Soulseeker

  “Arran, did Father beat you? Did he…rape…you?” The words stuck in his throat, but he swallowed hard, kept his attention on his brother. Was it possible…?

  Arran blinked. “He made me strong.”

  Rian nodded, his fingers tightening as he leaned closer. “Perhaps, but did he hurt you, Arran? Did he touch you sexually?”

  Arran tilted his head again, as though confused as to why Rian would ask such a thing. “Of course. Father loved me.”

  Rian thought he was going to be ill. He had to choke back nausea, his thoughts whirling with what this meant, what it had caused.

  It all made sudden, horrible sense.

  Perhaps the madness, the insanity, was something far darker, more insidious than simple a maddened bloodline. And how long had this gone on? Had it begun with their father, or further in the past? Did this mean that Rian himself…

  He put a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut in horror.

  Never. He would never lay a hand on his own children in such a manner. Whatever the past, it would stop here. Right here, with him.

  “Is that why you hurt me, Arran?” Rian fought back tears, a rising urge to scream battling against forced calm.

  Arran sat back, staring at him, pulling away from Rian’s touch, his fingers restlessly tapping against the arms of the chair.

  “Why are you asking these things? It is evident. It does not need to be discussed.”

  For the first time in their lives, Rian felt like the older sibling, the one that needed to take charge.

  “No, it is not evident. Arran, whatever Father told you, showed you—that is not the way it has to be. Love can be shown without hurting.”

  Arran said nothing, but the tapping increased, uneasiness evident in every line of his body. A moment later, he rose up, beginning to pace once more, but with a slightly manic edge to it now, something completely foreign to anything Rian had ever seen in him.

  One of the Elites shifted slightly, and Rian looked over at him cautiously. The man said nothing, but his eyes…

  Pleading silently.

  These men, many of them had grown up with Arran, had been at his side since childhood. Was this the base of their loyalty? Had they kept this secret for him, protected him since?

  That look begged Rian to continue, to take this past where Arran was presently comfortable.

  He wanted to scream at them, ask them where they had been when Arran had perpetuated this horror upon Rian himself. Why had no one stopped this, why had this secret been kept?

  The answer was clear enough, if never simple. Because the royal line was founded on fear, fear that had flowed down through time, ensuring that those around them never acted, never stepped forward to halt the atrocities. It had affected everyone, from the top to the bottom of the hierarchy.

  And Rian was just another victim.

  He gritted his teeth, staring at his brother with his emotions tangled until his chest ached with the force of them.

  His brother. Arran. Who once had been so gentle, so caring as a brother. Was this the secret that finally could make sense of the past?

  Rian wanted to blame his father, had hated the man long before he died, for so many reasons, the killing of his twin and his mother the most bitter of them all, but now, with this information, he was torn. Was his father the perpetrator…or another victim? The rage, the pain, battled with a sense of confusion. He could never blame someone who had gone through what he had, but he felt no similar insane desire to harm others, to show love in such a twisted, black manner.

  Why was he different?

  “Arran,” he said, finally finding his voice. “What father did was wrong. He hurt you, in so many ways. That is not love. That is darkness and pain, not anything of love within it.”

  Arran whirled on him, rage written in his features.

  “Are you saying I do not love you? I love you with my very life. You are my life. She took Valen from us. There was only you that I could protect. Father explained it to me. That pain would bind us together, that you would never leave me.”

  Rian rose to his feet, feeling tears rise, tears that he fought back. Now was not the time. He had to be strong. If there was the slightest way he could make Arran see…

  Arran took a step back, as though Rian had become suddenly more, something dangerous.

  Rian saw him brace himself, as though for a blow. He sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself, gathering his inner strength with grim determination.

  He reached out, slow, calm, as he would to an abused horse.

  Arran’s eyes widened, his body stiffened perceivably, but he held firm.

  For the first time in years, Rian reached out voluntarily and touched his brother. He laid gentle fingers upon Arran’s cheek.

  The king jerked, one hand instantly rising to settle upon Rian’s forearm as though he would pull it away, deny the touch, before he froze in place, his breathing harsh and uneven.

  They stared at each other, motionless.

  Rian let his fingers move gently over his brother’s cheek, before moving to tuck stray hair behind his ear. “This is love, brother. Gentle touches, a wish for the other person to be happy, to be safe. No pain. Never—any—pain.”

  Arran shook beneath his touch, tension wracking his whole body, his eyes wide and white-rimmed.

  “I make you happy,” he whispered back fiercely. “I keep you safe, I always have.”

  “But you give me pain, Arran. You take me sexually. Brothers don’t do that, ever. I don’t want pain. I want to love you, be your brother, but I don’t want you to hurt me anymore. It does not make me happy. It does not make me feel safe. Whatever Father may have taught you, it does not apply to me. I need something different, something gentler. Please.”

  That last word seemed to reach the king in a manner nothing else had.

  “You never ask me for anything. Nothing. Yet now you speak. You never told me this before. Why now?” His eyes narrowed slightly, darkness in their depths. “Who have you been speaking with that changed you?”

  “No one had to teach me this, Arran.” Rian struggled to keep his tone calm, his words even. “I could not tell you this as a child. I did not understand how, but even then, I knew it was wrong. This is not us, brother. This is not how we need to be. You were a good man, even after Father did this to you. You cared for our people, you championed them against Father’s atrocities. Yet when you became King, you followed his ways, became just like him. The people, our people need their prince back. The one who loved them, understood them. That is what they need in their king, not an image of a tyrant.”

  Arran froze under his hand, his gaze turning eerily blank with thought.

  Rian stayed utterly still, heart pounding painfully. Silently, he begged any gods that might be listening, might care enough to aid him.

  There had to be pieces of his true brother in there somewhere, the Arran who held gentleness and care. There had to be…

  The king blinked, awareness returning. For a long moment, he met Rian’s eyes, no anger in his own, before he twisted away, evading his touch and pacing across the pavilion before whirling back, fists clenched.

  “You had no thought of this when you left. Why now…” He snarled silently, lip drawing back from bared teeth. “The Hawks. What did they…?”

  Rian did not approach, only watched him, fighting for calm. “They did nothing. I only had to watch the interactions between them. As can you. See what I see, brother. See the truth. Neither you nor I deserve less than the truth.”

  Arran tossed his head like a spooked horse, backing away further.

  “I need to check the camp, talk to the men. I will return before dark.” The words were clipped, brisk, full of banked emotion.

  He swung away, ducking through the doorway and disappearing into the bright sunlight. The Elites followed, but the last one, the one who had caught Rian’s eye, nodded just once, gratitude clear in his eyes.

  Hamon paced, unable to stifle his
nervous energy. They had a pavilion of their own, set up just hours before the king’s arrival. Rian’s idea, in case his brother found their presence intrusive. It was clear that the prince was trying very hard to keep them far from Arran’s attention. Whether that was for Rian himself or for the Hawks’ safety was not completely clear. Most probably a combination of the two. But it left the Zala out of sight of the prince and trapped in a state of not knowing that was driving Hamon quite mad.

  A familiar voice asked for entrance and Hamon whirled, relief easing the ache in his chest.

  Zacar entered the pavilion with calm control, waving in several servants with food on trays. “Your food, my lords. Prepared as you like.”

  Hamon paused as Wravon caught his arm and prevented him from approaching Rian’s servant. Instead, chafing, he remained silent, watching intently as the food was placed on a long side table, accompanied by wine and water. The other servants left, glancing side-eyed and nervous at the Zala warriors.

  When they were gone, Zacar gestured them toward the food.

  “The prince wished to ensure that you are well taken care of.” The smooth tone was belied by the speaking glance he sent to the doorway. Someone was listening in.

  “Please, eat well.” There was a flash of white in one dark-skinned hand, and Dramon, who was closest, palmed the paper swiftly with a nod of thanks.

  Zacar sent them a grim smile, then bowed deeply before disappearing outside.

  Hamon strode to Dramon’s side, where he was swiftly offered the paper. All of them stood close, squinting at the writing, waiting for Hamon to read it through.

  “He says he is fine. Fighter practice. He wants us to hold a fighter practice this afternoon.” Hamon read further, confusion replacing concern. “He wishes us to be as normal as possible, to freely display our bonds, our closeness.” He turned the note over, scowling when there was nothing more. “What in the gods’ name…”

  Wravon only nodded, his calm acceptance annoying in the face of Hamon’s uncertainties and worry. “He will have his reasons. Perhaps he is trying to display what brotherhood truly should be. A healthy example.”

  Hamon scoffed. “As if Arran is capable of being rational enough to understand. I don’t trust him and I don’t like that Rian is alone with him.”

  “Then trust in Rian. Do as he asks. He is not a fool.”

  “No, not a fool at all, but neither is he used to having protection. He is more likely to fling himself as a sacrifice, then realize that there are other ways.”

  * * *

  Rian turned his face up into the midday sun, letting the warmth ease into his bones, take the inner chill from his body. He could sense Telan’s massive presence some small distance behind him, maintaining proper distance and respect in the face of Arran’s possible presence.

  His brother had not returned from his inspection of the camp. Rian had the impression that his confrontation of the past was responsible for Arran’s sudden abandonment.

  Whatever it may be, it was a new factor in this relationship that Rian had never expected, and he certainly did not understand how to deal with it. The ramifications were still circling his mind, and he could not begin to decide whether this was a good thing, where things would change for the better, or a bad thing, in which case his circumstances would worsen.

  His lips twisted bitterly. Worsen. It seemed impossible, but he was sure Arran could manage it.

  Whichever it might be, it only added terrifying uncertainty to his already unstable position. He just wished he was more intelligent, more capable of using this new information as a weapon in their little war. Instead, he was wondering if this might bring his brother back to who he had been.

  Pathetic.

  The likelihood of such a thing was miniscule at best, and hope had long ago been driven from any part of him. And yet, foolishly, he was wishing for the past.

  He tried to thrust aside all thought, focusing only on the moment, the warmth upon his face, the soft breeze, the faint sound of the nearby river. Some of the ever-present tension leached out of his body.

  The clash of weapons startled him, his eyes flew open, and for a moment he could not understand why…

  The Hawks. They had responded to his request when he had been half convinced they would not. To make a spectacle of themselves did not seem like anything they would be comfortable with, especially with Arran present, a less than neutral audience.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he met Telan’s smile with a small one of his own. He rose, and they walked together toward the centrally located area that was set aside for weapons practice.

  People were already gathering, and there were small cries of approval at certain moves. The men seemed supportive rather than critical, and Rian could only hope that would also ease any suspicion Arran might hold. If the army was at ease with the Hawks, then perhaps his brother could let down his guard as well. It remained to be seen.

  Dust rose in small whorls as the fighters moved and it hung in the air. A stronger breeze would be advantageous, Rian noted with a practiced eye. He had spent too many times choking on thick dust during such practices.

  The men moved aside as he approached, murmuring respectfully, letting him get to the front. Most of them were taller than he was, so he could only be thankful for the courtesy and his rank.

  Dramon and Navren were currently having a go at each other, focusing, occasionally letting out a colorful curse or two, trying to work past their obvious familiarity with each other’s moves.

  They were currently working with staffs, as was normal for practice. Experienced fighters were worth too much to risk with blades.

  The two feinted and jabbed, swung and blocked, with a swift efficiency that showed they were merely playing, hardly trying at all. Their skin, so much darker than Rian’s people, began to glisten in the hot sun, muscle rippling with every smooth, powerful movement.

  They grinned at each other, Navren raising a mocking eyebrow that Dramon only laughed at.

  It was then that Rian knew the truth, saw it in their eyes, the love, the passion, the need and loving respect.

  They were lovers.

  He’d had many suspicions over all of them, but at this moment, he knew that there was a very special bond, love, between these two men.

  Navren was younger by five years or so, without Dramon’s muscle mass, but he was lean and fast. Dramon had more experience; Navren had more impetuous fire.

  They made a dance of it, their martial movements so synchronized, so fluid, that it was spellbinding to watch.

  Rian took a deep, quivering breath, feeling emotion rise within him. For the first time, he had a wish of his own, a true picture of what he wanted the future to be.

  He wanted this. To be with a man his equal, to know each other so well that they could move like this, an expression of their abilities blending with their emotions.

  It was beautiful.

  He glanced to his left, to where the other Hawks were lounging by the edge of the circle, catcalling and occasionally whooping at some move their swordbrothers made in the ring.

  As if feeling his intense stare, Hamon turned his head, met his gaze full on.

  For a moment, there was nothing else, no one else, as though…

  Rian flushed and jerked his attention back to the bout before him. It was bad enough that such nonsense had come into his mind at all. It was worse that Hamon might have sensed what Rian was thinking, feeling. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile sense for comfort.

  Worse yet, if Arran should see it, come to the obvious conclusion. He sent surreptitious glances through the gathering crowd. There was no sign of his brother, but he chastised himself harshly.

  He was not free to show ardor to anyone, even if he were capable of a real relationship, damaged as he was.

  One man had already died for him. That would forever lie upon his conscience, and he had no business endangering anyone else. His preoccupation with Hamon had to cease, for eve
ryone’s sake.

  The bout ended abruptly, staff to staff, then both men stepped back, giving a traditional-looking bow to each other before turning to the other Hawks, entering their midst with much backslapping and ribaldry.

  Then Hamon and Wravon stepped forward, and Rian’s heartbeat quickened. He fought to keep any expression off his face, keep his body loose and relaxed.

  Telan’s hand came down upon his shoulder for a brief moment. “The king is here.” The comforting weight of that large hand disappeared.

  Rian straightened into a formal pose, hands behind his back, calling up the cool, disinterested expression that had served him so well in the past.

  Moments later, Arran appeared beside him, large and imposing, towering over Rian’s diminutive height. He made no move to touch Rian, a strangeness on its own. Whether it was formality before the troops or a bit of residue from their earlier encounter was hard to say.

  Never before had Arran not made his claim upon Rian instantly. It was both a relief and a fear that he did not. Rian did not feel up to sorting through what this might mean. He could only focus on keeping himself neutral, no mean feat when Hamon was right before him, all smooth muscle roiling under golden skin as he stretched and prepared for the fight, Wravon mirroring him.

  Rian kept his breathing even, watching Arran cautiously from the corner of his eye. His brother stood in an exact image of Rian’s own posture. Standing tall, feet braced apart, hands clasped behind his back. From what Rian could glean from his furtive glances, Arran seemed calm, with little expression upon his features. That could be good, or very, very bad.

  Hamon did not glance their way at all. His attention was all on Wravon as they stepped toward each other, drawing their long swords from their sheaths. Not staffs.

  Rian could not prevent a startled gasp that fortunately was echoed by many around him. He heard a faint hum of interest from Arran, and turning slightly, he could see one eyebrow arch.

  His gaze returned to Hamon and Wravon, worry rising into a knot that hampered his breathing. Fighting it down took time and control, and he completely missed the gestures that began the contest.