Circle of Reign (2 page)

The day wore on and he had not moved. Nor had the lands, he noted with mild interest. At midday, the sun felt like a torch upon his skin, searing through his thin clothing. His anger turned to pleading and desperation.

“Please,” he gasped with his hand raised meekly in the air toward the sky. “Please.” When no answer came, Rehum thought to call upon other powers that were foreign to him, those barely spoken of by the Changrual and understood even less. Well, to lesser mortals, anyway. He would serve whatever master saved him.

He lowered his upstretched hand and closed his eyes. In his delirium, Rehum swore he had heard a melody playing in his head, one of longing but also promise.

“Please. Hear me.”

Or let the Dark take me!

Evrin had watched the short bald man for roughly half a span, intrigued. Many came and searched for the Gyldenal, most out of curiosity or seeking fame. All but few had other than pure motives. But this one sought his order for knowledge with a determination that was insatiable. For what purpose he desired to employ the knowledge was, however, not certain; but even laying defeated at death’s door he still sought them, pleading for deliverance.

To whom does he plead?
Evrin wondered.

The old Light Shepherd put his hand to his chin and thought, absent-mindedly tracing the outline of a scar on his cheek with his index finger. He had refused to let that blemish heal over the centuries. It was a solemn reminder of the pride that had once almost destroyed him.

Looking left, he met the gaze of his long-time friend. Jayden, the wolf shepherd, gave her consent with a slight nod. He agreed with her. This one had suffered long enough.

Evrin had been taking in all the light around him, making himself invisible to the untrained eye. He let the mirage fall, visibly revealing his presence. Then Jayden let her façade also melt away. Others followed suit and soon all five of his companions were now visible to the naked eye. The half a dozen Gyldenal walked a few paces forward and encircled the xeric man, looking down on him.

A weak hand raised up, open to Evrin.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please. Save me.”

“What is your name, young man?” Evrin asked.

There was a look of confusion across the cracked and dry face of the bald-headed man. He was likely not used to being referred to as a young man, but by Evrin’s standards he was quite young.

“Rehum,” he rasped.

“And what, Rehum, do you seek?”

“The Lumenatis.”

“A children’s story? You have come through such suffering for a myth?”

Rehum averted his eyes for a moment, obviously struggling, and then shook his head. “No, it’s not a myth. I know it’s real.” He reached in his pocket and produced a scroll. Feebly and with a shaky hand, he raised it toward Evrin. The Light Shepherd accepted it. The Scroll was written in a tongue long lost to the world.

“Can you read this?” Evrin asked.

Rehum nodded. “Yes, though I cannot speak the language.”

Evrin was impressed. “And what would you do with such a mythical power as the Lumenatis?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Rehum croaked.

Truth. He spoke the truth. Evrin could see it in the man’s countenance. Truthful though the answer was, it was nevertheless somewhat disturbing. He felt a small foreboding and chose his words carefully.

“The Living Light cannot be held by one who has selfish motives, young Rehum. Those who seek self-aggrandizement find the Lumenatis elusive at best,” Evrin warned. “The principles one lives his or her life by are what enables one to harness the Light. Knowledge of a thing does not grant control of that thing.”

“I will live a life of Light,” the dying man promised.

“We shall see.”

PART 1

THE FALL OF HOUSE KERR

We are often blinded by the very light we seek, stunted by the growth we desire, and belittled by the knowledge we profess
.

— Girshkil, Hardacheon Philosopher

Innocence is a frail lie that requires constant rebalancing lest the illusion be too soon shattered and the young see beyond the false veil of a cruel world
.

— High Vicar Imol Dolbrey, “An Age of Heresy”

ONE

Reign

Day 18 of 4
^th
Dimming 406 A.U.

SWEAT MIXED WITH REIGN’S DARK HAIR
as she ran, stinging her eyes. Though she ran hard, bursting through the brush and thick of the forest, Reign didn’t feel anything. Glimpses of memory flashed through her young nine-year-old mind as she sprinted, images of monstrosity. Strange men were in the forest of the Western Province this night. A few on horseback, most on foot.

The High Duke of the Realm had been among them. The emblem that shone in the moonlight’s glimmer as his large hooded robe parted for a brief moment gave his identity away. The gold medallion that hung from High Duke Wellyn’s neck with a shield and four-pointed star flare engraved upon it was unmistakable. It was curious to find anyone in the forest at that hour, especially someone not of the Western Province. Surely if the High Duke was coming to visit her father, word would have been sent earlier. But this assembly did not seem to be traveling toward the hold, not because Reign actually knew where she was at the time but rather the men appeared to be exactly where they intended to be—nowhere in the sight of others.

As she had followed and observed the small party, she noticed one man who stood taller than the others and had a long beard
hanging down nearly past his chest. She heard small clinking sounds from the trinkets woven in his beard when the wind blew. Men in the Realm generally did not wear beards save for the Changrual, and even then only a High Vicar was permitted to grow one so long as it was cropped short to the flesh. This beard was not anything typical she had seen, Changrual or not.

They hadn’t seen her, not at first. She had felt their vibrations transmitted through the ground and intricately woven root system of the forest. Curiosity had pulled her close to observe their dealings, and what she witnessed stole the breath from her lungs. Reign did not breathe for what felt like an eternity. Then came the sound, a sound she knew was only in her mind but was no less sickening as it reverberated through her small body. Every bone and joint shuddered. It grew in intensity until it ceased so abruptly that the silence rocked her. Her breathing became faster and shallower, spurring forth small bursts of visible vapor from her nose.

She must have made a sound, though she did not think she had moved. One of the hooded men had suddenly turned in her direction, attentive. Even beneath his thick robe she could tell he was a large man, for his build resembled that of an ox. Reign knew he couldn’t have seen her in her concealed shelter from that distance, but he stared right at her as if she were glowing. The High Duke then also became alert, taking the first man’s cue, but did not seem to know where to focus his gaze or where she hid.

“Fear,” the first man whispered in a low grumble. The High Duke seemed to consider for a moment. One of the horses whinnied as a mounted soldier joined the High Duke and the first man. He wore the tunic of a Khansian Guard.

“I don’t see anything, your Grace,” the Khan offered.

The first man huffed at this. “Not surprising.”

“Are you certain we are not alone?” the High Duke asked before the Khan could respond in kind.

The first man stood for a moment, giving the briefest hesitation. Then: “Quite so, my Liege.” He smiled predatorily, as if in
anticipation. The High Duke considered again, looking somewhat uncertain.

“Discovered we must not be,” the long-bearded man barked in a guttural and broken Sentharian, the common tongue of the Realm. The pitch of his low voice resonated like the Roniah River rushing over large rocks.

“Go,” the High Duke finally commanded. “I place this
Dahlrak
upon you.” Looking up to the Khan, he ordered, “You will follow and observe. Assist if necessary. See to it he fulfills his Charge, but do not interfere lest you become part of his
Dahlrak
, his Charge.”

“It shall be done, my Duke!” the Khansian Guard acknowledged.

“We’ve seen what we came to see,” Wellyn remarked. “The rest of us will depart.”

Reign felt the first man approach slowly, prowl-like. The distinct feeling of becoming prey riveted through her and she silently fled before he reached her position.

Numbness dominated her senses as she darted through the frondescence, paying no heed to the scrapes and cuts she received as she clumsily navigated the forest and bounced off trees. She lost her footing in her scrambling to put distance between herself and her pursuers and fell face first into the forest floor, the smell of wet soil and dead pine needles filling her nostrils. The ground was cold and damp. Her limbs shook as she raised herself to her hands and knees, confused and frustrated by her strange lack of coordination. She spat dead leaves and mud from her mouth as she tried to think coherently. Her limbs did not seem like they were her own at this moment, heavy and sluggish. It was maddening. Wood-dwellers, even younglings such as Reign, had incredible mastery of their physical abilities, speed being among their foremost. This was never truer than in the forests in the Western Province where her people lived, where she was now filled with unfathomable trepidation.

“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered. Her voice sounded alien to her, as if not her own. The tips of Reign’s fingers felt tingly and abnormal. Her pulse quickened as she felt her pursuers
through the ground and the roots of the trees, the same trees that were screaming in terror from the event, the
atrocity
, she had witnessed. She had never heard a sound so horrific before it was cut short, not in all of nature. It was not an audible scream, one only a wood-dweller could
feel
. The echo of it still remained in her mind undiminished, an indelible sonic scar seared into her skull. Reign’s insides twisted until she retched upon the ground and shook more violently. The pulsing of her blood racing through her veins caused her head to feel like a piece of hot iron on a blacksmith’s anvil, every throb a crushing blow.

Get up! Get up!
she chided herself, shaking her head, but she remained on her hands and knees. The man on horseback she judged to be farther away through the vibrations in the ground, though still approaching. She was not as concerned about him as she was the hooded man on foot. His size posed a perplexing irony, for he was seemingly faster than she was, faster than a wood-dweller. Built like an ox but with the swiftness and agility of a panther. He was closer in distance and headed directly toward her position. Even the sound of his footfall was feral. An audible shudder of dejection escaped her lips, coming forth as a high-pitched moan. She tried to stifle the involuntary sound but only succeeded in making the noise more unnatural. Was this what hopelessness sounded like?
Daddy
, she pleaded desperately, trying to force her prayer through the forest, but she could not clear her mind enough for her appeal to be propelled. She did not know if she had the strength to send her plea over such a distance, assuming she could even establish a connection. Hot tears escaped from her eyes and splashed down upon the backs of her hands as she told herself again to get up, but her body did not respond.

Oddly, she noticed the moonlight’s reflected gleam off the tears that fell to the backs of her hands. It was more an amber color than white.

It is nearly second moon
, she thought.

This small realization of something so common was enough to help her mind locate a momentary focal point and regain control
of her limbs. She pulled her hands, now caked in mud with small twigs and pine needles sticking to them, up from the ground and pushed herself upright.
Run
, she commanded herself. Her canter began again, more slow and awkward than it needed to be if she were to escape. A tree root nearly dropped her to the ground again, but she recovered before going all the way down. An erratic breathing rhythm stayed with her as she compelled her quivering legs to carry her forward. Her small dress was torn and tattered almost beyond recognition. As she moved, Reign’s muscles relaxed enough for her cadence and speed to return. Her flight was swift and silent as with all wood-dwellers. No one could hear the light-footed lope of a wood-dweller save for another of their kind. She fell more into her stride as she overcame her initial anxiety, though her fear still brimmed close to overflowing at any moment. She should be safe beneath the canopy of trees in the night, but something primal told her to run and not look back. Her only thought was to get to her father’s hold, to her home where she knew she would be safe. On a conscious level she did not know where she should run, but her instinct of direction took over as she gave herself to the promptings of the forest.

If she could just reach her father, her strong and fearless father, she would be safe. She knew this. The ox-like panther of a man pursued her, this she also knew. He was no wood-dweller, and his pursuit carried the sound of deep peril in its wake. She could acutely judge his distance behind her, and she knew he was gaining ground. How he was able to track her eluded her but also fed her fear, stoking it hotter and hotter. The man was too fast. But her father would save her. He had always saved her. He feared nothing.