THREE DAYS LATER
Brysa’s quill pen hovered over the parchment. She was alone in her bower. Rebekka was in the kitchen fetching a tray of breakfast for the princess, and Brysa guessed that Zoe was walking in the garden as had been her habit of late. It did not matter. The carefully scripted note that bordered on treason was the important thing at the moment.
Lowering the quill with an air of determination, Brysa began firmly writing out a message. The communication she wrote had been painstakingly composed over the last couple weeks in the security of her mind. Now as she committed that same message to paper, she thought again that if it fell into the wrong hands at the wrong time, it could spell her doom.
Not that the message to Cormac Alstair was very detailed. Brysa had taken care to be appropriately vague with her statements and words. Spy this man may be, but I can outsmart him in some things, she thought with certainty.
Two minutes later, she was finished. She reread the note carefully, searching it thoroughly for mistakes. Satisfied that she had done well, she waited for the ink to dry and folded the parchment in thirds, sealing it with some hot wax.
When Rebekka returned to the bower with a tray of food, Brysa was ready. She accepted the bowl of porridge and sliced fruit from the maid before laying her hand firmly on Rebekka’s shoulder. Rebekka looked at her questioningly.
“I have a task for you. A rather dangerous one,” Brysa told her quietly.
Rebekka’s gaze turned knowing. “Does this have to do with Cormac Alstair?”
Brysa just nodded. “I need you to deliver a message.”
è è è è è è è è è
Tancred heard the noise at the front door even from his place in the kitchen near the rear of the house. Instantly he stopped eating and quietly reached over to his nearby sword. His right hand gave a twinge of pain around the stitched wound as he moved, but Tancred was used to the injury by now and automatically blocked it out. Strapping his scabbard to his side, he stood from the table, slowly drew the blade, and advanced silently into the hallway.
A few seconds later he was at the front door. He noticed a piece of paper at the base of the door but ignored it for the time being. More interesting to him than the contents of what he was sure was another note would be the person who had delivering it. Without a sound, he unbarred the door. Sword at the ready, he opened the heavy front door in one quick movement.
No one stood directly in front of him so he quickly stepped outside and glanced around. There. The edge of a dark-hued cloak fluttered as its wearer rushed around the corner of another house to his far left. Tancred reached down, swept up the piece of paper and closed the door to his home securely behind him. After sheathing his sword, he silently hurried after the mystery person and simultaneously began opening the note, which was sealed with crimson-colored wax.
It was early morning and the air was heavy with mist. Tancred reached the corner the note-deliverer had disappeared around and peered out into the gray fog. The silhouette of the person was fading swiftly into the mist many paces ahead of him, the telltale cloak billowing as its wearer swiftly hurried along. Tancred smiled grimly and noiselessly pursed, keeping to the shadowy sections by buildings. All the while he watched for other early risers out on the streets and worked on silently ripping open the missive.
Finally he managed to open it. He stopped, ducked into a nearby alley and unfolded the sheet of paper. His eyes quickly scanned the message, memorizing it.
Five seconds later he tucked it into an inner pocket of his tunic and left the alley, his jaw set tightly. He jogged down the street until he was back to a good distance behind the cloaked figure he followed. Vaguely, Tancred realized that his injury was beginning burn now. There was not time to worry about it, though. He would just have to try to be careful of it.
Gaze trained on the person, he mentally evaluated of the contents of the note. It was simply written:
“Go to marketplace tomorrow. Look for golden-headed girl with a long braid down her back who is garbed in a dark blue cloak. She has questions for you that you must answer if you want information in return. If you cooperate, she will notify you about Zoe’s status. Don’t leave the market. Don’t call undue attention to yourself. Don’t harm the cloaked girl if you want to ever wish see Zoe again—unscathed.”
His lips thinned. The princess had sent the note. It made the most sense. She had possession of Zoe and for all her vague wording in the note it was obvious a person of means had written it. The vocabulary used—words like garbed and unscathed—was too advanced for non-royalty to have written it and the high quality of the wax sealing the missive shut had also given away its source. The question was why had she sent it? What information did the princess want from him? She sounded confident that he would give it to her in exchange for news of Zoe, which meant she assumed he and Zoe were very close. Why did she think that? What had Zoe told her about him?
Assembling the facts as quickly as he could, he wondered about the person he was following. She must be someone Brysa has power over. A maid? Even beneath the long cloak Tancred could see the person he pursued was female. Was she the one he was supposed to meet at the market? He debated stopping and questioning her but decided against it. Follow her; make sure she goes back to the palace. Make sure you know who you’re up against.
Brysa was relying heavily on her perceived anonymity; from the sound of her note, the princess did not realize he already knew that Zoe was in her hands. She probably assumes that first, I don’t know where Zoe is at all; or second, that I think Zoe’s in Montel’s hands, Tancred realized. She’s counting on me being desperate for news.
That could ultimately work in his favor: he knew more than she thought he did. He was certain Zoe was alive; and he was not desperate for information about her—though he would certainly take as much as he could get.
The cloaked figure turned another corner and Tancred followed. Just as he predicted, they were drawing closer and closer to the Elangsian palace. The hood of the person’s cloak slipped for a second and Tancred glimpsed bright golden hair beneath it. “Look for golden-headed girl with a long braid down her back who is garbed in a dark blue cloak” the note had said. Tancred’s eyes narrowed. The girl he followed must be the marketplace informant, then.
Again he thought about hauling her into an alley and interrogating her; again, he refrained. Remaining anonymous was most important right now, he knew. The most the princess could do was suspect he was a spy at this point. Confronting her messenger girl would be a clear confirmation of that suspicion, and as it was, too many people knew too many things about him, Tancred thought grimly. First, and most obviously, the assassin; then, the unidentified person who sent the warning note to him about the next murder attempt and threw the pot into the wall at the climax of the assassin’s attack in Tancred’s home; now, Elangsia’s princess of all people. All too well he knew that his mission could have a fatal end to it if he acted rashly. Everything could unravel in an instant.
Twenty minutes later he watched the golden-headed girl slip through the front gates of the palace and hurry up the steps into the castle. He remained on his perch—atop stacked barrels just out of sight of the guardsmen at the gates—and scrutinized the palace for another thirty minutes, mulling over the latest note and the choice he had to make.
Brysa could not know his true identity as the Hunter, he decided, but she obviously considered him full of information that she desired. What information? What does she want from me?
If she thought him just a spy, she would probably want to know what information he was taking back to Aerilya. What have you learned? What will you tell your king? He could almost hear the questions now. They would not be difficult to evade, especially if he were just facing a servant girl who likely could be intimidated. He would probably wring more information out of her than she could get out of him.
But what did she stand to gain from it? Would she pass the information to her father? Why? What would be her motivation? He frowned. Something just did not seem to line up correctly, but couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.
A moment later, he realized what it was. When he had seen the princess at the engagement ceremony a few weeks earlier, she had quite obviously been against her father’s prearranged match between her and Jaquin of Rulaan. Thus, it made little sense for Brysa to want to help her father by getting information from an Aerilyan spy—unless she’d had a completely change of heart, which seemed unlikely. She not getting information for her father, he slowly realized. It’s for herself. She’s trying to grasp at some power. She wants to have something to use against Brastus. If she considers me a dangerous spy because her father still hasn’t been able to find out about my presence in his own capital city... he paused. Then she would want to use me as leverage against her father.
He sat still for a long time, his mind turning over this new information and probing it to check for flaws. It made sense. The repressed princess, doing whatever it took to gain a bit of sway over her domineering father. The good news was that Brysa would probably not betray him to her father. She wouldn’t want to share any clandestine information she thought he would give her with King Brastus. The bad news was...
He grimaced. Bad news? She still has Zoe.
Thinking quickly, he wondered if he could turn the situation to his advantage. Could there be a way to barter for Zoe’s freedom? That would certainly be easier than breaking into the palace, the layout of which was still unfamiliar to him, to rescue her.
Easier, maybe, but just as dangerous in the end. There was a chance that might work out without complications, but it was slim and he wondered how he could pull it off. To engage Brysa might prove deadly and he would have to handle everything very delicately. He had information to hold over the princess’s head; she held both his life and Zoe’s in her hands. He would be toying with one of the highest powers of Elangsia, deep in enemy territory, and he had no backup with him. That was no light thing to take on.
He sighed deeply. Deus? Any advice?
è è è è è è è è è
What a cold place to call home, Zoe thought as she silently evaded the notice of a couple guards and made her way to the upper levels of the palace by way of a stairway constructed of hewn rock. It was early morning; the night guards were still on duty. She had discovered soon after her admittance to the castle that the guards were tired at this time and easily dodged. A couple minutes later, she stopped at a closed wooden door and grabbed the lit torch off its stand beside it the entrance.
Opening the door, she slipped into the room behind it and closed the oak door behind her. Lifting the torch to illuminate the interior of the room, a small smile came to her lips. Surrounding her were stacks of weapons: swords, daggers, lances, bows and arrows, and more. She had discovered this room a week before and had been elated. It had worried her that she had so long been without her weapons practice. Now I practice in the depths of the Elangsian’s own palace, she thought with some amusement. As long as she was careful to avoid notice, she would be able to practice in it to her hearts content.
After locating a sconce on the nearby wall to place the torch in, Zoe stuck the flickering flame in it and turned toward the room with an air of expectation. She quickly found the sword she had most recently been practicing with. It was as similar to the one Tancred had given her back in Mairbrac Forest. So long ago, she thought ruefully as she hefted the sword and swung it around.
Time drifted away, losing meaning, as she threw herself into her practice. She had gotten good at the maneuvers even in a skirt, though she often bitterly despised the long garment. Brysa had ordered that she be clothed like a maidservant so as not to draw undue attention to herself; Zoe had no say in the matter. Her trousers were likely burned to a crisp in some trash pile, a thought that irritated Zoe—especially since it meant she’d have to make another pair.
A bead of sweat rolled down her brow as she slashed her blade down and twisted her torso to the side as if dodging an enemy’s sword. A moment later she dropped into a roll across the floor, dropped the sword with a clang, and grabbed a couple nearby daggers. She struggled to flip them both around in her palms into an effective attacking position, but she had never become ambidextrous and it was difficult. Zoe dropped the one in her left hand and the knife in her right wobbled a little.
She blinked at a small noise from the direction of the doorway and glanced up, her gaze startled and wary. Strands of her hair stuck to her forehead and neck, and she felt hot from her exertion. To her surprise it was not a soldier standing in the doorway, as she expected. It was Princess Brysa.
The princess raised her hands and slowly clapped. “Bravo,” she said quietly. “You are even more skilled than I thought.”
Zoe frowned, rising to her feet. “Am I to take that as a compliment?” she asked.
“You may, if you wish to.”
“Then thank you,” Zoe said, returning the daggers to their stack and picking up the sword she’d dropped. She walked toward the princess, blade in hand.
“Who taught you about how to use weapons?” asked Brysa, seeming unconcerned that Zoe was armed and advancing toward her.
To Zoe’s surprise, the princess sounded honestly curious. And for some reason, that compelled Zoe to tell the truth. “My older brother taught me,” she said simply, tossing the sword into the nearby pile she had taken it from.
“He must be very talented.”
“Yes.” Zoe swallowed. “Yes, he is.”
“Why did he teach you? You’re just a female.” Brysa bitterly spat the last word out.
Instead of taking offense at the princess’s harsh terms, Zoe remained calm and struggled to form her next words. “He...understood me more than anyone. Teaching me was not a waste of his time.”
“So you were important in his eyes. Valued.”
“Yes,” breathed Zoe, her chest constricting. A wistful thought drifted through her mind: Oh, Aiden. Do you still value me? Do you ever think of me as I think of you? It had been over two years now, and she had never once received a letter from him as she had from some of her other siblings. Then again, I never sent him anything, either.
She exhaled. It was a struggle as she learned to give the pain to Deus and trust Him with her siblings, but the longing and sorrow did not magically disappear. Nor does the deep buried love, she realized with a pang.
The princess gazed at Zoe and finally shook her head. “You are a mystery to me,” she said at last. “One I cannot decipher.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are unusually skilled with weapons but completely unversed in customary etiquette. You were apprehended while trying to free an Aerilyan slave girl, yet you profess that you are not from Aerilya. That raises another question: why are you here in Ruma, previously accompanying a man who is a spy for Aerilya? Why did he trust you if you are not a fellow countrywoman? Why did you come with him?”
Zoe was silent for a long moment, disturbed by her lack of animosity toward the princess in front of her. For all her affluence, Brysa was hardened and lost individual. Zoe could not change Brysa’s circumstances, but she still desired to help somehow. It was strange to feel so emotionally drawn to a relative stranger; she wondered if it was the right thing. Deus, what are You trying to show me?
“I was pulled into the struggle between Aerilya and Elangsia through circumstances I had no control over,” she finally said after a long silence. “It was not my choice. After months of denying the truth and struggling to break free, I had to realize that I am here because this is where Deus wants me to be. And for some reason, His plan for me involves being somewhere that I do not wish to be.”
“Deus. You speak as if He is a being who actually works actively in the lives of those who follow Him.”
“He does.”
“Only fools believe that.”
“Yet He healed this fool’s arm,” Zoe countered quietly, lifting her previously injured right arm without a problem.
“Why doesn’t He send down a bolt of power from on high and strike my father down?” the princess muttered sarcastically.
“You hate him,” stated Zoe.
Brysa’s lips turned up humorlessly. “But of course.”
“You must forgive him before the end,” said Zoe, wondering at the same time where she was getting her words of wisdom from. “Hate is going to tear you apart.”
Brysa’s half-smile disappeared and she glared. “You are too bold,” she hissed. “Hate is what keeps me strong.”
“I know the feeling,” Zoe replied quietly, dipping her head. “And I pity you, my lady.”
Brysa seared her with one last look, then whirled and left the room. Zoe stood still for a long moment, hoping she had not impetuously gone too far. She smiled with slight humor as she left the room, taking the torch with her.
Then again, being impetuous always was my specialty.
è è è è è è è è è
Brysa stalked down the hall, simmering with anger. How dare she. She’s a foolish slave girl, and that is all. How can she know the least bit of my situation? She cannot understand why I must cling to hatred. She cannot!
Her mauve crushed-velvet dress felt heavy against her skin, as if it were weighing her down. Brysa suddenly wished she could break free of everything, of all her restraints, and just run. Run as fast and as far away as she could, forgetting her rank and current existence, and make a new life for herself in a foreign country where no one knew her and no one from Elangsia could find her. Despair filled her and her pace slowed. “That is impossible,” she whispered roughly, aghast at the tears welling up in her eyes. “My father would sooner kill me than let me escape. I’m too important to his precious little war scheme.”
Oh, how she hated the war. And the Wild Men, and her father. She thought angrily of Deus whom Zoe professed. What do you want from me! she inwardly screamed, feeling like a lunatic. What?
“Princess Alustate?”
Brysa spun toward the servant and snapped, “What?”
One of his eyebrows twitched at her ferocity but otherwise he remained unexpressive. “Queen Maurelle Alustate has requested you come to her chambers, my lady.”
What now, Brysa wondered, thinking with disgust of the last meeting she had with her mother. For years Brysa had told herself that Maurelle Alustate was better than her husband Brastus. That she truly cared about her daughter. Now Brysa forced herself to face the truth that she had really known all along: her mother was just as self-serving and callous as her father. And that knowledge sickened her.
Brysa stalked past the blank-faced servant and down the hallways that led to her mother’s bedchambers. The servant scurried ahead of her just in time to open the door and announce her entrance to the queen before Brysa marched in.
Maurelle’s bower was exquisite and very tastefully laid out. Her bed was large, and a fire roared in her expansive fireplace to Brysa’s right. Other pieces of furniture were scattered around: a wardrobe; a writing desk and chair; a table laden with fruit and sweets. The queen reclined in a low seat beside the food table and Brysa was again reminded that she had inherited all of her mother’s best features. Maurelle Alustate was very attractive with blue-black hair, smooth skin, and perfectly proportioned features. Her eyes, however, though once a beautiful brown, now appeared murky like swamp water.
Now those eyes were fastened upon Brysa, who moved to stand closer to her mother. “You called for me?” she inquired bluntly. Maurelle nodded slowly and finished eating an apple slice. Brysa waited silently.
“Yes,” the queen replied at last. She languidly waved her hand to a neighboring chair and said, “Won’t you sit, daughter?”
“I’d rather stand.”
Maurelle’s eyes immediately flashed and she sat erect, her body tense. “You always were a stubborn child,” she said in a low, even voice. “Resolute and strong.”
Brysa thought of the note she had sent to Cormac Alstair behind her mother and father’s backs. Resolute, strong, stubborn, she silently repeated the queen’s words. Her lips thinned. Try defiant, mother.
Maurelle suddenly relaxed and gave Brysa a queer smile. “Stand if you wish. Ultimately it will make little difference.”
“Thank you,” Brysa forced out.
“I’m sure you know by now that you are your father’s most valuable asset in his little game of war and intrigue.” Maurelle took a sip from a wine-filled bejeweled goblet.
“I’m aware of it.”
“Naturally your value comes because of your royal status,” the queen continued. “Of course Jaquin wouldn’t care for a peasant girl as his bride. He wants a woman of noble birth.”
Brysa’s hands clenched at her sides.
“With such value as you have, there come specific duties.” Maurelle’s calculating gaze came to rest on Brysa’s face.
Cautious, the princess repeated, “Duties?”
“Yes, of course. Obligations to your country; to honor. All of Elangsia looks to the Alustate family for their example. Your father and I have long set this example.” Maurelle stared off absently, her eyes glazed.
Some example, Brysa thought caustically.
Her mother’s gaze cleared and her head turned back to Brysa as if she had heard her daughter’s sarcastic thought. “It is now your responsibility and privilege to fulfill your duties as well.”
“If you mean marrying Jaquin,” Brysa replied tersely, “I don’t see that there is much I can do about it.”
“Did I say that is what I meant?” the queen snapped, surprising Brysa yet again with her sudden anger.
“No,” Brysa muttered.
Queen Maurelle stood to her feet, her silken robe falling gracefully around her slim form. Its purple-embroidered hem brushed the floor. Raising her hands, she clapped twice. “Nia,” she called.
A quiet slave girl whom Brysa assumed was Nia walked out of a side chamber a moment later, carrying a small, richly engraved box in her hands. Brysa warily watched Nia as she approached the queen and bowed slightly, extending the container toward Maurelle.
Delicately the queen plucked the box away from the girl and dismissed her with a quiet verbal command. Nia retired without a sound. Brysa’s gaze shifted back to Maurelle, who looked far too satisfied for Brysa’s comfort. What was in the box? What is she planning?
“You know as well as I that there will be a great battle between Aerilya, Elangsia, and Rulaan,” the queen stated in an unnerving, sing-song voice.
“Yes,” Brysa replied slowly.
“Let us suppose, for a little while, that Rulaan and Elangsia are not strong enough to defeat the dogged Aerilyan troops; that we fall before their precious Hunter and his King Jaeger.” The queen smiled quietly, her eyes looking glassy and unfocused again. One of her hands caressed the lid of the box.
“What would be the purpose of such a supposition?” inquired Brysa guardedly.
“If we were to be completely defeated on the field of battle,” the queen replied, shaking off a little of her daze, “what would you do?”
Brysa stopped. What would she do? She had never really thought it through; though she was loathe to admit that to her mother. Maurelle picked up on her hesitation immediately, however, and laughed softly.
“Ah, I see you do not know. That doesn’t surprise me. Defeat is not a word often mentioned in this palace.” Maurelle grimaced slightly. “Regardless, it is something that must be considered.”
“What are you saying, mother?” asked Brysa, growing a little impatient. “What is in that box?”
Maurelle kept stroking the lid. “Poison,” she stated in a voice too pleasant, too light for such a topic.
Brysa’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Yes; a very painless way to die, actually,” the queen said thoughtfully. “Enacoi root, a plant found in the far north. Once it is finely ground into a tasteless powder, it can be dissolved into liquids such as wine or even water. Death comes within minutes, or so my personal apothecary tells me.”
“Why are you telling me this?” whispered Brysa, suddenly having lost her voice. Her palms felt clammy. Poison? The very word caused a shudder to work its way down her spine.
“Because, daughter,” the queen said in a firm voice as she gently set down the box and opened the lid, “you must be prepared.”
She withdrew a tiny silk pouch and expectantly held it out to Brysa. The princess just stared at it with revulsion, her mind struggling to wrap around what was happening. “Prepared for what?” Brysa finally demanded, horror-struck. “For what purpose would I employ the deadly proprieties of enacoi root? Who would I wish to kill?”
“What you do or do not wish to do is unimportant,” Maurelle said loudly. She pinned Brysa with a glare and ordered, “Take the pouch.”
As if moved by a force outside of her physical body, Brysa’s hand came forward and took the small bag of powdery death from her mother.
Maurelle nodded with uncanny pleasure. “You really are a very good child. Now listen very closely, Brysa. You must not use this unless in the most dire of straits. Only out of principle, for the sake of dying with honor if there is no victory to be had, will you take this.”
Feeling cold, Brysa just stared at her mother. Again, she was being manipulated and used. She had no freedom. I’m just fooling myself into thinking I can make a difference in my life, she thought hopelessly. I will always be a pawn.
“Yes, mother,” she heard herself say.
“Good, good. Now, if Elangsia were to be destroyed by the cursed Aerilyans, which we all pray will never happen...” the queen’s voice was both fervent and oddly calm as she took in a deep breath, “If that terrible strait were reached, I command you as my daughter to take this poison and die a death worthy of Elangsia’s royalty. Do I make myself clear?”
Brysa just stared, her mind whirling. Commit suicide? She had no words. After a prolonged silence, she swallowed hard and managed to dully repeated, “Yes, mother.”
“Good girl.” A disturbing mixture of confusion and tiredness swept over Maurelle’s countenance a second later. She murmured, “Now, go away. I am tired. I will call you again if I want to speak to you.”
And just like that, Maurelle turned away and the conversation was ended. Brysa stood still for a long moment, stunned. Finally, in a daze of betrayal and despair, she turned on her heel and walked out. Clutched in her hand was the silken pouch filled with crushed enacoi root. The poison given to her by her mother.
And the princess of Elangsia felt sick.
