Ruse of Heirs: Tales of Rodhlan

Chapter 1

Thorne Beran

Thorne Beran braced a large hand against the stone wall before him, his long fingers splayed across its uneven surface as he struggled to control his breathing.

He forced himself to fill his lungs, inhaling through his nose, then holding his breath for eight laborious heartbeats before exhaling. In his open palm, he conjured a weak spark of golden healing magic and pressed it to the center of his chest, desperate for relief.

The dark corridor had always been forgiving at moments like this. Its shadows were the only constant in his life that didn’t demand. Didn’t scrutinize. Didn’t control. Didn’t leave.

He gritted his teeth and made himself inhale shakily once. Twice. Twice more. A warrior of twenty-one should not require magic or medicine to calm himself.

No, I should be stronger than this. I must be.

Thorne pushed off the wall and straightened his shoulders, exhaling again. This time, the magic he summoned was brighter. Stronger.

When he placed his hand over his heart again, the golden orb sank readily into his skin. His shoulders relaxed, his jaw unclenched, and he sighed, tempted to sink against the cool stone and close his eyes in relief.

But now wasn’t the time to rest. His father, Ljós Beran, was returning to the city-state of Iathium again this morning—the ruling seat of their home continent, Rodhlan.

This was Thorne’s last chance to tell Ljós the truth: that this might be their final goodbye.

He owed his father that, if nothing else.

The thought made his heart thunder once more, but Thorne shook off the sensation and forced himself to step into the torchlight. He left the shadows’ comfort behind and trudged toward his father’s chamber.

When Ljós’s door came into view, Thorne gave himself one more measure of healing magic. Then, he closed the distance and knocked.

Enter.

A lump formed in Thorne’s throat at the sound of his father’s familiar, soothing baritone. It was difficult enough to see Ljós off to Iathium on a normal day. Knowing this might be their last conversation, however, made Thorne’s heart ache even more.

With a sweaty palm, Thorne lifted the door’s latch and stepped into his father’s expansive chamber. Already, Ljós had put out the lanterns. The only light in the large room emanated from a pit of amber stones in the center of the floor. Ljós had illuminated the stones with the golden healing magic of Clan Beran—a birthright both father and son shared.

"Sjeiva," Thorne said gruffly, giving his father a nod.

My son. Ljós returned the gesture.

The golden magic reflected in his father’s dark irises as they regarded one another. Thorne had never resembled Ljós; according to his parents, he looked more like his paternal grandfather. He was larger than his father in both stature and build. To further contrast the physical differences, Ljós kept his hair shorn, while Thorne’s thick, blond locks tumbled past his shoulders.

Ljós had never cared for the elaborate hairstyles Clan Beran’s men wore, though he kept his beard long and neatly groomed. Thorne had a close-trimmed beard, preferring instead to groom his hair, which he often wove into braids styled after the fabled warriors of their clan.

Thorne’s lip curled, tension bunching in his shoulders again.

My son.

He hated the way his father insisted on speaking in Athi. The language was gentle and lilting, with an air of superiority that turned his stomach. It felt wholly foreign in this stone fortress, no matter how often he was forced to listen to it.

The city’s tongue, Thorne replied in Brylla, the language of Clan Beran, forbidden like every other clan language in the land. Not mine.

"The lawful tongue, Ljós shot back, refusing to shift. He raised his chin, sternly holding Thorne’s gaze. You must practice it."

Thorne grunted as he entered the chamber fully, then shut the door behind him.

Ljós was Clan Beran’s most gifted healer, yet he had chosen to serve Iathium’s Rí, the boy-king Eremon, who seemed to have captured his interest more than anyone or anything in Fortress Halgeir ever had.

Some months ago, Eremon—supreme ruler of Iathium and de facto sovereign of Rodhlan’s four clans—had fallen ill under mysterious circumstances. Rumblings of the young ruler’s ailment had in turn made their way to Ljós, who had been all too eager to leave Thorne behind to tend to him.

The thought of Ljós doting on the royal brat, rather than continuing to serve Clan Beran and train its healers, repulsed Thorne. Still, he understood why Ljós had taken the opportunity to flee; Thorne’s mother had died the year before, leaving painful memories in her wake. At first, Thorne had hoped Ylanna Beran’s death might finally give him an opportunity to grow closer with his father, but his expectations had been thoroughly destroyed.

Thorne shook the thought off, turning his focus back to Eremon and his ailment. Clan Beran’s healers quietly speculated that perhaps an enemy of Eremon’s had attempted to poison him. Maybe it had even been his own mother, Macha, who controlled her son’s every move.

Perhaps, while Ljós had been away, someone had finally succeeded.

Thorne’s lip curled in disgust at the thought of the pampered teenager, who was rumored to parade himself through Iathium’s fabled Dome wearing brightly-colored silks and preening like some imprudent courtier. Yet he possessed no real political power and seemed content to clash with his council at every opportunity.

What a pathetic excuse for a ruler.

Why practice Athi? Thorne retorted, crossing his arms. His gaze drifted to the stones, numbingly taking in their warm and idyllic hues; it was getting harder to look Ljós in the eyes. We’re at home.

You know the overlord plans to marry a woman with ties to the crown, Ljós answered steadily, though he’d finally relented and shifted into Brylla. He expects the whole of Clan Beran to protect our ways more diligently. When dignitaries from Iathium visit here, you must be ready to engage them in the common tongue.

Thorne’s nostrils flared. One year ago, Artur Beran—the overlord of Clan Beran—had lost his first wife to the fever that had ravaged Fortress Halgeir. It was the same fever that had taken Thorne’s mother, driven Ljós to distraction in Iathium, and stoked their ruler’s deeply-rooted fear of illness. Artur had lost two of his siblings to River Plague as a boy, and any mention of sickness transformed him from a mighty warrior into a cowering child.

Confusion pinched Thorne’s brow. Is there no suitable bride in Halgeir?

There are many, of course, said Ljós. He hefted his leather satchel onto the table by the door, securing its fastenings. But times are changing quickly, and Artur senses that. It’s prudent that he looks to the city for a wife now that he can choose for himself.

Traditionally, Clan Beran’s overlords chose wives for their heirs. They were not permitted to marry for love—at least, not on the first match. If an overlord’s wife died, he was expected to choose another bride from amongst clan descendants. Someone from within Fortress Halgeir was preferable, of course.

Hmm. Thorne snorted. How would a Beran descendant from Iathium adjust to a life here? It can’t be done; city-dwellers are weak.

Fortress Halgeir had few comforts to offer, compared to Iathium. The city’s eclectic culture blended influences from Rodhlan’s four clans, as well as the Itelorian continent across the sea. In contrast, Beran’s fortress was isolated, steeped in its own singular heritage, and considered primitive by the city folk.

Beran’s people did not enjoy lives of luxury and excess as those in Iathium did, but of strength and hard work instead. Everyone within the fortress had specific responsibilities to keep the clan thriving. Gardeners tended the lush hanging gardens in the courtyard, whose harvests fed the people year-round. In the rolling fields that bordered Fortress Halgeir, farmers tended cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs. Warriors hunted for game in the surrounding meadowlands and beyond, and the animal pelts and furs were used to make bedclothes and winter cloaks.

Collective meals were served in the Arthmael’s Hall in the heart of the fortress, where families and warriors alike gathered three times a day. Entire families shared cooking and cleaning tasks on rotation, ensuring everyone did their share.

Healers were trained in Clan Beran’s forbidden magic, providing relief to the injured or ill. Long ago, Beran had been widely regarded for its healing powers; now, the magic was used in secret and only among those who had sworn fealty to the overlord.

Although Beran had once been primarily associated with healing magic, it was now most well-known for its powerful warriors. Every member of the clan received some measure of combat training from a young age, and physical strength was of great value. The strongest, most skilled warriors often went on to join the Beravakt, Clan Beran’s elite guard, over which Thorne served as general.

Not Beran. A muscle in his father’s jaw twitched. It is said that Artur courts a descendant of Clan Mór.

Anger erupted in Thorne’s gut, its heat racing up his throat and into his face as he clenched his fists at his sides. "What?"

This was unheard of. Artur rarely allowed anyone from outside the clan to access the fortress, though when he did, they were forced to swear fealty to Clan Beran. No outsider, especially a city-dweller, had ever ruled here, from on or beside the overlord’s throne.

When his father’s stoic look didn’t waver, Thorne demanded, How will Artur explain this to the people?

The questions hung between them, their timbre dense and low.

Ljós and the overlord had always shown unwavering loyalty to Clan Beran. They had inspired Thorne’s own pride in his clan. He believed wholeheartedly in the principles they’d taught him since childhood, but now, they’d stooped to adulterating those teachings—to depending on city politics for their very future.

It was abhorrent, and Thorne wouldn’t stand for it.

Artur said he would restore Clan Beran to its former glory, Thorne growled. I thought that’s what we believed in.

Long before the rise of Iathium, Rodhlan had looked to Clan Beran for protection and healing. Fortress Halgeir had once been a place of great influence; its healers, warriors, and overlords had been well respected in ancient times. But then, a mortal god from Iteloria had peacefully conquered Rodhlan, marrying its mother-goddess, Rhona, and tipping the balance of power in his own favor. Over the centuries, the city oppressed the clans, stealing their goddess-given magic and reducing them to chattel.

Some clanspeople had chosen to assimilate into Iathium and capitulate to the city, gaining positions of power at court and making their fortunes by following its rulers. The wisest clan leaders, like Beran’s overlord, had self-isolated, strengthening themselves and wielding magic quietly. For many years, Artur had rallied the clan with talk of a return to greater power, wealth, and influence on the continent.

If the overlord was willing to marry sjivoc—an outsider—then he had wholly abandoned that dream.

Ljós’s expression grew pained, a stark difference from the mask of calm and steadiness that he typically held. Times have changed, he answered in Brylla, lowering his voice. We must do what is necessary.

His gentle tone stoked Thorne’s ire more. You find it necessary for the overlord to invite outsiders into our home?

He has little choice.

Thorne could feel his heart beginning to pound like it had in the corridor. No one escapes that city unstained.

If you knew what the Rí intended, Ljós said, you wouldn’t be so headstrong.

The boy-king is a curse all on his own, Thorne spat. I had hoped his influence would end with you, but now he has poisoned Artur’s mind, and he used you to do it.

Ljós shook his head, raising a hand as if to calm his son. If you understood the overlord’s reasoning—

Thorne cut his father off, raising his voice. I will soon enough. His nostrils flared, his ears burning as he added, When I win the trials, I’ll have the right to know everything he does.

There it was: the truth Thorne had been unable to utter in the precious few days Ljós had spent back home. He had reluctantly joined the Arthmael’s Trials, a grueling test of strength and fortitude meant to select Clan Beran’s next Anointed heir.

His father paled, recoiling. You’ll do no such thing. We had a covenant.

Thorne set his jaw, trying to ignore the hurt in Ljós’s eyes. "We agreed I would not pursue the throne for sjeima’s benefit. His mother. But she’s dead now. This is not for her sake; it’s for mine."

Ylanna meant to use you for influence, but you’ve never wanted the throne. It was clear Ljós was incapable of hiding the desperation in his voice. He took a step closer, and his next words wavered when he spoke again. She never forgave me for following our fathers’ wishes, for marrying her and staunching her ambitions.

This isn’t about influence, Thorne answered quickly, trying to ignore the pang of hurt that tightened his stomach. His father was becoming too honest. Too soft. It’s about strength.

Ljós shook his head slowly, closing his eyes. You have nothing more to prove.

Clan Beran is weakening. Thorne crossed his bare arms, the movement creating uncomfortable friction against his fitted leather tunic. With the right heir, it could become strong again. The people deserve to be protected.

The heir would assume the title of overlord when Artur died or stepped aside. According to legend, the clans’ Anointed had once inherited an extra measure of ancestral magic that set them aside from their peers and gave them a place of authority at the head of their clan. Here in Fortress Halgeir, the anointing amounted to a throne, and Thorne had set his sights on it.

One perceives weakness when one lacks understanding, Ljós said sadly. If you’ve entered the trials, as you say, your decision cannot be taken back.

Not without dire consequences of some sort: loss of reputation, exile, loss of life. The results lay in Artur’s hands alone.

No, Thorne replied, raising his chin. It can’t.

"You will prove your strength. I don’t doubt that, his father continued. Anger began to cloud his features. But you’ve given up your freedom in exchange for it."

No one in Rodhlan is free, least of all the clans, snapped Thorne. I have chosen my side.

Then there’s nothing more to say. Ljós leveled a hard look at his son before shouldering his healer’s satchel. In smooth Athi, he said, I wish you well, but I must return to Iathium.

To your Rí.

Yes, his father said, moving toward the door, "and yours. There may come a time when the boy-king reclaims his true power and demands your respect. And you’ll give that to him, if you truly want Clan Beran to survive."

By now, Thorne’s body was trembling with rage. How dare his father speak such treason in Artur’s fortress?

Beran will stand on its own without the city. And if Artur does not see to it, then I will, Thorne warned, voice low.

Ljós unlatched the door, pulling it open. Before he stepped out, he sighed heavily.

This is what your mother wanted, a warmongering son, he said, his voice taking on a harsh edge that grated against Thorne. Perhaps in death, she will finally be satisfied.

Chapter 2

Oda Beran

H ow long will you be at the coast, Mum? Oda Beran applied a honey poultice to the shallow wound on her sister’s shoulder, her eyes on her work and her ears attuned to her mother’s answer.

Eight weeks, at best. I won’t return until summer solstice or after, and that all depends on your uncle’s recovery, said their mother, Elda, who worked on the opposite side of the family’s dwelling chamber. You still have time to change your minds—both of you. I want you with me on the journey.

From behind her, Oda could hear soft rustling and the padding of Elda’s leather boots as her mother moved about, packing her belongings. Elda was preparing to travel to Clan Énna’s settlement on the western coast of Rodhlan, as she did every spring. This was the first year she would go without either of her daughters, and the third time she’d made the long trip since their father’s death.

There was a sense of urgency around Elda’s visit this year; Rune, their father’s youngest brother, was gravely ill, his body riddled with infection. Oda’s grandmother had sent for Elda, begging for aid. Now, their cozy, candlelit chamber smelled strongly of the herbs, poultices, and balms Elda had prepared for Rune’s treatment.

You know we would come with you, if it weren’t for the uncertainty, Oda answered, brow furrowing as she conjured a golden orb of healing magic to apply to Cynda’s wound. We don’t know when you’ll be able to return. And then, there’s the matter of the Arthmael’s Trials.

Her mother made a disapproving noise at the back of her throat. If Oda had been at liberty to turn her attention to Elda, she knew she would have seen a glare that matched the sound. Bright green eyes, contrasted against dark brown skin, would be piercing a hole directly through Oda’s very soul. She could feel the sting of that scrutiny enough, as it was.

If I could force my will, I would have both of you by my side to see this through. Anywhere but here, Elda answered in a low voice, moving nearer to the young women.

I would come with you, if Oda weren’t so stubborn, said her older sister, Cynda. She shifted on the bed where she sat, and Oda stopped the flow of her healing magic, raising her hands.

Be still, Oda chided softly. I’m almost finished.

Cynda obeyed, then continued pointedly. "But since she insists on serving as a healer and among the Beravakt, someone has to look after her."

Oda had been accepted into the ranks of Clan Beran’s elite guard only two years ago. For a sixteen-year-old outsider whose father was a descendant of Clan Énna, that had been