Lives of Kings (3 page)

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said, pointing at the mess. “You think you're invincible? You think you can go days without eating, chasing animals through the forest into Kaligan territory? Hiding in the cold with nothing but the shirt on your back?”

The words were angry but laced with concern. Kian knew his uncle meant well, but his anger seethed. He was not angry at the Kaligan, or the Riada, or Eched. He was angry at his own shortcomings. He was angry because he was not invincible — he was human and magicless.

“You,” Eched stabbed a finger in Kian's direction, “need to be careful. You are the last heir of the high king. You have a duty to marry. Create heirs. Only then may the Riada have a champion again. The gods know we need one. That is your duty. Nothing more. You are not your brother.”

Kian fought past the pain to stand. He was wise enough to keep any retorts to himself and used the opportunity of putting on clothes to measure his words. He was so angry that he shook, but he knew his uncle was right.

A small part of him, one that he had tried to silence for years, still thought he possessed some magic. He and his brother were descended from the same gods, after all. He reasoned that he could have inherited some of the same gifts. Over the years he had told himself they were late in developing, that his magic would come. Every defeat was just another reminder that he was, in fact, merely human.

As he slid his tunic over his head, he took a deep breath. A large hand rested on his shoulder.

“I've known you your entire life, boy,” his uncle said. Kian turned to face him. “You are your mother's son. She used to huff in the same way when she was angry with me.”

Kian only stared. He did not trust himself to speak.

“Your mother wasn't very happy either, when she learned she would marry your father,” Eched said. “She called him old. She locked herself away and cried for days. But my father knew her temperament. He knew that in time she would come to her senses, and she did.”

Eched sat on Kian's bed, running a hand through the thick dark hair that was so similar to Kian's own.

“Your mother learned to love your father and do her duty to produce more powerful warriors for the Riada. We have been marrying in the family for generations to keep the lines pure,” Eched said. He motioned for Eifa to come over and took her hand. “You are so like your mother. You will learn to love my daughter, and be kind to her, and in turn do your duty.”

The girl made a clumsy attempt to step forward and take Kian's hand. It was too much for him. Despite his uncle's words being reasonable, Kian's legs were taking action. Before he could even realize what he was doing, he grabbed his bag, cloak, and bow, and was running from the main building, back into the forest.

The adrenaline came from needing to get away — to escape. A flight instinct had overcome him. He knew what was right, but he did not want to do any of it. He did not want to fulfil Eched's plans for him. He could not fathom that that was to be it for him, that he only existed to continue the line and not let his father and brother's deaths go to waste, or that he held no value apart from being born a part of his family.

Kian ran until his chest pained him and the stabbing sensation was back in his side. He needed to drink — he knew the pains of dehydration from spending long days in the forest. As soon as he slowed, weakness overtook him.

Kian stepped sideways onto a root that moved under his foot. Weak, he tumbled down a long ravine, with barely the strength to protect his head as he rolled, miraculously not spearing himself on any branches or broken trees.

Finally, he landed on soft ground. The earth was covered in leaves too green to have fallen naturally. Kian only thought about this for an instant since the sounds of a creek led him farther into the forest. His thoughts were on water, and he moved swiftly through the underbrush searching for it.

Kian pushed down all thoughts of panic. He was, once again, far from home with little idea on how to get back. He knelt and splashed his face several times, feeling energy slowly return. He was still exhausted, but his heart eased at having gotten away from the settlement and put distance between himself and Eched. He felt in his heart that what was left of the Riada was just a shadow of the truth — and a decades-long plan for more heirs wasn't going to help his people.

Kian examined his face in the water. New cuts bled along his arms and forehead. He picked leaves out of his hair. The blue in his eyes, also like his mother's, was another reminder of how he was unlike his brother or father. He had heard that when his brother was born, the king had seen the strange mix of green and brown and knew this was a child of the forest and the gods. Kian had no such story of his birth. His father had loved him, but two warriors in the family would have been better than one.

A shape appeared behind him and Kian turned swiftly, reaching for a dagger that was not at his waist. He cursed his foolishness. He was alone in the woods, with no weapon and no way home.

Without anything to defend himself with, Kian moved into a low fighting stance. The man in the brown cloak lifted up two dirty hands in surrender.

“Relax, young prince,” he said. His voice was uncertain and cautious. He had a strange accent Kian had not heard before. Long, dirty brown locks hung from below his hood.

“How do you know who I am?” Kian asked. He hadn't been called that in nearly ten years.

The cloaked man shrugged.

“Remove your hood,” Kian commanded, trying to sound like a prince. “Let me see your face.”

The man shrugged again and pulled down the brown hood, revealing a long face with bright green eyes and long, dirty hair.

“Who are you?” Kian asked.

“Call me a relic,” the man answered. “My tribe is gone, yet I remain.”

The answer came to Kian before the man had even finished speaking.

“You're a Godel!” he accused. He remembered hearing of the long robes of the Godelan. Their slaves wore next to nothing. His father had been outraged when he heard the Godelan explain that to cover your body was a privilege, and only those with power should do so. Still, after so many years, the man still wore his robes.

“I am a man of no tribe,” the man replied. “Just as you are a prince of no man.”

“You're a magician. You are a slaver,” Kian retorted.

“Just like the Romans, whom you and all the Riada bow down to,” the magician replied simply. Kian was beginning to think this man had an answer for everything. More terrifying was the possibility that he was being bewitched into sympathizing.

“Tell me how to get home,” Kian ordered. “I don't want to hear any more of your sorcery.”

The man made an incredulous face, the first sign of any real emotion behind the calm mask. “Sorcery? It is the truth,” he said.

“You're evil,” Kian told him. “Our warriors were sacrificed because of your actions.”

“If that were true,” the magician said, “would I be here today?”

Kian considered this. He was hesitant to take anything the man said as true, but the magicians of the Godelan had been killed, as far as he could remember. Still, he had to shake his head to keep the man's words from entering his mind.

“Tell me how to get home,” Kian repeated.

“Home to what?” the magician asked. “The settlement the Romans have forced you into? You are living like animals on a farm when you need to be in the wild.”

Listening to magicians was dangerous. Kian had been taught that from birth. Again he tried to ignore the words that were so tempting to believe. A large part of him was now agreeing, getting angrier at the truth behind the magician's comments. Still he resisted.

“Tell me how to get home,” Kian said again.

“I have a better idea,” the magician said. “How about give you the magic you long for to save your tribe.”

Kian stood silent, battling with his own will. He knew in his heart that this was wrong. This was not natural magic, and unnatural magic, forced from the earth for man's will, always had consequences.

“All right,” the magician acquiesced when Kian continued to say nothing. “If magic is not enough for you, then I will offer you something better. Your brother.”

Kian's breath caught in his throat. He had witnessed the deaths of his father, mother, and brother. What the Godel magician was proposing was impossible. But Kian knew their magic was once great.

“How can you do that?” Kian asked.

“I can do many incredible things,” the Godel replied. “In these woods, I've had time to learn new things.”

“What's in it for you?” Kian said. “Why would you do this? The warriors of the Riada destroyed your tribe.”

“Simple,” the magician said, shrugging again. “I can only offer you the chance to be reunited with your brother and the other warriors. You have to do something for me first.”

“What?”

“Find them.”

I
was blinded for a moment, my vision hazy with orange and yellow flames in the complete darkness of the beach. My mind, as if detached from my body, floated somewhere above me, worried about Seth. I couldn't do anything about it. I tried to force myself to return down to the beach, but a part of me knew I just had to wait.

I don't know how long I knelt on the sand, swaying with the breeze. Slowly, the sound of my heart hammering in my chest came to me and I knew I was settling back into myself. But just as I was getting a handle on things, I was knocked backward by a violent force. My back hit the sand and knocked what breath was left from my body. I coughed and sputtered for air.

“Gwen!”

I couldn't focus on anything.

“Gwen! Look at me.”

I forced my eyes to co-operate. Seth was on top of me, patting awkwardly at my arms and legs.

“You're on fire!”

He was yelling into my face, but to be fair, it was like I was miles away. His words reached me as though through syrup.

Though I couldn't feel the flames, Seth was panicked enough that I knew he was telling the truth. I regained control of my limbs and rolled. We were uncoordinated in our efforts, but ultimately, managing to inhale only a minimal amount of sand, I was no longer smouldering.

Seth sat back, pulling me up with him.

“You know,” he said, taking long moments to catch his breath, “I've been thinking about your fire thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replied, running a hand through his dark hair, a nervous tic that reminded me of Kian. Or was it that Kian reminded me of Seth? I couldn't decide which brother was actually older. “It's not something you had … back then,” Seth said.

I nodded. Fire was never something I could control in my past life. It was a magic that had come to me later on. At least that's what I felt to be the truth from the memories I experienced.

The day the ritual took us forward in time, Seth and I had been ready to run away from everything, just to be together. It was the wrong thing to do. We both knew it, and I knew it now. I felt my past self's shame and guilt about it. But at the time, two thousand years ago, feelings seemed to win. Due to circumstances beyond our control, however, I was in fire when I died, and it somehow got carried forward.

“It's something that kind of changed when you … became … you.
This
you,” Seth continued, spitting out sand between words. “So whenever you do this fire thing,” he motioned to the smoking and charred trees nearby, “it must be you.”

I had never thought about it that way. Any time anything magical happened I would quickly blame it on my past self. Still, something about this nagged at my mind.

Just then I felt people running toward us. The vibrations of several bodies were easier to detect than actual people approaching us in the night. A flashlight shone on my face and I winced.

“What happened? What are you doing here?” the person barked.

Two police officers were staring at us, waiting for an explanation. The smell of burning hair made me nervous — how obvious was it that the fire was my fault? Luckily, whatever blast I sent out had disappeared into the sand and the ocean. A small patch of trees was crackling as palm leaves burned. I tried to keep the guilty look off of my face.

“Some kids were setting off fireworks,” Seth said, slipping an arm around my waist. I felt the hum of magic coming off of him, though faint. “Over there.”

He pointed to the burning trees.

The two security guards looked us over, not totally convinced.

“You need to leave,” they told us. “Go back to your hotel.”

With that they jogged toward the palm trees.

“Did you use magic on them?” I asked after they had left.

“I tried to,” he said, frowning. “It's difficult. It's like there's a stopper or something.” He got to his feet with a moan. “Let me know the next time you're going to throw me somewhere, okay?”

“Deal.” I nodded. “What's that burning smell?”

Seth helped me up. My arms and legs appeared to be fine. I could feel my hair blowing against my back in the breeze, so at least I still had that. I took a few steps and felt cold.

“Uh, Gwen?” Seth was fighting laughter behind me. For all that I had nearly killed him, and myself, and anyone around us, he now stood smiling awkwardly.

“What?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Your, uh, dress seems to have been, uh, caught between you and the sand … got heated up.”

I pieced it together. The back of my wrap was mostly in tatters. I made Seth look away as I rearranged the sarong, still thinking of his comment about my magic. Was he right? Was I doing this?

The thought made me nervous. If I was doing that to myself, what else was I doing? The way my mind, the logical modern-day Gwen mind, had retreated upon so much magic occupying my body worried me. It was the same thing that happened when I let the storm loose on the magicians and put all of my friends at risk, too. I couldn't risk letting my sense of reason just fly away into the night. Not to mention, what would be left then? Would I trade places with her? Would I become a passenger in my own body?

By the time we got back to the hotel, Moira and Garrison were already waiting for us in the lobby.

“What happened?” Garrison asked, rushing forward to check me for injuries.

“I'm fine.” I brushed him off. “How did you know?”

“Seth's magic,” Moira said, pointing at him. “I felt something was wrong. Did you hurt him?”

Huh. What else didn't I know about their connection? I looked from Seth to Moira as if I could see the threads that linked them. Her words made me feel even guiltier.

“Of course not,” Seth answered for me. Though when he walked with a limp, the others looked at him skeptically. “I might have been knocked down,” he conceded.

Moira led the way back to our hotel room, where I explained what had happened. They seconded Seth's comment about the fire being something of mine — not of my past life.

“Maybe that action,” Garrison suggested, “something that happened between you and Seth, set off what's been blocking our magic since England. What were you doing when it happened?”

Seth and I looked awkwardly at each other.

“I don't know,” I said finally, “but I need to get better at this.”

“With more magic, you're more dangerous,” Moira said thoughtfully.

“I know that.”

Garrison slung an arm around my shoulders in the supportive way he always did, forgetting how crabby I had been to him earlier that night. I appreciated that arm more than anything right then. I took a deep breath, readying myself for the barrage of questions that would follow my big reveal.

“I had another memory,” I told my friends.

As expected, a wave of inquiries ensued. No one had remembered anything concrete from the past since we regained the moments that led up to our deaths and saw that seven of us were sent forward. At least when they realized I couldn't answer everything at once, they quieted down.

“I think it was when the king decided what we would do,” I said, my eyes sliding to Seth. It was his father, and Kian's, who had opted to kill his first-born son in order to effectively destroy one of his enemies.

I told them about the others around me, confirming there were seven of us. I described the two crying women, so similar they could have been sisters. One was the queen, I was sure. Seth and Kian's mother. The other I didn't know.

I tried to remember the king's words exactly. The only part I left out was about Kian. I didn't know why, but I wasn't ready to talk about his place in my memories yet. He seemed too young and lost; I just didn't want to imagine him in the same circumstances now or think about where he was and what he was doing. Or worse, wonder if the magicians had found him.

As I found out in England after he poisoned me and brought me bound to the magicians, Kian had been kidnapped from the past by one of them. Only two had been reborn; one had found another way. Kian had always told me he didn't arrive here like we had, but I never questioned it until it was too late.

Countless times I replayed every conversation between us. I thought over his every word until I was basically torturing myself. I'd never thought to question him, letting him lie through silence. I just figured there was so much I didn't know that he couldn't explain all of it.

His vagueness, his mysterious actions, all of it had seemed normal because it was who he had always been to me. He had found me, he had rescued me countless times from both
them
and myself, and I hadn't seen past that.

I hadn't known he was just as scared as me, doing what they wanted him to so that he and his brother, Seth, could have a chance to go home. But he had been lied to. It was impossible to go back in time. Too much had happened. And I questioned every time I thought about him if his decision to help me escape came before or after he realized the magicians had lied to him and he could never go home. It made me angry, but I also missed him terribly.

When I finished telling the others what I had seen, the response wasn't what I was expecting. Garrison went to the desk in our small room and took out the travel magazine included with everyone's welcome package.

“Do you feel like you have your magic back?” he asked, leafing through it. I closed my eyes and looked inward. There was something — but it was still faint.

“A little bit,” I admitted.

“I think it's a mental block,” Garrison said. “The magicians, they just … well they almost killed us. They almost got us. They made us so scared that we just pushed everything down until the memories and magic only trickle in.”

“That sounds about right,” Seth agreed.

“And look at Moira,” Garrison said, still without looking up from the magazine. “She looks like a zombie!”

“Hey!” Moira protested.

“Sorry,” Garrison said, “but it's true. This whole thing has taken a toll on us. And Gwen, you've pretty much proved that there's nothing wrong with us. We've got the same magic we always had. It's us that are in the way. Kind of like how all that fire had to leave you just to unlock those memories.”

I followed his train of thought. At this point I wanted to know more. I wanted to see more. And if there was a way to get back on track and not feel like we were just hiding out somewhere in the Pacific, I was willing to try it.

“So what do you suggest we do?” I asked.

“Well,” Garrison said, holding up the magazine to his chest and away from us, “before you judge this idea, keep in mind that the only way we can hope to be stronger than they are is to regain all of our magic. And that means overcoming whatever is holding us back. Can we all agree on that?”

Everybody nodded. I knew Garrison well enough to know that he only ever prefaced his ideas or added disclaimers when they were particularly outrageous. It made me nervous.

“So,” he said, laying the magazine on the bed.

“You're kidding,” Seth said.

“No way.” Moira backed away from it as if it would bite her.

I leaned in to see what the fuss was about.

In the travel magazine about the French Polynesian islands, there was an article about cultural heritage being preserved in the jungles in the form of witch doctors. A man or woman wearing so much straw and paint that it was impossible to tell what he or she really looked like was the main image in the article. I sighed.

“Think of it this way. They're kind of like the island psychologists,” Garrison explained.

“Are they the ones that drilled holes in people's heads to get the demons out?” Seth asked.

“Probably not,” Garrison said dismissively. “And if they did, I'm sure they don't do it anymore.”

Silence.

I was skeptical. While Seth and Moira seemed to think a witch doctor would cause more harm than he or she was worth, I doubted any such person existed. It seemed to be a tourist attraction, if anything. But I was tired of feeling helpless, and the incident on the beach, as well as every other fire-related thing, was nerve-wracking. I had to make sure I wouldn't hurt anyone. My desperation not to be a danger probably led me to my next comment.

“Okay, let's do it.”

As Seth and Moira began to protest, I hurried to explain.

“We can't sit here forever, waiting for the next thing to either put us in danger or ruin some other part of the world. And we don't even know what they're up to! Maybe they're close to succeeding,” I said. “And we have to face the fact that Kian isn't coming back.”

That shut everyone up. They had all been thinking it, but it was no secret who his departure had affected most. When I said it out loud, it somehow became truth.

With reservations, Seth and Moira agreed to Garrison's witch doctor plan.

The next day, Garrison used his charm and friendly demeanour to somehow find a hotel employee who could point him to a tour guide who knew of a witch doctor nearby. I still felt ridiculous saying — or thinking, for that matter — the words “witch doctor,” so I began to look forward to seeing the island psychologist.

Garrison was especially good at procurement. If something seemed hard to get or find, he was usually the best person to do it. He managed to convince a tour guide, who usually took tourists into the heart of the jungle, to take us to a man or woman — no one knew which — famous with the locals for offering what was called “alternative health care.”

As Seth, Moira, and I sat sipping our hundredth fruity drink by the ocean, shaded by an oversized thatched umbrella, Garrison approached with a young local man in tow.

The man introduced himself as Ari and told us usually only the locals went to visit the priest, as he called him.

“We understand,” I told him. “And we appreciate you helping us. We want to …” I didn't know how to finish my sentence, not knowing what Garrison had told him. “Experience as much of the culture as we can.”