by Dan Allen
Verick sheathed his sword, unbuckled his sword belt and handed it with one arm to Reann. “You have my sword and my pledge. My vengeance dies this day. I will restore the heirs of Toran and so seek to end my curse.”
Whispers again ran through the gathered crowd.
Reann drew the sword. It was a lot heavier than Verick made it look. She inspected it, point aloft, and then slid it back into its scabbard.
“So long as you shall use it in my service, may this blade bring you honor.” She handed it back and rose up on her toes to plant a delicate kiss on Verick’s cheek.
Verick stood steady, though his eyes flinched at the words. He found his voice as Reann squeezed his hand once again. He bent to one knee. “I swear this day that I will, with you all as my witnesses, give my life to the cause of restoring the throne and the kingdom of Toran. If by this I may purge my father’s sin, I so dedicate myself. And so I beg your mercy.”
The crowd fell into an abyss of silence.
Reann was the most surprised of all.
Had he known she would do this? Had he decided already to abandon his quest? Or was he only playing at loyalty because her trap had left him no other options.
Reann could accept only one reality.
“Let us be allies, so long as we both live,” Reann said. “You have buried the dishonor of the past. I ask all my subjects to let their hatred also pass away.” She had won the first battle of her life. All that remained was to get her throne—and she had no idea how she would manage that.
Verick looked up and smiled for the first time at Reann, who reflected back a rather quizzical expression. He let go of Reann’s hand and turned his palm outward, indicating the young woman standing at his side.
“I give you Reann, daughter of Toran.”
The swelling wave of emotion broke into a chorus.
“It cannot be.”
“I say, she’s a servant at the castle.”
“Nay, look at her features. I see something of the man.”
A voice rose from the crowd. It was an old fellow. “Listen all, to what I know.”
“Hear old Dentr!” another voice shouted. “Let him speak.”
The crowd paused, but their nervous bodies seethed and writhed like trapped serpents.
The man called Dentr stood as straight as his aged body would allow. Reann knew him. She had served him many times as a guest at the castle and he had always been polite to her.
He gestured at Reann. “She was born,” he said solemnly, “seventeen years ago to Emra, daughter of Rembra, captain at arms. I knew Rembra. I was there in Dervan, when we fought to the last man, when the robbers fell upon us like a sandstorm and Toran fell wounded and there was no one else beside him but Rembra and his sons. Who could be more worthy to bear the seed of the king than Emra, his daughter?”
Reann’s face flushed to hear her mother spoken of in such honored terms.
“I cannot say for sure Toran was her father,” the man said in a solid voice that rumbled over the crowd with such passion and ferocity co-mingled. “But if she knows her father, she will bear the token of his victory there, taken from his place of hiding, which only the most loyal knew.”
“I second that,” Tromwen said. “We were a small band there.” Tromwen’s eyes drifted. “I recall it as well—a token only the heir can bear.”
“What kind of token?” shouted a young noble.
The challenge was laid by this old man who showed by his scratched and scarred face to have suffered uncountable wounds in battle.
“Hear old Tromwen, too. He speaks the truth. I’ll stake my fortune on it.”
“Hear! Hear! Let her present the token.”
“Can she show it?”
Reann’s hand moved suddenly to her chest, a defensive gesture. But the eyes of the crowd tracked the motion. Reann clutched the pouch under her dress. Her heart beat against the one thing that connected her with her parents.
Verick looked to Reann, eyes wide. “You have something from Toran?”
Hands shaking terribly, Reann looked down and drew out the black pouch to a collective breath, which they each held as her small fingers opened it and reached in.
The lamp light scattered in a hundred directions as she removed the finger-sized crystal and held it aloft, its color shifting continuously in the flickering lamp light.
“Lyrium,” Verick whispered.
Reann scarcely had time to register the word she had read in Toran’s diary. Showing the crystal to the gathered nobles, she said, “I am the fifth child of Toran.” She spoke, feeling the words come from her as if they had life of their own, “The heiress of Erdal.”
“She speaks truth!” Dentr declared. “A gem from the forbidden cavern!” He raised his arms and covered his head, then dropped to one knee.
Others in the crowd followed, until all had given the sign of submission. Verick could not, for Reann clasped his hand too tightly to allow it.
As Reann lowered the crystal, a face flickered across it. Then dozens of faces spilled into the facets and a chorus of voices sounded in her head.
Shaking off the strangeness of the sight, she looked around at the crowd, heads still bowed under their arms.
A soaring feeling came over Reann. I’m the crown princess! But the glowing awe collapsed almost instantly into a burden that closed around her like a python’s grip, the weight of a kingdom.
Reann whispered out of the corner of her mouth to Verick, “Well, neither of us died. What now?”
“They can’t kneel all evening,” Verick said. “Do something about it.”
“Rise,” she said simply.
The nobles stood.
“We all rise into a brighter future. We will strengthen the bonds of loyalty, the true strength of Erdal. From this place our renewed allegiance will reach out to our sister realms. I intend to serve you first of all, as I always have. And I intend to lead as my father did, hand in hand,” she raised Verick’s hand and beckoned for Tromwen to join hands with her.
“All hail the princess Reann of Erdal, heiress of Toran,” commanded Dentr, the aged fellow who had challenged Reann to produce the evidence of her claim to the throne.
Immediately the room roared with a hundred voices.
“HAIL, REANN OF ERDAL!”
The power of the cheer was so loud that Reann felt it beat through her entire being.
“HAIL, THE HEIRESS OF TORAN!”
It was so loud she knew that all the eavesdropping servants had heard it as well. At the thought of it, she realized she was more scared to face them than the nobles.
Arrangements were hastily made to move Reann, and Verick at her behest, to the centermost table near the lectern.
The meal was roast pheasant, something Reann had never eaten before. But her stomach was so upset with anxiety that she could scarcely eat anything. And it was just her luck to be served by Carena, who upon seeing Reann seated at the head table and being called “Lady Reann” froze in a pose of absolute terror.
Reann looked at her. “Carena?”
She dropped the tray. Only the sound of the dishes breaking shook her from the shock. Her face continued moving from green envy to pale doubt, fear, red anger, and finally complete and total embarrassment. She gathered a jug and her tray and jetted out of the room like a chased rabbit.
“Someone you know?” Tromwen said politely.
“My roommate.”
“Ah, you mean your handmaiden,” he corrected.
“Uh.” She looked at Verick who nodded.
“Yes,” Reann said, feeling a stab of pain shoot through her middle. It felt like betrayal to leave her friends behind and, worse, to serve her. It added to the knot in her stomach.
Reann didn’t see Carena the rest of the evening.
Tromwen continued the scheduled events by
announcing the entertainment: singers, musicians, and dancers.
Reann was offered wine in a large goblet, which Verick graciously moved out of her reach.
Verick was already defending her.
“You should eat only shared dishes,” Verick whispered. “You could be poisoned. And only take your drinks from the hand of a friend.”
He offered his own water glass, which Reann sipped carefully.
“Poisoned?” she asked playfully.
“Missed my chance, I’m afraid,” he said.
Reann exchanged a smile with Verick. She took a large swallow and gulped. Then it hit her.
“Verick, where am I going to sleep tonight? I can’t go back to the servant’s quarters . . . I just can’t.”
“You will sleep in my chambers,” he said quietly.
“But where will you sleep? All the rooms are taken.”
“I will not sleep tonight. You do not yet have guards you can trust.”
Reann leaned her head against his arm. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about your friends either.”
Reann nodded, but she couldn’t sever thirteen years of fellowship with a thought. They were her family: Katrice, Carena—even Ret.
What would Ret say? He’d better not say anything, Reann determined. Or I’ll give him demerits.
That thought made her smile.
Reann looked around the room. Eyes glared and gazed. Others peered sidelong at her. Some eyed her as they drank from their glasses. It was as though she had lived her life invisible and suddenly become real and tangible.
“Everyone is looking at me,” Reann whispered.
“Don’t do anything foolish then,” Tromwen urged.
“You will not treat the princess like a child, sir,” Verick returned. “I fear your advice borders on undeserved censure.”
“You are most welcome, both of you, for your concern,” Reann said quickly, hoping to defuse the tension. “Shall we have a dance?”
Reann raised her hand and nodded to the head musician who seemed to have been waiting for her cue—how long he had been waiting she didn’t know. Then she offered her hand to Verick, who stood and lifted her. She stepped carefully around the table, her hand held aloft gently by Verick’s. She nodded to Tromwen, who rose and gave a heartier pull to raise his much rounder wife, whose eyes made desperate protests. Reann nodded to three other nearby couples, one from each of the major counties neighboring Erdal, and the group descended again into the “dogfighting pit,” as Ret called it, and began a simple three-step waltz.
Reann was not a perfect dancer and was becoming more aware of it by the moment. But Verick was as exquisite and accurate in his dance footwork as he was at his swordsmanship and made easy work of keeping her moving the right direction. It was as if time had stopped.
During a waltz, he drew her quickly to his chest and lifted her around swiftly out of the way of another waltzing couple. He set her back down as smoothly as if the dance move had been practiced.
Reann wished he hadn’t had to set her back down.
“That was a close call,” she breathed.
“Perhaps it’s a good time to make a graceful retreat,” he suggested.
Reann and Verick turned once more and ascended out of the center of the room. Other couples joined the dance in their place.
The music and dancing took Reann right out of time. The worries and fears somehow retreated into oblivion and a pure joy like nothing she had ever felt slipped into her middle and spread through her arms and legs, like being wrapped in a fuzzy, fur blanket. She clapped with the music and smiled and, around her, other smiles emerged.
Reann stood and joined in a circle dance. Verick watched this time from his dinner chair where a portion of pheasant vied for his attention.
Boys.
Reann shook many hands after the dance and made countless introductions. She knew nearly all of them—it was her job to know the guests and their likes and dislikes. She amused a table by naming each guest in turn and telling some vegetable or seasoning they didn’t like or which they habitually requested.
A young noble, only a few years her senior, asked about Reann’s food preferences.
She froze. It was a topic far too embarrassing to attempt to touch.
She had no answer besides “fresh table scraps,” the alternative being “old scraps.” So she pointed to an uneaten portion of bread pudding. “Are you going to finish that, or may I have it?”
His eyes widened in shock.
“I jest,” she said with a twinkle in her eye that brought out a chorus of full-bellied laughs from bearded men at the table.
“Or, if you are finished, shall I clear your plates?”
The old men in the group, by this time well drunk, roared with laughter at a princess playing at serving tables.
“It is past my bedtime,” Reann admitted. “And so I must retire.”
“Not so soon,” begged a gentleman with kind eyes and a bulging belly. “We haven’t had so much to celebrate in thirteen years.”
“Celebrate on,” she said. “I insist—it is my first edict.”
“More grog, then!” roared his friend, raising his glass. “More grog—Princess Reann’s orders!”
The nearby tables chittered with polite laughter. Reann made her way back around to the head table, where she stood and waved her good-bye to the assemblage.
But it wasn’t just Verick that escorted her back upstairs. An honor guard of soldiers with shields and halberds shepherded her up the four flights to the top story of the castle.
Verick opened the door with his room key and followed Reann inside. As the heavy door swung shut, Reann closed her eyes and breathed out a long, slow breath, letting everything that she had just experienced wash over her one more time.
She drifted to the bed and sat carefully on the corner of it—she had made up the bed that very morning. “You don’t have to stay up all night,” Reann offered as she sat on Verick’s bed. “I can have Ret bring you some blankets.”
“I have . . . a lot to think about,” Verick confessed, his expression heavy, his eyes now red-lined.
Reann peeled back one of the heavy blankets and tossed it toward him. “Take this. I’ll roast under all these blankets.”
“Shall I call someone to help you undress?” Verick asked, facing away.
“Are you serious?” Reann laughed. “Why would I want somebody to help me undress?”
Verick lifted an eyebrow.
“Actually, on second thought, could you just pull that tie loose?” Reann looked over her shoulder at the tight knot the Furendali girls had put in the lace bodice of her dress.
“I’m not accustomed to such work,” Verick admitted.
Reann tried not to giggle. “Fine, then just cut it.”
Verick inclined his head. Then he whipped out his saber.
She winced.
With a swish of his blade the pressure around her middle vanished.
“I can mend it tomorrow,” she said softly. “Even princesses are expected to know how to sew, right?”
“I wouldn’t know, my lady.”
Reann hopped onto the bed and pulled the drapes shut between the bedposts.
“And no peeking.”
“Says the one who sneaks into—”
“Oh bother,” Reann laughed. “Can’t a princess have any peace?”
“By your leave,” Verick said quietly. The chair squeaked as he sat. The sheathed saber always by his side dropped onto the stone floor with a clatter.
At that, Reann pulled the white dress over her head, draped it over the curtains of her bed, and removed the corset which came loose with a simple tug at the tie. She buried herself beneath cool cotton sheets, sheets that she had only ever felt as she folded them in the laundry.
; Outside crickets chirped, the same crickets that serenaded the servants.
Chapter 25
Montazi Realm.
Megaliths rose and fell like hills with progressively deeper gaps and wider canyons between them. Nema’s dragon Cymr flew at a bedraggled pace that mocked Terith’s urgency.
Dull throbs and stabs issued from Terith’s arm, leg, and ribs. He kept a salvaged Outlander sword, a bow, a clutch of arrows, and his cloak by his side. No water, no food, nothing to sustain him for any longer than his task would allow.
He led Cymr south and east through driving afternoon rain toward the extreme eastern edge of the megaliths. There, hidden beneath the ivy and the fog, Toran’s trail led along the sides of sheer cliffs from the megaliths of the Montas out into the Outlands to the realm of his mother. How bitter that thought was. It was as if his blood had come pre-poisoned with some act of treason.
Again Terith recalled the strange question Tanna had asked once, not so many weeks before.
Did you ever feel like your future lies somewhere outside the Montas?
She knew. She knew! And she never told me anything.
Doubt stung his heart like scorpion’s venom.
Erdali and Outlander blood, but no Montazi—yet I became a rider. I share the awakening and bond with Montazi. How can that be? It passes only from a Montazi mother to her child.
Why would Toran bear a child of a foreigner? And why did my father abandon me?
Was I . . . a mistake?
In that hollow void of doubt there moved something new, something foreign.
Fear.
Terith trembled with dread. And in the wash of panic that seized him, the Montazi connection to the awakening was obliterated.
Fear controlled his fate now, more than anything. In the darkness of dread, he was no Montazi.
Like my parents.
