A King's Caution

by Brennan C. Adams

  “Yes.”

  Eledis sighed through his nose. “Why, Marcuset, I do believe you’re trying to take advantage of my inebriated shtate!”

  “Answer the question, Eledis!”

  Aghhhh! He wanted to tear his friend’s throat out sometimes! “Yesh! If I need to kill Raimie to reach the end goal, I’ll do it!” Eledis growled. “But I don’t want to. If Raimie follows his role in the shcript, then he’ll live a long, happy life, probably with Ren. They can have a horde of filthy Eshelan brats together. Or maybe it’ll be with ‘Saya. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

  Tilting the bottle back, he drained it all, uncontrollably coughing as its liquid went down.

  “That’s what she wanted?!” Marcuset whispered. “To marry him?!”

  Eledis nodded. “We thought we were sho clever burning her journals when we needed to escape her notice. Don’t we look the foolsh now?”

  Resting his head against the doorframe, he’d almost dozed off when Marcuset spoke again, and sleep dogged him even with his friend’s insistence on conversing.

  “So, as long as Raimie hands over the throne at the end, you won’t try to kill him?” he asked.

  “That about sumsh it up. I doubt Raimie will want to keep the thing anyway, and I think I desherve it after all these years, don’t you, Emri?”

  “Don’t call me that,” his friend grumbled. “That name’s attached to a life I’m trying to forget. You should too, Eledis, but I know you never will. You cling to your name like it’s your last buoy in a hurricane, but I’ve chosen to discard mine. I’m Marcuset now.”

  “Fine,” Eledis yawned. “Shince we’re on the shubject of names, why’d you choose such a shtupid one for these people?”

  Marcuset groaned. “I wanted Marcus, but this current era holds a silly naming convention which rules human monikers must contain at least three syllables. The way I am now, I was forced to take a longer name rather than something with which I'm comfortable. Hence, Marcuset instead of Marcus.”

  Eledis guffawed, the intensity of his laughter driving sleep to the fringes for the moment. “Oh, I can imagine your first meeting in the Ada’ir court:

  “’Hello, my name ish Marcus,’ you shay, introducing yourshelf.

  “She looksh at you in confusion and your extended hand in distaste. ‘Marcus…?’ she asks.

  “Shit, you think, godsdamn humans and their shtupid rules. What do I shay to tack on a third syllable? And the name Marcuset was dragged from your reluctant lips.”

  “That’s remarkably accurate,” Marcuset admitted with a smirk.

  “I’ll never let you live your choice down,” Eledis snickered.

  “You’ve obviously not had enough to drink,” Marcuset thundered over Eledis’ renewed laughter. “Let’s fix that!”

  Another bottle appeared in his hand, and the two of them eagerly set upon it.

  The next morning, the house’s owner would find them passed out before her door, and her outraged screams would wake the block.

  Chapter Thirteen

  4th of Sixth, 3473

  I am a married man.

  Alouin, it felt so good to put that to paper I think I’ll do it again. I’m FINALLY married!

  My wife has lived with us for the last six years, and while I’m grateful for that time, for the chance to get to know her and grow to love her, I’m ecstatic to put it behind us.

  The woman is perfect in every way. She’s smart, she’s funny, she enjoys falconry and reading-some of my favorite activities-and she’s gorgeous. Her impressive dowry may have helped me surmount my initial reluctance to our engagement, but I couldn’t care less about it now.

  Since our wedding night, I’ve learned exactly what type of woman she is in bed. She’s voracious, adventurous, every man’s dream.

  I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her. Perhaps she’s Alouin’s blessing upon me in place of a splinter’s presence. If so, I’ll take her. I’d trade the powers a splinter bestows if only I’m allowed to keep her-

  Aw, how sweet! Isn’t my husband a gentleman? You’ll have to excuse us, diary, because the crown prince has an urgent appointment in my bed.

  Wind violently ruffled Raimie’s hair as he dashed through the forest. A relentless flood of once abandoned memories simultaneously scoured his mind. Facts which, for a lifetime, he’d clung to as legitimate shattered upon the truth’s disclosure.

  His memories preceding his ninth birthday, the ones which concerned the forest, the farm, and Fissid, glimmered and puffed like smoke. Climbing trees in the forest was replaced by skipping across Daira’s rooftops. Happy dinners with mama on the farmstead, laughing while father finished dishes, was displaced by tense meals in their manor house, worrying whether Aramar would survive his Queen’s mission. Learning to trade for grain in Fissid was smothered by observing Eledis negotiate with yet another rebellion’s leader.

  Once his past’s underlying base had successfully morphed, detailed recollections rose in a barrage.

  His first memory was of Nylion. Mama taught them their letters, writing out a sentence before having them copy it, but she only ever addressed him with her instruction, completely ignoring Nylion. His other half grew ever more petulant with each snub, and he decided to intervene before Nylion’s irritation bled over onto him.

  “Nyl makes pretty letters too, mama,” he told her.

  Perking up, Nylion beamed at him for the praise. His other half was ever eager for acknowledgement. Their accomplishments never garnered Nylion admiration. Only him.

  “Your imaginary friend?” mama asked. “I’m sure he does, beautiful boy. Why don’t you show me?”

  “Would you like to take a turn?” he asked Nylion.

  His other half eagerly nodded, and he gave permission. He watched through their eyes as Nylion precisely copied mama’s example. Compared to his wiggly scrawl, his other half’s reproduction was an exact replica by the time it was finished.

  “See, mama? I write pretty letters too!”

  They grinned, keen to hear her approval. She made a choking gasp, her hand flying to clasp her mouth. They couldn’t determine if the retching noises she made were compliments or vilification.

  “What are you?” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.

  “We are NylRaimie,” they said.

  With a sob, she smacked them so hard they fell to the floor. When their head cracked tile, they blacked out.

  The time when bumps and bruises began.

  He was four, and his education had already begun. While mama observed from her corner, he failed to provide the correct answer to his history tutor’s question. He flushed a deep red at mama’s disappointment, but his shame was forgotten when the tutor angrily advanced on him.

  He blanked for several hours, and when awareness returned, mama soothed the welts across his knuckles and back.

  A bubble of light and laughter interspersed the relative darkness of his first nine years.

  Auntie Kaedesa threw an extravagant party for the advent of his seventh year. Everyone attended: mama, Eledis, Auntie, Lysinthir, Oswin, Silivren, Uncle Marcuset. Remembering to call Uncle something other than Emri proved a difficult challenge when protocols were relaxed and his guard was lowered, but he managed it, to his quiet pride.

  Even father showed his face, released from his duties as spymaster for his son’s birthday. It was one of those rare days when mama was happy, when the tutors were banished, and when Nylion didn’t assume control. He went to bed that night without a single hidden bruise or cut.

  The realization he wasn’t quite normal.

  “You master the blade at a surprisingly quick rate, young Raimie,” Bryruned panted.

  After a lengthy sparring session, he’d backed the weapons master into a corner, and Bryruned had conceded.

  “We thank you,” he said, lowering his blade.

  Bryruned’s weapon was sheathed, and they collapsed to the ground. Today had demanded an extensive training session. This evening, he’
d participate in his first mission for the Hand. After its successful completion, his weapons training would move away from the formal fighting style he’d learned over the last four years. Now that he could duel and spar with the best nobles, the time had come for him to learn the crude weapons and uncivilized styles which would keep him alive while he served the Hand.

  “WE thank you?” Bryruned asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “You gave us praise,” he answered. “Why shouldn’t we thank you? We’ve diligently trained with you for years, and in that time, you’ve imparted not a single compliment. After the events of last month, we weren’t sure if you could forgive us.”

  “Raimie, everyone knows you didn’t mean to hurt Heritren. Release your guilt, boy. He wouldn’t want it from you.”

  Bryruned’s words did nothing to soothe his remorse. He reached for a water bladder resting nearby, hastily raising it to quench his thirst. Bryruned watched him while he guzzled.

  “You said we again, Raimie,” the weapons master grumbled after a moment.

  Why was Bryruned so focused on which words he used?

  “We’re supposed to refer to ourselves as I, remember?” Nylion whispered.

  That’s right. The childhood lessons mama had imparted for as long as he could remember had faded in the rush of battle. He’d never understood her insistence on the singular pronoun. ‘I’ seemed such a useless word. When was anyone alone enough to require it? For that matter, what was ‘alone’? The idea of being solitary was alien, something he held at arm’s length. He pitied any poor bastard caught in such a life, apart from his other half.

  Mama had insisted he pretend he was alone, that he only use ‘I’, and frankly, he was sick of the sham. Why must Nylion hide in the shadows? In a fit of pique, he cast mama’s lessons and warnings to the side.

  “WE, Bryruned. We would like to know if we can go home. Nyl and I have much to prepare for tonight.”

  The weapons master recoiled as if facing a viper. “Fucking hell…” he murmured.

  “Oo! Is this another curse? I like it! Fucking hell, fucking…” he repeated it to himself to commit it to memory.

  “GET OUT!” Bryruned roared at him, rising with hackles raised.

  The weapons master began to advance. He’d seen the look on Bryruned’s face before. He knew the pain which came with it. That knowledge made his choice simple. He fled.

  The epitome of his youthful mistakes.

  He was six, and he’d learned much in the two and a half years since his education began. Easily riposting Heritren’s swing, he used the light to dance around the swords master, giggling the whole way. Heritren rounded on him, pressing the attack until his student’s back was to the wall. The older man smirked, confident of victory, and he returned that smile.

  He bound the light in his feet to first the wall and then the ceiling until his opponent stood beneath him, well out of sword’s range. He beckoned for the weapons master’s attack.

  In response, Heritren reached for his belt and tossed a brace of throwing knives at him. He’d no hope of dodging all the knives, and the drop from ceiling to floor was at least ten feet, precluding that method of evasion. Either way, pain came for him. In a panic, he released a wave of dusk to halt the projectiles, but once it had accomplished its purpose, clattering steel to stone, he forgot to dismiss it.

  The dark wave speeded toward the swords master, and although the older man was fast enough to sidestep and mitigate the damage to his vital points, the shadows tore through his arm, removing it at the shoulder.

  He screamed. At the sight of so much gushing blood, he lost his grip on the light holding him to the ceiling, and the stone floor pummeled his plummeting body. He woke, hours later, with a concussion, a broken collarbone, and the burden of the harm he’d inflicted.

  That memory integrated with such a wrench Raimie tripped. Failing to recover, he tumbled for several yards before coming to a stop on his back. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, not all caused by the fall.

  “Is it over?” he groaned.

  One more, heart of my heart, Nylion’s voice whispered.

  Daira’s streets raced beneath his feet as he fled his pursuer. Beyond, Nylion urged him to move faster, to sprint on and on and on.

  The sea wall halted his escape. He frantically searched for somewhere to hide, some obstacle to slip through, something to climb.

  His pursuer’s furious cries reached his ears, and he grimaced. He’d tricked mama into thinking he’d taken his medicine this morning. The stuff was awful. He didn’t like it, and Nylion HATED it. Skipping it for one day had been a secret relief, but mama had found out. She hadn’t been happy. How did his tiny deceit warrant this violent of a reaction?

  Pounding feet sounded behind him, and he bolted to the left.

  “Up here, Raimie!” Nylion called from atop an isolated pile of crates which perched on the sea wall’s edge. “She is a terrible climber.”

  What a truth. Many had been the hours he’d listened to her frustrated screaming while on rooftops. Maybe he could once more wait, out of reach, until her temper cooled.

  Leaping for the lowest box, he pulled. A hand grabbed his dangling leg, and the additional weight knocked him off balance. His fingers lost tension, and the hold on his ankle lasted long enough for his chin to hit the sea wall, his teeth gnashing through his lip, before it released him. Stars accompanied him on his tumble into the sea.

  Water closed over his head before he could think to breathe. His arm uselessly dangled after a particularly rough slap against the wall. When he tried to swim, pain nearly made him faint, but he was lucky only his arm had suffered injury. He could just as easily have splattered on the rocks at the wall’s base. Blinking stars away, he kicked and somehow managed to surface.

  The towering sea wall was much further away than he thought it should be. A face stared at him from among the dozens of people bustling atop the precipice, and he tried to scream before water sucked him in again. Thrashing his legs, he struggled to keep his head afloat.

  “Mama!” he wailed. “I can’t-”

  The water claimed him once more, and when he fought free of it, he coughed and sputtered, sobbing loudly.

  “Mama, help!”

  He lost her among the ships crowding the nearby pier. The current dragged him ever closer to it, and fear propelled his limbs in a vain attempt to circumvent water’s efforts to dash him upon the pilings.

  “Raimie!” mama shouted. “Use the light, and grab my hand!”

  She stretched dangerously far from the pier’s boards, one hand reaching for him. Grasping at the light, he shot it from his body, desperate to reach her, but he’d never before used the light while swimming. He hadn’t accounted for water’s drag against his body when he burst from the surface. The amount of light he’d expelled didn’t gain him nearly enough height. Even still, he futilely stretched for his point of saving grace.

  The tips of their fingers touched, and he clenched at the contact, but momentum dragged him further than he’d expected. The counter-weight above him tilted before he smashed into wood.

  When he broke from the black, confusion greeted him first, followed by agony. He screamed.

  “Do not let her go!” Nylion shouted above him. “I did not save her worthless life for you to end it due to weakness.”

  His mind struggled to clear the haze, and it faded enough for him to understand their predicament. He clung to buoyant material, a life raft of some sort, and Nylion sat cross-legged atop it.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Mother offered the first act of love and kindness she has ever given us, and as is typical for her, it backfired. She fell, hit her head, and flopped atop us just as I took over. Almost dragged us into the depths with her, the bitch,” Nylion explained. “I had the good sense to snatch a batch of passing driftwood before the tide swept us out to sea, and here we are.”

  Nylion expansively gestured at the open ocean.

  Mama hu
ng from his arm. That explained the pain. He tried shifting her to their tiny raft, but she sank, helpless to stay above the water’s surface while she remained buried in unconsciousness.

  “What do we-?”

  “It will soon be dark. Use the light. Perhaps we will encounter luck, and a passing merchant vessel will spy us.”

  Nylion always had the best suggestions. He gulped down more light than ever before, holding it inside his body, and prayed to Alouin it would be enough.

  He kept mama aloft with his broken arm, clinging to driftwood. The clumsy curses he muttered under his breath helped drive pain back, allowing him to stay conscious. He’d have to thank Bryruned for teaching him the pathetic expletives if he ever saw the weapons master again.

  “Help!” he screamed, taking a short break from cursing. “Mama, please wake up.”

  The whisper carried loudly over the quiet slosh of water.

  Time passed, and the sky turned orange and purple. By the time stars came out, cursing couldn’t hold pain at bay anymore, and he lazily floated in water, holding just enough to consciousness to maintain his grip on his mother.

  “Mama, why were you chasing us?” he mumbled. “Is me taking your medicine that important to you? Even when it makes Nyl disappear?”

  “She hates me, heart of my heart,” Nylion’s voice floated through the haze. “I am the source of her shame.”

  Mama said nothing, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. Something obstructed his view of the pinpricks of light above, and voices shouted in the dark, but he couldn’t summon the energy to call for help. He was forced to solely rely on the light blazing from his body, willfully ignoring the fact that it hadn’t helped earlier. He sleepily hummed a lullaby, indulging in the illusion that mama had fallen asleep and he was the one putting her to bed tonight.

  Her weight lifted from his arm, and it screamed in protest at the change in position. He mumbled his own protests at whatever had shaken her from his grip. Sluggishly, he kicked to move and slapped at the water nearby, searching for her.