Trials of the Hierophant: Vol. II of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (4 page)

The all-too-familiar weight of sadness swelled up from within, and he closed his eyes. It was not the melancholy which accompanied dusky winter. It was not dark and brooding, it was white and hazy. He felt absent from everyone and everything, and even the dim light of the evening was too much for his tired eyes.

He returned to the stone house. His arms felt weak, as though a great weight had been carried in them, but he managed to dry himself before tumbling into the bed.

Under the cloak of darkness, when Connor had only his thoughts to entertain him, he still saw that garish, yellow smile. The man’s lips curled into a grin even as his life’s blood left him. Had he welcomed death as a comrade, or had he denied the futility of struggling?

Connor shivered as a chill came over him, and he pulled the blankets up over his head.

A sudden jolt of pain ripped his thoughts from him. He let out a strangled gasp as he pressed his palm against the wound on his chest, clenching his fingers on his shoulder. He tried to maintain deliberate breaths as he trained himself to do when pain overtook him, but it did not help. The pain which wracked through his body seemed worse than before. While he had grown accustomed to the dull aches and soreness throughout his body, amplified by such episodes, this time it felt as though a hot poker twisted itself in his chest.

As the fire ripped through his entire body, he threw the blankets to the floor. Sweat seeped through the back of his dressing robe and he struggled to sit up. With more effort than he realized he had within him, he managed to swing his legs over the side of the bedding and rest his feet on the floor as he hunched over.

He took slow, deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, and closed his eyes. If past incidents were of any consequence, he knew what would happen next. His head would throb and it would be as lumber struck with an axe. It always started at the base of his skull, spreading up and outward with the sharpest pain cleaving through the center of his head and focusing between his eyes. But, the pain did not come. His head remained clear, and he continued his breathing.

A sensation of dry hay in the back of his throat elicited a hoarse coughing fit. This was new, he managed to think as he clenched his eyes, tears already streaming down his face from the exertion.

His hand trembled as he reached out for the pitcher of water on the table across from him. He managed to pull it toward him and greedily gulped most of the cool liquid down. Only when he stopped to breathe did he notice the blood in his palm.

A strange thought came to the forefront of his mind. What if he did not live long enough to even finish his period of seclusion, let alone fulfill his initiation? Thoughts of a death more imminent than he had prepared himself for made him feel light-headed.

He let himself fall back onto the mattress, too exhausted to bother reaching for the blankets on the floor. What would Ceridwen do should she hear he had passed away alone in the forest, far away from Arlais? What would his uncle think? Or Gawain?

He rolled to face the wall. He prayed sleep would come upon him soon, but his thoughts raced for most of the night.

Chapter III

ronwen stared at her bowl, filled with a thick horse meat stew, still piping hot from the cook’s pot. Newly-crafted to commemorate the king’s coronation, the intricately carved trestle table in Castle Cærwyn could seat at least one hundred of the kingdom’s nobles. Tonight, it was rather bare, save for herself, Rhodri, and several of his advisors.

As she looked to his face, she could see his emotions displayed painfully clear. His advisors had been bickering amongst themselves‌—‌a favorite pastime of the council, should their actions of late be any indication. Rhodri looked so overwhelmed. She wished she could reach out to grant him comfort. Never had he confided in her in the time they had been married, but he did not need to. Bronwen could tell he was under terrible strain. He still sought out his bearings as High King, and seemed to struggle every day.

The scenario reminded her of sitting in her father’s great hall as a child, lavish feasts with nobles from the entire kingdom of Annwyd in attendance. She loved to sit at the table and listen to their conversations, though she did not understand much at the time. Her brother Madoc was too young to attend, which made her feel even more important, as though she were a true lady of court.

Castle Cærwyn’s hall was not as inviting as it had been when Alric was alive. Rhodri did not seem to bother with luxuries such as lit braziers and incense. The tapestries in the hall had coatings of dust upon them and the cobwebs had not been swept in a season’s time. The castle was but a hollow shell of what it once was.

Crows roosted in the rafters of the hall, and cried out at all hours of the day and night. Their shrill calls haunted the castle with a somber pall of dread. She felt the eyes of the crows above her, and glanced to the ceiling. She could not help but feel they were spirits sent to haunt her for her lust of Rhodri, and to punish her for her sins toward Siana.

Bronwen sat in silence, letting the men spar with each other over how the king’s realm should best be run. Rhodri looked bored with the matter. Though, the boredom could have sprung from exasperation.

“And what of the northern road?” asked Ealdorman Gruffudd Barciau.

Bronwen tilted her bowl forward to scoop a small bit of broth into her spoon as she waited for Rhodri to answer.

He merely lifted the goblet to his lips. His boredom stained his face just as the wine stained his lips.

“Your Highness?”

Rhodri nodded, but he did not speak and instead took another sip of wine.

“Do we have Your Highness’ permission to garrison the shires in the northern ealdormanry?”

Another advisor spoke up. “Could that not provoke‌—‌?”

“And if it does?” shot back the king.

The venom in his voice was palpable, as Bronwen had grown accustomed to hearing from men too scared to show their fear. Their rage failing to hide the quiver of a boy hiding behind his nursemaid’s skirts.

Bronwen placed a hand on her stomach, round and plump with child. She did not remember a time when her husband had uttered even the simplest of kind words to her. Even as she carried his child within her, he did not seem to pay her any mind at all.

Rhodri was speaking, but his words held no weight. He babbled on about war and the death of his people with the same lightness one would speak of an annoyance of rain or a chill in the air. Yet, Bronwen knew, it was not a malicious uncaring tone. Rhodri spoke as though he did not hear his own words. He spoke as though his very breath could give out under the strain of putting sound to them.

She thought back to her short time as Alric’s wife, and was astonished to find herself longing for his kind presence in the room. While she did not love him as he loved her, never did she feel neglected. Instead, Alric danced on her every word and sought only to see her happiness. Why had she despised being married to him so? She no longer remembered. All she remembered was how fiercely her passion for Rhodri had burned. But passion soon ebbed as the days of winter grew shorter and darker.

It was not that Rhodri was cruel to her. She had whatever she desired: fine linens and silks, jewels, gold‌—‌everything but the kindness of his voice. He could not be bothered to give her a smile or even something as quaint as the turn of the corner of his lip in amusement. Emotions seemed just out of his grasp, fuzzy shapes in the distance just beyond the reach of his fingertips.