“That was our own fault,” Mrs. Bryant said apologetically. “I hope we’re not being too intrusive.”
Ryder smiled genially and took an old fashioned skeleton key from the pocket of his jeans. “It’s this way,” he said, approaching one of the large, mahogany doors. He inserted the iron key and turned it slowly until there was a loud click. He pushed the heavy door open and ushered them through.
Aylie’s jaw dropped. The door opened into a long, white hall with marble floors and a red, velvet carpet stretching from one end to the other. Suits of armor dating back to the Middle Ages lined both sides. There were plaques hanging on the wall to indicate who had worn them and which battles and eras they had fought in.
“Did these belong to your relatives or are they collectibles?” Mrs. Bryant asked, taking the time to read each plaque as she made her way down the long, marble hall.
“These have been in my family for hundreds of years,” Ryder replied. “Along with all of the weapons you’re about to see.”
He led them into an enormous chamber of rooms at the other end of the hall. In each part of the chamber, there were swords, shields, maces, muskets, bayonets, and every other kind of weapon imaginable mounted on the walls and displayed in elaborate, glass cases. There were also artifacts, gems and other strange objects filling shelves in every corner. These rooms alone could put some of the largest museums in the world to shame.
Aylie walked from room to room, looking at everything in amazement. This treasury had to be worth millions of dollars. She was astonished that he was allowed to keep all of this to himself. Then again…it was unlikely that anyone outside of his family had ever seen these things before. She could hardly take it all in.
After exploring the vault for what seemed like hours, the dimly lit room began to give Aylie a headache. She noticed that the air around her seemed to be getting thicker as well, making it harder to breath. She glanced over at her mom to see if she was feeling it too, and noticed that her face was unusually pale, the worry lines on her forehead more pronounced than usual. Aylie went to her side at once to see what was wrong.
Mrs. Bryant was staring through a glass case at a long, slightly curved sword. There were etchings on the blade in a language that Aylie didn’t understand and an emblem of some kind engraved on its handle. She looked from the sword to her mother and back again.
“What’s wrong?” She whispered.
Suddenly Ryder was standing beside them. The unexpected sound of his voice made them both jump. “That sword belonged to my great grandfather.” He said, looking at the object indifferently.
“What do those marks mean?” Aylie asked, pointing to the etchings on the silver blade.
“Beats me,” Ryder said casually. “I never knew my great grandfather—he died before I was born.”
Mrs. Bryant seemed to recover a little. “That’s an interesting symbol on the handle. Is it a family crest of some kind?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Ryder shrugged. “I don’t know as much about my family history as I would like to.”
“That’s a shame,” Mrs. Bryant said with a smile.
Aylie examined her mom’s face. Her blue eyes were definitely more guarded and it was obvious that the smile had been strained. Something about that sword was bothering her, but she was trying to put up a good front.
“Thank you so much for inviting us into your home and allowing us to see all of this,” Mrs. Bryant said, turning away from the case. “Sadly, I think we should probably be going. It’s nearly dinnertime and my husband and son are waiting at home for us.”
“Of course,” Ryder said, leading them out of the room.
Aylie glanced sideways at him as they made their way back through the dark, musty tunnel. She couldn’t help feeling that he knew more about that sword than he was letting on, but his countenance had been so controlled and his answer so effortless…it was almost like he had rehearsed it. A chill ran down her spine as they pressed through the narrow passage and into the thick veil of blackness enshrouding them. She was extremely relieved when they were finally through it and standing once again at the front door. She felt like they had been inside the Mansion for days, but in reality, it had been less than two hours.
“Thank you again for the impromptu tour,” Mrs. Bryant said, as they stepped out into the carriage house where the suburban was parked. “It was very nice to meet you, Ryder,” she looked into his eyes warmly. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let us know. We’re your nearest neighbors, after all.”
Ryder nodded. “Thank you for the food. It was very kind of you to think of me,” he replied with an easy smile.
Mrs. Bryant nodded and glanced quickly at Aylie, signaling that it was time to say goodbye. She walked quickly over to the suburban, disappearing inside as the engine roared to life. Aylie turned around awkwardly, unsure of what to say. She looked into Ryder’s face, which suddenly seemed very close to hers, and completely lost her train of thought. His deep, brown eyes were strangely intense and piercing. Somehow he was suddenly more attractive than she remembered. “Um…see you later,” she managed, turning quickly to avoid embarrassment.
She felt his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said. She felt a shockwave of sensation course through her body when he touched her and it made her even more anxious to be out of his sight. He seemed to have a strange effect on her and she wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. “Sure.” She mumbled. She hurried to the car and climbed
into the passenger side without so much as a backwards glance as they drove away.
CHAPTER FIVE
R yder watched them disappear and went back into the Mansion. He was more than a little intrigued that Aylie had been concerned enough about him to talk her mother into bringing him food. Under any other circumstances, the gesture would have been nothing more than common hospitality. But considering the fact that everyone believed his house to be haunted and that he, himself, was the current suspect in his father’s own murder, it seemed like more than just a neighborly gesture. His stomach began to growl, so he decided it was time to track down the casseroles they had brought him. One of his maids had taken them to the kitchens so he headed to the east wing in search of them. When he entered the central kitchen, his housekeeper, Mrs. Black, was looking over a long list of some kind. It appeared to be a food menu and she was combing through it looking for unnecessary items to scratch from the grocery list.
Mrs. Black was a hard-nosed, no-nonsense kind of woman, and she ran the household like a drill Sargent. She always wore a plain, black dress of the same design and her gray hair was typically pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She was a woman of few words, rarely speaking unless it was to offer a rebuke or correction. Ryder could count the number of times he had seen her smile on one hand and he’d known her all his life.
“I guess your workload just got lighter, Mrs. Black,” he announced, with an uncharacteristic smile. “My neighbors were kind enough to bring me dinner.”
Mrs. Black looked up at him with a guarded expression. “The Bryants, Sir?”
Ryder nodded. “They seem like good people.”
The old woman looked skeptical. “The Bryants came here?”
“Yes. I gave the casseroles to that maid, Bridgett. I’m sure she must have brought them in here.” He glanced around the room.
“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Mrs. Black, looking slightly less composed than usual. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with the Bryants.”
“Neither did I,” he said with amusement on his typically stoic, face. “It’s a fairly recent development.”
A visible shadow crossed the old woman’s face but she nodded, pressing her thin lips into a firm line. “Very well, sir. I’ll find out where the maid put the casseroles right away.” With that, she left the room.
Ryder waited for her to return, but several minutes later the maid entered instead. She went straight to one of the large refriger
ators in the storeroom and reappeared with two casserole dishes balanced on her forearms. He had never talked to the girl before and he could tell that she was nervous in his presence.
“Your name is Bridgett, right?” He asked, attempting to be friendly.
The girl nodded, carefully avoiding eye contact.
“Did you attend the school in town before you started working here last year?” He asked.
The girl nodded again.
Ryder was curious to see if Bridgett would react as Mrs. Black had to the news of Aylie’s visit. “What do you know about the Bryants?” He asked.
Bridgett set the dishes down carefully on one of the long marble countertops and proceeded to uncover them, revealing their contents so that Ryder could choose which he would prefer to start with.
“They own the ranch down the road,” she said quietly. “They have horses, goats and chickens, sir.”
“Are they wealthy?”
Bridgett looked up at him with a strange expression on her pale face. “Compared to you, Sir—everyone else in the country would be considered impoverished.”
Ryder cocked an eyebrow at the response.
Bridgett flushed. “Begging your pardon, Sir.”
“I’m curious about them.” Ryder pressed, leaning casually against the counter. Would you consider them poor, then?”
“Not by any means, Sir. I would say they are pretty well-off, compared to most people.”
Ryder nodded thoughtfully.
“I think Aylie is finishing school this year,” she added timidly. She checked the temperatures of the casseroles and decided to reheat them in the oven before serving them.
“Do you know her?”
Bridgett pretended to be too busy to look up. “She seems very nice, Sir. My mom used to buy eggs and milk from their ranch when I was little. Mrs. Bryant was always so kind and generous—she often gave us extra eggs after we’d already paid.” Bridgett smiled fondly. “I only talked to Aylie a few times. I was a little shy, I guess. It was a couple of years ago, but she seemed very sweet and kind—just like her mom.”
Ryder looked thoughtful “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
“She was seeing Marcus Riley, last time I heard. He’s on the hockey team I think.”
Ryder shrugged indifferently. “I wouldn’t know.”
The girl looked a little uncomfortable. “I could be wrong, though, Sir. I heard that rumor a while ago.”
Ryder nodded dismissively.
She gave him a strained, half-smile and removed the casseroles from the oven, scooping a few pieces of each onto a plate. “Is there anything else I can get you?” She asked, refusing to look him in the face.
“No, that will be fine. I think I’ll eat in my father’s study tonight.” He took the plate she offered from her hands and walked silently out of the room.
Being on the opposite side of the Mansion from his intended destination, He took the east staircases slowly, pausing to take a bite of casserole every now and then. He passed through the great hall, and then through the cold, dark passageways that connected the east wing of the Mansion to the west wing. He had to pass through two shorter corridors, which eventually brought him to the secret entrance of his father’s study. He wasn’t sure why the entrance existed, but it had always fascinated him. He had only entered the room from this door a handful of times, out of respect for his father’s privacy. Doing so now felt somehow sacred and he had to push quite hard against the heavy, hidden bookshelf door to get it to budge.
Ryder proceeded to set down the plate Bridgett had piled high with casserole, so that he could light the oil lamps and candles scattered throughout the large, stuffy room. The smell of his father’s pipe tobacco still lingered in the stale air and in the fabric of the worn leather sofa and chairs scattered throughout the room. It was really more of a library than a study, with bookshelves lining every wall from floor to ceiling. The furniture in the room alone was worth a small fortune. He found a few pieces of kindling and some old newspapers and started a fire in the stone hearth. He waited several minutes for the sparks to truly catch and then added a small pyramid of logs, carefully placing them to allow enough oxygen for the flames to spread.
Then he reached for the journal he’d dropped on his father’s desk and carried it over to the leather sofa across from the fireplace. He tried to sort through the loose pages that had scattered all over the floor, doing his best to put them back into proper order. It was a little difficult, as some of the pages and markings had faded and smudged over the years. There were at least fifty discolored pieces of parchment he had to sort through, and he vowed that he would get the manuscript bound with a good cover before the week was over. Perhaps he would even pay someone to re-write some of the faded pages so they were easier to read. No one outside of his family would have any idea of the significance of what they were reading, so there could be no real harm in allowing them to see the journal’s content.
He studied the pages as he sorted, remembering more of the stories his father had told him as a little boy. He’d quickly lost interest in the tales as he’d approached adolescence, but he was feeling strangely nostalgic this evening and wanted to pretend that his father was sitting in the winged-back chair across from him once again, smoking his pipe as he read aloud. Scanning page after page, the writing was difficult to decipher by firelight in most places. His eyes were strained and beginning to hurt. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been reading when he came across a passage his father had practically forced him to memorize. The handwriting on this page looked very different from the others—the style more elegant and refined. Rather than line after long line of scrawled words that were barely readable, these were short and concise lines, written almost like poetry. He mumbled the familiar words aloud.
“Two rivers of blood shall meet as one,
In the chosen love of beloved sons.
They, in nobleness and strength shall meet;
In fiery protector and in harmony sweet.
Through tumult and outcry and in loyalty bring,
Fire and poetry that shall summon their King.
And with the return of the true Prince comes peace—
All pain and suffering and injustice shall cease.”
Ryder frowned. He could tell from the way this page was marked and faded that the poem was the key to understanding the rest of the legends, but why was it so important? What made this story any different than all the other myths and legends people had been obsessed with through the ages? What made this story worth dying for?
He continued to read, searching for clues just as his father had done. Following the poem, there were several pages containing long and detailed genealogies—lists of the names, dates, births, and marriages of everyone in his family line, dating as far back as the early 1300’s. After hours had passed, he was still no closer to an answer than he had been when he started. Frustrated, he set the manuscript aside and stared absently into the fire. He thought of his uncle Alexander, who was still living somewhere in England. Perhaps he could shed some light on all of this. Surely he knew about The Order—if he was still alive.
Ryder stood to his feet and walked over to his father’s desk again. He didn’t have a telephone number for his uncle, but he had an old address and had always heard that people in that part of the country tended to stay in the same place. Being English Royalty, his uncle couldn’t be too terribly difficult to track down.
Ryder searched for a pen and some paper and sat down to write his uncle a letter. He started to write and then crumpled the paper in disgust. He took out a new sheet and began again, surprised by how difficult it was to say what he needed to say. He wanted to apologize for the way his father had acted, cutting off all communication four years ago. He also wanted to let his uncle know of his father’s passing, but the two sentiments seemed inappropriately placed in the same letter.
This letter was going to take some very careful thought. Perhaps it would be best for him to fini
sh it tomorrow. He’d been reading for hours already by dim candlelight and was feeling the need for fresh air. He stood from his father’s desk chair, stretching out his long legs. He let out a big yawn and then snuffed out the candles before leaving the room.
The Estate was ideally located only five miles into Silvervane Forest, leaving thousands of undeveloped forest acres for hiking and exploration in nearly every direction. Ryder had easy access to miles of trails and scenic waterfalls, but tonight he was searching for something different. He needed a change of scenery—something that would improve his mood. Maybe tonight he would visit the Ranch.
CHAPTER SIX
A ylie was putting the horses away in their stalls to close up the barn for the night when she heard it—that same high-pitched, shrieking noise from the night before. She’d lived in Silvervane for seventeen years and had never heard anything that frightened her more. It wasn’t the cry of a dying animal that made her skin crawl…it was the way it was dying. As if it were being torn limb from limb, savagely, and not out of hunger. She still couldn’t figure out what kind of animal could make such a piercing cry, but she didn’t want to stick around to find out.
She kissed Knight on the forehead and quickly slid the large, oversized barn doors closed. She had to search around on the cold, hard ground for the padlock that had somehow fallen from the coiled chain wrapped around the handles. When she found it, she quickly slipped the padlock back into place, inserting the metal prong into its slot. She tugged on it once to make sure it was securely locked. As she turned back toward the house, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the snow nearby. They were close and steady, and it sounded like they were coming straight toward her.
It was too dark on this side of the barn to see the face of the person approaching. Aylie looked around frantically for something to defend herself with and found a shovel leaning against the side of the barn. She reached for it, mentally preparing herself to cripple her attacker with it, if necessary. She tried to regulate her breathing as she peaked around the corner. She could see a long shadow approaching. A silver of moonlight betrayed the trespasser, giving her a glimpse of the hooded figure coming toward her. She lifted the wooden handle of the shovel to strike.
WAKENED (The Silvervane Chronicles Book 1) Page 5
