Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (6 page)

“What are you doing?” Ruairi asked
indignantly.

Whyn did not reply, but instead dragged him
into the corridor beyond the room. “I thought your dalliance with
Cinnia would never end,” he said.

“Who says it has?” Ruairi replied,
grinning.

Whyn frowned. “Wipe that foolish grin off
your face. There is trouble brewing.”

“Oh gods, what now?” Ruairi jerked his arm
away.

A few guests who lingered in the corridor
glanced over, then bowed and excused themselves. Whyn’s eyes darted
back and forth as he opened a nearby door and pushed his brother
through it and into the room on the other side.

The room was small, but elegantly furnished.
A tall, carved rack towered against a whitewashed wall, its
numerous compartments filled with rolled up parchments. An ornate
chair backed the gray and pink marble table at the room’s center,
and a couch inlaid with gold threads rested along one wall. A great
tapestry was displayed behind it, and thick drapes of the finest
material separated the room from the atrium beyond. Oil lamps lit
the space in a golden hue.

Ruairi glanced around the room. It was
Labhras’s office, and he didn’t like the idea of being there. He
rubbed his arm and scowled at his brother. “I have no interest in
hearing about any troubles tonight, Whyn. I have just begun to
actually enjoy myself.”

“Well you had best show some interest, dear
brother. Father found out about your latest adventure and he is not
happy about it.” Whyn narrowed his eyes and stared hard into
Ruairi’s apathetic face.

“Which adventure?” Ruairi said. “The one
where I urinated in the wine vessel in the temple or the one where
I switched out the—”

“No, the one where you sneaked into the
holding cell and almost got yourself killed by a Jecta.”

“Oh, that,” Ruairi said with an indifferent
wave of his hand.

“Oh that? Oh that?” Whyn said, struggling to
keep his voice down. “Do you not understand what could have
happened to you? Do you not realize you could have been injured, or
worse?”

“Nothing happened, Whyn. The foul creature
grabbed my tunic, nothing more. I told you.”

“Crymm reported you and was demoted because
of it.”

“Crymm? Demoted?” Ruairi crossed his arms and
stared at his feet in momentary contemplation. “Well that is what
he gets for opening his mouth.”

“He has been your bodyguard for thirteen
years, Ruairi. You could show a little sympathy.”

“Why should I? The man hates me.”

“Who can blame him? You have led him on one
merry chase after another all these years, and his job has been on
the line more times than not. You should at least be grateful he
saved your neck.”

“Humph! I was not in any real danger. Crymm
was just trying to make himself look good. That is probably why he
said something to Father about it, so he would come out looking
like some kind of hero. If he had been doing his job like he was
supposed to, it would never have happened. He got what he
deserved.”

“It is not just the issue of Crymm, Ruairi.
It is the fact that you allowed yourself to be touched by a Jecta,
and the wretch is to have his hand cut off for it.”

Ruairi rolled his eyes. “What concern is that
of mine?”

“You should be at least concerned for the
fact that your precious skin could have been damaged.”

“But it was not.”

“But it could have been. And you know a
damaged prince cannot be prince at all.”

“What are you implying, Whyn? That if I was
marked I could no longer be prince? Father would never allow that
to happen.”

“Father would have little say in it, brother.
It would be the decision of the Priestess. You know the law
requires Tearians to keep their bodies as pure as possible. It is
the will of the Goddess and is written as commandment. You know
what the consequences are for one who blatantly disregards it.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do about it
now? What is done is done.” Ruairi turned from Whyn’s icy stare,
then strolled over to the desk and ran his fingers along its smooth
surface.

“I heard Father talking,” Whyn continued. “It
seems the Priestess is most unhappy about your behavior. One of the
priests said she does not think you are suited as a prince, much
less a king. I fear the Temple will work against you if you do not
change your ways. Father has been listening, Ruairi. And I think he
is beginning to agree.”

Ruairi scoffed and eyed the wall of scrolls
and parchments. Whyn was surely overreacting and his paranoia had
begun to bore him. Perhaps a distraction was needed. He pulled out
a large scroll and unrolled it, then scanned its contents with
pretended interest.

“What are you doing?” Whyn cried.

“These scrolls must be really important,”
Ruairi said. “Probably some invaluable record of Labhras’s business
dealings.”

“Put that back!” Whyn demanded, taking a
threatening step in his brother’s direction. He glanced over his
shoulder at the door they had closed behind them. “You know
Father’s temper. If he catches you . . .”

But Ruairi ignored him, caught up in the
adventure of the moment. He stepped toward the desk and lifted the
oil lamp. “You know, these lamps are a hazard. I cannot believe
Labhras would keep this thing lit unattended in a room full of
documents.” He squinted his eyes at the parchment. “I can barely
make out these words. Perhaps if I were to bring the flame a bit
closer.” He glanced up at Whyn, whose face had turned a ghostly
white, and grinned, delighted by the sudden horror he saw
there.

Whyn took a step forward and reached out a
hand. “I said put that down,” he said between gritted teeth. “This
is not the least bit amusing.”

“Oh, you worry too much.”

Whyn took an unexpected leap and grabbed for
the scroll. Ruairi jerked it out of his reach and laughed. “Do you
want it?” he said. He circled the table, keeping it between him and
Whyn, who was still struggling to reach him.

Whyn leapt again and threw himself across the
table, knocking inkwells, quills, and documents to the floor.
Ruairi jumped back, but his thigh rammed into the arm of the chair,
sending his feet out from under him. He flipped and rolled off the
chair toward the floor, his arms flailing as he fought his descent.
The lamp flew from his grasp and into the drape, and oil and flame
spilled down the beautiful fabric.

Ruairi gaped at the burning drape as flames
raced toward the ceiling and the cubby of scrolls nearby. He pushed
himself up and reached for the curtain, intent on pulling it down,
but Whyn grabbed him and yanked him back.

“Do not touch it, fool!” Whyn screamed,
shoving him aside. “You could get hurt!” Whyn rushed toward the
door. “I will get help,” he called back as he ran from the room.
“Do not do anything stupid!”

Ruairi nodded in silence, his lips unable to
form a single syllable. As he watched his brother disappear into
the hallway, he felt his limbs begin to shake. He hadn’t meant for
this to happen, he was only joking around, but for the first time
he genuinely regretted his foolishness. He twisted his body around
and scanned the room for something to douse the flames, but there
was nothing. The fire swept along the ceiling and toward the
parchments.

The rack of parchments ignited and roared
into a billowing explosion of flame. The smell of smoke filled
Ruairi’s senses; the crackle of flames echoed in his ears. He
backed toward the door, coughing and wiping smoky tears, but he
suddenly felt himself yanked through the doorway and shoved against
the opposite wall, the breath nearly knocked out of him.

“By the gods, what have you done this time?”
his father shouted.

The redness and fury in the man’s face left
Ruairi weak.

“Father, I—”

“No excuses, boy!” Sedric clutched the front
of Ruairi’s tunic and pulled him forward, then slammed him back
against the wall.

“It was an accident!” Ruairi cried. His eyes
darted toward the room at his father’s back. It was completely
engulfed in flames now, and clouds of smoke were rolling into the
hallway. Servants attempted to make their way in with buckets of
water, but were driven back by the heat and smoke.

Ruairi’s father jerked him away from the wall
and pushed him down the smoke-filled corridor. It was difficult to
see through the haze, but clearly the fire and pandemonium had
spread. The shapes of the guests were all around them now: pushing
and shoving, tripping and falling, screaming and shouting. Ruairi
stumbled, but was yanked back up by his father who steered him to
the right and into the garden beyond.

Ruairi staggered out, choking and fighting
for breath. Sedric still clutched the back of his tunic, and Ruairi
soon found himself face down on the grass. His father knelt beside
him and rolled him over, then pulled him up by the shoulders and
shook him violently. “Do you realize what you have done? Do you
realize you have destroyed a man’s home and endangered every guest
in it?” Sedric threw him back to the ground with disgust.

Ruairi felt a great lump in his throat. “Is
everyone out?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“We can only pray.”

Ruairi sat up and scanned the gathering
crowd. Many faces were covered with soot, and he searched them for
any sign of familiarity. Whyn was nearby . . . and Brina . . .
Mother . . . but, Cinnia?

He jumped to his feet and leaned around,
craning his neck to see through the sea of dismal faces. But he did
not see Cinnia. He directed his eyes to her bedroom window. A
candle could be seen on the sill, its delicate flame flickering
against a pallet of orange. Terror seized him. What if she was
still in her room? What if no one knew?

“Where is Cinnia?” Ruairi cried to his
father. “Have you seen her? Is she out?” He moved in the direction
of the house, but his father grabbed hold of his arm and held it
tight.

“You are not going anywhere!” Sedric shouted.
“You have caused enough trouble.”

“But, Father. Cinnia…she is not out here!” He
looked back into the crowd. “Where is Labhras? Did he get her
out?”

“Of course he got her out. I got you out did
I not? And you did not even deserve it.”

Ruairi was stung by the words, but he knew
his father was right. He had risked everyone’s lives with his
foolishness tonight. A sudden scream turned Ruairi’s attention from
his own self-loathing to the open window above. It was Cinnia—still
in her room—the room where she had been waiting for him.

He jerked from his father’s grasp, but Sedric
regained his hold. “You will not go back in there,” Sedric ordered.
“Let the servants take care of what must be done. There can be no
risk to you, understood?”

Ruairi shoved his father away and staggered
back. “It is my choice, Father!”

Before Sedric could say another word, Ruairi
spun around, ran toward the corridor, and disappeared into the
smoke.

The hallway was a poisonous tunnel of fumes
that stung Ruairi’s eyes and forced him to breath in slow shallow
breaths. He pulled his tunic up over his nose and held it, then
squeezed his eyes shut as he reached a hand to the wall at his
side. The wall was all he had to guide him; if he just followed it,
he knew he would eventually reach the stairwell. Timbers popped
over his head, leaving him with the uneasy feeling the ceiling
would soon collapse. He risked a glance at the corridor behind him.
The screams of the guests seemed a thousand miles away.

Ruairi forced his feet forward, but tripped
over an unknown object and fell hard to his knees. The feel of the
wall disappeared, and he felt around desperately for it. Hope was
rekindled when his hand came to rest upon the smooth stone surface
of a step.

He clambered on all fours up the stairwell,
praying for a pocket of fresh air. His head was spinning, and his
lungs felt as if they were about to ignite in his chest. He reached
the top and fell, sprawled upon the tiles of the upstairs
hallway.

Ruairi peeked open an eye, then rose and
dragged in a lungful of air. It was fresher than what he had left
below, but it still left him doubled up with painful spasms
exploding from his chest. Clutching his gut with one hand, he
pulled the tunic back over his nose with the other.

He staggered in the direction of Cinnia’s
room, keeping below the perilous cloud roiling above his head. But
then he froze. Parts of the hall ceiling were raining down in
chunks before him, and fire had completely engulfed Cinnia’s door.
Ruairi glanced around for something to use as a battering ram, but
there was nothing. His eyes shot upward. Flames were racing along
the ceiling toward him. Time had run out.

He sprinted toward the burning door and
shoved it open with both hands, using every ounce of strength he
could muster. The door slammed against the wall at its back,
sending sparks spinning into the air. The momentary but intense
pain of Ruairi’s hands at first surprised him, but he forced it
from his mind and ducked through the doorframe. He could barely see
Cinnia through the smoke. She was lying, face down and unmoving, on
the bed across the way.

“Cinnia! Cinnia!” He ran to her and rolled
her over, but she made no response. Gathering her into his arms, he
clutched her body close to his, then headed for the window. A
timber crashed in front of him, pulling part of the ceiling down
with it. Billows of smoke and bright orange embers roared and
funneled around them. Ruairi staggered back, then turned toward the
doorway. Sucking in one last breath of air, he raced through it and
disappeared into the raging inferno beyond.

Ruairi didn’t remember getting Cinnia out of
the burning house. The next thing he knew he was kneeling over her
on the cool, damp grass of the garden. A crowd of onlookers
surrounded them, their mouths either covered by their hands or
hanging open in disbelief.