by Serena Chase
“I think we’ll be safe here,” Julien said, “but be ready to go at a moment’s notice if need be.”
He slid off Salvador’s back and then lifted me down. Moments later, the rest of our party arrived. Gerrias was even able to dismount on his own. His strength had nearly returned in full.
Although we could still hear the thunder of the earth, it no longer shook our feet. We gazed at the fire, shooting up into the sky, but dropping nothing, not even a spark or piece of ash. Its sole job, it seemed, was to consume the curse within the well and to leave it dry, clear to the source.
Julien stood at my back with his arms wrapped around me. “I think it’s almost over,” he said.
The well shrine trembled violently. The scaffolding collapsed and the flames turned blue, and then white. I looked away just before the mound imploded and collapsed in on itself. Dust flew into the air and silence reigned.
When the dust cleared, what had been a fount of death and pain was reduced to an innocuous pile of rubble. An ancient well of suffering, at long last, had been dried up and destroyed by the infinite power of love.
My father reined his horse in beside us. The King’s elation over the victory was second only to his relief at seeing me safe. Raising his sword, he shouted with a volume that came from the power of his mind as well as his voice. “All glory to The First!”
“To The First!” Julien echoed, raising his fist in the air.
“To The First!” I returned, with my people.
From deep within the rubble, a familiar tone caught my ear. Symphonic in the depth of its beauty, it was powerful, yet soft and reassuring. It caressed my mind. Clear, strong, and unmistakably powerful, it restated its claim on my devotion.
Still, Rynnaia. Still I am with you. You are mine.
I closed my eyes and lifted my face and hands toward the sky. Yes! I am yours!
Peace stole over me as the thoughts of others assailed my senses.
I heard my name, they thought. He spoke my name!
The ecstasy of being known by The First was echoed in each heart left standing under his emblem on the battlefield.
As I turned to face Julien, I found the peace of my soul reflected in his eyes. But there was something else there, too. Something bright and full of a fire nearly as pure as that we’d just seen cauterize the Cobeld well.
He pulled me to him. The noise of the battlefield and the thoughts of those around us melted away as the passion of his kiss seared my soul with the truth of his love and the wonder of the new connection that had been forged upon the scaffolding.
My hands stole up around his neck and our thoughts swirled together in righteous bliss.
A horse beside us stamped and whinnied. Julien broke off the kiss and I rested my cheek against his shoulder.
I sighed.
Julien tensed. “Your Majesty,” he said.
My eyes flew open and heat rushed into my face. I would have stepped away from Julien’s embrace but for a brief, soft pressure to my lower back that disabused me of the notion.
“Julien.” My father’s voice held a strange, perhaps even mildly dangerous, note. He cleared his throat. “Rynnaia, is there anything in particular you would like to tell me?”
Julien released me. I bit my lip and looked up into the eyes of the King. Was that . . . amusement lurking in his bright blue gaze?
“Congratulations on your victory?”
“Hmm. Thank you.” His eyes clearly laughed at me now. “But I had a different sort of news in mind. The sort that precipitates the need for me to issue an official announcement.”
His gaze moved to Julien. “Perhaps young de Gladiel here would like to address the issue.”
“With pleasure, Your Majesty.” Julien’s voice was respectful, but infected by a grin. “Since you so graciously granted your permission before we left Holiday Palace, I, this very day, asked your daughter to be my bride.”
“And did she consent?”
“She did.”
I nodded. “Most assuredly.”
“Well, then.” My father’s face shone with love and joy. He raised his head and addressed the troops. “Sir Julien de Gladiel seeks to wed the Ryn,” he announced in a loud voice. “And both she and I have consented!”
The cheer that broke out resounded throughout Shireya’s foothills. After the shouts and applause died down, the King dismounted and threw his arm around Julien’s shoulder.
Leaning in closely, so that only Julien and I could hear, the King said, “You know, de Gladiel, had anyone else kissed my daughter in that fashion, I likely would have run him through.”
My cheeks grew even warmer at that, but a sudden commotion stole our attention.
Two knights came forward with a Dwonsil warrior held at sword point between them. One of the knights addressed my father.
“He requested an audience, Your Majesty.” The other knight added, “He surrendered his sword willingly.”
My father nodded toward the man. “Speak.”
When he lifted his eyes, I gasped.
I recognized him! This was the warrior from Canyn Village. The one from whom we had so narrowly escaped! He was much younger than I had thought from that distance, and the remorse I had sensed that day was even more prevalent in his thoughts now.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his voice low with emotion, “I was once a loyal son of a noble E’verian line, but I allowed myself to believe lies that took me down paths I knew in my heart to be wrong. Many have suffered for my gullibility.” He paused. “My actions leave no room for mercy and I will not presume to ask it of you on my own behalf.”
“What do you ask, then?”
“I ask that mercy be granted to the innocent people of Dwons who have been the victims of false leadership and lying tongues.”
“You say you come from a noble line,” my father said. “What is your name?”
“I am Bryge de Taef,” he said. “Former heir to the Regency of Dwons.”
“Your father’s name is Taef?” Kinley said, then took a step back. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
My father dismissed Kinley’s apology with a wave of his hand and tilted his head at the young man. “I consider myself something of an authority on how nobility and title are attained in E’veria,” he said. “How came you to be the former heir to the Regency of Dwons? I issued no decree to that end.”
“My father became ill several years ago,” he said. “A malady of the mind. One day he simply disappeared. I was young and unworthy of the duty thrust upon me and the Regency fell to the clans while under my care.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ve passed nineteen summers, Your Majesty.”
“And how many years have passed since your father disappeared?”
“Six.”
“Six,” my father repeated. “And in all that time, did you not think to petition me for aid?”
“Not soon enough, Your Majesty. And for that I deserve death. Had I sought help from Salderyn, many lives would have been saved and the cursed alliance with the Cobelds might have been avoided.”
I had to respect the way he met the King’s eyes. If I stood in his place I doubted I could look anywhere but the dirt at my feet. But to think that he had become the Regent of Dwons at the age of thirteen? At that age, I was still pulling pranks with Rowlen and doing my best to talk my way out of arithmetic homework.
But Bryge had become Regent at thirteen. And it was clear from my father’s thoughts that he had not known of the change in leadership in Dwons.
“I did not fight for my birthright as I should have,” Bryge continued. “I betrayed my family, my province, my King, and the memory of my father.” His eyes shut for a moment, but he did not hang his head. “My people deserve better. The people of Dwons need help, Your Majesty, so before my sentence is carried out I would, however briefly, fulfill the role assigned to me by birth and make you aware of their need. That is all. I commit myself to your justice and to death, as I rightf
ully deserve.”
The King was silent, his gaze thoughtful but intense. Even I, secure in his affection, would have trembled a bit had it been me on its receiving end. But Bryge held fast, yet humbly so, as if waiting for some assurance of safety for his people before reporting to the King’s executioner.
I blinked. Did the King have an executioner? An executioner who would someday report to me? I suppressed a shiver. I didn’t want to think of that right now.
“Your Majesty,” one of the knights who had delivered Bryge spoke up, “it should be noted that, while he appears to be a Dwonsil warrior, I myself witnessed him fighting on the side of E’veria in this particular battle.”
My father’s eyebrows rose. “Is this true?”
Bryge nodded. “I saw the Ryn upon the scaffolding, Your Majesty, and I could no longer fight against that which I knew in my heart to be right.”
Silence pressed upon us.
“Bryge de Taef.” My father finally addressed the young man who had not once quailed under his gaze. It made me wonder what Bryge had been through as a young man in Dwons to build such humble confidence in him now. “Tell me, what did you hear right after the shrine collapsed?”
“A song.” The young warrior’s answer was swift, but if he was surprised at the question, he seemed even more astonished that he had an answer to give to the King. As he spoke, his voice thickened with wonder. “I heard a voice that clearly saw the traitorous depths of my heart, yet still sang my name with joy.”
Bryge cleared his throat, but his eyes were alight with the marvel of it still. “I believe it was the voice of The First, Your Majesty. That is what gave me the courage to seek you out on behalf of my people.”
A satisfied expression smoothed the lines from the King’s brow. “It has been my experience,” my father said, rubbing his beard, “that it is when we least deserve it that mercy seeks us. And it is mercy that I shall grant today. Not only to the people of Dwons, but to you, her rightful Regent.”
The hold Bryge had on his composure threatened to give way. He blinked and swallowed. Confusion furrowed his forehead. “Pardon?” He tilted his head as if an echo had rounded his ears and caused a sharp twinge of pain.
“Correct. A pardon is exactly what I offer. You were born to the Regency, Bryge de Taef. And you are repentant for the mistakes that allowed it to fall into other hands. Under the circumstances, it is not for me, and certainly not for some pilfering clansman, to remove you from that office. For the role you played in your province’s downfall, you are forgiven.”
My father took a deep breath and a sudden shift in his emotion squeezed my heart. When he spoke again, his voice was grieved. “As I pray you will forgive me for the role I neglected to play as servant to the Dwonsil people.”
Again, Bryge’s eyelashes fluttered with a series of confused blinks. “Your Majesty?”
“It is a grievous flaw of the E’veri family that the governing of Dwons has rarely received the priority it should. I intend for that to change. Once we have regrouped from this battle, I will support you with troops to reclaim your birthright from those who took advantage of your youth. Together we will reestablish peace and leadership in Dwons.”
“I am honored at the offer, Your Majesty, and I humbly accept your aid to that end. If it is forgiveness you seek, of course I grant it,” Bryge said softly. “But I am most humbled to do so.”
“I thank you,” my father said. “Now kneel, son of Dwons.” The King unsheathed his sword and knighted the young Dwonsil warrior. “Arise, Sir Bryge de Taef, Knight of E’veria and true Regent of Dwons.”
The moment was full, but curiosity tugged me to top off the cup.
“Sir Bryge,” I said as he arose, “could I ask you something?”
“Anything, Your Highness.”
“Is your father, by chance, Taef de Emwyk?”
“Yes! Well, in a way.” Sir Bryge’s eyes widened. “His real name is Taef de Quinn, but he began to refer to himself as de Emwyk when he became ill. Have you met him, Your Highness? Does he yet live?”
“He lives,” I said. “His ailment is most diverting, but he was used greatly in our quest for the Remedy. Even now, he serves as my ambassador, completing an errand on my behalf.” I smiled.
“Bryge.” Kinley said softly. “Bryge.” He repeated the young Regent’s name, but didn’t seem to be addressing him. His brow narrowed. “Taef said he wasn’t a fish, he was—”
“A Bryge builder!” Gerrias finished, barking out a laugh. He lifted his sword to point at Bryge. “He’s the bridge built by our trusty thief!”
The laugh building within me spilled from Erielle’s lips first. As if the pent-up anxiety of the last several weeks had decided to explode out of each member of our team at once, we laughed so heartily that tears rolled down our cheeks.
I’m sure some of the spectators wondered if the six of us had suddenly lost our collective minds, but there was nothing for it. When Kinley could finally catch his breath, he slapped Gerrias on the back and gasped out through his laughter, “A Bryge builder! Our horse diplomat was telling the truth after all!”
A sudden and salty breeze touched my senses with the sound of my name.
Rynnaia.
Still smiling, I stepped back from the group and closed my eyes. Cazien?
Indeed.
I could almost feel the breeze that blew my cousin’s hair at the helm of his ship.
Would you care to tell me why, right after every Emblem of the First aboard my ship shot light toward the sky, nearly frightening my men into jumping into the sea, I’ve been summoned to Tirandov Isle by your mother?
My eyes flew open as if by a force of joy. I closed them again. Mother!
Yes, dear one?
She stood—stood!—on the shore of the Bay of Tirandov, her face to the sun. A flush of health, though not as vibrant as I sensed it might soon be, caressed her cheeks.
Ahem.
Cazien, again.
Colors poured out of my mind, nay, out of my very heart. They stretched out toward both my mother and my cousin, exulting. Soon threads reached from my mind and pulled my father and Julien into the revelation.
I don’t know how long we remained in that cocoon of joy, but finally I allowed my colors to retreat. Just as the scent of the sea began to fade from my mind, however, I snatched Cazien’s attention back.
The pirate arched a black eyebrow. Yes, Rynnaia?
Erielle’s eyes turned green today, I said. Bright, vivid green. I thought you should know.
His jaw clenched. He gave a curt nod. That would follow, he said, but didn’t elaborate.
Not that I particularly expected him to. But I did admit to some curiosity.
I wish I could tell you all, but my legacy forbids it. Cazien sighed. Suffice it to say that Erielle’s path will likely soon diverge from what’s expected of her. And when it does, please remember that I am your friend. And hers.
Only on the subject of Erielle had I ever heard Cazien so solemn. I will remember. I gave him my word. I will see you at my wedding then, Captain Cryptic?
Perhaps. His lip quirked. Any chance you might move it closer to the sea?
I shook my head.
Ah, well. For you, I suppose I can make the sacrifice. Expect me to arrive with your mother. He paused and made a face. Ach! Enough! Rynloeft save me from lovesick fools, he growled through a grin as the anticipation of my joy threatened to consume both of our thoughts again.
Leave off, Princess! He laughed. Go pester that knight of yours. I’ve a ship to captain!
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
One month later
I sat at the desk in my chamber at Castle Rynwyk, puzzling over a matter of diplomatic correspondence when the trumpets blared at the gates, announcing the approach of the Queen. I sprang from my chair so suddenly that I knocked over the inkwell, ruining the entire parchment.
Without thinking, I reached to catch the flow of ink with my hands, but Vayle, who now served as my lady
’s maid, spoke up.
“Allow me.” She grabbed a blotting cloth and stemmed the flow with one hand while setting the inkwell upright with the other. “We can’t have your hands as stained as Lady Erielle’s when you join them to Sir Julien!”
I tilted my head. “How did Erielle stain her hands?”
“Forgive me,” Vayle’s cheeks turned red. “I spoke out of turn.”
The trumpets sounded a second time. I wished to question Vayle further, but instead I thanked her for cleaning up my mess and hastily excused myself. My mother was almost home!
Home.
As I hurried down the hall, I wondered at how quickly Castle Rynwyk had become so. My first glimpse of it had left me aquiver. Imposing, gray, and austere, Castle Rynwyk was, from the outside, a formidable, hulking fortress. Built on a hilltop at the very center of the city of Salderyn, it rose like a scowling gray giantess. With square towers, harsh-angled windows, and battlements that screamed the memories of wars gone by, I nearly asked my father if he might consider relocating the Seat of the Ryn—which is what Rynwyk meant when translated from the Ancient Voice—to Holiday Palace. Once I was led inside and shown to the luxurious chambers that being the Crown Princess of E’veria granted, however, my trepidation drifted away.
Outside, Castle Rynwyk was fearsome. Inside, thanks to generations of E’veri Kings and Queens, it afforded its residents and guests an entirely different experience. In the month since I had arrived, my affection for it had grown. How much more perfect it would be now that my mother was nearly here!
Having been a victim of the Cobeld curse for so long, it took her a bit more time to recover than it had Gerrias and the other wounded at the Battle of the Shrine, as it had come to be called. But like Gerrias, her healing had begun the moment Julien and I had drunk our toast and proclaimed the name that broke the curse. Now, a month later, not only was she well, but she thrived. I could hardly wait to see her.
Picking up my skirts, I increased the speed of my steps and—
“Rynnaia!”
I nearly ran into the King as I passed his door. He had exited his chamber in much the same haste as I. His warm smile filled my heart. “I was just going to meet your mother’s carriage.”
