by Owens J. C.
Hamon tilted his head, eyeing Rian with a calm, clear expression. “You are no coward, whatever your brother tried to get us to believe. Whatever he holds over you must be so horrific as to be unendurable if it drove you to flee.”
Rian could only gape, stunned, staring into those brown eyes with no ability to respond to the incredible statement.
Hamon straightened, half turning as though to go to his cousin, though his gaze remained fastened upon Rian.
“You intrigue me, Prince. I will be watching, and I will find the truth of you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Despite the attack and the emotional aftermath, they made relatively good time. Still, the horses were nervous, twitching, hard to control to anything less than an erratic trot. Only a slow canter seemed to steady them, as they left the tragedy further and further behind. They had kept moving Wravon from horse to horse, riding double with each of his brotherhood in turn, the increased weight shared evenly.
The man himself was silent, clearly in shock, compliant and numb. The others gave him concerned looks, but retained a respectful silence in the immensity of his grief.
Rian led the way, eager to reach the camp for any number of reasons. Chief among them, an intense urge to gain at least a modicum of distance from the man who rode beside him.
The influence that had made him speak truth, to open himself so dangerously, terrified him. What power did this foreigner possess to make Rian speak, when Arran himself had to use threats and torture to do the same?
He needed to learn more of these Zala, who saw and accepted ghosts so easily. Did they just as easily see through Rian’s masks? His protections?
Rian had seen the spirits of the dead since his first memories as a child. There was little precedent for such a thing in the general populace, and certainly nothing of it in the lineage of the royal family itself.
Beaten by his father for any mention of such a perversion, he had swiftly learned to stifle his responses as he saw or heard the daily multitude of spirits that seemed to pass through his vicinity. At the death of his twin, he had gained a new complication that tested his entrenched ability to disguise what he was. The wraith.
The spirits usually moved around him, or occasionally even through him. Only a very few seemed to wish to converse with him in some fashion. Afraid of being seen or overheard, he never responded to their overtures, and the specters would finally move on, a sense of need floating in their wake. Always he felt as though he had betrayed something in himself by ignoring their evident pleas. As a youth, he had built powerful blocks against his twin, but he found a sense of wrongness at doing the same to the ghosts, perhaps because they were more separate from him, not entwined with his very being. Right or wrong, he saw them, felt them.
Many was the time that he wished there was someone else with this odd talent, someone who could teach him how to achieve communication, how to aid them as the spirits seemed to desire. It was very obvious that they wanted something from him. Perhaps the Zala were right. Surely there must be a way he could help, could aid them to cross over to where they should be. The sense of wrongness in their presence made him long to guide their path to…
Where?
He had only a vague understanding of what lay beyond life, and the teachings of Rashmaian priests seemed to be missing some vital information about spirits and the will of the gods as regarding lost souls. Their words had the ring of rhetoric rather than true knowledge. Rian found it beyond frustrating, and he had to question in such a roundabout fashion as to protect himself, therefore never able to directly address his concerns.
If they were right and all souls went to be with the Creator with no effort on their part, then how did this explain the multitude of spirits he encountered that seemed lost, drifting?
For the first time, he began to actually consider the Hawks’ seemingly mad statement about him being a soulseeker.
Was it possible that it was true?
What exactly was such a thing? Could it, in some measure, explain his abilities? More importantly, could this mean that the Zala held the knowledge he sought?
Perhaps, Rian was not so freakish as he had been told all his life.
Perhaps, the Hawks could teach him about his oddity, let him achieve all he had sought for so very long.
If so, his new guards might turn out to be more blessing than curse. Yet, he was not quite ready to commit to that consideration.
The path from enemy to mentor was a long, and unlikely road at best.
* * *
They rode into the army camp just before last light, the sentries recognizing their commander with evident enthusiasm and sending word flying through the ranks of his arrival.
Hamon watched the responses with interest. How the men acted toward the prince would tell him much of the young man’s true character and whether, somehow, the Hawks were being blinded by their new charge.
He freely admitted that some part of him was searching for the inevitable flaws. There was more to Rian than was evident, and although he wanted desperately to leap onto the idea that this prince could be their salvation, the long awaited soulseeker, he had also seen too many fraudulent claims to be comfortable with immediate acceptance.
He owed his people and their future more than that.
If, on the long chance, this were true, that they had found what they had so long searched for, he could only ponder the reasoning behind the answered prayer. What were his gods thinking to place such a vital talent in a foreigner? And not just any foreigner, but a royal? It made the probability of this being real that much less likely. Not to mention that as royalty, it was impossible to imagine Rian consenting to travel to the Zalan homeland.
Arran would never allow it.
From what Hamon had heard in this short time, Arran had the traditional harem, but had sired only two children upon the women within it, a concerning problem for Rashma.
Surely then, Rian would be important in the lineage. Should anything happen to Arran and his heirs, Rian would stand to inherit the throne. As the next oldest of the line, Rian would definitely not be someone the king would release into Zalan hands.
The complications and barriers seemed both endless and utterly hopeless. Surely, this man could not be the soulseeker they so desperately sought. The gods could not be that cruel to dangle hope and then snatch it away like a mirage to a man dying in the desert.
Men stepped forward along their path, saluting their commander with honest respect and a surprising amount of pleasure in his arrival. Here and there, Rian would nod, his face transformed from studied blank indifference, to warmth and seemingly genuine concern.
Soldiers were commonly a brusque and skeptical group, whatever their country of origin. They would not be easily fooled.
It was further proof that there was far more to this young man than had been immediately evident in the beginning.
Enough so that Arran’s downplaying of the boy’s character, even to wanting him strictly and painfully disciplined by the Hawks, began to seem highly questionable at best.
For now, Hamon would simply observe with sharp regard to detail and nuances of all around him, as would his men. They were well able to make their own conclusions on the matter, and he trusted their instincts perhaps more than he trusted his own.
He cast a concerned glance over his shoulder to where Wravon rode behind Dramon, his posture stiff, his expression frozen into blankness. Shock was setting in, and Hamon wanted him away from prying, curious eyes. Already, whispers arose in their wake as men recognized their embroidered saddlecloths, the golden, striking hawk bright and evident.
Their reputation for ferocity in the border battles and their past as hereditary enemies had obviously preceded them. Curiosity and growing realization was written large on many a face, but Hamon had no doubt that once word got round of their role as Arran’s hired guards greater hostility was bound to surface.
Here, among the best of Rashma’s military might, seeing how st
rangely loyal they were, the Hawks would have to watch their backs.
They finally reached the center of the large encampment where an ornate pavilion of great size, sat in isolated splendor, a ring of space separating it from all others. White with red trim and ornate red painting on the canvas walls, it was a glorious sight in the sunlight.
Fit for a prince.
At their approach, a young man came bounding out, face alight with greeting as he saw Rian. Happiness swiftly dimmed to caution and worry as he beheld the Hawks’ presence.
Closely in the young man’s wake, came the largest man Hamon had ever encountered, and some of his people were quite massive. Dark-skinned, massively muscled, his shaved head and plentiful tattoos marked him as being from the little known southern lands, a place more of mystery and myth than substance to the Zala. Yet here stood one of its denizens in the most impressive of flesh. The southerner’s impassive expression had the power to pierce deep into Hamon as those dark brown eyes locked with his.
Here was a worthy opponent.
Hamon merely raised an eyebrow in response as they measured each other in silent appraisal.
The boisterous young man seemed to finally regain his former cheery demeanor and was there when Rian stepped down wearily from an equally exhausted Mirish.
A soldier stepped forward to take the reins, and Rian conferred with him, low-voiced, before patting the stallion’s neck fondly and letting him be led away to a well-deserved rest.
Hamon’s lips thinned. The Zala would not be parted from their horses in a similar fashion, no matter what the accepted practices of these people might be.
“Zacar!” Rian gave a choked, not-quite laugh, drawing the young man close for a moment with his good arm, something that seemed very foreign to his seemingly chill nature.
“You are back,” Zacar’s eyes searched Rian’s face, his good humor fading into obvious concern. “Come. I have sent for food.” His gaze slid past Rian to where the Hawks were dismounting with lithe grace. “I shall have to order more, it seems.” The look he gave Rian was full of questions.
The prince merely shook his head in exhausted response before laying an affectionate hand on the younger man’s shoulder and glancing over at the huge dark man. “Telan. Can you organize a large tent for them with a connecting tent for the horses? They are Zala; they cannot be separated from their horses.”
The huge man merely nodded, then slipped away in silence, his tread amazingly quiet.
Hamon caught his breath, surprised gratitude filling him. He had expected to have to fight for their cultural differences, yet the prince had given it freely, without even being asked, or even truly understanding their need. It was a courtesy he had never expected in this strange land, and especially not from this mere boy.
Rian gestured to the Hawks. “Come, if you wish. You can bring the horses into the outer room of my pavilion, and we can eat there.”
Zacar gave a scandalized gasp. “Your highness…”
Rian waved away Zacar’s concern, smiling a little. “Hush. It is only for a short while. It can be cleaned up later.”
“But the smell, my lord.” The protest was heartfelt.
Rian gave a short laugh, the first one Hamon had truly heard from him. “So particular! We will be moving camp in a few days, so your delicate sensibilities will not have to endure for long.”
Zacar wrinkled his nose and cast a look laden with disapproval as the Hawks, with horses close behind, entered the vast tent. Clucking his tongue, he pulled away from Rian, swiftly rolling up ornate rugs until only flattened grass was evident.
Hamon shook his head at this strange behavior, the attitude and concern inconceivable to him. He swiftly unsaddled Baresh. He gave a quiet command and the stallion sank down gratefully, his equine groan of relief echoing as he settled. The other riders completed their own untacking, following his example, and the lost look on Wravon’s face wrung Hamon’s heart. His cousin turned away, then with a sudden, sharp movement, strode over to Rian, and punched him square on the jaw, knocking the prince backward off his feet and onto his backside before anyone could blink.
Zacar gave an outraged squawk that broke the shocked aftermath, swiftly leaping forward to attempt to help his lord to his feet.
Hamon and Dramon grabbed hold of Wravon’s arms, restraining him from further violence, even as his cousin glared at Rian in murderous silence.
Rian gained his feet with difficulty, Zacar brushing at his clothes. The prince shook his head rather dazedly, fingering his jaw with cautious, tentative fingers.
At last, his gaze rose to meet Wravon’s.
Hamon felt a chill feather down his spine. No matter that the king had given them permission to abuse the prince. Right now, Arran and his power were far away, while they were in the middle of a huge group of the prince’s loyalist followers. Somehow, he suspected that Arran did not truly realize exactly how loyal.
Regardless, Wravon had struck a prince before one of his followers without evident provocation. To any watcher, this would seem an attack. In Zala, such an action would lead to extreme punishment, at the very least, a flogging.
He felt his men draw closer, saw their faces grim and prepared…
Rian held out an open hand to Wravon, an amazing amount of understanding and compassion shining in his eyes.
“You needed that.” The tone was rueful, rather than angry. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I know that it is not possible compensation or solace, but I would be honored if you would view my own horses for a mount. If you find a connection with any of them, they are yours.”
Hamon’s jaw dropped. This was a princely gift indeed. The royal Rashmaian horses were much sought after but jealously guarded, rarely seen outside of royal possession. It could never replace Wravon’s beloved horse, but Hamon could see a spark of interest in his cousin’s red-rimmed eyes. Wravon stared at the offered hand for longer than was possibly polite before he nodded stiffly, and they clasped forearms together, their gazes steady upon each other.
Rian nodded once, then turned away.
Zacar fussed over him, shooting furious, sharp-edged glares at the Hawks.
Rian patted his hand, stopping his actions. “He needed to blame someone for his loss. And that loss is great. To them, it is as losing family.”
The soft-spoken words were heartfelt and compassionate. Hamon could see his men’s pleased reactions in the softening of their guarded stances. For himself, Hamon could not help but be suspicious. This boy had no reason to be kind to them, and the fact that he was being so, seemed all too close to the manipulation that the king had referred to. He was used to being confident and definite in his gauging of others, so the seesawing view this prince promoted within him annoyed Hamon no end.
He wanted to know the truth of the matter, get on with focusing on the question of whether this boy could be the blessed soulseeker. This was why Wravon was usually the spokesperson when they needed diplomacy. That was definitely not one of Hamon’s strong points. To him, people were both foolish and unnecessarily complicated.
Despite this intriguing start, he held no doubt that the prince would end up just the same.
Despite the ache in his jaw, Rian inexplicably felt his ever-present fear and tension subside. This might have been because he had Telan and Zacar at his side once more. They would create a bubble of protection, a haven for him, no matter how fragile or temporary it was in truth.
Zacar turned to hug his neck fiercely, once they reached the inner recesses of the huge pavilion. Rian wrapped his own good arm round the smaller form, settling into the hug with a sigh of appreciation. Only with those he trusted could he let down his barriers, accept touch.
Here, with the Hawks remaining in the main chamber, he could let down his mental shields, despite the only true barriers between him and the rest of the world being fragile cloth.
“He caught you.” Zacar’s eyes roved over him, concern and sadness in their depths. “I heard of what happened at
the palace, how Carain turned out to be a spy. I am so sorry…”
Rian slowly untied his shirt and let it drop. Zacar stepped behind him, a low, anguished moan of sympathy escaping his lips.
Gentle, tentative fingers touched where the lash marks ended on the curve of his ribs. “My lord, I would give anything to put an end to this. If I could, I would smuggle you to my country, hide you so thoroughly that you would never need to suffer his depredations again.” There were tears melded with the words, the simple sincerity obvious.
Rian turned back to face him, tracing his jaw line with a loving finger. “And we know how that would end, my friend. My brother invading Calmai, your people taken under his harsh rule, and for what? The sake of one man?” There was bitterness long held in the tone. “I wanted to protect you and Telan, keep you out of this, keep the troops out of it, rather than divide their loyalties.”
“I had hoped to make it over the border to the south, delay him enough to gain a head start, disappear—and never stop running. The southerners are strong enough that he would at least hesitate before attempting to cross their lands. But I would have had to keep running. He would come, even if in stealth, and he would kill any who had harbored me.”
Zacar did not reply. There was no point. Rian knew Zacar understood the truth of his words. He was the one who most often treated the prince’s myriad injuries. He also knew Arran all too well. Zacar had been the king’s slave since his capture some ten years before. He had suffered Arran’s cruel touch before being gifted to Rian as a personal servant.
Their shared pain drew them into much more than that initial relationship.
Friends.
Rian preferred to think of them as souls bound in this life, brothers of mind and experience, if never of blood. He had little to go on, the normality of what brothers should be like, but he imagined it to be a little like the Hawks’ warm bonds among themselves.