The Dimming Sun Read online

  “You have drugged her halfway to the otherworld. It should be no wonder she’s too weak to push,” Glorun said under her breath. Morden didn’t hear but Selka did and shushed the princess.

  Wulfdane merely gazed into the hearth in response to Morden. “I don’t care. Ask Malina what she wants to do.”

  “Malina is in a state of delirium right now, my king. It is your decision to make.”

  “Well, unbreech the child I suppose. Go on,” Wulfdane declared nonchalantly and returned to his comfortable position reclining on the plushy divan. All the nursemaids exchanged veiled glances with one another.

  Morden gave Malina another injection nearer her bottom before reaching inside her womb to turn the child around. Malina shrieked like a banshee and clutched at her bedsheets so tightly that her hands turned a lifeless shade of purple. After a minute or two, it was over and the babe was pushed out head first. It cooed and garbled and was covered with the usual casing of bloody goo. One of the midwives rushed to wipe the froth from its mouth and a washing basin was retrieved.

  “Remarkable man who can operate on both a new mother and a warrior. I wonder where he learned such skills,” Selka whispered to Glorun.

  “He’s probably just bumbling his way through. Or using black magic,” Glorun answered in a disgruntled tone, though she knew Selka was right. As much as she hated him, Morden’s genius was extraordinary.

  “Lower your voice,” Selka hissed.

  “You have a son,” Morden told Wulfdane, patting him heartily on the back. “Congratulations.”

  Wulfdane leapt off the couch and roared with joy. He embraced Morden and thanked him for his part in the delivery. “A son!” Wulfdane laughed with wonder. “Let me see my boy.”

  Wulfdane rushed towards Glorun and hugged her. It was unexpected but welcome. He rarely showed positive emotions of any sort; he usually only smiled when playing pranks on his servants. “Thank you for being here, good sister. Today you meet your future king.” There were manic tears in the corners of his eyes.

  “Yes, brother, it is a beautiful moment. I’m glad to be at your side. Madroste has seen fit to bless the Dusaldr house today.”

  “That she has!” Wulfdane exclaimed, and happily skipped to the birthing bed. He paid attention to his wife for the first time, kissing her gently on the forehead as she lay in an exhausted, barely lucid state. Glorun had always thought that she would resent a living child of Malina, but the infectious joy of new life was overwhelming her. She couldn’t stop the smile taking over her face.

  As Wulfdane doted upon his disheveled wife, the midwives began whispering, grave expressions on their faces. It was clear something was amiss.

  “Where is my son?” Wulfdane demanded. “I want to see Paden’s newest champion.”

  A nursemaid, the one who had first washed the babe, clutched the swaddled child to her chest. She fearfully glanced at the boy and slowly trod towards the king.

  “I’m your king, woman, walk faster,” he barked at her. She nodded and quickened her pace as she drew her breath inwards. The room was hushed as the nurse outstretched out her arms.

  Morden dashed between the grim nurse and his lord.

  “My king, remember that you were ill two weeks ago. You might still have the sickness in your breath or on your hands. Newborns are quite vulnerable to even the mildest infection. I think it would be wisest to take him to the nursery immediately,” Morden explained hastily.

  “What is your problem, general? That’s a shoddy excuse if I ever heard one. What is the matter with all of you, trying to get between the king and his heir? Madness!”

  The king faced Malina accusingly. “By Eben!” he pointed at her. “It’s not mine, is it? You whore of a woman, you cheated on me,” he roared and picked a heavy jade idol of Madroste sitting on the end-table beside Malina’s bed. He tossed it out the window in an abrupt fury, sending bits of shattered glass flying about the room. Everyone cowered.

  This is scandalous, Glorun thought. Perhaps this was the evidence needed to boot perpetually pinch-faced Malina off her queenly pedestal. No doubt she’d be executed if it were true, after she’d had her head shaved and was publicly humiliated throughout Staska. Adultery was a serious offense in Paden, particularly for noblewomen.

  Malina was not fazed by her husband’s rage. She sat up a little bit, straightening her back against the pillow. “What are you talking about, my love? I have never known a man other than you. When a woman has the king himself, what more could she possibly want? The babe is yours, without question. I don’t know why the nurses are so feather-brained that they are trying to keep you from seeing him.”

  Morden nodded for the nurse to hand over the child. She moved slowly.

  “It has your eyes. You should name it quickly. The faster children are named, the better luck they have,” Morden said with a smile as the babe was transferred into the king’s waiting arms. Wulfdane’s head cooled immediately, and he grinned.

  “He’ll be called Vergadane. You are right, he does have my eyes. And the eyes of my father before me, and his father before him,” Wulfdane declared proudly, naming the babe after their notorious father. Glorun cringed. She had loved their father and thought him a giant among men, surely among the bravest of warriors to ever walk the earth, but… it didn’t seem prudent to name the new heir after the man who had supposedly started a curse.

  “How does it feel to hold your firstborn?” Morden asked. Wulfdane tutted at the babe and rocked it in his arms.

  “The feeling is like no other,” Wulfdane gushed. For a moment Glorun earnestly believed that even though he was a poor ruler and half-lunatic, he would make a kind and loving father. She had never seen a man look so tenderly upon an infant before. Usually fathers took no interest in their children until they were of walking age.

  “He’s wrapped much too tightly, let’s have a look at his little fingers and toes,” Wulfdane said, sitting beside Malina to show off their infant. Malina seemed more reassured than happy. She patted the child on its head, and began to unswaddle the babe.

  “You shouldn’t do that yet. It’s not good for their bones to leave them unbound,” one of the nurses offered.

  Wulfdane scoffed. “Off with all of you. I’m going to let your meddling slide because this is a happy day.”

  He unwrapped the babe, only to recoil in horror. He dropped the child atop the mattress, and it began to squeal.

  “So this is what you were trying to conceal from me!” He stood up, his eyes bulging with rage once more.

  Morden attempted to calm the king. “My lord, it is only a physical deformity. These sorts of peculiarities are normal and can be fixed with surgery.”

  Glorun craned to her neck to see what was wrong. Selka pulled her back from investigating.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he muttered. “That thing… has webbed hands and broken stumps for feet! He has been touched by the cruel hand of Tifalla. It is the curse. This marked child is no son of mine!”

  “My lord, you are weary and know not what you say. That boy is your son and heir and will be completely unaffected after two or three operations. That I swear to you,” Morden said.

  Malina shook her head, staring down at the crying babe with disgust. “That monster is not of my blood. It’s impossible. It wasn’t Tifalla nor elf-magic nor your father’s curse that inflicted this malady—Glorun did it.” Malina pointed towards Glorun and wailed histrionically. “That brat is some kind of black witch. You should have heard what she said to me on the day the earth shook! Who knows what foul spirits she has set upon me?”

  Glorun backed towards the wall instinctively, hoping to avoid Malina’s wicked gaze. Selka stood protectively in front of her. Wulfdane silently seethed, his hands balled into tight fists.

  “Everyone get out!” Wulfdane commanded. Morden quietly shuffled the midwives and nurses out of the chamber and ordered them not to say a word to anyone.

  Malina teetered on the edge of the bed as she let ou
t shrieking sobs. She rocked back and forth, clutching her arms together. “You cursed my baby. Aye, I know you remember it. You knew this would happen. You want to wrest the throne from me and my husband. You’re just as traitorous as your brother!” she cried wildly.

  Wulfdane tossed the washing basin at Malina. She screeched and dodged the heavy pan, which clattered to the side of the bed, its metal booming ominously against the granite floor. “Don’t you dare talk like that to my sister, my own flesh and blood. That thing… that horrible cursed creature… came from your womb—not hers. You have no one to blame but yourself!” Malina buried her face into her bloodied sheets and immediately popped back up.

  “It isn’t true, it isn’t true,” she muttered shakily. “I did everything I was supposed to, left offerings to the goddess and her daughters every night. I cannot help it that your family is cursed. Your father shouldn’t have wed his half-sister.”

  Wulfdane lunged at Malina, but Glorun rushed forth and attempted to hold him back. Despite Malina’s accusations, she was beginning to feel a little sorry for the queen.

  “Let it go, brother. This isn’t behavior fit for a king. You can have another child,” Glorun whispered. The tenseness in his shoulders eased. Morden silently picked the crying child up off the bed. He held the babe to his chest and walked towards the nursery. Wulfdane broke loose from Glorun’s tenuous grip and demanded of Morden, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “My lord, I am taking your son to his cradle. I will send word for surgical assistants immediately. I can operate as soon as the morrow.”

  “You think you can just circumvent my will? That thing isn’t going anywhere,” Wulfdane told him. “Release a statement to court that it perished shortly after birth. Say that it got the blue sickness, as many newborns do.” Wulfdane snatched the child away from Morden’s arms and sneered in disgust at the bundled mass. Morden stood there dumbfounded, an expression Glorun had never seen on him before.

  “Remember that you take orders from me, not the other way around. I do appreciate all you have done for this land, but you cannot overstep your boundaries like this again,” Wulfdane said.

  “Yes, my liege.” Morden nodded.

  Without a second thought, Wulfdane pressed the child’s mouth to his broad chest. The babe bawled in protest at first, but within a minute the noise subsided. Glorun watched the ordeal stoically, and found it strange that Morden seemed so affected by it. Morden stared out the broken windowpane with a cold glint in his eyes. Wulfdane quickly tossed the lifeless body of his son aside.

  “I don’t want it to be seen by anyone. Bury it outside the city walls so it can’t curse us further.”

  Glorun felt queasy and left the room without properly dismissing herself. Morden followed her. Glorun quickened her pace, hoping to avoid acknowledging him.

  He tapped her on the shoulder, forcing her to face him.

  “I’d avoid Malina for a while if I were you. And maybe even your brother too; he is not well these days,” he advised. Glorun knew he was probably right, but she resented him nonetheless and could never take counsel from the awful man who had framed her dear Meldane. He was below her; he was below all the Dusaldrs, including the wretched, plain Malina. He had no business addressing her or anyone at court the way he did.

  Glorun glared coolly. “I will do as I please. I am a Princess of Paden and I will not let some Southron brute dictate the terms of my interaction with my own family. You may have weaseled your way into my brother’s head, but you will never find your way into mine. Don’t pretend as if you aren’t secretly enjoying all this misery, either.”

  “It is for your own good,” he told her in a low voice. “You have a certain condition, Glorun. I know you had nothing to do with what occurred in the birthing chamber, but if something else unfortunate were to happen, you might find it more difficult to avoid accusation. You might find that even your brother has stopped defending you. It doesn’t take much for someone to scapegoat a person of your abilities. I’m sure you’re already aware of scattered whispers in Staska. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen time and time again. If you need help learning to control your gifts, I am here for you.”

  Glorun shook her head. He was only offering aid in the chance that he might secure some benefit from her power. “I’m fine,” she said as the stray ends of her hair began to float about her head like a wild golden wreath. A pale bolt of lightning struck just a few feet away, illuminating the corridor in a ghastly manner. The thunderous crack that followed caused Morden to cover his ears. The vibrations of the electrical field nearly knocked the southron off his feet. Glorun didn’t flinch. She kept walking.

  Chapter Eleven

  Arithel, Fallon, and Darren walked through Elinmoor for five days. The rich farmlands gradually transitioned into moorlands blanketed with heather and sheep. Murky bogs were tucked sporadically through the dales and twisting streams cut like ribbons across the land. Dirt paths turned to cobbled road and the villages they passed bustled more than lazy Aelfelm. The presence of Nureenians also increased and they toured the road in aggressive packs. Nureenian settlers had built great plantations and ranches throughout the countryside, while most Elinmoorians lived in primitive hovels at the outskirts of these sprawling estates, perpetually toiling.

  The travelers were nearing the town of Rothburgh when they heard a mewling sound. Darren was the first to react. He stopped in his tracks and looked in both directions.

  The sound came from a small copse of oak trees, little more than a fairy ring, in the middle of a cow pasture. There was a pond beside the trees.

  “Did you hear it?” Darren whispered.

  Arithel shrugged. “Panthers? Lynxes? All the more reason to get to town.”

  “No,” Darren said. “It sounds like a girl’s out there. Tell Fallon.”

  Fallon was walking far ahead of them.

  Arithel sighed. “He doesn’t want to be bothered.”

  Darren drew his golden sword, marveling again at the way it shone amid the glooms of twilight. He leapt over the fence and into the pasture, walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.

  “Darren!” Arithel called. “Get back here, you fool!”

  He ignored her. He knew someone was out there crying for help. Perhaps the Nureenians were having their way with an innocent Elinmoorian girl. He was surely the damsel’s only hope. His companions would join him once the noises got a little louder.

  He heard Arithel groan, and she brought out her bow and quiver. She followed Darren, running to catch up.

  “I’ll prove to you it’s just a cat,” she hissed.

  They tore through the weeds and toadstools and cow patties. Darren was vaguely aware of Fallon yelling at them from the road.

  When they approached the pond, Darren saw a girl, just as he suspected. She was kneeling beside the water, weeping as she wrung out what looked to be dirty rags. She was remarkably pretty—thick tawny hair, doe eyes, and a high brow. There were scratches on her arms and face, and mud streaked across her dress.

  Darren gave Arithel a smug look—he knew he had been right. She snorted in disbelief and silently studied the girl.

  Without hesitation, Darren strode right up to the maid. “What has you so troubled this evening, my lady?”

  “My brother,” she sobbed. “My baby brother. That thing took him!”

  “Thing…” Arithel muttered nervously.

  “Where… where did it take him?” Darren asked loudly, hoisting his sword in the air.

  “Darren, we should get back to the road. This seems a little strange,” Arithel remarked.

  The girl ignored Arithel, and croaked, “Into the glade! The thing took him into the glade! I shan’t see him ever again.”

  Darren sprinted for the trees. Arithel followed him, cursing. He ran so fast he soon didn’t hear her or the crying maiden.

  He entered the glade, hesitating when he noticed an earthen mound in the middle, and atop it, a stone disc—j
ust like his mother’s place. The coincidence was alarming, but he searched for the babe anyway.

  It caught his eye almost immediately—naked, fat, and laughing, nestled in the hollow of one of the trees. Darren rushed forth, and scooped the babe into his arms.

  “You weren’t hard to find,” he told the little boy. The child cooed and tried to grab the wooden pendant of his necklace.

  Darren noticed Arithel from the corner of his eye, standing between two trees, an arrow nocked in her bow. “Don’t move,” she ordered.

  When he turned around, he discovered what she was aiming at.

  A pack of black dogs was creeping towards him. Rows of yellow teeth glistened with saliva as the hounds snarled and their blood-red eyes gleamed faintly in the dark. Darren had never seen red eyes on a dog, not even on wild ones. They were as big as pigs and their paws were so heavy they sank into the earth with each step. Some of the dogs had bloody gashes on their bellies and faces. Darren shuddered and held the babe closer to his chest. Its only response was cooing, garbling laughter.

  “Get to the road,” Arithel told him as she released her arrow. It punctured the chest of the largest dog, and the hound yelped—a high-pitched otherworldly squeal that made Darren’s ears ring.

  Rather than slumping to the ground in pain, the injured dog led a charge of the pack towards Arithel. Darren watched in horror as they barked and growled and leapt through the air, bounding with their powerful hind legs.

  Darren ran away. He was sure he would see Tifalla, prodding them on with her whip made from stardust.

  ***

  Arithel looked down at the hounds, at their rotting teeth and the bones peeking out from the tears in their flesh. She had climbed an oak tree to escape them; thankfully the branches had been low and wide enough that it was easy. She scrambled farther up the boughs as the beasts jumped higher, baying in such a frenzy that they snapped at one another’s heels. Arithel figured they were rabid or diseased, but there was something undeniably eerie about the whole situation—the hounds’ bloodshot eyes, the too-pretty girl crying in the pasture, the baby left in the crook of the tree.