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.”