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The Psalm of Peace:
Kindling of The Flame
Chapter 1
Brother and Sister Moon
Praise to you Ruvyn, moon brother
Power, might, and wisdom in your light
Penetrating, strong, and bold like no other
Plunge the sky in your ruby might
Praise to you Syviss, sister moon
Peace and hope your light bestow
Prudent, kind, and calming tune
Present the sky with your pure glow
Previously, light and dark were mixed in one
Power and hope took to the sky together
Passing time side by side, light drowned by none
Pristine was the glow of moon sister and brother
Pivotal was the separation, the betrayal of
Prideful Ruvyn to his sister Syviss
Possessed by desire for another’s love
Profane treachery was Ruvyn’s remiss
Passionate Ruvyn and Syviss aggrieved
Parted until the End of Days
Praise the moons forever cleaved
Paint the sky as one sleeps and the other stays
- Ballad from the Psalm of Peace
Faint, flickering lamplight pushed back the ominous shadows that clung to the dark trunks of Lotorn’s Scarlet Wilds. Gnarled trees reached down out of the dark canopy toward a solitary intruder who traversed the cracked and overgrown cobblestone path that cut through the woods like a healing scar. He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the path and raised the flame up high.
Although its light was nearly engulfed by the darkness surrounding him, the faint candlelight stabbed at the obscurity, piercing the blackness to reveal wispy tendrils of eerie fog swirling in a vortex around his finely shod feet. He had lost the trail about fifty yards back and hoped that the lantern he clung to would reveal his destination. Unfortunately, the thick fog made it impossible to discern any landmarks or signs that he was on the right path.
Above, distant thunder rumbled, prompting the hooded figure to lift his head ever so slightly toward the sky. The thick darkness and overhanging blood-red leaves, for which the forest had earned its name, suffocated any flash that lightning might have made to dispel some of the shadows. Despite the dim illumination, it was impossible to miss the foliage that hung low on skeletal finger-like branches.
In the erratic dancing of the firelight, it was easy to understand why the locals claimed that any who ventured too far into the Scarlet Wilds risked losing their souls to the very trees themselves. What little he could see of the sky past the crimson foliage had grown crowded with dark thunderclouds that parted briefly, uncloaking the pale azure light emanating from the month’s last full moon. Known by most as Syviss, the pale moon. It hung there like a beacon from the heavens above for only a moment and then it was gone again.
The long silence broke as the groaning branch of a dying tree creaked and fell to the forest floor not too far away sending an unsettling echo throughout The Wilds. The tall, slender man tensed, and although he didn’t show it outwardly, anxious energy rippled through every part of his body; the foreboding feeling of dread growing with every moment he spent in this ominous place. Taking a moment to gather his courage, the hooded figure continued down his path, steady and unwavering.
He tried to ignore the subtle rustling overhead, hoping it was just the wind disturbing old dying leaves, causing them to shower down and obscure the pathway. But as he continued, the crimson leaves fell slower than he would have expected. He stopped, watching the eerie scene before him and just before the foliage reached the forest floor, an impossibly warm draft of air swept them up again. He stood frozen like a statue in the center of the pathway, watching the mysterious breeze lift the leaves in a way that made them appear to be falling upward.
With shrouded eyes, he followed them up toward the sky and just as the leaves disappeared among the treetops, the unnaturally warm air that had propelled them upward seemed to coalesce and slither back down to the forest floor. Invisible, the eerie breeze displaced the leaves that had settled there, cutting a path toward the stranger, sweeping toward him at a speed that gave him no time to retreat. It seductively climbed his legs and ascended his spine like the caressing feeling of a lover’s fingers moving up his back. As the living breeze progressed upward however, its temperature decreased until he no longer felt the pleasurable touch of a paramour, but an icy stab at the nape of his neck of something much more deadly. The cold acuity threatened to tear down his resolve, to rip away the courage that he clung to, but as mysteriously as it had come, it disappeared.
Determined to continue his mission, the shrouded figure clenched his teeth and fought against the urge to sweep the skin at the back of his neck. Superstition overpowered him and he brought a gloved hand back to confirm that nothing was there. Gooseflesh rising, he let his hand drop and turned his attention toward his goal. It was then that he realized that the old path ended where he stood. Retreating into the cowl that covered his face, the man squinted into the darkness.
He lifted his lantern again and turned in a circle, searching for some kind of trail marker that would point him in the right direction, but there was none. Instead, glowing faintly in the distant gloom, was a single iron lantern hanging loosely on a rusty chain at the entrance of a small wooden cottage which appeared to have materialized from nowhere.
Despite his reluctance to remain where he was, he considered the rotting structure that looked as if the dark underbelly of The Wilds itself was trying to claim it. It looked like a place a witch would live. He was told that she would not be easy to find and that once he had found her, he would wish he had never sought her out. Thus far, what he had been told had proven to be true, but he had questions. Questions that needed answers. Finally, after a longer pause than he would like to have made, he leaned forward and started walking across the remaining distance.
The eerie sight of what could only be her house lived up to its reputation. As he walked closer, the man could see no path to the cottage. He searched the ferns and barbed vines, hoping to at least find a game trail. He used a foot to move the underbrush aside and found that the ground was littered with the bones of small animals. The sudden feeling of eyes watching him from the darkness made him swing the lantern out wide and he came face to face with a bleached white deer skull. His heart leapt in his chest at the sudden encounter and he nearly dropped his light.
Angered by how easily he had been startled by the skull balanced on a thorny stick, he pulled his hood lower over his face and snarled. The man supposed that the witch had placed the bones where they were to deter any unwanted guests, but he was no coward, and it would take a lot more than bones to scare him. He growled in frustration, thrusting the lamp in his hand ahead of him but, just before he decided to brave the thorny undergrowth, a rusted iron band, half buried in the dirt, glinted in the candlelight. Using his foot to push dark red ferns to the side, he found several rotting planks of wood held in place by thick iron bands. What had once been an obvious route to the cottage, was now grown over and barely visible.
Keeping his eyes on the elusive footpath, the man warily placed a clean black boot on the first plank. It groaned under his weight and he inhaled sharply. Watery mud seeped up from the ground, threatening to suck his immaculate boots into the boggy mud below. Curling a lip in distaste, he thrust the lantern out further and could make out the next few planks that would keep him out of the mud. She would live in a bog! He cursed under his breath before he nimbly crossed the decrepit path, only slightly marring his boots in the process.
The last plank set him down on solid ground only a few paces from the cottage. From the cobblestone path, it had at least resembled something habitable, but from this close the hooded man could see that each rotting plank of the structure warped and bent at strange angles due to thick black vines that erupted from the ground and weaved between them. Long, malicious spikes sprouted from the vines, each of them just slightly longer than his fingers. Movement from out of the corner of his eye brought his attention to the crooked roof where coarse hair-like moss draped down. He could have sworn he had seen the vines slither between the gaps in the boards, but with his full attention on them, nothing so much as quivered.
Faint light flickered from the cracks that peppered the decaying shack, a subtle indicator of someone's presence within. An ominous atmosphere enveloped the small, shack-like building, sending a ripple of unease through the man’s body. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on his own lantern, the unyielding metal pressing into his palm. Ghostly wind taunted the lone lantern by the door, causing its feeble flame to dance and nearly vanish. With each unpredictable flicker, his breath hitched, his senses high on alert. The rusty metal chain securing the lantern scraped against its hook, unleashing a bone-chilling screech. Startled, the man dropped his own light source to clap his hands over his ears, protecting them from the otherworldly sound.
The flame extinguished as wax splashed up over the wick and the darkness of the Scarlet Wilds wasted no time in crawling closer to the hooded figure. Looking into the predatory darkness, the cloaked man slowly lowered his hands and backed away from the encroaching gloom until he leaned with his back against the rickety door, scarcely lit by the only remaining flickering lantern. To his dismay, the hanging lantern beside him began to waver, encouraging the darkness to move ever closer. He felt his breathing quicken as he watched the oily front of the black shadows ooze toward him unperturbed by the boggy ground. Eyes wide, he spun around intending to demand entrance so that he could escape The Wilds, but found the door swung open. An elderly woman stood in the doorway, backlit by a small cooking fire.
Her purple skirt hid her bare feet and over it she wore a black, silk blouse that covered almost her entire torso. She looked to have once been a tall woman, but now she stooped forward, her spine curving unnaturally at her shoulders. Her shriveled and disfigured ears were adorned with large golden hoops and a diamond that hung loosely through the upper part of her left ear, threatening to fall out. The matted white hair atop her head was pulled back into something that resembled a nag’s tail. It was too long for the man to measure as it trailed down her back, and to the other side of the room where it was piled in a dusty corner covered in superannuated cobwebs.
“I have been expecting you.” Her raspy voice cracked as she quietly spoke to the stranger at her doorstep. “Come in and sit.” The man took one more look over his shoulder at The Wilds only to find his lantern still alight on the ground, flooding the forest floor with its steady light. Had he imagined the encroaching darkness? “Shut the door behind you.” The woman added as an afterthought and led the hooded stranger to a chair placed under a small round table that looked nearly as old as the cottage itself. The chair was splintered and looked as if it would break the moment he sat in it, nonetheless he obeyed his hostess and cautiously lowered himself into the seat.
Glancing about from within the shelter of his cowl, the stranger could see that the one room house had short wax candles placed randomly throughout in an attempt to banish the darkness. Their flames cast dancing shadows across the walls and floors as the woman shuffled by, giving the room a haunted aura. Unwelcomed thoughts of the darkness penetrating through the cracks in the walls made the stranger shiver. There was something very unnatural inhabiting The Wilds tonight.
Shifting in his seat, the hooded man continued to cautiously survey his surroundings. His nose twitched, the essence of cinnamon and other unknown scents filled the dwelling. The smell was pungent and overpowering, nearly stinging his eyes. He suspected the old crone was putting on tea or some other witches brew as she stood with her back turned to him in what served as her meager kitchen.
When she finally turned to face her guest, she carried a small tray with two cups of steaming liquid. It teetered on the tray as she set it down and then painstakingly lowered herself to sit opposite him. She looked up from pushing a chipped eggshell blue cup his way with ancient, green eyes that peered into the shadows cast upon his hidden visage.
In reaction to a crawling sensation across his skin, like ants vigorously investigating the terrain of his face, the man leaned back in his chair and pulled the hood lower over his eyes. He instinctively wiped a hand over his jaw to rid himself of any crawling insects, but his fingers only glided over the smooth, tortured surface of a scar that covered half of his face. He snarled when he remembered it was there. Immediately, the crawling regressed, and he knew she was no longer searching his soul. The woman grinned, revealing six gold teeth and discolored gums.
“You wish for me to tell you of your future.” She coughed a wet cough and sat silently looking down into her drink before slowly taking a sip. Still holding the cup, she looked back at the stranger without raising her chin. He nodded uncomfortably and she set the cup back on the table’s surface. When she straightened, his eyes were drawn to a sparkling crystal wrapped in a leather throng around her neck. It was a piece of jewelry that he did not expect to see on such a homely old woman. She didn’t seem to notice his piqued interest in her pendant and cleared her throat before she continued.
“Well, let’s get started then.” With agility unexpected from a woman of her age she waved her clammy palms over the smooth surface of the highly polished, antique table. Thick gray fog curled up from between the cracks, creating a small unnatural cloud of smoke. Slowly the fog cleared, leaving a wrinkled deck of cards in front of the gypsy where there had been none only moments ago. Her dexterous fingers moved purposefully as she shuffled the deck before unexpectedly setting them aside.
“Your payment is required for me to go on,” she scowled, “and you better hope you have some, because you don’t want to know what will happen if you came here just to waste my time.” A tight, grim, smile stretched across her face once again as the hooded guest plunged his right hand into his cloak and held out a bag of coins that clinked as they shifted.
She quickly snatched the leather satchel from his hands and stuffed it into her skirt pocket as the other hand moved the cards in front of her. She drew the first card and grinned, “Your life will be enjoyable… while it lasts.” Her voice was high in pitch and had a tendency to crack the longer she spoke. The stranger was quiet. Her words seemed rehearsed and dull, as if she had said this to all those who had come to seek her special abilities. Sensing a degree of charlatanism in her act, the hooded man began to relax, gaining confidence that he was not the more vulnerable of the two of them in the room. Leaning back in his chair he motioned for her to carry on.
The old woman flipped another card, setting it face up on the table. “The Emperor. You will hold great power and your enemies will prostrate themselves before you in trepidation. You have the potential to gather many peoples under your leadership and rule with an unmovable force.” She bowed her head to him as if she would to royalty.
Though she emanated some kind of power, this showmanship suggested she may not be much stronger than the delicate and fragile façade she had originally put on. Smiling sarcastically in the darkness of his cowl he almost chastised himself for the apprehension he’d allowed himself to feel upon meeting the woman and even more for allowing the rumors of seers stealing souls to take hold in his mind. He knew it was rare to come across someone who truly had the ability to peer into the future, but now due to her practiced words, he was almost certain that she was a fraud. As she drew the next card a frown furrowed her brow.
“Your lust for power will be your demi—” Suddenly, as if her wispy hair had yanked her head back, she stared at the dust covered rafters through blank eyes and continued despite the unexpected dimming of all the candles in the room. “The Gods have put their champions into play and in less than one year’s time, life’s precious breath will be stolen from your lips.” Shaking the trance off like she’d been dowsed in freezing water, the old witch stopped, eyes darting nervously about the room and the stranger’s sense of foreboding returned. The woman looked genuinely nervous, as if she was afraid to say what she saw from her prophetic trance. Skepticism battled within the man as he tried not to fall prey to imitation foresight, but curiosity got the better of him. He had to know what she saw, or what she thought she saw.
“By what? What will kill me?” The stranger asked urgently trying to see over the card at the picture on the other side, hoping it would tell him what the gypsy wasn’t.
Still visibly shaken, she collected herself and took a breath.“ Ancient beings forged by the Gods to restore balance will descend upon you.” She paused before revealing “Your Highness.”
The stranger, no longer encumbered by secrecy lowered his hood, revealing himself. The right side of his face from his jaw to his brow looked like melted wax that had hardened just before sloughing from the bones beneath. Creases in the misshapen skin puckered in places where it had once been smooth. In a quiet, unyielding, tone the prince continued,
“What manner of creature are these beings?” His disfigured face was stern. Whether they be the Ruskan variety or those of the old religion, he didn’t believe in the Gods, but any threat to his life was something to be taken seriously.
“The Psalm of Peace names them Lurreans. They are human in nature, but they carry within them power far greater than you could ever achieve.” the prince furrowed his brows as he tried to recall the prophecy she spoke of. As a child, his tutors had often lectured to him about the importance of the Psalm of Peace, but he never did care much for prophecy, let alone the Gods. Frustrated, the prince stood, toppling his chair to the floor as he did so.
“How do I stop them?”
“The cards do not reveal this.” She muttered quickly, not bothering to be sure her words were intelligible. She seemed distracted like some impending doom was rushing toward the little cottage. Sweeping the cards up into her hands she stood and after pocketing them in the folds of her voluminous purple skirt, she grabbed the prince under the elbow to guide him to the door.
“But it can be done? These Lurreans, they are human, so they can be slain?” His statement came out more like a question. The prince turned around just as he got outside the small hut to face the elderly woman. She already mostly shut the door, but his foot stopped her from shutting him out. There was a new look to the old woman’s face. She looked at the man with undeniable fear, when just moments ago she treated him like a normal paying customer. Through the crack that remained open, the witch finally spoke.
“They can.” Taking advantage of his confusion, she used her bare foot to push his boot away from her entry and the heavy door screamed on its hinges when she pushed it closed in his face.
Chapter 2
Oh, Lurrean
What task is yours?
You are chosen by the Gods
To usher in the end of days
Oh, Lurrean
What work needs be done?
To unite the realms in peace
Are you on our side or our demise?
Oh, Lurrean
What goal is yours?
To wash the world of pain
Or are you here to start anew?
Oh, Lurrean
Why have you come?
Are you here to help or
Do you bring death upon our doors?
Oh, Lurrean
What side is yours?
Do you bring us peace or
Do you mark the end of life and light?
Oh, Lurrean
What will you choose?
Will you be the savior of the
World or will you sow ruin and destruction?
- Excerpt from The Psalm of Peace
Lightning ripped through the clouds overhead, casting the castle in a contrasting light against the mountain it was carved from. The stone edifice of the castle jutted out from a crack in the mountain, forming an arrowhead-shaped façade to a stronghold that plunged deep into the rock. Sheltered braziers sputtered on the first level of ramparts as a gust of wind blew large droplets of rainwater into the flames, temporarily dimming their light and casting the merlons in eerie shadows.
In an effort to keep dry, Peter, The Prince of Lotorn, pulled his hood further over his face, only to find that it made no difference. He was soaked completely through. After escaping the haunting cover of the Scarlet Wilds, it only took a few strides before the rain had soaked through his cloak and no matter how fast he rode his horse back to the palace, he could not stay ahead of the storm. So much for the oiled coat. A lot of good that had done him.
With a sure-footed mount bred for speed, it only took Peter half an hour to reach the familiar dark stone walls that separated the royal family from the city below. The prince scowled and wiped a lock of drenched hair away from his eyes while he waited for the drawbridge to lower at his arrival. Already frustrated by the untimely weather, the delay only annoyed him further and once it slammed into place, he galloped into the outer courtyard.
The prince swung down from his horse and, without making eye contact with the stable boy who retrieved the beast, he marched purposefully through the inner gate.
Water crashed down from the heavens, filling the courtyard with a relentless roar that drowned out all other sounds. The rain fell so hard that he could see it bouncing off the slate gray armor of the sentry guards positioned around the entrance of the castle. Despite the metallic ringing it made, its echoes were lost in the roaring torrent around him. Peter could feel their eyes on him, and it made his blood boil. How dare they ogle at their future king when he was in such a state. It was disrespectful. He was relieved that the layer of mud had washed away but tried to ignore how wretched he looked all the same.
The guard at the sentry’s front took a brisk step forward, lowering his pike partially toward Peter.
“How dare you lower your weapon toward your Prince! Open the door!” The prince forced himself to suppress the urge to knock the helmet from the man’s head, but he could not keep his fists from clenching at his side in response to the man’s insolence. When none of the guards made a move to do so on their own, Peter’s demeanor grew even darker. “Do you think I am going to get it myself?” He growled at the man closest to him, glaring into the black eye slit in his faceplate with such a menacing look that the sentry seemed to shrink back in fear. The wilted plume of emerald feathers remained plastered to the side of the guard’s helmet when he received a brisk shake of the head for an answer. Startled by the voice that came from a man they had not recognized as their prince; the guard began mumbling apologies that were lost in the rain before Peter ever heard them.
Satisfied that the guards were now doing their best to keep their scrutiny directed at the ground, Peter lifted his chin high and waited while four of the men pulled the enormous silver doors completely open before he stomped into the darkness within.
With the booming sound of the storm locked behind the thick silver doors, his footsteps reverberated through the rafters of the high ceilings, throwing sharp notes back down at him with each step the prince took into the shadowy entry of the castle. Water poured off him and collected in little rivulets that followed the worn grooves in the stone underfoot. With a violent jerk, he tore the hooded cloak from his shoulders revealing his sopping mop of black curls. Peter held the wet garment out to the side expecting a servant to take it from him, but when he released it, the cloak dropped into a heavy heap on the floor.
He narrowed his eyes, perplexed that no one had been there to take his cloak. He didn’t care that it was only a few hours until sunrise, someone should have been there. Peter looked to either side of the hall. At this hour, most of the servants were off duty, sleeping in their hidden rooms until sunup when they would be back to busily scurrying about the castle. In their absence, the grand foyer was silent apart from the occasional drip of water that slid down his hair to land noisily on the floor.
In the dimly lit grand entry, Peter scanned the darkness, struggling to rein in his temper. The faint glow of coals in two hearths, mirrored on either side, barely penetrated the blackness. A low growl snagged his attention, prompting him to squint into the shadows. The encounter with the fortune teller had heightened his senses, and now, in this darkness, any corner could conceal a lurking Lurrean. His hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword, fingers curling around the cool metal. With deliberate caution, the prince advanced toward the source of the sound, making every effort to muffle his footsteps as he went.
The further he crept into the grand foyer, the louder the growling became. Peter’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness, revealing the faint outlines of the grand pillars that supported the vaulted ceilings. Among the shadowy onyx pillars, he discerned a wooden chair at the base of the closest column. In it sat an old man, slumped over with his chin resting on his chest.
A frustrated sigh left Peter's lips as he released the grip on his sword. The old man wore the black tunic and pants of a steward, and he snored quietly as he slept. The prince curled his lip up in disgust and closed the distance between him and the sleeping steward. Nothing bothered him more than lazy, disrespectful servants. They had the privilege of living in the palace, eating palace food, and attending to the royal family and what do they give in return? Negligence. He kicked the leg of the chair, nearly toppling the man out of it.
“Get up!” Peter shouted. The man choked on his tongue and shot an angry glare up at the dark figure before him but as soon as he realized who was looming over him, the steward’s eyes went wide in fear.
“Your Highness,” the old man dropped to his knees, bowing so low that his forehead touched the ground. “My apologies.”
“You are not paid to sleep!” Peter growled before shoving the man with his slick leather boot.
“It will not happen again, Your Highness. Please allow me to make it up to you, sire?” The man begged, ignoring the ache in his ribs from Peter’s boot.
“Fetch me a dry set of clothes. The black and silver silk night clothes. And do something with my cloak, it is soaked completely through.” He ordered, but just before the man turned to do as he was told, Peter’s hand shot out and grasped his shirt at the collar. “Do not waste my time.” He threatened and held the man’s eyes until he was satisfied with the level of fear he saw there. With a shove, Peter released the man and spun around to stride purposefully across the grand hall.
The echoes returned, bouncing across the walls of the grand foyer each time his heels struck the stone floor. An orange glow from embers burning within the two hearths on either side of the large room illuminated the darkness just enough for Peter to see where he was going but revealed little else. Although the storm had chilled him to the bone, he did not stop to warm himself. He cut straight down the middle of the foyer toward another set of silver doors.
The massive doors, hewn from ancient trees harvested in the heart of the Scarlet Wilds, bore an exquisite tapestry of craftsmanship. Intricate designs, meticulously carved into the wooden canvas, told the tale of the mystical forest they originated from. Layers of silver encapsulated the monumental jungle-like depiction. Of all the details layered into the door, Sinuous snakes, artfully coiled around the sturdy trunks of the enchanted trees, seemed almost alive as they slithered through the silvery landscape. The door handles, polished to a mirror-like sheen, were masterfully shaped into twin vipers with maws agape, frozen in perpetual readiness to strike.
Peter’s hands wrapped around both silvery snake handles, and he pulled back on the heavy doors with a frustrated sigh. During the day, guards were tasked with opening the doors for him. However, his father, in his superior wisdom, deemed non-essential posts unnecessary during the night, leaving the entrance unguarded.
Heat struck him in a blast of air and he smiled, relieved that someone had kept the fire going. He stepped into the throne room and drew the massive doors shut behind him. The silver throne stood silhouetted before him, cast in shadows by the giant hearth on the back wall. His footfalls were muffled as he walked over the dark green carpet and circumnavigated the Royal seat before closing the distance between it and the warm hearth.
The stone that held the massive fire had been carved into the shape of a snake’s head with fangs hanging from the serpent’s top jaw like stalactites. Its size was such that he could stand within its confines, with ample space above his head. Peter had just stretched his arms out toward the flames to warm his numb fingers when the doors behind him creaked open. He was surprised that the steward had managed to climb three flights of stairs, retrieve his clothing, and then to have found him so quickly. The doors shut again and soft footfalls approached from behind.
“It is about time.” The prince growled and pulled his wet shirt off over his head.
“I was going to say the same thing.” It was not the steward. Peter’s hands clenched tightly into fists at his sides and his jaw locked. Rage burned in his chest upon recognizing the voice behind him and he whirled around to confront the young man who had just spoken. He was the last person Peter wanted to see right now.
The younger man ran a hand through his messy bronze hair and yawned. Barely out of his adolescent years, Peter hardly considered him to be a man. The boy didn’t seem to notice Peter’s anger. He stood in a relaxed stance and, with a wry smile across his lips, offered The Prince a silk shirt that shone like liquid silver. “Where have you been?” Peter snarled at the question and ripped the shirt away from the young man’s hand before turning back to face the fire.
“Have you been spying on me?” Peter accused and pulled the silk shirt over his head before he began to unlace his soaked leather pants.
“Not really, I just hadn’t seen you since this afternoon. Martin’s rummaging woke me up.” He tossed the black silk pants at Peter’s back and The Prince caught the garment while he kicked off his boots.
“Don’t lie to me, Jaren.” Peter hissed. “You’re the only one who knows I come here to think. Who else would have kept the fire going?” He struggled with his pants, the wet leather sticking to his skin as he tried to pull them off.
“You caught me. I have been up all night waiting for my brother to return safely from who knows where in the dead of the night.” Jaren’s patronizing voice was distant, as if he was facing the other way.
“You are not my brother.” Peter shook his head in frustration and stepped into the silk pants before turning around to find Jaren admiring a tapestry on the wall. He had meant to hurt the young man, but he looked unphased by Peter’s comment. It was true that they were not really related, but ever since Jaren and Peter were young boys, the two of them had been like brothers.
“You were gone so long that I finally decided to go to bed, but Martin’s frantic search for your bedclothes made so much noise it sounded like a beast was upending your rooms. Are you dressed?”
“Yes.” Peter grumbled and Jaren turned back around to face him. He glanced up at Peter’s waterlogged hair and smirked.
“Where did you go?” Jaren asked again, folding his arms over a dark green silk shirt of his own.
“I went somewhere I could be alone, and it just so happens I still want to be alone, so stop fretting over me and get out.” Peter huffed.
“Alright, I’ll leave you be.” Jaren put his hands up in defense and rolled his eyes. Peter bit back words that threatened to escape his lips. If he started a fight now, the boy would never leave. Jaren tucked his hands into his pockets and pivoted on the balls of his bare feet. He remained silent despite the concern that was evident on his face and made his way slowly toward the doors.
“I don’t need you to be my keeper, and you can tell that to my father the next time you speak with him.” He couldn’t help it. The words were burning his tongue with every second he kept them in. Jaren froze beside the throne and sighed. He turned back around slowly and leaned up against the silver chair.
“So, you did hear that.” Jaren winced. “I thought that might have been why you took off.” Peter could feel his blood begin to boil at how calm Jaren addressed the situation.
As he stood by the heat of the fire that echoed his own temper, Peter couldn’t shake the memory of his father’s recent chastisement. Earlier that day, King Joaquim had cornered him in the drawing room and the words still reverberated in his mind.
“Your recent behavior is unacceptable, Peter. The full magnitude of your arrogance on display for the whole kingdom to see. As future King, you must show more concern for the needs of the people. You can’t dismiss their grievances so lightly.”
Leaning a forearm against the cold stone of the hearth, Peter continued to stare off into the flames. He remembered his flippant response clearly.
“These petty disputes are beneath me. I have more important matters to attend to.”
“The concerns of the people you serve are not petty. Do not follow in the footsteps of your grandfather. He was cruel and selfish and it got him killed. The people deserve a just and compassionate ruler, one who embodies many of the qualities Jaren possesses, not a bellyaching child who puts his own desires above their needs.” Peter gritted his teeth, remembering his own response before he had stormed out of the drawing room.
“I won’t repeat the mistakes of our ancestors, Father. My reign will be one of strength and dominance. The people will respect me. Compassion is a luxury I can’t afford, and I won’t sacrifice the throne for the fleeting approval of the masses." He had wanted to add “like Jaren” but just the thought of being compared to his younger brother made his blood boil.
Peter let the memory fade as another surfaced. It wasn’t long after he had endured his father’s censuring that he nearly stumbled in on a private conversation between Jaren and his father.
“I heard father telling you that he didn’t think I was fit to be King, and you said nothing to deny it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you were stupid enough to think you could have my throne.”
“I don’t want your throne,” Jaren said in an incredulous tone. “And I did defend you. Your father simply asked me to stand beside you in order to help you gain the peoples’ trust. I know what they go through on a day-to-day basis. He was only saying that I’d be useful to you as an advisor.”
“Trust? I don’t need their trust, and I don’t need you. What I need is respect, and how are they going to respect me if I have some orphaned peasant boy following me around everywhere, telling me what to do?” Peter threw his hands up and turned away from Jaren to face the fire. “Father is always praising you for how well you interact with the people or how well you solve problems. He wants you to be his son, not me.”
“That’s not true.” Jaren began but Peter turned on him.
“He practically told me so this morning.”
“What? I’m sure that’s not what he meant.” Jaren tried to calm Peter down.
“No? This morning, he compared me to my grandfather. He said I was demanding respect when I should be earning it. I am going to be King one day, damn it, I should have their respect by right!” Jaren sighed. The comparison to King Faheem was not too far off lately, but he didn’t dare admit that to Peter.
“That’s not how it works—” Jaren started, but Peter cut him off.
“Now you are starting to sound just like my father.” Peter growled. “You know, I asked him, if he wished I was more like you, you know what he said?” Jaren didn’t respond. He was afraid that anything he said would just make Peter more upset. “Nothing! He said nothing!” Peter screamed.
“Peter, I—” Peter cut him off with a finger pointed directly at him.
“Don’t. Don’t even try to defend him.” Peter’s chest heaved with the effort to keep from attacking Jaren where he stood. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being bested by the boy in a fair fight, they had sparred since childhood and Peter knew he was stronger. However, the last time their fighting got out of hand and Jaren had ‘accidentally’ knocked a torch into Peter’s face. Now the scar that marred his once handsome visage was a constant reminder of how much he hated Jaren. There were few moments when they truly felt like brothers anymore.
“I’m not defending him. I’m—”
“Just get out.” Peter pointed toward the doors and when Jaren didn’t move immediately toward the exit he screamed “Get out!”
Jaren looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he scowled at the prince and grudgingly made his way to the silver doors. His hand wrapped around one of the cool metal handles and he paused before pulling it open. Jaren’s shoulders raised with a deep breath and he looked back at Peter.
“I’m glad you made it back alright.” His forced sincerity echoed in the large room even after the boom of the silver doors closing behind him died out.
Peter gritted his teeth and hardly noticed his fingernails digging into his palms as he shook with rage. How was having an advisor supposed to help gain the people’s respect if that advisor didn’t show him any? He let out a loud yell of frustration and curled his fingers around a padded armchair sitting beside the hearth. With a grunt and another shout, Peter hurled the chair toward the throne, but the heavy piece of furniture only flew half the distance before it crashed to the ground. His chest heaved while he stood staring at the broken chair.
“Your Highness?” Peter’s head whipped up toward the door where the steward, Martin, stuck his head through the crack.
“What!” He bore his teeth at the man like a wolf staring down its prey, and the steward jumped in alarm.
“I, I heard a noise. Are, are you alright, Sire?” Martin asked, seeming to use the silver door as a shield to hide most of his body from the prince. His old leathery face reminded Peter of the fortune teller he had seen in the woods and he felt his stomach lurch. He wasted his time wandering around the woods; she did not answer the question he had set out to solve, but instead gave him something else to worry about.
He straightened, taking a calming breath to compose himself. If she hadn’t have been so convincing, he would have ignored the experience all together, but something deep in his bones told him not to take the woman lightly.
“I am fine.” Peter tried to keep the fury from his voice, but clamping his jaw only made him sound more menacing. The effort put into sparing one servant’s feelings only enraged him more. He didn’t know why he bothered. When he didn’t say anything more, Martin slunk into the room and took up a chair out of The Prince’s line of sight.
Peter moved to the large silver throne and ascended the steps that lifted it a few feet off the ground before falling onto the plush green pillow in the seat. His thoughts turned toward his purpose of journeying into the Scarlet Wilds. He had gone to see if the fortune teller would tell him if his claim to the throne was secure, and he supposed that in some way she had.
According to the ancient woman, he would ascend to the throne, but would also be killed by some mysterious pawns of the Gods within the next two years. Peter rolled his eyes at the thought of the Gods being to blame for his death.
Between the five realms, there were two dominant religions and one cult that existed in the southern desert region of Lotorn. Peter had never believed in any of them. There was no mystical existence waiting after death, and no all-powerful being meddling in the affairs of those in this world. But the fortune teller had been convinced that the Gods had some part to play in his future.
He strained his memory to recall what the name of the prophecy had been. At the fortune teller’s hut, he remembered knowing what it was, but he couldn’t remember the exact wording. What was it? He brought a hand to his face, rubbing at an ache developing under his left eyebrow.
Suddenly, it came to him. The Psalm of Peace. It would have information on the Lurreans, the harbingers of this peace that the prophecy foretold of. He was quite certain his library did not have the old scroll; it had disappeared over a hundred years ago. Since it had vanished, the Psalm of Peace had been passed down among the Lore Keepers and there was no way he could get his hands on one at this time of night. Not as the Prince of Lotorn. His father, King Joaquim, could summon one and the old man would be here in a week’s time. Peter made a mental note to assign a Lore Keeper to Lotorn when he became king. The prince sighed out of frustration and then smiled as he realized there was something else that he knew was in his library.
“Steward,” Upon hearing his title, Martin leapt from his chair, determined to show the prince that he was not as lazy as he had appeared earlier. “Get me the Ruskan Canticles of Faith.” He demanded and was satisfied by the way the old man quivered when he nodded his head and muttered ‘yes, your majesty’. Before scurrying away like the rat he was, Peter lifted a gold key from around his neck and tossed it to the steward. What he was looking for would be in a special library that his grandfather, King Faheem, had set aside for particularly rare or dangerous books. No one could enter without the key.
Once, during debates with his tutors who demanded he justify his rejection of all religion, Peter had used the Canticles of Faith to argue that the Ruskan religion was merely an amalgamation of proverbs designed to control the uneducated masses. He saw religion for what it really was, a tool to quell the undesirable traits that made civilized living impossible. If the majority of the population believed that a rabid bear god would descend from the heavens to rip their throats out for disobeying Ruskan doctrine, then crime within that population would decrease simply out of fear. In his extensive research, he stumbled upon a proverb mentioning the Psalm of Peace. If fortunate, it might elucidate the nature of the Lurreans and guide him on how to deal with them.
Peter rolled his eyes. Was he really going to consult a religious text to solve his problems? He listened for Martin outside the door, but the steward was already out of earshot. There would be no calling the old man back now. Peter sighed. “It wouldn’t hurt to look,” he reassured himself.
While he waited for Martin to return, only the crackling of the fire and the constant drumming of Peter’s fingers on the silver armrest penetrated the silence. His other hand held his face as he scrutinized the empty room. For several hours of the day, he sat in this very spot listening to the villagers complain about every minute problem in their pitiful lives. Peter had grown to hate the task that his father claimed would gain him the peoples’ respect. It did no such thing. After a year of putting up with their whining, he still had to deal with peasants criticizing his rulings as if they were up for debate. Several times, they went as far as to demand to see The King, complaining that Peter was not experienced enough to handle complicated matters of livestock and trade. What infuriated him most was when his father defended his decision, the people would suddenly forget their anger and thank The King for his kind and generous ruling. When he was king, and if he was understanding the fortune teller correctly that wouldn’t be too far in the future, they would accept his judgment or be punished for their disrespect.
One of the silver doors swung open and Martin shuffled in, holding a leather encased folder of papers in his hands. The steward dropped to one knee as he handed the folder full of dry and brittle parchment over to the prince, the golden library key atop its cover. Peter gently grabbed the folder, replacing the key around his neck, and opened the cover, being particularly careful not to damage the documents.
Inside, the paper was torn and weathered. He skimmed through the faded ink that was the translation of the original documents written in Lanthanian, the tongue of the long extinct dragon riders of the Golden Age of Dragons. He searched in vain, finding nothing that would help him tell a Lurrean from a normal human besides the obvious powers they were said to have. Peter learned from the documents that the Lurreans were said to have control over the elements, but unless they chose to show their gifts, Peter would have no way of finding them. Suddenly, his finger paused at an intriguing passage and he spoke without lifting his gaze from the paper.
“Get me the records of all the people in the land, inside and outside of Lotorn.” He commanded the steward and was just about to delve deeper into the document when Martin spoke.
“Your Majesty, I, I don’t believe Lotorn ha-has such a record.” the man told The Prince while trying not to look into the eyes of his master. Peter placed a finger where he had been reading to keep from losing his spot and slowly raised his glare from the pages to find Martin wringing his hands before him.
“I own the largest library in the land. I own every book ever created in the history of our realm. I own every piece of parchment ever considered to be the slightest bit important, and you’re trying to tell me I don’t have a basic census of the five realms!”
“I’m sorry your Majesty, I’m sure you are correct. I’ll fetch the book.” Before Peter could throw something at him, Martin scampered out of the throne room to search for the book.
“You had better hope it’s there, for your own good.” He called after the steward even though he knew Martin would not hear him.
Peter took a calming breath and returned his attention to the canticles.
“Hands of the Gods, they shall be, with vigor and restoration far superior than we. Elemental forces bend at their control, yet they cannot resist its pull. Just as the Gods stand as one, together their strength matches none.”
Peter paused and reread this passage a couple of times, cursing the canticle’s sing-song phrasing. Why couldn’t they just say what they meant? After some time, he summarized the lyric and then, to his delight, realized that he may already have a Lurrean living right here in the castle. A sadistic smile curled his lips and he began to laugh.
“Jaren?” He could hardly believe his good fortune. After reading that passage it was so obvious to him now. “With vigor and restoration far superior than we.” He repeated first attribute of the passage in his head. The boy hardly ever got sick. Peter thought for a moment and realized that Jaren never even scarred. There were several times when the boy should have had horrible, ugly scars, but all his wounds healed perfectly.
And although Jaren was one of his knights, a skill having nothing to do with any of the elements, Jaren always had a strange fascination for fire. “Could that be the element that pulls him?” Whenever the boy had a spare moment, Peter could almost always count on finding him somewhere near a blacksmith’s shop or a glass blower’s kiln. He had even made a few glass figurines of his own.
He shook his head in disbelief. Peter had suggested to his parents that they shelter this boy when his parents had died, and what did he get in return? A scarred face. Jaren had blamed it on a nearby torch and Peter had believed him at first, but under further scrutiny his story did not make sense. They had been in the middle of the sparring arena when things got a little out of hand. Peter remembered egging Jaren on, not expecting the boy he had once called his brother to actually attack him.
They were nowhere near any of the sconces on the perimeter wall and somehow, enough fire to melt his face had managed to appear between them just when Peter was getting the upper hand. Jaren walked away unscathed, without even as much as a singe mark on his clothes. Apart from his riches and rank, his face was the one thing Peter really cared about. He used to have a perfect complexion, one worthy of his royalty. Now that was gone, and Peter would never be able to forgive Jaren for it.
Anger and hurt fueled Peter's desire for revenge, but he didn't contemplate physical torture. No, his revenge would be a more subtle and insidious form, aimed at tarnishing Jaren's reputation and exposing him for what Peter suspected him to be. The psychological scars, he thought, would cut deeper and leave a more lasting mark than any physical harm could. The path to revenge unfolded in his mind, a dark and twisted journey that would satisfy his wounded pride and perceived betrayal.
His mouth opened wide in a grin and he tossed his head back in amusement. Slowly, the laugh turned into a scowl and Peter’s mood darkened. His father would never believe his word over Jaren’s; he idolized the boy. Whatever he did to ruin his brother would have to be so heinous that even Joaquim wouldn’t be able to save him.
Peter closed the leather folder and tossed the canticles to the floor before sinking his face into his hands. With a frustrated roar, Peter plowed his fingers through his hair and caught the moist curls in his fists. Even if he managed to get rid of Jaren, he would not be able to do anything with his father as King. If he wanted to prevent the witch’s prophecy from coming to pass, he would have to take things into his own hands.
Just then, the doors opened again, startling Peter from his thoughts, and Martin struggled to keep them open while he strained under five massive tomes.
“It’s about time.” Peter barked and rose from the throne. “Set them over there.” He waved to a table that had only a single chair beside it. Its twin still resting in a heap where Peter had thrown it. Martin dropped the books heavily on the table and an audible groan came from the wooden joints. Peter didn’t waste time moving the chair around to sit in it, instead he shoved the books that held the most recent census records from Ruska and Sea Lune aside, reaching for the largest volume. “Get out of my sight.” Peter grunted without taking his eyes from the tome.
The prince cracked the cover and began to search through the pages filled with the citizens of Lotorn, almost tearing them as they were turned. When he finally reached the page he was looking for, Peter pressed his hands onto the table, straddling the massive book with his hunched shoulders. His hair fell forward across his scar, but he didn’t feel it across his damaged skin as his emerald eyes darted across the scrawled ink on the page. They stopped abruptly at the familiar name he was looking for and his lips curled into a malevolent smile. Halfway down the page, listed below the two boldly crossed off names of his parents, Jaren’s name glared back at him.
Peter’s gaze scrolled to the right. The following column held the records of illness or disease as well as any injuries that were bad enough to warrant a visit to the healer. Jaren’s was blank. Peter's mind replayed instances where Jaren exhibited an uncanny ability to sidestep danger or peculiar events that seemed to align with Jaren's presence. Doubt festered, evolving into a conviction that Jaren wasn't merely a victim of circumstance. He must be one of these Lurreans.
Finding the other Lurreans would be simple now that he knew what to look for. A thought came to him that caused him to wrestle momentarily with his conscience. There was a good chance that he would find more than five names that would match his search parameters. He closed his eyes and sighed. If a few innocent souls had to die for him to be sure that he killed all the Lurreans, then the realms would be a safer place for it, but more importantly, so would he.