Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (3 page)

As he drew nearer, he heard the familiar
chimes tinkling their tunes on the porch that wrapped around the
house. His mother had placed them along the beams to ward off
demons. Too bad something as simple as a chime could not ward off
his own. He limped across the yard, his stomach heavy with dread.
Father would be furious; Mother would cry, of course; and Alicine,
his sister, would threaten revenge against his attackers, and
probably get it. In their childhood, Alicine had frequently kicked
Sheireadan’s tail on his behalf. But Alicine was fourteen years old
now and spending more and more time with herbal lessons and
friends. Dayn didn’t want his sister defending him anyway. That was
almost as humiliating as the beatings.

The door of the house swung open and slammed
against the wall at its back. Alicine bolted through and ran across
the noisy planks of the porch, her wool skirt lifted almost to her
knees. She jumped across the steps at the porch’s end and sprinted
across the yard toward him. Her long, black braids bounced wildly
at her back.

“What happened?” she cried. She eyed Dayn up
and down, then frowned and wrinkled her nose at the stench of him.
“Never mind . . . as if I don’t know.”

Alicine looped her arm through his, but Dayn
shrugged it away. The way she constantly mothered him made him feel
like a baby. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Fine? You call this fine?” She grabbed his
arm and hooked it back through hers. “We were worried. It was
getting so late.”

Dayn glanced up and felt his throat
constrict. His mother was standing in the doorway, her silhouette
outlined by the light of the fireplace burning in the room behind
her. Though he could not see her face clearly, he was certain it
was etched with worry. Then his father moved to stand behind her,
his huge shape swallowing the light at his back. Dayn felt fear
mixed with shame. His father would not be proud of him, he
knew.

“Oh, my poor boy,” his mother cried, her dark
eyes scanning his battered body. “My poor, poor boy.” She moved
toward him, her arms extended, but Dayn’s father placed a firm hand
on her shoulder.

“Leave him be, Morna,” he said. “He’s not a
baby.”

“But Gorman, he’s hurt!”

“It’s not the first time and it won’t be the
last. The boy refuses to fight so this is what he gets for it.”

“Well he doesn’t deserve this.” Morna
shrugged her shoulder from her husband’s grasp and moved to usher
her child inside.

“I’m fine, Mother. Really,” Dayn said. But he
wasn’t so sure. From the expressions on their faces, he knew his
injuries, and the filth that covered him, looked bad. He hobbled to
the kitchen table across the room and eased onto the bench, leaning
onto the tabletop for support. His attention was suddenly directed
to a visitor sitting in the corner and he jumped up, his shame
returned tenfold.

“Spirit Keeper,” he said, bowing his head and
clenching his hands to keep them from shaking. It was bad enough
facing his parents, but to have Eileis, the Spirit Keeper, see him
like this was beyond humiliation. The tiny, aged woman just looked
at him and smiled.

“I—I didn’t know you would be here,” Dayn
stammered.

The old woman raised herself from the chair
and walked toward him, pulling her patched and faded shawl about
her thin shoulders. “It was time I came,” she said.

Dayn looked down at his feet, then back up at
Eileis whose stare felt like heat on his face. But the kindness of
her expression eased his fears. She was always good to him and
would surely understand what he was feeling. The Spirit Keeper had
a way of knowing things others could not. She was, after all,
healer and advisor of the Kiradyn people and possessed wisdom
beyond that of any ordinary person.

“Please, Dayn,” she said, waving him back to
the bench, “don’t stand on my account. You need tending to and I
see your mother’s anxious to treat those wounds.”

Dayn glanced at his mother who now stood
beside him holding a bowl of water and a handful of cloths. Alicine
was at her side, clutching a bottle of herbal remedy. Dayn lowered
himself back onto the bench and sighed. Now would begin the ritual
of his healing, traditionally performed with great drama by his
doting mother and younger sister.

After his treatment was complete, Dayn’s
mother stepped back and surveyed him with concern. Dayn looked at
her reluctantly. Her braided hair was somewhat disheveled and her
face more lined with worry than usual. He felt a pang of guilt. His
mother had always been frail, having lost many infants to premature
births. It was a wonder she had managed to conceive him and his
sister at all. What kind of son was he to cause her such grief? He
slanted his eyes in his father’s direction and knew by the man’s
expression that he was thinking the same thing.

“Now go upstairs and change into some clean
clothes,” his mother said. “And for goodness sakes, clean the rest
of that filth off you. There’s water in the basin in your room.
I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

Dayn nodded and moved toward the stairs that
led to the sleeping quarters above. The ascent was difficult, as
more pain had set in, but he protested when Alicine tried to help
him, and limped alone up the planks to the bedroom that they
shared.

He headed for his bed, longing for the
comforts of the feathery mattress. But then he thought better of
it. His mother would have his head if he soiled the sheets. He
stopped alongside it and stripped off his grimy tunic, then tossed
it to the floor. Balancing his weight against the bedpost, he
pulled at his boots, cursing them under his breath. They were
soaked through, and the long laces that snaked up his legs were
twisted into knots. After struggling for several minutes, he
managed to kick the things off, then went to work on his equally
soggy trousers.

Undressed at last, Dayn stood before the
reflective plate on the wall and stared at himself in the
lamplight. Turning this way and that, he inspected his face and
body. His normally pale complexion was spotted with bruises, and
his blond hair was darkened by the filth still clinging to it. He
wiped the dirt from his neck, then fingered the flower-shaped
birthmark that remained there.
That is where Daghadar the Maker
kissed you
, he recalled his mother telling him when he was
little.

“Kissed - indeed,” he groused. “Who would
want to kiss me?” Even without the bruises he would have still
looked ugly, he thought. The fact that his mother and sister told
him time after time he was beautiful had done little to change his
opinion of himself.

Dayn finished wiping himself off and pulled
on fresh clothes, then made his way down to the kitchen where
everyone was gathered at the table. No one said a word as he
trudged to the bench and sat. A plate of meat, cheese, and bread
had been prepared for him, but he could only stare at it.

“Eat, son,” his mother said.

“I’m not hungry,” Dayn grumbled. He frowned
at the plate, then pushed it away.

“You heard your mother,” Gorman ordered.

Dayn scowled and shoved a piece of bread into
his mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately. He could feel the eyes
of everyone on him, analyzing every chew. The bread scraped down
his throat, but he did not reach for a second piece.

“Why am I so different?” he asked.

His question was met by stony silence and
awkward expressions. He had asked his parents this question many
times, but they always managed to give him some evasive
explanation. Maybe this time they had finally run out of them.

“Dayn, not tonight,” his mother said. “It’s
getting late and--”

“Please, Mother. I need to know.” He looked
at her with pleading eyes, but she turned her face away.

“You heard your mother, it can wai—” his
father started to say.

“No, it can’t wait!” Dayn shouted. He sprang
from the bench that would have toppled if Eileis, who sat next to
him, had not quickly steadied it. “Now! I want to know now!”

Gorman pushed up from the other side of the
table and splayed his hands across the tabletop. He leaned in
threateningly. “You will not speak in such a tone in this
house.”

Dayn glared at his father, noting the redness
of the man’s face and the purple bulges in his neck. Dayn held his
ground for a determined moment longer, then sank back onto the
bench. “I have a right to know, Father. I’ve waited long
enough.”

Gorman stiffened, his tan face blanching at
his son’s response. A stern man, his children always showed him the
utmost respect. But now his son was challenging him, and it was
obvious Gorman had not been expecting it.

Morna rose and placed a hand on her husband’s
arm, then glanced at her son with anxious eyes. “Dayn,” she said,
“we’ve told you before. The fact that you look different is simply
because that’s the way Daghadar made you. There is no other answer
to your question. You are who you are.”

“Well, then, who am I—exactly?”

“You’re our son, nothing more, nothing less,”
Gorman said firmly.

“Am I your son? I mean your real son?” The
words almost lodged in Dayn’s throat. He’d finally asked the
question he’d never had the courage to ask before.

For a moment Gorman seemed to struggle for
words, but then he responded with indignation. “Of course! Who
else’s son could you possibly be?”

“Could something have happened that...could I
be from someplace else?”

“Where else could you be from?” Gorman said.
“You know there’s no place else but Kirador. You know the rest of
the world was long ago destroyed, burned into the sea during the
Purge of Aredyrah.”

“But maybe there could be other people
somewhere. People like me.”

Gorman banged his fist on the table, causing
the dishes to rattle and the people seated around it to jump.
“There are no other people, Dayn,” he shouted. “Have you learned
nothing during your religious training? Have you learned none of
the Written Word? By the Maker, boy, you know the people of Kirador
are the chosen ones, the only ones deemed worth saving by Daghadar.
You
know
there are no others!”

“But what of the demons? They’re others . . .
aren’t they?”

“What are you saying?” Gorman said. “Are you
implying that your mother—?”

“No! No, Father, I only meant—”

“Now you listen to me, boy.” Gorman leaned
across the ¬table and stared Dayn hard in the eye. “You’re our son,
do you understand? Our son, no one else’s. The demons are all
that’s left of the minions that cracked through the earth during
the Purge. They are twisted creatures, abominations, nothing like
us. They survive only to serve as reminders of what can happen if
we don’t heed the Maker’s message. There are no others, Dayn.”

Dayn lowered his eyes. “Well, I don’t believe
it,” he said.

The round of gasps that reverberated around
the table left Dayn cringing. No one had ever uttered such
blasphemous words, certainly not in this household.

Eileis rose from the bench and walked around
it. She had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, but
all eyes turned to her now. “Gorman . . . Morna. Don’t be overly
concerned by your son’s budding independence. He’s at the age to be
questioning. It’s a natural thing.” She turned to Dayn and placed a
hand on his shoulder. “You’re a gift of the Maker, Dayn, as we all
are. Daghadar is wise and has a purpose for us all. It’s late,
child. You’re tired. Take yourself to bed. Things will look
different in the morning.”

“No,” Gorman said firmly. “The boy’ll not
take himself to bed. He’ll sit at this table until I’m satisfied he
knows the Written Word and understands it.”

Gorman stormed over to a cupboard across the
room and yanked open its door. He pulled out a large, leather-bound
book and dropped it onto the table.

Dayn winced. “Father, please . . . no.”

“Gorman,” Morna said, “the boy is tired
and—”

“He will stay.” Gorman straightened his back
and crossed his arms. “Morna, escort Eileis to her bed. Alicine,
you’d best take yourself to your room.”

Alicine rose from the bench and made her way
along it. She looked at Dayn, but said not a word. Dayn could not
imagine what his sister must think of him. She was firmly committed
to the Written Word, and was never one to question their parents or
the teachings they embraced. She must surely hate him now.

“We will begin,” his father said. “Open the
book.”

Dayn opened the book and scowled at the worn,
parchment pages. He knew what each one contained; his father would
be teaching him nothing new. Time and again he had read the sacred
words, as he had been expected to since he was old enough to read.
To the Kiradyns, religious training was part of their everyday
life; there was little separation between the sacred and the
secular. No one questioned it. There was no need. Everyone was
perfectly content to believe and live by the tenets they had been
taught.

Dayn’s distaste was apparent as his father
directed him to a passage and ordered him to read it aloud. He
complied grudgingly, determined not to look interested. When he
finished, his father questioned him about the meaning of the text,
expecting a detailed account of every word and phrase. After
replying to his father’s satisfaction, Dayn was directed to another
passage, and then another. And so it went, passage after passage,
question after question. At first Dayn debated the issues, but
after being put sternly in his place, he resolved to just agree
with everything the man said. It would be much easier that way.

“Yes, Father, we are Daghadar’s chosen
people,” Dayn said with a sigh. “The world wept in darkness until
Daghadar made the world of Kirador for…” Dayn yawned and felt his
eyelids grow heavy. He jerked his head and widened his eyes. “For
us--the chosen people. All others perished.”