Children of the Sun
Linda Winstead Jones
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Children of the Sun, Copyright 2007, 2015 by Linda Winstead Jones.
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Contents
Prince of Magic
Prince of Fire
Prince of Swords
The Prophesy of the Firstborn
A darkness creeps beneath Columbyana and the lands beyond. This darkness grows stronger each and every day, infecting those who have an affinity for evil. As it grows stronger, it will also begin to affect those who are of weak mind, and eventually it will grow so strong no one among us will be able to defeat it. If this darkness is allowed to grow to this point, the world is doomed to eternal shadows, where evil will reign.
Only the firstborn children of three fine women [later translated as Fyne] have the power to stop the darkness and restore the world to light. These firstborn will be the warriors who lead the fight. Our fate rests in their hands, and in the hands of the armies they will call to them.
Of the three fine [Fyne] warriors who are called to this battle, one will find and wield the crystal dagger. One will betray love in the name of victory. And one, the eldest, will die at the hands of a monster who will hurtle a weary soul into the Land of the Dead.
Many monsters will rise from among us in this unholy war, soulless monsters such as the world has never seen. Heroes will be born and heroes will die. Death and darkness will threaten all those who choose to fight for the light.
Scribbled in the lefthand margin, in an almost illegible hand:
Beware Serrazone
and beside it,
He who walks through fire may show the way.
Scribbled in the righthand margin:
Those who are called must choose
between love and death,
between heart and intellect,
between victory of the sword and victory of the soul.
The remainder of the prophesy is illegible scribbling and indecipherable sketches. A scraggly tree; a bird with wings too large; a flower; a heart; a dagger [The crystal dagger, perhaps?]. Do they have meaning or are they simply a dying old man’s insignificant doodles?
Prince of Magic
Chapter One
The emperor was dying.
Emperor Arik had been on his deathbed for months, but it was a well-kept secret. A few ministers were aware of his condition, as were two of his priests. Other than that handful of trusted men, only one woman knew how grave the situation had become.
Ariana Kane Varden had been the palace healer for a little more than two years, since just after her twenty-fourth birthday. Against the wishes of her parents, who both had bad memories of the Imperial Palace in Arthes and wished for their daughter to stay far away from the cursed place, she had rebelled and answered the emperor’s call.
“Drink this, my lord,” she said, offering the thin, aging man a cup of steaming hot liquid.
Today the emperor felt well enough to sit by the window and look out on his city. It was not a cool day, yet his legs were covered by a thick blanket to ward off the chill he felt. He took the cup with hands too frail for a man of his age. He was years yet from sixty, and yet at the moment he looked as if he might be a hundred.
“Do you think he’s out there?” the emperor asked before taking a sip of the bitter liquid that was keeping him alive.
Ariana knew very well of whom he spoke. Arik’s only child, Prince Ciro, had been missing since the first cold night of winter, months ago. Summer approached rapidly, and still there was no sign of the prince and heir. It was for that reason that no one outside the palace could know the emperor was so very ill. If he died without an heir, the country would once again be thrown into the chaos of war, as ministers and warriors and distant relations tried to make a case for taking the throne.
“I’m sure he is, my lord,” Ariana said kindly.
Arik turned his head to look up at her. He was very ill, but there were moments when the spark in his lively eyes belied his condition. Now was one of those times. “You lie no better than your mother.”
Ariana did not care for being compared to her mother, and the man before her knew that well. But he was the emperor, and was therefore entitled to speak his mind. “We cannot know where Prince Ciro is, my lord,” she said honestly.
She was not the only magical servant in this palace. In the months since Ciro had disappeared, Arik had called to his side many who embraced magic. Thus far, none of them had been able to shed light on the mystery of what had happened to his son.
Ariana’s gift was not divination, so she could not offer assistance where Prince Ciro’s fate was concerned. She was a healer, taught at her mother’s knee from the age of four to remove pain, prolong life, and restore health. Some of this was accomplished through the use of herbs and magical spells, but there was more to her gift than chanting and mixing potions. There were times when the healing power came alive within her, and all that was needed came from a magical place deep inside.
She’d tried to heal the emperor in that way, but so far had been unsuccessful. He said that some things were simply meant to be, but she refused to accept that answer. She would try again... and again. Her efforts were barely keeping him alive. She was beginning to suspect there was more to his infirmity than age or a simple, explainable illness. If an unknown dark magic was making him ill, it was no wonder that her healing abilities were insufficient.
Arik finished his medicine and handed Ariana the empty cup. “You would make a fine daughter.”
Her heart leapt, but she did her best to hide the reaction. It was not the first time Emperor Arik had mentioned his desire that she marry his son, the heir to the throne. At least the emperor had never commanded that the match take place. If Ciro was found and Arik so ordered, what would she do? She could not, would not, marry the prince.
“As I’ve told you, my lord, I will never marry.”
He smiled wanly. “Yes, you’ve said that many times, but I don’t believe you. When the right man comes along, you will change your mind. You could learn to love Ciro, with time. He might be that right man, Ariana.”
She had met with Ciro a number of times before he disappeared, usually thrown together by his father, the emperor, whose intent was plain to see. Ariana did not know the prince well, but her instincts were finely honed and she was quite sure she would never be able to love such a spoiled, arrogant boy. Most males could be considered men at twenty-two, but not Ciro Elias Brennus Beckyt. He would forever be a boy. Arik had spoiled his only
child, as had everyone else in the palace. Ariana supposed the prince had been doomed from the start.
“Perhaps Prince Ciro will return to the palace with a fine bride who will become a wonderful daughter to you,” she offered cheerfully.
“I suppose that’s possible,” the emperor said, and yet he did not sound as if he believed his own words. Something was wrong. They all felt it. “I should’ve married after Cylia died. I should’ve had lots of children, the way your parents did.”
Ariana shuddered at the thought. There were nine Varden children. Six girls and three boys. As the eldest, Ariana had helped to raise them all. She had tended the younger ones, changed more than her share of diapers, bathed them, fed them, and taught them. When the Fyne sisters had one of their frequent reunions and Aunt Juliet’s six children and Aunt Isadora’s three had been added to the mix, the chaos had been unmanageable. And there Ariana was, the eldest of all the cousins and the one who was held responsible for every spill, prank, and fuss. It was no wonder she so often argued that she did not want children of her own. She’d already had a hand in raising seventeen!
“You are young still, my lord. When you’re well, you can find yourself a young bride who will give you all the children you desire.”
The emperor didn’t answer. He knew, as she did, that this illness was killing him. Besides, if he’d had the inclination to remarry, he would’ve done so long ago, when his young wife had died. He must’ve loved his Empress Cylia very much, to grieve for so long.
They did not discuss the blatant lie that the emperor was young enough to breed another heir before death claimed him, as Ariana laid her hands on his shoulders. She attempted once more, again in vain, to draw out the illness which was slowly and surely killing him.
***
Sian paced impatiently, boot heels clacking loudly against the stone floor. His eyes remained focused on the closed doors of the emperor’s suite. If not for the presence of half a dozen armed guards, he would storm the suite in spite of the sentinels’ insistence that the emperor was not to be disturbed. He could make his way inside no matter how diligently they tried to stop him, but it might get his visit off to a bad start.
“This is quite important,” he said under his breath.
“So you have said, sir,” one sentinel responded calmly. “When the emperor is finished with his business, we will announce you. Perhaps he will see you. Perhaps not.”
The words were meant to rile, he imagined, but Sian did not respond. He had no doubt that the emperor would see him.
“What was your name again?” another green-clad sentinel asked.
“Sian Sayre Chamblyn,” he said, his teeth all but clenched.
“Your business with the emperor?”
“I will discuss my business with him. No one else. What’s taking so long?”
One of the sentinels smiled.
Sian had not been to Arthes and this palace for many years. He’d been caught between being a boy and becoming a young man when he’d experienced the wonders of the Imperial Palace for the first and last time. Little had changed since his visit more than twenty years ago. He’d been told that during Emperor Sebestyen’s reign the royal family had resided on the top floor. Level One. At that time there had been a wondrous lift to transport those of importance ten floors up, but the man who had the keeping of the machine that powered the lift had disappeared during the last day of battle in the War of the Beckyts, and Arik had never set men to work on reviving it.
Since shortly after Arik had become emperor, the royal family had taken up residence on Level Nine, which would have been the second floor in a normal house. Of course, much in this palace had changed since Arik had become emperor.
Sian remembered running up the winding stairway, all the way to Level One. No one had resided there at that time. There were too many bad memories on the top Level of the palace; too much bad energy. He’d heard rumors of secret passageways and hidden doors, but as a boy he had not been able to find them. Perhaps they didn’t exist, but were merely tales, much like the tales of Emperor Sebestyen and his many unfortunate empresses.
Sian suspected most of the tales were exaggerated, but there had to be some truth in them. Odd that a good man like Arik could share blood—a father—with a man as evil as the long-departed Emperor Sebestyen.
Finally, the door to the emperor’s room opened, and a pretty girl stepped into the hallway. She quietly closed the door behind her, as if she’d left the emperor sleeping and did not wish to disturb him. Sian noted that she was tall, for a woman, and possessed unruly, curly blond hair and a curvaceous figure any woman would envy and any man would admire. As she turned, she revealed a flawlessly beautiful face and lively green eyes.
“I’ve been left waiting for the emperor to finish his business with this piece of fluff?” Sian asked harshly. “I told you, my purpose here is momentous.” He had expected that at the very least he’d been waiting for the exit of a highly placed minister or perhaps a priest.
The woman turned to look him in the eye. She started visibly, as many people did when they first saw his face. It was the eyes that gave her pause, he knew. “What did you call me?” she asked.
“Fluff,” he answered without hesitation. “The fate of the country hangs by a thread, and I am left waiting in the hallway cooling my heels while you service your lord and master. The least you could do is to be quick about your responsibilities.”
She was not outraged. Her slowly spreading smile was one of amusement, not anger or seduction. Perhaps she was not a concubine, after all. What was her purpose, then?
One of the sentinels entered the emperor’s suite to announce Sian’s presence. Sian waited impatiently to be summoned. The woman who had just left the emperor continued to study him with curious eyes.
“The fate of the country, you say. Do you care to elaborate?”
“To you? No.” Sian stared at the door as if willing it to open. How would the emperor receive him if he barged in before being summoned? He was sorely tempted to find out.
“Emperor Arik does not receive many visitors these days,” the woman said cordially. She took a step closer to him, unafraid and openly curious. “He’s very busy. What makes you think he will see you?”
“He will see me.”
She looked him up and down, taking in his travel-dusty black clothing and the disheveled black braid that hung over one shoulder. He likely made a sharp contrast to her, as she was very clean and appropriately dressed in a pale gray frock which was pressed and free of road dust. Perhaps he should’ve bathed and dressed more properly before presenting himself to the emperor, but he hadn’t felt he had the time. No, there was no time for niceties. This message was important. Dreadfully so.
The blonde reached out and touched Sian’s cheek. He almost recoiled; he was not accustomed to the touch of strangers. The caress was light and easy, not at all threatening or seductive. It might be the touch of a mother, or a sister. A caretaker of some sort, surely.
A healer. Yes, he knew the touch of a healer when he felt it. There was power in that tender touch, and though he did not share her power, he could certainly sense it.
“Dirt,” she explained as her hand dropped. “One cannot be presented to the emperor in such a sad condition.”
Before he could respond, the door opened. The sentinel who emerged closed it again, and walked solemnly toward Sian. It wasn’t until he reached the weary traveler that he said, almost reluctantly, “The emperor will see you now.”
With more than a touch of impatience, Sian lifted his right hand and twisted the fingers. The double doors to the emperor’s chambers opened swiftly and fully, banging back against the stone wall with great force. The sentinels in the hallway stepped cautiously away from him, awed and frightened by his display of magic.
The woman didn’t react at all. She didn’t even flinch. Sian strode toward the emperor’s chamber, making his way through the opened doors to find the man he sought sitting by the windo
w. Good God, Arik looked so old and feeble. No wonder he had need of a healer.
One of the sentinels tried to follow Sian into the room, but he had been stunned by the display of magic and lagged behind. Sian turned, and with another twist of his fingers, the doors closed as forcefully as they had opened. The latch fell into place, leaving him alone with the emperor behind locked doors.
His last glimpse of the crowded hallway was of the blonde’s impassive face.
Alarmed, the sentinels began to pound against the door. Sian knew that if they succeeded in gaining entrance to the room, he was a dead man. That couldn’t happen. Not yet.
“It’s all right,” Emperor Arik called in a voice that was loud enough to carry, and yet sadly weak. “Sian is a friend. Stand down.” The pounding stopped, and Arik smiled. “Always the showman. I see nothing has changed.”
“I wish that were true,” Sian said. In fact, everything had changed, or would in the days to come.
“Your mother?” Emperor Arik asked, his voice touched with melancholy. “How is she? I used to hear from her regularly, but over the past few years the letters came less and less frequently. It’s been a long time since I had a communication from her.”
“She’s been gone almost five years.”
The emperor seemed to flinch, though so mildly it was difficult to tell what had happened. “I’m sorry to hear that. I liked your mother very much.” Sadness showed on his too-thin face. “I should’ve heard of her death, but you live so far from Arthes and we had lost touch. She did write now and then, but I was not the best at answering those letters. I must confess, the years fly by too quickly.” He sighed tiredly, as if he felt every one of those years. “I always thought I had more time, I suppose. Your grandfather?” Arik changed the subject abruptly.
He passed away three weeks ago, but not before penning a final prophesy,” Sian answered. “I promised him that I would deliver it to you.”
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