Sci Fi & Fantasy / Son's Vengeance- Chapter Seven
All of Atironen’s focus for the next two days centered around King Tonodel’s second son. His mind dwelled on it the one time he ventured to the practice courts, relieved to see that his uncle and cousins weren’t there. The familiar motions of sword fighting occupied little space amongst his other thoughts.
His uncle had hired the midwives to kill King Tonodel’s second son. That was what had happened. It was the continuation of an old rivalry, gone perhaps a bit too far. Atironen refused to let himself believe anything else. He couldn’t be King Tonodel’s son; the child had died, and King Tonodel himself would have seen the body. There was some other explanation, surely. Perhaps it was simply fated that Atironen would look like his enemy. Fate had her reasons. Who was Atironen that he should know them?
Atironen stepped back, dodging a lunge from his enemy, some nobleman’s precious firstborn son. He could see his uncle and cousins at a different court. His opponent was good, he supposed, but Atironen had fought better. He showed his frustration far too clearly, the pouting lip and the wrinkle in his brow. Atironen flicked his sword aside, moving the tip of his own to his opponent’s heart.
“Dead,” he said. His opponent scowled, setting his sword down on the table. His wealthy father no doubt bought him anything he desired. It’s a shame he couldn’t buy him talent, Atironen thought grimly. A small laugh tore from his lips.
Atironen set his sword down and went out to the balcony. Though the rain had stopped the day before, dark clouds hovered above Essiels, casting everything into shadow. It didn’t worry Atironen; the summer storms never did.
The army was still encamped just outside the city walls. Atironen could see them from the balcony, many of the men exercising and practicing in the absence of rain. They looked so small from where he stood, no more than the tiny cloth figures that a young girl might play with. No more than toys. Atironen watched from his distance as they played.
A warm hand rested itself on Atironen’s shoulder. “What are you doing here all alone, nephew?”
“Nothing,” he said. He bit back the word “uncle.”
The hand slid down from his shoulder. “You have been rather solitary lately. Is something wrong?” From the corner of his eye, Atironen could see his uncle sit on the bench beside him.
“No, uncle. It’s nothing.”
“Hmm.”
Atironen considered asking him about everything he’d found, but something stayed him. His mind struggled with what to say for what seemed to be forever.
“Uncle?” Atironen felt his voice shake.
“Yes?”
“How long have you known King Tonodel?”
His uncle looked startled by the question. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, from when you spoke on the battlefield, you and King Tonodel, I mean, it sounded as though you’d known each other for a long time.” It was true enough, he supposed.
“Yes. We have known each other since our schooling in Andamarth.”
Atironen couldn’t stop it. “Why do you hate him?”
His uncle seemed to tense, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I have my reasons, nephew.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go practice with Arototas.” His uncle stood and left.
Over his shoulder, Atironen could see Arototas and Atelaya looking in his direction, the threads in their sorcerer’s gloves glowing. They stood by the entrance to the hall, blocking his only escape. He approached them slowly, hoping that Arototas didn’t wish to fight.
“Atironen,” Arototas said as he came nearer. Atironen could see traces of a beard on his chin, no doubt some scheme to help seduce Lady Serana.
“Arototas,” he said.
“Would you care to fight?” The tone in Arototas’s voice was more commanding than requesting.
Atironen and Arototas each took a practice sword from the table nearest them and moved to one of the courts. Atelaya remained where she was, watching Atironen behind her expressionless face.
They each took their stance. Atironen took a deep breath, calming himself. He’d never been so nervous before fighting Arototas before; he had always won. But Arototas had never had such a look of determination on his face before. The tip of his sword pointed to Atironen’s heart, waiting to strike. Atironen paused for a moment, letting his sword linger in the air before he struck.
Arototas retaliated faster than he ever had before. Atironen took a step back, taking a few seconds to strengthen his defense. He moved to Arototas’s side and lashed out, aiming for his waist. Arototas parried, twisting around to face him. They circled each other for a moment, Atironen steadying his breathing. He stepped forward, slashing at Arototas’s chest as fast as he could. Arototas parried each blow, but Atironen could see the strain in his face with each motion. Faster and faster he struck, pushing Arototas to the edge of the court until he came to its boundary. Arototas leapt to the side, swinging his sword in an arc at Atironen’s stomach. Atironen stepped back, then continued his barrage of blows.
Arototas was sweating. His defense became clumsier and clumsier as he struggled against Atironen. Atironen almost laughed at Arototas’s scowl. He summoned forth a last reserve of strength, steadying himself with another deep breath, and struck his hardest, knocking Arototas’s sword from his hand. The tip of Atironen’s sword came to his heart.
“Dead,” Atironen said.
They both stood there for a moment, the tip of Atironen’s sword still at Arototas’s heart. Then, Arototas shoved it away with his gloved hand, returning to his sister’s side. Atironen remained on the court, his sword now hanging limply at his side. Briefly, he compared the image of his dagger at Prince Tolodan’s throat with the image of his sword at Arototas’s heart. Shaking it from his mind, he threw the sword back down onto the table.
They had received no new reports of the army of Palenyon’s advance. His uncle had sent scouts to speed any word, but none had yet returned. The delay added to Atironen’s stress, the anxiety tearing at him. He did not know what to hope any longer, whether his uncle should drive Palenyon away or whether Palenyon should take Essiels. As much as he desired to believe that his uncle would never do something so despicable as what he suspected, he could not convince himself. He would not even permit himself to think of it, as though his uncle might hear his thoughts and punish him for his suspicions. His uncle had always been kind to him, as long as he could remember. It seemed to Atironen almost like a betrayal to have such suspicions.
The rain returned that night. Atironen lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, as he listened to the drops slap against the stone walls outside. A few found their way inside through his window, leaving dark, damp spots on the golden rug. Atironen listened to the rhythm as he examined the stones above. Each one was once perfectly square, but was now rounded from all the centuries of use. They all had a slight shine to them from all the moisture in the air.
Lightning flashed from outside his window, throwing a band of silver light into his room for only a split second. He rolled over, burrowing his head under his pillows. He had been dreaming of the battlefield before the thunder woke him. The light of the sun had been ghostly, giving everything on the field a brownish tint. His uncle and King Tonodel fought each other in the center, though as young men scarcely older than he. On his uncle’s surcoat, the brown gryphon of Rhabryn shrieked and beat its wings, its claws reaching out toward its enemy. On King Tonodel’s, the white wolf of Palenyon howled, raising its hackles in a vicious snarl. The relentless pounding of hoof beats echoed all around them. Atironen had realized once he woke, trying to shake the beat from his mind, that it had merely been the sound of the rain, distorted by his dream. He wrapped his blankets tighter around him as a chill wind blew inside.
The light shining through his window was dim when he woke in the morning. Atironen thought it must be early, his restless mind preventing him from sleeping for long, but the sky was still overcast and he couldn’t tell for certain. He dressed, and was about to leave his room when he stopped. There was no point in going out there, where Arototas and Atelaya and his uncle would be waiting for him. He paced his floor for a while before deciding to risk it. The more time he spent alone, the more suspicious they became. He felt something urge him to keep them from finding out that he knew.
Only a few servants walked the halls as he made his way down to the courtyard, since it was too early for breakfast. The air outside was cool, heavy with moisture from the rain. Atironen found a stone bench beneath an apple tree and sat, admiring the sweet smell of the few fruits that had grown since the Midsummer Festival. It had been nearly a month since then, Atironen realized. A month hardly seemed enough time for everything that had happened.
He felt utterly useless. He could think of nothing he could do, nothing that could change anything. He could run away, but where would he go? As the nephew of the king of Rhabryn, the army of Palenyon would surely kill him before he had a chance to explain himself. Even if they did let him live, what could he possibly do to help them? He could spy for them, but his uncle would surely find out and then he would be killed for treason. He could go to Veath, but what could he possibly do there? He knew no trades, and so he would be reduced to begging in the streets in order to survive. With a sigh, he buried his face in his hands. He was stuck.
As Atironen’s mind whirred and spun, the rest of the castle began to stir. More servants passed him in the courtyard, staying far away from him. Most of them probably thought he was crazy by now, he thought with a chuckle. At least the servants did not know. They felt no shame in gossiping about their masters’ business, as he knew. What rumors would they spread if they knew that the king’s nephew looked just like the enemy prince?
Atironen tired of sitting in the courtyard with nothing but his thoughts to occupy him. With a slight hunger gnawing at him, he headed back into the castle and to the Great Hall. Only a few nobles were already there, to Atironen’s relief, but more trickled in as the morning grew. Atironen saw Lord Celdorn and his daughter enter and sit at the far east table.
Atelaya came in from the door behind the main table, her face frozen in a glower. She sat in her usual seat, though now there was no one between her and Atironen, and began to serve herself. Her sorcerer’s glove crackled and sparked.
“Good morning, Atelaya,” Atironen said.
She glared at him, a furious fire in her eyes.
“Is everything all right?” He felt his bravery waver, but he tried to keep it from showing on his face. He couldn’t afford any more of her suspicions.
“Everything’s marvelous.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
“What’s wrong?” He was secretly thankful for the three chairs that separated them.
“Why do you care?” Her tone was more curious than angry, he noted gladly.
“You seem very upset.”
“Really? I was trying so very hard to conceal that.”
Atironen tried thinking of something else to say, but his courage failed him. Before the war, he had been wary of Atelaya. Now he was terrified of her. He almost felt relieved when he saw Arototas and his uncle enter the Great Hall and sit down beside him. Atelaya began whispering furiously to her father, but Arototas merely looked across all the tables, no doubt searching for Lady Serana.
Atironen cleared his throat. “Hello, Arototas.”
Arototas looked at him as though startled. “Hmm?”
“I said hello.”
Arototas snorted and turned away from him. Atironen saw his face break into a smile as he raised a hand in greeting toward Lady Serana sitting with her father, batting her long eyelashes and shaking her long, red hair. With a cruel smirk, Atironen wondered if she would be so interested in Arototas were he not the crown prince of all Rhabryn.
Atironen’s mind began to wander. Soon, it turned back to his dream from the night before. He wondered if his uncle had had a beard when he was Arototas’s age, like he did in the dream. He wondered if King Tonodel was as skilled a swordsman as he’d been in the dream. Atironen had never seen him fight. As he ran through the dream again, he stared at the tapestry on the opposite wall decorated with the brown gryphon of Rhabryn. He heard its shriek echo in his mind.
Arototas nudged him. “What are you staring at?”
Atironen cleared his throat again, slightly shaken. “The tapestry.”
“What for? There must be fifty of those in the castle.”
“I know. It’s just…” His voice trailed off.
Arototas didn’t seem to hear him. “Come to the practice courts today. I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, but it needs to stop.”
With that, Arototas turned away from him. Atironen finished his meal absent-mindedly, thinking of the gryphon from his dream, then of going to the practice courts, and then of his dream again. His mind danced between the two subjects, tying them together through some connection he wasn’t even sure of.
Arototas had sounded worried, almost afraid. If he was afraid of Atironen, then why would he tell him to come to the practice courts? He’d had always been a better swordsman than Arototas. Why would Arototas want to fight someone he was afraid of, particularly if they were better than him? Atironen glanced over his shoulder at his cousin. The blonde whiskers on Arototas’s chin were barely visible. Atironen imagined him with a full beard like his uncle’s.
He remembered the gryphon as it had been in the dream, vicious and shrieking, its body cast a darker shade of brown than normal in the strange sunlight. He remembered all of the soldiers on the battlefield, the same gryphon, unmoving and less vicious, threaded onto their surcoats.
Atironen headed for the library once he had finished eating, then stopped. He’d already found everything useful there. His room was dull, restricted. He’d already been to the courtyard today and found nothing interesting there. He could go to the stables and fetch his horse, but he didn’t have the patience to wait while one of the grooms saddled her and he didn’t care to ride bareback. Town Square was too crowded.
Running a hand through his dark hair, he remembered when he and Arototas were young boys, dashing through the halls of the castle, inventing wild games as they went. They would yell and scream, waving their arms as the servants leapt out of their way, some poor nurse who’d been assigned to watch them trying to keep up. They would race down to the courtyard and climb the trees there before they received a scolding and some sort of punishment that was never enough to keep them from doing it all over again. Atironen smiled for a moment, but then his face darkened. There were no more games left for them now that they were grown. Everything was more complicated now. With a sigh, he turned and went to the practice courts.
At first, he didn’t see Arototas there. Then he saw him, standing alone in a corner, his arms crossed. Atironen approached him, trying to keep his gait as natural as possible. Arototas said nothing, but picked up a sword and moved onto one of the courts. Atironen followed him.
Arototas seemed to hesitate, fumbling with the wooden sword.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Atironen said. Arototas cleared his throat and took his stance.
Atironen waited for Arototas to strike first, his sword feeling heavy and rough in his hand. Arototas took a step forward, then faltered before he leapt to the side and lashed out. Atironen whirled around to counter.
They lunged and parried in turn, staying in the middle of the court in spite of each of their efforts to drive the other back. Atironen took a step back, allowing Arototas a slight advantage, before he doubled his attack, striking faster, harder. Arototas began fuming as he struggled to retaliate. Then, with a last surge of effort, Atironen broke through Arototas’s defense and brought the tip of his sword to his heart.
“Dead,” he said. The word felt like a weight on his tongue.
Arototas didn’t move, but his scowl began to fade, the threads of his sorcerer’s glove fading to a calm glow. “You always were better than me when it came to sword fighting.”
“What?” Atironen said. Arototas was usually furious after losing.
“I said, ‘you always were better than me when it came to sword fighting.’ What did you think I said?”
“I don’t know.” Atironen let the tip of his sword gradually sink to the floor. “Arototas?”
“What?”
“Look, I know I’ve been acting strange the past few weeks. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I guess.”
Arototas’s expression was unreadable. “Why?”
Atironen almost scoffed. “Why am I sorry?”
“No, why have you been acting strange?” Now Atironen could see a spark of impatience in his eyes.
“Oh.” He felt a tug in his throat, urging him to tell Arototas everything, as he would have when they were young boys, but he stopped himself. Arototas was shallow and selfish, just as he’d always been; he wouldn’t understand. Arototas had never had to live without his father. He wouldn’t understand what it meant to have spent his whole life working for something he wanted more than anything, only to have all of his years of work shattered. He wouldn’t understand what it meant to lose all trust in someone that he’d never doubted before. But as Atironen watched him, his eyes full of the same doubt that Atironen felt, the tug grew stronger.
“What is it?” Arototas said.
No, he couldn’t tell Arototas.
“I don’t know. Everything’s just… different now,” he said. That was enough. It was true. The rest wouldn’t matter to Arototas.
The doubt in Arototas’s eyes melted away to what could only be anger. He stalked past Atironen, throwing his sword back down onto the table, and then down the hall away from the practice courts.
Atironen found a chair in a secluded corner and sat there, his eyes watching the men before him fight. The wooden swords clacked against each other as the men wielding them struck. Atironen remembered the metallic clash of real swords and shuddered slightly, rubbing his hand along the side of his face.
Everything he hadn’t said threatened to burst from him, the tug at his throat now almost unbearable. Arototas isn’t even around for me to tell, he thought to himself, but it was still a few moments before he had even begun to suppress the tug. Gradually, it faded. He remembered the heavy feeling on his tongue as he said the word “dead,” Arototas’s face vacant of its usual anger. He barely noticed when all of the fighting stopped, the nobles and officers disappearing down the hall. The scouts had returned.
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Another solid and intriguing chapter. I can’t wait to see where this goes next.
You do a great job showing how the thoughts of Tonodel’s son and Atironen looking like his enemy are weighing on him, even changing his whole demeanor.
“behind her expressionless face.” I would say ‘with a blank expression.’ Expressionless face sound like it’s incapable of expression. It’s also harder to read.
“before fighting Arototas before;” delete the first before.
“chill wind blew inside.” Be more specific. Inside where, where did the wind come from? The way it’s phrased it sounds like the wind is blowing inside the blankets.
“The light shining through his window was dim when he woke in the morning.” “When awoke the next morning, dim light was shining through the window.
“Atironen thought it must be early, his restless mind preventing him from sleeping for long, but the sky was still overcast and he couldn’t tell for certain.” This is awkward. Consider revising. “His restless mind kept him from sleeping for long. He thought it must be early, but the sky will still overcast and he couldn’t be sure.”
“Only a few servants walked the halls as he made his way down to the courtyard, since it was too early for breakfast.” “He made his way down to the courtyard. Since it was too early for breakfast, only a few servants walked the halls.”
“cool, heavy” cool and heavy.
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