Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (5 page)

The door burst open and King Sedric stormed
into the room. “What is taking you so long, boy? The guests are
waiting!” he bellowed.

Ruairi wheeled to face him. His father was a
large man, tall and broad shouldered with flashing green eyes that
were further emphasized by thick, arching brows. But he could have
been half his size and still demanded attention.

Sedric eyed his son’s hair with disapproval.
“Unbind your hair,” he said, motioning to it.

“But Father, it is too hot.”

Sedric stormed over and reached a hand behind
Ruairi’s head. He yanked the binding from his hair. “You will wear
it down, do you understand?”

Ruairi’s violet eyes flashed in his father’s
direction, then he shook his head furiously, his long hair flying
into a tangled explosion of red. “There, it is down!” he
shouted.

Sedric threw his arms up. “Brina, do
something with him.”

Brina walked over to her scowling nephew.
Spinning him around by the shoulders, she pressed him onto the
dressing table bench to face the mirror. She picked up the comb and
began to smooth his hair, then glanced at Sedric. “Do not concern
yourself, Sire,” she said, nodding toward the door. “I will see to
it he comes down looking like a prince.”

Sedric moved to the doorway, then turned to
face his son whose back was still to him. “I expect you to be on
your best behavior tonight, Ruairi. None of your foolish pranks.
Understand?”

“Of course, Father,” Ruairi said. But the
slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth indicated he had
other ideas.

“Of course, Father,” a new voice mocked from
the doorway.

Ruairi turned in response and grinned. It was
Whyn, his brother, no doubt come to add his fuel to the already
raging fire. But Whyn he could handle. They were twins, and Ruairi
had, after all, been handling him ever since they had shared their
mother’s womb.

“Go see the mess your brother has made of
himself, Whyn,” Sedric said crossly. “Perhaps you can talk some
sense into him.” And with that the King exited the room, his loose
blond hair flying at his back.

Whyn entered and stood behind his brother.
“Why do you torture Father so?” he said. “He only wants what is
best for you.”

“Who is torturing whom?” Ruairi said.

Ruairi watched his brother’s reflection in
the mirror. To look at them one would never know they were twins.
Whyn was blond-haired and blue-eyed, his features soft and gentle.
Ruairi was the opposite, his hair bright red, his eyes violet, his
features more chiseled. But their differences were more than
physical ones. Whyn was much more prince-like: always saying the
right things, always paying rapt attention to their father, always
involving himself in the business of the great city-state. Whyn
would make a much better king, but as fate would have it, the fiery
prince was born one minute before the golden one.

“Why the attitude tonight, brother?” Whyn
asked. “So what if Father wants your hair down. Is that such a
price to pay for becoming betrothed to the most beautiful girl in
Tearia?”

Ruairi laughed. “Well, you could have had
your chance with her, but you were too slow.”

“One minute too slow,” Whyn said, but by the
expression on his face, he regretted it the instant he said it.

“What do you mean by that remark?” Ruairi
asked. “Do you think she only wants me because I am first?”

“No, of course not. I only meant—” Whyn
lowered his eyes.

“I know exactly what you meant!” Ruairi
slapped Brina’s hand aside, then rose and stormed to the
window.

“I—I am sorry,” Whyn said. “I did not mean it
that way.”

Ruairi glanced at Whyn’s downcast face and
felt a twinge of guilt. It was not his brother’s fault that his
twin had pushed his way out into the world before him.

“I am sorry, Whyn,” Ruairi said stiffly. “I
want these formalities over with, that is all.”

Whyn strolled over and placed a hand on his
brother’s shoulder. “Just relax and try to enjoy it. It will be
over before you know it.”

“Let us get on with it then,” Ruairi said,
shrugging his shoulder away and heading for the door. He jerked it
open and stepped into the hallway, then marched toward the steps
that led to the torch-lit corridor below. Brina and Whyn followed
silently at his back.

Ruairi arrived at the double doors leading
into the reception hall and paused. The voices of hundreds of
guests could be heard on the other side of it.

“I feel like I am going to an execution,” he
said between clenched teeth.

“Oh, go on,” Whyn said. “It will be all
right.”

Ruairi stiffened his spine and walked into
the cavernous room, then made his way to the dais and the
food-laden table that sat stretched across it. He seated himself in
a great armed chair centered behind the table and stared at the sea
of blond heads and pale faces bowed before him. To his way of
thinking, they all looked alike. The only thing that set them apart
was the color of their tunics, and that was determined solely by
their status within society, not by any choice of their own.
Regardless, it must be a pleasant thing to blend in like that. He
forced a smile in their direction and motioned them to rise.

A place was reserved at his immediate left
for his father who could be seen consulting with two temple priests
in the back of the crowded room. Ruairi watched their moving
mouths, trying to decipher their words. But then his attention was
diverted to his mother who was making her usual grand entrance.
Isola lifted her beautiful chin, demanding the attention of all in
attendance, and strolled to the ornately carved chair to the left
of the King’s. Whyn and Brina, who had waited for the Queen to be
seated, entered to take their places on the other side of her.
Further on, a place was reserved for Mahon, Brina’s husband, no
doubt delayed by his duties as Commander of the Guard. Ruairi
leaned around and looked down the table at Whyn who winked in his
direction, and Brina who offered an encouraging smile. But his
mother did not look at him at all.

He felt a movement to his right and glanced
up to see Cinnia taking her place in the chair next to him. He took
her hand in his, squeezing it tight.

“You are so tense,” she whispered.

He smiled and nodded, feeling the source of
his uneasiness pleasantly redirected. His eyes scanned Cinnia’s
flawless face, then trailed down her neck to the golden ringlets
that spilled across her shoulders. Her silky, mint-green gown was
cinched at the waist and barely concealed her fully developed
figure. Gazing at her, he felt his heart soften, even while the
rest of him could not.

His thoughts turned back to the room. The
rest of the families had taken their places at the table and the
crowd was now staring at him, silent and ready. The tedious
business of ceremony was about to begin.

Ruairi and Cinnia rose and made their way to
the priests who now stood before the room. Cinnia’s hand was draped
across Ruairi’s outstretched one, and she walked with all the grace
and splendor of a future queen. Ruairi’s heart could not help but
swell. He stole a glimpse at the audience and was proud to note
they were equally mesmerized by her beauty. It was one of the few
times attentions were focused on something other than the color of
his hair.

The ceremony was a long one, fraught with
chanting, proclamations, and incantations to the gods. Ruairi
thought it all terribly outdated. As soon as he was King, he
determined, rituals far less painful would replace the antiquities.
For now, though, he would just have to endure.

The priests droned on and on, and Ruairi
found it difficult to stay focused on what they were saying. The
righteousness of their tones sounded monotonous, and their words
seemed all but meaningless. Ruairi’s mind wandered, but he managed
to respond as expected, though oftentimes after a long, somewhat
awkward pause. Finally he and Cinnia were allowed to return to
their seats, and Sedric took his place before the guests. The
King’s speech was particularly long-winded as he took the
opportunity to interject politics, business, and various affairs of
the state.

While the guests listened to Sedric with rapt
attention, Ruairi stifled yawn after yawn. He counted the torches
on the walls, squinted at the details of the frescoes across the
room, and analyzed the intricate mosaics beneath the hundreds of
sandaled feet. Then he felt hopeful. It was now Labhras’s turn to
address the hall, and Cinnia’s father, he knew, would be the last
to speak. To his utter disappointment, the man’s speech made all
the others seem short in comparison.

Ruairi squirmed in his chair. It was hot and
he had been sitting there for what seemed like hours. When was the
agony going to end? He looked down the sprawling table toward Whyn
who was being his usual self: watching Labhras with great interest,
laughing at the boring jokes, applauding in all the right places.
It was most annoying. Ruairi intensified his gaze, hoping to
capture his brother’s attention. Whyn glanced his way and mouthed a
silent “what?” Ruairi grinned and popped a grape into his mouth.
Whyn’s eyes widened with horror.

Ruairi sucked in his cheeks and winked. If he
aimed the grape just right he could probably pelt the back of
Labhras’s head with it. The man was standing before the crowd, his
back to the table, extolling the virtues of the royal family and
his future son-in-law who would one day lead Tearia to further
greatness as the Red King. Ruairi was tired of it all and knew that
the grape, now primed for battle in his mouth, could add a bit of
interest to the otherwise boring speech. But an icy stare of
disapproval from his mother brought his plans to an abrupt halt. He
scowled and spit the grape onto his plate.

The reaction from the crowd brought his
attention back to Labhras who was now holding a wine goblet in the
air. The long-winded toast was over at last. Ruairi straightened
his aching back and smiled, nodding to the crowd that had turned
their eyes to him and Cinnia rather than to her father. He stood
and took Cinnia’s hand in his and kissed it. The guests clapped and
cheered their approval.

But Ruairi’s relief was short lived and hope
for a private moment with Cinnia on hold. The reception line had
formed to their right. He surveyed the room, contemplating a quick
escape, but one look in his father’s direction quickly doused the
notion. The man was watching him, his brows raised in warning.
Clearly he had no intention of letting his unpredictable son spoil
an otherwise lovely affair.

Ruairi groaned for the thousandth time that
evening and walked down the steps of the dais to the eternal line
of well-wishers. An hour of handshaking, small talk, and forced
smiles left him with the overwhelming desire for fight or flight.
While fight was not possible, flight certainly was. The instant the
last guest departed the line, Ruairi turned, grabbed Cinnia’s hand,
and pulled her from the stifling room and out to the fresh air of
the gardens beyond.

The yard was bathed in silvery moonlight, and
the scent of the botanicals that enveloped the garden filled
Ruairi’s senses. But it was the essence of Cinnia that made his
head spin.

“Gods, I thought we would never get out of
there,” he said. He took her face in his hands, pulling it toward
his eager mouth, and kissed her deeply. The concerns of the day
evaporated.

Ruairi had kissed Cinnia many times before,
and though she always left him wanting more, he had never taken it
much further. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to; he was a healthy
young man, after all, and was more than ready for the intimate
touch of a woman. But he was patient with the desires of his body,
believing it best to wait until the time was right. That time, he
knew, could only be with Cinnia. And that time would hopefully be
tonight.

Cinnia pulled back and glanced over her
shoulder. “Someone might see us,” she whispered.

“But Cin, we are betrothed now,” Ruairi said,
leaning in for more.

“You know I want to,” she said, “but it is
too risky. What if we are found out? My father would be furious.
And your father—”

“Oh, who cares about them. They are nothing
more than a couple of old men who have long forgotten what it is
like to be kissed by a beautiful woman.”

Cinnia laughed. “Oh, I doubt they have
forgotten. They do have beautiful wives after all.”

“None as beautiful as you,” Ruairi said. He
traced a finger down her breastbone and felt her shiver at his
touch.

Cinnia glanced around, then turned back to
him and smiled. “Very well, meet me in my room later. I will leave
a candle in the window to let you know when it is safe.”

Ruairi glanced toward the window that arched
above them. Cinnia’s room. He would have no trouble finding his way
there. He was well acquainted with Labhras’s great estate; in his
childhood, Ruairi’s family had spent a great deal of time there. It
was in this very maze of a garden that he, his brother, and Cinnia
had played hiding games and planned fantastic adventures together.
But the adventure Ruairi had planned with Cinnia tonight would be
his greatest yet.

“There are still many courtesies to attend to
with the guests,” Cinnia chattered on, “and mother will be
twittering on about me of course. But I will try to slip away and
then—”

“Yes, then,” Ruairi said, and kissed her once
more.

They strolled back into the reception hall
together, their faces masks of innocence. Before long, they found
themselves separated by a crowd of well-wishers, but their knowing
eyes continued to communicate with each other across the room.

Ruairi excused himself from a talkative guest
and worked his way to the nearest refreshment table. His mouth was
parched from too much talk, and a mind-altering drink sounded
particularly good. He reached his hand toward a wine vessel, but a
sudden grip on his arm kept him from his goal. His first thought
was that it was his father, angry about something he had done, but
he was surprised to discover it was Whyn.