Ean let go of the tension in both mind and body and took his mother’s hand. “Thank you,” he murmured, and he planted a kiss upon her palm. “Thank you for always understanding me.”
Alyneri sniffed indignantly, as if suspecting—and rightfully so—that the comment was aimed at her.
Errodan let her gaze fall across both of them. “Now, dear children, to the reason I brought you both here. You should know that Morin d’Hain has circulated a rumor that you, Alyneri, are the heiress who has long refused to marry my son.”
Alyneri stared blankly at her. “What? Marry Ean?”
“It’s a famous rumor, Your Grace,” the prince said, trying not to grin at her baffled expression, “but I know how you loathe court gossip, so let me fill you in. There has long circulated a rumor that the reason I am not yet betrothed to some worthy princess from a faraway land is due to the mysterious heiress who refuses to marry me.”
“Nonsense!” Alyneri looked affronted. “And I’m supposed to be this heiress? Who would believe that?”
Errodan exchanged a humorous look with her son. “Why…everyone believes it, dear. You are the daughter of a Nadori prince. You were, after all, betrothed to my treasured middle son.”
“About that, mother,” Ean noted as his dark mood at last left him. “If your middle son was the treasured one, and my eldest brother was the wondrous one, what does that make me?”
“My irreplaceable one,” she said adoringly.
“Irrepressible, you mean.”
“That, too,” she said with a wink. “Well, I shall leave you two to work out your story. Make sure it’s convincing, as you will most certainly be asked about it. No one must know that Ean was injured and in your care, Alyneri, only that he came to Fersthaven to beg for your hand. His life depends upon this rumor taking on a life of its own.” She placed a hand on Alyneri’s cheek, adding before she departed, “I know I can count on you, sweet girl.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Alyneri said with downcast eyes.
But as soon as the queen was gone, she speared Ean with an affronted glare. “How dare you!”
“Me?” he protested, throwing up both hands. “I didn’t have anything to do with this!”
“You knew all about it—”
“Which doesn’t automatically make me complicit in its creation!”
“Then how did you know about this ‘famous rumor’ when I’ve heard nothing of it?”
“As a point of fact,” he said smartly, “Tanis told me about it two nights ago.”
“Don’t you dare bring Tanis into this, Ean,” she hissed. “He’s an innocent. He would never make up such a hurtful story!”
“I never said he made it up!” Ean snapped exasperatedly, “Only that—”
“This is clearly of your devising,” she interrupted with prim disdain.
“My mother just said Morin—”
“Very well. I will go along with it,” Alyneri continued on, ignoring his indignant protest, “but do not think to claim any privileges. As far as you and I are concerned, I still refuse to marry you, and that’s my final answer. You offered me a throne, and I turned it down in order to travel the world. After much discussion, you relented and promised to release me from my service to the crown once you claim the throne, as proof of your unconditional love for me.”
Ean stared at her, fuming. “Alyneri,” he growled through clenched teeth, “sometimes I don’t like you very much at all.”
“Now, now,” she chided, “that’s not the attitude of a man in love.”
“Then what is?” he challenged, throwing out his arm. “Utter subservience to a woman’s whims, no matter how…how insane or illogical?”
She shrugged. “I really wouldn’t know, Ean. I’ve never seen a man truly in love. I doubt any man would know it if it bit him on the nose.” With that, she spun on her heel and marched primly from the room.
***
Franco Rohre opened his eyes to the rumble of thunder shaking the windowpanes of Ysolde’s bedroom. He turned his head to find her pillow abandoned and recognized that it must be late afternoon. It had been a long night.
After maintaining a sleepless vigil with the Queen’s Companion in which they’d bestowed hedonistic pleasures upon one another, he’d finally drifted off to sated sleep as Ysolde dressed in preparation for Prince Ean’s arrival.
Franco was grateful for the night spent with Ysolde. The Fire Princess was one of the most remarkable women he’d ever had the pleasure of bedding. Her intellect was cunning, as he’d discovered over an early game of Kings which she’d nearly won, and her lovemaking was positively primal. The experience had proven cathartic for his troubled conscience—hour after hour focusing upon someone else’s pleasure instead of his own ill-fated decisions—even if he’d gained little in the way of much-needed sleep. No matter, he’d caught up on it now, and there was always tonight…
Smiling at the thought, Franco sat up—
And froze.
The curse that escaped him would’ve made a sailor proud. He forced himself to continue getting out of bed, though his eyes never left the man sitting in the armchair across the room. “How long have you been there?” he managed as he slowly bent to retrieve his pants from the floor.
“If you’re asking did I witness your wanton lovemaking all night, the answer is no.”
Franco swallowed. “Have we…met? I mean, you know…before?”
The Shade shook his head. “My name is Reyd. Reyd Kierngedden…once. I see you are well informed of our origins. The Second Vestal has no doubt advised you of the inevitability of this meeting.”
“Something like that,” Franco muttered. He donned his pants feeling chilled to the bone.
The Shade stood with fluid grace, a motion more like the up-pouring of dark water, melting and reforming from sitting into standing. He drew himself solidly tall, fastened his depthless obsidian eyes on Franco and announced formidably, “This is your Calling, Franco Rohre. Do you accept it?”
Franco actually felt the power threatening in the Shade’s announcement, but he had long since accepted his fate. “I do.”
“Well and good.” Some of the menace left the Shade’s manner. “The First Lord despises the taking of life, though it has been sadly necessary of late.”
Franco had waited a long time for this moment. Dreading the answer, he asked, “What is…my Calling?”
“’Tis not my place to say, even should I know the truth. Make your way to the First Lord’s sa’reyth. You will find the node in the Kutsamak, three days west of Raku in the dawn shadow of Jar’iman Point. Tell those who watch that you have done as you were bidden. Wait there for further instruction.”
“What of my affairs here?”
“You have one day to arrive at the sa’reyth or someone will be sent to retrieve you, and under those circumstances, Franco Rohre, the First Lord’s messenger will not be so amiable.”
This is amiable?
“I am in the employ of the Fourth Vestal,” Franco blurted. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to confess that truth; whether it was because he knew in saying it to a Shade that the First Lord would learn of it, or whether it was in conflict over abandoning Raine.
“Face you some quandary of allegiances? Do you renege on your Calling and choose to serve the First Lord’s enemies instead?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Then we have nothing left to speak of.” He began fading even as he added, “One turn of the sun, Franco Rohre…”
Then he was gone.
Almost as if timed, a tentative knock came upon the door. “Milord,” murmured the voice of Ysolde’s chambermaid. “Milord, are you up?” She tapped lightly again, “My Lord Rohre?”
Franco shook himself from his stupor and went to answer the door. He poked his head through, trying desperately to remember the maid’s name. “Emma, is it?”
“Eva, milord.”
“Right. What is it you needed, Eva?”
She look
ed a bit round-eyed. “Milord, it’s—”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Rohre,” came a male voice from behind the girl. Franco shifted his head to see a man standing across the room. From his cinnamon hair, so like the queen’s, and his angular features, so like the king’s, Franco surmised this could only be the young Prince Ean. For all he’d already been through, he seemed barely a man. Do those broad shoulders have the strength to withstand the coming months?
He’s no younger than you were when you took your oath, a voice reminded Franco.
Ean stepped further into the room. “Might I have a moment of your time?”
Your moments are numbered. Count them carefully.
“Of course,” Franco answered. Then he managed a smile. “I confess you take me by surprise. If I could have just a moment to dress…”
“Of course,” Ean said, looking embarrassed that Franco had even thought to ask. Franco looked to the chambermaid. “Eva, might you bring us some wine?”
“Right away, milord.” She curtsied and fled.
The Espial closed the bedroom door and rummaged around until he found a clean tunic, all the while wondering what business Prince Ean could have with him.
The prince was seated at a table in the arch of a bay window when Franco reentered Ysolde’s sitting room. He observed the boy carefully as he approached.
He hadn’t read the prince’s letter himself, but from all accounts, he’d been through hell. Who knew if it wasn’t the same Shade that just visited Franco that had killed the prince’s blood-brother? Franco had no doubt Ean’s tale was true, though he was both baffled and intrigued as to why the Fifth Vestal would have any interest in this northern prince.
He took a seat across from Ean while rain lashed the windowpanes beside them. “How can I be of service, Your Highness?”
Ean’s gaze shifted from the storm to settle on the Espial. Franco gauged the prince to be the genuine sort, with wolf-grey eyes and cinnamon hair framing angular features—a fine looking man by any standard.
“I came in the hopes of a candid conversation, Mr. Rohre.”
“Call me Franco.”
“Franco, then. I—” but the prince paused, frowned. Franco waited patiently while Ean seemed to grapple with his own thoughts, clearly embroiled in some inner struggle. Finally, he lifted eyes to Franco again and continued, “I don’t know how much you know of what happened to me, but I’ve no doubt you heard a Shade was involved.”
“Indeed.”
“There was also another man, an assassin. Three times he tried to kill me. Twice he almost succeeded. The third time, the last time I saw him, he fell from a tree to his death, impaled by his own poisoned dagger loosed by the zanthyr’s hand.”
Franco noted Ean’s inflection. The zanthyr. Already the prince was speaking as if there was no other zanthyr in the world. Knowing the creature that served Björn van Gelderan, however, Franco wasn’t surprised; no doubt Björn’s zanthyr felt the same way about himself.
“The zanthyr named the assassin,” Ean continued. “He called him Geshaiwyn.”
It was the last thing Franco was expecting. “Geshaiwyn,” he repeated.
Ean leaned elbows on the table intently. “What are Geshaiwyn, Mr. Rohre?”
“Franco,” he corrected absently. He pressed lips together and looked up beneath his brows at the prince, intensely curious now. “Geshaiwyn are a Wildling race. They hail from the province of Malchiarr, near Dheanainn. I don’t know how much you understand about the Wildling races, but it is a peculiar trait among some third-stranders that they can shapeshift. Some, like Avieths, are accepted among the races of mankind. Geshaiwyn, not so much. Geshaiwyn can change the shape of their faces to mimic anyone. Their mimicry is never perfect, but it is often close enough to pass a cursory glance.” He grunted, adding, “The fact is, no one is certain what any of them truly look like.”
Franco sat back in his chair and clasped hands in his lap. “Besides their…unusual sense of humor, they are particularly troublesome because they can also travel like Espials. Do you follow my meaning, Your Highness? Their nature crosses strands with the second. They can travel the lesser portals, what we Nodefinders call leis.”
Ean received this news with thoughtful silence.
Franco offered, “Can you be certain that the man who died in the end was the same one who attacked you the first time?”
“No,” Ean muttered, gazing off with a troubled frown. “The first one was a lunatic, kept going on about his dagger named Jeshuelle. I thought they caught him after his second attempt on my life, but I didn’t see him well the third time.”
“But this zanthyr killed him, you said.”
“Assuredly.”
“Well, that’s a boon at least.”
Ean retreated to his thoughts once more, and in the following silence, Franco considered the prince. He wondered what question Ean really wanted to ask but dared not yet broach, for it was obvious that the young man was chewing on something gritty and raw. “Your Highness,” Franco posed, hoping to help things along, “I wonder…have you any idea why a Shade would come to your rescue?”
Ean blinked at him. “My rescue?” Ean shook his head and declared somewhat hotly, “Clearly you know nothing of what transpired.”
“I know enough,” Franco pressed, holding the prince’s gaze. “And I know something of Shades. Perhaps you know a little of me?”
The prince shrugged. “I know your name, along with the names of forty-nine others. You survived the fall of the Citadel.”
Franco cast him a grim smile. “Would that I might say it so cavalierly...”
Ean’s expression instantly shamed. He held up a hand of apology. “I’m sorry. It is…odd…to speak of these things. They’re just events in a book to me.”
The chambermaid Eva arrived with the wine and goblets and set them on the table between them. Franco nodded to her, and she curtsied and left them.
“As I was saying,” Franco said as he poured their wine, “though I didn’t read your letter, I know enough of Shades to understand that if they’d meant to kill you, you wouldn’t be here now.”
Ean shook his head. “It was the zanthyr—”
“That zanthyr could be in league with the Shade for all we know, Your Highness. You can’t rely on anything a zanthyr claims, and especially that one. His motives were ever his own.”
Ean grabbed Franco’s wrist in a sudden fierce hold. His eyes bored into Franco’s fervently. “You know him? How can you know him?”
Franco silently cursed his loose tongue. “There are not so many zanthyrs who fraternize with Shades,” he hedged lightly, trying to dig himself from the hole his carelessness had dug, “or dare to take them on. If this zanthyr is the one I suspect, he cannot be trusted.”
Ean released the Espial and leaned back in his chair with a grunt. “Yes, he said as much himself.”
Franco regarded him steadily, wondering… If Ean had traveled with the First Lord’s zanthyr, how much had the creature already told him of the conflict? And what role do you play in it, Prince of Dannym?
“Your Highness, did this zanthyr by chance mention to whom the Shades are bound?”
Ean held his gaze intently. “He said they thrived in the Fifth Vestal’s shadow.”
Franco was relieved that he didn’t have to broach that truth himself. “Might I ask you then, have you put any thought into how the Fifth Vestal knows of you? Why he would be interested in you?”
Ean grunted. “I have no idea.” Suddenly he pinned Franco with a look of naked torment. “So much depends upon my solving these riddles—if I can’t…if I can’t, I shall never be able to avenge my blood-brother’s death. I’ve wracked my brain for days with these questions, trying to imagine why Björn van Gelderan—by Epiphany and all that’s holy—would take an interest in me.”
Exhaling a frustrated sigh, Ean pushed a hand through his hair and then pressed palms to his eyes. “I can see the moment I set foot upon the path that le
d me to today,” he confessed in a choked voice, “and I rue every step I took between then and now. I can’t help wondering, what if we never landed on that beach? Would it have been enough to change our paths to now? Would my blood-brother still be alive if we’d anchored in Calgaryn harbor, if I’d cared less for my own safety and more for that of others?”
Franco knew too well the hazards of regret. How long had he treaded the knife-edge of reason wishing he could undo the choices of his past? Wondering if he’d only done this or that, would things have been different? Might he have lived a normal life and died a natural death? Might he have been spared the suffering of three centuries of self-abasement, or the shame of a single catastrophic choice which could never be unmade?
“Don’t follow those roads, My Prince,” Franco advised, hearing the ache in his own tone though he’d tried to speak dispassionately. “They lead to dark places, caverns so deep and twisted that a man can lose himself in them forever.”
Ean lifted grey eyes to meet his. After a moment he exhaled and shook his head. “I know…you’re right. It’s just…this all began when I returned from Edenmar. I can’t help but wonder where we’d be if I’d never come home.”
Franco eyed him inquisitively. “Did it?”
“Did what?” Ean gazed blankly at him.
“Did it really begin with your return? It would seem quite a few people had already taken an interest in you before you set foot upon Dannish soil. Such things take time to orchestrate.”
Ean immediately saw the truth of that.
“Did anything happen before you returned?” Franco posed.
The prince thought hard, verbally retracing his steps. “Not really. I was aboard my grandfather’s ship for six months. I only saw land one week out of that time, and all of it was spent sealing invitations—”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 41
