The man bowed and departed.
“I’d like to be alone,” Trevn said. “Inform me the moment there is any news.”
Hawley and Cadoc bowed and left the room.
Trevn put his head in his hands and reached for his wife’s mind.
“Mielle? Can you hear me?”
There was only silence.
Grayson
Grayson had failed. He’d led the queen into a trap and gotten them both captured. That mantic woman had placed a spell on him, just like Chieftess Mreegan had aboard the Vespara so long ago. As Grayson had stood frozen in the forest, he had tried to voice King Trevn but received no answer. Not from Onika, Oli, or Trista either. He’d even tried speaking to Kal and Jhorn. Maybe the spell had done something to his magic? Or something terrible had happened in Armanguard.
A strange young man had appeared in the forest with many shadir. Thin with dark eyes, long limbs, and dappled gray skin, just like Grayson’s. It must have been Shanek DanSâr, the root child. There had been something powerful and cold inside him that had frightened Grayson.
Shanek had taken Queen Mielle first. He’d returned a few minutes later and popped away with Grayson.
“Everyone says we’re the same,” Shanek had said as they’d sped through the Veil. “But I’m better than you because I’m going to be king.”
Grayson hadn’t been able to think of a reply. Shanek had left him lying on a straw mattress in a tent and joined the two women who’d been waiting. Zenobia and Lilou, Grayson had known, from when he’d spied on Rogedoth. The women had forced him to drink âleh tonic.
Now he lay flat on his back, unable to speak or hear.
Trapped.
He watched Shanek and the women but couldn’t hear their conversation. Moments later, Barthel Rogedoth entered, and Grayson came face-to-face with his grandfather. Rogedoth motioned to a man behind him, who was carrying a stool. The man placed the stool beside Grayson’s mattress, then scurried away.
“Well done, King Shanek,” Rogedoth said. “And the queen?”
“She’s in the tent you prepared,” Shanek said.
“Bring Trevn here next,” Rogedoth said. “Then Oli Agoros. Once both are detained, you will seize the castle and take your place on the throne.”
Shanek nodded and popped away. Most of the shadir followed.
A chill ran over Grayson as the words of prophecy played back in his mind. “The Deceiver will be deceived. He will break from his true family and be led astray by those he considers friends. He will stir up against Arman’s remnant an army who care only for their own pleasure and have no delight in the truth.”
Shanek DanSâr was the Deceiver. And Grayson would have to face him. To fight him.
“Remove the spell that silences his speaking voice,” Rogedoth said, sitting down.
One of the women mumbled something, and Grayson felt a catch in his throat.
“I’m pleased to finally meet you, Master Grayson,” Rogedoth said. “Losing you was the biggest regret of my life.”
Grayson tried his voice. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he whispered.
“I understand that,” Rogedoth said. “Your father likely poisoned you against me.”
“He didn’t talk about you at all,” he said, his voice stronger now. “I never knew you existed.”
If that had bothered the man, his face didn’t show it. “I shouldn’t have sent you to Raine,” he said. “Lord Edekk was not the most attentive man back then. I should have kept you in Everton. I was afraid, you see, that if someone found you out, I might lose you.”
“You did lose me.”
“I shouldn’t have, is my point. You should have been my highest priority.”
“No,” Grayson said. “Your wife should have been, but you locked her away to get what you wanted. Whatever you want is your highest priority. And you don’t want me. You want to use me. But you can’t. Because I gave my allegiance to Arman and King Trevn. Since you’re against them, we’re enemies.”
Rogedoth looked down his nose at Grayson. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I have,” Grayson said.
“But we’re family. Family is stronger than anything.”
“We share the same blood,” Grayson said, “but that doesn’t make us family. My family are the people who cared about me my whole life. I don’t know you at all. Except that you took me prisoner. Not a very good start.”
“What matters is that we’re together now,” Rogedoth said. “I will soon have rule of Armanguard, so you must decide how you will spend the rest of your life. Would you rather live like this, immobile and imprisoned? Or would you rather serve me?”
“Neither of those things will happen,” Grayson said. “I grew up with Miss Onika, a True Prophet of Arman, so I know you’ll fail.”
Rogedoth smiled, but it looked more like a snarl. “You’re wrong about that, my grandson. I realize I have asked a great deal of you, so I will give you some time to reconsider.” He stood and walked toward the tent opening. “If your answer is the same by the time I return, know that you have chosen death.”
Mielle
Mielle awoke, lying on a hard leather mat inside a tent. She could tell from the yellowish glow coming through the canvas that it was morning. The chill made her guess she was in a place that had snow, not far from home, hopefully.
The horror of her capture came rushing back in fragmented images. Kyal’s warning. The fire. Mattenelle the mantic, shrouded in smoke. Lady Pia saying Bero was dead. The spells on Lady Pia and Grayson. Trevn’s concern. And now Mielle couldn’t speak or move, just like when Sârah Jemesha had put a spell on her when she and Zeteo Agoros had tried to take Castle Armanguard.
Mielle didn’t like being immobile. She wanted to fight and rage and buck like a horse, but all she could do was lie still and stare at the tent ceiling.
She figured this must be Rogedoth’s camp. When she’d awakened briefly last night, two women had fed her a mug of bitter liquid. She’d recognized them as concubines from King Echad’s court. Trevn hadn’t spoken to her since the attack, so the mug must have contained âleh. That he couldn’t reach her bathed Mielle in fear, though she could still sense him through the soul-binding. She fixed her thoughts on the leather cord around her neck and wished she could hold the shell. Touching it always made Trevn feel closer. She hoped he was safe.
As the hours passed, Mielle relived each moment that had led to her capture. Her biggest fear was for Grayson. She hoped he was still alive.
Footsteps approached. The door flap shifted, and a man ducked inside, holding a lit lantern. As he hung it on the center tent pole, a long line of people entered behind him, several that Mielle recognized. First came King Echad’s former prophet, Filkin Yohthehreth, the one who had always annoyed Trevn back in Everton. Then came a younger man, followed by three women—the two who had fed her the âleh and Mattenelle—and finally, Barthel Rogedoth.
Mielle’s heart sank into a pit of fear. This was Trevn’s worst nightmare, come to life. Arman, help him cope. Help us both.
Rogedoth approached and loomed over her mat. His eyes were golden, where they’d been brown before. No reason to hide his heritage as Prince Mergest of Sarikar anymore.
“Your Highness,” he said. “Welcome to my camp. I hope you are comfortable.” He smiled, which looked sinister in the dimness. “I was surprised how long it took you to puzzle out the clues we left for the missing children. I thought you would have figured out Mett Lycor straightaway. And what about the desert? Master Grayson did lead you to the desert, didn’t he? Did you wonder if his magic was failing?”
Under the spell, Mielle had no way to respond.
“Those children were there, Your Highness, but they were buried. That is the location the Jiir-Yeke take the bodies of their sacrifices after the ceremony. The Duke of Raine traded children to the Jiir-Yeke and the Ahj-Yeke, ensuring that the giants would side with us.”
Mielle’s fear turned to hate. This man
had no honor.
“Shanek is fetching your husband for me as we speak. Not to this tent, of course. I’ll keep him elsewhere until his army is defeated and Shanek has taken Armanguard. I just wanted you to know he will not be neglected. I would hate to have you worry.”
She wanted to claw his eyes out, but she could only lie there like a stunned fish.
His golden eyes fixed upon her waist, and he crouched. What was he looking at? He reached out, his fingers—long and dark—like the legs of spiders. They brushed her stomach, and inside she cringed. Was he going to cast another spell? Trevn had said he couldn’t do magic.
Something moved at the back of her neck, tickled. A bug? Her mind winced, overcome with the myriad of possible spells someone so depraved might impose. The tickle vanished as the press of the leather cord around her neck cut into her skin.
The soul-binding pendant.
No!
Rogedoth gripped the shell and tugged until the cord snapped. He stood and dangled the necklace over Mielle. “A soul-binding cast by Charlon Sonber is strong indeed. I’d be hesitant to meddle with it if not for the knowledge that the shadir who created the bond is no more.”
Because Magon was dead. Could Rogedoth’s mantics harm Trevn through their magical bond?
“Did you know discouragement is one of the most effective strategies a general can inflict upon his enemy? It seems to me that if Rosâr Trevn cannot mind-speak his wife, and if he also lost his unique soul-binding connection to her, he might be overcome with despair.”
No doubt he would, but Mielle hoped he would first remember his place as king and do his duty to the realm. She tried to muster as much hatred and defiance in her eyes as possible.
Rogedoth handed the shell to the older of the three women. “Break this spell at once.”
The woman stepped into the place Rogedoth had just vacated and lifted her arm over Mielle, holding the shell pendant in her fist.
Mielle wanted to scream. The soul-binding could be a frustration, but she needed it. The magical bond was the only thing that kept her and Trevn connected.
“Kabada âthâh,” the woman said, waving her hand over Mielle. “Bâqa ze ecâr. Nêzer illek nephesh. Bara châphash netsach.”
Mielle felt Trevn briefly. A surge of pain passed between them as if they’d been stitched together and were suddenly ripped apart. The incredible loss consumed Mielle in a rush of solitude and panic. She writhed inside. Tears flooded her eyes until she couldn’t see. Sobs made her chest heave.
Lady Zenobia opened her hand. White powder sprinkled over Mielle like sugar on a cake. The cord hung loose and empty from the mantic’s wrist. At the sight of the pendant destroyed, Mielle sobbed so hard she began to choke. She couldn’t breathe and still couldn’t move either.
Mattenelle knelt and rolled Mielle to her side, rubbed her back. “Let her breathe, at least. She does no one any good drowned in her own tears.”
Rogedoth nodded to Zenobia, who, with a whispered word, returned movement and the use of Mielle’s voice.
Her sobs intensified, and she found the sound so startling that it brought on a new bout of tears. She curled into a ball and wailed.
Rogedoth and his acolytes left, taking the lantern with them. Mielle continued to sob, alone in the cold. She reminded herself that Trevn was still alive. He still loved her. Just because she no longer felt him inside her didn’t make that untrue. But with no way to warn him what was coming, she feared he might not be alive much longer.
Trevn
Trevn pushed aside his breakfast to hear more from Rosârah Brelenah and Princess Vallah. Before they could speak a word, however, a flash of terror from Mielle seized him so abruptly that he cried out. “Mielle? What has happened? Can you hear—?”
Searing pain shot through his chest and down his sides into his legs, yet it seemed to simultaneously run up his spine to his head. He released a ragged breath and clutched his heart, which seemed somehow dead. He took a deep breath, confused. It was still beating.
“Your Highness, are you ill?” Brelenah was at his side, touching his shoulder.
“Mielle,” he whispered, terrified that he could no longer sense her. What had happened?
Brelenah’s golden eyes met his. “Did she speak to you?”
“Gone,” he managed.
She squeezed his shoulder. “She was taken, yes.”
Tears pooled in his eyes and he shook his head. She didn’t understand. Everything was warm. Why was it so warm? Why did he feel so strange? The ache. The emptiness. He turned up his palm. The imprint of the shell had disappeared. “No!” He bowed forward, head on his knees.
“Your Highness? Trevn?”
Sorrow fell heavily. Unimaginable, the weight of it. The intensity. He couldn’t breathe. Emotions assailed him. So overcome by the combination of emptiness and pain, he wailed and slipped off the chair. He hit the floor. A woman called for help.
How long he lamented, he did not know. Voices surrounded him, but he ignored them, consumed by the knowledge that Mielle was dead.
At some point he felt a hand on his back, heard a woman mutter, “He will cover you and protect you in the shelter of his wings.”
Zeroah?
Trevn opened his eyes. He lay on his side on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. The dowager queen sat near his head, praying. Father Mathal was present too, as well as Rosârah Brelenah, Vallah, his sister Hrettah, and Miss Onika—all crowded around him on the floor.
A cold wave of shame spilled over him. What was he doing? He sniffed to clear his head, but his nose was clogged. Sands alive, what a lamb he was, crying like a babe on the floor. His cheeks burned and he pushed himself up.
“Enough of this.” His voice sounded odd in his ears, and his arms trembled. He was still borderline hysterical. He cleared his throat. “I am well.” For now.
Cadoc lunged in and grabbed his arms, helped him stand.
“Is the queen alive?” Vallah asked.
“Hush,” Brelenah scolded her.
Trevn shuddered. “I know not.” He held out his hand for all to see. “The mark is gone.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s dead.” Oli pushed into the circle around him. How many were in his office, anyway? “I was with your brother when Harton removed the soul-binding Charlon had placed upon him. It could be they removed the spell to confuse you or to keep the two of you from communicating.”
Hope kindled just as his nose cleared, and with it, his ears. He nodded at Oli. “Thank you.” Took a deep breath. “Princess Vallah, what have you learned?” he asked his niece.
“Princess Saria didn’t know Queen Mielle and Master Grayson left the castle,” Vallah said. “She hasn’t seen them since dinner last night. She said the queen had learned something about the missing children and left.”
“Did she say what Mielle learned?” Trevn asked.
“That a man named Mett Lycor died in the Battle of Sarikar.”
Lycor was dead? “What of Master Tonis, Lady Abree, Lady Pia, and Master Bero?”
“Master Tonis and Lady Abree are in Sarikar,” Vallah said, “along with three orphan children that Master Grayson found in a cabin in a forest. Princess Saria said the queen’s guards are also missing.”
Well, at least Mielle had not gone off alone. Little comfort that gave him at the moment. Trevn sighed, terrified that his wife had stumbled onto a group of evildoers. He never should have allowed her to investigate the missing children on her own.
“If they have taken the queen,” Oli said, “they will surely come for you soon.”
“No doubt,” Trevn said. “That is why we must find out how we were silenced and get our magic back. When Shanek does come, I want to be ready.”
Living on the edge of despair made it difficult for Trevn to stay rational. He wanted to plan a rescue for Mielle, though he had no idea if she was alive or how he could find her until his mind-speak magic returned. While he would have rather eaten his midday meal alone—and while that migh
t have been safer, considering the threat of Shanek DanSâr—he forced himself to dine in the council chambers with the others, hoping his presence might inspire hope.
At Cadoc’s insistence, Trevn wore no crown. His signet ring was strung on a chain around his neck and tucked inside his tunic, out of sight. And he sat on the side of the table, two chairs from the throne at the end. No one would sit there, in case Shanek came looking.
Ottee set a platter of food before Trevn, then filled his goblet with wine. Trevn had little stomach and picked at his meal. While the table was by no means filled with people, those present spoke little. He had given Barek Hadar, his daughters, and Danek Faluk permission to stay in their own homes. They would not return until the source of the silencer had been discovered.
Trevn took a sip of wine, but the hint of cranberries made him spit the liquid back into his cup. “Don’t drink the wine,” he said, pushing back his chair. “We should have finished the duke’s wine months ago. Give me the bottle.”
Ottee scurried to the sideboard and returned with a brown glass bottle, his eyes like two round eggs. “Cook Labren sent up a fresh one. I uncorked it when you entered the room.”
Trevn held it up to regard the seal and date. House Edekk’s sigil, dated only a month ago. This bottle had not been part of those Edekk had given him after his visit to Nawhar House. Panic ran through him, though he calmed himself with the reminder that this must be the answer—and one that was not only fixable but again pointed to the traitor Tace Edekk.
“I strictly forbade deliveries from House Edekk. Hawley, how did this get here? Who signed off on the delivery?”
Hawley took the bottle in hand. “I will have to inquire in the kitchen.”
“Go now.”
Hawley departed.
“This fits,” Enetta said. “Princesses Rashah and Vallah don’t drink wine.”
Trevn nodded, appeased that his theory made sense. “Please continue with your meal. Ottee, fetch some fresh goblets for those who were drinking wine and pour them water instead.”
Warriors of the Veil Page 2
