“I come seeking only a moment of your time, Your Grace. If my sentencing still stands afterward, so be it. I will not return to these lands again.”
“If your sentencing still stands, pirate, you will be arrested and executed.”
Alōs looked into Ariōn’s foggy eyes, and though his brother was blind, he felt the passing of understanding and excitement in the young king, despite his threat, to finally find his older brother kneeling here.
Soon our past will officially be behind us, so we may start a new beginning.
Yes, thought Alōs with a pang of longing. Let us hope.
Though the silver drippings of his brother’s sickness stood out prominently across his brown skin, Ariōn filled his throne well, with his shoulders back and chin tipped up with regal grace. A spark of pride shot through Alōs as he took him in. Ariōn made a great king.
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Alōs, bowing his head once more. “I understand.”
“It was risky coming here, knowing your possible fate.”
“Suicidal,” added High Surb Dhruva, her ruthless gaze pinned to Alōs.
“Which has me begging the question,” Ariōn continued: “What would grant such magnanimous forgiveness?”
“I have brought back the Prism Stone.” As Alōs reached into his satchel, guards stepped closer from where they flanked him, spears poking into his back.
“Stand down.” Ariōn raised a hand. “Let us see if he speaks true before we fill him with holes.”
Alōs gently laid out each piece of the red gem on the tiled floor.
They winked richly against the white marble, a whispering of their power churning in each of their centers.
“Come, pirate,” sneered Dhruva. “You think us fools to believe your lies, your pirate tricks. My king, he has not brought back the Prism Stone. He lays at your feet useless shards of—”
“Silence,” commanded Ariōn. “That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, High Surb Dhruva. I highly suggest it be your last.”
“My apologies, Your Grace.” The old woman bowed her repentance. “I merely want to make sure you could see what—”
“I see more than any of you do.”
The hall filled with a chill of wind as the young king summoned forth what power he could afford.
Alōs drew his brows together. He knew such an act would drain his strength quickly.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Dhruva bowed low once more, lips pursed. “Of course.”
Ariōn settled his cloudy eyes back on Alōs. “Hand me the stones.”
The throne room swam with tension as Alōs approached his brother. They were a study in contrasts. Alōs wore shadows, his form large and imposing. Ariōn’s slender body was wrapped in delicate white spun fabric.
Alōs met Ixō’s gaze, a gleam of relief in the surb’s expression, as he placed the pieces into his brother’s delicate hand.
Ariōn closed his eyes as he felt over the shards.
And then a small smile edged along his lips.
“You have indeed brought us back our Prism Stone,” he said. “I feel the whispers of the lost gods within, but will it provide us with what it once did, broken like this?”
Alōs held the young king’s gaze. “Let us put it back together and see.”
They stood in the Room of Wells, a cavernous chamber deep within the center of the palace. Alōs remained flanked by guards, but he paid little mind to their spears at his back. His thoughts had tumbled to the past, to the last time he had been here, in this ancient room where hundreds of waterfalls poured from the rocky walls. He had been a young man, possibly still a boy, creeping onto the thin walkway that floated above a liquid abyss. His eyes had been trained on the dais at the end, where the Prism Stone floated like a red sun under the thinnest of the waterfalls—the Weeping Waters. It cascaded from an opening in the ceiling. The epicenter of their protective bubble under the Obasi Sea. As the water hit the stone, it refracted into rainbows, powerful magic filling the wells far below, veins threaded throughout Esrom. He had been told at a young age how the Room of Wells was the beating heart of his kingdom, where the air sparkled with healing wet mist. Where the pure energy of the lost gods could be felt.
It had stolen Alōs’s breath then.
Now his hung still.
The Weeping Waters fell uselessly over an empty dais. No sparkle or refracting colors in the air.
Alōs could only sense a thin veil of magic clinging desperately to fading power. A dying soul.
“Even if this works, pirate,” whispered Dhruva at his side, “your sins against this land will never be forgotten.”
“If this works, surb, then I am glad to have sinned, for my actions to save my brother were not in vain, when you and your holy order did nothing until I forced your hand. I will never forget that.”
Dhruva’s lips thinned as she joined her council at the top of the walkway near the king.
What a useless lot of hot air, Alōs thought, studying the group.
Well, except one.
“Ixō, will you do the honors?” Ariōn nodded toward the white-haired surb, who stood with him closest to the round dais at the end. Ixō was never far from the young king.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Ixō stepped up to the dais, uncovering the three pieces of the Prism Stone.
“Alōs,” Ariōn called to him. “Will you stand beside me?”
“Your Grace,” cautioned one of the High Surbs, “I do not think that wise—”
“If my brother’s intentions were less than honorable, he would not have come to us so openly. Now please, give us space.”
Alōs ignored the surbs’ scathing glares as they backed away, allowing him to pass through and approach Ariōn and Ixō.
“You have done it, brother,” said Ariōn with quiet triumph as they stood side by side, facing where Ixō waited before the single waterfall sifting through the dais.
“Let us see what happens before you start congratulating,” replied Alōs.
“Even if it does not work, the actions you’ve taken for our people have been noted. We will deal with the consequences together.”
Our people.
Together.
Alōs could have reminded his brother that, no, it would only be Esrom’s king to bear the burden of this kingdom going topside. That if this did not work, Ariōn would have no other choice but to order his execution. A very public one, no doubt. But Alōs was tired of thinking of life’s cruel realities, so he said nothing. Let Ariōn have a moment to hope, he thought, for it had been so very long since he had been allowed.
The Karēk brothers stood shoulder to shoulder as Ixō sent tendrils of blue magic into the air to lift up each shard of the Prism Stone and float them. The surb spun his hands and worked his fingers as if he held the pieces himself, fitting the three together before the thin trickle of the Weeping Waters.
Alōs held his breath, the pounding of his heart an echo in his ears as the fate of his life and his brother’s kingdom hung on a slipping of red stones coming together.
For a grain fall nothing happened. The Prism Stone remained a dull, dead red, hovering above the High Surb’s hands. Alōs realized then just how much he had been wrung dry by life’s disappointments, for a part of him was not surprised. A numb acceptance.
And then—
“Look, Your Grace!” Ixō called.
Above him the seams within the jaggedly cut rock glowed red hot, fissures resealing what was broken, until the stone leaped high. It spun dizzily in place, and Alōs sensed what little magic was left in the room getting sucked into it.
Wind whipped through the cavernous chamber, sending a few High Surbs toppling to the thin walkway behind them. Alōs pulled his brother close as the room shook, and Ixō quickly ran to them, wrapping his arms around the young king as well, becoming another layer of protection over Ariōn.
Bits of moss and rock fell from walls as water soaked their clothes from the waterfalls being blown about. Alōs turned up his gaze to watch a liquid arm reach out from the central waterfall above the dais. It snatched the spinning, glowing stone from the air, pulling it into the Weeping Waters with a snap.
Magic and colors exploded.