Chapter XXI - Despair

TWO YEARS, FOUR MONTHS

The hot days of summer passed slowly in the capital city, yet at last the coolness of early autumn began to prevail. The quietness of everyday life in Ruma continued, but beneath the facade of calm normalcy was a swift-flowing current of urgency that infected all its inhabitants. The very air seemed to hum with tension. Powerful, all consuming tension. It was felt by royalty and peasantry alike. It seemed they all could sense the faded summer days had been their last period of tranquility; the gasp of breath before a great plunge.

Tancred straightened the folds of his midnight-blue tunic and wrapped a wide leather belt around his waist. His wavy hair was properly tamed and his garments were spotless. A richly embroidered burgundy cloak was attached to his broad shoulders, its fine weave making it light and cool, ideal for the warmth of summer evenings.

To a casual observer, he looked the part of an unconcerned and nonchalant merchant-lord. Tancred smiled softly. That was exactly what he wanted everyone to think of him, actually. The last thing he wanted others knowing was of the sheath and dagger attached to his left forearm, hidden beneath his sleeve, and of the small throwing knife that was slipped casually within his boot, held securely in place between the supple leather and the inside of his calf. He wanted the fact that he was a spy, an Aerilyan, a warrior—the Hunter—to be the furthest thought from everyone’s mind when they saw him.

He was going to the Elangsian palace, and he was prepared. But, it didn’t hurt to persuade others to think he was harmless.

Tonight was the betrothal ceremony of Brysa and Jaquin. It was to be conducted at the palace itself, in the great Hall of Kings. Tancred suspected the engagement ritual would include a mention of an alliance between the Elangsians and Wild Men, and he was not about to miss such an important and potentially informative assemblage.

He had exercised much discipline since Lieutenant Montel lifted the restraining order, and had stayed close to Ruma. The painstaking waiting had taken its toll even on his self-trained patience. He had forced himself to quietly conducted business, slowly selling his artifacts and gathering more information—through there was precious little to be found. It was imperative that he see proof of an alliance between the Wild Men and the Elangsians before he returned to Aerilya, and he had not yet gained that verification.

Tonight he hoped that would change.

If, as he suspected, an alliance was compounded that evening, he was ready to hasten back to Aerilya with his information. Each day he felt more strain building between his country and Elangsia. Battles were continuously waged in and around Mairbrac Forest, ending with the many deaths of men on both sides. He knew his men and his mother were actively fighting and he longed to be there with them.

In order to return, I must fulfill my duty here. Tancred set his jaw, well knowing the truth. He checked his hidden dagger to make sure it was secure and resolutely turned his mind toward the grand feast that would be conducted that evening. He was aware that several other merchants who stayed in Ruma dined regularly at the king’s table, for it was an easy way to gain both a good meal and potential customers. Therefore, the appearance of the Meruvian merchant Cormac Alstair would not be much of an oddity.

He was not looking forward to the trek through the palace courtyard. The courtyard had been the place of his father’s execution. When Crosten of Mairbrac—who had been in Ruma at the same time as Liam on that final mission—first related that fact, Tancred had been surprised to hear it; most executions were conducted at Execution Square, in the marketplace. But when he had later checked Crosten’s account with that of an Elangsian noble during his first mission in Ruma, years earlier, Tancred had to acknowledge that his father had indeed been killed in the courtyard. Apparently when Liam was uncovered as a spy, Brastus and Ricald had been impatient to kill him. They decapitated him immediately, without even removing him from the courtyard.

Tancred’s fist clenched as he fought against the feelings of loss and anger that still plagued him after more than seven years. Seven years without his father. So long. What would Liam Ralyn have told his son if he were there now? There were so many questions that Tancred would never learn the answers to. What would he think of me? my leadership? What would he have said when I decided to come back here to investigate the Wild Men? Would he believe the things I believe, or would he be more cautious and shrewd?

Am I the man he wanted me to become?

What would he say about me leaving Mother and Kris on their own so often?

What would he think of Zoe?

Tancred exhaled. Zoe.

He tried to force his thoughts to other areas. It was planned that Jaedon would come with Tancred to the palace; Zoe would remain at the house.

Tancred’s lips tightened and he stared moodily at the wall as he gave in and allowed his mind to drift to the willful young woman. The last month and a half had been…difficult. Since Zoe’s moonlight refusal to let down her guard and tell him of her past, there had been an enormous amount of tension between them. Tancred maintained his position, refusing to help her locate and free her friends there in Ruma until she gave him her trust. He was not being coldhearted; he merely knew it was foolhardy to engage in such a dangerous mission so deep in enemy territory without having confidence and implicit trust in and of his partners. Zoe could not—or would not—see that, and in turn grew angry at his refusal and clammed up around him, resorting to grim silence.

She must learn to rely on others, he thought with frustration, not unmixed with regret. If she cannot trust me, I cannot help her. There is nothing more to it.

He walked across the room to a small table where four small figurines sat. A unicorn, gryphon, rearing stallion, and panther sat side-by-side, their stances fierce but majestic. Absently, he picked up the panther and studied it. The cat was superbly fashioned. Its muscles were bunched and successfully displayed the raw power that was contained in the untamed creature. Tancred cupped his hand and steadied the figurine.

His sister Kristalyn had a panther. He would never forget the first time he had seen Kuroiden. Kris had rescued the cub when his mother had died and raised the little panther on her own. She had brought him back to the Hunter’s camp and shown her newest friend proudly to her mother and brother.

Tancred had been doubtful of the cat’s survival—and loyalty—at first, but now he was secretly pleased Kris had managed to keep Kuroi alive. The panther was an intimidating creature to face even on friendly terms, and more than adequate extra protection in a situation where Kris needed assistance. The sleek, midnight-black cat had a peculiar lightning-like mark on his face, earning him his name, which meant simply black lightning. The marking gave Kuroiden a somewhat sinister appearance, though Tancred thought the animal was fascinating.

A contemplative expression marked his face. I trust you are keeping an eye on her this very moment, Kuroi, he thought with characteristic protectiveness toward his younger sister. When he and Kris were younger and first began their missions, they worked together in Mairbrac and he had been able to keep an eye on her. Their personalities meshed well; they had been a good team. He missed those days.

“Are you thinking of Lady Kristalyn?”

Tancred turned to face Jaedon, who had entered the room quietly. “Certainly,” he said simply, matter-of-factly. He met Jaedon’s eyes calmly. “It has been many months since she and I last conversed face-to-face.”

“Indeed it has been,” Jaedon said gravely. “I fear it may be even longer before you see her again.”

“Aye,” Tancred said. His voice was emotionless but his inward state of being was much more tumultuous. He hated to agree that he and Kris would likely not be seeing each other for a long time, but Jaedon did speak the truth. With Kris on spying missions and saving slaves in Mairbrac and Tancred indefinitely on assignment in Ruma, it might be months before they saw each other again.

But that is the life we both chose, Tancred reminded himself. And that is what I am in Ruma for. Moving with slow, deliberate movements, he straightened his shoulders and set down the panther figurine. At the same time, a small voice in his head instinctively repeated what Tancred told himself all the time: You are the spy to Ruma so that Kris and Shyla won’t be placed in danger. You must protect them in what few ways you can. Remember that; it is your purpose.

Again his sense of duty and responsibility settled heavily on him, causing him to feel older than his years.

“You are ready to depart?” Jaedon asked quietly.

It was a moment before Tancred replied, but when he did, his voice was strong. “Yes.” He looked across the room at Jaedon, and Tancred’s blue eyes were bright with determination. “Let us pray that tonight we receive the information that we need,” he said in a low voice. Then we may return with good conscience to where we belong.

Jaedon’s gaze was understanding. “Aye.”

The two of them left the room and started down the hall. Tancred paused at Zoe’s closed door, and lifted his hand to knock. Something stayed his hand, however…and a moment later, he dropped his hand and marched on without knocking. She knew where they were going; he had no need to speak with her further. And he was not in the mood to deal with her exasperating obduracy right now, either.

Stepping outside, he and Jaedon made their way toward the palace. It was time to glean that information.

è è è è è è è è è

Listening intently to Tancred and Jaedon’s footsteps, Zoe remained wholly motionless in the center of her room. The men’s footsteps paused outside her door but then moved on. She waited until the front door was closed with a muted thud before again leaping into action.

She was already dressed in her old clothes; the ones she had worn before coming to Ruma. Her trousers felt good on her legs and her tunic was a familiar and welcome weight on her shoulders. She finished braiding her waist length tresses and then pinned it around her head so that it would not get in her way. Fingering the thick circlet of hair when she was finished, an image of her small sister Aquila entered her mind. The braided crown had been cheerful Aquila’s favorite hairstyle. Thinning her lips, Zoe wrenched her thoughts away from Aquila, berating herself for losing focus. Right now she had a mission and she must remain single-minded. She was throwing caution to the wind and stepping out on a treacherous path.

When the sun was set, she would free Grace.

Since Tancred had again refused to help her free Grace and the others a month and a half earlier, Zoe had been forming a plan of her own. Whenever she could carve out an adequate block of time alone, she would go, fetch Grace and ride boldly out of the city with her little friend in tow. She knew where the Ricald manor was located, and she knew if she was careful and swift enough she could bring Grace back to Aerilya with her.

Zoe paused for a moment, her expression regretful. As much as she desired to free all four of her friends, she realized it was impossible to locate and rescue them all at the same time, especially since she was doing everything single-handedly. Perhaps I can return for them before the imminent battle between Elangsia and Aerilya takes place. Zoe had a feeling that the battle would determine the outcome of the war, and she did not wish to leave her friends stranded in the city, which was sure to become a dangerous place.

Pulling on her boots and catching up her dagger, Zoe paused on her way to the closed door of her room. Hanging from a lone hook on the wall was the dove gray cloak that Tancred had given her months earlier. The weather was growing chillier once more, so a cloak would be useful for warmth as well as when she needed to blend into the shadows. Not to mention it would hide her unusual garb from curious onlookers and other, potentially dangerous, people. She took the cloak and threw it over her shoulders, then pulled the hood over her head, shading her features.

At least with the princess’s betrothal celebration being conducted at the palace, the city was bustling and would provide a good opportunity for her to blend in and become perfectly nondescript.

Zoe exited Tancred’s house and shut the door firmly. It would be the last time she would ever leave or enter that house again, she thought resolutely. She had already gathered her things earlier that day and dropped her leather pack in the stable by Brac’s stall, hidden beneath some hay. After Grace was free, Zoe would return, get Brac and the rucksack, which also contained food and two full water skins, and ride out of the city with Grace. She had planned every aspect of the rescue, down to the very last minutes she would spend in Ruma. She was cautiously confident it would be carried out without any problems.

Stepping away from the house, Zoe walked with a sure step toward the wealthy district of Ruma. It took her close to an hour to get there, so large and crowded was the city. Many people were talking animatedly about “lonely Princess Brysa” and how good it would be for her to marry. A few spoke doubtfully of the reliability of the Wild Men, and Zoe even overheard several mourning the fact that their princess would be leaving to live with the barbarians of the north once the betrothal period was over and a formal marriage took place. But these naysayers were few in number and their voices faint among the tumult of Elangsian revelry.

During the hour that it took for her to traverse the city, the sky darkened and torches were lit. Celebrations were conducted on every street corner. The people of Ruma seemed struck with a spell of merriment. Dancers writhed and twirled to the lively music of lyres and flutes. The women’s skirts were ablaze with color; the men’s tunics and doublets of purple, gold, and crimson appeared brilliant in the fading light of day and bright torchlight. Zoe passed like a gray wraith through the loud crowd, her head bowed and features murky beneath the cowl of her cloak.

Though the night was still new and the stars were barely peeping out of their homes in the shadowy sky, Zoe encountered her share of inebriated individuals. One man was especially forward and laid a hand on her arm, slurring, “Come an’ dance wi’ me, s-sweet’eart.”

Zoe pinned him with a derisive glare and broke his hold on her arm without much effort. His grip was weak with drunkenness. “Dance with some swine,” she muttered, moving quickly away. “You smell like one.”

Finally she reached the place she sought: the Ricald manor. It was a tall, dark building built of hewn stones. The faint, smoldering light of candles could be seen from several of the windows, and Zoe distinguished the low murmur of feminine voices when she drew close to one of the openings.

Patience, she told herself as her heart rate increased. She took a deep breath and exhaled softly, forcing herself to be calm. She had spied upon Grace several times since she had first seen her in the marketplace, but she had never come so close to the house before. If she were discovered now….

Sliding down the wall and trying to dismiss the disturbing thoughts from her head, Zoe settled behind a bush. It was not yet dark enough for her purposes. Once the moon rose high in the partially cloudy sky and the stars were not as young, then would she move. Until then, she must be patient.

Patience. Her lip curled with cynical amusement. My least favorite virtue, and now here I am, forced to fully apply it.

è è è è è è è è è

Brysa gagged and ran for the chamber pot. Retching horribly, her body purged itself of the small drink of water she had taken but a moment before. Hazily she raised her head and looked at the stone wall that was mere inches from her face. I cannot do this, she thought miserably.

But she must. She could do nothing else, for she held no power.

“My lady, come.” The harsh voice of Mistress Armin came to Brysa’s ears and grated on the princess’s nerves. “Here is a cloth; clean your face and stand erect. You appear weak.”

Brysa took the cloth and wiped her mouth, then gritted her teeth and stood. Her light blue dress rustled as she turned, and the rich embroidery on the hem, sleeves, and collar displayed her royal standing. Right now Brysa wished she could tear off the embroidery and her royalty and the bonds her father placed on her. Tonight she was going to pledge her hand to Prince Jaquin of the Wild Men. It was not a wedding, not yet. But betrothal to Jaquin virtually sealed her fate. There would be no way of talking Brastus out of the future marriage now.

Mistress Armin stared at Brysa, her cold features pinched and nervous with stress. Maids scampered around, cleaning the room of the tools that had been used to ready Brysa for the momentous night. The princess’s hair was elaborately styled and shone like a polished black jewel, contrasting with the strand of lustrous pearls had been woven through it. Her dress was just the right hue to bring out the brightness of her eyes and paleness of her skin. Brysa knew her figure was even slenderer than usual, for she had not been eating well recently and had often thrown up everything else. She met Mistress Armin’s gaze steadily, refusing to appear cowed by the woman.

“That will do, I suppose,” Mistress Armin said finally. She clapped her hands briskly and added, “Rebekka, Gwenneth, you will be accompanying the princess.”

Brysa was grateful that she would have at least one friend with her. Rebekka had become her one trusted confidante over the last month or so. A very small, wan smile spread over Brysa’s lips. Odd that I would take heart at the presence of an Aerilyan woman. They are our sworn enemies and yet I find Rebekka to be the most comforting person with me right now.

Rebekka, projecting an image of exquisite fragility in her cream-colored gown, stepped forward. She was accompanied by a girl Brysa did not recognize but assumed must be Gwenneth. Mistress Armin commanded the other girls to leave, and they did in a bustle of twittering comments and girlish laughter. To them, the betrothal was an event full of gladness, Brysa realized dully. After tonight I think I shall never know gladness in my life.

“My lady, you look beautiful,” Rebekka said softly.

Brysa met Rebekka’s eyes and saw tears glimmering there. With vague surprise, Brysa realized that the maidservant was grieving over the betrothal just as much as Brysa herself was. This realization caused Brysa to act with surprising forwardness.

Reaching forward, she pulled Rebekka into a swift, gentle embrace. “You are a true friend, Rebekka,” she said as a sob rose in her throat. You must not cry! You must not be weak!

The two of them pulled apart and Rebekka tried to smile. “Thank you,” she whispered as Mistress Armin’s unsympathetic voice came.

“Come, come! We haven’t much time! The feast has begun and the ceremony will soon follow. I will take you to your appointed place, Princess Alustate.”

Brysa numbly followed Mistress Armin down the hall; hardly feeling the hard stones beneath her slippered feet, nor smelling the scents of the grand meal that wafted through the halls, nor hearing the clamor of the celebrating people of Elangsia. She vaguely wondered if it were possible for a person to die from lack of freedom. Perhaps one is not literally slain when in bondage, she concluded bleakly. But death must certainly occur at some point.

She knew this with certainty; for that evening, invisible bonds of slavery chaffed at and threatened to kill her soul. With a jolt of fear, Brysa realize it was not physical death that she truly dreaded; it was the death of her heart.

And that is exactly what is happening, she thought with dismay. Tonight, my heart will die.

è è è è è è è è è

Tancred took a bite of pheasant, its pungent flavor filling his mouth. The Hall of Kings was a loud place, full of raucous individuals, most of whom were in various states of drunkenness. Tancred found it repulsive how uninhibited the nobles of Elangsia were when loosed upon vats of wine.

A huge fire was burning in the hearth on the far side of the enormous chamber, casting a flickering orange glow on everyone present. In a dark corner a minstrel played a tune, singing quietly of the doomed love between a lady and her knight-champion. Tancred wiped his fingers on the edge of the tablecloth, as was proper, and waited. To his left was a man who spoke little and drank much. To his right was Jaedon, who was either occupied with eating or speaking to the merchant on his right, who was a merry young fellow who carried little for anything but swindling his customers. This allowed Tancred to retreat to his private thoughts and muse on the crowd.

King Brastus was at the head of the assembly. The very sight of the man evoked powerful emotions that were difficult to hide. The king, who sat brashly right in front of Tancred, had ordered Liam Ralyn’s death. Tancred’s father had been unbeatable; nobody could hurt him. Tancred watched King Brastus eat a juicy slab of meat and laugh loudly at something somebody said to him. Nobody, that is, except for Brastus and Ricald, Tancred amended darkly.

With a huge effort, he tore his thoughts away from revenge. It did little good to think of killing the king. Slowly Tancred had begun realizing that if he killed Brastus, he would be little better than an evil, depraved man himself. That was difficult to accept.

Still, he fully intended to rip all power away from the king; rid him of his crown; and have him punished for all the misfortune he had brought on people around him. The same goes for Ricald whenever I get my hands on him.

Brastus’s wife, Queen Maurelle, was absent. Tancred had heard it said that she would make an appearance when her daughter came down for the ceremony. Tancred frowned as he scanned the empty place next to Brastus where the queen usually would have been seated. He suspected Queen Maurelle was not completely well—in her mind. With a life such as she had, he did not entirely blame her.

King Naard and Prince Jaquin were both seated at the head table. Prince Jaquin was dressed in a dark green doublet and his wild hair had been secured at the nape of his neck by a leather strap. He looked slightly more presentable that usual, but not by much. King Naard did not appear to have taken any special pains to improve his appearance; his hair was loose and flowed over his shoulders in an unkempt way, his face smudged with food, and his tunic stained with a bit of crimson wine.

Tancred’s mostly silent companion to the left turned toward him and grunted, “Where’re you from anyway, merchant? You’re a quiet man if I ever saw one.”

“Meru, my lord,” replied Tancred smoothly, finding it a little amusing that he was being criticized for being quiet by this man who had said naught but a sentence or two from the beginning of the evening until now. “My name is Cormac Alstair.”

“I’m known as Tyler Mannion the Cheap.” He released a short laugh, his eyes bright from the wine. “I never buy anything if I can swipe it for a better price from elsewhere.”

Tancred raised one eyebrow. “Interesting methods,” he commented dryly.

“Aye, well, it pays off in the end.” Mannion took a deep draught from his wine goblet. “What about yourself? What do you sell?”

“Meruvian artifacts.”

“That so! Honest business that is.”

I wonder if he even knows the meaning of the word honest, Tancred thought with a faint smile. Mannion did not seem insulted by Tancred’s silence and instead turned back to his trencher, taking a large bite out of the thick slice of bread. Crumbs dropped and scattered across the tabletop and unto the floor.

The background singing of the minstrel stopped abruptly and Tancred became more alert. Brastus had called the gaily clothed man out of his shadowy spot by the wall and was speaking in the minstrel’s ear, seeming to instruct him about something. The musician nodded with understanding and retreated back to his place after a moment.

Brastus stood to his feet, catching the attention of most of the occupants of the place, and turned toward one of the doors at the far end of the hall. As he walked toward it, new and softer music came from the minstrel’s corner, giving the place a cultured ambiance.

After Brastus reached the door, Queen Maurelle stepped out and took his hand. A smile was on her face, but Tancred quickly assessed that her countenance was marked with weariness. A palace crier stepped forward and called, “Presenting Maurelle Rhiannon Alustate, Lady of the Court and Queen of Elangsia!”

A hush fell over the room as Brastus seated his wife. She sat quite still, with a downcast face and did not acknowledge the many people who watched her. Tancred was seated close enough to notice a muscle twitching on Brastus’s forehead as he looked down at his unresponsive queen, but the king did not do anything to reprimand her. Instead, he turned to face the people who filled the tables of the hall, and cleared his throat.

Tancred leaned slightly forward, his expression intent.

“Tonight is a momentous occasion. Our war with the cursed Aerilyans has been going for the last fourteen years and is slowly tearing our country apart. Aerilya is smaller that Elangsia; and their armies are small. It is through sheer luck they have been able to remain alive so long against the power of Elangsia.”

Tancred’s fist clenched beneath the table but his features were appropriately unaffected.

The king continued. “I knew it was time to crush Aerilya and take from them what power they call their own. In order to completely overwhelm them, their armies, and their blasted Hunter of Mairbrac—” Brastus spat out the name—“I began negotiations with King Naard of the Wild Men for an alliance.”

Silence filled the hall as all listened to the king’s words. A small, cynical smile played over Tancred’s lips at the mention of the Hunter. How ironic that the man he seeks so vehemently is sitting right before his very eyes.

Brastus paused and finished strongly, “I come to you tonight with words of hope! For in a moment my daughter, Princess Brysa, shall place her hand in that of Prince Jaquin and pledge her faithfulness to him in a betrothal ceremony of which you shall all be witnesses. Their betrothal signifies the military aid that the Wild Men have pledged to Elangsia in order to overthrown the treacherous and contemptible Aerilyans!”

Cheers broke out after this, and Tancred clapped, his actions slow and unhurried. He looked at Jaedon for a moment, and saw that his friend’s brown eyes were lit with quiet anger. “There is your proof,” he mouthed. Tancred nodded once before turning back to Brastus.

“Now, my people,” Brastus said, his voice deep, “I give you your princess—the lovely Brysa.”

The crier’s voice came once more: “Announcing the entrance of Brysa Elain Alustate, Lady Maid of the Court, Servant of the Crown, and Princess of Elangsia.”

Tancred watched as the princess emerged a moment later from the same door her mother had entered through several minutes before. Brysa was gorgeous in a pale blue gown; her step was firm and expression blank. Two young maids accompanied her, their faces downcast. Naard and Jaquin stood to their feed, and Brastus walked to take his daughter’s hand.

As she drew closer, Tancred immediately observed that her eyes were glazed over and her shoulders slumped. A surge of compassion rose in him for the young woman who was so trapped by political maneuvers and a cruel father. She was young and fair…it was unseemly for her to be used in this way.

As if she could sense his thoughts of pity, Brysa looked at Tancred. Her sapphire eyes met his, and he was felt haunted by the stark emptiness of her features. He wondered if she could perceive that he did not enjoy what was happening to her.

Her pale face finally turned away as Prince Jaquin stepped forward. Brastus held Brysa’s limp hand in his and drew the princess toward the prince of the Wild Men. An old priest, dressed in gray and white robes, stood close at hand; ready to begin his part of the ceremony when Brastus had completed his own duty.

A moment later Brastus began intoning the words that would seal a betrothal: “This day Prince Jaquin of the Wild Men and Princess Brysa Alustate of Elangsia each pledge themselves…”

è è è è è è è è è

Zoe stretched her aching legs before silently rising to her feet. It was now dark, exactly what she wanted. The moon was hidden at the moment by a cloud. Quietly stepping around the bush that had been her hiding place for the last hour, Zoe sidled toward the corner of the Ricald’s stone manor and crept toward the back of the place.

She had spent the last hour wisely, listening closely to the conversations inside the house from her position beneath an open window. Through the conversations of the maidservants of the house, Zoe had discovered that Grace’s quarters were positioned at the rear of the manor. She smiled as she rounded the back corner of the house and saw that all the shutters to the windows had been thrown open to admit the cool night air. It would be simple to pull herself up through one of the openings and locate Grace.

Dropping into a crouch, Zoe scanned the back lawn. All was quiet and cloaked a sooty gray color from the lack of moonlight. She waited a full minute before proceeding to the window of her choice. Her heart began throbbing loudly once more, and she took a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself.

Come on, Zoe. This is it. Don’t turn timid now.

Placing her hands firmly on the wooden sill, she prepared to heave herself up. On the count of three, she told herself. One, two, thr—

A large hand clapped over her mouth and jerked her suddenly backwards. Taken completely off guard, Zoe lost her grip on the windowsill immediately and stumbled back, her eyes wide. Anger and fear lent her strength, and she thrust her elbow back as hard as she could, hoping to impede her captor for a moment.

Instead, he apparently expected her move, for he grabbed her arm with his free hand before it could connect with his ribs. Wrenching it around behind her back, he twisted it cruelly, putting stress on her shoulder joint. “Be silent or this arm will never function again,” a voice sounded in her ear, husky and strangely familiar

Slowly his fingers uncurled from around her mouth, though he held them close enough that she was certain he would be able to silence any alerting cry she might attempt to raise. Not that she would gain any assistance from Lady Ricald or her maids, she thought grimly.

Zoe held very still, her eyes snapping dangerously. “Who are you?”

A low chuckle came from her captor. “What, you don’t remember me, fire-maid?”

Montel! The name exploded in Zoe’s head, temporarily incinerating all coherent thought. A moment passed and her mind frantically tried to think of a way out of this. “Why are you following me?” she finally managed to grit out.

“I knew something wasn’t right about that Cormac Alstair,” Montel sneered in reply. “But now I see it was not him who appeared so suspicious—it was you.”

She said nothing, letting him talk and gloat while she quietly assessed the way he held her in check and calculated the likelihood of a successful escape from his grip. Her conclusions were not encouraging.

Then, she thought of the dagger she had put in her belt before leaving Tancred’s house. If only she could reach it with her left hand without Montel stopping her….

“I shall take great pleasure in subduing you,” said Montel with dark amusement coloring his tone. “A female spy is unusual…but still. Now, fire-maid: what might you be doing here, at the manor of a prominent military commander of Elangsia? Somehow I think it is not just for a pleasure jaunt in the moonlight.”

He thinks I’m here to gather military information for Aerilya! Zoe realized abruptly. Her eyes closed briefly. This was one complication she had not included when making her plans. She had thought Montel was gone…that he had forgotten about Cormac Alstair! Never assume anything, she berated herself angrily. Now look what your carelessness has done.

“Trying to be silent and heroic, are you?” Montel’s voice had lost its false charm. His left hand settled uncomfortably at her throat, squeezing just hard enough to worry her. “We officers of Elangsia have ways to loosen tongues, you know—”

Zoe’s left hand shot to her right hip and she grabbed the hilt of her dagger. Swiftly flipping it around in her palm, she jabbed it straight back toward his abdomen with deadly precision.

He reacted immediately. Dropping his hold on her arms and neck, he twisted out of the path of the dagger. Turning, she threw a punch and felt it land with a satisfying thud right on his right shoulder.

Growling angrily, he too struck out. Zoe ducked his first shot and swiped at him with the dagger. She managed to give him a long shallow wound across the left side of his chest, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted the blade out of her hand before she could retract it. Her braid fell down her back, coming loose from the plaited corona as she threw herself to the right to avoid his smashing fist. She stumbled and quickly regained her stability, but the second of unbalance cost her. Her dagger, now possessed by Montel, whistled through the night air and gouged her right shoulder.

Hot, searing pain erupted from the deep slash; immediately warm blood began rushing out of the wound. She released a small cry of pain and struck out with her left hand. She had never been as strong when attacking from the left and it showed now. She managed a punch that landed squarely in his abdomen, but it hardly affected him. Before she could block it or twist away, his fist came out of nowhere and smashed into her jaw.

Bright stars spun before her eyes and she tasted blood. Blackness began overshadowing the whiteness of the stars, mixing with the red-hot pain that throbbed from her shoulder. But soon the blackness overcame all, and she knew no more.

Chapter XX - Humiliation

The faint scritch of a quill against parchment was all that broke the stillness of very early morning. Zoe hunched lower over her missive, squinting in the faint moonlight to read her written words.

Arnan,

Yes, I easily might have chosen to be angry with you for your lack of communication. However, as I have neglected writing to you as well, the blame is also mine. Ever so often my mind wanders to you and I wish I could see your face again. I will not let grief or foolish wishes overpower me, brother, for I am strong and will bear myself with what honor I can retain. As scattered as our family now is and as shamed as our name has become, I hope to one day see the name Romany restored to previous glory. Until that day comes, however, I think we must toil on in the bitterness of the world, bereft of hope and love.

She hesitated. How could she possibly tell Arnan what she was feeling? In what way could she relate how her spirit seemed torn two ways? Half of her wished to stay bitter and reclusive for the rest of her days, while the other half pulled just as strongly toward emerging from her pain as a stronger and more courageous woman.

And truly, would Arnan even understand? While he was her much loved brother, he and she had never been especially affectionate. Zoe had often suspected their personalities were too similar to allow a close relationship to build between them. Of course, she countered herself, since we are alike in character, he probably would understand my feelings. I merely do not know if I can trust my innermost thoughts to him.

After another moment of indecision, Zoe lowered her pen once more; gnawing her lip as she continued in her distinctive bold, but careful, script.

My heart runs ragged within me, Arnan, and so often I do not know where to turn. What kind of existence are we to have? We are strangers in what lands we have found ourselves in. We have no past, hardly a present, little future. I look for hope, and find far too little to comfort me. Alas that we should live through such days.

I hope you remain safe, my brother, and that the world does not deal too harshly with you. My soul rushed with joy as I read your missive; I will keep it with me at all times.

Stay strong my brother,

Zoe

Hastily recapping the inkwell and replacing the quill to its place, she waited several impatient minutes for the ink to dry. When she was satisfied that it was sufficiently dried, she picked up the letter and systematically began folding it into a rectangle. After this was accomplished, she rolled the rectangle into a scroll-like cylinder. Finally she slipped the now very small dispatch into the leather carrier—Wren’s ingenious design—that she would soon attach to the leg of the falcon that Arnan had employed.

Picking up the lightweight carrier, she stood to her feet and left the artifact room. Moving mostly by instinct instead of sight, she quietly opened the back door and stepped outside into the pale moonlight. It was hours since Lieutenant Montel had been at the house and she, Jaedon, and Tancred had been up late into the evening discussing possibilities and likely outcomes of the latest turn of affairs. Tancred was quietly confident that Lord Ihcalam was a traitor to Elangsia and King Brastus and that as such, Ihcalam would bear the brunt of punishment while Tancred and his companions would be seen with more lenience.

Zoe was not sure what exactly would happen next; she just knew that she wanted to be ready for whatever might occur. Montel had been unpredictable and she hated that. In that way, he reminded her of Duard. Just when she and her siblings had thought they had their guardian figured out, he dealt the most shocking blow to them; one so harsh and cruel it had not been predicted, or expected.

Montel, like Duard, could do anything, Zoe reasoned grimly. Anything at all.

She glanced around the enclosed yard, looking for the falcon. The bird’s feathers had been dark, so it would be difficult to locate the bird now. Why couldn’t Arnan have sent a white one? she thought, then immediately berated herself. Be glad he wrote you anything.

A flicker of movement caught her eye over in the corner and she turned to see the falcon staring at her from the protection of the corner of the stone wall. Zoe walked cautiously toward the bird. I have to remember its name, she thought, searching her memory. Wren used to tell us that speaking the falcon’s name would calm them. It’s not Keaton or Iolani, and I’m sure it’s not Elsu or even Gavin. Maybe…Shea?

“Shea,” Zoe murmured. Immediately the bird’s head whipped around and Zoe smiled with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

She crouched beside Shea and gently but securely tied her returned missive unto its leg. “Go,” she urged quietly. Shea released a small bird-chuckle and flapped up into the blue-gray sky. Zoe stood and watched him disappear. “Thank you,” she murmured, fingering the letter from Arnan in its place inside her tunic. Next to my heart.

Tears rose in her eyes and she blinked furiously. It felt so good to read the letters from her siblings, but it brought a depression over her too. It was as if she were close enough to touch them for a scant moment…but then, before she could latch unto them and hold them close in an unbreakable grip, they spun wildly away out of her knowledge and reach.

So it was with Arnan; this had been her first communication with him in two years. Little did she know of they would ever communicate again. One of her tears overflowed and ran down her cold cheek, paving a glistening path that she did not bother wiping away.

“If I didn’t know better, I might say you are a spy for some clandestine regime. That’s the third time you’ve received and sent messages through aerial means.”

Zoe whirled, startled and feeling unexpectedly vulnerable. Tancred stood in the shadows of the house, watching her. Zoe passed a hand over her face, roughly swiping the tear-track away. She smoothed her expression with an effort and walked toward him, shoulders thrown back. “I suppose that it is a good thing you know me well enough to realize that is completely preposterous,” she replied to his comment, but her voice lacked its typical bite.

He stepped into the moonlight so she was able to see his frustratingly inscrutable expression. “So, was it Ilara or Aiden this time?” he asked conversationally.

The color drained from Zoe’s face.

Horrorstruck, she stared at him with wide eyes. He couldn’t know…how did he know? It was impossible. And yet, he had spoken their names!

“What?” she finally managed faintly.

“Come now,” he said, and she thought his tone cold and unsympathetic. “We both know you’re not a spy, and you have no acquaintances in either Aerilya or Elangsia who you did not meet within the last half year. You would not be contacting anyone in these countries by way of messenger falcons. This leaves me with one option: you must be communicating with people from the place you originally came from. The place you lived in before you came to Aerilya.”

Zoe swallowed hard, speechless. Tancred continued without waiting for her to try speaking anyway, so her lack of words did not matter so much. “I highly doubt you would spend so much effort on secrecy if you were communicating with acquaintances. That makes me think that you are dealing with people who are close to your heart, people you wish to protect.”

Zoe’s eyes closed briefly, as if she could similarly close out the fact that he was so near the truth.

“You have mentioned your sister Ilara before. I believe you told me she was excellent with the bow, did you not?”

She did not respond. Furiously she tried to keep the lump in her throat from expanding further. Her eyes opened and she focused on the dirt between her feet, concentrated hard to keep her tears from overflowing. How is he so perceptive? How can he know this?

“As for Aiden, you have never spoken of him directly in conversation to me, but...” Zoe lifted her face toward him and was startled to see his face suddenly gentle. He finished in a quieter, softer voice, “But from time to time, you dream of him at night. I know he is your older brother, and I know that Brac was a gift from him.”

Silence fell between them and they stared at each other wordlessly. Zoe’s eyes glimmered incandescently with unshed tears and her lips were pressed tightly together; Tancred’s jaw line was tense but his gaze kind.

“What is it that forces you to resort to such mysteriousness?” he murmured to her, his tone expressing his desire to understand and to help her.

“You cannot even…comprehend,” she whispered brokenly, turning her face away, humiliated by the fact that her distraught was obvious to both of them.

“Try me.”

The last two years of pain and frustration weighed heavy on Zoe’s shoulders and for a moment, she wondered what it would feel like to share that burden with another. Would it be so dreadful to tell Tancred what happened? He would know about Duard then. The shame of my family’s banishment would be laid bare, but I would have somebody to talk to when I miss my siblings. I would not have to be so very alone when I want to collapse under my heartache!

And yet…the words of Arnan’s letter surfaced in her mind, and Zoe stiffened her spine. “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.”

She thought of the coolness that so often marked Tancred’s face and the way he hid his emotions. How much did she really know about this man that stood before her? He might be more like Duard than she thought; how was she to know if he would honor her secrecy?

I will not suffer betrayal again, she told herself. Once is enough in my lifetime. My past is my burden to bear. It is no different than what my siblings must shoulder as well. They have been separated from each other as long as I have been, and they have survived. I will too. I will. I must.

“No.” Her refusal to Tancred was whispered but spoken with quiet and utter finality. She shook her head slowly and looked up at him again.

His blue eyes held hers with a hold that she could not break, and she almost quailed at the look of fierce urgency that entered his gaze. “Zoe, don’t do this.”

“No.” The word was so cold and bare; it felt as if an icy winter wind had blown across her soul. “I cannot, Tancred.”

His gaze grew shuttered and he shook his head. She wondered if she imagined the mixed displeasure and sorrow that she thought she glimpsed before he cut himself off from her. “Your pride and stubbornness will be your downfall, Zoe.”

Unsurprised but still stung by his words, she drew back a step. “I have made it thus far without falling, Cormac Alstair,” she told him bluntly. Her use of his false name brought a tinge of formality and coolness to their conversation.

“Ah, but how much greater will be your fall when it comes, then,” he said quietly.

Zoe turned without responding and entered the house, anger making her vision blur. She marched into her room and threw herself down on her cot, pounding her fist into the mattress furiously. Of all the unfathomable, frustrating men, Tancred Ralyn is definitely the worst! An angry tear trickled down her face, quickly followed by another. For once she did not both trying to stem their blistering flow; she was too furious and hurt to make the effort.

“Why are you angry?” she gritted through her teeth. “Stop it. You’re letting him get to you. Why are you crying?”

Because, her mind whispered in reply, you know that he is right. Your fall is coming, and you will have to face your pain, injury, and rage by yourself. You will be alone. You chose this fate, and your doom is coming for you.

With a muffled sob, Zoe buried her face in the mattress and shed bitter tears.

è è è è è è è è è

TWO DAYS LATER

“My lady. My lady Brysa.”

Princess Brysa Alustate looked up, extricating herself from the fog of her mind by the urgent tone of her maid. “What is it, Rebekka?”

“It is your father,” Rebekka replied, her expression troubled. “He wishes you to join him in his private council room at once. I fear he is in a high temper.”

Brysa frowned but immediately stood to her feet and ran her hands along the folds of her dress, automatically smoothing the fabric of the long skirt. She looked toward Rebekka and inquired quickly, “Did you hear why he was calling for me?” Rebekka did not immediately respond, and Brysa looked upon the downcast countenance of her maidservant with a feeling of clammy terror. She demanded in a harsh voice, “Does this have something to do with Jaquin?”

“Oh! No, I think not,” Rebekka shook her head, looking appalled that she had worried Brysa on that count. “At least, I heard no mention of Jaquin when I was sent to fetch you.”

Relief flooded Brysa. The last thing she wanted was her father to spring a surprise engagement meeting upon her. The thought of placing her hand in that of the repulsive Prince Jaquin’s and pledging to obey and honor him during their betrothal and later, after a marriage ceremony, was something that never failed to sicken her.

“Very well, then,” she murmured, straightening her shoulders. “If I can be relatively certain that I am not walking to my doom, I think I can face my father with dignity.”

“Do hurry,” Rebekka urged. “You look quite presentable and there truly is no time to change. He expects you now.”

“Yes, yes, I will go to him.” Brysa’s tone was a little peevish but she knew it was merely an outlet for her nervousness. She was thankful that Rebekka understood that as well and that the small maid did not take offense at Brysa’s irritability.

Facing her father was always a daunting and typically humiliating experience, Brysa thought as she strode down one of the stone hallways of the palace, her slippered feet making hardly any noise. Rebekka padded along behind her, standing one step to her right and two behind her, as was decorous for a servant who accompanied royalty. The route to Brastus’s private council room was not long, but Brysa found herself wishing that it was located far away so that she would have longer to prepare herself emotionally. She paused before the darkly-stained door that led to the correct chamber and looked at the armed guard. “You may announce my presence to my father,” she told him imperiously.

“Aye, Princess Alustate,” he said respectfully, his face glowing in the flickering light of the torch that rested on the wall beside his head. He turned, opened the door and announced, “Crown Princess Brysa Alustate has come, my lords, my king.”

My lords, my king? There are more men than just my father here? Brysa was perplexed but masterfully hid her confusion as she regally swept into the council room. Rebekka trailed her silently. Brysa knew the maid could give her no comfort or encouragement now. While they were in the council room, Brysa was on her own.

The king’s personal council room was a small place, capable of comfortably holding perhaps twelve individuals. The walls were stone and a small hearth was in the corner, boasting a crackling fire that added a small amount of much-needed warmth to the chilly room. Even in the heat of summer the inner chambers of the castle were cold. Eleven chairs lined the outskirts of the room, their legs and polished backs burnished a golden-mahogany color by the flames. Ten of these seats sat on both sides of the room and at the very end was a large throne-like chair, embellished with gold leaf and elaborately carved with the hippogriff symbol of Elangsia. Two blue-and-silver banners hung on the wall on either side of this throne chair, obviously delineating that the seat belonged to a person who held much Elangsian power.

At the moment, the throne chair was occupied by King Brastus. A quick glance around revealed that neither King Naard nor Prince Jaquin were present, to Brysa’s brief but immense thankfulness. The gaze of Brastus and the other men in the room turned immediately to Brysa and she felt as if she were being sized up like a choice dish offered during the evening meal. No one expected much from her. She was just the princess; a mere girl. She despised the cold-hearted sentiments of her father and his minions. Someday, I would see him and his evildoers overthrown, she thought, and the thought startled her. It was the first time she had consciously considered her father’s demise.

Each chair in the room held a councilor, and in the center of the place was a man whose back was turned toward Brysa. His hands were fastened behind his back and he stood in an oddly stooped way, as if he were too weary to hold himself erect. Two guards were positioned at his elbows, their hands hovering constantly near their swords. Brysa’s gaze flicked swiftly over the bound man and she wondered who he was; she could distinguish little of his outward appearance except for the fact that he possessed a head full of black hair. What is going on?

“Daughter,” Brastus said in his deep, resonant voice, drawing her attention away from the prisoner and up to her father.

Brysa noted that the king’s blue-gray eyes held a sparkle of anger in them that made her wary. “Father,” she replied, dipping decorously into a curtsey.

“Our conflict with the cursed Aerilyans has been going on for close to thirteen years,” Brastus began, almost conversationally. Brysa was uncertain of why her father had chosen that particular topic of conversation but remained silent as he continued. “During that time we have pledged all our country’s resources to this great war and have suffered the loss of many men.”

Don’t try to convince me you really care about the men who have died, Father, she thought challengingly. We both know you don’t.

“After much conference, I and my advisors deemed it best to contact the barbarians of Rulaan to ask for their assistance in crushing the last of Aerilya. We are still in negotiations with them, but I think in time they will come around to our side,” Brastus went on in the same pleasant tone. His lip curled slightly as he added, “The strength of the Wild Men can be implemented and later disposed of. They are a small enough thorn in my side that I can tolerate them for a time before plucking them out and throwing them into the fire.”

Silence hovered in the air for a long moment, broken only by sounds of shifting councilors and the ominous chatter of the bound man’s teeth. Brysa felt a twinge of pity for him, though she did not know what offense he had caused. Almost anyone who stood before her father garnered some sort of compassion from her. Brysa licked her lips and looked back up at her father, putting her mind back to business. So, Brastus planned to rid himself of the Wild Men in the end, too. She had little problem with that, especially since that meant she would be free from Jaquin, but her father’s unethical manner of making allies and then turning on them was a little disturbing, albeit expected.

“What exactly is it you called me for, Father?” she asked in a strong tone, refusing to cower before him. Stop trying to entice me with your sugary poison and tell me what you want with me.

Brastus looked at her disdainfully, all amiability gone. His hands clenching into fists on the arms of his throne. “You have shown remarkable foolishness by refusing me when I told you that you were to be betrothed and later married to Jaquin of the Wild Men. Your obstinacy is ridiculous and will not be tolerated.”

Brysa forced her voice to remain calm. “Father, I beg you to listen to me. You yourself just told me you planned to eradicate the Wild Men. Would you marry me into the lives of the barbarians and then murder the source of my livelihood?”

“Listen to her,” Brastus laughed and motioned to her, glancing at his silent councilors. “She dares to defy me, her father!”

A ripple of unpleasant laughter went around the room and Brysa stiffened. “I do not defy you, Father,” she protested quietly. “I merely ask you to reconsider the fate you are pressing upon me.”

“You do defy me,” Brastus stated loudly. “You are an unwise girl who must learn to obey without question. And you will learn if I must break every bone in your body to force you to dance to the flute of my authority.”

Brysa’s breath caught and horror wrapped around her. How can he hate me so much? Suddenly she could understand all the more why her mother, Queen Maurelle, had eyes that were lifeless and a spirit long since crushed. Each time that Brysa faced her father she feared she was slowly becoming just like her mother: bereft of mind, heart, or hope.

“I called you this day to show you the fate of those who resist me,” Brastus continued, his gaze never leaving her. “This man standing before you: look well on his face.”

The two guards wrenched the bound prisoner around and Brysa recoiled involuntarily as she was confronted with the bruised and bloodied face of the man. Regaining her poise swiftly, Brysa forced herself to look closer without showing emotion. Despite her determination not to react, her eyes did widen with recognition a moment later: it was Lord Ihcalam, a trusted councilor of her father!

What devilry is this? What can Ihcalam have done? Why is my father turning even on his fellow Elangsians? Questions swirled out of control and Brysa’s hands formed tight balls at her sides as she struggled to remain unaffected.

Ihcalam looked dreadful. One of his blue eyes was half-open—the other had swollen completely shut—and looked at her hauntingly. “My lady…” he managed in a weak voice, but one of the guards struck him across the mouth and ordered him to be silent. Ihcalam staggered at the blow, falling to one knee. Brysa bit back a cry.

She had never liked Ihcalam. The only reason she knew him by name was because she had secretly inquired who he was last summer. She had become highly uncomfortable around him on account of his constant scrutiny, and felt soiled after the two encounters she had had with him in the past, though nothing of especial consequence or significance had transpired between them. No, there was no love lost between her and the young, dissipated lord, but her heart was not yet so hard that she could not feel pity for his suffering.

She looked from Ihcalam to her father. “What has…what has he done?” she choked out. “What is his crime?”

“Plotting to overthrown the King of Elangsia and usurp the throne with the help of certain others.” This was stated not by Brastus but by one of the previously silent councilors. Brysa stared at the man with flashing eyes and then looked back to her father.

“How would he do such a thing?” she demanded, motioning to Ihcalam. “He’s a mere councilor; a petty lord! He’s probably suffering from some absurd delusions of grandeur. He’s hardly deserving of such treatment, Father!”

“Defying me to the end I see.” King Brastus met her gaze coolly and flicked one of his bejeweled hands at the guards. “Take him out,” he said quietly. “I want his head on a spike on the northern gate within the hour. It will look well next to those of his foolish companions.”

“Companions?” Brysa exclaimed, feeling helpless as Ihcalam was pulled to his feet by the guards. “Who? What happened? How can you kill him?”

“I am king!” Brastus thundered, rising from his throne chair and sending her a look of terrible wrath. “My word is the law in this land and the law of your life. There is no other master for you but me.

“Lord Ihcalam had a rebellion nicely planned with several other young council members. An unhealthy obsession with your beauty caused Ihcalam to foolishly spew forth sentiments of treason against his country, leading to his capture and the capture of his followers. Their plan was simple: kill your mother and myself, rid themselves of the councilors who would oppose them and their new regime, and begin ruling Elangsia. Ihcalam long desired you, daughter, and I saw his lustful longing from afar.”

Brysa wanted to break into wild lamentation as Ihcalam was dragged past her, his bare feet scuffling along on the floor and his head lolling to the side. The confusion of her emotions and the lack of control she held over her life was beginning to make her felt slightly mad.

Brastus continued, “Ihcalam would have shamed you, and that I will not allow. There is only one you are promised to, and that is Prince Jaquin of the Wild Men.”

A twinge of fury rose in Brysa’s heart at the thought of Ihcalam’s licentious thoughts toward her, but she quickly quelled such feelings. He was paying dearly for whatever evil he might have had planned for her; she could not remain angry with him for long. The heavy door slammed portentously behind her, signaling the exit of Ihcalam and his executioners. Brysa felt sick and wished she could leave.

Brastus cleared his throat and she miserably dragged her gaze from the stone floor to meet the king’s eyes. Brastus exultantly looked her over, obviously pleased that he had put her in her rightful place. “Now, my dear Brysa,” he said in a very soft voice, “You perceive that my word shall be obeyed.”

“I perceive it, Father,” she whispered listlessly, despising herself as she did so.

“Then my task is complete,” Brastus breathed triumphantly. Brysa said nothing.

After a long, humiliating moment, he flicked his hand and ordered, “Away with you, then. I will call you when next I see fit.”

Struggling to retain her composure, Brysa dipped her dark head in acquiescence and gracefully turned to exit the room. Rebekka fell into step behind her, her fair face downcast and her expression hidden. The door opened before them and Brysa passed beneath the lintel with her expression schooled into indifference. Only after she and Rebekka had traversed silently down the halls and reached a safe distance from the council room did a crack appear in Brysa’s armor. Her expression of serenity dissolved and a haggard look entered her eyes. By the time the two young women had reached the princess’s royal chambers, Brysa was trembling and tears were freely coursing down her cheeks.

“Oh, my lady,” murmured Rebekka sympathetically, taking Brysa’s cold hand and leading her close to the hearth. “Come sit by the fire. Warm yourself. I will fetch you some soup from the kitchens.”

“No…” Brysa shook her head as she sank down by the fire. She looked at Rebekka and said shakily, “No soup. I could not eat if I were threatened with death right now.” She patted the stones beside her. “Please, sit down.”

Timidly, Rebekka obeyed. Brysa looked at her maid for a long moment without speaking. Finally the princess stirred and said dully, “I was weak when I stood before him, was I not.”

“No, my lady. You were braver than a warrior is when faced with a host of foes. You stood proudly and fought for what is honorable! You must choose to be pleased with yourself, not discouraged or downhearted.”

“I feel so helpless. Nothing I do shall make a difference. Everything in my life is determined without my desires or hopes considered.”

Rebekka hesitated and then reached over to pat Brysa’s hand. “I…do not know very much about living a life of royalty,” she said quietly. “I was a mere peasant girl back in Aerilya before I was kidnapped and taken as a slave.” She smiled a trifle wistfully. “I had a family, you know. A brother and two sisters, along with a caring father.”

“What happened to your mother?” Brysa asked distantly, interested in spite of herself.

“She died along with my twin when I was seven.”

“I’m…truly sorry,” Brysa said, feeling uncommonly awkward.

Rebekka shook her head sadly. “That hurt has scarred over long ago, my lady. But,” she added softly, more to herself than Brysa, “there are fresh wounds that have yet to heal.”

Brysa studied Rebekka and a flash of insight suddenly came upon her. “Was there a particular young Aerilyan man back in your village…?” she inquired gently.

“Yes,” Rebekka whispered, a sad smile spreading over her beautiful features. “Yes, there was.”

“What was his name?”

“Cedryc.”

Brysa was silent for a long time, leaving Rebekka alone in her musings. A touch of jealousy briefly spurted through the princess’s chest, though it quickly faded and died. For a moment, she had wished she could have but one single happy memory of her family like Rebekka. If only once her father had looked on her with real love. If upon a single occasion her mother had wrapped her arms around her and had given her a warmhearted embrace.

Standing to her feet, Brysa said quietly, “I am sorry for your loss of freedom, Rebekka. I hope…” her voice caught and she paused, swallowed, and restarted. “I hope that one day you and Cedryc are reunited.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Tears trembled in Rebekka’s blue eyes. “I pray for that every day. I will also pray that you are shown the way of escape from the treacherous path you have been forced unto.”

“I can only hope your prayers are answered in a truly miraculous way, Rebekka,” Brysa replied with a touch of cynicism. “For I see no other way out of this quagmire my father has created for me.”

“Deus is the Miracle Worker,” Rebekka stated confidently. “He can accomplish what we desire.”

Brysa smiled thinly. “We shall see.”