The Adani Chronicles: Birthright

There was a garden near the outer wall of the city that seemed to be less frequented than some of the others. Ryn wasn’t sure why, as it was probably one of the most lovely gardens she’d seen yet, which was saying something in a city full of them. She sat on a stone bench fiddling with her wooden coin. The warmth of the shining sun, combined with the dull buzz of bees feeding on the ubiquitous flowers, gave the garden a muted, isolated feeling, the perfect setting for a good think.

Ryn thought of several things; her captivity, her new friends, the conversation she’d had with Evin the day before while they watched the sun come up. She wondered at him, trying to imagine his life back at home, where he was doubtless wealthy and—she had thought—well-favored. His words concerned her: “More Eloni than Laendorian, it’s been said.”

Ryn certainly hoped it wasn’t his family who put that thought in his head.

“Let’s just say Brandt has always been the more...acceptable of our mother’s sons.”

She had thought that particular experience was hers alone. It was interesting to her, that instead of feeling a kinship with him over a shared circumstance, she was far more angry that anyone would think such of her friend. He was a good man who did not deserve such to be dismissed and scorned. She scowled at her coin, rubbing a bit of dirt off it with her thumb, harder than necessary.

Beside her, Kota raised his head, bringing her attention back to the garden. She shook her head to clear it and looked about to see what was the matter. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, as far as she could tell. Still the bees buzzed, still the butterflies flitted, lending their patterns and colors to the already-colorful setting. The birds sang cheerily, and unlike so few weeks ago in the wild meadow, nothing felt out of place or wrong.

Then she heard it.

Someone was coming, and they made no attempt to disguise their presence. On the contrary, they were whistling a cheery tune unapologetically. The shrill sound was unwelcome, not so much because of the sound itself, but because it signaled the end of her cherished time alone. Ryn hadn’t been truly alone since she took this job, and as much as she liked her clients, dealing with other people constantly wore on her nerves after a time.

The whistling set her teeth on edge, and Ryn stood, facing the direction from whence it was coming. Beside her, Kota, normally so attuned to her own moods, sniffed the air and tilted his head in an expression of curiosity—very much not what she was feeling at the moment. Ryn didn’t have time to wonder much about it before the old man she’d caught a glimpse of several days before came sauntering into their isolated clearing, all careless grace and flowing robes. He was shorter than she, and much older, though not quite grandfatherly; wrinkles and white hair told of his years, but he moved with the smooth gait of a much younger man. Bright purple eyes sparkled in his leathered face, and he stopped whistling to grin at her. Kota moved closer hesitantly, sniffing the air, his stubby tail held high. Ryn held him back with a murmured word, and the man’s gaze sharpened for a moment before relaxing back into friendly greeting.

“Good morning!” he said cheerfully, and Ryn had to grit her teeth. He was worse than Evin, who was shamelessly buoyant first thing in the morning every day, and it drove Ryn batty while Brandt just dealt with it resignedly, apparently used to his brother’s ridiculous effervescence.

She nodded once in answer. “It is.”

The man appeared not at all put off by her curt attitude, turning his attention to Kota and clicking his tongue in invitation. The lynx chirped inquisitively and trotted to him, nosing at the man’s palm while Ryn stared in shock.

“He’s not very sociable,” she insisted, raising a single brow at her Friend, who trilled apologetically but didn’t leave his investigation, still sniffing at the stranger’s hand.

“It’s not personal,” the man laughed. “He is intelligent, for a lynx. He knows I mean no harm to either of you.”

“Is that why you were sneaking around like a thief in the shadows the other day?” Ryn challenged.

To her surprise, the man took no offense at her words, instead leveling her with a sunny smile. “You saw me!” he sounded delighted. “How wonderful!”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Ryn had little patience for this seemingly-pointless meeting. “I’m really desperately busy.”

“Are you now?” the man challenged back with a grin on his face, though his eyes were piercing. “Busy wandering the gardens while you wait for your Companion to heal up?”

Ryn gritted her teeth, ignoring the man’s question. “Why did you not approach before?”

“You mean when you were with your overprotective bulky warrior friends?” the man gestured to himself, his slender build, weaponless, armorless, and Ryn had to suppress a smirk. “I have no desire to confront either of them in battle.”

It was the nonchalant tone, more than the words themselves, which threw Ryn off. She stumbled a bit over her response. “If you mean no harm, why do you fear my warlike...friends?” She wasn’t sure what to call Brandt and Evin.

“Well,” the man answered, “they seem the type to kill first, ask questions after, if you know what I mean. And what I am about to do can be, at first glance, considered questionable behavior.”

“Questionable...?” But Ryn never got to finish. Throughout their short conversation, the old man had been moving closer by steps, so he was within arm’s reach when he enclosed Ryn’s wrist in a vice grip. In a flash, he’d drawn a knife and sliced her forearm open; a thin, shallow laceration that welled blood instantly. It barely hurt, but Ryn’s other fist flew almost without conscious command from her brain, connecting with the old man’s cheek in a satisfying crunch and sending him sprawling. Ryn closed a hand around her injured arm.

“What in the name of Aeos was that?” she loomed over the man, who sat on the ground looking rather dazed. “You said you meant no harm!” Beside her, Kota’s hackles were up, but he hadn’t attacked the man yet, which was bizarre enough to pique Ryn’s anger. “And what have you done to my lynx!?”

Grasping, the old man rolled to his knees and pulled Ryn’s arm forcefully toward his face. She tried to yank away, but his grip was like iron. What was that all about, anyway? She had definitely hit him hard enough that he should be sprawled senseless on the grass. He stared hard at her freckled skin for a moment before his face split into a grin that made Ryn want to punch him again. “No harm is done,” he cried. “I knew it! I knew it!”

“What are you talking about, you crazy lardsack? You sliced my arm open!”

“But I did not hurt you. Look, my lady!” The old man chuckled as he tried to get his legs back under him. Ryn glanced down at her forearm. Where moments before had been a thin cut, not very deep even, there was now clean, unbroken skin. A little blood was still smeared over it, but she no longer bore any evidence of the man’s knife.

“What?” she muttered stupidly. The old man had finally managed to stand again, and he took her forearm into wrinkled hands again, more gently this time. Too shocked to protest, Ryn looked up into his face. His smile was uncomplicated joy now, no trace of his earlier teasing.

“It is because of our bloodlines. I am Kenelm, of the Skyshifters. And you, my dear, are of the ancient line of Healers, the Y’rai.”

“The...” Ryn petered off, not recognizing the old man’s clan at all, so she focused on what he said of her. “But the Y’rai are legends. Children’s tales.”

Kenelm smiled indulgently. “I am afraid you are mistaken about that. Their origins can be debated—most say they were created by Aeos at the behest of his beloved, Eir, Keeper and Healer of Souls—but what is certainly true is that they existed. And they did indeed wield healing magic, as the Men of Laendor wield swords and the Val’gren wield dark sorcery.”

“No,” she answered, confused. “There must be some mistake. My mother was of the Clan Ragnar, cloth-masters and tailors of Bren Valley in Laendor. My father was from Southdale…a hunter and woodsman.”

But Kenelm was shaking his head. “It matters not. Official lineage is passed down through fathers, yes, but this is a matter of blood, not legality. Intermarriage between clans—indeed, between nations, though that is often looked down upon—is not unheard of. Thousands of years ago, the ancient Y’rai lived and worked among the people they healed; and after the destruction of their society, they stayed. Married wives and husbands. Birthed and fathered children.” He sat on the stone bench she had occupied minutes before, and Ryn buried a hand in Kota’s fur, her fingers cold and numb as she tried to process what she was hearing. The lynx leaned into her knee, snuffling gently as though he sensed her distress. Kenelm continued. “Eventually they died off, but their blood lives on in many of Adan’s population, however diluted.”

Questions exploded in rapid succession in Ryn’s mind, the effect dizzying and not at all to her liking. She knew who she was, good and bad and inside out, had made sure she did, for she was the only thing in her life of which she could always be completely sure. To hear she had latent untapped power given to her through the line of her parents—one, or perhaps both of them—was disorienting. Ryn sat too.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured faintly, staring down at her now-uninjured arm. Blood stained her fingers, and she resisted the urge to wipe it off on her pants. Instead, she studied it, trying to comprehend what she was being told; trying to see if, perhaps, her own life’s blood looked any different, would provide any answers. She was vaguely aware when Kenelm slid over to sit beside her—not too close—fiddling with a thin leather thong, tying it this way and that as he wove it between sure, wrinkled fingers. “Why me? I’ve never healed anything a day in my life…well, not by arcane means.”

Kenelm glanced over keenly, his fingers still working the leather. His gaze was penetrating. “Have you not? They tell me you were a prisoner of the nagrat. I have seen the camp where you were held, my lady.”

Ryn swallowed, dropped her eyes. “That was death, not healing, and it wasn’t me.” Kenelm raised a single brow, and Ryn shuddered at the memory of the place, suddenly feeling defensive. “I don’t know what happened there, but it wasn’t me. You’ve got it all wrong. I fell asleep that night expecting not to wake, but when I did I was healed and they were dead. It wasn’t me at all.”

“It was,” the elder smiled kindly. “The Y’rai were Master Healers, youngling. That ability extended also to their own bodies; when they came near death, the instinct to heal themselves was profoundly compelling, an impulse near impossible to resist. It was a dangerous thing to be near a dying Y’ra, for unless they were killed instantly, they would suck the life out of everything around them until their bodies could survive. Most learned to control it, after years of study. Those who did not, well. There was a reason the Y’rai did not allow a healer near a battle until they were old enough to have mastered the discipline.”

Ryn shuddered at the implications of that. “So I was dying,” she confirmed, carefully refusing to think about what would have happened if she’d been near Kota or her new friends at the time.

Kenelm sighed. “I am afraid so.”

Ryn looked down at her fingers again. Her blood was beginning to dry, darkening to a red-brown and settling into the grooves of her fingerprints. She’d have to wash it off now. The thought was chased by a dozen memories jogged loose by Kenelm’s words: the time she’d accidentally eaten lifesbane berries when she was very young, how horrified mother had been seeing the blue-black juice staining her three-year-old’s face, how Ryn had somehow managed to survive ingesting the most poisonous food known to her people, merely becoming ill for a few days. Or the time she’d fallen from a tree while playing in the woods, landing hard enough on her ankle to hear the bone crack. She’d lost consciousness from the pain, that time, and when she eventually limped home the next day, her repeated defense that she had broken her ankle hadn’t held water when Mother had lifted her pant leg and seen nothing but a lot of bruising and swelling. She’d been punished both for staying out and for lying, that time.

Still, it was sheer luck, fighting skill…and whatever ability she had to heal faster than the average person…that had kept her from dancing too close to death over the years. There was small chance she’d always be so lucky.

“Will it happen again?” She had to know if she would wake up from a skirmish one morning to a dead Kota, or dead friends. The thought terrified her.

“Has it happened before?”

Ryn thought, reflecting on all the dangers in which she had found herself since leaving home, all the horrible situations, all the freezing nights, all the times when food and sometimes water were perilously low. “No,” she had to admit. “Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

“You’ve never been that close to death before. Once in, what, sixteen years?” Kenelm smiled at Ryn’s look of mock outrage. “I would not worry over much, my dear.”

“I have seen twenty-six winters, sir, and you’d do well to remember it,” Ryn found herself trying not to smile in relief.

“However,” Kenelm held up a finger. “The fact that it happened at all, that there’s enough Y’rai blood in your veins to exhibit their traits and their magic…” He shook his head. “You need to learn to control it, lest your fear become reality. You live a dangerous life, child, you cannot afford to be carrying around such unpredictable potential with no mastery of it.” Ryn’s chest suddenly felt very tight, her palms cold and sweaty at the idea of unintentionally killing someone by her own demise.

“Let me help you,” the old man continued, taking her clammy hands in his own. “I should very much like to teach you what I do know, if you are willing. Anyone with enough power to do what you did in that camp could be very useful in our world, and in whatever way she chooses to be.”

“You are...Y’rai...too?” Ryn stumbled over the word, struggled to remember the name of his clan. It had been unfamiliar to her, and thus meant little. But Kenelm was shaking his head.

“Ah, no.” He stood and shook off his long robe, leaning his walking stick against the tree under which they took shade. “I am a Skyshifter. Our once-powerful nations were fast allies. This is my magic.” And with that, he tilted his face to the sky and opened his mouth. What came out was probably best described as a single, unearthly note, unwavering. It made Ryn’s skin pimple with chills and her eyes water, but she didn’t dare blink because she was fairly certain she had never seen anything like this in her entire life. Kenelm’s whole body began to glow as if from within. The light grew brighter, the note louder, until there was a flash of blue so vivid it hurt her head, and Ryn gasped aloud.

Where moments before had stood an old man, there stood instead a magnificent griffin, its curved beak—as long as her forearm—preening ruffled feathers at its chest. Golden tawny fur covered the body of a lion, ending in deadly claws and a tufted tail. But the thing that caught and kept Ryn’s attention, open-mouthed for nearly fifteen entire seconds, was the pair of glorious wings that Kenelm was shaking out, as though to stretch them after long disuse. They were the same dusky gold as his fur, and speckled and striped with darker browns, large feathers gleaming in the afternoon light.

“Oh,” she found herself murmuring. Beside her, Kota was standing with his head tilted in an endearing way that communicated absolute confusion.

Kenelm trilled a sound that was a completely unfamiliar mix of feline and avian, but that Ryn took to be affirmative, then uttered that wailing note again. Moments later, the old man stood before them again, in his less discomfiting figure. He leaned on his walking stick, panting slightly.

“By the Light, that takes more energy than I remember,” he muttered softly.

Ryn couldn’t speak yet, so said nothing.

After several moments, Kenelm seemed to catch his breath. “Long ago, even before I was born, there was a Pact. Hamat, Chief-Son of the Skyshifters, and Falathir, Prince of the Y’rai were, according to the legend, as brothers. They traversed and left boyhood in one another’s company, and when the time came for each of them to step into their respective positions as leader of their people, they made an agreement never to harm one another and always to come to the other’s aid. They backed their Pact with blood-magic, tempered it with the Light, and bequeathed it to every future generation of Y’rai and Skyshifter.” Kenelm sat, smiling. “It is why I cannot—would not—hurt you. If you needed any further proof of your heritage, your…birthright, you have it.”

Ryn nodded, sitting heavily as the enormity of this all descended upon her shoulders. She, a descendant of the Master Healers of Old? A possessor of magic? A homeless wanderer still, but one with an undeniable gift of power that she could use as a force for good, or evil, should she choose.

Or perhaps, a slave to her newfound magic. Already, she felt it: the instinctive urge to accept Kenelm’s proposal, not because she wanted the power, but for the threat of the power overcoming her own will. If she did not control it, it would control her. This she could sense, and it made her angry. It was servitude of the type she’d spent her whole adult life fleeing, only wrapped in a slightly different parcel.

She stood, abruptly. Kenelm’s gaze followed her, serene and guileless. She clenched and unclenched her fists, a gesture of helpless agitation, cursing the roiling of her suddenly rebellious stomach.

“I—” she began, but choked on the words. “I need to think. Please excuse me.” She turned, and Kota on her heels, practically ran from the garden.

To her surprise, Kenelm did not call out.

Evin swiped at the sweat that beaded his brow as he set the final stitches on his worn leather pack. He would need to commission another after this trip, but the one he had ought to hold up well enough if he patched it, so he resisted the urge to buy a new one while they were in Thaliondris. As his uncle had always said, the man who could not exercise wisdom in small transactions could not be trusted to do so in large ones. And Evin would be given his fair share of large transactions to execute, when he was appointed a position in a few years. ’Twas traditional for second-born princes to fill a role close to the King: Advisor, General, High Priest, Chief Scholar, or the like. Originally, Gunnar had wanted Brandt as his Head Advisor; Brandt had made it rather clear to the Crown Prince that he thought Evin’s strength to be in strategy and warfare, so the younger had trained to that end, put all his energies toward shadowing the current General, Almar the Shorn. Now, though...

With Gunnar gone and Brandt in line for the throne, he supposed there was a chance his brother would expect him to fill the position of Advisor rather than General. Eager as he was to help in whatever way he could, he secretly hoped this was not the case. Gunnar had been schooled deliberately for a diplomatic position, Brandt right beside him, since they were small children. Evin, nigh on six years their junior, had still been outside playing with sticks and mud by the time his older brother and cousin were writing courtly letters and charming the ladies with their recitations. It had made him a little jealous, he remembered with a small smile, how like brothers Gunnar and Brandt had been; thick as thieves and twice as awe-inspiring, to a child of his age and temperament. Not that they had ever shunned him. There were many, many stories told over cups and at banquets by courtiers and servants alike, of the three hellions who’d grown up in those castle halls; boyish scuffles and wild chases as much as respectful conversations and knightly courtesy.

Still, of the three of them, Evin had proven to have the least diplomatic talent. He was too impulsive, too quick to laugh, far too plain-spoken. Certainly he could hide his intentions and meanings behind layers of cordiality, but Evin had always half-despised that particular ability, even in his brother. He would much rather say what he meant, as kindly—or not—as possible. Much less room for misinterpretation that way.

All that to say, he’d make a terrible Advisor to the King of Laendor. He was better off in charge of the Crown’s Army, he was sure of it.

He hummed a nameless tune as he cut the thick thread he’d been using and shook out the pack, eyeing it critically. He nodded once; it would do. He had just picked up a sheath and begun to inspect it for damage when the door to his room opened loudly. Brandt had returned, it seemed.

“Bit early, brother?” he asked distractedly, still studying the sheath. “How was the market?”

At the same moment that a wet nose snuffled its way into his line of sight, a clearly-female voice answered, only a little bit snippily, “I’m not him.” With a small blurt of surprise, Evin grinned and gave Kota the attention he was asking for; rubbing the great cat’s neck and flank, then growling playfully at him as he pulled his fur gently, trying to incite the kit to play. It worked; Kota bared his teeth and swiped at Evin with his claws sheathed, enough force behind it to push the prince off the bench and flat onto his back. Evin laughed breathlessly, wriggling to get free while he mimicked Kota’s play-warning growls. The lynx let him get a couple of feet away before pouncing again, and the game was on.

After several minutes, he sat up, hair askew and face flushed, to see Ryn sitting in his spot on the wooden bench, several sticks in her hands that looked to have been whittled and sanded straight. A kerchief lay next to her, sharp arrowheads piled on top, and a group of fletching feathers rested beside that. Despite the normalcy of what she was doing, Evin could tell something wasn’t quite right. Every line of Ryn’s body radiated tension, from the way her back was ramrod-straight to the obvious clench of her jaw. He tilted his head.

“What is wrong?”

Ryn glanced up at him, shifting uncomfortably, before looking back down and beginning to wrap a thin leather thong around the junction between arrowhead and shaft. She was silent for a few minutes, but Evin didn’t ask again, knowing she would answer when she was ready, or not at all.

Kota huffed a bellowy sigh and lay down next to him, lowering his big head to rest on Evin’s thigh. The prince scratched behind the lynx’s ears and the creature started to purr, throat vibrating against Evin’s legs.

When Ryn did answer, it wasn’t what Evin expected. “You believe the Y’rai are more than legend, yeah?”

When she finished the question, he couldn’t decide what was in her face—desperation, or fear, or grief—but he nodded. “I do.”

Ryn sighed, letting her hands fall into her lap, still holding the half-finished arrow. She let the weapon rest in her hand, pulling at her protective leather work glove nervously.

Evin felt his eyes narrow in confusion; in the time he’d known Ryn, she’d been chased down by a troll, nearly gotten a concussion in a river, and been tortured by nagrat, and through all of it, he’d never seen her so discomfited. It was a serious thing indeed that could render his confident, self-assured guide-turned-friend this jittery.

Ryn kept her eyes firmly upon her fiddling fingers as she spoke again. “I met a Skyshifter today.”

Evin sat up a little straighter. A Skyshifter? They were almost extinct, the stuff of legends now, though he had heard of a few who lived here and there—one, indeed, in Thaliondris. He would love to meet the man. “That is incredible!” he exclaimed, letting himself smile.

But Ryn looked anything but pleased, her green eyes rising to meet his, more fear in them than joy. “He said I am a Y’ra.”

Evin actually sat back at that piece of news, shock making its lightning way through his features. He blinked, words refusing to form on his lips. A Y’ra? It was feasible, certainly, for many people to be descended of the Healers of Old; but for their magic to manifest enough to be called by their name, to become heir to their secrets? That seemed...unlikely. “Is he certain?” he asked carefully after several moments.

Ryn flashed him a desperate smile, clearly having thought of the same question. “He is. I am not, although...” she petered off, then seemed to gather her courage in a breath. “Although the evidence seems to support his claim more than my own.”

Evin tilted his head. “Evidence?”

Ryn nodded, pulling at her glove again. “The nagrat camp, for one,” she said quietly. “And there are other things. Things I’ve always attributed to luck, but...how I’ve survived this long on my own, gotten out of scrapes I shouldn’t have, responded so differently to poison than others, my knack for medicines and herbs...” She swallowed. “I think Kenelm—the Skyshifter—might be right.”

“Oh.” Evin took a moment to absorb the enormity of it, and found a smile creeping over his face. A Y’ra! What a wonderful thing to discover about oneself, the ability to become a powerful healer and mage, save lives, help people! It was a noble calling, full of honor, and he...he squinted. Why wasn’t she happier about this? Instead of looking as though she’d been given the key to the world, Ryn looked like someone had destroyed her life.

“You...wish it otherwise?” he asked.

Ryn ran shaking fingers down the grain of one of the feathers she was using to fletch her arrows, clearly agitated. She took so long to answer this time Evin thought she might not at all, preferring to shut him down or change the subject in that way she had. Kota shifted, no longer purring, perhaps sensing his mistress’ apprehension. After a few minutes she sighed, clearly agitated with herself. “Who am I to decide who lives and dies?” she finally blurted, and Evin understood in an instant.

She feared the power she possessed.

His second thought was that such an attitude was perhaps wise. He knew that some of the legend surrounding the ancient and proud Y’rai, this many years hence, would be just that: legend. There was no knowing exactly what Ryn was capable of, if anything. Nevertheless, there was no denying the Healers of Old had been formidable indeed, both on the battlefield and off it, and such power never came without the very real danger of getting lost in it. He had a difficult time imagining Ryn as a tyrannical mage, but the truth was, no one ever expected to become mad or ruthless.

That said, potential untapped was another evil altogether.

“Don’t you already?” he asked, deliberately blunt. He knew Ryn well enough to know she didn’t take kindly to pity or sympathy. A logical approach would reach her more quickly, and she tended to appreciate his candidness more than the lords and ladies at court did. It was both part of the reason they got on so well, and part of the reason she’d taken so long to warm to him. This was a contradiction in her he found fascinating.

Now, however, she seemed slightly less appreciative, though he clearly had her attention. She stopped fidgeting, looked up at him in confusion. “Don’t I already what?”

“Decide who lives and dies,” he clarified. He went on quickly, preferring to explain before she jumped toward conclusions he did not intend. “You already do that, every day. You decide the nagrat die, the travelers live. It’s how you make a living.” There was dawning comprehension on her face, morphing into something like anger. He pressed on. “We all do it; fight to kill the evil ones and save the good, the innocent ones.”

“That’s...different.”

“Is it?” he challenged. “Is not magic simply another weapon in your arsenal, another means to complete your mission to save lives?”

Ryn blinked. She still looked doubtful, but Evin could see he had made his point, so he didn’t push further. Instead, he reached down and stroked Kota’s velvet-soft ears, turning his full attention to the lynx and letting Ryn process his words. The big cat nudged up into his hand, whuffing softly and beginning to purr once more, enjoying the ministrations of his fingers. Evin held back a laugh, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going on inside his guide’s pretty head.

“So...so you think I should go to Kenelm?” Ryn asked a few minutes later. Evin looked up at her and was struck by her expression. It was equal parts curiosity, fear, and desperation, and it occurred to him that she legitimately cared what he thought about the matter. She hadn’t been just asking out of a need to verbalize her doubt or a desire to hear what he had to say; his opinion—his advice—actually meant something to her. He let himself wonder for a moment when exactly that had happened, letting the question hang in the air, crafting his response carefully.

“I think you should do whatever you want,” he eventually answered. “Treat your magic like a staff, bow, or any other weapon. Choose how you’ll fight, then become a master at it.” He locked his gaze with hers, gold on green. “But do not avoid it out of fear.”

Supper was a quiet affair that night. Brandt had returned to the inn to find Evin lolling on the floor with Kota like he was a cat himself, and Ryn sitting on their bench fletching arrows. She had just finished when he arrived, so after he roundly mocked his brother for acting like a lazy child, they had all cheerfully dug into the roast venison and warm tellas bread he’d picked up from the market. At first, Ryn had seemed off, more like the woman he’d first met all those weeks ago; quiet, reserved, maybe even a little cold. He’d wondered at it; but Evin was in high spirits, and as was usually the case, his cheerful demeanor went far toward relaxing both their taciturn guide and Brandt himself.

During dinner, Ryn had told him about her meeting with the Skyshifter. Brandt thought it all completely crazy, but then he hadn’t seen the nagrat camp himself. Evin had told him of it, and it had certainly sounded strange enough, but Y’rai magic? Even if one believed in the Healers of Old, they had intermarried and died off hundreds of years ago; what were the chances Ryn would possess enough of their blood to manifest their power? He said little, though, since Ryn was clearly nervous about the entire thing, simply giving her a smile and encouraging her to do what she thought best. If she really was the only living heir of the Y’rai, far be it from him to stand in her way. If she was not, attempting to learn the use of magic she did not possess would clear all this up quickly enough.

Now, a good few hours after the last of the venison had been tossed to Kota as a treat, and long after the sun had set in a riot of gold and red, all three of them were gathered on the velvety rug like a group of younglings at a sleepover. Brandt was leaning against the bedpost, Evin beside him. His brother was slumped so low he was practically lying down. His bare feet dug into the mossy carpet at irregular intervals, as though he was enjoying the sensation of grass between his toes, but it seemed an entirely unconscious gesture, which amused Brandt to no end.

Quietly, of course.

Kota was sleeping heavily next to Ryn, who lay with her head against his big soft flank, now fully healed and barely even scarred. Brandt was grateful; he found he’d come to almost like the beast at some point on the road. Ryn herself seemed entirely at ease now, grinning as she looked over at them.

“Your turn, Evin.”

Evin smiled back, his bright eyes lighting up. He loved tale-telling, and he was damned good at it. Better than Brandt would ever be, for certain. He was half-sure, if he’d kept record, he could look back at the nights spent on this quest and find that Evin was asked to provide the evening’s stories more often than he and Ryn put together, but he wasn’t keeping score, and even if he was, who could blame them? The man knew how to tell a story.

His younger brother pulled himself into a sitting position, folding his legs under him and tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Let us see, with which tale of daring adventure should I regale you this night?”

Brandt smiled; he loved seeing Evin like this, in his element, unashamedly himself in all his unique ways, and being appreciated for it. Ryn’s wide eyes were fixed on his brother, awaiting the story.

“Ah, yes, now I have it,” Evin’s grin turned mischievous. He cleared his throat and began, folding his hands over his torso theatrically. “On this beautiful night of the diamond-skies, I tell you a tale of danger, of peril unmatched, and of daring prowess that will take your breath away!” He gestured wildly, and Ryn laughed. Brandt tried not to snort aloud. “Tonight!” Evin continued, “I tell you of the Brandt the Gentle, and how he once saved the lives of an entire herd of deer!”

Brandt realized with a start which tale Evin was about to tell, and his heart sank into his stomach. He moaned, rolling his eyes so hard he gave himself a headache. Or perhaps that was the ridiculous day he’d had.

“As you love me, brother,” he cried. “Any tale save that one!”

“Shhhh,” Ryn shushed him, her face lit up with amusement, and Brandt couldn’t even be upset. She was almost pretty this way, the firelight playing on her scarred face, smile softening hard features.

“The lady speaks true,” Evin said, all gravitas. “It is a man of no courtesy who interrupts a tale in the telling.”

Brandt let his head thunk against the bedpost dramatically.

Evin smirked and continued.“Twas a glorious morning in the month of Blossomfall, ages and ages past, for our hero is an old man now...”

Twas a freezing, dark morning, actually, and not so long ago, Brandt remembered, half amused and half annoyed at Evin’s exaggeration.

“Brandt the Gentle was awoken kindly by his dashing brother Evin, the Greatest Huntsman in All the Land, in preparation for his first hunt.”

Brandt began reassessing his previous thoughts about Evin’s storytelling abilities. There were more factual errors in that one sentence than any tale ought to be allowed: Evin had smothered him with a pillow to wake him, cackling madly the entire time; his younger brother was most certainly not the ‘Greatest Huntsman in All the Land’, though he could probably compete for the title, not that Brandt would ever tell him so; and it had not been Brandt’s first hunt. He cocked an eyebrow, but Evin didn’t even notice. He simply continued, ridiculous embellishments and flamboyant hand gestures and all.

“The brothers left their shining home amidst a cheering crowd of admirers, waving politely and kissing babies as they went. They reached a spot where the Greatest Huntsman in All the Land knew the deer came to graze and water in the early mornings, and The Magnificent Huntsman showed his Gentle brother where to lie in wait for them. ‘Await our prey here’, he instructed quietly, ‘and when they arrive, wait until they begin to drink to shoot. When they drink, you know they feel safe.’

“The Noble Huntsman positioned himself nearby, in a location where he could both see and remain comfortable throughout the proceedings; for the ritual stated that his brother must perform the entire operation himself—shooting, cleaning, and transport back home.”

That, at least, was true. Brandt sighed. This was where things went downhill.

“There they both sat, in a small clearing with a sparkling stream, for nigh on one full hour. Soon the sun began to rise in the distance, a thin strip of gold in a lightening blue sky. The Exalted Huntsman watched eagerly as the herd of deer entered the verdant glade cautiously. They looked about for several minutes before crossing to the ice-cold stream and beginning to drink. ‘Now,’ thought the Greatest Huntsman in All the Land. ‘Now is your chance, Gentle Brother!’

“But nothing happened. For another full hour, the deer remained in that dell, refreshing themselves and readying to move on, and still no arrows came from Brandt’s yew bow.” Evin paused for effect, and Ryn’s brow was furrowed in genuine confusion. She was visibly biting her cheek to avoid interrupting with a question, and it made his younger brother grin.

“Perhaps you wonder why such an oddity occurred,” he continued, and Brandt groaned quietly. Couldn’t he just get on with it without all the theatrics? “I assure you, sweet lady, the Great Hunter wondered exactly the same thing. He was unable to assist Gentle Brandt in any way, so said the ritual, so he waited to see what would happen. The herd of deer moved on, and yet no response was forthcoming; the Famed Archer began to be afraid for his brother’s safety. He slipped from his hiding place and went to Brandt, only to find him limp and quiet. Concerned, he knelt beside him to assess his condition, only to be startled half out of his wits by a loud snore!”

Brandt saw the moment Ryn understood fully the end of the story. Her round eyes crinkled at the edges, her slack mouth closing as she bit her lip in an attempt not to laugh at him outright. Evin leaned forward to finish the tale, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

“Gentle Brandt had fallen fast asleep awaiting the herd, and thus saved the lives of every deer in that glade, there on that glorious morning in the month of Blossomfall.”

Ryn lost what composure she’d managed to hang onto. She laughed so hard she woke Kota, who huffed imperiously and moved out from under her head, causing it to thump onto the carpet, which just made her laugh harder. Evin snorted his amusement at the sight, and Brandt found himself laughing right along with both of them. They all laughed far longer than he felt the story warranted, including him, but in the wake of their amusement, he noticed the air felt a little lighter.

Perhaps a good laugh was something they had all needed badly.

Ryn swiped at the corners of her eyes, wiping away the small tears that had gathered there in her amusement. “I can’t believe you fell asleep on a hunt,” she said, dissolving into quiet giggles again.

“Yes well,” Brandt offered by way of explanation, “I hadn’t slept in three days.”

“Through no fault of anyone’s but your own,” Evin interjected, still laughing. “You had just come of age and were celebrating in the most uppity, ridiculous way possible!”

“I will have you know my friends found my drunken antics hilarious,” Brandt defended himself, sending his brother and their friend into yet another fit of mirth. He grinned a little, too.

“So how did you bring home the required venison?” Ryn finally asked, once they’d all calmed. Kota had given up sleeping and sat by the fire, studying them all with an expression of judgmental disgust.

“We just waited for dusk,” Evin replied. “The same herd came back in the evening and Brandt shot one then. He’s not a bad hunter, not really.” His younger brother smirked at him. “But it makes such a great story, his failure.”

Brandt tackled him.