Bruce Blake - Blood of the King

“Do you wish to die, Sir Alton?”

“No, your highness.” Sienhin’s voice was a whisper for once.

Therrador settled back into his saddle and removed his blade from the knight’s throat.

“I’ll deal with your treachery later. For now, ride ahead. Have them open the gates, tell them to make ready. The generals of Kanos will join us before nightfall.”

“Yes, my liege.”

Sir Alton launched his horse into a gallop toward the fortress. Therrador guessed he moved quickly more to get away than in haste to obey the order. A proud man, the old knight. His family had served kings for as long as anyone remembered. This would damage his pride, something Therrador didn’t want to do, but it would be for the best. With this, Therrador could remove him from the council and replace him with someone of his own choosing.

Of the Archon’s choosing .

He’d have to keep an eye on Sir Alton, though. He could prove a dangerous man or a great ally.

With a click of his tongue and prod of his heels, Therrador urged his steed toward the fortress. The generals fell in behind, silent but for the creak of saddles, the clank of armor and the beat of hooves. Therrador sighed, mouth pulled down in a frown. He’d hoped for happiness once crowned, as though a title would take away the wrongs done him. But there was always someone else to wrong you. His gut knotted.

It will soon be over. For better or for worse.

He sat straight in the saddle, intending to look the part of the conquering hero he wanted and deserved to be if not for the Archon. The ripe plum hanging from the tree of life waiting for him to pluck had shriveled to a prune, wrinkled and uninviting. He closed his eyes and thought of Graymon, but even that did nothing to make him feel better.

A thin haze obscured everything. It was a dream, Khirro knew, but it didn’t look like any of the dreams he’d had in the past months. No tyger, no lake; all that was behind him now, he supposed. What lay ahead?

The cool mist attached itself to his skin, dampening it as he surveyed the nothing around him. He took a step, then another. The mist swirled away from his feet only to rush back in as the air settled. His breath stirred the tiny droplets, sending them spinning in kaleidoscopic patterns of white and gray. There were no sounds. Khirro halted, worried he might plunge from a dream-cliff, or be attacked by Gods-only-knew what. He waited, expecting the dream to resolve itself into something more than damp, eddying fog.

Then the glow began.

It took Khirro a minute to realize it came from him. A dim light which strengthened and brightened, burning away the mist before him without causing him the slightest discomfort. Yellowed grass, dry and dead, appeared beneath his feet. The view before his eyes cleared to reveal a green wall undulating at the whim of the wind.

A tent. I’m in a tent.

The green canvas flapped more violently and sound came to Khirro’s dream: the snap of the wind against the tent, men shouting somewhere outside, and a whimper. He turned his head toward the last noise, not knowing whether he should expect man or beast, or which he’d prefer.

The boy lay curled on a bed of straw, shivering each time the wind shook the tent walls. He glanced at the door flap like he expected someone to come through at any moment and Khirro realized it wasn’t the wind that scared the lad. Khirro stepped toward him and the boy pulled himself into a tighter ball, gripping the wooden dragon he held closer to his chest.

“Can you see me?” Khirro asked.

The boy froze, eyes darting about the tent, but they held no recognition, as though he’d heard something but couldn’t discern where it came from or what it was. Khirro crossed the dry grass and knelt on the straw beside the boy.

“Who are you?” he said, a breath of wind against the boys cheek that only made him cringe the way the wind shaking the tent did. “What are you doing in my dream?”

Abruptly, inexplicably, the boy’s shivering ceased. He sat up and looked directly into Khirro’s eyes, stared right through them. Seconds passed. Khirro didn’t breathe. The boy hugged the toy dragon tight, then held it out before him, offering it. Khirro took it. He knew he held the toy but couldn’t see his hand. He was invisible to himself, so he must be to the boy, too. A smile tugged at the lad’s lips, but it quickly faltered.

“Please help me,” the boy said, his voice a whimper, and Khirro knew that was what he had to do. He stared into the boy’s sad eyes, wishing there was something he could do for him now, in the dream, but knowing it was only that.

The temperature in the tent dropped suddenly. The boy grabbed the wooden dragon from Khirro’s invisible grasp, fell back onto the straw mattress and curled into the fetal position, eyes clamped shut. Khirro straightened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He stood and turned to face the tent flap and whoever or whatever had come through.

The first thing that struck him was the woman’s beauty. Her golden hair cascaded over her black cloak almost to her waist, a startling contrast to her dark brown eyes. But there was something un-beautiful about her eyes: a hardness, a cruelty. They were the eyes of someone who’d watch death without flinching, and they bore into Khirro, searching him.

“You do not belong here.”

He stared at her, chills crawling up his spine. It seemed as though her words weren’t meant for him but for that which dwelled within him. He didn’t move as she approached, couldn’t.

“Your time has passed. Do not interfere.”

The flesh on Khirro’s arm tingled as he felt the flame begin. The tent brightened as the sensation grew. The boy moaned on the bed behind him and the woman’s lips became a taut red line across her stern face, stealing her beauty. Darkness collected behind her and the green wall of the tent disappeared.

As Khirro’s incandescence grew, so too did the woman’s blackness until the two pressed against each other like beasts locked in a mortal struggle. Khirro spread his legs, pushing against the pressure compressing his chest and threatening to force him back. His glow grew to a blaze as the darkness emanating from her expanded until there was nothing in the dream but him and her, light and dark.

“Leave this place,” she said, her voice more a growl than the words of a woman. “Leave this place and do not come back.”

Sweat streamed down Khirro’s face, ran down his neck and under his shirt. His jaw muscles knotted, his lips pulled back from his teeth with the effort, but the darkness pushed forward, expelling his fire before it. The woman stepped forward until they were inches apart and spread her arms. Night flowed from her cloak, encircling Khirro, sucking the fire from his soul and the energy from his limbs. His knees gave out and the darkness took him.

Stars twinkled down from the sky as Khirro awoke, a knot clogging his throat. He clenched his fists, his fingers dug into the loamy earth upon which he lay.

Who was she?

He glanced at the trees pressing in around him. Athryn should be somewhere close, but he didn’t know where. They’d chosen not to light a fire, and now Khirro regretted the decision. Having the flames to show him that light always conquered night would have been reassuring. He sat up and breathed out a slow sigh through tight lips.

“Graymon,” he said, not sure where the name came from but knowing it was the boy in the dream. Thankfulness and fear mixed in his mind as he realized the dream had shown him what he needed to do next, where he needed to go.

“Graymon.”