Chapter 4
He was nine years old.
Kinlear sighed as he sat in a worn armchair by the fire, his hand throbbing something fierce as he tried to sketch his monster on a fresh piece of parchment.
He wasn’t a particularly talented artist.
But it helped, however messy the drawings were, to try and bring the images into his waking moments. To try and make sense of why a beast that looked like a darksoul hunted him when he slept.
He’d long since given up telling the Masters about it. Every time he tried...they made him pay penance.
The brands on the backs of his hands were proof of that.
A knock on the door sounded.
Kinlear scrambled to hide the journal, but it was only Arawn who entered, covered in sweat from another training session, no doubt.
“That didn’t last long,” Kinlear said.
Arawn shrugged. “I bested them all in under five minutes. The Masters set me loose to pray.”
“So, you’re here?” Kinlear asked, lifting a dark brow.
Arawn sighed. “This is the only place father won’t come to find me. I needed a break.”
The king’s lessons for his brother were constant, these days.
Arawn learned and grew in all ways to protect the kingdom.
..while Kinlear was left alone, like a sad hero in a story, hiding in his tower.
The only thing he could make it through lately was temple, because it didn’t take much energy to pray.
The other younglings knew something was different about him. But he was forbidden to speak the truth. He was born with a lung condition, the Masters told the others. A hindrance to his training, but it’s perfectly normal and will ease with magic and age.
Do not worry about him.
It was a lie, of course. But the Masters shielded themselves from paying penance, because they claimed the act was done with righteous intent.
To save the Laroux family’s honor, when it came to the kingdom.
If they knew the truth?
It might cause them to stumble, and doubt the power of the Five, because surely...they wouldn’t give a Sacred prince an illness such as his.
So, he carried the truth in his heart.
He was born to die.
Both in his waking life...and in his dreams.
Kinlear frowned now, as he focused on getting the monster’s claws just right. The charcoal smudged against the side of his left palm like shadows. He shivered, even though the room was sweltering. The fire always seemed to burn a bit brighter when Arawn was nearby.
“What are you working on now?” Arawn asked, as he shut the door behind him. He was easily double Kinlear’s size. And where Kinlear’s hair was dark to match their father’s, Arawn’s was perfectly Sacred white, like the queen’s. “Not another drawing, Kinny. They’re awful.”
Kinlear met his brother’s gaze. “Rude.”
“Not rude. Honest,” Arawn said, as he sat down on the chair across from him, getting sweat on the cushions. “As any good Sacred should be. It’s not good to draw them. It’s not even good to talk about them. You risk...a seed of darkness, seeping into your soul.”
He sounded just like their mother.
“I’m still dreaming of it,” Kinlear said. “No matter how hard I pray before sleep. The monster always comes for me. Why don’t they take it away?”
Arawn frowned. “The gods do what they please. Maybe they’re trying to teach you something.”
Kinlear huffed out a laugh. “I don’t need any more lessons on dying.”
The fire crackled, sending embers dancing into the hearth. And outside the window, the wintry wind howled like a shadow wolf on the hunt.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about it,” Arawn said.
Kinlear shrugged. “It doesn’t make it not real.”
“I can still try to,” Arawn said, his hands curling into fists. “I’ll always try to save you.”
They locked gazes.
And in his brother’s eyes, Kinlear saw love.
It was why there were no secrets between the twins. Kinlear told Arawn most things, because even if Arawn didn’t like it...he wasn’t a judger like their mother. Certainly not like the Masters, either, who seemed to get a bit of sickening glee each time they made a youngling pay penance.
Kinlear, more than the rest of them.
He always told Arawn about his dreams.
His death.
His monster.
And he supposed it would be foolish not to, because Arawn was the one there every night, bursting through Kinlear’s door when he woke up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat.
..tearing the fabric from his chest, if only so he could make sure his skin wasn’t split through from two horrible hands tipped in claws.
Princeling, he heard the memory hiss from the fringes of his mind. Die a beautiful death.
“You’re just scared,” Arawn said. “Stop giving the monster attention. You only dream of what frightens you in the daytime, right? Well. Maybe you’re afraid of the war.”
“I’m not scared,” Kinlear said.
“Kinny.” Arawn lifted a pale brow. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”
“Fine,” Kinlear huffed. “I’m a little scared.”
Anyone would be, if they’d died as many times as he had. If they felt the emptiness he felt, the terror in his veins as he ran alone through a wood that positively refused to set him free.
He was a prisoner to his own mind.
He was a prisoner to his own body, too, but he’d always heard that the mind was stronger. It had power even when the body gave out.
“So why don’t you kill it?” Arawn asked.
“The monster?” Kinlear hated how his voice squeaked.
Arawn nodded. “It’s your dream. Find a weapon...slay it. Be the hero.” He lifted his chin proudly. “That’s what Sacred are meant to do.”
Kinlear set down his charcoal. “I suppose I’d need to fashion a blade somehow. Perhaps from a tree branch. I can’t take anything with me when I go there.”
He’d tried.
Countless times, he’d tried to pack kitchen knives – he paid penance for getting caught – or some of the Citadel’s golden candlesticks – he’d been chased from the temple by Izill, a furious servant girl who scared him more than his monster – and he’d even tried to bring a bundle of Arawn’s favorite cinnamon rolls for a snack, by holding them until he fell fast asleep.
He’d only succeeded in pissing off Izill, who made him wash his own sheets to remove all the melted icing.
Whatever he tried...nothing transferred to his dream forest.
Arawn considered. “Well, if you do manage a blade...target the beast’s throat.” A shrug of his large shoulders. “Father says you always go for the throat. Even better, if you can remove their head.”
“As if I’d be strong enough,” Kinlear said with a sad laugh.
“You’re strong,” Arawn said. “Stop saying you aren’t.”
“I’m not.”
Arawn’s hands balled into fists. “You are strong, and—”
Kinlear chuckled. “I’m only teasing, Arawn.”
But he wasn’t. Still, it was best to settle on humor when he wasn’t certain if the rest of him would measure up.
It was silent again, as he focused back on his sketch.
“If mother sees that...” Arawn said.
“She won’t,” Kinlear told him. “I always burn them.”
He winced as the penance mark on his hand stretched a bit, from the position of his wrist.
“How many have you gotten lately?” Arawn asked. “Your marks.”
The Crown Prince had so few of them.
But Kinlear was covered.
“I...” he swallowed.
Five, this week alone. His thin arms were full of the angry brands.
“Kinlear. How many?” Arawn asked again.
“It’s not like I count them,” Kinlear said.
But he had. He’d counted all of them, remembered every second of pain that came with receiving his penance. The moment itself was enough to make him grit his teeth, but it was the throbbing, insistent burn, often for days on end, that was the very worst part.
Not to mention the hours just after, when was sent alone to his room...where he often caught himself sobbing in this very chair...staring at the fire while he begged the gods to forgive him.
To heal him.
To save him from the weakness in his legs and his lungs. To give him a chance to live and be a prince worthy of his name...like the twin that sat across from him now, looking at him with concern in his ice-blue gaze.
“You have to stop,” Arawn said. “Whatever it is that you do to break the laws. You must stop, Kinny, before...”
“Before I die?” Kinlear asked.
Arawn flinched.
They’d all heard the rumors of Sacred who pushed the limits too far, Sacred who went to pay penance.
..and never came back. But surely not Kinlear.
Even if he was a disappointment, even if he was born broken, the subject of one mighty lie.
..he was still a godsblessed Prince. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I’m already dying.”
The Masters had told him, since he was old enough to understand, that someday...when his illness reared its ugly head...it would be final.
He would be only a memory on the wind, one that would fade with time.
“I do try to behave,” Kinlear told his brother. “I try to please the gods.”
“Then try harder,” Arawn said.
Kinlear nodded.
But he knew better than most that to try and to do were two very different things.
He wanted to please his gods.
At least, he knew he was supposed to want to. It was the Sacred way.
It was all he’d ever been taught. He said his prayers morning and night. He sang his songs, lit all the right candles on Allgodsday, and he had memorized, by the time he was seven, nearly a quarter of the Sacred’s multitude of laws. They took up an entire floor in the Citadel’s library.
But...he wasn’t like Arawn.
Because deep down, some part of him liked toeing the line. Some part of him reveled in defying the Five. Perhaps it was because all they had ever done was challenge him with his very existence.
It was the least he could do to challenge them back.
Outside, the wind howled as another fresh snowstorm announced its arrival.
Arawn stood. “It’s almost time to go up.” His white cloak settled around him as he picked up his training sword. He wouldn’t earn a real one until he won it in battle, fighting against the darksouls. “Are you coming?”
It was nearing sunset, when the brothers were expected to stand at the cliffside above the Citadel and see their father off for the next night of war.
To send prayers to the skies for safety and protection as the strongest Sacred Knights were led by their king, on the backs of the war eagles, through the Snow Gates and into the sky.
It was a prayer that Kinlear hoped the gods would honor...even if he wasn’t particularly honorable himself.
He wasn’t ready for Arawn to be king. He wasn’t ready to be left behind, if something happened. If...gods forbid...Arawn was first to see his end.
In all else, Arawn could win.
But not in death.
Kinlear stood, wincing as his leg screamed in pain. He hated the weakness in his joints, hated how his neck cramped as he turned at the sound of the bedroom door swinging open.
“We’ll be late,” the queen said as she swept inside, white robes billowing. Her crown was sharp as a knife upon her pale head. “If we don’t lea—”
Her words trailed off as she caught both boys standing there...on either side of the table that held Kinlear’s sketch.
The brothers lunged for the parchment at the same time. Their hands fumbled against each other, and the parchment fell, almost in slow motion, where it lay face up on the ornate rug.
The darksoul claws were bold and menacing in the firelight. The shadows seemed to squirm, as if given life.
Oh, gods above, Kinlear thought.
“What is this?” their mother hissed. Her eyes hardened, narrowing to near slits. They fell, not on Arawn...but on him.
Always, on him.
He was about to blurt his apology, to come up with a way to defend himself from another mark of penance -- he couldn’t take the pain, couldn’t stand the thought of that Sacred brand searing his skin again, couldn’t bear to go back to that room deep in the library, his favorite place turned into a hell of its own -- when Arawn suddenly blurted, “I drew it, Mother.”
Even the fire seemed to go still.
“Arawn.” The queen turned, slowly, to look at him. Her eyes were wide, her rouged lips parting in shock. “What?”
Thump.
Kinlear’s heart slammed against his ribcage.
Arawn never lied. To do so was to defy the Five, to pay penance himself.
So... why now? Kinlear thought. And why would he do it for me?
His heart thumped again. He swore his blood was roaring in his ears. The room was suddenly too hot. The fire felt like a brand of its own at his back.
But Arawn was still as a statue. He stood tall and strong, the image of a perfect king.
“I am trying to better understand my enemy, Mother.” Kinlear heard him swallow. “So that when I take to the battlefield for the Five...I won’t be burdened by my fear.”
Gods, the lie was done masterfully.
Kinlear would have smiled, if his mother wasn’t staring right at him.
A little squeak left her lips. “Is this true, Kinlear? Do not lie to me again.”
Thump, went his heart.
Yes, the room was most certainly spinning.
He couldn’t let Arawn take the fall for him. He wouldn’t...but before he could speak, he imagined that branding again. The fiery pain.
The smell of his own skin burning.
“I....” He inhaled, but it only made him cough, damn his lungs, for why did they always attack him at the very worst of times?
“I never tell lies, Mother,” Arawn said, loud enough to drown out the sound of Kinlear struggling to breathe. “I drew it. So, I will take the penance for it.”
The queen lifted her chin.
She knew.
She had to know.
But she laid down the law anyways, as a mother always did.
“Then you will pay the penance required of you to make it right with the gods,” she said.
“You will pay it tenfold, Arawn, for a prince, a future King of Lordach, should never be so foolish as to dance with the devil like this.” Her gaze slid back to Kinlear.
“Well? To the cliffside, then, to stand in his place. And not a word of this to your father.”
She turned away. Arawn followed.
“Arawn,” Kinlear whispered after him. “Wait!”
But his brother had already trailed after her, his head held high...to pay the penance in Kinlear’s place.
He never spoke of his monster again.