by Serena Chase
“Yes. It will be tricky. We will have to find a way to alert you when they are in position.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“I’ll be on the road to Salderyn. The fortress where the knights are being held is over two hundred leagues in the opposite direction.”
“Why should that matter? You’re Andoven. Won’t you be contacting the knights along the way?”
“I am part Andoven, Rynnaia, but I’m not like you and your mother,” he said with a tender smile. “And while distance does not hinder my ability to communicate with those of Andoven lineage, it is beyond my gifting to find the mind of anyone who is not.”
My abilities were so new to me that I often forgot that gifts differed among the Andoven themselves and even faded, generationally, when a line was “diluted,” as the Elders phrased it, by marriage to someone of non-Andoven lineage.
“I can contact anyone, if I know who I am looking for,” I said. “But how will I know when?”
“You will be rather consumed with your own responsibilities,” my father said. “It would be easier if they contacted you. But who among them could?”
“Are there no Andoven knights enlisted in the regiments, then?” Even as the question left my lips I recalled how most of the people of Tirandov Isle opposed their people being involved in military matters. My father shook his head. “Of course. I forgot. But even if a member of one of the regiments was only partly Andoven it could be accomplished. Is there a knight who can fulfill that position?”
“Not a knight,” my father said, absently rubbing his beard. “But there is someone, I believe, who might be willing to serve in that capacity.”
Considering we were discussing the rescue of his father, Julien’s grin caught my attention as strange. I tilted my head. “What are you smiling so smugly about?”
“This,” he said, his grin widening. “This is good.”
“What is?”
“This.” He made an outward circle with his palm that I assumed was supposed to encompass my father and me. “The King and the Ryn, discussing war strategy.” He laughed. “It’s so . . . right.”
I shared a grin with my father. It did feel right. I turned back to Julien. As I met his gaze, a familiar flash of bright emerald and burnished gold caressed my mind. The warmth of his smile filled me to the tips of my toes.
My father cleared his throat.
Hmm. I was going to have to work a bit harder at blocking my thoughts from the King.
“Rynnaia, I believe Sir Julien and I have a matter of some import to discuss,” he said, sounding strangely formal all of a sudden. “Would you excuse us? I don’t imagine we’ll be long.”
I stood and Julien did as well. My father remained seated, which, I supposed, was his right as King.
“Dinner will be served shortly in the dining hall,” he said, just as I reached the door. “I’ll come to collect you when we’re finished here.”
“Of course.” I gave him a curtsey, and not sure whether I should or not, favored Julien with one as well. My father returned the gesture with a simple nod of his head, but Julien, who had stood up when I did, dipped into a full bow. As he arose, his slow wink caused my cheeks to flush in a way that confirmed the topic they would be discussing.
It appeared as if King Jarryn was about to perform a father’s worst duty.
CHAPTER NINE
Trying to affect the air of a princess, I asked a guard to summon Erielle to my chambers. A few minutes later, she arrived.
I stood at the fire, using every bit of self-control I possessed to avoid sneaking into Julien’s thoughts as he and my father spoke.
“Did you want to change into something else for dinner?” Erielle sounded confused.
“No. I need to ask you something,” I paused. “Woman-to-woman.”
A smile pulled the left side of her mouth upward. “Of course, Your Highness. Ask away.”
I paced back and forth a few times, not sure how to begin. Finally, I moved to a chair. She took the opposite one.
“I need to know about courting,” I said. “At court. What’s it like?”
“And you’re asking because . . . ?”
“Because I think my father and Julien might be discussing it right now!” I bit my lip to stop the little squeal that threatened to escape.
Erielle’s eyes danced. “My brother has never been one to waste time.” She laughed. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. You’ve spent time at court. What’s expected of me?”
“Ahh. That’s easy,” she said with a sly smile. “Any young woman being courted should expect to be treated like a princess.” She laughed at the irony and so did I. “Of course, what I mean is, when a knight courts a young lady she should expect extreme felicitousness.”
“But Julien is courteous by nature.”
“Oh, but courtesy is different in courtship. It’s much more involved. But . . . how to explain? Hmm.” Erielle leaned forward and rested her chin on the balls of her hands. She thrummed her fingers against her cheekbones. “Most courting begins after a knight and a young lady have only just met,” she said. “Since you’ve already known Julien for some time it will be different for you, I suppose. But I imagine many things will be the same.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Strolls in gardens. Partnering at balls. The recitation of poetry in public . . .” She doubled over dramatically and made a retching sound. “And may Rynloeft help you,” she said, straightening and putting a hand to her chest, “should Julien deign to sing a ballad. No one should have to suffer that.”
I laughed. “But what of the young lady being courted? What is expected of her?”
Erielle shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, the young lady generally does a lot of needlework and fanning. A few have been known to compose their own bit of verse, but those are generally kept private between her and the knight, thank Rynloeft. And if, after a good bit of that nonsense, the lady and knight still seem disposed to one another, the negotiations begin.”
“Negotiations?”
“Betrothal issues. Political posturing, land changing hands, dowries, that sort of thing.”
Suddenly, courtship didn’t sound all that appealing. But being the Crown Princess should exert at least some influence, shouldn’t it? “Does anyone ever, you know, skip over the nonsense bits?”
“I suppose. But I doubt you’ll be allowed that, in the public eye as you are. Or as you soon will be, rather. Courtship can be entertaining to watch from the outside. But a royal courtship?” She let out a long whistle. “After awhile, I can only imagine that it would become ridiculously tiresome for the two people involved. I don’t envy you your courtship, even though I know my brother will do his best to keep it a dignified affair. In fact, I hope to avoid it for myself altogether.”
I tilted my head. “You don’t wish to fall in love someday?”
“Of course I do! But not until I’ve had my fill of adventure. And certainly not by such absurd means as courtship.” Erielle stopped, her eyes widening. “There I go again, being too free of speech with the royals. I meant no offense.”
“None taken.”
I sensed my father’s approach before he knocked on my door. Now that we had finally met in person, our Andoven connection was undeniable, as was something else, something entirely . . . E’veri. I could only assume it was something linked to me being the Ryn, a title he had once possessed, but its strength was greater than any connection I’d yet experienced, even with my mother.
Other than a greeting and a smile, we didn’t speak as I took his arm and allowed him to lead me through unfamiliar corridors. Before today, I had only visited Holiday Palace once, as Julien’s guest at a ball given here by the Regent of Dynwatre. I had worn a black hairpiece and a set of gray-tinted spectacles that night and had been introduced as “Rose de Whittier.” Tonight, however, I would be entering the dining hall as the Ryn.
We paused at the door for the herald to announc
e our presence.
“I rarely feel the need to engage this particular service of my heralds,” my father whispered, leaning down to my ear. “Your mother broke me of the habit years ago. Although I’d grown up having my every move within the palace announced and gave it little thought, she considered it quite pretentious and let me know in no uncertain terms that she would not stand for it.” He chuckled. “But I felt that today warranted at least a little formality.”
As the herald opened the doors, my father let go of my arm and took my hand instead, positioning my arm so that my elbow was bent and my hand was level with but slightly ahead of my shoulder, resting atop his. It was an odd posture that I couldn’t imagine keeping up for long, but it felt unaccountably elegant and regal, just the same. When I closed my eyes and pictured what we might look like to an observer, I was sure it was.
The young herald tapped an ornate wooden staff against the marble floor just inside the dining hall.
“His Majesty, King Jarryn E’veri,” the herald called out in a voice loud enough to make the flames in the fireplaces flicker.
I couldn’t see into the room, but the sound of chairs scraping against the floor allowed me to assume that everyone—and it sounded like a lot of everyones—stood up at the mention of the King.
“And Her Royal Highness,” the herald paused, “Princess Rynnaia E’veri.”
My father gave my hand a light squeeze and moved into the dining hall where the mysterious “everyone’s” eyes were on me.
The room was shaped like a severely elongated oval, just wide enough at the narrow ends to comfortably accommodate the long wooden table at its center and at least twenty-five chairs on either side. The widest points of the room each sported a marble fireplace that kept occupants comfortably warm. Murals, cracked with age, covered the walls and high ceilings with scenes of blossoming flowers and trees, seeming to pay homage to an eternal season of spring. It was quite beautiful, but not so much that it made one afraid to breathe.
My father led me to the far side of the room where two ornate chairs waited at the head of the table, and then to their right, where a smaller but similarly fashioned chair remained empty. Somehow I knew that two of these chairs, one at the head and mine to the side, had sat empty for a long time.
Nineteen years.
Seeing my thought, my father spoke into my mind. Too long.
I was glad that I knew enough to wait for the King to sit first. Once seated, he looked up at me and arched an eyebrow toward my chair.
Immediately, I sat. When I looked across the table, I met a familiar pair of emerald eyes. Julien. Having him near made me breathe a little easier.
As soon as everyone else had taken their seats, my father rose. In a slight panic, I looked to Julien, not knowing whether I should rise or stay in my seat.
As if he knew the answer I sought, he gave a slight shake of his head. I remained in my chair and looked toward my father to see what would happen next.
With his elbows at his waist, he reached his hands out in either direction, palms upward. When Julien gave a slight nod, I laid my hand upon my father’s right. Julien did the same at his left. Everyone joined hands.
“Giver and Sustainer,” my father’s deep voice forced my attention back to his face, “our Mighty First King.” With eyes closed and face tilted upward, he beseeched a blessing upon those gathered at the table. Taking a deep breath in through his nose, he exhaled, and with his breath, spoke one of the First King’s names for which I had a particular fondness.
“Embral e’ Veria.”
It was a combination of words in the Ancient Voice that, depending upon the translator, might paint a slightly different picture. But always, in essence, it was a name meaning Unlimited Power governed by Unquenchable Love.
The sound of that name, spoken by my father’s voice, reminded me of a memory he had hidden inside my soul long ago, a memory of a visit I’d received from him when I was eight years old, but that I’d only recently been allowed to access.
My eyes burned with emotion, so I closed them, and as I tilted my face upward, I gave my father’s hand a light squeeze, thankful for the tender memory and for the newly acquired knowledge that gave it such greater meaning.
“Our One True Hope.” He finished the litany of names, though they all spoke of one divine person, The First. “You have blessed this King, your servant, by bringing my daughter home. You have provided for Rynnaia’s safety these many years and you have seen fit to woo and welcome her under the banner of Rynloeft at long last. Thank you for these gifts that you shower upon your servants and our Kingdom in these desperate times. We thank you for your gracious provision at this table, both the food and the friends that partake of its bounty, and ask that you comfort those of our people who are not so blessed as we are tonight. May we honor you above all else as we seek to restore truth and peace in E’veria.”
May it be so. The passion of my thought echoed around the table, but no one spoke it aloud. My father squeezed my hand.
I opened my eyes to find his upon me. My throat was tight with emotion, but I took a breath and finished his request for blessing with my agreement.
“May it be so.” I was surprised by the confidence in my voice with my throat constricted so. I smiled as the words echoed around the table. My father let go of my hand, placed his on his heart for a moment, and then took his seat once more.
No sooner had he leaned back in his chair than the doors at both ends of the dining hall opened and a parade of servants came through carrying covered platters and pitchers. Beginning with the King, a pair of servants delivered a portion to each person’s plate while another pair worked together to fill our goblets with a beverage scented with the essence of peaches. But it wasn’t until the King had taken his first bite and declared it, “most excellent,” and I, in turn, had sampled a bit of the roast duck, that the others at the table began to eat.
“Your Highness, it is indeed a great pleasure to finally meet you,” the knight to my right spoke after a few minutes. “My name is Risson de Sair, and were we not at table, I would welcome the opportunity to pledge my sword and fealty to your service.”
“Thank you, Sir Risson,” I replied. He said we hadn’t met, but he looked strangely familiar. “From which province do you hail?”
“Dynwatre, Your Highness. Born and raised in a little village just north of here. Canyn, by name, though it’s little more than a wayside inn and a swordsmith.”
“Do you still have family there?”
“Indeed. A wife, three daughters nearly grown, and three sons, though only two are yet living. My eldest met up with a Cobeld when he was just a lad.”
My breath caught. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” Risson’s smile was sad. “He was a good lad. A helpful sort. He just offered help to the wrong old man.”
A chill crept up my spine. How well I knew the ease at which a Cobeld could coerce aid with intent to kill. If not for Julien, my life would have ended alongside a stream in the Great Wood of Mynissbyr.
“My other boys grew up a bit more cautious,” Risson continued. “One is squired to a knight in Nyrland and the other just completed his apprenticeship with the local swordsmith, who as it so happens, is my very elderly father.”
I sensed he would rather talk of the living. I couldn’t blame him. “You didn’t wish to follow your father’s profession, then?”
“I’m the youngest of five sons by quite a lot.” He chuckled. “With four brothers ahead of me and each of them married with sons of their own, my father’s small forge grew much too crowded for my restless soul. I found wielding swords preferable to forging them.”
“Risson makes Canyn sound of little account, but it really is a tidy little village,” my father interjected. “And you’ll never find a sword of better quality than one that’s been forged by Sair House.”
“I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to my father when next I see him, Your Majesty.”
&n
bsp; “Do.” My father nodded and took a sip from his goblet.
The formality of our entrance seemed to wear off as discussion continued around the table. As I engaged others in conversation, I found that Risson’s loss was not unusual. Nearly everyone had lost a family member or close friend to either the Cobelds or their allies, the Dwonsil warriors, at some point over the last few years.
Some still had loved ones suffering from curses that hadn’t killed, but rather had maimed or inflicted illness. When they spoke of the future, it was with the assumption that I would find the Remedy. That their loved ones would heal. That they would live.
My chest tightened with each new loss—and even more with the responsibility of each fresh hope that had been kindled by the simple fact that I yet lived. The burden of the prophecy that bore my name, a burden that had been tempered for so long by excitement and optimism, grew heavier as the meal progressed.
My father spoke mainly to Julien, inviting Risson and the other knights nearest our end of the table to join in as he updated Julien on military matters.
“Father,” I asked when there was a break in the conversation, “did I hear you mention Sir Kiggon?” I was acquainted with few souls outside the families by which I’d been raised, but that name was familiar.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Indeed.” I nodded. “He visited us at Mirthan Hall once. Do you know if Lewys de Whittier still serves with him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. But I expect Kiggon to arrive in the next day or two, along with two companies from the Regent of Nyrland. Perhaps de Whittier will be among them.”
Small talk continued around us for quite a while after the remnants of our meal had been removed and a small serving of stout pudding, dotted with dried fruit, delivered. Finally, even the pudding was cleared away and my father stood.
“Knights.” With one word he grabbed the attention of everyone at the table. “Please attend me in the war room in one hour. We have much to discuss this night.”
The knights at the table gave silent nods, but no one seemed in a hurry to leave the hall.
