by Serena Chase
“Thank you. I’ll see if I can find it.”
He bowed and moved toward the door.
“Julien?”
He turned back toward me. “Yes, Princess?”
“I’ll look forward to our walk later.”
“As will I.” His smile stole my breath and quickened my pulse.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Now that Julien had given me a suggestion for my reading, I was anxious to begin. I fixed my concentration on the text and the letters began their dance, forming words I could see ahead of me. I glanced again at the names and noted a few more that I had not noticed at first: Truth Bearer, Truth Barer. I paused, appreciating the differentiation of the meanings.
So he brings truth and he also illumines it from wherever it is hiding. Illumination. Hmm. That thought reminded me of my purpose and I flipped forward in the book.
I was a little dizzy as I scanned the pages, looking for the words that would shape themselves into the Emblem of the First. Finally, about three-quarters of the way through, I found the sought-after words, along with an intricately rendered drawing that matched the diamond-in-a-circle design.
I groaned. Had I known the emblem itself would be there I could have saved my eyes a bit and scanned for the picture. Oh well. I would know better next time.
I concentrated on the design, admiring the simple beauty of it, and wondered if my Andoven gift would allow some deeper meaning into my consciousness. As I looked closer at it, it almost seemed to grow on the page. The harder I concentrated on the design, the clearer and wider it became until it seemed that my vision itself must be expanding to fit its breadth.
I gasped when the emblem began to glow. I blinked, but when I opened my eyes, the glow was even brighter. I brushed my hand across the paper and felt heat. I pressed my fingertips to the page and it glowed brighter still.
“Ow!”
I ripped my hand away and looked at my first three fingers. Where I had touched them to the emblem, small blisters were already beginning to throb.
Heat from the page blew against my face. How could it be that the emblem was hot enough to burn my skin, yet it did not consume the fragile, ancient page? How was that possible?
I refrained from touching it again but I was unable to look away from the white-hot glow of parchment that did not burn.
Just as the letters had done on previous pages, the emblem began to form a new shape. It looked at first like a fist, and then a crown. Once the crown had fully formed, another figure emerged at its center.
I sat frozen in place, fascinated as the shape expanded into the form of a man, outfitted as for war. The size of the man grew, rising underneath the crown as it lowered onto his head.
White light, subtly tinged with blue, shot upward from the page as if a wind within the book itself fed its ascent. The light grew larger and larger until it became a life-sized dimension. It was so bright it hurt.
I shot to my feet, upsetting my chair as I stumbled away. Scorching rays of heat threatened to blind me. I wished to close my eyes to save them, but I couldn’t. Even my eyelids were paralyzed by fear.
It was then that the light impaled my mind with the roar of a voice so loud that my bones vibrated against the sinews holding them in place.
Rynnaia E’veri!
The bright warrior spoke only to my mind, but it was like thunder—the worst kind of thunder—that rattled the very bones. But somehow I knew he spoke only to me. None in the corridors would hear him. None would come to my aid.
I was at his mercy.
Throughout my life I had been amazed by some of E’veria’s most gifted Veetrish Storytellers, and even frightened by some of the images their stories had conveyed; but I’d always known they were just stories. I had never seen or felt anything so fearsome, so real, as this. Not even when I’d learned I had met a real Cobeld in Mynissbyr had I been filled so entirely with terror. I longed to cry out for help. To hide! But I couldn’t move. What was this strange and frightful magic?
“Who are you?”I gasped, but the words let in the heat and stole every trace of moisture from my mouth. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
What are you? I raised my hands against the onslaught and shielded my head with my arms. Perhaps if he could speak into my mind, he could also hear my thoughts. It’s too bright! I can’t look!
It is not your eyes that refuse to see me, Rynnaia E’veri.
The roar became softer, almost a whisper, but with an ocean’s depth and a volcano’s magnitude behind it. The heat remained steady, as if its energy was focused entirely upon stealing my breath. Maybe even my life. The bright parts of me were burning away like the thinnest parchment. I had no colors of my own left to claim.
This heat consumes me! I wanted to cry, but my eyes, so dry in the heat, refused. The light is too pure and I am dulled and . . . and gray in it!
You have read my names, Rynnaia E’veri. Are you ready to know me?
Ready to know him? A character from . . . a book?
Who are you? I begged the answer. What are you? I cannot even bear to look at you!
The forceful, dry heat of the light did not lessen, but my mind was suddenly filled with other colors, beautiful colors, the full prismatic range of the titles I had read earlier. And I realized: these are his titles. These are his names.
My very skin felt like it could melt, though no perspiration formed on it. Dropping to my knees, I huddled on the floor and impotently tried to shield my head from the radiant assault.
You’ve read my names, Rynnaia. You have seen some of my colors. Are you ready to know me? Or will you go into battle without sword or shield?
Was I not already in a battle? It certainly seemed as if my life could be snuffed out at any moment.
I had no training as a knight. I was useless with a sword. But a shield . . . ?
Hope vied against paralyzing fear. Perhaps this Warrior King would let me live. Or at least allow me to die fighting. Keeping my eyes closed, I dropped my arms and raised my face to the onslaught.
Where do I find this . . . this shield? I stood.
Here.
The heat gentled slightly, and as I opened my eyes, the form of the warrior collapsed inward, becoming a vertical beam of light before disappearing back into the page.
The emblem glowed white, then blue and orange before it faded to resume its intricate, but one-dimensional, inked form.
Panting, I rose to my feet, righted my chair, and sat heavily on it.
Before me, the book was motionless. Dull. As ordinary as if the entire experience had been a product of my imagination. A dream.
My fingertips throbbed. I lifted my hand and examined the blisters. Bigger now, each white nub was encircled by an angry red stain.
It wasn’t a dream.
My mental paralysis lifted, and with trembling hands, I turned the page.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I didn’t take me long to realize that the warrior who had come from the book was none other than Loeftryn de Rynloeft himself, E’veria’s First King. But the book depicted him in a much more human form than the one by which he’d so recently graced my presence.
I’d heard the story before, of course. I’d even seen it told in Veetri. But there was something about soaking up the words for myself that made it come more alive than even Lord Whittier’s gifted hands had been able to.
The more I read, the more my fear subsided. I was drawn to the story, even to the First King himself. He seemed much friendlier as a knight than as a glowing warrior coming out of a book. But the more enthralled I became with the man and his tale, the more keenly I was aware of the separation of pages and time that kept him out of my reach.
Similar to the genealogy texts I had studied the day before, this story introduced the First King’s knights one by one: Nyr, Veetri, Mynis, Dyn, Sengar, Dwons, Stoen, Andov. I recognized the knights from the provinces that had been named in their honor. Idly, I wondered for whom Shireya, both the mountain and the provi
nce, was named.
As I read about the First King’s knights I felt especially connected to the young knight Stoen, who, though opinionated and intelligent, was easily discouraged by feelings of unworthiness. It seemed almost cruel that his insecurities had found their way into history, but I was glad, in a way, that they had. I could identify with the knight’s inner turmoil.
Near the end of the chapter was the story of an epic battle and a traitor from within the First King’s own ranks.
The traitor’s name was Cobeld.
I shivered at the name, but continued to read. The way he was described did not paint him a goblin, as the Veetrish so often chose to; nor did he look like the wrinkled old man I’d met in the Wood! The Cobeld in this story looked nothing like my idea of a villain. In fact, I mused, if I’d cast the role of hero in this tale, I’d have been more likely to give him this knight’s face rather than the regal but unremarkable visage inscribed to Loeftryn de Rynloeft.
I shook my head. I wasn’t a historian or a Storyteller. Those gifts belonged to others. I was the Ryn and reading this story was my assignment. I reined my focus back in on the story.
Detailed descriptions of the grisly battle fought at the foot of Mount Shireya made my heartbeat quicken, my breath catch in my throat, and my soup threaten to reappear.
When Stoen was captured, I wept. I could feel his anguish as enemies overtook the First King on the battlefield. Even detached as I was by the boundary of the ancient pages, I cried out as Cobeld himself dealt the final blow that brought death to the First King.
It was too much. I closed my eyes for several breaths, willing the scene away. Leaning back in my chair, I rubbed my eyes, but the vision would not depart from where it had seared itself into my imagination and left its implications as questions in my mind.
The First King had been killed by the traitor Cobeld. I had seen it myself, recorded on these very pages. He was dead.
Dead.
Was it a ghost, then, that came out of this book?
A ghost who knew my name?
Suppressing a shiver, I returned my eyes to the story.
Only eight of the King’s loyal knights remained alive at the end of the battle—the heroes for whom eight of E’veria’s provinces were named. Shackled under heavy guard, the knights were forced to watch as their King’s body was born away by the enemy, tossed onto a pyre, and set ablaze.
The fire burned for several days and all the while the eight faithful knights remained imprisoned in cells within Mount Shireya. Early one morning, the mountain began to tremble. So violent was the quake that I feared the knights would perish. It was so real to me, in fact, that I found myself grabbing on to the arms of the chair to keep from falling.
But the knights remained unharmed. Instead, a burst of light stilled the quake and the bars and gates of the cells shook loose and knocked the guards to the ground, rendering them unconscious.
When the knights moved past the guards and out of the mountain, they found the funeral pyre still ablaze. But the fire had a different sort of flame than when they’d last seen it. Hotter and purer, it was as if the flash of white light they’d seen inside Mount Shireya had wrapped itself around the base of the pyre. Blue and white flames wound over the pyre, a moving vortex of heat and light, until suddenly the flames parted as if ripped by a giant pair of hands, and a man walked out of it toward them, unscathed.
“Greetings, knights.”
No, I thought. It can’t be. He’s . . . dead.
But if he’s dead, I argued with myself, who was just here, speaking to you, Rynnaia?
White-hot flames leapt from his palms. He moved around the semicircle of knights, touching his fiery hands to each man’s chest and speaking each man’s name in turn, starting with Stoen.
“My King!” Stoen fell to his knees, but hope reigned alongside the confusion in his voice. “Are Cobeld’s forces defeated?” Stoen stepped forward. “Have the people finally come to our aid?”
“Cobeld is defeated, though he will be loath to admit it.” He paused, his voice a bit sadder. “The people remain as they were.”
A wrenching sound tore from Stoen’s throat, almost bringing one from mine. “But I watched you die on the field,” he said. “I saw your body burn! How is it possible that you are here now?”
“I am The First,” Loeftryn de Rynloeft replied simply. “I do not fall as men fall. True, you saw me taste a bitter sting, but I am the Highest Reigning, descended from the Reign Most High.”
I blinked and the words rearranged on the page to take on their original form as written in the Ancient Voice: Loeftryn de Rynloeft.
Ah. So even his proper name had meaning. Loeftryn de Rynloeft. The Highest Reigning, descended from the Reign Most High. I blinked again and the letters rearranged so I could continue.
“I have chosen you from among your brothers-in-arms to unite my people in truth,” Loeftryn de Rynloeft said. “Soon I must depart from this plane. Stoen, you are to serve as my Successor. You will be E’veria’s King.”
“I am not worthy of such a calling!”
“Do you love me, Stoen?”
“Yes, of course! You are not only my King, sire, but my friend, as well.”
“If you love me, you will continue to be my servant as E’veria’s King. You must care for my people and protect them. As King your burden will be heavy. You will be among the weariest of my servants, yet you must see that the truth is recorded, revered, and protected. You must endeavor to see that it is uplifted throughout this Kingdom and beyond. Your descendents will be charged with the same responsibility. Will you accept this challenge?”
“I will serve you, my King, in whatever position you place me. I will serve you with all that I am and for all of my life.”
“May it be so.” With that, Loeftryn de Rynloeft removed a crown from behind his shield and placed it on Stoen’s bowed head. “I crown you Stoenryn E’veri, King of E’veria. You will be united to your people, your land, and your duty as the Servant of Truth by the power which rests within the deepest bonds of love. May you and your descendants rule justly and wisely.”
When the First King granted his Successor’s new name I finally recognized Stoen, Stoenryn, that is, as my ancestor. I felt rather dull that I hadn’t made the connection before.
“Knights,” Loeftryn de Rynloeft said, moving his gaze to the other men, “will you remain true to King Stoenryn and to my Kingdom?”
The seven men answered in unison, “With all that we are and for all of our lives.”
Again, he reached behind his shield and brought out a gemstone the like of which I’d never seen, nor could I name. When viewed at the correct angle, the Emblem of the First glowed within each facet.
Loeftryn de Rynloeft set the stone on the ground. Removing his sword, he placed its tip at the stone’s center. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he closed his eyes, lifted the sword directly upward, and then brought it down. The force of the hit sent sparks up the body of the blade. The stone shattered..
“Separate, each facet has its own beauty, as does each of your lands,” he said. Moving slowly around the circle of knights, the First King gave each man the title of Regent, and into each of their hands, he placed a piece of the stone. “But unless you remain united under my emblem, you will not be whole.”
The First King closed Stoenryn’s fist around his piece of the stone, the very center piece that had suffered the blow of his sword. “As King you are a servant, a warrior, a leader, and a friend to your people at all times. Go in peace, Stoenryn E’veri, and lead well.”
Stepping back from King Stoenryn, the First King slowly surveyed his knights. “With each stone I’ve imparted a gift that will make E’veria a great Kingdom. Use your gifts wisely, knights, and arise knowing that, though you may not see me, I will be with you always.”
As the knights lifted their heads and took to their feet, the pure, blinding light they had witnessed earlier poured again from Mount Shireya, as if the very
stone that formed the mountain was the center of a flame. When the light faded, nothing was the same.
Loeftryn de Rynloeft was gone.
Additionally, the enemy was changed. Still unconscious, Cobeld’s followers were no longer the strong warriors of battle they had been. Their bodies had aged somehow—and had shrunken just as severely. Where once stood fearsome men of battle now lay straggly old men.
The Cobelds.
I closed my eyes to rest them as I digested the vivid story that explained so much about my Kingdom’s history.
I inhaled deeply through my nose, and as I exhaled, I opened my eyes and cautiously ran a hand over the page I had just read. Pleasing warmth remained on the parchment, but the burning intensity I’d so recently experienced was gone.
What did it all mean?
And what about what I’d witnessed—that the First King died on the battlefield . . . but didn’t stay dead? Had his voice, his form, really come out of a book and called my name?
Had that really happened?
One glance at my throbbing, blistered fingers confirmed that it had.
He said he knew me. He asked if I would know him.
I looked up from the book and toward the window. Daylight had long since fled, taking my sense of time with it. It felt like mere moments since I’d begun reading this story, and conversely, a lifetime. I shook my head to ward off my confusion, but somehow I knew that images from that particular story, as well as my encounter with the Warrior King himself, would be forever burnt into my mind.
A sudden wash of green and gold forced its way to the surface of my thoughts. Julien.
My knight approached. I would have to ponder it all later. I had the Elder Council to deal with tonight. The rest of the story would have to wait.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“Princess Rynnaia?”
