Talin

A tale from the history of Ayinchirr

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Talin shifted impatiently in the high-backed chair, drumming his fingers on the wooden arm as he tapped his foot. He made no attempt to conceal his annoyance, instead choosing to glare around his father’s study as he waited for the man to arrive. There was no reason for his presence here. He knew it, and his father knew it. It was simply another way for the older man to assert his authority over his wayward eldest child.

His father was always coming up with ways to shove his son into the mold he’d decided his eldest son should fit when he’d been born eighteen years ago. Lessons in literature and music that he honestly couldn’t care less about. Training in dancing and magic. But that wasn’t the worst of it. No, his father had decided that he should learn to write poetry. Poetry. Why poetry? He wanted to stay downstairs with his weaponry lessons, or if he had to be inside, at least talking to veteran warriors and generals.

Jerle evidently couldn’t understand that.

His father swept in regally – did he ever move in any other manner? Not that Talin could remember – and sat down behind the large wooden desk. His brown hair was going grey around the edges, but his dark brown eyes were as sharp as ever and the mind behind his rather plain face just as honed. He crossed his arms and leaned back to regard his son. The teen glared straight back, knowing that his father had chosen this time for the meeting because it would pull him out of his weaponry lessons.

“You weren’t in your music lesson yesterday. Or your dance class. In fact, the only class you chose to attend yesterday was your weapon’s class. Would you care to explain?”

“I fail to see the point of the other classes.”

Jerle scowled fiercely. “Song Lord, boy, what’s wrong with you? You think that the Crown Prince of Ayinchirr can hack and bash his way through life with a sword?”

He stared the King in the eye, always defiant. “Well, sir, if I can’t pull it off with the sword, they do teach other weapons.”

The King’s jaw tensed, reminding Talin that he was playing games with a man who could be dangerous if pushed too far. Like all previous rulers of Ayinchirr, he was a Blood-pathed mage, and quite skilled at his craft. Moreover, it would only take a few words from him to pull the Prince out of all of his interesting lessons.

“Magic is a weapon too, Talin. Any reason why you fail to grace your instructor with your presence?”

He smiled vaguely, knowing the answer would irk Jerle to no ends. “Because it’s almost as useless as the poetry class?” he offered.

The Blood Mage slammed his fist into the desk. “Damn you, boy. I go through all this trouble to train you and to teach you, trying to raise a boy that will do the country good, and all you can think about are your damned games! I didn’t become my father’s heir by sitting around on my –”

Oh, Song Lord. Not this lecture again. He’d heard it so many times he could probably recite it in his sleep. Now his father would go on to complain about how his younger brother Kendrid would make a better King than he, never thinking that perhaps Talin would be much happier without a country to rule. Then he would threaten to take away his weapon’s classes if he didn’t improve his behaviour, finally ending with another reprimand. He let his mind drift until Jerle made an unexpected addition to the usual speech.

“… I only hope that you’ll be more responsible once you get married.”

He couldn’t help it. “What?” he yelped. “Married!”

The King had a slightly smug grin. “Yes. Married. By Autumn Moon this year.”

He shrank back in his chair, though he still attempted to keep his dignity gathered about him. “Autumn Moon? To who?”

The older man shrugged. “The negotiation tables are open. Probably one of the daughters of the higher-ranking nobles. Most likely a Duke’s daughter.”

“And the reason…?” he asked, trying to come up with a way to back out of this. He knew the daughters of the Dukes. He’d far rather deal with one of the demons of legend than one of those airheads. In fact, the only one who wasn’t completely set on wedding him – and thus to be avoided – was the youngest daughter of a rather unimportant Duke, as well as practically his sister. At least, Linelle was his younger sibling in ways that Kendrid had never been, getting into trouble with him and arguing with him for reasons that neither of them could remember afterwards. And if all went according to plan, she would be well beyond the borders of Ayinchirr by the rising of Summer Moon.

“To get you to settle down, of course. You can’t keep running around like a second son, not if you want to someday become the King of Ayinchirr.”

Something inside him finally snapped, something that had always been held in check with caution and a fondness for some of the people who lived in and around the Palace, especially those in his weaponry classes. He shot up; knocking his chair backwards, anger roiling within him with no way to control it and a desire to lash out at this source of pain and rage. So he whipped out at his father, not with his fists, which would get him into more trouble than even he could deal with, not with words, which his father never paid attention to, anyways. Which left him with one rather unexpected option.

He whipped out with pure, fiercely angry Blood magic, magic that he’d never trained beyond the basics and had never much bothered with. It knocked the unprepared King head over heels, sending him flying into the wall. Angry, Jerle stood up and opened his mouth to roar at his son –

– But Talin beat him to it.

“You think I care? Do you honestly think I care about your damned throne? I couldn’t care less! You could hand the Song Lord-damned country to the demons for all I care! Kendrid would make a better King than me? Fine! Give him the country! I. Don’t. Want. It. I never did! Who would? You can’t do anything with it; you can’t make any useful changes without the approval of your damn Dukes! And their minds are all set in stone! Oh, and did I mention that you need the damn fools for taxes? So you can’t just get rid of the useless bastards! You’re going to rot away on your damn throne without doing anything worthwhile, and I’m damned if I’m going to follow you!” He began to turn, but a dry little cough of amusement cut him off. “What do you find so funny?” he snapped.

“You say that magic is useless, and yet it’s the first thing you think to strike out with.” There was something savagely pleased in the man’s eyes.

“Because the other options wouldn’t have worked,” the Prince snarled, peeved.

“Whatever you say, Hunter.”

Hunter. He wasn’t a Hunter. Never a Hunter. He knew that he wasn’t an Apprentice like his brother, although he had avoided all magical training since he’d reached a level that he’d assumed made him a full Mage. That was enough for anyone. He wouldn’t hurt anyone by accident and it wouldn’t work its way out of his control. But a Hunter… Hunters were rare, even in Ayinchirr, where Blood mages were a normal part of the royal bloodline. There were perhaps ten Hunters in the seventeen hundred year history of the country. Only one Queen had exceeded that level, attaining the rank of a Sister of the Blood.

A Hunter of the Blood as a son would certainly please Jerle. Every Hunter born into the royal family, as well as one who hadn’t been related, had firmly seated themselves upon the throne. By simple virtue of the magic that they could wield, it was evident that they were powerful enough to control and protect their country. He brought a finger up to touch his chin, then let it drop to touch the fine chain that all mages wore, even the unwilling ones, a chain that bore the talismans that were evidence of his rank. He knew what would be there before he even felt them. The simple, reddish orb that was the mark of an Apprentice of the Blood. The crimson feather, a Mage’s talisman. And now a new one, a golden arrow with a red stained head.

There was no way to forge a talisman. They simply appeared whenever a mage attained a new stage of magic.

So he was a Hunter.

Damn.

“I fail to see how this makes a difference,” Talin said icily as he regarded the arrow with a mixture of resignation and annoyance.

“You can’t refuse the throne as a Hunter,” his father exclaimed gleefully. And he knew the words going through the man’s head without even trying. I knew it! I knew it! Someday, I’d finally manage to get my ass-stubborn son onto the throne! He was even the one who put the seal on it! I haven’t lost my talent…

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, feeling too calm, too bland as he warred inside with this new facet of himself. That part was still furious at the man who was even now easing back into his chair. Outraged at the foolish Mage who would dare to challenge a Hunter’s will. Oh no, the just-awakened Hunter in him thought. Oh no. He would not be pushed around any more. He would not be a tool in this man’s hands. He would not be any man’s tool. He was a Hunter. Magic, sweet fire to accompany the internal rage, poured through him, filling his veins and making everything seem as though viewed through a red haze.

“You can’t refuse the throne as a Hunter,” the King repeated.

“I think you’re missing the point,” he observed, permitting perhaps a bit more of a growl than necessary to enter his voice. “You, father, are a Blood Mage. I am a Hunter of the Blood.” He cocked his head to one side, proud and arrogant. “Would you care to challenge me?”

“For what? The throne is yours, boy, don’t you see that? You don’t need to fight me for it.”

“I don’t want your throne,” the Hunter said, his voice the patient sigh of a time-pressed teacher attempting to explain a fairly simple concept to a particularly stupid student. “I never have. And there is nothing you can do to make me take it.”

He turned and stalked for the door, carefully easing the built-up power away. He didn’t need to deal with a magical explosion. Not now, not when time was vital.

“You’ll find that it’s hard to a Hunter of the Blood to find any position outside of magic and ruling!” Jerle cried. “You’ll be back begging for home within the month if you try to find anything else.”

“We’ll just see about that.” Talin bared his teeth in a wintry smile that was as sharp as it was cold, bringing up a hand that glowed red with Blood magic in a mocking salute to his father and King. “Goodbye, father. I’d say that I would miss you, except lying is hardly polite. I’m certain you’ll forgive the lack of formality around the same time as you get over the rest of your life – however long that takes.”

And with that, the Crown Prince of Ayinchirr was gone from his father’s life.

---

Talin looked around the room, looked at the bed and hangings, at the clothes chest and the wall hangings. At the food that sat in front of him. At the dishes the food sat on. Then, with a decidedly precise and rude curse, he buried his face in his hands and began worrying his fingers through his deep brown hair. He continued to mutter phrases as he reflected on the actions that had brought him here, though none of them exceeded the potency of the first.

It was all that Song Lord-damned letter’s fault. How in Gaea’s name had Kendrid even figured out that he was living in Rhiland, much less have found his home? There was nothing even remotely like Ayinchirr in peaceful Terresan, which was one of the reasons he’d been so happy to settle down there. The soil was different. The language was different. The titles were different. The grass was different. They didn’t even have a Priest of the Song Lord, as there was in every city and town in Ayinchirr. They had a Priestess to the Earth Mother they called Gaea; a usually forgiving, benevolent figure that Talin had decided he liked.

No matter how Kendrid had managed to find his wayward older brother. He’d found him, or at least, his messenger had. He’d probably just followed the tales of an easy-going Blood-touched man who could find lost relatives and trace the bloodlines of children, verifying legitimacy and loyalty to spouses. A man who just happened to have a trace of the same accent that the messenger would have. Why not?

Blindly reaching out with one hand to find that damn letter, he shifted to lean on the other. He skimmed the letter and tried to figure out what about it had convinced him to come back to Ayinchirr.

Talin –

Hello. It’s your brother, Kendrid. I hope this letter find you in good health –

More drabble in that lane for a while, detailing his marriage to Cassian of Gairson – a woman who he recalled as one of the most devoted of the airheads – the birth of his two sons, Dhamar and Braytan, and Jerle’s pride in them. Sure. Like he wanted to hear about that man. Evidently, just after he’d finally announced Kendrid to be his heir, he’d suffered a deadly stroke. That little tidbit wasn’t enclosed in the letter, but there was a date.

I’m to be coroneted by Autumn Moon. I’d really appreciate it if you could make it.

Kendrid

Of course. The ending. The simple, polite request that reminded him so much of the boy that he’d liked in a distant sort of way, if not as closely as a brother. That emotion had been reserved for Linelle, who had been the one to show him the way to Terresan. And of course, his apprentices hadn’t helped matters any.

You always say that blood ties are important to Blood mages, came Ajean’s voice in his mind, reminding him of the lesson he’d always reinforced when she fought with her brothers. It’ll be like an adventure! That being Ajean’s younger brother, Davan, who was certain that everything in the world could be solved with a sword and enough enthusiasm. But it was their sister Ilana’s quiet reproach that had really punched him in the gut. If your family means so little to you that you can’t even go to your brother’s coronation, how could you feel anything for us?

Oh, he felt something for the trio of siblings, Ilana in particular. There was very little that he wouldn’t have done to keep Ilana close by. So he’d ceded to their decision and packed his bags, made them promise to continue practicing their lessons while they were gone and set off to the country that had once been his home.

Right. That was why he was here. For Ilana. And, to a lesser degree, her siblings.

“Prince Talin?” He bit back a growl, the same growl he’d been biting back ever since he had met the escort his brother had sent to accompany him back from Rhiland. Every time they saw him, it was Prince this and Prince that. None of them seemed to remember the fact that he’d abdicated six years ago. And evidently, Jerle had never decided to share just what he’d had to say about the crown of Ayinchirr.

“Yes?” he asked waspishly.

“Prince Talin, we think something’s wrong. The colours flying from Tal Eishan are all wrong, and there are no guards to meet us. They were supposed to have met us to complete your escort when we reached the boundaries of Tal Eishan, and they still haven’t arrived.”

The Hunter shrugged to himself. “Maybe they’re busy playing Queen and Shadows.”

“They were supposed to have shown up an hour ago, Prince.”

Ah. That was somewhat different. “I’ll go see what’s going on.” He stood and walked out of the tent, brushing roughly past the guard who’d been standing outside.

“But Prince!”

He whirled around and couldn’t help the snarl that slipped past his lips. “Stop calling me Prince if you value your life, guard. I gave up the throne six years ago. I don’t have any intention of taking it back, or thrusting that burden upon any children I might have. I am a Hunter, and that is it.” Still angry, magic surging hotly through his veins, he saddled his plain dun mare and swung up into the saddle. “I’ll call if I need anything.”

“Yes, P – Hunter.”

It only took ten minutes to arrive at the walls of Tal Eishan, and that was while traveling at an easy pace, too. A guard wearing vaguely familiar colours stopped him at the gates. He stared at the stone walls for a few moments, the impact of being back in Ayinchirr hitting him once more. This might not be home anymore, but it was still the place he had spent his childhood in, and it was a powerful feeling to be back. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch the walls, and flicked a lazy look at the guard instead.

“May I be of assistance to you, guard?” His voice was light and informal, the voice that only an important noble could use on a guard without trouble.

The guard, misinterpreting his attitude, bristled. “Who are you, and what business have you in Tal Eishan?”

Talin cocked his head to one side and looked upward, as though pondering the question. “I am Talin. I’m here for Crown Prince Kendrid’s coronation.”

“There is no Crown Prince Kendrid,” the guard stated flatly.

“No Kendrid?” he repeated softly, feeling the anger welling up within him once more, and magic growing with it. It was such a sweet, wondrous feeling, the fierce power of a Hunter of the Blood mixing with the adrenaline and strength brought about by the anger, merging and augmenting one another. “You must be mistaken, guard. Kendrid was to be coroneted by Autumn Moon. He will be here.”

The guard shook his head, completely oblivious to the magical explosion just waiting to happen before him. “Duke Wilfain of Gairson is to be made King at Autumn Moon, as he is the closest remaining relative to the late Crown Prince Kendrid. You could possibly speak with him.”

Rage and Blood, a deadly and beautiful maelstrom growing up within him. “Oh yes,” he murmured, forcing his voice to stay steady and not quiver with excitement or fury. “I would most certainly like to speak with this Duke Wilfain.” He would be – Kendrid’s father by marriage? Yes, Kendrid had married Cassian of Gairson.

The Hunter said nothing as he followed the guard through the streets of Tal Eishan, simply concentrating on the emotions within him. A mage of his rank having a fit of temper in such a populated area was sure to have fatal results, and he wouldn’t risk that. So entering the palace grounds had far less impact upon him than the walls of Tal Eishan. Indeed, he paid attention to very little around him until he reached the throne room, where he had so often stood, though he’d entered from the royal’s side, not the petitioner’s doorway.

Talin… a voice seemed to whisper. He ignored it and looked at the man sitting on the chair next to the throne, the man who would proclaim himself King of Ayinchirr. He was a Blood mage, if only an Apprentice in rank, so that qualification was taken care of. He wasn’t directly related to the royal family, but Eisgrad Eishan hadn’t been either. Yet something about the red haired man who sat there made him want to bare his teeth and challenge him to a mage’s battle.

He forced the feelings down and nodded slightly at the man. There were gasps of indignation from the guards, all dressed in the colours of Gairson. None of them would remember the boy who had been the Crown Prince, none of them would remember the Hunter who had stormed out of the palace and country. They all simply saw a man who treated their Duke as an equal, or perhaps even less, and they did not care for it at all.

“Wilfain,” Talin greeted him blandly.

“On your knees before the heir to the throne!” the guard who had taken him to the palace shouted, threatening him with the flat of his blade. The Hunter whipped around, snake-quick, and had his hand in a vice-like grip around the man’s throat before he could even flinch back.

“Do not touch me like that,” he snarled, a hint of the power he had grown up with and the power that he still had as a Hunter coming through. “Ever.” He shoved him away even as he released him. Visibly shaken, the guard stepped back, once, then again and again.

“May I ask why you have chosen to grace these halls?” the Duke of Gairson inquired politely.

Talin smiled, a hint of savagery coming through all the same. “I was here to attend the coronation of the late Crown Prince Kendrid. I wasn’t aware he was the late at the time I left my home, and so I assumed it would be polite to remain for the coronation of the new King-to-be.”

“Flattering,” the Duke noted in a tone that didn’t quite say it was anything but. “You’ll be staying in the city, then?”

“Of course.” He had given up the privileges of staying in the palace when he’d abdicated. Besides, supper was far less formal in the city. “It was a pleasure to see you,” he added in the same tone as the one that the Duke had used. He saw a hint of amusement touch the man’s eyes before he turned around to leave. The guard he’d attacked scowled at him as he walked by.

Talin.

He froze in midstep, listening.

Talin. Turn back around.

He did so, frowning, just in time to see an archer with his arrow trained on his back. With a shouted curse, he dove to one side as the arrow was shot, knocking one guard off his feet as he hit the ground and rolled. Slightly perturbed, the archer chose another arrow and aimed again as the rest of the guards drew their swords, advancing upon the former Crown Prince.

Suddenly, he wasn’t seeing the world from his own eyes anymore. His view was a few inches lower, and he was sitting on the throne of Ayinchirr. “Prince Kendrid,” Duke Wilfain murmured, bowing as his guards did so. The throne room was empty but for two honor guards – the Prince was all but done seeing petitioners for the day, and his own father by marriage wasn’t even a petitioner.

“Wilfain. So you’ll be here for the coronation?” He felt a strange sort of eager pleasure that wasn’t his own, Kendrid’s pleasure at having done something that pleased others.

“Of course, Kendrid.” Then, after a considering pause, “Though you won’t be.”

The guards attacked, swiftly killing the Prince’s guards as the Duke stopped Kendrid’s heart with a bolt of Blood magic. He hadn’t had any protective shields up around his own father-in-law. It was a fatal mistake.

Then he was back to himself, dodging and rolling the swords and arrows of the traitor Duke’s guards.

Talin. Avenge me.

Kendrid.

Blood mages were bound tightly to their kindred by the simple fact that blood sang to blood. It was dangerously easy to track down and kill someone who not only shared your blood but also your magic. He’d never liked Kendrid overly much, but he was still his brother. He was still a fellow Blood mage. And the Duke had dared to attack the family.

Blood magic exploded from him, knocking the guards head over heels. He spun around and drew the bow that could magically be called into existence by all Hunters, and then shot the archer before he could loose his own bow once more. Then another blast of Blood magic, this time not to stall or disarm, but to kill. It destroyed the guards instantly, and slammed up against Wilfain’s shields. But he was only an Apprentice, and Talin was a Hunter. A furiously angry Hunter who’d just discovered who had murdered his brother.

“Die, traitor,” the Hunter whispered savagely. Then, louder, “Kill my brother, will you? Kill the Crown Prince, the man who should have been your King? I think not. I think not!” He flung his arm forward in a sharp, cutting motion, and watched as the blade of Blood magic sliced smoothly though the shields and into Wilfain’s heart. “Traitor,” he repeated, anger still coursing through him.

More guards entered the room, though they were ones that would remember him from childhood. They froze, stared at the savage light that shone from the Hunter’s eyes, at the dead man on the chair next to the throne, the dead guards and heart-shot archer.

“Prince Talin,” one finally said, bowing. The rest repeated his words and action.

“I’m not the Prince,” Talin snapped. “I’m simply a Hunter. I gave up the throne long ago.”

The guards exchanged sidelong glances. “Talin, Wilfain was the one most closely related to Kendrid. His wife is dead, as well as his children. Wilfain had no brothers, and no other siblings. So who is to inherit the throne? Kendrid’s brother, of course.”

He froze and stepped back. “No.”

“Who else? Who else has the training to rule? Who else’s ascension to the throne won’t cause civil war?”

“But…”

Talin… Don’t abandon my people. Our people. They need you.

But… he wailed mentally. I never wanted a throne. I wanted to have my own home, to be left alone. I was happy teaching Davan and Ajean and Ilana. I was happy dreaming that maybe someday I’d convince Ilana that I could be a little closer to her than just her teacher. A lot closer.

Talin… The fading voice was reproachful and sad.

Please, he begged. Please. Just one thing to make it not so permanent.

There was no response for a long moment. Then he looked over at one of the tapestries that decorated the near wall. The small room behind it had been a favourite hiding place of Linelle and himself when he was younger. Was it possible that someone else had found the room? He walked over cautiously, not certain that someone loyal to Wilfain wasn’t hiding behind it, and pulled it aside. The door was tightly shut, the lock thrown. He touched it lightly with his magic, and it eased open, revealing a young boy.

Blood sang to blood. And this boy had his brother’s blood.

“Who are you?” Talin asked softly. “I’m Talin, your uncle.”

“Braytan,” the boy whispered.

“Mhm. And how old are you, Braytan?”

“Five!” He seemed so proud…

“How would you like to be the King of Ayinchirr?” he asked cautiously.

“Yeah! That would be fun?”

How wrong you are, my boy, Talin thought cynically. But he wouldn’t shatter the boy’s illusions just yet. “Well, you can’t be the King right now, but you will be soon!”

“How soon?”

“Thirteen years.” Oh, Song Lord and Gaea. He was going to be trapped here as King Regent for the next thirteen years of his life. Who would continue Davan’s training? Ajean’s? And what would Ilana do… Who might she chose to pair with? How could he afford to stay here for thirteen years? But how could he afford to leave such a young boy alone for so long?

He sighed quietly. “Looks like I’m going to be staying here for a while longer than I expected,” he noted dryly, keeping all bitterness from his voice.

---

Later that night, he began a letter to his three pupils.

Thanks so very much for convincing me to go home. Now I get to be King Regent for thirteen years. What a wonderful idea…