Brother, Betrayed Page 18

  “Seems you need some more practice handling your sword.” Fasime smirked and found his stance.

  Oman’s eyes narrowed but he smiled, moved forward. “You’re the one who is out of practice,” Oman amended, and then swung at his brother to prove it. Their swords hit, each striking and defending, but each attempt was incomplete.

  “You need to pay attention to your flank,” Fasime warned. Oman barely blocked Fasime’s swing to his side.

  “Or did I play you to make you extend yourself?” Oman queried, moving his elbow to Fasime’s face. Oman’s arm hit his face, but not hard, and Fasime glared as he turned his head back to him.

  “Being on the trail must have taught you to take cheap shots,” Fasime said. He regained his sword, starting for Oman again. Oman stepped to meet him.

  “You’re one to complain, decking a knight while his head was turned!” Fasime paused. Oman held his sword to his side and circled him. He saw the jest on his brother’s face but he felt the amusement inside him leave.

  “At least I did something to avenge Syah’s injury,” Fasime accused. He swung at Oman again.

  Oman blocked him. His eyes narrowed. “What, would you have wanted me to attack him?”

  “It would have been better than standing around doing nothing,” Fasime pressed, lunging forward and trying Oman from the side. His brother dodged it, then stopped, blinking.

  “Wait,” Oman said in a firm tone, studying his brother’s hot face. “What are you angry about?”

  Fasime didn’t pause to respond, coming at Oman again. “You know what you did,” Fasime barked. He swiftly moved his sword to Oman’s front, but he gave time for his brother to block it, seeing him faltering.

  “Stop, Fasime,” Oman ordered. He blocked Fasime’s sword and pushed it away from him.

  “What?” Fasime mocked. He stepped around Oman and thrust his sword down again. “Can’t stand the pressure?”

  “Fasime!” Oman protested, turning to meet him. He was cut short, having to parry his brother’s next move. His face tightened in frustration and resolve. “I said stop!” he cried, returning Fasime’s advance, trying to force his cooperation with a barrage of attacks.

  “You can’t take the responsibility, can you, Oman?” Fasime continued. His breath came short as he parried each of his brother’s quick attacks.

  “My responsibility?” Oman demanded, slacking off slightly but still attacking, to keep Fasime on the defensive. “Is this about Syah?”

  “You should have done something…” Oman eased off some so Fasime could speak. “Syah shouldn’t be punished for us!”

  “What would you have had me do? Take the punishment myself? It was Syah’s choice to defend him.”

  “It was your idea we go in the first place,” the younger accused, sidestepping and swinging to Oman’s unguarded flank.

  The elder turned quickly and blocked, forcing both of their swords down and holding them pointed towards the floor. “And I didn’t order you to come along! You had as much an opportunity as I did to take Syah’s place!”

  Fasime yanked his sword free, stepping back from his brother’s sword and hot gaze. “You should have done something, Oman.”

  “Speak for yourself, brother! I did what I…”

  “Didn’t want to stain your reputation with Father, did you?” Fasime demanded. He circled his brother, Oman countering him.

  “That’s enough, Fasime,” the elder ordered, striking up at him.

  “Why didn’t you stand up for him?” the younger returned, and blocked him.

  “And why is that just my charge? He is your brother, too.”

  “I’m the only one who’s acting like it!” Fasime yelled, as he repeatedly swung at his brother.

  “That’s insane!” Oman cried. He quickly parried.

  “Why did you strike him?” the younger demanded with a violent swing, but Oman didn’t block. He sidestepped, causing Fasime to overextend his sword and hit the ground. “Do you want him to be hurt?” Fasime pressed, lifting his sword.

  “I said, that’s enough!” Oman shouted. He sent his sword slashing down over his head. As his body followed through with the strike, Oman realized Fasime wasn’t recovering his sword fast enough to block it. The anger wrenching his heart and surging up his arms to his sword shuddered and jerked into fear. He realized it might be delivered upon his younger brother, vulnerable. Oman’s eyes met Fasime’s, seeing him, in that brief moment, begin to realize his position. It was a blink of time, a flash, but Oman sensed it lasting. He gazed into his brother’s eyes. He couldn’t stop the swing. Fasime couldn’t defend himself. Oman recognized his eyes, connected with them, seeing everything he and his brother had experienced together, seeing how they had striven, and laughed, and lived up to that moment. The light- brown eyes gazed into his with sudden fear and understanding. They had to stop it. They had to work together. Oman heaved and forced his sword to the side, and Fasime moved, barely stepping aside it. Oman’s sword thwacked heavily onto the floor and the older brother let out a gasp.

  They both straightened, staring at each other in bewilderment. Oman felt Fasime’s sword on his shoulder, but he didn’t mind it, laughed a half breath and nodded. He glanced down as he pulled his sword free from the floor. A tan streak marked where the blade had struck the wood beneath them. The elder took in a shuddering breath and looked back at Fasime. He was breathing quickly as well, holding his sword half-heartedly, more resting it on Oman’s shoulder than aiming it there.

  “I guess you win,” Oman said with shuddering words. Fasime gave a weak motion of his head and removed his sword. He took a step back, but he didn’t sheath it. “Are you all right?” the elder questioned. Fasime nodded. With no more conversation, the solemn princes turned to leave. The empty room still echoed their argument as they closed the door behind them.

  They’ll ask why I started it. Will they think it was foolish? Has the prince completely lost reality, does he wander in madness? Syah smiled at himself. They will see, when all is proven true. But they cannot know. Not yet, anyway. We will have to keep it to ourselves. The prince stopped before bumping into some of the town’s workers. They wouldn’t understand. Perhaps it is madness. What will it harm, to find out for sure?

  The prince found the door to the building in the busy, sunlit street. They won’t know it today. He grasped the handle and opened it. A strong smell of ink welcomed him into the warm, well-lit building. His eyes scanned the small tables, each populated by a crouching, laboring worker over paper, books, and ink. An elder, clean-cut man noticed Syah and moved away from leaning over a squire.

  “Ah, Prince Syah, good day,” the man said. He bowed to the boy, causing stirs of motion from the workers in the room. Syah noted the ones that turned to him in surprise, letting their pens drip a small puddle of ink onto their pages, and the few that finished their words and then returned their pen to the ink before turning to him.

  “These are the scribes, Sir Shard?” the prince asked the guildmaster.

  “Yes, sir,” the master answered, turning back to the silenced, curious workers.

  Syah nodded. He studied all their faces. “I have come to recruit apprentice scribes for the castle,” the prince explained. The workers glanced at each other. “A few applicants will be chosen, based on strict qualifications. Every fourth day they will conduct research in the castle’s library. They will be paid, of course. Any applicant must be studious and professional, and must be proficient in ancient languages.”

  The scribes murmured.

  “Sir, our scribes are trained in at least one alternate language,” the master explained.

  Syah nodded in agreement. “If any of you are interested, meet me in the council chambers of the castle tomorrow to determine if your skills will suffice.” Syah nodded to them and they bowed, as did the guildmaster.

  “We are grateful that you considered us,” the guildmaster said. “We hope our scribes will work well for you.”

  “So do I,” S
yah replied. He nodded once more to the master and turned to leave.

  It is as if you are letting them inside your own wonderings and fears. And what if they discover the abyss that has opened inside you? Will they draw back in fear, or will fascination lure them to the edge? What truth hides in the darkness, anyway? Just an emptiness of possibility. Perhaps they wouldn’t think it so strange if they knew the extent of my deviation. Perhaps each of them has his own doubts and questions as well. Could their thoughts be, could anyone’s be… so deep?

  Syah was harshly stopped and held by his own conscience. Her eyes were on him. It was his mother, passing him the opposite way in the hallway. The prince’s thoughts stalled, unsure, meeting her watchful gaze. She must have noticed him coming down the hallway, for her face was not surprised but hesitant. Should he stop? What would he say? Would she speak with him?

  Her uninterrupted pace suggested she wouldn’t. Syah’s brows tightened, his breath was stolen from him. As the queen drew abreast of her son, then passed him, he realized she had turned no more than her eyes towards him. He felt his body tightening, collapsing, but he continued on, listening to his mother’s soft steps echoed by his own as they parted.

  The voices in the room hushed upon Oman’s entering, and he immediately regretted coming. They turned to him with questions and surprise apparent but unspoken on their faces. They seemed unsure how to react to his presence. He himself was hesitating with his next action, but he forced himself to step into the room.

  “Oman,” his father said from behind the officers. Algoth approached his son. His face was questioning, somewhere between cautiousness and concern. “What is it, Oman?” the king asked.

  “I heard there was news of Dikartians along the eastern border,” the prince explained. He came beside them to gaze at the maps stretched out on the table. “Are they planning to attack?”

  The faces of the officials and king changed when Oman looked back up at them. They were less apprehensive, welcoming, as if the prince had been there all along. “Reports have come in of Dikartian soldiers gathered here,” a general explained. The prince examined the place he pointed to on the map.

  “Have they crossed our border?”

  “No,” the king answered, “they have probably just gathered there in an attempt to block the next advance of Arnith forces.”

  The prince looked closely at the map, recognizing the areas that Dikartians were marked upon it. “Will we send more reinforcements here?” Oman asked, pointing to several Arnithian villages close to the eastern border.

  “We could move some troops from the north, here,” another general observed. The king watched his son focus thoughtfully on the map, his generals gathered around him, all of them participating in solving a problem together. A smile hinted across his face, and he nodded.

  The young prince entered the library, feeling strangely content. He realized this was the first time others were in the library who weren’t there to teach him, to watch him. He would determine the day’s purpose. The four scribes from the city looked up respectfully as he shut the door behind him, curiosity and nervousness on each of their faces.

  “You have been chosen,” Syah stated, “for this rare and important task.” He moved to their table, studying their faces. He noticed that more age was on all of their faces than on his, but still the prince felt their superior. “You each possess great skill as a scribe, and that will be useful as one of the talents required for your assignments.”

  Syah met the eyes of each man, in turn. He could guess their questions, worries, and feelings. They watched his movements as if observing the passing of a strange wild bird. The prince breathed the close air of the library deeply, and a warm feeling eased the shallow tension of his muscles. They seem trustworthy. Their passion for the craft, for the knowledge, perhaps, will drive them.

  “The castle library is well equipped,” Syah continued. A sweep of his arm indicated the walls of books around them. “You will not, however, be provided with all that you need to complete your assignments.”

  Concern now mingled with their curiosity. “I will send you on many missions throughout the city, and some beyond, in pursuit of texts and records to supplement research done here.” Acceptance replaced the concern. “You will be compiling the various resources into specific texts for me.” The scribes nodded as one, their expressions showing interest in his words.

  “What will we be researching?” one of them asked.

  Syah smiled. He moved to the shelves and pulled out books, setting them on the table beside the readied paper and quills. “I am interested in histories of civilizations outside of Arnith,” Syah explained. Intrigue.

  He searched for more texts. “Also, devices they have used for battle and defense. Their weapons and tactics will be important. You will also research practices employed to improve their quality of life, beliefs, legends, and…”

  Syah turned back to them, resting his hand atop the pile of books. He gazed at each of them with excitement visible on his face. “And mysteries.” Surprise. They gasped and glanced at each other, confused, then back at the young prince. But excitement lit their faces, too, after a moment, and Syah smiled at them. “Do you think you have the minds to participate in such a task?”

  Each nodded once, as if committing to an unexpected adventure.

  No book was in his hands, but they didn’t want for one, lying relaxed across his lap. His mind was calm, emptied, as he stared into the flames of the large hearth. His face and arms felt the heat of the fire as it seeped into his skin, but still there was something that it did not reach. It was a thought, hidden and chilled, that neither the glow nor heat of the fire could penetrate. Aware of a touch of unrest in his heart, he remained, pensive, sitting in the large chair and comfortable before the fire.

  Syah heard the door to the study opening, but he did not turn around, listening. As the prince recognized the stride of his visitor, he sighed.

  “I thought you might be in here,” the visitor said softly. Syah looked over at his brother taking a seat next to him.

  “Evening, Fasime.” Syah greeted his brother, then studied him.

  Fasime watched the fire, comforted by the flames but not gripped by them. Then he let out a groan of release and sat back heavily in the chair.

  Syah smiled. “Hard day?”

  “I’ve been training some new horses,” Fasime answered. He shook his head. “I don’t think it used to be this tiring.”

  Syah didn’t voice his response. They both sat quietly a moment, gazing at the dancing fire.

  “What about you? You haven’t been sitting in that chair all day, have you?” Fasime asked.

  “No,” Syah answered, “but I might as well have been. I’m not accomplishing much behind the walls of this place.”

  “Have you spoken to Mother?”

  Syah glanced at him, his brows lowering. How did he know? “I…” Syah began but caught his breath, turned away. His lips pressed together, and after a moment he shook his head. Fasime started to respond, but stopped, waiting for Syah to calm. They sat in silence, aside from the crackle of burning wood and snap of flames.

  Syah closed his eyes, leaning forward. “I just wish everything would go back to normal. That… that this could be easy,” Syah said shakily, his hands covering his face.

  Fasime let out a long breath. “I’m sure she wants to talk to you. Maybe you should…” He stopped when Syah shook his head, and Fasime saw his eyes had reddened. Fasime refrained from saying more, as Syah turned away from him. Words wouldn’t mend anything now.

  Heat flowed over them in the quiet room, surrounded by the tranquil peace of night in the castle. After a time, the fire softened its glow. Fasime shifted, breaking free of the trance. He sighed audibly, then rose and moved to his younger brother’s side. He grabbed Syah’s hand and squeezed it as he said, “It’s going to be all right.” Then he turned to leave.

  Three taps on the heavy wooden door, and a woman’s voice answered f
rom within, “Come in.” Fasime twisted the handle and entered with a blithe step, causing the woman to hesitate. She gathered her thoughts, then asked coolly, “What is it, Fasime?”

  The prince bowed courteously. “Would you join me for a noonday meal?” he asked as he rose, offering her his arm.

  She seemed about to accept it, and a smile tempted her lips for a moment. Then dark thoughts caused her eyes to well with tears. Instead of putting her arm through his, she grasped his forearm and stood before him.

  Taking in a swift breath, the queen raised her head. “Leave me!” she demanded between her teeth, loosening her grip on his arm.

  Fasime stood still as his mother battled her emotion. She struck him on the chest with a fist, then began to cry.

  “Why?” the queen cried, her voice full of pain. Her hands found the face of her son. “How could you leave me so?” Her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor.

  Fasime followed, kneeling before her, his head lowered.

  “How could you?” she gasped, in sorrow and loss, her hands still angrily gripping him.

  “I’m sorry,” Fasime whispered, and laid his head on her shoulder.

  Accepted, if not comfortable, Syah decided. He looked at his brother, speaking casually with their father. Oman seemed to have returned to his place. His life would be simple now; predetermined paths were already guiding his choices, his actions. Still, Syah was eased by it. His brother finding pardon and rejoining the rulership of the castle meant that, in some way, Syah was pardoned as well. The young prince lowered his head a little and listened, no longer anxious for inclusion in the conversation as he sat across from them.

  The door to the dining room opened. Syah saw her, his mother. He felt his heart cower. But she was with Fasime. He didn’t turn away from her, as part of him desired to do, but watched her walk to the table. He stood when she came next to him. His body performed the ritual of pulling out her chair and waiting for her to sit down.