Short Story: The Building Crescendo (Part IV - Conclusion)
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 | Part III
Now on to pt. 4.
.
.
.
Part IV
The door slammed in Aidryn’s wake, plunging Eremon and Ljós into an uncomfortable silence. Eremon clenched his fists, the tension in his jaw sending a reverberating pain into his temples. He rose from the cot despite the wave of dizziness that overtook him.
Ljós rose, too, facing off with him. The healer’s normally serene demeanor dissolved to reveal the true warrior beneath. His gaze hardened as he fixed it on Eremon’s face.
“You might be sovereign in the eyes of the law,” Ljós said softly, “but in my eyes, you are as good as a son. I left my flesh and blood at Fortress Halgeir to care for you. By Berav and all that is sacred, you will not die on my watch.”
Eremon flinched. He knew little of Ljós’s son, except that Thorne was several years older and had been chosen as Clan Beran’s next heir. Ljós had betrayed glimpses of the tension between himself and Thorne, but Eremon had rarely considered the implications of the healer’s presence here beyond his talent with Beran’s healing magic. After all, Beran’s healers had enabled Eremon’s bloodline to survive for many centuries. Having Ljós here was necessity; Eremon had simply seen his presence as duty to the Crown.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly parched, and raised his chin. “Are you giving me orders now, Ljós?”
“I am.” The healer’s expression was severe. “If you refuse to heed my advice, I will have no choice but to force your hand. You know the power of rage—how easily it unlocks your magic. How quickly and easily your forefather Nami destroyed the Dome itself in his unbridled anger.”
Eremon took a step closer to Ljós, surveying the unflinching warrior with a slow tilt of his head. He hoped the deliberate movements would conceal the spike of anxiety that lanced through his body. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would not,” Ljós replied slowly, “if you agree to accompany me to the training grounds.”
Vehemently, Eremon shook his head. “I can’t let anyone see me like this. We should carry on; heal me here and let that be that.”
“No one has to see anything. There is no shame in training privately—in expelling some of this power from your body.”
Closing his eyes, Eremon released a ragged sigh. “I made a promise, Ljós. I can’t break that promise.”
“This false humility is unbecoming. Your pride will drive you into an early grave.”
The grain truth in the healer’s words sparked anger in Eremon’s heart—dangerous kindling for the inferno of power he’d contained for so long. Piercing heat traveled up his body, beginning with his feet. It gathered in his belly, nearly taking him to his knees. He clutched his middle as the pain flooded up into his chest, down his arms, and into his face.
“Stop it,” he gritted out. It was becoming difficult to remain on his feet. “I command you.”
“All I must do is push you a little further.” Ljós’s voice was barely audible. “Either expel your power of your own free will, or I will leverage your rage to force it from you.”
Eremon’s heart pounded erratically. That could not happen. If he lost control of this magic, there was no predicting how destructive it might be. The black lighting might come from his body as a simple release of pressure, or it might erupt and overtake him completely.
“You force an impossible choice,” he protested weakly.
“Blame your magic,” Ljós replied. “Blame your forefathers for their folly, but do not blame me. I am simply here to keep you alive.”
***
Together, Ljós and Eremon moved through the Dome’s underground corridors toward the sentries’ training chamber. With most of the staff out in the city for the Nami Mostari festival, it was eerily empty. Their footsteps echoed through the tunnels, the sound filling Eremon’s ears until they ached.
The measure of healing magic Ljós had given him to get him on his feet had eased his discomfort somewhat, but Eremon was still keenly aware of the utter wrongness that disturbed his magic. He was still riled at the healer for deliberately provoking him. So he said nothing until they were alone in the sentries’ sprawling arena and Ljós had cast the silencing spell.
“How dare you,” Eremon said coolly, exhaling heavily.
Ljós gave him a slow, defiant blink, like a father weary of his son’s impudence. “I would rather ask forgiveness than permission.”
Perhaps I am impudent, Eremon thought, but I’m a ruler. I have a right to be.
“And are you asking me to forgive you?”
The healer smiled. “No. I was merely stating a preference.”
Eremon couldn’t help returning Ljós’s smile. “How royal of you. Well, let my state my preference: I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to expel this magic. I’d rather be enjoying the festival.”
“There will be plenty of time for that tonight,” Ljós said sternly.
The healer crossed the room to where several leather training bags were lined against the wall. Sentries used these bags, their finish worn from use, to practice combat when practicing without a partner. Seizing one of the bags, Ljós dragged it to the middle of the training floor where Eremon stood, then chucked it on the ground before him. It landed with a heavy thud, stirring up dust that tickled Eremon’s nose.
“Normally you would leave this on a stand,” he mused, poking the bag with the toe of his boot. “Am I not to hit it?”
Ljós raised a brow. “What good would that do? I want you to destroy it.”
Eremon took a step back. “You mean with dark magic?”
“You know exactly what I mean. I want you to pour as much of that power into this bag as you can.”
“But it will burn up.”
“Yes. And what alternative do we have?” The healer crossed his arms. “I considered having you send it into the earth, but that seems an unnecessary risk.”
With a sigh, Eremon flexed his fingers, flicking his gaze between Ljós and the leather bag. “You’re certain this will bring me relief?”
A sad, faraway look crossed Ljós’s face so quickly it was almost undetectable. “It’s the best idea I have.”
Taking a deep breath, Eremon closed his eyes and turned his palms upward. He tuned into the threads of magic the flowed through his body: six, to be exact. The powers of the four clans tangled and snarled around his cobalt Itelorian power and the dark magic he’d inherited from both of his parents. He didn’t spend much time focusing his consciousness on the magic, and it blazed brighter as though basking in his attention.
As he perceived each strand of magic, the darkness began to pulse stronger, heavier. And one by one, the being of black lightning began to infiltrate and overtake the cobalt, gold, crimson, violet, and emerald powers. Horror rose within him as he watched the dark magic consume the other powers within him.
And then came the fear.
With the fear came a fierce resolve to break the cycle his forefathers had perpetuated. They had held these immense powers in their bodies for centuries, and for what? So he could waste his life as a weakened ruler? So he could eventually self-destruct in a blaze of uncontrollable magic?
No more. This insanity ends with me, and I will return these powers to the clans.
The mere thought of the clans brought Lira to the forefront of his mind. He was doing this for her as much as he was doing it for himself. Ljós had been right; an early grave would be in Eremon’s future if he didn’t alter his course now. Not only did he wish to protect Lira from the monstrous magic he carried; he wanted a chance to truly live. He wanted time. He wanted to set Lira on a throne of her own and rule alongside her.
But none of that would be possible if his magic destroyed him first.
Ceremonial dress be damned; Eremon dropped to his knees, pressed his palms against the bag’s smoothly-worn leather surface, and concentrated his entire focus on the dark magic. He would call it up and relieve some of this terrible pressure beneath his skin. From there, he would start learning to wield it.
As long as he lived in fear of this power, it would control him. Now, it was time to bring his dark magic into submission.
Just as his palms began to burn, a razor-sharp voice cut through his thoughts.
“What is the meaning of this?”
No.
A bead of sweat trickled down Eremon’s brow as he opened his eyes, panting softly. Slowly, he rocked back onto his heels, then turned to see his mother standing in the doorway of the training chamber, a look of horrified rage on her face. An apologetic-looking Faolan stood two paces behind her, looking as puzzled by the scene as he did sheepish.
“Why are you here, Mother?” Eremon rose, willing the dark magic that had gathered just beneath his palms back into his body. A shock of pain squeezed his heart, and a shudder wracked him from his chest down to his feet. He hoped his mother hadn’t taken note of it.
Macha surveyed his wrinkled robe, the dirt on his boots and trousers. Her lip curled. “You were seen in the downstairs corridors. You have your own training chambers; you have no need of the sentries’.”
Ljós dipped his head. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I was instructing Eremon in the finer points of my own combat style.”
“On Nami Mostari?” Macha’s nostrils flared. “Faolan—take the healer to my receiving chamber. I’ll have a word with him when I’m finished with my son.”
Faolan’s expression was impassive, but Eremon caught the flash of panic in his eyes. Here in the solitude of the mostly-empty training chamber, there were no rules of decorum to follow. No council breathing down Eremon’s neck, no staff or citizens so loyal to Macha that he couldn’t speak back.
“You will do no such thing, Faolan,” Eremon said, straightening to his full height. “Ljós has committed himself to me for the entirety of the festival; I will not be without him.”
Macha bared her teeth. “Who do you think you are, boy?”
“Your sovereign,” Eremon replied, standing tall. He took several long, deliberate strides in her directions, his fists clenched at his sides. “Stand down, Mother. The council isn’t here to pander to you, and I will not submit.”
Without taking her eyes off Eremon, Macha held up a hand and gave Faolan a subtle nod. He watched Faolan’s expression fall, and slowly, the sentry gave Eremon an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
What happened next took place so swiftly, Eremon could scarcely register it.
Faolan drew a dagger from a sheath strapped to his hip as Macha stepped to the side.
“No!” Eremon shouted. “Faolan, I will kill you!”
With smooth precision—and without another glance at Eremon—Faolan hurled the dagger at Ljós. The blade sank into the healer’s chest, lodging just shy of his left shoulder. Groaning, Ljós stumbled forward, then sank to his knees. He braced his left hand on the dirt training floor, grunting in pain as he reached for the dagger’s hilt. With a steady hand, he gripped it, then drew it out with a cry of pain.
“Do not heal it.” Macha’s voice boomed in the vast expanse of the chamber. “Faolan, you will take him to my chamber. Now.”
“You can’t do this,” Eremon growled.
“One more move,” Macha warned, “and Faolan ends him.”
Eremon opened his mouth to protest, but Ljós rose, holding up a hand to stay him. The pain and deep sadness that saturated his voice turned Eremon’s stomach. “I will obey my lady’s command, just as if it had been your own. And I trust I will see you tonight, my lord.”
“My son, come with us,” Macha commanded. “You must get out of those filthy things and dress for tonight. I will have your servants draw a bath.”
She turned and exited the chamber, followed closely by Faolan, who gripped Ljós’s uninjured arm. Hopelessness swept over Eremon as he locked eyes with the sentry, who just shook his head once again. No matter what any of them wanted, they were still at Macha’s mercy. It didn’t matter that Eremon wore the crown; at the end of the day, the power had never truly been his. And perhaps it never would be.
No, he told himself. I will take control of this magic, and I will make this right.
Perhaps he would be forced to capitulate to Macha for a little while longer. Fine; he could play the part for politics’ sake. But behind the scenes, he would find a way to master his birthright powers. And he would return the clans’ magic back to them and solidify his rule in hopes that one day, his people might trust him—not just as their ruler, but as a fellow mortal who wanted what was best for them.
Until then, he would resist the invisible bonds that threatened to hold him back. He would fight for what was rightfully his. And, when the right moment came, he would stand fully his own power, both as ruler and magic-wielder, and lead his people to true peace.
.
.
.
.
Thank you so much for reading!! <3