by Serena Chase
“Dyfnel . . . ?”
“All of Tirandov has assembled to meet you, Princess. Are you ready?”
All of Tirandov? “They expect me to—to address them?”
He laughed. “Indeed. It would be most appropriate, don’t you think?”
Appropriate, yes. I supposed so. But it was also petrifying.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Through the lower glowing arches ringing the center assembly, more people stood in the galleries. Dressed more in tune to the style to which I was accustomed on the mainland, they stood apart from the robed figures that filled the center of the hall.
“Who are they, Dyfnel?” I whispered, indicating those in the galleries. “Why are they dressed differently? And why do they stay back?”
“Those are the wives, husbands, and children of the Andoven who are not Andoven themselves. There are many bloodlines present, and a few of strong Andoven ancestry. Some of our Elders believe that the others should not be here at all.”
Something inside of me rebelled at the arrangement of this gathering, but I had little time to think about its implications as Dyfnel urged me forward and introduced me.
Having never spoken in front of a crowd, I assumed my insecurities would cripple my ability to speak. But for some reason, as I stood before this crowd of my father’s subjects, I felt nothing of the sort. Instead I felt . . . exactly right. Comfortable. Completely at ease.
“Her Royal Highness, Rynnaia, Princess of E’veria,” Dyfnel announced, and then stepped back.
I stepped forward.
“Thank you for allowing me to visit Tirandov Isle. I look forward to the lessons I will receive in this exalted place.” I paused, my eyes drawn back toward the outer borders of the room. Those people were not in the gallery by choice. They were placed there—kept on the edges of this elite society. As my gaze moved back to the bulk of the assemblage, I was somewhat taken aback by the smug expressions on a few of the faces before me.
Cazien’s cryptic warning echoed through my brain: Don’t let them intimidate you.
I took a breath. “I’m sure the news of my survival has been a shock to many of you. Learning my identity has been something of a shock to me, as well. Until recently I had no knowledge of my status as the Ryn, nor did I know that Andoven blood flowed in my veins. And while I do appreciate the effort you make to welcome me, and look forward to the knowledge I will gain from your tutelage, I must make it clear that I have no intention of recognizing a division of import among you.”
I took a deep breath. Feeling anger billow toward me from the center of the room, I addressed the gallery. “Thank you for your welcome. While it’s true that I am the daughter of the King, I, like many of you, am not entirely Andoven. Indeed, as you might tell from my accent, much of my personality is informed by my Veetrish upbringing.” I moved my gaze back to the center of the hall. “Therefore I must insist that I be treated no better than those considered the least of this beautiful isle.”
Whispers rustled through the crowd.
Dyfnel placed a hand on my shoulder. “You do your father proud.”
“Indeed,” Julien’s low voice spoke from behind me.
“Tura hathami Ryn Naia!” A shout came from the gallery.
“Tura hathami Ryn Naia!”
The words repeated around the gallery and scattered here and there, even throughout the robed figures in the middle of the room. “Tura hathami Ryn Naia!”
I angled my whisper at Dyfnel. “What does it mean?”
“Listen, Princess. Listen as you did to Lady Anya, and you will know.”
I closed my eyes and let the words glide over my ears, through my consciousness, and into the Andoven gifts coming to life within me. Suddenly, I knew the exact meaning of the crowd’s chant. My mind translated the thoughts of their hearts, even though it was verbalized in the Ancient Voice, a language I did not speak.
“Long life to the Reigning Lady! Long live Princess Rynnaia!”
Smiling, I held up my hand for quiet and continued. “Thank you. I certainly hope to achieve that.”
There was a small tittering of laughter in the crowd. I squared my shoulders.
“I confess I am quite ignorant of Andoven ways. I appreciate your friendship and beg your patience as I seek the knowledge and skills necessary to exile the Cobeld curse and restore peace throughout E’veria.”
I stepped back from the podium and a cheer broke out. In that moment, I realized what I meant to these unusually gifted people. Most of the residents of Tirandov Isle were untouched by the idea of a direct threat from the Cobelds. They were, however, committed to seeing prophecies interpreted and successfully carried out.
“Princess Rynnaia?” Edru, my young teacher, stood just to my left. “Shall we begin your first lesson?”
I took his offered arm and we left the Great Hall, Julien trailing behind us.
“Edru, do the Andoven leave Tirandov Isle often?”
“A few do. Most are content to stay here and see to the needs of our people and our studies.”
“I’ve heard the Cobelds fear the sea,” I said, “so I guess you’re safe here.”
“Yes, we are safe.”
As we walked he seemed to ponder his own words. “We are safe on the isle,” he repeated, “and yet the people of E’veria’s mainland provinces suffer at the enemy’s will while we stay cloistered in our libraries and laboratories.” He tilted his head. “You wonder if our gifts are best contained on a little island, yes? Or if we are simply cowards, hiding behind our robes and books?”
I couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed my mind.
Edru nodded and gave me a sad smile. “You would not be the first E’veri to question our traditions,” he said, but then added, “nor the first Andoven.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was quite a distance from the Great Hall to the library. I took the time to question Edru a bit about the island and the unusual plant life I had noticed on the walk up from the boat.
“Is there a large staff to care for the grounds? They’re quite beautifully kept.”
“Every plant you see on the island, even those that appear as merely ornamental, are used in our healing, culinary, or textile arts,” Edru said. “As with the tirandite stone, many of our plants are not known to thrive anywhere else in the world. Most of our horticulturists live on the opposite side of the island.”
“Is there another castle there?”
He shook his head. “No, but there are several smaller dwellings. Manors, you might call them. There are very few man-made structures on the island. Land is a precious resource on such a small island. The buildings are made of tirandite, like the castle, but from excess stone that resulted when the interior of the castle was mined from the mountain.”
So I was right on both counts, I thought, it is a mountain and a castle!
“We live in a relatively communal environment. There are no servants to speak of on Tirandov Isle. Each person uses his or her unique gifting to serve.”
We entered a cavernous hallway; something about the space seemed familiar. “This is where we came in, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” With a wave of his hand, the wooden door opened. “And this is the library where the bulk of your lessons will take place.”
Julien gave me a little bow. “I will remain at the door, Princess Rynnaia. Should you need anything,” he paused to spear Edru with a look, “anything at all,” he said and looked back at me, “do not hesitate to call for me.”
“The Andoven are loyal to the King and his daughter,” Edru said. “She is safe here.”
“I’ll call if I need you,” I assured Julien, who looked none too at ease handing me into someone else’s care, even though he would be mere steps away.
Edru ushered me through the door. Another slight wave of his hand and the door slid shut with a dull thud.
The room was immense. Oval in shape and at least two stories high, the walls were lined floor to ceiling with b
ooks, and a wide balcony encircled the second level. I’d thought Lord Whittier’s collection was huge, but this made the library at Mirthan Hall look like a pittance in comparison.
Carved from the same opalescent stone as the castle itself, the curving bookcases put off a steady glow around the innumerable volumes they encased. The room certainly did not lack for light. Tables near every chair were graced by the glow of tirandite sculptures, and larger statues held their own positions on the floor, placed similarly to how one would arrange oil lamps.
Numerous chairs, chaises, and footstools were scattered about in an orderly yet cozy fashion. Upholstered in a deep, almost-red shade of pink, each was embroidered with the same design: a strange but somehow familiar diamond in a circle that was stitched in gold thread in such a way that it almost seemed to jump out of the fabric at me.
On this level, rolling ladders, built from an oddly beautiful greenish-white wood, were attached to a rail encircling the room. Large and sturdy with small shelves protruding from every third step, they appeared more as stair steps than the flimsy climbing devices I’d used to reach hidden places as a child.
Edru gave me a moment to explore the huge chamber. “The section you are in traces Andoven genealogies. Perhaps someday you may come back to Tirandov and study at your leisure, but due to our limited time the only genealogies in which I shall instruct you are your own.” He gestured to three books on the table in front of him. “Two of these books pertain to your ancestry.” He flicked his wrist and the cover of one of them opened without being touched.
“Will you teach me to do that?”
“No. Your other instructors will ascertain your abilities and decide what else you are to learn.”
“Oh,” I blushed. “My apologies, Honorable One.”
His color matched mine as he turned and started flipping through pages of the top book, “Honorable One is a very formal address that I prefer to reserve for certain persons and occasions. You may simply call me Edru.”
“I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I’m so ignorant. This is all so . . .” Overwhelming? Strange? “What I mean to say is—”
“It is not your fault that you do not know of the Andoven or our ways. Few do. Although each of E’veria’s provinces offer something unique to the good of the Kingdom, only Tirandov Isle is actively engaged in keeping its specialties within its borders.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think of the people of Dwons, for example, who are known for their craftsmanship of weaponry. That specialty creates a symbiotic relationship with the Sengarra province, which is known for its excellent military training. The Sengarrans use those same gifts of strategy in trade, which creates relationships elsewhere. Sengarra’s port and market cities are among the most successful in the world, and knights squired in Sengarra are given the task of defending the Kingdom.”
“Two of my older brothers were squired to a knight in Sengarra.”
Edru’s eyebrows reached toward the already-receding hairline that aged his appearance, even though he hardly looked older than Julien’s twenty-seven years. Shock painted his words when he asked, “You have . . . brothers?”
I explained my relationship to Lord Whittier’s family.
“That’s a relief!” He laughed and it relaxed his entire bearing. “You scared me. I thought perhaps the King and Queen had other children secreted away. Since you referred to them as your older brothers that would, of course, have disqualified you as the Ryn.”
“But you were saying? About the provinces and what they offer the Kingdom?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “As you’re aware, in the province of Veetri, agriculture is self-sustaining to the province, but it is there that Storytellers are born, trained, and sent out to entertain all over the Kingdom. In Dynwatre, carpenters and shipbuilders design and build things that benefit the greater good. Mynissbyr has lumber. Nyrland grows herbs and easily preserved root crops. Stoen produces the majority of E’veria’s wheat and barley crops, and their sheep and cattle feed and clothe much of the Kingdom.” He took a breath. “See? Each province uses their particular areas of expertise to serve the Kingdom’s needs,” he said, but then frowned. “Each province, that is, except Tirandov Isle.”
“But surely being an island province, and small at that, offers you some latitude,” I offered.
“I suppose. But other than your knight, I cannot, in my lifetime, recall a visit to Tirandov Isle by anyone who did not have at least a little bit of Andoven blood, unless they were married to an Andoven. We have closeted ourselves away for far too long and it has been at great cost to the cause of E’veria and the cause of The First.”
He cocked his head to the right. “Your Highness, when you spoke in the Great Hall you put into words what has been in the hearts of many of us for a long time. There is nothing you could have said that would have earned you more genuine loyalty than what came from your heart just then.”
He smiled and my heart knew I had found at least one friend at Tirandov. But his explanation did not foster a love for his people’s traditions.
But, I reminded myself, regardless of their prejudices, they are my people, as well. They are an important part of the Kingdom of E’veria.
“Do not despair at the traditionalists among us,” he said. “You may become the catalyst to spark change even in their stolid hearts.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble.”
Edru surprised me with a low chuckle. “I believe you were born to cause trouble, Your Highness. You are the Ryn Naia.” His smile, while still subdued, was the widest one I’d seen yet.
Ryn Naia. The Reigning Lady. I grinned back at him as the words of Lady Anya’s poem crossed both of our minds.
The Ryn Lady E’veria will Cobeld’s curse exile.
It’s more than my name. I sobered at the realization. It’s my task. My quest.
“My tutor in Veetri was Andoven,” I said, grasping on to something positive. “Don’t you send out tutors and teachers? That’s important.”
“You are correct. Many, including your great-grandfather, are great proponents of spreading the entrusted truth throughout the Kingdom and even beyond E’veria’s borders.”
“My great-grandfather?”
“Yes. Lindsor oversees the Academy in Salderyn now, but in his younger days he—”
“He’s . . . he’s still alive?”
“Oh, indeed! We Andoven have unusually long life spans. Perhaps that is why Rynloeft has so limited our procreative abilities.” He sighed.
I blinked at him. “But if this Lindsor fellow is still alive, shouldn’t he be King?”
“Lindsor? King?” Edru laughed, but sobered when he noted I did not share his humor. “Lindsor is not of the Ryn line. He is the father of Meritu, your mother’s father.”
“Oh.”
Edru closed the book he had opened and thumbed through a different one. “See here? Your mother’s line.” He flipped through several pages that seemed, from the few words I caught as he turned to the next name, abbreviated biographies of each person.
He started with Lindsor, whose entry took up several pages, moved to Meritu, and finally past Daithia until he reached a page that was blank, but for my name. “Since I only recently learned of your existence,” he said, “and we know so little of your history, we’ve recorded naught about you yet. I hope to have remedied that a bit before you leave us.”
“My history will be entirely insignificant,” I said, “unless I find the Remedy. Perhaps we should concentrate on that which will enable me to complete my quest.”
“Indeed.” Edru nodded. “Dyfnel tells me you are largely unfamiliar with The Story of The First.”
“The what?”
His eyes slid shut. He let out a long breath.
“We will speak aloud during our lessons,” Edru regained his serious tone and turned back to the book, “but at times it may be difficult to verbalize questions you have. Therefore, I would ask that you refrain from blocking me fr
om your thoughts and I will do the same. In this way we can better accomplish our task within the limited time we’ve been given. Shall we begin?”
He shut the book of my mother’s genealogy and reopened the first book. “This volume traces the line of the Ryn.”
It was a thick, interesting tome, containing not only names and dates, births, and deaths, but detailed physical and personality descriptions, as well as lists of victories, accomplishments, and defeats.
“We will concentrate on the Ryn line for now, for that is first and foremost who you are.” Edru turned a few pages. “Here is your father’s story, thus far.”
Scanning the page as quickly as I could, I learned that King Jarryn—my father, I had to remind myself—was an accomplished knight in his own right before he became King. He was reported to have close bonds of friendship with his knights and a sharp sense of humor. He was intelligent and fair, but in the early years of his reign tended to act impulsively and deal with the consequences of his decisions later. However, even when he made a quick decision that seemed foolhardy at the time, he always worked diligently to amend the situation and arrive at the desired outcome.
The Andoven style of writing was about as far from a Veetrish tale as it could be. Not remotely superfluous, it neither glamorized the King’s accomplishments nor glossed over his failings. Considering it was a King of whom they had written, I was more than a little surprised to see words and phrases that were not at all complimentary: descriptive phrases like “stubborn,” “ill-timed excursion,” and “brash.” Were the Andoven so comfortable, then, insulting their King?
“Do you ever worry that something you write might offend the King?”
“No,” Edru looked at me as if the question was preposterous. “We write what is true. It is what is expected of us.”
