Chapter XIX - Division

~ I'm currently highly dissatisfied with this chapter. I don't know what's wrong with it, or with Zoe, or with everybody, but it's irritating me. LOL, well, it's not horrible, but it's also not quite what I wanted. If you can tell me what's "missing" or if something seemed a little off, please comment! (Please comment anyway, but I'd welcome suggestions.) ~

Chapter XIX

“So, Captain Ricald killed your father?” Zoe clarified quietly.

It was an hour since Tancred had revealed the identity of Lady Ricald, and now she and he sat in the kitchen of his house by the hearth. Their rain-soaked clothes had dried by way of the few coals that still glowed in the stone fireplace, remnants of their morning meal, which had been hours ago. Evening was drawing nigh; when Zoe glanced out the unshuttered kitchen window it showed that the hue of the sky had deepened several shades since they had left the marketplace. The morose gray of the rain clouds had blown away on a fickle wind, leaving the heavens nearly cloudless but still darkening steadily in anticipation of the swift-approaching night.

“Yes.” Tancred’s voice had returned to its typical unreadable calm. In some ways this relieved Zoe; in others, it frustrated her. “Ricald was the one who unveiled my father as a spy here in Ruma. His bold action gained him a promotion from lieutenant to captain. King Brastus himself authorized the promotion.”

Zoe murmured, “I see.” After a long pause, she cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Did you find out any information about the Wild Men when you met with Ihcalam earlier today?”

“Brastus wants to unite with the Wild Men, as we feared,” he replied evenly. “His plan, apparently, is to trade his daughter Brysa in exchange for a war treaty.”

So even princesses have their form of slavery. Her father thinks to sell her hand in marriage to these Wild Men—and for a mere war contract, no less.

Shaking herself free from the dark thoughts, she inquired, “What is Brysa like? I have not heard of her before today.”

“Princess Brysa is not often mentioned. She is heavily suppressed by her father, or so I have perceived. I’ve seen her in royal processions with her parents but that is the extent of her wanderings.”

Zoe studied the coals, half-listening to Tancred’s explanation of Brysa’s identity. Tancred obtained the information about the Wild Men quicker than she had expected. She secretly hoped that he and Jaedon would stay in Ruma long enough for her to convince them to help her free Grace and her other friends. Despite the fact that Zoe had asked Tancred months earlier to assist her and he had refused, she was cautiously optimistic that she might get different results if she tried again.

Last time he objected because I told him plainly that I didn’t trust him, she thought with traces of bitterness. Hopefully by now he realizes that is not necessarily crucial. All I will be asking for is for a brief bit of assistance. I could even find a way to pay him back for his time and effort, if he wants.

She shifted a little, her thoughts spiraling away. Of course, if Tancred had gathered all the intelligence he needed to relay to King Trystellan back in Aerilya, he and Jaedon truly had naught keeping them in Ruma. Zoe’s loyalty to Grace and the other women—Tryna, Rebekka, Marissa—probably meant nothing to them. They would not stay in order to aid her, she felt rather sure, unless she provided some sort of repayment.

Well, she was willing to pay…up to a certain point. Her eyes hardened. And naturally, even if he and Jaedon leave without helping, I’m staying, she thought tenaciously.

“Why are you frowning, Zoe?”

She had not realized it, but her brow had furrowed. Smoothing out her expression, she met his eyes defiantly. “That does not concern you.”

“Why is it that I don’t believe you?” Tancred asked dryly.

A little surprised by his quick rejoinder, she shot back, “I don’t know. That’s your problem.”

He shook his head as he leaned back against the stone fireplace, lacing his hands behind his head. “Arguing to the last, as always. You don’t give your trust easily; do you, Zoe who-still-has-no-surname.”

Flustered at the swift and undesired subject change, she did the only thing she could think of: she hid behind her ever-present emotional wall, carefully sealing the cracks so no one could penetrate. “That is your perception of me, then?” She took care that her question was spoken sarcastically, hoping to scare him off.

“Not a perception. It’s a definite conclusion,” corrected Tancred in a low tone, effortlessly pushing past her sarcasm.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and Zoe felt awkwardness building between them. She wished that she could be anywhere in the world but there, sitting by him in the quiet kitchen on the hearth. Where’s Jaedon when I need him? she thought. Jaedon had returned to the market to finish purchasing supplies before complete darkness fell, so she knew he would not be intervening on her behalf in this conversation. Think of something to say, and quickly. Anything!

Abruptly she stood to her feet. Her skirt swayed against her ankles and she smoothed it in a strange uneasy movement. “I’m going outside for a breath of air before I turn in,” she said roughly. As if you need to explain to him what you’re doing, she told herself exasperatedly as she left. Pull yourself together, Zoe.

She issued out of the house into the cool twilight a moment later and drank in a deep draught of air. Her lashes closed for a moment as she tried to get a handle on her emotions. She could not remember feeling so disjointed and unorganized and aimless for a long time. Now that I’m here in Ruma and have an objective—freeing my friends—you’d think confusion would not plague me anymore, she thought gloomily. Apparently it is not enough, though.

But if merely having an objective was not sufficient to give her clear purpose, then what was?

Her eyes opened and she looked up. Stars burned high in the sky above her, serenely twinkling down at her as if they held a secret they flaunted just out of her reach. Out of habit, she began picking out familiar constellations, something that she had been taught when she was a small girl. A vivid recollection breached the walls of her mind and intense longing for what she once had rolled over her with sudden ferocity, staggering her with its power.

“Follow my finger, Zoe. Look hard. See it? That is the Wolf Star.”

“I don’t know which one it is, Taerith. There are too many!”

Taerith patiently took eight-year-old Zoe’s hand and lifted it toward the night sky, pointing with her fingers toward a particularly brilliant star. “There. Right by your index finger.”

“The really bright one?” breathed Zoe with sudden excitement.

A smile could be heard in Taerith’s voice as he replied, “Yes, that’s right.”

“I see it! I know which it is now! Thank you, Taerith.”

Would she never escape from the memories, the terrible, wonderful, heart-breaking memories? Wrapping her arms around her torso, Zoe silently surveyed the array of celestial bodies, lost in memory and poignant grief.

Deus.

The name whispered through her mind and her head tilted to the side. “What do you want of me?” she asked of the heavens, her gaze hopefully searching the sky as if some great hand would write a reply to her question in plain view.

She waited. Her heart hammered out a steady beat of anticipation. Hope dwindled and frustration mounted as minutes passed and nothing happened.

“Why do I even bother?” she muttered half under her breath. “He does not care.” She stared defiantly up at the silent twilight sky. “You don’t care, do You! My pain means nothing to You.”

Suddenly a shadow passed over her, obliterating the starlight for a scant moment. Stunned, Zoe’s hands automatically moved from around her waist into a self-defensive position. Her eyes roved the air above her, trying to locate the source of the shadow.

She quickly found it, swooping far to her right, and her eyes tracked it as it turned and drifted back toward her.

It was a bird of prey; a beautiful one at that.

It was a falcon.

In the two years since she had left Braedoch Forest, Zoe had received four missives from her siblings: one from Wren and three from Sam. Each letter had been read and reread dozens of times and she kept them against her skin inside her tunic at all times. Now, as she watched the gray-brown bird settle down on the ground left of her, her stomach tightened and twisted with a combination of excitement and anxiety. She lowered her hands, which had turned oddly cool and clammy.

Who had written her? What could have happened? Were her siblings safe?

Do not bear me ill news, she silently and ominously warned the falcon, though of course she knew blaming a bird for a bad message was senseless. Besides, how could she know if the news was good or dire? She had yet to read anything.

Her eyes quickly identified a ragged looking piece of parchment that peeked out of the leather carrier that hung from one of the bird’s legs. Forcing her steps to be careful and slow, Zoe approached the bird. To her worry, it eyed her suspiciously and began hopping away from her. “No, no!” she said quickly, trying to keep her voice reassuring. “Please, don’t go.”

It released a small croak and halted. She crept closer and crouched, reaching slowly forward. She did not like and never had liked the look of the cruelly curved beak of Wren’s birds, nor the equally cruel talons that dug into the rain softened dirt. But her desire for that tiny piece of paper spurred her to push past her discomfort. Her fingers closed around the letter and she gingerly tugged it free. The falcon stood placidly by, staring at her with one eye in a way that unnerved Zoe.

She backed up, clutching the message, and smiled uncertainly at the bird. “Good job, ah…bird.” For the life of her she couldn’t remember the name of this particular falcon. All she knew was it was not Keaton or Iolani, the two birds who had visited her in previous months. “Uh, thanks.”

She sat in the damp grass and unrolled the parchment with the utmost care. Eagerly and yet apprehensively she peered down and began to read.

Dear Zoe,

Perhaps you are surprised that I am writing you, and perhaps if you were here you would chide me for not writing sooner. I’m afraid your brother has grown little more consistent in his communication in the past two years. You must forgive me this, if not other things, and give me a moment’s leave to be the elder brother I never was. If you will, take my advice, and heed not the trust offered by others—you know as well as I that this trust is nothing but a sham. A copper coin amongst counterfeit gold, that is what you are, Zoe. Your small value is still worth more than that of any charlatans you meet. Those who seem to protect you will betray you, and you will be left with nothing but a myriad of destructive choices, choices like those I have made.

You will make those same choices one day, for we are not so different, Sister. Stubborn, so very stubborn, and prone to foolish decisions. Even I will admit that they only lead to death, but it is inevitable, so we must live by fear. Yes, fear, for every fool is riddled with it. Yet it is that fear that will keep you from becoming the world’s babbling village idiot. Take care, little red. Do not make the mistakes your brother has, if you can.

Regards to you dear sister,

Arnan

Zoe sat still, her heart pounding. Oh, Arnan…what has the world done to you? she questioned. The letter she held in her hand was riddled with resentment and guilt. What choices had compelled such bitterness in her mischievous older brother? Yes, Arnan had the family reputation as an occasional troublemaker, but he had never been malicious or full of rage. Something had changed him over the last two years, she realized solemnly. But then, haven’t I changed too? Perhaps he and the others would not even recognize me should they see me now. I have fought the same demons of the past that they must have. How has it altered me? How has it altered Aiden, or Daelia, or Aquila?

She stared at the letter again, her eyes blindly running over the words again as she thought. Yes, we are not so different, brother, she silently agreed with Arnan. Stubborn, prone to foolish decisions—and plagued with the guilt and anger that I perceive infuses you as well as me.

Rising slowly to her feet, Zoe’s eyes moved from the letter to the waiting falcon. Zoe had always sent a reply back when one her siblings wrote her; she was not about to cease doing so now. But first, she required paper and ink. She considered. If she was quiet, she could probably glean some from Tancred’s writing table and he would not notice the difference.

Walking toward the house with a firm step, Zoe flicked her hair over one shoulder. Before she pushed open the door and entered the house, however, she paused and listened. A low, indistinct sound could be heard through the door. She slowly pressed her ear against the rough wood. Voices rumbled behind the heavy door slab; foreign voices. She pulled away, stymied. Who was at the house, and at such a late hour? How did I miss them arriving?

The last question was answered easily enough: she had been distracted by the arrival of the falcon, and then by the contents of Arnan’s letter. This thought abruptly reminded her once again of her purpose for returning to the house. Paper and ink. But if the guests inside were unwanted by Tancred, Zoe did not aspire to be caught in the crossfire of the Hunter and his enemies.

She hesitated and then released a small sigh. Regardless of any aspirations, curiosity trumped all else. She would go inside.

Quietly easing the door open, she peered around the edge with one eye. Five men whose appearances were strange to her were hauling Tancred down the dimly lit hallway toward the artifact room, which was a little way down the hall and to the left. Zoe waited until the six men had all ducked into the room and disappeared from her immediate sight before throwing a glance back at Wren’s falcon.

It was still seated contentedly and preening its feathers. It was probably safe to leave the bird alone for a little while, she reasoned. After all, there was no way for her to send a reply to Arnan without paper, and she could not get the paper without going into the house. Not to mention she was drawn like an insect was to a candle’s flame to observe who these men were who so indiscreetly barged into the house of Cormac Alstair.

She crept inside and closed the door behind her with a barely discernible thump. Dropping into a crouch, she eased her way down the hall, glad for the cover of the shadows. She held her breath and listened intently, positioning herself just outside the doorframe. Cautiously she glanced into the room.

Tancred contemptuously shook off the hold of the man who restrained him and took a slight step forward, crossing his arms. “Who your spokesman?” he questioned loudly, scanning the men around him with frigid, ice-blue eyes. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“You might call me the spokesman,” one of the men replied, stepping forward and staring directly at Tancred. “You may address me as Lieutenant Montel.”

è è è è è è è è è

Cormac did not like the look of the man in front of him in the least. Lieutenant Montel was perhaps in his late twenties, not much older than Cormac himself. His tangled black hair was secured at the nape of his neck with a leather strap, and his face was mostly covered by a wild beard. Twin brown eyes shifted about in Montel’s face, eyeing Cormac with a mixture of disparagement and suspicion.

Christus, detain Jaedon at the market just a little longer, please. Cormac was relieved Jaedon had not yet arrived back from his errand, despite the growing lateness of the hour. The less these Elangisan guards knew of Cormac’s companions, the better. Besides, Jaedon was fully capable of making his way through the city safely, even after evening had fallen.

But, Deus, in Your mercy—keep Zoe from entering the house, Cormac silently added. The last thing he wanted was Montel or one of his filthy Elangsian soldiers seeing her. The lewd reputations of Ruma’s watchmen and soldiers were well-known and Cormac found them disgusting. Even plain-faced peasant girls did not travel about the city unaccompanied after dark.

“I suppose,” Montel continued, oblivious to Cormac’s swift observations and prayers, “that you are the merchant, Cormac Alstair?”

“I am he,” Cormac replied in a suitably disdainful tone. “And again I ask: what is the meaning of this intrusion? I will warn you fairly, Lieutenant—I am not a patient man. I suggest you provide me an answer, and quickly.”

“I will answer you in my own time,” Montel replied ostentatiously. After a very drawn-out pause, he said, “We are acting upon orders authorized by King Brastus himself. He told us to watch all newcomers closely, especially returning patrons. Spies are rampant.”

Cormac kept his face devoid of expression, but a streak of disquiet sped through him. Gathering intelligence was dangerous, and suspicious guards often proved to be the downfall of even the most skilled spies. Like my father.

Montel looked at him closely and continued in a low, suggestive voice, “I’m sure you are aware that such secret emissaries often can be found in the most obvious of places.”

“Your insinuations are unappreciated, Lieutenant.”

“A pity.” Montel crossed the room and looked at Cormac’s small collection of artifacts with interest. “How long are you planning to stay in Ruma, Alstair?”

“Until all my goods are sold, naturally.” Cormac added a bit of impatience to his voice. “This visit to Ruma is not any different than my previous ones.”

“Truly. This is your fourth time in Ruma, yes?”

“Actually my fifth.”

“Ah, yes. Fifth. Thank you.” Montel’s eyes glittered as he turned and looked directly at Cormac. “Oddly enough, your first three visits coincided directly with the point in time that several attacks were planned against the despicable Aerilyans. Would you not find it equally odd that all three of those surprise attacks were met with either an Aerilyan battalion or the cursed Hunter of Mairbrac?”

Not so very odd, Cormac thought with the barest hint of cynical amusement. His successful spying in all three cases had been extremely beneficial to the Aerilyans.

“It almost could be thought,” Montel persisted, “that the Aerilyans knew we were coming.”

Cormac ignored the evident implication the man was trying to make. He would not fall into such an obvious trap. He replied coolly, “Perhaps you should check your security. Abysmal luck you’ve had if your men couldn’t even successfully carry out one of those three attempts.”

Montel’s face suffused with angry color. “You seem to be missing the point, Alstair. You did speak with King Brastus’s advisors on all three of those trips to Ruma. You could have easily—”

“Gotten the information and passed it to the Aerilyans?” Cormac interrupted with a short laugh. “You truly must be growing desperate to catch that Hunter of theirs if you are beginning to question your own benefactors. Yes, I have spoken with certain advisors to the king on previous occasions. Go! Interview them all. All our clandestine meetings were full of terribly dangerous conversations about artifacts. I’m no spy, Montel, and I care little for the accusation, veiled though it was.”

He paused, and in that moment, a pressing impulse to continue speaking came over him. With the blanket of gentle insistence came a name that rang clear and true within his mind: Ihcalam. Cormac had felt such a sensation before and knew immediately it was Deus’s urging.

Without pause he began speaking once more; his voice was calm but distant as he obeyed the prompting.

“However,” he casually told the lieutenant, “you are correct in one thing: I could easily have betrayed Elangsia to Aerilya, for one of your king’s oh-so-trusted advisors has a loose and traitorous tongue.”

Montel looked surprised at Cormac’s sudden information. “What?”

“A Lord Ihcalam plays the role of advisor to King Brastus, I believe,” Cormac said, flicking an invisible piece of lint off the sleeve of his jerkin. His gaze lazily flicked up to meet Montel’s mistrustful one and he continued artlessly, “Yet for all his apparent national devotion, he revealed to me certain plans King Brastus has concerning Princess Brysa and Jaquin of the barbarian Wild Men.”

“Ihcalam,” Montel muttered under his breath. “The fool.”

Montel’s eyes stared unblinkingly at the floor as he sifted through this new information. Cormac quickly decided to take control of the situation while he had the opportunity and interrupted the lieutenant’s musing.

“It has been most pleasant talking with you and your men,” he said with chilly sarcasm, “but I’m sure you understand when I insist that you excuse me now.” He motioned meaningfully to a nearby table that held his business parchments.

Montel was not skilled at hiding his emotions; it was almost amusing how obviously irate he was. He was quite certain this trip to see me would result in my flustered attempts to prove my innocence. Now he’s faced with the possibility of a traitorous nobleman—and it would appear that his accusation of me was completely unfounded.

Setting down a goblet he had been examining with a loud clink, Montel replied tightly, “I shall take my leave, then, Alstair. But you shall not take yours.”

“What threat are you throwing at me now, Lieutenant?”

“No threats, merely orders,” Montel said with dark satisfaction. “You are not longer free to leave this city, on pain of death. All the watchmen have your likeness and are aware that you will not be allowed to exit. I would step carefully, Alstair,” he sneered. “Very carefully.”

“Your concern is duly noted,” Cormac gritted out, refusing to show how furious he was by the restraining order. What now, Deus?

“Excellent,” Montel said, smiling coldly. Silence filled the room for a moment before Montel abruptly flicked one of his hands. His men apparently understood this as an order to withdraw, for they fell back through the open doorway a moment later. Montel had turned and was about to depart himself when a muffled grunt sounded in the hallway, followed by a cry of surprise from one of Montel’s men.

Zoe.

A black expression crossed Cormac’s face as a struggling Zoe was dragged into the room by a couple of Montel’s men. The ill-concealed glances of appreciation that immediately raked Zoe’s frame made Cormac’s blood boil but he somehow managed to keep his voice calm as he stated firmly, “This is completely uncalled for, Lieutenant. Release the maiden.”

Montel looked at him with an oily smile. The Elangsian’s dark eyes had come alive with sudden, feral interest. “Who is this flame-haired damsel of yours, Alstair?” he asked in an uncannily soft voice. His gaze flicked back to Zoe. “Pretty young thing, isn’t she.”

“A fact I should have known would attract your attention,” Cormac replied sharply, quickly losing his patience and striding toward Zoe and two men who held her. He stopped and sent a cool glare toward Montel. “Her name is none of your business. Have your men loose her at once.”

Montel’s lips twitched with anger, but a moment later Zoe had been roughly thrust away from her captors, both of whom released an unpleasant chuckle when she stumbled. Cormac reached down and grabbed her arm, steadying her, but his gaze did not once leave Montel’s. With firm, deliberate movements, Cormac pulled Zoe possessively to his side, shielding her largely from their gazes. Cormac had the impression she was too surprised by his sudden action to push away from him.

“Be careful, Alstair,” Montel warned, his voice dropping to a growl once more. “You may want to keep an eye out for her back as well as your own.”

Cormac refused to give Montel any pleasure by revealing any of his emotions, though hot rage blazed through him at the threat against Zoe. His expression was circumspectly blank as he said, “Farewell, Lieutenant.”

Montel muttered irritably at Cormac’s dismissal of him and his men but quickly snarled out a command to withdraw. The men brushed by Cormac and Zoe, each of them trying to make eye contact with her. Cormac could feel her whole frame trembling but knew it was not from fear but her barely suppressed fury.

Fury that he could definitely relate to.

As soon as the front door was closed, Zoe thrust herself violently away from his side and slammed the side of her clenched fist into the closest wall.

“I detest them,” she whispered angrily. “They think all women are theirs for the taking and any slave is worthless and witless. The idiots.”

Cormac walked to the door and barred it securely before turning back to her with falsely calm movements. For a moment his anger threatened to overflow and he opened his mouth to berate her. What had she been thinking, sitting outside the room eavesdropping? Or maybe the more appropriate question was, what hadn’t she been thinking? Had she assumed she was invisible or some other such foolishness? Montel’s men had been bound to find her lurking out there. Why had she not been more careful?

Yet, as quickly as his anger burned against her, years of discipline and restraint took over and kept him from reprimanding her. Besides, maybe she hadn’t known that Montel’s men would grab her. It was doubtful logic, but who could fathom the mechanics of the mind of the young woman who stood simmering in front of him?

Not I, Cormac thought wearily, running a hand over his face before straightening his shoulders and brushing past Zoe, returning to the artifact room.

He heard, rather than saw, her following him. “What now?” she asked tersely.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “What did you overhear?” he asked instead, not answering her question immediately.

“Everything. I was outside the room the whole time.”

“And you will never do such a thing again,” he told her firmly. “If Montel’s men return or any Elangsian officials come here, you will remain out of sight. Is that clear?”

Her eyebrows shot up and her hands settled slowly to her hips. “Am I to understand that you are commanding me to stay away?”

“Yes, I am commanding,” he replied bluntly, turning toward her fully. “And you will listen.” This is dangerous enough without me having to worry about Montel’s foul-minded underlings harming you when my back is turned, he added silently.

“I need to know what is going on just as much as you and Jaedon do!”

“And we can tell you exactly what our status is without you being present all the time,” he stated unapologetically. He was not going to budge on this one, though her outrage was obvious from her slightly parted lips and snapping eyes. “Now, as for your first question—what now—the answer is simple: we wait.”

She stared at him mutely for a moment, obviously debating whether or not she ought to challenge his authority over her. Apparently she decided it was not worth contesting at the moment. Snapped her mouth shut and regaining her typical poise, she asked tightly, “Wait for what?”

“Wait for the suspicion of Montel to pass from us. He will go investigate Ihcalam and find a traitor.”

“How did you know Ihcalam is traitor to Brastus?” Zoe asked, reluctant curiosity tingeing her voice.

“I don’t know,” Cormac said calmly.

“What?” she exclaimed incredulously. “But you just sent Montel sniffing along that trail! If he’s not a traitor, Montel will merely discover you were bluffing this entire time and you’ll be under worse mistrust.”

Cormac smiled slightly. “I said that I don’t know if Ihcalam is a traitor or not,” he reminded her. She looked at him silently, uncomprehending. “I don’t know,” he elucidated softly, “but Deus does. And He told me to speak Ihcalam’s name. I must trust that Deus knows more than I in this situation.”

Zoe stared at him with an odd, pensive look on her face. Her voice was strangely tentative when she inquired, “You trust Deus enough to put your life in jeopardy when you imagine He speaks to you?”

“I don’t imagine Deus speaking to me,” Cormac corrected her quietly. “It is a very real and unforgettable wonder when He does so.”

She said nothing. Silence began building between them yet it was not awkward but full of a sort of eloquence that Cormac knew came directly from the Unseen One. Deus, show Yourself to her, Cormac prayed. He desperately wished she could see what he saw, and feel what he felt when Deus was near. It was so difficult to watch her struggle before him, trapped and thrashing like a cornered gryphon, when he knew exactly what would heal her brokenness and minister to her wounded spirit. Open her soul to You, Deus.

The sound of knocking came to their ears and broke the trance that had settled over him and Zoe. She blinked and looked toward the hallway. “That must be Jaedon,” she murmured, rather unnecessarily.

Cormac walked past her. “I’ll let him in.”

Changes and Comments

Hey Everyone! I have been faithfully plugging away at Zoe, never fear. However, due to an interesting brainstorming session with a couple of my lovely Waysider companions, Libby (Ilara) and Brittany (Sam), a few changes have taken place in my plotting. Thankfully I did not have to go back and change too much, but there is one section that I had already posted on this site that needed a bit of reworking. Therefore, I'm giving all you wonderful readers a heads-up so that you're not too surprised by what I end up doing.

Remember Lord Ihcalam, the young nobleman/councilor to King Brastus of Elangsia? He and "Cormac" had a conversation back in chapter seventeen (XVII). I have altered their conversation just slightly, but the changes are enough that you'll want to glance over it again. It won't take too long to reread it over, and then you'll be ready for the next chapters I post (hopefully, soon!).

Also, I saw a great post written by another of the Waysiders, Rachel B (Daelia), that I would like to concur with. (Oh, and you can read her original post on The Romany Epistles webpage.) PLEASE, if you are a reader of these Romany tales, LEAVE COMMENTS! It doesn't matter if it's merely "I think this chapter is stupid" -- we need and appreciate your feedback! :) Of course, if you really do think the chapter is stupid...helpful hints would be appreciated as well.... ;) Comments encourage me and show me areas that I might need to strengthen when the second draft comes around. I'm very willing to be taught and relish all pointers you might give.

First impressions on these chapters from our readers are awesome to have and impossible to reproduce--if you think something right off the bat after reading a section of a story, it's usually best to write it down because it's very likely you won't think that the second time you read it. I'm still very young and learning how to write, so hints and tips are wonderful. Again, thank you for following these stories. I think I can speak for all nine of us Waysiders when I say that we greatly appreciate your support.

Later!
Emily

Chapter XVIII - Brysa

~ Hey everyone! I'm really going to need your feedback on this chapter, because it took a very drastic turn in style from my previous chapters. For one thing, it is not written from Zoe or Tancred's point of view. That in and of itself is quite a change. I did this because I was reaching a huge standstill in the story; I had a lot to tell, but every time I tried typing it, it came out as me narrating, not the characters living it. Hence, a new-ish character appeared. She's someone who has been mentioned before, but you have never read anything from her point of view. Please let me know if it works. I am pretty satisfied with it, but if it breaks up the general flow of the story, that is not a good thing. Anyway, without further ado, here you go: chapter eighteen. ~

Chapter XVIII

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Princess Brysa Alustate, high-born lady of Elangsia and daughter of King Brastus and Queen Maurelle, stared listlessly out the latticed window of her inner chambers. Her striking features were marred by a turbulent expression that matched the storminess of the outside world. The heavy rain of the afternoon had eventually tapered off but the dark clouds still hovered ominously over the city, intimating that their deluge was not yet finished. Droplets dribbled down from the top of her window to the cold stone beneath it. The Elangsian palace was a well-constructed place, Brysa thought absently, but it was cold. Always cold. There will never be warmth here. Not while my father rules with an iron fist of tyranny and fear.

Her lip curled. He thinks I see nothing, she thought of her father with derision. How little he knows.

When she had turned seventeen, five years ago, Brysa had received her first suitor—a petty lord of Elangsia who wished to make an attempt for the throne. King Brastus had quickly disposed of him and Brysa was glad. She would not have appreciated marriage to such a self-serving, dim-witted oaf. However, since that day, Brastus had carefully restricted which public appearances she made; what men she was allowed to speak to, or even look at from across a room; and which friends she acquired.

Which would be practically none, Brysa thought bitterly. Friends? Does any princess ever have true friends? She had never grown close with ladies of the court, for they were too foolish for her to fathom. They never spoke of anything important, such as why Elangsia was still fighting a war against Aerilya after twelve and a half long years of conflict. All they thought about were clothes, noblemen, and the latest gossip in the palace.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

No, Brysa had no high-born friends. But sometimes, sympathetic relationships could be formed with the most unassuming people, she mused. In an effort to thwart her father’s heavy-handed control over her life, Brysa had resorted to making friends with unlikely people.

“Princess?”

Brysa turned her head toward one such “unlikely” friend with a small smile. “Hello, Rebekka,” she greeted her. “Do you need something?”

Rebekka was a young woman of great beauty. Brysa found her comforting to have close at hand, for Rebekka’s calm, quiet nature was just what soothed the princess’s anger whenever she confronted her father or was thrown into a difficult situation.

“I need nothing, my lady,” Rebekka said quietly, lifting her golden-haired head to look at Brysa. “I came because you told me to inform you if news of spies is heard whispered in the passageways.”

Brysa rose from the cushioned window seat and walked toward Rebekka. “Yes! And what have you heard?”

“A merchantman has returned to the city. He has been here several times before and has been under mild suspicion for many months. They consider him a man who could be a spy for Aerilya and who must be watched.”

“A merchantman?” Brysa questioned under her breath. Absently she fingered the bottom of her waist-length braid of black hair. Rebekka had styled it that morning and woven silken cords through the glossy tresses. “Did you hear where this merchant hails from, or what his name is?”

“I heard the word Meru mentioned,” Rebekka offered, her blue eyes thoughtful, “but they did not mention the man’s name, likely for security reasons. I would not doubt they know they are likely to be overheard when talking in the corridors of this palace.”

“Interesting,” Brysa murmured.

“I did speak with my friend,” Rebekka offered, her voice turning a little hesitant. “You remember her…the woman you bought from my old master when you purchased me? Tryna?”

“Yes, I had her placed in the kitchens, did I not?” Brysa replied absently. She had bought Rebekka to spite her father, several months before, and Rebekka had pleaded so earnestly that Tryna could stay with her that Brysa had acquiesced. She had not the heart to break apart dear friends. The whole slave trade was not quite to her liking, though she did not have enough power to change anything about it.

“That’s right,” Rebekka nodded affirmatively in response to Brysa’s question. “I spoke with her briefly about the rumors of the merchantman being a spy, and she had heard the same. What is more, your father has been notified. There is going to be a contingent of soldiers sent to investigate this very evening.”

My father has been notified? They must be rather sure this merchant is a genuine threat, Brysa thought with surprise. She did not favor the Aerilyans in the war—her loyalties to her country were too strong for that—but she did admire the tenacious spies they sent into Elangsia. They never seemed to give up, despite the enormous odds that were stacked against them.

Many had been caught and executed, but Brysa knew her father would never be satisfied until the Hunter of Mairbrac had been discovered and publicly killed. King Brastus Alustate hated that man. Brysa did not support the Hunter, but neither did she hate him. She did not know enough about him to form her own opinions. All the animosity toward him merely made her more curious about what great things he had done to both endear him to the Aerilyans and so violently alienate him from the Elangsians.

“What did my father say about the rumors?” she inquired, beginning to pace the room. Her long velvet skirt swirled heavily around her ankles when she turned. “Did your Tryna know about that?”

“He did not say much from what I gathered. He was in conference with the Wild Men again and paid the captain of the guard little attention.”

The Wild Men. Brysa’s stomach churned with revulsion and her hands clenched her skirt tightly. Jaquin.

Prince Jaquin of the Wild Men was by far the most revolting man Brysa had ever laid eyes upon. Like his father, King Naard, he was a great bearded ox of a man, with beady eyes set in a dark-skinned face. He was a barbaric man—Brysa had caught glimpses of the prince’s ever-present side dagger at each evening meal—and had a reputation of killing whoever stood in the way of his ambitions. Not unlike my father, Brysa realized, a trace of sadness fingering its way through the haze of anger and betrayal that seemed to constantly shroud her.

Unfortunately for her, Jaquin, Naard, and Brastus’s ambitions were currently all the same: to become allies and destroy the Aerilyans. The reason this was unfortunate for Brysa was because her hand in marriage was required to secure the alliance.

A chill rippled over her flesh. I would rather die than marry Jaquin. Not only was his barbarism repulsive to her, but she had heard Jaquin considered higher-level education worthless and inane. Doubtless he would rid her of the few books she possessed should they marry. Brysa not only shuddered at the thought of being dragged to Rulaan to become Queen of the Wild Men, but her spirit failed her at the thought of being bereft of her books, for they were one of the only comforts left in a life stripped of pleasures. Her mother, Queen Maurelle, had ensured that Brysa was educated properly by a priest, despite Brastus’s displeasure. Now Brysa clung to her education with all she had within her. I cannot let that be taken from me.

“My lady Brysa?” Rebekka’s concerned voice broke through Brysa’s gloomy ponderings. “Are you feeling ill?”

Shaking herself slightly, Brysa drew her shoulders back and shook her head at her maidservant. “It is merely the chill of the weather that swept over me for a moment, but I am all right now,” she reassured her.

Rebekka did not look entirely convinced, but she did not pursue the matter. Stepping forward, she straightened the pearl studded neckline of Brysa’s dress and commented softly, “It is almost time for the evening meal, my lady.”

Brysa closed her eyes. “Don’t you mean it is almost time for putting me on display like a piece of meat?” she replied dully.

Rebekka said nothing.

“How I wish,” Brysa said with sudden emotion, “that I was a mere slave, like you. Life would be so much easier than this.”

Rebekka’s eyes flew up to Brysa’s face. “Easier?” she repeated in astonishment. “You consider my life easy?”

“You don’t have to worry about a father who locks you away, or a filthy prince who wants to marry you in exchange for a war contract,” Brysa replied. “You’re life is simple and yes, easy. Can you not see the difference?”

“I see the difference, it is true.” Rebekka’s voice had lost its incredulity and turned tremulous. “You are correct, I do not need to worry about the things you listed, and I know that it is not a pleasant fate you have been given.” She raised her face a little higher and Brysa saw that tears shone in the young woman’s eyes. “But I do have to worry about my family back home in Aerilya who still does not know where I am or if I am even alive; from day to day I must worry about retaining what shreds of honor I have remaining, for slave women in the palace are like pieces of meat—just as you are before the lords and nobles at the evening feast each night. I am a slave, my lady. My life is not my own. Nor,” she whispered shakily, “is it easy.”

The unrefined feeling that marked the delicate features of Rebekka shook Brysa to the core, and for a moment the princess and the slave stood as statues staring at each other, their eyes full of glittering tears.

“I’m sorry,” Brysa finally managed, blinking to rid her eyes of the burning tears. “I…beg your forgiveness for my thoughtlessness.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Rebekka replied gently, wiping away her own tears with her slender hand. “We are not unlike each other, you and I. Therefore, I understand your thoughts. As you are a prisoner to your father and your position, so am I a prisoner to this castle and Elangsia.”

“Princess, prisoner,” Brysa murmured in a quiet, sing-song tone. “Indeed, it is so.”

“Come,” Rebekka said quietly. “You must prepare for the evening meal.”

è è è è è è è è è

The Hall of Kings was a vast room inside the Elangsian palace and graced with a large, vaulted ceiling. Long, heavy tables with benches lined the place, filled to capacity with laughing, half-drunk men and laden with trays of food. Tapestries covered the stone walls, some large and depicting a historical occurrence, others the blue-and-silver banner of Elangsia: a hippogriff rearing upright over a sword. High above in the rafters and crevices were nests of doves and other birds that would occasionally swoop low enough to disturb a guest, providing a constant source of amusement. An enormous hearth was built into the farthest wall and a roaring fire was kept up throughout the evening, giving a source of heat in the huge room. Slaves had laid new rushes over the floor to soak up the inevitable spilled drinks and to ensure that the cleanup process late that night would be finished more rapidly. Already the rushes were trampled and limp compared to their original crisp freshness.

Brysa picked at her roast pheasant, her appetite small. She was usually a healthy eater, but tonight her stomach could not handle the atmosphere. All she wanted to do was get away from it all. Forever. With a sigh, she forced herself to put her mind away from such foolishness. Escape was impossible.

To her left sat her mother the queen, and beyond her, King Brastus. To Brastus’s left was King Naard and his rough-looking councilors from Rulaan. Prince Jaquin was not seated beside his father, however, but occupied the seat on Brysa’s right. He had taken that spot the first night after the Wild Men’s arrival in the city, a week before, and had continued doing so each night since. His gaze made Brysa’s skin crawl, and his attempts at conversation proved him to be an uneducated man, built for wielding a sword and crushing insurrections through sheer force. Brysa felt with certainty that even her resolute pride would quickly be flattened beneath his heavy fist as soon as she left with him for Rulaan.

“You look comely tonight,” Jaquin muttered through his bite of lamb. “I’ve scarce ever seen a more fine-looking woman than you are.”

Gritting her teeth, Brysa managed a cordial nod. “I thank you, sir.”

“Can you not call me by my given name, woman?” he growled with startling vehemence, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and turning his head to face her. “I told you two nights ago to call me Jaquin, not sir, or prince. I am Jaquin.”

“Yes…sir,” she replied coldly, turning her head regally aside. He cannot hurt me while I am here in my own country, in my own palace, she thought, closing her eyes briefly.

Instead of growing angry, as she assumed he immediately would, a raspy chuckle came from his throat. “You have spirit, that is certain,” he muttered, picking up his goblet and swallowing half his wine in one quick gulp.

She chose to ignore his quip and focused on finishing a bite of cooked carrots. That was another thing she didn’t like about this Prince Jaquin: he was so unpredictable. She was never sure what emotion would rear its head when she spoke with him—anger, sarcastic wit, amusement…the list could go on.

The scent of roasted meat and stench of sweat and unwashed bodies permeated her senses, mixing with the loud echoes of raucous, drunken laughter. Brysa’s stomach heaved and she bit her lip hard to keep the small amount of dinner she had managed to eat from coming back up.

Turning toward the queen, she whispered, “Mother.”

Queen Maurelle turned toward her daughter, her dark eyes studying Brysa. “You feel unwell, Brysa?”

Brysa merely nodded. She felt cold and clammy, and she was sure her face was pale. She knew her mother would understand what she felt. Brysa and Maurelle had never had a close or very loving relationship—especially since Maurelle’s mental functions seemed extremely stressed in late months—but they understood each other better than anyone Brysa had ever met. She knew it stemmed from their similar lifestyles; both were repressed by Brastus and neither appreciated it.

The queen turned to the king and murmured in his ear. Brastus’s face darkened, and he shot an angry glance toward Brysa. “You are sick?” he demanded in a blunt undertone that only she and her mother could hear.

“Yes, father,” she murmured, all her bravado disappearing beneath Brastus’s stare.

“Bah, away with you then,” he said harshly, waving his hand. “Regain your health quickly, daughter. I do not wish you to grow sick and languid.”

“I understand, father,” she murmured, slipping quickly from her chair. She turned to make a quick getaway but was stopped by Jaquin’s hand closing around her wrist. Whirling on him, she sent him a harsh glance. “Unhand me this moment.”

He looked at her, his lip curled, for a long moment; she felt her face growing crimson with anger and embarrassment. She was royalty, so she had been seated at a prominent place of the Hall of Kings. Everyone in the room could observe the shameful scene. Finally Jaquin’s fingers released her slim wrist and she fled from the room. Rebekka quickly appeared at her side, sheltering her from the many glances that were sent her way. Rebekka wrapped an arm around Brysa’s waist and guided her through the doors that led toward the wing of the palace that the princess resided in.

Halfway back to her chambers, Brysa lost her supper in a nearby chamber pot. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth and stood to her feet a little unsteadily, rejoining Rebekka. Neither of them said anything, but Brysa knew they were likely thinking the same thing: Princess…prisoner.

That is all I am, Brysa thought listlessly. A prisoner locked in a golden cage.

She was so lost in her own thoughts, she did not hear the sound of booted feet approaching down the corridor. Rebekka had the presence of mind to seize Brysa’s wrist and drag her into a nearby doorway, where the shadows would conceal their presence. Even though Brysa was the princess, it was not pleasant to be caught unaware by her father’s soldiers. She winced as they marched closer and almost ceased breathing when the five men stopped directly across the hall from her and Rebekka. She cautiously turned her head and eyed the quintet, wondering what they were doing. It was unusual for soldiers to patrol the palace hallways, especially during a mealtime.

“Know you even where this merchant lives, Montel?” one of the men whined. “And must we go now? I was just enjoying some of the roast lamb when you dragged us off.”

“Are you paid to be slovenly drunkards or respectable members of King Brastus’s military?” a bearded man snarled at the complainer, who promptly wilted with shame. “Of course I know where the merchant lives, fool. Cormac Alstair has been under suspicion for some time; we’ve watched his house so we know where it is. I’ve just been given orders from one of King Brastus’s personal advisors to confront him, so that is what we shall do.”

A merchant… Brysa’s mind raced. Oh! Cormac Alstair must be the name of the spy who supposedly is here in Ruma. These are the men who are going to apprehend him, then.

“Fine then,” another of the soldiers muttered in a deep voice. “Let’s just get it over with. Are we arresting him?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Montel replied sourly. “We haven’t enough proof against him. He may be a merchant who does honest work, but his constant presence here at pivotal moments in the war—such as now, when an possible alliance with the Wild Men is possible—raises flags of warning that we cannot ignore.”

“If we’re not arresting him, what are we doing, then?”

“Intimidating him,” Montel said, smiling grimly. “All men can be intimidated by power; he will be no different, I am sure. We have a restraining order for him, too. He will be unable to leave the city until we give our permission.”

The men rumbled with laughter. Brysa stood perfectly still, hoping against all odds that none of the men would spot her or Rebekka. To her relief, Montel gave a couple more orders and then the group marched down the hallway toward the front of the palace, quickly disappearing around a corner. Brysa released the breath she had not realized she was holding and Rebekka did likewise.

“That is the merchantman I was telling you about,” Rebekka whispered with wide eyes. “They are going to do something to him, I just know it!”

“Other than yelling and threatening him, they will do nothing,” replied Brysa firmly. “They cannot arrest him, so torture or enslavement or death is all out of the question. If he is a spy…” her voice trailed off.

“If he is a spy, he is a symbol of hope for all the Aerilyan slaves in Elangsia,” Rebekka said in a strong voice that surprised Brysa.

The princess studied her maid. “You are lucky I am not in favor of Aerilyan enslavement,” she said warningly. “I could have you flogged for such words.”

“I know, my lady,” Rebekka replied with poise, giving a nod of assent. “But you are kind-hearted and would not do that to me. And you must understand my loyalties lie with my homeland.”

“Yes, I do,” Brysa said. A wave of weariness swept over her and she swayed slightly. “But now I must return to my chambers or I really shall become badly ill. Help me please, Rebekka.”

Rebekka nodded and offered her arm to Brysa, who gratefully took it. A few minutes later, the princess was wrapped in a warm coverlet in the center of her large bed. Rebekka stoked the fire in the hearth, coaxing it back to life, and Brysa relished the heat that emanated from it. It might be mid-summer, but she grew easily chilled. “Thank you, Rebekka,” she murmured, closing her eyes and lying back against her pillows. “And Rebekka?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“I do hope, if the merchant truly is a spy for Aerilya, that he makes it out safely.”

“As do I, Brysa,” the slender maid whispered in reply, smiling wanly. “As do I.”

Chapter XVII - Grace

TWO YEARS, THREE MONTHS

Ruma’s marketplace was a colorful, boisterous place filled with people of various backgrounds and crafts who all proclaimed their work to be the finest in the city—in Elangsia—nay, in all the known world. Zoe felt bits of mirth rise in her as she walked among the hawkers who tried to out-shout their neighbor and the vendors who rushed into the street and scuttled along beside her, thrusting their wares into her face while chattering about the benefits of their particular merchandise. She always ignored them with regal indifference, hiding her amusement behind an impassive expression.

It was second week since their arrival to Ruma. The sky was heavy with rain clouds, but as of yet, no droplets had fallen from above. The warm breeze carried hints of the approaching refreshment throughout the crowded thoroughfare, and Zoe inhaled deeply of it, savoring it.

She and the two men had settled back into the small house with quick ease. Tancred—or Cormac, as he insisted they call him at all times—had decided to make contact with some of his customers and arranged to meet a Lord Ihcalam in wealthy section of the city. Zoe and Jaedon both wished to come as well, but Cormac had been reluctant. Jaedon eventually suggested that he take Zoe to the marketplace instead; they would meet back up with Cormac when his business with Ichalam was complete.

Jaedon obviously already knew what protocol he was expected to follow while they were in Ruma, but it was all new to Zoe. Last time they had been in the city together, she had been completely unaware of the great charade Cormac and Jaedon were carrying out.

This trip is much different than before. She smiled wryly at the understatement of her thought. Now, she was free from chains, and she understood to some extent what was playing out around her.

“A necklace? A necklace for the pretty lady?” A voice came from her right and Zoe turned her head to examine the necklace thrust at her by an aspiring merchant. It was a gaudy thing with a heavy golden chain and flashy gems. She shook her head decisively at the merchant and moved on. Last thing I need is jewelry bogging me down. Between that and this dress, I’d never be able to do anything!

The strong smell of roasting meat came to her nostrils, along with the exotic tint of perfume from a nearby stall. She eyed a juggler curiously, watching his mesmerizing show for a few minutes with interest. She had never seen anything like it before. She tried to learn how he tossed the torches, apples, and even small daggers and caught them again without getting them jumbled and dropping them, but she could not discover his trick. Every master is entitled to his own secrets, she finally decided with a shrug.

Turning away, she moved past a square that was completely deserted. Curious, she paused and glanced at it. A simple wooden platform stood a little ways off the ground. It was stained in various places with a dark substance. Everyone skirted the platform, keeping well away from it. Zoe stepped a little closer as somebody jostled her and noticed a simply carved sign that had been fastened to the base of the platform. She bent down, scrubbed away a stubborn layer of dirt and black grime, and then read the two words inscribed into it: Execution Square?

She instantly recoiled, wiping her dirtied hand on her skirt. The dark stains on the platform must be dried blood, then. The realization evoked an uncontrolled shudder and a random thought: had this been the place where Tancred’s father was murdered?

Shaking her head to clear it, she hurried away toward a stall draped with cloth of every hue and weave she could think of. A short woman and small brown-haired child stood in front of the stall with their backs to her. The woman was examining a length of dark blue material while the peddler watched keenly, quick to comment on the superiority of the weave and soft texture of the cloth. Zoe moved a little closer, interested in looking at all the different kinds of fabric. She stopped a dozen paces away from the stall; close enough to hear the merchant’s loud, singsong voice as he attempted to make a sale but far enough away that he would not think her a prospective buyer. It must be expensive to purchase woven cloth, she decided, since the poor always make their own clothes from fabric they twine themselves.

“I like the quality,” the woman said in a languid tone, “but I would rather it were dyed a more vivid blue. This is utterly drab.”

“Yes, Lady Ricald,” the merchant nodded eagerly. “I have several other choices for you to peruse, if you will wait but a moment….” He ducked to the side and came up a moment later with three other selections in hues of azure, cobalt, and midnight blue.

Lady Ricald swiftly picked up the cobalt with an exclamation of pleasure. “Ah, it is beautiful,” she said with satisfaction. The merchant beamed. “It will look glorious when made into a gown. How much?”

“Fifteen gold,” the merchant said quickly.

“Fifteen? I buy my slaves for less than that,” Lady Ricald said disdainfully. “Eight.”

Zoe clenched her fist at the mention of slaves and found that she immediately disliked Lady Ricald strongly and intensely. She shot a quick glance at the little girl who stood at the lady’s side. Zoe suddenly noticed the poor quality of the brown shift the child wore and after comparing it to the long, well-made garment Lady Ricald was attired in, she concluded that the little girl was a slave.

Rage as strong and unmanageable as a gale blew through Zoe and she stalked forward. She did not know what she was doing, nor did she care; the depth of the fury that had suddenly sparked to life stunned her but she did not slow to analyze it. She was a mere pace from Lady Ricald when the slave girl turned her head to look at a neighboring fruit stall. Zoe glimpsed the girl’s sad, delicate profile and froze with shock.

Grace?

è è è è è è è è è

Cormac looked at Lord Ihcalam with a professional smile. “If you have a desire to look at my latest artifacts,” he said smoothly, “I shall always be at your service. I am based in the same house I have always conducted my business in.”

Lord Ihcalam, a thin nobleman with a pale complexion, nodded his head. The lord was young, perhaps in his early thirties, but had already become an advisor to King Brastus. Cormac made it his business to know the schedule of each of his customers when he was present in Ruma; thus, he had known today was Ihcalam’s day away from the palace. Ihcalam was without wife or family, so often spent his free hours in the vicinity of the White Swan, the tavern they sat in at the moment. Cormac had also discovered that Ihcalam’s weakness was ale in large quantities.

“Thank you, Alstair,” the lord responded formally to his invitation, his words surprisingly clear. He had already downed three large goblets of the strong tavern brew.

Cormac heard the quiet patter of rain on the rooftop for a few minutes now; he estimated he had been in the tavern with Ihcalam for the better part of an hour now. Patience is the key.

Ihcalam smoothed back his dark hair and continued, “I appreciate your honest dealings. I’ve been more than pleased with your services in times past. A trustworthy merchant is a rare find, is it not?” He slapped his knee and chuckled at his own supposed humor.

“It pleases me to hear that.” Cormac paused and eyed the man before saying casually, “I was detained for a short while upon entrance into the city. I confess that I was taken aback by the delay. I have never been stopped upon entrance to the city before. Odd, I thought.”

“Ever since the Wild Men arrived, there’ve been guards at all the gates, monitoring entrances,” Ihcalam explained slowly and quietly, studying his half empty goblet.

Cormac feigned surprise. “Wild Men? You mean those northern oafs?”

“Yes, them.” Ihcalam downed his goblets contents and looked up at Cormac moodily. “You have not heard? Just this last week the leaders of the Wild Men came to Ruma. They are meeting with King Brastus on matters of state. Their negotiations will take weeks, no doubt. They’ve not been away from the king’s side since they came. Nor have they stopped inquiring about Princess Brysa, either.”

Cormac sensed the lord’s dislike of the Wild Men and moved quickly to utilize it. “What could those northerners want with King Brastus or the princess? It seems strange,” he said with pretended mystification.

Ihcalam snorted and raised his hand to signal the barkeeper for more ale. “They’re here by King Brastus’s request. I do not doubt my king’s wisdom—” at these words, Cormac noticed Ihcalam’s lip curl slightly in an almost scornful manner. But before he could analyze the unexpected expression, Ihcalam had moved on—“I do not doubt his wisdom, but this has gone too far. They’re barbarians! Illiterate brawlers and men of base passions, the lot of them. The princess is wise to ignore their inquiries of her daily whereabouts. She stays in her chambers when they are near.”

What do they want with Brysa? Cormac had seen the princess before and knew her to be beautiful and allegedly intelligent. He voiced his thought: “What is their interest in Princess Brysa?”

“Their prince, Jaquin, would have her hand in marriage,” Ihcalam said darkly. “Already there is talk that King Brastus may agree to pledge his daughter’s future with the barbarians in order to secure their—” Ihcalam abruptly cut himself off, drumming the side of his goblet with his fingers and dropping his gaze to the knots in the wooden table they sat at. The sound of the rain outside increased in volume.

Cormac studied Ihcalam thoughtfully. In order to secure their…what? He was almost certain Brastus was planning to trade his daughter for the military aid of the Wild Men, but he wanted to hear it from Ihcalam before he jumped to conclusions. Ihcalam was obviously infatuated with Brysa and cared not for the proposed marriage between the foreign Prince Jaquin and the secreted princess. In fact, Ihcalam’s interest in the princess bordered on obsession. In addition to that, the young lord was not as devoted to King Brastus Alustate as he might wish to appear, Cormac noted keenly. Between his false dedication to Brastus and his fixation on Brysa, he might prove to be useful in later days.

Cormac phrased his next inquiry carefully, speaking slowly: “If King Brastus summoned the Wild Men, the real question is not what the Wild Men want with Brastus, then. Rather, it is: what does Brastus want with the Wild Men?”

“Aid,” Ihcalam stated roughly. “He wants aid. This blasted war with the blasted Aerilyans had gone on for too blasted long. The king is convinced—rightly so,” he assented reluctantly, “that we need more to tip the scales in our favor, if you understand my meaning.”

“I do,” Cormac said coolly, lifting his own goblet to take a small sip of wine. I understand far more than you imagine, Ihcalam. So then. King Trystellan has heard correctly; the Wild Men are here to help the Elangsians tip the balance. In trade they may secure Princess Brysa. Cormac felt cold as he and Ihcalam each mused on their own thoughts. He now would have to verify all the information he had gathered. And if I find it accurate, he thought grimly, I will return to Bryndor and report soon. Indeed…as soon as can be managed.

è è è è è è è è è

Zoe checked herself mid-stride and settled back on her heels with shock as Grace turned her head back to look at the cloth vendor’s wares. Several cold drops of rain fell from the pregnant clouds, splashing on her cheeks, but she did not heed them. The glimpse she had gotten of the little girl’s profile was all she needed: this small-boned slave of this Lady Ricald was Grace, her Grace.

What to do…what can I do? Think, Zoe, think! she ordered herself savagely.

The cloth merchant had noticed her. “Need you something, mistress?” he asked, eyeing her simple dress and unadorned face with skepticism. She was an unlikely looking customer.

Before Lady Ricald or Grace could turn and see her, Zoe shook her head mutely and darted away. Her whole frame shook with pent-up emotions as she slipped through the crowd. Every fiber of her being rebelled against running. I must help her! I cannot abandon her as I was forced to before. But she knew, with deep despair, that she could not afford to let the little girl see her; not yet. If Grace had recognized her and cried out Zoe’s name or something equally revealing, the results would have been cataclysmic. Zoe halted abruptly, her thoughts churning. But I cannot let her go without at least seeing where she is residing, she decided. Otherwise I may never find her again in this large city, or if I could, it would take far too long.

She turned about and promptly tripped on the folds of her unfamiliar skirt as she hurried back through the crush of people. Growling with irritation, she lifted the hem a little higher and continued. By now the rain had grown heavier and she struggled to pull her cloak around her shoulders in protection against it while at the same time she continued running and tried to keep her skirt away from her feet.

Zoe had not made it far when someone grabbed her arm and swung her to a stop. Her fist shot out by instinct, but Jaedon calmly blocked it. She frowned up at him furiously and shook off his hold on her. “What are you thinking?” she hissed.

“Where are you going in such a hurry? You stick out like a mad priest, zigzagging from one side of the market to the other in such a rush.”

Resentful of his tone but realizing the truthfulness of what he said, Zoe tried to soften her glare. “I am all right,” she said with as much composure as she could muster. The rain pelted down, plastering her hair to her head in an uncomfortable fashion. “Truly.”

“You have not answered me,” Jaedon stated firmly, his brown eyes looking at her keenly. “What happened to upset you?”

How to answer that? A pox on all over-inquisitive men! Zoe exhaled heavily. “I saw Grace.”

“The slave-girl you are seeking?”

“Yes.”

Jaedon looked grave. “I am amazed you found her so quickly,” he said, “but that is beside the point. Where did you see her?”

“At the stall of a cloth vendor across the market.” She glanced around, located the correct vending stall through the rain, and pointed. Her heart and outstretched hand both dropped as she realized that Lady Ricald and Grace were gone. Her eyes searched the surrounding market desperately, but it was too late; they were gone from her sight. They probably had left soon after the downpour began. She whispered, “They are no longer there.”

“Was she alone?”

Zoe shook her head. “She was with a woman—her mistress.” She spat last two words out with distaste.

“We will speak with Cormac of this,” Jaedon said gruffly, obviously thinking through her words. “Now come. He will be finished with Ihcalam by the time we reach the wealthy section of Ruma from here.”

Numbly following Jaedon, Zoe was overwhelmed with a wave of failure, which was soon followed by self-incrimination. How shall I find Grace? How could I have run away when she was right there, within an arms reach of me? You are a fool, Zoe Romany, and a coward.

“Stop browbeating yourself,” Jaedon admonished sternly. “You did no wrong. You could hardly have stolen her away from beneath her mistress’s eye without being caught yourself. That would have been the worst choice for you to make.”

She knew he was right, but still…a Romany ought not run. What would Aiden say if he had been here? She cringed to think of that. Her conduct was a shame upon her. Her heart was heavy as she inquired, “How shall I find her again, Jaedon? Is there a way to find the home of the noblewoman she was with?”

Jaedon stopped abruptly and turned to her. His wet face shone in the grayish light. “How do you know she was with a noblewoman?”

Zoe thought his question odd and replied with surprise, “She had the title lady, so I assume she is a noblewoman. Do I assume incorrectly?”

“How do you know she is a lady?”

“The merchant called her Lady Ricald,” Zoe clarified, her eyebrows raised.

“You did not tell me that!” exclaimed Jaedon, his brow lowering ominously. “Ricald? You are certain that was her surname?”

Zoe stared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes. What is the matter, Jaedon?”

“Had you told me she was a noblewoman, I could have immediately told you it will be easy to locate her, for Cormac and I are highly skilled in discovering such information. Had you mentioned her name was Lady Ricald, I could have immediately told you I know where she lives.” Jaedon ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking droplets around, and said severely, “You must learn to keep nothing from me or Cormac while we are here. We cannot afford to make mistakes on account of incomplete or faulty information.”

“I didn’t purposely keep it from you, I merely did not know it was of such importance,” Zoe objected. She stared up at Jaedon, her chin lifted stubbornly. “But…you know where Lady Ricald lives? How?”

“She lives in the wealthy district of the city.” Jaedon turned and began striding swiftly away through the alleys that crisscrossed the whole city, splashing heedlessly through puddles. Zoe quickly followed. “The rest you must learn from Cormac. He knows as much as I do, or more, of the Ricald family.”

Something about the menacing tone in Jaedon’s voice as he uttered the name Ricald caused the hair on the back of Zoe’s neck to stand up. What can it all mean? And why does Tanc—Cormac have to explain everything? Jaedon apparently knows enough about this Lady Ricald to even know where she lives. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she strove to figure everything out. Casting a glance to the weeping sky, she whispered a bare, straightforward prayer: “Christus, if you care about little ones like Grace, show me the way to free her.”

Half and hour later, they had reached the edges of the wealthy quarter of the city. They rounded a corner and almost ran into an equally soaked Cormac. He joined them silently, matching their pace without pause. “What has happened?” he inquired in a low voice, scrutinizing their expressions.

“I found Grace,” Zoe explained tightly.

Jaedon shed light on the rest of the matter by adding quietly, “Grace is the slave to Lady Elmira Ricald, Cormac.”

Had lightning stuck the ground before them and rent a tear in the earth, Zoe did not think Cormac would have reacted with such rapidity. He stopped, swiveled, and pierced her with a relentless gaze as he demanded forcefully, “Ricald?”

Zoe was shocked by the raw emotion that blazed from the deep blue depths of his eyes. Hurriedly regaining her poise and determined to be undaunted by him, she narrowed her lashes and replied, “Lady Ricald is Grace’s mistress, yes. Jaedon reacted similarly at the mention of the name. Would either of you care to enlighten me of the importance of this woman?” Her voice rose a little at the end, making her question ring with exasperation.

Tancred’s jaw flexed, a muscle in his cheek bunching and loosening methodically. Their eyes did not part for a long moment. Rain pounded around them, raising a muted roar across the entire city that merely seemed to amplify around them. Zoe stood her ground firmly and waited for his response. Finally his lips parted and a tense voice that was foreign to her ears came from him:

“Lady Ricald is wife to the man who executed my father.”