Brothers reunited

Secrets reignited.

Arzath opened his eyes.

Cool darkness surrounded him. Somewhere to his left, a candle flickered silently, sending shadows dancing around the room.

For a long moment he lay there, staring at the shifting light on the ceiling, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of restfulness and peace.

And then he sat bolt upright, with a gasp.

He looked around. He was in one of the small, unused dormitory chambers of Requar's castle. It was sparsely furnished. There was a hearth, but it was unlit; a single candle sat on the mantlepiece, twitching restlessly in the draught. A chair was placed beside his bed, but there was no one in it.

How did I get up here? he thought with a frown.

He put a hand to his head, trying to remember the last thing that he had been doing… and his eyes widened.

His hand!

He lifted his other hand, and stared at them in disbelief.

Pale. Long-fingered. Healthy.

Hurriedly, he pulled up each of his sleeves in turn, examining his arms, but there was no sign of trigon, no hint of the black disease.

A strange feeling of unreality passed over him. He had been slipping into death, he knew. He had used the last dregs of his magic and strength to enter Requar's mind a final time, and then… nothing. He should have dissolved into a wraith by now.

But here he was, alive. Better than alive. He felt brilliant, practically buzzing with energy.

He summoned his magic. It came easily, with barely a thought. There was no pain. He did not have to drag it up through a slimy black morass, fighting dizziness and nausea. It was just there, a twisting, purple spark of energy flickering on his palm, bathing his skin in a violet glow.

He waved his hand abruptly, banishing it, and stood up from the bed.

He felt real. Reaching out to the woollen blanket that had been placed over him, he ran his hand over it, feeling the coarse, warm texture. Then he turned to the window.

It was dark outside. Candlelight reflected off the small, dusty panes. He touched the glass; it was smooth and cool.

Death, he thought in wonder, could not possibly feel this GOOD.

He looked down at his hand again, as though he had never fully appreciated it before.

Somehow, he had been healed. Somehow, he had escaped his horrifying fate.

How could it be??

Unless…

He stared at the empty chair. Unless…

No. His eyes widened. Surely not…??

He ran for the door.

A chink of light glowed under the dining room door. It had a fateful look about it.

Arzath stood in front of it, bathed in the deep blue shadows that filled the foyer. He felt strange, as though his footsteps had wandered off the path of his own destiny into completely uncharted territory, with no idea where he was, where he was going, or what to expect.

Of course, he thought, there was always the possibility that he would enter the room and simply find Flint sitting in his usual place by the fire, brooding…

His pounding heart told him otherwise.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he took hold of the handle and slowly pushed the door open.

The dining hall was quiet and still, apart from a fire burning brightly at the far end of the room. The comfortable armchair beside it was indeed occupied – but not by Flint.

Realising that he was still holding his breath, Arzath let it out silently, and carefully closed the door behind him. Then he walked the length of the room, slowly, his boots making no sound on the blue and white rug.

He stopped opposite the chair.

Requar sat there, his head resting in his hand, eyes closed, apparently asleep. His hair was braided neatly in the usual fashion; the Sword of Healing stood propped against the side of the chair, its blue gems glinting in the firelight, blade hidden in its sheath. His left hand lay in his lap, a folded piece of paper held there loosely.

Arzath stared at his brother for a long moment, the fire crackling beside him. Then he lifted his hand.

The piece of paper slid gently from Requar's unresisting fingers. It flew across the space between them with a soft rustle and landed in Arzath's hand.

Arzath remained still for a moment, watching, but Requar did not stir. Carefully, he opened the letter and turned to read it by the light of the fire.

And then a soft voice broke the silence.

“You're awake.”

Arzath froze. It was a voice that he had thought long gone.

Something raced through his veins: excitement? Fear? Or just shock?

“As are you, it seems,” he said when he finally recovered his own voice. He did not look up.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

“Do you have any idea what that letter means?”

Arzath did not reply at once, continuing to stare down at Flint's parting words on the parchment. Then he crunched it into his fist, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it into the fire. “It is irrelevant.”

He spun and strode over to the table, clutching the back of a chair to steady his suddenly quivering hands.

Happiness, he thought. That was what the strange, unfamiliar feeling was. He felt light-headed.

“Are you feeling all right?”

He resisted the overwhelming urge to laugh. “F-fine,” he stammered instead. “You,” he began after a moment, “you cured the trigonis.”

“I did.”

Finally, Arzath turned and looked at his brother.

Requar was smiling.

He looked like his old self again, but at the same time, different. There was a brightness in his eyes that had never been there before, a fierce faith in himself that could only have come from achieving the impossible. Requar had spent his entire life fighting – not Arzath, but trigon – and he had at last succeeded.

It was an astonishing victory.

Arzath found himself smiling as well, and felt something that he had never felt before.

Pride. Not for himself, he was surprised to discover, but for his brother. Requar had returned, clawed himself back from the brink of total annihilation, and was now even stronger than before. Arzath felt himself filled with awe.

A moment passed between them, a breathtaking spark of dazzling triumph.

Then self-consciousness crept up on him and he looked away awkwardly.

“How?” Arzath asked, swallowing. “What changed? Your Sword failed so many times before.”

Requar looked at the fire for a moment before answering. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes. “I underestimated the emotional component,” he said quietly. “I was so focused on a physical cure that I did not consider that I, myself, was the obstacle.”

Opening his eyes, he gazed into the flames. “Silvertine requires positive energy to function fully. My own fear of failure was preventing it from working.”

Arzath raised an eyebrow. Amongst a cartload of other things, he added privately. Guilt? Self-hatred? Grief? Lack of confidence?

Arzath shook his head. You have no idea how far gone you were, Requar. No wonder the dagger claimed you so easily…

He kept these thoughts to himself, however.

“And you no longer fear failure?” Arzath asked carefully.

Requar smiled again, slightly. “No,” he replied. “When I woke up, my mind was strangely clear. I felt that… I could achieve anything, and that I had nothing to lose.” He frowned. “I do not know why this was so. I have used the Sword on myself in the past and it has not had such an effect.” He shook his head. “I do not fully understand what happened.”

And you never will, Arzath replied silently. Trigon shredded your mind. I had to wade through the gory remains and pull you back, reconstruct you from a single memory.

A lie.

He turned away.

Requar could never be allowed to know the truth. He had gained the ability to repel trigon, something no sorcerer in history had ever before achieved. He was extraordinarily powerful now. He was strong. If his mind became tainted again, everything that they had painstakingly accomplished would be unravelled.

The truth would destroy him, all over again.

“The trigonic dagger,” Requar said quietly. “You stabbed yourself with it, didn't you?”

Arzath winced, and avoided looking at his brother. He took a deep breath. “No,” he replied. “I cut myself accidentally.” It was close enough to the truth.

Requar sighed.

“It was foolish of me,” Arzath admitted. “I… should not have sought to attack you with such a thing.“

He swallowed, his confession painful. “I… am... sorry.”

He could feel Requar's surprised gaze on his back.

Go ahead and throw a fireball at me, he thought, gritting his teeth. It will be less humiliating…

“And where is the dagger now?”

“I returned it to the hidden alcove,” Arzath muttered. “In your study.”

“Well,” Requar replied, “it is not there now.”

Arzath spun. “What?”

Requar regarded him, arms folded. “I have searched the entire castle for the dagger,” he said. “It is not here.”

Arzath stared at him. Then his fist clenched. “Damn it! One of them took it!”

Requar gave him a troubled look. “Indeed.”

“It was not Flint,” Arzath said.

Requar's eyebrow raised. “How can you be sure?”

Arzath hesitated, remembering the sickened, horrified look on the man's face as he was forced to shoot crossbow bolts repeatedly into the mass of writhing black tentacles growing out of Requar's chest.

“Trust me,” he muttered darkly. “It was not him.” He shook his head. “It must have been Ferrian!”

“Why would Ferrian take the dagger?”

Arzath turned and slammed his fist onto the table. Perhaps because it fits perfectly into a specially constructed recess on his Sword??

He put his face in his hand. The boy was a lot smarter than Arzath had given him credit for.

“Arzath,” Requar said. “If you know something...”

He took a deep breath and let it out again. “It was him.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

He stared morosely at the table in front of him. “Grath Ardan.”

“Grath Ardan?”

“He decided to find his own answers.”

“Without even talking to me?”

Arzath was silent for a long moment, trying to decide how to respond. “You were…” he struggled for the right word, “… occupied.”

Requar fell silent. Arzath turned to see him frowning at the fire.

A twinge of pity stabbed at his heart. Better to be confused and frustrated, he thought, than dead.

Leaving his brother sitting there, lost in a bewildering maze of lies and half-truths, Arzath went into the kitchen. Lighting the lantern on the counter with a snap of his fingers, he took it over to the water barrel against the wall. He set it down on an adjacent, empty barrel, and leaned on the edge of the water, staring at his reflection in its mirror-like surface.

He looked amazingly healthy. His green eyes, he was surprised to see, were as sharp and bright as Requar's were. The various sicknesses that had plagued him, ever since the encounter above the waterfall many weeks ago, were gone. His magic was back, and he was completely healed.

And yet, his heart ached.

He knew why. He knew what was different.

He loved Requar.

The truth of it floated on the surface of the water, like a contaminant. He had not wanted to admit it, but it had always been there. He had become aware of it the moment he had tried to wrench the dagger from Requar's bloody chest. The pain of watching his brother die had felt the same as the agony he had experienced when Lady Fyona had perished.

Exactly the same.

Except that now, he could no longer summon enough anger and hatred to cover it up.

He had spent most of his life hating Requar. Why? Instead of admiring him, he had been jealous; instead of helping him, he had feared him. Decades of attacks, and what had it accomplished? He had always wondered why Requar had never directly attacked him back, and he now realised why: because his brother had been preoccupied ruining himself.

They both had been.

He closed his eyes. He could not lose Requar again. He would die before he would let that happen.

Flint and Ferrian were the only people besides himself from whom his brother could possibly find out the truth. If Arzath had to kill either of them or both of them to prevent that from happening, he would not hesitate.

And yet… a queasy sensation knotted his stomach. If Ferrian had managed to retrieve his Sword from the river, he was now in possession of a monstrously powerful weapon. If the boy learned how to use it…

“What do you intend to do now?” Requar's voice came softly from behind him.

Arzath scooped water into his hands from the barrel. “I could ask you the same question,” he replied.

“I am going to find Ferrian, of course.”

Arzath took his time drinking, then dried his face and hands on a cloth. “Why?” he demanded, turning suddenly.

Requar held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, walking back out into the dining room.

Arzath raised an eyebrow. Oh, he thought. I'm not the only one keeping secrets, it seems!

“Why are you so interested in the boy?” he insisted, following.

Requar stood facing the fire, with his back to Arzath. “He asked me to help him,” he answered quietly.

Arzath folded his arms. “There is clearly more to it than that!”

Requar did not respond immediately. Finally, he half-turned, a small smile on his face. “When you deign to tell me what it is you are keeping from me,” he said, “perhaps I may be inclined to tell you.”

Arzath's eyes narrowed. Damn you!

He was beginning to remember why Requar infuriated him.

Arzath stewed for awhile, then sliced his hand through the air. “Fine!” he said. “Do as you wish!” He strode around the table.

Requar turned. “What are you going to do?”

“Leave,” he replied, without turning around.

“To where? Your castle is in ruins!”

“What of it?”

“Well, you can hardly go ba–”

And then the entire wall of the dining room, with its row of tall, elegant windows, exploded inwards.