Soulseeker

  Arran had not spoken to him at all that morning, not while they were armoring up, and not while they rode.

  They would reach the border within the hour, face the waiting army ranged against them. He wanted to glance back, make eye contact with Hamon, but fear ruled again, Arran’s dark energy quelling him.

  His biggest fear among many was that he would do or say something that would make the situation worse, sway Arran in a direction that would be disastrous for more than just himself.

  So he remained subdued, silent.

  Dust rose on the road ahead, two mounted scouts returning with news of what lay ahead. They drew their horses to a plunging halt beside Arran, bowing. Their words were hushed, their expressions hard to interpret. Certainly they did not look composed.

  Rian eyed his brother. Arran waved them away, his own visage without expression. He glanced Rian’s way, speculation in his stare that made no sense.

  Still, the king did not voice his thoughts, only signaled that they should continue on at the slow, steady pace they had been keeping.

  They crested the last hill, looking down into the small valley, only to draw to a halt. The Flaren army, the Marshlanders they had come to fight, come to defeat in a last push away from their own borders, were dismounted, standing by their horses with no weapons drawn.

  They faced the incoming army in silence, a silence soon echoed by the astonished Rashmaians.

  Rian glanced over his shoulder at last, meeting Hamon’s confused look with one of his own. What on earth…

  * * *

  Arran spoke softly to his Elites, gesturing Rian, Telan, and the Hawks to follow him forward, leaving the bulk of the army in a position of power upon the higher ground of the hill. Hamon watched with his hands clutched tight on the reins.

  Hamon and the other Hawks grouped closely behind Telan and Rian, protective, wary of this odd behavior of the Flaren and their united front of calm, eerie silence.

  As they drew close, Arran signaled a halt and they sat waiting. Hamon felt the tension rise as two riders from the Marshfolk mounted and walked their horses across the border to meet them.

  He almost expected the rest of the army to follow, as though this were a trap, a ruse to get them off-guard, even though the Marshfolk had never used such a strategy before.

  The two men had long, gray beards, their faces showing age, though their bodies were surprisingly well-muscled. The beards were braided and beaded with bright colors, each bead symbolizing an important moment of their life.

  Hamon knew next to nothing of them beyond that small tidbit of information. Hostile to strangers and insular, they were no more friendly to the Zala than they were to the Rashmaians.

  His fingers flexed upon the reins as he watched them intently.

  The two men reached them, then without pausing, dismounted in a show of peace.

  After a slight pause, Arran and Rian followed suit, while Hamon, Telan, and the others stayed mounted, hands on weapons.

  The two Marshlanders fell to their knees and bowed—to Rian. As though in a reactive wave, their followers, numbering in the thousands, followed suit.

  The Marshfolk leaders said a word over and over, almost a chant, and it took Hamon a moment to understand the approximation of Rashmaian language.

  Soulseeker.

  Rian sat by the fire, staring into its shifting depths with numb intensity.

  The camp was in an uproar, celebrations extending near and far. Singing, raucous and filled with enthusiasm, mingled with the sound of drums and flutes, overwhelming the senses so that he flinched away from the enormity of it all. The atmosphere was almost frenetic with joy and relief.

  The war was over.

  By the time the day had waned, a truce had been declared, the Marshlanders only asking that Rian see to the souls of their dead.

  How they had known, when Rian had only come to grips with it such a short time ago himself, seemed astonishing. He had mentioned his own theory—that the gatekeeper had indeed been a Marshlander, that the soulseeker was meant to help far more than the Zala.

  However it had come about, it had brought peace.

  He could do this, he would turn aside no soul that he found, and now, with his newborn knowledge, perhaps he could seek injured souls out, not just wait for them to come to him.

  But all this seemed far in the future, too unreal at the moment to fathom.

  Of far greater importance was that, on the morrow, the camp would be struck, and they would head home.

  Arran had dismissed the Hawks, paid them handsomely in full sight of Rian.

  And they had bowed and returned to their pavilion, not looking once at Rian.

  Tomorrow, he would return to hell, and now he did not know if what he’d had with Hamon was truth or some fabrication in line with what Arran had told him. The Hawks had come as spies? Truth? Or lie?

  He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, grimacing at the pain that seemed to have settled there. As though breathing itself had become a difficulty.

  Was this what opening to emotion was? The end result? If so, he would gladly sink back into the numb, blank unreality that he had endured before he had met the Hawks. Surely that had to be better than this sense of betrayal, of pain.

  He felt isolated from the revelry, utterly alone.

  Arran had disappeared some time ago, Elites in tow, and Rian had not seen him since. His brother had not spoken to him of the wonder of the truce, of what it meant and how it would shape the future.

  Indeed, Arran had not spoken to him at all.

  A figure sank into the chair next to him, long, lean fingers held out to the heat of the fire as the night dampness came to the fore.

  Rian stiffened, fingers slowly clenching into his palms.

  Hamon’s face was alternately lit, then cast into shadow by the firelight. He was silent for long moments, then leaned his forearms on his thighs, turning ever so slightly so he could see Rian.

  “You think I betrayed you.” The tone was calm, almost flat.

  Rian started, whipped his head round to stare at the other man. For the matter to be brought to the fore so abruptly…

  “We came here to learn more of your country. That much is true. But what has occurred between you and I has nothing to do with that. I never planned on liking you, never planned on opening my heart to anyone here. And yet, here we are. I know what I feel. The question is, what is it that you want from me? What is it that you feel?”

  The bluntness took Rian’s breath away and flung the bitterness to the side before he could quite comprehend how. It was as though he could feel the truth in the other man’s words. Perhaps he was naive, perhaps he just wanted this so much—or perhaps he now understood energy enough to believe in what it was telling him.

  Warm brown eyes met his gaze.

  “I want you.” His whisper was harsh, the words almost ripping from his very being.

  “Then you shall have me.”

  Rian gave a choked laugh. As though anything in his life could ever be that simple.

  “You are leaving in the morning. I heard Arran tell you so, saw him pay you.”

  Hamon gave a crooked grin. “I should think so. Having to put up with you. Damn right we will get paid. Your brother can well afford it.” The grin faded into something soft and fond. “It will help my people. I will take it gladly, but never think that it is some release between us. You and I, that remains despite the rocky start we had.”

  Rian blinked back tears. “You will leave. He will make you go and I will return—back there.”

  Hamon’s fingers twitched, as though he longed to touch Rian, hold him despite the nearness of so many witnesses.

  “I have faith,” he whispered. “The Gods provide.”

  Rian closed his eyes, the tears spilling over.

  * * *

  The next morning, the pavilion came down as soon as Arran and Rian stepped out from its shadow.

  The Hawks stood some small distance away, th
eir mounts packed and ready.

  Arran walked to the highest part of the hill, closer to the Zala, gesturing Rian in his wake. There was silence between them for some time. Rian could not speak, all that he felt locked within, preparing…

  Arran’s expression was cold, withdrawn, as he stared down the hill at the army encampment. “You have told me that what I feel for you, how it was expressed, was wrong. Even as what Father did to me was wrong.”

  It was evident that everything camp-wide was being swiftly prepared for departure. Soon, they would leave. The Hawks to their world, and Rian to his, to a painful, degrading future that would slowly destroy him. He tried to breathe, tried to tamp down the despair and hopelessness that threatened to swamp him.

  The Hawks shifted uneasily at the king’s words, but remained silent.

  Rian swallowed with difficulty, wishing he had the words to convince his brother…

  Cold, gray eyes swung to him, a swift look that encompassed his fear with a knowledge gained of many years. The eyes of a hawk, without mercy or even knowledge of such a thing.

  One of the Elites, the one that had guided Rian, stepped forward, daringly laid a hand upon the king’s forearm. Arran looked up at the other man, and they locked stares, something passing between them with such swiftness that Rian knew in that moment that they were much more than King and companion.

  He barely had time to comprehend this revelation before Arran turned back to him, face completely expressionless.

  “Go. Now. Before I change my mind. Before the darkness rises and I pull you back to me.”

  Rian stared at him, mouth agape.

  There were swift footsteps behind him, and Hamon grasped his elbow, urging him away, the rest of the Hawks forming around him.

  “The children…” Rian’s voice was hoarse, part of him wanting to run, the other horrified at the mere thought of what his son and daughter’s future might be.

  Arran was looking back at the camp, the Elite standing at his side, grasping his shoulder.

  “I will never treat them as I have treated you. That I swear. I know now. They are the future; they are my healing. That is all I can tell you.” His voice cracked. “In the name of all that is holy, go, Rian. Go.”

  Rian did not have the presence of mind to even thank Arran or bid him good-bye. Hamon hustled him along, expression tense and strained.

  The horses were ready, Rian’s stallion, Katan, among them. Shocked, he glanced at Hamon, who shook his head.

  Whether this was foresight on the Hawks’ side or a last desperate hope…

  He swung up, ignoring several questions from nearby troops.

  Numbly he watched familiar faces go by as they trotted to the edges of the camp before Hamon urged them into a full gallop.

  Rian glanced back once, grief rising to choke him. He had not even managed to say farewell to Telan and Zacar. His men, his horses…

  In a single stroke, he had lost everything dear to him, for the sake of a tentative future.

  He was too numb and shocked to find any degree of hope.

  Hamon kept the pace brisk, walking, trotting, and a hard gallop all interspersed. The Zalan horses were not swift, but they had stamina and Hamon used that ruthlessly.

  Wravon and the others were tense, glancing over their shoulders often. This was too simple, too easy, to be true.

  When dust rose behind them, they whirled on the spot, ready for conflict, only for Rian to recognize the black stallion, and as the horse became clear, Telan with Zacar behind him, the final pieces of hope.

  Even they seemed unreal.

  They rode on, only stopped to feed and water the horses once. The alertness of the others, the preparation for attack, barely impinged on Rian’s consciousness.

  Hamon forced him to drink water, offered him dried meat, but Rian could not force food down.

  “Only a few miles now, before we cross the border.” Hamon put an arm around Rian’s shoulders and held him close, no doubt feeling the tremors he could not seem to control. “It will be fine. My people will welcome you, revere you as soulseeker. We will make a home together, Rian. I will never leave you. The Hawks will never leave you. You are family.”

  Rian nodded. Hamon said it would be fine. He just had to hold to that.

  Hamon watched Rian with concern. The young man was barely holding on, his eyes wide and blank, small shudders wracking his thin frame.

  Shock.

  Hamon rode close at his side, ready to catch him if necessary. As they left the hills behind and the flat plains stretched before them, Wravon pressed his mount close on the other side, his own gaze fixed upon Rian’s hunched form.

  Behind them, Telan, Zacar, and the rest of the Hawks rode with hands resting on their weapons, glancing back frequently, expressions grim and tight with tension.

  It could not be this simple.

  Hamon realized he was in shock of his own.

  He had Rian. They were returning to Zalan lands. His people would have a soulseeker once more.

  It seemed too good to be true, like a dream that could dissolve at any moment.

  Just ahead, he could see the two massive stones that marked the boundary, where they had entered Rashma what seemed like eons ago. It was difficult to believe that so much had happened, so much had changed within him.

  Never would he have believed that in such a short time he could be given such a gift as Rian. His search for a soulseeker might have fuelled the initial relationship, but such a reason had long since been pushed aside in favor of his heart.

  Rian was his. The wonder of those words seemed to echo within his mind. He thanked the gods profusely, feeling a sense of shame in his former disbelief of their powers, of their ability to bring about a miraculous resolution to the seemingly impossible situation.

  The stones loomed closer—then the horses slid to a stop, twisting against the riders’ grip, shying away from the presence that loomed over them.

  Hamon cursed, his hand clenching upon his sword, though he was well aware that no earthly weapon could harm what lay before them.

  The wraith was larger than before, the edges of its energy dark and ragged, its form seething from insubstantial to almost solid in fitful bursts.

  The Hawks gathered closer, preparing to join their energies, to do what they could against the threat…

  “Stop! Please stop!” Rian’s voice was strident, his face pale. He dismounted swiftly, letting his panicked horse go. Hamon cursed virulently, sliding from his stallion’s back, feeling the others close behind him.

  Rian held up a hand to their advance. “Let me speak to him.”

  Hamon felt chill fear steal his breath.

  It was Wravon who voiced what he was thinking. “Rian, your twin is powerful enough a wraith to take your soul. You have told us he has never seemed rational. This is not at all wise.”

  The prince looked at them, determination flattening his lips into a straight line, but he focused on Hamon. “If I do not face him, gain his cooperation and acceptance, I will never be able to be a soulseeker. He will block that at every turn. This has to be done.”

  Hamon took a step closer. For the first time, he did not give a damn about a soulseeker for his people. Pure selfishness rose to the fore. Rian was his, and he loved him regardless of his abilities.

  Rian took his hand, drawing him close. “Trust in me,” he whispered, meeting his eyes squarely.

  Hamon swallowed hard, then nodded. He could not deny Rian this moment. The prince was strong in his own right, and he needed to know that, face it.

  It was almost impossible to let that slim hand go, to release him and watch him walk away. Hamon’s breath came harsh and shallow, his gaze pinned upon that beloved form that seemed so frail and vulnerable in the shadow of the wraith.

  Rian fought for calm, for a sense of purpose that would see him able to achieve what needed to be.

  “Valen.” The first time in years he had uttered his twin’s name as anything other than a curs
e.

  The wraith’s twisting, dark energy paused, as though startled, then faded into grayness, softer, less chaotic. The face, a maddened mirror of his own visage, became more clear, ice-colored eyes intent upon him.

  Rian took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting for calm, before he let his energy free of the stark, powerful barriers he had always guarded himself with, opening himself to his twin.

  He heard Hamon’s sound of protest and fear behind him, but he kept his attention and senses trained upon the wraith, his brother.

  His brother…

  For so long he had denied this bond, pushed nothing but hatred upon the link that still bound them. If his twin was crazed, how much of that was his own doing?

  Feelings he had denied, had suppressed for so long rose within him like a tide.

  “Brother, my brother.” Tears he could not control trickled down his cheeks.

  The wraith—no—Valen made a sound of near agony, a wail of need that struck at Rian’s heart, and it swirled over him, around him, blocking him utterly from the Hawks.

  For a moment, there was fear, distrust, then his twin’s energy, his soul, bright and free of taint, enfolded him, and there was nothing but love. For the first time since he was a child, he could feel the truth of his twin, and the link that bound them was beautiful in its intensity. There was nothing of darkness within it, nothing at all.

  All the years wasted in hatred and fear, and in the end, this was what lay at the heart of it all.

  His own soul rose and they twined about each other, joined again as they had been denied in the physical realm. Rian’s energy felt like it sparked, flared, rose to brilliance he had never experienced, and it took long moments before he deciphered what he was feeling.

  Joy.

  For the first time he could remember, true, untarnished joy.

  Time had no meaning, and he clung to his twin, soaking in what his soul had so needed. The outer world seemed far away, an unreal thing at best.

  Valen urged him closer, retreating further from the other side, but Rian paused, balked at the edge of the soul plane.