Short Story: A Good Man

The NaNoWriMo 50K is done and the holiday season has begun! Unfortunately, the holiday season brought a terrible cold with it. I’ve been sick for about a week, and now that I’m finally starting to feel better I have to play catch-up on all the things I’ve missed. So, for today, I have another short story for you! A Good Man is a story about two very different brothers: one the heir to a throne, the other crippled by sickness and addicted to a dangerous power.

Title: A Good Man

Length: 5,400 Words

Pitch: Brothers, dragon blood, addicting and deadly magic

I hope you enjoy!

A Good Man

“Tell me again how they ran.” Gethin climbed up the balcony, tore past the curtains, and fell into Lewella’s bedroom laughing. He collapsed onto the featherbed, lounging beneath the canopy, and picked at the buttons on his doublet, the thick leather sticking to his skin. He could still feel the thrum of lightning dancing in his chest. Peeling the mask off his face, he cast it aside onto the pillows.

“They ran like mice. Oh, if you could have seen the looks on their faces!” Lewella lingered on the balcony, her fingers curled in the draperies. The moonlight washed across her, turning her skin to perfect alabaster and her hair to amber waves washing across her shoulders. She dropped her own mask to the floor and Gethin drew a sharp breath to see her wide blue eyes. “I’ve never seen power like that before…” She touched her chest where her breath swelled. “Ioan turns a blind eye to the thieves that run rampant in the streets. He cannot control them no matter how royal he is.”

“My brother has ever believed in order and rules. He lets it soften his heart. He cannot even think that his men might be misleading him.” Gethin licked his lips, pulling his gloves off and throwing them on the floor. “I know well enough not to trust men so easily.”

“All of the kingdom must grieve that it is he who will sit the throne and not you. You saved all of those people and they don’t even know it.”

“We did that, Ella. Together. The blood of the lightning wyrm. My man tells me that lesser folk have broken beneath its will. Not I!” Gethin propped himself up onto an elbow, still struggling with the buttons. The webs of power knotted between his fingers still, begging for release and making him clumsy. His hands shook, his fingers slipped and he cursed beneath his breath.

“Let me help you, my lord of lightning.” Lewella fell on top of him, her nimble fingers tearing at the buttons; she slid her hands in to feel him beneath the doublet. The hair of her arms stood on end to touch his skin, her eyes turned wide and bright as her tongue danced across her lips. Her hair fell about them like a curtain, her voice a purr in his ear. “We must be quiet, if my mother hears…”

“What then? I am the king’s son. His eldest son.” Gethin arched a brow and sat up, catching her beneath the arms and holding her over him. Her hair tickled his nose, her lips soft and sweet so near his own.

“I wouldn’t care if you were the baker’s son, I want to kiss you in the sun. When can we be away from all of this?” She bowed her head to his neck and kissed beneath his ear, whispering, “I’ve grown so tired of this place, these rules.”

“When the time is right, you know that, Ella. You are still just a girl. So young, so pretty.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, the last of his power diffusing between them and turning her cheek warm and pink. “So fun to corrupt.”

“Is that so?” Lewella laughed so loudly that Gethin had to clamp his hand across her mouth. She breathed hot air into his palm and began to hike her skirts about her waist, straddling him beneath the canopy.

“Ella, sweet Ella.” Gethin coiled his fingers in her hair and drew her in. Their lips met and he was consumed with longing for her.

He didn’t hear the men until the chamber doors banged open. Lewella froze above him.

“You cannot go in there! The lady Lewella is sleeping.” A chamber maid clung to the arm of a guard, hauling back against him though he did not seem to notice her efforts.

“She doesn’t appear to be sleeping,” the guard said as he pulled Lewella up off of the bed. He was dressed in full regalia, his steel armor turned copper in the torchlight, his navy half-cape a slice of midnight dancing behind him. Several guards amassed behind him with their hands on their swords, but he raised a hand and stopped them. “Get out.”

The men did not move. “But Ioan, sir—” one began.

“I said get out. You disobey me?” He turned on them and cast the first man bodily out the chamber doors. The next ones followed meekly, their jaws hanging open and tongues nearly lolling out between their lips.

“Brother,” Gethin said as he lounged on the bed, a sour knot growing in his stomach. The strength was leaving him, there was too little even to stand. Better to make his fight from the comforts of the bed. He smiled. “I did not expect you.”

Ioan slammed the chamber doors shut and in turning he raised a hand to strike Gethin. His hand lingered, wavered. He knotted his fingers back through his golden hair instead and growled deep in his throat. “This cannot go on, Geth. My men got word of the disturbance in the markets. I’m just thankful you didn’t kill those men. And you!” He turned, pointing a finger at Lewella.

“Oh, stifle yourself, Ioan. Leave her out of this.” Gethin mopped the sweat from his forehead. He chambered a cough in his chest, turning it into a grunt of annoyance. “Your guards do a shit job of controlling the streets. Consider it a favor that we cleaned up your mess.”

“Honest, good men don’t go about wearing masks, Geth.” Ioan picked the mask up from the pillows and turned it over in his hands. The fine wax work stained his fingers blue but did not bend to his touch. It was a deep blue near enough to black, the wax swooping down into a pointed chin, faceless but for the eyes. “And in our family’s own colors. You cannot take justice into your own hands.”

“He is the true heir. H can do as he will!” Lewella said, gathering her courage and standing up straighter.

Oh, but Gethin loved her then as if he never had before. He hid a smile behind his hand to watch her pretty chest swell in her black corset, heaving for breath. Never mind that he was no longer heir; those were thoughts for darker days.

“I don’t care if he is the king himself.” Ioan towered over her, his face turned dark. “He is sick and this—this chicanery is liable to get you both killed.” Ioan grabbed Gethin by the collar of his doublet and hauled him up out of the bed with ease. “We are leaving now, madam Lewella. I hope you take it as a warning and not a kindness that I woke your house staff but did not wake your parents. I will not be so considerate next time.”

“Brother—” Gethin began, his anger rising, choked off by the tightening in his throat.

“Enough, Geth. Your palanquin awaits you below. They will take you home while I clean up your mess.” Ioan turned Gethin around to march him back to the door.

The rage! It seared his skin like a brand. “I!” He proclaimed, turning on his heels. Ella was looking at him, her eyes were soft and wet; he hated to see that look in them. They were eyes that saw weakness. “I do not need to be treated like a child. I can and will walk home. Alone!”

He threw the things from the dresser on his way to the door, scattering books and candles all across the floor. His knees gave out and he pitched forward, catching himself by the doorframe. He dare not look back, not when he could feel their eyes on his back still; it was enough to make him ill. Worse enough that Ioan had shamed him in front of Lewella; he would not suffer their pity now.

“Younger brothers should not be so disrespectful,” he muttered as he left the chambers.

#

Ioan didn’t know what to do with his brother.

He had loved him once; he still did, but it wasn’t the same. Ioan even looked up to him when he had been younger, before Gethin had gotten in over his head and Ioan had to start taking responsibility on his behalf.

There was blood in the alley—Ioan could clean that much himself. It was dark enough that no one would see to ask what he was doing. The brick walls had been charred and turned black, though, and he could do nothing for that. He would have to send a runner in the morning with enough coin to keep the shop owners quiet. He needed to take it out of his own purse so his father would never know; so their mother wouldn’t have to think about it.

Dark had fully fallen when Ioan finally returned home. He peeled his leather gorget off of his neck, blinking blearily into the torchlight and swiping his hands across his eyes. “Mari? I didn’t think you would still be up.”

Ioan nearly toppled backwards as his little girl bolted from beneath the dining table, latching her arms around his legs. Ioan was thrown for only a moment before he was laughing. He lifted her up into his arms and tousled her golden hair.

“I told Nia that everything was fine, but she insisted on waiting up to see her father.” Mari smiled from the table. She tilted her head to the side so her hair fell across her back, showing the delicate slope of her neck and the soft silver charm in her earlobe. “I know better than to try to stop her. She inherited your bullheadedness.”

“We wanted to make sure you were safe!” Nia threw her arms around her father’s neck and rest her head against his shoulder.

“Well then, I thank you.” He bowed his head to hers and blew the hair from her face, sharing a secret smile. He sat at the table beside Mari, settling their daughter on his knee. “Has your uncle Geth returned home yet?”

“Oh, yes!” Nia curled her tiny fingers around Ioan’s hand as he held and bounced her. “He said he was very tired, he wouldn’t even do a magic trick for me.”

“You know you mustn’t bother your uncle Geth, sweetie. He’s very sick.” Mari leaned across the table, touching the girl’s back softly and smiling. “Why don’t you run along and check with Rhian that the soup is almost ready? I’m sure your father is very hungry.”

Nia looked up to her father’s face briefly; he nodded and she scampered off.

“I don’t feel safe with him here, Ioan.” Mari cupped one of his hands between hers, rubbing until his stiff palms became soft. “We have a child, and you will be king sooner than later.”

“Mari, you know I can’t send him away.” Ioan looked down at their hands, feeling guilt get the better of him. Gethin was his burden, not hers, and Mari had dealt with it longer than any other might. He raked his fingers back through his hair. “Father won’t have him anymore, he’s been disavowed. Mother cries just to see him. We can’t very well put him out in the street, he’s still my brother. In truth, I worry more for the Lewella girl. She’s addicted to the power, she doesn’t know what she’s getting involved with.”

“Do you know, Ioan? I have heard terrible noises from his chambers at night…” Her mouth softened and she shook her head. “And what if the people find out what he…” Mari paused, looking nervously down the hall. She whispered, “What he does. What he is. If you think the people wouldn’t raise the Ackart family to the throne if they found out, you’re wrong. It’s hard enough that you are the younger brother. You have such wonderful dreams, Ioan. I just don’t want to see them dashed before they can be realized.”

“I know that, Mari.” He touched her hand and kissed her, breathing in the sweet scent of honey on her skin. “I just need a little more time. I know I can get through to him. How can I help the kingdom if I can’t help my own brother?”

“Just promise me you’ll think of yourself, too, Ioan.” She ran her fingers along his beard and smiled sadly. “I don’t want you to have to give up your dreams for anyone.”

“Don’t worry, Mari. Things are going to change this time.”

They kissed and the thought of pain—of sorrow and fear—melted away.

#

The magic left Gethin by dawn.

He was relegated to his body again—his frail, sick, weak hearted body.

Gethin had no choice but to suffer his brother’s smiles when he came up with the morning tray of breakfast, displaying how easy it was for him to climb the stairs to the tower. He even came dressed in all of his clothes of the knighthood. The dawn sun glinting off of the steel armor made Gethin’s head pound and his stomach turn.

It took every ounce of control not to be sick all over Ioan’s polished boots.

He had to listen to Ioan talk about when Gethin used to be a knight as well. Back before he was disavowed, before the sickness was so thick in his lungs that he could barely walk, let alone ride a horse. No doubt Ioan thought the stories would cheer him up, but Gethin knew that he could never be that man again. They were only pretty stories, now.

It was always worse when Ioan would leave and Gethin would be alone.

A servant would come up at the head of every hour to ask him if he had need of anything, or to bring him cups of watered wine. As if he was a child. Lewella came to visit him before dusk, but Gethin thanked the gods that the servants had the presence of mind to check if he was awake and well enough to receive her. He instructed them to send her away. Immediately. He sat up in bed and hid behind the curtains as he watched her leave, her hair swaying in the wind like a candle flame.

What good was a beautiful girl if he was too weak to hold her in his arms? If his mind was too fogged by pain to enjoy the sweetness of her words or the curve of her breast.

By day he was too cold, by night he was too hot. By midnight he had cast the sheets off of himself in a fury and decided that he would not go another hour by himself, weak and desperate with his head pounding so. Ioan had posted guards by the door. His younger brother had grown smart with age, but he didn’t know everything.

He didn’t know about the secrets walls that led to the cellar. Or maybe he did and didn’t think anything of it. He certainly couldn’t know that Gethin snuck down into the cellars and knew how to navigate the stone maze beneath the kingdom.

Making it through the labyrinth was a slow process. Gethin fought for every inch of ground he gained. He was forced to lean most of his weight on a walking stick, humiliating as it was. He had to be careful, and when the coughing fits took him he had to sit down to stop the walls from spinning. If he didn’t sit down until it was over he would lose his bearings and get lost.

By the time he reached the menagerie his legs and arms were shaking. He was coughing more often than not. He could feel his breath rattling in his chest, haunting his footsteps.

Gethin pulled himself in through the floor of the menagerie, sweating and cold. The room smelled stale and sour, the rushes on the floor were dirty and the torchlight far too dim.

“I heard you had been locked away.” The man squatted by Gethin and lowered the cellar door after he was through. His white eyebrows rose, crinkling his forehead.

“No differently than any other time.” The words were dry, they scratched his throat and he coughed blood into the rushes. He held his hand out and the man hurried about, finding a waterskin and throwing it to him. Gethin drowned himself in it, his chest heaved and he spat out half of what he drank. Spittle clung to his lips and dripped onto the floor. “I have no money; Ioan took away my purse and coins.”

“A shame.” Owain shook his head and turned his back to him.

“You would leave me like that?” Gethin felt tears welling in his eyes and they fueled his anger. His legs would not obey him and so he took a clay pot from the tableside and threw it into the dark. It cracked against the wall, a mere hair above Owain’s head. It shattered and the pieces fell among the dirt and dung.

“You do me a disservice, my lord. You know I would not leave you that way. I was only fetching the lantern.” Owain turned, his expression softened beneath the light. “You know I don’t do any of this for love of money.”

“Then why?” Gethin wiped the spit from his mouth, his chest heaving from the strain of casting the pottery.

“You do what your brother will not, isn’t that clear? If he doesn’t know what crimes happen in the city then he is not capable of leading the guards; if he knows and does nothing then he is corrupt. Tell me, which of those ideals would you prefer to see made king?”

“Enough, Owain! That’s my brother you speak of.” Gethin would strike him, only… he fell back into the shadows, feeling a cold sweat break across his forehead. “He is busy with too many things. The throne is demanding and yet they expect him to lead the knights as well. Never mind him, Owain.”

“I spoke out of turn, my lord. I beg your forgiveness.”

“What do you have for me?”

“News.” Owain took the lantern down from the wall. His face and clothes were as dirty as the room and twice as wrinkled. “Word that bandits will be making a trade in the markets again tonight. Stolen gold with the king’s crown marking. Your brother’s men have already been cut in for part of the profit. The guard will do nothing to stop it.”

“And the other thing? What about the blood?” Gethin mastered his body. It took all of his will to stop from shaking as he hoisted himself onto his feet. Even still he teetered sideways and fell back among the crates stacked with feed and hay. He made himself a throne amongst them, sitting and looking out at the cages in the menagerie. The cells were too dark, but he could sense the beasts inside. He felt the pulse of his heart on the tip of his tongue. “I need it, Owain.”

“Of course you do,” Owain said. He went to a cell of iron bars and raised the lantern. A wyrm swam through the orange light, its body lithe and young, covered more by slick skin than scale yet. It was small enough to nearly fit between the bars. It writhed across the dirty floor, slithering back into the shadows until only its red eyes shone through the dark.

“A baby!” Gethin scowled. “No, Owain. Are all you Ackarts as foul as this? No wonder they keep you in the cellar and your cousins from the throne. I am of royal blood, it will not do. Find me a better one. Where is the lightning blood?”

“Drained, sir. Your appetite has been quite… prodigious of late. There is one full sized left, but I warn you, he is not as kind as the others have been. Lightning blood is but child’s play to this. Have you ever thought to control fire?” Owain held the lantern above his face, his skin turned yellow as a melting tallow candle. He turned to the next cell and the wobbling ring of light shone on the belly of a great black wyrm within. The beast snarled and lashed out, fire smoldering like coals beneath his scales. “Nasty, vicious thing. Forgive me, in your present state I must caution you against—”

“Do not belittle me, Owain.” Gethin doubled over, putting his face in his hands as the coughing took him. He spat out blood, hot and sticky between his fingers, making his stomach curdle. His head pounded and his eyes stung just to blink. “Just do it.”

“Very well.”

It was almost all Owain ever said. It was why Gethin liked him.

Gethin leaned back and Owain came to him in darkness, his dagger a thin sliver of light. Gethin shut his eyes and let out a tiny, shaking sigh when the blade kissed his skin. He felt the bad, sick blood pouring out of him, running down his arms. He let his body go limp and pictured himself as he had been once: young, strong, a knight with the world at his feet. All of it was possible again.

“I need you to open your eyes, sir.”

How long had passed? Time was so strange during the bloodletting. Gethin opened his eyes, milky and fogged. He was almost used to the sight of the brass syringe. The pain did not matter, nothing mattered but the blood of the wyrm. He looked up to the rafters and watched the ravens play as the needle slid into his eye. He took a deep breath as the bad blood left him; Owain pressed the plunger down and the blood of the wyrm turned his skin to fire.

By the time it was done the rushes were sodden with blood and sweat.

Strength flooded him to the bone; Gethin blinked blood from his eyes and leapt to his feet. The sweet burn of fire tickled just beneath his skin, lingered at the back of his throat; the anger and passion of the wyrm roiled deep in his belly, but he pushed it down with a mad laugh.

He left through the door. The cellar was for rats, the labyrinth was for sneaks, and he was a king. Gethin walked into the night and knew that the streets were his. Let Lewella see him now in his full power, now. He could burn away the memory of the weak thing Ioan had made her see.

And leave nothing behind.

#

Ioan went to Gethin’s chambers when he heard the guards sound the alarm. His heart sank like a stone as the door open and the torchlight shone across the empty room. He threw back the bed covers, even knowing that Gethin wasn’t under them.

“Papa?” Nia called from down the hall, her head peeking out the doorway. Her hair was a golden halo around her sleepy, red eyed face. “What’s happening?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. Go back to bed. I just need to straighten the guards out.” Ioan scooped her into his arms and kissed her on the head. He put her back to bed and put out the lantern.

Ioan whispered sweet goodbyes to Mari as she helped fasten his cuirass about his chest. She didn’t say a word about Geth, she didn’t have to. He could see it in her eyes and it tore a wound down to his heart. He caught her hands and kissed each fingers and last her lips before he joined the guards on their horses.

Ioan could see the fire from the streets, blooming from the market and catching.

#

The air blazed red with fire, alive with screams. Power sizzled on the edge of his fingertips and danced at his whim. The wax mask was soft on his face, melting beneath the heat of the flames. One of the bandits tried to stand and Gethin raked his hands through the air. Great gouts of flame caught on the wind and scored the man, sending him reeling back and toppling over the bodies of his companions. His paltry cloth armor burst into flames and his face twisted in anguish as the fire leapt and consumed him.

“See how they fall, Ella? Look at them!”

But Lewella wasn’t looking, not at them. She was looking at him. Her auburn hair was dancing on the wind, her face turned wan and white and her pretty mouth was twisting, saying things he couldn’t hear. The power boiled in his ears. The words meant nothing to him. Everything was consumed by the hiss and roar of the flame.

Wasn’t she happy? He could feel the sweat beading and dripping down the back of his neck. He had brought her here to show her what he could do. Hadn’t she been happy, didn’t she want to rule the night with him? She could be a goddess with him! They had stopped the bandits and she had laughed, the men had run and she had hoisted her dagger in victory.

It wasn’t enough.

She looked scared. She needed more. She needed to see.

She reached for him but he wrenched away from her. The power burned too bright, too consuming, and he couldn’t stand to be touched. The people stared even as they ran into the streets and their eyes were like daggers raking across his skin. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He threw fire in their way and they scattered like mice. A deep rage coiled up from his belly and burst in laughter and flame.

He fell onto his knees and the fire overcame him, the laughter twisted into a scream.

Where was Lewella?

#

“Lord, the smoke is too thick. We can’t go any further.” The guardsman reared his horse in around the market square. He and all of the other men had pulled their cloth gorgets up to cover their mouths, their eyes squinted and turned pink from the smoke.

“Wait here, I will go alone.” Ioan coiled the reins in his hands. The other horses bucked, but Ioan knew his mare. He controlled her with a soft whisper and the press of his heels. Together they jumped into the haze of smoke, galloping towards the beacon of fire flashing in the streets.

Ioan pulled the reins and leapt the horse across the corpses and barrels scattered across the cobblestones. He drove them into the fire and found Gethin wavering in the heavy fog, his skin blistered red. Fire caught on the thatched roofs, leaping from building to building and setting the city ablaze. The people cried as they watched. Gethin’s wax mask had slipped off of his face; it melted and dripped down his face like blue blood.

“What happened here?” Ioan climbed down from his horse and caught his brother by the shoulders. He shook him and when that did nothing, he struck him hard across the face. The smell of death and fear hung around him like a shroud; Ioan knew nothing but that his brother had done it.

Geth crumpled beneath the blow and fell onto his knees. He wretched blood, fire blooming from his hands. Gethin cried, his tears blue and waxy as they rolled across his cheeks. He fell upon a charred body, wrapped his arms about her and drew her near. Her hair was brittle and black but beneath it, Ioan could see the streaks of red.

“I didn’t mean to do it. Why did she have to get so close? Why couldn’t she be happy?” Gethin looked up from the corpse, his face black with soot and blood.

“She…” Ioan’s lips fumbled over the words. His stomach roiled and he was sick in the streets. Lewella had been so young, she had been sweet and beautiful and now she was naught but skin and bone. Her face was bone white where the mask had melted onto her skin, black where it had burned. “Geth, what did you do?”

“What am I going to do, Ioan? She’s dead, she’s really—” Geth choked on a sob and put his face in his hands. “—I didn’t mean to kill her! I didn’t know. I couldn’t control it. I thought I could, but…”

Ioan knelt beside him and pulled Gethin into his arms.

The sight of Gethin made him sick; touching him made his stomach churn. His brother was a murderer. What could he do? He was crying with him, pushing Geth’s hair back from his face and saying soft, nothing words.

“Listen to me, Geth.” Ioan held his face in his hands and forced him to look ahead. “You need to run, brother. You need to run or you will die here.” Ioan had learned to be practical; how to be cold and hard when he needed to. It was the only way he had survived. And now, looking out into the crowd of onlookers, he knew that they would remember this night. They would not forget the king’s own son with blood on his hands. No amount of gold would be enough for that.

“Where can I run to? Nowhere is safe. The king’s guard will follow me to the ends of the world.” Ioan sniveled and coughed; he wiped his face with his hands and turned his paled skin bloody. He bent over Lewella’s body and howled. “Ella! Ella will be dead no matter how far I run.”

“Enough!” Ioan threw Geth back into the street. His frail body bent in such a way as to look broken and Ioan leapt on him, his jaw tight and nostrils flaring. His chest contracted with each breath of black smoke. “They will not hunt you if you’re dead.”

“B-brother—”

“But I cannot kill you. I have never been strong enough to do that. Should I have?” Ioan sank back onto his haunches. He looked at Lewella, her body more black than milky white, her eyes cloudy and unseeing. He should have done as Mari asked; he should have done worse to stop this from happening. “You’re my brother, but you can’t be any longer. If you want to live you need to change.”

“How can I live? How can I live anymore?” Gethin cried.

“You have to live, because if she died and that is not enough to change you, then…” Ioan stopped. Then there was no hope, then. Gethin would never be well again. He couldn’t believe that, couldn’t stomach it. He stood on shaking legs, the world spinning. “Run, Gethin.”

“Run where?”

“Run to the far corners of the world, as far as you can. Take a boat from these lands.” Ioan touched his forehead. He was not a man to pray, but he did then. If not for himself then for his family, for Mari and Nia. He dropped his voice to but a whisper. “Run. I will tell the guards that I found and killed you, that I threw your body into the ocean. They won’t doubt me.”

“They will disavow you. You will lose everything! There is no greater sin—”

“You think I don’t know?” Ioan felt such an anger unleashed in his chest. He was holding his sabre before he knew it, his grip white knuckled. “The Ackarts will take the throne. I am doing this because of you, so you had better not let me down, Gethin. Leave this place, you are dead to me.”

He heard Gethin cry out but he turned away from him. Ioan bent and scooped up the body that had once been Lewella. She felt as light as a feather, the life had gone out of her and left only a shell.

He would never forgive Gethin for that.

#

“Papa, are you okay?” Nia crept into the chambers and hooked her arms around his shoulders, hugging him from behind. “It won’t be so bad. Mommy says the new house will be better, she says we can get a dog!”

“Does she?” He tried to laugh, but the sound was dry and brittle. He smoothed a hand across his face and caught Nia in his arms, pulling her around into his lap. He sat by the hearth, sorting through his papers. He unrolled one of the parchments—the drafting for a royal library. It had been a nice thought, a good dream. “I’ll be fine sweetheart.”

Ioan rolled up the parchment and threw it into the flames with the others.