Chapter 2

The Prodigal Son returns

                There was a heavy knock on the door. Daiman Resark understood that he had locked himself longer than he should have. He batted his eyes twice or thrice, slowly getting out of his bed Daiman adjusted his tunic and vest.  “I am coming.”

                There were footsteps, the young prince understood that whoever was out had gone. He flexed his muscles a bit before he picked up a mirror. He looked into it, he did not know what to expect but the mirror failed to elevate his mood anyhow. His eyes were the same blood red as they had been, his irises still strikingly crimson.As long as his face was concerned, Daiman had a good frame, admired and loved by many but his face never did content him, Running his hand through his curly hair, Daiman walked out of his room.

                 Swiftly reaching for his short sword he descended from his tower. Beneath the tower, the halls were lighted with dim streak capacited torches, marble statues of legendary heroes stood vigil. Even though Daiman had spent most of his childhood exploring them, the halls of the palace of Attarock remained a mystery to him.  Every time that he bent down by a corner or lowered his eyes, there would be some part that he felt he was noticing for the first time.

                It isn’t the first time you idiot, you have seen so many things that you are forgetting the older things. Daiman smiled when he remembered what Styder had said. The crown prince of Attarock was Daiman’s brother, mentor and had many times acted as a father would. But Stryder wasn’t here. Neither was their father, King Cyneburg.

                Shushing the negative thoughts, Daiman headed towards the High Hall. All the halls that lead to the High Hall were heavily guarded and better lit than the halls beneath Daiman’s tower. The walls at the end of the hall were decorated with flags of the Priest Federation. Hans was observing one of them.

                They looked absolutely disgusting to Daiman. Two black circle enclosed triangles that were connected by the same horizontal tanget. When Daiman went to Hans the short man spoke softly “The Scales of Sunniva.”

                   Daiman looked at them with contempt, then spat. Hans looked at him as if he had spat at him, his small eyes lowered themselves but Daiman could see the detestation that the scholar carried. Paying no heed, he pushed the large ivory doors, directly entering the curved High Hall. True to its designation, the halls were one hundred and fifty feet high – speckled with balconies veiled by translucent sparkling silver, from where the women of the royal families would observe the processions below.

             When he entered the hall, Daiman knew he was facing the best trained warriors in the northern deserts. Not exactly facing, they had their faces turned away. There was the High Priest, bald and ageing, just right of the seat on which the patriarch of the Resark family would seat himself. Rather, the patriarch of the Rock family, Resark was the name that people from noble lines called the Rocks.

                   The seats that faced the High Seats were arranged in a segment of a circle fashion. There were two paths leading to the elevated tables that were surrounded by the High Seats. Daiman's mother, his uncles Chad and Pierk were waiting for him, A High Priest and his words on a High Seat, As worthy as a brown sheep's bleat.

                  He was only able to see the High Priest's face. The man was way above seventy, he had lived ten years than he should have. His face was an eyesore. Watery grey eyes bulged out of a completely bald face, his nose was an abrupt stroke on broken canvas. The Priest had as many followers as he had haters. He had a notorious reputation for burning anything that opposed religion. 

                    Daiman took the left way, for no reason.His footsteps reverberated in the silent hall, his knee high sandals made more noise than all of the men that talked in whispers. All of them turned to face Daiman, he felt as if someone had directed a cold wind towards him.