Joarn stood stiffly outside the Temple doors, held fast by the castle guards, for the monks would not lay a finger on him and eyed him warily. His face throbbed. Shortly after he had been removed from the Temple, the King had slapped him harshly as punishment for disobeying a royal order, and his right cheek was swollen where the King’s meaty hand had heavily descended. “You should be glad that’s all you get,” the King had told him. And glad he was.
Joarn knew his punishment would have been far graver if not for the fact that the King himself had little or no respect for the Mikuuszas or their beliefs. To the King, it was simple tradition for princes to receive destinies from the Temple at the age of fifteen, nothing more, nothing less. Joarn had overheard him once say while taking a swig of rich wine, “A dream is all it is, but we oughtta pretend we’re taking it seriously. Commoners like dreams, because they’re the only fucking things we don’t tax ‘em for.”
He looked around, surveying the awkward scene.
Rory was leaning “casually” against the temple walls, his demeanor that of a coward that was doing ill at hiding his fear, for there was nothing casual about his stance. He too, was rigid, and kept his eyes on the ground.
Joarn recalled his visions with a weird mixture of excitement and confusion. What had it meant, Joarn thought to himself, when Rory had lain on his royal bed, in his royal chamber, with a river of blood draining from his body like a great snake, slithering its way to the throne room?
Rory looked up suddenly, and Joarn averted his gaze and sealed his thoughts for a later time.
Across the clearing, a score of thin monks sympathetically lowered Leel’s body to the dusty ground. The child had fallen unconscious within the Room of Revelation, and had not stirred since. Rory silently wondered what he had seen.
Personally, Rory did not understand his visions, but he was aware of a seal of secrecy within himself that he would not break. He would not tell anyone what he had seen. He felt vulnerable, afraid that if he did not make sense of them someone else would, and that would somehow give them the upper hand.
The royal party, consisting of his ever-frowning father, Joarn, a few guards carrying Leel, and himself marched silently to the castle. Rory felt a sharp pain in his arm, and turned to see that a small cut from his palm to his wrist was bleeding. He must have fallen on his sword in the darkness of the Room of Revelation, and accidentally hurt himself. Bloody sword, he thought to himself. I can’t even wield it but it seems to wield itself.
He tugged at his sleeve and covered the bleeding hand shamefully, afraid that anyone, particularly his father, would see it. He failed to hide it from every set of peering eyes, however, and Joarn’s piercing grey gaze caught him in the act.
“Aren’t you ever going to tell him?”
Rory’s eyes flashed angrily. “No. It’s none of your business.”
Joarn opened his mouth to argue, but Rory yelled for his horse, and was lifted into the saddle without further ado. Rory rode the placid palomino with some difficulty, not even recalling the name of the vile creature, but it’s rickety strides put a good distance between him and his inquisitive servant.
He kept his arm buried deep within his clothing, pale, silent, and slightly fearful.
After minutes of soundless riding, the King, who rode at the head of the procession, gestured with his arm, and shouted “Roryiad!” without even turning his head. Rory understood that he was being summoned, and drove his heels into the sides of his horse till he caught up with his father, taking care to keep his arm out of sight. Something clenched inside him at the prospect of being questioned about his destiny. His visions mentally withdrew further and further into the den of his consciousness till they were entirely obscure. Internally, he made his decision to reveal little or nothing.
