by C. K. Brooke
Macmillan stumbled back, cupping his nostrils as blood spurted out. Madly, he charged at Cosmith, but Cosmith hurled him against the vault door.
Chest heaving, Macmillan took his blood-soaked hand away from his nose, and grabbed onto the lock to pull himself up.
The paper turned a pale, sky blue.
DAINY PRAYED SHE WASN’T IMAGINING it when a loud click reverberated, and the door to her vault miraculously opened.
Strains of glorious light issued into the dark little space. The hall was revealed to her once more, but before she could take it in, someone collided with her.
“Dainy!” Jon squeezed her so tightly she could scarcely breathe.
She gasped, wrapping her arms around him as overpowering waves of relief and euphoria rushed through her. She was grateful to be alive, astounded to have been freed—but above all, she was over the moon that Jon had returned, and his love for her had been true.
Better yet, he was here now, having somehow rescued her from an unimaginable fate.
They held each other, exchanging kisses, until Dainy noticed Mac leaning against the wall, bleeding. Squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light, she looked from his bloody hand and nose to the waxy Littemuse paper in the lock, freshly reflecting its blue color of activation.
Her breathing slowed. “Mac?” she asked uncertainly.
“But, this is impossible,” whispered Maxos Maxeos. “Only Ducelle blood can open that vault.”
“Maxos?” Dainy breathed. “Did any of my brothers survive the execution?”
“No, Dainy. And I recall my childhood from the earliest years,” said Mac, following her thoughts.
“Even if they had, Eludaine, your brothers would be past their thirtieth birthdays by now,” said Maxos curiously. “This man is too young.”
Jon stroked his chin in thought. “Well, we know the lock isn’t broken. It didn’t respond to my blood.” Something else seemed to occur to him, as he lowered his hand. “Dainy?” he asked slowly. “How did you wind up in there to begin with?”
Dainy and Maxos exchanged grim looks.
“Uncle Hessian,” she said bitterly. She and Maxos relayed all that had happened at the treasury that morning.
“Unbelievable.” Mac placed his hands upon his hips. “This whole quest, all along….”
“It was Gatspierre’s ploy to open the vault.” Jon shook his head in disgust.
“And for nothing,” added Maxos. “For the vault is empty.”
“But why?” asked Jon, flabbergasted. “Who could have stolen your inheritance, Dainy?”
Dainy did not miss the suspicion on Mac’s face. “Oh, stop,” she told him. “Jon’s not interested in my supposed wealth. If he was, he wouldn’t have given away all his gold.”
Mac only fixed his gaze into the empty vault.
“Hang on,” said Jon, and darted into the little room.
“What is it?” asked Dainy, hanging back. She would not reenter that place.
Jon knelt onto the stone, reaching into a corner. “Aha.” His voice echoed off the stones. “But it’s not empty.”
“It’s not?” asked Dainy and Mac together.
Jon came out and handed Dainy a tiny wooden box. “Here you are, my darling.” He kissed her brow. “Your inheritance. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”
Dainy sighed and pocketed the box in the folds of her gown. It was probably just a trinket that had been overlooked when the rest of the goods were looted.
She turned to Mac. “This still doesn’t explain how you were able to open my family’s vault.”
Mac shrugged. “I am equally confounded.”
“We can figure this out later,” said Jon. He cast a final glance into the little cell that had served as Dainy’s prison. “Let’s leave.”
“Where are you to go?” Maxos asked them. “You cannot return to Gatspierre after what he’s done.”
“The Häffstrom Guard shall accompany us, and we’ll have the deplorable man arrested,” announced Jon, holding Dainy by the waist.
AT LONG LAST, MARLENA’S WAGON rolled up the hill to Hessian Gatspierre’s estate. An enormous stone mansion greeted her, and she swallowed, recalling the magnificent Garden Palace that had once belonged to the Jordinian emperor.
She knew something was awry, however, when she pulled up to see uniformed men patrolling the yard, heaving property from the house and erecting wooden posts to block the drive.
“Come no further.” A guard held up his hand. She slowed her ox to a halt, pushing her long, curly mane from her face to better see the man. “This property is under investigation.”
Marlena frowned. She had not come all that way just to be thwarted by a team of guards. “I’m looking for my son. He was headed here.”
“And you are?”
“Marlena Macmillan, sir.”
“And what does this son of yours look like, Mrs. Macmillan?”
“He’s twenty-one,” she described. “Black hair, freckles. Average height, hazel eyes….”
Recognition seemed to pass across the guard’s face. “Oi, Soren!” he called to his colleague. “That sounds just like the bloke at the treasury.”
The second guard, Soren, responded. “The men from the treasury? They have gone with the Ducelle girl to the village inn.”
Marlena blinked. “The Ducelle girl?” she asked, astonished. “They have found her?”
“Aye, and rescued her this day, too,” nodded Soren.
“They’ve gone to the inn, you say?” asked Marlena, adjusting her ox’s reins.
“Yes, Madame. Head straight into Omar Village. You cannot miss it.”
The men bade her a good evening, and around Marlena turned, her heart drumming as she headed for her final destination.
THERE HAD BEEN NOWHERE TO go but the village inn, where Cosmith sat with his friends, discussing the day’s events over bread and pints. Hessian Gatspierre had been arrested by the Häffstrom Guard for smuggling and theft—and not to mention, attempted murder. All of his staff had fled to avoid conviction, and his estate was presently under investigation.
In spite of the tumult they’d left behind at the Gatspierre estate, the most prevalent question on their minds was how Macmillan’s blood had been able to open the Ducelle vault. They mused about it for hours, but could none of them could come to a solid conclusion.
Cosmith sat beside Dainy, his leg brushing hers beneath the table, his skin tingling every time her hand touched his. He wanted nothing more than to take her upstairs, and planned to do just that, when the main doors opened, and a woman with a great tuft of dark curls stepped inside.
Macmillan got to his feet, looking bewildered. Curious, Cosmith watched him. “Mother?” the young man said.
Dainy, Bos and Selu stopped talking and looked up. They followed Macmillan’s gaze to the woman, who stopped at his call.
“Marley,” she breathed, rushing toward them. She gathered him into her embrace.
Cosmith frowned. There was something strangely familiar about her. Where had he seen her before?
“Mother,” repeated Macmillan. “What are you doing here? How did you find—?”
She reached into her cloak and withdrew a folded parchment. “I found this under your mat, Marley. I had to come and stop you, before….”
She glanced nervously at her son’s companions, who watched her. Her eyes grew as they rested on Dainy, and she stumbled down in genuflection. “Your Royal Highness.”
At Dainy’s insistence, she got up and addressed her son again. “You’ve found her? You’ve won the quest?” She looked painfully apprehensive.
Macmillan sighed and scratched his head, evidently not knowing where to begin.
But his mother glanced at Cosmith, then did a double-take. He stared back at her, wondering if she found him as familiar as he found h
er.
Her brow furrowed. “Kormac?”
Cosmith felt a jolt in his stomach at the mention of the heinous man. “Kormac is my father,” he replied. Where had he seen the woman before? And how would she know…?
“Oh, my,” she whispered, chest heaving. “Jonwal.”
At the sound of his name on her lips, Jon Cosmith finally recognized her. “Mother?” he said, incredulous.
Macmillan’s face contorted. “This is my mother, Cosmith,” he said strangely, placing a hand on her forearm.
She shook her curly head. “Oh.” She brought a hand to her mouth, looking between Macmillan and Cosmith. “But, both of you? Together? How…?”
At the sight of her distress, Bos pulled up another chair and helped her into it. Cosmith’s heart pounded as he watched her, the mother who had abandoned him so long ago.
“What’s going on?” Macmillan demanded.
“Marley.” She looked into his freckled face. “There’s so much you do not know.”
Macmillan shook his head as if to clear it. “I know that you’re my mother, and your name is Marlena Macmillan—”
“No,” Jon interrupted him. “Her name is Marlena Cosmith. Née Harrington.”
“It is true.” Marlena nodded.
Bos, Selu and Dainy remained silent, frowning with confusion.
“I was once a minstrel in Jordinia,” Marlena began, looking apologetically between Cosmith, Macmillan and, for some reason, Dainy. “At the height of my career, I married a man named Kormac Cosmith. We had a son, Jonwal.” With startling tenderness, she gazed at Cosmith.
“When Jon was but a wee boy of… I know not, six or seven,” she said, very quietly, “I was invited to perform for the emperor at the Garden Palace. He was a great lover of music, with a marvelous singing voice, and a deep appreciation of song.”
Cosmith glanced at Dainy. She must have inherited her talents from her father.
“He was there alone, without his family,” said his mother, cheeks reddening. “And I provided the emperor a private performance.”
Cosmith was shocked.
“Well.” She sighed, her eyes speaking volumes of shame. “When I realized I carried the emperor’s child, I knew not what to do. How could I face my husband? I’d been gone long enough; he would know the child was not his. Not to mention,” she dropped her voice, “rebel activity was already underway. Should my predicament have been discovered, who knew what the rebels might try to do to me, to my baby? In fear for my life, and that of my unborn child, I fled.
“I went to the Bainherd Plains,” she continued, “where I overheard the name Macmillan. So I took it. And then, in the safety of the Knights’ Forest, I made my home and bore my son.” She met Macmillan’s eyes. “The emperor’s son.”
Dainy sucked in a breath.
“And that is why,” she concluded, her voice heavy, “when I realized where you’d gone, Marley, and that you intended to marry the duchess, I had to stop you. Because you cannot marry Eludaine Ducelle. She is your sister.”
Macmillan appeared as though he might be sick. He and Dainy locked eyes, their faces pallid, their black hair and freckles staring back at each other.
Cosmith was suddenly amazed he’d ever overlooked their resemblance. How could he have missed it?
And of course, that explained the lock.
“As for you, Jonwal....” Marlena slowly rose from her chair. “My, how incredibly handsome you’ve become.” She smiled sadly. “Just like your father.”
Cosmith tensed. “I am nothing like my father.” He felt the others’ eyes upon him, but didn’t care. They didn’t know what it’d been like, what he’d suffered, after she’d left.
Marlena frowned.
“Had you any idea what became of me?” He didn’t bother to hide his anger. “Did you even care?”
When she didn’t reply, he went on. “Did you know my father, the swine, took to the drink after you left? Oh yes,” he said in response to her look of surprise. “And not only was he a bumbling drunk, but an angry one, who brutalized me every day of my life, until I finally had the sense to flee the bastard.”
Dainy took his hand, but Cosmith shook it off. He didn’t want sympathy.
Marlena looked devastated.
“For three years,” said Cosmith, “I lived on the streets, picking pockets and raiding garbage until, at sixteen, I was recruited by Intelligence. So ponder that, Mother!” He glared at her. “Thus is the life to which you abandoned me!”
Bos and Selu looked down.
“All I can say,” said Cosmith furiously, his voice quaking, “is that I hope it was all worth it to raise your royal lovechild.” He thrust his head bitterly in Macmillan’s direction before storming out.
He needed air. He stalked out of the dining hall and emerged outside through the front doors, his pulse racing.
It wasn’t long before tentative footsteps issued behind him. She came no farther, allowing him his space.
Her bell-like voice broke the silence. “Jon,” said Dainy, her tone somber. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea…about your past. My heart is broken for you.”
“I don’t want your pity,” he barked, staring ahead.
She began to walk away, but Cosmith reached for her. “Dainy,” he called apologetically. “Forgive me. Please don’t go.”
She returned to his side. She took his cold hand into her warm one, and together they stood, watching as the twilit sky grew dark.
“LADY ELUDAINE?” SOMEONE SPOKE OUTSIDE the door.
Dainy opened her eyes to the early morning light. Jon’s arms were wrapped around her, his mouth at her cheek. Groggily, he’d been murmuring something. Dainy had thought he was merely mumbling in his sleep, but realized he was singing softly: “Hey-oh, Bonnie, will you be my bride?”
Her heartrate accelerated with pleasure. Even though her uncle was out of the picture, and the offer of her betrothal no longer stood, did Jon still wish for her hand?
“Lady Eludaine?” came the voice again, accompanied by a knock.
Dainy sat up, extracting herself from Jon’s arms. “Yes?” she called, and Jon opened his eyes serenely at the sound of her voice.
Macmillan was asleep at the foot of their cot, while Bos and Selu were curled up on a cot of their own by the window. Having grown accustomed to one another’s company, the five had not wished to be separated, and so they’d insisted, despite the innkeeper’s blatant confusion, upon staying the night together in one room.
After smoothing down her hair tiredly, Dainy opened the door to greet the innkeeper.
“Someone very important is here to see you,” said the woman.
“Now?” asked Dainy.
“Yes, right now.”
Jon rose, still wearing Gatspierre’s suit from two nights ago, and came over to Dainy, wrapping an arm around her. “Who?” he asked.
“Do make haste,” was all the innkeeper replied, and she turned down the hall.
Dainy greeted Jon with a kiss.
Selu groaned, sitting up in her cot. “Have I truly just awoken to that?”
Dainy grinned. “Are you coming with us?”
Disheveled and yawning, the five descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Illuminated by the morning sunlight beaming through the windows, a figure awaiting them.
In a suit of royal blue stood a broad-shouldered, white-haired man. With apparent patience, he watched as they approached.
“Eludaine Ducelle,” he said to her. He had a surprisingly young face for someone with white hair. He glanced at her friends, and remarked, “And I see you’ve brought your invincible entourage.”
“I didn’t catch your name, sir,” said Dainy, feeling bold.
The stately man held out a hand. “Marten Hoste, Leader of the New Republic of Jordinia.”
Her friends
took in a breath.
Dainy swallowed, casting Jon a sidelong glance. Did that not make the man their enemy? But Jon gave her an ever-so-slight nod and, taking his cue, Dainy shook Hoste’s hand.
“I’ve come to speak with you,” the leader told her. “In private,” he added, eyeing her friends.
“My entourage comes with me,” Dainy asserted.
Hoste frowned slightly, but shrugged. “Very well.” He gestured to a private room, which the innkeeper had set aside just for them. Surrounded by his guardsmen, he brought them inside.
The Jordinian guards secured the door as Dainy and Hoste sat opposite one another.
“First, I’d like to apologize for the actions taken by agents of Jordinian Intelligence under Damon DuBerre,” said Hoste conversationally, crossing his legs. “I assure you, DuBerre was not acting under my orders, but on a personal vendetta of his own. As such, he has been suspended from his post, and his department is under investigation.”
Jon arched an eyebrow.
“Now,” said Hoste calmly. “I am not a man of extremes, Comrade Ducelle, but of compromise. That is why, I believe, the good citizens of the New Republic elected me their leader after the death of our founder, Comrade von Sparx.” He brushed off his cuffs. “And that is also why,” he added, “I am sure we can come to an arrangement. One between the new Jordinia,” he touched his chest, “and the old.” He inclined his head at Dainy.
“I apologize, but your uncle’s estate must be repossessed and his assets returned to my government. As for you,” Hoste sighed, “I feel it’s unwise to permit you to enter the New Republic of Jordinia. As I’m sure you understand, knowledge of your survival is not good for the morale of my country, or my cause.”
“You cannot ban the duchess from Jordinian soil,” came Bos’s indignant voice. “It’s been the rightful home of the Ducelles for centuries.”
“He’s right,” said Selu heatedly. “Jordinia belongs to Eludaine, and you know it, Comrade Hoste.”
Hoste surveyed them cautiously, and his guards bristled. But Dainy waved them down. “I seek to claim no empire,” she said flatly.
