jlvm4
2018-11-15, 03:01 PM
I write for fun. I have read my stories to my kiddos and they seemed to like them. Now that they are older, they are encouraging me to try to find a wider audience (potentially a publishing one) but I'm not sure they are any good.
So.... I decided to post from the first story in the series and see if anyone else enjoys it. It's a fantasy tale. All rights reserved. In other words, enjoy it, don’t copy it.
A Brother's Tale
Chapter 1: Lost in the Night
Jerem was creeping through a cemetery, trying not to think too much about it. He’d had enough of cemeteries. Cold useless places. Places where worlds ended. The half-elven boy sniffled in the dark, thoughts of his mother’s funeral flitting through his mind, but he kept moving despite his grief. Away. He was going away, though he still didn’t know exactly where. Jerem sniffled again.
Gotta be better than here.
Jerem wove his way through the forest of graying white stones and cracked wooden markers slowly, making steady progress even without a torch or lantern on this cold moonless night. Jerem hadn’t really considered the how much a gift seeing in the dark could be until he’d really needed it, nor how much he would come to depend on it to help avoid pursuit.
Pursuit, for the moment, seemed to be far away, though he kept looking back every few minutes as if the expected men might suddenly appear in the darkness. Jerem was making one such check when he tripped over a gravestone and fell to the dirt, landing in a pile of freshly turned earth that splattered his face and short blond hair. He lay there for a while, not really hurt by the fall, but worn down to a level of pure emotional exhaustion that made movement impossible.
Damn it!
His mother would have been shocked he even knew such words, though his brothers and father knew more. It didn’t matter; Jerem couldn’t find any words that would work. Not now. No words, no explanation, no why.
Why did it have to be mom?
With a touch of bitterness, Jerem thought of his life over the last few months, a life that had flipped upside down and inside out in the most painful of ways. Like when Master Fochart’s wagon had collided with that crowd of revelers last All Soul’s Day. They hadn’t let him into Clearwater to see, but for weeks afterward everyone in the town looked so… dead… as they went about their business they might well have had their souls sucked out by some creature in a mad bard’s tale.
Jerem hadn’t understood, then. He understood now. Oh, how he understood now. In some ways, the bitterness of his thoughts was welcome, knifing through the deadness into some genuine feeling, even if it was anger. It had been barely a month since his mother died and the crying had stopped, yet this deadness remained. No great joy, no great sadness, just…dead. It felt like someone had torn his heart out and forgot to replace it with anything at all. Jerem feared this too, would pass like the sobbing to be replaced by the Gods alone knew what, but…
Jerem was suddenly aware he was lying in the dirt of someone’s grave and scrambled to his feet in fear. He frantically brushed the dirt from his hair and clothes, as if it were something worse than just dirt. There was a rustle in the brush.
What was that?
Jerem stopped still, listening, but heard nothing, not even an owl.
Got to keep moving. Got to. Not gonna catch me.
Jerem brushed some more of the dirt out of his hair, which made his arms ache. It made everything ache. He tried to think of something other than the hurt: that it was cold, the white of the snow, the graves. Somehow thinking of the graves just made it worse. Nothing left. Nothing. He wanted mom back, damn it! He cursed again, a soft elven mutter of words that would have surprised anyone, not just his mother this time, sniffling. He just wanted her back. Oh, why couldn’t he have her back…
Jerem slid down to the ground, only a few steps from the fresh grave, unable to go further after all. His head fell to his knees, pressed tight to his chest. Tears began to fall, even though he’d been sure there were none left. He just hurt.
Mama, please...
The tears came harder now, shaking his small form worse than the cold. Jerem remembered when she had finally told him she was ill. Even in his little kid, self-obsessed brain, Jerem had known something was wrong. It had been wrong for a long time, but to hear it spoken scared him. If they had told him, then it was truly bad. Nobody really told him anything—they just treated him like a baby. Everyone except for his brother Janthro, and Janthro wasn’t there anymore. Even his mother had lied. She had told him not to worry—that just because she was sick now, it didn’t mean she would be sick forever. She would be well. It would just take time.
Lies! Why did she lie to me?
But Jerem had tried. For her, he had tried. Tried so hard to be hopeful, his own fears growing daily, hidden in an effort not to make her feel worse. Jerem had not known what else to do, but he had been desperate to do something, anything, for his mother. So he repeated the words of assurance he overheard from his father and oldest brothers—that it would be okay, that they would find another healer, one who could do something. Or another, or another…
What had he really known? Nothing. But he believed. Jerem believed in his very soul that if they just hunted hard enough, fought it long enough, somehow his mom could beat it. He held that hope tight to him, even through the fall, while his mother hobbled around in pain of every step. Jerem could have cried with joy that spring, when she actually looked to be getting better, the pain lessening. His mother was walking again, the dark blotches on her skin disappearing. Even the latest treatment, which made her miserable for days after, seemed tolerable if it bought time.
Jerem was so certain that his mother would be okay that he began to live his own life again, to think of a world outside of this sickness that had consumed his family. Jerem had eagerly gone back to his duties in the stables and the horses he’d come to love. He’d been willing to wander the family lands for more than a few hours at a time, and lured by the excitement of a trip to nearby Clearwater, Jerem had gone that morning without a second thought. It had been a business trip, traveling with his second oldest brother, Jonander, to check out the breeding prospects on Lord Donagles’ farm. Jerem had been so happy and excited he’d hardly slept at all the night before. When he’d said goodbye to his mother, she’d even laughed a little to see him bouncing from foot to foot so eager to be gone.
It had been a magical day. Riding beside his brother, like an adult, like someone trusted with a job. Jonander had actually let him in among the horses, to run and explore while he examined them to see which, if any, they would buy. Jerem remembered thinking he had never seen such a glorious day, the sky a cerulean blue with clouds so white they practically glowed. It had been perfect. Perfect weather, perfect company, and Jonander had even let him pick one horse to buy all by himself. Then the messenger came.
“Your Lady mother has died.”
Five words with a weight seemed to come out of nowhere, a real physical weight that crushed Jerem to the ground. He nearly fell to his knees there among the horses, only remaining upright because of a sliver of pure doubt.
They’re wrong! I just saw her this morning. They’re wrong!
The next thing he remembered was Jonander taking him by the shoulders, and it was only then that Jerem realized he had been yelling at the messenger. He couldn’t even recall what he had said. But Jonander held him back, somberly thanked the messenger, and they rode home. Jerem cried the whole way.
Father was drunk again when they arrived, sitting in the castle library, whiskey in hand. He was crying, which Jerem supposed was something, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. Jerem just ran for his room and slammed the door, the pain too great for his small body. Everything around him reminded him of his mother, so he curled into a ball on the bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and didn’t move. Jerem didn’t think he ever wanted to move again.
Finally Kiman, his oh-so-perfect eldest brother, came for him. Kiman opened Jerem’s bedroom door, and walked around to look down on his baby brother. Whether Kiman was grieving or not, Jerem couldn’t tell. His brother’s face was a smooth mask, green eyes cold under perfectly groomed short blond hair. Kiman almost looked ready to go to court. Unfeeling lout or good actor? Did it even matter? Jerem just peered up from the bed as Kiman told him “you are a Telcontur, and you need to be downstairs.”
Jerem said nothing. He just lay on the bed, his thoughts a shifting mass of pain, anger, and bitterness. He wasn’t going down there. Kiman could go, but not him. Not when all he would be was an ornament for some soul-draining ‘thing’ in a room full of people he’d never met or really cared about. No one down there could understand.
Mom!
It was just a small, silent cry for the only one who could have made it better. The one who had always made him feel better. His lip quivered as the realization hit him yet again that she could not ever be there for him anymore. Jerem swallowed hard, trying not to cry. Kiman had frowned down at Jerem’s miserable and immobile form for a few moments more, and then left without a word. Jerem had hoped that to be the end of it. Let Kiman stand down there with the mourners. Jerem started to cry again, when he considered what else was down there, laid out in a flower-decked coffin in the front receiving room.
He was still crying when the household servants appeared, sent no doubt to be sure he was dressed properly and brought down to the great hall. The blue and green, house-uniformed army surrounded him. Jerem ignored them and remained on his bed. The staff dressed him anyway. Jerem refused to sit up. They lifted him to his feet. The servants even combed and brushed his hair when he refused to do so himself. When they were done, Jerem stood there a moment, before like the dead he felt he was, Jerem followed them downstairs on stiff legs. They left him standing beside Jonander and Kiman in the entry hall, where he spent an eternity being polite to people he had never met, pretending that he was okay.
Goddess, how could you do this to her! To me!!
The plea was torn from him as he stood there, frozen on the outside, dying on the inside. Frozen forever. Jerem came back to himself suddenly and realized he had not moved in a very long time. He was still sitting in the cemetery, the cold’s icy fingers shivering him away from his thoughts. He needed to get moving again, or he might very well freeze to death in the night.
It was unseasonably cold for so early in autumn, the leaves on the oaks among the graves just starting to turn, but there would be frost tonight. Jerem looked about him for some kind of shelter. It had seemed like such a good idea—running away. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. But he was not going back. His eyes finally lit on the faint glow of a warmed home, probably the local Avatarian priest’s house.
Maybe I’ll ask for shelter there tonight.
Jerem didn’t want to sleep outdoors tonight, not in this bitter cold. He tried to stand and found the rest and the cold had stiffened his aching limbs so much that even walking was painful. Remembering the betrayal that caused the aches hurt Jerem even more. Had it really only been four days?
“Truly, you shouldn’t have interfered, Jerem,” Kiman had told him then, his voice emotionless yet frightening Jerem all the same, “Now you will both need to be punished.”
And then at a snap of Kiman’s fingers, two of the household guard appeared. At Kiman’s direction, one grabbed him, the other taking hold of the servant boy Jerem had been trying to help. The other boy’s eyes were wide with fear, though he did not resist. Jerem tried to shake himself loose. He might as well have been struggling against stone and not flesh.
“Hey,” Jerem had demanded petulantly, “Let me go!”
But the man did not let him go. The burly guardsman just looked over to Kiman and waited.
“See that he remembers,” Kiman stated coldly, and then turned his back on his youngest brother.
The finality of it scared Jerem speechless.
Wait…
The iron-hard grip lifted Jerem off his feet, and Jerem at last panicked. It had been an accident! It had been nothing! What was Kiman doing?! Jerem cried out for his brother, begging Kiman to stop…to stay…to not do this. But Kiman didn’t even look back as he left. And what happened next, Jerem would never forget.
He and the servant boy had been dragged bodily out of the kitchen, down the back stairs, and deep into the cellar level of the castle. They finally halted in a large open room that the household guard often used for training. Jerem still struggled desperately to get free, but his struggles had been useless, he so small and the guard so big.
What was happening? The guards had never ever laid hands on him like this! They’d never even touched him before. Why wouldn’t they let go? Jerem tried again to wriggle free, but in vain. The guard’s grip on his arms hurt!
“Tem!”
Jerem now dared to glance over as he called out to the servant boy, to find Tem wasn’t struggling at all, but
crying, tears streaming down his pale face. Jerem’s panic grew as the heavy oak door shut behind them with an ominous thud. It was only then that he realized there were two more men in the room, waiting. He and Tem were dragged to the center of the room, toward the others.
“Let me go!” Jerem pleaded to the new guards. “Please! Let me go!”
Jerem didn’t even see the first blow before it hit, yet it drove him to the floor hard, his face on fire. He didn’t see the next, either, but he was grabbed again and dragged upright. One after another, blows landed on his small body. Punishment? Ha! When it was over, and the men left him lying on the cold, stone floor, Jerem could barely move. He lay there, sobbing, for what felt like hours.
“Tem?” he finally asked, turning his head the agonizing few inches over to look.
The servant boy he had been trying to protect did not answer. Tem just lay in a similar heap on the floor, not moving at all.
“T-T-Tem?” Jerem asked again, afraid.
There was no answer this time either, and Jerem started to cry once more. He wanted to run away, but it hurt too much to even turn his head back around. He swallowed hard and tasted blood. Jerem cried harder, though the sobs that wracked his body with the movement hurt.
How could he!
Jerem didn’t understand how his own brother could have done such an evil thing. What kind of animal would do that to another person? Tem had only been a servant, assigned to the kitchens, but he was just about Jerem’s own age, and the loss of the eggs had not been Tem’s fault. It had been an accident. An accident!
Why would Kiman do that to him? Why would he do that to me!
The last wailing question was followed by a thought both startling and alien.
I hate him!
If he had been older, Jerem might have acted on this burning fiery emotion which threatened to consume him. Instead, Jerem had just lain on the cellar floor, huddled in a hurting mass, too afraid to even touch the unmoving boy beside him. Jerem feared the boy was dead, beaten to death at his own brother’s word. He feared he might die. It certainly hurt like he would. Jerem sobbed and sobbed on the cold stone.
Eventually, they had come for him. Silent servants, who gathered him up and carried him up to his room and laid him in his bed. Jerem squeezed his eyes shut tight, tears leaking through his lids in bottomless grief and pain. Where was Kiman? Wasn’t he sorry? Surely he couldn’t have meant for it to happen like this!
But Kiman never came. Not to apologize, nor to even see if he was all right. And Jerem hated him all the more for it. Kiman should have come. Should have said sorry. Should have said something! Any remorse would have been a salve on his wounds, enabling him to stay. But on that sunny afternoon, everything had been destroyed.
Nothing left now.
It was a silent mantra as his wounds had been tended by the household staff. And still Kiman did not come. And still Jerem could not summon the courage to ask about Tem. The servants did not mention him, either, not even when Jerem finally did ask the following evening.
“We have been instructed that it is not your concern,” one of the chambermaids told him.
Jerem had not seen Tem again.
I wish I knew if he lived. Please, let him have lived. I was only trying to help him. Please, don’t let me have killed him. I was only trying to help…
For two whole days that followed, Jerem had been paralyzed by guilt, pain, fear, and indecision. He did not eat, did not sleep more than a few minutes at a time; he did not do much more than huddle in a ball on his bed, feeling utterly forsaken. Every time his door opened, Jerem filled with a painful mixture of hope and fear, but Kiman had not come to see him. His brother was not sorry. His brother didn’t even care. And father was probably drunk in the library. And he didn’t care either. Jerem had never felt so alone.
The door did open once or twice later on, the first time to allow a healer to fix whatever had been wrong in his chest that had made it hurt to breathe and the stabbing pain in his arm. ‘A bad fall’ had been the story told by the servant who brought the priest to Jerem’s bedside. That and ‘my master wishes to leave the bruises so that the young lord will remember to be more careful in the future.’ Jerem was too scared to say anything at all about the lie.
The second time the servants came, it was with orders from Kiman to make Jerem perform his stable duties. The chambermaids and housecarl seemed reluctant to do so, though they saw to it he was dressed and brought to the stable regardless, strangely more concerned about him than what remained of his own family. Not concerned enough to defy Kiman, but still it had been a small crumb of comfort.
The only man to actually defy the ‘back to work’ order had been Thomas Shaw, the Telcontur’s horsemaster, to whom Jerem had been apprenticed to learn the trade. Master Shaw knew Jerem better than most anyone left in the castle, and had taken one look at Jerem’s hobbling and stricken form, before leading him to a pile of horse blankets in the dark tack room.
“You sit there today, Lord Jerem. You just sit,” Mr. Shaw had said, his gruff voice softened with uncharacteristic tenderness.
He guided Jerem to the blankets, watched him lie down, and then left Jerem alone with his broken thoughts. Around lunchtime, Master Shaw returned, to give him some apples and honey, as well as a mug of ale, seeming to understand that Jerem was too afraid to go into the castle and eat where he might encounter Kiman.
Jerem thanked him, and then Master Shaw was gone again, likely working to complete all the stable tasks before dusk. Jerem, in turn, looked at the mug dubiously. He sniffed at the amber liquid. Ale. His mother had never let him drink ale. He swallowed hard, trying not to cry again as he thought of his mom. With a shuddering breath, Jerem took a sip of the mug, desperate for any task to distract him from his grief. It tasted pretty bad, but Jerem drank anyway because he was thirsty. Eating the apples after helped. And then Jerem was alone again. Too exhausted to even think, Jerem fell asleep shortly thereafter.
Master Shaw returned and woke him at the end of the day. The horsemaster had another bundle of food, this time some dried meat, a small slab of bread, and water. It wasn’t much, and it was clearly what the servants were offered to eat, but it meant Jerem wouldn’t have to go eat dinner with Kiman. Jerem nodded his thanks and ate ravenously. When he was finished, Master Shaw saw him back to the castle. Jerem fled across the foyer and ran for his room. He locked the door behind him and moved his small desk chair against it. Just in case.
The next day, Jerem was back in the stable by his own choice, back somewhere safe. The morning chores were comforting, even if he still hurt whenever he moved, and the horses trusted confidantes for his fears. Jerem did not see Master Shaw much as he worked, in fact it was nearly lunchtime before he realized that Master Shaw was moving funny, strangely stiff, as if he were hurt. So Jerem had asked about it, thinking the man injured by one of the horses, to be brushed off with an ‘I just slept funny.’ Jerem didn’t think any more of it, still too wrapped up in his own aches, until an overheard conversation later that night made Jerem realize that Kiman had had Master Shaw whipped for the kindness he’d shown to Jerem the day before. Jerem cried himself to sleep that night.
I’ve got to stop him! I’ve got to! No one else is getting hurt because of me!
Jerem was dead certain of that, but the how eluded him. All night his thoughts looped around the problem helplessly. What could he do? Even at sixteen, Jerem was still a child by his half-elven blood, of a size and maturity with his nine or ten-year-old fellows in the village. Kiman was well over twenty years older than Jerem, and even if he was short, still larger than him. Once, Jerem would have thought to ask their father for help, but in the weeks since his mother’s death, his father had descended in to a near-constant drunken stupor. Jerem hadn’t seen him move from the library in well over a week.
And in the meantime, Kiman had descended into a level of cruelty Jerem would not have believed. It had gotten so he didn’t even recognize his eldest brother anymore. Hell, forget not recognize, Jerem was scared of him now. How could he stop someone with the power of life and death over an entire barony? Kiman had had him beaten. Kiman could order him killed. Would father even stop Kiman? Images of Tem lying still on the cellar floor and Master Shaw limping about the stable haunted Jerem like ghosts. Kiman could hurt or kill anyone left he still cared about. And Jerem still didn’t know what to do!
Mom would never have let him near me!
Jerem’s fist clenched in remembered helplessness of the beating. He wanted his mother desperately. He wanted her to make everything right. But she could never make anything right for him again. Yet in that hopeless instant, Jerem knew there was only one person alive who could. He knew who he could run to—Janthro.
So he was running this night to his brother. The hope of the thought a source of warmth as he walked. Janthro would help him. Janthro was only nine years older, but he had always been the brave one. He hadn’t gotten people hurt or maybe killed. Janthro had stood up to Kiman. It hadn’t worked, but at least Janthro had tried.
Jerem recalled that final angry showdown between Janthro and their father four years before, which had caused his brother to flee. Jerem had been hiding up on the landing, face pressed against the spindles of the staircase, while Janthro paced across the foyer below and revealed to their father the cruelty he had witnessed in Kiman. Cruelty Jerem might have doubted if he had not just experienced it first-hand. But Janthro had been bold, braver by far than he. Faced with the wrongness of it all, Janthro chose to fight and stood before the only authority higher than Kiman—their father. Janthro laid out each horrific deed meticulously, biting out the words in a low and fierce voice, ending with the death of a man Janthro had befriended. A man he accused Kiman of having killed.
A ‘hunting accident’ Kiman had explained in calming tones, so different from the anger rolling like waves off of Janthro. A misstep in the paddock—Kiman had an answer for every one of the accusations. ‘Lies all!’ Janthro had yelled. Jerem watched breathlessly as his oldest brother responded, weaving a tapestry of reasonableness around himself that made Janthro look petty, dishonest, and spiteful by comparison. Janthro’s voice rose higher as he rejected the lies, yelling at both his father and brother, now.
“Do you believe him or me?” Janthro had demanded in the end, and even Jerem could tell they were standing on a knife edge. The wrong answer here would split their family as surely as lightning striking a tree. He held his breath. Thick as thieves with Janthro, Jerem believed him with unswerving faith, no matter how much he had not wanted to think Kiman capable of such things. But who would their father believe? Jerem feared who their father might believe. In his panic, hope struck suddenly.
Mom can stop this!
Even though she was ill, his mother would want to know, to stop this, fix it before it shattered. His mother would make it all right again. Jerem got to his hands and knees and scrambled up the remaining stairs. He hadn’t even reached the top when he heard his father’s answer.
“Janthro. You will submit to your brother’s rule, in all things,” their father ordered in a dark and furious voice. “I will have no more lies in this house.”
“I will never submit to a kerachi like him!” Janthro had yelled back, defiant.
There was a crack and a thump, and by the time Jerem made it back to the railing, he could see Janthro sitting on the floor, looking up at their father, green eyes blazing, his hand on his jaw.
Goddess, father just hit him!
“You will not disobey me or use that language in my house!” their father shouted, “I will not have it!”
Janthro stood very deliberately, to end nose to nose with his father, ignoring the tiniest splash of red that ran along his mouth. It startled Jerem to realize his brother, though still thin as a rail, was now a few inches taller than their father. There was a pause, and then Janthro answered, his voice pitched low yet carrying throughout the foyer.
“You will have no house to speak of, if you let Kiman rule.”
Jerem saw his father hit Janthro again, closing his eyes as his father’s fist made contact with his brother’s face. This wasn’t punishment, something sinister was happening, and Jerem could feel it. When he opened them again, he saw Janthro had staggered back a few steps, but taken no other action against their father. Kiman, standing slightly away from the pair, was smiling at the interplay. His older brothers and father remained frozen for the space of several heartbeats, until Janthro turned suddenly on his heel and stalked toward the front door.
“I did not give you leave to go!” their father yelled.
Janthro stopped dead, looked back over his shoulder, and in an arctic pitch said, “I don’t need your leave to do anything! Not anymore!”
Janthro continued walking. Kiman got in his way.
“Back down, little brother,” Kiman demanded, looking up at Janthro, fury in his eyes.
“To you?” Janthro snorted derisively. “Not a chance in hell!”
Janthro did punch Kiman, striking him so hard he sent the smaller man sprawling to the floor. Janthro did not wait to see what would happen next, just continued out the front door and into the night.
“Guards!” their father yelled.
“No!” Jerem cried at nearly the same instant.
Jerem remembered running down the stairs, the noise and chaos finally waking their mother. But too late. By then Janthro had gone, and though guards were sent, they never did find him. Janthro didn’t abandon Jerem entirely, though. He sent long letters home. Always in secret—for Kiman, now completely in control of the Barony’s affairs, was hunting him to bring him back, and father, angry at Janthro, had forbade his name to even be spoken in the house. The letters were smuggled in by Master Shaw, who cared enough about them both to risk the consequences of being caught. Jerem shared these secret letters with his mother, sitting at her feet in the library or at her bedside when she was too ill to get up, the words providing both of them comfort that Janthro was alive and well.
Jerem thought Janthro’s life out in the world sounded very exciting, though their mother seemed to think it more worrying than anything else. Janthro had made it to Windshae and enlisted in the Duke’s service. He finished his training to be a wood ranger, and was now leading his own group of men on assigned tasks. Janthro had always been vague about just what ‘tasks’ those were, so Jerem spent a great deal of time imagining those details, until his brother was as bold as any hero in a Bard’s tale.
But Jerem did not see Janthro again. Not until when mother’s health worsened enough to leave her completely bed-ridden. Then, Janthro had snuck back for one late night visit before disappearing once more. In the end, Janthro had gotten word of their mother’s final illness too late, and so never returned home again. The last letter Jerem had received, pressed tight to his chest in his shirt pocket said Janthro was ‘doing a little of the Duke’s business’ along the Dagger Mountains before returning to Windshae.
So that’s where Jerem was going; cold, with wet feet, creeping through a cemetery, to the Ducal Seat at Windshae, to find his only friend left in the world. At least the nearby priory would be warm. Jerem brushed the last of the dirt off his clothes as he walked up the stone path to its door. He spared a glance over his shoulder at his pack, to be sure his swords and anything else that might indicate something other than a simple camping trip were still hidden under its oilskin cover. Yes, everything looked normal. Just a boy with a backpack going camping. He couldn’t hide his bow, tied along the right side of his pack, but hoped the priest would take it as a normal thing for a boy to have for a trip in the woods.
Jerem took a deep breath, tried to look calm and not scared, and then knocked lightly on the door. A moment later, he heard footsteps approach and was rewarded by the friendly smile of the local Avatarian Priest. Jerem had only met him on a few occasions, mostly harvest festivals and feast days, and even then Jerem was always more interested in the entertainment than the blessings. The priest was a tall, lean, middle-aged man, though he looked about a decade older than he was. His hair was platinum blond, but graying heavily, and his blue eyes were piercing in an almost elvish way. The gods help him, but Jerem had no recollection of his name.
“Excuse me,” Jerem began, hoping the name would come to him soon, “I’m traveling, and I was wondering if I could have shelter for the night. Anywhere would be fine.” He tried to sound as adult as possible.
The priest squinted down at him for a second, and then said, “Ah, young Lord Jerem. Welcome. On a camping trip?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerem replied easily. He had hoped not to be recognized, but since he was, he let the Priest think he was merely exploring. To be caught so close to escape would be terrible. In a way it was true, he was camping—just not with permission and not going back. Never going back.
“I know it’s gotten rather chilly tonight,” the priest continued kindly. “You can stay here with me and then head back for warmer gear in the morning. Would you like to come in?”
Jerem nodded his agreement and the priest gestured Jerem into the foyer of his small house. You could have fit the entire building in the audience hall of their castle, but Jerem didn’t mind. It felt warmer here than home, all wood and plaster, not damp cold stone. He let the heat wash over him as he stood there, the fire burning merrily in a small library off to his right and generating warmth enough for nearly the whole of the house. There was a narrow stairway directly ahead that must have led to the priest’s quarters, and a small parlor to his left, which connected to a dining room. Past the stairs he could see the flicker of light from a kitchen of some sort.
The priest gestured him into the library with the small bow due Jerem as the Lord Baron’s youngest son. Jerem was so distracted he didn’t even notice. Usually having adults bow to him made him feel very strange, but this time he was too wrapped up in looking about the room, every wall covered floor to ceiling with books. All different sizes and colors, though Jerem’s gaze stayed the longest on the comfortable looking armchairs that sat in the room for guests.
“Please do sit down,” the priest told him, pointing to one of the armchairs. “Would you like some tea?”
While not all that fond of tea, Jerem was thirsty, so he nodded his agreement and the priest bowed his way out. Jerem watched him turn toward what must be the kitchen, and he was left in the quiet for several minutes. He took his pack off, carefully leaned it against one of the armchairs, and waited some more. Warming up at last while he waited, Jerem’s boredom drove him to pass the time browsing the shelves, finding mostly tomes on theology.
Ugh, boring. Doesn’t he read anything interesting?
Yet every once in a while, Jerem stumbled upon a fictional book, probably from the young acolytes who lived and studied here with the priest. One in particular caught his eye. It was a well-known tale about the Red Fox, a wood ranger-turned-bandit to protect the people of an oppressed Barony. Jerem couldn’t help himself, he sat tenderly on the edge of one of the chairs and began to read. He wasn’t sure how long he had been reading, when the priest returned with a steaming teapot, cups, and some small sandwiches. Jerem’s stomach growled softly.
The priest served the tea from a silver set likely reserved for important guests. It was probably why it had taken him so long to come back—the man had to find it first. Jerem wished the priest would realize he really didn’t care about such things. He just wanted to eat, drink, and then curl up on the floor and sleep until morning. The priest poured for Jerem first, handing the cup over with a bow, then seated himself and poured his own cup.
“What news of the Barony, my lord?” the priest asked, eyeing Jerem carefully. He seemed to be unsure of what to say.
Maybe he’s just bad at talking to kids. The Goddess knows I hate talking to grownups.
“It’s okay,” Jerem replied at last.
Silence fell for a while. Jerem drank his tea and ate a few of the sandwiches, surprised at how hungry he was.
“And your family?” the priest asked.
“Okay.”
A small smile appeared during the next conversational lull.
“You don’t say much, do you, young Lord?” The priest finished his drink and stood. “Very well. It’s late and we rise early here. I will take you to your room.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jerem put in quickly. “I was expecting to sleep outside, so the floor is fine. You don’t have to kick somebody out for me.”
“My Lord Kiman would not be pleased to find I had let you sleep on a floor,” the priest said, his hand lifting to indicate the library door.
“I won’t tell, if you won’t,” Jerem replied lightly, though something about the priest was starting to bother him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the mention of his brother had spooked him, and Jerem was very afraid of what would happen if he was caught. He doubted he could survive another beating like the first. The priest gestured again for the door.
“Please follow me,” he told Jerem.
The priest waited until Jerem stood up and collected his pack before turning and leading Jerem from the library, through the kitchen and out a small door to a narrow, covered outdoor walkway that led to a larger building. The blast of cold air that hit them once they left the priory was especially bitter after the warmth of the library. Jerem started to shiver again as they walked. But it would be warm again soon and he could sleep.
The priest also looked cold as he took out his ring of keys and they approached the door to the acolyte’s quarters, the hand holding his keys shaking. The sound fixated Jerem on those keys, a dissonant jangling in an otherwise quiet night, and he froze still for a moment. Maybe the priest was going to lock up the priory after they left, but… The priest cleared his throat as Jerem halted overlong at the doorway of the narrow, low building where the priest’s students slept. Jerem watched the priest unlock the door and gesture him inside
Jerem swallowed his irrational fear and entered the building. He was just being stupid. The man was probably trying to be nice to him by giving him a real bed. He should be grateful. Not everyone was a spy for Kiman. And it was warm in here. And tomorrow he would move on. Jerem heard the priest shut the door and come forward to lead him onward down the hallway. There seemed to be about twelve rooms in all, six on each side.
It was only then that Jerem realized that these doors had locks on the outside, like a dungeon. His heart began to hammer in something akin to panic. The priest had stopped now, to unlock one of the rooms to their left. He opened the door to reveal a small rectangular room with a single, simple, bed. There was a desk beside it and a trunk at its foot, but otherwise it was empty. Jerem’s eyes flew to its only window, far too small to climb through.
The priest gestured Jerem inside, but Jerem was frozen in place with fear. He just couldn’t take his eyes off the Priest’s keys. Being locked in at night might be normal for an acolyte, but he didn’t dare let himself get trapped. Not with Kiman searching for him. Jerem turned back toward the door they had entered the dormitory from, eyes huge in the dim light. It was just so far away. The priest’s eyes narrowed in response to Jerem’s face and he said,
“In here, if you please.”
Jerem began to unconsciously shake his head. No. He had to get out of here. Jerem took a step back toward the door to the outside. No. He would not enter that warm room for all the money in the world just now. Jerem swallowed twice and tried to keep the fear out of his voice.
“No,” he began, fumbling for any excuse to leave in his panic. “On second thought, I’ll sleep outside. It’s okay. Really.”
Jerem was backing away, but the priest was moved closer to intercept him. By the barest margin, Jerem did not run, instead he kept his pace steady, prattling on as if nothing was wrong.
“I meant to camp, so outside is better,” he babbled. “I appreciate the offer, but this is kind of cheating.”
Jerem could tell the priest didn’t believe him, but didn’t know what else to say. He just kept backing toward the door slowly. The exit at the end of the hall seemed very far away.
“I can’t let you leave,” the priest told him firmly before he had gotten even halfway there.
The man seized Jerem by the arm then, and Jerem wasn’t sure if the Priest had grabbed just the right spot, or if anywhere would have done as well, but he cried out in pain. The beating last Matrinsday had been severe. The Priest let go at once, but rushed closer.
“My Lord, you are hurt!”
“I’m okay,” Jerem gritted through his teeth, still backing away. “I just need to go.”
“No, come with me to the library and I will tend you,” the priest offered, no longer stern but concerned.
It didn’t help. Jerem was still scared of him. He didn’t want to turn his back on the priest, so he mostly shuffled sideways until he reached the door. The priest kept pace with him, but did not touch him again.
“Lord Jerem,” he repeated. “I only want to help. If we go back to the library, I can fix whatever’s wrong.”
Jerem could say nothing to that obvious lie. No one, not even a priest, could fix his problems. But Jerem also knew the man could help heal him. If he could be trusted. Jerem didn’t want to be in pain anymore. Was that so wrong? Jerem fumbled blindly behind himself for the knob, opened the door, and sidled outside. The priest stayed nearby, silent but concerned. The sudden cold stopped Jerem still in the walkway, torn in indecision. He just didn’t want to hurt anymore. He didn’t want to make a mistake. He wanted to find Janthro.
The priest merely waited as Jerem looked out across the snowy graveyard and then over to the door to the warm priory. The quiet drew out as they stood there, the priest careful not to touch Jerem nor get between him and a way out. In the end, it was that opportunity to escape that reassured Jerem enough to enter the priory. The priest would not try to hold him prisoner again. Jerem allowed the man to guide him to sit in one of the armchairs.
The renewed warmth nearly broke Jerem, his emotions roiling about. He blinked rapidly, his throat burning. It wasn’t fair! Why couldn’t he just have one warm, safe night? Why? But the priest had said he couldn’t let him leave. And that meant he knew Jerem wasn’t ‘camping.’ It meant cold or not, hurt or not, Jerem had to go.
“I really have to go, sir,” Jerem protested, his voice thick.
The Priest brushed his words aside, kneeling before Jerem’s chair. He lifted back Jerem’s sleeve and examined his arm. Jerem just couldn’t find the strength to resist further. It was all too hard! He collapsed back into the chair and let the priest fuss over him. Why was it all so hard? Jerem instinctively began to curl about himself in despair, his legs drawing up into the chair to press against his chest.
“It’s all right, child,” the Priest reassured him gently, dropping the ‘my lord’s’ and ‘Lord Jerem’s’ and looking at him with pity.
Jerem only sniffled in return, letting his head fall to rest on his knees. Jerem didn’t see the Priest’s darkening expression as his examination revealed a rainbow mass of purple, green, brown, and yellow that ran up both Jerem’s arms from all the bruising, but he did hear a word that he never thought he would coming from an Avatarian priest. Jerem’s eyes opened in surprise, to catch the Priest’s brows drawing down sharply upon seeing the scabbed over cuts, where the lash had broken skin.
Jerem could offer no explanation. Kiman had ordered a healer to repair the broken arm and ribs, but insisted that the rest of Jerem’s injuries be untouched so that they would heal naturally as a reminder to Jerem to ‘always know his place.’ Jerem swallowed and forced down the sob that followed the memories. Know his place? No place deserved that! How could Kiman have thought he deserved that? Jerem didn’t think he would ever find an answer that didn’t hurt as badly as the beating had. But he wasn’t going to cry. Not here. He looked up at the priest with haunted eyes. The priest’s return gaze said it all. The shock and sadness on the priest’s face turned into action and he whispered under his breath. Jerem could feel a tingling and then his arm felt fine.
The rest, please…
Jerem stopped the plea before it left his lips. He had to go. Now. He needed to find Janthro. Jerem uncurled from his seat and tried to stand. The Priest seemed to know he was still hurt.
“Where else are you hurt, Jerem?” He asked gently. “Your face was never good at hiding anything.”
“Everywhere,” Jerem admitted, his voice cracking.
The man put his hands on Jerem’s shoulders and closed his eyes. There was some more chanting, and this time the tingling spread throughout Jerem’s body, easing the aches and giving him energy. Jerem knew without looking that his body was as whole as if the beating had never taken place. The other injuries, the ones to his heart, Jerem doubted would ever heal.
“Now, my son,” the priest asked seriously. “What happened to you? Who did this?”
Jerem looked at the floor and said nothing. No matter what Kiman had done, he wouldn’t rat on his own family. They’d never believe him anyway. Jerem kept his eyes on the floor until his nerve failed and then looked up. The priest was still studying him, with a frown on his face.
“Your brother, Kiman, I’d expect.”
He didn’t give Jerem time to deny or confirm, he just grabbed Jerem’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
“I’m afraid I may have done you a terrible turn this evening,” the man went on as he led him back toward the kitchen. “You see, you were not my first visitor. Men from your household arrived bearing the message that you had run away. If I saw you, I was to send word so that you might be brought safely home. In my wildest nightmares, I never believed they meant you ill.”
Oh no! I’m trapped!
Jerem nearly took off at a run right then, but the Priest had his arm and moved him toward the back door at a somewhat saner pace. The priest was surprisingly strong, so Jerem had no choice but to remain with him.
“I sent young Colin down to them when I went to make the tea,” the priest explained, still not letting go of Jerem. “There isn’t much time.”
The priest led Jerem outside and around to the back of the priory opposite the dormitory where there was small barn. The priest released him, opened the wide double doors, and gestured Jerem inside. Jerem looked around to see two cows and some goats in the various pens. He thought he could smell horses, too, though the farthest stall doors were closed. The priest led him past the other animals to the far end of the darkened building.
“We don’t keep many animals, here,” the priest continued to speak calmly, though Jerem was shifting from foot to foot in his hurry to be gone. “I do however have a green filly that was donated by your father. Given you were training to be his Horsemaster, I think you might be able to ride her. You might not get away, but at least you’ll have a chance.”
A horse! Goddess, that’s great!
“Thank you,” Jerem stammered aloud, his panic fading with the Priest’s promise of aid. “Thank you. I can’t repay you….”
“No need,” the priest told him with a smile. “I’ll tell them that you caught on to me and ran back across the fields.”
He gestured at the stall to his right, and Jerem opened the door and stepped inside. A mare was standing in the dark back corner, not asleep, but watching him warily. She was a good fourteen hands, and still young enough to grow more, and her thick winter coat was so sleek and black she was almost shining in the faint moonlight. With a shock, Jerem realized that he actually knew her.
Brightwind!
Jerem had been training Brightwind before she had been taken away, his first attempt at doing so. He’d seen her born, named her, played with her, and then cried when she had been sent away without warning last spring. Brightwind sniffed the air in turn, as if she too remembered. Jerem cooed at her, whispering soft, kind words to settle her as he slid the bit to her bridle in her mouth. She pulled back at the bit, which was probably uncomfortable and unfamiliar in her mouth, but Jerem rubbed her along her shoulder as he always had back home. Brightwind settled down at his touch and lowered her head. Once the bridle was on, it was time for her saddle. This process went much smoother, as Brightwind seemed to have decided that she trusted him, and even when he tightened the girth, she did not shy back from him. With a gentle tug, Jerem led her out into the night. With another muttered thank you to the priest, Jerem stepped into the stirrup and swung himself up. Jerem doubted he could have stayed on had she not known him since she was a baby, but Brightwind did not throw him, shifting and stepping anxiously under him.
“Easy Brightwind…” Jerem couldn’t keep her still for long, and she went charging out down the road. “Thanks again!” he yelled over his shoulder, finally getting her to gallop off in the direction he wanted.
He did not look back. The wind was biting, but Jerem was not feeling the cold. He was healed, he was free, and he was racing the wind itself. He let out a whoop and urged Brightwind on into the night.
So.... I decided to post from the first story in the series and see if anyone else enjoys it. It's a fantasy tale. All rights reserved. In other words, enjoy it, don’t copy it.
A Brother's Tale
Chapter 1: Lost in the Night
Jerem was creeping through a cemetery, trying not to think too much about it. He’d had enough of cemeteries. Cold useless places. Places where worlds ended. The half-elven boy sniffled in the dark, thoughts of his mother’s funeral flitting through his mind, but he kept moving despite his grief. Away. He was going away, though he still didn’t know exactly where. Jerem sniffled again.
Gotta be better than here.
Jerem wove his way through the forest of graying white stones and cracked wooden markers slowly, making steady progress even without a torch or lantern on this cold moonless night. Jerem hadn’t really considered the how much a gift seeing in the dark could be until he’d really needed it, nor how much he would come to depend on it to help avoid pursuit.
Pursuit, for the moment, seemed to be far away, though he kept looking back every few minutes as if the expected men might suddenly appear in the darkness. Jerem was making one such check when he tripped over a gravestone and fell to the dirt, landing in a pile of freshly turned earth that splattered his face and short blond hair. He lay there for a while, not really hurt by the fall, but worn down to a level of pure emotional exhaustion that made movement impossible.
Damn it!
His mother would have been shocked he even knew such words, though his brothers and father knew more. It didn’t matter; Jerem couldn’t find any words that would work. Not now. No words, no explanation, no why.
Why did it have to be mom?
With a touch of bitterness, Jerem thought of his life over the last few months, a life that had flipped upside down and inside out in the most painful of ways. Like when Master Fochart’s wagon had collided with that crowd of revelers last All Soul’s Day. They hadn’t let him into Clearwater to see, but for weeks afterward everyone in the town looked so… dead… as they went about their business they might well have had their souls sucked out by some creature in a mad bard’s tale.
Jerem hadn’t understood, then. He understood now. Oh, how he understood now. In some ways, the bitterness of his thoughts was welcome, knifing through the deadness into some genuine feeling, even if it was anger. It had been barely a month since his mother died and the crying had stopped, yet this deadness remained. No great joy, no great sadness, just…dead. It felt like someone had torn his heart out and forgot to replace it with anything at all. Jerem feared this too, would pass like the sobbing to be replaced by the Gods alone knew what, but…
Jerem was suddenly aware he was lying in the dirt of someone’s grave and scrambled to his feet in fear. He frantically brushed the dirt from his hair and clothes, as if it were something worse than just dirt. There was a rustle in the brush.
What was that?
Jerem stopped still, listening, but heard nothing, not even an owl.
Got to keep moving. Got to. Not gonna catch me.
Jerem brushed some more of the dirt out of his hair, which made his arms ache. It made everything ache. He tried to think of something other than the hurt: that it was cold, the white of the snow, the graves. Somehow thinking of the graves just made it worse. Nothing left. Nothing. He wanted mom back, damn it! He cursed again, a soft elven mutter of words that would have surprised anyone, not just his mother this time, sniffling. He just wanted her back. Oh, why couldn’t he have her back…
Jerem slid down to the ground, only a few steps from the fresh grave, unable to go further after all. His head fell to his knees, pressed tight to his chest. Tears began to fall, even though he’d been sure there were none left. He just hurt.
Mama, please...
The tears came harder now, shaking his small form worse than the cold. Jerem remembered when she had finally told him she was ill. Even in his little kid, self-obsessed brain, Jerem had known something was wrong. It had been wrong for a long time, but to hear it spoken scared him. If they had told him, then it was truly bad. Nobody really told him anything—they just treated him like a baby. Everyone except for his brother Janthro, and Janthro wasn’t there anymore. Even his mother had lied. She had told him not to worry—that just because she was sick now, it didn’t mean she would be sick forever. She would be well. It would just take time.
Lies! Why did she lie to me?
But Jerem had tried. For her, he had tried. Tried so hard to be hopeful, his own fears growing daily, hidden in an effort not to make her feel worse. Jerem had not known what else to do, but he had been desperate to do something, anything, for his mother. So he repeated the words of assurance he overheard from his father and oldest brothers—that it would be okay, that they would find another healer, one who could do something. Or another, or another…
What had he really known? Nothing. But he believed. Jerem believed in his very soul that if they just hunted hard enough, fought it long enough, somehow his mom could beat it. He held that hope tight to him, even through the fall, while his mother hobbled around in pain of every step. Jerem could have cried with joy that spring, when she actually looked to be getting better, the pain lessening. His mother was walking again, the dark blotches on her skin disappearing. Even the latest treatment, which made her miserable for days after, seemed tolerable if it bought time.
Jerem was so certain that his mother would be okay that he began to live his own life again, to think of a world outside of this sickness that had consumed his family. Jerem had eagerly gone back to his duties in the stables and the horses he’d come to love. He’d been willing to wander the family lands for more than a few hours at a time, and lured by the excitement of a trip to nearby Clearwater, Jerem had gone that morning without a second thought. It had been a business trip, traveling with his second oldest brother, Jonander, to check out the breeding prospects on Lord Donagles’ farm. Jerem had been so happy and excited he’d hardly slept at all the night before. When he’d said goodbye to his mother, she’d even laughed a little to see him bouncing from foot to foot so eager to be gone.
It had been a magical day. Riding beside his brother, like an adult, like someone trusted with a job. Jonander had actually let him in among the horses, to run and explore while he examined them to see which, if any, they would buy. Jerem remembered thinking he had never seen such a glorious day, the sky a cerulean blue with clouds so white they practically glowed. It had been perfect. Perfect weather, perfect company, and Jonander had even let him pick one horse to buy all by himself. Then the messenger came.
“Your Lady mother has died.”
Five words with a weight seemed to come out of nowhere, a real physical weight that crushed Jerem to the ground. He nearly fell to his knees there among the horses, only remaining upright because of a sliver of pure doubt.
They’re wrong! I just saw her this morning. They’re wrong!
The next thing he remembered was Jonander taking him by the shoulders, and it was only then that Jerem realized he had been yelling at the messenger. He couldn’t even recall what he had said. But Jonander held him back, somberly thanked the messenger, and they rode home. Jerem cried the whole way.
Father was drunk again when they arrived, sitting in the castle library, whiskey in hand. He was crying, which Jerem supposed was something, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. Jerem just ran for his room and slammed the door, the pain too great for his small body. Everything around him reminded him of his mother, so he curled into a ball on the bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and didn’t move. Jerem didn’t think he ever wanted to move again.
Finally Kiman, his oh-so-perfect eldest brother, came for him. Kiman opened Jerem’s bedroom door, and walked around to look down on his baby brother. Whether Kiman was grieving or not, Jerem couldn’t tell. His brother’s face was a smooth mask, green eyes cold under perfectly groomed short blond hair. Kiman almost looked ready to go to court. Unfeeling lout or good actor? Did it even matter? Jerem just peered up from the bed as Kiman told him “you are a Telcontur, and you need to be downstairs.”
Jerem said nothing. He just lay on the bed, his thoughts a shifting mass of pain, anger, and bitterness. He wasn’t going down there. Kiman could go, but not him. Not when all he would be was an ornament for some soul-draining ‘thing’ in a room full of people he’d never met or really cared about. No one down there could understand.
Mom!
It was just a small, silent cry for the only one who could have made it better. The one who had always made him feel better. His lip quivered as the realization hit him yet again that she could not ever be there for him anymore. Jerem swallowed hard, trying not to cry. Kiman had frowned down at Jerem’s miserable and immobile form for a few moments more, and then left without a word. Jerem had hoped that to be the end of it. Let Kiman stand down there with the mourners. Jerem started to cry again, when he considered what else was down there, laid out in a flower-decked coffin in the front receiving room.
He was still crying when the household servants appeared, sent no doubt to be sure he was dressed properly and brought down to the great hall. The blue and green, house-uniformed army surrounded him. Jerem ignored them and remained on his bed. The staff dressed him anyway. Jerem refused to sit up. They lifted him to his feet. The servants even combed and brushed his hair when he refused to do so himself. When they were done, Jerem stood there a moment, before like the dead he felt he was, Jerem followed them downstairs on stiff legs. They left him standing beside Jonander and Kiman in the entry hall, where he spent an eternity being polite to people he had never met, pretending that he was okay.
Goddess, how could you do this to her! To me!!
The plea was torn from him as he stood there, frozen on the outside, dying on the inside. Frozen forever. Jerem came back to himself suddenly and realized he had not moved in a very long time. He was still sitting in the cemetery, the cold’s icy fingers shivering him away from his thoughts. He needed to get moving again, or he might very well freeze to death in the night.
It was unseasonably cold for so early in autumn, the leaves on the oaks among the graves just starting to turn, but there would be frost tonight. Jerem looked about him for some kind of shelter. It had seemed like such a good idea—running away. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. But he was not going back. His eyes finally lit on the faint glow of a warmed home, probably the local Avatarian priest’s house.
Maybe I’ll ask for shelter there tonight.
Jerem didn’t want to sleep outdoors tonight, not in this bitter cold. He tried to stand and found the rest and the cold had stiffened his aching limbs so much that even walking was painful. Remembering the betrayal that caused the aches hurt Jerem even more. Had it really only been four days?
“Truly, you shouldn’t have interfered, Jerem,” Kiman had told him then, his voice emotionless yet frightening Jerem all the same, “Now you will both need to be punished.”
And then at a snap of Kiman’s fingers, two of the household guard appeared. At Kiman’s direction, one grabbed him, the other taking hold of the servant boy Jerem had been trying to help. The other boy’s eyes were wide with fear, though he did not resist. Jerem tried to shake himself loose. He might as well have been struggling against stone and not flesh.
“Hey,” Jerem had demanded petulantly, “Let me go!”
But the man did not let him go. The burly guardsman just looked over to Kiman and waited.
“See that he remembers,” Kiman stated coldly, and then turned his back on his youngest brother.
The finality of it scared Jerem speechless.
Wait…
The iron-hard grip lifted Jerem off his feet, and Jerem at last panicked. It had been an accident! It had been nothing! What was Kiman doing?! Jerem cried out for his brother, begging Kiman to stop…to stay…to not do this. But Kiman didn’t even look back as he left. And what happened next, Jerem would never forget.
He and the servant boy had been dragged bodily out of the kitchen, down the back stairs, and deep into the cellar level of the castle. They finally halted in a large open room that the household guard often used for training. Jerem still struggled desperately to get free, but his struggles had been useless, he so small and the guard so big.
What was happening? The guards had never ever laid hands on him like this! They’d never even touched him before. Why wouldn’t they let go? Jerem tried again to wriggle free, but in vain. The guard’s grip on his arms hurt!
“Tem!”
Jerem now dared to glance over as he called out to the servant boy, to find Tem wasn’t struggling at all, but
crying, tears streaming down his pale face. Jerem’s panic grew as the heavy oak door shut behind them with an ominous thud. It was only then that he realized there were two more men in the room, waiting. He and Tem were dragged to the center of the room, toward the others.
“Let me go!” Jerem pleaded to the new guards. “Please! Let me go!”
Jerem didn’t even see the first blow before it hit, yet it drove him to the floor hard, his face on fire. He didn’t see the next, either, but he was grabbed again and dragged upright. One after another, blows landed on his small body. Punishment? Ha! When it was over, and the men left him lying on the cold, stone floor, Jerem could barely move. He lay there, sobbing, for what felt like hours.
“Tem?” he finally asked, turning his head the agonizing few inches over to look.
The servant boy he had been trying to protect did not answer. Tem just lay in a similar heap on the floor, not moving at all.
“T-T-Tem?” Jerem asked again, afraid.
There was no answer this time either, and Jerem started to cry once more. He wanted to run away, but it hurt too much to even turn his head back around. He swallowed hard and tasted blood. Jerem cried harder, though the sobs that wracked his body with the movement hurt.
How could he!
Jerem didn’t understand how his own brother could have done such an evil thing. What kind of animal would do that to another person? Tem had only been a servant, assigned to the kitchens, but he was just about Jerem’s own age, and the loss of the eggs had not been Tem’s fault. It had been an accident. An accident!
Why would Kiman do that to him? Why would he do that to me!
The last wailing question was followed by a thought both startling and alien.
I hate him!
If he had been older, Jerem might have acted on this burning fiery emotion which threatened to consume him. Instead, Jerem had just lain on the cellar floor, huddled in a hurting mass, too afraid to even touch the unmoving boy beside him. Jerem feared the boy was dead, beaten to death at his own brother’s word. He feared he might die. It certainly hurt like he would. Jerem sobbed and sobbed on the cold stone.
Eventually, they had come for him. Silent servants, who gathered him up and carried him up to his room and laid him in his bed. Jerem squeezed his eyes shut tight, tears leaking through his lids in bottomless grief and pain. Where was Kiman? Wasn’t he sorry? Surely he couldn’t have meant for it to happen like this!
But Kiman never came. Not to apologize, nor to even see if he was all right. And Jerem hated him all the more for it. Kiman should have come. Should have said sorry. Should have said something! Any remorse would have been a salve on his wounds, enabling him to stay. But on that sunny afternoon, everything had been destroyed.
Nothing left now.
It was a silent mantra as his wounds had been tended by the household staff. And still Kiman did not come. And still Jerem could not summon the courage to ask about Tem. The servants did not mention him, either, not even when Jerem finally did ask the following evening.
“We have been instructed that it is not your concern,” one of the chambermaids told him.
Jerem had not seen Tem again.
I wish I knew if he lived. Please, let him have lived. I was only trying to help him. Please, don’t let me have killed him. I was only trying to help…
For two whole days that followed, Jerem had been paralyzed by guilt, pain, fear, and indecision. He did not eat, did not sleep more than a few minutes at a time; he did not do much more than huddle in a ball on his bed, feeling utterly forsaken. Every time his door opened, Jerem filled with a painful mixture of hope and fear, but Kiman had not come to see him. His brother was not sorry. His brother didn’t even care. And father was probably drunk in the library. And he didn’t care either. Jerem had never felt so alone.
The door did open once or twice later on, the first time to allow a healer to fix whatever had been wrong in his chest that had made it hurt to breathe and the stabbing pain in his arm. ‘A bad fall’ had been the story told by the servant who brought the priest to Jerem’s bedside. That and ‘my master wishes to leave the bruises so that the young lord will remember to be more careful in the future.’ Jerem was too scared to say anything at all about the lie.
The second time the servants came, it was with orders from Kiman to make Jerem perform his stable duties. The chambermaids and housecarl seemed reluctant to do so, though they saw to it he was dressed and brought to the stable regardless, strangely more concerned about him than what remained of his own family. Not concerned enough to defy Kiman, but still it had been a small crumb of comfort.
The only man to actually defy the ‘back to work’ order had been Thomas Shaw, the Telcontur’s horsemaster, to whom Jerem had been apprenticed to learn the trade. Master Shaw knew Jerem better than most anyone left in the castle, and had taken one look at Jerem’s hobbling and stricken form, before leading him to a pile of horse blankets in the dark tack room.
“You sit there today, Lord Jerem. You just sit,” Mr. Shaw had said, his gruff voice softened with uncharacteristic tenderness.
He guided Jerem to the blankets, watched him lie down, and then left Jerem alone with his broken thoughts. Around lunchtime, Master Shaw returned, to give him some apples and honey, as well as a mug of ale, seeming to understand that Jerem was too afraid to go into the castle and eat where he might encounter Kiman.
Jerem thanked him, and then Master Shaw was gone again, likely working to complete all the stable tasks before dusk. Jerem, in turn, looked at the mug dubiously. He sniffed at the amber liquid. Ale. His mother had never let him drink ale. He swallowed hard, trying not to cry again as he thought of his mom. With a shuddering breath, Jerem took a sip of the mug, desperate for any task to distract him from his grief. It tasted pretty bad, but Jerem drank anyway because he was thirsty. Eating the apples after helped. And then Jerem was alone again. Too exhausted to even think, Jerem fell asleep shortly thereafter.
Master Shaw returned and woke him at the end of the day. The horsemaster had another bundle of food, this time some dried meat, a small slab of bread, and water. It wasn’t much, and it was clearly what the servants were offered to eat, but it meant Jerem wouldn’t have to go eat dinner with Kiman. Jerem nodded his thanks and ate ravenously. When he was finished, Master Shaw saw him back to the castle. Jerem fled across the foyer and ran for his room. He locked the door behind him and moved his small desk chair against it. Just in case.
The next day, Jerem was back in the stable by his own choice, back somewhere safe. The morning chores were comforting, even if he still hurt whenever he moved, and the horses trusted confidantes for his fears. Jerem did not see Master Shaw much as he worked, in fact it was nearly lunchtime before he realized that Master Shaw was moving funny, strangely stiff, as if he were hurt. So Jerem had asked about it, thinking the man injured by one of the horses, to be brushed off with an ‘I just slept funny.’ Jerem didn’t think any more of it, still too wrapped up in his own aches, until an overheard conversation later that night made Jerem realize that Kiman had had Master Shaw whipped for the kindness he’d shown to Jerem the day before. Jerem cried himself to sleep that night.
I’ve got to stop him! I’ve got to! No one else is getting hurt because of me!
Jerem was dead certain of that, but the how eluded him. All night his thoughts looped around the problem helplessly. What could he do? Even at sixteen, Jerem was still a child by his half-elven blood, of a size and maturity with his nine or ten-year-old fellows in the village. Kiman was well over twenty years older than Jerem, and even if he was short, still larger than him. Once, Jerem would have thought to ask their father for help, but in the weeks since his mother’s death, his father had descended in to a near-constant drunken stupor. Jerem hadn’t seen him move from the library in well over a week.
And in the meantime, Kiman had descended into a level of cruelty Jerem would not have believed. It had gotten so he didn’t even recognize his eldest brother anymore. Hell, forget not recognize, Jerem was scared of him now. How could he stop someone with the power of life and death over an entire barony? Kiman had had him beaten. Kiman could order him killed. Would father even stop Kiman? Images of Tem lying still on the cellar floor and Master Shaw limping about the stable haunted Jerem like ghosts. Kiman could hurt or kill anyone left he still cared about. And Jerem still didn’t know what to do!
Mom would never have let him near me!
Jerem’s fist clenched in remembered helplessness of the beating. He wanted his mother desperately. He wanted her to make everything right. But she could never make anything right for him again. Yet in that hopeless instant, Jerem knew there was only one person alive who could. He knew who he could run to—Janthro.
So he was running this night to his brother. The hope of the thought a source of warmth as he walked. Janthro would help him. Janthro was only nine years older, but he had always been the brave one. He hadn’t gotten people hurt or maybe killed. Janthro had stood up to Kiman. It hadn’t worked, but at least Janthro had tried.
Jerem recalled that final angry showdown between Janthro and their father four years before, which had caused his brother to flee. Jerem had been hiding up on the landing, face pressed against the spindles of the staircase, while Janthro paced across the foyer below and revealed to their father the cruelty he had witnessed in Kiman. Cruelty Jerem might have doubted if he had not just experienced it first-hand. But Janthro had been bold, braver by far than he. Faced with the wrongness of it all, Janthro chose to fight and stood before the only authority higher than Kiman—their father. Janthro laid out each horrific deed meticulously, biting out the words in a low and fierce voice, ending with the death of a man Janthro had befriended. A man he accused Kiman of having killed.
A ‘hunting accident’ Kiman had explained in calming tones, so different from the anger rolling like waves off of Janthro. A misstep in the paddock—Kiman had an answer for every one of the accusations. ‘Lies all!’ Janthro had yelled. Jerem watched breathlessly as his oldest brother responded, weaving a tapestry of reasonableness around himself that made Janthro look petty, dishonest, and spiteful by comparison. Janthro’s voice rose higher as he rejected the lies, yelling at both his father and brother, now.
“Do you believe him or me?” Janthro had demanded in the end, and even Jerem could tell they were standing on a knife edge. The wrong answer here would split their family as surely as lightning striking a tree. He held his breath. Thick as thieves with Janthro, Jerem believed him with unswerving faith, no matter how much he had not wanted to think Kiman capable of such things. But who would their father believe? Jerem feared who their father might believe. In his panic, hope struck suddenly.
Mom can stop this!
Even though she was ill, his mother would want to know, to stop this, fix it before it shattered. His mother would make it all right again. Jerem got to his hands and knees and scrambled up the remaining stairs. He hadn’t even reached the top when he heard his father’s answer.
“Janthro. You will submit to your brother’s rule, in all things,” their father ordered in a dark and furious voice. “I will have no more lies in this house.”
“I will never submit to a kerachi like him!” Janthro had yelled back, defiant.
There was a crack and a thump, and by the time Jerem made it back to the railing, he could see Janthro sitting on the floor, looking up at their father, green eyes blazing, his hand on his jaw.
Goddess, father just hit him!
“You will not disobey me or use that language in my house!” their father shouted, “I will not have it!”
Janthro stood very deliberately, to end nose to nose with his father, ignoring the tiniest splash of red that ran along his mouth. It startled Jerem to realize his brother, though still thin as a rail, was now a few inches taller than their father. There was a pause, and then Janthro answered, his voice pitched low yet carrying throughout the foyer.
“You will have no house to speak of, if you let Kiman rule.”
Jerem saw his father hit Janthro again, closing his eyes as his father’s fist made contact with his brother’s face. This wasn’t punishment, something sinister was happening, and Jerem could feel it. When he opened them again, he saw Janthro had staggered back a few steps, but taken no other action against their father. Kiman, standing slightly away from the pair, was smiling at the interplay. His older brothers and father remained frozen for the space of several heartbeats, until Janthro turned suddenly on his heel and stalked toward the front door.
“I did not give you leave to go!” their father yelled.
Janthro stopped dead, looked back over his shoulder, and in an arctic pitch said, “I don’t need your leave to do anything! Not anymore!”
Janthro continued walking. Kiman got in his way.
“Back down, little brother,” Kiman demanded, looking up at Janthro, fury in his eyes.
“To you?” Janthro snorted derisively. “Not a chance in hell!”
Janthro did punch Kiman, striking him so hard he sent the smaller man sprawling to the floor. Janthro did not wait to see what would happen next, just continued out the front door and into the night.
“Guards!” their father yelled.
“No!” Jerem cried at nearly the same instant.
Jerem remembered running down the stairs, the noise and chaos finally waking their mother. But too late. By then Janthro had gone, and though guards were sent, they never did find him. Janthro didn’t abandon Jerem entirely, though. He sent long letters home. Always in secret—for Kiman, now completely in control of the Barony’s affairs, was hunting him to bring him back, and father, angry at Janthro, had forbade his name to even be spoken in the house. The letters were smuggled in by Master Shaw, who cared enough about them both to risk the consequences of being caught. Jerem shared these secret letters with his mother, sitting at her feet in the library or at her bedside when she was too ill to get up, the words providing both of them comfort that Janthro was alive and well.
Jerem thought Janthro’s life out in the world sounded very exciting, though their mother seemed to think it more worrying than anything else. Janthro had made it to Windshae and enlisted in the Duke’s service. He finished his training to be a wood ranger, and was now leading his own group of men on assigned tasks. Janthro had always been vague about just what ‘tasks’ those were, so Jerem spent a great deal of time imagining those details, until his brother was as bold as any hero in a Bard’s tale.
But Jerem did not see Janthro again. Not until when mother’s health worsened enough to leave her completely bed-ridden. Then, Janthro had snuck back for one late night visit before disappearing once more. In the end, Janthro had gotten word of their mother’s final illness too late, and so never returned home again. The last letter Jerem had received, pressed tight to his chest in his shirt pocket said Janthro was ‘doing a little of the Duke’s business’ along the Dagger Mountains before returning to Windshae.
So that’s where Jerem was going; cold, with wet feet, creeping through a cemetery, to the Ducal Seat at Windshae, to find his only friend left in the world. At least the nearby priory would be warm. Jerem brushed the last of the dirt off his clothes as he walked up the stone path to its door. He spared a glance over his shoulder at his pack, to be sure his swords and anything else that might indicate something other than a simple camping trip were still hidden under its oilskin cover. Yes, everything looked normal. Just a boy with a backpack going camping. He couldn’t hide his bow, tied along the right side of his pack, but hoped the priest would take it as a normal thing for a boy to have for a trip in the woods.
Jerem took a deep breath, tried to look calm and not scared, and then knocked lightly on the door. A moment later, he heard footsteps approach and was rewarded by the friendly smile of the local Avatarian Priest. Jerem had only met him on a few occasions, mostly harvest festivals and feast days, and even then Jerem was always more interested in the entertainment than the blessings. The priest was a tall, lean, middle-aged man, though he looked about a decade older than he was. His hair was platinum blond, but graying heavily, and his blue eyes were piercing in an almost elvish way. The gods help him, but Jerem had no recollection of his name.
“Excuse me,” Jerem began, hoping the name would come to him soon, “I’m traveling, and I was wondering if I could have shelter for the night. Anywhere would be fine.” He tried to sound as adult as possible.
The priest squinted down at him for a second, and then said, “Ah, young Lord Jerem. Welcome. On a camping trip?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerem replied easily. He had hoped not to be recognized, but since he was, he let the Priest think he was merely exploring. To be caught so close to escape would be terrible. In a way it was true, he was camping—just not with permission and not going back. Never going back.
“I know it’s gotten rather chilly tonight,” the priest continued kindly. “You can stay here with me and then head back for warmer gear in the morning. Would you like to come in?”
Jerem nodded his agreement and the priest gestured Jerem into the foyer of his small house. You could have fit the entire building in the audience hall of their castle, but Jerem didn’t mind. It felt warmer here than home, all wood and plaster, not damp cold stone. He let the heat wash over him as he stood there, the fire burning merrily in a small library off to his right and generating warmth enough for nearly the whole of the house. There was a narrow stairway directly ahead that must have led to the priest’s quarters, and a small parlor to his left, which connected to a dining room. Past the stairs he could see the flicker of light from a kitchen of some sort.
The priest gestured him into the library with the small bow due Jerem as the Lord Baron’s youngest son. Jerem was so distracted he didn’t even notice. Usually having adults bow to him made him feel very strange, but this time he was too wrapped up in looking about the room, every wall covered floor to ceiling with books. All different sizes and colors, though Jerem’s gaze stayed the longest on the comfortable looking armchairs that sat in the room for guests.
“Please do sit down,” the priest told him, pointing to one of the armchairs. “Would you like some tea?”
While not all that fond of tea, Jerem was thirsty, so he nodded his agreement and the priest bowed his way out. Jerem watched him turn toward what must be the kitchen, and he was left in the quiet for several minutes. He took his pack off, carefully leaned it against one of the armchairs, and waited some more. Warming up at last while he waited, Jerem’s boredom drove him to pass the time browsing the shelves, finding mostly tomes on theology.
Ugh, boring. Doesn’t he read anything interesting?
Yet every once in a while, Jerem stumbled upon a fictional book, probably from the young acolytes who lived and studied here with the priest. One in particular caught his eye. It was a well-known tale about the Red Fox, a wood ranger-turned-bandit to protect the people of an oppressed Barony. Jerem couldn’t help himself, he sat tenderly on the edge of one of the chairs and began to read. He wasn’t sure how long he had been reading, when the priest returned with a steaming teapot, cups, and some small sandwiches. Jerem’s stomach growled softly.
The priest served the tea from a silver set likely reserved for important guests. It was probably why it had taken him so long to come back—the man had to find it first. Jerem wished the priest would realize he really didn’t care about such things. He just wanted to eat, drink, and then curl up on the floor and sleep until morning. The priest poured for Jerem first, handing the cup over with a bow, then seated himself and poured his own cup.
“What news of the Barony, my lord?” the priest asked, eyeing Jerem carefully. He seemed to be unsure of what to say.
Maybe he’s just bad at talking to kids. The Goddess knows I hate talking to grownups.
“It’s okay,” Jerem replied at last.
Silence fell for a while. Jerem drank his tea and ate a few of the sandwiches, surprised at how hungry he was.
“And your family?” the priest asked.
“Okay.”
A small smile appeared during the next conversational lull.
“You don’t say much, do you, young Lord?” The priest finished his drink and stood. “Very well. It’s late and we rise early here. I will take you to your room.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jerem put in quickly. “I was expecting to sleep outside, so the floor is fine. You don’t have to kick somebody out for me.”
“My Lord Kiman would not be pleased to find I had let you sleep on a floor,” the priest said, his hand lifting to indicate the library door.
“I won’t tell, if you won’t,” Jerem replied lightly, though something about the priest was starting to bother him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the mention of his brother had spooked him, and Jerem was very afraid of what would happen if he was caught. He doubted he could survive another beating like the first. The priest gestured again for the door.
“Please follow me,” he told Jerem.
The priest waited until Jerem stood up and collected his pack before turning and leading Jerem from the library, through the kitchen and out a small door to a narrow, covered outdoor walkway that led to a larger building. The blast of cold air that hit them once they left the priory was especially bitter after the warmth of the library. Jerem started to shiver again as they walked. But it would be warm again soon and he could sleep.
The priest also looked cold as he took out his ring of keys and they approached the door to the acolyte’s quarters, the hand holding his keys shaking. The sound fixated Jerem on those keys, a dissonant jangling in an otherwise quiet night, and he froze still for a moment. Maybe the priest was going to lock up the priory after they left, but… The priest cleared his throat as Jerem halted overlong at the doorway of the narrow, low building where the priest’s students slept. Jerem watched the priest unlock the door and gesture him inside
Jerem swallowed his irrational fear and entered the building. He was just being stupid. The man was probably trying to be nice to him by giving him a real bed. He should be grateful. Not everyone was a spy for Kiman. And it was warm in here. And tomorrow he would move on. Jerem heard the priest shut the door and come forward to lead him onward down the hallway. There seemed to be about twelve rooms in all, six on each side.
It was only then that Jerem realized that these doors had locks on the outside, like a dungeon. His heart began to hammer in something akin to panic. The priest had stopped now, to unlock one of the rooms to their left. He opened the door to reveal a small rectangular room with a single, simple, bed. There was a desk beside it and a trunk at its foot, but otherwise it was empty. Jerem’s eyes flew to its only window, far too small to climb through.
The priest gestured Jerem inside, but Jerem was frozen in place with fear. He just couldn’t take his eyes off the Priest’s keys. Being locked in at night might be normal for an acolyte, but he didn’t dare let himself get trapped. Not with Kiman searching for him. Jerem turned back toward the door they had entered the dormitory from, eyes huge in the dim light. It was just so far away. The priest’s eyes narrowed in response to Jerem’s face and he said,
“In here, if you please.”
Jerem began to unconsciously shake his head. No. He had to get out of here. Jerem took a step back toward the door to the outside. No. He would not enter that warm room for all the money in the world just now. Jerem swallowed twice and tried to keep the fear out of his voice.
“No,” he began, fumbling for any excuse to leave in his panic. “On second thought, I’ll sleep outside. It’s okay. Really.”
Jerem was backing away, but the priest was moved closer to intercept him. By the barest margin, Jerem did not run, instead he kept his pace steady, prattling on as if nothing was wrong.
“I meant to camp, so outside is better,” he babbled. “I appreciate the offer, but this is kind of cheating.”
Jerem could tell the priest didn’t believe him, but didn’t know what else to say. He just kept backing toward the door slowly. The exit at the end of the hall seemed very far away.
“I can’t let you leave,” the priest told him firmly before he had gotten even halfway there.
The man seized Jerem by the arm then, and Jerem wasn’t sure if the Priest had grabbed just the right spot, or if anywhere would have done as well, but he cried out in pain. The beating last Matrinsday had been severe. The Priest let go at once, but rushed closer.
“My Lord, you are hurt!”
“I’m okay,” Jerem gritted through his teeth, still backing away. “I just need to go.”
“No, come with me to the library and I will tend you,” the priest offered, no longer stern but concerned.
It didn’t help. Jerem was still scared of him. He didn’t want to turn his back on the priest, so he mostly shuffled sideways until he reached the door. The priest kept pace with him, but did not touch him again.
“Lord Jerem,” he repeated. “I only want to help. If we go back to the library, I can fix whatever’s wrong.”
Jerem could say nothing to that obvious lie. No one, not even a priest, could fix his problems. But Jerem also knew the man could help heal him. If he could be trusted. Jerem didn’t want to be in pain anymore. Was that so wrong? Jerem fumbled blindly behind himself for the knob, opened the door, and sidled outside. The priest stayed nearby, silent but concerned. The sudden cold stopped Jerem still in the walkway, torn in indecision. He just didn’t want to hurt anymore. He didn’t want to make a mistake. He wanted to find Janthro.
The priest merely waited as Jerem looked out across the snowy graveyard and then over to the door to the warm priory. The quiet drew out as they stood there, the priest careful not to touch Jerem nor get between him and a way out. In the end, it was that opportunity to escape that reassured Jerem enough to enter the priory. The priest would not try to hold him prisoner again. Jerem allowed the man to guide him to sit in one of the armchairs.
The renewed warmth nearly broke Jerem, his emotions roiling about. He blinked rapidly, his throat burning. It wasn’t fair! Why couldn’t he just have one warm, safe night? Why? But the priest had said he couldn’t let him leave. And that meant he knew Jerem wasn’t ‘camping.’ It meant cold or not, hurt or not, Jerem had to go.
“I really have to go, sir,” Jerem protested, his voice thick.
The Priest brushed his words aside, kneeling before Jerem’s chair. He lifted back Jerem’s sleeve and examined his arm. Jerem just couldn’t find the strength to resist further. It was all too hard! He collapsed back into the chair and let the priest fuss over him. Why was it all so hard? Jerem instinctively began to curl about himself in despair, his legs drawing up into the chair to press against his chest.
“It’s all right, child,” the Priest reassured him gently, dropping the ‘my lord’s’ and ‘Lord Jerem’s’ and looking at him with pity.
Jerem only sniffled in return, letting his head fall to rest on his knees. Jerem didn’t see the Priest’s darkening expression as his examination revealed a rainbow mass of purple, green, brown, and yellow that ran up both Jerem’s arms from all the bruising, but he did hear a word that he never thought he would coming from an Avatarian priest. Jerem’s eyes opened in surprise, to catch the Priest’s brows drawing down sharply upon seeing the scabbed over cuts, where the lash had broken skin.
Jerem could offer no explanation. Kiman had ordered a healer to repair the broken arm and ribs, but insisted that the rest of Jerem’s injuries be untouched so that they would heal naturally as a reminder to Jerem to ‘always know his place.’ Jerem swallowed and forced down the sob that followed the memories. Know his place? No place deserved that! How could Kiman have thought he deserved that? Jerem didn’t think he would ever find an answer that didn’t hurt as badly as the beating had. But he wasn’t going to cry. Not here. He looked up at the priest with haunted eyes. The priest’s return gaze said it all. The shock and sadness on the priest’s face turned into action and he whispered under his breath. Jerem could feel a tingling and then his arm felt fine.
The rest, please…
Jerem stopped the plea before it left his lips. He had to go. Now. He needed to find Janthro. Jerem uncurled from his seat and tried to stand. The Priest seemed to know he was still hurt.
“Where else are you hurt, Jerem?” He asked gently. “Your face was never good at hiding anything.”
“Everywhere,” Jerem admitted, his voice cracking.
The man put his hands on Jerem’s shoulders and closed his eyes. There was some more chanting, and this time the tingling spread throughout Jerem’s body, easing the aches and giving him energy. Jerem knew without looking that his body was as whole as if the beating had never taken place. The other injuries, the ones to his heart, Jerem doubted would ever heal.
“Now, my son,” the priest asked seriously. “What happened to you? Who did this?”
Jerem looked at the floor and said nothing. No matter what Kiman had done, he wouldn’t rat on his own family. They’d never believe him anyway. Jerem kept his eyes on the floor until his nerve failed and then looked up. The priest was still studying him, with a frown on his face.
“Your brother, Kiman, I’d expect.”
He didn’t give Jerem time to deny or confirm, he just grabbed Jerem’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
“I’m afraid I may have done you a terrible turn this evening,” the man went on as he led him back toward the kitchen. “You see, you were not my first visitor. Men from your household arrived bearing the message that you had run away. If I saw you, I was to send word so that you might be brought safely home. In my wildest nightmares, I never believed they meant you ill.”
Oh no! I’m trapped!
Jerem nearly took off at a run right then, but the Priest had his arm and moved him toward the back door at a somewhat saner pace. The priest was surprisingly strong, so Jerem had no choice but to remain with him.
“I sent young Colin down to them when I went to make the tea,” the priest explained, still not letting go of Jerem. “There isn’t much time.”
The priest led Jerem outside and around to the back of the priory opposite the dormitory where there was small barn. The priest released him, opened the wide double doors, and gestured Jerem inside. Jerem looked around to see two cows and some goats in the various pens. He thought he could smell horses, too, though the farthest stall doors were closed. The priest led him past the other animals to the far end of the darkened building.
“We don’t keep many animals, here,” the priest continued to speak calmly, though Jerem was shifting from foot to foot in his hurry to be gone. “I do however have a green filly that was donated by your father. Given you were training to be his Horsemaster, I think you might be able to ride her. You might not get away, but at least you’ll have a chance.”
A horse! Goddess, that’s great!
“Thank you,” Jerem stammered aloud, his panic fading with the Priest’s promise of aid. “Thank you. I can’t repay you….”
“No need,” the priest told him with a smile. “I’ll tell them that you caught on to me and ran back across the fields.”
He gestured at the stall to his right, and Jerem opened the door and stepped inside. A mare was standing in the dark back corner, not asleep, but watching him warily. She was a good fourteen hands, and still young enough to grow more, and her thick winter coat was so sleek and black she was almost shining in the faint moonlight. With a shock, Jerem realized that he actually knew her.
Brightwind!
Jerem had been training Brightwind before she had been taken away, his first attempt at doing so. He’d seen her born, named her, played with her, and then cried when she had been sent away without warning last spring. Brightwind sniffed the air in turn, as if she too remembered. Jerem cooed at her, whispering soft, kind words to settle her as he slid the bit to her bridle in her mouth. She pulled back at the bit, which was probably uncomfortable and unfamiliar in her mouth, but Jerem rubbed her along her shoulder as he always had back home. Brightwind settled down at his touch and lowered her head. Once the bridle was on, it was time for her saddle. This process went much smoother, as Brightwind seemed to have decided that she trusted him, and even when he tightened the girth, she did not shy back from him. With a gentle tug, Jerem led her out into the night. With another muttered thank you to the priest, Jerem stepped into the stirrup and swung himself up. Jerem doubted he could have stayed on had she not known him since she was a baby, but Brightwind did not throw him, shifting and stepping anxiously under him.
“Easy Brightwind…” Jerem couldn’t keep her still for long, and she went charging out down the road. “Thanks again!” he yelled over his shoulder, finally getting her to gallop off in the direction he wanted.
He did not look back. The wind was biting, but Jerem was not feeling the cold. He was healed, he was free, and he was racing the wind itself. He let out a whoop and urged Brightwind on into the night.