Page 11 of Andreas

Areanel listened to Percival moan about how he grew tired of watching her eyes dart from one side of the page to another, and he incessantly poked her shoulder with sharp jabs of his index finger. It annoyed her to no end, and she turned to swat him with the book she had been scanning through, slapping his hand away. Curiosity and boredom got the better of him, though, and he leaned over her, pressing a hand to either shoulder as his chin dug into the top of her head. Percival’s chin moved against her, and vibrations buzzed against her head as he asked, ‘What exactly are you looking for in these prehistoric ledgers, anyway? Look at them—they’re practically falling apart!’

‘Stop joking around, Percy.’ A sharp sting shot up her shoulder when she threw her elbow back to hit him but accidentally caught the edge of the table leg. Hissing in pain, she let the book drop in her lap as she rubbed at the reddened area.

‘No. I’m actually curious, sissy.’

Shoving away from him, she stood abruptly and began pacing the already worn and dusty rug; the design of an enormous dark, scaled dragon had faded over the years. Walking back and forth to arrange her racing thoughts, Areanel began to explain. ‘Well, Nemelda said—’

‘And Nemelda is?’ Percival interrupted, kicking his feet back up on the table and lounging against the back of his chair.

How was he always so relaxed? Did he not care? If the Northern Tribes were involved in the fire, then they must be in league with the rebels. What if they were part of the rebellion? How could Percival be so calm? The rebels didn’t just want to overthrow their father—they want to harm their family. They already had.

Areanel huffed. ‘The young nymphling at the village. She said that she saw beings dressed in dark armour, carrying jagged swords. The same description for those who followed and assisted Tar-Angulócë, the Dragon King, in the last war—’

‘Stop, Areanel! There is no Tar-Angulócë. Ivan is dead.’ Percival’s hand shot out in an exasperated gesture, pointing at the portrait in the bronze frame on the back wall that Areanel so desperately tried to avoid. ‘The war ended years ago.’

She didn’t want to consider the implications of her traitorous thoughts, but Percival needed to understand. ‘Don’t you think I know that, Percy?’ A heavy weight fell on her shoulder alongside her grief. Living without Ivan—knowing he was killed because of their father’s ambition and that she had done nothing to prevent it—pressed like heavy chains. ‘It’s my fault. I should have been there. I should have healed him. Done something!’

‘You can’t blame yourself, Areanel. Bringing him back was impossible.’

‘But I already—’ Biting her tongue, Areanel froze. Her words halted abruptly as she pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes and turned her face away. Only her father knew the truth, and that was already too dangerous. If Percival found out, he, too, would be in danger.

‘What?’ His head tilted, tone filled with the sugary, bitter edge of curiosity.

Turning away, Areanel gnawed at her lip until she broke the skin. The metallic iron taste of blood suffused her mouth. ‘No one ever found his body.’ Her hand nervously played with the necklace that lay against her sharp collarbones. ‘The nymph, Nemelda—she said she found this.’ Digging into her pocket, Areanel could not bring herself to even look at the blood-red fabric and so threw it to Percival, who lounged idly in his chair.

He caught it with one hand, and Areanel watched as he slowly ran a thumb along the cotton cloth, a silhouette of a dragon in flight embroidered at its centre. ‘This is Ivan’s emblem,’ he stated.

Trepidation prickled the back of her neck. Her sudden uncertainty was acidic and tart. She gulped, stuffing down her racing thoughts. ‘What if…’ she hesitated, gaze darting to the sudden sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Areanel sighed heavily as she watched Percival, light on his feet, step towards that portrait and the looming figures glaring down at them. Her fingers pinched the cool, delicate metal that lay against her collarbones as she continued to anxiously fiddle with her necklace.

The small, dainty chain was a gift from her father. Something he had given to her after her youngest child’s, Aurora’s, birth. She often found solace and reassurance in it. The mere act of holding it close was enough to comfort her, though Areanel was unsure of why.

The clean-cut gem dangled on a delicate silver chain, representing no significance to her other than the fact it had been one of the rare occurrences where her father showed her care.

Joyful laughter. That was what she reminisced on when she held the necklace close. Her father had laughed and shed joyful tears when he presented her with the gift. Nostalgia gripped her in its tight clutches at the memory.

Now, she pressed the deep purple, almost black, gem—the colour of Andrean royalty—against her lips in a physical attempt to stop her worried thoughts from spilling over her lips.

‘I found a similar rag beneath Resmun—’ Areanel’s voice cracked, thick and heavy with grief, still potent and raw. She had to swallow hard as a lump formed in her throat. Biting her tongue until she tasted metal, Areanel pushed her emotions away, locking them tightly behind a door. This was not the time to grieve.

‘You can’t think that Ivan has anything to do with this. He’s dead.’ Percival’s boots thudded, hitting the ground as he turned from the portrait and stormed towards Areanel, making her jump. But it was the angry look in his shining cobalt eyes that made her step back and drop the necklace. How many times had she seen their father wear that same expression? It was almost identical.

But Percival was not her father. ‘I know that,’ she hissed. ‘What I meant was, someone is using Ivan’s name—his reputation—and if they continue to do so, they will drag it through the dirt. The rebels have taken it upon themselves to associate him with such deplorable acts, and I will not allow that! I promised—no! I vowed to eradicate this world of every last rebel. I intend to follow through with that, no matter the cost.’

Percival snatched the book she had been reading and flipped over the page, a crease forming at his brow as he intently examined the contents. ‘Then what are you researching?’ His confusion was charged like a lingering grey cloud in a clear sky.

Plopping onto the larger seat behind the desk with a huff of exasperation, Areanel’s head fell into her hands. She rubbed at her temples in worried circles. ‘In the war, Ivan allied himself with the clans of The North,’ she recalled. ‘In some of the tomes, I found that the Northern Tribes are followers of the god Dullahan the Dark.’

The dark grey cloud seemed to grow upon Percival’s sharp features, almost identical to hers. ‘I thought the northerners followed Andas, God of Death?’

‘They did. According to the text,’ Areanel nodded to the book in his hand, ‘that was before. There is an obscure theory that Dullahan was first mortal. The Northern Tribes believe he was Andas’s first harbinger, but because of his undying loyalty, she gifted him godhood. I guess, over time, things changed—and so did their faith. Instead of Andas, they now worship Dullahan.’

‘How does that help us?’

‘Dullahan was known by the humans as Donn—the dark one. His armour was as dark as shadow. They even believed he commanded them.’

Like Rymedur. Areanel could not help the thought that wormed its way to the forefront of her mind. Was he connected somehow? But how? Maybe it had something to do with his human heritage. His father was human after all.

‘He carried a jagged sword made of a stone so dark it seemed to absorb all light. They say the sword pulsed with power, and if you were struck, it consumed your soul, sucking it in. Perhaps the clans carry similar swords and dress in the same armour? A way to illustrate their faith and loyalty to Dullahan?’