0
Kaeleer
1 / Ciraea
Eyan and several men step from Havenstry’s main landing web. The group is greeted by furtive glances of the townspeople and quiet whispers.
Yes, Havenstry has been expecting these rogues for three days. Rumor has it that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan has called them to stand trial for their crimes. Whether Sadi plans to execute them in the street or do it privately is a matter of strong debate.
If one or two faces in that band of rogues is recognizable by the people they pass—whether they be acquaintances, friends or lovers—eyes are kept averted and mouths closed.
Eyan stares straight ahead as he leads the others through town.
Sadi’s secretary is leaning comfortably against the outside wall of the Rose & Thorn Inn when they arrive. He asks Eyan, “Is this all of them?”
“Yes.” Eyan pauses, thinking of Charon. “All that are living.”
Rainier nods. “Come into the tavern.”
Eyan doesn’t know what he is expecting, perhaps to find Sadi waiting in the hallway to destroy every last man in a single burst of Black power, but what he finds is a brightly lit inn and a tavern of people sharing food and drink. No one seems overly anxious at the sight of declared rogues crowded in the doorway.
Of course, when Sadi and his brother Yaslana—the two most powerful males in Kaeleer—aren’t concerned enough to abandon their chess game, then the rest of the Blood can rest assured they have nothing to fear from the newcomers.
Eyan has never been happier to see Theia hurrying toward him than in that moment. She ushers them around a table. “Sit. Ali! We need seven dark brews at the back table.”
Theia tucks a rag into her dress pocket, nods to their group as a whole, and heads back towards the bar.
Most of the men keep their heads down, unwilling to attract unwanted attention despite that the whole town is acutely aware of their presence. Traye, the youngest of them, leans back in his chair and stares at the back of Yaslana’s head.
Eyan pins him with a look. *Quit that.*
*I’ve never seen an Eyrien before. Their wings are huge.*
*And their weapons are always sharp, you idiot. We’re in enough trouble as it is.*
Traye becomes distracted by the mug of ale that the barmaid places in front of him.
“Lady Ali,” greets Eyan.
She looks tired but it is the lack of fear in her eyes that arrests him. The Prince wonders what has changed here since he left.
Ali slides a mug within his reach.
He has to ask, even knowing that he might not like answer. “Jak?”
The witch replies, “He’s in the kitchen.”
The kitchen?
Perhaps the question is apparent on his face. Ali pats his shoulder. “I’ll bring you a basket of his rolls.”
Eyan isn’t the only open-mouthed male at the table.
Traye’s eyes widen. “Jak is… baking?“
“Prince Sadi likes his buttered rolls. And, well, who’s going to say no to Sadi?”
Things have definitely changed, decides the Prince. For the first time in three, grueling days of convincing these men to face the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, he feels relief.
“Is it all right if I head into the kitchen to talk to him?” Eyan glances over at Sadi, who is enjoying a glass of wine and eyeing his brother as the Eyrien smirks and lazily moves a chess piece.
“Sure,” Ali says.
He walks with her to the bar. She smiles encouragingly, telling him, “Don’t stand around taking up space.”
Eyan sighs and pushes past the kitchen door.
A young girl stops mid-chop, knife in hand, and blinks at him. He nods to her and mouths “Jakob?” over the clashing sounds of a busy kitchen. The witch gestures behind her with the knife and he is careful to edge around the large table at a discrete distance.
He finds Jakob hauling a tray out of an oven. The scent of bread is heavy. Eyan’s stomach decides then that food is a wonderful idea and insists as much with a loud grumble.
The Warlord Prince stills, glances over his shoulder, sees Eyan and almost drops the tray. Eyan leaps forward instinctively to prevent the slide of the rolls and yelps the moment his hands touch the hot metal. Jak intervenes by using Craft to freeze the rolls in their dive to the floor and shoots Eyan a look that clearly means that was dumb of you. Eyan is too busy nursing his burned fingertips with his mouth to care.
The tray is summarily discarded onto a counter-top and the Prince tugged over to a sink.
“Here,” Jak says as Eyan’s hand is thrust under cold water. “Keep it there until I come back.”
“I can survive a little pain,” mumbles the Prince but he doesn’t argue after Jak levels a long-suffering stare at him.
“I’ll be right back,” insists the young man.
Eyan grimaces, shifts on his feet, and wishes his friend would hurry up.
Jakob returns with Theia in tow.
Wonderful, thinks the man.
Theia calls in a small box, muttering about brainless males as she does so and sorts through it. Finally, the woman opens a jar and scoops out a dollop of salve. It smells horrible.
“Dry your hands,” the witch orders.
“Look, I’ll be fine. It’s just a little—”
“Do it.”
He hastily accepts the towel Jak offers him, trying not to wince. Theia takes his right hand, examining the red skin. He tries not to fidget as his fingers are coated. When she pulls out a long coil of bandages, he jerks his hand back.
Theia is having none of that. “Hold still. Of all the foolish things to do—I’d expect you to have some sense, Eyan. Mother Night, shield your hands when in a kitchen!”
“My wife normally chases me out of ours.”
“Smart woman.”
Eyan grimaces at his bandaged hand. He’ll take it off later—when no females are around to snarl about him doing so and the man is forced to continue wearing it. Next to him, Jakob chuckles lowly. They watch the Mistress of the Inn pack up her kit. When she has left the kitchen, Eyan turns to the Warlord Prince and says, “Hell’s fire, can we talk somewhere else?”
“Sure,” replies Jak. “Let me put this last batch in the oven…”
Eyan watches, bemused and cradling his hand, as Jakob works like a man who knows what to do with a lump of cold dough.
He’s seen stranger things in his life, he supposes.
They walk through the back entrance of the kitchen and into the alleyway behind the inn. Jakob folds his arms and leans against a wall, slowly inspecting Eyan from head to foot.
“Done?” asks the Prince mildly.
“You came back.”
“I gave my word,” he says with a flash of temper.
Jakob’s face is serious. “Thank you.”
Eyan sighs, muttering a curse under his breath. “What’s going on in there, Jak?”
“Why aren’t I hanging from the ceiling by chains to be flogged?” The young man laughs shortly. “Don’t ask me. Sadi is a hard man to read. I’m not dead yet—and for that, I guess, I can be grateful.”
“So what happens next?”
“We talk,” a deep voice interrupts. Daemon Sadi steps into the alley with barely a sound of shoes scraping against stone. The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince narrows his eyes at Eyan. “Your hand?”
He struggles not to blush but feels his face overheat anyway. “Kitchen accident.”
“He forgot to shield while saving a pan of hot rolls,” interjects Jak dryly.
Eyan shoots him a glare.
“Ah,” Sadi says, smiling. “Pity if the rolls were wasted.” His smile stretches into something eerily similar to a satisfied cat who just dined on a crunchy snack of mouse. Then the smile fades from Sadi’s face and he tells Eyan softly, “Lady Theia has rooms prepared for the men. Enjoy a night’s rest and breakfast.”
Eyan nods, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat.
Prince Sadi pivots, almost blended with the dark shadows, and glides back into the Rose & Thorn Inn. After a moment, Jakob and Eyan follow.
“We will journey to Mist Falls in the morning,” says Lucivar’s brother as they stroll down the boardwalk. The evening is late, the town quiet. Daemon stops and turns to the Eyrien. “Go home, Prick.”
Lucivar rustles his wings. “Why?”
Daemon pinches the bridge of his nose and Lucivar stares, recognizing their father’s gesture. “Because you have a wife and child?” Daemon adds with exasperation.
“Father would have sent a note if the little beast needed handling.”
“I’m sure he would.” His brother’s tone is dry. “Nevertheless, Lucivar, it is time you left Ciraea.”
Lucivar is silent for a moment, measuring the man before him. He turns away, asking, “How’s your control?”
It is a legitimate question, but the air around them chills. “Prick…” his brother warns.
“I know this strikes a chord with you, Bastard,” he continues stubbornly. “Hell’s fire, it scrapes at me.” And that is all he will admit to how much Jakob’s situation reminds him too closely of his mother Luthivan and her hatred of his Eyrien nature—how she had given him away too young.
A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder. When Lucivar glances at Daemon, he meets gold eyes which are concerned and not cold. It is a stark reminder of how strong their bond is, even through centuries of fighting with and against each other. He loves his brother, and he knows that his brother loves him.
“I’m fine,” he states bluntly. “Are you?”
There is a hint of weariness in Daemon’s smile. “When this is over and I can hold Jaenelle, then yes, I will be.”
They step apart. Lucivar nods and squeezes his brother’s arm. “I’ll go back to Ebon Rih tomorrow.” Then he grins sharply. “I wonder how Cat’s been entertaining herself these past weeks.”
Daemon groans. “I would rather never know.”
“And if Father has been in the middle of it…?”
Daemon’s eyes glint with amusement. “Then you’ll remember to share those stories.”
“Of course. How else are we supposed to feel good about ourselves, if not at Saetan’s expense?”
They laugh.
Whit kisses his mother. Theia pats his cheek when he pulls back. She watches as her son slings an arm around Ali’s shoulders, and they walk out of the inn. Moira has offered her spare bedroom to the couple. Yet Theia had to firmly push Whit and Ali out the door that first night. “The less people I have to worry about, the better,” she had said when they protested.
She turns her head to look at Jakob helping Lawl clean up the tavern. He sees her, says something quiet to the bartender.
“Theia?” asks the young man as he approaches her, placing his rag in his pocket.
“Sit down with me a minute, Jak.”
They pick a corner table for privacy. She folds her arms and smiles at him. Jak doesn’t smile back, clear concern written in his eyes.
She sighs. “I need you to tell me about Phaedra, Jakob.”
The man’s mouth pinches and he pales, leaning back as if to put distance between them. She reaches across the table and lays a hand on his arm, to remind him that he doesn’t need to run away. “Please.”
Looking elsewhere, he asks, “How much did Sadi tell you?”
She sucks in a breath. “No one has said a word to me, especially not Prince Sadi, but it’s obvious that something has changed between you two—and I would bet that the Queen is in the thick of it. Jak, there’s almost—” pity in Sadi’s eyes, she thinks but holds back the words.
Jakob frowns at her.
“I’m sorry. Forgive an old woman for being tired. What I mean is that he seems to trust you enough to let you walk freely through the inn—and that surprises me.”
“Sadi and I… have an understanding.” An unpleasant smile twists his lips. “He treats me less like a criminal and more like an errant youth under house arrest; in return, I don’t pull any stupid stunts.” Jak adds after a pause, “And I bake. Incessantly. That’s your fault, you know.”
She snorts. “I was merely trying to tell the Prince that you had merits as well as faults.”
“Next time, talk about my excellent math skills and not that, okay?”
She makes no promises. “You’re attempting to lead me off the trail, Prince. I want an answer.”
“Theia, please don’t ask me…”
“After all these years, do you still not trust me, Jakob?” Theia tries to fight back sadness. Perhaps he sees an inkling of that in her face.
“I always trust you, Theia. You’re my family.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me? I promise you—” She slides her hand into his, threads their fingers together. “—I won’t think any differently of you. I know you.”
“That’s just it,” he tells her, “you don’t. You don’t know who I really am.”
She waits, afraid that anything she might say will strike down his courage. Instead, the witch opens her inner barriers just enough to send out a tendril of thought to his mind. When he responds, his first inner barrier opening for her, she lets her love and support for him seep in. His eyes are bright with un-shed tears.
A whisper comes back to her, so full of pain, that the taste of it hurts her. *My mother never loved me like this.*
*Then she was a fool,* answers Theia.
Jak’s head drops to his chest. *She tried to be rid of me. Permanently.*
Theia goes very still, the implied meaning of his confession making her feel physically ill—and angry. So very angry at this unknown woman.
*Bitch,* she thinks with force.
Jak pulls back, startled.
She gives the word weight. “The woman’s a bitch. I would be the first to admit that being a mother has its trials, but to… I can’t comprehend it. A child is to be cherished, Jakob. Cherished, protected, and loved.”
“Not all women are like you,” he says softly with closed eyes. “Not all people are good.”
“I know,” she answers heavily, her anger turning to resignation. “But whatever you may think of your circumstances, Jakob, do not feel responsible for your mother’s actions. That responsibility belongs solely to her.”
He nods, silent.
Theia thinks long and hard on this man before her, from the first moment he appeared at the kitchen door asking for work. Back then, bitterness had clung to his scent—tainted it; that taint has eased over the years as he came to trust her. She has tried more than once to reach Jakob and let him know that the past is only a burden he chooses to carry. Now she understands part of what shaped his bitterness.
How does that lead to Phaedra?
She voices that question and watches as he slowly lifts his gaze to meet hers, eyes vulnerable and full of history. She sees the answer there, at first not comprehending.
Then he states rather flatly, “I am Phaedra’s son.”
The truth is an unexpected blow that knocks the breath from her lungs. Thea is motionless for a time, unable to respond. When she does, finally, her “Jakob” is a mixture of horror and denial.
He pushes away from the table, then, shaking his head and backing up as if she has rejected him, told him to leave. “I’m sorry, Theia, I’m sorry…”
“Jak,” she cries after him as he sweeps past a startled and confused Lawl, into the kitchen, and probably out into the night. It is not until much later, as she tries desperately to fall asleep and cannot, knowing he is alone and hurting, that Theia realizes she never spoke his name aloud at all.
The Queen knows that Nyx watches her, afraid that she will harm herself. What a fool he is, to even contemplate the idea that Phaedra would allow Sadi to break her so easily.
The woman takes care to play her part, even as she burns with rage. When Nyx offers her sex for comfort, she turns him down and curls up on the bed. The sheer inactivity at being confined in this room drives her crazy, and while in a normal situation she would love to have a male under her so she can ride him, if Nyx thinks that she is recovering, he won’t be so pliable.
She talks of “her end” and how “useless she has become.” He chafes her hands, silent and grim-faced, brings her water and tucks blankets around her. On the evening when Nyx tells her that he senses more males in the building, she knows that time has almost run out.
She slips into the bathroom on the pretense of needing to wash her hair. The naked relief in Nyx’s face at her display of liveliness grates on her nerves, but she manages to smile at him. When the Master of the Guard insists that the door stay open, Phaedra shakes her head gently, sadly, and locks herself into the bathroom.
Something sharp, she thinks. The bathroom is bare of objects to harm oneself, courtesy of Nyx, unless she wants to drown in the bathtub. Too messy and not nearly dramatic enough, the woman decides.
The mirror will have to do. Careful to shield her hand, both with the power of the Opal and cloth, she drives a fist into her reflection. At the sound of glass shattering and falling, Nyx shouts her name. By the time he wrenches the door off of its hinges, she is artfully posed with a face of despair and jagged glass held over one wrist, a small cut in the skin already bleeding.
They fight for the shard, the witch wailing, “Let me go! I want to die!” and Nyx’s fear drenching her senses. He overpowers her, of course, and Phae collapses into his arms and sobs. The way the man gathers her close, almost shaking himself, and rocks her makes Phaedra sick at his weakness. He is whispering into her neck, “No, Phae, don’t leave me. I’ll fix it—fix all of it.”
She sniffles and leans back, wiping at the tear trails along her cheeks. “How?” she asks softly. “With… my son here, everything is ruined.”
He kisses her temple, the corner of her eye, and breathes deeply against her hair. Phaedra appreciates a man as equally hard as she, which is why she had chosen the young Warlord Prince Nyx to take to bed. Soon after that, she had whispered words of her doubts about her Master of the Guard Fallon until Nyx turned against his leader. She saw potential in the Warlord Prince and cultivated it. But this… romanticism of Nyx’s is not what she wants, yet has to put up with time and time again. At least it has its usefulness too.
“I’ll take care of it,” says the male cradling her.
She bites her lip. “If Jakob lives, then I won’t.”
The Warlord Prince’s nostrils flare as he studies her face. “I’ll take care of everything,” he promises her.
She lays her head on his shoulder, content.
Some of the men are too nervous to eat breakfast, Eyan notices. Some are hip-deep in whiskey and others, such as Traye, are eating their share of the food and more. “If this is my last meal, I plan to enjoy it,” Lord Traye had announced as he bit into a sausage.
Eyan drinks his bitter coffee and waits.
The tavern is not usually open in the morning because it caters to afternoon and evening crowds. However, with this many guests filling up the Rose & Thorn Inn—special guests at that—Theia has altered the work shifts to accommodate a full-day schedule.
The Prince spies Jakob coming out of the kitchen, calls “Jak!” and motions him over to their table. He takes a long, sharp look at his friend and asks, as Jak pulls out a seat and joins them, “Rough night?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” says the young man.
Which of them did, knowing what today will bring? Seeing Jakob’s red-rimmed eyes and still in yesterday’s clothes, he realizes that something more is bothering the Warlord Prince than facing Sadi.
He is about to ask when Prince Rainier steps into the tavern, pinpoints them, and inclines his head.
So. It is time.
Eyan sets down his mug of coffee with a final sip and, ignoring the clench of his stomach, rises. “Let’s go,” he tells everyone.
Chairs clatter and scrape as they abandon the table and crowd around him. The Warlord Prince is still seated.
“Jak,” Eyan says softly.
Jakob sighs and pushes himself up from the table. He steps to the forefront, Eyan now flanking him, and they leave the tavern on the heels of Prince Rainier. Eyan is less than surprised when they walk out of the inn and into the street. What he doesn’t expect is to find Sadi leaning against a Coach the size of a small cabin.
Prince Sadi raises an eyebrow at their gaping faces, opens the door with Craft and says succinctly, “Get in.”
They do, not needing to be ordered twice by the most powerful male in Kaeleer. Eyan falls to the back of the group, watching as Sadi pulls Jakob to the side and speaks to him in a low tone. They aren’t arguing but…
Bang. A fist thumps the side of the Coach near his face. Eyan startles and whips his head in the opposite direction to see Yaslana smiling at him arrogantly. “Don’t worry about your boy,” the Ebon-gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince tells him.
Eyan is, at the very least, wise enough not to challenge an Eyrien warrior. He steps into the Coach and chooses a seat as close to the door as possible. Just in case.
“Sit upwind if my smell offends you,” snaps the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince irritably.
The puppy has balls, Daemon will grant him that. But Jakob would be much smarter if he didn’t go about displaying them to males who significantly outrank him.
He chuckles lowly. “My point, boyo, wasn’t to insult your lack of bathing skills. You left the inn last night. Why?” He adds more softly as Jakob opens his mouth to retort, “Don’t start a pissing contest that you can’t win.”
Jakob crosses his arms. “I had a personal matter on my mind. I needed to be alone.”
“I see.” He looks at the other male knowingly. “It would be wise if you said your goodbyes to Lady Theia now.”
At the slump of the boy’s shoulders, Daemon’s suspicions are confirmed. He does not say another word, simply turns Jakob in the direction of the Inn with a firm hand. Jakob sighs and retreats back up the steps of the Rose & Thorn Inn.
Lucivar walks over and stands next to him. “Will he be coming back to Havenstry?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” replies the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
Jak finds Theia in her office, a hand resting on an open bottle of strong liquor. That worries him. She rarely drinks.
“Theia?” he calls softly, knocking on the open door.
The witch glances up at him, gasps, and hurries around the desk. He doesn’t pull back when she hugs him.
Mother Night, he’s such an idiot.
“Jak,” Theia says against his hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t, Theia. I promise.” He tries to smile at her, asking boyishly, “Do you still love me?”
She laughs through her tears. “Of course I love you.” Then Theia—the woman he would choose to be his mother, if he could—takes his face between her hands. She tells him earnestly, “I meant what I said, that nothing would make me see you differently. I don’t care about your mother, Jakob. I care about you—good, bad, and all.”
Why is he shaking? It isn’t cold in her office.
Theia strokes his hair.
Finally, he steps away. “I have to go now” is a whisper.
“I know you do. Promise me…” The words trail off.
“Whatever you want, Theia.” Jakob will always try his best for her.
“Then promise me that you will come back, if you can.” She doesn’t ask the impossible, knowing that the decision is out of his hands.
“If I can, I will,” he says.
They don’t say goodbye, each hoping that by not doing so there is a chance they can be a family again.
When he is in the hallway, alone, he hesitates to contemplate a trip to the bathroom to change clothes and wash the tears from his face. Footsteps and voices interrupt his decision. He glances at the main staircase on his right and sees his mother and Prince Nyx descending, escorted by Lady SaDiablo and Prince Rainier. Because he wasn’t expecting to meet them again like this, without Sadi present, Jakob freezes.
The Master of the Guard spots him and time seems to slow, heartbeat to heartbeat. Jakob cannot look away from the male, too close, and causing a prickling along the back of his neck. He is uncertain of what he is waiting for, only knows that something is about to happen.
Nyx settles a foot onto the ground floor, now level with Jakob, and Jak realizes belatedly that the Warlord Prince’s eyes are glazed.
It happens too fast.
One moment Nyx is standing at the foot of the stairs, some emotion about the man strong and cloying, then without warning the Master of the Guard launches forward, shoving past Lady SaDiablo and straight at Jakob. Jakob’s hearing will later echo with a terrible snarl of rage.
He snaps up a Sapphire shield in defense and rises to the killing edge so smoothly, it feels as though he known no other existence except the sweet call of battle. Nyx slams into him and the punch of it knocks Jakob backwards into the wall. That punch almost shatters his shield.
They are at each other’s throats, and for the first time Jakob spies a Jewel burning fiercely with power against the skin of Nyx’s neck.
Sapphire.
Jak re-doubles his efforts. Then there is no time for emotion as another blow of Sapphire throws him against the stairs, his ribs bruising at the impact. He feeds more power into his shield and lets instinct drive his counterattack.
Someone is shouting—no, people shout, many of them—but neither Warlord Prince pays heed. They lock in battle, the strength of misdirected power cracking walls and turning wood to dust. The battlefield matters not, only who will be victor and will dance gloriously in the blood of the dead.
Blow after blow is exchanged, bones in hands snapping and pain simultaneously pushed aside. A bolt of Gray stuns them both, and Jakob uses that moment to dive into the abyss for his full strength.
Kill him kill him kill him—
It is the only mantra in his head. He smells blood and wants more, to see it spray across the floors. Nyx snarls, recovering, and rolls to his knees. A knife appears in Nyx’s hand and comes in low, dripping with Jeweled power. Both the blade and Jakob’s shield breaks.
Now! the Warlord Prince howls inside Jak, but his ascent is too slow and Nyx has Jakob on his back with a crushing hand wrapped around the young man’s throat. The other Warlord Prince leans over his face, eyes not only glazed but steeped in something close to madness. Jakob fights the hold, forcing Sapphire power into his arms to enhance his strength even as the world grows grey around the edges.
He’s not going to die, he’s not going to die…
Suddenly Nyx’s grip slackens and Jak gasps a breath of air, the sound of buzzing still in his ears. The Master of the Guard makes a choked noise, blood blossoming at the corners of his mouth. His head falls forward, eyes staring wide. Jak looks at the tip of a blade protruding through Nyx’s chest. Its wickedly curved edge is painted a gleaming red.
Nyx shudders once, slumps, and the light in his eyes dies.
The body is unceremoniously shoved off of the blade and to the side. Jak continues to pull in ragged breaths, his throat on fire. Above him is the silhouette of an Eyrien warrior, warblade in hand. Then Yaslana looks at him. Jakob freezes, thinks, I’m dead, because this man, this Warlord Prince, has ruthless gold eyes and a face made of stone—was born for the killing field in a way that few men are.
Lucivar Yaslana says, not taking his eyes off of Jakob, “Everyone out. Now.“
Jak is faintly aware of a woman protesting, of the sounds of people leaving or being dragged away. There is only silence, the stench of blood, and Yaslana.
“You have potential,” the warrior tells him. “If you live, you need to be trained.”
Unable to comprehend Yaslana’s words, not with pain returning to him full-force, Jakob closes his eyes. Shit, he hurts.
Passing out seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
[ previous | masterpost | next ]
Related Posts:
- [BJT Big Bang] The Rogue of Ciraea (masterpost) – from March 5, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Preface – from March 3, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Epilogue – from January 29, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (2/2) – from January 23, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Five (2/2) – from December 25, 2010
