Arrian's Lion

By A.J. Cullen

Arrian's Lion is the story of twenty-one year old Jay Holsley, the bastard son to Arrian's king, who feels that no matter how hard he works to better his social circumstances, he has been doomed t

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.J. Cullen
• Release date: Mar 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087948683

A.J. Cullen

A.J. Cullen is an avid reader, hopeful writer, usual introvert, sometimes crafter, and history devotee. When not scribbling yet another novel idea on whatever loose paper she can find, A.J. spends her time pursuing a master's degree in history while also growing her progressive teaching philosophy inside early childhood and secondary education classrooms. Currently, she resides in Massachusetts with her loving mother and the leaning tower of books by her bedside. Stacked with classic literature, the history books you'd only find on your grandfather's shelves, and plenty of YA, you can bet that her "to be read" list keeps her light on and the neighbors awake well into the night.

Book preview

I

I still don’t know how he did it, but every once in a while, I remember to thank God that he did. He slept so peacefully; it was almost offensive. In fact, the absolute certainty with which he seemed to draw each new breath was offensive. Hypnos ignored me entirely, but Kit had the nerve to befriend him in my own bed, to sleep soundly as if our risks were worth whatever comfort the night afforded him. Well, not me. Between the burning in my eyes and the lengthy yawns that filled and emptied my chest, I knew it was not my body that denied me one of the most basic needs of human survival. Unfortunately, I suffered from an affliction most would compare to melancholy, and it stalked my mind like wounded prey at night. Melancholy felt like a forbidden description, though, reserved for those whose hearts could only be heard as soft beats to a choral lamentation. I preferred to think of myself as overly aware and humorously sardonic.

No matter what you decide to call it, there were very few mornings before last summer that I could honestly say I woke up on the right side of the bed. You see, while the majority of people’s thoughts keep them up at night, mine would seep into my dreams. They’d flirt at first, then force this half–waking restlessness until I finally threw my blankets off and sat up, dreading a new day. Believe me, I did not crave death, and I was well aware of the privilege and fortune surrounding my circumstances. Yet as the sun’s early rays came in through the windows and relieved my anxiety of physical darkness, I couldn’t help but damn the nobles for not killing me. I mean, I knew my existence was beyond insulting to them— the fact that lightning never struck me dead broke half of their rules, and they didn’t even know about my worst infractions. By midday the animosity was something I could swallow, but in the infant glow of daylight, when the chance of luck being kind was still the world’s shaky promise to a waking man; I just wished that if the nobles were going to act upon their crude jokes, they would at least have the decency to slay me in my sleep.

Well, that day didn’t start as usual. As Kit turned from his side onto his back and greeted me with a lazy smile, my thoughts were not about death, but about how envious waking up next to your best friend must be. Envious especially to those of higher nobility than myself or Kit; although, Kit’s father being the Duke of Echo certainly meant he was far from the common citizen. I suppose being the bastard son to the King of Arrian did my blood some royal favors too, even though most of the noblemen that ruled by my father’s side had a tendency to disagree.

For a moment, I felt weightless, like the feather of a bird carried forth by a summer breeze while the rest of the world watched with green eyes from the sweltering ground below. It may have been naïve, or misplaced trust in a hopeful figment of our imaginations, but a lingering sense of joy was mutually taken as an invitation for our lips to meet. Careful not to over indulge, I freed myself from our kiss, sitting back against the headboard before any actions could be recognized as affection. I pulled the sheets I had surrendered to another sleepless dawn around my waist, uncovering Kit’s bare chest in the process. Shit. My nonchalant return to high society was doomed.

Trying my best not to stare, I must have looked concerned. Kit blushed shyly before lifting the blankets from his lower half, revealing the breeches he had been wearing the night before. I sighed in relief, perhaps more dramatically than either one of us hoped to hear. It’s not that we would have let anything too scurrilous happen, even with the amount of alcohol we had consumed. Besides, I was in a shirt and drawers, and Kit preferred his own clothes to borrowed nightwear. I just didn’t like the idea of loosening my restraint on our desires… Not yet, anyway.

Good morning, Duke. You haven’t come across a pair of green breeches, have you? I asked sweetly, raking a hand through my hair. He laughed drowsily, rubbing away the sleep that threatened to seduce his brown eyes.

"I haven’t, but these are your chambers. You must have another pair somewhere," he said, stretching his arms above his head.

If we were in my chambers at the castle, yes. I’ve hardly anything here but a warm bed and a few toys from my childhood. Everything else was moved.

I watched as Kit pushed himself upright, amused by his efforts not to drag my half of the blankets along with him. After a pause, he folded the blankets forward and sat on top of them, turning so he could face me fully. He raised a hand to my cheek, tracing my jaw with his fingers gingerly. I brought my own hand to Kit’s and moved his fingers to my lips, kissing his knuckles with pleasant leisure. Accepting this as a renewed invitation, he leaned closer, a piece of tousled, dark brown hair falling to his forehead as his lips met mine again. The castle bells began to toll just over the hill. I counted them half–wittedly, more focused on Kit than on the hour.

One… two… three… My God, are his lips soft… ring… ring… ring.

I sat up suddenly, almost knocking my head into Kit’s nose. My heart pounded against my chest, any ounce of exhaustion I was holding gone with my jolting start.

How many chimes was that? I asked, so quickly I swear I could hear my breath whistle through my teeth.

He stared at me for a moment, looking shocked at the rush of my question, then thankful it wasn’t his kiss that made me jump.

Six, I believe.

Six?! I repeated, nearly throwing myself into the wall as I got out of bed. Why didn’t you tell me?

Kit chuckled, departing his side of the bed much steadier than I had mine.

I’m telling you now, Jay. He stretched his arms above his head again, pulling the light fawn skin of his torso white around his core, then bent down to pick up his shirt. I bit my lip while admiring his display, but soon was overwhelmed by a chilling sense of panic.

What are you doing?! Have you lost your mind? Stop it before he or someone else sees you enjoying this.

The warm sense of soaring above those envious of us froze like mountain air, just as it did every morning I woke up next to Kit. I hated that I enjoyed myself painlessly before remembering we were both plagued with a sin entirely different than envy. He was a noble’s son, cursed with a reputation to uphold. I was the bastard son to the King, Arraineous II of Arrian, a permanent ink splotch on my life that I’d spend an eternity wringing out.

Revitalized by my generously recurring regret, I began to search the room for my breeches. In the middle of my hunt, Kit coughed to gather my attention, waving the bottoms around in a taunting nature. I extended an impatient hand for them across the bed, striving not to give him any unnecessary attention.

You have to go, I said, too bitter to defend as a jest. Kit frowned, tossing the breeches to me. He knew what I was thinking.

"I wish you weren’t so worried about being found. We are in your own home," he languished in frustration, slumping to sit on the end of the bed. Kit swept his shoes and stockings over to him with his feet. I moved about the room hastily, gathering my clothes that lay sprawled out across the floor and pretending not to notice his protests disguised as innocent mumbling. Kit continued his monologue, tugging at his stockings while he mentioned every reason why I should feel ashamed for being ashamed at yet another one of our romantic encounters: "Your mother is traveling in Zuphora, a country at least eight days north of here with the fastest horses. Even more, no one would dare come near the house of the King’s beloved mistress without proper reason. My father wouldn’t be looking for me at this hour, and— He stopped when he realized I was dressed and collecting the shaving dish that sat on a trunk by the door. And you won’t have time to do that."

I dismissed his doubt with a flick of my wrist and walked determinedly to the washroom. Filling the shaving dish with clean water, I took a moment to muster my best unbothered expression for the quarrel I knew we were bound for. When Kit had finished dressing and found me in the next room, I was staring intently into a mirror, half shaven and half lathered. He collapsed into the doorway with a grieved sigh, waiting patiently for me to finish and undoubtedly rehearsing his mental notes for the next part of his lecture. As I knocked the last bit of lather into the dish, the sandy red remnants of my beard swirled in the water, distorting the square lines of my soapy reflection.

We were only caught the once. His voice was so soft, it was practically a whisper. I dipped my fingers in the water and tried to tame the loose curls that sat on the top of my head. The sides of my hair have always been shorter and neat, but the rest sort of grows out in uncontrollable wisps. Kit often played with the curls when we found ourselves in each other’s arms, so I let them grow— cheeky, I know, since I was perfectly mindful of how they drove him mad with desire. Satisfied that I appeared presentable, I turned to him hard on my heel, obviously annoyed with what he had said.

Must we discuss this every time? I asked harshly.

As long as you continue to wake up next to me, only to decide that you hate it until you tire of your excuses again, then yes. He had raised his voice to its normal volume, coupling the traces of disappointment in his tone with crossed arms. I hated when he said I was using reality as an excuse. The occasional rendezvous was all we could afford, and what I tired of was the necessity to explain that to him every time we had one. I released an irritated sigh.

Wasn’t one beating enough for you? My words were sharp, and Kit’s glance fell to the floor. Too much, I thought, and moved to stand in front of him. I raised my hand to touch his shoulder but dropped it before I made contact, looking down to play with the cuff of my sleeve instead.

We are fortunate it was only the one time. More so that your father was the one to find us, I said, keeping my tone even but less harsh than before. He didn’t look up. The only one who knows now is Daphne. She helped me clean up enough so my father wouldn’t notice and swing with a strength that matched the Duke’s.

He thought for a moment, likely fighting off the memory.

We were just boys then, Jay. I think we’re a bit too old to get our pride severed and handed to us by our fathers now.

I suppose that was true. Kit had just turned nineteen on the eve of that past Christmas (hence his Christian name, Christopher), while I would be two and twenty at the end of summer. Along with the fact that we were both average height— although, I am a smidgen shorter than Kit— we both maintained a reasonable build that would not betray us in a fight. I myself trained as a soldier with one of my father’s favored generals from the time I could carry a sword, so anything I lacked in size could be made up for in tactic. My skills were not lost on my father, and in an attempt to give me some sort of protection under his rule— and ultimately, a chance to clean my name so I could serve my brother as a general— he put me in charge of the King’s Guard. Nonetheless, the risk of someone finding us still haunted me.

You’re right. Now, the risk is even greater than before. We aren’t boys that our fathers can beat a mistake out of to silence the nobles and salvage our names.

His eyes met mine lovingly. That was the problem: he always looked at me lovingly, no matter the abuse my words put him through. He had never said so, but he loved me as more than his best friend, and I knew that. I wanted to love him beyond friendship. Openly, even. I knew that, too. But I also knew if Kit were to inherit his father’s title, he had to keep his reputation spotless. If I wanted to gain enough respect from the nobles so as not to be ousted from court the second the King died and my brother took the throne, I needed to be a saint. Kit didn’t understand that. Or, perhaps he did but didn’t care. That was the even bigger problem.

The castle bells chimed again, singing seven times. Well, maybe not singing. I can’t imagine anyone would be singing happily at seven in the morning. Shouting may be a better word.

Great, I muttered. Taking a deep breath, I clapped Kit’s shoulder gently. You’ll be gone before the maids come?

I always am. A small smile curled his lips despite his reluctance to drop the subject so easily.

And you’ll remember your sketchbook this time, Duke?

Yes, darling. I won’t leave it for someone else to find, he teased, moving to let me pass.

And the guar—

The guards are changing shifts as we speak, so I must wait for them to pass on their way home before I leave… I know. His smile grew as he pulled me through the doorway and pushed me toward the stairs. You’re late.

Right, I said, surfacing a smile I was sure looked more polite than genuine. I’m off. See you this evening.

A stable hand greeted me warmly as I dismounted my horse outside of the palace gates. Once I gave him the reins and thanked him for meeting me, I sauntered past the arriving tower guards like the tomcat I let them think I was, granting them an amused eye roll for their mocking whistles. Making haste as soon as my boots met the cobbled stone of the castle’s entrance, I ran through the first floor corridors and up the nearest set of stairs, stopping short in front of my chambers after racing down the hall. I flung the heavy doors open, nearly tripping over my helmet and chest armor as I stumbled in, then gently closed the doors behind me, breathing heavily. The maids had not come to tidy up the room yet— thank God, since they’d have found nothing out of place but my guard armor and uniform— sparing the need to develop a believable excuse for the King as to why I was not there that morning and had not been all evening prior. Catching my wind, I slipped the chest and shoulder plating over my head and tucked the helmet under my arm. I scanned the room for anything a messenger may have left in my absence. A symptom of my rank in the army and my role as Commander, I received written correspondence from the General often, and I wanted to lock away his notes in case something were too important for the servants to see. Finding nothing, I began my refined make it look like you woke up here routine, which mostly consisted of jumping on the bed to the point it looked like more than I had slept there. Once the bed was properly unmade, I shuffled some papers around on my desk and stepped into the corridor again, the doors clicking shut behind me.

Surprisingly on schedule, I began my rounds of the castle, stopping to greet the newly arrived guards and gathering any reports they received from the men who patrolled the night before. The clock had yet to strike eight when I approached the last post on my route. With no urgent matters to address, I walked to the end of the corridor and glanced over a top floor balcony, surveying the palace grounds one last time before heading downstairs to the dining hall for breakfast.

Coming home quite late from our evening out, aren’t we, Brother?

I jumped, probably more than someone meant to be guarding nobility should. Daphne stood about eight stairs above me, flashing a bright, eager smile as she waited for a faulty response.

Goodness, Daphne! You’re lucky I didn’t draw my sword, I exhaled as my heart returned to its normal beat. Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you approach, I asked, hoping conversation would carry us away from her question.

Don’t be daft, she laughed. I was in the secret tunnels, of course.

Of course, I said, acting as if I hadn’t known. "I just thought, especially after all your years of practice spying with your brothers when we were younger, that using the tunnels was a bit, let’s say, amateurish for your skills."

She laughed again, clearly enjoying the wit we often shared.

A true spy knows when her dress is much too loud for sleuthing in the open.

Yes, I suppose she does. The castle bells signaled the hour. I turned to start down the hallway, nodding for her to join me. It’s rather early to be spying, isn’t it, Princess? She rolled her eyes at princess, and I chuckled. Unless we were in public, my siblings and I were never formal with each other. Kit and his brother became our exceptions to the public rule, seeing they were the only nobles that weren’t afraid to play with us as children. Many of the others at court were advised to avoid myself, who some nobles feared would corrupt their child with my bastardly ways; and Daphne, who even more nobles feared their child would in some way taint before the King could arrange a strategic marriage. Not Kit or Francis, though. They were our oldest friends, and we therefore disregarded formalities with them, too.

No. I was worried you would not be back in time for my departure, and I needed to find you. Now that I have, I can give you the chance to kill me as a favor, she huffed.

Really? I grinned, enthusiasm coating my tone as a sly smile flitted across my face.

Figuratively, she said, humoring me with a hint of insult in her response.

Aw, don’t toy, I grabbed at my heart and heaved a disappointed sigh. She shoved my shoulder and I pretended to lose my balance, releasing a single laugh in punctuated breath. Aren’t you excited to travel to Esmia and witness the birth of your cousin’s child? You could be meeting the future heir.

And a new suitor, she said shortly.

Come now, I smirked. It could still be a girl.

That sent her into momentary hysterics.

Not the baby, you idiot. Mother wants me to meet some nobleman while we are waiting for the child to be born.

Another suitor? You’d think Her Majesty would tire of seeing you plainly reject some of the world’s most eligible marriage candidates.

But if I’m not to marry a man of suitable standards, what good am I to the Duane line? she asked, equally serious as she was mocking the unspoken expectations of a royal daughter. "She’ll only stop when they tire of me. I think I’ll have to quit posing for portraits altogether."

I don’t think Queen Margot will allow that, I snorted.

For as long as I could remember, the Queen hired an artist to come every year and paint new portraits of her children, herself, and the King. She loved the arts almost as much as Kit did, and she insisted her family sit for these elaborate portraits each year in late spring to hang on the palace walls. Of course, not much sitting happened once Atlas started to annoy Sam mid–portrait, leaving a frazzled artist trying to finish his model from memory while my brothers tackled each other to the floor. Luckily for the painter, my siblings shared a skin tone that was somewhere between my father’s cream complexion and the Queen’s more olive coloring, a defining trait of her home country Esmia. My father and Atlas shared the same light brown hair, and although Atlas’s looked entirely blonde by summer, it was too early in the year to see any difference. The Queen, Sam, and Daphne all had wavy, dark brown hair; Sam’s short and well-kept while the ladies often wore theirs on the longer side for women, Daphne’s decorated with braids and the Queen’s styled off her neck. Daphne and Atlas dawned the same blued hazel eyes as our father, in contrast to the deep brown Sam and the Queen shared. I looked the most like my father, and despite the blondish hair, pale blue eyes, and porcelain skin my mother passed down with her Zuphoran roots, it was evident that my siblings and I were related. The lick of red in my hair was just the Devil’s way of making sure the resemblance wasn’t too insulting. Point being, if these differences were paid any mind to, I could sit down while the artist finished and my brothers tried to kill each other with paint brushes.

Speaking of suitors, I believe I asked you about last night, Daphne sang tauntingly, the bluish brown of her eyes lighting up like the sun reflecting off the sea.

Just when I thought you took the bait, I sighed, shaking my head. I presume there is no use in pretending I don’t remember?

Well, you don’t look like you drank enough to have even stumbled last night, so no.

What if I had fallen and hit my head? I countered.

Then perhaps the name Lord Christopher Eastyn would provoke your memory?

I chuckled, admitting defeat.

My evening was nothing out of the ordinary, Daph. Duke and I had a drink at one of the bars in Echo, then went back to my mother’s home.

Lady Susanna is still traveling?

She’s visiting her family in Zuphora. Due back soon.

So, you and Kit had plenty of time to yourselves, she giggled. I shook my head in acknowledgement of her subtlety, smiling bashfully.

Nothing more than a few kisses, I answered knowingly.

If it was your typical romp, then you also rushed out the door the second your excitement settled. Her expression had turned into a soft frown. I released a pained sigh.

I had to, Daphne. The longer I stay, the more reality slips away… and I can’t love him. You know that. Love is a luxury the poor are granted before the nobles are.

She nodded thoughtfully.

But do you?

Do I…?

Love him, Jay. Do you love him?

At that moment, our brother Sam stepped into the corridor from the adjacent courtyard. He had a hand to his mouth, shielding a yawn, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Still in his sleepwear, Sam all but walked into Daphne before opening his eyes.

Good morning, Sam, she said, putting a hand out to catch his chest as he lazily walked forward. His eyes flung open when she touched him. Sam looked around slowly, then smiled.

Good morning, Daphne. Good morning, Jay. I didn’t see you there, he nodded to each of us in greeting. You wouldn’t happen to know the time, would you?

Sometime after eight. Are you just coming back from your evening stroll? I asked.

My second stroll. I did sleep some, little brother. Perhaps I can get another wink in before Father decides he needs me. He gave each of us a small bow, then started for his chambers. Daphne and I watched him walk a short ways before we continued on ours.

He’s been doing that a lot more lately. Not sleeping, I mean. I think the stress of preparing for his future is starting to get to him, she said as we approached the dining hall.

Only starting? How kind of you, I chuckled. "Sam’s been preparing since birth like the rest of us. I’d say it got to him somewhere around the time he gained consciousness. It’s just that now, he’s no longer preparing. He is Father’s second in command, I said, grasping the door handle. He’s almost as stressed as Newbury."

As I pulled the door open for Daphne, the King’s secretary’s voice began to echo down the hall. I could hear him calling for me, running as if he had just escaped from a prison cell.

Mr. Holsley!

I rolled my eyes.

How is it that such a tiny man can create so much aggravation each day before afternoon settles in? I whispered to Daphne as we watched him run furiously toward us.

It’s your fault, she grinned in amusement. You said his name, and it summoned him.

Mr. Newbury presented himself to my sister and me, panting and bent over to steady the heave behind his gasps. When he could finally manage to say more than the Lord’s praise, he straightened to speak.

Your Highness, he bowed.

Mr. Newbury, she curtsied in return.

Mr. Holsley, Mr. Newbury took the door from me and motioned for Daphne to enter, His Majesty would like to see you and the Prince in his study.

Which one? Daphne muttered as she joined what was sure to be a morning feast and glorious send off for her dreaded trip with the Queen. I’ll see you later, Jude, she nodded to me, carefully choosing to use my birth name so there was just enough formality that Mr. Newbury wouldn’t drop dead from shock. Newbury closed the door behind her, mildly annoyed by her lack of etiquette. Out of anybody at court, our dismissal of princess, prince, my lord, and mister drove Newbury the maddest since he was largely responsible for teaching the King’s children their manners.

Forgive her, I said. "She is still sensitive about Atlas— I mean, John’s banishment from court."

I see, he said. Where is Prince Samuel?

He’s asleep, I replied shortly, hoping the implied I wouldn’t disturb him was obvious.

Sleeping?! Good heavens, we have a meeting to attend!

I let out an irritated sigh, my efforts at saving Sam some peace evidently passing over Newbury’s head.

I can see myself to the study. If you have to collect him, that is.

Yes, right, he said, adjusting his neck scarf as if pulling on a noose. Thank you, Mr. Holsley.

Newbury walked briskly down the hall and up the first set of stairs he encountered. When he was completely out of sight, I opened the dining hall door again, grabbing every bit of food within arm’s reach and shoving it into my mouth. Daphne laughed as I waved to her, mouth full, before commencing the slow walk to my father’s study.

II

The wooden floors in the main room of the King’s study creaked under my weight as I paced back and forth. I should have known I could have taken breakfast before Newbury arrived with Sam, I thought repeatedly in my annoyance. See, one of the less than charming characteristics of Mr. Newbury is his habit to assume everyone must be painfully early, or else they will suffer from anxieties similar to his own. If it were up to Newbury, I would have slept in my father’s study to ensure I arrived on time. If it were up to me, I would have arrived later that morning than I already had just to cause him some grief— all in good fun, of course.

With no panicked footsteps in the hall or any sign of life coming from my father’s private study, I placed my helmet on a small table and settled into one of the armchairs facing the fireplace. The newest portraits