Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn (13 page)

Torin sidestepped him and headed to the trunk
at the foot of his cot.

Kerrik followed him with crossed arms and a
disgruntled face. “I’m a member of this family, too,” he said.
“Just because I’m seven doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to know
if something’s wrong.”

“It can wait, Kerrik,” Reiv said.

“You too?” Kerrik said. “You should be on my
side.”

“What side would that be?” Reiv asked.

“The side that says we’re family and family
shouldn’t keep secrets from each other! I sure don’t keep secrets
from you, Reiv.”

Brina swept into the room. “What is wrong?”
she asked with alarm. “It is not Dayn, is it?”

“No, Brina, it is not Dayn,” Reiv assured
her.

Reiv turned his attention to Torin who was
gathering up personal items and shoving them into a bag. “Torin…you
may as well tell the boy. There is no way to keep it from him."

Torin paused, his back rigid. He tossed the
bag onto the cot. “Very well,” he said. “Farris is dying of the
fever, Kerrik. And Mya is very ill. I’m going there to take care of
them, and Nely and Gem.”

“Farris…dying?” Kerrik’s eyes filled with
tears. “Will you get sick, too?”

“I have every intention of coming back safe
and sound. Mya and Farris need a friend by their side, and Nely and
Gem need someone to keep them safe. They are scared little girls
right now. They have lost their Father, their brother is sick, and
now their mother. Nannaven is old, Kerrik; she cannot handle them
by herself.”

“I don’t see why you have to be the one to do
it,” Kerrik said. “Aren’t there others who could help?”

“A lot of people are sick right now,” Torin
said.

“Then I’ll come with you. And I’ll help you
make them well.”

Torin pulled Kerrik into his arms and held
him tight. “You are a brave warrior, little brother,” he said, then
released him. “But you cannot go with me.”

Torin grabbed the bag, slid his short sword
into the belt at his waist, and headed for the door. Once outside
he stopped to say his goodbyes. He embraced Jensa and kissed her on
the cheek, then did the same with Kerrik who was trying very hard
to be brave.

Brina hugged Torin’s neck. “Be safe,” she
said, “and please get word back to us if you can. We will not sleep
a wink until you do.”

“Torin,” Reiv said, “take Gitta at least. She
is swift and will get you there safely.”

He turned to fetch the horse, but Torin
stopped him.

“No,” Torin said. “I may not have time to see
to her needs when I get there, and there is too much risk of her
being stolen.”

“But—”

“Listen, Reiv. I expect you to take care of
things in my absence. If you need me, you will be glad to have the
animal. I have traveled the road many times at night and on
foot—you haven’t. I want you to be able to reach me quickly if need
be.”

Reiv nodded reluctantly.

Torin disappeared up the path, leaving them
all to pray for his safe return. But Reiv did not know if prayers
would be enough; some things in life, and death, were already
fated. He could only hope that this was not one of those
things.

Back to ToC

Chapter 11: The Torch

T
orin hustled up the
dirt road, working to outstep the nightfall that would soon be upon
him. The road between Meirla and the encampment could be
treacherous for the unseasoned traveler; it wound unevenly
throughout the hills between the city and the sea. But Torin was
well-acquainted with its unpredictability—he had made the trip to
Pobu often enough—and his legs were strong and his eyes keen. But
on this day he was oblivious to the pits in the road, the
occasional washed-out rut, and the sudden dips from the grooves of
carts and wagons. For that matter, he was barely aware that he was
putting one foot in front of the other.

He turned his focus from the dark corners of
his mind toward the vivid colors of an evening sky. To the west,
the horizon cast a golden glow that blended to shades of pink, then
to the rich indigos of night. To the north, the direction he was
heading, a blackening sky flashed an occasional white, revealing
the approach of an early autumn storm. Torin quickened his pace,
praying the lighting of the funeral pyres would not be hastened on
account of it.

He turned his thoughts to Farris, and the
surrounding landscape all but disappeared. It occurred to him that
Farris could be on one of those pyres, his body just moments from
the reach of a torch. An image of his son’s laughing face blossomed
in his mind, then dissolved into charred ruin. A groan escaped
Torin’s throat. “I won’t let you down,” he said. “Not this
time.”

But Torin knew he had let Farris down, many
times. He recalled how Farris had often begged to go to Meirla with
him. “Teach me to dive, Torin,” he would say. “I want to be a Shell
Seeker like you.” But Torin had always refused him, insisting the
boy’s duty was to follow in his parents’ footsteps and become a
potter. Farris, however, had no interest in clay. He had other
interests, and one of those was the sea, a place he had never been
to but knew well from Torin’s tales.
Why didn’t I take you?
Torin lamented, but he knew the answer. There was too much risk
that the truth would be revealed, too much risk that his own
feelings would be laid bare for all to see.

Torin’s and Farris’s true relationship had
been a carefully guarded secret, but the boy was the pride of
Torin’s heart, a secret he now regretted more than any other. Their
resemblance to each other was undeniable, though Torin had at first
tried very hard to deny it. Mya and Eben were fair-complected for
Jecta, and Farris was tawny-skinned and black-haired like Torin.
That in itself was not enough to call paternity into question, but
as the boy grew older it was all too clear that his handsome
features, as well as the telltale cock of his right eyebrow, were
not traits he shared with Eben, but with Torin, his father’s best
friend. It was never spoken of between them, but there was no way
Eben could not have known.

Torin swallowed the regret, but memories of
the past clawed through him, tearing open old wounds. Eben and
Torin had been friends since childhood, both having been orphaned
at an early age. They, along with Torin’s younger sister Jensa, and
Mya, a girl they had met on the streets, were a ragtag group of
urchins until Nannaven, the Spirit Keeper, took them in. They had
grown up together, but over time Eben’s and Torin’s feelings for
Mya evolved beyond friendship. There was jealousy and rivalry
between them, each trying to separate the other from the object of
their affection. But when an incident with a Tearian guard left Mya
scarred, both boys united for her welfare and put their differences
aside.

Torin was sixteen when he and Mya became
lovers. But it did not seal their future together. Torin was
prideful and quick tempered, and in a jealous fit at having seen
her with Eben, packed his belongings and headed to Meirla. He had
not really meant to stay there, had not intended to become a Shell
Seeker. It was only an attempt to trick Mya into choosing a mate
once and for all. And choose she did. But it was not him. Two
months later she was married to Eben and blossoming with child.

Torin closed his eyes, trying to suppress the
pain. There was nothing he could do about the past. Eben was dead,
it was too late to make restitution with him, and now maybe Farris
was as well. All Torin could do was hold his son for the first and
last time; all he could do was beg Mya’s forgiveness and promise to
be at her side now and for always. He clung to the hope that it was
all a mistake. Perhaps it was another child that was dying, not
Farris. Perhaps it was another woman who lay ill, not Mya. He
fabricated a scenario of arriving to find his loved ones safe and
sound, of them laughing at his foolishness. But then reality
bullied its way in, shoving hope aside, and he knew the fantasy was
only that.

He reached the last rise. The encampment was
just below him now; it would not be long before he knew. He hurried
down the hillside, all the while scanning the landscape before him.
Hundreds of campfires dotted the darkness, throwing orange glows
upon a field of makeshift tents and the slow moving shapes of
people working their way between them. Torin’s eyes moved over the
area as he sought a sign of familiarity. It had been too long since
he had been there. How in the world was he going to find Mya and
Farris in all this sameness?

The entire Jecta population lived in the
encampment now, except for the Shell Seekers who lived on the
coast. The first city of Pobu had been leveled during the
earthquake weeks before. There had been a great battle between the
Jecta and the Tearians that day, but the gods had sent their wrath
and cut the fighting short. Torin knew the gods were wise; their
vengeance had proved to be a blessing. The Jecta could never have
hoped to defeat the Tearian Guard. Only the total destruction of
the city of Tearia had given the Jecta freedom from their
enslavement. Afterward, a peace treaty had been signed with Reiv’s
brother, Whyn, who was the King of Tearia. There was singing in the
Jecta encampment then, and laughter and hope for a future. But now
with the plague taking so many, Torin wondered if such joy would
ever be felt again. He certainly did not think he would ever feel
it.

On the hillsides beyond the encampment, great
bonfires glowed in a semi-circular pattern. Pyres, Torin realized,
though he had not expected to see so many. He whispered a prayer
that his son was not amongst them. If only the gods would allow him
time to tell Farris he loved him, to say it with Mya as witness,
perhaps then he could find some forgiveness. But Torin knew that
even if he reached Farris, it was probably too late. Farris was
dying. Perhaps he was already dead. The thought filled him with
anguish, and his mind scrambled for relief from the pain. He
envisioned his own sword, pointed at his chest by his own hand,
pressing through his ribs, piercing his heart, freeing him from his
guilt. Only then would he be truly united with his son. Only then
would he be able to say the words he never had the courage to say
to him in this lifetime.

Torin felt tears of weakness prick his eyes,
but he brushed them aside and lifted his chin. He could allow no
one to see him like this. It was bad enough that Reiv had witnessed
it, but here no one knew his frailties. He slid his usual stoic
mask into place. Here he was Shell Seeker. And being Shell Seeker
meant strength.

He wound his way into the encampment. It was
nothing like he remembered. It was quiet now, except for somber
voices and an occasional wail of grief. The faces staring back at
him were haunted and dull, and the air no longer held the scent of
venison roasting on spits. Now it held the stench of death. He
glanced at the people he passed, ignoring their soft pleas and
outstretched hands. There was no time to offer help or
condolences—what could he do for them anyway? But it was hard to
ignore the inner voice telling him to turn and run in the opposite
direction.

“Torin!”

The voice spun him around, and he was
relieved to see Nannaven hustling toward him. He smiled in
greeting, but then the smile slipped from his face.

The old woman planted herself in front of
him. “Gods, boy,” she said. “I told you not to come. Why didn’t you
listen?”

“Where are Mya and Farris?” Torin asked,
scanning the tents beyond her.

“You shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing you
can do.”

Torin felt a lump of dread. “Where are they,
Nannaven?” he asked. “Please…tell me.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Very well.
What else can I do.”

Torin followed as the Spirit Keeper turned
and led him to a nearby tent, but when they reached the portal, he
found himself immobile and staring at the canvas. It was as if it
had become a wall of rock, and his common sense refused to walk him
into it.

Nannaven pushed back the flap. “Did you
expect it would be easy?” she said. “Go on now.”

Torin pulled in a breath and ducked into the
tent. The interior was warm and thick, and smelled of urine and
sweat. A lantern hung in the center, its solitary flame casting a
feeble glow.

Two little girls lying on pallets in the far
corner sat up with a start. Nely and Gem stared wide-eyed at Torin.
Nely, the youngest, began to cry.

“There, there,” Nannaven said as she moved to
her. “It’s all right.” She knelt and gathered the child into her
arms. “It’s Torin, come to check on you.” She smiled and nodded at
Torin. “You see? It’s not the Torch…not the Torch.”

Gem rose and shook her tiny fist. She was
only five, but her determination seemed well beyond her years. “I
will kill the Torch,” she said defiantly. “I will kill him with my
knife.”

“Hush, now,” Nannaven said to her. “Do you
want to scare your little sister?”

“What’s this talk of the Torch?” Torin said
to Gem. “You’re too little to concern yourself with such things.”
His eyes moved over the room toward a pallet where he could see
Mya. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and
labored.

“I’m not too little!” Gem shouted, drawing
Torin’s attention back to her. “The Torch will try to burn Farris,
but I won’t let him!”

“Farris,” Torin whispered. His eyes shot to a
nearby blanket, and he instantly recognized the form beneath it. He
rushed over and reached down to throw back the cover.

“Torin—no,” Nannaven said. But it was too
late.

Nely buried her face in the old woman’s
shoulder, but Gem marched over to Torin’s side.

Nannaven rose and moved to usher her back.
“Come, Gem,” she said softly. “Torin needs to say his
goodbyes.”