Chapter 2
He was eight now, seated in the open-air temple in the center of the Citadel, as he and his father prayed to the Five. It was their daily routine, a step he’d never once been allowed to skip. Not that he wanted to.
He loved his gods. He had to stay loyal to them, stay constantly connected to them, if he was to rule someday in his father’s place.
And besides.
If he messed up or missed, he’d pay penance like Kinlear.
Time and again, his twin brother slipped up.
Perhaps it was from his illness, that Kinlear did not seem to fear paying penance.
Perhaps he was just used to the pain. But from white lies to stolen treats from the kitchen, from cruel faces at their father’s back, to speaking about strange things, monstrous things that were forbidden. ..
Kinlear paid often, and Arawn wanted no part of it.
But because he was Sacred... he owed it to his gods to always tell the truth. And the truth was, Arawn had questions.
It was just like he’d been warned about when he was a smaller boy. To step out of line was to risk his crown and his eternal place in the Ehver. So why, when he saw the way other younglings played and laughed and loved...
Why did Arawn want to be among them? No crown on his head, no kingdom on his shoulders... no future sacrifice to be made.
Why was he the only one set apart?
He was on an island, far from the other Sacred.
And somedays, he wanted to sail away from it. Far away, so that just for a little while... he could live.
“Why do I have to do this, Father?” Arawn asked now.
The sun, if one could call Augaurde’s hazy grey daylight such a thing, was just barely rising. The king had returned from another night of war, where he led his soldiers into battle against the Acolyte. It was another losing night, Arawn guessed, by the sheer lack of numbers that had returned.
That, and the sheer number of swords that had been plunged into the snow around the Sacred tree, just before this.
Death was the Citadel’s way... and more and more, it seemed, with each passing day.
“Why do you have to do what?” his father asked. “Why do you have to pray?”
“No!” Arawn blurted. “No, of course not.”
He would never complain about that. Certainly not with his mouth, and it was rare that he complained even in his heart. Not after seeing the power of the Veil, years ago. He hadn’t been back to his father’s throne room since, but he’d never forget that day.
Even if it scared him, even if he still held the memory of pain in his knees, and his father’s disappointed face...
He’d felt the gods’ power thrumming through him that day.
He’d been close enough to reach out and touch it.
And there was nothing anyone could ever do to turn him from it.
He looked forward to his time with the Five now, if only because it reminded him that much more of the test of loyalty he was to someday face. It was what a Crown Prince was born to do. Loyalty to his gods was all he’d ever been taught, beyond the art of war.
He was rewarded with smiles from his mother when he prayed. His father was pleased when he recited their ancient laws for his kind, and even more so when he made less errors as the years went on.
Arawn loved the Five.
He would never dare feel anything else for them.
But...his crown?
His future?
He still wasn’t so sure how he felt about that.
“I mean...why do I have to rule alone?” Arawn asked.
His father winked open an eye. Snowflakes danced lazily between them, landing with a cold kiss on the tip of Arawn’s nose. They gathered in the king’s dark beard as he grunted his disapproval, but he allowed his son to go on.
“It’s just that...” Arawn cleared his throat. “Well, I was born a twin. It was in the gods’ plan, otherwise, Kinlear wouldn’t exist. So... why can’t he and I share the crown? Why can’t we rule together, face the Veil as one?”
The question had lingered in him for years now. He’d simply been too afraid to ask it.
But he was growing braver as time went on, and he’d done so well in his trainings lately... he thought maybe now would be the right time to take the leap.
But as his father stared down at him, he suddenly wished he could take back every word.
The king stared...and stared even more, sitting so still that the snow began to pile on his broad shoulders, and Arawn wondered if the man had forgotten to blink. He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what else to say.
He had a training sword on his hip, and even though Draybor was his father...sometimes, when he looked at him this way, Arawn felt the need to place his hand over it.
If only, so that he would feel a bit more protected.
A bit more like a Sacred Crown Prince.
Strong and chosen and endlessly brave.
“I’m disappointed, Arawn,” the king said.
It was so rare that he spoke his name. “And utterly vexed at how my Crown Prince, a boy who has knelt before the Veil itself, would so easily spit in the face of his gods by rejecting the pure gift of his lineage. By daring to even entertain the fact that Kinlear, weak and disobedient as he is, would ever be able to bear the holy burden of a Sacred Crown?”
“I...” Arawn’s voice trailed off. “I only thought...perhaps it would be fair—”
“The gods are not fair,” his father growled.
“They are just. Their law says we have one ruler. One crown, regardless of who happened to share the queen’s womb with you.
” His gaze narrowed as he glared down at Arawn.
“Do not tempt fate by daring to believe Kinlear will ever amount to as much as you. If he is chosen for anything, it will be for an early grave.”
Arawn sucked in a breath.
His father hated Kinlear.
Hated...as much as any Sacred could hate. As if he were a stain on their family’s bloodline. Or perhaps some sort of trick from the gods, sent to punish him. A child of penance.
But Arawn loved his twin. He’d be a monster if he didn’t.
“He’s just a boy, Arawn,” said the king. “And it is all he will ever be. You’d be wise to remember it.”
It was silent again. Painfully so.
If Arawn listened hard enough, he could hear the tiniest sound of snowflakes landing. Each one, as delicate as a kiss. It would have been peaceful, were it just him and the gods. But the king always insisted on being at his side, training him, honing him like a blade.
Arawn supposed he should be grateful.
Nobody else received such a gift.
...so why did he wish, every so often, that he could return it?
“King?” Arawn asked.
His father grunted in response, so he dared ask the question still burning on the tip of his tongue.
It was foolish, he knew.
But it would eat him alive if he did not ask it.
“What if...” He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “What if I want to be just a boy?”
He hated how small his voice sounded as the words tumbled away from him. But he had no one else to talk to. No one else to make sense of the thoughts that plagued his mind, when he watched the other younglings make friendships and laugh and play...something he’d never dare try and do.
“What if, sometimes, I do want to be like Kinlear?”
“Dying?” his father spat. “Cursed?”
Arawn flinched at his words.
“Free,” he said. “To do as I please with my days. To do as the other younglings do, or even as the nomages do, and—"
Oh.
Oh, gods, that had been the wrong thing to say.
He could practically see the steam rising from his father’s shoulders as the anger swam through him. As his magic hissed and fizzled. Arawn’s shoulders dipped, and he had the urge to look away...until his father reached out and placed a burning fingertip under his chin, forcing their gazes to meet.
“You want to be just a boy?” His father asked. “A peasant without a crown? I’ll show you what that looks like, Arawn Laroux.”
And with that, the king stood.
Snow tumbled from his enormous shoulders, which were shrouded in a fur-lined cloak. His footsteps left deep tracks in the snow as he motioned for Arawn to follow him out of the temple, though he gave no word as to where they were going.
He led him back into the Citadel’s halls, passed countless Sacred Knight and Scribes and servants who all dropped to a knee, bowing in reverence.
He led them to the front courtyard, where they were back in the snow yet again.
They passed by the ancient, ice-encrusted tree, past the swords of the fallen.
..where someday, Draybor’s own sword would go, before Arawn had to face the Veil alone.
The tree was a constant reminder of the loss that Lordach experienced. The reason why Arawn was not given chances to have friends, because, as his father said, friends die. And a king was unwise to surround himself with an opening to such a terrible weakness.
It would only make his sacrifice harder someday.
To his surprise, they left the Citadel behind, through the gates and down the sweeping white steps that led to the nomage barracks.
It was a different world entirely, down here.
Arawn could hear the roar of wear bears, the clanging of swords that echoed through the snow-laden valley. Soldiers milled about, tending to various duties, and campfires spat tendrils of smoke into the sky between white tents.
Arawn had to run to keep up with his father’s footsteps, his practice sword bouncing against his hip.
He couldn’t wait for a real one, but of course, he’d have to earn it first, by marching into battle with these very men and women that surrounded him.
By proving he could hold his own alongside the nomages before he was ever granted the honor of fighting alongside a true Sacred.
How many of these people would be dead by tonight?
How many of them would never return home?
They paused at the entrance to a white tent, the flaps held open. Arawn’s stomach gave a terrible twist.
There were bodies on the tables inside.
Bodies and blood.
“Go on,” the king said softly, and Arawn flinched as he realized his father had knelt to his level. His lips were inches from his ear. “Go inside, Crown Prince.”