by Dan Allen
Tanna’s mouth dropped in a silent gasp. “I’ll just . . . be on my way.” She stepped onto the path, ignoring the newly arrived woman, either out of spite or embarrassment, and scuttled out of view.
Terith breathed, becoming vaguely aware of his heart pounding harder in his chest. “Lilleth?”
“Is that who you wanted me to be?” she said calmly, stepping from behind the broad fern.
Terith couldn’t tell from her voice whether she was angry or smiling. He ran over and scooped her into his arms. “Are you trying to get bitten by scorpions?” he teased. “You know it isn’t safe to be out this late alone.”
Lilleth locked her hands behind his neck and swung her feet down giving him a good stare.
She saw things. Terith knew that. Even when she wasn’t calling the awakening she still saw things.
“Stories for children . . . and a test for a dragon rider,” she whispered, discerning his most recent memories. “You never rest, do you?”
“I . . . I wasn’t expecting you. To come—I mean all the way down here.”
Lilleth broke her gaze and let her hands slide down to his arms. “I didn’t walk all the way,” she said quietly. “There were ore carts. And I rode Werm’s new pulley down from Hintertat—that was bumpy.”
Terith laughed.
Where were the insects? he wondered. Terith couldn’t tell whether all other sounds had stopped, or whether Lilleth had simply overwhelmed all his other senses. Like all Montazi, she had a light tan on smooth, hairless skin, and large eyes. Though some Montazi had streaks of blond or white in their hair, Lilleth’s was all one color, a dark brown shade, the color of polished hardwood. Her deep brown eyes drew him away from gazing at her gently curved hips and generous lips.
“Did I ever tell you that you’re gorgeous?”
“Yes,” she said, holding his gaze. “And I do need an escort back.”
“Of course,” Terith said.
“Unless you have a date with some other eligible, perhaps?” Lilleth said.
“Uh, no. No. No. Definitely no.”
She smiled. “So sure?”
Terith grimaced. “So you overheard that . . . me . . . yeah.”
Lilleth laughed. She never giggled like Enala, whose bubbly laugh was as contagious as a fortnight plague.
Lilleth’s eyes narrowed. “Can I make do with you?” she said, voicing more doubt than Terith wanted to hear.
She stepped away and looked east to the darkening sky. “Can I trust you, in everything?”
Again, Terith’s heart pattered with anxiety. He didn’t dare answer.
“I seek loyalty,” she said, without looking at him.
“I know,” Terith said. “And I—”
She held up her hand. “Mya? Is that you hiding in the moss vine? And your friends?”
Multiple sets of feet pattered away in panic.
“You too,” Lilleth said, pointing to one Terith couldn’t see.
The sounds of retreating eavesdroppers faded.
“So you came all the way down to Neutat just to see me?” Terith ventured.
Lilleth swished her skirt as a foot-sized buzzing scorpion moved past her and into the cover of the moss vine.
She had just saved the children from its paralyzing sting.
Terith would have hurled one of his knives at it, but Lilleth wouldn’t have approved.
“Well . . . partially,” she said. “I came to see Tanna. But at the moment she probably doesn’t want to see me.”
“Yeah.” Terith wondered what Lilleth could have wanted the seamstress for. Then recognition dawned. Her past.
“You wouldn’t have seen anything to make you doubt me,” Terith said confidently. “I never kissed her or anything.”
“She was too old for you anyway,” Lilleth said knowingly.
“Why, then?”
Lilleth opened her mouth, and then closed it. She offered her hand. “The high road has fewer scorpions. Shall we?”
The journey to Ferrin-tat with Lilleth by his side was as pleasant as any he had ever taken. Terith spoke of dragons. Lilleth talked of the other eligible and their considerable talents. The easy tranquility was only marred by Lilleth’s mention of Pert riding in the challenge.
Pert, the dangerous rider from the southern Montas, had left a trail of dead bodies in the deep on his way to becoming champion. There was no doubt he knew Ferrin’s time as chief was short. He wanted to be chief, and it did not bode well for anyone that got in his way.
Lilleth’s voice wavered as she spoke of Terith facing Pert in the challenge, belying a deeper dread.
She spoke with an unnerving certainty, a hope-starving fatalism.
“There is something dark in him.”
As she turned her eyes to look at Terith, they said unmistakably, I fear for you.
Chapter 4
Erdali Realm. Citadel of Toran.
Reann raced down the corridor of the castle clutching a bundle of documents to her chest.
“Act your age!” the head housekeeper Hamut barked at her.
“Trying!” Reann replied instantly, hurrying past. Then she stopped suddenly. She would officially come of age at the summer solstice, only a month away. She would no longer be a ward of the citadel.
She would have to leave the castle.
Reann shook off the worry and hurried again down the corridor and down two flights of a wide circular stair.
Although nobody knew precisely what her age was, Reann inwardly held that she still had another half year of being seventeen, hoping the few extra months would add more curves to her figure in the place of other features she would be glad to be rid of, like her hollow cheeks and a few freckles.
“Tromwen! Lord Tromwen!” she called as she hurried through the castle foyer and out the double doors into the courtyard. The early summer sun had just begun to light the sky.
By dawn, as promised, she thought in a moment of self-approval.
“Late, as usual,” said the page on duty as she stopped beside the carriage he was attending. His name was Ret, or “Wretch” as Reann preferred to call him. He was lanky and older than her by a year at least. He had taken a permanent servant position at the castle, a hopeless end Reann desperately wanted to avoid.
Between heavy breaths she gave her reply to Ret. “Lateness . . .
attends greatness. Cercanis the Conqueror . . . Essays on Efficiency, Volume Two.”
“Ah, Reann,” a voice called from the carriage, interrupting Ret’s reply. “Is that you I hear citing etiquette?”
Reann pushed a lock of twisted brown hair away from her face as the Wretch opened the carriage door.
Reann stepped smartly up the step and past Ret who sniffed and crinkled his nose at her as she passed, as if to suggest she stank.
She hadn’t taken the time to tie her shoulder-length hair back, as she usually did. But it wasn’t as though she didn’t wash—although she had been busy for the past few—well, she didn’t want to think about that.
Ret would pay regardless.
Reann sat on the carriage bench across from Lord Tromwen.
The governor was tall and charismatic, though not handsome—he was older than the fortress itself. He ruled the Tandal province, several days’ journey along the Erdal River’s east fork.
“You haven’t worked all night again!” Tromwen said, smiling broadly.
“It helps that you’re the last of the governors to leave the annual conference,” Reann said, reversing the compliment, as the rules suggested. “Your dedication to keeping our realm together is a virtue.”
“I hope I don’t abuse your kindness with my personal requests,” Tromwen offered on a softer note. “Dealing with governors like me must be a burden.”
Reann rolled her eyes at the thought. “The rest only care about
their provinces. I don’t see how the realm stays together without a sovereign.”
“Twelve years,” Tromwen noted in his always-pleasant voice. “We’ve lasted that long without Toran.”
“Thirteen,” Reann corrected. “With all the bickering and intrigue, if I didn’t have chores to sneak off to I would be a permanent blackmail researcher.”
“Speaking of . . .” Tromwen said, rubbing his hands together. “What do you have for me?”
Reann handed over the first bundle of documents. “The count’s claims to the Olter vineyards are invalid due to a prior treaty with your late father’s estate.” She thumbed through the stack to a handwritten document and turned down the corner. “I’ve explained it all here.”
“Very good,” Tromwen said, his eyes twinkling with delight at the discovery that would keep the famous wine flowing into his markets.
“Also,” Reann continued, “your cousin from Telith Province, who wants you to give up your water rights in the Verim Heights, had an illegitimate child, which I’m sure he wants kept a secret.” She handed the last document, this one sealed. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing your response. You can break the seal and read it if you like.”
“Too much bother,” Tromwen said. “I’m sure you captured the gist of the accusation.” He pressed his ring to the still-warm wax. “Done.” He smiled gently. “You’re a very special girl, Reann. You’ve got the genius of your mother. I knew her. Pity she was blind. She was a fine court translator—a natural.”
“Hmm,” Reann said awkwardly, not sure whether to tell Tromwen that translating really wasn’t very hard or whether to just accept the compliment.
“None of us expected your mother—what was her name again?—to run off like that. But maybe it was a blessing after all, with you being here at the castle with the library to help folks like me.”
“Well,” Reann said, admitting a smile, “I do enjoy reading.”
“But you know, Reann,” Tromwen said seriously, “You can’t stay here forever reading books. Have you found an employer? You could be a tutor, or—”
“Still looking,” Reann said, though she hadn’t started. She wasn’t going to leave the castle. She was going to find her real employer—
a person whom nobody knew. “I’m not of age yet. I’m still a ward of Toran’s estate.”
“Oh, so is that the legal term for castle servant?” Tromwen said with a smile. “I don’t suppose I can argue the point with you. I haven’t got half your wit.”
Reann grinned at the compliment. She treasured every reminder that she was more than just a thankless maid. Whatever her future held, she could hold on to moments like that.
Tromwen gave a kind smile. “Well . . . until next time, you’ll be well?”
She nodded and ducked out of the carriage.
“Dash it all,” Tromwen said with a start. “Reann, one more thing!”
She turned back.
“The Benevolent Fraternity of Traders is having a ceremony in a few weeks to honor someone called the Lady of the North, and they want a noble to present the award.”
Reann had overheard a Furendali governor say to his fellow who bet on a losing hand at cards that he “would have had better luck with the Lady of the North.” Apparently, it was a nickname for a woman with a very cold heart.
She was getting an award?
“What sort of ceremony?” Reann said. Her interest was piqued to know that allies from the northern realm would be arriving.
“She led a rescue expedition in the dead of winter to save a stranded group bringing supplies overland from the frozen harbor at Zingat.”
“Amazing,” Reann said.
“Yes, it’s all very inconvenient. But I’d rather—”
“You’d rather not come all the way back here just after you left, and you need a really good excuse and someone else to attend in your place?” Reann guessed.
He nodded with a smile that showed a look of relief.
“Consider it done,” Reann said. The ceremony was two weeks away. There was plenty of time to make arrangements. Besides, Reann looked forward to having an excuse to inject herself into the event. It was a chance to gather otherwise unreachable information about a favorite mystery, if she worked things right.
“On then,” Tromwen said. “A journey that starts ahead of the sun . . .”
. . . stays ahead of trouble, Reann thought wistfully. The roads were not as safe as they once were, especially for a wealthy man.
The driver clapped the reigns and the carriage rolled away on the cobblestones.
“He was about to tip me,” Ret said indignantly. “You interrupted him. You owe me a half piece.”
Reann rolled her earth-brown eyes. “What would you do with it, waste it on mandolin strings and rum?”
“Just mandolin strings,” Ret corrected, as he parted the stringy hair that perpetually hung in front of his eyes. “And why didn’t he tip you?”
Reann dipped her hand into her apron pocket and drew out a full piece. She opened her palm proudly, showing the copper coin bearing the compass mark of Toran. “He pays me in advance. I worked all night in the library for this.”
“I worked all night in the stables.”
“Oh, that’s what I smell,” Reann said, wrinkling her nose.
“I thought I smelled old maid just now,” Ret said.
“Just sour grapes.”
In a flash Ret snatched the small coin and swallowed it.
Reann gasped.
“Just borrowing it. I’ll return it in your room in a few days.” Ret’s face took on an entirely new level of smugness.
For once, she was speechless. She turned and stomped back toward the castle.
“Reann,” Ret called. “I’m just kidding. I have it right here. I palmed it.”
Reann made a grimace and never gave a second thought to turning around and conceding defeat.
Let him feel guilty a while. He can return it with an apology.
“Sorry,” he called as she returned through the kitchen entrance of the gray granite castle.
He’ll have to do better than that, she thought, pushing the Wretch from her mind. The conference of governors was over. It was high time to get serious about finding her future employer.
The king.
There was no publicly acknowledged heir to Toran, but those closest to him believed he had fathered several heirs in secret. If one of those could be found, Reann would take her mother’s place as court translator, a nonexistent position in a castle without a king. Yet despite years of studying Toran’s past and the chronicles of his reign, Reann felt as though it would take a lifetime to find an heir.
She didn’t have that long.
Walking swiftly behind the cook who was bent over a pot of broth, Reann plucked a roll from a kitchen basket and pocketed it for later. She moved quickly through the mostly deserted corridors on her nearly worn-through slippers, stepping soundlessly over the rugs and flagstones. She stopped in front of a large oak panel reinforced with rusted iron braces.
She had only been away for a few minutes and now the room was—
Locked!
Doubtless, the head butler had done it to spite her.
Reann looked over her shoulder, then quickly loosened a tie at the top of her blouse and reached into a pocket sewn on the inside, between her breasts—as secure a location as she could invent. She fished out her cast replica key and turned the key in the lock. The click of the latch gave her a tremble of pleasure.
Placing both hands against the great door, Reann pushed with all the force her teenage body could muster. The door gave way, swinging inward a crack with a woeful screech.
Reann crept in through the gap.
In the space beyond lay the treasure of Toran—endless shelves of books lining the walls of a grand room.
On the opposite wall, gaps in the window shutters streaked the dusty air with blades of light.
Reann hurried across the room and pushed the shutters open, flooding the shiny marble floor and the tall shelves with sunlight.
Summer, after the governors’ annual meeting, was the off-season for diplomacy, and the fortress operated liked a high-end inn for traveling dignitaries. But paying visitors would be rare, at least until the midsummer gala, a festival in honor of the late king’s birthday, which drew riffraff and nobles alike.
For now, the library was hers—no cleaning work to interfere, no tutoring lessons to give, and no dignitaries asking incessant questions.
Even the old Furendali wash lady Effel, whose life’s purpose was keeping Reann out of the library with cleaning work, was gone on a pilgrimage to her home village in the frozen plain beyond the northern mountains.
“Pity. No one to give me extra chores,” Reann chimed. She smiled at the thought and gazed around the familiar room stacked with long rows of leather-bound tomes.
Someday, and hopefully soon, she would discover the identity of a young heir in Erdal and the historians would write her name alongside those of Toran and his empire builders.
As it was, Reann had no regent and no future. All her daily slaving was in the hope that someday this castle might once again have a king. Reann wanted to feel needed, and not for washing and cleaning—anything but that. She was only a servant because her mother had left—or died, or both—leaving Reann the sole heir of her late grandfather’s military pension. Rembra had been Toran’s sergeant at arms.
Reann served as an orphan ward of Toran’s estate. Day and night she slaved at laundry or dishes. It was a life, but one she had worked every spare moment to escape.
If there was no greater purpose than mindless work, she might as well run away.
But where would she go?
Nobody had a better chance at finding the heirs than she did. She had Toran’s records. She had the library. And now she finally had the time.
Tying back her hair, she went to a long table to sort and file the documents she had copied for Tromwen. As she turned to replace the records, a piece of color caught her eye—a slice of brown paper amid a stack of glossy tan official documents.
