Children of the Sun

by Linda Winstead Jones

  The thin old man still didn’t strike her as being at all fearsome, but he was mightily afraid of Prince Ciro. Jiri would not help her in any way, not if he thought the man who commanded him might be displeased. When Ciro had left this servant in charge of her care, he’d promised to drink his blood and eat his soul if he failed. That wasn’t possible, she was sure of it, but Jiri seemed to think that the threat was a real one.

  Jiri wasn’t frightening, but there were others... others who remained above stairs, others who were devoted to the prince. She heard them often, their boots pounding and their laughter grating. There were many loud arguments, and daily noises which sounded as if they were literally tearing her home apart. These others never ventured into the cellar where she was imprisoned. For that, Rayne was grateful. Their distant laughter caused a chill which danced in her blood and down her spine.

  Even though she was a prisoner, Ciro had gone to great pains to see that she was relatively comfortable. Her bonds were not too tight, though the shackles rubbed her wrists raw when she fought against them. There was a fairly comfortable if smallish bed, a few books, candles which were replenished as necessary, and plenty of food. In the early days of Rayne’s imprisonment, a few of the maids who’d worked in this house before Ciro had incarcerated her had remained. These female servants were always skittish, and Rayne could understand why. They’d constantly sported bruises and small cuts on their hands and faces, injuries they refused to speak of when she asked. They’d brought food, and they’d helped her with her awkward baths, but there was none of the easy banter she remembered from the days before all had changed. Like her, they were helpless. The frightened girls followed orders, and were too afraid to so much as speak to the woman who’d been their mistress for many years. They didn’t even dare to whisper.

  The maids hadn’t lasted very long, in spite of their devotion to their duties. In those early days, when Rayne still had hopes of escape, she’d sometimes heard screams from above. For many weeks past she’d heard only the soldiers. The women no longer came to her. It was now Jiri who fetched her food and water, and she saw to her own bathing with the inadequate rags and water he provided. She tried not to think of what had happened to the maids who’d done nothing to deserve their fate, but she knew in her heart that there was no one left to scream. No one but her. She was afraid her screams would bring the men from above down into the basement, so she remained quiet. Quiet and doomed.

  Rayne’s view through the one high, narrow window of the basement signaled the time that had passed. Summer had come and gone. She’d spent an entire season chained to the wall of her own cellar. Autumn, with its cooler winds and changing leaves, was upon them. What had become of her garden? She could not imagine that any of the coarse men above stairs would’ve bothered to tend it. Without watering and weeding and loving attention, her garden had likely perished long ago, the flowers wilting and the vegetables drying on the vine. Such a shame.

  Perhaps it was silly to worry about something so meaningless as her plants, but it soothed her to think of her garden. Rayne had always loved her time outdoors. She relished digging her hands into the dirt and watching things grow. Her mother had introduced her to gardening at a very early age, and in truth Rayne could not remember a time when she had not tended a garden or two. If she cared enough she could urge things to grow even here, where the ground was often rocky and unfriendly.

  Perhaps she’d loved her time outdoors because this house, her father’s house, had always been oppressive in a way she could not explain. It was as if the air were heavier here, as if someone were always watching, as if something was always wrong. It was a fine house with many comforts, and still, she had never cared for her home much, especially not after her mother’s death had taken all the light out of it.

  Even now she remembered vividly the hours she and her mother had spent outdoors; she remembered the flowers they had grown, the vegetables they had nurtured, and the hours of freedom away from this house.

  Being of agreeable spirit, Rayne had bided her time, taking comfort in her hours out of doors and dreaming of the day when her father would arrange a suitable marriage for her. When she had her own home, she would fill it with love and light, as her mother had tried to do here. Even if it was much smaller and plainer than this home where she’d been born and raised, she would make it agreeable.

  That simple dream had begun to fade long before she’d been imprisoned. Rayne was almost twenty years old, and her father had never mentioned marriage. In the weeks before she’d been trapped here in this cellar, she’d begun to fear that her father intended for her to marry Ciro. Those two had spent much time together, locked in her father’s study. Her father was a talented wizard who had always openly mourned the fact that his daughter, his only child, possessed no magic. Perhaps Ciro was a wizard as well as a prince, and when her father and the man who called her “beloved” were alone, they honed and practiced their magic.

  The wizard Fynnian, who grieved because his daughter had no magical gifts, might’ve been planning to demand that she produce gifted grandchildren who would follow in his footsteps.

  Rayne wanted no magic in her life. She wanted a simple marriage with an ordinary man, but that was likely a foolish desire. Her father would never allow her to marry anyone ordinary or simple.

  Since the age of fifteen, she’d more than once thought of running away, but when faced with reality, she’d always been too afraid to confront what might await her beyond the walls of this home. In all her life she’d never been forced to fend for herself, and her father had always painted a bleak picture of the world that existed beyond these walls. She’d been spoiled horribly. Did her father realize that making her dependent upon him and his servants would keep her tied to him? Or was she simply weak of character? Her skittish nature had never before seemed to her to be egregious, but now, trapped as she was, she wished she’d been braver. She wished a thousand times that she’d followed her instincts and taken her chances in facing whatever awaited beyond the walls of this house.

  Rayne looked again at haggard, elderly Jiri. Though he had worked in this household for many years, he was now Ciro’s servant in a way she could not explain. She remembered the last time she’d seen Ciro, and she wished with all her heart that she’d run away from this place when she’d had the opportunity, that she’d taken a chance at discovering what lay beyond these walls.

  As if her father would’ve allowed that to happen.

  Ciro, who was young and handsome, well dressed and well spoken, had no life in his eyes. At first glance he was every young girl’s dream, with long fair hair and lovely blue eyes, but when one looked into those eyes and saw only darkness, that dream became a nightmare. She could not think of anything else but those dead eyes when she remembered him. Those eyes and his last words to her, words that had followed a cold kiss and a terrifying grab at her breasts.

  “We will be married,” he’d said with confidence. “There will be a priest of my choosing in attendance, and we will have a few witnesses as our guests. And if you do not happily agree in front of them all to be my wife, I will kill them one at a time until you do. I’ll start with your father, if he lives that long.”

  Her father had left this house with Prince Ciro at summer’s outset, and she could not help but wonder if he had survived. There was no goodness in the man who claimed to love her. There was nothing even remotely human in the eyes of the man who called her “beloved.” Rayne could very well imagine Ciro taking her father’s life without a moment’s regret. Perhaps if she and her father had been closer, she’d know somehow if he lived or not. More than eight years past her mother’s death, there were times when Rayne was sure she felt her mother’s spirit near her. She did not think she would sense her father’s spirit in the same way, if indeed he were dead. A daughter should know, shouldn’t she?

  The sounds from above changed. A distant shout spoke of fear, but it was not of the type she had heard in the past.

&nbs
p; Rayne glanced up, even though all she could see was a plain wooden ceiling reinforced in many places with sturdy rafters. As she watched, the ceiling shook slightly and dust drifted down.

  Metal met metal, clanging even though the conflict was far away. Sword fight! This was unlike the brief skirmishes she had heard from above in months past, when those men fought among themselves. This was more intense, and it spread and continued long after a burst of temper would’ve ended. She was not the only one who realized that something had changed. Jiri drew a short sword of his own, but he did not run up the stairs to join the battle. Instead he placed himself before Rayne and adopted a defensive pose, ready to take on any who tried to rescue her.

  Rescue. This was the first moment she’d dared to think of such a possibility. The house her father had built long before her birth was isolated and high in the mountains, no one knew that she was being held prisoner, and Jiri had told her that the men above were fearsome fighters sworn to do as their prince commanded. Even if anyone did attempt to rescue her, it was unlikely that they would succeed.

  Did she dare to hope?

  “Jiri, there is no reason for you to stand guard as you do.” Rayne spoke in a calm voice, even though her heart pounded hard and she had not known calm in many months. “If the men above are defeated, then you do not stand a chance of winning against the intruders. You are a gardener and a carpenter, not a swordsman. If someone you do not recognize comes down those stairs, step aside. Surrender.”

  “I cannot,” he said evenly. “You are to remain pure for Prince Ciro. No man is to come near his beloved before he returns to collect you.”

  Pure? Ciro himself was anything but pure, so why did Jiri seem so adamant that he was to protect that attribute in his intended? “I’m sure he would not want you to sacrifice your life. There are many other women in the world. I can be easily replaced.”

  The old man turned to look at her, and she saw the depths of fear in his eyes. “No, it must be you. The prince told me so, you see, before he left. You are pure of soul and heart and body, and you must remain so until he gives you a child on your wedding night. Why do you think the men above have not come down here in all this time? Why do you think Prince Ciro has allowed me to keep my soul thus far? He does not trust his Own to guard you. He’s afraid of what they might do to you in a moment of rage or lust.”

  Rayne shuddered. She hugged herself with trembling arms, and the chains which bound her to the stone wall clanked gently. “What has Ciro promised you in return for this betrayal? What does my sacrifice gain for you?”

  “Everything,” Jiri whispered. “When you are wed to the prince, my wife and child will be returned to me, whole and alive after all these years in the Land of the Dead. There will be eternal life for all of us, and we will live together in a place so beautiful it would take your breath away, were you allowed to see it.”

  “You know what kind of man he is,” Rayne whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you would sacrifice me for a promise that is impossible. The dead do not come back! There is no eternal life on this earth!”

  “Ciro said...”

  “He lied!” Rayne insisted. “Do you really believe that a man who threatens you as your prince did would reward you in such a way?” She yanked at her chains in frustration. “Release me, and while the others are fighting, we can escape.”

  “I can’t,” Jiri said. “Ciro will know. He knows everything, and there is no hiding from those eyes. If I fail, if I run, he won’t just make me pay, he’ll take out his anger on the souls of my wife and child. I cannot allow that. I failed them before, when I let them die. I can’t allow that to happen again.”

  Jiri was lost in his illusion that his long-dead family would be returned, that they could be threatened by whatever Ciro had become, when in fact the dead were the only ones safe from such a monster.

  The sounds from above gradually faded, as the fight waned. Who had won? Did it matter? Even if the invaders defeated Ciro’s men, would they be any better? Would their victory mean her rescue, or would she simply exchange one jailer for another?

  The door at the top of the stairs opened, and solid footsteps pounded on the stairs. Rayne did not know what fate awaited her, but she was about to find out. Her mouth went dry. Her heart beat in an odd rhythm, as if it might stop functioning at any moment. After all she’d been through, it was unexpected that she could still experience such fear, but there was great fear in the unknown.

  A bald and sturdy middle-aged man was the first to set foot in the basement where Rayne was kept prisoner. He held a long-bladed sword stained with blood, and wore loose pants, scuffed boots, and a purple vest which revealed a hairy chest and muscled arms. He’d been cut on one arm but ignored the bloody wound. The man was sweaty and breathing hard as he quickly surveyed the cellar and lifted his sword to challenge Jiri.

  “Step aside, you old geezer.” His oddly accented voice was rough and too deep. “I don’t want to harm you but I will if I must.”

  “I will protect the prince’s beloved with my life,” Jiri said, his voice and his sword shaking,

  The armed and bloody man sighed. “You can keep the girl. We have no interest in her. We want the crystal dagger, that is all.”

  So much for rescue. “Please, sir,” Rayne began, wondering if the rough-looking man had a heart beneath that broad, hairy chest.

  “Silence, wench,” the swordsman said without taking his eyes from Jiri.

  “I am not a...” Rayne began haughtily, and then they were joined by yet another of the intruders.

  This one was not middle-aged or bald. He was so handsome he took her breath away. His dark hair was cut very short, and while he had muscles, they were not quite as oddly bulging as those of his companion. He was dressed in a similar fashion, in boots and dark pants and a purple vest over a well-formed but hairless chest. It must be some sort of uniform, but she was not familiar with the markings on his vest. The handsome man with narrowed eyes that seemed to see everything was much younger than the gruff bald fellow, and yet it was immediately evident that this new arrival was the man in charge. “Wench,” Rayne finished in a whisper.

  The bald man nodded toward Rayne. “I have found Prince Ciro’s beloved,” he said, his tone dry and disrespectful.

  “She is promised to the prince; she is his betrothed,” Jiri insisted. “Leave her be.”

  The younger man responded with a slight lifting of his eyebrows, and then he, too, readied his sword.

  Jiri realized that he couldn’t defeat the two men before him. For a moment, Rayne thought he would surrender, but she’d underestimated his devotion to—or his fear of—Prince Ciro.

  “No one else shall have her,” Jiri whispered.

  The intruders were prepared to fight. They were not prepared for Jiri to turn the sword he wielded on the woman he had sworn to protect. All Rayne saw was the sharp blade of Jiri’s sword moving closer to her throat so quickly she couldn’t even find the time to scream.

  ***

  Lyr had long ago sworn not to use his gift in battle unless there was no other choice. After all, it was an unfair advantage, and there was greater nobility in victory won on an even battlefield.

  When a woman’s life was in danger, what choice did he have? He drew his power into a ball in his gut, and waved his sword in a sweeping arc. Time stopped. Time did not stop for him, but all else froze. Only he and those things he touched remained mobile. Above stairs all was silent, as footsteps and distant banter ceased. The birds which had been flying beyond the small cellar window stilled in midair, their wings and their song silenced.

  Segyn had prepared to rush forward, but he would not have been fast enough. The old man’s blade had swung too quickly, and the tip of that blade came within a hair’s breadth of touching the girl’s pale, slender throat.

  Lyr stepped toward the girl. He’d been riding for weeks, and with his mission dominant in his mind, he had not so much as thought of a woman until
this moment. She was fine, this one was. Very fine. Ciro’s wench was petite and dark-haired and fair of skin, with rosy lips and nicely swelled breasts. There was an air of innocence about her, though he doubted very much that air held any truth. She was Ciro’s woman, and likely as much a beast as her betrothed, appearances aside.

  With an easy hand, he moved the tip of the threatening blade away from the girl’s throat and shifted the old man’s body slightly. He tipped Segyn’s blade aside as well. After all, it was possible the old man might know something about the dagger they had come here to collect, so it was best that he not die immediately.

  Before swinging his blade again and setting the others into motion, Lyr took a moment, only a moment, to study the girl. Was she one of Ciro’s Own, the soulless creatures Keelia had warned him about? If that was the case, why was she chained to the wall? She was a captive, and this dank cellar was her prison. She was also Ciro’s beloved, his betrothed, his future bride.

  She had parted her lips to scream, but the old man’s sword would’ve cut that scream short. Now it would not. Lyr studied her fine lips, parted and soft and full and tempting, and though he had promised his mother he would use his extraordinary gift only in cases of dire emergency, he took a little extra time to trace the girl’s lips with his fingertip.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered. “So tempting. Too bad you’ve aligned yourself with a soulless fiend.” Chains or no chains, she was Ciro’s and therefore the enemy in this important war.

  Lyr stepped back, swinging his sword as he did so and allowing time to move forward once again. The old man stumbled forward and his steel blade met the stone wall. Segyn lurched and tripped, then circled about with an expression of disgust on his face. The girl screamed, but then she stopped suddenly, surprised into silence to find herself still among the living. Beyond the small window, a bird cawed. A step from above which had been stopped in mid-stride sounded. Lyr easily knocked the old man’s once-threatening sword aside, then placed his own blade so that the geezer could not move without bringing about his own death. If the old man moved forward, Lyr’s sharp blade would slice easily through his throat.