Brother, Betrayed Read online

  Fasime lay breathing heavily. Since Syah’s cries had eased, he had stopped struggling. The holds on his arms had softened. He felt weak, being held face down on the ground. His eyes closed, though he stayed awake, not attempting to argue any more with the two dwarves.

  After a period of silence, the dwarves’ grasp on him changed and he heard footsteps approaching. He felt the dwarves pull him up till he was kneeling, coughing and shaking the dust from his face. But Fasime stopped when a figure leaned before him, its eyes studying his own face. He tried to draw back, but realized they still tightly held his arms. He focused on the figure. The old dwarf’s skin was ancient and his eyes were piercing…

  The dwarf said something to the others in the strange secret language, and Fasime’s brows lowered. The old dwarf lifted his hand towards Fasime’s face. The prince tried in vain to pull away. His chest tightened as the lucid eyes focused on him, and the ancient dwarf’s rough thumb pressed for a moment on Fasime’s forehead. Without reason, Fasime lost control of his neck, and his head fell forward and he let out a soft breath.

  When he gasped the breath back and opened his eyes, he found that his body was stiff. His eyes, instead of falling on the terrible gaze of the aged dwarf, saw the colorful patterns of blankets atop him where he sat in the chair, against the wall, in the same dark room he had slept in last night. He lifted his hands, shaking. Am I really back in this room? Just a moment ago… He shook his head. Had he dreamed it? Fasime looked around the room, trying to remember, trying to be sure. Then his gaze fell to the bed.

  “Syah!” he cried and stood, throwing the blankets off. He found Syah lying safely, opening his eyes. “Are you all right?” Fasime demanded, seizing his brother’s shoulders. Syah nodded, but Fasime’s face twitched as his eyes swiftly searched the room, looking for a means of escape. “We have to get out of here!”

  A touch, firm, demanding, brought Fasime’s attention back to his younger brother. Syah’s eyes were resolute, aware, and calm. “You don’t have to be afraid,” Syah said, in a voice that somehow restrained Fasime’s panic. Syah’s hand tightened on Fasime’s arm, pulling him to sit on the bed beside him. The older brother’s fear aside, he remembered his confusion. He glanced down at his chest, expecting to see it smudged with dirt and dust. Inexplicably, it was clean. Blinking as if to clear away the dream still hindering his vision, he lifted his gaze back to the room.

  “What happened?” he whispered. Somehow he knew he could trust Syah for the answer to the uncertainty inside him.

  Syah waited, watching Fasime with steady eyes. “We were dreaming,” he finally answered. Fasime tilted his head and bit his lip, not knowing if he wanted to speak the concerns gnawing his mind, realizing they could be likened to madness. Could that be all it was?

  “You seem better,” Fasime said, to distract the disturbing thoughts. He placed his hand on the side of Syah’s face, and a smile calmed Fasime’s tenseness. He gazed at Syah’s skin, his eyes, examining their color and life. His thoughts reassumed their guardian mindset, and he remembered the infected area above Syah’s ribs. Fasime removed the blankets to reveal his brother’s bare chest. Both of them were silent, amazed at the skin above his ribs – clean, bare, and healthy.

  “It has healed!” Fasime’s voice was soft and bewildered. He let his fingers glide over the spot where the swelling had been. He glanced at Syah’s face, seeing that some of his confidence had faded to amazement as well. Fasime’s shoulders sank weakly. He touched the spot again, then let his fingers press into the skin to feel the bone. Syah sucked in breath between his teeth and flinched away from his fingers. “Your ribs are still broken,” Fasime said, slower, but then shook his head. “Of course they are still broken,” he chastised himself with a nervous snicker. “It will take weeks… for…” His voice trailed off again as he looked back to Syah and felt the unknown madness again.

  “Yes,” Syah said as he shook off the pain and sat himself up. “It will take a while for it to heal.”

  Fasime’s brows lowered and he looked at Syah with seriousness. “Syah… did…” Fasime tried to steady himself and took Syah’s arm. “Did something happen? I mean – did they do something to you?”

  The younger brother paused, staring into Fasime’s face as if two unknown paths were forking before him. For a moment Syah gazed without blinking at him, trying to see…

  Then his face changed, softened. He took Fasime’s hand in his own reassuringly. “No,” Syah answered. Fasime sighed in relief, and yet…

  The door to the small house opened. Fasime and Syah’s thoughts stopped as they turned to the door, sensing familiarity before they saw who it was. Oman entered, dropping his bundles upon seeing them. “Syah!” he cried, almost chastising him, and came to them. He grabbed Syah’s arm and examined him. “You’re healed,” Oman said. “We were so worried about you!” Oman was about to say more, but then changed his mind. “Are you still in any pain?” Oman asked, sitting next to him.

  “Not really,” Syah answered.

  Denire entered the room, and Syah looked up at him. “Have you replenished our stores of meat for the final border?”

  Oman paused, contemplating several things before replying.

  “Are you well enough to ride?” the knight interrupted from the edge of the bed. They all looked at Syah.

  “Yes, but in the morning. We shouldn’t start off through the mountains at nightfall.”

  Fasime grunted. “Have you decided you want to stay?” His voice held both jest and concern. Then Fasime’s attention moved to Oman. The eldest brother was staring at him wonderingly, seeming only now to see him.

  “What’s wrong?” Oman asked.

  Fasime blinked at him. Wondering if he was really that transparent, and wondering if he should include his stronger brother in his worries, he answered simply, “I had a bad dream.”

  The crisp, clear night refreshed him. He felt safe and strangely welcome in this night world, though he was unfamiliar with the street or buildings. Dwarves were awake everywhere. They must not sleep much, Syah realized, as he watched them at work in the buildings and crossing the street with no flame to aid them. The dwarves he passed stopped and nodded to him, seeming to smile in the darkness, most beneath thick beards. Syah nodded back and continued, not sure where he was going, but unhesitating in his direction and purpose.

  He found what he sought, a low-lying stone building, almost like a cave. Eccentric objects, plants, and stones circled its base and windows. He went to the wooden door to knock. As he drew near, the door opened as if by itself. An aged dwarven woman stood on the threshold. Syah studied her a moment: her hair was curly, gray, and long, and her eyes were kind and knowing. Before Syah could decide what to say to her, she nodded, and disappeared into the darkness of the small house.

  Then, silently, a new form emerged. The same careful eyes watched the young prince as he stepped out into the street with his braided hair glowing in the moonlight, but there was something new on his face, like an artist gazing at his work.

  Syah wet his lips, attempting to give the most eloquent Dwarven greeting he could. “Good evening, Healer.”

  “Good evening,” the dwarf answered in a deep and meaningful tone.

  “I…” Syah swallowed at his nervousness, but tried to show it as respect. “I wish to thank you.” Syah bowed his head and the dwarf was silent. “You had no reason to wish to save me, a son of the human king.” Syah lifted his gaze and stared into the dwarf’s penetrating eyes steadily. “I am grateful.”

  Syah lifted his hands to unclasp the chain around his neck. Syah took the chain in one hand and let the small carved stone dangle at the end as he held it out to the aged dwarf. The wrinkled hand lifted under the carving, cupping it, echoing its shape, but not touching the stone. Syah lowered the chain, resting the stone in the dwarf’s hand, then let it go. The dwarf brought the carving closer, inspecting it with his other hand, touching the carved wings and long neck of the depicted creature. He gave out a l
ong, thoughtful sound that was like a memory, good and strong. Syah knew it; it was special.

  A shout from behind interrupted Syah’s thoughts. He turned to see Denire running towards him down the street. “Syah!” Denire shouted as he came up to him. “We haven’t wandered…” His words faltered as he saw the dwarf, and his eyes widened at the dwarf’s ancient skin and wise, powerful gaze. “Let’s go back to the house,” the knight whispered, watching the old dwarf with distrust.

  Syah knew he had to leave. He looked back at the mysterious dwarf briefly. The moment he held the dwarf’s knowing gaze, it seemed to last much longer than it truly did. Syah straightened, then bowed his head again to the healer, hoping he understood the honesty of his gratitude.

  “Safe travels, young prince,” the archaic Dwarven words came to him. Syah took in a deep, accepting breath. But an apprehensive sting was in his palm. He lifted his hand and gasped when he opened it. Inside his shaking hand rested the carving, his carving, the chain wrapped neatly around it. Syah’s gaze jerked up to the healer with astonishment, but the dwarf returned his gaze with without response. The prince felt a pulse of fear and a strange quivering through him. How had it returned to his hand?

  “Come on,” said the knight. He put his arm over Syah’s shoulders. With amazed, wide eyes, the prince saw the aged dwarf bow his head deeply and then lift it, watching him with a serene and knowing expression. As Denire turned him, Syah clasped his hand around the carved dragon and bowed his head shakily in return.

  I must confess it. I must write it down. I am not mad, not influenced… well, yes, I am. I have been. I believe. I would never before have thought it was true, I would have thought it was some children’s story or pauper’s myth. It is not. This is the truth, confessed by a prince…

  Magic is real.

  Now you understand my premise. But it is true. I have felt it. I have seen it. Magic exists in the world, and it has awakened such a feeling in me that I can barely contain it. So I confess it here, and I will forever uphold it.

  I don’t think I could possibly describe it. I feel that it is beyond me to explain. Perhaps that is the point. It has no explanation. It has no reasons. It has no proof. Just the feelings it left, just the memory…

  So what does this mean? Shall I spend the rest of my life driven by curiosity, thirsty for another drink of its mystery? If a miracle is possible, what else is? Could a man hold this power over his environment? Can magic be obtained? If this is real, could there be some truth in the myths and legends of ancient stories?

  My mind spins with renewing possibilities. I hunger for confirmation, for understanding. Even if magic is not possible for me, is it for some? I feel that I would give anything to feel… to witness it again…

  For the three brothers,

  For the Magic,

  Syah, Prince of Arnith

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE FINAL BORDER

  Oman opened his eyes to Syah shaking his shoulder. He saw his brother standing over him, the clearing they camped in, and the woods around them lit up with the white light of the moon. He breathed the crisp night air as he sat up, sensing a change in it. A song of wind was whispering through the branches above them.

  “Perhaps we should redirect our course, take a shorter route back to the capital,” Syah said in soft tones.

  Oman looked at Syah with surprise but held his thoughts.

  “These woods are untamed,” Syah said, after Oman made no response. “They will only grow wilder the farther west we travel.”

  “Yes, the elven woods are forbidding,” Oman answered, remembering their dark immenseness.

  Syah said in a casual tone, “I can see why the thieves are drawn to it.” Oman studied his brother’s face, but Syah’s expression was as calm as his words.

  “Sometimes I think you live in books,” Oman scolded with affection. Syah’s expression of wonder changed only slightly. Oman’s thoughts lightened. “Get some sleep, Syah,” he said. “We will talk more on this in the morning.”

  Syah laughed, lying down on Oman’s blankets. “Keep watch for Northern Giants.”

  Oman’s brows lowered and he stared at Syah with suspicion.

  “Something I read in a book,” Syah explained, closing his eyes. He felt Oman push his leg and laughed again, his smile fading as he fell asleep.

  Syah paid little heed to his horse’s meanderings. His attention was on the scene around them. He felt he had been granted a new vision, a new perception as he gazed upon the wilderness. Questions and realizations entertained him as he examined the trees and wildlife they passed. How did a tree know to raise its branches? Were the branches whispering something as the breeze moved through them, only in a language he couldn’t understand? The prince witnessed a group of birds, startled by their approach, jolt into flight from the forest floor. He watched them turn, in unison, and fly together through the trees, turning again and flying out of sight. How could they coordinate so precisely? How could they move together without some superior power directing them?

  And could he harness it?

  He looked at his brothers. If a creature as simple as a bird could have such a strong connection with its fellows as to move, think, simultaneously with them – couldn’t he and his brothers do the same?

  Something caught his attention in the sky above them. It was a bird of prey: a hawk or small eagle, too high up to distinguish. It floated, magnificent, high above the treetops. Some magic had to guide it, cause it to play in its flight, to wander, to explore rather than to merely hunt and sleep. The young prince wanted this power, or at least to understand it, and then it would be his.

  Fasime led his horse beside the others, watching the trees of the forest become stranger – more gnarled and twisting towards the ground – the farther they pressed. The trees seemed to whisper from behind them, beckoning them back. The woods before them were silent. It was as if the wind was retreating to the familiar lands, while the brothers grew further away from them.

  “I think we should turn back,” Fasime said.

  “We have not yet reached the final border,” Syah insisted.

  “I haven’t heard of trees like this in Arnith,” Fasime argued.

  “We are entering lands adjacent to the outcasts,” Oman added.

  Silenced, they moved their gazes across the view of twisting trees and dark brush before them, but saw nothing threatening aside from the forest’s strangeness.

  “What border are we heading for?” Fasime demanded. “How will we know we have passed the boundaries of Algoth’s rule? Must we wait until we see the smoke of the thieves’ camps in a valley below us?” He stopped Lightning with a tug.

  Oman released an agitated breath and studied his brother. “So you want to turn back when we are this close to the northern border?” Oman’s voice, flat, pressed Fasime. His lips grew thin and he grasped his reins.

  “Do you smell that?” Denire’s warning tone startled them. The brothers realized they had forgotten him, following behind them. They wondered at his absence of warnings to this point. He drew level with them, his eyes set on the overgrowth of forest before them. The knight breathed in through his nose, lifting his head. “It’s smoke,” he declared.

  Turning, the brothers found it: a faint thread of burning wood through the thick forest air. It signaled habitation, somewhere in the woods ahead of them. Their voices were softer when they spoke again.

  “Perhaps it is outcasts, camping in Arnith before returning to the thieves’ camp with the loot they stole from Arnith citizens.” Fasime’s words surrounded them, and the princes’ bodies stiffened.

  “No,” said Denire with force. They looked at him, wondering about his reasons.

  Oman led his horse forward. “Or it could be members of a western tribe,” said the eldest. “These lands are unclaimed. They could be trying…”

  “No,” the knight said, more loudly still. He moved his horse into their path.

  “They shouldn’t be allowed to dwell
at Arnith’s northern border,” Fasime added, as if he hadn’t heard Denire.

  “You should let it be,” Fasime ordered.

  “It couldn’t be many of them,” Oman mused, glancing at Fasime.

  “No, it would not be safe,” Denire protested.

  “We could scout ahead and see how many of them there are.”

  “Young sirs,” the knight continued with more strength, looking at each of them in turn, “you have reached your final destination. You have finished your quest as you set out to do.” His eyes stayed on Syah a moment. “Continuing on is both foolish and unnecessary.”

  “We should just see, to make sure they are not a threat,” Oman returned.

  “It is our duty,” Fasime followed.

  “Then we will start back home. This will be the final boundary.”

  The knight let out a slow, solemn breath.

  “The longer we argue,” the youngest’s voice mixed with his thoughts, “the longer we have to stay in these strange woods.”

  “All right. But you don’t attack them,” Denire said in a firm tone, “no matter what they are. We will simply observe. I will relay the information to the capital when we return. Soldiers of Arnith will deal with them if they are trespassers.”

  “Agreed,” Oman replied, the mention of their return stirring the nagging dread within him again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE RIDDLER

  Denire made a movement to turn his horse, but hesitated. His gaze went lax and his breath shallow. Something caught his sight through the trees, though nothing was there.

  Oman could guess the knight’s thoughts from the harried streak that flashed in his eyes. No… You can’t betray us now, warrior. Do you think it that vital? The knight glanced at his brothers, then to him. Are you thinking of how you could subdue us, bind and drag us back to the city as you threatened before? Oman straightened in the saddle and stared, unflinching back. Do you really think we would endanger ourselves? Perhaps you worry you couldn’t stop us from attacking them if they are thieves! Oman felt a momentary pang of concern, and his confidence split. Are we truly that reckless? He felt a cold, growing doubt whispering from the unknown beyond them. Then with rebellious, brash assertion, Oman buried the concern. Nothing would happen. His face hardened. Don’t try it, his eyes told the knight. It’s not worth breaking your oath now. We haven’t even seen a threat, yet.