Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  The servant bowed. “Lunch is ready as requested, Sire.”

  Kiernan unslung his mandolin and began to pluck a cheerful tune, ostensibly in celebration of lunch being served.

  Brant shook his head in amused silence. The initial enmity between the warrior and the minstrel had long since been placed by the wayside, especially since Oraeyn had offered Kiernan Kane a full-time position as Court Minstrel. Now the two men tolerated each other. Kiernan often made a point to poke fun at Brant, and Brant more often than not ignored the minstrel. The two men were not friends, but each was content to respect the other’s perspective, and stay out of one another’s way as much as possible. When their paths did cross, they were as friendly as could be expected.

  Brant cleared his throat. “Oraeyn, I still want to discuss your offer of sending men to help in Llycaelon’s battle with the seheowks.”

  Kiernan clapped. “Bravo, bravo! This is what we need, a united front for all the right reasons. Excellent, my boy... er... Sire...”

  Brant shook his head in exasperation, but he refrained from comment.

  “We can talk about relations between Llycaelon and Aom-igh after we eat,” Kamarie offered. She held Oraeyn’s hand as they walked towards the smaller dining room. “Come along, Kiernan, let’s see if Cook can’t help you out with that starvation problem of yours.”

  Kiernan Kane nodded enthusiastically and capered after the trio, making inane comments about how hard it was to maintain one’s health when one’s diet consisted of the roots and berries that could be found along the side of any road.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Dylanna could feel her mind slipping. She was so tired, but she was afraid to sleep, fearful that if she slipped out of consciousness she might never wake again. She fought against the weariness, struggling to focus her thoughts on something, anything besides how tired she was. Her thoughts found Brant, and she clutched at his memory with what little strength she still possessed. She pictured his face, and tried to hold on to the image, forcing herself to stay awake.

  Colors escaped her. She could not remember what they looked like. She forgot what it was to see, and the image in her mind of Brant’s face grew fuzzy. In desperation Dylanna bit the inside of her lip, hard. Her teeth sank into her own flesh and covered her tongue with a warm, metallic flavor. The sharp pain brought her wide-awake again. She winced, but made herself face it, clinging to the one sense left to her. The pain helped her focus, but it served another purpose as well, it helped her know she was awake, and thus, still alive.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Upon waking from yet another disturbing nightmare, Oraeyn retired to his study. Dawn had not yet broken over Aom-igh, but he could no longer sleep. Yawning and stretching, he decided that if sleep was going to continue to evade him, he might as well be productive.

  Emyth had mentioned that a few strange missives had come in over the past few days, but Oraeyn had been too busy to even peek at them. He sat down at his writing desk and stared at the pile of messages in weary dismay. They had doubled in number since the last time he looked at them two days ago. His steward had continued to collect them and place them together. Each one was marked with a different crest, and none of the crests were immediately familiar. As he scrutinized the wax seals, the realization grew in his mind that he did know them, but had seen them so rarely they were not easily identifiable. These were messages from other nations: Yochathain, Kallayohm, Efoin-Ebedd, and Endalia. Why would they be sending him messages?

  He unrolled the first parchment and scanned its contents. As he read the hastily scrawled words his stomach clenched and he came fully awake.

  Yochathain... burning... Oraeyn had never been to Yochathain, but Brant and Kiernan both spoke of it. Their descriptions of its beauty always transported Oraeyn’s imagination. Surely this message could not be correct. The entire country burning?

  With trembling hands, he opened the rest of the missives and studied their contents in depth, reading and re-reading every line. Each was the same.

  Dark creatures attacking... master riding a giant werehawk with silver wings... none left alive. Could it be true? Could such evil and destruction exist in the world without him knowing even a hint of it?

  His nightmares from the past several nights surged to the front of his thoughts. Always, upon waking, the nightmares faded from his memory. He was unable to recall any details, all that lingered was the unsettling sensation that his dreams had been unpleasant. But now, reading the information contained in the scrolls, every detail returned to haunt him in perfect clarity. The sickening sensation that all was not well rose up to overwhelm him.

  He rested his head in his hands, the messages and papers crumpled under his elbows. His fear, his most secret worries, sprang to life, and he had no idea what to do next.

  After a moment, Oraeyn sat up, ready to act. He would send a message to Leila and Dylanna. He would speak to Brant and Arnaud, they would guide and counsel him on what must be done. They would give him advice on how to prepare for what was described in these messages.

  He grabbed a quill and scrawled a note to Leila. Then, attaching one of the messages he had just read to his own note, he called Emyth, who arrived looking a bit disheveled and bleary.

  “Send this to the Lady Leila,” he instructed, handing the parchment to his steward.

  “At once, Sire.”

  After he left, Oraeyn sat for a long while in his study. He would wait to hear back from the wizardesses before he did anything rash like announcing that a giant invading army might be on its way. He did not wish to cause panic. His birds were swift, Leila or Dylanna would return his message by tomorrow. Would one day cause too much delay? Perhaps he should speak with Brant now. No, he would follow the course of action he had chosen. But he would not be idle. There were defenses and escape routes he had yet to explore or investigate. Kamarie knew the palace and the surrounding area better than anyone, perhaps she could help him in his study of Aom-igh’s natural defenses. But he did not wish to cause her undue worry. Perhaps he could recruit her help without telling her what he was doing.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Jemson furrowed his brow as he listened to the daily report from his chief scribe, little of which held any interest at all for the young king. Financial reports and legal matters were important, of course, but the desperate concern on Jemson’s mind was the Border Patrol. He feigned interest and nodded patiently, willing this conscientious man to conclusion. After what felt like an age, the scribe stopped talking and asked if the young king had any questions or notes to add to the report. Jemson looked up and rubbed his chin, then dropped his hand, embarrassed. It was becoming a bad habit, checking for signs of stubble whenever he was overwhelmed by his duties as king.

  “What about the Border Patrol? Has there been any official word from them yet? I was hoping to hear an update.”

  The scribe shook his head. “Sire, we sent two divisions to help them as requested, but we’ve not heard from them for several days. The information I have is merely hearsay.”

  “Well, what have you heard?”

  “Apparently the captain of the patrol stationed near Caethyr gap was killed in battle. Before he died, he passed his command over to a young Aetoli named Devrin of House Merle. The lack of communication may be due to this change in command. But according to what I’ve heard, the seheowks are contained for the moment.”

  Jemson frowned and rubbed his chin absently. Devrin. That name sounded so familiar, but he could not recall exactly why. He forced his hand away from his face and resisted the urge to pick at the embroidery on his tunic.

  “For the moment,” he repeated, “but for how long? How are they contained? What is going on out there? Why have the seheowks suddenly become such an enormous threat? In the past they’ve only been a nuisance. You say they are ‘contained.’ What does that even mean? We don’t ‘contain’ the seheowks. We defeat them. We destroy them. We remove them from our
borders and drive them back into the sea whence they came. Now I’m told they have been merely contained? Contained for how long? Contained by what? Something has changed out there, and I need to know what.”

  The scribe looked down at the crumpled papers in his hands. “Sire, my sources have reported that the seheowks have been trapped behind a wall of fire.”

  The young king growled with impatience. “That cannot last long. Not now that the rainy season has begun.”

  “No, Sire.”

  “Why have they not been driven back into the sea?”

  “I do not know, Sire.”

  Jemson dropped his shoulders as weariness overcame him, and put his head down in his hands with a sigh. He wondered for a moment why his father had ever wanted this responsibility. Jemson himself was not sure he wanted it, most days. What he really desired was to be a part of the Border Patrol and defend his country as an aethalon. His greatest desire was to pass through the Corridor, earn a rank, and then travel a bit like his uncle. He wanted so much more than to sit in this castle and give all the interesting and exciting assignments to someone else. He hated being the last to know, especially when his heart longed to be the first to lead.

  “All right,” Jemson said, a firm note of decision in his tone, “the borders are my first priority. Hearsay is no foundation for creating a plan of defense. I will ride out there myself, find this young captain, and learn exactly what is going on.”

  “Your Majesty! You cannot do that!” The scribe sounded properly shocked.

  “I most certainly can,” Jemson replied, “and I most certainly will.”

  The scribe’s face paled. “But, Sire! Deliberately putting yourself in harm’s way… you have a responsibility to your country and your people to remain here.”

  “There you are wrong. I do indeed have a responsibility, and that is to ensure the safety of our people. If that safety is threatened no worthy man, let alone king of Llycaelon, hides behind the last line of defense. I may be king, but that does not rob me of my honor or my duty as a man to fight side-by-side with my brothers in this battle. How can I provision and reinforce this defense based on idle talk? I need to be there. I need to see it. I must add my sword to theirs.”

  “When do you mean to leave?”

  “Now,” Jemson replied. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, I will leave now. Put everything on hold until I return. I must go meet this young captain and see this wall of fire.”

  “As you please, my lord.”

  “Ready my horse,” Jemson said. “I will leave within the hour. Inform my grandmother of my plans.”

  Lady Fiora had recovered some since Brant had returned home. She was still frail, and her mind was not as steady as it once had been, but Brant’s return had driven away her madness. Jemson had never really known her as he grew up, she kept to herself, lost in her own sorrow. However, the healing process that had begun in her had given him back a piece of his family, and the two of them had become quite close. Jemson felt rather shy of her at first, and perhaps she had been a bit shy of him, as well. But the past three years saw a bond between them grow and deepen.

  After the scribe left, Jemson felt the bars around his heart spring open. Perhaps he would get to experience true leadership after all. Excitement swept over him; for a few hours at least, he would escape this prison of a palace and do the real work of leading his country with honor.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Kamarie stepped through the door of the cottage into the already warm air of the morning. Upon departing the throne, Arnaud and Zara had wanted nothing more than a simple home with good land to farm. They chose a property near the castle so they could remain as counselors to Oraeyn, and so Kamarie could remain close to her beloved. The cottage and farm needed work, but it was precisely the sort of work Arnaud had missed for too many years.

  Kamarie was glad her father could enjoy the quiet life he had always longed for. Arnaud’s step was lighter without the weight of the crown, and the worry lines departed from his face. There was something rich about his life as he worked and built this humble farm that had never been present in his life and duties as king.

  “There’s something about doing real work,” Arnaud often commented. “Being king is harder than anyone realizes—it’s the kind of work that drains you, sucks the life out of you. Real labor with your hands doesn’t do that, it rejuvenates a person and makes him feel alive again.”

  Kamarie could not deny that it had given her father back his youth. Their life now was simple, peaceful. She had never seen her parents happier. She was delighted that they had the ability to live their lives together without the weight of the kingdom pressing down on their shoulders. Kamarie herself still spent most of her days in the palace. It felt strange to her that she no longer lived in the place that had been her home for twenty years. When she entered the castle grounds it was often with the wistful sense that she had lost something precious and dear to her heart. Its walls were no longer her home, and she had no claim to any of the rooms. Every once in a while she would walk down a hallway and be struck again by how familiar it felt, and yet how foreign, as well. Sometimes she was hit with a wave of homesickness and she would lean against a wall and just let the memories of her childhood wash over her.

  Of course, she thought, I will live there again once Oraeyn and I are married, and yet, somehow it will never be quite the same.

  Her homesickness eased as she thought of her betrothed. She remembered the first few days they had spent together: she, a willful princess, convinced he was going to prevent her from having the adventure she craved, and he, an unwilling escort, certain that she was just a stuck-up noble. Somehow over the course of their adventure they had become friends. Kamarie shook her head in amazement and then yelped in alarm as someone grabbed her by the arm.

  “Kamarie! Kamarie, it’s okay, it’s just me!” Oraeyn’s voice, full of suppressed laughter, broke through Kamarie’s fright.

  “Oraeyn!” Kamarie’s tone was exasperated, and a twinge of embarrassment at her extreme reaction surged through her.

  “I wondered if you would like to go on a picnic?” Oraeyn asked, feigning innocence as he held up a basket for her to see.

  “You scare me half to death just to ask me to go on a picnic with you?” Kamarie demanded, her heart still racing a bit faster than she would have liked.

  “Did I scare you?” Oraeyn asked.

  “No!” Kamarie retorted, her cheeks growing warm. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “What was I supposed to think with you sneaking up on me and grabbing my arm? Don’t you have a kingdom to rule or some papers to sign or an ambassador to meet today?”

  “I cleared my schedule,” Oraeyn’s voice was light, but something about his tone sounded preoccupied. “I wanted to spend the day with you.”

  The thought of a pleasant afternoon away from Oraeyn’s duties at the palace filled Kamarie with delight, but she hesitated. “You don’t get to take a day off from being king, they might not like it,” she teased.

  “Well, this king takes a day off now and then,” Oraeyn said cheerfully. “And if they don’t like it, they can give the crown to somebody else.”

  “You don’t take your duties that lightly,” Kamarie retorted.

  Oraeyn sobered. “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But the palace staff is overly concerned that I make time to eat, and even kings ought to get a day off every now and then. That’s advice I got from both Brant and your parents, so I don’t think anyone will complain. I happen to think it’s excellent advice.”

  “You’re right, I can’t argue with that; where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d explore the caves up by the coast,” Oraeyn said. “Brant says they’re worth taking a look at, which probably means they’re more than just caves, but Brant’s so close about everything I couldn’t get any more information out of him.”

  “That’s our Brant,” Kamarie agreed
, “although, he is better about it than he used to be, you have to admit.”

  “Agreed,” Oraeyn conceded, “but sometimes I think he’s even more close-mouthed than ever. Anyway, let’s go, even if the caves aren’t exciting or spectacular, the beach is still the perfect place for a picnic.”

  The basket was filled with delicious food, all Kamarie’s favorites. She sat on the ground and dug her bare toes into warm, wet sand, enjoying the freedom of it. Oraeyn was unusually quiet as they ate, but she did not pester him about his thoughts. She attributed his silence to a simple enjoyment of being away from the tangible reminders of his duties. However, when they finished their meal, she looked up and saw him staring out at the ocean. His lips were pressed together as if holding back a tide of words. She cocked her head to one side, puzzled, and opened her mouth to ask him what he was thinking about.

  Just then, Oraeyn glanced over at her and an impish expression filled his face. He leaped to his feet and raced out into the waves. Kamarie shrieked with laughter as a rain of cold water showered down over her head. The water ran down her face and dripped off the end of her nose.

  “Oraeyn!” she shouted. “I’ll get you for that! This dress is ruined now!”

  Oraeyn might have felt sorrier about the dress if Kamarie had not been laughing so hard. He was already dripping wet himself anyway. He darted back as Kamarie leaped after him, dancing just out of her reach. Kamarie made a careless lunge but tripped and nearly fell face-first into the water, but Oraeyn skipped off to one side and deftly caught her. He helped Kamarie find her balance, and then, holding her hand, he turned and began walking along the shoreline.

  “Come on, let’s go see those caves,” Oraeyn said.

  Kamarie tugged at her hand, but after a moment she gave up with a merry chuckle. “Didn’t Brant say the caves reminded him of a place where he used to play as a child, when he still lived in the Dark… I mean, Llycaelon.”