Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass (8 page)

High, high above was an opening in the ceiling. Beyond, Bran thought he could glimpse blue sky. Through the opening, a beam of sunlight fell unbroken to illuminate the center of the room. It was what that light showed that locked Bran in place.

A large oval of stone stood in the center of the room, directly under the falling sunlight. Within that oval was a darkness blacker than anything Bran had ever seen. Davin stood before the structure, wearing his sword and court finery. It took a moment for him to see that within the blackness, shapes moved – murky and indistinct, like a ghost or half-remembered memory. It took Bran another moment to realize that his brother was speaking.

"All the pieces are in place now. Tell me again how this will end?" Davin asked, his voice muddied, like someone speaking from the depths of a dream. Something tugged at Bran; there was something horribly familiar about the scene before him.

Davin cocked his head to the side, as though listening to a voice that only he could hear. Within the blackness, the shapes writhed faster, agitated. Davin laughed suddenly, head thrown back.

"So, little brother, you've found your way out of your imprisonment!" Davin turned. Bran was shocked to see the changes in his brother. His eyes were too bright, feverish. His face was thinner, too, as though some inner fire had burned all the meat from beneath his flesh. The falling sunlight illuminated Davin's face harshly – black shadows pooled in the hollows of his cheeks. But above all stood those mad, blazing eyes.

"Come, little brother! I'm sure there are things you wish to know," Davin urged, gesturing for Bran to come forward. His voice was warm, but Bran knew that affection cloaked dark intentions. He tightened his grip on his sword and stepped forward.

"What madness is this, Davin?" he asked.

"Madness? This is no madness, Bran! It is power!"

"What need have you of more power, brother? Surely, the kingship is sufficient?"

Davin shook his head, his expression sad, that of an older, wiser man distraught by the ignorance and foolishness of others. "So many threats, Bran...you cannot imagine how precarious our position is!"

Davin half turned away, gesturing broadly. "Great Süt stands almost ready to threaten our western borders, brother. Blackspire has conspired with the northern barbarians too; their threat could destroy the whole of Celadon! I've seen other, darker threats, too, Bran. I must have the power to defeat those threats!"

Bran stepped forward again, slowly closing the distance between himself and his mad brother. He was convinced that Davin was mad – there was no other explanation.

"And how does my death help protect Celadon, Davin?"

"Ah, there's the rub, isn't it?" Davin laughed, though there was something heavy in the sound. "Sometimes... There are always sacrifices, Bran. Great men never achieve great deeds without sacrifice."

"Mother and Father? Was Imelda your sacrifice? Will my death further your power?" Bran felt each individual wire on the sword's hilt biting into his flesh with the force of his grip.

"Yes," Davin's voice had gone soft, his head bowed slightly. "Yes, all these deaths serve a purpose. Don't you see? Without blood, there can be no power and without power, there is no defense against the coming darkness!" At the end, Davin's voice regained its feverish power. He turned and Bran was struck once again by what he saw written on his brother's face.

It was then that Bran realized the swirling, indistinct shapes behind his brother had changed. They had coalesced into something new. The figure of a powerfully built man stood in the blackness now, his face angular, yet hauntingly beautiful. The man wore ancient armor, but bore no weapon that Bran could see. Long black hair fell to his shoulders and his eyes glittered cold, chips of obsidian in his alabaster face. The man smiled like a wolf and Bran felt his heart hammer hard in his chest. He knew that face from somewhere – it was all so damnably familiar, yet impossible to place.

Davin followed his brother's gaze and frowned. "What do you see, brother? The Mirror shows something different to everyone, so I'm told. What do you see?"

Bran shook his head, looking away from the Mirror with difficulty. "What is this thing, Davin?"

"The Mirror? It is an ancient thing, an heirloom of our House, brother. Within, the wise can discern greater wisdom and the bold can find power!"

Bran was almost close enough to strike, just a few steps more. "What do you see?" Davin demanded.

"Nothing," Bran lied. He closed the last few feet in a sudden sprint, sword rising for the attack. Davin, caught off guard, barely got his own blade unsheathed in time to fend off the blow. He was faster than Bran, though, and quickly went on the offensive. Davin smiled as he attacked, but it was a sad smile.

"I suppose you dying here will serve just as well as the original plan," he said, sending his slender blade in against Bran's guard.

Bran blocked the attack, and cut low, aiming for his brother's unprotected legs. Davin danced back, just out of reach.

"Stop this madness, Davin!" he urged, wading in and pressing Davin back. The pent up rage and frustration of his captivity lent his attack new speed and strength. Davin struggled to keep the flurry of blows from landing, using all of his superior skill and training to twist, dodge and block.

"It cannot be stopped now, brother! I must have the means to protect Celadon, don't you see?" Davin frowned, perspiration standing on his brow.

"This is not the way!" Bran continued to press the attack.

"You're wrong," Davin growled. "It's the only way!"

He smashed Bran's rusty blade aside and lunged for his midsection. Bran stepped back, avoiding the blade, but catching his heel on a stone. He lost his balance and fell, striking his shoulder on the edge of the Mirror. Davin quickly stepped forward, sword pointed down and held two-handed before his face. Bran watched in horror as the blade descended, seeing his death in that shining steel. Before it could connect, he twisted to the side and kicked out hard with one booted foot.

Bran's boot caught Davin in the ankle, sending his brother toppling over. As quick as thought, Bran was on his feet. He kicked the blade from his brother's hand, sending it skittering across the stone floor.

Davin would not be caught so quickly, though. Mimicking his brother, he rolled away before Bran's blade could land. Davin retrieved his blade and launched another attack more quickly than Bran would have thought possible.

Bran was pushed backwards once more, Davin's blows coming faster and faster. His brother's face twisted with hatred, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a feral snarl. Blow after blow Bran deflected, but Davin always forced him backward. He risked a glance behind and saw the darkness of the Mirror only a few steps away. Davin was herding him toward it; within the blackness, the strange man still waited, smiling.

Davin's fury did not abate – he pushed forward hard, keeping Bran off balance and unable to take the offensive. Bran's retreat was suddenly blocked, something hard pressing against the length of his back. The Mirror, he knew; there was nowhere left to run.

Davin growled, a guttural sound of hate and rage, and sent his blade slicing forward. Bran twisted desperately to the side and Davin's blade ripped through the cloth of his shirt. Before Davin could free his blade from the folds of cloth, Bran brought his own sword around in a sweeping arc, the blade biting deep into Davin's unprotected neck.

Davin stood still for a moment, a look of incomprehension on his face. His mouth opened, lips working as he tried to form words, but no sound escaped. His sword clattered to the floor and Davin followed his blade, crumpling at Bran's feet.

Bran stood there, shaking, his breath coming in heaving gasps. He stared down at his brother's body, not truly daring to believe that it was over.

"Well done," a voice hissed behind him, almost in his ear. Bran whirled and stepped backwards, over Davin's body. The strange man in the mirror applauded slowly, his grin wider than ever.

"You surprise me, young one. It was thought that the elder brother would be the best suited, but you show great promise. Greater than you know, perhaps," the man's voice was strange – hollow and unreal.

Bran glanced down at his brother's form and it all became clear. He knew where he had seen this before – it was his nightmare, but come to life in the waking world. He knew what would happen next. The location was never clear in his dreams, and the events were always slightly different, but they always ended the same.

In his nightmares, Davin always stood up, his mouth gaping wider than possible and flames dancing in his eyes. Bran always woke screaming as his brother ate him, teeth ripping flesh from bone while Bran writhed in impotence.

In fear, he moved back a step from Davin's body, but his brother did not move. He was truly dead. Bran looked once more to the Mirror. The stranger's grin was wider than ever, his eyes knowing.

"Who are you? What are you?" Bran asked.

"Your heritage, Bran. Your past," the stranger hissed. The darkness behind the man writhed and surged, shapes appeared only to dissolve once more. Colors whirled, blended, died and blackness reigned again.

"We are your birthright, boy," the voice dripped with honey. Promises of power, dominance, victory surged through Bran's mind, tearing at the edges of his sanity.

"Who are you?" Bran whispered against the onslaught and pain.

"I am your salvation, child of my blood. I am the sire of your entire line. Perhaps you know me as Orir Torr, though I have had many other names. Rath Koll has always been one of my favorites."

Orir Torr? Bran knew that name, but not in connection with real history. Torr was a myth, an echo of a myth. Legend said he had been a great king of the Aedanotii, before that race crumbled into dust and shadow, long before men walked these lands.

Rath Koll was another name that Bran knew, but this one could be found in the dusty history books in his father's study. Koll had been an advisor to King Jaeris, centuries ago. He had also cuckolded Jaeris, driving the young king to challenge the older man to a duel. Jaeris had won that duel, though it cost him dearly.

"Join us, blood-kin. Join us and I can grant you that which your heart craves most," the voice reverberated through Bran's mind, echoing off his pride, his shame, his lust.

"What do you know...of my wants?" The effort to speak against the din in his skull was immense.

"Power, Bran. Power to reclaim your position, to expunge your honor. Power to rise from the ashes of this horror and be the greatest king Celadon has known since the Founding."

Something clicked in Bran's mind. He knew what had happened to poor Davin, and it filled him with a pure rage that burned away the tattered shadow promises.

"I want my family back, you bastard!" he roared. Pouring his frustration, pain and despair into it, he stepped forward, bringing the heavy sword thundering around in a blur.

The ancient blade connected with the surface of the Mirror and the world shattered soundlessly.

An invisible hand picked Bran up and flung him backwards, the sword flying from his grip. A great crack appeared on the surface of the Mirror, bleeding light. That crack grew and spread, tendrils snaking their way across the great black oval, until the entire Mirror was spider-webbed with light.

Then the light engulfed the world and Bran knew no more. When he regained consciousness, he was sprawled yards from where he had been. As for the Mirror, it lay scattered in shards across the floor. Only the oval frame remained, and it was not intact. Great chunks of stone were gone, and the frame leaned at a drunken angle.

Bran struggled upright, rising unsteadily to his feet. It was over. But what had "it" been? What had Davin set in motion in his madness? Bran would have to ferret out his brother's machinations, but first, he had other business.

Slowly, Bran knelt and cradled his brother's lifeless form. He bent forward, lips touching the cold skin of Davin's forehead. They had been enemies at the end, but they had been brothers all the same, and that was a tie that could never be sundered. The last prince in Celadon wept quietly as he folded his brother's hands over his chest and then rose. Head bent, voice cracking, he murmured an ancient prayer.

"Black has been the night,

And long.

Dark have been your dreams of late,

And long.

Now the winds of winter sing you to sleep,

No more the painful watch of days.

Stone your heart and shuddering breath,

No more the hurt of life.

Sleep, now, beneath the earth and feel,

No more the long grasp of pain.

Sleep, now, beneath the sky and feel,

No more the piercing pain of heart.

Black has been the night,

And long.

Dark have been your dreams of late,

And long."

"Farewell, Davin. May you find some sort of peace wherever the gods have taken you." Bran turned and made his way out of the room, back toward the day-lit world above the Stone.

The End

Postlude

Ah, would you look at that? The sun creeps up the horizon – we’ve talked the night away. It happens. It’s a far sight better than spending the night cold and alone on the side of the road!

What happened to Bran? Well now, if you don’t know the rest of the tale, I shan’t spoil it for you. There is much left to that tale, and more that might never be known. I’ve heard some claim that Bran went on to become something more than human, but you’ll have to judge that for yourself when you hear the rest of his story.

It’s been a pleasure – now you’d best off to the city. The great lady fills up quick these days, what with peasants thronging her gates before sunup. Remember what I said, though. She can be a mean bitch as well as a beauty. You just have to keep your eyes open when you get there.