by Lynn Egan
His eyes wandered while the man behind the counter packaged the meal in a wrap made from yesterday’s news sheets. Something on the paper caught Michael’s attention, so as he grabbed the packet from the vendor, he turned it so he could read the words before they faded into greasy obscurity.
“… gedy on Muru… … Kin… lace… mourn…” was all he could make out before the ink ran, and he glanced up at the merchant behind the counter in a kind of shock. The man’s face was kind, but Michael thought his eyes looked strangely shadowed - almost black - before they resolved into a friendly brown.
“It’s a ‘af penny f’r ‘nother sheet, sir.” The voice came as if through a tunnel, and Michael handed over a copper coin before dragging Murud to a quiet space by a nearby fountain. He couldn’t hear her over the roaring in his head, and from her tense posture, he gathered she couldn’t hear him either. Michael set the food down with one hand and spread the clean paper over his lap with the other, smudging it in places.
“Tragedy on Murud! King and Palace in Mourning for Missing Heir, Presumed Dead at Hands of Mad Duke!”
The princess chirped in surprise, and Michael grew paler as he read; their forgotten food sent wisps of steam into the cool morning air.
“Long known for their animosity towards the crown, the Duchy of Ishald on the island kingdom of Murud was put under house arrest for seditious writings spread by their people. With the recent return of Ishald’s Heir, Michael of Feysguir, there was an explosion of violence. After resisting a lawful arrest, he escaped the palace dungeon, killing many in the process and kidnapping the Heir to the Throne, Marinarae l’Aestir. After a desperate pursuit, the Royal Guard trapped the fugitive and his captive in Ishald’s manor house. Despite repeated attempts to negotiate to free the trapped princess, the madman set fire to the building and all who were in it. It is assumed that both he and Her Royal Highness perished in the blaze, and appropriate mourning will be observed until the King’s younger daughter, Katryn a’Jana, is confirmed as the new Heir.”
:How dare they write such lies!: sent a shocked Murud into his already-chaotic brain. :The House Ishald has always been sympathetic towards the royal family, and no one died during your escape! They should not be allowed print such trash information! Their source is a bald-faced liar!:
Michael had experience with the offices that printed this news sheet. They were reputable, and did not resort to gossip to increase circulation. This news was so new that there couldn’t have been anyone yet to confirm its veracity. Since both Michael and Murud knew that the events in the story were false, that meant whoever the source was, they were not only lying, but they were lying to some purpose. Was it for their own gain? Were they being paid? Who gained by such deception?
It occurred to Michael that the storm was an attempt to turn their deaths into truth. That thought led to the next; once word got out that the Dainty Lass had made port, it was a good bet that their lives were in jeopardy. He had only one sure friend in the city.
“We need to get to Sparro. Now.”
~
The two travelers were admitted through a side entrance, as befit those of the lower classes, where they waited for a time. Michael had given a coin and his mother’s signet ring to a clerk with a request to bring it to the master of the place. Shortly they were ushered into a very private office down the hall from the normal bare waiting area. After another brief wait in the ink-and paper-smelling room, Sparro himself entered from a hidden door. He waved Michael down as the younger man half-rose in respectful greeting.
“Young man, you should have come back the moment your feet met Murudian soil. It was foolish of you, very foolish, to stay on that bedeviled island a moment past Junior’s warning! I got his message three days ago. There are things afoot there, as you now know,” the man looked over his spectacles at Michael, “You are caught right up in the middle of it, sadly enough. I take it from your expression that you’ve seen the news sheets?” Michael nodded and Sparro continued. “And I also take it that you are the sensible young man I’ve known in the past, that you did not go insane upon stepping on the soil of the Island and also,” he paused and looked critically at Murud, who cocked an ear backwards at his gaze, “that there is some reason you are traveling with an obviously pampered and distinctive wildcat?”
Michael cleared his throat, “Sir, I’d have answered yes to the first two gladly a week ago, but there’s something over there. Something very wrong, and I felt it getting into my head.”
Sparro waited a moment before quietly asking, “You’ll understand this is a question I must ask. Did you, while under the influence of that ‘wrong’ that you speak of, act in a way which would shame the noble house of Feysguir?”
The younger man looked away, thinking back upon those confusing days. “I back-talked some guards and shouted at a princess. I also raided an ancient weapons-cache, but with permission from one of the owners.” His gaze looked past the older man as his face became shadowed. “I … I … ” He gulped as his mouth went dry and his voice became softer from memory. “I took from the dead, sir.” His voice sank to a whisper, “I had to get her things.”
There was silence for a moment and Sparro sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He shook his head, bowing it in sorrow. “My dear young man, it breaks my heart to hear it. I wish I did not have to press you, but it is of utmost importance to know how Marinarae l’Aestir went missing, if you know the story.”
A tiny gasp sounded from behind Michael and a slender hand suddenly grasped his chair. He and Sparro swung their attention to the woman who now stood shakily where a stone-patterned leopard had been sitting a moment before. Her other hand worked at the leash which had grown too tight around her throat. The clasp opened and the rope fell to the floor as she rubbed the side of her neck.
Dumbstruck, Sparro’s mouth opened and shut twice. Michael expressed concern.
“Murud! You aren’t supposed to change yet, you’re not healed!”
She shook her head at him. “I am well enough and there is need. He could not hear me and you were not listening.” She turned to the banker, “I am Marinarae l’Aestir a’Murud. I am neither dead nor kidnapped, and this man is innocent of all the spurious lies which have been printed of him. I am incensed that such tripe could be distributed to the people here and I demand to be brought before the owner of that news sheet so it may be recanted!” Her black eyes blazed at the little man behind the desk, though Michael could tell it was an effort for her to remain standing.
Sparro had regained his composure and sat back in his chair, gazing up at the proud princess who stood before him. Michael got up and offered his chair to her, but she did not take it, and seemed to be attempting to stare down the calm little man who gazed at her in such a bemused fashion.
“Well well. Do not glare at me so, Highness. Sit, sit, let me absorb this development.” He waved her down and she sat gingerly on the chair. Michael thought of where the fletching of the arrow had left her body while she was a cat, and winced in sympathy.
:I am not well, but I could not wait. Thank you for the chair.: Her mental tone was warm and grateful, though her face remained firm and she did not look in his direction.
“Hithen Sparro, at your service, Your Highness, at least for the moment. Since you have picked up my young client along the way,” he waved toward Michael casually, “You may avail of me what services I am able to provide - in his interest and defense, and no more.”
“It is in his defense to clear him of these fabricated crimes, and in his interest to return him to his full rights as Duke of Ishald.”
“Ah, but is it?” He forestalled her answer with another gesture, “Your Highness, indulge me. A witness to part of the tragedy brought news from the palace of your Island two days ago. It was an announcement signed in Aestir’s hand. Is it wise to now reveal it as a lie, and to put my client and possibly yourself back into a situation which is so obviously dangerous? A situation in which we do not know who your enemies
are, nor their power or purpose?”
“I cannot believe my father would have put his mark to anything so obviously false.”
“If not the King, then who could forge his sigil? We come closer to knowing their purpose if we know they have that power.”
“No one would dare. His mark is unmistakable, beyond forging.”
“Then who could convince him that lies were truths?”
“No one! I wrote to him myself of my plans. He would know to look for my letter when I did not return.”
“And what were your plans, Your Highness?”
Murud looked uncomfortable, but answered as Hithen gazed at her, “To rescue a prisoner, and to take the adventure that came after.”
Hithen narrowed his bright eyes at her, “And did you know, young lady, who the prisoner was?”
“No.”
He leaned forward, “You, sole Heir to the Throne of Murud, risked your precious life to rescue an unknown prisoner from your own palace dungeons, and you didn’t even know if he was dangerous?”
Here she cleared her throat and drew herself up to her full height, wincing only a little as she straightened her back. “Master Sparro, you may sit here on the mainland and judge my actions as you will. Nobility and commoners alike are disappearing in the night with no explanations and are not seen afterwards. Accidents have become commonplace on the Island and not one person, not even Father, seems to know what is happening. It was my duty to try to save this one life when he was not immediately disposed of.”
“Aha!” Sparro sat up, “You used the phrase, ‘disposed of’! That is telling!”
It was the princess’ turn to wave a hand dismissively, “It is a phrase.”
“It is, but there are others you could have used. Why that one?”
She shrugged the half-shrug of her kind and did not answer. The man did not press her, but sat back in his chair, gazing into the middle distance with a half-smile on his face.
Michael tried not to wonder if Sparro’s suspicions matched his own. He would have to save such wondering for a time when his thoughts were once more confined to his own mind.
Chapter Eighteen
It was several hours later when Michael finally started to relax. Sparro had led them to his private residence through a clever series of tunnels under the building. He had informed the pair that these types of passages were common in the city, used by the higher classes when they didn’t want to bother with weather, crowds, or explaining their movements. Their layout impressed Michael, and he noticed that each junction was a narrow, labeled staircase. When he inquired why everyone didn’t use these convenient subterranean ways, Sparro informed him that most of the staircases led into the houses of nobility. That fact restricted access to the passageways to the privileged and their servants.
Michael felt there was something wrong with those of privilege having yet more privileges, but kept his thoughts unspoken. He had lived among both the upper and lower classes, seen a broad range of advantages and disadvantages, and wondered when the disparity would reach a breaking point.
:You worry and wonder so! Enjoy the experience of it.: She smiled at him and he smiled back, feeling again the warmth he had experienced when he found her under the fallen wall. He found her simple, confident enthusiasm refreshing. It was so different from his own complex and questioning nature. He had also forgotten how lovely she was as herself. Her smile told him that she had heard that thought.
They came to a junction where Sparro turned up one of the staircases. After one landing and another short flight, they came to a door which he unlocked. He led them into a narrow hallway, and then it seemed as if by magic that the next door was that of his own house. Michael’s eyes widened at the man, and he smiled, saying, “Though Sparro is not a noble name, it has found favor with some of the ruling families. We were gifted this residence by Feysguir when they quit the city some years ago.”
The younger man blinked in surprise, “Then this is…?”
Sparro nodded, “It is your ancestral home, in a way.” He had looked about to say more, but glanced at Murud and continued to lead them into the house.
~
Now Michael was in a hot bath - the first one he had been able to indulge in since leaving the mainland, he now realized. His grubby clothing was being cleaned somewhere downstairs, and a new set was warming by the small fire in the adjoining bedroom. He had a suite to himself with a semi-private bathing area connected to a combined bedroom and study. He felt relaxed and at home for the first time since leaving school.
He heaved a great sigh and closed his eyes, letting the whirlwind of experiences he had been part of wash over his mind. It felt like opening the floodgate of a dam, and he didn’t think he could sort it out properly without inner privacy. Somehow, he knew that even though the princess wasn’t nearby, she sensed the direction of his thoughts. She had said she’d try not to listen, but he had his doubts, even if he wasn’t sure where they came from.
So now he took the time to build a solid layer in his head, like a basement, to protect and expand that section of his mind that he knew the princess couldn’t sense him in. He created it in a practical, logical way, exactly as he’d seen physical buildings put together. There were good thick beams and wide boards, held together with sturdy nails and covering an ample space for his thoughts to wander around in. The mental exercise of imagining it built was the way he did everything intellectually challenging; from solving a problem to learning a new language, he assembled objects in his head that corresponded to the knowledge or task that he needed to do. This allowed him to visit or look at them later without extra effort. He thought of his brain as a vast unending library he could fill and browse at leisure.
Now he had a finished cellar ready in his mind, beneath his ordinary thoughts. He covered the floor of his public mind in packed earth to make it look like there was nothing beneath it. Since he knew the hidden room was there, he could enter it at will, but no one else would be able to detect it; he had left no telltale door or stairway. He could leave his surface thoughts in the main area and keep his private musings to himself.
He slid down into his new space like a spirit, leaving his pleasure in the bath and his feeling of home in the uppermost chamber of his mind, along with inconsequential things like what dinner might be or when he would sleep. He took with him the rest of the chaos which needed interpretation and wandered among the varied worries and ideas. There had been things he’d wondered about but been distracted from. He was curious about why he hadn’t been curious about others, and there were issues that he’d wanted to ponder but hadn’t yet.
In the silence and the freshness of his newly-constructed sanctuary, he considered for a moment the mental fog that he’d been in since landing on the Island. He remembered vividly his time in the crow’s nest, his curiosity about his mother’s odd letters, and the dreaming revelation that had led him to suspect there was more going on than he’d been told. He knew now, with the clarity of hindsight, that something about the land had changed him. He remembered how, even though Sparro Junior had given a clear warning, he had not heeded it. Qimal had offered an immediate way off the Island, which should have triggered his more cautious nature. He had rejected her in a brusque manner totally unlike himself. His natural curiosity would have propelled him to seek answers, yes, but he remembered only a deep need to get home to the manor at Ishald. He never asked himself why those around him wanted him to leave. Even his conduct in the establishment at Intenret was unusual. His intellect was sharp, his wit usually quick, and his manners polite and reserved. He tried always to maintain strict control of himself. Snapping at anyone in an unknown, and possibly dangerous, place was madness and he knew it! On the Island, he had been in most ways not Michael Feysguir.
He recoiled from the slithering thought that came to him next; he had acted more like his impetuous father than his gentle, thoughtful mother. Something about the Island had brought out the darkness in him.
It
had been unhappy chance that wed Ellia Feysguir to Richard Pahairren. Ellia had come to the Island with her family for the wedding of Aestir to his second wife. Richard had been handsome, with sandy hair, dark eyes and a charming manner. He had lured the innocent young woman to some out of the way corner during the festivities. After a time, there was a forced marriage and, not long afterward, Michael.
Rumors do not escape children, and Michael was certain their unpleasant encounter had not been Ellia’s choice. His father’s tastes and temper could be violent, he well knew, and the man himself was cold and manipulative, though he had enough charm to convince a casual observer otherwise. His was the darker nature Michael knew lived in himself.
It was from Richard’s line that the dark-haired, gold-eyed youth got the dreaded blood of the Varaine race. His spirits sank at the thought. Blood calls to blood, that was the old saying, wasn’t it? Those vile creatures were at the center of this whole business, he was sure.
But what was the business, who gained by it, and where would it end?
~
The three of them sat around a well-laid table, working their way through a casual dinner. Hithen Sparro sat at the head of the table, engaging Murud in light conversation while Michael applied himself to the meal, offering simple one word answers when required. He glanced admiringly at their fair dinner companion often.
He had not yet seen her clean and dressed well and, of course, not feline. The gray leathers she had worn on the Island had not suited her coloring, for all they had shown off her form. Now she sat across from him in a cream and red dress with her golden hair loose around her shoulders. Her regal bearing and precise manners were at odds with his grubby rescuer and temperamental travel companion.
