The guard knew he had to be in the throne room. There, he found him, sitting in a grand windowsill, and his anxiety dispersed as instantly as it had come. As the guard approached, the figure straightened, turned but did not stand. The guard bowed and then saw the figure’s flushed skin and dry eyes. But they were the kind of dry that only comes after every tear has been purged from them.
“King Oman,” the guard stated, dulling the routine duty and tone of his voice as it vibrated the still silence, “the messenger you sent to Gorusk has returned.”
Stature and self-awareness returned to the king and he straightened, strengthening again. “Send him in,” he ordered.
“Guards have taken him within the castle, my lord.” The guard paused to affirm the attention in his king’s gaze, then hesitated, anticipating his response. “He is badly injured.”
“What?” King Oman demanded as he stood. He seemed to be gauging the guard’s honesty a moment, but then anger replaced his skepticism and he demanded, “Take me to him.”
“Yes sire,” the guard responded as he turned for the door.
Commotion was heard down the hallway they walked quickly towards. Oman came in view of soldiers grouped and arguing before the open door to a room. They quieted and bowed as he neared them, but the king did not respond, entering the room.
It was a horrible sight. It wasn’t the wounds, long and deep gashes revealed under stained bandages, but the look of terror on the victim’s face as he lay stiff and mortified across the bed, taking no comfort from bed, fire, nor company. His breath was quick and shallow, though not caused by pain of his wounds.
“Great skies!” Oman exclaimed, finally entering. The commotion in the room calmed and the wounded soldier’s eyes moved to the king, but his demeanor only worsened from the sight of him. “What happened?” the king demanded and approached the bed, examining the awful, strange wounds afflicted to his fellow Anterian.
The other soldiers began to answer, but the wounded messenger stalled them as his lips shook and stuttered in attempted speech. Oman stepped closer, grasping the soldier’s cold, tight, shaking hand.
“His name?” Oman asked.
“Falian,” a soldier answered.
The king nodded, leaning over his wounded messenger and attempting to restrain the terror with his command and presence. “Falian. Be brave, Arnithian warrior. Tell me what happened to you.”
The messenger tightened his jaw, struggling to swallow, but he kept his gaze on his king. Then Oman felt the man’s shaking grasp tighten around his hand. For a moment his perception was awakened. Awareness expounded in his form, and filled him with darkness. It tempted him, it denied in him. Perhaps he had caused it.
The spell had passed before any of the king’s soldiers noticed it, aside from the wounded, who perchance saw in the king’s eyes a faint pause of doubt. Or guilt. The man seemed to draw up his courage, his jaw shaking, but he finally uttered in half lucid tones, “Beast.”
The king’s face hardened and he looked down upon the messenger’s corrupted form, as if he angrily stared at Syah before him again. But then he shook his head, disbelieving.
“Beast!” the messenger exclaimed, and they all tensed at the tone of his words, as if he spoke of what awaited all men in the darkness after their final breath.
“It can’t be true,” a soldier muttered.
“It is true,” Oman affirmed.
“Don’t go there!” the wounded soldier cried, beginning to writhe as he was no longer able to look upon his king.
“But if it is, it means…”
“You’ll die!”
“We have to do something to stop him.”
“What if it attacks Arnith?”
“You’ll die…” the messenger strained to say, collapsing back to the bed.
“There’ll be no way to stop it.”
“It will kill anyone who…”
“Silence!” Oman cried and they all stopped and looked back to him, then down to the wounded soldier lying half-aware on the bed. “We will not speak of it in his presence,” the king commanded and grasped the soldier’s hand, going limp in his. Oman calmed his voice and leaned towards him. “You have done your duty well,” he said, and the soldiers responded to the king and some resumed tending to him while the rest gave way. “We will heal you,” the king said softly, seeing that he barely heard him. “Rest.” Oman set down the man’s hand, watching the man stare blankly at the ceiling.
The king turned away from him and checked the soldiers in the room. They stood, silent, solemn, and then watched him leave with dark purpose in his step. They followed their king out the door and then formed ranks behind him as he walked down the hall.
“Hail the officers, arrange an immediate council,” the king commanded.
“Yes sir,” they answered, following him towards his obligatory and inevitable reaction.
“Find the White Cane and bring him to the council chambers immediately, we need to know all about this beast that we can.”
“Right away sir,” one of the soldiers responded and broke away, the others keeping pace with their determined king.
“Find my brother, we’ll send him to regroup the northern army.”
“Yes sir.”
“And…” the king slowed, turned to face them, “double the guard on the walls. Don’t alarm anyone.”
They nodded, turning to follow him up the staircase.
Chapter Forty-One
RETRIBUTION
The king stared impatiently at the old man aside the table, leaning on the same gnarled staff he had wielded in the king’s youth.
“So you’re saying you don’t know anything about the beast my brother now harbors?” Oman demanded irritatedly, thinking a menacing tone might persuade a sensible answer out of the old man.
“The art of observation is a requisite for true understanding,” the White Cane answered, taking a long gaze of all of the warmongers surrounding the table.
Oman gave an exasperated breath and turned away from them. “Why can’t you give me a straight forward answer? Yes or no, that’s all I want to know! Do you know what kind of beast the Gorusk keep! Yes or no!” the king yelled, turning back to him threateningly.
The historian stared at the young king calmly, silent a long contemplative moment as if preparing for the transformation into dust when he uttered his next word. “No,” he answered at last and the air slackened in relief. Oman calmed, turning away. “But perhaps,” the mentor began again, “seeking the truth of the soul, one should rely on imprints found on those closest to the mind.”
The king turned back to him, breathing out his frustration. “What does that mean? You know where we can find what this beast is?”
“The youngest often confides in those outside the towers of paternity.”
The king shook his head, realizing he could solve the mentor’s riddle if he slowed his racing thoughts, but one of his officers interjected before he was forced to.
“I think, sire, that he’s saying your youngest brother may have told someone of his plans.”
“Someone in the castle?” he demanded.
“There often can be seen the field untended, searching where the chosen once should be.”
“The chosen? Do you mean my brothers and me?”
The White Cane’s head tilted in a slight nod and he looked away as if he contemplated leaving.
“Where the chosen should be… you mean the library? Whom did Syah talk to in the library, other than you?”
“He collaborated with a group of scholars from the city,” Oman heard from the other end of the table, and looked to Fasime, who he hadn’t noticed enter.
“Young scholars?” Oman asked after a moment. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen them working in the library. They still come, some days. I don’t know what they were researching for him,” Fasime answered.
Oman met eyes with a soldier near the door. “Find them,” he ordered, and the soldier nod
ded and left.
“What’s this all about?” Fasime asked, getting Oman to look back to him.
“The Gorusk are planning to attack us and we must prepare,” the king explained.
“What? That can’t be.”
“The answers we seek in others can often be found within ourselves.” Oman and Fasime both turned to their old teacher and looked upon him with contempt as he stared back at them dryly.
“Escort him out,” the king commanded, waving towards the old man. Then he turned to his brother and continued, “The messenger we sent to Gorusk demanding peace was returned to us barely alive. He had been attacked by their new beast.” He was aware of the White Cane leaving the room but did not look towards him.
“Oman, Syah wouldn’t attack Arnith.”
“He already has!”
“He could have just been defending himself.”
The king’s eyes narrowed and he let out a hot breath. “Leave me alone with him.” The officers and soldiers all hesitated. “Get out!” the king cried and they began to comply.
“How do you know that our brother means you harm?”
“Fasime, you go too far.”
“What proof do you have, other than your anger with him?”
Oman closed his eyes as he lowered his head, exhaling as he listened to the last of his soldiers leave.
“Fasime, I forgive you for your gullibility. Your reason has been clouded by your emotions. Your love for him has made you blind to the truth.”
Fasime shook his head, staring at his brother sorrowfully. “If Mother were here, she could talk some sense into you.”
“And why isn’t Mother here?” Oman returned, anger rising in his voice. “Think about it, Fasime. Who was with her when she fell ill? Who stayed with her all night, ordering herbs and potions? He probably poisoned her that night, to quicken his ascension!”
“How can you accuse him of that? You know how Syah grieved at losing her.”
“Was it grief or guilt he displayed?”
“That’s ridiculous, it almost broke him when she died.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” Oman said, making Fasime keep his gaze as he came around the table. “I remember him struggling and thrashing in agony. I remember him horror struck and diminished and empty. All signs we mistook, for they truly showed the death of innocence in his soul and the fulfillment of evil he had done.”
Fasime shook his head. “That can’t be.”
Oman stepped up to him, reached for his arm but Fasime avoided him. “Fasime,” he said and was still, “I don’t want to lose you because you couldn’t recognize the evil in him.” Fasime closed his eyes but Oman continued. “If you continue to vouch for him, to argue for him, and he attacks Arnith, then I can’t protect you anymore.”
“Don’t attack Gorusk,” Fasime said with sincerity and compassion that he hoped echoed in his brother’s heart.
“I’m not going to,” Oman answered, matching his brother’s tone and for a moment, seeming to connect with him. Fasime met his gaze and it was the Oman he knew, still troubled but present. “But I have to defend our borders from possible attack.” Oman stated, reassuming his role of king and going to his seat.
Fasime let out a frustrated breath and lowered his head.
“Where are you going?” Oman demanded, but the younger didn’t answer, walking away without turning around.
He kicked Lightning to go faster. It couldn’t be true. Syah couldn’t be so greedy. What of the love of his brothers? What of the love of his father, his country? Fasime’s mind remembered him lying face down on the knight’s bed, with the skin on his back flayed open and bleeding. Why… why did Syah do this? Will he return to Anteria? Would he try to seek the throne?
Will I?
Fasime closed his eyes a long moment, trying to refocus on the path ahead of him. This all started with her, with her corrupt words. She will know. I will force her to tell me. The angry thoughts spiraled through his mind as Lightning bolted through the woods towards the menacing cabin at the final border of Arnith.
Fasime stopped his horse and deciphered the peculiar building through the trees. He had found it, the cursed cottage, looking much as it did in his memory. He felt a sickening fear inside him, remembering the old woman and her words. If she had that power, could she hurt him? No, the anger inside him cried. “It doesn’t matter if she can hurt me, I’ll make her tell me,” he said aloud and he started his horse towards the cottage again.
Fasime dismounted near the door. It was apparent that someone still dwelt there, though no smoke rose from the chimney. The prince didn’t give Lightning his ritual pat as he stepped away from him, grasping his sword. His hand lifted to pound on the door, but he changed his mind and his hand went to the handle. He twisted it; it was unlocked. He threw the door open, all of his anger and frustration ready to be focused on the witch at last.
Fasime was about to draw his sword, seeing a figure in the same chair by the cold and dead hearth, but he held. He had made a mistake. It was not the old woman. He shuddered, he could have cut the girl before him. His eyes narrowed. He recognized the light, messy hair, the soft face… her eyes, wide, shocked, on him. He remembered her, the young girl that had sat beside the witch so many seasons before, smiling as the old woman told the story of the brothers’ demise.
Fasime gathered his anger once again and demanded hotly, “Where is the old woman?”
The shock eased on the girl’s face and she studied him. She set aside the cloth she had been mending on her lap. “I remember you,” she said, her voice soft, yet elusive, like a fleeting wisp of wind through the trees.
“Where is the old woman?” Fasime demanded again, moving closer.
The girl’s brows lowered in concern. She let out a slow cautious breath and answered, “She has passed.”
The anger in Fasime faded a moment. So you are too late. Then it returned, intensified. “You lie!”
“She passed three winters ago. If you still seek her, you’ll have to pass to the next world,” she said sarcastically. Then she stood, and Fasime saw that she was not a girl, but a young woman. Her strange and wild beauty made him forget the old woman, Oman, Syah, the entire story for a moment.
“So the old hag is gone,” Fasime stated, moving cautiously forward, close enough to grab her now. The young woman didn’t respond. Fasime advanced and took her arm, his other hand drew his sword. Her hands folded over his arms tightly but didn’t resist him. As his grip pushed her back, her body moved but she seemed to stay steady before him. “She is gone, but you can tell me.”
The girl, a little angry now too, cocked her neck. “Tell you what?”
“How did the old hag know the things she told us? Could she truly see the future?”
“Yes,” the woman answered, calmly meeting his fury.
Fasime’s eyes flashed as if they caught fire from the dark hearth.
“Did my brother mean to kill the king? Will he come back, seeking revenge against us?” Fasime demanded as he shook her.
“Sir, I do not know,” she pleaded, her voice shaking.
“You will tell me! Is Oman correct? Will Syah strive to become king?”
The woman shook her head. “Sir, I do not know.”
Fasime’s determination became more intense. “You are the woman’s daughter. You have to tell me, don’t you understand? Oman almost killed him!”
Her face betraying her fear, she glanced down to the sword, held poised in his hand. “I wish I could, sir.”
Fasime’s grip tightened on her arm and she winced. “No more stalling! Tell me what I must know!”
“I am not the woman’s daughter.”
Fasime’s face went blank, but only for a moment then he resumed his grip. “Do not lie to me!”
“She found me when I was a child and she raised me here. But I am not her blood. I did not inherit her gift. Please… you’re hurting me.”
Fasime looked down to his hand on her arm. He let her go.
> “I wish I could help you,” she whispered. “But the woman taught me nothing, and she has been dead for many moons.”
Fasime blinked at himself and then looked away. “I am sorry,” he said and withdrew from her.
The woman, grasping her arms to keep them from quivering, sat back down in her chair. “Her words greatly hurt you,” she said as Fasime backed up towards the door.
“You don’t know then.”
“No,” she answered.
“Then who will tell me…” Fasime lowered himself to one knee, his head in his hands and his sword forgotten on the floor. He tried to hold back the flush inside him.
“Her story, then, proved to be accurate.”
Fasime shook off the anger that tinged inside him. “Yes,” he answered.
“What happened to you?” she asked, softer, standing up.
Fasime didn’t answer, trying to shake away the feeling of despair. “Why? Why did she have to tell us those things?” He stopped when the woman knelt in front of him and placed her hand on his arm.
“Was it the words or their truth that caused you such pain?” His eyes lifted, numbed, and met hers. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“Can no one help me?”
She had no answer, so she bowed her head. She sat before him, her hand remaining on his arm and him breathing heavy, blinking back tears. The stillness settled upon him and he realized his surroundings; the soft, constant creak of the partially living hut, the lingering strange and wild smell that reminded him of mushroom stew that was oddly comforting in its memory, the warmth and emptiness…
“Are you here alone?” Fasime asked. The young woman met his gaze. “How can you live in his silence?”
He watched her shrug deniably, sensing resistance in her response. “Do you never wish for companionship? Do you never long for someone talk to?” She nodded again, her brows coming together. Fasime sighed and placed his hand on top of hers. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”
Brother, Betrayed Page 36