FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Author's Note: Kay here goes. Chapters one and two, I think, are the most difficult and confusing. Thank you to farewell-to-dreaming for the tips--you're right about the eye thing, I didn't catch that. As far as the smoke and proximity of the kingdoms go, Cronan's border is very close to Andras, but the smoke and ash tend to blow out of Andras and either out to sea or to Terra--which is semi-important later. Anyway, chapter one.
The birds gathered in and around the courtyard every morning—birds of all sorts, from all around Andras. Those who lived in the central city claimed it had begun years ago, when their first ancestors had grown grain and corn where the castle now stood—the birds would gather, and the ancient Andrians had always allowed them to feed. And like the Andrians passed word to their descendants to continue the tradition, the birds, too, seemed to tell their young of the castle courtyard.
Yet every fifth day, Marius held his ceremony in the courtyard, and the birds were slightly displaced. Marius gave his invigorating speeches, the birds squawked and ruffled themselves from a distance. At least, they were meant to be invigorating, and many found them so. Anelle could only appreciate his effort.
On this day, like most days, she found herself watching the birds instead.
“Savagery,” Marius was saying, holding his arms in the air towards the morning sun, “is a force our world cannot seem to abandon. It is an evil force, born from the black chaos of the Brokenlands and leaking into our world...”
Anelle did not hear him—to the left from where she stood, near the courtyard's entrance archway, two birds spotted the same dropped morsel of bread.
“...the Cronans have accepted this force as their true nature.” Marius continued, lowering one hand to stroke the head of Riccio, the great blue pet-bird that always sat to his left. Riccio's great golden eyes mesmerized the crowd. “The Cronans are savagery, these Demons that raid our cities and plague our border—the essence of that which we seek to purge.”
The emerald-feathered bird ruffled its feathers and skipped forward. The golden bird, smaller, matched its stride.
“And as the wind sends the ash and fire of Cronan from our skies....”
At once, the two birds leaped at the morsel of bread.
“...so must we purify the land.”
In a flurry of feathers, they squawked and lashed at each other with their beaks, flapping furiously until a boot came down between them and quickly dispersed them both. Anelle's eyes trailed up the foot, leg, and body and her gaze fell upon a familiar face.
Blue-haired, blue-eyed, spectacled Runaan peered around the white courtyard arch, biting his lip. Anyone else who caught sight of him saw the nervous, perpetually paranoid royal sage of Andras trying not to land himself in any sort of trouble by leaving his cavern of a study in the castle—even Anelle teased him about how pale he was. But only she could see that he bit his lip to hide a shy, uneasy grin.
Runaan nodded, and, as quietly and inconspicuously as she could, Anelle maneuvered around a few taller Andrians, too engrossed by Marius' speech to notice the Andrian princess leaving the ceremony. At Runaan's side, she grinned back, and they took to the half-empty city streets.
“You left the castle,” Anelle said, half-mocking.
Her younger friend frowned at her. “I've... got to get some things, out here in the market. While the ceremony goes on, the markets are...”
“...empty.” Anelle finished for him, looking around. Runaan was observant, shy, and planned everything accordingly—as the greater population of the city now had its eyes on Marius or his blue bird, the sage could collect whatever city items he needed with as little outside contact as possible.
“And I know you don't enjoy the ceremonies.”
Anelle could not deny this. Marius' voice touched ill nerves.
“And,” Runaan went on as he normally did, stuck on one subject, “you can get out of the castle for a while, too, Anelle--”
She nodded, becoming absent with him as he began to speak of his studies. Anelle enjoyed the city when it was this empty—the streets held room to roam, she did not have to turn down any vehement bakers and jewelers making their offers every few stretches. Without the bustle of people on the dirt road, there was no dust to sting her eyes, no clouds of it hazing her vision, and without the tumult of voices, she could hear the music of street minstrels. One man, wearing only the waist half of his robe—a style of the provinces—played a lute outside the meat-seller's shop.
The sight of him was not uncommon—lately, the people of the provinces, down the mountain and throughout Andras' farmland, had come to seek profit in the central city. The luckier of them sold what remained of their family's crop—others sold crudely carved instruments, odd crafts, and—the strangest Anelle had seen—a litter of wild dog pups. Runaan had been fascinated by them. Still others, like this man, simply came and played a lute or a drum. A cup in front of him gleamed with coin.
“...I cannot understand why the spell won't hold.” Runaan finished, furrowing his brow. “Even with all my father's notes, what am I doing incorrectly...?”
Anelle didn't answer for a moment. The man with the lute smiled at her. “I don't know,” she said. “What is it you need from the market?”
“...the villagers may not react well. Pass carefully through the town.”
Why, he wondered, why did I lose consciousness? Such folly—he had been unable to combat simple exhaustion.
Eyes lolling open, the boy found himself tied to the back of a great white beast—long-legged, broad-shouldered—and watching the ground rush by beneath him. Startled, he gasped, and pulled his cheek away from the beast's neck, struggling against his tethers to sit upright.
A blue-gloved hand grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him back down. The boy snarled.
So, he shared this beast with his captor.
“Captain, he's woken.”
There were other riders around him, hunched forward awkwardly over the white beasts with long faces. Wearing blue capes, feathered headbands, and weapons at their sides, the boy assumed they were Andrian soldiers. Seven of them.
One man rode ahead of them—blonde, his hair pulled back so it flowed out behind him like the beasts' tails—and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the road. “Do not let him try anything.”
For a moment the captive considered struggling—he could bite the neck of the beast and startle it, or thrust himself backwards and, hopefully, knock the soldier to the ground. Yet against seven soldiers, any move for escape he could possibly make would be short-lived. Hunched forward, the boy's body ached, and the ropes that held his wrists behind his back dug into his skin.
He stared about the grey land around him, noting the thin grass speckled with ash blown from Cronan and the sparse groups of trees, clumped together with their roots entangled like desperate families. The boy thought of Cronan, with his people huddled in their caves, hungry. With the soldier's hand still pressing him down, he craned his neck to look ahead—in the distance ahead, he saw a small town, the buildings grey as the land around. On the horizon beyond, the land swelled to hills.
As the soldiers approached the town, the boy wondered why the cities of Andras were not white as all the stories had said.
“Demon,” someone cried.
“--won't take n'thin from us this time!”
Curiosity tugging at her, Nadine cautiously left the safety of her mother's home and stood a safe distance behind the crowd. Dust rose around them, dry and choking in the early-noon heat. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and squinted to see through the suffocating filth.
“Get back,” threatened a familiar voice, and the crowd gasped at the sound of a drawn sword. Shias' horse whinnied and snorted beneath him. “He is a prisoner and will not be dealt with until the king gives word. We must take him to Andras.”
“Don't threaten the citizens, Shias.” Nadine said, and on his horse, Shias' eyebrows rose under his feathered headband.
He sheathed his weapon and blinked. “Lady Nadine, why are you not...?”
The crowd parted and Nadine strode to the center of the circle of horses, where, hunched over, the Demon—just a boy!--sat tied before an unfamiliar soldier. Already his wrists had become bloody with the ropes around them.
As Shias dispersed the crowd—this time without the aid of a sword—Nadine walked in a circle around the Demon. Black hair, knife-cut, messy around his gaunt face. Red eyes—large by Andrian standards—pale, greyish skin. Small wings, undeveloped. Too young, he could not fly, not at all. Not for several years.
A captured Cronan. Nadine furrowed her brow and thought.
Shias approached her and answered her silent questions. “Early this morning, the Cronan crossed the river and simply fell unconscious. We do not understand—perhaps he is a scout? Nonetheless, we have sent a wing-message to Lord Leius... for now, he will be a prisoner.”
The captive met Nadine's gaze with silent malice. She grinned back. A captured Cronan, she thought.
“Lady Nadine?”
“Send another wing-message—no, I'll send it. I must call a Council meeting. Captain Shias, may I share your horse?”
“They've captured a Demon, somewhere at the border—they're bringing it here, now.”
The passerby talked and muttered and looked around with wide eyes—a Demon. A captive Cronan. Prisoner. Hostage...?
Anelle looked to Runaan, who stared back and held his breath. A familiar terror crept into his eyes. Looking away, she asked him, “Do you think it's true?”
“I-I don't... know.”
“Let's find out—let's go to the gates.” Anelle stood and dusted herself off, leaving the remains of her otou fruit on the ground.
Runaan stared up at her. “No! You are out too late already—if I let you, your father...”
Sighing, Anelle frowned at him, but nodded. However much she hated it, her father would hold the boy responsible for anything that might happen—they had already risked a minor scolding by roaming in the city all day without a word to any guards. Anelle thought of her father's condition and felt a twinge of guilt at the possibility of worrying him.
Hurrying, they pushed through the late-day street marketers.
The Andrian castle rested at the center of the city, its white walls rising high above the city—the tallest tower, on foul-weather days, often seemed to disappear in the clouds. Today, in the fading sunlight, the castle gave off a gold glint at the top of the hill. At the gates, Runaan slowed his speed and called out, “Demitrius?”
The man was also headed to the castle gates and caught sight of them at Runaan's call. An older council member, Demitrius had been a fond friend of Runaan's father, yet Anelle was slightly unfamiliar with him.
In the process of fastening his hair behind his head with a piece of fabric, Demitrius called, “Runaan! Lady Anelle! You are outside the castle...? Have you not heard?”
It was true, then. Runaan's face flushed and he looked at the ground. “I...”
“No matter. It happened this morning, Shias and his men should arrive by sundown—it's just a boy, did you hear that...? Just a boy. I wonder—do the Cronans send their children as scouts?”
Anelle kept silent as Runaan explained that they had been returning to the castle at that moment and had no intention of remaining outdoors. Demitrius nodded solemnly, patted the boy on the head, and said, “Be careful. Both of you—now, I must find your father.”
He left them there outside the gates, much to Anelle's amusement. Runaan began to follow him, but stopped when he realized his companion hadn't moved. “Anelle...”
“What do you think will be done with it? This Cronan?” she asked, looking back down the road. Andrians were retreating into their homes, but she knew they would all stay at their windows to watch the soldiers go by. Any time now, just as Demitrius had said—the sun began to settle at the horizon.
Runaan's brow furrowed and an unusual flicker of irritation came across his features. “I do not know—they will hold him prisoner, I would imagine, until the Cronans cease their raids on our provinces.”
Down the road, a little cloud of dust rose to the air and caught the light of the setting sun. In this sort of evening mist, Anelle watched a white shape step forward, a blue streak upon its back. And another, and another—Andrian soldiers.
“Runaan, look.”
Seven Andrian soldiers on horseback made their way up the hill. Runaan gasped and backed towards the gates.
Simultaneously, the castle's pearl-white doors swung open. King Leius stepped into the courtyard, his best guards surrounding him. The doors closed with a heavy thud as the hoofbeats of the horses drew dangerously close.
Anelle turned to find herself caught between the captive and the king.
