Brother, Betrayed Read online

  The laughter of a group of men at the other end of the hall became the deep laughter of mountain voices. They slammed their mugs heartily upon the table and their drinks splashed on their beards.

  Then a young man emerged through the smoke. Syah knew who he was, but imagined him as someone else. He became a knight clad in armor, with an elaborate helm and a sword at his waist. The figure moved closer, his armor glinting link by link in the glowing light. The crowd parted as if he were the ghost of one of Arnith’s fallen kings.

  “Fasime!” Syah cried, shaking the illusion from his sight. Fasime smiled, joining Syah at the table. “How did you make it back so quickly? I anticipated it would take you another half moon to walk back to the castle.” Syah examined Fasime’s neatly drawn black hair, his clean clothing. “And I see you had time to change.”

  “I didn’t walk,” Fasime responded with laughter.

  “Hitch a ride with a traveling merchant?” was asked from behind him. Oman approached the table and placed his hand on Fasime’s shoulder.

  “No,” the middle brother answered.

  “You don’t appear to be injured, how in the skies did you get back to Anteria?” Oman asked.

  “The stallion, of course,” was his response.

  “Come,” Oman said, “this is a story Mother and Father will want to hear.”

  Fasime stood before the court, the king and queen seated upon the throne. He paced before them, commanding the attention of the multitude.

  “The stallion and I struggled. He galloped relentlessly deeper into the woods. I knew he would eventually become tired, but I swear I’ve never seen a horse ride so long without rest. He bucked and reared to drop me, but I held fast, wrapping the ropes around my arms. We galloped for so long, his pace never slackening, until the forest was a whirlwind of trees. As the night fell upon us, I felt myself slipping. The strain of the ride wore on me, though my mind was refusing to let the beast win.

  “Then a thought occurred to me. The stallion was afraid, though he had no reason to fear men. He had lived most of his life without the company of man or horse. He was afraid because he did not understand what had happened to him. I knew he could remember his purpose. Together, we would face his fear.

  “The night air renewed me. I leaned forward and took fistfuls of mane in my hands. Balancing myself on his middle, I pressed my heels on his abdomen. I called out to him, urging him onward. He snorted, but started to obey me. We galloped through the night. I embraced his freedom, his sheer strength. I began to lean, not as a command, but as a suggestion. The stallion began to turn. I spoke to him, telling him of great purebreds of Anteria, of a horse’s duty to its master, of the king’s horse and his bloodline.

  “My being was stripped away by the cold night wind. The stallion could not rid himself of me, so he accepted me. We became one, racing through the dark forest lit only by the stars’ glow. I knew then he trusted me, and I allowed him to slow.

  “He soon collapsed, with me still atop him. We landed in the brush. With my remaining strength, I pulled myself out from under him, but fell into darkness before I could free my arms from the ropes.

  “When we woke, the stallion was calm. I untied the ropes from round his neck and he rose. I told him he was free, that if he wanted to return to the forest he may. He came forward and nudged my hand. He allowed me to remount and he carried me south until we found a merchant’s road. I followed it to Anteria.”

  “What did you do with him?” the queen asked.

  “He is in the stables, for now,” Fasime answered.

  Syah, listening from the edge of the crowd, bowed his head. Cheers and congratulations were offered for Fasime, and the musicians resumed their interlude. He retreated to avoid the dancers spreading across the hall.

  Fasime and Oman found Syah brooding at his private table.

  “Celebrations are underway and you behave like a shadow of the silent walls. Syah, why do you sit here alone?” Fasime asked as they sat before him.

  Syah didn’t answer, watching his two older brothers stare at him. Oman, with his regal expression and diligent eyes, and Fasime with his boastful, charismatic look.

  “There’s more to celebrations than just sitting here watching them,” Fasime pressed.

  Syah shook his head, knowing what was coming. “Fasime, no.”

  “I’ll show you the steps. It’s not difficult once you get started.”

  Syah glanced at Oman, but he leaned back and crossed his arms with a smile.

  “I can’t believe our younger brother would pass an opportunity to learn something new,” Fasime went on. “Dancing is much like swordplay. Would you let the rest of us become proficient in this skill and you not?”

  “Prancing and twirling hold no interest for me,” Syah responded.

  Fasime turned to Oman. “We can’t just allow him to sit in the corner all evening. He needs to join the festivities and stop behaving like an outsider.”

  “Don’t we have more important things to discuss?” Syah stated, his face reddening.

  “All right, Fasime, let’s leave him alone,” Oman said

  Fasime grunted. “Standing up for him again, are you, Oman?”

  Oman’s eyes flashed a warning, but he knew Fasime meant nothing by it. Fasime was mostly jesting, they all were. Fasime’s posture loosened as Oman kept his commanding gaze on him, and then so did Syah’s.

  “The king and queen were wondering about you,” Oman told Syah.

  “Because you were hiding in the shadows,” Fasime added.

  “Tell us about your plan, Oman,” Syah requested, acting as if Fasime hadn’t spoken.

  Oman glanced behind to gauge if any of the guests were close enough to hear. Turning back, he lowered his tone, “I am planning on asking Father to consider the military training tonight.”

  “Of course,” Syah said musingly. “He won’t want to bother Mother with it during the celebration.”

  “How will you bring it up to him?” Fasime asked. “He has been protective since the Rognoth and Marrians raided towns near Anteria.”

  Oman seemed indignant. “He has to start treating me like a man someday.”

  “Getting them to allow Syah to leave with me is another matter,” Fasime stated.

  The eldest focused on Syah. Oman’s countenance darkened, as if he imagined his youngest brother struggle, hurt, alone, and afraid. Syah’s limbs began to shake by the way his brother looked at him. Oman seemed to be witnessing some ill fate meet Syah, though he sat safe before him.

  Syah clenched his fists when Oman began to speak. Although terrible things were reflected in his eyes, Oman’s voice was level and calm, “Are you sure you want to come with us?”

  Syah knew Oman’s thoughts. Oman didn’t see him as an able-bodied young man. He saw the sickly child fighting to live. Bedridden and crippled by mysterious ailments, it had taken Syah cycles to have the strength to participate with his brothers.

  “I am,” Syah answered, locking Oman’s gaze with his. He hoped he could bring Oman back to the present, away from images of the past and fears of the future.

  Oman paused a breath, then submitted with a nod.

  “And how will we get out of the city?” Fasime asked, trying to break the tension between Oman and Syah.

  Syah motioned for silence when a soldier approached their table. “The feast will begin soon,” the soldier informed them and bowed.

  “Very well,” Oman stated, nodding.

  Watching him leave, the princes leaned closer and lowered their conversation to a whisper.

  “We disguise ourselves,” Syah answered.

  “But they will recognize the king’s sons. I think we should try to sneak through the guard at night,” Fasime stated.

  “If they are not looking for us, we can misdirect them, make them see three common boys instead of three princes.”

  “That will take gathering disguises, and coordinating our departures so that the guards believe we have left with escorts
.” Oman asked.

  “I’ve already acquired commoner clothing,” Syah stated. Oman and Fasime chuckled.

  “Then we need supplies,” Oman said to Fasime. “You will gather them for your hunting trip.”

  Fasime nodded. “I will start tomorrow.”

  Oman stood and looked to Syah. “Celebrations won’t be so tedious if you allow yourself a little more enjoyment from them.”

  “You will ask Father during the feast?” Fasime asked and rose.

  Oman nodded, but his air of confidence waned with the thought of deceiving their father.

  “I’ll save you a seat,” Fasime told Syah then turned to leave.

  Syah felt a sense of loss as his brothers left him, but he took in a steadying breath, seeing the knight’s armor cover Fasime’s shoulders again. His gaze shifted to his eldest brother. He saw Oman as he always did, a young but powerful king.

  Syah pulled in his chair beside Fasime. The guests were taking their seats at the mighty table. They had settled, the music had faded, and they were all awaiting the coming feast. Syah was aware of the buzz of noise and conversation around him, but heeding none of their words. He traced the stem of his cup, feeling the cool condensation collect on his fingers.

  Syah’s eyes were transfixed on the table until the king’s voice caught his attention. His father was just speaking to those around him, but the table seemed to quiet at the powerful sound. Syah felt humility as he looked upon the king’s face, his broad and strong shoulders, and his vigilant eyes. The king turned to the queen, sitting poised beside him. They were discussing some small thing, laughing about it, and Syah wondered what it was. They were clearly finding a private enjoyment in it.

  Servants stepped next to Syah and disrupted his thoughts. They began to set flames to candles placed on the table. Syah was distracted by the colorful, bountiful food and drink before him. He placed some on his plate, not knowing if he could eat it. But he pretended he could, idly cutting it into small pieces and methodically chewing it. The chatter dwindled as the guests began to eat, their conversation interrupted by juicy meat, sweet fruit, and warm bread.

  Fasime elbowed Syah's arm and Syah lifted his gaze to the king. Oman was seated beside him, discussing something. Oman appeared half-interested in the conversation, but the king was growing more and more intent on him. Neither Syah nor Fasime could hear their words, but they could see the king asked Oman something, and Oman responded casually.

  “Do you think he’ll reject it?” Syah whispered.

  “I don’t know yet,” Fasime answered and resumed his meal.

  The king was nodding, and Oman seemed to be ending the conversation. Syah set down his glass, contentment on his face.

  Syah found himself standing and with cold apprehension he realized he had finished his meal and drink, the candles had melted to a soft glow, and he hadn’t been aware of it. He tried to think back, but time was lost to his memory. He had been thinking about their journey. He had imagined leaving the great hall, going down the stairs and out the door of the castle, through the streets of the city and far away, to unknown places of the world. He felt chilled, finding he had still gone on with the motions of living, even though his mind had left him completely.

  He let the feeling subside when the guests took to the dance floor again. There were gifts to be given, and more dancing, and more food, Syah knew, but his sentence had been served. He had been a silent statue of the great hall long enough. He turned and started for the door.

  As Syah passed the open doorway of the hall, something grabbed his arm. Oman and Fasime were waiting for him.

  “Well?” Syah asked.

  “Father will approve the military training,” Oman answered.

  “And the hunting trip has already been planned, so all that’s left is to let them know I intend to go with Fasime,” Syah stated.

  “It is time you start joining us on our excursions anyway,” Fasime said.

  Syah heard movement behind him, and assumed, correctly, it was someone searching for them. He stepped aside and let the children go to Oman and Fasime, who laughed as they grabbed his brothers’ arms, begging for them to return to the dance. Fasime and Oman met Syah’s complacent smile as they turned to follow the children back to the festivities.

  Syah sensed the quiet of the hallway, again, and released a breath he felt he’d been holding since he had entered the great hall. The silence was like a cool, cleansing breeze through his body and mind. He started down the hallway, back towards his books.

  Chapter Two

  PREPARATIONS

  Syah closed the book he had on his lap when he heard the door open. He leaned over, picking up a piece of twisted wood layered with fine, tight strings.

  “Syah?” the queen asked when she noticed him. “What is it, my son?”

  The queen’s concern was distracted by her interest in what Syah held.

  “What is this?”

  “A gift for you. Fasime charmed it from a tribesman’s daughter from near the elven forest,” Syah told her. She touched the fine, smooth wood and pressed the tight metal strings.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said, “but I don’t know what I’d do with it.”

  Syah acknowledged her confusion with a nod. “It is not truly your gift,” he answered, “I am to play a song for you.”

  The queen’s face softened. “A song from you would be a very fine gift.”

  Syah motioned to the empty seat beside him. He placed the end of the instrument on his shoulder and lifted his hands to the strings. His fingers found their places but paused, his mind listening to how the melody would play. Then his hands obeyed and a strange, lingering, deep sound drifted from them. The song was slow; each note a cautious footstep towards a great love that was never reached.

  Syah closed his eyes. The song didn’t quicken, the notes stayed meticulous, but the melody intensified. The journey still continued slowly but the emotions and loss strengthened. Syah imagined himself seated on the edge of a precipice with great winds rushing by him, preludes to the onset of a storm. Then, as the storm was about to engulf him, his fingers rested, the song fading. The last notes hummed around them a moment, then were silent.

  Syah heard a quick intake of breath from beside him. His gaze went to his mother; her eyes were wet. Syah lowered the instrument.

  “Mother, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  The queen shook her head, wiping away the tears. “No, my son.”

  “Your mood was so joyful,” Syah lamented, “I should have played something more appropriate.”

  “No,” she said more firmly and placed her hand on his arm. “It was magnificent.” She smiled. “It was a wonderful gift.”

  Syah nodded, grasping her hand, and watched her calming eyes.

  It was early the next morning when Syah entered the library. He searched the room by the morning sun beginning to shine through the windows. He had come early and was pleased that he was the first to arrive.

  He went to a table placed in the light of the window, set down his paper and ink and began to look through the books along the walls. Pulling out several of them, he took them back to the table and sat down, finding the pages easily and starting to write notes as he read. Histories, places and people, names. He wondered if the current histories of Miscia would ever be read later on. Somehow he was doing his part to protect the purpose of the future by absorbing the knowledge from these dusty pages.

  He was deep inside a history of Arnith’s military when the door opened. It was their teacher. The others would be late, as usual. Gray eyes beneath the thick white eyebrows didn’t look up, but Syah knew his tutor had seen him. The old man entered the room, leaning on a gnarly white cane, his namesake.

  Syah continued reading. His tutor gave a thoughtful mumble as he selected a book from the shelf. Placing it on the table, he began to read aloud. The planting of crops, the distribution of resources to civilians, taxation to replenish the treasury: all these subjects sp
un together in one intricate narrative describing how to establish a community. Syah paused at his teacher’s voice, as it made him think of a dying man’s last gasp. But somehow the old man continued, taking deep breaths at odd places through his reading.

  Syah’s pen stopped when he heard loud talking in the hallway. The old man used that moment to take another deep breath. The door opened and Fasime came in with Oman behind him. Their entrance seemed to bring disturbing noises into the quiet room, even though they had stopped talking. The old man started reading again before they were seated. They glanced at each other, then at Syah, who shook his head at them.

  “A community is a collective of men of minds, and men of work. The men with access have more influence. Access to history, access to records, and the ability to interpret them.” The mentor breathed again, his eyes straying off the paper, gazing down, but truly seeing his pupils in the room above. “We are fire begot from sky. Lightning begets fire, fire begets smoke, and smoke joins the clouds and rain to put out the fire. One single action leads to creation and destruction.” Their mentor paused at his last word before continuing to read aloud from the text.

  Syah looked up at the White Cane, then cast an accusing glance towards his brothers, who shrugged innocently. The youngest blinked a long moment, his jaw tightening, then pushed his chair back as he stood. Stepping up to the library and briefly searching, he found one book and then another. With the same ease, he opened them and set them before his brothers. Oman’s book was turned to the first page of a history of a military expedition, detailing the planning of supplies and men. And for Fasime: a description of caring for beasts when traveling. The three, amused, looked up to the White Cane, who continued to read aloud and seemed to pay no attention whatsoever to them. Syah resumed his seat and began his work again.

  Syah grasped the hilt. His hands tightened around it. He felt no strength from it, as he had anticipated, but a flush of dread. What would he need it for, anyway? He would have no reason to use a sword. The hunting would be with arrows, and cleaning the meat with a knife. He would only need a sword for… he stopped his mind from the thought. Solemnly, he fastened the sheath to his waist.