by Owens J. C.
It had been an open wound for Wravon ever since, that he could not see his loved ones settled, that they roamed the inhospitable grayness of the Otherworld, the ghost realm.
How many others suffered the same thing? Seven hundred years with no soulseekers to guide the lost to the other side.
There were those who had been born with a degree of the talent, bringing hope, but they could only sense the ghosts, not speak with them, not guide them. It was as though their gods had abandoned them, or were punishing them in some fashion.
Why were their lost dead not tended?
Generations of shamans had sought to find the child whose birth would rectify the atrocity, for surely the gods would send aid, would send a soulseeker to their people. Yet one had never been found. Charlatans abounded, preying on the desperate who sought peace for their loved ones, but a true, proven soulseeker had not been found.
Until now.
Hamon grimaced, wondering if his initial interpretation of events had been wildly wrong. The likelihood of their savior coming from beyond their people seemed remote. And coming from their hereditary enemies, even if a truce lay between them? That seemed unlikely in the extreme.
The night waned, the horizon beginning to lighten, objects becoming more visible, moment by moment. The colorless twilight receded, and then the sun broached the eastern sky, dazzling as it struck the rock face they camped beneath.
Hamon blinked, then froze, wide-eyed, hearing the indrawn breaths of his companions.
As the light cast upon the boy, curled up by the rock, he stirred, blinked. With the faintest wail, the wraith vanished.
CHAPTER THREE
Rian woke with reluctance. Sleep was his only escape, always had been. Even the realm of ghosts and wraiths he encountered, whether dream or real, were better. Nothing but pain and misery awaited in the waking world.
He blinked, then groaned as he shifted. He must have not moved throughout the night, and his back and shoulder had stiffened utterly.
Flinching, he moved this way and that with minute adjustments, trying to find a way to move that did not bring shafts of pain, but in the end, he surged up, realizing that there was nothing else to do but greet it all in one curse-inducing motion.
His good hand braced against the rock as he stood, head down, breathing through gritted teeth. Swallowing back the nausea, he slowly slitted his eyes open, seeking distance from the swirling senses that threatened to send him to his knees. Forcing his breathing to steady, drawing energy from the ground beneath his feet, he began to force his body into compliance. Working past the pain was something he had mastered long, long ago.
The sun had risen further on the horizon than he was comfortable with. He had obviously slept much longer than he would have expected. Slowly, he straightened, eyes closing again, willing the pain back to manageable proportions.
The smell of food tantalized his nostrils.
His eyes snapped open, memory returning, fear rising.
The Hawks.
The murmur of voices led his gaze to the small fire, where all sat cross-legged upon the sand, eating, laughing, looking painfully normal.
Hamon glanced his way at his sudden movement, but his attention immediately returned to his fellows and Rian’s muscles eased a small degree.
His attention veered as he realized that food had been placed by the rock he had slept against, a bowl full of some meat and potato mixture.
His stomach growled, and after an initial wary glance at his guards, he sank back down upon the sands, wasting no more time as he tucked with ravenous intensity into the simple fare. He finished in mere minutes, rousing from his absorption to find a second bowl along with a water flask being presented to him.
Rian froze, slowly raising his gaze up a long, bare, muscled forearm to brown eyes that met his stare calmly. He blinked, the change of attitude evident in the leader’s manner catching him entirely off guard.
They stared at each other in soundless measure before Rian reached out to take the bowl and flask with a cautious nod of thanks. Hamon returned the gesture with deliberate courtesy, then without a word, turned on his heel and returned to the fire.
Rian watched him go, wistfully praying that the man’s changed demeanor could continue, a pleasant turnabout from the confrontational attitude of the day before. Small hope of that, but for this moment, he would enjoy what he could get. He had well learned to take everything moment to moment, both good and bad.
He savored the second bowl of food, the taste welcome upon his tongue. He received little enough sustenance while in Arran’s company, his brother using the promise of food in yet another layer of control.
He cast the memories aside with protective haste, content to enjoy the sensation of a full belly. For the first time in far too long, he felt comfortably replete.
Relaxing against the rock that had sheltered him in the night, he uncorked the flask and drew it to his lips. Sweetness burst over his tongue, and he hummed at the taste of pure spring water. Wherever it had come from, he was not familiar with its source. It was like no water he had ever tasted.
He drank deeply and set the flask aside with the careful consideration that all water was given in the desert, as the precious life-giving commodity that it was.
He sighed in pleasure. This moment was good. He felt rested…
He paused, eyes wide with realization. Only one thing made him feel safe enough to sleep that well.
Valen.
The spirit of his dead twin brother must have been present, perhaps had come because of feeling his despair and fear at being in the custody of the Hawks. He was forced to be so guarded when conscious, he had long ago developed dense blocks against his brother’s wraith. Only in unconsciousness did those blocks fall, and his twin came to his side. Protecting…
He shot a considering glance at the men by the fire. Apart from Hamon’s giving of food and water, they seemed to be paying him no particular attention. Certainly, it was evident they had not fled into the desert, as some had been known to do upon meeting the wraith of his twin and its fearsome apparition. Had they not seen him? Or were they made of sterner stuff than most of Rian’s people?
He rose once more to his feet, beginning to do his normal morning routine of careful stretches that warmed his muscles and worked past the searing pain of the barely healing lashes and the deep aches of his shoulder.
No doubt the bandages needed to be changed. He longed to arrive at the army camp, to his own pavilion, where his personal attendant, Zacar, would be fretting.
By now, word would have reached the camp that Rian was returning, and Zacar would know that meant that his commander had failed in his escape.
Rian had been scrupulously careful to ensure that no blame could be traced back to his staff at the camp. His biggest fear had been that Arran would realize the depth of caring he felt for his attendants and those under his command, and thereby use it to control him.
Not that such a thing would be a threat any longer. Rian was under his thumb entirely, broken at last. Perhaps that was best for all concerned.
It was certainly safer for those who had willingly covered his various perfidies and small rebellions in the past.
Such things were over now. The Hawks would see to his perfect compliance—and then the dreaded arrival of his brother would complete his imprisonment permanently.
His mind shied away from that bitter thought, retreating into a comfortable, familiar numbness that had been his protection since childhood. The numbness of his mind was in sharp contrast to the pain of his body, and he sank into that pain with a sigh of relief, welcoming it as the distraction it was. He knew how to deal with physical pain. It was the emotional that crippled him so often.
The stretches brought swift agony, and when he was done, he had to stand immobile for long moments, breathing past the throbbing pulse of the wounds. No doubt, by the end of the day, his bandages would be sweat soaked and stinging, yet another reason to wish for a swift arri
val at their destination.
It remained to be seen what pace the Hawks would demand of him. He knew little of the Zala people, only the stories and rumors that his own people had passed back and forth. The only fact that seemed present during all gossip was that they were nomadic and lived for their horses. Beyond that, they were rumored to be children of a horse god, half horse themselves.
Rian scoffed at such superstitious nonsense, but even through his pain and distraction of the day before, it had been a privilege to watch them ride, man and horse moving as one. They used no bits, and their warhorses were all stallions, yet the link between rider and mount was complete, with no sense of dominance or force.
It was beautiful to witness firsthand.
Rian longed to have such training, longed to learn their ways and see all horses treated with such gentle respect. The brutal training techniques of his own people had often left him ill with horror, and he had always insisted on training his own mounts in his own, softer fashion. In this one thing, his brother was lenient, even fondly encouraging, as though at a child’s whim. Rian was willing to endure such treatment if it meant he could continue his working within his own beliefs.
Others had taken note though, of the calmness and willing loyalty of his mounts, and he was proud to say that some of his own troops were beginning to emulate his techniques.
If the Hawks would be willing—if they could teach many at once, including Rian himself, then how much sooner could his goal be achieved? If only these Zala were willing to see his dream as more than a passionate fantasy, not worthy of note. Their culture, with its love of horses, was the greatest hope he had yet encountered. Despite his fear of them, he would try, despite all the evidence that it would be impossible. His brother would have set them firmly against him, or he would never have allowed their custody. But the horse training, that could not be taken amiss by his brother. Could it?
In the past, he had tried to work past this barrier, attempted to show his guards what was truly happening, but it had never ended well. Either they had treated him worse, believing he was aiming to manipulate them, or in the one case where he had been believed, by a single man, a special man, his brother had tortured Captain Perosh, killed him, all because he had given his word to see Rian free. It all seemed so foolish, so impossible now.
Too late to save a kind soul.
A man had died for him. And yet, he had willingly placed Carain in that position. His selfishness, it seemed, knew no bounds.
Sharp memories of Perosh’s shredded flesh, and blood, so much blood, made him draw a deep breath and fight to keep his expression neutral. He could show no weakness in front of these men, these enemies.
A hiss drew his attention, and he saw one of the Hawks dousing the fire with sand, scattering the embers until they died, ensuring every last spark was dealt with.
At this evidence of their eminent departure, Rian turned away, straightening his pained body and striding with a measured and steady pace to where Mirish was tethered.
It was clear that the stallion had been well cared for during the night, and perhaps early that morning. There was hay still there, with a scattering of oats. A collapsible hide water bowl still retained a bit of water in the bottom. Mirish himself looked bright-eyed and fresh. He snorted at Rian’s approach, ears pricked forward in interest. His red coat glinted in the early morning sunlight.
Rian stroked the finely boned head before beginning to saddle him up. He took his time, using any excuse not to have to face the Hawks. Especially Haman. Why had the man been so pleasant that morning? If he had encountered Valen, by rights, he should be avoiding Rian as much as possible, or being even more hostile than the day before.
Why then this positive change?
He wished he knew more of their culture, particularly their beliefs in the afterlife. Where they perhaps more at ease with death than his own people of Rashma?
The welcoming nickers of the other horses were all the warning he got as to the approach of the others. Their tread was not detectable to his ears at all. Their silence must make them formidable foes, something he at least knew from historical texts.
Rian tensed at their presence, moving casually to the stallion’s other side to tighten tack, keeping the other men in his sight. They paid no attention to him, each speaking to their horse as one might another human and giving blatant affection that seemed in such contrast to their previous stoic, cold demeanor. They seemed much more complex than Rian had expected. Did that mean there was more hope for gaining their aid with the horse training? Or less?
He held no hope as to his own treatment. Far too swiftly, Arran would arrive, and once the war was over, Rian’s meager freedoms would disappear. The despair of that future was more than he could fully comprehend, and he thrust away the rising panic that always came to the fore at such thoughts.
That was the future. For now, he had to survive the Hawks.
With any luck, at the pace they had held to the day before, they just might reach the camp by nightfall. His time alone with them would be over.
The small campsite was cleaned and packed with swift efficiency, and they all mounted, Haman and Rian in the lead and the others behind them in pairs. Their nomadic background was clearly evident in their actions. Rian knew that even his best men would not have been able to match such speed of packing. So many things they could learn from the Zala. If only their truce was not so fragile, always on the edge of renewed hostility. It truly surprised him that his brother would have brought such hereditary enemies with Rashmaian borders, truce or not.
He shook his head ruefully. He had never understood Arran’s motivations or manipulations, and it seemed unlikely he could begin now.
“What did you do, to make your brother beat you? Was it the death of the mare?” Hamon’s tone held only calm inquiry.
Rian turned his head to stare at him in shock, speechless at this easy exposure of what he had hoped to hold secret.
Hamon glanced over at him, a small, unexpected quirk of his lips pointing to amusement. “I have been beaten enough to read the signs well. I was an unruly child, and a truly wild youth.”
At Rian’s surprised expression, the Hawk leader snorted. “Our children are much beloved, but when it comes, discipline is hard and thorough. We grow up able to learn pain and how to move past it when needed. Men or women, we are strong and resilient.”
Rian’s lips thinned at the thought of another child undergoing what he had. But then, hopefully, their beatings had not included sexual predation as well. His chin rose as he met Hamon’s eyes. Perhaps the Hawk had already discerned that also—and approved of it.
Helpless anger tightened Rian’s chest. It was one thing for his own people to accept it, but a total stranger? Was this horrifying practice more prevalent than he knew?
“How long have you known you are a soulseeker?” Hamon’s stare grew intense, the question obviously of great import.
Rian’s pained musings were cut short, and he frowned in bewilderment at the sudden change of direction the topic had taken. “Soulseeker? I know no such term.”
Hamon’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing in obvious disbelief.
“A soulseeker is one who aids the gods, who ensures that all those who die reach the place of the Creator, to rest in peace and glory.”
Rian blinked. “We have no such belief.” His tone was careful. Religion had brought about much misery in the past, with wars begun because of it. It would be best to tread lightly here until this misunderstanding was cleared up.
The men’s look of horror was clear, soon dissolving into evident skepticism, as though they truly thought he was lying.
Arran had primed them well.
“Our souls need no such help.” He paused, careful, suddenly uncertain. “At least that is what the priests teach us. They go to our God with no human aid.”
“The priests tell you this?” Hamon’s voice held clear outrage. “Where are your shamans to guide you to the truth?”
Rian’s body began to tense at the rising tempers around him. Here, alone with them, he was vulnerable. A good fighter he might be, but they outnumbered him in size and likely in skill, not to mention he was wounded and slower because of it.
Hamon sucked in a deep breath and looked elsewhere, as though he were fighting for control. They rode on in silence for some time, the other Hawks looking particularly grim. It was obvious that this topic held great personal connotations.
Rian held himself stiffly, wary of where this was leading. These men were far too observant for his liking. He felt as though he were being stripped, violated, judged, all his secrets being pulled into the light, when he desperately wanted to remain in the shadows.
Hamon finally turned back, more calm, and Rian could see the other Hawks relax in direct response to his manner. They were so obviously attuned to each other. He wondered, with a twist of longing, what it would be like to have that brotherhood, a true, healthy relationship, with nothing of obsession and fear about it.
Were they brothers of blood or of friendship? Were they lovers?
He flushed with sudden heat, pushing away the images with scandalous haste.
Several of them had similar features, but whether that was a trait of their people, or of a singular bloodline, was difficult to say. Whatever their connections, their bonds were clear, their devotion to each other beautiful, even if Rian could not understand for himself how such a thing was remotely possible.
He had little memory of his twin. His mother had fled with Valen when they had been five, leaving Rian behind. Rian held no images of her and only fuzzy impressions of his twin. Only his own reflection told of what Valen would have looked like now. His father had found them ten years later and in a fit of rage, killed them both. Rian had felt so many things when Arran had told him of their deaths, but true sorrow had not been one of them.