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.”