Chapter 3
He was nine when he first paid true penance.
He’d been dismissed early from his afternoon training, for he’d defeated all the other younglings in under five minutes.
He felt strangely light, happy, for he rarely had time on his hands to do as he pleased.
But by the time he marched up the spiraling stone stairwell and out into the main walkway of the Citadel, his heart sank. His father’s servant was there waiting for him, a boy in brown robes that was most certainly here to lead Arawn off to yet another step in his training regimen.
“Prince!”
The boy stood from the marble bench he’d been seated on, a scroll in his hands. But he paused, unable to cross the hall for how many Sacred already filled it. Knights and Scribes marched about in various shades of white and brown and grey, preparing for another night of war.
“Prince!” the servant shouted, but he kept pausing and bowing his head as each Sacred passed. “The King wishes to—"
Gods save me, Arawn thought, for he was so tired, so hungry...
He’d missed lunch yet again, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to carry on any longer without something to fill his stomach.
“Prince! Wait just a minute!”
“I’m going to pray!” Arawn blurted and turned on his heel at once. He disappeared into the sea of Sacred as fast as his tired legs could carry him, already feeling regret swim through his veins at the instant lie.
But...no, he wouldn’t let it become one.
A Sacred did not lie.
So, he prayed, indeed, with every step he ran further away. Mostly, that the servant wouldn’t give chase, because Arawn knew what would come next if the servant caught up to him.
He’d miss dinner as well as his lunch, as he often did, for he had no doubt the scroll would hold a summons from his father.
The king would request his presence in the Aviary, where he would make Arawn saddle his eagle.
.. even though a perfectly capable squire was available at the king’s beck and call.
He’d stay there until the eagles soared away to war, and by the time he made it down to the kitchens, the food would be cold, and the cinnamon rolls would be gone until the next batch was made.
Arawn could hear footsteps chasing after him, a valiant effort from the servant boy to keep up, as he turned left and headed into another long hallway.
The frost-covered windows were marked with stained-glass ice lilies, in a beautiful northern blue.
Behind them, he could see the nomage barracks far below, where the ground forces were a blur of red-cloaked figures in motion.
War, always war.
It was all Arawn had ever known.
He turned down another stairwell, the torches glittering a bit brighter as he passed, then into another corridor, and finally, he faced the runed door that led to his tower.
He quickly placed his palm upon the gold symbol. The door clicked open, and he’d just managed to slip inside before the servant boy came around the corner.
Arawn blew out a breath.
But he wasn’t done yet. Another set of stairs awaited him, so he gritted his teeth and made the journey up, step after step, until finally...he came to the very top.
His own room was to the right, but Arawn went left instead, to a room they’d never dare look for him in, if only because the servants seemed to fear the dying boy inside.
Arawn knocked once, but he didn’t wait for an answer as he entered. He never did. He heard a fluttering of papers as he shut the door behind him.
Finally, he thought, as the warmth of the room hit his back. I can breathe.
This was the only place in the Citadel he could be himself, without judgement or watching eyes.
Arawn turned to see his brother seated before the enormous fireplace, the flames blazing bright. The room was stifling, but Kinlear couldn’t seem to stay warm, no matter how many runes they inscribed upon his cloak or stitched into the lining of his clothing.
He was tall for his age, like Arawn. But where Arawn was already full of muscle, Kinlear was thin and lanky. Almost frail, with his pale skin and dark curls, as if too strong a gust of wind might actually break him.
Still, while his body was weak...
Arawn had always been acutely aware of how strong Kinlear’s mind was. His brother was too clever, as if he were born a true strategist.
A shame, that their father would never let Kinlear step into that role. He wouldn’t even let Kinlear near the doors of the War Table’s tower, let alone utter a word about their enemy.
Arawn supposed that was why Kinlear was fascinated with the darksouls.
Because his brother had always had a taste for forbidden things.
“That didn’t last long,” Kinlear said, by way of greeting.
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 truth.
He gave it easily to his brother, as his brother so often gave it to him.
Kinlear frowned as he focused back on his drawing, as if he had to get the monster’s claws just right. The charcoal smudged against his left palm like shadows. He shivered, even though the room was sweltering.
Arawn removed his cloak and folded it carefully over the back of the chair, not wanting to wrinkle it.
“What are you working on now?” he asked, as he approached. “Not another drawing, Kinny. They’re awful.”
Kinlear looked up at him. “Rude.”
“Not rude. Honest,” Arawn said, as he sat down on the chair across from him, getting sweat on the cushions.
Not that Kinlear minded. His room looked like a magical tornado had overtaken it, one that had tossed his books and his runed cloaks and trays of food about in haphazard piles.
Arawn’s room across the hall was constantly clean.
Sparkling, with all of his belongings lined up in perfect formation.
.. and it wasn’t even because of the servants.
He always double-checked their work. “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'd overheard their mother say the very same thing, just a few weeks ago.
Arawn was studying the laws in his room and had pretended not to hear as the king and queen stood outside his doorway, speaking in hushed whispers about Kinlear.
They were worried about him, for he paid penance far too often.
And he spoke of strange things, dark things, that plagued his sleeping mind.
A monster in the shadows.
He claimed it hunted him, that it killed him each night in his dreams.
“I’m still dreaming of it,” Kinlear said softly, as he sensed Arawn studying him. “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.
He hated the illness that plagued his brother.
..and he knew it was wrong to hate. It felt like a stain on his own soul, causing anger that no Sacred was supposed to feel.
It made him swing harder against his opponents during training sessions.
It made him want to scream when he thought of how much pain Kinlear was in.
When he imagined that someday...Kinlear would die.
And Arawn would be left to rule this kingdom alone.
But Kinlear only 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.
He didn’t want to live in a world without his twin. They were born together. They were supposed die together, too, when they were old and wrinkled and grey.
To see it happen any other way...
He wouldn’t let it.
He couldn’t.
And maybe that was why Kinlear woke up so often, screaming in the middle of the night. Ripping at his clothing, as if he felt a knife in his own chest. Maybe it was because in his own way...he didn’t want to leave Arawn behind, either.
It’s not real! Arawn would tell him. Night after night, as the fire burned down to embers and tears ran down Kinlear’s shadowed face. There’s no monster, Kinlear! Wake up!
And then Arawn would hold his brother’s hands, for he’d always been stronger than him.
And there he’d sit, balanced on the edge of the bed, until Kinlear’s body settled.
Until he fell back asleep with Arawn as his guard, though there was nothing Arawn could do to protect him from any sort of monster within.
He stared at the darksoul image now, wanting to destroy it.
“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.”
He didn’t want to say dying, but he meant it.
He sensed Kinlear knew it, too.
“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.”
Terror was more like it.
“So, why don’t you kill it?” Arawn asked.
It was what he would do, if he shared the same dreams. But his weren’t of monsters.
Instead, he dreamt of an archway in a golden room, and a glowing purple light.
He dreamt of sword-shaped windows and a Sacred Diadem on his head.
He dreamt that it never took the shape of any sort of pillared magic.
He dreamt of falling in battle, not beside the Sacred, but by the nomages.
As if he never had a pillar to begin with.
And sometimes, his dreams only held his father’s disappointed expression. His mother’s absence.
Sometimes...it was Kinlear that Arawn had to sacrifice to the gods’ Veil.