The King's sword

“No doubt a centaur or two as well,” Keegan growled as he kicked his horse forward onto the raft.

“Horses cost a bit more.” Grayson waited and Mikel reluctantly gave him a few more pieces before hurrying to step onto the raft along with the others.

“I saw no centaurs.” The changeling shook his head but Keegan didn’t look as if he believed him. “I swear it.”

“The word of a thief?” Keegan snorted. Ronan wanted to tell the horseman to give the changeling a chance but opted to keep quiet. It was best to let him do what he thought was best. There had been times when Keegan’s judgment was better than his own. Ronan remembered the bridge.

“I steal. I don’t lie,” Mikel snapped, and then darted around the horses, positioning himself as far away from the horseman as he could.

Ronan reached over and steadied Ula’s horse when he danced nervously on the wood planks of the raft. “I don’t like this,” the woman murmured. Ronan gave her hand a pat, wishing to reassure her.

“It only takes fifteen minutes, remember? Then it will be over,” he offered. But his words didn’t seem to console her. Instead she looked ill and her shoulders slumped.

“You don’t know this river, Sir Culley. But you soon will find out. The river is dangerous,” she whispered. Ronan studied her for a moment. She’d been so powerful before. Now she appeared almost child-like, frightened and cowering.

His eyes drifted to the water. It looked like any other river he’d ever seen. Nothing special. Glancing back, Ronan squinted toward the woods. He could barely make out Bryan’s outline. The rest were gone. Only one centaur remained to follow. He wondered why but was thankful. One would be easier to deal with than five. And there was something oddly comforting about Bryan’s presence. It made him feel truly protected.

“Heyyyyyy.” The changeling reached up to touch Ronan’s leg but in an instant Keegan had drawn his sword and pressed it to the little man’s throat. Ronan stared at the hard look in Keegan’s eyes, surprised at his reaction.

“Do not touch him.” Keegan’s voice was dangerously low.

Mikel gave a little squeak as his eyes rounded and his hand snapped back. “I…I just wanted to see the sword. I never saw a King’s Sword before. Don’t kill me.” The poor changeling was quaking where he stood. Ronan shook his head slightly at Keegan and the man let the point of his sword drop from Mikel’s neck. But his eyes remained hard.

Something had happened. There had been an obvious shift in all those that traveled with him. It was something more than just respect and it scared Ronan. Keegan Yore had started out a suspicious horseman. Now he stood like the solid guard to a blacksmith he’d known little more than a week. And Arien, once the overeager apprentice had taken to leading the group, riding ahead at times to scout for more trouble from the centaurs. Ronan’s eyes dropped to Ula. She’d become more to him than the crazed witch he’d first thought her. She tended his wounds, fed him, made certain he was comfortable…like a maidservant, or, he corrected silently, a mother figure.

Ronan started to reach for the sword, but Ula’s breath sucked in and she laid her hand on his, stopping him. “No, not here. Wait until we are across. The river has too much power. It can make you do things.”

“What things?” Ronan asked glancing at the man who pushed the raft away from shore with a long pole.

“Dangerous things,” Ula answered as they glided out into the waters. Almost immediately Ronan was struck by the river’s magic and he nearly fell backward off of his horse. The river disappeared. So did the horse beneath him. Everything around him did, though he still felt Ula’s hand upon his. Turning his wrist, he grasped her invisible fingers and held on, uncertain of what was happening or what to expect next.

At first he felt like he was drowning. He could feel the coolness of water filling his lungs, surrounding him. The sound of moving water grew louder in his ears. It almost felt comforting to him. But if he forced his vision to clear, he could see the end of the raft moving along. When he ceased his strain however, the world around him rippled and changed again.

He blinked and took a breath. He was home! He stood at the road looking toward his cottage. He squeezed Ula’s hand as fear tore through him, bringing him back to the raft and he looked at the others aboard.

“What is this that is in my head?” Ronan waited for Ula to explain as he struggled to control his mind but it was Mikel the Hort who answered.

“It’s the river, Sir. It gets in your mind.” He trembled with his own words, eyes clouded. Ronan’s head pounded with the sound of the rushing water while he looked at each of the faces. They were all far away in their own minds. All but the old man.

“The river spares me its magic so I can keep folks crossing over,” the old man explained when he looked up at Ronan. “It’s better not to fight it. Just don’t give in to it, either. Remember it’s the river you are seeing. Nothing more.” Ronan nodded, thankful for the advice. He breathed out slowly and released his control on the present, easing the pain throbbing at his temple.

Again he found himself standing at the road of his home. The fence was mended and almost looked like new. He saw the mule peeking out from the stables at him, thinner than she had been when he last saw her. And the building he used to make weapons in wasn’t even there. Instead a garden of vegetables stood surrounded by a small wooden fence.

He looked back at the cottage as the aroma of baking bread and fried meat tickled at him and his stomach growled loudly. Someone was moving around inside but he did not feel afraid. Oddly, everything felt right.

The food summoned to him again. “Ula?” Ronan shouted with joy when the door opened. His mother stepped out carrying a basket of clothes. She smiled and lifted a hand to wave.

He had a sudden urge to run forward and embrace the vibrant woman that was his mother but Ronan didn’t move, afraid she would disappear as quickly as she had appeared. He just stood there watching her. She looked beautiful, golden hair catching the rays of the sun. She moved gracefully, full of life, as if nothing tragic had happened. He could hear her voice as she began to sing, draping the wet clothes over a line that pulled from the stable to the cottage. Tears stung Ronan’s eyes.

But the door of the cottage opened again and when Ronan looked, he went to his knees. Kneeling there, he watched the man’s burly body move through the doorway into the sunshine. Father. The man lifted his eyes in Ronan’s direction and he smiled. Ronan was crying, deep sobs vibrating from his chest. It was better now. Everything was as it was supposed to be. When the man raised a hand and motioned for his son to join him, Ronan was on his feet instantly.

It isn’t real. The words came out of nowhere. Still, he stepped forward and the atmosphere changed again, like ripples in water. He was standing in a room…her room. The one he’d longed locked off from the rest of his house. It held too many memories, memories that haunted him at night.

Slowly his eyes slid across the dusty top of the bureau. The material that draped over its corner and on the rotting chair in the corner had long been stained by time. Mice skittered across the floor along with other crawly things. Ronan had heard them behind the locked door but had left the room sealed anyway. It had been locked for nearly twenty years. No need to open that pain in his heart again. Let the mice eat it away, he had told himself.

The scent of something old and dead filled his nose. He turned his face, shielding his nose against the scent with his arm. What was that smell?

“Ronan.”

His eyes darted to the bed and a cry strangled in his throat. Weak and fragile, she stared up at him from the dirtied moth eaten sheets. Her eyes pleaded for him to do something to ease the pain. He forgot the foul stench and reached for her hand.

“Mother.” The word found his lips. This isn’t real. The warning came again and Ronan frowned with irritation at the interruption.

“Help me, Ronan. Help me. Make this hunger go away.” Ronan eased down beside her. He looked at their hands. His were smooth, large for his age. Hers were withered and skeletal. That was one of the images that had always haunted him.

“I don’t know how,” Ronan whispered, feeling very much like the boy he had been, helpless and lost. “I tried but you wouldn’t eat.”

“Don’t let me die this time.” His mother’s voice tore at his heart. “You know what to do. Put me out of my