by Serena Chase
THE REMEDY
Eyes of E’veria Book Two
Serena Chase
www.serenachase.com
The heir to the throne of E’veria must fulfill a two-hundred-year-old prophecy to save her Kingdom from being overtaken by an ancient evil.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people or entities, living or dead, or to businesses, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. That being said, if a reader should happen to discover a secret passage to E’veria or meet a Veetrish Storyteller out there in the wide world, please let us know . . . because that would be awesome.
Copyright © 2013 Shawna Renee Van Ness
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system now known or yet to be invented, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, telepathic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise known or yet to be invented—without the prior written permission of the publisher CANDENT GATE LLC and copyright owner, except by a reviewer or media professional who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review or article.
Image credits as follows:
(character photo) copyright 2012 Lincoln Noah Baxter / (edited iris copyright 2013 Jodie Gerling)
Abstract flames Image 63166120 Copyright Fenton, 2013 Used under license from Shutterstock.com
Cover design by JG Designs www.jodiegerlingdesigns.com, Manhattan, KS
DEDICATION
For Dave, Delaney & Ellerie
…the brightest stars in my universe
& Rachel Rigdon
… because your enthusiasm for these stories nearly matches my own.
PART I: THE SCROLLS
CHAPTER ONE
By the time the Cobeld retrieved his brother’s body from the Great Wood of Mynissbyr, there was little left but bones, hair, and the dagger that had done the job. Too frightened to linger in the wood, he shoved the small, rotting corpse into his pack and ran the first leg of the long journey home.
As soon as he arrived at the ancient camp in the northern foothills of Mount Shireya, he surrendered the remains and made his way up the slope to the well. After he had refilled his flask, he found a spot to await the Seers’ verdict.
Even now, the Seers circled the dead Cobeld’s bones, attempting to divine whether or not the fabled Bear-men of Mynissbyr had risen from their two-century hibernation to once again haunt the Great Wood, seeking Cobelds to kill.
A flash of cold light came from within the beard of the man to his left, signaling that another curse had completed its work. He turned a question toward the Cobeld beside him, one of nearly three hundred who had gathered tonight.
“Killed him.” The old fellow’s lips parted, showing yellow teeth worn down nearly as short as his own. “Hit by an arrow.”
“A good idea, that,” he said.
“It was, indeed.” The satisfied fellow cackled, but then scowled. “Although spending my evenings wrapping Dwonsil arrows with curses from my beard is nearly as tiresome as the company of the warriors themselves. Fools, every last one of them.”
Since the clansmen of Dwons had allied with the Cobelds against E’veria, the range of the Cobelds’ curses had increased exponentially.
“Fools, yes,” he replied. “But useful fools. If progress continues at this rate, the Kingdom of E’veria will be ours within two years. Perhaps less.”
The other Cobeld nodded and turned his face back toward the bones. The fellow spoke without turning his gaze, “You brought the bones back from the Great Wood, yes?”
He nodded.
“Any trace of the Bear-men?”
“Not that I saw, but . . . ?” He shrugged and let the thought hang.
Between the strands of his long, gray beard, the fellow’s lips pursed. He lifted his chin toward the bones. “What do you think killed our brother?”
“A dagger,” he said with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “There were no fang marks. No sword, either. I doubt it was a Bear-man.”
His statement was most likely true, but his flesh crawled with dread at the thought of the fabled beasts he had somehow evaded during this recent trip. Like the ancient Cobeld beside him, like all his “brothers” gathered here, he remembered the battle in which the Bear-men of Mynissbyr had come at them roaring, swords aloft, as the prophecy had foretold they would. Two centuries had passed since that day, but he would not forget the terror of seeing the beasts pour out of the Great Wood, led by, of all things, a black-haired girl.
Along with the rest of the Cobelds that survived the day, he had fled the Mynissbyr border and had stayed with his fellows in the shadow of the cursed mountain, Shireya.
Only in recent years, since one of their brethren had succeeded in killing the prophesied Ryn, had they ventured forth, finally exacting payment for their humiliation. But it was to this place they were forced to return all too often.
“Have you visited the well since you returned?”
“I did.” He nodded. “As soon as I turned the remains over to the Seers. Good thing, too. My flask was near emptied.”
In ancient times, the underground spring that now fed their well—and their power—had flowed into a tiny pool at the base of the mountain. That pool was once known as a place of healing. Of miracles. In those days, they had been ordinary men—no, extraordinary men—who had sworn fealty to Sir Cobeld of Shireya and had called themselves by his name. The name of the one who should have been King. Cobeld understood power and how to wield it. It was he who had drained the pool by rerouting its feeding stream to his own property. It was he who discovered how to use Shireya’s water to curse their enemies after—
After The Great Battle was lost.
They had been created here, due to that defeat, and turned from mighty warriors into small, wrinkled old men who, though not impossible to kill—as evidenced by the bones the Seers now examined—never grew quite old enough to die. But without a woman among them they did not reproduce. In the centuries since that ancient battle, their number had only decreased.
Ah, but not so their infamy. He consoled himself with that thought. Though they were few—less than six hundred Cobelds remained—all E’veria feared them.
The five Seers hummed a series of unintelligible words and then turned as one. The entire camp of gray-bearded Cobelds grew instantly silent.
“We have seen!”
With their old eyes closed, the Seers began to sway. Left. Right. Left. Finally they spoke, again as one. “With eyes the hue of jeweled sky and head ablaze with fire,” they chanted, “the Ryn Lady E’veria will Cobeld’s curse exile.”
His eyes narrowed. What bearing could that old prophecy have on them now? E’veria’s current King had neither Queen nor heir. There was no Ryn.
The Seers swayed again. Right. Left. Right. Suddenly, their eyes popped open. “The Ryn Naia lives!”
No, he thought, shaking his head. It’s not possible.
The baby was killed within her mother, nineteen years ago. The Queen had ingested Cobeld-tainted tea and consumed a deadly curse. She died before the child exited her womb. How could it be that the baby—the Ryn—had survived?
“We have been deceived!” the Seers cried. “The bones confirm it! She lives!”
His gaze fell again to the skeletal remains at the Seers’ feet. He did not understand how the Seers’ incantations over the bones produced information, but they had rarely been wrong. Whoever that rotted mass had been, he must have come in contact with the royal child for her to leave such a clear mark of life—and the possibility of their kind’s death—upon him.
All these years, they ha
d thought her dead. But if the prophesied Ryn, the red-haired, blue-eyed, female heir to the throne lived . . .
The prophecy thrummed its threat against his skull. Death’s maw seemed to open within his mind, ready to suck him into darkness.
It was said she would find the hidden Remedy that would heal the damage his kind had wrought. That she would make the water from their well, and thus, their beards . . . useless. Curseless.
No!
Without the power of those curses he was nothing but a shriveled old man. Perhaps less than even that. Yes, he might seem to be little more than a corpse courier now, but he had once been a warrior! He had commanded a legion of warriors! And now he and his kind would be defeated by a flame-haired girl?
The indignity of his brother’s failure to kill the Ryn Naia at birth, and the possible future it could bring down on them all, rose within him. His scream ripped open the silence that had fallen and was immediately echoed by the primal cry of every Cobeld present.
“Find her!” the Seers shrieked. “Kill her!”
CHAPTER TWO
The small boat didn’t even wobble as I turned and lifted my hand to wave to the Andoven people gathered on shore. A part of me hated to leave this isle and my new friends, but if I stayed I would fail not only my Kingdom, but the frail and failing Queen I was privileged to call my mother.
My throat tightened and I waved my hand with a little more vigor. I had spent only a few weeks sequestered among them, but in that short time many friendships had been forged.
“Tura hathami Ryn Naia!” On the beach the cheer rose again and my mind, now attuned to the Ancient Voice, translated the sentiment, “Long live the Reigning Lady.”
Nestled on the narrow seat beside me, Sir Julien de Gladiel affirmed the people’s hope. “May it be so.”
Behind us, at his place near the front of the boat, Edru echoed the sentiment, but his tone scratched under my skin.
“You needn’t sound so dark about it, Edru.” My tutor possessed a rather developed bent toward pessimism for one who had not yet reached his thirtieth year. I was determined to help him overcome it, but so far I’d made little progress. I glanced over my shoulder and gave him the larger half of a smile. “I am part Andoven, you know. And since your people have such exceptionally long life spans, at least a bit of that must have rubbed off on my blood as well, don’t you think?”
“Our lifespans may be long,” he said, “but perhaps it is because we so seldom leave the safety of our isle. My apologies for voicing my trepidation, Your Highness.” Edru tilted his head. “But I have read the scrolls.”
“Indeed.” Beside him, Dyfnel’s agreement was intoned with a hope so dim it seemed a portent of my early death.
I tried not to show my irritation with the old Andoven physician as I turned back toward the shore. I had memorized every line of the prophetic scrolls. I didn’t need to be reminded of the danger they promised I would soon face. What I needed right now was the reassuring affection of my people. The affection which now poured into my mind in a swirling rainbow of color from those gathered on the shore of Tirandov Isle—and from one who rested in the depths of the glowing castle behind them.
I focused my mind on the brilliant warmth emanating from my mother’s thoughts. I love you, Mother.
You carry my very heart with you, Rynnaia.
I didn’t have to be in the same room to sense the increasing weakness in her. She had endured the agony of the Cobeld curse for over nineteen years. Every day it combined a little more dangerously with the unusual blessing she had imparted to me. Her blessing strengthened my Andoven abilities beyond what they should have been by heredity alone—and I’m sure I would be thankful for it in the dangerous quest to come—but it was costly. Every day it drained a bit more of her essence, making even the simplest conversation an exhausting event.
Be strong, Mother. I will find the Remedy for you. I will.
Not just for me, Rynnaia. For all E’veria, she reminded me. I love you.
Her voice and colors faded from my mind as sleep claimed her consciousness once again. But with those last few words, she reminded me that as the Ryn, the heir to the E’verian throne, I had to put my personal concerns aside for the good of my people. Even if it meant my mother would die.
A tiny shudder shook my head. No. I refused to accept that possibility. I wasn’t ready to lose my mother. I had just found her.
Sudden warmth covered my hand, pulling me from gloom with a strength more potent than the fading well-wishings from the disappearing shore.
Ah, Julien. I closed my eyes and soaked in the peace offered by the slight pressure of his hand on mine and then stole a look at the knight himself.
Sunshine caught upon his dark blond hair and sparkled amid the short strands of the triangular knight’s beard that circled his lips and covered his chin. As if he felt my eyes upon him, Julien turned. When he smiled, light danced in his emerald-green eyes, sparking a flash in my midsection that once again melted the tender spot in my heart that bore his name.
I turned my hand over and wrapped my fingers around his. How would I have coped with the tumultuous emotions of these past weeks, and the frightening implications of my newly discovered heritage, without him? First my protector, Julien quickly became my friend. But something new had taken root between us over the last few weeks, something that let him know I needed to borrow a bit of his strength just now.
“Has it been only three months since you suffered to nurse a mangy bear back to health?”
I laughed. Although I had spent the majority of my life with a duke’s family in the province of Veetri, I had passed the last two years with my aunt and cousin in a secluded old lodge in the Great Wood of Mynissbyr. And it was there I met Julien, a true Bear-man of Mynissbyr, but not nearly so frightening as most would assume.
The first storm of winter had arrived that night, bringing Julien with it. He was lost, or so he thought, and out of his head with fever. Wearing a bear-skin cloak that made him appear as a beast of legend, I had thought him a threat to our safety. Therefore, I introduced myself by sending a dagger into his arm.
Good thing he was the forgiving sort.
“Only three months?” I laughed. “Indeed, Bear-man. But it seems like longer.” I sighed and looked off over the calm waters of this strange sea. “That night is like a scene from another lifetime.”
And it was, in a way. Because once Julien’s health returned, everything I thought I knew had been upended, and the painful questions that had plagued my childhood had been answered.
For the majority of my youth I had been known as Rose de Whittier, the foster daughter of a Veetrish duke. Before that, I was simply Rose, the ward of Sir Drinius de Wyte. But the missive Julien delivered from the King revealed me as Princess Rynnaia E’veri. The Ryn. With that truth in hand, my Andoven gifts—and the maternal blessing that accompanied them—had been released.
Suddenly, I was able to distinguish the thoughts of others, to silently speak to both man and matter, without the slightest regard to proximity or distance. When I learned my true name, colors assaulted my mind, an emotion attached to each one. I was, to put it lightly, overwhelmed. Therefore, I was sent to Tirandov Isle and given the task of learning how to control my newfound abilities among the Andoven who shared them.
And I had. At least to some degree. But I had also added another crucial dimension to my identity, one that illumined a tragic emptiness within my soul and filled it with light.
Oh yes, I had been changed while on this isle. And Julien de Gladiel, my beautiful, patient knight, had helped to lead me to the place where I was open to a love I had never even known existed.
I turned back to him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered.
“There is nowhere I would rather be.” Julien’s voice was quiet, but intense. “Well, that’s not entirely true.” He paused and a slow smile infected his words. “I would much rather be at the end of our quest, with the Cobelds’ curse exile
d and you safely installed at Castle Rynwyk. But I suppose this will do for now.”
I laughed. “I must say I agree with your sentiment. But I will admit that I am curious to meet my father. I should get that out of the way before taking off for the Remedy, don’t you think?”
A thrill of anticipation sent a shiver across my shoulders. In a short time I had gained not only the knowledge of my name and the use of my gifts, but the mother I had believed dead and the father who, though I had doubted his love for most of my life, I could now hardly wait to meet in person.
Was he as anxious to meet me? And when he did, would he be . . . disappointed?
I shook my head, unwilling to let my old insecurities gain a foothold, and hoping I was beyond such crippling fears.
I took a deep breath. I am the Ryn.
The pinkish fog that surrounded Tirandov thickened, completely enveloping us within it, and I could see the isle no more. Moving my gaze back to Julien, I wondered at his suddenly warrior-like expression. “Why such a fierce countenance, Sir Julien? One would think you did not relish returning to the mainland,” I teased.
“Tirandov Isle is safe, Princess.” Julien’s scowl deepened. “We have no such assurance about the sea beyond this fog or even the mainland once we reach it.”
I laid my hand on his arm. “Cazien would let us know if we were in any imminent danger, don’t you think?”
Julien’s tone was dry as one of his eyebrows angled down toward the bridge of his nose. “I think our captain’s definition of danger might be a little less conservative than mine.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, even with Julien’s frown so pronounced. “Well, he is a pirate.”
Dyfnel chuckled. “Captain Cazien knows Her Highness is with us. If any mischief was afoot, I’m sure he would not only know of it, but endeavor to keep her from it.”
Julien’s scowl deepened. A metallic flash colored his thoughts when he spoke. “I’m sure Cazien is quite capable,” he said, giving me a long look, “when his eye is on the sea.”
