It was on Ariōn’s eleventh birthday that Alōs saw the change. His brother’s smile did not quite reach his eyes as they sat opening his gifts. Nor did he touch his cake, which was his favorite: cherry blossom filled with lemon icing.
Later that night Alōs slipped from his rooms to go to his brother’s, only to find his parents there first. A chill washed over Alōs as he took in his mother and father huddled over Ariōn’s bed, a healer beside them. He listened by the doorframe to his brother’s wheezes as the healer spoke the words that would send the first nail of life’s cruelty into his heart.
“I am sorry, Your Graces, but nothing can be done.”
“That cannot be true,” insisted Tallōs. “This is Esrom; we have islands full of rare plants to heal all illnesses.”
The medic looked like it pained him to continue but said, “Yes, but not this kind.”
“You say it is called Pulxa?” asked his mother while placing a hand on his father’s shaking shoulder.
“Yes, my queen, a rare blood disease.”
“How are we just learning of this now?” Tallōs began to stalk the room.
“It can disguise itself for a long while,” explained the healer. “Especially if those who suffer its pains do not report any ailments.”
Tallōs’s gaze whipped to the man. “Do not blame my son for you and your staff failing in your duties to find out about this sooner!”
The medic grew red. “Your Grace, I apologize; that was not my meaning.”
“We understand,” said the queen, gazing down at her son. “Ariōn is a proud soul. He does not like to burden others. But I agree with my husband. We are a kingdom of miracles. There must be something. And if not here, surely a solution can be found in all of Aadilor.”
The healer rubbed his lips together, appearing to grow more uncomfortable. “Pulxa can be slowed, yes, but inevitably . . .”
“Go on,” coaxed Alōs’s mother.
“You see, it starts in the limbs, Your Majesties, before working its way toward the heart, destroying everything as it goes. And I fear the young prince has it very close to his heart by now.”
Alōs turned from the scene then, a ringing filling his ears, his own heart stopped as he sought the only people he had been taught could conjure miracles. Alōs went to find the High Surbs.
They sat imposing in their fine cloaks and high-backed chairs within their holy receiving room. Each gazed down their nose at Alōs, who stood before them, desperate and pleading.
“We cannot stop the will of the lost gods,” said High Surb Fōl.
“Nor can we keep what the Fade wants.” High Surb Zana shook her head. “That sort of magic is forbidden.”
“It would be a tragedy to lose your brother,” High Surb Dhruva added, her face shining with youth. “But the Karēk line is still safe with you.”
“Is that all you care for?” Alōs yelled, hands balling into fists at his sides. “That at least our lineage can go on?”
“You are too young to understand now.” Dhruva looked at him with pity. “But with time, you will understand why it is important. Those that are worthy of the crown in Esrom are few. The Karēks are the only royal family in Aadilor to have been present when the lost gods were still among us. It is necessary we preserve that history. That magic.”
“And what if I were gone as well? What would you do then with your precious history and future?”
The High Surbs shared a glance before Dhruva spoke again. “But you are not going anywhere, Prince Alōs. You are destined to be our king. We understand the grief you—”
“You understand nothing of my grief! All you understand is upholding laws that no longer have meaning here. The world is changing. Our people leave to explore Aadilor every day, bringing back stories of what lives above us. But all you spout in your lessons is useless history. Do you even remember how to wield your gifts? Or have you grown as lazy as the arses that have molded to your chairs!”
The room rang out with offended gasps, but Alōs cared little as he stormed out.
As their chamber door shut behind him, an echoing click of finality, he screamed, shooting out bolts of his magic and shattering the ancient ceramic statues lining their entry hall. They were depictions of the lost gods. Hōlarax: god of fortune. Phesera: goddess of love. Yuza: goddess of strength. Precious history easily destroyed.
What use was it to believe in gods who had abandoned them? They could not lend mercy now, could not help a people said to be their favorite children. Alōs shook, desperate to destroy more precious items, for the lost gods seemed to be doing the same to his brother.
“Your Grace.”
A quiet voice had Alōs turning away from his destruction, his breaths coming out heavy. Surb Ixō stood by a corner at the end of the hall. Alōs did not know Ixō well, only knew he was the same age as he, eight and ten, and not yet a High Surb. “I think I can help.”
Alōs followed Ixō into a hidden room, where the surb quickly explained there might be a way to save the young prince, but at a cost.
“I will do anything,” said Alōs. “Anything.”
Ixō then told of the real reason the High Surbs were desperate to keep a Karēk on the throne: his family’s blood was so intricately tied to the magic in the kingdom that they feared what would happen to all the spells protecting the land if their family were to perish.
“I don’t understand.” Alōs frowned. “What does that have to do with saving my brother?”
“The way to save him is to get rid of you.”
“Me? So . . . I must die?”
“Not exactly.” Ixō shook his head, his expression grave. “But you would have to commit a sin so horrible that you’d be excommunicated, erased from the family line, making your brother the sole heir to the throne. With your parents too old to sire another child, the High Surbs would be forced to keep him alive by any means necessary, even the forbidden magic they fear.”
A life trade, thought Alōs.
Perhaps it was his fate calling, the beginning of the thief he’d eventually turn out to be, for Alōs hardly had to think on the matter before he found himself agreeing.
Later that night he set out to steal the most valuable item in the kingdom.
Alōs blinked back to his captain’s quarters aboard the Crying Queen, his shoulders tight at the memories that had overtaken him.
He had believed then that his banishment, never seeing his family again, would be the worst sentence he’d ever face; he would later learn that the price for disrupting the balance of the Fade was much, much steeper. And the countdown to Esrom’s surfacing and exposure was merely one part of it.
Over the years Alōs had traded his heart for one that pumped hollow. If he was to be marked as a villain in Esrom, he might as well play the part in Aadilor.
In the end, his brother’s life had been saved, and that was all that truly mattered. He would have stolen the Prism Stone again and again to ensure it.
Alōs merely missed the early days of idly sailing the Crying Queen with only the next pillage on his mind. Of drinking with his crew and exploring all the pleasurable corners of Aadilor. His life was never meant to be easy after leaving Esrom, but it had at least been enjoyable.
Since Ixō had given him the news a year ago of Esrom’s magic drying out, he was no longer enjoying anything.
A knock rapped against his door, pulling Alōs’s attention away from his windows.
“Enter.”
“You wanted to see me, Captain?” Kintra stepped in.
“How is the crew?” asked Alōs, turning in his chair to regard his quartermaster as she stopped before his desk. “Are they any better?”
“Most seem mollified after the lashings, though some would have preferred more blood.”
“They always do,” mused Alōs.
“Perhaps extra chores for her will quiet the rest?” suggested Kintra.
“Whatever you think necessary.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Kintra waited in silence as he stood, going to the decanter of whiskey on his bookshelf. He poured them each a glass.
“How is she?” he finally asked as she took his offered drink. Alōs did not need to meet his quartermaster’s eyes to know they would be studying him.
“Mika tended to her. She’s resting below deck.”