The Source (Creasan #1)

Ana sat on a bench in the garden with a book in her hand while Ulric and Althalos sparred, though she was hardly paying any attention to the words on the page. There was something so addictive about watching her child smile with innocent bliss. If she could, she’d like to capture the moment in a portrait forever. It was so rare that she was able to see anyone look as carefree as Althalos looked when he sparred with Ulric.

For Ulric’s part, he appeared to be having just as much fun. What used to be just the sound of wood slapping wood had now become metal crashing against metal as Althalos improved. Ana liked to think he’d be as good as Fendrel one day.

Her son let out a mighty roar as he knocked Ulric’s blade to the side and lunged forward, poking the end of his sword into his teacher’s chest.

Ulric stared down with a proud grin.

Althalos dropped the sword and threw his arms up in victory. “Did you see that, Mother? I won!”

Ana laughed and applauded. “Of course I did. Well done, dear!”

Ulric grinned. “Only took twelve hundred times. Real sword too heavy for you?”

“Obviously not,” he said. “Because I won.” 
 Ulric laughed. “When did you get so good?”

“He had a marvelous teacher,” Ana said.

“And I’ve been practicing with my friend,” Althalos said, picking up the sword again.

The adults shared a look of confusion. “Who is this friend, darling?” Ana asked.

“Her name is Sybbyl. She is a very good fighter, and she offered to help me with my sword training.” He crinkled his nose playfully at Ulric. “I got tired of losing.”

“I don’t believe I know a Sybbyl at this court.” Ana glanced at Ulric. “Do you?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say that I do.”

Any other mother would have shrugged it off and been glad her son had made a friend. Ana was not any other mother. A swirling feeling took up in her stomach. “Do you know her parents’ names, Althalos?”

He lowered his sword and gave his mother a look. “Parents are boring. Why would we talk about them?”

“Well, I—“

“We’d love to meet her one day,” Ulric cut in. He gestured to the palace. “You best get cleaned up before supper. Don’t need your father bringing the wrath of Malum down on me because his son showed up filthy to the dining room.”

The boy rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue before racing off to do as he was told.

Ulric watched him go with a small smile and shook his head. “If I’d behaved like that as a child, my mother would have had me beaten. No, no, she’d have beaten me herself.”

Ana didn’t even answer him, her worried eyes locked on her son’s form.

Ulric’s joking smile faded as he noticed her concern. “What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”

She shook her head but didn’t take her eyes from Althalos’ retreating form. “Nothing.”

“Perhaps you might afford me more credit than that.” He approached her warily before carefully sitting several inches away from her on the bench. “You suspect something dangerous in this new friend of his?”

“Althalos does not have friends,” she said, finally bringing her gaze to the Guard’s. “I have tried. There is not a child under the sun that is willing to endure his…regal personality.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Ulric chuckled.

“No one, Ulric. None at all.” She picked at the stitches of flowers in her dress. “And out of nowhere he’s met a friend whom none of us have heard of?”

“Well, it’s a large palace, Your Majesty. It isn’t so farfetched that you don’t know—“

“I do,” she said. “I know everyone in this blasted court. I know every lord, every lady, every Guard, every servant, and every child they’ve ever borne. I know all their names and their ancestries. I know everyone. But I do not know who this Sybbyl is.”

He nodded, gazing out over the garden. “Would you like me to find out?”

Ana stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Ulric shrugged. “Follow the Young Highness around. See where he goes. Who he’s been talking to. He might be a good swordsmen, but he’s no warrior yet. He won’t even know I’m there.”

Spying on the future King of Creasan. An offense for which she could be killed. If it were Favian, he’d have her beheaded in seconds, she had no doubt. But that nauseous feeling had not abandoned her and her heart had begun beating hard.

She may not be the best wife or the best queen. She may not have been made for palace life or have a mind for politics. But she was a mother. She valued that position before all others. And she would not be spying on the future King of Creasan. She’d be protecting her son.

Ana nodded. “You will tell no one of your findings except myself. Do you understand? The king is not to know.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

She nodded again, this time to herself. Her anxiety was already beginning to alleviate. Ulric would never let anything happen to Althalos. Besides his occupational duty, Ana often liked to think Ulric thought of Althalos as his own son. He’d keep him safe.

“You look better today.”

Ana turned to him in surprise.

“That is, if you don’t mind my saying,” he said with a crooked smile.

“That is rather improper, Sir Ulric.”

He ignored her. “No bruises. At least, none that I can see this time.”

She glared at him. “You forget to whom you are speaking.”

“I could never forget, Your Majesty.” Ulric gripped the edges of the bench, not meeting Ana’s eyes. “Might I ask you a question?”

She ought to say no. She ought to thank him for his services and return to the palace. As he had said, supper will be starting soon, and who knew the anger Favian would bestow upon her if she was not on time. She ought to be on her way. She knew all of this. Which is why she surprised even herself when she said, “Yes.”

“Why do you watch us?”

Ana frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Althalos and myself. Whenever we spar, you are there. Day or night, rain or shine. Surely the queen has more important details to attend to than the state of her son’s swordsmanship.”

She shrugged. “I like to watch my son play. Is it so difficult to imagine that?”

“Might I ask you another question, Your Majesty?” This time he didn’t wait for an answer. “Are you happy?”

Ana’s body froze. “Pardon me?”

“In this palace, are you happy? Does the king make you happy? Does anyone or anything make you happy?”

Most often, it was easy for Ana to forget the near decade of age between them. Ulric often seemed older than his years. But questions like those showed such naiveté that Ana nearly laughed. “Leaders do not bother themselves with happiness,” she told him. “We seek it for others.”

“Perhaps that is the goal,” he allowed, “but that isn’t really human nature, is it?”

“I don’t—“

“You see, I have a theory for why you like to watch us spar.” Ulric hadn’t moved even a fraction of an inch closer to Ana, but somehow she felt as if the space between them had shrunk exponentially. He finally turned his head to lock his wonderfully bright brown, nearly red, eyes with hers, and Ana felt fixed in place. “I believe there are two reasons,” he continued, his voice low and quiet in the pleasant afternoon. “The first is Althalos, of course. You wish to see him happy for this small bit of time before he is forced to renounce the emotion in favor of the crown. It is a good reason, a strong reason. One any good mother would have. But the second reason,” his voice dropped even lower, and Ana found herself leaning in to hear him better, “the reason you stay behind when Althalos has already run back to the palace, is me.”

Ana’s eyes widened at his audacity.

“Because deep down, past the inane etiquette you abide by, past your worries of other people’s opinions, past your fear of your husband, you know I could make you happy.”

“Sir Ulric,” Ana admonished in a whisper, glancing around for eavesdroppers. There were none in the open garden.

“Your husband bought you when you were hardly sixteen,” he went on. “He paid you the bit of attention necessary to keep you docile until you managed to have a son. Once your purpose was served, he tossed you out with the rubbish.”

“Please, stop,” she breathed, a tear trickling down her cheek.

But he didn’t. “I know you better than he ever could, I know your son better than he does, because you are my family.”

“What do you want from me, Ulric?” Ana burst. “I am married to the king. I am his. Your pretty words and hopeful thoughts will not change that. Any attempt at doing so will only cause more heartache and despair than we already suffer. I will not promise you anything or—“

Before she could blink, Ulric cupped her face in his hands and pulled her lips to his.

For a moment, Ana was stunned. Her eyes flew wide and her fingers spasmed in her lap. But then the warmth of him seeped into her, the smell of him enveloped her, and her lids drifted shut. His strong hands held her delicately, his lips were soft and giving. She could feel his heart beating furiously in his chest as he drew her closer to him.

It was an odd feeling that swallowed her at that moment, one she hadn’t felt in a very long time. A security, a safety, a contentedness. She’d almost forgotten what those words meant, but as Ulric kissed her harder and she savored the taste of his lips, she remembered.

“I love you, Ana,” he breathed against her lips before he crashed his mouth to hers again.

Her heart swelled and she nearly thought she’d explode. She drew her fingers through his hair, clutching at the roots. It had been so long since she’d been held like this, since she’d felt wanted. Ulric’s hands moved from her cheeks to wrap around her and press against her back, circling her in a bubble of protection. She felt she could get lost there, on that bench, and not give a damn. The last time a man had told her he loved her—

The memory hit her like a canon and she wrenched away from Ulric.

Ana staggered slightly as she lurched away from the bench, her knees wobbling so badly that she nearly collapsed. She shook her head vehemently. “No, no, we can’t—“

“Ana, it’s all right,” he said softly. “No one is here.”

“No,” she said again, stumbling backwards. Ulric’s lips were puffy and pink from hers. Dear Aestus, if anyone had spotted them, if anyone had happened by—How could she have been so stupid? So reckless? “I can’t. Not again.”

“Wait—“

But Ana had already hiked up her skirts and fled in the direction of the palace.

Carac’s leg twitched and everyone immediately straightened. Thea had resolved to let Peronell handle most of it. He knew Carac better than any of them. If anyone could calm Carac, it would be him.

Carac grunted and groaned as he slowly came to consciousness. Isolde laid another damp cloth over his face, and he flinched hard at the unknown touch. He scrambled into a sitting position. “What is that? Who’s there?” He cried out in pain and reached for his eyes.

Peronell quickly intercepted his reach. “It’s all right, love. I’m here.”

“Perry?” Carac blindly reached for Peronell. “It hurts.”

“I know, I know.” Peronell took hold of his hand, swallowing hard. “Do you remember what happened?”

Carac took a moment to think it over, and Thea could see the exact moment when it all came back to him. “But…how am I alive?”

“We made it to Gentis,” Peronell explained. “The ogres helped us. Apparently the cold weather saved your life.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing that information. Then, in a very small voice, he asked, “Is Thea mad at me?”

“Of course not,” she answered quickly. “I’m just glad you survived.”

“We all are,” Isolde said.

Carac turned his head this way and that as he looked for his friends. “When can I take the cloth off?”

The group exchanged nervous glances. Isolde sat on the edge of the bed. “I can remove it for you,” she said. “But I need you to promise you won’t touch your eyes. You’re still healing.”

He nodded.

She paused a moment, meeting Peronell’s gaze. He lowered his head in permission, and then Isolde reached forward and gently peeled back the cloth.

The sight of Carac’s hollowed out face shocked Thea just as much this time as it had before. But it was even more disturbing this time round because Carac was awake and moving, looking very much like an animated corpse. He looked in the general direction of where Isolde was. “I promise I won’t look. You can do it.”

Peronell was the one to answer him in a very tender tone. “She’s already done it, love.”

Carac’s brows furrowed. “No, she…I can’t see anything.” His voice became louder as panic set in. “Perry, why can’t I see anything? I can’t open my eyes!”

“Mate, you survived a mirka,” Merek said, giving Carac’s foot a squeeze from where he stood at the bottom of the bed.

“What does that mean?” he nearly shrieked.

“You can’t open your eyes,” Peronell started slowly, “because they’re gone.”

Carac was already shaking his head, so quickly that it looked more like a twitch. “What do you mean ‘they’re gone’? My eyes can’t just be—“

“You looked.” Peronell had tried to say it as delicately as possible, but those two words came down on Carac like a hammer.

The poor boy’s breathing picked up speed and his hands flew up to his eyes, prodding the space where no organ existed, moving so quickly Isolde hadn’t been able to stop him. When he removed his fingers, they were shaking. A trembling breath coughed out of him and he began to cry. As sad as it was, the sight made Thea’s stomach roll; there was nowhere from which tears could fall. It made the entire image look wrong.

“It’s going to be all right,” Peronell told him.

“No, it won’t!” Carac’s hands fisted in the sheets. “It most definitely won’t. I have no eyes, Perry! And it hurts! It hurts so much! Isolde,” he said, turning hopefully to the healer, “when the pain goes away, could I…will I get better?”

“Carac…” Isolde looked to Merek for help.

Merek cleared his throat. “Mate, you know that no one has survived a mirka before. We don’t exactly know the rules of the game here.”

“So it’s possible?”

Isolde squeezed her eyes shut. Thea saw how much it pained her to say it so she spoke for her. “No, Carac. It’s not.”

He persisted. “But Merek just said we don’t know—“

Thea cut him off, “Your eyes were burned out of your head. They will not come back.” And then, less severely, she added, “I’m sorry, Carac.”

His entire body slumped at her words. Thea felt a pang of guilt and wished there was something positive she could tell him, something she could do to help him heal. She wished she could go back in time and be the one to look at the mirka instead of him.

Isolde stood. “Perhaps we should give you some privacy.” She guided Merek toward the door with a hand on his back. Fendrel and Brom followed behind. Thea gave Peronell a reassuring smile. Their argument was entirely forgiven and forgotten; if anyone could understand anger in the face of grief, it was her. She glanced once more at Carac before leaving, clicking the door softly behind her.

Carac had always hated the dark. He’d hated it as a babe, as a toddler, as a child, and even now. He’d often asked Peronell to leave a candle burning at night. When he returned to The Source’s home in the cave, he rushed through the darkness of the tunnels until he reached the torches. He wasn’t certain precisely why he despised the dark so much; he liked to think it was a bit of evolution that had stuck with him. Terrors come out in the dark, villains and monsters.

What had he done to be condemned to live in that terror forever?

He could hear Peronell’s breathing, knew he hadn’t left with the others, but it felt nearly foreign. There should be an image to go with that breathing, a picture of Peronell’s loving eyes gazing back at him while he did.

It just felt wrong.

But more than that, more than the fear and the alien feeling, was the pain. The agonizing, searing pain that circled every nerve ending, that felt as if it was stabbing at his eyes, that enveloped his entire face in its terrible heat.

“When will the pain stop?” he asked Peronell.

“They aren’t sure. This has never happened before, so any time period they give is probably wrong—“

“When?”

Peronell paused, and Carac heard him blow out a deep sigh. “They don’t think it ever will.”

If it was possible, Carac’s heart fell further. “What?”

“You were supposed to die, Carac. Do you understand that? But instead, you’re still here. You survived a mirka attack, and it’s wonder—“

“Everyone keeps saying that as if I should be grateful to be the first. Like I should be happy I get to suffer like this.”

“You should be happy to be alive, Carac.”

He wanted to cry. He wanted to let loose great heaving sobs, but no tears would come. Just a pressure in his forehead and nose that made the pain in his eyes so much worse. He whispered, “What does it look like?”

Instantly, he replied, “It looks fine.”

“We don’t lie to each other, Perry. Tell me what it looks like.”

Peronell’s voice sounded very sad when asked, “Why?”

That was all Carac needed to hear. “I look like a monster.”

Peronell cupped his cheek. “No. No, you look like the boy I love. Strong and bright and—“

“Stop it,” he snapped. “I felt it. I reached up and felt the gaping holes in my face. Do not lie to me—“

“What do you want me to do, Carac?” He felt the bed dip as Peronell leaned closer to him. “Tell me what you want me to say, tell me what you want me to do, and I will. I promise. I just…I don’t want you to feel—“

“There’s nothing you can do.” Carac felt snot dribble out of his nose and he quickly wiped it away. He felt isolated in this new world of darkness and agony. No one could understand this path, nor did he want anyone to. “Please go.”

Peronell drew back in surprise. “What?”

“I just—I need a minute. Please, Perry. Go.”

There was an awkward beat of silence and Carac wished he could squeeze his eyes shut. All he could manage was an unnatural furrow of his brows.

The sheets shifted as Peronell released his hand and the floor creaked as he stood. He offered a simple, “Okay,” and Carac heard the door squeak slightly as he left.

Carac’s head fell back against the pillows and he let himself cry, tears or no. He drew his knees up to his chest and held on to them for dear life. His head pulsed with pain, his eye sockets vibrated with each sob. Everything about this felt wrong and he was to be stuck like this the rest of his life.

On the other side of the door, Peronell listened, his heart breaking. Helplessness weighed him down and he sunk to the floor.

The group of them sat together at the bar of the ogre tavern. Or rather, not at the bar but on the bar. The ogres been kind enough to scavenge chairs small enough for humans and set them up on the counter of the bar. Thea wasn’t entirely certain how long they’d been there, but if the amount of ale consumed by Merek was any indication, it had been a very long time. The sun had already gone down, the candles painting the tavern in a warm orange glow.

Thea leaned forward, forearms on her thighs. No one had said anything for a long while. Merek took another swig of ale, Isolde stared at the floor sadly, Brom and Fendrel observed the appropriate silence separately.

She hated to be the one to say it, but Thea knew it had to be discussed. “We have to keep going.”

Merek answered, “And we will. Soon as Carac’s up and about again.”

“That might take too long.”

Isolde and Merek’s eyes snapped to her. Isolde asked, “You’re not suggesting we leave him here.”

Merek was already shaking his head. “Peronell would never.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” she said. “Every minute we haven’t found Aestus, another one of our people die. The king’s already got his Guard looking for us. How long do you think it will take before one of these ogres decides they’d rather a pay day than respect Lief’s alliance?”

“He’s one of us,” Isolde argued. “We can’t just abandon him. Especially now, when he needs us the most.”

“If we explain it to him—“

“I will not leave him,” Merek said, downing the rest of his drink. “If you go without him, you go without me. And we both know you need my sword.” He put his cup down and stood, ready to leave. He swayed slightly on his feet and his eyes were glazed over. “End of discussion.”

Thea gritted her teeth. “Carac is blind now. He will be a liability. Whether or not you want to admit it, you know it to be true. If—“

Merek whirled on her, slurring his words. “What sort of friend are you? What sort of friend must you be to feel no guilt at just leaving one of your most trusted comrades and devoted soldiers?”

“It makes me a leader,” she stated darkly.

“No, it makes you a bitch!”

That was the second time in much too short a time for her to be called that. Thea shot to her feet and charged at Merek, fist raised. Before anyone could stop her, she slammed her fist into his face.

Merek crashed to the ground instantly, groaning as he lay there and grabbing his jaw. He looked up at her with intense surprise. “Uh…ow!”

“I will forgive you this time because you’re drunk. Next time, I will retaliate the way the leader of a rebellion ought to. Am I understood?”

“Ugh, I think you broke my jaw.” He moved it around experimentally.

She poised her foot above his crotch. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, Aestus, I understand.”

Thea set her foot back down. “Good. We will leave tomorrow morning.”

“Thea—“ Isolde started.

“My decision is final.” And she strode to the other side of the counter, rounding the corner so they couldn’t see her. She sat on the edge with her legs dangling and let out a deep breath.

She knew she was right, but it didn’t make the decision any easier. Thea loved Carac and Peronell. She didn’t want to leave them behind. She certainly didn’t want Carac to think he was no longer needed because of events out of his control. But if she allowed him to come along in his current state, he’d end up dead. She had no doubt of it. He had to stay behind.

“Why wouldn’t you just tell them?”

Thea jerked her head up to see Brom standing beside her. She rolled her eyes and looked straight ahead again. Could she not even get one moment of peace? “If your prince has something to say to me, he can tell me himself.”

Brom lowered himself to the ledge beside her. The firelight in the room painted his dark skin in a beautiful shade of amber. “I have two daughters,” he told her.

Thea stared at him, thrown by the random comment.

“I only get to see them about five times a year. The duration I’m with them varies based on the royal family’s need for my service. Sometimes it’s weeks. Sometimes it’s hours. I assume you know what it’s like to be away from your family for long periods of time?”

She nodded.

“It’s hard. But it’s different when you have children.” Brom’s form stayed strictly straight, a soldier even now. “When they were younger, it wasn’t exactly easier, but they were more…forgiving. It was a celebration when I came home. They were all excited to see Papa. The youngest one is ten now. The other is fifteen. And I can see the change in their faces.” He met Thea’s gaze. “They resent me. Their father that always leaves them. Their father who is a complete stranger to them. They can’t understand why I’m not there. All their friends’ fathers are there for them. Why can’t theirs do the same? Doesn’t he love them enough? He mustn’t, otherwise he’d be there.”

“You must hate the king,” Thea said.

Brom responded, “I could leave. I could take my family and flee into the woods. I know how to survive the creatures out here. My wife is a strong woman. Together, we could protect our whole family.”

“So why don’t you?”

Brom shrugged. “The king pays well enough to keep their bellies consistently full. My children will never know the starvation I have known. And I love them enough to endure their resentment in return.”

Thea had hardly paid attention to Brom their entire trip thus far. She’d only thought of him as the prince’s lackey. This was, by far, the longest conversation they’d had, and it brought pain to her heart. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“I have tried to explain my reasoning to my girls several times. They don’t want to hear it. Their ears and sympathy have closed to me. But yours have not.”

She frowned at him. “I don’t have chil—“

“Those four people that have accompanied you on this journey. They crave to understand who you are, desire more than anything to know the way you think. They would gladly listen to why you think we should leave the young man behind. You ought to offer them that insight.”

“That is where you’re wrong, Brom.” She shook her head. “They do not crave to know me. They could never know me. They wouldn’t understand. And they fear what they do not understand.”

“It satisfies you that they fear you?”

“Satisfaction doesn’t matter,” she answered. “It’s just the way it is.”

He nodded. “Perhaps it is.” Brom pushed back up to his feet and glanced down at her sadly. “A lonely life to lead though, isn’t it?”

Thea struggled to maintain eye contact. She felt like her insides were shaking. She tried to force the feeling away, but it wasn’t working. “Tell your prince to share his own sob story next time.”

Brom’s mouth tipped up at the corner. “Tell him yourself.” He left Thea sitting there with an ache in her chest.

For years there had been this absence of feeling inside of Thea. Or perhaps that wasn’t entirely accurate. There was feeling, one specific feeling: rage. An overpowering, ever present rage. It was the first emotion that surface after Lief died, and she had held on to it with all her might. That rage had helped her to do all the extraordinary things she’d done, it helped her to lead, to fight. It helped her to protect her family and friends, it helped her to seek the best for the people of Creasan.

But at moments like this, moments where there was no one to aim her rage at, nothing at which to direct her fury, Thea realized there was a chasm inside of her. It was an unnamed chasm, one often ignored, one she tried to pretend was not there. An unnamed void was easier to disregard than one identified. Yet that was exactly what Brom had just done. It was loneliness.

Without Lief, without her father, without friends who could know her, she had led a lonely life. It was strange for someone else to know it before her, but there it was, plain and simple.

Thea glanced around her to make sure none of the others had come to check on her. She found herself to be both relieved and disappointed to see they hadn’t. She drew her knees below her chin and hid her face against them, doing her best not to cry.

Thea Wyvern doesn’t cry.