“A scribe?” he said, a sudden wariness in his voice. “Why would a scribe be traveling to the White City? I thought your kind were solitary, living behind walls, reading useless old manuscripts.” His eyes grew hard again. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“I…” Nierne wracked her mind. How could she prove she was who she said she was? “My necklace,” Nierne said and looked down. “It was given to me at my initiation. Only those of the Monastery may wear them.” She swept her head back and forth, but the necklace was not in its usual spot. “It must have slipped beneath my cloak.” She looked back up. “If you were to untie my hands…”
Lord Tala studied her as if viewing something distasteful. Then he reached over and undid the clasp of her cloak. It fell in a heap around her worn boots. Shame filled her. Nierne realized how dirty she was: sweat-stained shirt, pants stiff from weeks of travel. And surely that wasn’t her smell, was it?
“Well, you’re starting to convince me that perhaps you have traveled a long way…or at least that you haven’t bathed in weeks.”
Her cheeks burned at the man’s harsh words. How dare he—
“At least that’s what I’d do to convince someone I was a traveler from…where did you say? Thyra?” He reached over and, with a fingertip, lifted the small pendant that was clasped around her neck.
Nierne stiffened at his touch and swallowed the lump she found in her throat. His head bent closer, studying what she suspected were the markings on her pendant. She looked away, her body rigid.
“Interesting craftsmanship,” Lord Tala said finally, letting her pendant drop back onto her chest. He took a step back and looked at her. “I’m not an unreasonable man. Some of your story rings true. And to try you as a spy would be…unjust.” Nierne found his words ironic. “So until I can decide whether you are who you say you are, you will remain in my tent, tied up, and under surveillance. But if you are lying to me…” he touched his dagger again, his face cold and unflinching.
Nierne swallowed and nodded.
“Since you will be staying with me,” Lord Tala continued, “I’m afraid I must insist that you bathe. I will also have some new clothing found to replace your…current attire.” He stepped carefully around her and walked toward the tent’s flap. Nierne followed him with her eyes.
“Oh, and one more thing.” He glanced back. “There are two guards just outside my tent, not to mention the entire Temanin Army. Any attempt to escape would be suicide.” There was a wicked gleam in his eye. Then he turned and left.
• • •
Nierne lay on a brightly colored rug, her hair wet from her washing, the shirt on her much too big, and her hands retied. A couple of scarlet cushions hemmed with golden thread and tassels at the end sat nearby. Wisps of dark smoke floated up from a clay jar that sat on the low-lying table between the cushions. The air smelled faintly of sweetness and spice.
Near the back of the tent she could see a desk with a lamp on top, a jar of ink, and scrolls of papers. A wooden chest stood in one corner and a bed covered in dark red silk stood in the other. Lord Tala lived in wealth, even here on the battlefield.
Hopelessness moved in, holding her heart in its iron fist, squeezing until every beat hurt.
Where was the Word? She stared at one of the large pillows that lay beside her. I will be with you always. A promise to anyone who followed the Word. But where was He when the Shadonae had taken over Thyra? Where was the Word when Father Reth had tried to save her from the shadows? And where was He now, as she lay tied up?
Nierne sniffed and curled her body up into a tight ball. Her hands were tied behind her back, leaving her in an awkward position. Her feet lay on top of each other, fettered together with thick cords.
A rustle nearby made her tense. Nierne watched the tent flaps move through half-closed eyes. Lord Tala entered the tent. He looked at her for a moment, then moved toward the back.
She heard the quiet creak of wood. Glancing toward the sound, she found him sitting at the desk dipping a tall quill into the jar of ink. How long had it been since she had sat at a similar desk, scratching away across long rolls of parchment?
Nierne closed her eyes. That part of her life seemed so far removed from her now that her memories were more like dreams. And her reality a nightmare.
Curling tighter, she willed herself to sleep.
• • •
Caleb sighed and laid his quill down beside the parchment. He hated these weekly reports his cousin insisted he send. Corin was obsessed with this campaign.
For one brief moment he wondered why his cousin did not just lead the troops himself. After all, it wasn’t that unheard of. Their ancestors had led many armies to victory.
Caleb tapped his finger on the smooth grain of the desk, studying the black signet ring on his middle finger. At least there was one thing he could look forward to: going home. And Corin had better keep his promise this time. He was tired of war.
A small groan interrupted his musings. Caleb turned toward his sitting area and studied the small body that lay between the pillows. He still had not decided what to do with the young woman the patrol had caught.
Caleb stood and sauntered toward her. Deep down he knew she wasn’t a spy. Sure, if the White City had really wanted to fool him, this was what they would send: a dirty, scruffy woman with weather-worn clothing and a half empty pack. But faking a Thyrian accent would be difficult. And that necklace she wore…
He knelt down and watched her. Satisfied that she was deep in sleep, he let his eyes rove across her body. She looked different now with all that grime gone. Smelled better too. The woman was small, with curves that showed even with the baggy shirt and pants. Not like the women from Temanin who were tall and lean.
His eyes came back to her face. Her hair mesmerized him. Caleb had never seen hair like hers, blood red and curly, falling just below her chin. He reached out and touched one of the curls. Her hair felt soft between his fingers.
He looked back toward her face, noting the sprinkling of tiny red spots across her nose and cheeks that matched that same blood red color, a startling contrast to her pale skin.
His curiousity about her grew. He saw the thin gold chain around her neck and wanted another look at that pendant.
Caleb extended his finger and carefully pulled the chain until the pendant emerged from the oversized shirt. He held the pendant between his thumb and finger.
Only once before had he seen similar markings: in a book he had browsed while visiting a distant cousin. He could not recall what the book had been about or why he had picked it up, but he did remember the markings. For some reason, they had intrigued him.
Caleb held the pendant a little higher, noting the three smooth ovals near the bottom, one longer than the other two. Engraved above one of the smaller ovals were three slash marks, and engraved above the other was a long curved line, like a snake rearing its head.
They were the symbols for the Word.
He let the pendant drop and turned his attention back toward the young woman. He believed that she really was a scribe from the famous Monastery in Thyra. But what was a scribe doing here? And a woman one, at that?
Why would a pretty young woman like her join such a rigid institution? He could never live that way. He enjoyed life too much.
Caleb stood and stretched, extending his arms above his head. He looked at her one more time. What had brought her here, away from the Monastery? Thyra was a long ways away. And where were her companions? Surely she hadn’t traveled over the mountains alone, had she? He shook his head and moved toward the back of his tent.
Caleb stripped off his shirt and tossed it over the wooden chest. A familiar sense of dread began to pour through him. Maybe tonight his nightmares would stay away. He pulled back the scarlet covers. No, they would come. They always came, each one worse than the last.
He lay down on the silk sheets and stared at the canvas ceiling above. She would be back tonight: the woman with the glowing hand. S
he would be there, standing in the midst of those who haunted his mind, beckoning him with that hand of hers, promising to show him the truth.
But I don’t want the truth. Caleb turned over. He just wanted one peaceful night’s sleep. Maybe he should have gone to the chief healer today. He almost did. Until the thought of explaining his dreams kept him away. And fear that whatever the healer gave him would interfere with his mind or body.
Not that the dreams weren’t already doing that.
When the dreams had begun, he would wake the next morning with a strong desire to find her. But this morning had been different. This morning he’d found himself heading out of the tent before he could stop himself. The urge to find her had driven his subconscious mind. And that had scared him.
Who was she? Caleb shifted again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. And he sure as sands didn’t want her messing with his mind anymore.
Caleb leaned over and blew out the lamp. He settled back down between the sheets. Deep inside he wondered, if he stayed here much longer, one day he would finally give in. Would he just walk out of this tent and go wherever the dream led him?
He knew the answer. Just as he also knew that whatever truth this woman showed him would probably change his life.
And that terrified him most of all.
23
Rowen stopped in front of the double set of doors. On the other side was the main audience chamber and Lady Astrea. Perhaps even the council, as well. All here to decide her fate.
“Don’t be afraid.” She closed her eyes. “You do not have to be afraid.” Rowen took a deep breath, filling her nostrils and lungs. She held the air there for a moment and let it out. But it did not help the paralyzing fear sweeping across her body. What she really wanted to do was turn and run.
“Not anymore.” She tugged at the new leather glove Lore had procured for her, since her old one had gotten lost somewhere along the beach near Avonai. It felt stiff compared to her old glove, but at least it covered her mark.
Rowen straightened her tabard and checked the sword that hung at her side. Then she reached over and pressed down on one of the door handles. It was time.
The door opened with ease. A guard stood on either side of the door. They both nodded at Rowen. She stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind her.
The chamber felt cold and overwhelming. Everything inside had been carved from white stone: the floor, the ceiling, and the walls. White stone pillars ran along either side of the chamber. The ceiling was at least two stories high, arching to a point that ran down the middle of the room. The room itself looked big enough to hold over a hundred people. The only other color in the chamber was from a long blue runner that ran from the doors directly to the platform two hundred feet ahead on which sat a white throne carved from the wall behind.
Long narrow windows lined the left side of the room. Beams of sunlight shone through the windows, across the white floor and blue runner. Silence hung inside the room like a cold winter morning after a new fallen snow.
Rowen looked around again. Where was Lady Astrea?
She proceeded along the runner, passing between the pillars toward the throne. It wasn’t until she passed the second to last set of pillars that she saw Lady Astrea. She stood to the left, near the last window.
Rowen stopped and stared. Lady Astrea had changed seemingly overnight. Instead of the young woman Rowen had followed around the castle, a young ruler stood in her place. Lady Astrea stood in front of the window, the sun streaming down across her face and body. Her face looked pale and drawn, even in the sunlight. She wore a long white gown that flowed behind her. A white mantle trimmed in white fur hung from her shoulders. Her hair was pulled up in loose curls. A silver crown sat on her head.
Behind Lady Astrea, in the corner of the chamber, Rowen spotted Aren. He stood rigid, his arms folded across his chest. He wore his formal uniform, and his hair was pulled back. The shadows cast his face in sharp relief. That, combined with his tattoos, made Aren look like a true Nordic, a barbarian from the north, and not the fun-loving man Rowen knew.
Had everyone changed while she was gone?
Lady Astrea turned. “Rowen, you’re here.”
Rowen bowed. “Yes, milady.” Dread came rushing back.
Lady Astrea moved away from the window toward the throne.
Aren looked at Rowen and gave her a small smile.
Rowen tried to return it, but her lips would not move. She straightened and headed toward the platform.
Lady Astrea sat on the white throne, her dress sweeping around her like fluid silk. Her hands came to rest on either arm of the throne. Aren stood discreetly to the left.
Rowen stopped at the bottom of the platform. At least the council isn’t here, she thought. That gave her a little courage.
“Rowen.”
Rowen looked up.
Lady Astrea folded her hands across her lap. “How long have you known you were an Eldaran?”
Straight to the point. “Since the wolf attack, milady.”
“How long have you had the mark?”
Rowen swallowed. “Since my father’s death.”
Lady Astrea nodded. “I have been investigating you, Rowen.”
Rowen felt her blood rush to her head. So she knew about the charges of witchcraft and her exile…
“Do not worry. I have not contacted your village. I have only talked to Balint. He told me your story. I do not think it would help anyone for me to talk to the elders of Cinad. This is a delicate issue, and for good reason. For hundreds of years there has been a ban against the use of magic or supernatural power. It was an edict drawn up by my great-great grandfather. Due to the Nordic Wars.”
Rowen bowed her head. “Milady, I did not know.”
“Most people do not. The edict was passed a long time ago, as a way to ensure another Nordic War never occurred. It was a proclamation written out of fear. And there are powers that we should fear.” Lady Astrea sighed. “By our laws, you should be put to death.”
Rowen stiffened, and her breath caught in her throat. Here it was, all over again, like in Cinad. Only this time, it would not be exile. Lore, you were wrong.
“I have thought through my choices,” Lady Astrea said. “I must think of what is best for my people. I could have you burned at the stake or banished. That is what my forefathers would have done.”
Rowen stared at the bottom hem of Lady Astrea’s dress, still as a stone. Now came the declaration of her death.
“But one thing I learned from my father is that not all power is evil. This is why Balint was allowed to use his power. Because of my father’s mercy and understanding. And because we knew his power was of Eldaran descent.”
Shock raced through Rowen. She raised her head slightly. Her lips trembled. Did she dare to think that Lady Astrea would show her mercy? Or perhaps the “mercy” would be exile again. She was afraid to look at Lady Astrea. But she needed to know. Rowen looked up.
Lady Astrea gave her a half smile. “I have watched you, Rowen, over the last year. You are kind and gentle to those around you. You have been a loyal varor and twice have placed yourself in danger to save others—not least, to save me. Those are not the traits of a person who would use her power to conquer others. Those are the traits of a true Eldaran of old.”
Rowen swallowed, and tears filled the corners of her eyes. No one besides her father had ever said anything like this to her before.
But a sobering thought pierced through her moment of joy: Did Lady Astrea know what she really was?
“I understand why you hide your mark. Balint told me what your true power is.”
“Then…you know?” Rowen said, her voice cracking.
“Yes. From what I know and what Balint told me, it is the most powerful and most feared of all the Eldaran gifts. But I have never seen you use it on others, at least not willingly. And what little I know of the Word, I do know He would not give a gift like this if there weren’t some reason. I believe y
ou will use it only when needed. Therefore,” Lady Astrea looked Rowen straight in the eye, “today and henceforth, I choose to extend my protection over you, Rowen. As long as you use your power for the good of others.”
Relief rushed through Rowen, leaving her legs shaky. No banishment. No death. Instead, Lady Astrea herself would shield her. Rowen didn’t know what to say. If she opened her mouth, she knew she would start crying. So she looked at Lady Astrea and gave her a tight nod. Thank You, Word.
“However,” Lady Astrea continued, “I’m not sure if the people of the Ryland Plains are prepared for an announcement of this magnitude. Especially during war. At some point, I will need to make known who you are. But I believe it prudent to wait, for now.”
Rowen nodded again. She agreed.
There was a pause. Lady Astrea grew somber. “Rowen, I must say something, because I know many others will be thinking the same thing.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The fact that you exist… It frightens me.”
The joy inside Rowen dimmed. She saw Aren frown from the corner of her eye.
Lady Astrea leaned across her lap with clasped hands. “What darkness has come into the Lands that the Word has seen fit to cause Eldarans to rise again? It’s not that I wish you didn’t live. Not at all. But is it just a coincidence that an Eldaran survives with almost all her powers intact? Or are you, like Balint, just a descendent of an almost dead race?”
Rowen looked down. It was the same question that had haunted her ever since Lore had talked about the Shadonae. Suddenly the world seemed larger and scarier than it ever had when she’d been a simple woman living in Cinad. And it was a large and frightening world with her right in the middle of it.
“I hope it is the latter,” Lady Astrea said quietly.
Rowen swallowed and found her voice. She looked up at Lady Astrea. “I do, as well, milady.”
• • •
Lore entered the war room the next day. The room was dark, save for the wrought-iron chandelier that hung low over a long wooden table. There were no windows in the room. Just four bare walls and a narrow table shoved against one side with a decanter and four glasses. Fat candles dripping with wax lit up the area around the table but left the rest of the room in shadows.
Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1) Page 30
