Soulseeker

He shaded his eyes, fighting the headache that was beginning to form, tension radiating through his body as Arran put an arm about his shoulders and steered him forward. Rian bit back a hiss of pain from his wounds at his brother’s touch.

  As his vision slowly adjusted, he could see the group of men ahead of them and his body stiffened, his steps faltering.

  He had heard of the Zala, but never seen one. There were ten or so of them, some off to the side, perhaps guards, while four were standing closely, intimately together, some leaning against another with the unselfconsciousness of kin, while others simply watched, smiles upon their faces.

  Their attitude changed as Arran and Rian approached. Immediately the softness was gone, eyes grew cold and hard, and body language changed into something approaching threatening.

  They were tall, much taller than Rian, about the same height as Arran who was considered abnormally tall among their people. Their bodies were broad shouldered and powerful, with thick rider’s thighs. Long, blond hair was held back by a warrior’s braid, and they seemed to have uniformly brown eyes among them all.

  Rian found himself blushing as he realized that they wore very little. A loincloth, covered by a breechclout front and back, knee-high boots, and a type of leather vest that seemed to hold numerous weapons. All of them wore a long sword on one hip and a shorter, thicker sword on the other. Rian could never remember seeing anyone so heavily armed, not even his brother’s elite guardsmen. Their immodesty was negated by their negligent manner, the vaguely threatening stance that dared others to find any sort of fault.

  Rian’s tension rose, and his hands began to tremble, so he clenched them in his heavy robes, trying to hide his fear of what was to come.

  One man stepped out from the others, a smidge taller, a bit wider, his hair more brightly golden, a color Rian had never seen before. A long scar traced his cheek, from ear to chin, emphasizing his stern, hard demeanor.

  Arran drew Rian to a halt, holding him back against his body, with a hand upon his uninjured shoulder. “Rian, I would introduce you to the Hawks. This is their commander, Hamon. I have put them in charge of your security and I advise you to do as they say. They are my eyes and ears when I cannot be with you.”

  Rian wanted to choke down a mocking laugh, his mind flitting over the many people down through the years who had been Arran’s spies, including Carain, that reported every move Rian made. The Hawks would be but the newest and latest in the line, certainly not the first.

  Instead he nodded in silence, watching amused contempt flash in Hamon’s eyes.

  Arran shook his shoulder faintly, and he realized he had not spoken.

  “Greetings to you,” he managed by dint of grim control to keep the tremor from his voice. He could not make the words sound louder than the raspy whisper that emerged.

  Hamon nodded, but there was nothing of respect in his manner, and it was obvious the others felt much the same.

  Arran had spoken to them, then turned them against him before this meeting. Rian’s gaze dropped, lips twisting ever so slightly. Had he expected anything else?

  Arran laid a gentle kiss upon his temple, gesturing to their left. “I have brought you a parting gift, brother.”

  A red stallion was led from the stables, dancing lightly upon trim hooves, head high, eyes wild, and white tail flagged. Great beauty.

  Rian was dazzled for long moments, his eyes fixed upon the horse with wonder, before he heard his brother’s next words, loud enough for all to hear, especially the Hawks.

  “I gift you this stallion, with love and patience, brother. Since you killed the mare I gave you before.”

  The words fell like stones, and Rian distinctly heard Hamon’s indrawn breath. The Zala held their horses sacred, and Arran had just played his best card. They would hate Rian now, disbelieve anything he might tell them as to the truth of the matter. Once again, Arran knew how to control him, how to wind him up in lies and twists and turns of truth and half-truth.

  Rian had no head for conniving, for political posturing and his brother’s strange sense of reality.

  He held no weapons in this game, never had.

  He was helplessly mired and always would be.

  Hamon gritted his teeth, longing to ask for the story behind the king’s words.

  His glare encompassed the small form of the prince, Rian. The little bastard remained motionless, staring at the stallion in silence, not even acknowledging his brother’s generosity.

  The prince was dressed in loose robes, far too thick for the climate, rich fabrics that seemed to swamp his slender form, leaving him looking like a child in adult’s clothing. One arm was strapped to his body.

  His face was stunningly beautiful. Hamon could grudgingly concede that fact. Fine, high cheekbones and slightly slanted, clear gray eyes the mirror of his brother’s. A full passionate mouth that was drawn down in a moue of discontent, and body held rigid completed the package. Whereas Arran’s hair was black, the prince’s seemed lighter, some strands gleaming with fascinating glimpses of copper in the sunlight, the royals’ streak of white very evident. Unlike his brother’s shoulder-length hair, the prince’s was as long as Hamon’s own, braided back severely in a style that did nothing for his thin face.

  After his initial glance at the Hawks, the prince’s eyes were now determinedly elsewhere, first on the stallion, then downcast demurely…or was it sullen defiance of his brother’s will?

  It surely could not be shyness at his age. Not to mention he was the head of the military. There could be no innocence surely. This could only be one of the ploys the king had mentioned. This prince was far more devious and adept at seeming harmless than Hamon had imagined.

  Hamon’s lip curled. The boy would find his wiles of little use under the Hawks’ rule.

  Rian could hardly hear Arran’s voice through the buzzing in his head.

  The Hawks terrified him in ways he had not yet encountered. It was like meeting an entire group of men that mirrored his brother, and that thought was enough to make his senses swim with fear.

  He drew a deep, shuddering breath, gathering his tattered will into some semblance of order.

  He thanked Arran for the stallion in little more than a whisper, but his brother seemed pleased enough with the sentiment, a smile curving those cruel lips.

  “I would give you the world, little brother. Remember that. When you return, there will be nothing but happiness for us both, amid a peaceful land won by our own deeds.”

  Rian nodded, unable to speak for the horror of that thought. He tried to think on his children, on being able to be part of their growth, their lives, but even that could not make what was to come palatable.

  Arran himself boosted Rian up onto the tall stallion’s back. “His name is Mirish. Treat him well, brother.”

  As if there was a doubt of that.

  Rian merely nodded, watching Arran adjust the stirrups to his shorter height before he settled into the saddle properly, gathering the reins in his own useable hand so he had a gentle feel of Mirish’s mouth.

  Arran patted his leg. “Go with our Gods, brother. I will see you soon.”

  Was that a warning? It certainly sounded like one to Rian. “May they bless you also.” His voice sounded a little stronger, the fear tamped down.

  Then he tapped his heels, and the stallion trotted forward, fighting the gentle hold that prevented an all-out run.

  Rian saw the Hawks mount their horses with swift grace and fall in behind him.

  With head held high, he departed the gates of Fanamir.

  They held to a slow trot for the first hour, and Hamon could not help but admire the prince’s riding style.

  Despite the current handicap of one immobilized arm, he sat firmly in the saddle, his body swaying with a true rider’s grace, loose and supple. His hand on the reins was gentle, his voice calming the stallion each time impatience gripped the animal, usually demonstrated with jarring leaps and much fighting of the bit. The boy did not seem
fazed in the least by the behavior. His manner was calm, and occasionally, when the stallion would ease for several moments, he would reward the behavior with a gentle caress on the horse’s sweaty chestnut neck.

  The actions would almost seem kind but for Arran’s warnings about the prince’s acting and deception, and the fact that somehow, in some manner, a horse had died under his hands.

  That was too serious a fact to ignore. Too grave a misdeed to forgive.

  Rian kept his gaze fixed firmly upon the horizon, remaining silent. There was nothing to say. His jailors had already judged him, and as always, Arran had maneuvered Rian into a corner with no escape. There could be nothing pleasant ahead, and he had no desire to make nice with such fierce companions as the Hawks.

  The leader, Hamon, rode by his side, wrapped in his own silence, though Rian occasionally felt the weight of his curious stare. It was a two-day journey to the army’s encampment. It did not bear thinking of that he would have to spend the night within the sphere of these men, alone.

  They made camp for the night in the lee of a rocky outcrop that shielded them from the wind and the sun. The Hawks dismounted and set to work with well-coordinated efficiency. Some tended the horses, others set to work to find scraps of wood for the cooking fire. Rian sat and watched for a while, not dismounting.

  Hamon stayed at his side, also remaining on his horse, as though guarding against Rian escaping. The prince could only grimace at the thought. He slumped in the saddle, unable to hold himself upright, his back and shoulder throbbing with agony. He wished only for peace and a moment to sleep without fear. Neither was likely to be granted to him.

  At last he gathered his will, slowly, painfully dismounting, his breath catching as the whip marks pulled and flexed at his movements. He leaned against Mirish’s shoulder, grateful that the great beast seemed to understand his frailty and stood solidly, providing support for a few precious moments.

  Rian drew a deep, shuddering breath and pushed himself upright, forcing himself to move, to go through the motion of unsaddling the stallion, clumsy and slow with only one hand. He laid the saddle to one side, saddle blanket on top to dry, before rummaging in his saddlebags to find the collapsible bowl and filling it with water from the skins. The stallion drank deeply, snorting appreciatively when he at last had quenched his thirst, spraying Rian with dampness.

  He smiled ever so slightly and stroked the fine head, letting the animal sniff at him in the beginnings of bonding.

  “You are a fine fellow,” he whispered with a hint of sadness. “You would have been a noble mate for my beautiful Glais…”

  “Is that the horse you killed?” The sarcastic tone held deep disgust in its depths.

  Rian stiffened, then turned his back on Hamon and led the stallion to where the others were picketed, feed being distributed to them.

  “In my culture, deliberate killing of a horse would be a death sentence,” Hamon said from behind him. “Your brother coddles you to let you off so lightly. And to give you such a fine stallion is pure madness.”

  Rian tied the stallion to the line, lips thin and tight, his entire body tense at the feeling of Hamon moving close behind him, threatening.

  He turned and looked up at him, controlling his fear and giving this man nothing but a blank stare, before brushing past him and heading for the edges of the fire, seating himself with his back to a boulder, and pulling his robes closer against the chill of the night. He made no move forward as food was prepared, just watched the men interact, his confusion growing.

  Isolated as he had always been, first with his brother’s possessiveness and then by his very title in the military, he had never experienced much in the way of comradeship. There were those he treasured, and plenty of people he cared for and felt responsible for, but the easy friendship and banter between men…he’d never had that.

  People made no sense to him, and he always watched, perplexed, trying to decipher their actions, their emotions, their reasons for doing and being. He had come no closer to any conclusion during his time as general. Even his children…he only had his own tortured childhood to work from and he felt sadly inadequate at any guidance he might offer them.

  To care was to invite pain.

  To be numb was to survive.

  The men talked and laughed, and occasionally their laughter was obviously fuelled by him for they would glance his way and speak with sly voices, their words meaningless. He did not comprehend enough to be insulted one way or the other, and he had not ever understood much in the way of humor. What often drove others to gales of laughter had never made the least amount of sense to him.

  He just watched, blankly, before turning his face into the comfort of his robes and falling into an uneasy doze.

  In sleep, there lay ghosts—and the wraith of his twin.

  The morning could not come fast enough.

  Hamon viewed the small form across the shimmering heat of the fire as he chewed on a piece of dried meat, a frown etching itself upon his brow. The boy had been utterly still since they had arrived, watching silently. There had been no fear in his gaze, only a type of confusion and blankness that made no sense whatsoever.

  “Do you think he is touched?” Dramon tapped his skull, grimacing. “Some of these royals are inbred. He does not seem like the sharpest thorn on the bush.”

  Hamon shrugged, though his gaze never left the prince’s huddled form. His senses reached out, probing the boy’s energies, trying to catch a stray thought or two, anything that would help him decipher the oddity that the young man represented.

  Whatever this was, it was not acting. There was no wrongness in his aura, no sense of dissembling. Here in the silence of the desert, with his brothers to guard him, Hamon could open himself, let his spirit have full rein. It circled the boy, who had long since curled into himself, courting sleep.

  Hamon’s spirit reached out…

  And something knocked him back, reeling, into Dramon’s arms. His spirit slammed back into his body, snatching his breath, and he was dimly aware of his brothers crowding round him, weapons in hand, chanting as powerful shields rose around them.

  Behind shimmering veils of energy, Hamon coughed and managed to push himself up to one elbow.

  “Fucking great Handos.” He spat, a bit of blood spattering the ground.

  Dramon made a sound of distress, using his sleeve to wipe Hamon’s lips and pulling him back against his chest to prop him up.

  Wravon knelt beside him, one hand on his shoulder, never taking his eyes from the prince. “Was it…” His indrawn breath took Hamon’s wavering attention and brought it back to their new and suddenly dangerous responsibility.

  The boy had not moved, if anything he seemed to have slipped into an uneasy sleep, nose tucked into the robe, arm wrapped around himself, curled forward over his knees. There was nothing of power about him. But over him, hovering, was a wraith of considerable size and by its actions, considerable power.

  It held a vaguely masculine image, but it shifted so swiftly, smoky tendrils solid, then turning into faint wisps, that it was difficult to make out facial features.

  There were no eyes, no mouth, only formless black holes where they should be, and the occasional flash of pale greenish light that seemed to ooze from its form.

  Vast, its energy pulsed with fury, and a host of negative emotions that swept over the Hawks’ barriers, seeking entrance.

  Its size should have made it impossible for the boy to be within its circle of influence. He should have felt such chills of fear and revulsion that he would have woken and fled by this point, yet he lay still, only an occasional shiver wracking his small form. That particular reaction seemed as much from true cold as anything spiritual.

  What in the name of the horse god, Handos, had they gotten themselves into?

  They stayed on guard through the night, watching in grim fascination as the wraith hovered over the boy, occasionally moving a brief distance away, only to dart back at the slightest mov
ement from them, the greenish light flaring each time.

  It became increasingly evident that the being was protecting the boy in some fashion, something that roused both fear and awe within them.

  Hamon sat, cross-legged, watching intently, thoughts swirling into various theories as to the possible reasons for what they were seeing. To his disbelief, each theory came to the same conclusion and that in itself made him gust out a harsh breath that had his brothers staring at him.

  “He is a soulseeker.” The sheer wonder in his own tone made it suddenly real.

  The others shifted abruptly, causing the wraith to hiss and curl more tightly around the prince.

  “You must be mistaken, Hamon. No such thing exists now. We know this, we have searched for generations, since the last soulseeker betrayed his position and was killed by the ghosts themselves. It is not possible that this boy—” he gestured with insulting brevity at Rian, “—is the one we have sought. He is not of our people. He is Rashmaian. Surely the one we seek would come from our own ranks. Not a foreigner.”

  Hamon rubbed his brow, cursing the lack of sleep that made his thoughts abnormally slow. “The soulseekers could communicate with ghosts, find them, aid them to reach the gods. Yet I see nothing of that in this boy. But there is no mistaking the wraith. It is not affecting him. Only a soulseeker is capable of being that close to a being of the otherworld.”

  There was potent silence as they considered the matter.

  “It could be possible…” Dramon offered hesitantly.

  Navren scoffed. “He is a child, a foreigner. It is not possible that a spoiled prince, from a line of madmen, could be our savior.”

  Hamon shook his head. “Do not dismiss the power of our gods. If it is time, they would find a way. Perhaps it is a test of our faith in them.”

  There fell a potent silence.

  “You mean, you truly think…?” Wravon’s voice held wonder and hope. Hamon reached out to grasp his forearm, emotion rising. Wravon held good reason to hope for a soulseeker. His entire family had been killed seven years ago in a raid from the Entar warriors from the west, ever their greatest enemies. Since then, their shaman had said their souls had not gone to the creator, but wandered, lost. Only a soulseeker would be able to find them, lead them to the gates of the Beyond to see them home at last.