Breakfast with Shahla, Alyn, and Rhea was the same tedious conundrum as when Shahla first met Zar outside the palace, the same as it had been at dinner with the king and queen. It was an awkward time of downplaying and keeping his distance, minimizing anything Shahla said that might lead others to the truth.
Shahla had finished her food when she looked in Zar’s eyes and said, “I’m leaving now. Would you see me off?”
The woman had lost her smile, and the twinkle in her eye no longer shone as bright. The somewhat childish and girly manner that she usually had about her was gone, a ray of light dimmed out to an even calm. While she didn’t seem angry or even sad, there was something missing, some emptiness about her that made Zar feel soulless for causing.
Elegant hosts that they were, Rhea and Alyn insisted she stay a while longer, but Shahla forced a lifeless smile and told them she must be going. Zar followed her to the stables, and after she’d mounted, Shahla looked down at him, eyes blinking back liquid.
“Make your choice, Zar. Don’t wait long, the Queen of Coasts raises her cost every trip.”
“Lyla would never charge me gold,” said Zar, not knowing what else to say.
Shahla shook her head, and for the first time she didn’t appear naïve. “Whatever you think you know about this girl, you’re wrong.”
“Do you have the gold to get back to Krii? Tell Lyla you know Zar. Tell her you’re friends with me. Do you have the gold you need?”
Shahla was shaking her head. She brought her horse to a trot, leaving Zar standing before the stable.
“I have everything I need!” she called. “Make your choice, Zar!”
She disappeared down the hill, and Zar was left there, standing, thinking of far too many things. Above all, though, he thought of Lyla. Queen of Coasts? Can it be?
An idea came to him that seemed so good he was energized by it, and he rushed to the palace library, nearly stumbling up the steps to the west wing, heading towards the chapel.
The library was a large room behind a hanging cloth door on the second floor of the palace. It smelled of paper and dust, with bookshelves rising so high some tomes could only be reached with a ladder.
Dor, the librarian, was a very old man with a very young face. His eyes were comically small, meager slits showing barely a glint of the orbs underneath. That, taken with the man’s age, Zar often wondered if he could see at all. And yet, he was always reading.
Dor looked up, folded his book shut with one hand and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with the other. He rose from his desk, tendrils of his long, white beard waving with the motion. He wore a drab-colored robe, a black woolen brimmed cap, and spectacles of steel wire affixed with glistening reading stones.
“Ah, Zar, my prince,” he said, still poking a finger at the bridge of his spectacles. “The day’s as good as ever for reading! What would you read?”
“I’m looking for a book, a very old one, I daresay. Forgotten Gifts, it’s called.”
Old Dor smiled and, surprising for a man his age, showed shiny, white teeth. “I know just the one!” he exclaimed.
The librarian shuffled excitedly, albeit slowly, to a shelf in the east corner of the room. He perused the shelf, sliding books halfway out to check their titles, then sliding them back in. He slid one all the way out, a monstrous tome that looked as heavy as a castle brick. Zar was certain that was the one, and sure enough, Dor lifted the book in the air as if he’d discovered some rare treasure.
“This is it!” he called.
Zar took the book and seated himself at one of the wooden pews that bordered Dor’s desk. He opened the tome, knowing it might take some time to find the section regarding charmers due to the sheer size of the book. Still, the whole thing was an adventure in itself.
“Let’s learn about our charmer.”
16
“Common charms include enticing a person to infatuation,” Zar read, “or putting a person to sleep.” He skimmed down a few more sentences. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard all this.”
Then, there was a passage that caught his eye, so much that his eyes skimmed down past it, then shot back up once certain words had processed. His stomach felt hollow as he read the paragraph slowly, his blood moving faster, knowing the words he saw in passing, words he didn’t want to consider or acknowledge, words he wished he’d mistaken the meaning of by not reading carefully. But he was reading carefully now, and what he saw was no mistake:
Charmers possess an often insatiable desire to become more powerful. They have an uncanny ability to sense when a person is capable of helping them grow their abilities, and are extremely adept at manipulating them to do so. In this, they are dangerously charismatic. This is their greatest charm.
The book fell from Zar’s hands, rolled between his legs and tumbled to the floor. “She charmed me from the first.”
“What?” Old Dor rose from his desk, the reading stones in his spectacles catching light from a window and gleaming. “Hey, lad, careful with that! It’s many times older than you.”
“Apologies,” said Zar, “I need to borrow this one.” He picked up the book. “And I promise I shall treat it better.”
The librarian’s face looked skeptical under his brimmed hat and spectacles. He finally conceded, waving his hand and saying, “How can I refuse a prince?”
Zar felt angry, silly, disappointed, a bit hurt, but mostly angry. He thought Lyla had been a part of his plan, but he had been a part of hers.
He thought he had been pulling the strings, making use of his knowledge and wit as well as the girl’s abilities to benefit them both. And how it had seemed that way, for the girl didn’t seem to know anything about herself, hadn’t even known that she was a charmer. Zar imagined not one person she met on the road would have been privy to the art of charming and known who she was or what she could do. Only him. Only he knew, but still, he was deceived.
If nothing else, it had taught him this: You can know a whole lot more than anyone else and still know next to nothing.
Zar was taking the whole thing quite personal. He’d thought they had bonded, in a sense, from the mutual experience of being wayward souls. He had tried to help her, seeing the restlessness in her that he once had and the same ambition to make something of herself that had, in the past, driven him to his darkest depths. He had been honest with her, honest and kind, and she’d repaid him by using him like a pawn.
Zar had thought they had become friends, but if she had charmed him from the beginning, they certainly weren’t, and never were.
But how much of it was a lie? What was a ruse, and what was true? If the passages about charmers in Forgotten Gifts were true—and Zar had read them all—charmers were complicated persons, spending much of their lives at war with themselves and society. Who knew what was going on in Lyla’s head, or if the girl was as good as Zar once thought she could be or as rotten as Shahla made it seem?
Zar knew he had to find out.
It was midday when Zar’s horse brought him to the Coast of Tiran, and the sun pierced through a partly cloudy sky, leaving the shore unevenly lit, shade dancing amid the light. Zar was heading to the docks, every important thing he’d read about charmers burning in his mind like lit candles:
. . . insatiable desire to become more powerful . . . sense when a person is capable of helping them grow their abilities, and are extremely adept at manipulating them to do so . . . this is their greatest charm . . . the life of the charmer is often short, for in a need to understand their abilities and how it relates to the world around them, they often destroy themselves. . .
Zar was nearly at the docks, walking down a narrow, sandy road, leading his bay by the reigns, when he heard the commotion. It was the beating of a drum, the blowing of a horn and a bit of stomping coming from behind him. Zar turned and looked down the road. There was a litter chair, draped in red curtains, with bronze covered support poles shining rusty gold under the sun. He could see two men in front, the palanquin’s
poles over their shoulder, looking as happy as any servant could be while transporting someone in a litter.
In front of them was the horn blower, a dwarf of a man dressed in the most positively pretentious clothing, mismatched color leggings, one yellow and one red, gold shoes with curled, pointed toes, and a red, yellow and green three-pronged hat with golden bulbs at the ends.
“Leviathan,” said Zar. “A jester.”
“Clear the road, sir!” the jester called as the litter approached. “The queen demands it!”
The beating of a drum that rang out from under the curtains of the palanquin subsided, and there was only the sound of footsteps on the road.
“I dined with Queen Kora yesterday,” said Zar, “and she said nothing of the sort.”
The jester huffed out a sigh, shuffled a bit in his polychrome garments before holding out his hand to the servants behind him. They stopped, keeping the litter chair resting on their shoulders.
“This is Lyla the Dragontamer!” called the jester. “Queen of Coasts and Voice of the Gods.”
Zar heard a voice within, and the servants lowered the palanquin, resting its wooden bottom in the dirt. The rose-colored curtains parted and draped out, a figure stepping through the silk folds and onto the road. It was Lyla, red hair braided behind her in some intricate affair, a chain of large disks, silver and gold, around her neck. He arms were weighted with gold and jewels: a gold forging of a vine twisting from the top of her right shoulder, circling her bicep and ending at the elbow; at least a dozen bracelets between both her wrists, silver and gold flashing amid a rainbow of gemstones.
“Zar?”
She was as fair as she’d ever been, piercing eyes as sharp as knives, lips like pink rose petals over skin of toasted honey.
“You’ve gained a title or two since we last saw each other.” Zar looked at Lyla, her ridiculous jester, the four servants she had carrying her around and, behind the litter chair, a group of about a dozen guards who presumably were in her service as well. Zar pointed at the guards. “If they’re here to protect you, they should march in the front. What’s all this?”
He was still talking when the woman rushed up and hugged him, her arms clanking like shackles from all the jewelry.
“They’re not here to protect me,” she said, pulling back from the hug. “They’re here to serve me.”
“In what manner?”
“Any way I wish.”
Glancing back over the guards that trailed behind, Zar noticed Lyla’s speckled mare, Storm, being led by one of them. “Your old horse. It was taken when we were captured by the Condor. How did you come by it again?”
Lyla smiled. “With enough gold, you can have just about anything. Not to mention your old horse.”
Zar looked over Lyla’s bizarre entourage once again. Her private guard, as it were, had come to stand in two neat rows just behind the litter.
“What, did you charm them all like you charmed me? Are they all your puppets, too?” Zar didn’t really believe she had charmed all her followers—he was just talking. He doubted she had any music or song that would hold for so long. As for speaking, he had seen her talk a man into doing something, but the entire affair was a struggle, and if Zar hadn’t strangled the man with his chains he would’ve no doubt snapped out of it in no time.
No, these men were likely in her service for the notoriety that came with traveling with the Dragontamer, sycophants hungry for a morsel of fame. And gold. She had likely paid them a substantial amount of gold.
Lyla’s eyes dimmed out, her eyelids sinking down like they were drowsy before opening back up, wide and clear. She had either considered it and was genuinely remorseful, or she was simply acting, charming, even now.
“I charmed you because I wanted to know more about myself. It was a thing—that I almost didn’t know I was doing. How did you know?”
Zar knew it wasn’t always ideal, but he often looked at things in extremes, best and worst case scenarios. At the very best, the girl was exactly who he thought she was, a good soul, but one in need of guidance, finding her way in the world while making mistakes along the way. At the very worst, she knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t care who she affected while she pursued her ruthless desire for power. If the latter were true, considering how ponderous and remorseful she had just seemed, her gift of theatre and charm were impeccable—and they were all doomed.
“I’ve been reading.”
“Anything that might be useful?” asked Lyla.
“You think I would tell you?” Zar almost shouted. He was going to go on about something else, but Lyla’s followers were acting strange. The guards had left their formation, the litter carriers had strayed from the cart. They were all gathered in a small unorganized crowd, even the jester, looking as awkward as fish out of water. Then, Lyla scurried to the palanquin and snatched out her drum.
“It’s wearing off,” she said, striking her drum and summoning the beat she’d been playing before. Her fellowship scattered back into place, the jester taking to the front of the road with his horn, and her guards filing into position behind the litter. The four men she had carrying the litter chair looked to her attentively.
Zar’s jaw nearly dropped to the road. He was wrong. She had charmed them all.
Zar turned his back on her and led his horse away. He didn’t want to see her anymore, covered in pounds of jewelry, using her gifts to enslave men’s minds and thinking nothing of it. He almost thought to stop her, but he didn’t see what good it could do under the circumstances. If he killed any of her guards he’d feel even worse than he did now, doing nothing. For those men didn’t know what they were doing. They were victims. More than this, if she wished to persuade him though music or song, or even words, she would quite likely be successful.
“Will you not cross the sea with me?” Lyla’s voice was a spare, sweet sound under the beat of her drum.
Zar looked back at the girl like she was mad. She had asked the question like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t charmed a group of people and turned them to slaves, all the while making herself rich. Did she not get it? “Will you make me?” Zar called.
Lyla’s arms fell still to her sides, and the sound of the last drumbeat echoed out and faded into nothing. She looked just as serious as Zar had ever seen her.
“I’ll never charm you again,” she said.
“Then don’t charm them, either!” Zar yelled. “They’re people like you and me.”
He shook his head and mounted his horse, looking back at Lyla one last time. “You’ve lost your way, Lyla! You’ve lost your way!”
He rode off.
17
Zar had slept in far too long, and when knocking sounded at his chamber door he was sure it was Alyn coming to point that out. But he was wrong.
There was a dazzling image of a lady in an exquisite gown, butter-cream in color with floral embroidery in gold stitching on its skirt. The bodice was pulled taut, draped with an elegant bow, and the princess spun a twirl, the golden embroidery so vivid it seemed to flutter off the fabric like living flowers.
“What do you think?” asked Rhea.
Zar fumbled with the tunic he had slipped on just before he opened the door. He tugged at a few wrinkles, but they retained their folds stubbornly.
“Why, it’s marvelous.”
“Mother thinks so, too. But Alyn doesn’t like it.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to wear it, does he?” Zar rubbed at some sleep in the corner of his right eye, smothering it to powder and brushing it away. “Any particular occasion for such a spectacular garment?”
Rhea darted into the room from the hall, brushing by Zar, wearing a tight-lipped smile. When she made eye contact with Zar again, the smile had faded into blandness. “The Duke of Tiran comes to court me.”
Zar wondered if she had come to his chamber that morning just to make that known to him. “Aye, the coast is far from Xuul. What better way to ensure the loyalty of the east than throu
gh marriage? Alyn secures the south, and you will secure the east.”
“If I want to,” the princess said, her tone and eyes telling Zar she wanted him to be clear on that fact. “It’s my choice.”
Zar looked at Rhea, her wavy brown hair flowing over her shoulders like crimped silk ribbons. He kicked the bottom of his bedchamber door and the heavy wood swung until it was nearly shut.
“Aye, you have many choices,” said Zar.
Rhea smiled a bit and tilted her head, her gorgeous face lit from rays of sun pouring through an open window. “What choices do I have?”
Zar smirked and kept his eyes on hers. “Well, there’s a man from Krii.”
“And what a handsome, charming, and interesting man he is.”
“Maybe you should consider him,” said Zar, wondering if he shouldn’t have.
There was a longing in Rhea’s eyes, then she shook her head as if whatever thoughts had caused it were naïve and silly. “I’ve considered many things,” she said.
“And?” Zar questioned, still wondering what the hell he was doing.
“And I don’t tease myself with hopes that will never be real.”
“Hope is the realest thing I’ve ever known,” Zar countered.
Rhea nodded, as if recognizing the skill of his banter.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“I don’t,” said Zar. “I might, if you spoke plainly.”
Rhea gazed into Zar’s eyes with a slight squint, as if examining something she found interesting there. “Your spirit is a free one, Zar. You will never be bound. You know this as much as I.”
“I never considered your company to be binding. I . . .”
“What, would you marry me and stay here in Xuul?” The princess laughed a bit, letting Zar know he didn’t have to answer. But Zar did anyway.
Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless Page 12
