Brother, Betrayed Page 16

  Syah’s desperate eyes met Oman’s. “We can’t let this happen,” Syah whispered.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him,” Oman stated. Syah looked at Denire; he was standing still and calm, his eyes not leaving the king.

  “And for your crimes against Arnith, you are sentenced to death.”

  “What?” Syah cried, and though Oman’s grip left him, he was still held where he stood. Oman turned around to his father, feeling a chill as he looked upon him.

  “Seize him,” the king ordered the guards in a low, disdainful tone. The guards, already on alert, surrounded the knight. Denire let them take him.

  “Father!” Syah cried when the shock left him and he realized what was about to happen. Syah’s voice made Oman jerk back towards him. Syah didn’t notice him until Oman grabbed him again. “Oman! We have to help him. Tell father that he’s wrong!”

  “Syah,” said the eldest, “it is the king’s command. We can’t interfere.”

  “Take him to the dungeons. By nightfall his body will return to Arnith’s soil,” the king ordered. The guards began to take him away.

  Oman tightened his grip on his youngest brother as Syah’s angry, resolute gaze struck him. “Don’t do anything,” Oman whispered.

  “How can you say that?” Syah cried. Mustering his strength, he pushed Oman away and started for the king.

  Syah stopped. A tense, sharp pain caught his breath. “Your majesty, I beg you!” Syah’s low bow concealed the fact his arm was tightly gripping his chest. “Hear me before you have them carry out your order.”

  Oman and Fasime started for him, but stopped when the king raised his hand to them and looked at Syah.

  “I plead for the soldier’s life. He does not deserve death.”

  “I have given my order. He is a traitor to Arnith.”

  “No, Father, I vouch for his innocence. A lesser knight would have returned to Anteria to report us, and then you would have lost our trail. He had no other choice than to stay with us. He knew the consequences, but he remained, so he could be there to protect us.”

  “Now he must face those consequences.”

  “If he hadn’t stayed, we might not have ever returned. Father, he saved our lives.”

  “And he put you in danger by allowing you to continue.”

  “It was our choice to continue. We insisted—we gave him no other option than to come with us!”

  “That’s enough, Syah! Do not defy me further. He should have done everything in his power to return you to the city. Take him away,” Algoth ordered the guards holding the knight.

  “Stop!” Syah cried.

  “Guards, escort my sons to their quarters.”

  “King Algoth!” Syah’s voice thundered, and the hall was silenced in surprise. They saw he was gripping his chest tightly, but he stood, formidable, before the king. “On my honor as a son of the king, a prince of Arnith, I swear that Denire, Knight of Arnith, never fell from his duty. I pledge my life that if he is to be found guilty, then so must I.” There were gasps throughout the hall. “I beg for a lesser sentence, if he must be punished for dissatisfying the king. To protect his honor, I swear to face the same punishment he will.”

  A great commotion spread through the hall as the guards and servants reacted to Syah’s declaration. “Silence!” the king’s voice echoed over them and the noise quieted. The king’s eyes returned to Syah, and he watched him without faltering. Algoth took in a long breath. “So be it,” he said at last, “Denire Sharlane and Prince Syah shall face the same sentence.”

  “No!” the queen cried.

  The king hardened his tone. “They will each face twenty lashes for endangering the throne, after which they will be released and return to duty. Escort them to the dungeon.”

  Syah gave a sigh of relief and turned around, trying to find the knight. Denire was shaking off the guards, then he turned and met Syah’s gaze. He bowed deeply and then turned to leave with the soldiers.

  Guards came up to Syah; he nodded and started to leave with them.

  “Wait!” Oman cried. “You can’t!”

  “Oman!” the king said sternly.

  “Father, stop them!” Fasime said.

  “Oman, Fasime, I have had enough disobedience for one day, now…”

  “No, Father,” Fasime interrupted him, “please… Syah is not well. Twenty lashes could kill him.”

  The king looked down at his youngest son. The boy lowered his gaze. His father watched him and realized something he had not noticed. Syah was in pain. “Very well,” the king struggled to say, feeling a growing dread inside him. His words were caught in him a moment as the image of a frail, crying babe filled his thoughts. He felt an ache inside him that only sharpened when he said the words, “Then the sentence will be carried out after he has healed. Guards, please escort the princes to their rooms. Make sure they are fed, groomed, and rested. And… send a healer for Syah.”

  The guards bowed and turned to leave, the princes following them. At the entrance, Syah and his brothers turned back to the throne. Their mother was crying and their father, the king, was leaning his head on hers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  PRISONERS

  His hands turned the small wooden figure colored by faint and flaking paint, a habitual movement. But the meaning was different, now. His finger touched the faded blue paint of the armor, traced the raised leg of the steed in eternal pace. He recalled how he used to think of the figures: they were servants, fighters, defenders, but he never wondered about the real people they signified, and the lives they might have led.

  Now it was a burden. They were a reminder of the knight they had sacrificed for their journey, and the citizens of Arnith they had betrayed by deserting their duties. He replaced the wooden knight on the shelf and respectfully turned him to ride towards the center of the room.

  Syah released a heavy breath. He paced his room, his eyes scanning over his figures, weapons, scrolls and books. They were blurs in his thoughts, somehow meaningless, insignificant. His mind spun, surrounded by petty items he once treasured, now feeling they were weighing him down. He wanted to leave, but he knew the guard was still outside the door. A frustration returned as he remembered the guards, remembered how they had prevented him from leaving the night before, forcing him to stay when he had thought of the knight in the dungeon and had tried to go to him. They would probably let him out, he realized, but they would escort him to… he didn’t know where he would go, anyway. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone, to be around anyone, even the guards who had already expressed their shock at his and his brothers’ return. He didn’t want to see their faces, the thoughts in their eyes… Where have they been? Were they hurt? Why did they leave?

  The prince cried out involuntarily. He pushed a pile of books off the shelf before he could prevent himself. He stared transfixed at the effect of his actions. Syah glanced at the door, worried the noise might have alerted the guards. But the door to his room remained motionless and quiet, still locking the young prince in and the castle out.

  Syah’s frustration returned, maddening. He wondered what he could do to settle his mind now, to quiet the feelings of blame and guilt. The forest. In his mind he saw the trees, open yet surrounding. He heard the breeze through the branches, he felt it on his skin. With a sigh, he felt his body release the tension he had built in himself. He felt a weary acceptance for his deeds, right or wrong. He gave up the struggle and went to his bed. He lay on the covers, staring at the ceiling and waiting.

  Oman sat, leaning forward towards the heat of his father’s fireplace and watching the flames rise and shift in the rhythm of an unseen wind. He wished the fire could burn away his thoughts, his shame, as it did the wood it ravenously consumed.

  “I don’t want to believe you would do this,” his father said, pacing the room away from him. The king turned to check Oman’s response. His anger ebbed a moment as he studied the young man. Oman’s face was wearier than he had ever seen it, flush
ed, troubled. But there was more. Algoth realized he looked older, as if he had faced hardships and the responsibility remained on his skin. There was wisdom in his son’s face as well, even though the anger the king felt towards him for his foolishness was terrible. The king felt that he understood his son’s actions, that he forgave him, but he would not let him know.

  “Look me in the eyes when I speak to you!” the king demanded. Oman turned his head to him like a servant, not obeying for fear of being beaten, but from sheer weariness. His eyes were rimmed with pain and fatigue. Algoth realized his son had not slept since they had returned.

  “How could you be so foolish as to leave the castle alone?” The king’s voice was just as harsh as before. “What could have made you think it was safe, or justified?”

  “I was wrong,” Oman responded in a muted voice. The king paused, gazing at him with scorn.

  “As a leader, you cannot follow each of your whims and fancies. You have a responsibility to your people to be reliable, capable, and strong, or they will lose faith in you.” Oman lowered his head at these last words, as the shame took him again. The king paused a long moment, watching Oman, guessing his thoughts. “Oman, raise your head.”

  Something in his father’s tone penetrated Oman’s thick, heavy grief. He felt a little of his strength return. Perhaps he might be able to bear looking upon the world again. He raised his head with a little courage and looked at Algoth.

  “Oman,” said his father, “you have done an unwise thing, but it is over. You are the heir to the throne of Anteria. One day, you will be king and rule all of Arnith, a domain greater than I, my father, or any of the great kings of the past ever held. You must let go your guilt. You must be a pillar of strength and conscience. Let this mistake stay with you to remind you that a king must always put his people first. He must sacrifice everything to protect his kingdom… even his freedom.”

  Tension rippled out of Oman’s brows as he breathed in his father’s words. Then he nodded, with pain yet acceptance, staring into his father’s narrowed, dark eyes. The king motioned for Oman to stand. He placed a hand on the prince’s shoulder. Oman swayed as he stood there.

  “My son,” Algoth said, leading him to the door, “you are still young.” He released Oman’s shoulder, his face softening. “But your responsibilities will hasten your maturity. Get some rest, Oman. You must regain your strength to face what your destiny will deliver to you.”

  I am not the heir of Arnith. Why do they care what happens to me? Fasime leaned his head on the glass windowpane and stared down into the city. His eyes traced the streets, identifying familiar buildings and wondering who would be found in them.

  The voices of the men down the hall made his thoughts return to them. They would still not allow him to enter the city. How long were they going to keep watch on him, anyway? He wondered if they were following orders, or guarding him in recompense for being unable to protect and prevent him earlier. He turned his head and found them behind him, casually standing by a wall and talking. But they were keeping an eye on him. One turned his gaze full towards the prince. Then the other turned to him as well. They were observing, not threatening, but Fasime felt they knew his desires as they stared at him a long moment. Let them try to prevent me! I am not a prisoner here!

  The guards turned away and resumed their conversation. Fasime felt his body tense, prepare for action. He imagined a furious chase through the halls to the great castle doors… guarded. No, I won’t run from them, but perhaps… Fasime lifted himself away from the windowpane, seeing the guards shift as he turned away from them. Check your pace! he chastised himself as he started down the hallway. His feet carried him before he knew where to go, and already he could hear the echo of his steps that was the two guards following him.

  He turned off the hallway and up a stone staircase. He had to slow his legs, forcing himself to take each step deliberately. Halfway up, he heard the guards’ feet on the steps. Their pace was calm but steady, matching Fasime’s own pace to the upper floors of the castle. The prince reached the top of the stairs and turned into the larger corridor. He slowed, almost paused before he continued, letting the guards see him when they reached the top of the stairs. He moved towards a door along the hall and opened it, hearing the men pause at the head of the stairway. He stepped inside and shut the door without looking back at them.

  The room was empty. His eyes scanned the sunlit wooden chairs and tables as his thoughts fled the room, far from the guards. And if they opened the door to check him? His legs carried him over to the wall, and his eyes stared unseeingly at the rows of books. He thought of the hours of boredom he had endured in this room. Was this where he would have to spend the rest of his captive days, decaying like these books? As his thoughts fumed, a presence arrived and then grew in apprehension behind him. Finally, it seized his thoughts from his plight of confinement. The servants’ door. He spun around so quickly that he almost lost his balance. Bracing against the bookshelf, he saw the door at the other end of the room. Of course, that’s my way out of here! He wasn’t surprised at the door; some part of his mind had planned on it. That was why he chose this room, this hall. He was just surprised at himself, that he hadn’t realized the door’s potential until now.

  But the guards… He turned around to look at the door by which he had entered the library, as if it might help him foresee what the guards’ reaction would be if he tried to escape. They must not have thought of the opposite door to the library. Fasime’s breathing quieted, almost stopped completely, and he stood in silence, watching the door with increasing unease. They hadn’t opened the door to check on him, but what if they began to suspect? What if they remembered the alternate exit to the room and barged in before he had a chance to decide his next action? Perhaps I should stay awhile before trying to leave, and then their suspicion would be eased. He realized his hand was resting near a pile of books. His gaze reluctantly left the door and settled on the volumes. He saw himself sitting at a table and forcing his interest into their pages. Maybe I shouldn’t go. They’ll stop following me soon; I can just deal with confinement for now. He turned to the servants’ door, seeing beyond it to where that path might lead. I can regain their trust.

  They won’t know I’ve left. I’ll only be gone a little while, even if they do discover I’m not in the room. It would teach them… I will go as I please, but I will return. This is my home, after all. Still, he hadn’t started towards his diversion. You don’t have to be afraid of them, he told himself. Don’t consider their reactions—they have no hold over you. You are a son of the king! Why do they think they can keep you here? They have no entitlement! That started him for the door. He opened it and stepped through before he thought of doing it slowly to avoid any noise. It creaked and he jumped at the sound. He didn’t try to avoid the noise as he shut it, starting down the narrow passageway. A few steps into the hall, he heard the faint sound of the door to the library opening.

  He couldn’t run through the servants’ part of the castle, alerting them to see the fugitive prince frantically passing them. But he might not have to; he could lose his pursuers in the maze of passages and rooms of the working arm of the castle. He turned into a different narrow passage and then another, listening for a scurry of following footfalls, but hearing none.

  He slowed a little. The servants going to and from the kitchens, laundries, and storage rooms mostly ignored him. Before their journey, he had frequently used these forgotten passages as a way into the city, preferring them to the front gates. There were several servant doors that would take him into the city from the sides of the castle, and the guards neglected them.

  After turning and going quickly through empty passages and down narrow staircases, he reached the door leading to the outside street next to the pantries. But as he stopped before it, he didn’t open it. What if the guards anticipated his plan and already made it to the street outside the servants’ doors? They would be able to see him exit; there was no way to avoid
them. So they might catch me; they already know I’m trying to leave, there’s no point in going back now. Stop stalling! He grabbed the handle to the door and thrust it open, stepping out and searching immediately down both sides of the castle. He saw no guards waiting for him. His feet carried him into the empty street before he had to convince himself to commence. He was alone, and he decided to run until he got past the castle and into the streets of the city.

  He was free. He glanced back towards the castle to reassure himself that he had lost his pursuers. Feeling a flush of relief, of normalcy, he started into the city. He still kept to the secluded streets and alleys, having chosen his destination before leaving the castle. The freedom, release, and comfort he felt from the dark, familiar streets and buildings perplexed the prince, as he continued deeper into the retiring businesses and neighborhoods. Shouldn’t these have been feelings for his return to the castle? Why was he feeling them now?

  A couple of men coming out of a small house stopped and stared at him with blanched faces. Their glances turned his thoughts. He passed them with a half nod and continued, chastising himself to be more careful to avoid encounters, feeling their eyes stay on him till he took a corner out of their sight.

  Soon he arrived at his destination. The tavern was noisy and crowded that evening, he noticed, stepping into the welcoming light that poured from its windows onto the street. Fasime felt he was a boy again, carefree and adventurous. The worries of the guards, the castle, and his brothers were forgotten. He approached the door with a swell of self-gratification, hearing the loud, indistinguishable voices from the tavern. He pulled the heavy wooden door open, smelling the familiar mixture of burning wood and ale. The season that had passed was one night of fretful sleep, and now he was waking from it. He stepped inside the pleasant memory of belonging and entertainment, then shut the door to the night.

  Strangers. All of them. But it was all right. New customers would come, new regulars, he had seen it happen in the few cycles that he himself had been one here. Fasime left them to their conversations and walked past them sitting around the tables, searching for an empty seat.