Fallen

Chapter 6: A Woman Scorned

A WOMAN SCORNED

Sylas lay on the ground in the sunlight, still as death. His body jumped to life and he took such a hard, deep breath that he was sure his lungs would explode. His heart hammered against his ribs, causing a great deal of pain. He clutched the sphere to his chest. Blinded by the sun, he momentarily panicked as a large, dark head whuffed and nosed the pockets of his surcote. His eyes adjusted slowly. Whiskers tickled his face. He calmed gradually when he reached up and felt soft fur beneath his fingers. The lips of a horse nibbled his hair. Sylas grabbed the bridle and angled the head against the light so he could see better. “Flann?”

The colt whickered and bobbed his head, pulling Sylas up. The prince found his feet and steadied himself against the horse. Flann stamped his feet and Sylas stroked him. The world was spinning. “Easy, boy.”

Flann nipped his sleeve and rubbed his head against Sylas’s shoulder. Sylas hugged his neck. “How did you find me?”

Not that Flann could answer, but he drug Sylas a step or two. Sylas peered around the horse to get his bearings. Knockrath. How could he forget such a place? All marsh and teeming with reedy wildlife. He guided his colt to a knee-high rock and used it to help mount. Eager to escape, Sylas galloped away as fast as the chestnut could take him. The sphere pulsed beneath the prince’s arm, directing his every step, as Sylas crouched low over the colt’s withers. He had listened to the fae. If they thought this was the source of Crwys’s power, who was he to argue?

Now that he was free, Sylas only wanted to see one person. He turned Flann toward Summerseat’s neighboring kingdom, Leighlinbridge. As they emerged from the marsh of Knockrath and found the king’s road, Flann’s hooves clattered over well-kept stone and cobble. They followed a curve past the small hamlet of Coad and into the borders of Ciatlllait’s home.

Flann slowed to a trot once on the outskirts of the town. Sylas eased him and opened his saddle bag to hide the golden sphere. He turned his eyes skyward. The sun was approaching its zenith. Merchants bustled about. Down the lane, Sylas could make out the wharf, taxed with fishing boats tied to piles and hung with nets. The smell of the catch of the day permeated from one merchant’s booth. Across the way, the ting, ting, ting of a blacksmith working on an anvil rang through the air. A sleepy draft horse clopped down the lane pulling a cart of produce. Sylas paused for a moment to breathe and be grateful he was in a familiar place once again, surrounded by civilization and life. He dismounted and led Flann forward.

Ciatlllait’s home rested on a green hill overlooking the town. It was made of white stone, fit for a king. Sylas led Flann up the hill to the stables and passed him off to the lad. When he made way to the doors of his love’s home, a guard stopped him. Sylas tried to push aside, but the guard insisted he did not recognize him.

“Go away, filth,” the guard growled.

“Filth?” Sylas seethed. “I am a prince of the Summer Isle, and I command you to let me in.”

“You must be mistaken. The prince is dead.”

“No.” Sylas shook his head. “Laittie!” He called, “Laittie, I’m home.”

The guard tilted his poleaxe at Sylas and began to back him away from the entrance. Sylas tried to skirt him. “Please let me see her. Laittie!”

A passing servant paused. Their eyes narrowed at Sylas.

“I am Sylas of Killeagh,” the prince said. “Please let me see Lady Ciatlllait.”

The servant bolted. Sylas continued to holler and try to find a way around the guard.