by K A Dowling
Topan’s face brightens. “You know your history.”
“My mother used to tell me this story when I was a child.”
Topan’s gaze lingers upon her face, studying the sadness he finds there as she draws her mother into to forefront of her memory. She recalls, not without difficulty, the soft tickle of her mother’s breath upon her hair—of the serene sensation of being rocked to sleep within her lap. She would sing Nerani the old songs of the Cairans—ballads meant to immortalize the deeds of those who had come before them.
Fragments of a song trickle into the forefront of her mind and her eyes prickle with fresh tears.
Her voice, it falls down like the rain from the gods,
Dear, the sacred queen Saynti is urging me on
‘Back to the sea where you can do no wrong,’
She says, ‘back to the sea where you know you belong’.
“It was Lord Stoward that finally usurped the throne,” Topan says, his voice gentle as he presses on through the ghosts that threaten to consume her. His eyes, warm and empathetic, catch upon hers in the hazy golden glow of the room. “I’m sure you know the rest of the story. After all, Rowland Stoward still sits upon the throne today.”
“I do,” she says. “But that was centuries ago. The world is much changed, and many of those lines have died out.”
“Many of them have,” he agrees. “But there was a second part to the prophecy. A part that doesn’t live on in the stories told by the Mames.”
Nerani hesitates, frowning. “Why would they leave anything out?”
“They were asked to do so by King Lionus.” Topan holds out his hand for her to take, drawing her over to another tapestry on a nearby wall.
“There,” he says, pointing. Nerani peers through the darkness to see the woven tapestry that flutters against the stone in the wake of their movements. This tapestry is simple—not at all like the intricate patterns woven painstakingly into the other rugs. The colors are plain and the stitching is rushed. It depicts a woman, tall and thin, her blue eyes staring lifelessly out from a pinched, olive face. At her back stand three men, two young and one old. The older man glares out from eyes of deepest green, his mustache curling over a sour expression. His hands are pressed against her bulging stomach.
Nerani feels unease prickling at her skin as she studies the tapestry. “This doesn’t look like the tapestries done by Saynti,” she says.
“That’s because Saynti did not do this one. It was done by one of the Mames—rather hastily, I might add. The queen was going into labor when it was made.”
Nerani studies the bulging belly again, her eyes traveling upward to stare at the vivid blue eyes of the woman in the tapestry. “This is her?” she asks, astounded. “This is Queen Saynti?”
“The very same,” Topan says.
Nerani squints, leaning in closer to inspect the painting. “Who are the men in the background?”
“The older man is King Lionus, her husband. The two boys are her sons, and the rightful heirs to the Chancey throne. I’m certain you’ll recall that Lord Stoward and his companions tragically slaughtered the two young princes during the famed treason that cast King Lionus and his line off of the throne.”
“Yes, but I also remember that there were only the two sons. Queen Saynti and King Lionus didn’t have a third boy.”
Topan exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh. “You are correct. They had a daughter.”
“A daughter?” Nerani repeats, baffled. “But how—”
“It was foretold that a daughter would survive the sacking of the palace long before the queen was even with child. King Lionus kept his wife’s pregnancy a secret. He hid her away within the farthest wings of the palace. The day of the Stoward betrayal, Queen Saynti gave birth to a daughter as her sons were slain before the throne. They sacrificed their lives to buy their mother more time.”
“What happened to her?” Nerani asks, enthralled. She stares up into those endless blue eyes and feels as though the sadness in the queen’s expression is enough to swallow her whole.
Topan grimaces. “You know what happened to her.”
Nerani does. The story goes that the Queen was stripped of her gowns and jewels and dragged out to the square to be executed before a bloodthirsty mob of Chancians. A witch, she was called. A sorceress of the darkest order. They say Lord Stoward set her ablaze himself, and laughed while he watched her burn.
Nerani shudders at the thought. “What happened to the daughter?”
“She was stolen away under cover of night, brought to safety by the Mame that delivered her. She was raised as a commoner and married off to a Chancian man who was none the wiser. And she has been watched, all this time. All these years.”
His voice is filled with implication. Nerani’s eyes slide away from the stricken face of the queen, moving instead to the dark glare of the king. His green eyes are wide with fury as he holds the bulging stomach of his pregnant wife. His black curls are wild beneath his crown.
It can’t be, Nerani thinks, her heart quickening within her chest. It’s impossible. She turns to Topan. He is watching her in silence, his expression patient as he waits for her to connect the pieces that lay before her.
“What was the second part of the prophecy?” she whispers. The candles dance wildly upon an unseen breeze.
“It was foretold that King Lionus’s line would be restored by the ancestors of his daughter, but only when her blood was crossed with Cairan blood and royal blood once more.”
Nerani swallows. Her throat is dry. “Who is the Chancian man that the daughter married?” She asks. “What was his name?”
One corner of Topan’s lips tug upward in a smile. “Edwin Roberts,” he says. He pauses a moment before adding, “the great, great, great grandfather of your uncle Eliot.”
“No.” Nerani’s knees feel weak. “It can’t be possible. Does—does he know?”
“Roberts?” Topan shakes his head. “No, he hasn’t any idea. But he’s important—immensely so. The moment he was born, the Mames alerted the Cairan king, my predecessor. He was charged instantly with keeping your cousin alive.”
Nerani’s mind is spinning. She feels her vision blur in and out of focus as she struggles to process this new information. It can’t be true, she thinks. It can’t be.
In her efforts to put together a coherent thought, only one question rises to the surface of her mind.
“What does all of this have to do with the Cairan fortune?”
Topan’s smile widens. “An excellent question,” he says. He takes her hand and leads her back over to the panther that adorns the nearby wall. When he speaks, his words fall away from him in harried excitement.
“The problem with the prophecy was that it was delivered in the company of much of King Lionus’s court,” he says, tugging at a thick golden tassel caressing the side of the heavy tapestry.
“So Lord Stoward got wind of it,” she muses. She stares as Topan pulls hard at the tassel, allowing the tapestry to curl upward in a procession of bunching fabric. She finds herself suddenly staring at a strange, oblong stone structure fitted within the wall of stone. It has been painted a violent red hue—so deep that for a moment she is convinced she is staring at dried blood. At the right of the structure sits a small hole, pitted with black. She peers at the structure, surprised to see something carved there. Snatching the candelabrum off of the floor, she maneuvers closer to the wall.
“May I?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at Topan. He gestures for her to go ahead, his expression eager.
Leaning forward, she studies the intricate words carved into the stone.
The footsteps of the ancients lead to find
The blood-wealth of the blessed Saynti’s kind.
Yet if ye seek what lies beyond the blood red stone
A treasure beyond measure that is not your own
You’ll find those ancient footsteps are erased,
For dead men’s footsteps in the sand cannot
be traced.
Nerani leans back with a shiver, gooseflesh rising upon her arms.
“This is where it is,” she says.
Topan makes a quiet grumble of assent, moving to stand close at her side. His finger brushes hers in the darkness. “Guarded always by the black panther of Caira,” he says. He turns to face her, his eyes glittering like jewels in the darkness. “It was hidden here when the prophecy was made. Only one key exists to open the door.”
There is an edge in his voice that causes her to hesitate. She places the candelabrum back upon the floor. “Where is the key?”
“Gone,” he says simply. “When Roberts was born the Mames began to worry that King Stoward would get wind of his existence. One half of the prophecy had been fulfilled, after all. Saynti’s line had borne another Cairan. Rowland’s ancestors never knew where the daughter of Saynti had gone, and yet they were always watching—always prepared. They, too, have passed the prophecy down between them over the years. You remember my predecessor, Ubeldo?”
Nerani nods, feeling uneasy. The old king had killed himself—that’s what her mother had told her. She remembers the day so clearly—perhaps because it had happened the day before her mother and father were slaughtered by Guardians. Her stomach twists at the recollection and she swallows hard. She has worked hard all her life to keep the ghosts at bay. She will not allow them to come rushing back—not now. Not here, beneath the shadows of kings.
“He viewed his death as his duty,” Topan says solemnly. “He died in order to take the Cairans’ darkest secret with him to his grave.”
“And what secret was that? The existence of my cousins?”
“No. The location of the key.” Topan pauses, studying her. “I told you the prophecy would be fulfilled when Saynti’s bloodline joined together Cairan and royal blood once more. Your cousins are Cairan, that is for certain, but I think you will agree that they are not royal.”
Nerani nods, eying the red stone to her right.
“For a long time, my predecessors watched for a marriage between bloodlines. Even I assumed for a time that perhaps Emerala would wed one of the Stoward princes. But they were wrong. I was wrong. It wasn’t a marriage that would restore the throne to Saynti’s line. It was a brotherhood.”
“Brotherhood?” Nerani asks, confused.
“How well did you know your uncle, Eliot Roberts?”
“Very little,” Nerani admits.
“I’d imagine so. He disappeared shortly after your name day, if I’m not mistaken.”
Nerani nods, remembering the bitter cold that crept around the front door the day her aunt had moved in with Roberts and Emerala in tow.
He’s gone for good this time, her aunt told her sister. I won’t waste another tear.
“Your uncle has another son,” Topan says, startling Nerani out of her reverie. She exhales sharply, the pain of her mother’s memory always like reopening a wound.
“Eliot?” Her voice has grown hoarse.
“Yes,” Topan says, gripping her arms firmly—steadying her. She is grateful for his support. She didn’t realize how faint she has grown beneath the pressing dark of the flickering room. “Prince Peterson Stoward.”
Nerani’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as she considers this. “No,” she breathes. “Impossible.”
She recalls a fight she had heard, once, between her mother and her aunt. The women had been up late arguing long after they thought the children had gone on to bed. Nerani had lain awake, sandwiched between the snoring Roberts and the mumbling Emerala, fighting back tears and listening to the rising voices outside the bedroom.
Are you sure it’s his, the boy? demanded her mother.
I’m not a fool, her aunt snapped. You wait until he’s old enough. If Rob and Emerala are any indication, the boy will look just like the man.
“How?” Nerani asks.
“The story goes that Eliot Roberts and the late Queen Victoria carried out a sordid affair while he was drafted to oversee the construction of King Rowland’s labyrinth,” Topan explains. “Queen Victoria died in labor delivering the son of Eliot Roberts.”
“And the Roberts line—the line of Saynti’s heirs—was crossed with Cairan blood and royal blood,” Nerani whispers.
Topan nods. “Knowing that it wouldn’t be long before King Stoward made the connection himself, Ubeldo entrusted the key to the Cairan fortune to the one man that would be desperate enough to take it far away.”
“Eliot Roberts?”
“None other,” Topan says. “I, in turn, was left with the rather rigorous task of keeping the remaining Roberts children alive.”
He pauses, pawing at the back of his neck. “It’s been a challenging task. Emerala the Rogue has not made it easy.”
Nerani feels suddenly dizzy. The floor spins beneath her feet and she wishes there were somewhere to sit down. It’s all too much to take in—too much to process.
“You’ll go to war for them,” she says.
The expression on Topan’s face is grim. “If it comes to that, then yes. One way or another, a Roberts must take the throne.”
A thought occurs to her then, as she stands before him in the dark.
“What about me?” Her voice is quiet. “I’m not a Roberts.”
Topan purses his lips, a nervous energy rippling through him. “No,” he says carefully. “You’re not.”
“Why keep me safe?”
A frown tugs at his lips. “Is it really that big of a mystery to you, Nerani?” He steps closer to her beneath the shadows, setting the firelight to dancing. “You were listening in on my conversation. I’m certain you heard every word Blaine said. I believe he called me transparent. Rescuing you—keeping you safe—that’s personal. I’ve been called to keep Emerala and Roberts alive, and to return the line of Saynti to the throne. That you happened to be there along the way has been both the best possible outcome and the worst possible distraction.”
Nerani swallows, saying nothing. Before her, Topan is reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket. She watches as he fumbles with the material. Her blood runs cold within her veins. The room around her seems to fall away, leaving only the two of them among the pressing dark.
“There are some treasures that never made it into the collection that lies beyond the door,” he says. From within his coat he draws a glittering diamond necklace. Nerani stifles a gasp as it catches the light from the candelabrum, sending fragmented shards of brilliance dancing across the dark stone. The necklace is made up of a string of tiny, dazzling rhombuses that drop down into a graceful diamond droplet. Cut to perfection, the stone is more magnificent than any piece of jewelry Nerani has ever seen. She gapes in silence, hardly caring that her mouth has fall fallen open.
Topan is tense as he stands before her in the wavering light. “This belonged to Queen Saynti. It was recovered by one of my Listeners while scourging the palace.”
Nerani blinks several times in succession, her lips snapping shut. Her nerves pulse beneath her skin—flutter in her stomach. “It’s stunning.”
“It is,” he agrees. Hesitance dances behind his eyes and he says, “It would be even more so if you were to wear it.” He moves forward, holding it out as though to fasten it about her neck. The diamonds dance before her in the candlelight and she feels her knees go weak.
“You must know by now that I have asked Roberts for your hand in marriage, and he has given me his blessing,” he says, stumbling slightly over his words. The diamond falls against her collarbone. He brushes her hair aside, moving to fasten the clasp at the back of her neck. Her skin bristles at his touch. The jewel is weighted against her throat. She fights the sudden urge to draw back from him—to pull away. Her eyes catch upon the gaze of Queen Saynti, her eyes stitched with thread of deepest blue. The pinched, dour face stares lifelessly at her across the shadows.
She thinks suddenly, impractically, of James Byron. His face flashes into her mind like a candle coming alive. His voice sears across her thought
s and she clutches to it, her memory unrelenting.
I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you.
A sob rises unbidden to her throat and she swallows it, her face burning. She thinks of Orianna’s warning, of the dire premonition she’d made in the kitchens all those days ago. She’ll find nothing but death in the arms of a Guardian. What kind of fool is she, to have carried on as she has?
They are on the brink of war. They are teetering on the edge of something big—bigger than her, bigger than James, bigger than stolen moments in an old storeroom.
A seat of power is being handed to you, Orianna said. All you have to do is reach out and take it.
Nerani thinks of Emerala. What would her cousin say, she wonders, if she were here? What would she think of what was happening?
It’s too much, she thinks wildly. It’s too much for me.
Topan is standing directly before her, now, his hands entwined around her fingers. Nerani feels as though the air has been cut off from her lungs. She presses her lips together and waits.
“Nerani, I have failed you in so many ways,” the Cairan king says, his gaze subdued. “I’ve lost Emerala, and for that I am sorry. It was my job to protect her—to keep her safe. I would be honored if you would allow me to protect you from this day forward, not as your king, but as your husband.”
Nerani’s lips part, allowing a shaky breath to escape from between them. The darkness claws at her skin, threatening to consume her. She can feel the eyes of the king and the queen looming in the shadows, their faces beseeching. What can she say, beneath the gaze of the kings? How can she turn her back on her ancestry?
She has no future with James Byron. She cannot.
But with Topan—
Her fingers shake and she watches as Topan draws them to his chest, his eyes imploring as he searches her face.
“Nerani the Elegant,” he whispers. “Would you give me the honor of being my bride?”
Nerani’s heart is breaking into pieces, shattering under the weight of her grief. The significance of the evening does not escape her. Topan has shared with her his greatest secret. The fate of the Cairans is bigger than all of them, now. This decision is greater than all of them. She cannot go back. She cannot dwell on fleeting moments in the rain with General James Byron.
