Horror gripped Tala as she realized Jondralyn and Culpa were not only talking with Ansel, but also with Baron Jubal Bruk. He was still in the box, but propped up on a cushion. The box was standing on end so the man could see out. Tala drifted that way, wary. The old Dayknight had wide, thick brows and deep eyes fixed in a pained squint. He had a pocked face lined with age and a bushy beard hanging over his chest. “I know not the fate of Ser Roderic,” he was saying to Jondralyn. “He goes by Shawcroft now. Roderic’s ward was captured by the White Prince. I do recall seeing the boy in the line of prisoners with my son, Jenko.”
Ansel was reaching out his hand, small fingers uncurling to grab one of the daggers sticking out from the stumps of Jubal’s arms. Jubal Bruk leaned away as best he could in an attempt to avoid the boy’s reaching fingers, his movements slow and unnatural.
Tala recalled that Jubal Bruk had once carried the mantle of a fearsome knight—now he was no taller than Ansel, who could not stop staring at the limbless man and the daggers. Tala tried to steer Ansel away. They were all protective of him, Tala and Jondralyn especially, for Ansel was their last link to their mother. It seemed Ansel remained the last drop of innocence left in the fractured family. They all doted on him in their own way, even Jovan.
“Your arms and legs are black,” Ansel stated to Jubal. “Does it hurt?”
“Take him to play with Lindholf,” Jondralyn bade Tala. “Culpa and I have much to discuss with Baron Bruk.”
“But I’ve something you need to hear,” Tala said.
“Later. Just watch Ansel for me, okay?”
“No. Now,” Tala insisted. “In secret.”
Jondralyn took her by the arm and pulled her into a secluded corner of the hall. “I haven’t time for idle girlishness. What is it?”
Tala was hurt by her sister’s inference. In fact, Jondralyn’s curtness stung deeply. I have more of a relationship with Jovan than with my older sister. That realization almost brought her to tears.
“I just . . . ,” she trailed off, trying to collect herself, not knowing how she would broach the subject of Jovan’s treachery to her sister anyway. “I just heard something you should know about.”
A moment passed. “Well, spit it out,” Jondralyn said, impatience etched on her face. The unwanted tears welled up in Tala’s eyes. She couldn’t stop them. It was everything combined. Glade. The Bloodwood. Lawri. Denarius. Jovan. All of it. Boiling to the surface, flowing out in tears she just couldn’t rein in.
Her sister’s face softened. “What is it, Tala? Please. Ignore my edginess. I’ve a lot on my mind. It’s not you. What’s so important?”
And it spilled out in a gale of hushed words, not that she had seen Jovan and Leif kiss, but that she had heard the two speak of Jondralyn’s death at the hand of Aeros Raijael. About the prophecy Jovan had quoted to Leif. That Jovan was going to ask her to go with Leif and parley with the White Prince . . . and that they expected her to die in the process. And when she was done, the look on Jondralyn’s face was one of both concern and wonderment. Her sister’s reaction confused Tala.
“Let me think on this a while,” Jondralyn said. “For now . . . help me with Ansel. Watch him for me. Please.” She gave Tala a hug and then left Sunbird Hall.
It was only a short hug, but the feeling of her sister’s arms around her lingered long after. Tala grabbed Ansel away from Jubal and Culpa and walked away. Glade and Lindholf were now discussing the White Prince’s invasion with Seita, Val-Draekin, and Ser Landon Galloway. Glade’s ball-mace was stowed away. A fire was blazing in the hearth near their table. Tala could smell the spices in their mulled wine. She sat with Ansel on her lap and listened to their discussion. Judging from what they were saying, both boys seemed eager to go off to fight in defense of their kingdom.
“We will never be allowed into the ranks,” Lindholf said. “Not even as squires.”
“You assume Jovan will send an army to meet Aeros in battle.” Glade’s words rang with bitterness and scorn. “He’ll more than likely just let the White Prince trod upon the entire western coast of Gul Kana unhindered.”
“He’ll be sending Leif to parley with Aeros, I wager,” Seita said.
Tala, surprised that the Vallè princess had guessed at part of Jovan’s intentions, added, “I wouldn’t be shocked if he sent Jondralyn and Leif together. I’m sure he’d go himself if he wasn’t so grievously wounded.”
“Jondralyn go? Not likely,” Glade observed with his usual simplicity. “Jovan would never send a woman. But I am sure you are right about my brother. Perhaps he will take me.”
“I think Jovan would be smart to remain in Amadon,” Lindholf spoke up. “If he sends Leif and Glade in his stead, should the White Prince use the meeting as an ambush, then the kingship remains intact in Amadon.”
“Well, war is never a good thing,” Seita added as she and Val-Draekin walked away. Ser Landon Galloway stayed.
“All I know is that if we don’t fight, we will surely be conquered,” Glade said.
“Purple flowers.” Ansel pointed at a bouquet on the next table, now squirming free of Tala’s lap. “I want to look.”
“Stay where I can see you.” Tala let her younger brother slide off her lap.
“Absolution may be inevitable,” Lindholf said, ruffling Ansel’s hair as the boy scooted by.
“The Way and Truth of Laijon speaks of all the armies of the Five Isles on the outskirts of Amadon arrayed at the foot of the Atonement Tree at the hour of Laijon’s return. It seems the will of Laijon that all this happen. The Revelations of the Fourth Warrior Angel is clear on the end of days, right, Glade?”
But Glade’s attention was elsewhere. He, too, excused himself from the table and snatched a flower from a nearby vase along with a goblet of red wine, then made his way across Sunbird Hall and handed the flower to a blond, freckle-faced noble girl whose parents were visiting the castle from Rosiland. Tala’s heart sank.
“War. Girls.” Ser Galloway watched Glade. “I fear that boy will excel at both.” Then Galloway slapped the table and got up and wandered off too.
“It would break my heart to see you settle for one such as Glade,” Lindholf said.
Tala narrowed her eyes at her cousin. “I realize he can be crass,” she said, not knowing why she was suddenly defending Glade. “All boys grow out of it in time. He has the potential to change.”
“People don’t change, Tala,” Lindholf continued. “And maturity won’t change Glade. And what does potential mean anyway? Potential just means that he hasn’t done anything yet. I fall under Glade’s spell myself. He is my best friend, capable of making me feel important one moment, and low the next. Over the years, I have come to see into his dark heart. True, he is reckless and charming and daring and complicated. Yes. He is all the things that make the court girls swoon. But in the end, those things are all false. His charisma only makes him more apt to treat people with little or no respect. And his arrogance worsens with each passing day. I implore you to watch yourself.”
“I can take care of myself,” Tala said.
“Of that I am sure.” Lindholf’s eyes studied her wistfully. “I believe there is great strength in you, Tala. I see it every day. After all, it was you who saved my sister from Sterling Prentiss, at great risk to yourself. The man disgusts me.”
“Shhh. Not so loud.” Guilt flooded her. There were so many lies she had told. And her lie about Sterling Prentiss was perhaps the biggest. And to compound the guilt, she had asked Lindholf to lie for her too.
Though he did not realize it, Lindholf’s next words were almost mocking to Tala. “There is so much good in you,” he said, his eyes now soaking her in. “I hate to see it spoiled by Glade. I would hate to see you become jaded like most of these simpleminded court girls who are tricked over and over again by—”
“You used to be much more lighthearted, Lindholf,” Tala cut him off, not wanting to hear an accounting of her noble traits when she knew she was a fraud. He was right abou
t Glade but thought she was just like all the other court girls, infatuated with the young Prince of Rivermeade. “Tell me a funny story,” she pleaded. “Tell me how you used to tease Lorhand and Lilith. You could be so clever with your antics. I need a laugh.”
“Am I naught but a court jester to you?” While moments ago Lindholf had been absorbing every feature of her face, now he looked away. As she watched the hope die in his eyes, a bleakness as sharp as a dagger hit Tala’s heart. It seemed he forced himself to regain a pose of feigned bravery, followed by a slow flush of his cheeks.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Never mind,” he said, dejected, the despair in his tone so raw that Tala had to look away. A pained, uncomfortable silence passed between them.
“I should go now,” she said, standing, wanting to sprint from the room. Of all those she had hurt over the last few weeks, that she had hurt Lindholf was a thorn that pricked at her soul the most. She walked away from him.
Tala had nearly made it to the double doors of Sunbird Hall when she remembered Ansel. Her frantic eyes ranged over the hall, searching. She found him. He stood alone near Baron Jubal Bruk, who was now asleep in his box. Even from halfway across the Sunbird Hall, Tala could hear him snoring. That Ansel was alone with the man was alarming. Jondralyn and Culpa Barra were gone. Her little brother was tugging at a slip of white cloth impaled on the dagger attached to the man’s left arm.
Tala hurried toward him. “Stuck,” Ansel said, looking up at Tala as she arrived, breathless. He continued to tug at the slip of fabric stuck on the blade. Tala soon realized it wasn’t white fabric at all, but rather a small section of torn parchment.
Curious, she reached out and gave it a swift tug herself. For her, it slipped from the thin blade with ease. When she saw the writing, her blood froze.
You are correct about Jovan and Leif. Well done, girl.
Now study the Ember Lighting Song of the Third Warrior Angel found in The Way and Truth of Laijon. Pay particular attention to chapter twenty, verse thirty-one. Study it. Memorize it. And then I will give you your final clue.
Final clue! Tala’s mind raged. The game should be over! Lawri can’t possibly survive much longer. And all the lies she had told. Any delay could be ruinous not only to her and her friends but also to Jovan and the entire kingdom of Gul Kana.
Tala raised her eyes from the parchment in her hand. She looked at the daggers stuck to Jubal Bruk’s arm stumps, her brow furrowed in anger.
“Who put this here?” She held the parchment out to Ansel. “Did you see?”
“Black,” he answered, fingers reaching for the parchment. Tala did not let him grab it, thinking of the clue. She knew the verse well. It was perhaps the most studied and revered set of words ever written.
Chapter twenty of the Ember Lighting Song of the Third Warrior Angel in The Way and Truth of Laijon was a record of the deeds of Mia right after the death of her beloved Laijon. In the scripture, it was the final day of the Blessed Mother’s pregnancy. Her husband had been nailed to the Atonement Tree for over nine days now, and she had just thrust the fateful sword, Afflicted Fire, into his chest, sacrificing his life for the sins of all mankind. She had him removed from the Atonement Tree. And once Laijon was laid upon the cross-shaped altar and the sword removed from his flesh, the Blessed Mother drank of his blood. He was then dressed in his finest chain mail and horned helm and buried with the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels in the sacred tomb, the five angel stones inserted into the wounds in his chest, Ethic Shroud covering the wounds.
Like most believers in Laijon, Tala had read the Ember Lighting verses so many times she had relegated the verses to memory. She could recall the words at will.
And it came to pass that at the time of final Dissolution, he died upon the tree, nailed thusly, purging all man’s Abomination, the sword of Affliction piercing his side. Thus all was sanctified. Upon the altar they laid his body in the shape of the Cross Archaic. And as prophesied in all Doctrine, Mia took up the angel stones. And it came to pass, the five stones of Final Atonement she placed into the wound manifest.
Angry that the game with the Bloodwood was not yet over, Tala found herself staring at Jubal Bruk asleep in the box. The cushion someone had given the man had tumbled out. That made her even angrier.
“Can someone get this man a couch?” she yelled.
Ansel, startled by her shout, began to cry, big calf eyes gawking up at her. Jubal Bruk was wide-eyed and awake now. He, too, was staring at her.
“Get him a chair!” She whirled and yelled again. In fact, every eye in Sunbird Hall was on her now. “How can you selfish, callous fools leave him in a pine box! A couch! A chair! Clothes! Now!”
Many men of the court began to scurry, all of them rushing to pick up the nearest cushioned couch for Baron Jubal Bruk.
* * *
The Last Warrior Angels believed Laijon had been taken into heaven. But I knew the Last Warrior Angels desired the stones and weapons for their own dread purpose and unholy ritual. So I did hide them in deep places. I did set deadly traps of every make round about lest the unworthy defile them. Only my most Righteous of Brethren will discover lost things. And may Dragon Claw forever watch over the bones of my beloved.
—THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JONDRALYN BRONACHELL
10TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
Squireck Van Hester stepped heavily from the small boat onto the shores of Rockliegh Isle. Culpa Barra followed, Jondralyn just behind. A flash of movement caught her eye. A silvery mermaid slipped from a nearby rock straight into the bay. Always a shock, seeing one of the merfolk—and the female of the species was always the worst, glistening and naked. This one hissed low and bared thin, bloody teeth before retreating under the water, large eyes blinking. A half-eaten salmon carcass lay on the rocks where the mermaid had perched. Merfolk frightened her—especially the adults, especially if they were on dry land. Full-grown merfolk could last an hour or so out of water, whereas baby merfolk would last no more than a few seconds.
It seemed neither Culpa Barra nor Squireck had seen the creature. Squireck’s thick boots clomped up the rickety dock, his own dark cloak swirling behind him. He wore the cloak over leather-armored leggings and an Amadon Silver Guard plate cuirass that Culpa Barra had found for him. He also carried a sword at his belt. The wreath of heather he’d worn to the victory ceremony was locked safe in Jondralyn’s room—his sparse gladiator accoutrement was no longer needed. Squireck was a free man now—free to live in seclusion on Rockliegh Isle lest he be captured and thrown back into prison by Jovan. It was Culpa Barra who, days ago, had come up with the plan for hiding Squireck here. He’d realized, even before Squireck’s foolish confession earlier today, that the Prince of Saint Only would be a marked man upon his release. Jovan would not see him live long. The king’s thirst for victory over the prince would not go unslaked. Jondralyn was sure Jovan would set the Dayknights upon Squireck with orders to kill. There was nowhere for him to go. His homeland was a ruin. Everyone knew of King Edmon’s shame, living alone in an abandoned fortress in a destroyed city in a conquered kingdom. The man had gone mad. There was no telling what his reaction to his son’s newest confession of murder might be. For now, the Prince of Saint Only, like Hawkwood before him, would call the old abandoned abbey on Rockliegh Isle his home.
After tying the boat to the dock, Jondralyn trudged up the path behind the two boyhood friends. The isle looked the same today as it had when she had last been here—sprinkled on the northern end with sharp, jutting rocks and a lighthouse that towered over fifty feet high, and to the south a dock and a boulder-strewn slope of grass that led up to a small stone abbey.
Squireck, eyes on the forlorn abbey, did not look pleased. Jondralyn had been inside it only once before, and it had been dark. But in the fading light of day, the abbey looked even more crumbled-down and d
ecrepit, nothing but a moss-encrusted ruin near a cluster of spindly trees. Brush and bramble stems still clogged the doorway.
“It will offer some shelter of a sort,” Culpa Barra said. “Hawkwood made it his home for a time.”
“Hawkwood.” Squireck said the name as if it were poison on his tongue. “Did you stay here with him, Jon?”
“Don’t say such things,” she said. “You know me better than that.” She hugged her former betrothed, but with reservation.
“Why did you not come to me sooner?” he said, rapt eyes drinking her in. “When you and Tala and Roguemoore visited me in the arena dungeons, it bolstered me. I owe every victory to you. You were my inspiration.” He picked her up, thick hands encircling her waist as he spun in the grass, holding her high. He let her slide down his arms into his strong embrace again.
Jondralyn pulled away from him. Her eyes were not kind as she said, “I know not what to think of your confession after the vicar’s reciting of the Arena Incantations.”
“I merely told the truth,” he answered, his eyes barely able to meet hers. Earlier that evening in Sunbird Hall, Squireck had radiated a physical power that was almost supernatural. But he was looking visibly nervous now under her scornful gaze. “It’s true. I did kill Archbishop Lucas. No sacrifice too great for the Brethren of Mia. It was only what the dwarf and your father would have me do.”
“I don’t know how to feel. Murdering one of the quorum of five, Squireck?”
“Rest assured, our cause is just before Laijon,” Culpa Barra said. “Squireck’s triumph in the arena proves that Laijon is with us. And you washing his feet was a symbol that will not soon be forgotten; ‘for kings and queens and rulers will wash the feet of Laijon,’ is that not what the Revelations of the Fourth Warrior Angel in our Way and Truth of Laijon says? You fulfilled a prophecy with that one act, Jondralyn.”
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