WeatherMaker Hearts Desire Prologue
Chapter 66: Mearah’s Fate

Tristan took the tray from the servant, jerking his head to indicate her to be dismissed, before turning back to Amaia.

He placed the tray on the table before her.

‘Do you want some tea?’

Amaia didn’t answer; she only stared off into nothingness with a vacant expression. Upon her lap sat a small grey coloured, skinny dog. Markus was curled up into a tiny ball, happily deep in sleep.

Tristan sat opposite her on the large sofa, the low table between them, upon which sat the tray that carried the tea which was being ignored. He had brought her back to his home after they had left the temple, the home she had spent twelve years of her life imprisoned in. She was back here now, but this time she was free to wander, and free to be spoken to.

‘Amaia?’ Tristan asked tenderly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘What will happen to me?’ Amaia asked the air. ‘Will I be hunted for the rest of my life?’

‘No. Not anymore’ Tristan told her without hesitation. ‘You are safe now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the king is dead.’

Amaia slowly turned her head towards him.

‘Without the king’ Tristan said, ‘no one will be hunting the Weather Makers anymore.’

‘The king is dead?’ Amaia mumbled. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because I watched him die.’

Amaia’s eyes widened in shock.

‘What…?’

Tristan pulled open the tall double doors, stepping inside the hall and closing the doors quietly behind him.

Everything inside the vast hall was silent.

Tristan walked forwards, marching to the back of the hall towards the woman who lay on the soft bed that rested upon a stone slab. Behind her, tall windows reached from the ground, all way to the high ceiling, allowing her still body to always bask in the sunlight or moonlight.

Tristan approached the steps, walking slowly up them and towards the woman, coming to stand beside her.

He looked over her mournfully, fear and uncertainty stirring in his heart.

‘Mother’ he said. ‘I wish you would wake. I wish you were like the way you were before…I’ve missed you so much over the years….’

He bent forwards, holding her head in his hands. He rested his forehead against hers, breathing slowly with his eyes closed.

He kissed her forehead, straightening up again and gazing down upon her.

In life, her hair had always been short, but over the years, it had grown long, like her nails had grown long. Now her hair spilled down the side of the stone slab on which she lay, pooling on the ground below her.

‘I’m sorry mother’ Tristan said to her sleeping profile. ‘I’m sorry…’

Tristan reached into his pocket, pulling out a small knife.

He looked down at the queen, his mother, just one last time, before slitting her throat.

The blood seeped through the open wound, staining the white bed she lay on, and the white dress she wore.

She was still alive; the blood flowed fresh, but she did not wake.

Tristan watched as the blood ran down the stone slab, until it began to slow; and her skin began to pale.

The doors opened behind him, and Tristan whipped around.

‘Father?’

The king strode through the hall towards him. Tristan noticed then blood running from a wound at his neck.

‘What happened?’

The king did not answer his son as he stormed up the steps. He froze then when he saw the blood.

‘Nooooooo!’ the king screamed, tearing forwards. ‘Mearah!’

He stared down at his wife in shock and disbelief and fear, hands grasping the edge of the stone slab, before turning on his son, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shoving him away.

‘What have you done?!’ he screamed at him. ‘What have you done?!’

Tristan stared back in astonishment, unable to take his eyes away from his father’s grief.

The king bawled hysterically over his wife, leaning over her, before quickly falling silent.

‘Mearah’ he whispered. ‘My love…’

He lifted her in his arms then, moving down the steps away from the stone slab and towards the centre of the hall.

And then he began to spin, as if dancing with her, holding her dead body in his arms, her long hair flowing around her.

Suddenly the king collapsed, falling to his knees and holding his wife close.

‘My love…’ the king whispered in her ear, over and over again. ‘My love…’

He lay her down on the cold stone floor, rising to his feet and facing his son.

The king drew a sword from his belt, and Tristan stepped back uncertainly. But instead of attacking him, the king turned the sword on his self, driving it straight through his own navel, and falling beside his wife.

He moaned in pain, gritting his teeth as he raised his head up to glare at his son as he died.

Tristan watched without emotion as his father jerked the sword out of him.

He lay beside his wife now, reaching out to touch her one last time.

‘I will see you soon my love….’ the king whispered, ‘Mearah…’

The prince stared down at what had just happened, broken from his trance only when he noticed another figure in the room with him.

He was not alone in the hall as he had first believed.

Tristan turned to the figure on the floor, sitting hunched against the wall and nursing his injures.

‘You…’

‘I tried to make him see reason’ Tristan said mournfully. ‘I tried…when my father received a raven sent by my brother, telling him of a Weather Maker named Annabel who was especially powerful; he began to obsess over her……. I tried to speak to him. I tried to make him stop. But he wouldn’t listen…and after a time’ he went on, ’I realised the only thing I could do, was to get rid of her.’ He drew a steady breath. ‘Without her, there would be no reason for him to kidnap the Weather Makers, but I never realised what he would do once he found her, I never really thought about it.’ He leant forward, brow furrowed and hand over his mouth in thought. ‘I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known he would do it….he truly loved with all his heart and soul……but…I couldn’t continue to let him do what he did, not if there was something I could do to stop it. He stole the Weather Makers, believing they could save my mother….he had no reason to believe this, his grief drove him mad and it was the only hope he could grasp onto. My mother was a Weather Maker, so he thought that only other Weather Makers could save her.’ He shook his head. ‘I should have done it sooner……but I didn’t have the courage.’

‘How could you kill your own mother?’ Amaia asked him weakly, feeling sick to her stomach. ’That makes you as bad as he was.’

‘I was driven to it’ Tristan replied. ‘Because the king…my father…….he killed my son…your brother Alan.’

Tristan marched briskly down the corridor, walking with his head down but eyes up. He turned towards the double doors and entered the great hall beyond.

Inside he faltered, seeing his father standing with his back to him, facing the queen who lay forever still on her bed at the end of the hall, and his son nearby, flanked by two soldiers.

Tristan shifted on the spot, glancing from his son to his father’s back.

‘Father’ he nodded.

He looked again at Alan, who stared back at him nervously.

At first the king did not address his son, but stared, for the longest time at the sleeping profile of the queen, his wife.

‘She’s so beautiful’ he spoke at last. ‘Is she not?’

‘She is’ Tristan replied uncertainly.

‘And you know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.’

‘I know’ Tristan said.

‘I would gladly kill for her, would gladly go to the ends of the earth…even rip out my own heart for her……if it would bring her back….you know that…don’t you?’

‘Yes’ Tristan answered.

‘You stole a Weather Maker from my prison’ he said to him. ‘Didn’t you.’

Tristan didn’t answer, he didn’t move, only forced himself to take deep and calming breaths, as panic began to slowly sink its claws into him. He glanced now with fear towards his own son. Alan continued to watch him unspoken.

‘I want you to tell me where she is’ the king spoke dangerously. ‘I want her returned to me.’

‘Father.’ Tristan spoke loudly to the king. ‘Enough of this! Don’t you see you’ve caused enough suffering? And for what?! You haven’t been able to save her, you haven’t even come close! Please!’ he cried. ‘Stop this madness. Do you want this’ he indicated to a figure sat hunched at the edge of the hall, ‘to be your legacy?!’

The figure raised his head, seeing the scene before him through his one good eye. Through his left eye, he was blind, and had bled profusely where the knife had been driven through. He had deep wounds all over his body where he had been stabbed over and over again, but none of the wounds were meant to be fatal, only to cause pain.

‘Father’ Tristan spoke quietly now. ‘I am begging you. Please stop this madness.’

‘Bring the Weather Maker back to me’ the king ordered.

Tristan clenched his jaw.

‘Bring…’ the king said, ‘the Weather maker…back to me.’

‘No.’

At last the king turned to face his son, and Tristan saw with a jolt in his heart, that he held a loaded crossbow in his hands.

‘Bring the Weather Maker back to me’ the king repeated.

Tristan didn’t move, he only stared. Tears began to gleam in his eyes.

The king pointed the crossbow at Alan and fired.

The soldiers each grasped Alan by the arm as he fell back, the bolt from the crossbow sticking out of his shoulder.

Alan groaned in pain, glaring at Tristan.

‘Father…’ he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Help me.’

‘I can’t’ Tristan whispered back, no trusting his voice. ‘Amaia….’

Alan hung his head in grief, realising and accepting the inevitable.

‘Father….’

His lifted his head again, but there was no fear in his eyes this time.

‘I would do anything for my sister.’

‘I know you would Alan’ Tristan whispered back, tears running down his cheeks. ‘As would I.’

Alan gasped, as another bolt went into him, this time piercing his chest.

Tristan bit back a sob, gritting his teeth as his whole body began to tremble.

He watched as another bolt hit him again, flinching as this time it pierced his lung.

Tristan watched as Alan sunk to his knees, still held by his arms by the soldiers either side as a fourth bolt hit him.

The soldiers released him, and Alan fell to his side, dead.

‘Alan was willing to die for you’ Tristan told her as he cried, ‘as I was willing to allow him to die…for you..........I wouldn’t have told him where you were, not even if he tried to kill me too.’

‘But why did he do that?’ Amaia asked quietly.

’Because I took you from the prison. I rescued you. I took you away from him.’

‘Who was that woman?’ Amaia asked him. ‘The one I saw when leaving that prison. She went into the cell I just left…..she had green hair too.’

‘I kidnapped her’ Tristan replied casually. ‘I had to find someone to take your place in that prison. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice….so caught up in his grief as he was.’ His eyes became distant. ‘She was just a passerby I found who looked enough like you…I thought it would work…but he punished me for it….and my son.’

‘Why was her hair green like mine?’

‘I dyed it.’

Amaia furrowed her brow at him, tilting her head slightly.

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know.’

’What do you think might have happened to her?’

‘Most likely?’ Tristan said. ‘Its most likely she’s dead now.’

Amaia’s heart sunk in her chest as she stared at Tristan in disbelief.

‘How could you do such a thing?’

‘To protect you’ Tristan spoke more firmly than he intended, leaning forwards in his seat. ’And for that I would do anything.’

‘Anything?’ Amaia repeated. ‘Even letting innocent people die?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then that makes you no better than the king.’

Something happened in Tristan’s expression at that. His eye twitched, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but in the end said nothing.

Amaia rose, and walked away from him.

‘Where are you going?’ Tristan asked uncertainly.

‘You said that you would never keep me imprisoned again’ Amaia said. ‘That if I wanted to leave…you wouldn’t stop me’ she turned back to him. ‘You said that, didn’t you?’

‘You’re going back to Farrell?!’ Tristan asked incredulous. ’He is not your father.’

‘I grew up with him’ Amaia answered calmly. ‘He is as good as.’

She took a horse, and rode the long distance all the way back the way she had come, alone this time. She headed back to the temple, skipping lightly through the rooms, looking for one of them.

She saw Arlen first, sitting beneath the statue of the god Ezla, a depiction of a man growing out of stone, with a bare chest and sharp claws.

Arlen raised his head suddenly as if sensing her, looking around.

Seeing Amaia standing there, his expression broke into a wide grin.

Amaia approached him nervously as Arlen rose to his feet.

‘Amaia’ he sighed with relief. ‘I knew you’d come back.’

‘I had to’ Amaia said. ‘Tristan…he…’ she drew a deep breath. ‘He let bad things happen, innocent people….’

‘Hey’ Arlen smiled stepping towards her, and grasping her lightly by the shoulders. ‘It’s ok.’

Amaia bowed her head. Her hands went to the hood that covered her hair; she lowered it, and faced him again. For the first time, she revealed her light green hair to Arlen.

Arlen blinked curiously at the sight. But instead of questioning it, he simply smiled.

‘It’s good to have you back’ he said.

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