1
NEIRIN
Eyes of peridot gleamed,their facets reflecting the early dawn light. The pale green stones contrasted with the milky white statue in which they were embedded. But beyond their beauty, the gems held meaning.
The peridot symbolized rest and was often set in the monuments of wealthier lords and ladies when they passed. People believed the stone would ease a soul and help it find quietude in its endless sleep. The gem was a token of harmony between mind, body, and soul.
I let out a breath, considering. Each time I came to Mother’s grave, the stones drew me in, yet their very existence contradicted all I was taught to believe, all I’d seen with my own eyes. As a man of the castle guard, I’d witnessed countless deaths, taken lives with my own blade. Though time had hazed the men’s features, I could never forget the void in their eyes as their last breaths left them. No, there was no continual sleep. No afterlife to be perturbed by one’s conscience or regrets. Death was finite, and the weight people put in beliefs of stones and legends was all folly.
Kneeling before the marble statue, I settled into the stillness of the quiet wood and fought to clear my mind. I filled my lungswith the brisk morning air, and when I exhaled, a cloud of mist formed, drawing my attention to the cold. Even in the depth of winter, I rarely noticed the temperature. Another mystery I’d long since stopped searching for answers to.
I breathed into my hands, paying attention this time to the contrast of warmth and the dampness on my nose. I returned my focus to the monument, and as I did, chided myself for visiting each year on the anniversary of Mother’s death, even as I denied belief in an afterlife. Why did I come?
The statue stood amid a patch of pale, cream-colored flowers that bloomed year-round. When the wind caught, the younger, unopened buds danced, reminiscent of little bells. The monument itself was made of marble, a rare stone imported from the western lands. Expensive.
The figure carved into the shape of a fox sat with its back sloped between its shoulder blades and its chest puffed out. The tail swept across its back haunches, and its two front legs ended in intricately sculpted paws. The animal’s head was raised slightly as if looking up to the sky, and both of its tipped ears were perked.
My chest ached with dull longing as memories washed over me. At five, I’d wept before the monument. At seven, I’d begged for answers. At three and twenty, I was wise enough to know asking anything of stone was futile. Yet still, I came. Still, I gazed into the riveted eyes as if they could give me some kind of guidance.I gritted my teeth, irritation prickling.
Heavy steps and the noisy disturbance of a branch drew my attention. My hand went to my waist instinctually, grasping for the familiar, worn leather hilt of my guard’s sword. When my fingers found only air, they curled into an empty fist, and I hardened my jaw. I’d left the damn thing in my quarters. But this was the King’s woods, heavily fortressed and guarded. Only oneman aside from myself entered this quiet sanctuary, and he was no threat to me.
Brambles snapped, accompanied this time by a slur of curses. It was barely past daybreak, and already he was drunk. Not surprising, though, for what this day meant to him. What it meant to us both.I kept my attention on the statue as the King knelt beside me with all the grace of a new foal learning to walk. His head tipped, and from waves of umber hair his crown fell to the dirt.
“Damn thing.” He reached again, fingers grazing the air, but he fell short.
I let out a snort of annoyance, uncaring if it was disrespectful. Though the man was often seen with a goblet of wine in one hand, he was rarely out of control. It was pitiful and disgraceful. In truth, I had no right to judge. By night’s end I would likely drink twice his intake, yet I would not waver as he did. Like the cold, alcohol affected me differently than it did others.
On his second attempt, the King’s searching fingers found their mark, and he adjusted the crown back on his head. We knelt in considerate silence for some time. Around us a breeze blew in, sending stray strands of silver hair in front of my eyes and rustling the quivering leaves of the aspens, their song akin to a passing shower of rain.
“Your mother loved that sound,” the King said in a breath.
My heart twisted even as bitterness rose in my throat. Hesorarely spoke about Mother.
“When she …” His words faltered. “When she passed, I buried her here amid the aspens so she could listen to them in her endless sleep. Shortly after, the blooms sprouted.” He nodded to the delicate cream flowers, the feather-like tendrils at their bases fluttering on the breeze as they swayed. “As if in remembrance of her.”
The King adjusted his crown resting haphazardly atop his mop of unkempt hair. Breaking my gaze from the statue to address him, I furrowed my brows, taking in the extent of his disorderliness. He was something to be seen, truly.
He wore dark breeches with laces left untied about his calves. His boots appeared to be on the wrong feet, likely accounting for his difficulties walking. About his right bicep he wore a decorative leather armlet with metal embellishments, something fit for formal wear. Yet his wrinkled long-sleeved top was nothing more than a nightshirt.Whether it was the alcohol that kept his blood warm or simply his numbness to life I couldn’t be certain, but he did not shiver despite his lack of cloak or robe.
“You’re a mess,” I told him bluntly.
The King narrowed his eyes. With a blank expression, I met his gaze, unwavering. His title meant nothing here in the woods, and his face provided me with a looking glass to see twenty years into my future. We shared the same strong jawline, straight nose, and angled features, though the shadowing of his short beard marred some of our resemblance. Of course, the pale silver sheen of my hair set us apart as well, as did its style. My hair curled as his did, but I’d left mine long and braided back in sections, decimating the natural curl with the weight of length and braid.
Though he was a decent ruler and I honored his knowledge of our lands, the view I held of him was tainted. He made fair and thoughtful choices for the people of Cilicia, but he was detached from relationships and an inadequate father to the prince. He meant nothing more to me than what we shared once a year before Mother’s grave.
His brows smoothed, and his expression softened as his eyes lowered. “What happened?”
Noting his gaze, I pulled at my tunic’s dipped collar and traced my thumb over the angry, raised tissue that started at my collarbone. A slight flare of pain tingled at my touch, oddly grounding.
“Our carriage was ambushed,” I replied flatly, not wanting to go into details about the attack after spending the night prior under the scrutiny and questioning of Rion, the commander of the castle guard, when we’d arrived later than expected.
The King’s eyes widened. He hadn’t heard, then. Likely, the commander was simply keeping quiet about things he thought the King didn’t need to burden his mind with. “Lord Emeric? His daughter, Clara?”
“They are fine,” I reassured him, knowing his concerns lay both in the notable silk import Lord Emeric’s estate provided and the arrangements for Lady Clara’s betrothal to my half-brother. I doubted the King held any care for Lord Emeric himself—a drawn and bitter man. “A few bandits. I handled it.”
The King exhaled a breath of relief. “How many were there?”
Though shame tugged, I fought the instinct to look away. The east road from Urandun—so rarely traveled by anyone who might catch the eye of thieves—was considered a safe route. Yet the more often staged pass through the Edthiel Mountains would be too thick with wagons traveling to the upcoming festival to ambush successfully. With wealthy merchants heading to the capital from all regions of Cilicia, I should have suspected trouble would branch out.
