Hather (Hather Series Book 1) Read online

  They ran. Cassandra led him through the thick overgrowth and down a steep hill. The attackers were close behind, dodging trees and hopping over fallen logs in their path.

  The trees were thinning out before them and Roland could sort of make out the dark pavement of the road Cassandra mentioned. She was slow. If they continued at her pace, their pursuers would catch them in no time. He shoved Cassandra forward and spun on the gang, drawing his sword as he ran at them.

  “Roland!”

  He’d promised to protect her, hadn’t he? The academy taught its students sword lessons as well as martial arts, since it was necessary to thrive in this society. He slashed at the man an arm’s length away. Their swords clashed. He swerved out of the way as the other drove the sword toward his back. In a matter of seconds they pressed him backward until his back hit a tree. The first man had a rough black beard and sunken eyes. His weathered skin caused him to appear about fifty years old. The second was shorter with a firm jaw and slightly yellowed eyes. He brandished his sword and held it against Roland’s neck.

  “Drop your blade.”

  Roland obeyed and the elder man kicked it away. Their confident actions showed that they had years of experience. The first man grabbed the bag from Roland’s shoulder and dumped the contents onto the ground. They examined his suit and polished shoes then shoved them into the bag and took it for themselves.

  “Give us your money.”

  Roland revealed the insides of his pockets and they shook their heads. “Where are you hiding it, boy? Take off your clothes.”

  Roland blinked and released a sigh of relief when Cassandra appeared behind the attackers with a police officer in tow.

  The first man narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you so happy about?”

  “Hell, there’s a cop,” the second said, following Roland’s gaze.

  Roland grabbed his sword while they were distracted and cut his bag straps so it fell from the thief’s shoulders. He grabbed it and sprinted toward the police officer, stopping when he was safely behind the man. There was no way he would leave the suit behind when it cost him an arm and leg. He sheathed his sword, grateful for the cop’s arrival.

  The men glared, but reluctantly retreated into the forest. Even they weren’t willing to mess with a seasoned officer. The cop took off, refusing to let them escape. Standing by Cassandra’s side, Roland realized how close he had been to death. If the men so desired, they could have killed him without any hesitation.

  Cassandra punched his shoulder, tears streaming down her pale face. Her body trembled. Locks of her black hair formed a halo around her triangular face,

  “Why?” he asked, puzzled by her aggression.

  “You damn idiot, what would I have done if you were injured or worse…killed? Did you even think before charging at them like some fool that had lost his mind? God, you were lucky I managed to find a cop out there. You idiot.” She rubbed her eyes. “You are so stupid.”

  Wanting to comfort her, Roland decided that he couldn’t hug a woman he just met. He hesitantly stretched his shaking hand out and patted her head.

  “I’m sorry. Things could have gone a lot worse than they did.”

  “Stupid. I thought they’d kill you, so I ran, everything was screaming at me to go back. I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to help you. That I would only be able to watch you die before they turned on me. It hurt, and still, I kept running, hoping I would run into someone, anyone.” She sniffled.

  Though she was upset about his decision, Roland knew he did the right thing. After all, she was safe, and alive. Her father would be happy. Hell, Roland might even get a raise.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Carter,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  He glanced at her feet; they were riddled with blisters from the heels she wore and bleeding where rocks had sliced her skin. Bending down, he told her to get onto his back.

  She hesitated.

  “How far away are we from the academy?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I can handle a ten minute walk, so don’t worry about me, Miss. Your feet hurt, don’t they?”

  She gingerly held onto his shoulders, and he picked her up. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “This is my fault.”

  She was heavier than he expected, but he didn’t let her go. “It’s not. It was risky to take this route in the first place. As the rebellion heats up and the city’s residents join the resistance, everywhere becomes dangerous. They claim they are fighting for the poor on the other side of the fence that surrounds our city, but in reality they’re just trying to earn more money. They use the chaos between the poor and the rich to their advantage, and steal from their brethren. We are lucky there are only a few them. Today we were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Her voice was soft, weak, as if she gave up on their society long ago.

  “From the ashes, we shall rise,” he quoted from a poet whose name he couldn’t remember. “Sometimes the situation has to worsen before it can get better.”

  His nerves were frayed, and he’d almost died. At that moment, however, the colors around him seemed brighter. The sunset took his breath away, and everything focused on the woman crying for his own safety.

  “How can you be so calm?” she asked.

  “I’m not. My heart keeps racing, and my palms are sweating. But I don’t like to dwell on things I can’t change. So I let it go.”

  Chapter III

  Light rays illuminated Roland’s eyelids and he reluctantly dragged himself out of bed. His bones felt tired as if he had run a marathon the day before. Deciding it was nerves more than anything else, he shook off his anxiety. The room was small. Two single sized beds were pushed into its center, a lamp and alarm clock rested on a bedside table between the two beds, and linen drapes covered a large window on the back wall.

  His roommate sat on a stool in a corner of the room, a brush between his lips. His right hand moved another brush rapidly across the canvas before him. He wore a paint splattered white shirt and pants. The boy had chestnut colored hair and a well-built frame, though it was hard to notice when he was hunched over. His olive skin served as a reminder of his native blood. According to him, his great, great grandfather was the leader of the Black Foot tribe in Nunavut. But no one believed him.

  Roland walked over to him slowly. The last time he surprised Kio while he was at work, he received a face full of paint and a lecture. Kio then chased him around the dorm with a belt until he ran out of breath. Apparently one random line could ruin a whole painting.

  “Hey.”

  Kio nodded.

  “What’s this for?” asked Roland, leaning forward for a better look. It was a couple portrait, the wife grinning widely, her husband placing a firm grip on her shoulder.

  Kio took the brush from his mouth. “I painted a picture of Mr. Avon’s dog before. It was a small gig you know, I only got fifty bucks. But Mr. Avon adored the painting. He keeps it on the wall, right over his bed. Anyways, he contacted the school and requested a personal meeting with me so I could draw a portrait of him and his wife before they divorced.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why would he need something like that? Wouldn’t it be better to get rid of all her things?”

  He laughed as he said, “He wants to give her a parting gift that will keep her up at night. Something to remind her of the husband she lost after sleeping with the gardener.”

  Roland snorted. “Rich people.”

  “Indeed.” Kio adopted a British accent as he spoke. “On Friday, September twelfth, Mr. Avon came home early from a bank conference. He was tired, looking forward to one of his wife’s immaculate shoulder massages. He walks by the door to his room and he hears voices, no not voices, cries, like his wife was being slapped repeatedly. And there was this recurring sound of flesh pounding against flesh. Being the valiant man he was, he burst into the room to save her and then he saw his wife getting pounded doggy style. She w
as on all fours, stark naked, as the gardener drove his rod into her. Mr. Avon filed for divorce the following day.”

  Roland laughed. The image was a foreign one. Adultery in broad daylight, his parents had never had that luxury; they were too busy trying to take care of their kids. In Kio’s field of work he heard a lot of gossip. His clients liked to insult their neighbors behind their backs. And though Kio found it entertaining, sometimes it was boring to listen to other people’s problems.

  “He must be scarred.” Roland was about to say something else but Kio changed the subject.

  “Where were you last night?” Kio asked, putting the brush down.

  “Ran into some trouble on my way home, and then I had to give a detailed report to the director. He asked a lot of questions. I reckon I was there for about two hours before he let me go.”

  Kio frowned. His dark brown eyes scanned Roland’s face as if he were searching for some emotional giveaway. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “I just met two members of the Rouge Resistance.”

  “What?” Kio started to get up, but Roland forced him back down.

  “It’s really nothing, the cops showed up quickly.”

  He didn’t want Kio to worry about something he had already placed behind him.

  “Those bastards,” Kio sneered. “They don’t give two shits about anyone but themselves.”

  Roland nodded his agreement. Like Roland, Kio had grown up in a poor village with ramshackle homes, but it was better than the ghettos. That was probably why the director had put them in the same room, not wanting their filthy backgrounds to stain the purity of the other students. The Rouge Resistance was another matter; they claimed to steal form the rich and give to the poor, however, Kio and Roland knew better. They saw the way the resistance members had abused members of their villages, beaten kids, raped women, and kept their loot to themselves. They were despicable.

  The silence was broken by someone knocking on the door and Roland opened it.

  Though he was shorter than Roland, the boy crossed his arms over his chest arrogantly. A mane of long black hair surrounded an oval face with chiseled features. Narrowed sea green eyes watched Roland expectantly.

  “Are you two coming for breakfast, or do you plan to stay holed up in this room the whole morning?” It was Kio’s boyfriend Clark, one of the school’s most promising athletes.

  Clark came from old money. His only good trait was that he never flaunted his status. The teachers had high expectations for him. He had already won them a handful of awards for his dominating skills on the track. They expected more to come in the next few years.

  At sixteen, they were all embarking on their last two years in this prejudiced place. The pressure they would face in order to graduate might drive them crazy.

  Clark tapped his foot impatiently. “Well?”

  “Give us a second!” Kio shouted, making some changes to his painting.

  Clark groaned.

  Roland shook his head. One second to Kio could be an hour in the real world.

  Taking the liberty of inviting himself in, Clark brushed past Roland and dropped onto his bed. He stretched and rolled from one end to the other. When he had completed one cycle, he started it all over again, rubbing himself onto Roland’s sheets.

  Roland’s eye twitched.

  Clark probed around until he found his folder of music score sheets in the bedside table drawer. “You’re composing your own songs, right?”

  He began flipping through the pages. “Some of these aren’t too bad, but why are they all love songs? Is there a girl you like?”

  Roland hated having people claw through his belongings, hated having someone else on his bed. He launched himself at Clark and they wrestled. Clark shoved him to the side and Roland grabbed onto the boy’s shoulders, dragging him down to the floor with him. Their bodies slammed against the floor, jarring their bones, and they broke apart. Roland grabbed his folder from Clark’s hands.

  Clark threw his hands up, surrendering. “Don’t get mad, I’m just playing with you. I don’t have germs or anything.” He sniffed his armpit and gagged before saying, “On second thought, I could use a shower.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Roland said, wondering why he only realized this now. “And they aren’t love songs, they’re just the way I feel about life.”

  “About a girl?”

  “Ladies,” Kio chided from his corner, “play nice and I’ll give you cookies.”

  ***

  Breakfast went smoothly until Roland was called to the director’s office. He told his friends he would see them later and followed Mr. Davit down the school’s tiled hallways. Gold lamps were placed strategically on the white wall every few feet to light the way in the dark. They approached the trophy case, and he paused to look at the gold piano he had won at the Chopin Original Competition last summer. That had been a fight to the very end. Hours of practice in the private music rooms, some mornings he awoke groggily on the floor, a score book beside his head and a slight headache.

  “Hurry up, boy,” Mr. Davit growled. “I don’t have all day.”

  Roland took one last look at the grand piano and his name inscribed in the wood beneath it. Although the secretary had always been a very polite man around those of prestigious origin, he had a short fuse when he was left alone with Roland. The man ushered him into the administration office, past the long desk filled with secretaries answering the phones and typing documents on their computers.

  Bits and pieces of jumbled conversations reached Roland’s ears:

  “Our school is known for its safety and the efficient teaching methods. Your child will achieve great things with our help.”

  “We take problem children. It’s our job to groom them into individuals that can function in today’s society.”

  Mr. Davit guided him into a large room with windows that overlooked the school’s massive garden. A bookcase lined with hardcovers was placed along the left wall. The director sat proudly in front of the windows behind a massive mahogany desk. Two people sat in chairs that were reserved for private consultation, and a guard stood beside them, a sword hung in a sheath at his waist. The director was a large, elderly man clad in a gray suit. His broad shoulders were a result of his training to become a knight. Though he had long retired from that life, he was still a strong force to go against.

  “Roland,” Director Brody beckoned him over and Roland complied. “This is Lord Nexus and his daughter Athena. Lady Athena would like you to perform at her birthday party next month.”

  Roland couldn’t believe his ears. He had seen their family before in a colored newspaper. These were Hather’s leaders, the ones that pulled the strings behind every diplomatic move.

  Chapter IV

  Athena stood. Her honey brown eyes were sincere as she said, “The director often brags about you at city meetings. He claims that his son is on par with some of the greatest musicians of the era.”

  Son? Roland was not related to that emotionless man in any way. The old man never smiled or even attempted to help someone wounded. Roland shot a curious glance at Director Brody.

  “He also claims that you could be the next Gandalf.” Athena crossed her arms over her breasts and smirked, challenging him to prove himself.

  Roland shook his head. Sean Gandalf was a music legend. He could play ten different instruments and pieces of any difficulty without straying from its original tempo or dynamics. Mozart, Chopin, Bach—he could play them all from memory. And it didn’t take long for him to hold his own concerts when his name rippled across the continent.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Roland muttered. “He is on another level.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, stepping forward. “You compose a few of your own songs, while Gandalf stuck to the classics. That’s what I would like you to perform at my event, your originals. I want to present something unique to my friends, something new.”

  She pressed f
orward until their toes were only a few centimeters apart. Her blonde hair fell in neat layers, stretching past her shoulder blades. Her head didn’t rise above his chest.

  He frowned. “While I’m grateful for your interest, Lady Nexus, I don’t think I’m qualified to meet your needs. Why would you want some unknown musician to perform for you? There are so many influential people that would love to work with you. Like Keri Black. Her heartbreak ballads are one of the hottest topics among people like you.”

  “People like me?”

  “You know, women close to your age group.”

  She scoffed. “You can’t assume that we all have the same interests.”

  “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

  “It would be the same as me saying that handsome guys like you are all players.”

  “That would be correct eighty percent of the time. Thus, your argument is invalid.” He winked.

  Athena placed her hand over her heart with a gasp, pretending to be hurt.

  For the first time, Lord Nexus interjected. “I think we are straying from the original purpose of this conversation. We chose you because of a piece you sang at La Bora last week. We were in the middle of having dinner, but at that moment, everyone stopped eating and you were the center of attention. It was a captivating song about war and loss. It touched me.”

  Though his voice was hoarse and raspy he sang,

  “These bloodstained hands, this fleeting hope. On this red soil, I hold you. Will you get up? And stand with me, one last time is all I need.”

  Roland struggled between feeling disgusted and flattered. The lord was terribly off key and the tempo was wrong, but Roland remembered the quote quite well. It was one of the first songs he had written. Athena’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and she slapped her father’s shoulder.

  “Father!”

  “What?” he queried innocently. “Can’t a man sing?”