Eagle's Guard

Chapter 8

3. In the RuinsAiden writhed under his blankets and then suddenly froze. His eyes flicked open and slowly focused on the wooden rafters above his head. No flames scorched the walls. No smoke poured up through the floorboards. Only the four familiar walls, the battered brown chest, and Andor’s bed against the next wall. Andor still slept, his body rising and falling gently with each breath.

Pale light shone through cracks in the wooden shutters. Aiden listened for any other noises, but there were none. It was still early. He closed his eyes again. It was the second night since the fire and the second night that the dreams had plagued him.

With a groan, Aiden sat up, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. He shivered a little as he left the heat of his blankets, but was grateful for the cool touch of the air on his fiery skin. A sheen of sweat plastered his forehead, as if there really had been a fire in his room during the night. He flexed his fingers, wincing as the skin of his palms tugged at the movement. The burns were healing but not fast enough for his liking. He swung his legs out of bed and gingerly pulled a clean shirt over his head. He paused, pressing his hand into his shoulder and biting down the pain. It was swollen to almost twice its normal size.

Standing slowly, he finished dressing and walked quietly to the window, easing open the shutters. The grey light of pre-dawn swept into the room and he leaned out over the windowsill. The garden was swathed in shadow and above him the roof lay inviting, calling him up to his usual perch. He dropped his head. It would be stupid to try.

Andor rolled over and squinted at his brother through sleepy eyes. “What are you doing Aiden?”

“Wishing I was up there,” said Aiden, turning to face his brother.

Andor rubbed his eyes. “Can’t you use runes to help?”

Aiden shook his head and touched his shoulder. “I think it would still hurt.”

Andor frowned, laying his head back on his pillow and shutting his eyes.

Aiden gave a small smile. He walked slowly from the room and downstairs to the darkened kitchen. He stoked the dying embers of the fire causing a spark to jump. He dropped the poker and stepped back suddenly. Was that how the fire had started, with someone simply causing sparks to fly, or had someone meant for it to happen? Aiden rubbed his brow and turned, taking the back door out to the garden. He sat down on the wooden bench below the workshop window, dew seeping into his trousers. Why would someone want to cause a fire?

He leaned his head back against the wall. Why would someone wear a cloak of runes? Who was the girl? And what was she doing there? He closed his eyes and pictured her tousled red-brown hair and tear-stained blue eyes. If he had not been on the roof that lunchtime, he would never have seen her. If he had not dreamed of the Silver Eagle the night before, he would never have been on the roof. And she would be dead.

The door clicked and Aiden’s eyes sprang open. His father stepped out to throw away a bowl of old dyeing water. The water splashed into a muddy puddle on the ground. Brokk turned and jumped at the sight of Aiden, a short laugh escaping his lips.

“You’re up early son.”

Aiden shrugged. “I’m always up early.”

“Surely not this early?” said Brokk, raising his eyebrows.

“I was awake anyway,” said Aiden.

Brokk frowned. “Did you dream about it again?”

Aiden nodded.

“Give it time,” said Brokk, taking a step towards him. “It will get easier.”

The dreams, yes, thought Aiden, but would the not knowing just keep eating away at him?

“Come on in,” said Brokk. “Your Mum’s put on the porridge.”

Aiden followed his father inside. The cosy glow of the fire danced across the familiar stones of the kitchen walls. Kari dropped the wooden spoon in the pot hanging over the fire and came to place her hands on either side of his shoulders.

“How are you feeling?” she said, looking into his eyes.

“Fine,” said Aiden.

“That shoulder’s still swollen,” said his mother, pressing her fingers to it.

“And sore,” said Aiden, shrugging out of her grasp. A dull throb was already emanating from the core of his muscles.

“How are the hands?” said Brokk, peering over Kari’s shoulder.

Aiden spread his hands palm up, skin stinging as it pulled against half healed blisters.

Brokk winced. “You won’t be working with those for a few more days yet.”

Kari spooned some porridge into a bowl and clunked it onto the oaken tabletop. Aiden slipped onto the bench to eat, his father taking the seat next to him. Aiden shuffled, trying to find a comfortable position, but he felt trapped. It was like his father was trying to keep him from getting into any more trouble.

A knocking sounded from the workshop and the front door creaked open and closed. “Hello,” came Branwyn’s voice. A second later she appeared in the kitchen doorway, two cloth-wrapped bundles in her arms. “I’ve brought some bread.”

“This is a lovely surprise,” said Brokk standing and taking the bundles from Branwyn, their warm aroma drifting across the room.

Aiden slipped out of his seat before his father could trap him again. He sidled over to Branwyn and bent his head to whisper in her ear. “I don’t think I can stand another day like yesterday. Stuck inside with nothing to do except get fussed over by my Mum.” He gave Branwyn a pained look.

She bit her lip, trying to disguise a smile. “Why do you think I’m here?” she whispered.

Aiden’s face lit up.

Branwyn turned to his parents and put her most charming smile on her face. Aiden hid a grin behind his hand.

“I’ve come to take Aiden off your hands for a day,” she said, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Kari turned to Aiden, her forehead creasing. “Are you sure you are rested enough Aiden?”

Aiden nodded. “I’m fine Mum. It will do me good to get out.”

Brokk folded his arms, his eyebrow raised. “Just take care, especially if you’re thinking of investigating that burnt building. We know what you’re like.”

Aiden dropped his eyes. His father knew him too well.

“You’re not thinking of going back there?” said Kari, her voice sharpening.

Aiden glanced between his mother and father. “I have to go back,” he said quietly, meeting his mother’s wide eyes, willing her to understand. “I need to know what happened there. You don’t know what it was like. What it’s like now.”

Branwyn cut in. “Don’t worry Aunt Kari,” she said. “I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

“Well, be careful,” said Kari, gently squeezing his arm.

“And Aiden,” said Brokk. “Don’t spend too long there. That place has caused you enough trouble already.”

Aiden nodded and followed Branwyn outside to the bustle of the street. Pattering footsteps and the babble of voices filled the air around them. Branwyn darted ahead, past a man leading a pair of horses. Aiden grimaced and waited for them to pass. On the far side of the road Branwyn waited, her eyes crinkled with laughter.

“Feeling a bit stiff?”

Aiden frowned. “I’m just taking it easy today.”

She laughed and linked her arm through his making Aiden wince as she tugged at his sore shoulder. They walked together to the end of their street before turning onto King’s Avenue. Carts stacked high with flour or vegetables from the northern farmlands trundled on towards the Palace, while empty ones headed back through the City and beyond the Wall. They kept to the edges of the street, weaving past merchants setting up stalls for the day.

“How did you manage to get out of work?” Aiden asked Branwyn as they walked.

Branwyn smiled. “I told my father that you needed my help.”

“And he just let you go?” said Aiden.

Branwyn laughed. “Unlike you, I don’t have a reputation for getting into trouble.”

Aiden could not help but smile back at her.

The pair continued along King’s Avenue until they saw the long old buildings that had once served as barracks to the City. They were just houses now, but many old soldiers still chose to live there. A short way past them the street where the burning building had stood was now blocked by a wooden barricade guarded by two soldiers. Aiden pulled Branwyn to a halt and pointed.

“Is it down there?” she whispered.

Aiden nodded. “We need to find a way past.” The barricade was simple, a ramshackle fence really, but with the soldiers standing there they could not get by without being seen. He let his eyes wander along the street. It was not unlike his own, the ground cobbled and lined with rows of stone houses sitting above shops or workshops, deserted since the fire. The spiky tops of evergreens in the lane behind peeked above the roofs. If only he could climb, it would be easy to scale a tree and scramble onto the roofs.

Branwyn gripped his arm. “There’s no one guarding the lane. Once we’re round the corner all we have to do is sneak through a garden.”

“Of course,” said Aiden, they would not need to climb anything at all. He made his way across the main thoroughfare, leading Branwyn into the shade of wooded lane behind the houses. The noise of the street faded away.

They followed the lane until it felt like they were far enough from the soldiers. The houses here had darkened windows, their chimneys bare of smoke. Deserted. Aiden tugged at Branwyn’s sleeve. He snuck across the garden, leading her through the gap between the houses. Just before emerging onto the street, he stopped, Branwyn almost running into his back. Aiden frowned at her and then tentatively peered out onto the street. The soldiers were just visible, but they were too busy looking outwards to notice them.

“Come on,” he said to Branwyn, pulling her out from hiding.

Aiden led the way a little further along the street. A fine layer of ash covered the cobbles, sticking to their boots as they walked. Blackened stonework had been pulled into piles of rubble on either side of the road. The dry air caught in his throat and he almost expected to see the fire still raging, but only the smell of scorched air remained. The street was cold, crumbling and silent, as if the emptiness of the ruined building was spreading. Aiden tugged his cloak closer. He had come so close to death.

“Are you alright?” said Branwyn, coming alongside him.

He shrugged. “It’s just memories. I almost died here.”

Branwyn squeezed his arm.

“Let’s look around,” said Aiden.

They approached the ruins. The blackened walls stood ragged, only the back wall still standing as high as the roof had once been. Jagged spikes of wooden beams hung from their slots, a few ashy floorboards still clinging to them. Part of the interior wall survived, splitting the ruins into two rooms buried under stacks of rubble, though in a few places the ground was clear as if someone had already been there trying to create some semblance of order.

Aiden stepped through the skeleton of the doorway, moving to his right to follow the path he would have taken to the stairs. Branwyn moved behind him into the other room. Subconsciously he drew Ailm, the seer, and brought the shimmering rune up to his eye. It showed him nothing but the charred and cracked stones and crumbling remains of floorboards. What else had he expected to see? He kicked a stone. It skittered across the ground pulling others with it until a whole heap came rushing down around his feet. Aiden jumped aside, losing control of Ailm.

What was he really looking for amongst the rubble? The reason he had survived? The reason he had almost died? Something to prove it had not just been a freak accident? He climbed further through the rubble, drawing Ailm again and holding it between his forefinger and thumb. He picked through the stones, tossing some aside with his free hand. He flipped a piece of wood over with his foot. It had been part of a chair, part of someone’s life. He stopped, feeling suddenly like an intruder in someone else’s sorrow.

Aiden lowered the rune from his eye, but just before he let it fade completely it caught a brilliant light shimmering softly amongst the stones like a star. It could only be one thing: the afterglow of magic. And by its brightness something very powerful must have been cast here. Aiden’s pulse quickened and he stepped towards the light.

It came from a piece of rubble still half buried. Aiden bent down to extract it, ignoring the uncomfortable stretch of his muscles and the pinpricks of pain in his fingertips as he dragged the stone out. It was about the size of his hand. One of its faces was flat, while the others were rough and irregular as if they had been cracked in the fire. Aiden looked at it through Ailm and gasped. The stone was full of runes, so bright he could hardly believe they had already fulfilled their purpose. There was Teine, fire, and Peith, the thunderbolt, Nuin, the spear, and Uath, dread. This was it. This had caused the explosion.

Footsteps sounded behind him. “I’ve found something Bran,” he said.

Before he could stand, something cold slid along the side of his neck. He jerked his head away, but stopped, dead still, as he caught sight of a blade.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” said a voice that was definitely not Branwyn’s.

Aiden let Ailm fade into the air and tried to still his racing heartbeat. He clutched the stone tighter, its rough edges biting into his raw palms. He would use it as a weapon if he had to.

“Answer me,” said the voice again. A man’s voice, with the ring of authority.

“My name is Aiden Brokksson,” said Aiden through a clenched jaw, his neck taut with the strain of keeping still.

“Aiden Brokksson?” said the voice, rising with a hint of surprise.

The cold sword tip fell from Aiden’s neck and he let out the breath he had been inadvertently holding. He stood up slowly and turned around to take in a tall young man only a few years older than himself, with brown eyes narrowed into a frown. He was dressed in hardened leather armour, a sword held comfortably in his hand. A long midnight blue cloak hung from his shoulders and a blue band embroidered with a golden feather was tied around his arm. An Eagle Rider, thought Aiden. But no, where was the Eagle?

“You’re the one who saved them, aren’t you?” said the man.

His face reminded him of someone. “Do I know you?” said Aiden.

“No,” he said, shifting his grip on his sword. “But my father told me about you. It was quite something, the way you rescued those people. The way you used the runes… only Eagle Riders and wizards are that good.”

Aiden shifted uncomfortably. Was it accusation or admiration in the man’s voice?

“What are you doing here?” said the man, raising his sword ever so slightly.

“Why should I tell you?” said Aiden, gripping the rock in his hand tighter, wondering how quick the man would be if he attacked.

A bemused smile crossed the man’s face. “I’m not the one who sneaked in past the guards.”

Aiden said nothing.

The man smiled again and lifted his head up high. “I am Tristan Arthursson of the Feather Guard. My father is Captain Arthur of the Eagle Riders. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

That was who Tristan reminded him of. The Eagle Rider who had rescued him from the fire.

Branwyn appeared through the ruins, a small noise of shifting rubble trickling through the air. She froze at the sight of them. Tristan spun around, jumping to the side and lifting his sword in one sleek motion to face both Aiden and Branwyn at the same time. Branwyn flinched and drew into herself, but she did not make a sound.

Aiden took a step closer to Branwyn. “Don’t hurt her,” said Aiden.

“So this is Bran,” said Tristan, raising an eyebrow.

“My name is Branwyn Aransdottir,” said Branwyn, lifting her chin and stepping up next to Aiden.

Tristan pointed the sword at her. “Then maybe you will tell me what you’re doing here? Or do I have to call the guards?”

Branwyn took a step into Aiden’s side and he felt the tremor running up her arm. Her eyes were wide, but her lips were pressed firmly together, silently promising him to say nothing.

“Branwyn’s not got anything to do with this,” said Aiden. “I came because I wanted to see the building again. I almost died and I want to know why.”

Tristan’s eyes flicked between them before he slowly lowered his sword. “And have you found anything?” He nodded to the stone Aiden still held.

Aiden looked at the stone too. Should he trust Tristan with what he had found or would it only get them into more trouble? He held out the rock, it might be the only way to find out more. “It’s covered in runes. Teine, Peith, Nuin, Uath.”

“Fire, the thunderbolt, the spear, dread,” Tristan mused, taking the stone from him and turning it over in his hands. “How did you find it? Did you use Ailm?” he asked.

Aiden tensed. It felt wrong telling a stranger that he could use magic but then Tristan already knew he could. He nodded hesitantly. “The runes on the stone have a strong afterglow.”

Tristan nodded, drawing Ailm, the seer, in the air for himself. It flickered and was not as bright as Aiden would have drawn. Tristan squinted through the circle of the rune. “I can see the afterglow, but not the individual runes.” He looked up. “That must have taken some skill.”

Aiden shifted on his feet but said nothing.

Tristan stepped back and sheathed his sword. “Thanks for the stone,” he said. “Now if I were you, I’d get out of here before someone alerts the guards.” He turned and began to walk out from the ruins.

“Wait,” said Aiden, calling after him.

Tristan stopped.

“Do you know what this place was?” said Aiden, pointing to the ruins.

“A house,” said Tristan, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Belonging to the old woman you saved.”

Aiden frowned. “But why did it explode?”

Tristan held the rock aloft, smiling. “Because someone put runes into this rock.”

“I know that,” said Aiden, clenching his jaw. “But why bother?”

“Didn’t you see it?” said Tristan. He stepped back through the rubble and came to a place where the wall was still mostly intact. He pointed to a black mark that had been scraped with charcoal onto the stone. It looked like a crown but upside down. Aiden wondered why he had not noticed it before. “That’s a Brathadair symbol,” said Tristan.

“Brathadair?” said Branwyn, stepping up beside them. “Wasn’t it the Brathadair who killed the Queen all those years ago?” She looked to Tristan, a frown creasing her brow.

“They did,” said Tristan, regarding her calmly. “And they’ve barely done a thing since… until now.”

“So why are they back?” Aiden mused. And why had they targeted this house? Who was the old woman that the Brathadair wanted her dead?

“I wish I knew,” said Tristan. “But for now, you should get out of here before I change my mind about letting you go.”

“I have one last question,” said Aiden.

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

“The girl I saved. Do you know who she was?”

Tristan shrugged. “Probably just a servant girl. And lucky that you were there to rescue her.”

Aiden nodded, dropping his head. Was that all? He felt sure there was more to her. Maybe he should tell Tristan about the girl’s cloak. Maybe she was the one who had set off the explosion. But the image of her amidst the flames, her tear-filled blue eyes wide with fear, jumped to his mind. No. It had not been her. Mentioning the cloak would only cast suspicion on her and Aiden was not going to betray her.

“You have five minutes,” said Tristan, drawing him back to the present. He nodded once to them, turning away and leaving them standing alone in the ruins.