“I . . .” I hiccupped through my sobs, like the proper lady I was. “I don’t want to not be around you.” And I almost told him, right then and there, that I feared I was getting sick like Gryfelle. But something stoppered my mouth. Something told me he might collapse under the weight of that truth.
Mor swallowed hard. “The fact is, you are engaged to Brac. You accepted his proposal and you haven’t taken it back, whether you see a future with him or not. I’m bound to Gryfelle, whether or not she has a future to give. Best we begin to accept that.”
Before I could say anything else, he turned and strode away. I had a sinking feeling he was walking away from more than the room. I stood there for several moments, as if I had sprouted roots.
“Tannie?”
I turned to find a sympathetic look in Aeron’s eyes. “Ho, Aeron.”
“Are you all right?”
I sniffled loudly. “Aye. Brilliant. Why wouldn’t I be?” The bitterness in my voice was plain.
“It will work out, Tannie. Mor is . . .” She waved her hand. “Well, he’s under a lot of strain right now. It’s wearing on him, and he’s not himself.”
I wanted to scream. I wasn’t myself, either. I was getting sick. I needed someone to understand. Someone to care. Someone to help me share my burden.
Maybe I could tell Aeron.
But before I had a chance to form the words, she extended a slip of parchment. “Would you do us a favor? Dylun would like this list delivered to Karlith. He found some new recipes he thinks might help Gryfelle—herbs and such. Maybe make her more comfortable while we search for the cure. Would you bring this to Karlith? She’ll need to stock up before we leave.”
“Aye.” I took the list from her.
“It will all work out, Tannie,” Aeron said again. “You’ll see.”
I forced a nod and trudged out of the library.
Aye, it would work out. It would work out with me in the infirmary, losing my mind, Brac’s wedding band on my finger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TANWEN
I stopped before the door to Gryfelle’s chamber. There were no interesting conversations floating out of this room. Only the labored strains of a girl fighting for every breath.
I leaned against the stone wall and closed my eyes.
Stars above. I prayed the Corsyth weavers would find the cure. Gryfelle wouldn’t hold out much longer. How could she possibly? She had been sick so long already.
And I would be lying to suggest I was only thinking of Gryfelle. I needed the Corsyth weavers to find the cure, too. Otherwise, I was listening to my fate in those labored breaths.
I gathered my strength and entered the room. “Ho, Karlith.”
Karlith Ma-Lundir looked up from her seat beside Gryfelle’s bed. She smiled, heavy-lidded eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ho, Tannie. How goes it?” She dabbed a wet rag across Gryfelle’s forehead.
My voice was lost somewhere in my stomach. I hadn’t seen Gryfelle in at least a week, and she barely looked to be living. If not for the rattling rise and fall of her chest, I would swear she was dead already.
Her skin was pale on the healthiest day, but this was beyond pale. This was ghostly white. Her lovely jade-green eyes had sunken into her skull, and her fair hair lay stringy and matted on the feather pillow beneath her.
Karlith smiled sadly. “Aye. She’s not lookin’ her best, poor Elle.”
I had often imagined what Gryfelle must have looked like when she was a teenaged noblewoman at court. Before she’d suppressed her songspinning gift and succumbed to the curse. Before she had gotten so ill. She must have been the most stunning girl ever to dance in the palace ballroom.
And now . . . now she was a wasted shell.
I swallowed down my tears. “She’s looking . . . comfortable as could be expected. She is well cared for, Karlith.”
Karlith patted the extra chair beside her. “I appreciate that, my girl. It’s no easy task caring for them who’s so sick. But I don’t mind it. Especially not for our Elle.”
Gryfelle twitched in her sleep, and Karlith swiped the cloth across her brow again. “Poor dear. You know, Mor’s usually found in that seat right there. But last Gryfelle woke and was lucid, she told him to leave. Thought the lad’s heart would bust.”
My heart felt ready to bust too. But it was because it split right down the middle between breaking for Mor and wanting to rage at him.
Why was everything such a mess?
“Tannie?”
“Huh?”
Karlith was studying me. “Did you have a purpose in coming here, lass? Not that I mind the company.”
Guilt washed over me. “Oh. Right. I have something from Dylun. He found some recipes, it seems. Something to help Gryfelle, maybe, while you all search for the cure.”
“You all? Are you not coming with us?”
“My father won’t allow it.” I slumped back on the chair. “And I think Mor uninvited me.”
“Did he, now?” Karlith didn’t take her eyes off Gryfelle, but there was something in her voice that made me feel she was looking right at me.
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Aye. I’m not.”
“I was.”
“Don’t trouble, Tannie. It’ll work out.”
I resisted the urge to spit something angry. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Things don’t always work out, you know. Of all people, we should know that.”
Karlith gave a sad laugh. “Aye. Reckon I know that.”
I wanted to sink into the floor. Of course Karlith knew it. She had lost her family—her husband and two wee ones—to Gareth’s wrath.
I glanced at Gryfelle. There was also the whole life-and-death matter of a curse weighing on my mind. Literally.
Perhaps I should confide in Karlith.
But before I could tiptoe into those waters, Gryfelle groaned. Then her eyelids fluttered open, and her eyes were lucid this time. First I had seen them so in a while.
Tears and laughter both wanted to bust from me, but I restricted myself to a huge grin. “Ho, Gryfelle!”
A tiny smile drew her cheeks up. “Tannie.”
“Well!” Karlith beamed. “How’s my girl, Elle?”
Gryfelle’s smile drooped, and her words came out in a slow whisper. “I have been better. At least, I believe I have.” A wry twinkle in her eye. I think she tried to wink my direction.
“You’re teasin’,” Karlith declared. “Don’t think I don’t know it when you do. Incorrigible, all you young ones.” But she was still beaming. “Can I get anything for you, my dear? Broth?”
“I’ve no taste for it, but yes. I should while I’m awake.”
“Aye, that’s my girl.” Karlith rose and nodded to me. “Tannie’ll look after you while I steal away to the kitchens. Be back as quick as a flash.”
And truly, she would. We all knew Gryfelle could lapse back to sleep any moment. If Karlith wanted her to eat, she would have to be quick about it.
I lowered myself into Karlith’s seat closer to Gryfelle’s bed. “How do you feel? Truly.”
“Weak. Like I could never sleep enough to recover.”
I took her hand. “You feel cold.”
“Inside I feel like I’m on fire.”
Fear tightened my stomach. I wanted to ask her what it was like. Did it hurt? What did I have to look forward to?
But, for once today, perhaps I could think of someone other than myself. Maybe whatever goodness I possessed had been leaking out during my episodes.
“The others?”
I started.
“How are the others?” Gryfelle asked again.
“Oh.” I looked down at her pale hand in my sun-browned one. “They’re fine.”
Gryfelle stared at me. Waiting for more, obviously.
I swallowed. “They’re getting ready to go. I’ve been banned from coming along. But my father will be there, so . . . close enough?”
I tried to chuckle. Quiet, thou
ghtful Yestin Bo-Arthio and bubbling, impulsive Tanwen En-Yestin. The only thing we shared was a name.
“I’m sorry you’ve been banned.”
“Me too. But the others will do their utmost for you.”
“Yes, they will.”
“I probably couldn’t have offered much, anyway.”
“That isn’t true, Tannie.”
Tears stung again. Blast them. I shrugged. “I don’t have anything to offer that isn’t covered by the other storytellers. Zel and . . .” I couldn’t force his name out.
“And Mor.” Gryfelle turned toward me, a fraction of an inch closer.
“Aye. Mor, too.”
“Tannie, please don’t trouble about Mor on my account.”
My heart tripped. “What?”
“You’re hardly able to say his name in my presence.”
“We . . . we had a fight today. That’s all.”
“Is it?”
My, she had a way to shoot straight at things. “I . . .”
“Tannie, I’m cursed, not blind. I can see what has happened between you and Mor.”
“What?” I popped to my feet, quite involuntarily. “Nothing has happened between me and Mor.”
Gryfelle breathed out a laugh. “No, I meant the attraction between the two of you.”
“Oh.” My skin felt too small for my insides. “Um, well, there might have been, if things were different.”
“If I weren’t around. But that is precisely what I told Mor. I won’t be around for much longer.”
“Oh, Gryfelle!” More burning tears. “Don’t say that! Please don’t. Even if it were true, I can’t . . . I don’t want to . . .”
“I know, Tannie. You and Mor both. I keep trying to tell him—”
“No,” I cut her off. “You mustn’t try to tell him anything about this. The only thing Mor wants is to save your life, and that’s just as it should be. They’re truly searching for a cure for you, Gryfelle. Besides, I . . . well, I guess I’m technically betrothed. So I’m not even free.” As Mor so kindly reminded me.
“Tannie, I understand the situation is complicated and strange, to say the least. But if I could only explain what it’s like to you both.” She sighed. “I can’t remember my feelings for Mor. And he isn’t my husband. I want you both to—”
“No,” I said again, not even sure why I didn’t want her to finish.
“Tannie, if you would just—”
“Here it is.” Karlith bustled into the room, stopping Gryfelle’s plea short. “All nice and hot.”
I took my chance and brushed past Karlith and her steaming bowl of broth. “Excuse me. I’ll leave you to it. I hope you feel better soon, Gryfelle.”
I stepped into the hallway, resisting the urge to run as I hurried away. The staircase that led to our apartments came into view, but I dropped onto the bottom step instead of climbing them.
Why couldn’t I even bear to let Gryfelle speak her mind? Perhaps her words would release some of the guilt—some of the responsibility—that hung over the situation for me and Mor. Then maybe we would be free to open up our hearts just a little. Maybe then I would have the strength to speak to Brac.
But I knew. It didn’t matter what Gryfelle said or how she tried to make us understand. Mor would never abandon her. And if I were being honest with the best part of myself, I didn’t want him to. It was good and right for Mor not to give his heart to me.
And that truth smarted like I had been slapped a thousand times across my face.
I dropped my head into my hands and allowed the tears to flow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRAITH
Braith stood before the throne room doors, staring straight ahead at the pattern of the wood.
“Your Majesty?” The guardsman manning the door leaned down to catch her eye. “Are you well?”
Braith closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “No, I am not. I think I might be sick.”
“My lady.” Cameria’s voice came from Braith’s left. “Please, how can I help?”
“There is nothing,” Braith said faintly, her eyes fluttering open. “I simply must . . . enter.” She pressed her hands against the unforgiving oak door. “Can I do this, Cameria? Can I be Tir’s queen?”
The guardsman knight and Cameria shared a glance around Braith.
“How can I possibly? They don’t want me—Braith, the daughter of Gareth the Usurper.”
“Braith.” Cameria’s voice carried an urgent note.
Braith turned to her friend. “I don’t know if I can do it, Cameria.”
“You must.” She forced Braith to meet her eyes. “Do you remember what Yestin said to you at luncheon?”
“He told me not to let them out-shout me because I’m a woman.”
Cameria smiled. “Yes, he did say that. Do you remember what else?”
Tears glittered in Braith’s eyes, and her breath rattled. “He said my name is Braith En-Gareth, but I will reign like Caradoc—with strength, kindness, and goodness.”
“Yes. And you shall. You have it in you—and you always have.”
Braith drew a deep breath, pulled herself up to her considerable height, and nodded to the guardsman.
He and one of his fellows pulled open the door and announced her arrival. “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Braith En-Gareth, presiding over Queen’s Council, session one.”
A hundred pairs of eyes stared back at Braith. Repairs to the throne room were still in progress—repairs rectifying the damage incurred during the battle that had unseated her father. Her father, who was never meant to be king in the first place.
Braith lifted her chin, looking past the scaffolding and fresh paint and new wood.
“The committee chose you,” Cameria whispered as they entered the room.
Some of the two hundred eyes looked friendly. Others curious. Still others glared. Glowered.
Braith steeled herself and strode down the silver carpet before her. New, just like her reign. She had walked on this carpet a thousand times before, but then it had been green. And purple before that, when Caradoc II reigned.
She glanced at Yestin, seated at the council table.
Reign like Caradoc.
She passed the table where she once met with her father’s councilors. Now, seated around it were nine men and one woman Braith had appointed but two days ago, including the former First General. Her gaze roved to Sir Fellyck, an underlord of some of the villages surrounding Urian.
Fellyck had a reputation for his outspokenness, but he was popular with the people. Perhaps the only reason he never landed in Gareth’s dungeons. Gareth would have had unrest on his hands if he had removed Fellyck.
Braith needed his support now.
She reached her throne, the one in which she had always sat, now moved to the center of the dais and standing quite alone. No throne for her father. No throne for her mother.
Braith claimed her seat and met the eyes of her people. The court bowed as one, as they always did for their monarch.
A good sign? Mere habit? Who could say?
“Thank you. And welcome.” Braith cleared her throat. She pulled herself straighter, as if the point of a blade were at her back.
In a way, it was.
But when she spoke again, her voice rang out true and strong. “Let us begin. Forgive me for the novelty of holding my first council at evening. After all we’ve experienced recently, I trust we will survive the oddity of this as well.” She smiled, and a ripple of laughter rolled through the court. “I have called the council because urgent news has broken today, and I did not wish to delay in sharing this with my people. It is grave, indeed, but I trust in Tir’s resilience, even in these dark times.”
Braith paused.
“This morning, Gareth Bo-Kelwyd was discovered dead in his cell.”
Three seconds of absolute silence followed her declaration. Braith’s fingers whitened around the arms of her throne.
Then the room exploded in a roar.
A f
ew rogue shouts rose above the din. “Justice!”
“Murder!”
“Who has done it?”
“Lies! Produce the body!”
Braith’s face did not change. This was expected. They had prepared for it, she and Cameria and Yestin. The loyalties of the courtiers were revealed by their shouts—those who had been struggling to accept Gareth’s dethroning shouted curses; those who had been loyal to the true king celebrated and cheered. More than a few courtiers looked lost, unsure whether they should say anything.
Wisdom in these times.
After a long while, Braith held up her hands, calling for silence. “I know this is troublesome news for many of you. I know some will view this as justice, but I remind you the Tirian justice system requires a trial. Gareth Bo-Kelwyd, knave though he was, ought to have been afforded the same rights as any Tirian.”
There was muttering among some of the nobles.
“We must launch an investigation into Gareth’s death. If he was murdered, the responsible party will be held accountable.”
She held up her hands again. Yestin Bo-Arthio caught her eye from the council table and offered an encouraging nod.
“I understand some may view this as a waste of resources,” the queen continued. “But Gareth Bo-Kelwyd was a poor king because he thought he was above the law. He did not respect Tir. I do. If someone dies under suspicious circumstances, the law demands that death be investigated. I plan to obey Tirian law. Just as I expect my people to obey Tirian law.”
“Majesty?” Sir Fellyck said from the council table. “May I speak?”
“Yes, Sir Fellyck.”
Fellyck rose and addressed the court as much as his queen. “Of course, we all respect the laws of the land. But perhaps this latest occurrence is an answer to our prayers.”
“Our prayers?” Braith’s eyebrow lifted.
Fellyck bowed. “Of course, Majesty. I only mean that trying Gareth for high treason would have been a great source of heartache—for you, my queen, and for Tir, and a great drain on our resources besides. Perhaps, with the avoidance of such a public affair, Tir can begin to heal from her wounds.”
“Death is a poor salve to bind a wound, Sir Fellyck. Especially murder.” Braith rose and descended the dais to look Sir Fellyck squarely in the eyes. “Please hear me, as I’ll not repeat myself again. I know what kind of man my father was. But he was under the care of the palace—under my care—until such a time as his trial could be held. We shall hold an investigation to determine if Gareth was murdered. If so, we shall discover who is responsible for Gareth’s death, and that person will be held to account. Am I clear?”
The Story Raider Page 4
