Rhen
~ Rayfort ~
"All hail!" Rhen said. But what he really meant was, bless the spirits the ceremony was almost over. He wasn't sure how much more standing his feet could take.
Whyllem had pulled him to the taverns last night, and using his trusted sleeping potion, Rhen spent half the night searching for any signs of an attack. But there was nothing. No signs of any Ourthuri infiltrators. No rumblings by the docks. No gossip. After a while, he had even searched for signs of Jin's mysterious shadow, but still nothing.
An evening of empty wanderings had turned into a sleepless morning, and it had all been in vain. In fact, all Rhen had managed to do was arrive late for the ceremony and further annoy his father.
Just what he needed.
Shifting his gaze to the side, Rhen looked at the babe being held aloft before the throne by King Whylfrick. Red robes of the kingdom of Whyl draped around his tiny body, cascading all the way to the floor. His curious hazel eyes were open, darting around the room. Not a single cry had escaped his lips, and it filled Rhen with a sense of pride.
Whyllean.
He had been named.
Whyllean, Rhen's nephew, the future king of Whylkin.
"All hail!" Rhen repeated with the crowd.
The baby had been dipped in the spiritual waters, blessed with the prayers of Whylkin, and told the story of his ancestors for the first time. But most importantly, Rhen and his brother Whyllem had just renounced their claim to the throne, ensuring the proper line of succession, thereby ensuring the future of the kingdom.
"All hail!" Rhen yelled for a third time.
Even as his spirits were high, fed by the energy in the throne room, a pit gnawed at his stomach. Rhen knew he had been right. The Naming. Everything centered around the ceremony. But all of the nobles in the kingdom had been sequestered in the throne room for hours and not a single thing was amiss.
He scanned the room. His father beamed. Whyltarin shone with pride. Whyllem with love. Farther into the crowd, everyone wore cheerful smiles; not a single person hinted bitterness at the ceaseless reign of Whyl.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
And it made Rhen's skin crawl.
"All hail!" He shouted for a fourth and final time. One call for each of the spirits, as was tradition.
The king lowered Whyllean and stepped back to sit on the throne, resting the babe in his lap. He spoke the closing words, but Rhen was too busy shifting his feet and looking anxiously around the room to pay attention.
Slowly, starting from the very back of the room, the nobles entered in a procession line, waiting to kneel before their future king and swear loyalty to their kingdom. Rhen searched every face for Ourthuri skin, every wrist for powdered over tattoos and every hand for a concealed dagger, but there were no enemies hiding amongst them today.
Before he knew it, it was his turn. Rhen stepped forward, raised his right hand to his heart, and bowed deeply before his nephew.
"I swear my undying loyalty to Whyllean, Son of Prince Whyltarin, Son of King Whylfrick, and the newly named future king of Whylkin. May the Sons of Whyl forever watch over this land and protect its people from all who wish them harm. In the name of Whyl the Conqueror, who united the lands, may the spirits watch over and protect Whyllean from harm, may he know the joy of seeing his sons become kings, and their sons after that. All hail."
Bowing once more, Rhen stepped forward to place the ceremonial kiss on his nephew's brow—a right reserved for the royal family alone. Flicking his gaze up, Rhen met his father's glare. It sent a chill down his spine. He looked away, quickly grinning at the dribble of spit leaking out of the baby's lower lip. You're almost done, he wanted to say. Instead, with love in his heart, he knelt down.
But right as his lips were about to touch Whyllean's brow, his father pulled back on the child. Not enough for anyone to see, not enough to cause alarm, but enough for Rhen's armor to crack.
Still bent down, he looked his father in the eye. Heat singed his chest, painful and raw. The man was daring him to act out, to misbehave, to refuse to take his punishment like a Son of Whyl should. But now was not the time, and Rhen, ignoring the despair weighing heavily on his shoulders, stepped aside to let his brother Whyllem give his own blessing.
If only his father understood everything Rhen had done to keep this child safe, to keep their family safe. Turning back to the crowd, Rhen put up the mask of a jovial, carefree prince. He had become so used to playing the part, it was no wonder that everyone believed him. That no one took notice of the hurt in his eyes.
When Whyllem was done with his blessing, the king stood. He and Whyltarin were the only two who would not bow before the boy—kings and future kings bowed before no one.
A thunderous roar rose in the room, echoing against the ceiling and crashing back down. Clapping. For the first time that day, Rhen let the ghost of a true smile grace his face.
The ceremony was over. The Naming was complete.
And nothing had happened.
Everyone was safe. Everyone was alive.
Now, they would feast.
He remained with his family as they exited the throne room, his father and mother first, then Whyltarin and Awenine carrying their son, then Whyllem, and then him. Last, as always. The ache of missing Whyllysle constantly weighed on his thoughts, but it sprang to life stronger than ever in that moment.
Rhen politely nodded to the nobles as he walked past, but their attention was elsewhere. The third son, the third wheel. He was known by everyone, but as an afterthought. If only his partner had still been alive. They would both be looked over, but they would experience it together. Experiencing it alone was, at times, too much to bear.
Rhen retreated behind his façade as the procession continued, slow ceremonial steps to the banquet hall. He kept his mind on the pattern of shuffling his feet—one, two…one, two—leaving no room for self-pity.
Unbidden, Jin jumped into his thoughts. The hand that outstretched to help him up from the floor where his father had left him. The smile that greeted him after their escape from the Golden City. The priceless look of alarm when they had stepped into the Staggering Vixen. One after another, the images came uncalled, memories that began to thaw Rhen's iced over insides, to melt the hard shell he had erected to protect himself.
From the start, Rhen had known that Jin would depend on him—the last of his people thrown into an unkind, unjust, and unfamiliar world. But he had never realized that he would come to depend on the boy too—that they would maybe save each other.
Part of him wished that Jin could have been there today. Maybe the ceremony wouldn't have felt quite so lonely if he had been.
But the royals and the nobles with them, lived in a separate reality. Rhen could try to ignore it all he wanted, but on days like this, when he was forced to be Prince Whylrhen, there was no way around the rules.
Shuddering to a halt, Rhen stopped inches behind Whyllem's back. They had reached the banquet hall without his even realizing it.
The royal table sat at the far end of the room in front of the two long tables where the rest of the nobility would sit. Rhen followed his brothers there, taking his seat at the end of the row, watching absently as more nobles flowed into the room, vision glossed over by thoughts of Whyllysle and Jin.
He was too distracted to notice that only men entered.
Too distracted to wonder where the women were—the wives and daughters.
Too distracted to see weapons glinting under their jackets.
He was not, however, too distracted to hear the resounding boom of the door slamming shut.
No—at that, his heart sank and the world snapped into focus.
Rhen looked up, sure he would find olive-skinned, tattooed soldiers looking back at him. Sure that King Razzaq would be there, smug and confident, stepping from the shadows. So certain he had been right about the Ourthuri threat, Rhen never even expected the sight that awaited him.
They were men of Whylkin.
His own people.
Something Rhen, as much as he played at being a spymaster, had never seen coming. Shame filtered into his heart, curling his stomach, making his insides rot. How had he been so wrong?
They walked between the banquet tables, silently approaching, boots clicking on the stones beneath their feet. A few yards away, just before the royal table, they paused. One man stepped forward. Rhen recognized him—Lord Hamish, the Lord of Roninhythe. Brows furrowed, he scanned the group for a sign of Cal—could he have been so wrong about his friend? His loyal, trusted, friend?
But no, he looked at the dozen faces standing alert in a line, facing off against the throne. Cal was not there. These men were all his father's age, all Lords of Whylkin cities.
"What is the meaning of this?" His father stood. The echo of his chair scraping on stone filled the silence in the room. "Lord Hamish, explain yourself."
"The reign of Whyl has gone on too long," he said simply, as a matter-of-fact, emotionless. "The time has come for the old kingdoms to return. What happened to the Kingdom of Roninhythe? The Kingdom of Fayfall? The Kingdom of Lothlian?" The men behind him nodded in agreement, standing firm.
"They were conquered," the king informed, sarcasm heavy in his deep voice.
"Maybe so, but—"
"No buts," the king interrupted, anger brimming, hands slamming down on the table before him. "You were conquered, not out of spite, out of good—for everyone who now lives peacefully and prosperously in my kingdom, under my rule."
"We were conquered by the lord of a dying city who saw no other route to wealth and power." Lord Hamish's voice was sharp, dripping with the hatred of three hundred years finally surfacing. "Rewrite history how you want, Whylfrick, but we all know the truth. Rayfort had no trade, no money, and no way out of the spiral except to take our resources for themselves. And how well you've prospered selling the wood from my forests, the silks from Fayfall caves, the herds from Lothlian fields, the wines from Airedale hillsides. Every man here is lord of a city that has been dampened by the weight of Rayfort, a city that offers nothing but white rock it can't even mine."
"What we offer," the king said, stepping around the table, closing in on his rebellious lords with nothing but rage on his face, "is the same thing we've offered for hundreds of years—soldiers."
"Soldiers who are not here to protect you," Lord Hamish replied. The men around him grinned.
But at that same moment, the clash of swords rang, muffled by the door but still recognizable. A fight had broken out in the hall.
Rhen couldn't stop his lips from twitching. The royal guard was coming. They would be here any minute. The rebellion would not survive.
"You cannot beat me," King Whylfrick shouted, arrogant and strong, spurred on by the noise. He had completed his walk and now stood directly before Lord Hamish, still not a drip of fear evident on his wrinkled face.
"Wrong," Lord Hamish replied, voice cutting through the hall, low and precise, calm. "King Razzaq recognized our cause. As we speak, his men are landing on our shores, ready to fight with us, and together we will defeat any army that dares fight in your honor. For after today, no one will fight for a Son of Whyl ever again, only for their memory, and soon even that will fade."
The Lord of Roninhythe pulled his sword free of its sheath. One by one, slow and menacing down the line, the other lords followed suit. The air was filled with the drawn out scrape of metal, a sound that only meant one thing—death.
Rhen couldn't breathe.
The word Ourthuri played on repeat in his mind, circling back and back around, mingling with feelings of fear and vindication that he could not suppress. All along, he had been right. No one had listened. No one had believed him enough to understand the urgency in his voice, the truth in his words. The unflagged ships were Ourthuri ships. Their soldiers were on Whylkin shores. And they were undoubtedly here for war.
But now, staring into the face of that war, Rhen wished he had been wrong. Oh, how he wished his father were laughing in his face, joking with his brothers about Rhen's new bout of failure.
That he was used to. That would be easy to take.
But watching men close in on his father—point their weapons at his unarmored, ill-prepared body—that was something that burned his eyes, dried his throat, and made his whole being tremble.
Almost as one, the sons of King Whylfrick stood and rushed to their father's side—surrounding him, protecting him. Rhen reached for his hip, pulling his brand new sword free. It wouldn't remain untainted for long.
Four against twelve.
Behind them, the baby began to wail.
Rhen wished to yell right along with his nephew, but he held steady and strong, shifting his weight between feet, waiting for the inevitable attack. He stared at the traitors, eyes narrowing, watching them examine his family with hunger in their eyes.
No one stepped forward.
No one motioned to attack.
They all surveyed each other, letting the pressure build so the room began to feel heavy, full. Tension thickened the air, pulled taut across the small space, stretching, thinning, lengthening, until finally—snap.
It broke.
With a bellowing cry, King Whylfrick surged forward, refusing to wait any longer for his enemies to make their move.
Lord Hamish blocked the blow, their swords slammed together, deafening as the ringing bounced from wall to wall across the great banquet hall.
Just like that, chaos erupted.
Rhen leapt forward, eyes on the three men before him. These were his men to fight, to take down. He took a wide swing, bringing his sword to each of their eyes, hoping just to distract the lords from his brothers, from his family—hoping to entice them into a match.
The center man immediately turned to Rhen, challenging him with a full-body charge. Holding his sword steady, Rhen deflected the blow and jumped sideways. Unprepared to be so easily outmaneuvered, his enemy flew past, pulled by his own weight—off balance and momentarily harmless.
Without a moment to lose, the second man swatted at Rhen. He was older, slightly gray haired and clearly less agile than the rest. Ducking easily out of the way, Rhen aimed his sword low, slicing the man's thigh open in a deep nerve-ripping cut.
Blood dripped to the floor and the man cried out in pain. The strength eased from his leg, going limp, until he slid diagonally to the floor, eyes wide with shock.
But Rhen had already shifted his attention to the third foe, who waited more cautiously before engaging in a fight, focusing instead on reading Rhen—moving left when he moved left, right when Rhen moved right. His eyes shifted ever so slightly, over Rhen's shoulder, signaling…
Rhen fell to the ground as a whistle filled his left ear, the sound of a sword flying harmlessly overhead. Rolling over, he kicked, nailing his first foe in the sensitive spot between his legs.
The man dropped, howling in pain.
Rhen rolled again, already anticipating the sword rushing for his head. It clanged against the stone floor. Before his enemy could right his weapon or center of gravity, Rhen kicked the man's wrist and the sword dropped to the ground.
Fear crept into the lord's eyes and he backed up.
Rhen advanced, facing the weaponless man, unsure if he was ready to kill one of his own people—even a traitor.
One thought of Whyllean was enough to destroy his hesitation.
In a quick and determined move, Rhen gripped his sword with both hands, bringing the sharp edge deep into the man's throat, wedging it beneath his skin. Life faded from the man's eyes, empty and unseeing.
Raising his boot to the man's chest, Rhen yanked his sword out of the wound, wincing as blood gurgled, spurting forth. But there was no time for that, no time for thought.
Instead, he twisted back around, facing the man who still clutched his balls in pain. As their gazes met, the man straightened, teeth bared as he raised his sword. But he was already beat. He knew it and more importantly, Rhen knew it.
Slowly, Rhen approached.
When he was within distance, Rhen raised his sword, giving the man just enough time to set up a defensive strike. As his foe parried, Rhen loosened his wrists, letting the sword twist over so he could deliver a knockout blow to the man's head with the rounded blunt end below his fingers.
He heard a sickening crunch as contact was made. Instantly, the man fell to the floor.
Spinning, Rhen searched for his brothers.
Terror clenched his gut.
Bodies were strewn all over the floor, but the only man in Whylkin red who Rhen saw standing was Whyllem—Whyllem, wounded and moving slowly, surrounded by six lords.
Pushing thoughts of Tarin and his father as far out of his mind as possible, Rhen sprinted across the hall, jumping over a perfectly made table, tossing plates to the ground, not caring as they crashed and broke into a million porcelain pieces.
Rhen's vision, tunneling narrower and narrower, shifted over his shoulder, past Whyllem to the crying women huddled together and using their bodies to shield little Whyllean from view.
"Protect the king!" Whyllem shouted at Rhen as he neared. Confused, Rhen took a second to search the room for his father, quickly scanning from wall to wall.
But his father was nowhere to be seen, hidden out of view on the ground, buried under a body or a table.
Rhen paused. He brought his gaze back around, processing the world in slow motion.
Realization dawned harshly.
Whyllean.
Whyllem meant protect Whyllean—which meant Tarin and his father were dead.
Dead.
Pain pricked his body, numbing his senses.
He had failed.
His family was dying.
"Rhen!" A woman screeched, bringing him back to reality. Back to the scene around him. Back to those still alive.
He would not lose anyone else, not today, not while there was still breath left in his body.
The spark of a flame pierced his eyes.
Rhen's memory flew back to the ship, back to Jin's swift maneuver, his trick to make Rhen speak the truth. He had been able to steady those flames, to keep them from burning the ship to ash. He had done it once…
It was crazy.
It just might work.
Dropping his sword, Rhen grabbed two lanterns from the table. Praying no weapon would pierce his unprotected belly, Rhen charged into the fray, placing his body in front of Whyllem, and more importantly, in front of their king.
"Get behind me," he yelled and threw the lanterns as forcefully as he could at the floor.
Fire flared to life at his feet, billowing up in a huge wave that soared overhead and blasted his face with heat.
The lords jumped back, surprised.
"Rhen," Whyllem yanked on his shoulder, trying to pull his brother back into safety.
Rhen shirked his hold and met his brother's eyes. "Get with the women, and stay back. For once, just trust me."
Not waiting for a response, he looked to the fire, already feeling his hands itch with longing. But he was not there to shut the fire off, to pull it into his skin.
No.
He wanted to make it rage.
Rhen glanced at the oil spreading across the floor, widening the wall of flame before him. In only minutes, it would be dried up, and the lords would be able to advance once more. He needed something else. Something beside stone. Something that would light up and stay that way.
Getting his bearings, Rhen realized he was sandwiched between the two long banquet tables, right in the center of the room. Behind him, the royal table sat undisturbed, confirming his location.
Cloth.
He realized.
Wood.
Running down the center of the table was a red silk of Whylkin, a decoration—a fire hazard. Underneath it, planks of solid wood.
The fire just needed to get there—to spread a little wider.
He stared into the orange flames, willing them to grow, to heed his command.
They shrunk.
The fire wouldn't listen. Even as his skin yearned for its touch, the fire denied him, as it had every time he had tried to control it.
A shout caught his notice. One lord had climbed onto the table, circling to fight Rhen from behind.
There was no time.
Ripping his shirt down the middle, Rhen pulled his formal jacket off and dipped it into the flames, waiting until it caught before tossing it onto the tabletop to his left.
Shrugging off his shirt, he repeated the process, only this time throwing it to his right.
Then he waited. Watching. Praying.
Suddenly a spark, a bright flash.
The fire caught.
A blaze singed the approaching lord as the silks burned hot, alighting more oil and rapidly pulsing down the table in small booms.
"Rhen, you will burn us alive," Whyllem yelled over the cackle.
But hope surged in Rhen's chest and he turned to his family, beaming with relief.
"No," he said and reached into the growing flame behind him, letting the heat seep under his skin, comfort him. His mother gasped, a memory flaring to life behind her irises. He pulled his untouched, unscalded hand free.
Whyllem's jaw dropped.
Rhen stepped closer and moved his mother, Awenine, and Whyllem so they all huddled together, covering Whyllean, cowering from the flames. They listened to his commands without protest, without pause.
Like a shark, Rhen circled them, constantly walking around their bodies, pulling any wayward flames into his flesh to prevent them from smoldering his family.
It seemed like hours that he moved, calling a flame in, releasing it, searching for the next encroaching wave.
In truth, it was only minutes.
But the fire had done its job. Rhen knew it the moment he heard the doors slam open. The lords were running, saving themselves, escaping.
Still, Rhen let the room burn until he heard voices call out for the king, the queen, Tarin. He never heard his own name, but it didn’t matter. The guards were there. The people loyal to his family were there.
And the house of Whyl had survived.
When droplets of water brushed his face, Rhen knew for sure that his enemies were gone. If the guards were safe enough to concentrate on putting out the fire, his enemies must be out of reach and running.
Letting go of his concentration, Rhen dropped to his knees, throwing his hands to the side and calling for the fire to come to him.
It listened, crashing into his chest, melting into his bare skin, disappearing from the world. He pulled and pulled, demanding every last source of heat obey his will.
Lord of Fire.
That's what Rhen was—what he had always been. But now the world would know it too.
He opened his eyes and stood, meeting the amazed expressions of the royal guard, all paused with disbelief as water sloshed from the buckets in their unsteady hands.
Not waiting, Rhen spun. He had to check if his family was safe, that Whyllean remained untouched.
As he opened his mouth to ask the question, a gasp escaped his lips instead.
Rhen clutched his stomach.
He looked down at the knife hilt protruding from his skin, at the blood spilling onto his fingers, at the hand—the delicate, feminine hand—forcing the blade deeper.
Rhen's gaze traveled upward, slowly, disbelieving, until they met his mother's eyes.
His mother's empty, white eyes.