Chapter 53 Faron #2
She passed through the door, closed her eyes, and murmured something unintelligible. Immediately after, she shuddered, retreating a step and grabbing Eist’s robe so she could cower like a child in need of comfort.
“There,” she said, pointing without looking. “He is there.”
Faron approached the edge, unsure of what she could mean. As he neared the slab of stone, he noticed a rope tied around it, and his stomach sank.
“No,” he whispered, sprinting to the edge and grabbing the rope where it hung off the side.
He pulled, disturbed by how little weight resisted him.
Aylah joined him as Calluna and Eist hovered by the doorway.
Her horrified look said it all as Faron lifted a tightly bound sack of leather onto the ledge.
A cut of his sword opened the top, and from within spilled out a naked Eder.
His body was so severely emaciated, his bones poked out against his pale, sun-starved skin.
His hair, normally long and beautiful, stuck to him like brittle straw.
Faron thought him dead, but his eyes loosely focused, and he reached a trembling hand to lovingly brush his fingers against Faron’s jaw.
“Brother,” he whispered, and then closed his eyes. “Thank you.”
Faron lifted Eder into his arms and carried him from the edge. Calluna dared look up from Eist’s robes, and seeing Eder, she let out a horrified sob.
“I will take him,” Eist said, offering their arms. Faron handed him over, glad to be relieved of the burden. It was too light. No body of theirs should be so light.
“Where is he?” Faron asked. His words came out as a strained whisper, for his self-control was warring with a rage so deep it frightened him.
“Somewhere near the apex,” Calluna said, gently stroking Eder’s forehead. She kissed his cheek, and her tears wet his face. “Stars above, how could he do this?”
“I don’t know,” Faron said, storming through the gate. “I don’t care.”
His footsteps were a blur beneath him. His surroundings were dull and irrelevant.
Soldiers who fought to defend the last bastion of the Anaon Kingdom were playthings to be cast aside.
Nothing would stop Faron. Nothing. He climbed the steps of the Tower Majestic, butchering anyone who dared try.
He smashed through barricades devoid of defenders, for the city was taken, and few remained willing to die for their Heartless King.
Higher. Higher. To one place. One person.
At last he reached the rafters, dozens of strong-armed men cowering in fear at the edges.
Faron ignored them, for he saw one last platform, and he climbed its rope instead of demanding that any of the liftmasters raise it.
Moments later, he pulled himself up to the Final Ascent, a barren stretch of hardstone whose surface was strangely marked with swirls and symbols unlike any other place in the tower.
Within the center, with his back to Faron as he stared out the distant window to overlook a burning Racliffe, stood Sariel.
“Draw your sword,” Faron said, readying his own.
“Why?” Sariel asked, refusing to turn about.
“Draw it, damn you.”
Two dragon-bone swords lay at Sariel’s feet: his own and Eder’s. Seeing the weapons added to Faron’s fury. He bared his teeth like a savage animal, and he lifted his sword for a thrust.
“We found him down there,” he said. “Hanging. Starved. Did you ever feed him, Sariel? Or did you let the radiance revive him night after night, that he might suffer a few waking moments of consciousness before the hunger clawed him back into death?”
Finally Sariel turned. His face was as passive as a statue. His eyes burned with stars.
“Do it,” he said. “Kill me, and let me sleep away the breaking of all I ever built.”
Faron crossed the distance, his sword leading.
Instead of a lethal cut, he veered its aim so it only sliced his brother’s chest. His elbow followed, slamming into Sariel’s nose to break it.
A knee, then a fist, beating flesh, breaking bone, but leaving him alive.
Sariel collapsed, and still Faron let loose his wrath. It never felt like enough.
They had fought before. They had even killed each other before. Such were the consequences of a never-ending cavalcade of lifetimes.
But such cruelty.
Such malice.
“Fight me!” Faron shouted as he dropped his sword, pushed his fists together, and smashed both upon Sariel’s back. “Hit me! Strike back!” He kicked his brother in the ribs and felt bones break. “Or are you such a coward?”
Faron grabbed Sariel by the neck and lifted him with one hand. His brother’s beaten, bleeding body hung limp from his fingers. Still, he did not resist.
“Even you cannot defend what you have done,” Faron said. His anger solidified into something darker, and he hated the way it burned sick in his chest. “Then why keep Eder imprisoned? Why torture him for years unending?”
Sariel’s left eye was swollen shut, and his other dared to shed a tear.
“I don’t know.”
That sickness inside him hardened. It would be so easy to give in.
Rope, manacles, and a dark cave somewhere would be enough to subject Sariel to the same torture he had inflicted on Eder.
Faron’s fingers tightened, threatening to strangle Sariel, and it took all his willpower to loosen them so his brother might draw breath.
They had discussed this. They knew what must be done so this could never be repeated, and he let that hope keep him from committing horrors he would one day regret.
Sariel had to live. He did not deserve the kindness of death.
“Wrong answer,” Faron said, and slammed Sariel’s head to the hardstone, sending him into merciful unconsciousness that he did not deserve.