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© Kadestran
The Path
Table of Content
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© Kadestran
The Path
Part 1
He hadn’t done itHe’d started the slash, moving the ivory white dagger along his underarm, but his wrist had twitched in revulsion of what he’d tried to do, and he had dropped it. There it lay. Shining on the black marble floor like a stained tooth. Now he could feel the blood leaking out of his arm, welling up and dripping slowly to the floor.
He was ashamed. That deep gut feeling, the pit of stomach feeling of failure and guilt, the voice that whispered to him: What a coward. What a ruse; a sham… He had almost tried to kill himself. No. He had tried and he had failed.
How do you think that would make Tsrah feel, Arac? Do you think she would rise from her grave, screaming? Would she stand over you, shaking her head? He pushed the thought away. Tsrah didn’t know, she was dead, and he, Aracsoam, had almost failed her. But he looked at the weak scratch he had made, and now felt new hope. I won’t. I won’t fail you, never you who brought me so far.
Tsrah had found him in Tenin City, a month after the escape. She was only the third person he’d known since his years of “imprisonment”. The first had been a nameless man, masked, who’d helped to break him free.
He’d known nothing but strange captivity since the days of his childhood. And his childhood he could only scantly remember. His father, he remembered: the man who would be king. He’d been tall, beardless, and the heir to the throne, with his own father near death. His mother too, he remembered. But there had been a rival house. A line of nobility that claimed kingship, and by their doing, the royal house “disappeared”. Arac was tossed into prison. He was shuffled around, moved weekly, for he was not to be discovered. And so was his life. Captor after captor, until he was found.
They’d come upon him while he was traveling. Locked into a little cage of a carriage, he was on his way from one prison to the next, when he’d heard noises. They’d lain in ambush for the small armed party that was his escort, and when it had passed by the spot on the road where they were hidden among the trees, they had loosed arrows. He was only half aware of the fight that followed: The carriage had tipped, and all around him was the loudness of confusion. There came a bashing and splintering on the outside of his door, and when the wood shattered into a hole, there stood five men. They pulled him out, panting, while the confused battle still raged. One had thrown Arac over his shoulder as they scuttled off the road and into the surrounding trees. The men had run as fast as they could, but of course there was pursuit. An arrow in the back felled the first. The second tripped and went sprawling, injuring his ankle to the point that he could not continue. And so it went until there was only one left.
He was a thin, short man, and he kept his face hidden and never told Arac his name. He’d already been wounded and was bleeding heavily from his arm and head. The two of them had run for 2 nights and 2 days, when he’d finally died. Arac was left alone in a ditch with the body of dead man. And directions.
The man had told him, “If I die, get to Tenin City. It’ll hide you.”
He’d grabbed Arac’s sleeve and pulled him down to face his dying, frantic eyes. “They’ll be looking for you.”
- 1 -
© Kadestran
Part 2
He’d gotten out of that ditch the next day; left the staring corpse of the stranger who’d given him his life and followed the directions to Tenin City. Once he was there, he hadn’t known what to do. So he sat about, eating what he could. He’d never fed himself. He didn’t know what was for eating and what wasn’t, and it was a wonder he had even survived there for a month, sick and skinny.
Then came the blind old man.
One day, while he was scrounging among semi-rotten garbage for food, he’d heard something behind him. Whirling around, he saw an old man sitting against the gutter across the alleyway. His eyes were milk-white, and he was looking past Arac’s shoulder. Arac knew he was blind. He watched the old man for a while, and seeing no threat, returned to searching the garbage.
“I see glory. Glory, Yee-ess, and old, old blood.”
Arac turned again to the ancient creature. When it spoke, he could see it’s rotten teeth; it’s black tongue.
Now it said, “You are young, but Ooo-oh, you are strong. Glory, and lightning, and the color of purple. Oh yes: I see.”
Arac had turned and walked quickly from the alleyway. But the ancient one followed.
“These old eyes, they see,” he cajoled, tapping the white marbles of his eyes. “They know you, know you of old…. Priiiiiince,” he hissed, suddenly menacing.
That man had followed him for days, singing and chanting portents, muttering bits of Arac’s past, tantalizing at his future. Arac had tried every way he knew how to get rid of him, but nothing worked. Then one morning he had woken to find the old man dead. His white eyes had been open and looking right at Arac, so at first he had not known he was dead.
A month later Tsrah found him. She was like nothing he’d ever seen.
A Dragon-Speaker, she’d been told it was for her to find him here. She had always confused him. She’d been a great speaker of destiny, of the fates foretold by stars and written in the bones of the earth. But she’d also spoken of free will, of all creatures’ strengths and an individual’s responsibility. It was more then he could hope for to understand her. It was just that one day, he had seen her see him, and then she had she crossed a busy street straight towards him, taking him by the arm before he could protest and saying, “Come with me.” Tsrah was half idealist, half bitter.
Even from the first he had never been able to resist her iron will. She was only a short woman, but she spoke to dragons, she had a temper like ice, and the muscles in her arms were hard, wired, and strong, as he had learned that first day when he’d tried to pull for her grip. “We are going to make you safe,” she’d said, and so he’d gone with her. She took him up from the street, taught him what she thought he should know, told him he was to be king, rattled his mind around like a spinning top, reeducated him, and made him stronger. Under her tutelage he prevailed, and so she sent him onwards. Arac had felt like a package underneath her rough mothering, but it had brought him to where he was today.
She had sent him to Pranth. And that had been the high point of his new life. For along with Pranth came Kiz and Hawlkim, the first friends he had ever had.
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© Kadestran
Part 3
Pranth was nearly Tsrah’s opposite. He was a general, put over the newly raised army that was more or less at his disposal. (How strange it had been at first, the idea of having an army. But he’d grown used to it overtime). Pranth was easy going; talked about his past. He was like an older brother, this ex-pirate who had risen in the world. But Kiz and Hawlkim were better.
They were his own age, just a couple of almost-adults who had found each other and bonded a rock hard friendship. Hawlkim was a refugee. He didn’t talk about his past, but there was no bitterness to him. Kiz was a warrioress from the Nothern Plains, and at first she was suspicious of Arac. She had burning, dark blue eyes that could snap so fast from fun to accusing that it was frightening. The first day he’d met them, he had been just arrived to the army camp with Tsrah. She’d rushed into a tent to talk with Pranth and left him standing alone with them.
Kiz sized him up with her ice-eyes and said, “Who are you?”
Just like that.
Hawlkim nudged her with his elbow.
“Don’t be like that,” he said, smiling openly at Arac. “Don’t pay attention to her when she’s like that.”
But he turned and smiled also at Kiz, so he wouldn’t offend her. And he didn’t. That was the thing about Hawlkim. Everyone loved him.
But in the end, that turned out to be a farce. Hawlkim had betrayed them. Betrayer! Heartbeat, may you die a thousand deaths! Hawlkim had called down on them the storms of their enemies, and Tsrah had died.
These were the things Arac remembered when he thought of Tsrah.
And now he bent to pick up the knife that lay there on the cold stone floor, and now he thought not of Tsrah, but of Kiz. She’d written him, a week ago. She had changed. Oh Gods, she has changed so much! She had become something cold, something passionless and machine driven and something he did not know. Her letter had gone like this:
Arac- The army has been diminished by half. Do not expect Tsrah to return, she is dead. Pranth found her body. Your army will be raised back up in another three months at most. If you see Hawlkim, kill him.
-Kiz
Arac had had to write Pranth for details, and Pranth told them to him: How Hawlkim had told the enemy where they were, how and when to attack; how Kiz had found Hawlkim afterwards and tried to kill him, but he had escaped. That letter had been tearful and awful. Pranth, too, was diminished. With Tsrah dead, half of his soul was missing, and he was lost without her.
So Arac was in the city Cryanthe, living among the noble class. Tsrah and he had emerged here a year ago, laying their plots, setting the way for his kingship. He was staying in the house of a man named Myradon, a lord who owed Tsrah his favor and respect. But now Tsrah was dead, and he had begun to send askew, calculating glances at Arac.
Arac had no friends in this city. Cryanthe’s upper class was power hungry, and he did them no benefit. He was a child.
Except that he wasn’t. He held the dagger now in one hand, the hand of the arm he had sliced. The other hand he held over his drying blood. It had nearly congealed, but still leaked at the deepest part, in the middle. He was standing in the washroom, so he threw the dagger into a black marble basin. He poured some water quickly from a pitcher and rubbed the dried red off the daggers tip before thrusting it back into his belt. Then he washed off his arm (which was beginning to throb) and looked around for something to bandage it with, as it was already starting to bleed again. He found a stack of rags in a cupboard and tied one around his wrist. He pulled his sleeve over it, to hide it.
He couldn’t believe he had tried to kill himself.
He pushed the stained rags he’d used to wipe up the floor under the washbasin with his foot. There. Not very well hidden, maybe, but it wouldn’t matter for long. He smiled at himself for a minute. He felt that he had a new direction now: this was no place to be. Lord Myradon was on the edge of hiring someone to have him killed; Kiz had lost her heart; Pranth’s soul was dying; Hawlkim had turned on them; Tsrah was dead; Arac had nearly ended himself. It seemed that all was wrong, but it didn’t matter. I’m still alive. I have life! He wanted to rejoice, now. His soul was alive with the joy of living.
He had to get out of Cyranthe. For all he knew, Myradon assassins were lingering in the hall outside the washroom door, poisoned knifes on the ready. He could picture them, shadowed human figures lounging against the stone walls, sharp steel glittering in the lamplight. There’s no one there, Arac, stop scaring yourself. To prove it, he slid open the door.
The hall was empty. He closed the washroom door behind him and strode quickly down the corridor. It was plain and empty, except for a few tapestries or wall hangings to lessen the blandness of undressed, gray stone. My Lord Myradon is not one for extra expenses, he thought. Most certainly not the extra expense of feeding, clothing, and keeping an eye on a worthless little princeling. Arac smiled at the thought. He walked past three more doors, turned to the right hand, went through a pair of swinging iron doors, through the grand hall, two more corridors, and finally to his room. Closing the door behind him, he heaved a grand sigh of relief and leaned back against the wall. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of watching eyes.
After checking the bandages on his arm again, he called for his –borrowed- manservant. The man came in, with one of his simpering, bootlicking smiles already in place. Arac suppressed the need to shudder. Gabdin, as the man was called, had eyes like a bug, and greedy, twitching fingers.
“I request an audience with my lord Myradon, at his soonest convenience. Would you please inform him? Tell him I need to see him to…” Arac wasn’t sure if he trusted this man in the least.
“Just let him know I’d like to talk with him.”
“M’lord, of course,” Gabdin-the-bug said, and scuttled out backwards, bowing.
Arac had a headache. He lay down on his giant plush bed with a dripping washcloth over his eyes. Maybe he ought to pack…. He had nothing to pack. He sat up, throwing the washcloth to the floor and shaking hair out of his eyes. He stumbled across the room and grabbed his moneybag. Hefting it, he thought he had maybe ten gold left, and twice that silver. Enough? Maybe. He stuck it in his belt.
- 3 -
© Kadestran
Part 4
Gabdin came back half an hours time later, to inform him, “M’young prince, the Lord Myradon will see you now, in the greater hall, M’lord.” Arac un-rumpled his clothes and went.
Myradon was standing at the end of the greater hall, facing the carven fire pit. His hands were laced behind his back. His hawkish profile was turned to examine the carvings of the hearthstones. As Arac grew closer, he could see they were forest scenes of fantastical animals: Griffons, dragons, fairies, and two-headed beasts. Myradon turned to face him.
“My young prince.” He inclined his head, but his eyes were scheming, the ever whirling wheels of his mind shining through. “How good to see you.”
Arac shifted his heels nervously. Then he took the plunge.
“I will be leaving, My Lord. I have hired a carriage,” he lied blatantly, “and am expected elsewhere. I shall be gone within the hour. You have my apologies for this late notice, and also my gratitude for having suffered me to stay these several months. You have my eternal thanks, and shall be remembered.” Arac felt sickly. The man had to let him go.
Myradon smiled, and nodded. Ah, Arac could see his eyes thinking, the child gone, an expense done with, a risk over with. How delightful. No longer any need for him to pretend courtesy.
“I am sure you wish to be gone as soon as you may,” he murmured. “I will not hinder you with idle talk. May you go well,” he said, and swept from the room.
Ten minutes later, Arac was gone. He had no carriage waiting, of course. Nor would he. Now that he was out from under the scanty and untrustworthy protection of Myradon, he was as vulnerable as he’d ever been. It made him feel alive. He hired a horse from a local stable –the horsehand had to wonder at this grinning young man, who waltzed into the stable and asked for the fastest horse to be had, whatever the price- and was on his way. Life had never been so simple, so exhilarating before.
And as he soon discovered, it was not now. His journey took him a month. There was rain. Then later, there was snow, and icy cutting winds. He was robbed once, and lucky to come away from that with his life. The cut on his arm grew mildly infected and pained him. His nearly lamed his horse, going so fast, and he wasn’t able to ride for days. But he made it.
It was raining, and past midnight, when Arac came to Kiz’s tent. She was sitting inside at a mahogany desk, quill in hand and candles burning. When she heard the tent flap moving, she looked up.
“I was just writing to you,” she said without smiling. “It’s taking longer to recruit than we thought.”
Her face didn’t change at all. He could see her blue eyes freezing over with anger and pain. “But we’ll get there.” Then she smiled, and it was ice.
“Yes,” he said. She put away her letters, and they made awkward talk for a while, until she called someone to find him a place to sleep. He felt like his heart was ripping from his chest.
The next morning he breakfasted with Pranth. Pranth made an effort to be his old self, but his eyes had a new sadness Arac hadn’t seen before. He’d loved Tsrah, even if he’d never shown it. Kiz came in and found them halfway through breakfast. She ate a few figs and half a loaf of lean, hard, soldiers’ bread, and joked harshly with Pranth. He replied in kind, jibing at her. It was as though they were feeding off each other’s pain.
Arac’s heart was bleeding.
Kiz asked him to come speak with the army. She’d taken possession of it. These men, they were her men, now. She wanted Arac to give them a rally. A “this is what we fight for” speech. He did it, but the cheers of these men were like crashing waves around his misery. Kiz smiled at him as he climbed down from the makeshift pedestal.
He smiled back at her, tasting the bitterness of it on his lips. And around them the soldiers cheered. His soldiers; Kiz’s soldiers. His hope for the future, for kingship, rallied around him, even in his despair. For this I have no joy. I would have this over. Let it be done with, he willed. His ears roared with the shouting of a thousand thousand men, and Kiz’ eyes met his. They burned with fanatical light. They bored into him. They turned over his soul. They sought an end, also.
Kiz’s hate filled eyes, and Arac’s screaming heart: The path was set before their feet.
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