by Serena Chase
“To be sure. There are hardly enough people in Mynissbyr to justify the Regent’s constant presence. There are but a few hermits to govern within the Wood and most of us live under the idea that life itself is too tenuous to cause each other grief.”
Rose stared at the tub without seeing it. What have I done? Each of the Kingdom’s nine provinces was governed by a leader known as “Regent.” In E’verian nobility, a Regent was ranked directly below the King. Rose groaned. The free tongue of her Veetrish upbringing had been sparring with a Regent—a Regent!—for days.
Rose swallowed. “Is His Grace’s status a . . . secret?” She well knew the trouble of concealing one’s identity. After all, she had done it her whole life.
“Oh, goodness, no!” Bess laughed. “It’s no secret. The whole world knows Sir Gladiel is the Regent of Mynissbyr. Or, I thought it did.” Her smile faded to a question. “Perhaps politics are not so popular a topic in Veetri?”
“No, they’re not. At least not in my family.” Rose paused. “How did you know I’m from Veetri?”
“Your accent is fairly telling.” Bess resumed her action, turning the knob. Suddenly, steaming-hot water gushed out into the tub. “Now let’s get you out of those clothes and you can have a nice long soak while I wash your dress. Do you need help with your hair?”
“Thank you, but I can manage.”
In no time at all Bess had helped her undress, and after reminding Rose of the bell cord, she left with Rose’s dress.
Rose luxuriated in the warmth of the tub, letting its heat spread through her still-chilled body as the sleepy smell of the rich, spicy soap released the tension of the ride.
She dunked under the water to get her hair wet and then scrubbed her scalp, rubbing the soap in her hands and in her hair until her head was covered in frothy lather. When she dunked under to rinse it, however, she was a bit disgusted to discover the soapsuds skimming the water had turned a dull gray color.
I must have been filthier than I thought.
When the bath began to cool she pulled the cork stopper and climbed out of the tub. Even with the fire blazing the room had not yet lost its chill. She reached for the towel and made quick work of drying off.
Rose removed a comb from her saddlebag, turned toward the mirrored door of the armoire, and gasped.
“No . . .” She touched the sodden mass of coppery orange curls that used to be black. “No! Oh no!” Was it the soap? The water?
Rose dropped her head into her hands. Was there anything she could do to fix this? Shivering, she pulled a clean dress from her saddlebag and wrenched it on. Sir Gladiel knew about the ebonswarth dye, so it wouldn’t matter if he saw her. But what about Ayden and Bess? She shuffled through one of her saddlebags, but then stopped. Her hand flew to her mouth. She’d forgotten the skin of powder! It was still stowed in the back of her wardrobe at Mirthan Hall. But even if she had the powder it would be useless. She didn’t have access to a hot sulfur spring.
Defeated, Rose returned to the mirror. She turned from side to side, testing the vision from every angle before facing herself straight on. It was as if she gazed at a stranger.
“So this is what you’re supposed to look like,” she whispered to her reflection, and then jumped when a knock sounded at the door.
“Just a moment!”
Struggling with shaking hands, she reached behind her to fasten as many of her buttons as she could. Using the mirror as a guide, Rose wrapped the towel around her head.
“Oh, look at you!” Bess exclaimed when Rose finally opened the door. “You’ve managed to get dressed on your own! Would you like me to comb out your hair?”
“No!” Rose answered a little too forcefully. “Er, thank you,” she said a bit more softly and summoned a smile, “but I can manage.” Rose touched the towel to make sure it covered the nape of her neck before she turned around. “Could you help me with these last few buttons?”
“Of course.”
Rose bit her lip, praying the towel would stay in place. “I have a pressing matter I need to discuss with Sir Gladiel,” she said when Bess fastened the final button. “Is he about?”
“I’ll fetch him for you, shall I?” Bess smiled, gave Rose a quick curtsy, and left to fetch the knight.
Rose closed the door and rummaged through her saddlebags for something, anything that might help disguise her hair. As she searched, the towel fell from her head. Dark copper hair fell in thick, damp waves over her shoulders and down her back.
“Rose?” Gladiel’s voice rumbled from the other side of the door.
Leaving the towel where it had fallen, Rose walked to the door. Without opening it, she whispered, “Is anyone else upstairs?”
“No,” he replied. “Everyone else is below. Are you unwell?”
Taking a deep breath, Rose opened the door.
In the rush of a word she could not decipher, Gladiel’s breath left him. His face blanched and he grabbed the doorframe as if he had lost his balance.
Rose reached for his arm, pulled him into the room, and shut the door. “It was the bathwater. Or the soap. I’m not sure which. But it—”
“Rose?” Gladiel’s breathing was shallow, his face pasty. “It is you, isn’t it?” He rubbed his eyes and leaned hard against the back of the door.
“Sir Gladiel? Are you ill?”
“Hardly. I just had a bit of a shock, I guess.” A tinge of color returned to his cheeks. He gave her a feeble smile. “I thought I was seeing your mother again, Rynloeft rest her soul.” He took a breath. “You look so much like her now that you’re grown.”
“Sir Gladiel, I don’t know what to do!” She whispered. “In my haste I forgot to pack the ebonswarth powder. And I don’t have any sulfur water, either!”
“Of course, of course.” Gladiel slapped his hand against his forehead. He straightened. “There is nothing we can do, Rose. There are no sulfur springs in the province of Mynissbyr by which to secure the dye. It won’t matter once we’ve reached the Bear’s Rest, but Ayden and Bess mustn’t see you like this. Not yet.”
He began to pace. When it became clear that his pacing would result in nothing of use, Rose used the time to comb out her hair. It had already begun to dry and she knew it would be a mass of tangles if she didn’t get to it.
Sir Gladiel’s pacing continued. Every few moments the knight would stop to scowl in her direction, only to resume his pacing.
Rose ripped the comb through the last tangle with such force that a large knot became a casualty of the fight. Irritated with Gladiel’s silence, but mindful of his near-royal status as a Regent, Rose clenched her jaw to keep quiet. She had already embarrassed herself enough.
First she’d insulted a Regent, the highest-ranking official she had ever met, with disparaging remarks concerning the conditions of his roads. Then she’d managed to ruin a most effective disguise by simply washing her hair, causing a disturbing problem for that same Regent. She knew she should apologize, but how to frame it without embarrassing herself further?
Rose glanced at Gladiel, whose scowl was pensive enough to make her wonder if he would even hear her. Yes, an apology was needed, but now was not the time.
Her hair blissfully detangled, Rose moved a chair closer to the fire to speed its drying. An idea brought her to her feet almost as soon as she sat down. Rose’s sudden movement broke Sir Gladiel’s concentration. He stopped pacing and stared.
A faraway smile crept across his features. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost reverent. “Eyes the hue of jeweled sky,” he whispered, “and head ablaze with fire.”
Rose tilted her head. She had heard similar words, spoken by Lord Whittier the day Mrs. Scyles was dismissed. “That’s part of the poem, isn’t it?”
“Poem?” Gladiel’s brow furrowed. “Er, yes. It’s from a poem, I guess you could say. Pay me no mind. I was thinking aloud. Forgive me.”
Rose blinked. She’d had an idea, but Gladiel’s odd remark had temporarily blown it from her mind. Sh
e bit her lip, trying to remember. Finally, it dawned.
“For tonight at least, couldn’t I just wear my woolen hat?”
“Your hat?” Sir Gladiel let out a breath that visibly relaxed his shoulders. “Yes. I suppose that might do. They may think it odd, but they will not question you for it.”
With a nod, Rose quickly coiled braids around her head, affixed them with pins, and pulled the tight woolen hat over her head. Facing the mirror, she carefully tucked the few stray copper curls inside. The wool had been dyed black, and in the dim light of evening it mimicked her usual hair color. Rose frowned. Her eyebrows were still red.
Eyeing the candle on a nearby stand, she licked her index finger, rubbed her thumb against it, and snuffed the flame. She let go for just a moment and then, gritting her teeth against the heat, rubbed the wick. Moving back to the mirror, she carefully transferred the soot to her brow. Rose straightened, took a deep breath, and a sense of calm returned.
“Very good.” Sir Gladiel nodded. “And once I deliver you to the Bear’s Rest you’ll be secluded enough that you won’t need to worry about your hair anymore.”
“The Bear’s Rest.” Rose didn’t like the sound of it. “You mentioned it before. What is it?”
“It’s a hunting lodge deep in the heart of the Great Wood. Which could explain why it was abandoned!” He winked, but sobered at her look. “It was built nearly fifty years ago by an enterprising young man who wished to make it into a hunting lodge for the nobility. The legends and superstitions surrounding Mynissbyr’s history brought him few guests, however, and he was forced to try his hand elsewhere.” Gladiel rubbed his chin. “It has suffered some from neglect, of course, and Drinius and I have a few more adjustments to make before it is completely finished. But it is quite livable and will serve you well as a home for a while.”
By the door, a bell Rose hadn’t even noticed jingled.
“That would be Bess, calling us to dinner,” Gladiel said. “Ayden rarely has visitors and is looking forward to our evening together.”
“Your brother is delightful. For his sake I shall attempt to be at my most charming. But—”
“Yes?” Gladiel paused, his hand on the door.
“I fear that even at my most charming I might offend. It would appear I’ve grown quite adept at causing offense since leaving Veetri.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, I spent most of the day crossing words with the Regent of Mynissbyr, didn’t I?” She tilted her head.
He smiled. “Bess told you?”
She nodded.
“No need to trouble yourself. I have not been offended in the least and do not require an apology. Now, shall we go to table and see which of the culinary delights of my province Bess has seen fit to serve us tonight?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After a filling meal, the Regent, the earl, and Rose moved to a simply furnished sitting room. As with most of the ground floor of the house, the walls were lined with bookshelves. Rose walked around the room, taking note of familiar titles here and there, amazed at the sheer volume of texts.
They discussed a few of Rose’s favorite books before Ayden remembered her request to learn about the Lady Anya.
“It’s a shame her story has been relegated to the fantastic imaginations of Veetrish Storytellers. It was quite a good story even before they expanded the tale.” Ayden paused for a moment. “Of course, truth needs no enhancement to provide beauty to a story.”
Rose thought on his words for a moment before responding. “But truth is a rather incorporeal concept, don’t you think? Its substance is tempered by the experience of its hearer.”
“Hmm.” Ayden nodded thoughtfully. “Go on.”
“Each time a tale is retold,” Rose said, “it takes on a bit of the personality of the Storyteller. It’s the natural way of things.”
Ayden smiled. “Natural to the Veetrish, perhaps.”
“There is truth that is not subjective.” Gladiel interjected. “Truth that is what it is. It needs no drama or humor or dancing Story People to improve upon. By definition, it is beyond improvement. Beyond argument.”
“But argument leads to discovery and discovery to knowledge, correct?” Rose pointed out.
The men nodded, albeit a bit grudgingly.
“As I’ve been taught,” she continued, “argument is the very basis of learning.”
“Yes, yes.” Ayden leaned forward. “Arguing has its merit. As a means to an end. As a step in a quest.” He rubbed his bearded chin. Unlike the triangular knight’s beard worn by his elder brother, Ayden’s beard was closely cropped and stretched from ear to ear. “Take, for instance,” he continued, “a subject such as mathematics or history. Some things cannot be argued. There is just one correct response to a question, one answer to an equation. One truth.”
“You make a good point about mathematics. Although I tried many times arguing sums with my tutor, she was always able to point out my mistakes.” Rose laughed. “But I disagree with you about history being inarguable.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Wouldn’t the truth of an event depend upon the point of view of the person who recorded it?”
“How so?”
“Well, if Lady Anya defeated the Cobelds, it would be recorded in E’veria’s history as a wonderful victory.”
“She did defeat them,” Gladiel said, crossing his arms.
“And indeed,” Ayden agreed, nodding, “it was a glorious victory.”
“According to whom?”
“Well . . . everyone!” Ayden laughed.
“Ah-ah-ah!” Rose wagged a finger at the enthusiastic academic. “I doubt the Cobelds found Lady Anya’s victory very glorious. If the Cobelds recorded that same event it would be viewed as a terrible defeat.”
“I see. Yes.” Ayden nodded. “But the accounts, if recorded accurately, would arrive at the same end.”
“But not the same conclusion.”
Ayden slapped his knee. Gladiel hooted with laughter.
“Perhaps, brother,” the knight said finally, “you should proceed with the story you promised.”
“Indeed! I believe you were interested in the true story of the brave Lady Anya of Fyrlean Manor and how she delivered E’veria from the traitorous Cobeld invaders, yes?”
“Please!”
Sitting back in his chair, Ayden began. Although he didn’t describe Lady Anya physically, the action of the tale very nearly mirrored Rowlen’s telling.
“But if the Cobelds’ curses are stored inside the hairs of their beards,” Rose asked, “shouldn’t it be easy to avoid being cursed?” Rose wrinkled her nose. “Who would want to get close enough to touch a monster’s beard?”
“The hair can be plucked out, Rose.” Gladiel’s voice was soft. “The curse remains upon it.”
“Oh.” Rose blinked. “Is that how my—”
“Yes.” Gladiel cut off the rest of Rose’s question before she could finish asking, “Is that how my mother died?”
Caught up in the story, she’d forgotten for a moment that Ayden believed her to be Lord and Lady Whittier’s daughter. But now that her mind had turned toward her Veetrish family—while discussing Cobeld curses—her breath caught in her throat.
Surely the duke and duchess would be on their way to the Regent of Veetri’s palace on the northern coast, wouldn’t they? Please be safe, her heart whispered.
“Unfortunately, most of the curses come from plucked hairs rather than direct contact with one of the creatures’ beards.” Ayden shook his head.
“But if the Cobelds are plucking the hairs of their beards all the time to curse people,” she asked, “doesn’t the magic eventually run out?”
“One would hope, but that is not information we have at our disposal,” Gladiel sighed. “We can only assume that, just like our own beards, they grow back.”
“Oh.” She took a breath. “Please go on with Lady Anya’s tale, Ayden. I’m sorry to have gotten us off track.”
&nb
sp; “There is no tangent too wild when one is searching for truth,” he said with a smile. “Now where was I? Ah, the prophecy.”
“Prophecy?”
“Indeed. While disguised among the Cobelds, Lady Anya learned of an ancient prophecy that foretold of hideous beasts—creatures that were half-man and half-bear—that would someday rise up from Mynissbyr Wood and slaughter the Cobelds.”
“But if Lady Anya lived in the Great Wood she must have already known about the Bear-men, right?”
“Patience. I’m getting to that.” Ayden smiled. “Another thing Lady Anya learned during her time with the Cobelds was that somewhere near Mount Shireya a Remedy existed that would put an end to the Cobeld curse. Though she never learned where or even exactly what the Remedy was, the knowledge of its existence gave E’veria great hope for the future.”
“There’s a Remedy?” Rose sat up straighter. “Why is it not in use?”
Gladiel glanced at his brother before answering. “The Remedy has yet to be found.”
“But—”
“Let Ayden tell the story, Rose.”
She bit her lip. “Please, go on.”
“Lady Anya was almost discovered the night she left the Cobeld camp, but she managed to sneak past the roving patrols and made it to a main road. It took her several weeks to travel to Salderyn, but when she was finally admitted to see the King, he and his knights went into action. Every bearskin rug and hunting trophy that could be made into a cloak was fashioned into a disguise of Anya’s design.”
“Wait.” Rose held up a hand. “So you’re telling me that the Bear-men were just men? Men wearing . . . rugs?”
“It’s rather amusing, isn’t it?” Ayden nodded, chuckling. “Though many Cobelds escaped, the power of their number was destroyed. Those who survived fled to the foothills of Mount Shireya, and until a few years ago, they’d remained in hiding there.”
“Why did they come out of hiding?”
“Tell her what happened to Lady Anya.” Gladiel said quickly. Turning to Rose, he gave her a wide smile that seemed a little less sincere, somehow. “I think you’ll enjoy this part of the tale.”
