The Key of Amatahns
by
Elisabeth Wheatley
Copyright 2015 by Elisabeth Wheatley
Second Edition
All rights reserved
Published by Inkspelled Faery
To the Glorious Matriarch, Harold Reynolds,
Dragonborn, and Cuddle Monkey.
xoxox
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About the Author
Other works by the author
Prologue
Janir didn’t move. That was the secret to staying hidden—she mustn’t move.
Her brother’s footsteps came nearer and nearer. Heart racing, she pressed her hands over her mouth to keep from crying. Blood trickled from her nose and dampened her fingers, but she tried to ignore the warm stickiness even as it stained her new frock.
“Janir…” Lucan’s voice was sing-song. He came closer, always closer. Sometimes it felt like he had a sixth sense to tell him where she was. “I know you came in here. There’s nowhere else you could have run.”
Huddling in the shelter of the heavy tapestry, Janir held her breath and hoped that her eight year old frame was fully hidden. She was a slim, small girl, perhaps she had been made for hiding.
“Got you!” Grubby fingers seized her hair from behind.
Janir whimpered and cried and tried to wrench out of his grip, but he yanked with all of his childlike strength and hauled her into the light. For as long as she could remember, Lucan had been the bigger one, the stronger one. Janir was reminded of that as he towered over her, still holding a fistful of hair.
“You’re not going to fight back?” Lucan tilted his head to the side.
Janir didn’t answer. She curled into the tightest ball she could manage as his small boots rammed into her back. Covering her head, she determined to lay as still as possible. Fighting only made it worse and goaded him on. At least this way it would be over soon.
The doors at the far end of the hall swung open and Lucan froze mid-kick. He took a step away from his sister and Janir twisted around to see what had frightened him.
Instantly, she half wished Lucan were still kicking her as their father marched into the hall with a retinue of warriors in armor. His black cloak with chain mail beneath it showed that he had just returned from riding about his outposts. Boots covered with dust that was almost white, signified he had been to the western front—again. Upon his entry, the Lord Argetallam surveyed the scene, grey eyes flickering above a short beard trimmed into severe uniformity.
Janir was struck with the desire to race back behind the tapestry or one of the many white pillars that lined the wall, but that would be wrong. She scrambled to her feet, dusting herself off as best she could. Straightening her long girl’s tunic, Janir offered a bow just as Lucan did.
“Lord Father,” they said in unison. Since the day they turned seven they had been expected to address him in the proper fashion.
Janir wiped a large drop of blood from her nose before it fell to the floor, keeping her head down. She could almost feel Lucan’s fear as he tried to edge away, but she was too frightened herself to enjoy the discomfort of her rival.
“Lucan, my son.” Without taking his eyes off the boy, the Lord Argetallam handed his cloak to an attendant.
Lucan raised his face to their father in the manner of a puppet fighting the strings of his puppeteer. “Yes, Lord Father?”
“Ernic,” the Lord Argetallam barked to a bystanding page. “Fetch the girl’s mother.” The Lord Argetallam’s attendants slowly drifted back out the way they had come. Janir often felt she was not the only one who preferred to be far, far away when her father was angry. Even when it was with someone else.
She wondered if she could leave, but her father had sent for her mother, so she was probably supposed to stay. To be safe, Janir folded her hands before her and kept her head down as the Lord Argetallam moved toward Lucan.
“While I am away, working to assure you and your sister’s future, you are here preparing for that future. It would appear that you have been fighting your sister for practice. But, judging by her many bruises and the blood on her face, she is not your equal. Come, let us spar for a moment so that you may face a true challenge.”
Janir’s mother entered after the young page and went immediately to her daughter. She knelt beside the girl and gently brushed away tears, taking gentle stock of the bruises and blood. “Hush, it’s alright,” she whispered, smoothing Janir’s cheek. “You’re alright.”
The Lord Argetallam caught Lucan in an iron grasp and struck him, sending the boy rolling across the floor. Lucan was struggling to keep himself composed, but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Lucan sobbed.
Janir’s mother rose from her knees and Janir clutched at her sleeve. “Mother, please. No!” But it was already too late.
“My lord,” her mother interrupted, far calmer than Janir would ever have been.
The Lord Argetallam paused, roughly gripping the collar of Lucan’s tunic. Ever so slowly, he turned. “You know I will punish my offspring as I see fit, Aryana.”
Janir recognized that tone and it made her want to crawl down a hole. Terror for her mother gripped her chest and she kept her head angled toward the floor, afraid of angering her father further.
“Yes.” Janir’s mother was clearly afraid, but she had the air of a negotiating empress as she replied. “But…I implore of you…”
“And you know that I allow for no insubordination. Either between future heir and future subject, or myself and those in my possession.” The Lord Argetallam’s tone became flat, almost emotionless. That was even worse.
Aryana faltered. “The boy’s mother…encourages his actions. This is more her doing than his.”
When the Lord Argetallam replied, Janir thought his tone was cold as the snow from her mother’s stories. “Your point is?”
Lucan whimpered quietly, unable to help it. Janir found it very hard to truly feel sorry for him, but she understood full well what it was to have that angry gray stare fixed on her.
“You should not punish…” Aryana was cut off when the Lord Argetallam dropped Lucan and clamped a hand on her throat.
Janir wanted to be anywhere but in that room. Her heart raced and she glanced between them in terror, dreading what would happen now. She had never actually seen her mother struck, but fear that it could happen was never far from her mind.
Aryana didn’t look at the Lord Argetallam directly. He pulled her closer. She offered no resistance as he glared toward her downcast eyes. Janir’s mother trembled slightly. Those few moments seemed to drag on forever.
He tilted back her head, forcing her to look at him. “Continue.”
Janir wished that her mother would just apologize and ask forgiveness, but Aryana did not hesitate. “The child is obeying his mother. It is she who should be reprimanded.”
The next few moments of quiet were like torture. The Lord Argetallam probably knew it and used it to his advantage. “Regardless, he should not behave so toward his future ruler. What say you to that?”
“I know you intend the best, my lord.” Aryana finally took caution’s side. “But this is not the way to settle the matter.”
“What if I deem it suiting that you be punished for such rebellion? In front of our daughter, no less?”
“You know I shall accept your will, my lord. I always have,” Aryana quietly replied.
It was true. Janir could not recall a single instance in which her mother had directly defied her father. But by Aryana’s even tone, it was clear that she stood by her earlier words.
“He beats our daughter, yet you risk my wrath to spare him.” For some reason, the Lord Argetallam was no longer quite so angry.
No one said anything. Aryana obediently faced Janir’s father with a wearied fear.
“Strength such as you have is rare,” he said at length. Janir breathed a little easier. “I chose the mother of my eldest child well.”
He drew her even closer and whispered something in her ear. Aryana’s expression changed from one of fear to something else, something Janir had seen before, but didn’t quite understand.
Pushing her back several steps, the Lord Argetallam surveyed Aryana silently. Janir thought she saw something proud in the way he looked at her, but couldn’t be sure.
“Summon Bricen to tend my son,” the Lord Argetallam shouted to the doors at the opposite end of the hall. The servants and attendants must still be outside. “See to our daughter,” he added dismissively to Aryana.
Aryana nodded stiffly and watched him file out of the room with his retinue. As he disappeared, taking his stifling presence with him, Janir was finally able to let out a sigh of relief.