Resistance (Ilyon Chronicles Book 1)

by Jaye L. Knight

  Outside, the horses and Tyra waited quietly for them. They’d drawn interest from some of the servants, but no one ventured too close. Mounting, they rode out of the courtyard and set out to the east. After a few miles, the farmland of Landale gave way to forest once more. When they entered the cool shadow of the trees, Warin glanced over his shoulder to say, “This is it. Home.”

  Jace set his eyes on the surroundings. Having the word home assigned to this unfamiliar stretch of woods sent pain burning through his chest. Only one place had ever been home to him, and nowhere else could claim that distinction.

  They followed the road for a time, but eventually Warin veered off, and they rode deeper into the woods.

  “We never take a direct route,” he told Rayad, who rode beside him, “just in case someone is following. Everything depends on secrecy.”

  The two of them fell into conversation about the camp, but Jace followed a few strides behind and focused on the forest, so different from the wooded land surrounding the farm. There, the forest had been predominantly evergreens—tall, majestic pines that had been his companions on some of his hardest days. But here it was maple and birch with a few ancient oaks towering among them. Gentle, sloping rises and falls marked their path. Lower areas held water rippling with frogs and water striders.

  It made a peaceful setting, yet none of that peace transferred to Jace. Every hoof-fall that brought them nearer to camp turned his stomach into a churning, burning cauldron. He’d made the wrong choice. He was almost certain of that now. Nearly all people considered him an outcast—a creature to avoid. Why would this situation be any different? No matter where he went, people would fear and despise him.

  Consumed by this, it took him a moment to notice the large hollow that appeared ahead, cradling a handful of small tents and half-finished cabins. He pushed himself up straighter as his muscles tensed. The scent of smoke hung in the air from a central campfire, and men milled around the tents. Most eyes locked on them, and Jace battled the need to turn and hide in the woods. If he did retreat now, he probably wouldn’t stop until he made it back to the farm.

  The men gathered to meet them as they drew near, but parted to let one man come forward. He wasn’t much older than Jace and sported short chestnut hair and a beard. His green eyes sparkled as he grinned and gave Warin an enthusiastic greeting. “Welcome back, my friend.”

  Warin dismounted with a satisfied smile. “Good to be back.”

  He was quick to introduce Jace and Rayad to the baron’s son. Trask greeted them with the same enthusiasm and welcome.

  In the midst of the exchange, Jace caught the eyes of one of the other men. Older than Trask, he too had short hair and a beard, but black. His intense gray eyes scrutinized every detail about Jace. The urge to look away and hide his differences nearly overwhelmed him, but he held his ground. A slow-growing hostility hardened the man’s face until it transformed into a scowl.

  “You’re a ryrik!”

  All eyes went first to the man before swinging to Jace. He drew himself up, but his mind conjured images of all the slave yards he’d ever been sent to—all the fearful or disgusted faces closing in around him, all the murmurs condemning his bloodline.

  The other man’s gaze snapped to Warin, his voice rough with accusation. “You brought a ryrik into camp?”

  Any fighting spark of hope Jace had for this new life died in that moment and left a hollow emptiness inside him. It was just what he’d expected. And with this confirmation of all he feared, he sank that much further into himself, already re-erecting the walls Rayad spent the last three years helping him tear down.

  After the initial shock of the outburst, Rayad stepped in to his defense. “He’s not a ryrik.”

  “Of course he is.” The man turned to his companions and gestured at Jace. “Just look at him.”

  Voice rising with the tension, Rayad said, “He’s only half ryrik.”

  Eyes went wide and looks passed around. The hard lump in Jace’s stomach worked up into his throat. Now he wasn’t just something feared, but something unknown and unnatural. They all stared at him, and heat prickled up his neck.

  “Half ryrik?” the dark-haired man repeated incredulously. But his face only hardened again. “What difference does it make? We can’t trust him.”

  Trask broke in, his voice firm and authoritative, the spark of good humor gone. “Holden, that’s enough. Warin is well aware of the peril of our situation. That should be enough for you.” He turned to Jace. “I apologize.”

  Jace’s eyes remained on Holden, who took a step back as he ran his hand through his hair and muttered under his breath.

  Trask continued his interrupted welcome, saying to Rayad, “I hope you’ll make yourselves comfortable here. It’s not much yet, but we’re hoping to make it a safe haven for those seeking shelter.”

  Rayad responded, but Jace finally gave in to the urge to turn away from all the staring eyes. Why did he always have to be a spectacle to people? He walked to the packhorse to get Tyra, one of the only things he had left to bring him any comfort. He lifted her up and set her gently on her feet, but the coiling in his gut warned of things to come.

  “Stay close,” he whispered.

  He steeled himself before straightening and returning to his place near Rayad. Tyra followed at his side, and Jace winced at the noticeable reaction that swept through the men at the sight of her. Some reacted more than others, but none so much as Holden. His eyes grew wide, and he stepped forward again, his fierce gaze alternating between Trask and Warin.

  “A black wolf? First him,” he spat the word as he looked at Jace, “and now a black wolf? My lord, you can’t agree to this.”

  Trask frowned. “Why not?”

  Holden’s jaw fell open. “We can’t have a black wolf in camp.”

  “Surely you’re not turning back to those old stories and superstitions.”

  “How do you know it’s only superstition? That animal could very well be possessed with a demonic spirit.”

  Heat burst through Jace’s chest and worked down his arms. He clenched his fists. To fear Tyra was one thing, to call her demonic was quite another.

  “She’s just a wolf,” he ground out. “She’s not possessed by anything.”

  Holden glared at him. “So says the one with ryrik blood.”

  Jace’s muscles twitched with the instinct to hit him. Had they been alone, he likely would have, but Rayad touched his shoulder and reminded him that they weren’t. The urge remained though, and his fist squeezed tighter.

  “Holden, I said that was enough.” Trask stepped between the two of them now and faced the other man down. “Your opinions are your own, I can’t change that, but I will kindly ask you to keep them to yourself in this matter. The wolf can stay. I’m sure she won’t be any trouble.”

  “She won’t.” Warin looked around to assure everyone. “She’s perfectly well-behaved.”

  Holden sent Jace one more menacing scowl—the kind he had learned always led to future confrontation—and then stalked off to brood. Jace glared after him, and bitterness rose up to collapse his throat. Welcome back to life. It was just as cruel and unjust as he remembered. Once again, he would have to live every day watching his back.

  With Holden gone, Trask went on to introduce the remaining men. They gave polite greetings, but the way they eyed Jace left no doubt of their mistrust. Most kept their distance. Trask nodded to one of the few who hadn’t.

  “Mick, you and Warin can show them your tent.” He looked at Rayad. “We fit four men to a tent right now. It’s not luxurious accommodations, but it’s a start.”

  A burning coal lodged between Jace’s ribs. From his first private room to a tent. Another piece of the life he’d known at the farm stripped away.

  “As long as it keeps the rain out, that’s all we can ask,” Rayad said graciously.

  With a smile, Trask motioned across camp. “I’ve got a few things to see to, but we’ll talk later.”

 
The group dispersed and left the three of them with the man Trask had called Mick. He was shorter than average and thin, yet strong, with a mop of dark blond hair. It was difficult to determine by his observant eyes what he might be thinking, but at least he didn’t look at Jace with suspicion.

  “You going to help us with these horses, Mick?” Warin asked with a smile.

  “Sure.” He spoke the word without much clue to his feelings in the matter.

  The men grabbed the reins and led the horses deeper into camp, toward one of the far tents.

  Along the way, Warin nudged Mick with his elbow. “You’re not afraid of having Tyra around, are you?”

  The young man glanced at the wolf, and Jace gauged his reaction.

  “I’m not afraid of demonic spirits and superstitions,” he answered. “Haven’t seen too many wolves as pets though.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s real gentle,” Warin told him. “And look at it this way. We’ll have the safest tent in camp.”

  A bit of a smile grew on Mick’s face. “Oh yes, we won’t have to worry at all about being attacked by raccoons or anything like that.”

  Both Warin and Rayad chuckled, but Jace didn’t share their humor.

  At one of the pale canvas tents, Mick threw back the flap. Four straw pallets lay inside with just enough room for their belongings and not much else.

  “Here it is,” Mick announced. “Home sweet home.”

  Jace closed his eyes in a grimace. That word. If he had to hear it one more time, he just might snap.

  Kyrin drew in deep, calming breaths, but butterflies bounced off the walls of her stomach. The moment had arrived—her first day on the job. Everyone told her it would be simple. All she had to do was observe as the emperor listened and settled disputes between the citizens of Valcré and report any pertinent information to one of his advisors. But what if she made a mistake? What if she missed something important? Something that endangered the emperor?

  The butterflies transformed into bees as cramping pains darted through her abdomen. The pores on her back tickled with moisture. She tried to swallow, but her throat dried up. Afraid she would be sick before her work had even begun, she shook her head and whispered to herself. “Just relax and remember you’re not alone.”

  Her father had reminded her of this before he’d left the previous morning.

  With him in her mind, she set her eyes ahead and drew back her shoulders as she strode down the hall. At least a few days of regular use had given her more confidence in her heels.

  The first order of business this morning was to meet with Daican’s secretary, Henry Foss. She’d had no previous interaction with the man to prepare her. Apparently, he disliked dining with the rest of the staff. They’d called him a sour old man at the table last night. A lot of good this did for Kyrin’s nerves.

  She found him at his desk outside Daican’s office—a hunched little figure with perfectly combed, yet thinning gray hair. A pair of spectacles perched on the end of his round nose as he scowled down at a document.

  Kyrin took a couple of timid steps nearer, but even the tap of her shoes didn’t gain his attention. She cleared her throat. “Mister Foss?”

  His head snapped up, and he squinted at her before pushing the spectacles back up the bridge of his nose with one finger. The scowl never left his face.

  “Yes, what is it?” he demanded, his voice scratchy and a bit high-pitched.

  “I’m Kyrin Altair. I was told you would give me the specifics of my duties today.”

  Foss looked her up and down through his lenses before emitting a long-suffering sigh and grumbling something unintelligible as he slid out of his chair. He came around the desk and stood in front of Kyrin, revealing that he was actually a few inches shorter than her.

  Eyes narrowed, he gave a huff. “Come along with me.”

  They left the room, and Foss moved at a quick pace, talking nearly as fast.

  “You will be situated behind the emperor with a good view of the proceedings. Obviously, watch for anyone suspicious. Also, pay attention to the faces. After you’ve done this a few times, take note of any recurring individuals. If you have anything to report, Sir Richard will be present, and he will pass it along to the emperor should he deem it necessary.”

  Kyrin nodded at each point, though Foss didn’t so much as glance back to be sure she understood.

  They arrived at a side door to the throne room, but a heavy, red velvet curtain hid the view. When they emerged from behind it, Kyrin found the enormous, marble-pillared hall full of people and guards, and still more waited beyond the doors at the far end. Today was the one day a week commoners could bring their disputes and complaints before Emperor Daican. Kyrin’s head went a little fuzzy at the sight of the crowd, but she had to recover quickly as Sir Richard met them. It was hard to tell which was worse—the crowd or the man. But she would have to get used to working around him. Perhaps he wouldn’t seem so cold once they grew familiar with each other.

  Wrinkling his nose, Foss peered up at Richard and said, “I’ve explained her duties. She’s your problem now.”

  Richard’s eyes narrowed, but Foss had already turned to march back out of the throne room. Now Richard’s gaze slid to Kyrin. She swallowed, hoping he didn’t notice the reaction, and worked mightily to hold his slicing gaze. Trying to find some of Kaden’s bravery inside her, she gathered up her scattered composure. This was her job now, and she would not be intimidated. But maybe she would just forgo getting to know him.

  He jerked his head and spoke in a low growl. “This way.”

  She followed him without delay, but concentrated on moving with as much grace as she could manage in an attempt to mimic Lady Videlle’s walk. With so many eyes watching her, one misstep could lead to unimaginable humiliation. And not just for herself. What would it say of Daican’s choice of her should she display such clumsiness in the public eye? How displeased would he be? Her heart became the butterfly now, fresh wings beating frantically to stay aloft.

  They passed behind the tall, gold-overlaid throne. Kyrin briefly observed its magnificence, but didn’t let it distract her. Richard stopped at a chair a couple of feet behind and to the left. Next to the royal splendor of the throne, this wood seat was pitifully plain. A fitting picture of her circumstances. But at least it had a cushion, and she would not have to sit on hard wood all day like the learning benches at Tarvin Hall.

  “You will observe from here.” Richard gestured to the chair and left her standing alone as he walked off to speak with others of Daican’s staff.

  Kyrin took a seat and smoothed her skirt as she thanked Elôm that she hadn’t made any serious blunders yet. She rested back in her chair and glanced up at the high, arched ceiling before focusing on the crowd again. Hopefully, they would perceive her as little more than a background fixture and forget her presence.

  A low buzz of murmured conversation and some back-and-forth sniping filled the chamber. Kyrin lowered her eyes from the many disgruntled faces to study the different clothing and accessories. Those closest to the front were noticeably well dressed—richly, in some cases—with brightly colored silks and velvets, and an array of jewel-encrusted gold and silver jewelry. Not just the poor sought to gain audience with the emperor on days like this, but also the rich who bore no titles. And, apparently, their money gave them preeminence.

  Kyrin looked past these people to those beyond the doors. There, the more ragged commoners waited. How many would actually get a turn to speak before the day was done? She drooped in her chair, feeling sorry for them and herself. It was going to be a long day.

  A sudden hush swept through the room, and Kyrin straightened. Just to her right, Sir Richard announced Emperor Daican’s arrival. Dressed in splendid royal robes of Arcacia’s national colors, a shining gold crown resting upon his head, Daican crossed the dais and took his seat on the throne. Davira glided in behind him. Her cool eyes slid over Kyrin once before she tipped her chin up and claimed the smaller thro
ne to Daican’s right.

  “Bow before your emperor,” Richard’s voice boomed out.

  Movement swept across the room as all bowed.

  This marked the beginning of the proceedings. One or two at a time, guards issued people forward to a partitioned area at the foot of the throne to make their cases. From her position, Kyrin had a clear view of each person. Men squabbled and raised their complaints—nothing of any significant importance to anyone but themselves. Still, she dutifully studied each one, their mannerisms, expressions, and movements. Plenty of hostility came through, but only for each other—nothing to cause concern for the emperor.

  This drew out through the morning. Kyrin continually had to remind herself not to slouch or let her mind wander. She drew a head-clearing breath and pressed her shoulders back against the chair as she glanced at the emperor. Only his arm was visible from her position. He spoke little, listening to the outcries of injustice and then settling each argument with a few brief words. No one argued with him, and people left either smug or sullen.

  Servants brought wine and trays of delicacies to the emperor and his daughter. After a couple of hours, Kyrin’s stomach grumbled. If only she’d been able to manage more of her breakfast. They did grant her a short lunch break, but it was straight back to work after that.

  Midafternoon, three men came forward. One had all the trappings of a wealthy position, but the other two—an old man and one not much older than Kyrin—wore little more than rags. The rich man stepped forward first and bowed before the emperor.

  “My lord, these men have borrowed a great sum of money from me and now refuse to repay it.” He glanced squint-eyed at the other two men.

  “That’s not true.” The younger man took a step forward with flashing eyes, like Kaden’s when he was upset. “We—”

  He fell silent when the older man touched his arm.