Edgelanders (Serpent of Time)

by Jennifer Melzer

  When she finally moved back from the door it was with a heavy sigh. Maybe Finn was right, considering the thoughts she herself had entertained while he slept. That heavy tingle she felt at her very core when she’d laid so close to him, the whisper of want murmuring in the back of her mind. She wasn’t ready to answer that call, was she?

  She backed onto the bed and dropped down to sit on its edge. She did not lie down at first, nor did she sleep for a long time, even though she knew she should at least try. The day had been filled with too many bad omens for her to feel at peace. Her fight with Finn, Brendolowyn’s strange distance, a death before a long journey. She was sure somewhere that was considered an ill tiding, especially the death of a seer.

  The only good thing that had come out of it had been the token her brother had given her: their father’s amulet. Her hand rose to her neck, fingers curling around the pendant and smoothing across the surface before she brought the cold bronze to her lips and held it there. Had her father’s lips ever touched it that way? Perhaps a kiss for luck before heading into battle, a quick prayer to Llorveth before reaching to take the axe from his belt.

  It was still difficult to think of Rognar as her father, a man she couldn’t imagine, save for a blurred image her mind created that looked like a vague outline of her brother. On the other hand, it grew easier by the day to undo thoughts of Aelfric being her father. His image now tainted in her mind by years of uneasy stares, as if he’d been seeing another man staring back at him all along—an enemy he’d thought long dead, but that haunted him every time he saw her face.

  He could have been a crueler man, she supposed upon reflection. He could have denied her entirely, had her murdered in her cradle moments after she’d drawn her first breath. She could grant him pardon for that, but that one act of kindness, when coupled with the fact that he had executed her true father just to hurt her mother, that he had robbed her of her history and replaced it with his own—that was unforgivable.

  The bronze in her hand had warmed between her fingers, and for a moment she swore she felt its magic. Protection, her brother had said as he lowered it around her neck. Somehow she doubted even her father’s magic could protect her from that which she feared most: her future, her own decisions, her destiny.

  Finally drawing her legs up onto the bed, Lorelei laid on her side. She curled them up under her and tucked into a fetal position, drawing the quilted blanket over her body to warm a chill that went beyond the surface. She longed for Finn’s warmth, for the heat of his body and the comfort of his arms, but she would find no comfort on that night, and there would be no sleep, no respite from the overwhelming cycles of her busy mind.

  Come morning she would leave that place, and though the seer told her where she must go, she had no idea what awaited her on the road or how she was going to do any of the things the Voice of Dunvarak said she was meant to do.

  EPILOGUE

  The only thing haunting her dreams of late was the sea. High crescent waves rising from the depths and racing toward the shore like a fleet of horses crashing down over the writing in the sand. She was always standing too far from the writing to actually read it, but she didn’t need to read it to know what it said.

  RUN.

  Big bold warning letters that lit a fearful fire in her heart and beneath her feet, she heeded their call and turned from the coming waves. She raced toward the distant ebony towers, head craning over her shoulder to watch impending doom strike the helpless shore. The bells in the tower began to ring, only they weren’t bells at all, but the blare of trumpets, their echo drawing her from the dream with a desperate gasp. She reached beside for her to shake her sister awake and beg for comfort, finding not but a cold and empty bed there.

  Lorelei was gone. Five days gone to be precise.

  Mirien lowered her head and bit into her trembling lip. The horns blasted again, startling a squeak from her.

  “Up!”

  Pahjah burst through the doors and marched straight through the room to the windows. She grasped the draperies in her hands and wrenched them apart. The unforgiving light of morning sunlight caused the girl to shy away and bury her face in her shoulder.

  “Come, Mirien. Up with you. Trystay’s men have been spotted less than half a morning’s march from the castle. Your father’s called the entire household to an early breakfast.”

  “Lorelei!” She eagerly threw the heavy blankets from her legs and turned to throw them over the edge of the bed. The cold stone floor touched the bottoms of her feet and she shivered, but not even that could deter her from hurrying to ready herself. “But why have they come back? Do you think they ran into trouble on the road?”

  Pahjah did not turn from the windows, but stood still in front of the high arches with her hands clasped behind her back. Sunlight streamed down upon her like a heavenly light and made her look utterly majestic and absolutely terrifying. Sometimes it was easy to forget that long before she and her sister were born, stern Pahjah had once been a sorceress to be reckoned with, but then the light glinted off the thick collar around her neck as she finally turned, reminding the girl that whatever power her nurse had once possessed was stifled the moment she’d been collared and enslaved.

  “Yes,” she said abruptly. “He sent a messenger ahead, and Lorelei is not with him.”

  “What?” Her eagerness was quickly replaced with dread, the butterflies in her stomach sinking fast and hard and making her feel as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “What do you mean she is not with him?”

  “Just what I’ve said.” She finally turned, the light illuminating her in such a way that it was hard to see Pahjah’s face until she stepped away from the window and flung open the doors to the wardrobe. From the side, Mirien could see her long eyes blinking away unshed tears, and she rushed to stand beside her, gripping the elven woman’s forearm in her trembling hands.

  “Where is my sister, if not with Trystay?”

  “I cannot say, my child.” Pahjah slid Mirien’s favorite dress from the hanger and thrust it at her.

  “Cannot, or will not?”

  “This is no time for the games of a petulant child, Mirien.” There was a stern tightness in her voice as she brought her hand up to rest atop Miri’s. She had never felt Pahjah tremble before, never heard fear in the woman’s voice, and that only served to intensify the overwhelming sense of dread hovering in her nervous stomach. “All I can tell you is this,” she said softly, “change is upon us, and I know not where we go from here, but you must prepare yourself and stay silent.”

  “Prepare myself? What do you mean? Pahjah?”

  “There you are.” The queen pushed through the doors, already dressed in a beaded gown of powder-blue silk that swished and flowed behind her. “I’ve been ringing you for nearly twenty minutes. The king is in no mood this morning, Pahjah. Get her dressed and bring her to the dining hall immediately.”

  “As you wish, my queen.” The nursemaid lowered her head, a looping curl of greying black hair falling against her long ear to rest against her cheek.

  “Mother, where—” Mirien called, but Pahjah tightened her fingers, squeezing until the girl winced and tried to jerk her hand free.

  “Do as you’re told, Mirien,” Ygritte ordered sternly before turning on her heel and marching straight back out the way she’d come in.

  She stared down at her throbbing fingers, her lower lip jutting into a pout as she rubbed them with her other hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Aye,” Pahjah said. “I did. Keep your teeth together, girl, and do as I say today. Your very life may depend upon it. Now get dressed.” Miri stared at her in disbelief, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly several times. “Now!”

  She snapped into action, stripping away her sleeping gown and pulling into the long dress as Pahjah worked the toggled pearl buttons that lined the back. They didn’t say another word to each other, but Mirien had plenty she wanted to ask before they were finished dressing. When th
e nurse pushed her into her chair and began brushing through the golden tangles of her unbound hair, Mirien found courage enough to speak again.

  “Pahjah, please,” she whimpered, hissing as the comb dragged against a stubborn knot. “What is happening?”

  “Many things.”

  “What things? Just tell me, please. Is it my sister? Is she…”

  Pahjah leaned down beside her ear and whispered, “Your sister will be fine, I promise you,” and then knelt to kiss the girl on her cheek. “No matter what you hear today, no matter what anyone says, don’t believe them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she nodded dutifully.

  “Promise me, Mirien. No matter what, none of what you are about to hear about your sister is true. Not a word of it.”

  “What are they going to say about her?”

  “Awful, wretched things.” She drew back and began working through the tangles again.

  “Like what?”

  “You will learn soon enough,” she promised. “Brace yourself, my littlest darling,” she warned. “Change is coming.”

  Pahjah didn’t allow her to ask any more questions, but skillfully twisted her hair into a series of artful braids that piled elegantly atop her head. She secured them in place with a silver pin, then lowered the jeweled circlet into place just in time for her mother to reappear in the doorway with a fretful scowl.

  “What did you not understand when I bid you hurry?”

  “She is ready, my queen.” Pahjah stepped back, simultaneously shoving Mirien out of the chair and onto her feet. “Remember what I said,” she whispered, “and keep silent.”

  She said those last words so softly, Mirien barely heard them. Her mother motioned for her to come forward, and she practically leapt from the chair, falling into a fast-paced walk at the queen’s side.

  “Is something wrong, Mother?”

  “Of course not, my little love.” Ygritte lowered a stiff hand over her daughter’s shoulder, her smile was even stiffer, and ushered her around the corner and down the winding stairs. “Trystay’s men bring news of your sister. That is all.”

  Even her mother knew more than she was saying, but she wasn’t sharing that information. For the remainder of the long walk through the palace, she said nothing at all, save to tell Mirien to guard her tongue and be a proper lady at breakfast no matter what things she heard.

  Mirien’s mind was abuzz with thoughts. What could she possibly be about to hear about her sister that would prompt both Pahjah and her mother to remind her to guard her own tongue? It must have been something awful, something so awful it furrowed the queen’s brow and made her chew nervously at the corner of her mouth while they walked.

  The king was already seated at the head of the table, his silvered blond hair and beard both neatly combed and braided, his crown polished and shining and the ever-present air of stern invincibility about him. He barely even acknowledged her when she entered the room, but rested an almost bitter gaze on his wife as she took her seat without a word and waited for the priest behind her husband to bless the food they were about to eat.

  Mirien found herself glancing nervously around the table during the long prayer, her gaze lingering long over her father. The scowl he wore did not fade, even during the blessing, but twitched impatiently behind the bristling hairs of his golden mustache. As soon as the priest spoke the final words, Aelfric reached down and broke the bones of the hen on his plate with a wet snap. He tore a long strip of meat and fed it between his lips without looking up.

  For a long time Miri only watched, her hands in her lap, her gaze moving from one parent to the other, as if through sheer will of her stare alone she might get one of them to speak, but it never happened.

  Several times she thought to open her mouth, but she kept hearing Pahjah’s warning in the back of her mind. Keep silent.

  But why? What was going on, and where was her sister, if not with the man she’d been given to?

  Her father was still eating when the men burst into the dining hall. He stopped only long enough to lick the grease from his fingers when he raised his stare toward the doors. Mirien looked too, spying Pahjah lingering in the shadows as Trystay’s men formed ranks for presentation, two lines beyond the doors, which their prince passed through in a hurried march.

  The calm but heavy sound of his boots preceded him, foreboding in such a way that Miri thought anxiously of the dream that woke her with a gasp less than an hour earlier.

  RUN.

  Words written in the sand as warning bells tolled from the towers in the distance.

  RUN.

  But why should she run from Trystay? He had been kind enough to her in the days before he swept her sister away, teasing and joking with her and promising to take good care of Lorelei. He’d sworn with a smile that she would always be welcome in Hofft with open arms, his new sister, but something about his kindnesses even then had left her feeling distrusting and uneasy.

  She swallowed hard against her apprehension, watching as Prince Trystay strode through the lines and marched straight toward her father at the head of the table. The length of his blond hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, only a single lock fallen loose like a slice down his sharp face. His eyes, the eyes Lorelei had sighed dreamily about while they lay side by side in bed during their final nights together, were narrowed in scorn—two green slits that reminded Mirien of a serpent.

  “Trystay.” Aelfric lowered the carcass in his hands to the greasy plate below and reached for the linen to wipe his fingers. “What brings you barreling back into my city with the fire of purpose on your heels?”

  “The harlot you sought to wed to me in order to band our kingdoms together.”

  Ygritte gasped, her hand lifting to her chest as if the heart beneath her breast were on the verge of exploding, but her husband did not even look in her direction.

  “What is this?” The king stiffened, but it was not worry that clenched his muscles. There was something else smoldering in his dark eyes, something far more unpredictable and strange. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Where I suspect she planned to go all along when she latched onto this ruse of a marriage in order to get her to the place her heart desired.”

  “Do not speak to me in riddles.” Her father’s nostrils flared wide as he inhaled to control his temper. “I would have you tell me plain. My daughter, where has she gone?”

  “A question I was hoping you might be able to answer for me,” he mused. “Into the Edgelands, with her lover, I suspect.”

  Her mother nearly choked, the color draining from her face as she dropped her unused napkin onto the untouched plate of food in front of her. Mirien felt a heavy dread fall into the pit of her stomach, her lips quivering over unspoken words she dared not speak when she caught a glimpse of Pahjah again.

  “She departed from our camp three nights past under cover of darkness and without word. I set men to the task of returning her to safety, those who spied her tell me she met with a pack of wolves just beyond their borders, growing my suspicions that this was her plot all along.”

  “That’s absurd!” King Aelfric scoffed.

  “Seeing the likelihood that she is one of their kind, a fact you kept well hidden from me during negotiations for her hand. Were it not for the confession of the men you sent as dowry to serve in my father’s army, I might not have known until long after we were wed that you would dishonor our noble house with tainted blood.”

  It was Mirien’s turn to nearly choke; the prince’s words echoing through the stunned silence of the dining hall. She tried to make sense of his accusation, looking between her mother and father for confirmation, but neither of them met her gaze at all. Her mother’s eyes were lowered, her lids heavy with sorrow, but her father did not give in to Trystay’s attempt to shame him.

  “I do not deny the time of her conception was questionable. My beloved wife was taken by the U’lfer, and only the gods can guess what atrocities she suffered at their ha
nds.” Her mother’s head did not rise, but she swore the woman’s eyes were rimmed with unshed tears. “Out of love for my wife I claimed Lorelei at birth, and have never thought of her as less than my own child,” Aelfric said stiffly, but there was something lacking in that confession. Heart, she thought, conviction. He had always treated Lorelei differently. Mirien heard her sister complain of it often enough, but she’d never taken it seriously until that moment.

  “And yet you failed to mention that there was even the slightest possibility that the girl you would have married me to was little more than an animal.”

  Mirien was stunned, and once more she sought her mother’s gaze for confirmation of his horrible accusation, but Ygritte avoided eye contact. The woman’s hands tightened into fists as she raised them from her lap, ignoring her husband’s glare as she parted her lips to speak, but the prince did not give her the floor.

  “I can only surmise from this that it was never an alliance you sought between our kingdoms,” he declared. “When my father learns of this slight, war between our houses will be inevitable.”

  “Trystay,” Aelfric brought a wary hand up to stay the young man’s temper. Mirien had never heard her father speak in fear, but there was gentleness in his tone that gave away his apprehension. “What Lorelei has done is unforgivable, and I would see her punished for this crime. Had I only but cut her from her mother’s womb and strangled her before she drew first breath, there would be no cause for war between our houses, but compassion warmed my heart, and love for her mother stayed my hand. I watched her carefully all her life, and never saw sign that she was anything more than human, otherwise I would never have offered her hand to you.”