The War Gift (Part 1)

It was a day Cailan would have hoped never to see, but it was upon him, upon his country.  Three years of war had brought them to this sorrowful point, a place of surrender that went against the warrior-hearts of his kindredmen.  The only cause for rejoicing was that the bloodshed between his country and their enemy’s country was about to come to a close…as long as the terms of the surrender were agreed upon.  The current ceasefire between their warring nations would either lead to a treaty of peace or a renewed animosity between his home of Arten and the realm of Cylandrea.

Arten’s royal house, of which Cailan was the sixth born son out of seven, would be meeting with the king and chosen nobility of Cylandrea within the hour.  Cailan prepared for the meeting in his personal rooms, knowing his siblings were doing the same.  None spoke of it, but there was anxiety amongst the ruling house and an unspoken tenseness from the Artenian people.  They were a race of warriors, a people born to fight and defend their own, a people of honor, and neither a war nor a battle had been lost by them in over 200 years.  Surrender was a hated word, but worse was allowing any more innocent to die.  The forces of the Cylandrean army were the most powerful they had ever come up against, and that was saying a lot. 

Cailan’s people, the Artenians—particularly the men—stood taller and broader than any in their surrounding nations.  They were trained to fight as children once they proved strong enough to hold a sword, and they were taught in the way of their biggest strength, something which was known at birth by their hair color.  Black hair showed physical strength in hand to hand combat.  Red hair revealed leadership and the ability to use long range weapons such as bows and arrows or rock shots.  Brown showed the ability for concealment and tactical maneuvering.  And dark green, a less common color, held a special skill in naval warfare. 

Only three other colors appeared in Artenian blood.  One, a yellow-gold that only appeared on some women of the country and revealed a strong homemaker and plantress, two respected roles in their kingdom.  The second, a red-gold that revealed someone with a skill in magic and sorcery, another highly esteemed and needed ability in their land. 

And the last was a very rare silvery white—the color of Cailan’s hair.  A color he despised, for it told everyone that he was not a warrior, not a sorcerer, not anything.  At least, that is what he had been told indirectly his whole life. 

Silver white hair normally only appeared on a well-seasoned Artenian, male or female, and on the elderly it was considered an honor.  It meant they’d lived long enough to have survived beyond many of their kin, and that they had a vast knowledge of life that was revered.

However, an infant born with the silvery strands was considered weak, particularly a male, because they grew up smaller and without the brute quality seen in their peers; and while most children with this hair color were seen as quite intelligent, that was not a quality as favored as skill in battle.

The prejudicial mindset was something Cailan had fought against with every bit of honor in him.  He wasn’t weak.  While it was true that he was not as strong, and while he was tall still did not stand at the height of his father and brothers, he had both the ability and training to fight with a sword in his hand or a bow on his arm.  He’d stood alongside his family and kindredmen these three years of war, since the day of his sixteenth birthday in fact.  His brothers had argued against his joining, but his father had stood firm on allowing his sixth son to fight.  It was a matter of honor for both of them.

And one skill he’d obtained better than anyone else, a skill that occasionally earned him a proud smile from his larger-than-life father and king, was his speed.  No one could run as fast as Cailan, and his speed made him first choice—as well as first volunteer—to cross swiftly over combat grounds to deliver messages that could win or lose a battle.

Unfortunately, despite his speed, the Artenians’ warrior blood, and the king’s skill in battle, the soldiers of Cylandrea had proven formidable foes.  Arten’s death count was three times that of their rival, and just two days previously the Cylandreans had taken over the nation’s main and most needed trading city.  Without it, Arten’s necessary access to and commerce with their surrounding nations would disappear and ultimately destroy their homeland.  Now a ceasefire had been arranged and Cailan stepped from his rooms, with royal robes displaying his princely station adorning him, and went to join his family in the terms of surrender.

*****

“When are they arriving?” Cailan’s mother, Queen Adesina, quietly asked her husband. 

King Saxon, sitting on the ornate chair in their meeting room, nodded toward the portal receiver near the entrance.  “We agreed on the eleventh hour.  The portal is set to receive them.”

The group of them was quiet after that.  Even the youngest, the toddler Prince Doron, was silent in his mother’s arms. 

Just as the gongs from the palace clocks announced the turning of the hour, the portal receiver came to life and immediately a delegation of Cylandrean nobles stepped through the opening.  Cailan held back a gasp at the sight, although his expression—however brief before he schooled it—revealed his awe.  Ten men had entered, each one stunning, powerful, and almost feral looking.  Not to mention of great size.  Never before had Cailan seen men comparable in proportion to the men of his land, but the Cylandrean males stood as tall as Cailan’s family. 

As the men spread into the room, force of habit had Cailan studying their hair and wondering if it revealed innate talents as the Artenians’ hair did.  There was no way to know, but Cailan was still fascinated by what he saw.  Each one of the delegation had long black hair that flowed past their shoulders, just as Cailan’s did; although soon Cailan wouldn’t share that similarity.  In Arten a man did not cut his hair until his nineteenth birthday.  On that day the long locks were cut to the shoulders and offered in a fiery sacrifice to the king, showing dedication to his ruler and country as a man instead of a boy at that time.  Cailan would be making that offering in just three days hence.

It appeared though that such a ritual was not part of the coming of age for the men now mixing with Cailan’s family.  He could clearly see that all these men were well past their nineteenth year, and the long locks had stayed.  Each head of hair was fascinating though.  While all ten men shared the black color, Cailan saw uniqueness from person to person.  Only one of the delegates had a color that was nothing but black, the rest had very subtle hints of other colors peek through, although the traces of which were so faint that Cailan almost thought his eyes betrayed him.  Still, careful observation revealed his sight was not wrong.  In some men he saw hints of blue, others purple, others red or green or a very dark gray.  And on two of the men, looking almost like someone had dusted the shimmer of stars over them, Cailan saw silver.  Whenever they turned their head, a flicker of the silver seemed to catch the light of the oil lamps illuminating the room.

Carefully remaining silent as he’d been taught, for authority went from king to firstborn and so on down the line, Cailan tore his gaze from the fascinating men as his father stood from his seat.  He didn’t look pleased, but he was gracious in his welcome and offered a refrained introduction of his family: his queen, his seven sons, and his chief military commander.

One of the men with the shimmer in his hair offered a nod of acceptance at the introduction and returned the favor.  “I am King Alaric.  I bring with me my trusted advisors, two of my highest ranking officers, and my brother, beta ruler and commander of my military, Leader Jarek.

Leader Jarek was the other man with shimmering hair and he spoke in a smooth, cultured voice.  “Good day, King Saxon.  I pray our dealings today end on affable terms.”

“We shall see,” King Saxon replied, clearly not ready to make any promises.  He waved his hand in the direction of a small table where two chairs were placed on either end.  “Let us take a seat, King Alaric, and discuss the terms.”

The two kings sat while the rest circled around the table and their respective leaders.  Cailan knew the negotiations would likely take hours, but he determined to pay careful attention.  He’d always sensed a deviousness to the Cylandrean people and he didn’t want his father or his country to be manipulated or taken as a fool. 

Cailan was right about the extended debate time over each item or compromise either side pushed for.  Overall, Cailan was pleased with his father’s dealing of things.  King Alaric wasn’t willing to entirely relinquish the trading city back to King Saxon, but a complicated agreement on shared trade and a representative from both sides present in the city seemed satisfying to both countries. 

Step by step things began to reach their completion, until King Alaric shocked the royal house of Arten with a term none of them were expecting.  The two kings had been discussing an alliance when Alaric brought forth a document and laid it flat on the table.

“Two hundred and eighty-three years ago, your ancestral king by the name of Akello sought out my kinsmen to help him fight against the now extinct clan of Lessai.  An alliance was agreed to under the condition that King Akello provide someone among his own family to serve as a concubine to a member of Cylandrea’s royal family.  King Akello agreed to give his youngest daughter to the royal family since she was the only unmarried member, but only if the battle against the Lessai clan was a victory.  Under those terms, the alliance was agreed to, and shortly thereafter the Lessai clan was defeated.  Unfortunately, in the weeks before the victory, Akello’s daughter died of a high fever.”

King Alaric sat back slightly, but his face seemed determined.  “My ancestral king took pity on Akello for his loss and agreed to modify their original pact.  In a measure of good faith, Cylandrea’s king allowed a forfeit to King Akello, but it was agreed that if Cylandrea and Arten ever chose to make another alliance, then Arten’s king had to turn over his youngest child to Cylandrea’s royal house.”

King Saxon’s eyes narrowed as he read over the document and then glared at Alaric.  “You can’t be serious about pursuing this.”

“I am quite serious,” Alaric stated calmly.  “An alliance would serve us both, but as we know, it is more a necessary for you than for me.  However, a member of your royal family within my house would bond the alliance between us.  Our families would be united.  The child would serve, but not be treated poorly.”

Saxon’s face grew red.  “I have no daughters to serve as a concubine, so the terms do not apply.”

King Alaric tapped a finger on the paper.  “The terms say the youngest child.  It does not have to be a daughter.”

There were gasps throughout the room, and without warning Cailan’s voice spoke before he could stop himself.  “No!”

Everyone’s eyes looked to him, and even as Cailan recognized that he had spoken out of turn and was probably bringing shame to himself and his family, he couldn’t stop speaking.

“Please, King Alaric, the terms set in the ancient document are unkind and dangerous to the one they would affect.  The youngest of our family is a mere sixteen months old.  He cannot be taken from his mother, and it is atrocious to even consider using a child as a concubine!”

“Cailan, stand down!” King Saxon said firmly to him.

Cailan’s eyes burned with fear for his little brother, but he resumed his silence as instructed, even as his mind whirred to find another solution.  He saw his father open his mouth to speak, but King Alaric held up a hand to stop him. 

“I need a moment to speak with my advisors before we go further.  Perhaps you would like to speak with your own as well.  Please excuse me.”  He rose gracefully and stepped into a quiet corner of the room, his group following him as Saxon rose just as regally and approached his wife.

“Please, Saxon, no!” Queen Adesina begged as she clutched Doron to her chest.

Cailan saw the hardness on his father’s face and feared what was going to happen.  “Addy, I will try to reason with them, but I cannot break honor on an ancient treaty, nor can I allow anymore deaths to our countrymen by war or by poverty if we do not regain our trading city.  I just need to find the escape within the document that will let Doron stay with us without losing the alliance or our honor.”

A throat clearing brought the royal family’s attention back to their now very unwelcome guests.  King Alaric stepped forward and stood in front of his group.  A moment later his brother, Leader Jarek, moved to his side.

“We will offer a proposition to you, King Saxon,” Alaric spoke. “On this issue, it is the only compromise we’ll be willing to make.”

Defensively, Saxon stood in front of his family.  “What is it?”

“Considering the age of your youngest and the example of clemency given by my ancestor, we are willing to accept your next to youngest in place of Prince Doron.”

Cailan’s throat closed up and his mouth went dry at those words.  He was the next to youngest.  His gaze flew to his father, begging him to come up with another solution, but fearing the worst.  The king refused to meet his eyes, instead glaring at the dark-haired delegation. 

“If I decline those terms?”

“Then the alliance is unavailable and we will not agree to the rest we discussed.  Tomorrow will begin a new day of battle,” Alaric stated.

There were several tense, silent minutes.  Cailan held his tongue, fearful that Alaric would insist on taking Doron if he spoke up, but dearly wishing his father, mother, or brothers would defend his right to stay with his family instead of being turned into a whored out prisoner of war to these people.  The silence remained though, until a single devastating word broke Cailan’s heart.

“Done.”

*****

It almost felt as if Cailan’s spirit had left him with that desolately spoken word.  His chest tightened to the point that he nearly couldn’t breathe.  Senses of betrayal, abandonment, and shame took over his being as his father unhappily signed the alliance treaty.

“Prince Cailan will return to Cylandrea with us immediately,” Alaric said somberly into the room.  He almost sounded regretful of the events, but Cailan had too much hurt in his heart to believe the man to be any more than a villain.  “His duties will be to Leader Jarek.”  A look passed between the two kings that Cailan did not see.  “He will be treated well, and one year hence we will welcome a visit from his family,” Alaric assured.

King Saxon responded with the strength Cailan had always seen in his father, but his family noted the hint of misery in his tone.  “I would like a few moments with my son first.”

Alaric’s single nod was charitable and a moment later Cailan felt his father’s large hand rest on his shoulder and guide him to a private corner on the room.  Cailan swore he would not cry or beg, but his eyes were so blurred with tears that he could hardly see his father.

“My son.”  The deep voice rolled over him.  “I am sorry,” Saxon said sadly.

Cailan choked down his tears as he murmured, “Father.”

“We will see each other a year from today,” the king promised.  “I know this is not fair to you, but duty is not always fair.”

Cailan nodded, knowing that was true, but feeling like the emotions coursing through him could kill him in that moment.  Then he heard the muted whimper of his little brother and he found some strength in the sound.  He would not let the precious child be hurt.  Better it was him to be given to this life of shameful servitude than the toddler.  He took a deep breath and met his father’s gaze.  “I will not shun my duty,” he promised.

“You never have, my son.”

A feather light kiss was placed on the top of his head, and then Cailan and his father moved to King Alaric’s group.  Forcing himself not to shake, Cailan stood in front of the king’s brother, Leader Jarek, and then gracefully dropped to his knees in submission.  A moment later a leather circlet was placed with surprising gentleness around his left wrist and a thin silver chain was attached to it.  The other end of the chain was clipped to a loop on Jarek’s uniform.   A moment later the portal opened and Cailan was led through.  The last sound he heard was his little brother calling, “Cay-in!”.