Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (4 page)

Dayn eased his gaze over to the kitchen
window. It occurred to him that there would be chores to do in the
morning. Though it was still dark, it seemed as if the sun would be
up any minute. Would his father allow him any sleep at all?
Just
say what he wants to hear. Just say what he wants to hear.
“Yes, I’m your son! Thank you for helping me understand.”

Gorman nodded and closed the book. “Get
yourself to bed,” he said, “and in the future there’ll be no more
foolish questions. Understand?”

“Yes, Father. I won’t question you again.”
Dayn rose and moved toward the stairs, then paused. “Goodnight,
Father,” he said over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, son. Now off with you.”

Dayn trudged up to his bed and threw himself
upon it. The blanket, he noticed, had been folded back neatly. He
looked in the direction of his sister’s bed on the other side of
the room. She had not closed the curtain separating her side from
his.

“Alicine,” he whispered. He shifted to his
side and stared at her shadowy form through the darkness. There was
no response. “Alicine?” he repeated. Again no reply.

Dayn rolled onto his back and rested his
hands behind his head. He stared at the blackness, then squeezed
his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep. But it was no use. He
could not stop the events of the evening from churning in his
head.

He rose from the warmth of his bed and
reached for the blanket he had kicked into a wad at his feet.
Pulling it around his shoulders, he crept toward the window
centered on the wall between his and Alicine’s beds. He glanced in
her direction. More than anything he would have welcomed his
sister’s company, but her steady breathing told him she was fast
asleep.

The floorboards felt smooth and cool beneath
his bare feet, and he prayed as he crept across them they would not
creak beneath his weight as they usually did. The night seemed
eerily quiet as he lifted the window’s latch and pushed the hinges
open. A breeze drifted in, playing at the hair on his neck. Even
the blanket around his shoulders could not prevent the goose bumps
from rising on his arms.

Dayn leaned against the window frame and
gazed out at the sky. A spattering of stars dotted the fading
darkness. “Are there any more messages for me tonight?” he
whispered.

The sound of hushed voices diverted his
attention to the porch below. It was his father and the Spirit
Keeper, and their discussion seemed to be a heated one. Dayn cocked
his head and leaned out. At first he could not understand their
words, they were obviously trying to keep their voices low, but
their tones were clear enough. He leaned out further and held his
breath. He thought he heard his name and something about a cave,
but the rest made little sense.

Then came the words that were all too clear,
words that penetrated him with a cold far deeper than his skin.

Dayn staggered back from the window. The
blanket dropped from his shoulders to the floor. His mind raced to
replay the questions he had asked that night and the answers he had
been given:
you are our son, no one else’s . . . there are no
others . . . the demons are nothing like us.

He stepped toward the window hesitantly and
leaned out again, longing to know more, yet terrified of what else
he might hear. But the only sound he heard was that of the front
door opening and closing, then silence.

Dayn gazed out the window as though in a
daze. The first rays of dawn were playing across the forests and
hillsides. The stars were nothing more than tiny faded pinpricks
now. Somehow the sky and surrounding landscape looked different,
though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Then he realized
nothing would ever look the same again, at least not to him.

He made his way back to the bed and sank down
upon it, his shaking legs no longer able to hold him. His eyes
turned to the sleeping form of his sister. “Did you know all this
time, too, Alicine?” he whispered.

Then his thoughts turned to his father, and
an unfamiliar hatred filled his heart. “You lied to me, Father. All
this time . . . you lied to me.”

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Chapter 2: Ruairi

T
he young prince of
Tearia stood poised and ready, a long, etched sword clutched in his
hand. A lion was crouched within feet of him, its body half hidden
by tall, dull-colored grasses. The prince stared into the beast’s
primitive eyes and raised his weapon high. The blade sparkled
momentarily in the reflection of the light, then sang as it arced
through the air.

“Challenge me if you dare, foul creature!”
the prince shouted.

The lion did not move. Its cold stare did not
waver.

The prince cried out and lunged at the beast,
thrusting the blade to the fore. He yanked it back and repositioned
his hands on the hilt, then wheeled again to face his foe. He
stepped back, then leapt forward a second time, plunging the tip
toward the creature’s heart. With a shout of victory he pushed it
to the mark. Then there was silence.

The prince sighed and lowered the weapon to
his side. His mouth hooked with disappointment. The lifeless
creature had not even shuddered. “You never were much of an
opponent,” he said to the image on the wall.

The fresco painted on the plaster was barely
visible anymore, but it did not matter. The prince knew it well
enough by heart. He had often stared at that picture as a child,
pretending to be one of the Tearian warriors depicted with swords
drawn against ferocious lions. But there were no more lions in
Tearia, and no real warriors. The Tearian Guard was mostly for show
these days, and there wasn’t anyone to be enemies with anyway; the
Jecta peasants that lived outside the city walls had long since
been beaten into complacency. The prince shook his head. Perhaps
the time had come to put aside childish dreams.

He was fifteen years old now, a man, not a
child, and this was to be the night of his betrothal. He knew he
would never truly be a warrior. His future was already laid out for
him. He was a prince, but would one day be husband, then father,
then king. That was all he would ever be, nothing more, nothing
less.

He crossed over to the dressing table and
laid the weapon upon it, then traced his finger along the sword’s
long, elegant span. Its rune-etched blade had slain many an ancient
enemy; the leather-wrapped handle had been held by generations of
kings. But what truly set it apart was the golden lion molded at
the hilt, its image reflective of the history and power embedded
within it.

The sword was called, quite simply, the Lion,
but it gave its bearer a sense of power that was anything but
simple. It had been in the prince’s family for generations and had
recently been given to him by his father for his coming-of-age
birthday. It was the only possession the prince owned that really
mattered to him. But he would have been much happier if he’d
actually had cause to use it.

He moved toward the window of the
second-story bedchamber and gazed at the evening sky. The sun had
settled behind the sloping landscape of Tearia, leaving the only
light in the room that of a single lamp. He glanced up at the
spattering of stars peeking out of the blue-black sky and leaned
his elbows against the sill. From where he stood, he could see the
range of mountains to the north, its purple peaks marching like an
army along the horizon. He had never been to that sacred place.
That was where the gods dwelt, and it was forbidden for anyone to
go there, even a prince. He closed his eyes and said a silent
prayer. If just one of the numerous gods that resided there would
grant him wings to fly, he would be happy. But he knew it wasn’t
likely.

“Ruairi?” a muffled voice said, followed by a
tap on the other side of the door.

“Enter,” he replied.

The door swung open and a woman entered, a
look of annoyance clouding her blazing blue eyes. “It is as dark as
a cave in here,” she said. She swept past him in a swirl of yellow
and marched toward a table near the window.

Ruairi looked at her, then at his bed,
scowling at the golden tunic draped across the ivory coverlet, and
the silver braided belt and amethyst clasps nestled next to it.
“Why do I have to wear that thing, Brina?” he said. “It is so
uncomfortable. The clasps, the belt, the—”

“Stop your complaining, nephew. What would
you go down wearing? Only the undercloth wrapped around your hips?”
She flitted about the room, lighting a second lamp, then a third.
The room lightened to a sunny glow. “There, that should brighten
your spirits,” she said, glancing in his direction. “Well, at least
the room will be brighter.”

“Yes, thank you. My spirits are indeed
brightened,” Ruairi said dully.

Brina faced him, her arms crossed, and looked
him up and down. Her face was screwed up with displeasure, making
the creases around her eyes look deeper than usual. Although she
was his mother’s younger sister, to Ruairi Brina seemed older. She
was not one to sit before the mirror all day applying potions to
her face as his mother did. Even her white-blonde hair was piled up
less meticulously than his mother would have dared worn it.

“Why the face?” Brina asked. “This is the
evening of your betrothal, for goodness sake. You should be
jubilant.” She crossed over and gathered up the day-clothes he had
discarded onto the floor.

“Let the servants take care of that,” Ruairi
said.

“Do not be ridiculous. Servants have more
important things to do than this. You should be picking them up
yourself, lazy child.”

“I am a man now. Do not forget I have just
turned fifteen.”

“Very well,
man
then.” She dumped the
bundle of dirty clothes into his arms. He tossed them back down to
the floor.

“You never answered my question,” Brina said.
“You are happy about the betrothal, are you not?”

Ruairi strolled over to the bed and plopped
down on the edge of it, barely missing the neatly laid out tunic.
“Of course I am. You know I love Cinnia more than anything.”

And in truth, he did. He had known Cinnia his
entire life and had loved her almost as long. She was beyond
beautiful, and his body betrayed him every time he thought of her,
especially when his thoughts turned to their wedding night. It was
the one thing he actually looked forward to. But the marriage would
not take place for a year yet, as Cinnia was only fourteen and not
yet of age. Ruairi rested his chin on his fist and raised a brow as
a scheme worked in his mind. If things went as planned, he would
not have to wait that long. Tonight was their official betrothal,
was it not? He and Cinnia could slip away after the reception,
perhaps to this very room where—

“What are you daydreaming about?” Brina
asked, noticing the unusually happy expression on his face.

“What? Oh, nothing, Brina. I just have things
on my mind, that is all.”

Brina slitted her eyes. “Well, those things
had best not be any of your usual antics, dear nephew. You cannot
afford to enrage your father tonight. He is still fuming from your
last escapade, and if you were to do anything here in Labhras’s
home . . . well, I cannot even form the words to describe the
anguish you will suffer.” She gathered up the day clothes from the
floor once more. “You had best be getting yourself dressed. Your
father will be expecting you soon and—”

“Humph! Father!” Ruairi rose and grabbed the
tunic, intentionally crumpling it in his hand as he did so. But he
pulled it over his head anyway, wrinkles and all, and reached for
the belt that would bind his waist in misery all evening. He
wrapped it around himself haphazardly and stood facing Brina, his
arms extended at his side. “There, I am dressed!”

“Well, you do not have to snap about it. I am
only here to offer you some support. I knew the state you would be
in tonight.”

“I am sorry. I just hate all these
formalities.”

“What do you expect? You are a prince. That
is what princes do.”

“It makes me feel like a pony doing tricks. I
have no say in anything whatsoever.”

“I see,” Brina said as she crossed over to
adjust his clothing. “And I suppose you had no say at all in this
betrothal?” She tugged at the tunic that was bunched at the belt
and hanging crookedly at his knees.

Ruairi rolled his eyes. “Dear, sweet Brina;
you are so naïve. It is luck alone that allows me to marry the girl
I love. If Cinnia were not the daughter of Father’s closest friend,
I feel quite certain I would be getting betrothed to someone
entirely different tonight.”

“Oh, you do not give your father credit.
Close friend or not, if Labhras’s daughter was not to your liking,
I doubt he would force her on you.” She smoothed the fabric,
adjusted the belt, and pinned the clasps at his shoulders, pinching
the material where it draped over them. “There, now you are at
least presentable.”

Ruairi walked over to the dressing table,
then grabbed up a comb and raked it through his long, red hair. He
pulled his hair away from his face and bound it at his back.

“Your father will not want your hair tied
back like that,” Brina said.

“It is too hot to wear it down,” Ruairi said.
“Besides, everyone always stares at it. It makes me feel
self-conscious.”

Brina shook her head. “Are you satisfied with
nothing? It is not every day a child is born with hair the color of
yours. You should appreciate your special gift.”

“Well, I despise it,” Ruairi grumbled. “Why
could I not have been born with blond hair like everyone else?”

“Because you were born to be the Red King,
that is why.”

“Regardless, if I had been born one minute
later I would not have to put up with all this.”