Chapter 10

For the dozenth time that evening, Leras sifted through his belongings, checking for anything he might have missed.

Belt knife. Flint and tinder. Hardtack and waterskins. Saber, buckler, cloak…

He knew what he needed to bring. Knew what was necessary for survival in the wilderness. Yet this was no trip within the boundaries of the queendom. He would leave Gladelyl for seasons, perhaps even years. Anything forgotten he’d go without until returning home.

If he ever returned.

Leras startled at a knock on the door to his bedchamber. Shouldering his bags, he opened it to see his father standing there, limned by the cool light of the nighttime werelights. Bran had a satchel slung over one shoulder and a bow over the other. He wore pedestrian clothes and a cloak that matched Leras’s, both enchanted to be as hardy as boiled leather. His famed sword, Velori, was belted at his hip, the runes upon its blade hidden by a plain leather scabbard.

Once, when his father had scarcely been older than Leras himself, Bran had defended Elendol and won the queen’s favor, earning the sorcerous sword as his reward. Yet even with gray hair and wrinkles having their way with him, Leras wondered if he’d ever appeared more the infamous adventurer than he did then.

He and his father weren’t alone. Rolan lingered at Bran’s shoulder, and their mother and Syllana stood just behind. Though his brother carried no pack, Leras thought his clothes looked suspiciously suited for travel, his usual silk shirts, decorated coats, and tailored shoes exchanged for tougher clothes in shades of brown and green. At his look, the first prince gave him a wink. Leras only raised an eyebrow in return.

“I’d ask if you’re ready,” his father said, looking him up and down, “but it seems I already have my answer.”

“Nearly. Give me one moment.”

Leras peered into his room. He’d thought to take a moment to say a silent goodbye to it, but as he looked around, he discovered there was no need. Since Voissara’s visit, something had left the kintree and failed to return. A sense of belonging, perhaps. Or of security.

He wasn’t safe here, nor did he belong. He wondered if he ever had.

Rubbing a hand along his jaw, rough with stubble already, Leras turned back with a bracing smile. “Now I am.”

Together, the Venaliel family took the lift down to the stables, where stablehands brought out Bran and Leras’s mounts. In defiance of Gladelysh custom, his father rode a horse instead of a stor, a sleek roan gifted to him by his bond that he’d named Menmoras, the Worldtongue word for “memory.” As the saddlebags were fitted and their packs attached, the two men turned back to their family.

Leras knelt before his little sister. She looked at him with wide eyes, the bronze tendrils swimming swiftly through her silver irises.

“Be good for Momua, little monkey,” he told her. “Don’t let our Belosi lead you astray.”

“Like you’ve always been good?” Her eyes might have looked frightened, but her teasing hid it well.

Smiling, he tousled her hair, provoking a slap on his hand and a scowl. A moment later, Syl buried her face in his shoulder, her springy locks tickling his cheek. He squeezed her back, wondering how big she would be when he saw her next.

When she pulled away, their mother approached. After directing Syl to Bran, Ashelia turned and looked upon Leras. Her lips pressed tightly together, and her eyes shone with unspilled tears.

“Kaleras.”

Leras folded into his mother’s embrace. Heat pricked his eyes, but with the stablehands lingering nearby, he blinked it away. His mother clung to him like he was the mortar that held her together.

Eventually, she pulled back and gazed at him. Her usual fierceness had returned even as the tears lingered.

“Come back to me. Take no unnecessary risks. Do everything you can to stay safe. And listen to your father.”

“I will, Momua. I swear.”

“But do nothing he would have done at your age,” she added. “You know the stories. How much foolishness he landed himself in.”

“Don’t worry. I’m your son, too, remember?”

His mother smiled. Misery seethed in her eyes, but pride was present as well. Though impatience needled him, that glimpse squashed it.

Ashelia stared at him for several moments longer, eyes darting between his, before nodding sharply and stepping back. Her arms went up to her middle, as if needing to hold herself in.

Then Rolan sauntered up and slapped his shoulder, startling him. Grinning, Leras pulled him into a rough hug, squeezing tight enough to make his older brother gasp out a laugh.

“Any harder and you’ll snap my ribs!”

Leras took mercy on him and released him. For a moment, they looked fondly at each other before Rolan leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“See you soon, little brother.”

Before Leras could reply, he stepped away, turning his back on Leras, giving away nothing of his plans.

Shaking his head, Leras moved to Fable and accepted the reins from the stablehand with murmured thanks. Despite the late hour, his stor seemed as eager to be away as he, dancing from hoof to hoof and tossing his antlered head.

“Whoa, boy. Save it for the road.”

Before he could mount, a familiar deep voice called from the front of the stable. “A thousand pardons for interrupting, Your Eminence, Your Highnesses. But I think I’m to have a mount?”

Leras grinned and waved his friend over. “No need to stand on formality, Niom. We’re all co-conspirators tonight.”

Niom didn’t look as if he agreed as he tottered into the stables. The lumpy bag rising off his back seemed inordinately large for his short stature—but then, all his possessions were collected in that single pack, unlike Bran and Leras, who had the benefit of several saddlebags. The dwarf had never even ridden a creature, despite Leras’s offer to have him taught on Venaliel stock.

But after Niom had belatedly accepted his offer, Leras had anticipated this need. At a request to the stablehands, the pair of elves brought out a third mount. A crossbreed between a donkey and a stor, it was a mulish beast, boasting stubby antlers and a bulky body more appropriately sized to a dwarf, if still too tall. In addition to the saddle, empty saddlebags were strapped to the mule’s broad back to be filled from Niom’s bulky sack, for now secured behind the saddle.

Niom looked far from pleased at the prospect of riding, but he managed a bumbling thanks before the stablehands assisted him into the saddle. The mule proved surprisingly compliant as the dwarf scrambled up its side. Leras openly grinned, smiling all the wider at his family’s blatant embarrassment.

At last, his friend was settled in the saddle. Face bright red, Niom stared down in bafflement at the mule’s reins. Taking pity on him at last, Leras mounted Fable and moved his stor astride the shorter beast to take the mule’s reins.

“I’ll guide you until you’re more comfortable.”

“If that ever happens,” the dwarf muttered back.

“A good thing dwarves are resilient!” Rolan called to them. “I hope it applies to your rump as well.”

Niom, always more comfortable with Leras’s brother than the rest of his family, gave him a glare that set Rolan to chuckling.

Leras’s mother spoke from across the stables. “Rest assured, Niomadrum, I will see that your family is well looked after.”

Recovering from his fluster, Niom bowed his head toward the queen. “I am indebted to you, Your Eminence.”

“Nonsense. You travel to keep my son safe. It is I who is indebted to you.” Ashelia paused, a shrewd look gathering in her eyes. “See that you don’t get him into more trouble rather than less.”

“No promises,” Leras said with a wry smile, guiding a flustered Niom away from the exasperated queen.

Bran brought Menmoras next to the young men and extended a hand to Niom. In it he held a hammer such as warders wielded against armored foes. One end was a blunt, square head, while the other curved into a wicked spike, one that could pierce steel or hook a heel. Despite its crudity as a weapon, it was finely crafted, the metal detailed with patterns of golden leaves and the haft carved with motifs of vines and ferns.

“If you’re to protect our son, you’ll need to be armed,” the prince consort said. His eyes glistened from telling his daughter goodbye, but his smile was bright.

Niom tentatively accepted the hammer. The weight of the head dipped it toward the ground until he adjusted his grip and raised it. Leras hid a smile. With his friend’s expression so serious, now wasn’t the time for teasing—though it was certain to come later.

“I’ll do my best, Your Highness,” the dwarf said gravely.

Bran inclined his head, then glanced at Leras. “Shall we?”

“Ready when you are.”

With a last wave, Leras departed House Venaliel, his father and friend in tow.

* * *

At the late hour, few people occupied the streets of Low Elendol. Those who did stared as they passed and murmured among themselves. Leras wondered if they recognized their prince consort and second prince, or if it was a dwarf astride a mule that won their attention.

Only one inebriated nightelf had the temerity to speak their curiosity aloud. “Just where’re they going? Devils, I wouldn’t fancy a ride now…”

Reaching the Briar Bridge, they found the final two members of their party awaiting them. Rya and Faerna stood next to one another, though not too near, Leras noted wryly. Their stors were suited to their sizes, and with Faerna only slightly taller than Niom, there was quite a difference indeed. Each was dressed as expected: the warder in bark armor, the Ilthasi in her usual dark clothes. Rya was equipped with a warder’s usual armaments of saber, buckler, and a storbow fashioned from their antlers. Faerna had belted on a pair of knives to her hips and carried a light crossbow across her back, with more knives no doubt hidden from sight. While Rya chatted with a bridge guard, Faerna watched them, still as a tree on a windless night.

“Now that’s a sight I’d never thought to see,” Rya commented as they neared. “A dwarf on a stor! There’s a joke in there, just give me a moment.”

Niom scowled, but his greeting to her and Faerna remained cordial. Bran was warmer, alighting from his horse to grip their arms like old comrades, though only Rya returned the warmth. Leras remained astride his stor, as did Niom; it was unwise for the dwarf to dismount, and Leras didn’t trust letting the mule off its reins yet.

After thanking the city guards for admitting them onto the bridge, Bran remounted and turned his roan back to gaze over their company. A breeze off the Sanguine River ruffled his hair and cloak. Leras marveled at how suited his father seemed to this life.

“And we’re off!” Bran grinned. “Like leaves on the wind, tossed wherever the road takes us.”

Leras followed his father, tugging Niom and his mule along, and found his mood growing grimmer. All the winds of fate blew in one direction that he could see. At their end awaited dragons, full of self-righteous fury and unremitting arrogance.

He hoped they would not all burn for the soul buried within him.

* * *

Thank you for reading this sample of Shadow of Legends. I hope you enjoyed it!
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