C22 Chapter 22

None looked back. One tripped over a root and landed hard in his arm. He screamed in pain and sat upright, cradling a broken wrist.

A grey wolf pounced on the man, and the screaming ended. The wolf had come from the shadows behind Nebik and tore out the man's throat. Nebik shrieked as he watched the man with the broken wrist go limp between the wolf's massive jaws. The warden shouted something, but it was covered by the wolf's growling and Nebik's screaming.

Bryden had never seen a wolf. Its claws and teeth and bony back frightened him. The fact that it walked on all fours scared him, and also that it was taller on all fours than he was standing up.

The grey wolf raised its head from the limp body. Its gaze met Bryden's. Blood dripped from its muzzle, a string of red flesh dangling from its jaw. Its eyes, instead of looking at Bryden, looked through him, inside of him. The eyes were yellow, glowing with intelligence. It walked, its enormous padded feet silent on the cedar needles. Nebik moved to remove Bryden from his shoulder, but the wolf snapped and growled, baring yellow teeth stained with red gore. Nebik froze.

The warden whispered, ”Don't move.”

”I'm not moving, imam.”

”If I or the boy is harmed, God will destroy you.”

”I understand, imam.”

The wolf sat on its haunches and licked the blood from its jaws. Eyes glowing yellow and blue surrounded them in the dark, coming from the trees. They approached, taking shape in the moonlight, all some shade of grey, white, or black, with snouts long and bloody.

When they came within a few yards of the warden, he shouted, ”Stop! Stay, in the name of God!” He stretched his arms out, chest heaving.

The wolves all stopped and sat like the first, surrounding the warden and Nebik on all sides, forming a complete circle. The first one growled, low and angry. The growl spread around the circle, rising in volume and intensity until each wolf snarled with open mouth. Some barked. Nebik trembled beneath Bryden, who lay there like a hunted animal resigned to its fate.

Brenn walked through the pack of wolves with his sword out by his side, clutched in a white-knuckled fist and dripping with blood. His eyes were wide and angry, his jaw set, and his steps sure. The wolves parted for him as he walked through, not stopping until he stood three feet from the warden. Brenn looked down on the hooded man with every inch of himself.

”Thamon Kufer,” Brenn said, his voice thundering through his whole body, resonating in Bryden's bones. As Brenn spoke, the wolves growled along with his words, as if speaking in accordance with their own wolf language. ”I would kill you here tonight, and I've told you as much, yet you still threaten my family and take my brother from me. So I display my full Power to you now and tell you again to leave us in peace and never allow me to see you or your blind followers again. This is your last warning.”

The warden stared at Brenn in disbelief, not breathing. The wolves panted around them. Bryden felt tears on his face. Nebik's trembling stopped, as did his pulse.

”So be it,” said the warden, his voice quiet and sour once more. ”I'll go. And leave the boy.”

Nebik squeaked, ”Imam...”

”Leave him, I said.”

For a moment, Nebik did not move. He scanned Brenn up and down and saw that they were of the same height and build. Brenn glared at him, and the wolves growled, looking at Nebik with hungry eyes. Nebik lifted Bryden from his vomit-covered shoulder and lowered him to the ground.

A wolf padded up to Bryden, and the warden and Nebik took several steps back. Bryden recoiled as the wolf, white as morning clouds, sniffed Bryden's hair and licked vomit from his cheek. It stepped between him and the warden, then led Bryden back through the pack as two more wolves joined and surrounded him.

Brenn relaxed the grip on his sword and took a step back, not taking his eyes from the warden. The warden turned his back to Brenn and walked away, Nebik following close behind, and they disappeared into the Fenwood.

When the men were out of sight, Brenn turned to Bryden and checked over him. Brenn's face was flushed, his skin drooping in exhaustion. Bryden leaned back and forth on his feet, looking around at the dozen wolves that surrounded them both.

Bryden's voice cracked as he said, ”Thank you, Brenn.”

Brenn picked up the small boy from beneath the arms and raised him to his own eye-level.

”Listen to me, Bryden,” he said. His voice was gentler now, but still powerful and filled with emotion that threatened to break free in the form of sobs. ”Yesterday, you were a slave to that man, but today you are the brother of Brenn Ragnir.”

In the dim light of predawn, Bryden saw his own face reflected in Brenn's tear-filled eyes.

Hestos lived to be very old. Tarlos never knew exactly how old, but Lakaeus was old himself by the time Hestos finally died. Lakaeus met Ninsun when they were both young, but they were permitted by law to marry only after Hestos was gone. And by then, Ninsun and Lakaeus were afraid they could not produce an heir.

They tried for many years, but the gods would not grant them a child. The news spread that the king and queen of Kesh were having trouble. The kingdom feared for them. Much of the world feared as well. Edorath mustn't lose one of the four Powers.

Lakaeus and Ninsun tried for a child for twenty years. Other women were brought to Lakaeus, concubines, and princesses of far-off kingdoms. But he refused to give a child to anyone but Ninsun, his beloved wife.

They prayed and sacrificed to the gods until a miracle was given to them. Moleg, the god of strength, came to Ninsun in a dream as she slept beside Lakaeus.

”Ninsun,” said Moleg, ”I have heard your prayers and have received your sacrifices. You and your husband, the king, have served the gods well. You are both old, but the king must have an heir to his Power.”

Ninsun cried out, ”Yes, Lord, give us a child, I beg you!”

”I will give you a child,” said Moleg, ”but you must give me something in return.”

”Anything, great god.”

”Come to me on your child's twelfth birthday, the day his Power will come to life. I will wait for you in the Cedar Forest. Then I will ask the favor of you.”

Ninsun awoke in tears, and she shook Lakaeus awake to tell him about her dream. He was happy, and they embraced in love.

Nine months later, Tarlos was born. He was small, pink, and perfect, and he cried and wriggled as a baby should. Lakaeus held Tarlos and grinned. His firstborn son! The one who would inherit the Power of Space and the throne of Kesh.

And then, something unexpected. Another son! Krastos held onto Tarlos's foot and entered the world moments after his brother. Krastos was a large baby and was covered in hair, as he would be his entire life. He never cried when he was a baby. Ninsun often referred to him as a peaceful old soul.

A few years later, just after the twins began to walk and speak, the king and queen noticed that Tarlos and Krastos were quite different. Tarlos was a healthy, average child. He was the expected size and weight for his age. He looked like his father with his narrow feet, slender hands, and lean face.

But Krastos looked like neither parent. He grew faster than a wolf cub. By the time his legs could stand beneath him, his arms could lift a cedar chest. While other children tripped over their own feet, Krastos sprinted faster than a bull. Full-grown men struggled beneath a plow while Krastos dug tributaries with his bare hands.

The king and queen knew that Tarlos was their son, the next Holder of Space, and king of Kesh. But it was apparent that Krastos was the son of Moleg.

Ninsun loved both boys fiercely and would have done anything for them. She denied the traditional service of a nurse to change their soiled clothes, feed them, or tuck them into bed. She was present for every moment of her sons' lives until her death.

The night before the twins' twelfth birthday, Ninsun gathered her servants and soldiers. They made ready to set out to the Cedar Forest, two days' journey west of Kesh. One soldier survived to tell what happened.

Before Moleg came to Ninsun to ask his favor from her, the monster Bawa attacked her and all who came with her—Bawa, the monster spawn of Ablis, who was discarded from the sight of Shar and Moresh.

Bawa killed Ninsun before Moleg arrived, and a single soldier rode home on an exhausted horse to tell the king. Lakaeus wept that day.

Four days after the twins' birthday, Lakaeus came to their bedroom and sat on a chair across from their beds.

”Sit and be quiet,” the king said. He ran a hand through his greying beard, and he did not look either boy in the eye. ”I will tell you why your mother is dead.”

Tarlos and Krastos sat in silence as they listened to their father's story. They did not interrupt but only nodded whenever the king looked up—which was seldom—to communicate their understanding. When the king finished his recount of events, the two boys stared at him with blank faces. Lakaeus said no more about their mother, and he left them as he whispered, ”Sleep well, boys.”

Tarlos did not cry that night. He wanted to, but the tears would not come. He thought of his mother and of Bawa. A seed of anger was planted deep within him that would not surface for many years.

Krastos did cry, but Tarlos heard his brother try to stifle his sobs into his pillow. Tarlos never told anyone that Krastos cried, and he was envious that he was able to cry at all. He often wanted to weep for his mother since she died, but he was never able to.

Ninsun's body was never recovered, but a golden sarcophagus was buried just the same. It was filled with treasures and inlaid on the outside with lapis lazuli. The goldsmith had made it into the likeness of the queen, and Tarlos saw at it and did not think it looked like his mother.

The sermon at her funeral was read from an ancient text, and it was word-for-word the same funeral that was received by all the dead—royal or not. After the sermon, the sarcophagus was sealed away in a stone tomb in a secret place in the desert. No one stayed long afterward. Even Lakaeus departed the scene before the stones were set in place.

Tarlos stayed, as did Krastos. As the stones and mortar were placed around the gold coffin, Krastos cried. Snot and tears ran down his face, and he wiped himself with his large hands and linen tunic. Tarlos did not cry. He knew that what they were burying was not his mother. She was gone forever, and all who had been at the funeral knew that. The goldsmith could not remember her face. No one bothered to stay even a few minutes after the sermon. Whatever memories anyone had about Ninsun were buried in that tomb, and Ninsun might as well have never been born.

It was the morning of their twentieth birthday. Tarlos was sound asleep in his comfortable bed when Krastos pounced on him like a jaguar. Krastos was a huge man, heavy like a boulder, and it knocked the air right out of Tarlos. He woke with a breathy shriek, kicking and punching. Krastos put a hold on him from behind, and Tarlos saw that the room was full of laughing guards and slaves. Krastos had brought them all to watch Tarlos be humiliated.

”Krastos!” huffed Tarlos, still catching the breath that was knocked out of him. ”Let me go!” He tried to move, though his arms were pinned behind his head, and his legs squeezed together between Krastos's feet.

”Happy birthday, brother,” said Krastos. He put a finger in his mouth, sucked on it, then stuck it in Tarlos's ear. Tarlos growled, and the bed levitated into the air. ”Hey! None of that! I want to wrestle you fair today. My birthday gift to you.”

The curtains and the sheets on the bed floated like smoke around them, caught up in the surprise and adrenaline that triggered Tarlos's Power. The bed tilted on an invisible axis, and they toppled over the side. Krastos landed with a crash on his shoulder. He rolled away, stood, and cradled his arm.

”How am I supposed to complete my trial with a dislocated shoulder?” he asked. His smile never faltered beneath his beard.

Tarlos had not landed at all. He floated down, touching his toes to the wood floor before settling his full weight on his feet. He grimaced and rubbed his wet ear.

”I hate when you do that,” he said. ”There's nothing you can do when the inside of your ear gets wet. You just have to wait for it to dry, and that takes forever and a day.” He gave up the futile task and nodded to his brother. ”But you're right. We have a hard day ahead of us, so let's not wrestle this morning.”

Krastos laughed, and the slaves and guards stepped back. ”No using your Power, and I won't use my strength.”

Tarlos looked at his hairy hulk of a brother and laughed. ”You can't choose to abandon your strength, son of Moleg, any more than Katla can abandon her beautiful legs.” He winked at his slave. Katla was from the North, and her skin was pale as milk. She blushed, and her freckled nose and cheeks turned hot pink.

”Well, I'll restrain myself as best I can,” said Krastos. ”As long as you don't lift me so I can't touch the floor, or suck the air from my lungs like you did last decan.”

”It was entertaining, watching you squirm like a fish.”

One of the guards laughed at that, and he choked when Krastos shot him a glance.

”You're on his side, Lugal?”

Lugal shifted his weight on his feet and gripped his spear. ”Forgive me, prince.”

Krastos pointed at Tarlos. ”You turned my friends against me!”

”They have their own free will, same as you and me.” The brothers were now circling each other in the center of the room. Tarlos's ear was still wet, but he ignored the discomfort. ”Surely, they have only chosen the cleverest, strongest, and most handsome prince to support. Naturally, they would want to see the slower, uglier, hairier brother to lose.”

Krastos said, ”Who are you calling slow?”

Lugal pumped his fist into the air and laughed again.

When Tarlos could think of nothing more to say, he emptied the space between Krastos and himself of air. The two of them were pulled together in a temporary vacuum. Tarlos drove a punch into his brother's gut, catching him unaware.

Krastos laughed. His muscle was like iron, and he could hardly feel his brother's blow. He reached over Tarlos, his shorter and smaller twin, and grabbed him by the waist. He lifted Tarlos upside down and above his head as a child would lift a housecat.

Tarlos lifted Krastos with his mind, and the two of them hung suspended in the air. Having been in this situation many times before, Krastos let go of Tarlos and stood upside down on the ceiling.

”Behold, the strength of a demigod!” he shouted and pushed off from the ceiling. Krastos almost reached the floor when Tarlos's Power slowed him to a stop. But Tarlos felt the full weight of Krastos, and his mind gave way. Krastos crumpled to the ground. He lifted himself and rolled his shoulders.

Tarlos remained on the ceiling, a safe ten feet above Krastos. ”Give in, brother?” Tarlos asked.

Krastos sneered and jumped. The wooden planks on the floor groaned as he propelled himself upward. He grabbed Tarlos around the shoulders and pushed off the ceiling with his feet. The two of them fell in a heap with Krastos on top.

”Just let me know if this gets too uncomfortable,” said Krastos. He held Tarlos's arms behind his back and pulled.

Tarlos let out a roar, and the hot water his slaves had prepared for him jumped from the stove and flew at Krastos's face. He let go of Tarlos and rolled away. The water splashed on the wood floor near the bed and steamed there in the fresh morning air.

”Hey!” Krastos yelled. ”Jokes aside, that would've actually hurt me!”

He leaped at Tarlos, and the two of them locked hands. Their feet drove into the floor, and they growled against each other's strength.

”You're too kind-hearted,” Tarlos said. Sweat beaded at his temples. ”That's why you never win. You're afraid of hurting me.”

They snorted like bulls locked in combat, and the walls shook with Tarlos's Power. The floor vibrated under Krastos's weight and strength.

Tarlos bent his knee with his foot planted, and he threw Krastos to the floor. He sunk his feet under Krastos's hairy chest and said, ”Do you submit?”

Krastos's chest heaved with his breath, and for a moment, he looked at his brother in anger. But it was only for a moment, and a smile spread over his bearded face. He laughed and held out his hand, and Tarlos helped him to his feet.

”There's none in the world like you, brother,” Krastos said. ”Not even a demigod can best a Holder.” He took Tarlos in for a hug, and Tarlos's head came up to Krastos's chin.

”Even still,” said Tarlos, ”only a Holder can best the son of Moleg, the man who could carry the Sun himself on his shoulders.”

The slaves and guards applauded them, and they each gave a short bow.

The bedroom door flew open and slammed into the wall behind it. The High Priestess charged into the bed-chamber. Tarlos's room slaves, Katla and Mez, backed away with their heads down. The four guards who had come to watch them wrestle stood erect and clutched their spears.

”As Shar himself sees you behaving thus, I wonder why he does not burn you all where you stand!” She pointed at the rising sun through the window with an elegant finger. Her painted eyes burned with fury, and her skirt dusted the floor as she approached the princes. ”I thought the end-times were upon us, the way the palace was shaking and creaking and thundering. You've woken everyone in the palace, royal and slave both! And did you think of your father? Sick in his bed, needing all the rest he can get? He thought Ilshu had come for him at last, the way the walls were swaying around him. And on the anniversary of your mother's death, no less! You should know better. Well?”

The twins averted their gazes from the anointed High Priestess, who spoke on behalf of the gods. Their bowed heads hid their smirks, and they risked a humorous glance at each other.

”And you!” She turned to Katla and Mez. ”Why is the stove lit? Why are the tea leaves out? Today is the day of the princes' trials—they are not to eat or drink today until they are men.”

Katla and Mez kept their eyes on the floor.

”Forgive us, High Priestess,” said Mez. ”We lost track of the day.”

”You will both be punished accordingly,” said the High Priestess.

”No,” Tarlos said. ”I asked for it, Priestess. Don't blame them.”

”Why would you ask for tea, Tarlos? You know the commandment.”

He nodded. ”Forgive me.”

Krastos said, ”We're sorry things got out of control. We're both anxious for our trials today, and we wanted to let out some energy.”

”You'll need all the energy you can muster,” said the High Priestess. Her legs were far apart in a defiant stance, her hands on her hips. Her eyes were lined with blue and red paint, which cascaded down her cheeks in three lines. The ends of her black hair were dyed green. Every finger wore a ring, and bands of bronze and lapis lazuli adorned her thin arms. Standing with her splendor and authority displayed, the brothers felt like rebuked children rather than princes.

”Come,” she said with a wave of her arm. ”It's time to prepare.”

As she led them from the room, Tarlos gave a friendly smile to Katla. The Northerling girl shook her head, smiling in return.

Krastos punched Lugal's shoulder on the way out, and the guard grunted in pain. Krastos snickered and patted Lugal's arm.

The bathhouse was of cedarwood, as was most of the palace and most of the city-state. The bath itself was a small swimming pool. It sat above a natural hot spring that kept the water perpetually hot.

Krastos and Tarlos undressed and eased into the steaming water. Body slaves scrubbed them down with soap, lathered their hair with oil, and smoothed out their tangles with cedarwood combs.

Tarlos asked his body slave, ”What do you think they have in store for us, Basmem?”

”I couldn't say, prince,” the slave replied as he washed Tarlos's hair. Basmem was probably about fifteen years old, but even he did not know his exact age. When he was much younger, he was caught stealing an apple from a merchant. He had lived as a slave and without thumbs ever since.

Basmem poured a red liquid soap into Tarlos's hair. As he had difficulty holding objects, the small vase slipped from his hand, and the soap dripped into Tarlos's eyes.

”Gah!” Tarlos rubbed his stinging eyes with wet hands.

”Prince—!”

”No, no, it's all right. But if I fail my trial because I can't see, I'll cut off the rest of your fingers.”

Basmem chuckled.

Tarlos said, ”I imagine a giant boar for me, or maybe an aurochs. Have you seen the mammoths that the traders from the North ride? I'd bet I could take one of those. Krastos, though, they probably have a dairy cow for him, eh, Basmem?”

Krastos sent a splash toward Tarlos, and Basmem laughed. He wiped the water from his forehead with a thumbless hand. Tarlos moved a small wave back at Krastos without lifting a finger. It drenched Krastos and his body slave.

Krastos sighed. ”Patnu spent hours, probably, getting his hair perfect this morning, and now it's ruined. I hope you're happy, brother.” He made one more tiny splash at his twin, for the sake of having the last move.

”Will you forgive me, Patnu?” Tarlos asked, still rubbing soap from his eyes.

”Nothing to forgive, prince.” Patnu ran his hands over his ebony face and curly black hair, dripping the water off. He was the only slave in Kesh from the South, across the Narrow, across the deserts and jungles.

”Unless,” Patnu added, ”you'd like to apologize for not thinking of inviting me to this morning's match. I always enjoy seeing Krastos put in his place.”

Tarlos exploded with laughter. Krastos reached a giant hairy hand behind him and pulled Patnu over his head and into the water. Patnu surfaced, sputtering and laughing. Krastos laughed as well despite himself.

The last thing to do was to rub a special oil on the princes' faces to help their beards to grow. A good beard was a symbol of power and authority, and it befitted the twins to grow them. Tarlos was never able to produce much more than stubble, and Basmem gave his face an extra rub. Krastos, who had had a beard since he was thirteen years old, as well as being covered in hair everywhere else on his body, received a trim before his own oil rub.

The twins lifted themselves out of the bath, and Patnu and Basmem wrapped them in hot towels and brushed their hair. They wrapped cotton tunics around their waists.

The High Priestess was waiting for them outside.

”It's time for your blessing,” she told them. ”Follow.” She spun around, and her braided black hair flew around her head, causing its colored beads to snap against one another.

”High Priestess,” Krastos said. ”Couldn't we have just some bread and water, at least? Slaying a beast will be tiresome, and I'm already starving.”

”You will eat or drink nothing until you have completed your trial. That goes for you as well, future king.”

At the same time, both twins realized where she was taking them.

”Why are we going to see Father?” Tarlos asked.

”Isn't he too sick to have visitors?” Krastos asked. ”And on the anniversary of our mother's death, no less!”

The High Priestess caught Krastos's satirical tone and turned to him.

”How dare you?” she said. ”May Moresh, goddess of motherhood, with whom your mother now lives, forgive you for taking Ninsun's death so lightly.” Her voice was not loud, nor was it angry. There was disappointment in her words, and Krastos heard it.

He frowned and nodded, lowering his eyes from the Priestess.

”I expect more of you, prince,” she added, then turned back and continued to lead them to Lakaeus's apartment.

The guards at the massive cedar doors stepped aside and opened them for their superiors. The light hurt the king's eyes, so his chambers were kept as dark as possible. Heavy black curtains covered the windows, and no flame was allowed in the room. For more than three years, Lakaeus had been weak and sensitive, symptoms of his blood disease. He would cry out in pain, gripping the sides of his head if the light of a single star squeezed into the room.

The king himself lay on his bed with the curtains pulled back. Slaves and a healer tended to him. As the princes and High Priestess approached, the doctor saw them and bent close to the king.

”Your majesty,” the doctor whispered, but in the silent reverence of the room, his whispers bounced from the walls. ”The High Priestess has come with the princes.”

A low grumble came from the king, and the healer nodded to the slaves. They left the bedside, and they bowed to the Priestess and to the princes as they departed from the room.

Leeches covered the king's arms, legs, torso, and neck. Tiny trickles of blood snaked between him and the leeches and stained the white sheets. Old stains from previous leeching sessions dotted the sheets, and the spots had turned brown.

”Your majesty,” said the High Priestess. ”The princes have come for your blessing before their trials of manhood.”

The king's eyes rolled in his head, and they were white and naked. He looked at Tarlos and Krastos. He held out a bony hand, and Tarlos took it. The skin was like tissue.

”My son,” Lakaeus said. His voice was dried leaves in the wind. He swallowed, licked his lips, and looked to Krastos. ”Brother of my son, son of my wife.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. ”You have come to visit me?”

”Yes, Father,” said Tarlos. He had not been permitted to visit his father for several decans. Now that he saw him, he was filled with dread at the certainty of death.

Soon I will lose my father as I lost my mother.

Lakaeus's cheeks were sunken, his lips thin and pulled back, revealing yellow teeth and grey gums. His eyes were round, and they swiveled in their sockets like birds' eyes. His whole head looked like that of a skeleton—fleshless and white. The rest of his body was not so different: skin dried like papyrus covering bones as soft as mud.

”I do not look well,” the king mused. ”Your eyes tell me.”

Tarlos shook his head. ”You look wonderful, great king. Healthy as Moleg, who gives you strength.”

Lakaeus smiled. ”I am happy to see you. Why have you come now, after all this time? How long has it been since I've seen your faces?”

”You've been feeling poorly. We didn't want to disturb you. You need your rest.”

”I need death, that's what I need.” The king laughed, and it was a sound like a headless swan attempting to breathe underwater. ”I am too old to have lived this long. The only mercy I pray for is Ilshu to ferry me across the river.”

Tarlos patted his father's hand, frail as a child's, and looked into his pasty eyes. Regret began to surge up within him. He didn't really know his father. After Ninsun died, Lakaeus retreated within himself and hardly spoke to anyone, least of all his sons. Her sons. They reminded him too much of her. Tarlos blamed no one for his father's distance all those years, but he did regret it. King Lakaeus's time was not long for this world, and Tarlos felt it as heavily as the king did for a moment.