The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  “If you’re going to be such a blue mouse, you can leave now,” thought the cat, purring amongst a coil of cordage. “A night like this is no place for such thoughts.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Teagan began.

  “Never mind!” the cat cried, seeing a sea bird land on a line in the distance. “Sky mouse! Must go, must go!”

  Though he wanted to follow, Teagan felt an overwhelming push to wake. His new guardian, a man so like Briggan that he considered attaching the name anew, shoved at him rudely. The boy had fallen asleep in front of his dinner bowl, it seemed, utensil still clutched in his left, non-bandaged hand.

  The new Briggan’s voice was gruff, his brow disapproving. He seemed nervous also, but Teagan didn’t care enough to be observant. He looked down at his bowl of brown stew, feeling suddenly very loose in his own skin.

  He wondered where the ice bear cub had gone.

  Head full of questions, Teagan looked up to see his new guardian sit up in surprise. The man’s wide-eyed gaze was unbelieving…and then it was hollow. He fell forward into his dinner, revealing a maliciously curved knife driven deep into the hunter’s back.

  Teagan, surprised but unafraid, observed the knife from blade to hilt, then followed its lines up to the blade’s owner: a man whose face was cleft it two. The man sneered at him once more within the small, dark hut. He continued staring with this sickening smile, then stepped aside to reveal his companion.

  Through the entrance came a figure in an asymmetrical mask, his voice rumbling with maliciously quiet laughter. He nodded to the Cleft Man, who withered grossly under such praise, clearly subservient.

  Teagan didn’t know who the masked man was. He barely registered the death of his guardian. He had no way of knowing whether or not to run or to stay. Though he felt uneasy about the man who’d been cut in two, he didn’t know if that was because of his frightening appearance or his very presence as a portent of change.

  The masked man spoke, but the boy didn’t understand. He didn’t care to. He watched blankly as the two intruders exchanged words.

  When the masked man motioned for Teagan to get up, however, the boy chose to follow, just as he’d done in every day of his young memory.

  * * * * *

  A messenger on horseback rushed down the deserted country lane, a pressing letter held in the satchel at his side. He urged his mount forward, past a grove of apple trees, and spotted the lit window of his destination through the darkness.

  Bringing his horse to a stop, the messenger alit, stepping urgently toward the small farmhouse, and knocked forcefully upon the door.

  “Mister Tameny?” he asked when a gray-haired man appeared in the entry.

  “Yes,” said the man, confused to find himself disturbed at such a late hour.

  “A message for you,” said the horseman, removing the package from his bag.

  “From whom?” asked Tameny, taking the letter and examining it thoughtfully. He handed the messenger a couple coins for his service.

  “Don’t know, sir,” said the messenger, already re-mounting his horse. “Came from a long ways, though.”

  “Thank you,” said Tameny. He waved his thanks to the horseman and took his parcel inside.

  A tall boy, nearly a man, was watching as Mr. Tameny settled himself back by the fire.

  “Who was it, Papa?” asked the boy, his son.

  Mister Tameny didn’t answer. He stared for a time at the letter, taking in the looped calligraphy of his name, which had been penned hastily on the front. Without ceremony, he tore the note open, allowing a small golden button to fall to the table with a weighty thud.

  The boy jumped up, grabbing the shiny piece. “It’s the Piper,” he said in awe, examining the small bird of the button’s crest. He looked at the letter, his worst fears coming true. “What does it say, Papa?”

  Mister Tameny considered not telling his son. He considered throwing the letter into the fire and following it with that damned golden button. And if it wouldn’t melt, thought the man, he could toss it into the deepest part of the lake for good measure.

  Instead, feeling a sense of duty overcome his fears, Mister Tameny lifted the letter, held it to the light of the fire, and scanned his eyes over the familiar symbols of their secret code. He read aloud:

  “To Mister Tameny and Son,

  “I’ve repeated your names every day these past ten years, all in preparation for writing this letter…a task I’d hoped to never do.

  “It’s my regret that I couldn’t wear the mantle of the fallen heir for longer than I have. If this letter has reached you, however, then I must now be treading the path of our ancestors into the underworld. I’ll choose to assume that, after years of service to my country, I’ve now found peace.

  “There’s no doubt you’re a clever man—you wouldn’t have been selected for this assignment otherwise—so I won’t be so boorish as to remind you of the task at hand.

  “Forgive me, but it feels so strange to speak of the summons! I don’t remember getting it, of course—it was my father who did that—but it changed my life forever. (There’s no way for you to know this, Mister Tameny, but I’ve just paused in my writing for some moments. It’s the first time in many years, you see, that I’ve called my guardian ‘Father’.) I’ve grown up with the mission. It’s all I know.

  “You may choose to pass on this task, perhaps sending just such a letter onto the next pair of man and boy. I’ve often found myself wishing we’d done this. If you choose to accept the Path, however, it’s your duty to move about often. You must be seen and, on occasion, be followed. If we, the pretenders, can keep the heir-hungry wolves at bay, then perhaps we give the true heir his or her best chance at survival.

  “I wonder who you are—the unfortunate souls at the other end of this address. I suppose it’s no matter. Within hours you’ll be as I was. We’re one and the same. I hope you will be of stout heart and choose to carry on what I and untold others have begun. I wish you fortune and I wish you stealth, and I beg your leave to sign off with a name I haven’t used in years.

  “Yours Sincerely, Ymus Darville.”

  “What is it, Papa?” asked the boy, though he knew all too well.

  “It’s a Summons,” said Mr. Tameny out of ceremony. “And I’m no longer your Papa, nor are you my son.”

  “I didn’t think it’d ever come,” said the boy, bowing his head at the weight of this task. “I dared it to, for the sake of adventure. I thought I’d feel brave. But now that it’s here…I feel frightened.”

  “As do I, my boy,” said Mister Tameny. “But we must do what we must. It would do us well to begin planning immediately.”

  The boy blinked. It all seemed too sudden. “Can’t we have one more night?”

  “I wish it with all my heart,” said the boy’s father, relinquishing over the course of a long exhale any claim upon his own life, “but we have a job to do. Now tell me, boy, who am I?”

  “Papa, please,” the boy begged. “I’m not ready.”

  “There’s no such thing as being ready,” said Mister Tameny. “That’s why we must be quick. Who am I?”

  “You’re Fenric,” answered the boy. “A Scribe.”

  “Good,” said the man newly named Fenric. “And who are you?”

  The boy looked down at the button he’d grabbed. He rubbed his thumb across the golden imprint and thought, for one delirious moment, that he heard the Piper’s song. “I’m Lucivak,” he answered, “Prince of Peace.”

  * * * * *

  There was a tired kind of quiet in the Delahaye girls’ dressing room as they tugged their way out of corsets and curls, yawning all the while. Adeline hadn’t lifted a finger to help the entire time, having collapsed in an exhausted heap on the fainting couch.

  “How did it go with young Master Lorey, Emibelle?” asked Simone with a yawn. “I thought I saw you dancing together quite often. He was an agreeable partner.”

  “It was wonderful,” said Emibelle, tuggi
ng a brush through her hair, “until Lucy came up and said something stupid. I think he found it so unpleasant to be addressed so impertinently by a child that he wanted to leave. It certainly wasn’t anything I did.”

  “It wasn’t my fault he was rude,” said Lucy in her own defense. “He seems just your type of person, Emi.”

  Simone glanced at her foster sister and gave her a small wink. “I’m sure our Lucy was the very spirit of kindness.” She said to their ward, “And I’m so glad you came to join us, pink frock or no.”

  “Me too,” Lucy said heartily. “And it was fine. I think once I let go of my self-consciousness, I had as much fun as if I was wearing the finest gown in the land.”

  “I thought you looked pretty, Lucy,” came a yawning voice from the couch. Adeline, they all saw, was giving yet another attempt at wakefulness.

  “Thank you, Adi,” said Lucy. “I thought you looked like a little princess.”

  Adeline, mouth open in a wide yawn, asked happily, “I did?”

  “You’re going to give her a complex,” said Emibelle tartly, slamming her brush down onto the vanity table. She stood and headed for the door, “I’m going to finish in my room.”

  “And I’m going to take the princess to bed,” said Lucy, lifting the small auburn Adeline in her arms and padding down the hall.

  She laid the sleeping girl in her bed and tucked her in neatly, listening for a while to Adeline’s soft breathing. Wracked by a gigantic yawn of her own, Lucy kissed the girl’s forehead and headed back to her room.

  Her chambers were still in shambles. Propped upon the seat where she’d left it was her overflowing box of toys. Lucy’s intention had been to throw them out, or perhaps burn them, but she looked at them anew, seeing each treasure and trinket as a thing to hold dear.

  At the top of the pile was a stuffed doll in the shape of a lion. Lucy smiled as fond memories flooded through her mind. It was her Lion-Guardian, a toy given to Illian children in their infancies to protect them throughout their young years. She placed it lovingly on her pillow with a gentle, “I think I’ll still be needing your counsel, Vitus.”

  She thought of her offer to play King and Lion-Guardian with the chestnut-colored boy from the high-heather bush. She would never have guessed then that he’d turn out to be Emibelle’s lackey. It was a shame too—he was such a handsome boy. Lucy wondered if her scornful words had succeeded in penetrating his thick skull, but then she grew tired of wondering. She’d wasted enough time worrying about the boy who’d insulted her.

  Rifling through the box, she lifted from it dolls and costume pieces. Though they weren’t played with as often as they’d once been, each still held its own character in her mind, its own history of stories.

  As she grabbed a handful of costume pieces, she felt a strange weight. Lucy rustled through the other garments to find a large golden hoop she barely recalled. It must be, she thought, hefting it, pure gold.

  Not sure what the hoop might be, Lucy examined it. There was an intricate pattern beaten painstakingly into the soft metal, creating the impression that two circling feathers had suddenly been turned into gold.

  Slowly, as though she knew what she was doing, Lucy brought the hoop up to her head. She lowered it down upon her mahogany locks, feeling the weight of it settle onto her—like a part of her.

  Stepping back to the looking glass, Lucy examined her reflection thoughtfully. The golden crown twinkled at her benignly in the candlelight. Its weight was reassuring, an indication that things were as they were supposed to be, but it was also frightening. It spoke to her of change, reminding her for a second time that night of the assassins and responsibilities that awaited just past the horizon.

  Slowly, with a deliberate hand, Lucy removed the golden loop from her head. She placed it carefully on the table in front of her and then looked up, staring back into her own grey eyes.

  The girl asked her mirrored self, “Who are you?”

  The reflection chose to keep its secret.

  *

  Book 3:

  The Lover’s Shadow and the Lie

  * * * * *

  Who is the man locked in the trunk?

  Will Rose be able to discover who he works for?

  Thrust into a world halfway between dreams and reality, Rose and her garden of allies travel to Illiamna’s capital city in The Lover’s Shadow and the Lie, where they will seek romance, mystery, and the man behind the mask.

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  About the Author

  Jackie McCarthy lives, works, sails, paints, writes, runs, and feels inspired in New York City. Jackie welcomes all feedback and questions at:

  the.roses.garden.and.the.sea@gmail.com

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