Honour or Reason - Book 1# in the Burning Prince Chronicles

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brilyn was crouched behind the door with the lion door knocker, bleeding and frightened. His legs and arms were covered in deep scratches and bite marks. His chest was still bruised and tender, so each breath rattled his bones. He could hear the creature scrabbling through the dark, searching. Bri prayed the gods would spare him and give him a chance to find somewhere safe to hide or at least something to use as a weapon. The only thing he found to defend himself was a shard of broken wood from the ruined bedframe. Brilyn held his breath as he heard the beast pause in its pacing. No no no.

He sank deeper into the dark room, hoping the darkness would conceal him. His feet slipped on the slick tiles beneath him and each step was a demand to remain standing. If he was caught... I will die. His legs shook as he moved blindly through the dark, reaching out for the wall, for anything. The room was empty. Terribly and horribly empty. There were strange, almost raised bumps running across the tiles, the texture of crusty amber. In some places it covered entire tiles, like a thick paint had been splashed over them. He suspected he understood what he treaded on, but it was not the time to panic - well, panic even more.

His shoulders relaxed slightly when his hands met the wall. He felt around for a moment more, discovering he had found a sharp corner of the pitch-black room. Trembling, he wedged himself against it, letting hopefully his whole body to be consumed by the shadows. He was still wearing Zoysia's robe, although it was ripped and torn in numerous places. Still, it comforted him in a way he couldn't bother to understand. Brilyn pulled it tightly around him and drew his knees up, attempting to make himself even smaller. He had to be ready - one false move and he would be torn apart. Bri focused on his breathing first, forcing it to be slow and almost soundless. Next, he clasped the feeble stake of wood and readied it before him. Should the monster find him, he would not fall without giving the creature a fearsome fight. For once in his life, he wished he had excepted Conlaed's offer of training him in combat instead of storming off in disgust. Perhaps swordsmen are not as stupid as I thought.

Brilyn leaned his head against the wall wearily, eyes drooping. It was not hard to believe it had only been barely three days inside the tower. His fresh tattoo ached, as did his ribs from where Jarete had beaten him merely days ago. He was certain the bruising was as bad as it could be - each inhale sent a burning agony throughout his chest.

A hiss outside the door made the hair on the back of his neck prick up. Brilyn strengthened his grip on the stake, petrified. He knew if he were found the beast would surely butcher him. If only Conlaed were here. He could defeat the creature in two strokes of his sword. The prince was as good a swordsman as his father before him. Con moved with swift fluidity and struck his opponent dangerously precise. In a sparring match, Con was a force to be reckoned with. He is always a force to be reckoned with, the princely bastard.

Brilyn smiled grimly to himself. He wondered if Conlaed would be told his friend died of madness, that Brilyn killed himself in his hysteria. Probably. Still, he knew Con would never believe it. He knew Con would fight for his dead friend's justice. If he ever discovered the truth. The thought of Jarete escaping punishment was enough to make the Apprentice of Scrolls' blood boil. All his life at Userra castle had been in anticipation of the day Conlaed was crowned King of the Isle. Over the years Brilyn's mind had created an elaborate fantasy of that wonderful day. He would run to Con after he was crowned and tell the King of all the evil the Guardian had inflicted upon him, then the Fox would be humiliated in front of all of Maidora, before having a noose tightened around his throat. That day may never come. The Fox might kill the Heir before he can even take the throne. The very thought he could be the reason Con died was unthinkable. Conlaed was like a brother - he loved him as much as he had adored his siblings from a long-ago life.