The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  The memorial cliff. No tombstones stood on this silent meadow. The only manmade structure here was a single marble statue of pure white—a winged maiden reaching for the skies. The maiden’s eyes were moist, the pain of loss palatable in her features.

  Just beyond the cliff raged a violent waterfall the city all but hugged. Here, the Great Lake of Eyria met the sea, and the land met the ocean. Ronan could feel the droplets reach him even up there when he looked over the edge. The sight was truly mesmerizing: it was serene, tranquil, calm. The Northmen chose to burn their dead, and so did the Eyrians. But when the Northmen buried their ashes, here the dead were released into the raging current below. It was a beautiful custom in its own way: men or women were freed from the shackles of their flesh, becoming together with the land and the sea.

  “It’s time,” Rust declared, opening the small pouching on his hip with shaking hands. The pouch seemed small for what it was; it was hard for Ronan to imagine a woman could be made into something so small.

  “I’m sorry, Evelyn,” Rust sighed. “I’m sorry your life had to end like this.” He smiled for a moment, following the maiden’s gaze for a passing moment. “I know you never were happy, not truly. I know you weren’t satisfied in that little village of ours, always hoping for someone to take you away. I know it has been years since we saw each other, but I know you must’ve been happy when you came to this city. I remember it well—how you spoke of the city as a child. The people. The buildings. The plays and the music. It was always your dream to come here, wasn’t it? Well, you made it, sis. By the gods you made it.”

  Ronan could see the big man’s shoulders slumping, his knees ready to buckle. Ronan took a hold of the man’s shoulders. He hadn’t even met Evelyn, but he could see she was important to him. It made him feel sad, too. Ronan dug his fingers into Rust’s shoulder “It will be alright,” he whispered.

  Rust erupted in tears, the mask of a strong warrior melting away with his grief fully manifest. Not only his mother, but his little sister, too. Was there a loss worse than that?

  The loss of a child, Ronan thought, the face of his son, Keran, appearing in his mind.

  Rust talked while Ronan listened. It was a bond between two men, two friends now fully realized. Rust spoke of his regret, how he had brushed away his sister the day he left their village to wage war. He told Ronan how, after his release from capture by Raven’s hand, he had been too ashamed to face his mother and his sister. And now that they were both dead, there would be no chance of reconciliation with them, ever again. Ronan could do nothing but sit down and listen, nodding in agreement as the man opened his soul to him. It was then that Ronan knew the man would survive this loss and emerge as twice the man he was before.

  Twice the man I am.

  “Rust?”

  “Aye.”

  “It’s time.”

  “Aye.”

  Rust opened the pouch containing his sister’s ashes, gripping it strongly to avoid the strong gust from tearing it from his hands prematurely. He walked towards the edge, spreading the contents of the pouch into the air. For a passing moment, the cloud of black ash spread like wildfire, covering the sky with a dark mist. It spread gently into sea beyond, her sister finally released from her burden.

  “May you find peace, wherever you are, sis. Give mom my best,” Rust whispered at the wind. Rust turned his gaze, nodding to Ronan.

  It was time to meet the King.

  ***

  “So, it’s done?” Rose asked, furrowing her brow. She was looking at Rust, trying to see if something had changed.

  Ronan exchanged a quick nod with Rose. “Aye.”

  “The General came by, said the King would see us in an hour.”

  “Right. If he’s the same man as all those years ago, then better to not keep him waiting, eh?”

  “What’s he like, the King?” Ronan asked.

  Rust shrugged. “Just like any other man you’ve met. Their shit smells just like ours does. The difference is… they think they shit gold.”

  Rose snorted, looking at Rust with a mischievous grin. Ronan couldn’t help but smile, too. It was good seeing his friend being able to joke about things, even amidst all the loss he had faced.

  The sun had climbed high into the sky by the time they climbed the Royal Plateau. Word had been sent of their arrival as the guards wordlessly let the three travelers enter. They walked through the plateau, right by gossiping nobles, through the Queen’s Gardens, and into the keep itself, Rust leading the way, for he had walked through these streets more times he could count.

  The massive draw bridge made the ground shook as it was lowered and the way to the keep stood open. Ronan looked nervously at the guards as they ordered them to surround their weapons. Only Rose refused when the guard asked her to give the dagger she had hid inside her boot. With clenched teeth, and after a disapproving look from Rust, she gave up her last layer of protection, and surrendered it into the sweaty hands of the nervous-looking guard. She smiled smugly afterwards, probably satisfied she had a man twice her size tremble in his boots.

  They traveled through the inner courtyard in a slow pace. They had another garden here, smaller, but just as astonishing. Ronan wondered who would spend all this time and energy to keep all these flower arrangements cared for. It seemed meaningless to him; they were beautiful, aye, but meaningless. Why not use the money to improve the city itself? Then again, the people here all looked so clean, so beautiful. Their lives couldn’t be any more different than those of the Northmen.

  Ronan felt truly out of his comfort as they passed by the gossiping nobles; the women gasped and giggled as they walked by. It made him feel uncomfortable thinking how they must’ve viewed a Northman such as him.

  You grow nervous in the presence of mere women? This is not the Berserker I know, the voice in his mind teased.

  Ronan ignored the taunt, averting his gaze from the women.

  One young noble sneered at Ronan as he walked past, his judgement palatable: how dares a man so below his stature look at him so? His demeanor changed when Ronan shared with him the snare he wore moments before a battle.

  Better.

  “There it is,” Rust grunted, pointing at the massive gates standing in front of them, right past a fountain that somehow shot water high up into the sky. Never had he seen a creation such as this. And had he time, he would have loved nothing more than to marvel at the structure for a moment longer. The guards at the door threw their bodies into it, and the doors opened, slowly, revealing a bright, open corridor leading deep into the castle. Ronan stepped inside and walked nervously on the wine-red carpet into the unknown, where the king no doubt waited for them.

  “You think he’ll hear us?” Rose questioned. She, too, seemed nervous.

  “Aye. He’ll hear us. Whether he will choose to believe us is a whole another thing. But yes, he’ll hear us. Me.”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant.” a voice came from one of the rooms to their right. The old general stepped into the hallway, nodding courtly as the three travelers advanced towards him “It is your duty as a soldier to convince the King. I can only do so much.”.

  “Aye. I’ll convince him. Don’t you worry about that, General.”

  “Good.” The man motioned the two heavily-armed guards in front of the oaken double doors to step aside. The personal guards of the King himself, no doubt—just like Rust had been for a time.

  Ronan nervously looked at their blades; they were sharp enough to cut him down in no time should the King order so, he reckoned. It was probably best if he stayed silent, letting Rust do all the talking. He looked at the rooms to his left and right as they passed down the corridors, thinking they must belong to members of the nobility, those closest to the King no doubt. A servant girl in one of the rooms caught his attention. Something about her demeanor seemed awfully familiar to him, almost as if he had seen her before somewhere. He knew the feeling was foolish; he had never set a foot in the Eyrian capital before. As i
f she was reading his mind, the girl turned towards Ronan.

  “You?” Ronan asked, eyes widening in recognition. He felt his jaw all but touch the floor; the shock in the girl’s face was mutual. She knew this girl, this woman. Not so long ago, they had met, in the Northern Islands. And her hands… bandages?

  “Ivy?”

  The girl dropped the mop she was sweeping the floors with and stood there, paralyzed.

  “By the gods, it is you,” Ronan repeated.

  “Ronan,” the girl said, swallowing. She walked towards him with nervous steps.

  “Ivy?” Rust asked, confusion in his voice. “The girl we met in the woods with Raven?”

  The girl looked at the floor, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She pushed Ronan out of the way and ran for the doors leading to the inner courtyard.

  Ronan was the first to recover from his shock, the impossible presence of the girl they had left behind in the town of Riverend too curious a coincidence to ignore. “I’m going after her,” Ronan shouted angrily as he sprinted after the girl.

  “But the King!” Rust shouted back, too shocked to move.

  “Go,” Rose encouraged Ronan. “We’ll handle the King.”

  “Right,” Ronan shouted as he sprinted out the castle gate, the guards too shocked or intimidated to react by the sight of a Northman charging towards them like a battering ram.

  How could she be here? How? For both Eira and her to be here. This is no coincidence… my son, where is my son?

  You know the answer to that already, the voice replied with a grim tone.

  No, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, Ronan shouted in reply.

  The young woman proved tireless in her escape, and Ronan’s breath grew increasingly heavy. She was already far, almost to the front gates of the Royal Plateau. Ivy pointed at the Northman, arguing something with the guards. Whatever she told them, the guards believed her, and they both drew their blades.

  Ronan was forced to stop, his way blocked by guards in armor.

  “Now, what do you think you are doing, Northman, bothering this fine young maid?” One of the guards twisted nose—likely broken many a time—asked, pointing the tip of his sword at Ronan.

  “I Just need to talk to the girl, that’s all. I mean her no harm—we know each other.”

  “Really, now?” the second guard asked, taking a step towards Ronan. “Because that’s not what she said. She said you groped her. Touched her. You should know we Eyrians don’t take kindly to savage manners here, especially with our women.”

  “She lies,” Ronan growled. Ivy was almost out of his sight. If he didn’t react soon, he would no doubt lose her.

  The guards looked at each other nervously. Ronan was unarmed, aye, but he was menacing, nevertheless, with his bulging muscles and battle-worn face. “Don’t you take one step closer,” the guard said.

  “I’ve no time for this,” Ronan said, baring his teeth at the two men.

  They took a step back, but stood their grounds, both nervously clutching to their blades.

  Ronan stepped right in a sudden move, which made the one with a broken nose react. He swung his sidesword towards Ronan, just a hair’s width away from his head. Ronan reacted fast, and he struck his right fist into the man’s face, sending his sprawling to his friend. The guard’s already twisted nose broke again, and Ronan ran past them, only hearing angry shouts from behind his back as he raced after Ivy. She had gained a lead, but he still had a chance to catch her.

  The woman’s escape continued down the hill of the Royal Plateau. To Ronan’s luck, a crowd of travelers had all but blocked the busy streets below, giving Ronan ample time to catch up to her.

  “Hold still, damn you. I mean you no harm,” Ronan shouted, gasping for air as Ivy forced herself through the crowd and into the busy markets below. He followed the girl, a fire lighting inside of him, pushing aside anyone who failed to make way for the menacing Northman. Ivy turned into an alley and Ronan followed.

  The alley was a dead end.

  Ronan could see Ivy cursing, her only way of escape blocked. Ronan came to a halt, lungs burning with exhaustion. He lifted his arms forward, showing he was unarmed. “I just… want to… talk, girl, damn you.”

  The girl was cornered; there was no way out. A solid brick wall blocked her way and the doors to the houses at her left and right were locked, with windows too small to break and crawl through. She curled her lips in anger, revealing a small dagger, hardly large enough to do him real damage. Ronan could see she was desperate.

  “Why, Ivy? Don’t you remember me? I mean you no harm. I just need answers.”

  Ivy furrowed her brow; her eyes were pained, but why? Their departure had been abrupt, but try as he might, Ronan couldn’t think of any way he had hurt the woman. Suddenly, her hands started to tremble, she lowered her jaw, dropping the small blade to the ground. “I’m—,” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry, Ronan.”

  “Why are you sorry, Ivy? For leaving us? We had a deal: you helped us with the beast, and you were free to go. You helped us, and you left. I just don’t understand,” Ronan said, eyes wide. He swallowed, a hollow feeling in his chest growing larger by a minute.

  You know, the voice in his mind echoed.

  He dreaded to ask, but knew he had no choice. “Did… did you meet a young woman here, with a boy, about this tall? He’s my son. I don’t know why, but he’s here with a friend of mine. And so are you. Why… are you here, Ivy?”

  “Oh, Ronan.” Ivy whispered.

  “Tell me,” Ronan said, voice lower than a whisper, “please.”

  “Ronan,” Ivy said, eyes begging him not to ask.

  “Where is he? Did you see him? I have been chasing after him. A friend of mine, Eira, took her here. I reckon she thought the Northern Islands unsafe. I don’t know why she took him here, but she did. Please tell me he’s here, Ivy. Please.”

  “I can’t tell you, Ronan. I am so sorry.”

  Ronan grabbed the girl’s trembling shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh. “Why,” he shouted, “tell me why.”

  “Because he told me not to,” Ivy said, voice colored with pain as the Northman’s fingers pained her. “He said that if I didn’t obey him, he would kill me. He told me to take the boy with me, and to take him to Eyria. I’m so sorry, Ronan.”

  “Who did?”

  “Raven,” the girl shouted with anger. “Raven did.”

  “No,” Ronan shook his head, frowning. This couldn’t be it. It just couldn’t. He let go of Ivy, staggering backwards. “Why… why would he do this?” Ronan swallowed. “The boy… where is he?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ivy cried. “Don’t you see, Ronan? The boy isn’t your son. He was only meant to look like your son.”

  “No,” Ronan whispered. Don’t say it. Don’t say the words. Please. Anything but that. He looked at her with pleading eyes, begging her not to say the words—the words he had been waiting to hear all along. Words he, deep down, knew to be the truth.

  “Your son is dead, Ronan, and so is the woman who was with him. They never left Riverend.”

  Ronan couldn’t believe the words; he felt hollow, numb, broken. He looked at the woman in front of him, pleading her to take back her words, to say it was but a sick joke. He saw only tears in her eyes.

  “Your son is dead,” Ivy repeated. “Raven killed him.”

  Chapter 16

  Alessia

  General Rud’ak ner Aldruin kept his promise. As soon as the reinforcements arrived, the march towards the capital begun. Tens of thousands of armed soldiers marched across Eyrian lands, the righteousness of their cause palatable in the silent and grim way they pushed onwards. However, a gathering of this magnitude proved difficult to maneuver, and their march quickly slowed to a crawl; their lumberjacks chopped down every forest standing in their way, so their carpenters could build their machines of war—gargantuan catapults that could propel boulders the weight of a hundred men with ease. Alessia co
uld do nothing but helplessly watch as the death of her homeland grew increasingly probable. This… this was what war looked like.

  Alessia was prepared for a long, crushing march through the foul sludge hundreds upon hundreds of feet plowing through the wet grounds had left her once-beautiful lands, but to her surprise, Rud’ak harbored no malice for her. Only the best of service was granted to her; her servants poured her wine, and instead of walking, she rode. However, no matter how comfortable her imprisonment was, she was still a prisoner. Her shackles might have been invisible, but they were still there.

  Late that night, they camped in yet another valley. Alessia had no exact knowledge of their whereabouts, but she thought she recognized the curvature of the Illorian river that they crossed a while back from one of the old maps that she had glimpsed at as a young girl. If her memory proved correct, they would have another three to four days until they reached the capital.

  There is still time to warn my father—but how? And even if I managed to escape, would he even welcome me back, the daughter who abandoned him when he needed her the most?

  “More wine, princess?” a bare-chested Nubian asked, stepping into Alessia’s sight. The customs these people had were strange. She had thought the man a slave at first, but he himself had claimed he was nothing of sort. He received pay for his services, and when the troops returned home, he was free to leave should he so choose.

  “No, thank you. I am fine.”

  The man nodded his acknowledgement and stepped back into the shadows.

  Alessia groaned, the frustration of her predicament clear in the manner she kept tapping the table with her fingers. They had marched long and hard, only stopping at night to rest their weary bodies. Even now, the radiant moonlight shone through the canvas of her pavilion every time the clouds retreated. She was thankful she had been spared the visits from that assassin that enjoyed tormenting her so. Every time she saw his twisted grin, she was reminded by the stupidity of her actions. How could she have been so naïve? But whatever may come, she would not fall into despair. No. She would not grant the monster that privilege. She would fight to the bitter end.