by Owens J. C.
Of all those who had shared his bed, both men and women, none had ever tempted him to linger, to savor touch. His reactions to Rian seemed yet another indication that the prince held importance beyond what Hamon could currently understand. All his senses were alert and straining toward the boy.
Hamon felt only confusion and a trickle of fear. How was he going to explain the speed of this turnaround to his cousin and his men? He had no ideas on how to present this and make it sound even nominally sane. Hopefully, Wravon would pick up enough on his own to be able to support Hamon’s odd behavior.
And Telan himself. Hamon could only hope that his men accepted a complete stranger into their midst, close and standoffish as they often could be.
Yet this newcomer, this possible soulseeker, felt as though he were one of them. As though he had always been part of Hamon’s life. Somehow, here in enemy territory, he felt the presence of his gods as never before.
He had never paid a particular amount of attention to the gods before, beyond the obligatory toasts and prayers at feast days. Now, since meeting Rian, his skin practically crawled with sensation. Sensations he was rapidly becoming convinced were indications of divine presence, divine machinations. It was unnerving, yet filled him with growing wonder as he realized the depth of it, the meaning of it.
Either that, or he was losing his mind.
Both seemed equal possibilities.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rian spent the morning meeting with his twelve captains, hearing reports from each division, with the leader of the Hawks a silent, intimidating figure at his side.
The captains were normally more garrulous, more open with Rian, but it was clear they thought of the newcomer as Arran’s spy and held their tongues in response.
Rian often wondered what they saw in him, to risk the displeasure of their own king, yet as always, they seemed to stand in quiet, but very united, opposition to anyone sent to watch over Rian. He would have to speak to them one by one before Arran’s arrival. He would not risk another man’s life in a futile attempt to aid him. When Arran was here in person, Rian was terrified that a word, an action, would see his brother’s madness flow to the fore and harm far more than only Rian.
During the meeting there was no mention of Rian’s absence, and he could not help but wonder how much, if anything, they knew of his escape attempt, or whether they actually believed that he had been recalled to Arran’s side. As always, the thought of people speculating on Arran’s odd possessiveness and Rian’s frequent “accidents” made him inwardly writhe with shame.
At the palace, the whispers and scandalized glances among the courtiers was constant. Here, there was not a single smirk, no sly innuendoes, only a quiet, steady respect that made no sense. Officers and soldiers alike, they followed his orders with precision and an obvious pride.
True, he had been with them through some of the worst battles, stood with them at gravesides as they buried their dead. That they had seen.
But they knew nothing of how he had wheedled Arran’s cooperation in supplying good food, the best weapons, and an impressive supply line.
Or did they?
It seemed so long ago that he had worked with advisors when he did not know how to proceed. How he had struggled to do the best for the army. Now, it came easily to him.
Initially upon his taking up the mantle of sacred commander, the captains had disliked him for his youth, his titled position, seeing him as the spoiled brother to the king, but time and war seemed to have softened their opinions into a different mold.
He wished he deserved their respect. All he could feel was his brother’s touch, marking, tainting, making him not worthy of anything but scorn. At the palace, the reactions of the courtiers were tolerable in that he understood why they would feel the way they did. Their reasoning was sound. Here, amid the army, he felt as though he were playing a part, an actor with no knowledge of his lines. Surely, at some point, the troops would realize their mistake and turn on him as the courtiers had.
Now, there was the complication of the Hawks to consider as well.
Despite Hamon’s claims of a change of heart and his belief that Rian was the much-revered soulseeker, Rian knew better than to believe in mere words.
Words could never be trusted.
Hard experience had taught him as much. Arran’s least comment had to be cautiously sifted through, considered and responded to as neutrally as possible. Having undergone such long-term exposure to a twisted reality, he had no ability to recognize when people spoke simple truth. He understood this lack of comprehension but had no idea how to correct the fault.
First, he would have to perceive truth itself, and with his lack of trust, it seemed unlikely to present itself clearly.
All he could do was let himself drift, play the parts he could not escape. Arran had conquered him. He would not fight that again, not for anyone’s cause, real or not. He had his children and his friends to keep safe.
He was Arran’s and would ever remain so.
Hamon watched and listened during the meeting, offering no opinion or judgment.
Everything was well in hand.
Coming from a nomadic people, he was impressed at the level of organization and cooperation the Rashmaian military displayed. He had never imagined them to be so swift and efficient.
Perhaps the tales of the Old Wars that had ended with truce between Zalans and Rashma were not clear enough as to these people’s talents.
So much to learn. He needed to understand them, understand Rian, before he could possibly find a path that would see a soulseeker once again comfort and guide the Zala.
Hamon felt the suspicion and general dislike aimed at both him and his men, but he took it in stride and not as the insult it was meant to be.
The loyalty and respect these men displayed for their prince, pleased Hamon, both as proof of Rian’s character and also that honor existed in these ranks. In times to come, it was entirely possible they might choose prince above king. Necessary if anything was to come that could see Rian free. It seemed unlikely at best that Arran himself would ever step beyond the obsession that shackled the two brothers together. So something else would have to change.
Hamon felt a strange concern well up within him. These men, these people, were under the sway of a king who showed increasing evidence of mental illness. Small comments he had heard from outside the pavilion where they were staying, and things his men had caught while exploring the camp, showed that Arran’s hand had become increasingly heavy upon his people, when once he had been beloved as prince, spawning hope that his own rule would be lighter and more merciful than his father’s reign had been.
There were whispers of discontent, of resentment and growing anger.
Hamon had seen enough civil war in his own lands to predict what was coming. Arran had spoken of a peaceful reign following the end of the conflict with the Marshlanders. Doubtful, if not impossible. Once attention was redirected back home, the people would focus their attention on what needed to be changed in their own country. Those of Rashma seemed fairly martial to Hamon. He could not see them bowing under Arran forever, although his father had ruled some thirty years. According to what he had heard, the man had been utterly crazed, as paranoid and brutal with his own family as he was with any outsider. Fear had been his weapon, and it had taken a long time for the people to rise, to back Arran in a coup. His father had died in the fighting, some said by Arran’s own hand.
With age, Arran’s behavior had turned for the worse, until his own rule seemed to mirror his father’s. Hamon glanced at Rian with a frown. Would this madness infect the younger brother as well? Not something Hamon wished to bring to his people as the soulseeker. He crossed his arms over his chest and brooded. So many nuances to this whole affair. He felt wrong-footed all the time, unable to gauge what steps to take, what path to follow in the quest to see if this boy held the key to the future of the Zala.
For the first time, instead of always bru
shing aside his father’s gruff advice, he now wished he could speak to him, treasure that same advice, because he was lost and fully aware of it. Too much rode on this situation, and he felt woefully ill equipped.
The meeting finally ended with full night having long since descended. The officers left, with much respect in the bows they gave to their prince.
For his part, Rian acknowledged their gestures with formal nods. There seemed to be no hint of arrogance or sense of superiority within his responses. The boy held power, could use it as needed, but seemed to wield it with velvet gloves rather than the mace his older brother used with such force.
Hamon approved.
* * *
Rian leaned his aching head back against the chair. Candles flickered on the inner walls of the tent, and the sound of the Hawks’ conversations and laughter seemed to echo too loudly within the confines of the pavilion.
Zacar stepped forward with a plate of food, thrusting it onto the table before the prince with a severe look that demanded compliance. “You will eat. You have had nothing for hours and now your head aches. I will give you a massage tonight, at least where I can.”
Rian sighed. He wished his back was healing more quickly. Zacar’s massages were just this side of heaven, and he longed for the sweet peace and relaxation they provided. Still, even if Zacar could work on his upper shoulders, in between the wounds, Rian would be grateful. His shoulders felt like they were permanently welded up around his ears, and he longed for the cessation of pain that made his temples throb.
“Your head aches?” Hamon’s voice was level and calm.
Rian sent a weary glance his way. If this was a prelude to some biting comment…
“Would you let me take it from you?”
The question halted his thought processes completely. He turned more fully in the Hawks’ leader’s direction, wary now.
“You know massage?” He had no plans of allowing this man access to his body in such a manner, whether or not they had slept in the same bed.
“I know energy and the paths it takes. When it blocks, it causes the body pain. Over time, that blockage can cause disease and even death.”
Rian blinked, certain he was being mocked. He glanced at the other Hawks, but they were nodding, no mockery upon their faces.
Telan met his eye and nodded even as the foreigners had. So he had some knowledge of what Hamon spoke of.
“Eat first,” Hamon continued. “I do not wish to be on Zacar’s bad side. Then I will tell you what I mean, and how it can help you if you allow it.”
The servant gave a gratified huff before he left, no doubt to order supper for the rest of them, his look at Hamon containing a new level of consideration.
Rian eyed him for a long moment, then turned to the food, beginning to be aware of how hungry he actually was now that the smells of the perfectly cooked meal wafted up to his nostrils. It had been a long time since he had felt true hunger pangs, his desire for food usually almost non-existent. For some reason, at the moment, he felt he could eat an entire cow—and want for more at the end of it.
Telan watched him eat with a satisfied air, approval evident at each mouthful. Often were the times that he and Zacar had worked together, trying to urge him to consume a satisfactory amount. Rian actually felt a small sense of accomplishment that here and now, his guardian had no need to mother him. He did not want the Hawks to see him displaying yet another weakness.
Arran may have set them against him, but he was damn well not going to prove his brother’s words. If Hamon’s earlier discussion was true, and they had changed their viewpoint, then he wanted very badly to show them that he had finer points, had strength of his own, beyond his brother’s controls.
Why it mattered was nothing he could understand.
Zacar reappeared, more servants in his wake, bringing platters of food to a large side table where the men could help themselves. There was some jostling and good-natured insults as the Hawks got in line, their guards close behind, and Rian watched with bemusement. They seemed nothing more than young men at that moment, certainly not the fierce warriors that their reputations pointed too.
He glanced at Hamon, who had not yet moved toward the food.
Hamon caught his look. “I will wait. Getting in between those idiots and food has never been a wise choice.”
Rian gave a choked little laugh, not expecting the humor shown. This man always seemed to catch him just slightly off guard.
Telan watched the goings on at the table and nodded in response to Hamon’s comment. The two older men waited until there was a clearing, then went to get their own food. Rian watched them side by side, surprised at the forbearance that Telan seemed to show to Hamon. Rian would have thought there would be more friction between them, both dominant, both used to being in charge. Telan had never had the least respect or patience for any of the other guards that Arran had assigned, so what was so different about the Hawks’ leader? He trusted Telan’s judgment utterly, so there must be something of worth within Hamon. Something Rian would have to discover for himself.
He finished his food even as the rowdy Hawks sat down, elbowing each other and vying for room. Only Wravon was quiet. He sat down next to Hamon’s chair, and began to poke at his food, no enthusiasm in the actions.
Rian felt a pang of sympathy. Cautiously, expecting a rebuff, he leaned forward to lay a hand upon Wravon’s forearm, causing the other man to look up, no welcome in his eyes.
“We will be moving on tomorrow morning. I wondered if perhaps you would like to view my horses today, choose one to be your mount while you are here, or forever, if it pleases you.”
Wravon stared at him, then away, a small flush rising on his lean cheekbones. He did not speak for some time, simply stared at his food, fingers clenching into fists.
Rian fully foresaw refusal, but the man surprised him.
“I would be honored. It is a kind and generous offer you make.” His voice was hoarse and rough, as though the words came hard, as though he had not believed Rian’s earlier offer.
Rian nodded and leaned back away, giving the Hawk room. The man grieved. The prince hoped this would be a diversion from his pain, but it was also practical. He would need a mount, and Rian wanted to gift him one, feeling pangs of guilt that this had happened in his country, to a visitor, however unwelcome that visitor might truly be. He shook his head at his own conflicting thoughts.
The moment was broken as Hamon returned and seated himself beside Rian and Wravon, shooting a quick look between them before tucking into his meal.
On Rian’s other side, Telan sat in his specially made chair, the wood still creaking under his great weight. Rian felt amazingly safe between the two, relaxing back in his own seat and watching the other Hawks as they mowed through the food with astonishing speed and vigor. He would have to make sure Zacar knew to bring extra rations while these men were here. They obviously loved food.
Their interaction was fascinating to him. They were so close, so bonded, the way Rian often imagined that true brothers, normal brothers, would act. He felt a little wistful as he viewed their antics. He would give anything to have that—the friendship, the closeness.
Sometimes, so painfully rarely, he’d had a whisper of that with Arran. Occasionally there were echoes of the past, of the closeness they had once shared, of a bond long since sullied. Fool that he was, there was still a small sliver of hope in his heart that his brother would change back to that person, wipe away the intervening years of horror. Despite everything, there was still love within Rian, and he wished that he had the strength to destroy it, to tear it from his being, and cease to care.
It would be so lovely not to care. Not to have every thought of his brother hold nuances of pain.
He was jarred back to the present by laughter from the Hawks, and he realized with some sense of displacement that they were all finished, as were Telan and Hamon. He had lost time in his musings. Blinking, he attempted to ground himself in the present
.
Hamon turned to him with a raised brow. “Did you wish me to work on that headache?”
Rian wanted to refuse, wanted to retain distance, but the throbbing behind his eyes made him want to bring up the food he had so eagerly consumed only a short time ago. If there was anything this man could show him that would help, perhaps a method to control it…
He nodded, trepidation making him swallow hard. It was no small thing to accept touch in any form. Only those he trusted had gained that honor.
Hamon gave a small quirk of his lips, then gently laid a hand upon Rian’s forehead, closing his eyes as he did so. Rian sat tensely, trying to let himself relax and accept whatever this energy might be.
He expected pain, but instead there was a spreading warmth under Hamon’s hand, intense, yet greatly gentle, penetrating his skull and making his thoughts muzzy and disjointed. Some part of him thought he should protest, but the rest sank into the pleasant sensation wholeheartedly.
The heat moved, gently floating through his thoughts, and seemed to rise, pressing against the inside of his skull. A little harder, on the edge of discomfort, but never past, and then something seemed to give way, there was a sensation of rushing energy, of a flow that brought ease at long last.
His poor brain relaxed into the sudden cessation of pain, and he sagged against the back of the chair, perfectly prepared to spend eons in just that pose.
The amazing touch left his forehead, and he almost whimpered at the loss, finding himself leaning forward, chasing it.
A soft laugh trickled along his nerves, the tone gentle and almost fond. The touch returned, this time around the nape of his neck.
Some part of him wanted to jerk away, the hold all too familiar, a common way for Arran to hold him down. Somehow though, this felt so different, warm, relaxing, nothing of threat. The energy flowed through his veins, a sense of cleansing in its wake, and Rian slumped forward, barely aware that the hardness he was lying against was Hamon’s shoulder.