Brother, Betrayed Page 17

  Then he saw a familiar face. Youthful skin, but strong and tempered, and bold but plain features gleamed with a smile as he lifted his cup and drank. And the others? Fasime moved closer and found more faces he recognized, sitting around a table near the bar. He went to them, hearing the echo of them all laughing and talking late into many evenings past.

  “Fasime!” the one with the bold face shouted when he noticed the prince approaching. Fasime watched his three old comrades stand with a jerk, but then stop and stiffen, hesitating with their next actions or words. Fasime chose for them, heartily wrapping his arms around each of them with a laugh.

  “Murtain, Tenn, Perdeg, it is good to see you!” Fasime told them, releasing their dazed forms. He went to an empty chair beside them and sat, smiling with contentment.

  “Fasime…” Perdeg, the thin, dusty-haired young man said with surprise. He and the others sat back down, staring at their visitor with wonder. “We were worried about you.”

  Fasime blinked some of the memory from his eyes. “Well, I’m back now, so…” Fasime shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. When his gaze returned to them, the smile left his face. Something had changed…

  “You were missing so long,” Tenn stated. Fasime met his dry-grass eyes, then looked at his thick, short hair and sun-worn skin, seeing the age that had settled there.

  “Have you done nothing but work and sit in here since I’ve left?” Fasime jested with a forced breath of laughter. Tenn flushed a little, lowering his eyes. A grin lifted the corners of Fasime’s mouth. Same old Tenn.

  “We are glad you are back safe,” Murtain then said, kinder, nervously looking at Fasime. But then he turned to the bartender coming to their table.

  “Prince Fasime,” the thin gray-haired man said, hushed, stepping up to him, and Fasime flinched at his tone. The title, which they used to use in jest and teasing, now carried seriousness and concern. The man swallowed, then bowed his head. “You have returned,” the bartender said, and Fasime marked the notes of both welcome and fear in his voice.

  “I’ll take a cup of your brew, keeper, if you’ll serve me.” Fasime knew his voice showed his disappointment and agitation. The man staggered in response, but got out, “Ye… yes, sir.” He cut himself off from saying more and left them. He realized the others were staring at him.

  “Nothing really has changed, then? The keeper is still nervous, and you three are prepared only for the expected,” Fasime chastised in a low voice, shifting again. The three of them lowered their heads, blinking without response. Why wouldn’t they just forgive his absence?

  “So, anything new going on?” But the question was wrong, not leisurely and casual as it once might have been put. The words were tense. Fasime felt that he did not care for their response, even as he asked it. The question only stirred their discomfort, each unwilling to turn the conversation towards themselves with a personal narrative.

  “Have you stolen the hearts of any ladies from the city?” Fasime asked next, attempting again to awaken the old conversations. The city boys moved a little, relaxed.

  “Murtain has wed,” Perdeg said. He smiled at the thicker one, but the pleasure on his face retreated when he looked back at Fasime.

  “Wed! To whom?” Fasime demanded, leaning towards him.

  “Wisa,” Murtain answered awkwardly.

  “Wisa, General Movac’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A moon after the fields sprouted,” Tenn answered for him, “and she is expecting.”

  “Well!” Fasime reflected. “What else have I missed?”

  “A lot has happened since you left, Fasime,” Perdeg advised him in a brusque tone. But when the prince glanced sharply at him in surprise, his face blanched and he clenched his teeth, regretting his tone.

  Fasime observed his expression, adverse and distrustful. As the thin, light-haired youth lowered his gaze, the prince felt anger swell in him. He propped his elbows on the table and sank his head into his hands. Why wasn’t he welcomed here anymore? Couldn’t it be like before, when this was a refuge from his concerns and duty? Perhaps they just need more time…

  “Where…” Fasime looked up to Murtain’s hesitant words, seeing him leaning towards him, seriousness replacing his embarrassment, “where did you go?” The prince watched three citizens of Arnith sit across from him nervously, their expressions reminiscent of disused friendships, actors in a rehearsed scene, more strangers in the crowded inn. Fasime straightened, glaring at them as if for cowardice.

  “Out of this rotting city,” he answered with disdain. The impostors’ faces tightened in confusion. Fasime leaned on the arm of the chair and released a hot breath. At least they are better than the palace guards.

  “You…” one of them started, but didn’t have any words to finish. They were interrupted by the bartender’s return. Fasime looked at him with a sour expression and placed the full mug on the table.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” the tender asked without meeting the prince’s scrutinizing gaze.

  “No,” Fasime answered and shifted to reach inside his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, nothing, sir,” the man stammered.

  “Nothing?” Fasime demanded, turning on him with confusion and anger in his eyes.

  “I… we… we are happy for the prince’s safe return. There is no charge,” the bartender insisted.

  Fasime’s face tightened and the man recoiled, thinking the prince was about to reach for his sword. But Fasime merely took out his coins and laid them on the table.

  “No, Fasime, we’ll pay for it,” said Tenn. Fasime realized the young man was only trying to be generous to the king’s son.

  “I probably shouldn’t let you,” Fasime said in a mocking tone and took out several more coins from his pocket. He pushed back his chair and stood. “You are, after all, poor farmers and soldier’s sons.” he laid a few more coins on the table with a clang. “I am the one with access to riches, now that I am a prince.”

  They gave no word or motion to call him back, as he turned and left the bar. They glanced nervously at the coins left on the table, as if they were blood money from a ransom.

  “Ignorant fools!” Fasime muttered and yanked open the door with a burst. He stepped out into the streets of Anteria and slammed the door behind him.

  He stopped with a gasp. The closing door revealed two guards, the castle guards, the same who had held sentry over him that day. They were standing at the edge of the inn in the street, turning towards him.

  For a moment Fasime was paralyzed, anticipating they would rush forward and try to apprehend him. The prince felt a strong urge to flee, and his body, repulsed by the sight of the guards, stepped back. But the soldiers didn’t start for him. They stood casually, watching him, waiting. Fasime mastered his fleeing breath and tense limbs enough to speak.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  They still did not move towards him. One of them answered with even tones, “We checked the stables first.”

  Fasime felt his breath leave him, but with it there was a new feeling. They will have you return to the castle. But look what life would be for you now. It doesn’t have to be this way. A strange option realized in his mind and body and made him quake with indecision. I don’t have to return. Sure, they would try to make him, but he could leave. Just as he buried his blood title on the journey with his brothers, he could do it again and start anew. He could flee the capital, become someone else, somewhere else, where there was no more tension, distrust, and uncertainty. He could outrun the soldiers, lose them in the city. He could be free… he felt his muscles shiver with the possibility of his crime.

  “It is late,” the other soldier said flatly. If they noticed the prince’s tense muscles shimmering with his sweat or the rebellious thoughts flashing in his eyes, they didn’t reveal it. “Let us return.”

  The soldiers turned away from Fasi
me a little, ready to start back to the castle. The excitement in his limbs turned to fear. He knew he could escape but… what then? Thinking of returning with the soldiers made the sting of fear ease a little, replaced by a weight of duty, of guilt. He thought of his mother, his father, Syah, and Oman. But it wasn’t thoughts of them that lured his mind back from the prospect of flight. He knew he could have run and made it out of the city, but Fasime, the prince, couldn’t leave here. Clenching down a sickness in his gut, he forced himself forward, already feeling the world was becoming smaller around him. The guards glanced back at the prince and began to lead him back to the castle.

  He knocked again at the door, and again there was no answer. He reached for the handle and turned it. His eyes scanned the dimly lit room and then found him. Exhaling, he stepped inside and shut the door. He approached the bed, seeing no movement from under the blankets.

  “Syah,” he said and touched the outline of a form under the covers. He pulled down the blankets. The youngest brother stiffened, opened his eyes, and turned towards him. But then Syah relaxed, seeing it was his co-conspirator, not another scrutinous guardian.

  “What, Oman?” Syah asked.

  Oman sighed, realizing he had left his brother too long. “It’s almost midday,” Oman answered, pulling the covers off him completely. “You should get up.”

  The youngest groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Towards the end of our journey, I longed for a soft bed, a warm, private room.” Oman stood, helping Syah to his feet. “But now I feel as if I will rot in here.” The elder stopped, transfixed a moment by his words.

  “That’s why you’re getting out,” Oman responded, taking Syah’s arm and leading him away from the bed.

  “Where, Oman?” Syah asked apprehensively when Oman released him and went to the door. His brother didn’t answer, but stepped into the hallway and stopped a servant. Oman came back to him, leaving the door open.

  “To dinner,” Oman explained.

  “Dinner? With the king and queen?”

  “Yes.”

  Syah shook his head, withdrew from him. “No, I don’t think I can.”

  “It’s all right, Syah,” Oman said, kind but firm. “They want to see us. It is time to return to our normal routines. Have you been to the White Cane?”

  Syah’s attention left him, his mind going somewhere else. “I had forgotten.”

  A servant came in the door, summoned by Oman. “Well, we’ll get you dressed, then we’ll go to our lessons together. Then it will be time for dinner.”

  Syah stood tautly when the servant stepped up to him. Then he nodded, almost unwillingly, and complied.

  The brothers conversed softly as they walked together through the hallway. Although they kept to themselves, the soft resonance of their voices was a reassurance to the servants and citizens they passed. The princes really had come home, and now everything would return to normal.

  Oman and Syah stopped when they noticed Fasime brooding against the wall near their door, the fall of his dark hair obscuring his face. He stood there alone, apparently trying to master his thoughts before entering the door that was the destination of all three. Oman and Syah glanced at each other and then started for him. The dark-haired prince looked up as he heard them, and relief came over his face.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were here yet,” said Fasime, and pushed himself from the support of the wall.

  “No, we are only now arriving,” Oman explained, stopping before him.

  He nodded. “It is better that we do this together.”

  “Have you seen them since we returned?”

  Fasime frowned and shook his head.

  “Well, then,” Oman said, scanning the faces of his brothers, “it is time.”

  They entered together, holding their breath, anticipating the deluge. They stopped, searching for their parents, seeing nobles and advisors sitting solemnly around the table. But their father was easy to find, sitting unspeaking at the end of the table, looking over to them as they entered. The guests paused in their conversation and turned to them as well. Though questioning, their faces were respectful and accepting, making the brothers grateful for their title for the first time since they returned to the city. They could still feel the tension they created in the room, however, and alone it might have overwhelmed and stalled any of them. But they were stronger together, and with a steadying breath they started for the table. The king’s face remained stern, but his eyes were kind and pleased, welcoming them as they sat around him. Soft conversations resumed among the guests when the princes settled in their seats.

  “I am pleased you have joined us,” the king told them, with no hint of sarcasm or accusation.

  “Where is Mother?” Oman asked.

  Their father, seeming disappointed himself, glanced at her empty seat. “The dinner table has wanted her presence of late,” the king answered, and the brothers’ brows lowered at his tone.

  “Is she well?” Fasime questioned hesitantly. The king stared at him a tense moment, his face unreadable.

  “As well as can be expected,” he answered. His face was watchful and calm again, as if nothing had been spoken. But the brothers still sensed the truth. Had their disappearance caused her to fall ill?

  Hunger distracted them when servants placed plates and bowls of stew, bread, and fruit before them. Oman felt a strange comfort as a servant placed a dish before him. It was a weight, but it was safety. He realized what it was: his father was in control. Oman didn’t have to worry over their next meal; it would be taken care of. Anything they needed would be provided for them. The wild night was no longer a concern; they would have nothing to fear or want in the king’s presence. Oman submitted to the authority of his parent, and began to eat. Safety, protection, and relief overtook him and he bowed his head, listening to his brothers and the king as he ate.

  “Have the Marians or Rognoth submitted yet?” Fasime asked. The king set down his knife and paused a long moment before answering.

  “The majority of their fighters still avoid us. We have rescued outlying villages and hamlets, but insurgents continue to cause problems.”

  “Are we planning to mount an offensive?” Oman questioned, after the king had taken a drink from his goblet.

  “Commander Lenpece will be leading a squadron there in the next few days,” Algoth explained, looking past his sons to the officer sitting near them. The man came to attention with the mention of his name, and nodded in affirmation.

  There was an uneasy silence as the king and general resumed their meals and the princes sat in wavering uncertainty. What should they discuss? Possible conversations came to their minds, but they dismissed them, fearing they would bring up their journey, their absence. Their father, too, appeared to be considering something to say, but apparently thought better of it. He seemed comfortable with just the presence of his sons beside him, and didn’t ask them to speak of their travels, as they finished their meal together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  FORTUNE

  Syah’s eyes protested with a blur, but he blinked and found the words again. Resource materials concerning general services have been established in short supply. His body sighed in protest, vexing him as he tried to stifle and ignore it. The principal source of labor is noted to be separately designated community centers including seven hundred workmen providing… this is pointless… structural support, three hundred specialists operating under… His neck fell back, complaining. His jaw tightened. Operating under, operating under… the analysis of existing features determined the out structuring of further additions. Frustrated, Syah closed the book and pressed his fingers against his eyes. Some castle built from the ground had crumbled back to it cycles before his birth. What did it matter how it was done? The prince let out an irritated breath and sat back, trying to alleviate the ache of distress and annoyance in his head.

  Syah pushed the heavy, discolored book away from him. It slid across the table, and he felt better, as if its close
ness was what upset him. He glanced at the White Cane seated at the far end of the table. The old man gave no heed to the prince’s outburst, but remained engrossed in his book, and the notes he made at intervals on his papers. Syah was somehow calmed by the realization that his tutor was deep in the dust of the past, and was content. He felt a sense of kinship with the scholar, as if this might be his own future as well…

  “What are you researching?” Syah interrupted his thoughts, and the tutor’s reading. The White Cane looked up.

  “The lineage of Anteria’s dynasty,” he answered.

  Syah pushed himself from the table, turning towards the shelves. “Have you ever researched ancient archives of the dwarves?” Syah asked. He ran his hand over the books and his mind opened them: histories, economics, governing.

  “And what purpose would they serve you?” the White Cane asked, as his student knelt to retrieve several heavy books from the library and set them on the table.

  “And what about… devices of the elves?” Syah asked, hearing the tutor’s question but choosing not to respond.

  “History is not…”

  “Has it been recorded how the fable races separated themselves from the humans?” the prince interrupted.

  “History cannot be conserved before the pen knows how to write it,” was the White Cane’s answer.

  “And the southern mountains? Has an exploration ever been recorded from them?” Syah asked and opened the book, turning to the first page. The White Cane didn’t answer, realizing the prince wouldn’t have heard him. Syah pulled the book closer and sat back, ignoring his pen and notes. The thick white eyebrows above the tutor’s eyes lowered and his aged eyes remained on the young, engrossed prince for as long as they ever had.

  With a spark and a clang, the swords clashed above their heads. Neither retreated, their faces taut. Each fought to hold his sword engaged against the other’s. Their eyes met and locked, as steadfast as their swords. But their arms shook and their eyes flashed at the same moment, and with a jerk they both withdrew and stepped back.