Short Story: The Building Crescendo (Part I)
Spoilers ahead!! This short-story-in-progress overlaps with Defender of Histories, chapters 13-15. It’s told from Eremon’s point of view and picks up just after Talfryn walks Lira home from the Dome during the Nami Mostari festival (IYKYK). If you have NOT read Defender, I highly recommend waiting to read this - unless you don’t mind knowing Dramatic Things That Happen. :) Ye have been warned.
Ready? Let’s jump in…
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Eremon slammed his chamber door, squeezed his eyes shut, and released a ragged sigh. His heart pounded, and his head had begun to ache from the effort of tethering his emotions.
And the stolen, corrupted magic he’d been saddled with.
Disappointment filled his chest, and he suddenly found it difficult to draw a full breath.
Lira had not accepted his marriage proposal.
She hadn’t refused him; not outright. And she had accepted his ring as a sign of intent.
(Was it intent? Or was it simply a ploy to coddle his fragile feelings?)
But she also had not said yes.
Lira had allowed Eremon to kiss her—and had returned his kisses with fervor. Even now, the memory of her was so deeply emblazoned on his soul that he could still feel her soft lips against his. He had savored the bliss of finally, finally holding her in his arms, after all these years.
But the unmistakable hesitation in her eyes had made that momentary pleasure bittersweet.
Eremon thought he had prepared himself for all possible alternatives. Logically, any woman could say no to an offer of marriage.
But saying no to a king?
If he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t envisioned any response except an elated yes.
Maybe he had been a bit overconfident.
“What was I thinking?” he murmured to himself, running a hand over his face.
But he knew what he’d been thinking; he needed Lira to be his heir. As much as he wanted her for a bride, she was the one Eremon had chosen to take the throne, should he die without children. Regardless of her heart’s intent, whether she accepted or refused his hand, she was still the best choice to protect Iathium in his stead.
He took a steadying breath. The throne was the most important issue at hand; he had to remember that.
Whatever Lira decided, Eremon had successfully passed the ring to the person he trusted most. Now, it was properly out of his mother’s reach.
That relief was worth any uncertainty about his future.
A hard knock at this door jolted Eremon from his thoughts, and he growled under his breath before wrenching it open. The sentry Faolan stood there at attention, a sneer playing across his lips. He had traded his usual regalia for a simple black tunic and trousers, as he often did when off duty.
“Your mother wishes an audience,” Faolan said, cutting his dark gaze up at Eremon.
“It’s barely sunrise,” Eremon said, crossing his arms. “She should be resting.”
“As should you, my lord,” Faolan replied.
“Unrealistic expectations.” Eremon stepped aside to let him in. “Why are you dressed down?”
Faolan’s hardened expression relaxed the moment Eremon shut the door. “You know Macha; no need for armor when you’re the listening ear.”
“Oh, mortal gods,” Eremon groaned. “Again?”
Eremon’s mother had chosen Faolan as her particular favorite of the sentries. The two young men had hatched a plot to maneuver him into this position, of course; but they had both quickly come to regret it.
Now, Faolan was obligated to spend hours listening to Macha ruminate about all her misfortunes at court—and pretend to admire her in the process.
And, as part of the bargain, Eremon had to listen to Faolan complain about it.
“It’s your fault,” Faolan accused. “She’s fretting about you and the Book Wife again. You know she heard about the two of you in the courtyard, yes? And I was put in the uncomfortable position of confirming it.”
Eremon sighed, exasperated. “Blast it, Faolan, can you not just lie?”
“I’m lying about enough already,” he hissed, sinking onto the sofa against Eremon’s far wall. “How about you find a more secretive place for your dalliances? Oh, wait—the inner chamber should have been it, and yet.”
He kicked back, crossing his arms and arcing a dark brow.
“The Tarlachs ruined the archive’s secrecy,” Eremon replied coolly. “No thanks to Aidryn, the lovesick fool.”
“Don’t start that. I’m at a loss as to which one of you is more lovesick,” Faolan countered. “You know this is thanks to his family, not him.”
Former historian Aidryn Tarlach had been pining for Lira since long before Eremon had taken notice of her. Faolan had taken every possible opportunity to remind him of that fact, and to interject his opinion: “You should leave well enough alone and let Tarlach court her. Or at least try to. He’ll be lucky if he can compete with her precious books.”
Of course, Faolan would say that; he and Aidryn were childhood friends, and he was biased.
Eremon snorted. It was true that Aidryn stood out from his ambitious, social-climbing family. He had even chosen to give Lira his lofty job in the archive, demoting himself to mere tradesman.
And spy.
These days, Aidryn worked quietly alongside Faolan, helping unsuspecting city folk manifest their forbidden magic, then smuggling them out of Iathium under cover of darkness. Eremon had explicitly asked them not to divulge the whereabouts of these citizens, but he suspected they were either assimilating into the outlying clans, or crossing the Strait of Ulan and fleeing to Iteloria.
Magic was wielded openly in Iteloria. For centuries, the neighboring continent had thrived on power it siphoned from Rodhlan. Everyone except the people Eremon ruled seemed to know of magic’s existence. Somehow, his forefathers had managed to erase the power not only from use, but from the collective consciousness of the small continent.
As a young man, he’d been unsure whether to be impressed or horrified at their effectiveness.
“Eremon.” Faolan’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “I asked when you plan to get off your pampered arse and cater to your mum. At best I’ve got an hour to sleep before morning drills.”
Eremon smirked, though a sudden pain shot through his temple. He rubbed the side of his head, willing it away. “So you won’t have to hear anything else about it?”
“No more than my due,” Faolan answered. He rose from the sofa, rolling his shoulders, but paused to scrutinize Eremon. “You look pale.”
Eremon shrugged, though a wave of worry swept through him. “Sleepless night.”
Faolan’s eyes narrowed, and he clapped a hand against Eremon’s shoulder. “Don’t keep letting that happen. You’re needed around here.”
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