Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (20 page)

But, the nagging awareness that not all was right, that all wasn’t as it should be, forced his thoughts from the oblivion he deserved.

He wasn’t alone. Even if the First’s icy presence was a hallucination of his own creation, he wasn’t alone.

From deep within his own consciousness, the First’s anger and frustration burned.
~Remember!~

~~*~~

Kalen reached for the root quill and stared at it. He let out a curse and slammed his right fist against the stone of the desk. Parchments scattered. Glaring at them didn’t restore them to where they belonged.

He’d forgotten—again—that he couldn’t reach for anything with a left hand he no longer had. It ached like it was still there, and nothing relieved him from that pain, not even vellest.

Kalen stared at the flagon filled with poison-laced water. The last dose hadn’t done much more than keep him awake for an extra hour before he’d fallen asleep on his desk.

He would’ve welcomed the convulsions, if it woke him from the nightmare he was living.

No one was willing to tell him what happened; the last thing he remembered was meeting Tavener, then nothing. An entire month was missing from his memories and no one would tell him anything. The next thing he knew, he was a cripple and more people wanted him dead than alive.

Kalen snatched the flagon—with the right hand this time—downed it, left the papers, and strode out of the study. The Guardian posted at the door jerked upright and stared at him in silent questioning. “Tavener,” he grumbled.

A curt nod answered him. Kalen didn’t even know the man’s name. It was just one of many men clad in black who followed him around like a second shadow.

A
useless
second shadow, at that.

“You’d be rid of me faster if you didn’t follow me around. If you want to be useful, deal with the papers on Arik’s desk. At least it doesn’t take
you
an hour to write a response legibly,” Kalen growled.

The footsteps of the man behind him slowed then stopped altogether. Kalen didn’t look back.

At least Tavener would be happy to see him. Hopefully, he could make it to the stables without being drenched in another man’s blood—or his own—for a change.

~~*~~

~Remember!~
The First’s voice shattered Kalen’s memory. Relief washed over him. It was a fresh wound, and for all he didn’t try to think too hard on it, those scars hadn’t really faded despite the years.

Those had been the days he hadn’t cared where he lived or died.

Those were the days where he had simply endured.

~Remember,~
the First begged. The word carried with it the weight of sorrow and regret.

~Remember what?~
Kalen asked, and he was pleased at how easy it was to speak without the burden of a body.

~~*~~

The trail crumbled beneath Tavener’s hooves. Kalen dug his heels into his stallion’s sides and jerked the reins towards the cliff.

It was too late.
 

The stone cracked and groaned beneath their weight. They plummeted off of the disintegrating ledge.

Tavener’s squeal cut off as the rocks slammed into his stallion’s shoulder and neck. A cry was torn from Kalen’s throat. Something extinguished within him and left a void that his horse had once filled. Grief choked off his breath and his fear fueled the beat of his heart. It thundered through his skull and drowned out the crashing stone around him.

He kicked his feet from the stirrups. Without his left arm, he couldn’t get a purchase on the ledge above him. He hit the slope hard and struggled to control his fall, but was swept away in a wave of stone and dust. He rolled to a halt. Before he could gather his wits, a shadow fell over him and the still warm body of his horse fell on top of him, pinning him to the stones. Tavener didn’t move. Kalen couldn’t. His breaths rattled in his chest and the pain surged through him and set every nerve aflame.

When the dust of the slide settled, he stared up at the sky. His cough was weak and tasted of blood.

A bird flew overhead and cast its shadow over them. As though mocking him with its gift of flight, a golden feather drifted down, landing on his cheek. Kalen couldn’t feel it. His vision darkened.

Even the Rift didn’t care for its King. His laugh came out as a wet cough.

Kalen managed to reach out and grab hold of Tavener’s mane. He didn’t mind it, so long as they went together.

Maybe if there was a next life, they could meet again.

~Live.~

~~*~~

Shock kept Kalen silent. Then, he considered the memory and that one word that had demanded his obedience.

Without it, he wouldn’t have lived. He wouldn’t have struggled.

He would have followed Tavener in death without regret.

~Why?~
he asked the First.

This time, Kalen was aware of the First considering his thoughts and memories in search of an answer.

~~*~~

Kalen couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t want to. Breton hadn’t lied to him—yet. If what the big man from the Rift said was true, it’d be a long time until he would sleep.

Part of him wanted to cry. He was so tired, his hands shook, and he couldn’t hold anything steady, not even his most precious thing.

He waited until Breton’s snores were loud enough to drown out the spring washing down the wall before he emerged from beneath his thin blanket. He hurried across the cave.
 

Kalen sighed his relief.
 

They were still there, his six little mottled black, silver, and yellow eggs.
 

If he let them get cold, they’d die. Breton hadn’t wanted him to take them—had told them they were already dead, that they’d already gotten too cold, but Kalen didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

Breton had saved him, and he wanted to save the eggs. It didn’t matter what was inside of them, if they had a chance to live.

The eggs were small enough that they all fit in his cupped hands. He held them against his chest and hoped his fingers wouldn’t betray him in the time it took to cross the cavern. Shuffling back to the fire, he set them down on the sand where it was still warm, and where’d they be safe for the night. When the first light of dawn touched the sky, he’d slip them into a pouch and wear them around his neck, and pretend there wasn’t a lump beneath his shirt.

That was all he could do.

~~*~~

Kalen’s knees slammed against the stone before he realized something large and heavy was draped over his shoulders and coiling around his throat. With a jerk, he twisted, landing on his side with his hands cupping the pouch hanging around his throat.

The newly-hatched serpents within writhed beneath his touch. His fingers snagged on the cord holding it closed, and he tore it free. The babies slithered over his hand to freedom. A convulsion tore through him from the vellest still coursing through his system, and his body jerked on the ground. He caught a glimpse of the tiny black, silver, and golden striped serpents before they disappeared.
 

Hooves clattered on stone and Kalen struggled to shout a warning, but his breath was trapped in his throat. His eyes burned with tears. Another convulsion tore through him, and only the weight of the coils held him in place.

Breton had warned him about the poison and the shaking it would bring, that it couldn’t be stopped. He’d been warned that he would pay the price for his father’s treachery for months.

He hadn’t believed it would be so strong. His nerves were on fire and bursts of light danced in front of his eyes.

“Kalen!” The tone of Breton’s voice, its sharp edge and how it cracked under fear, cut through the haze of pain that tried to overwhelm him. Kalen struggled to lift his head, but he was held in place.

Scales brushed against his cheek before draping across his eyes. Something moist and sharp tore into his left shoulder. A chill eased the heat and Kalen fell limp to the stone. The coils of the serpent released him. Gasping for air, he struggled to move, but the cold radiating from his left shoulder spread and left him prisoner in his own body.

He was faintly aware of Breton dragging him across the stone and lifting him up. The man’s hand was hot against his brow.

“What about the babies?” Kalen mumbled the words.

Breton growled, “Worry about yourself.”

Kalen struggled with his uncooperative body until he managed to flop his arm over his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. “I’m sleepy.”

“Little fool! You’re lucky you’re not dead.” Kalen cringed at the hard edge in Breton’s voice. “I told you not to keep those eggs for a reason!”

“But they would’ve died,” he said, unable to stop his tears.

Breton sighed.

~~*~~

Kalen hid behind Breton and stole glances at the black-clad man swinging a sword at the air. While the man wore similar garb to Breton, it wasn’t the same. It was finer, fit snug against the man’s almost gaunt frame, and was accented in silver and gold from something wrapped around the man’s upper right arm.

“Breton?” he asked in a whisper.

“What?”

“Can I borrow your sword?”

“It’s too big for you. If you want a sword, I’ll get one for you later.”

“Please?”

“Only if you ask in the Rift tongue,” Breton replied.

Kalen scowled and tried to remember the word. “Asanas?”

“Please what?” Breton asked, speaking in the fluid language of the Rift people. Kalen marveled at how smooth and gentle the sounds were, so at odds with the landscape around them.

“Please borrow sword?” Kalen struggled with the words and let out a low, frustrated huff. It was wrong. It wasn’t like the flow of the water or the whisper of the wind.

Breton sighed and unbuckled the weapon before speaking in Kelshite, “Try not to hurt yourself.”

Kalen clutched the weapon to his chest and hurried across the open stone to the man who practiced alone.

The words that greeted him were too fast for him to understand, and he refused to back away at the man’s frown. “Do you speak Kelshite, my Lord?”

The man straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow but said nothing.

Kalen tried again, this time in the Clannish tongue. At that, the man’s brows rose. He resisted the urge to stamp his foot in frustration. Finally, in Danarite, he asked, “Practice?”

“Aren’t you a little young to be playing with swords that large?” the man replied in Kelshite.

Kalen scowled.
 

The man laughed. “If you’re so determined, then, show me your skills. What is your name?”

“Kalen.”

“The ceaseless wind? A fitting name. I am Arik. That sword’s much too big for you, so why don’t you use Gorishitorik? He’s a fine blade and light in the hand. In exchange, I shall use your sword.”

Kalen thrust out the sheathed weapon. Arik took it from him and the hilt of Gorishitorik was offered to him.

The pommel stone was a brilliant blue that gleamed in the light. The guard was of serpents and horses. Kalen gripped his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt and stepped back. It was heavy enough that his arm burned from exertion, but he
could
hold it. Sliding back a pace, he gave the weapon a swing. “This sword good,” he said, trying to speak in the Rift tongue.

Arik laughed, glancing toward Breton. “You’re a terrible teacher.”

Breton didn’t say anything, and Kalen didn’t risk taking his eyes off of Arik. The man grinned.

“Since we’re just practicing, I’ll try not to kill you, boy.” The man spoke slow enough that Kalen could understand the words.

“Same,” Kalen replied.

One blow was all it took to numb his fingers and loosen his grip on Gorishitorik, but Kalen refused to let the sword go. It was a simple swing, but Arik was precise. For all the man didn’t disarm him and send the sword falling to the ground, Kalen feared it was only because Arik let him keep hold on the weapon. He stepped forward and shoved back with all of his strength. Arik stepped back a pace and adjusted his stance.

“Someone taught you before,” the man said in Kelshite.

Kalen’s face heated and for a moment, he didn’t see Arik at all; he saw his father bent over the tea cups with a pouch of powder in hand. Shuddering at the memory, he stomped his foot down on Arik’s and whacked the man’s shin with the flat of Gorishitorik. Arik let out a startled cry. Pivoting around, Kalen ran to the safety of Breton and hid, burying his face against the back of the tall man’s legs.

“Kalen!” Breton exclaimed. The back of his neck was grabbed, and Gorishitorik was snatched out of his hand. “Your Majesty, I apologize.”

“Terrible form, but good tactics. Bring him back in the morning,” Arik replied in Kelshite. Gorishitorik’s sheath was handed over to Breton. “It seems I do need a good, young practice partner after all. How old is your boy, Breton?”

“Twelve, Your Majesty.”

“I’ll be borrowing your sword until tomorrow. Make him swing Gorishitorik until he can’t anymore. Then, get him a proper sword and bring it back to me in the morning. I’ve things to attend to. Come to my study within an hour, Breton. Alone.”

Breton’s fingers grabbed Kalen’s ear and gave a twist. “Little fool.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Oh, you’ll be sorry by the time I’m done with you,” Breton growled out, giving him a shove toward the caverns that made up the city of Blind Mare Run. Gorishitorik, safe it its sheath, was held out to him. “Carry it.”

Kalen clung to the weapon. “Why did you call him ‘Your Majesty’?”

“Because that man is the Rift King, foal. Be quiet. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

~~*~~

The memory wasn’t Kalen’s, nor did it belong to the creature residing within him. It was Kalen’s study, that much he recognized, but he wasn’t the one sitting behind the desk. He’d never been tall enough to peer over the stacks of parchments and have such a clear view of the piles littering the floor.

~Truth,~
the First whispered to him, and they watched the scene together.

A thump on the stone door caught the attention of the one they were imprisoned within.

“Enter,” Arik said.