Searching the Darkness: Erythleh Chronicles, #2

By Catherine Johnson

Elthrinn and Gorren are not a match made in fate. 

Gorren is the youngest prince of a family that rules a nation of shapeshifters. He is forced to marry Elthrinn for respectability's sake, to please his father, to forge an alliance. She is forced to marry Gorren to protect the people that she loves, because she has no other choice. Her uncle, ruler of her country, will imprison and torture anyone she holds dear if she doesn't comply with his demands. 

Elthrinn, innocent in nature and torn from the chaste life of a priestess, has to learn to live in an entirely new culture, as well as adjust to married life. Gorren has to learn to accept her differences, and the impact that they have on everyone around him.

Somewhere along that journey of discovery, they fall in love, but that love might not survive a treachery that threatens to destroy everything that they know and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Johnson
• Release date: Jun 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781524258221

Catherine Johnson

CATHERINE JOHNSON, Ph.D., is a writer specializing in neuropsychiatry and the brain. She cowrote Animals in Translation and served as a trustee of the National Alliance for Autism Research for seven years. She lives with her husband and three sons—two of whom have autism—in New York.

Book preview

Chapter One

The coarse-haired head of the goat hit Elthrinn's thigh with enough force to make her grunt. The nudge was violent enough to cause her to take half a step sideways. The stumble unbalanced her. Grain sloshed out of the shallow bowl that she was holding in the crook of her arm. The unexpected bounty caused the waiting chickens to become quite psychotic. There was flurry of clucking and pecking and flapping, so much so that Elthrinn had to step back to avoid losing a toe in the melee.

Ulli!

She received no answer to her call.

Ulli!

Still more silence. Elthrinn sighed, unsurprised. The seven year old boy was probably hiding up an olive tree, harassing pigeons with his catapult. She sighed again. If he succeeded in bringing home a couple of birds for their supper, she might forgive him for neglecting his chores.

Elthrinn finished scattering the grain from the wooden bowl, taking care to spread it over the ground so that the chickens would not peck at each other in their impatient excitement. She ignored the insistent headbutts of the goat until the bowl was empty. She grunted as she caught the fraying collar of rope tied around the goat's neck.

Come on, Bexus.

The goat made one last attempt to knock Elthrinn off her feet, then permitted her to lead him away from the clucking and scraping in front of the coop. Elthrinn tugged at the collar, ensuring that Bexus followed obediently at her side, until she reached the pen that the goat called home. Originally the obstinate animal had been tied to a stake, but he had continuously eaten through the tethers, regardless of whether they were rope or leather. Now Bexus had a pen, a space to call his own.

Most of the time, the animal was content to lord it over his patch of dirt and grass. Today he appeared to want affection. He had slipped the fastening on the gate and escaped. Elthrinn pushed the goat into the pen and fastened the gate shut behind him, taking care to leave no slack in the ties. She reached for the second bowl, the one full of kitchen scraps, that she had placed atop a stone wall, out of Bexus' reach. There was no right or wrong decision to be made, if she fed the chickens first, Bexus would escape and interrupt their feeding. If she fed the goat first, she would be almost deafened by the indignant squawks of the fowl.

Still, life could be worse. These were trifling difficulties that she faced.

Elthrinn went about her daily tasks, as always, battling with the dichotomy of an adolescent's natural state of discontent, and the knowledge that she had a home, a place of safety, for which she should be profoundly grateful. If dealing with a set of half-mad animals was the price for that home, she would pay it a hundred times over.

The list of chores was tedious in its repetition, but ultimately satisfying in its monotony. Her grey mare, Neul, was always pathetically grateful to be released into the pasture each morning. The musty smell of the stables, which imbued her hair and clothing during the time she spent mucking them out, was the smell of home. The never-ending battle to protect the vegetable garden against winged pests and rabbits was frustrating, but there was something rewarding about watching the green shoots develop into edible produce. Elthrinn felt great pride when everyone complimented the sweetness of the carrots that she'd nurtured, or the crispness of the lettuces that she'd watched over like a hawk.

Elthrinn could have dawdled over her tasks, and drawn them out until supper time, but she preferred to make quick work of them. That way, a few hours of each day were hers and hers alone. She didn't bother to go looking for Ulli; his mother would find him soon enough, and he'd be set to his own list of duties, probably in the house where Serwren could keep an eye on him.

They had been living in the country for almost four years now. Elthrinn was well aware that the house they called home belong to Serwren's husband, Consul Bornsig. In truth, that should have meant security, it should have been Serwren's house as much as anyone's, but Elthrinn was uncomfortably aware of the tension in Serwren's marriage. Bornsig was a fat, repulsive, old man with beady eyes and wandering hands who never failed to make a lewd comment to Elthrinn or to say something disgusting or disparaging to Serwren.

At night, Elthrinn woke, screaming silently, tortured by visions of being dragged from the small stone house by armed guards. She would bite her pillow until she could control her terrified sobs, but it would be hours before she could regain sleep. Life was changeable; there was no point in getting comfortable. Becoming complacent only brought heartache. Elthrinn had learnt painful lessons that one must always be ready for change.

By mid-afternoon, Elthrinn's day was hers to do with as she wished. It was the second moon of Taan, and out in the country, away from the fresh sea air of the coast, it was ridiculously hot. Elthrinn could still feel the sweat dripping down her spine from her exertions to eradicate the weeds from the earth between the rows of carrots and radishes.

Elthrinn picked up her skirts and walked away from the village.

There was a spot, a good walk away, far enough away to be private, where a crystal stream clattered over mossy rocks into a shallow pool. It was a place that Elthrinn often visited, because she could strip and cup the icy water over her body until she felt refreshed, without fear of being spied upon. She would leave her clothes spread out over one of the rocks that was warm from the sun. Although she often cringed putting on clothes that she knew had been soaked in her sweat, at least by the time she redressed, they were dry and she no longer smelt like a sow's belly.

Having bathed and recovered some sense of self, Elthrinn wandered even farther from civilisation. There was a spot, a favoured place of hers, where she could sit atop a shallow cliff and look over a small gorge that led deeper into the countryside of Felthiss. Much of the land around the village of Senthirr was flat, and perfect for growing wheat and corn. The fertile slopes of the gorge were planted with trees that bore olives, avocadoes and citrus fruit. The aroma of the trees was as pleasant as the scenery.

As she always did when she had time to let her thoughts dwell where they would, Elthrinn spared a thought for her brother. Not a day passed that she didn't think of Jorrell. He'd been the first person that she loved who had abandoned her. Well, technically the first had been her mother who had died in child-birth, but Elthrinn hadn't known her mother.

Elthrinn remembered her brother vividly. She remembered the way he would throw her into the air just to make her laugh, the way he would tickle her mercilessly until she cried real tears. She remembered the way that he had patiently sat with her and helped her to read books that she hadn't understood, or the way that he would explain famous paintings to her until she saw the deeper meaning that the artists had intended, rather than the superficial lines and colours. She missed the way he had loved and cared for her.

Elthrinn's father had been the next person to abandon her. He had died one night in his study. She had walked in one morning, hoping to gain his consent to study a new subject with Consul Ellspith and had found him slumped over his papers. Those damnable papers, the shackles of his life as a consul in the Forum of Felthiss. Elthrinn hated the Forum; it had taken her father away from her long before the gods had stolen his life back.

After her father's funeral, Dimacius, the First Father, elected ruler of Felthiss, had made her his ward. Elthrinn had not been surprised by such a development, she had been aware of the close friendship between her father and his peer, but Elthrinn would be forever grateful that Dimacius' daughter, Serwren, had stepped forward and had offered to become her foster mother, of sorts.

Elthrinn had not wanted to live in the palace, it was too grand a place, it frightened her. Dimacius was stern and unsmiling. His son, Erkas, Serwren's twin brother, smiled enough for both of them, but his smiles had chilled Elthrinn to the bone, without her knowing precisely why. Elthrinn knew why now, or she thought she did, She thought she understood the threat that had been implicit behind Erkas' overly sweet, friendly facade.

Elthrinn didn't have a great deal of actual experience when it came to matters of the heart, or of the flesh, but she devoured stories and poems avidly. From them, she had gleaned an understanding of love, of lust, of duty and of danger. She suspected the world was not such a simple place as the one she read about, but since the boys of the village kept her at arm's length, assuming that she was some sort of spoiled and brattish princess because she had once lived in the city and had never pushed a plough, she had never had a chance to test her theories.

The thing that scared Elthrinn most, more than the thought of losing her home with Ulli and Serwren, more than the thought of being dragged back to Thrissia, was the dim and murky fog of her future. She had no idea what she was destined to become, what she wanted to be destined to become.

Elthrinn hated and loved the people who had abandoned her in equal measure, and she knew that she could never settle with that conflict inside her. She often wondered if it would ever be resolved, and she didn't feel that she could be a whole person until she could find that closure. Unfortunately, it was a nirvana that she was unlikely to attain. Jorrell was gone, far across the lands and oceans of the world to the other side of nothing. Her father was in the ever after with her mother, and neither saw fit to communicate with her in visions or dreams.

I used to sit and watch the world like that, once upon a time.

Serwren's soft voice startled Elthrinn from her introspection. She hadn't heard her guardian approaching.

Did you find any answers?

No. Serwren took a seat on the stony ground by Elthrinn's side, taking a moment first to brush some of the sharper rocks out of her way.

Did you stop looking?

No, but I started to look in a different place.

Ulli?

And you.

Elthrinn paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond to that comment, and wondering how to ask a question that she hadn't yet framed in her mind.

How will I ever find out... anything? she asked, exasperated by her own inability to articulate her thoughts.

Such as? I take it you don't mean how will you find out such things as how snow becomes water.

No. I mean, how will I find out what I'm supposed to do, who I'm supposed to be?

Serwren looked at her, as if trying to see something, something that Elthrinn was frightened wasn't there.

There's no one that can tell you that. Some of the holy men will tell you to consult an oracle, or they'll pretend to know themselves. People who want you to do their bidding will tell you that they have the answers. The only way to find out, is to be true to what you know is right. If you can be at peace with yourself, you will become the person you were meant to be.

That's a very vague answer. Elthrinn thought she had understood it, but she had been hoping for more exact guidance.

Your question was a very vague question.

Elthrinn looked out over the valley and breathed deeply of the scent of the fruits and earth and the green life of the trees. The abundance of life laid out before her made her sad.

What happens next?

Elthrinn wasn't aware she'd asked the question out loud until Serwren answered. What do you mean?

Elthrinn paused, trying to frame the concept into words. What happens next, when we're done being here? It doesn't feel like we'll be here in Senthirr forever. I see the boys going out to help their fathers and brothers in the fields, and I don't ever see Ulli doing that. I see the mothers hanging out their families' washing in the sun, adding new swaddling blankets each year, and I don't see that in our future. Life goes on here, but where will our lives go?

Serwren was quiet so long that Elthrinn began to think that she'd imaged having spoken her thoughts out loud, and then she began to worry that she had voiced them, and that Serwren had been somehow offended by her implied dissatisfaction with their life. Nothing could be further from the truth, Elthrinn was as happy as she had ever been, but she was troubled by the lack of permanence she felt.

She began to speak, but Serwren held up a palm to request silence. Eventually, Serwren spoke.

It's true, we can't stay here forever. I'd like to. Some days I pretend that we will, but I know, eventually, it must come to an end. Nowhere so perfect can remain so for long.

Will we go back to Thrissia?

I will, I think I must, eventually. And I will take Ulli with me.

And me? Elthrinn asked, trying not to sound like a whiny child.

I think your future should lie as far away from Thrissia as possible.

Elthrinn felt a cold trickle of fear down her spine. Why? Why can I not go back?

Because I can't protect you there, and you need protecting. I can barely protect myself.

You gave me my knife and showed me how to use it. Elthrinn fingered the small steel blade that hung from a delicate rope around her hips. Most days she forgot it was there, but if she ever chanced to appear without it, Serwren would send her back to her room to collect it. Elthrinn felt glad of it when she imagined returning to Thrissia, to the company of Bornsig and Erkas, but she felt safer out here in the nowhere.

There are things that can happen to you that steel cannot protect you from. I would have you be safe from those things, Serwren replied cryptically.

How? How can I be safe from something I can't see to fight? Elthrinn began to worry that she was misunderstanding the whole conversation.

By hiding, Serwren replied, equally vaguely. Elthrinn was about to ask her to clarify her comment, but then Serwren turned fully to her and took her hands. If Elthrinn had thought she had known fear before, she knew terror now at that gentle, loving touch.

You are sixteen. Serwren was almost whispering as if afraid their conversation would be repeated by the non-existent breeze. You are considered of marriagble age, although not yet your own mistress. I would spare you from a match made on your behalf, by someone who has only their own interests, not yours, at heart.

You had an arranged marriage.

And my husband is in Thrissia and I am here, as far away from him as I can possibly be.

Elthrinn thought she understood Serwren's disgust at Bornsig, although she was also sure it was much worse than she could imagine.

You think I could end up married to someone like Bornsig?

Yes, I fear that will happen to you.

And I prevent that by hiding? Where? In the mountains? Elthrinn looked down the gorge. It would not be so very bad to live in one of the caves that littered the hillsides, not in the summer, but it would be bitterly cold in the harsh winters.

No. By hiding in a place that no one would dare breach.

Elthrinn was now thoroughly confused. Seeing her perplexed expression, and without waiting for a response, Serwren continued.

I think you should join the priestesses of Doohr in the temple at Dreec.

Elthrinn stopped, almost literally. If she had been asked, she would have sworn that her heart had stopped beating, that her lungs had stopped inflating. Certainly her ears had stopped hearing the songs of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, the far off lowing of cattle. Her eyes ceased to see the vista in front of her. Serwren was asking her to swear her life away. If she joined the order of Doohr, Elthrinn would enter the temple and never leave it. She would know no-one but those who resided in its walls. She would never see or experience more of the world than this. Her life would be the monotony of prayer and sacrifice forever. Forever.

But Elthrinn had no idea what life might lie beyond this existence in the paradise of Senthirr. perhaps she might only be around the corner from a marriage to a man as hateful as the slimy Bornsig. Elthrinn saw clearly that two roads lay before her. One was shrouded in dark fog, the path littered with sharp rocks and strange animals called from the darkness. The other ran straight and true, into sunlight, with flat green fields on either side.

It did not take Elthrinn long to make her decision.

Yes. I think I should like the life of a priestess.

Serwren nodded, but Elthrinn had the bleak feeling that Serwren was nodding more for herself than for Elthrinn. Elthrinn wondered if she wasn't living Serwren's safety for her, but that thought fled on the wings of the uncertainty that haunted her nightmares.

Chapter Two

Gorren fumbled at the door this room. He was sure that he'd turned the catch, but the stubborn thing would not open. It was heavy oak and hard to move. A hinge might have slipped, it might be caught on the stone flags. He tried again to turn the handle, which twisted readily, even in his slack grip, but the damn thing still wouldn't budge. He patted his clothes, looking for... looking for... for a moment he completely forgot what in the Grey Wolf's name has was searching for... Then he remembered, the key! Yes, the key! Gorren was sure he'd had the foresight to tuck the key to his room in a pocket before he'd left, although he couldn't quite remember why he would have locked his door in the first place; he never usually did.

He found the sneaky key in one of the deep pockets of his frock coat. It snagged on some of the frayed decorative braiding as he pulled it from its hiding place. Some more stitching tore, the corner of the pocket came free from its moorings to the rest of the garment and the gold braid unravelled a little further.

With a lopsided, but smug, smile, Gorren tried to get the key into the lock. It took several attempts before he was successful. Gorren could have sworn he hadn't drunk so much mead as to make things move, but each time he jabbed the key at the lock, the metal plate seemed to shift in the opposite direction. In the end, he resorted to putting one fingertip in the keyhole, and slid the recalcitrant key along his arm, catching more threads and pulling them loose as he did so. The key, a complicated design wrought from iron, slipped submissively into the lock. With a quiet chuckle which seemed to echo in the deserted corridor, Gorren twisted the key and tried to push the door open again. This time the damn thing shifted exactly as it was supposed to do.

Cursing his poor memory, and perplexed as to why he'd locked the door at all, Gorren stumbled into the unlit room. Damn! usually he kept the drapes open, so that the moonlight could guide his way. His habit had been to leave a candle burning, until one too many tales from the tattling tongues of the maids had reached the ears of his parents. Having been thoroughly and painfully chastised for leaving a flame unattended in the wooden structure, Gorren had made a habit of simply not blocking any natural light from his room. Now though, the drapes were pulled firmly shut. He couldn't even make out the shape of his hand when he waved it in front of his face.

Gorren took two faltering steps into the room, and promptly collided with a solid chest. Shit! He knew the scent that his nose belatedly relayed to his brain. His father had been waiting for him.

The realisation cleared the alcoholic fog from his mind. Gorren hadn't locked his door, although he had been lucky to have the key on his person. His father was waiting to reprimand him, again. His father had locked the door, no doubt hoping that Gorren would make a spectacle of himself trying to get in, which he very nearly had. His father had closed the drapes, hoping that he would trip on his way into the room, which he very nearly had.

A rush of anger seared Gorren's gut, but despite the bravado of the mead, he knew better than to give voice to his emotions.

Father.

Gorren was glad that at least his tongue and lips seemed to be in cooperation with his brain. He hadn't had so much to drink that his tongue lay thick and sluggish in his mouth; he wasn't slurring his words.

Gorren.

Of course, as always, his name. Never son, no family title. There would be no show of affection, not for him.

I wasn't expecting you. Obviously the mead was not quite out of his system, or he wouldn't have chanced so facetious a remark.

––––––––

Evidently. I suppose you've been out with those reprobates you call friends? His father's gruff voice seemed to fill the dark void.

Evidently, or you wouldn't be waiting for me.

Gorren didn't quite manage to dodge the fist that came flying at him, out of the shadows. He'd been half-expecting it, but hadn't moved quickly enough, damn that mead. The blow caught him across the top of his ear, but glanced off his skull. Fuck, that was painful; but he would not cry out.

Twenty-six years and you're still acting like an ignorant pup, his father spat.

Gorren remained silent. No responses were required during his father's diatribes.

You think it's enough that you've joined the army. You think that doing so gives you a measure of respectability. You think because you chose to flounder in a menial rank, eschewing family position and connections in the name of honour and hard work, that it excuses you somehow from behaving in a manner fit to your birthright. You're wrong. You disgrace this family with your antics and drunkenness.

Gorren had heard this all before, several times, but it never failed to sting. King Dorll of Dorvek was overly fond - in Gorren's opinion - of pointing out the failings of his youngest son and second heir to the throne of Dorvek. To hear you speak, anyone would think I was rolling in the streets every night. I only went to the tavern with my friends.

Friends? Pah! His father's tone was filled with disdain. Liggers! Hangers on! Not an ounce of sense or honour between them.

Gorren riled at his friends being talked of in so derogatory a manner, but he wasn't strong enough to take his father on. For all the old man's years, Gorren knew from painful experience that he would barely even be able to make his father flinch, so he remained silent and let shame flush through him; shame at letting his father speak to him as a child, shame at not defending his friends as he should, shame that he somehow hadn't managed to do something more worthwhile with his life, something his father would be proud of.

They wouldn't speak two words to you if you weren't my son.

Gorren had had enough. Maybe the mead was boiling in his blood along with rage, or maybe there had been too many years of never being good enough for his father. Despite the drunkenness lingering at the edges of his vision, despite the way the alcohol seemed to muffle the ends of his fingertips, Gorren managed to make his way fairly steadily to a table in the room, the one where he knew he'd left a candle in a sconce. He found it, along with the flint he'd left next to it. He had arranged the items in preparation for his return. When he stumbled into bed and the room began to spin, before he found unconsciousness, it helped to have a point of light to focus on. He struck the flint until the spark kindled the wick. The wax stem was much shorter than he remembered it being. Ah, so his father had been waiting a while for his return.

The flickering light, bravely given by the guttering candle, grew by the second. Gorren turned to face his father.

I've had enough. He meant to sound strong, to let his anger colour his tone, but now that he was saying the words, he sounded only dejected, resigned. Nothing I do is good enough for you. It never will be. You'll never stop measuring me against Noridan. I won't stand here and listen to you denigrate my friends, and they are friends, true friends.

His father laughed, a spiteful sound. What are you going to do? Run crying to hide behind your mother's skirts?

Gorren shook his head, and regretted the action as his brain banged against the inside of his skull. No. I'm leaving. I'll go and live in the barracks with the others.

You will do no such thing.

I will. I won't ever be good enough for you, and right now I'm not even good enough for myself. I'm stuck betwixt and between two worlds, but you've made my choice for me, Father. Or rather, made it much easier. I choose the life of a soldier over the life of a prince. I will perform no royal duties. I will not take any more of your coin. I will not benefit from your name, or influence. I will live in the barracks with the other soldiers, just as they do.

His father stared at him. King Dorll's mouth was set in a grim line, just as it always was. His eyes were narrowed, even in the gloom, as if squinting into bright sunlight. The silver in the king's greying beard caught the fickle light as he inhaled and exhaled; it was the only sign that the king hadn't turned to stone.

As you will. The words were ground out through clenched teeth. Then the king turned on his heel and left the room.

Alone, in what should have been his sanctuary, Gorren sank down to sit on the edge of his bed. The covers were still rumpled and creased, he hadn't bothered to neaten them before he'd left to meet the others at the tavern. He looked around his room, it was hardly lavishly furnished, but there was no way he could take so many belongings with him.

As his own words echoed in his ears, Gorren realised he didn't want to take his belongings with him. He straightened a blanket on his bed, the warmest one, and then went around the room collecting only the most essential items. He would take only what he could carry with him.

Gorren opened drawers and pulled out the pieces of his military uniform and a few hard-wearing garments to be worn in more casual situations. He bundled the leather, fur, wool and linen into the blanket, along with a handful of useful knick-knacks and his smaller weapons. He gathered the corners of the blanket up and tied them together. He slung his sword belt around his hips, and hitched his long-handled axe into the leather band rather than carry it. He slung his long bow and its quiver full of white-fletched arrows across his back. He felt like a loaded pack pony, but he had everything he needed.

As he turned to leave, Gorren caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror that stood by the window. He could see now in the golden glow of the candle. His knee-length frock coat was torn and smudged with who knew what. The gold braid was fraying in more places than he had realised. His trousers were torn and dirty at the knees. He didn't remember having fallen down that night, but the rips, edged with mud and dried blood from the visible scrapes on his knees, suggested otherwise. His leather boots were scuffed. He was the very image of drunken debauchery.

His other senses returned suddenly, as if seeing himself had brought them out of their inebriated stupor. He gasped at the sharp sting of the injuries on his shins. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt as furry as a mouse. He heard the creaks and thuds that were the natural night time noises of the hall, and the too-wit, too-wit call of a solitary owl outside his window. Gorren tried to take a deep breath, and caught an unfortunate whiff of his own body odour; sweat, tainted by the stink of stale ale.

The stink made Gorren retch. He dropped his sagging bundle and only just made it to the water closet in time to empty the contents of his stomach into a earthenware bowl. There was a jug of water nearby, he drank some and then tipped the rest slowly over his head, tugging the damp tails of his shirt free to scrub his face clean. He stripped, breathing through his mouth to avoid catching another draught of his rotten self.

Rather than undo his bundle, Gorren went through his drawers one last time. He found a pair of simple woollen trews, a clean shirt, a plain waistcoat and a fresh overcoat, one made from black leather. The overcoat was in much the same style as his other, but it bore no decoration. Gorren tugged his boots back on, re-slung his weapons into place, and grabbed his belongings.

This time, when he looked in the mirror, he saw quite a different sight. No longer was he a caricature of a depraved aristocrat. His beard and hair were wild, just a touch too long, and were all over the place from the multitude of times that he'd run his fingers through them during the course of the night, but he looked far more presentable than he had before.

With barely a backward glance, Gorren hefted the makeshift pack onto his shoulder and blew out the candle. He left the room, but didn't bother to lock the door. He turned only as much as was necessary to toss his key onto the unmade bed. Gorren felt a moment's guilt for leaving the apocalyptic mess for the maids to tidy up, but he comforted himself with the notion that it would be the last time they had to rectify his chaotic untidiness.

Gorren strode through the corridors of Cranak Hall, the place he had hitherto called home. The wooden planks of the floor creaked under his passing feet, but he made no effort to be quiet until he came to the great doors at the entrance to the hall. These, he opened as stealthily as he had when he'd been sneaking back to his