The Adani Chronicles: Birthright

It was the red eyes, always the red eyes, that terrified him beyond belief.

Why? He had confronted Val’gren before, many of them had red eyes.

But they never seemed quite so scarlet, never quite so familiarly shaped as these. Never quite so cruel or hateful.

There were no words in this dream, only flashes. Long, pale fingers closing round his throat. An elegant blade, etched with runes and slightly curved, plunged into his brother’s heart, bleeding red as those eyes. A brutal smile that sucked all the hope from his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

Brandt!

The dagger lay forgotten in the snow beside his brother’s still fingers, blade sparking faintly.

Brandt gasped.

Evin bolted upright, gulping for air. It was dark, the moon white against a black sky, washing the world in odd contrast. The air on his cheeks was cool—almost cold—and he reached up to press his shaking hands to them.

They came away wet.

He suddenly felt trapped in his bedroll; it was constricting and hot, and he needed to get out. He stood unsteadily, knees shaking still from the punch of adrenaline the dream had delivered, and turned about to locate his brother, to assure himself it really was just a dream.

Golden braids shuffled in a soft breeze against the bedroll beside his, and he relaxed a little. The dream was far too fresh for the simple sight of his brother sleeping peacefully to settle the pounding in his chest; but it was a start. A second cursory glance revealed that Ryn was sitting watch; she was huddled in a wool blanket, leaning against a sleeping Kota as she looked out over the plains. The slight overhang they’d camped under provided shelter at their backs, so she only had two directions to watch tonight. Disentangling himself from his damp, tangled blankets, he made his shaky way over to her post and sat heavily on the fallen log beside her. The jagged horizon to the east was just beginning to lighten to a pale blue, stars fading slowly in the impending dawn. Ryn didn’t startle when Evin sat, which implied he’d probably been tossing for a while before he woke.

“Can’t sleep?” Her voice was low, soft. It reminded him painfully of his mother for half a moment.

He shuddered visibly, grateful she did not look at him. “Bad dreams.”

The lass frowned at that and pressed a leather-clad shoulder to his in a silent gesture of solidarity. “What of?”

Evin’s throat constricted at the thought of the dream, and their too-recently-deceased cousin; his and Brandt’s childhood partner-in-crime, a crown prince who’d never lorded that fact over his boyhood playmates. Their brother-in-arms as they grew, training and scouting beside them.

Dead in his arms, a simple patrol gone horrifically wrong. Not six weeks ago. It was still too fresh for comfort.

It could have been Brandt. So easily, it could have been his brother in his arms that day. He knew sometimes Brandt thought it should have been. He had a way of taking on responsibility like that, even when it didn’t rightly belong to him. It drove Evin spare half the time.

“Death,” he answered, voice cracking.

Ryn finally looked up at him, understanding written all over her face. “Whose?”

Evin shuddered. “Brandt’s. Gunnar’s. Those I love.”

“Gunnar is…another brother?” Her voice was quiet, gentler than he’d ever heard it.

He shook his head. “Cousin. He was killed on patrol.”

“Oh.” Ryn seemed to deflate beside him, looking out toward the lightening horizon. She moved slightly closer, not even a scoot, just a shift of her weight into his bicep; Evin almost laughed at the difference between her and his brother, imagining Brandt’s version of after-nightmare comfort, which was to toss a muscled arm around his shoulder in a gesture of careless self-assurance. That was Brandt, all surety and strength and confidence.

Not that his brother didn’t wear it well; Brandt was the most incredible warrior Evin knew, and he knew a lot of warriors, had trained with some of the most skilled in the realm. His older brother sometimes seemed invincible; and though Evin was old enough to know better than to engage in such boyish awe toward someone who was, after all, only human, the fact was that Brandt still engendered a measure of hero worship in the younger man. Evin couldn’t seem to help but to look up to him, even as an adult.

Look up to him, and recently, long to protect him. This ache was new, likely a result of both coming of age and Gunnar’s recent death—more specifically, his inability to save his cousin, and his subsequent vow never to lose Brandt in the same way—and Evin wasn’t quite sure what to do with it yet. He was a formidable warrior himself, quick and lethal with his sword and deadly with a bow; but recently he’d wanted nothing more than to work harder, be faster, stronger, better.

Not for his own benefit; but because the nightmares had begun after Gunnar’s death, and he was determined to be good enough to protect Brandt, whatever came.

“You and your brother are very close,” Ryn remarked, startling him back into the moment.

He realized she was studying him, something in her eyes he could not name, and he nodded belatedly. “Too close, some say.”

Ryn’s answering gaze was sharp, fierce. “Impossible.”

He tilted his head. “Is it?” Their guide shifted and turned away again, but Evin moved with her, keeping their shoulders pressed together. “Do you have a brother, Lady Ryn?”

“I am not a lady.”

He let her have the rejoinder, waiting for her response to his question.

She did not pull away, though her lips thinned and her face appeared even paler in the gray morning light. He waited her out, was patient and let her come to him. After a while, she nodded, once. “I had a brother. He is dead.”

Evin tried not to gasp audibly, but the sound of dismay that stuck in his throat sounded instead choked and horrified. The thought of losing Brandt was enough to gut him entirely, a possibility not to be borne, and here he was beside a lass who had endured it?

“Tell me?” he croaked. It might have been the wrong thing to say—it probably was the wrong thing to say, but all Evin could think was that if Brandt were dead, he would want him honored in every way, including in Evin’s own stories.

Ryn seemed to be of a similar mind, because she considered, though she didn’t lean back into him. “He was a beautiful boy,” she began, voice husky and soft as she stared into the horizon. “Five years my junior; I was old enough to fall in love with him the moment I met him, but young enough to be his playmate and protector.” A gentle smile touched her lips. “He never left my side from the moment he could walk. We played in the woods, by the river, in the creek, in the house and the barn and the town square...always at one another’s side.” The smile turned a little wry, and she looked at him. “I got in such trouble for dragging him all over the place. Mother said I’d get him killed before he came of age.”

“What was he like?” Evin found himself asking, suddenly desperately curious to hear about this lad who had obviously possessed so much of their guide’s heart. He didn’t over-analyze the feeling.

Ryn was smiling fully now. “Pure Laendorian stock, that one was. Wild and strong, adventurous and clever as an asp. He dreamt of being a warrior, you know, and I never doubted he would. Even as a small child, it was obvious he was going to be tall and sturdy. He would have been lucky in love, too,” she added, glancing over at him with a grin. “He had these thick, beautiful curls and sky-blue eyes and freckles everywhere.” She paused, then sighed softly.

“How did he die?” Evin asked, hushed.

Ryn tensed, but told him anyway. “Val’gren attack. Râza himself, in fact, since Mother’s brother was someone of some importance in the village where I grew up.”

Evin winced visibly.

Ryn didn’t seem to notice. “I hid.” She blinked, swallowing convulsively as if the memory made her sick, which Evin reflected, it probably did. “Mother ordered me to hide, and I did, but the house was on fire and she was inside…something fell on me and the last thing I saw was Talos running into the burning house...” she petered off. Evin could fill in the rest, and the image in his head made his chest ache. He wanted nothing more than to hold her. “When I woke he was dead. They were all dead. I was fourteen summers,” she eventually finished.

Evin waited half a minute to see if she had more to say, but she just sat quietly, ramrod-straight against him. “I am sorry,” was all he could think to say, though he knew it was horribly inadequate.

Ryn hummed an acknowledgment, then seemed to realize how much she’d said. He watched it happen, watched the gates slam shut and her eyes harden to unforgiving emerald green as she fixed him with a glare that could curdle new milk. She looked positively fierce, and he was reminded, in that moment, of the legend this lass had built around herself. Was reminded that Val’gren regarded her as a Phantom, a horror story to scare the younglings; and remembered how many of them had discovered, at the end, how much of her legend was true.

“It matters not,” she growled. “It was long ago, and I have since forged a place for myself in the world.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “So you have, lass. I meant no offense.”

She softened a little at that. “You have not offended me, Evin. I simply have no use for pity; yours or anyone else’s. When it would have mattered, I had none. And now I no longer require it.”

He wanted to ask her to elaborate further, but the sun was well and truly risen now, bathing her bronze skin in golden light.

She stirred and stood. “Come,” she said. “We must make good time today. There is a storm coming.”

Evin thought, as he poured some of the icy water they’d left beside the fire over Brandt’s head, that perhaps she meant more than just the weather.

The journey from Dreyfen to Thaliondris—through the wilderness rather than over roads—was a rather long and difficult one, and Ryn had spent much of it blatantly suspicious of her clients. But after the near-disastrous river crossing four days ago, and more recently, Evin’s bad night, she had noticed a difference, both in the way she saw them and in the way they saw her. Both parties, while still dubious, spoke more easily, snapped less, and were generally more pleasant to one another. Brandt had even slapped her shoulder the other day, at something Ryn said, which had startled her so badly she stared outright for several seconds before stammering an excuse through her fierce blush. Evin found the whole thing riotously amusing, which had equal parts rankled and pleased her.

This day’s sunset found them stopped in a dense forest north of the tiny village of Ramshed, sheltered in a grove of willows that Ryn had visited before. The day’s travel had been quite productive, and the discussion had turned to weaponry when Evin caught her studying the dagger he’d gifted her with. She had explained her own staff, a beautifully sturdy piece of echowood she had acquired years prior deep in the Dragonbacks and had since interlaid with runes and spells against exposure and general wear and tear. Weaponry had turned to technique, and Ryn had confessed she often avoided up-close confrontations with multiple enemies due to her fighting style and lack of formal training. To her surprise, upon hearing it, Brandt had offered to spar with her. Evin had agreed enthusiastically, saying they needed to practice as much as she did.

And so it was, after their evening meal, Ryn stood with Brandt on a cleared rough circle they’d use as training grounds. Evin watched off to one side, one hand in Kota’s thick fur, grinning widely. The lynx, to Ryn’s surprise, allowed the contact. She wasn’t sure if that made her happy or jealous; Kota, while raised by a human, was still every bit a wild animal. No one else had ever dared touch him, and Ryn had always felt they would have regretted it if they’d tried.

Somehow, all the usual rules didn’t seem to apply to Evin. She got the feeling that was a common occurrence with this man. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but there was something about him that was...disarming.

Brandt, steely as ever, told Ryn to assume a fighting stance, bringing her focus back into the moment. She placed her feet shoulder-width apart and bent her knees, holding her staff in a defensive position before her. Brandt studied her stance, circling while prodding here or poking there, making suggestions to improve her form.

Without warning, the man charged her with both battle axes lifted high. He didn’t make a sound, and it disoriented Ryn for half a second. Her eyes barely had time to widen before he was on her, all ferocity and bulk; she ducked under his swing, coming up on his left and swinging about quickly, dropping to her knees to avoid the horizontal blow he had pivoted into. He granted her an opening a moment later as he raised his weapon high over his head for a vertical stroke intended, in a real battle, to cut her in half from crown to belly. Growling, Ryn decided to bring the fight closer than his longer, bladed weapons would allow; she pushed herself up nearly into his chest, and shoved her staff across his throat. In battle, she’d have turned the move into a blow intended to bruise or break his windpipe.

There was a beat, and then he smiled. “Good, lass, but that trick will only work once.”

Her grin was fierce. “I only need it to work once.”

He answered her with a nod of his own before attacking again.

For several minutes, she danced around, avoiding his blows but also not scoring any of her own. The fact did not bother her at first; she needed only one blow. Unfortunately, her technique worked best if an enemy was dispatched quickly, and he wasn’t giving her another opening to end this.

She began to tire, her reactions slowing as the minutes passed. Sweat coursed down her face, and her ribs began to sting with the strain of breathing, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of wearing her down to forfeit. In desperation, she tried for a questionable opening as he swung toward her. Shifting his weight to his right foot at the same time he let go of one axe entirely, he turned. His free hand gripped her opposite shoulder as his foot swept the back of her knee; he turned her about as she fell, smacking her staff from a stunned grip and bringing his remaining axe to her throat as she landed on her knees.

“Dead,” he intoned.

Ryn was surprised to hear Evin laugh and applaud from the sidelines. She dropped her gaze, feeling ashamed he had seen her get so thoroughly whipped, but Brandt was squeezing her shoulder and his eyes were smiling when she looked up.

“You did well,” he assured her. “Evin and I would have been hard-pressed to last that long with only a stick for defense.”

She did break a smile at that, gaze flicking to the man in question as he cheered loudly from next to the fire.

Brandt spent the next two hours correcting Ryn’s form—her lack of formal training was evident in this portion of the lesson—and teaching her to block, rather than just dodge, her enemy’s attacks. By the time he called a halt, she was shaking and sweating. Evin offered her a ladle of water from his skin as she stumbled toward the fire in the dying light. She took it gratefully.

He grinned. “I’ve never in my life seen a maiden fight like that!” Golden eyes sparkled. “And that was before my idiot brother worked with you for two hours! You’re going to be unstoppable soon enough.”

Ryn found herself laughing. “Well, they’re skills that will certainly come in handy on the road, there’s no denying that. I’ve always thought I was lucky to be able to avoid multiple-enemy confrontations, for the most part. Truth is, I’d probably be dead already if I hadn’t.”

Evin gave her a dazzling smile. “We will cure you of it yet, my friend. Pity the poor nagrat who get in your way once we’re through with you.”

She returned his grin as she finished her water. It felt good to smile with a friend, she realized with some level of shock.

He’s not your friend, she reminded herself forcefully.

She deliberately schooled her thoughts as she readied for bed. These men were her clients, nothing more. There was a reason she traveled alone, lived alone, had no friends or family to speak of. She refused to put herself in that position again, especially not now, after so many years of safely guarding herself. She buried her head under the cover of her bedroll, ignoring the protest of sore muscles as she closed her eyes tightly and sought sleep.

Sleep did not come for a long time.