Short Story: The Building Crescendo (Part III)
If you haven’t yet read Defender of Histories, this story contains major spoilers. I don’t recommend going any further until you know what happens in that book.
Want to find out? Read Defender here.
Okay! Here we go……
But first…
Missed the first two parts of this short story? Part I | Part II
Now on to pt. 3.
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Part III
At the end of the hallway, just paces from Macha’s rooms, Eremon slipped into a secret passageway. It was one his father had once shown him—and one Eremon now used to move about the Dome undetected. Normally, he used this passage with a destination in mind, but today, he just wanted to hide.
Once inside, he released a shuddering breath.
And in the merciful darkness of that corridor, Eremon’s terror consumed him.
His palms were slick with sweat and his fingers trembled as he gingerly searched for the handkerchief he’d tucked into the pocket of his trousers. The bright silken fabric of his robe would stain if he followed the urge to drag his hands over it. Whatever was happening to him, decorum was still of the utmost importance.
This suppressed magic had ailed him for quite some time now, but it had never felt quite like this. It had begun escalating last night, when a piercing headache had almost brought him to his knees in front of the council. Now, a similar pain seared his heart.
Eremon pressed a hand against his chest, his thoughts racing. He had used Clan Beran’s healing magic for a headache last night, then to calm his anxiety this morning. Had his dark magic finally corrupted every thread of power within him? Was that why it suddenly seemed to be working against his efforts to soothe and heal himself?
His heartbeat stuttered, stealing his breath as another wave of pain lanced through him. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, and his body shuddered in agony. Eremon had worked painstakingly to ignore the possibility of his own demise—in spite of the fact that he’d prepared for it accordingly. All monarchs must name an heir, after all; it didn’t mean that the naming signaled sudden death.
But the magic within his body was at war with itself, and at war with him. Eremon had forced himself to place hope in his healer, and in the histories—though so far, they hadn’t uncovered anything helpful. Selfishly, he’d hoped that Lira would be the key to keeping him alive, whether through her own magic or her determined, studious nature. And that might have been true, had Eremon managed to gather the courage to tell her the truth about his power.
Perhaps he had simply waited too long to start giving bits of truth to Lira in the first place. Eremon had known she wouldn’t handle the revelations well; after all, she had wholly devoted her life to preserving the lies he and his forefathers had perpetuated about her beloved city-state. In part, he had waited because he feared she would never forgive him once she knew. He had admired Lira for so long that he couldn’t imagine her rejecting him before they ever had the chance to know one another. It had been a relief when she’d been drawn to him, rather than hating him for the partial truths he had revealed so far.
Another pain sliced through his abdomen, and he gasped, suddenly lightheaded from its intensity.
“Ljós,” he said to himself. He had to get to the healer before he died right here in this corridor.
Wrapping an arm around his middle, Eremon forced himself to move through the passageway, in the direction of the outlet nearest Ljós’s chamber. His heart pounded erratically as he moved, but he didn’t allow himself to stop again. He would reach the healer, and all would be well again.
It felt like an eternity had passed by the time he emerged into the natural light of the Dome’s main corridor again. He blinked rapidly, squinting against the sun’s glare. Despite the gray clouds gathering overhead, it was still painfully bright.
“What in Nami’s bleeding bones have you done?”
Pain flickered behind Eremon’s eyes as Aidryn Tarlach stepped into view, his fists clenched. The former historian looked more disheveled than usual today. His cheeks were flush, as though he had been running, and he lacked his usual joyful, windblown look.
Eremon grimaced. He didn’t have time for this roguish horseman—or his undeniable attraction to Lira. The possessive envy that surged through him should have given him pause, especially after Lira’s hesitation. But Eremon was determined to win her, and when he did, he would spend the rest of his life gloating about it.
The burning jealousy buoyed Eremon’s energy just enough for him to snap, “You neglect my title, horse boy. Missed your morning ride, did you?”
Aidryn’s eyes darkened, mirroring the storm brewing outside. “We need to speak alone. I assume you’re heading for the healer’s chamber?”
Dark magic crackled in Eremon’s palms, and he squeezed his fingers into fists to suppress it. The pain of absorbing the black lightning back into his own body was harder to stomach than usual, and he had to suppress a groan.
“Astute,” was the only reply he could muster.
“Come on,” Aidryn said, stepping closer and surveying Eremon carefully, “before I have to carry you there. Won’t be long, from the look of it.”
The sudden gentleness in Aidryn’s voice was infuriating. Worse, Eremon thought he detected a note of pity, too. As much as the two had engaged in verbal sparring over the years, and as fiercely as they had competed over Lira behind closed doors, Aidryn’s ability to quickly shift from vexing rival to concerned friend was jarring.
Eremon raised himself to his full height, despite the pain that now gripped his lower back. “No need, Tarlach; let’s walk together.”
They moved down the long corridor in silence, slower than either preferred to walk. Aidryn was careful not to overtake Eremon’s pace, staying a step behind him the entire way. They descended a torchlit staircase into the Dome’s underground living quarters, a vast network of stone dwellings where the staff made their homes.
When they reached Ljós’s chamber—which Eremon imagined must be similar to his dwelling in Clan Beran’s stone fortress—Aidryn rapped on the door. The sound felt as though it might split Eremon’s head, and his knees suddenly buckled. Aidryn reached out and caught him before he could fall, draping one of Eremon’s arms over his shoulder and hoisting him to his feet again.
Eremon opened his mouth to retort, albeit weakly, but the stricken panic in Aidryn’s expression silenced him. Aidryn made a fist and pounded on Ljós’s door again.
“Ljós Beran!” he barked.
His voice was so loud, Eremon’s vision went momentarily dark. “Would you be quiet?” he managed to murmur.
“I will do no such thing,” Aidryn replied sharply. “You know everyone’s upstairs.”
Finally, the healer’s door opened. Ljós took one look at the two men and ushered them inside, casting his silencing spell the moment he bolted the door behind them.
“What happened?” Ljós asked as Aidryn lowered Eremon to a cot by the hearth.
“I don’t—I don’t know,” Eremon stammered, his body beginning to tremble. “It was like the headache from last night, but in my heart—my stomach—my legs…”
Ljós grabbed a thick blanket from his work table and wrapped it around Eremon’s shoulders. “When did it begin?”
“I used healing magic to calm myself,” Eremon answered, pulling the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “It happened after that.”
Aidryn and Ljós exchanged a terse glance before the healer replied, “Do you consent to Aidryn’s presence while we work?”
“It’s fine,” Eremon said. “He knows more than he should, regardless.”
Ljós motioned for Aidryn to take a seat, then returned his attention to Eremon. Carefully, he conjured his own healing magic as he assessed Eremon’s condition, sending the golden, soothing power wherever it was needed. Gradually, Eremon began to feel calmer, more energized.
“I have never seen you in such a state,” Ljós mused as he worked. “Your power darkens; if I may say so, I’m truly worried for your future.”
Eremon tried to hide his flinch. This was what his father had feared—that someone along their bloodline would once again be overtaken by dark magic. Would become a monster, just like Nami.
Aidryn piped up from his seat across the room. “Eremon, are you going to tell him the catalyst for all this, or shall I?”
Eremon ground his teeth. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Alarmed, Ljós looked to Aidryn. “What do you know, boy?”
“It’s only a guess,” Aidryn answered, keeping his gaze trained on Eremon, “but I’d wager that the ancient ring now in Silira’s possession might have something to do with it.”
Rage surged up through Eremon’s body, from he feet to his torso, down his arms, into his hands, and up into his face, which suddenly grew hot. “When did you find out about that?”
“This morning,” Aidryn answered with a smirk, “when I was trying to talk her out of marrying you.”
Eremon roared, surging up from the cot, intending to lunge at Aidryn. But Ljós caught him by the shoulders and forced him back down.
“Sit!”the healer growled, giving Eremon’s cheek a gentle slap. It was just enough to clear Eremon’s thoughts. “Clearly, it was a failed attempt, or you would have the ring back.”
Aidryn scoffed quietly, never moving from his stool. Eremon glanced in his direction, satisfied by the disconcerted expression on his face. Hope bloomed in his chest, and he refocused his attention on the healer.
“Ljós, I forget you’re also a warrior,” Eremon said, working to keep his lips from forming a triumphant smile. Lira had not yielded to Aidryn’s pressure. “You have quite a strong grip.”
“There will be no bloodshed in my quarters,” he replied steadily, applying more healing magic to Eremon’s heart. “Now; tell me about this ring.”
“It’s the heir’s ring.” Eremon took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’ve asked Silira to be its custodian; it would grant her the power of Crown Regent, should anything happen to me.”
“Seems as though you’re preparing for that.” Ljós’s expression was stern. “Or did giving it away cause your dark magic to surge?”
“I don’t know,” Eremon admitted. “I asked for Lira’s hand. As I don’t have children yet, I trust her to care for Iathium. I suppose I took for granted that she would accept right away.”
“And eventually, she would produce your heirs.” The healer made a low hmm in the back of his throat. “Or so you hoped.”
Eremon snuck a glance at Aidryn, who winced. “That is my plan. And, as she hasn’t refused, it’s still a viable one.”
“There’s protective magic in the ring,” Aidryn interjected. “I do know that much. And he was already in danger before.”
Though Eremon opened his mouth to argue, Ljós silenced him with a glare. “He isn’t wrong. It sounds like you need to take the ring back.”
Fear gripped Eremon, and he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, I can’t. My mother wants it for herself, and if something is truly happening to me, I can’t risk it.”
“But you’re putting yourself at greater risk,” Aidryn pressed.
“On what authority do you speak, Tarlach?” Eremon spat. “Your stepmother’s? She’s worse than Macha! What wouldn’t you give to have it in your own possession?”
“Enough!” Ljós held up a hand to silence them. “If you refuse to take back the ring, then we must find an alternative means of protection.”
Eremon set his jaw. “We need a cure for the dark magic. It’s the only way.”
“A cure remains elusive,” Ljós replied, “but there’s something else you have yet to try.”
Across the room, Aidryn sat up straighter, listening intently. But Eremon already knew what the healer was going to suggest. “I will not discharge this magic. I can’t.”
Ljós shook his head, his brows furrowing. “It will only continue to grow stronger; you must start expending it now.”
Eremon’s chest rose and fell in time with his ragged breaths. “No.”
“Clearly, it has already corrupted every other thread of power you possess. Will you hold all of those in, as well?”
The concern in the healer’s amber eyes almost changed Eremon’s mind. But his father had always warned him about wielding the dark magic he had inherited from the rulers before him.
“This magic is intoxicating, Eremon; you must never use it,” Corlan had said. “You will be overtaken by it, just like our forefather, Nami. My grandfather, my father, and I have all managed to contain it, as I have taught you. Do not give in. Do not let it corrupt your pure heart.”
Eremon heaved a resigned sigh, holding Ljós’s gaze. “I must.”
The healer heaved a sigh, resting his head in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy with what Eremon could only interpret as grief.
“Eremon.” Ljós tried again. “Possessing dark magic does not make one dark. It’s how you use the power that determines your heart. Merely discharging its excess will not corrupt you.”
“You have my answer.” Eremon set his jaw. “I cannot risk it.”
Aidryn pushed off his stool and stood, clenching his fists. “Then you risk yourself, and all of us.” He stalked toward the door, grasping its latch before pausing to glare at Eremon again. “You claim to love Lira; perhaps you fear her opinion of your power. But know this: if you’re determined to endanger her, I have no choice but to stop you.”
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