle.

  “Treat him with respect,” Syah told them as he walked away from them, “his name is Fimlarr.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  TORTURE

  Syah closed his eyes and pressed them a long moment, preparing for the burning sensation caused by communication with the dragon. He stepped inside, finding the immense beast that he had heard from the hallway. The beast turned to him, apparently having sensed him prior to his entrance as well. The king stopped before him, feeling apprehensive as he searched the beast’s eyes.

  Has the treatment reversed the injury? Syah asked privately, hearing the tenders he had assigned moving within the hall.

  Yes. The dragon answered and Syah tried to blink away the sting, the feeling was like placing a burn into hot water.

  You are welcome to stay for as long as you need.

  The dragon lowered its head in thanks. Then the ancient voice returned to the king’s head, twisting his words. As you need.

  Syah’s brows drew together. What did he mean? What do I need? The king gasped, and then tightened, lowering his head. Images, feelings flooded his thoughts. Flying free above the clouds. Perceiving enemies in the deep distance. Tearing down thick stones of a fortress with massive claws. Trapping a man in his grip and ripping him apart with powerful jaws. Syah relaxed as the images succeeded, frightened but alleviated at the beast’s memories.

  I have little use for that power. Syah tried to communicate his desire for solitude, for quiet to better hear the echo of thought and memory. The beast nodded, studying the king pensively. I hope you are comfortable here. This cellar should be similar to a cave you may have procured in the northern mountains. If you need anything, signal for an attendant and they will send for me.

  The dragon nodded again and turned away, seeming bored with the topic. The king watched it carefully lower itself to the stone floor. Until you need me. The beast closed its lustrous eyes.

  “You can’t seriously suggest that we keep it here!” Estone argued.

  “I’m not suggesting it. I am ordering it. He stays.”

  “Your majesty, it is a dangerous creature. It trusts you, but what about the rest of your people?” Of course, Denire would ask it.

  “He will not harm any of you. There is nothing to fear.”

  “How do you know?” Denire continued, and finally the king met his gaze.

  “It would bore him,” Syah answered, and found it difficult to restrain a smile. He continued, resuming seriousness, “Fimlarr is an asset. He will protect this castle, not threaten it.”

  The king felt they believed him, but he caught the eye of his mistress. Thea looked back into his gaze, and Syah guessed by her set, dark lit eyes that she saw past his words and knew why he truly kept the beast.

  Every thought had to be pulled through a drudge of weariness. He attempted to assemble the figures and reports in his head, weighing their captures against the accidents and the few injuries they had endured since their start of the conquest of the sea. But his reasoning was slow; words and thoughts were confused in his head as he examined the sketches and testimonies his men had collected. The king finally set down his papers and rubbed his forehead with his palms. What was wrong with him?

  His attention went to three black stones set with the clutter on the desk. He ran his fingers over them and remembered when he first found them. The sensation they elicited had increased since that day. Syah wondered if some power rested under their lustrous gleam. Did other objects hold similar power, and could he harvest it?

  The young king scribbled a few notes on loose paper, then returned to the reports from the sea.

  The door to his study was rapped and he stood, thankful for the reprieve. “Enter,” he said, stacking the latest papers and then turning to the entrance. The king stiffened, his attention sharpened, for the guard that entered was one he recognized, a soldier that had joined him to the black east, but something about him made Syah think of his father’s guard again.

  “Your majesty,” the guard said and lifted a rolled piece of parchment, “a message has arrived from your brother.”

  The young king hesitated, standing in shock of the unexpected. But then questions came, some he barely dared ask. Why would he contact me? What message could he possibly send? Syah reluctantly took the rolled parchment from his guard and stepped away. He thought about sending the guard away, but then was distracted by his thoughts. What if he needs me for something? Syah clenched the paper tightly. Does he… see error in his judgment and now wishes to forgive?

  Syah almost smiled, breaking the seal. Perhaps he has lost something in the castle and wants my advice. He imagined Oman and Fasime, missing him. Perhaps this is the first step in their reconciliation, and one day… they would be together again.

  It could be nothing. Some trivial matter. Syah unrolled the parchment, and was glad a moment, recognizing his brother’s penmanship, but then his heart sank and hardened.

  “What!” the guard heard Syah exclaim, and watched him hunch forward and begin to shake. The king fell limp, bracing himself on the table, but the guard saw him tighten and begin to crumple the letter within his clenched fist. Syah straightened, crying to the skies, blocked from their sight. But the thick stone ceiling only echoed his anger back to them. “Why!” Syah demanded, raising his arms in clenched fists above him.

  “Sire!” the guard pleaded, trying to quench his outburst.

  “The fool!” the king cried, taking hold of his papers and sweeping them to the floor in a rage.

  The guard feigned interfering, but sensed his own demise if he crossed the king in his frenzy.

  “How could he do this?” Syah demanded, and the guard found his king’s attention turned to him. “Who delivered this message?” The young king approached him quickly, and Syah’s hot cheeks and liquid eyes made the guard stammer in his response.

  “Anteria’s messenger, sire.”

  “Is he still here?” Syah almost yelled and was starting for the door before the guard responded.

  “Yes, we were holding him in the entranceway in case…” But the king was leaving him.

  Syah moved with fury, almost running, then elapsed the stairs two, three at a time. The five guards standing around the messenger at the base of the stairway grasped their weapons and surrounded the outsider after seeing their king’s expression with the delivered message in hand, figuring it was a warrant or death order by Syah’s reaction to it. The foreign soldier stiffened, but his hand did not move for his sword.

  “Stand aside,” Syah ordered hotly, approaching the Anterian messenge
r with accusation, distorting his face and tormenting his words. “Why did my brother send this?” the king demanded, gripping the messenger’s shirt near the collar. The Anterian did not answer. “Has he gone mad, sitting upon his lonely throne in his comfortable castle of Anteria?” Syah shook him, but the messenger’s lips remained pressed and his resolve seemed to strengthen below the young king’s rage. “Answer me! How could you let him do this?” Syah pushed him away, but was gripped by inner anguish before he could interrogate the messenger further.

  Syah forced himself to control his outburst. He waited a moment, feeling his heart pounding and watching the messenger check the mix of Gorusk warriors and Arnith traitors and then look back to him.

  “Tell your king,” Syah began again, more measured, “he shouldn’t dare invade Gorusk!” Syah’s soldiers shifted, empathizing now with his anger. “Tell him that there is nothing for him here! He’s a fool!” the young king exclaimed, stepping for the messenger again and throwing the letter at his feet. “How could he think I would threaten Arnith? I did what he sentenced me to; I’m an exile. What more does he have to take from me!” Syah’s demands faded and he paused in his rage, raising his head. “Wait,” he said, more to himself, and then looked to the messenger, seeing his refusal to speak and hint at his master’s designs. “Oman has heard of our guest.” Syah closely watched the outsider’s face, seeing a slight change in his expression, while his own face hardened with grim understanding. “My brother,” he said, “is afraid.” The messenger straightened. Syah leaned towards him. “And he should be afraid!” the king yelled, striking his hand down towards him. “Disarm him!” Syah ordered, and his guard obeyed quickly, but still gave their young king concerned glances. Syah stepped for the messenger closely, standing before his face.

  “Your majesty…” his soldiers began to protest.

  “I will let you have a look at our newest outcast. Bring this coward to the cellar!”

  They led the Arnithian messenger forward, not having to seize him as he complied, but his face was beginning to betray his fear. After Syah led them down the stairs, he turned and grabbed the messenger by the arm and forced him forward. The messenger found himself on his knees, looking up to a horrifying bulk of scales and muscle, waking and turning towards him.

  “See for yourself. What your king has heard is true!” Syah shouted, stepping towards the rising beast and looking back to the terrified, still Arnithian. “This is what awaits King Oman if he dares to attempt an attack on our lands!” Syah felt a beckon from the beast’s mind and he turned to its gaze.

  Do you wish me to shred his bones?

  Syah paused, considering it.

  No, wound him. Leave a scar that they cannot deny. Don’t create one so serious that would make him unable to travel.

  Yes, young king. The dragon told him, readying, and Syah turned from it. He walked past the petrified messenger.

  “Tell my brother that death is all he will find in Gorusk,” the king said before he left the room, and then walked past his guards up the stairs with his left arm clutching his right, hearing the echoes of pain, terror, and vengeance behind him.

  Chapter Forty

  KING OMAN

  “I told you not to speak his name!” Oman shouted, banging his hand upon the throne.

  “Yes, Oman, I know.” Fasime turned away from him and added uncommittedly, “I just want to know if he’s safe.”

  The king heard him. “Safe?” he chastised. “Safely festering his greed and his schemes?” Oman’s words drew Fasime around.

  “I know not what is in Syah’s heart,” was Fasime’s answer, “but he is my brother.”

  Oman raised his head despairingly at the younger.

  “You still care for him, you can’t say that you do not.”

  “He is no brother of mine,” the eldest repeated with offense, attempting to drown Fasime’s discontent with his willful gaze.

  Fasime let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know what his intentions were… whether he was foolish, or brave. But couldn’t we try reaching out to him? Give him some time?”

  “No, because he would snake his way in among us, waiting for the next chance to poison us again. And it is not just Syah that concerns me. If he were ever to bear a son, his heir would be a threat to Arnith, a product of the Gorusk savagery and Syah’s ambition.”

  “It was your command that sent him there!”

  “And would you have rather I killed him? Perhaps I should have, and we wouldn’t have to worry about him returning to conquer Anteria!”

  Fasime felt an indecisive pang and he debated the futurity of discussing it with Oman. “It just doesn’t make sense that he would move against you. It worries me to hear this news. I fear for him. What if the Gorusk have influenced him somehow, or are controlling him?”

  Oman was silent, looking upon something beyond the room. “And why do you wish him to return, when his intention was to overthrow me? Do you wish to be the next in line for the throne?” Oman stood.

  Fasime’s eyes widened. His chest tightened and he stepped back, shaking his head again, this time in defense. “Oman…”

  “What other reason would you want a traitor by me? Why else would you try to convince me of his innocence?”

  “Maybe because he is,” Fasime muttered.

  “And maybe you are not so innocent yourself,” Oman pressed. “You say you stood by as he took over command, but why did you do it? You had the charge of protecting the city. And you let him retain the soldiers that could have saved our father’s life.”

  “Oman, I had no…” But Oman didn’t interrupt him this time; his own thoughts did as they escaped inward. Did he?

  The king saw this on Fasime’s face, and his expression grew angrier. “I should banish you, just as I did him. You are not fit to linger here, to be an heir to the throne.”

  Fasime’s eyes went back to Oman. “I promise you,” Fasime said steadily, desperately, “my inaction was only based on surprise… for Syah’s will to control.” Fasime’s eyes lowered again.

  “Get out of my sight,” Oman ordered, turning away from him, “before I do something I regret.” Oman returned to the throne. Fasime turned and quickly left.

  “The discourse continues in the city, my lord. The people want for much since the Marrians and Rognoth laid siege to the castle and razed the surrounding farmlands.”

  “We defeated the barbarian rebels and sent them running like urchins with sounds of whips in their ears. The tribes no longer threaten the city.”

  “Your majesty, the barbarians still raid our outer villages, adding refugees to the overpopulation in Anteria. The people are protesting, King Oman, mostly out of hunger and desperation.”

  “Let them protest!” the king silenced them, tossing a small table near him and making the guards and officers conferencing with him all start. “If they insist on wallowing in their own misdeeds at a time when all of Arnith must recuperate and reestablish, then let them. If their mutiny begins to interfere with the progress Anteria must make, then deal with them.”

  The officers were quieted, all held by a statement that, collectively, they knew should be spoken. One of the elder advisors stepped forward, gathering his resolve as he spoke with uneven words. “King Oman, if your father were here, he would try…”

  But the advisor’s suggestion was muted by a sudden change that the statement evoked in the young king. “I am not my father!” Oman cried as he stood, his face flushing with the words and his eyes dazzled with anger. The officers and guards, standing in fear, still realized their king’s words, as they were to be taken as a statement of sovereignty, were perhaps perceived inferiority.

  “Leave me,” the kind commanded with locked jaw as he forced himself to reseat. His advisors bowed deeply, casting their gazes away from him as they obeyed. “All of you,” Oman added, and the guards came to attention, then bowed and left together.

  They left the throne room, their footsteps echoing off the stone
floor, and Oman was alone.

  He closed his eyes, lowering his head in his hands as he tried to steady his breath. He swallowed against the knot in his throat. He paced the hall, his footsteps muted in the immense space.

  They could be protesting in the city this moment. He chuckled at himself. The thought of it did not make him angry. He knew that his subjects’ disobedience should anger him, persuade him into action, but he had no desire to initiate it. He forced himself towards one of the mighty windows of the hall and gazed down upon his inheritance. Anteria seemed peaceful enough. The houses, the streets hadn’t changed. He could still spot movement of the commoners within them. The same view as ever seen from this vantage.

  Yes, but you know what treachery could be fostered down there. Oman turned away. And what am I supposed to do about it? They don’t protest for lack of food or shelter, they don’t protest out of fear or maltreatment. They protest because they want…

  Oman’s gaze was drawn towards his ancestors, carved in great slabs of stone, capturing their memory in eternal rigidness, gazing down upon their protectorate with all the air of glory and leadership they carried in life. “They want you.” Oman stated aloud, treading below and gazing up one to another statue. “They want their king. They want greatness. They want… majesty.” His face twitched a little. “How am I supposed to give it to them?” His attention turned to the next altar, left empty for eternalizing the current king, though the statue of his father had not yet begun to be constructed.

  As his gaze rose up from the empty base of the inset altar, he did see his father there. But it wasn’t glory he saw, it wasn’t command and promise. It was the sullied body of his father, propped up with the enemy’s spears, bloody, torn, weaponless, and its face, staring up and begging mercy from the fateful skies with its eyeless head and misshapen, gory jaws.

  Oman cried out, lifting his hands to his head and grinding his palms into his temples in an attempt to rid himself of the terrible images. He cannot help you. The king walked away, but he still left a part of himself there, gazing in horror at the true legacy of his father, just as he had left a part of himself in the past, in a battlefield, kneeling in shame beside a corpse.