Chapter 1 #2
For a moment, Arawn wondered what it would look like when it was on his head someday. What sort of magic would form the many sharp points? Would he wield wind, or water, fire or Ehver or realm?
“Today, you are five,” the King said. “It is your Year of the Gods, Crown Prince, and so it is time you learn of the day you will become King.”
Arawn nodded.
He’d always wondered how he would be crowned. But when he asked, his mother only said, not until it’s time, Arawn.
But now that it was time...he suddenly wanted to turn to her for comfort. But she’d left his side. She stood with the Masters, now. The air was cold and empty at his back.
He longed, suddenly, for Kinlear.
His brother had a talent for making light of any situation, no matter how overwhelming or grim. He had a talent for paying penance, too...and it was why Arawn never dared behave like him.
“You stand before the Veil of the Gods,” his father said, holding a hand to the glowing purple light, and the archway that stood aloft as if by magic. “A gift given long ago, as a way for the Masters to communicate with the Five.”
Arawn stared at it with a gaping mouth.
Could the gods see him now? Could they hear the way his heart was beating faster than a war drum? Could they sense the goose pimples that had sprung up on the back of his neck?
Did they know that, deep in his heart...he loved them?
Please notice that, he prayed. Please see that I am honest and good and true!
Because what if they didn’t?
What if they saw the darkness he’d been warned of since birth, the kind that his mother promised slowly crept in, when one least expected it, and stole every ounce of the gods’ light from a child’s eyes?
The kind that stole their eternity from the Ehver.
The kind that shattered their very soul.
It’s not me, Arawn prayed. It’s not me and it will never be. I am loyal to you!
He prayed to them all by name, in the span of a breath. He was shaking, head to toe, even as he knelt on the cold, golden floor, right upon their sigil.
His father frowned down at him, as if he sensed the fear in his child and was disgusted by it.
“Of course, this Veil will remain dormant until Realmbreak. If it were awakened now...no one in this room would survive the sheer force of the gods’ power.
It is only the King, only while wearing this very Diadem, that can commune with the Five.
Only the king that can request a blessing from it, once every hundred years.
” The flames on his Diadem blazed a bit brighter as that magical wind stoked them again.
“That time is nearing, Arawn. And whether it is me or you that will request the godsblessing... today, it is imperative that you learn of the future. Of what you must do when it is time for you to take my place, should I fall before Realmbreak.”
He nodded.
And when his father said nothing, he cleared his throat, and asked, “What I must do?”
“You will hear of it only once today... and never again. And should you fail, upon my final day? You will die. This Veil will take you as it takes me, and Lordach will have no king.”
His blood thrummed in his ears. His skin was suddenly itchy as beads of sweat rolled down his back, and he couldn’t feel his feet anymore, from where he still knelt on the floor.
He wanted to stand; to turn and run away.
.. but he knew that to rise without being commanded to would be a symbol of disobedience.
So, Arawn stayed. He had tears in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. If he did, he would be punished.
A future king did not cry.
A future king did not show weakness on the outside, no matter what sort of emotions he warred against within.
“On that day, when I die,” his father said, “You will not mourn. You will have no tears, no sadness, only strength. You will plunge my sword into the snow around the ancient tree, a sign to my people that my reign has come to an end... and then you will come here. To stand alone before this very Veil and face a test.”
Arawn checked off the words on his fingertips, ones that were already calloused from honing his swordsmanship at such a young age.
Sword, snow...no tears, no sadness, only strength.
“A...test?” he asked.
His voice was so small. He wanted to be older, stronger, wiser.
He also wanted time to freeze in its place, because he wasn’t ready to be king.
He wanted to be a boy a little while longer.
Just a boy... like Kinlear.
“You will place the Sacred Diadem upon your head,” his father said, the words coming out too fast.
Remember, Arawn told himself. You must not forget!
“You will first shed your own blood into this Veil as an offering, and it will open only for a moment in time. The Five will drink of your essence and decide whether you are gods-fearing enough. They will ensure you have no loyalty to the darkness of the Acolyte.”
Never, Arawn thought. I will never serve anyone but my gods.
“You will then recite every Sacred law aloud to the Veil, and you must take care when speaking them – a single mistake, Crown Prince, any error in your utterance, and it will be proven that you are not fit to rule.”
Arawn swallowed. “And... if I am not fit?”
The King’s gaze hardened. “I told you before,” he snapped. Arawn flinched. “The Veil will kill you where you stand, and Lordach will have no king. The Acolyte will win. And you will be responsible for the death of thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”
A spike of fear ran through him anew.
I must be perfect, Arawn thought. I must not fail, I must—
“You must then offer up a sacrifice,” his father said next.
Arawn’s blue eyes flicked up. Sacrifice wasn’t a good word. That much, he knew. His skin was too hot again. His blood felt like it might rise to a boil. “What sort of sacrifice, Father?”
“The kind that breaks you,” Draybor said. “The kind that proves your heart belongs to none but the Five.”
“And what if I have nothing I love more than them?” Arawn asked.
His mother’s brow quirked. The Masters shifted, watching him with smiles on their wrinkled faces. One of them chuckled, as if he were a silly boy, with silly thoughts...
But it seemed so simple, to him.
“Such loyalty to the Five is a goal we all strive to meet,” his father said.
“But I can assure you, Crown Prince. You are a mortal, and mortality means weakness, particularly in matters of the heart. A time will come, someday, when you will be tested. Tempted. Your heart will go to war with your mind. It will beg you to love. And whether that love be for power, for pleasure, for your future Match or for your magic... it is very important that you do not give in. You do not lose. You give your heart only to the Five, until the Ehver calls you home.”
Don’t lose the war, he told himself. Don’t ever lose.
“When I die,” his father continued, “you will be expected to lay down that temptation in front of this very Veil. You will use your magic, whatever pillar you settle upon, to destroy it, and send it through to the other side as a final sacrifice for the Five.”
His crown flickered, the flames dimming as he looked, only once, to his Queen.
She did not meet his gaze.
She stared, instead, at Arawn. He swore he saw that sadness in her eyes again.
“That sacrifice is to be a symbol, a promise that your heart belongs wholly to the Five. Only then will they accept you as King. Only then will the Veil close... and you will be crowned ruler of Lordach, emissary of the gods, in my honored place.”
It was silent, as everyone watched him.
As Arawn knelt there, trembling before the Veil.
“Now recite it,” his father growled. “All the steps I told you. Until the sun rises.”
So, he did.
He told them all back to the king, piece by piece, and when he messed up, he swore the Veil flickered.
He imagined he could see ancient hands reaching through it, hands that went for those mighty, stained-glass swords as if they would rip them down from their place on the wall.
As if they would cut through him... and sever his soul from his body.
“Again,” his father growled, when he was finished.
So Arawn spoke the steps until his small voice ran thin.
Until the darkness came, and the Masters left for another night of war. Until it was just him and his mother and father...
Until he felt so weak, he could barely even speak.
He recited them now with just a breath.
A whisper.
They echoed in him and through him... until he swore his very soul clung to the steps he would have to take. Until they were etched upon his heart.
“He’s done,” his mother said, when the sun rose, and Arawn was nearly ready to topple. The sounds of war had settled beyond the room. “Let him rest, Draybor. Let him sleep.”
His father agreed, but offered no hand to help him up.
Arawn’s knees were weak, his feet aching as if they were full of pins and needles. He could barely walk as his mother led him from the throne room, away from the Veil...where he finally felt like he could breathe.
He collapsed when he made it outside, into the cold and the snow. He hadn’t eaten all day, so a servant carried him back up to his tower, where they fed him hot soup, and denied all his requests for a cinnamon roll.
He fell asleep dreaming of the Veil.
Wishing his birthday had never come for him at all.
When he woke, hours later, his knees bruised and his back aching...
He was terrified of the future. Terrified to even get out of bed, until he rolled over and saw what awaited him on the nightstand.
A plate stacked high with cinnamon rolls, and a note scribbled on torn parchment.
Don’t tell Mother.
From, Kinlear.
Arawn left not a single crumb on the plate.
Then he left his room behind, donned a fresh white cloak, and went to his lessons early, ever the loyal Crown Prince.