Chapter XLII - Freedom

TWO YEARS, SIX MONTHS SINCE BANISHMENT

Terrance Grant hurried down the streets of Ruma, his head ducked as he wove through the crowd of peasants and nobility alike. It had been five days since the emissaries arrived at the city, announcing that the war was over. The strangest mixture of chaos and excitement had swept over the whole of the country, but it was intensified in Ruma.

Not even an hour after the criers spread the word through the streets and rode on to notify some of the outer villages, Queen Maurelle Alustate was found dead by way of poison. She had committed suicide after hearing of her country’s defeat and husband’s death. The Aerilyans in the city demanded to be freed and were released in great numbers, according to Princess—now, Queen—Brysa Alustate’s command.

Grant cursed under his breath. The young queen will be the death of us all, he thought angrily. She gave up too soon and bowed to the demands of the piggish Aerilyans. Now the livelihood of many has been destroyed by the naiveté of one misguided woman. Without the slave trade, half of Elangsia will be bereft of laborers and the other half will be impoverished from lack of business.

When the order that proclaimed the freedom of Aerilyans had come, Grant had acted quickly and resolutely. He had just brought a group of nineteen Aerilyan slaves into Ruma to sell. Fourteen were women in their late teens and early twenties who would bring an excellent price. One was a strong man, and the rest were children who could be quickly trained into whatever tasks might be required of them. It was a perfect lot—perfect!—and Grant was not about to throw away all the money he was determined to get from them.

He had hidden them. The slaves were bound and gagged in a back room of Grant’s own house. That night he planned to smuggle them out of the city and take them to villages far removed from the city. Preferably some place where people had money and the authorities rarely visited. Then he would be able to sell the Aerilyans and the people buying them would not fear being uncovered as lawbreakers.

Grant reached his house and raised his head. He pushed the door open and walked through the short hallway that ended in a large room with two shuttered windows. Grant untied his cloak and tossed it unto a nearby chair as he entered the room.

“Hello, Grant.”

Grant froze at the voice that sounded to his far left. Slowly turned his head, he was astonished to see a tall, dark-haired man standing in the shadows.

“Who are you?” he demanded, regaining his tongue. “What is your business here? Speak quickly!”

“I am one with many names,” the man stated in a cool voice. “My business is to protect the defenseless and free those in bondage. And I will speak at my own pace.”

Unnerved by the man’s confident reply, Grant turned to face him squarely, wishing he held a torch and was wearing a weapon of some sort. Anything to make him feel less vulnerable. The mystery man stepped forward into a slightly better lit area and the gray light highlighted the contours of his face. The longer Grant looked at the man, the more convinced he was that he had met him before. He was familiar, but Grant could not remember where he had seen him.

“Well,” he said at length, “what would you do to me?”

“I would have had you release the slaves you had illegally hidden in your back room, if I had not already done so.”

Anger flared through Grant’s veins and he took a half-step forward, forgetting he was completely defenseless. “How dare you intrude into my private business affairs—”

He did not even finish his sentence before the tall man unexpectedly leapt forward and drove his entire form back against the wall. Hands of steel pressed against Grant’s shoulders, keeping him firmly in his helpless position. “How dare you disobey the orders of Queen Brysa Alustate,” the man replied angrily. “Do not try to reprimand me, Grant. You would sorely regret your foolishness.”

Real fear streaked through Grant. “My apologies!” he cried hastily. “What do you want?”

“I want to see you punished for your misdeeds.”

“What grudge do you hold against me? Who are you, really?”

“My grudge against you is because of the many lives you have destroyed by your greed for money.” The man’s hands ground into Grant’s shoulders. “And you know me best, perhaps, as the Hunter of Mairbrac.”

Grant’s eyes widened. “T-the Hunter?”

“And Cormac Alstair,” the Hunter added in a seemingly offhanded manner. A humorless smile spread over his face as he glared down at Grant and stepped back, releasing the slave trader abruptly.

“Alstair?” Wheels began spinning in Grant’s mind. He had done business with this man, which was why he was familiar! “You’re an Aerilyan? A spy!”

“You catch on so quickly,” replied the Hunter, his tone faintly mocking.

“Why...how...?” The questions churned around but Grant could not get any of them out in a coherent fashion. He paused and drew in a ragged breath, striving for calmness.

“I am here not only for my own satisfaction but on behalf of another,” the Hunter said at length. “For me, ruining your business as you ruined the existences of so many Aerilyans is enough. But for another, a physical token must be extracted from you.”

Physical token? Grant did not like the sound of that. “And...and who desires such a token?” he managed to ask in a hoarse voice.

“A former slave of yours whom I bought a year ago.”

Grant swallowed. What slave did Alstair buy? He could not remember; he had participated in so many transactions of human flesh over the years, they all blended together for the most part. “I don’t recall the situation exactly,” he said slowly.

“I’m sure you recall the young woman who struck you on the cheek,” the Hunter smiled slightly. “Knocked you to the ground, too.”

His throat tightened with anger. It was her? Yes, remembrance now flooded back with a vengeance; he merely wished it did not. He would have preferred to utterly forget about the hotheaded foreign girl who had humiliated him before a crowd.

“Remember her now, I see,” the Hunter noted.

“Aye,” he growled, his hands clenching into fists.

“You took something from her, didn’t you?”

How did the Hunter know about that? Grant had taken the girl’s leather pouch a full day before Cormac Alstair had come on the scene and bought her. There was no way this man should be aware of the situation—unless the girl had told him of the grievance at some point.

Grant still had her pouch. Twice he had almost thrown it away, but he had always refrained because it gave him pride to think of his “victory” over the insolent slave girl. He hesitated.

The Hunter shifted on his feet, like a great cat about to pouch. Given the situation, Grant could not help but feel like prey.

“Where’s her pouch, Grant?”

“I don’t have it anymore,” he began, but he could not finish for then the Hunter stepped forward. It was an intimidating move. Grant was no small man but he felt surprisingly frail when in such close quarters with the powerful warrior.

“You’re a bad liar, Grant.”

“I sold it.”

“Your defiance taxes my patience.”

Despite the ever-dying light, Grant clearly saw one of the Hunter’s hands dropped to finger the handle of a dagger at his waist. Dismay fell over him, mixing with a strong inherent self-preservation urge.

“I tell you I don’t have it,” he insisted, but his voice was weak even in his ears.

Immediately he knew that his final lie had been a grave mistake. The Hunter pulled his dagger so quickly Grant could hardly blink before it was pointed at his midsection. The point jabbed his soft belly, piercing his richly woven tunic but stopping just short of severing his skin.

The Hunter’s intense blue eyes held Grant’s and his voice was deceptively soft as he murmured, “Do not toy with me any longer, Grant. Where,” he enunciated each word slowly but firmly, “is the pouch?”

Grant’s resolve crumbled. Miserably he whispered, “I have it, I swear I still have it. Put the knife away.”

The hard eyes never left his face as the Hunter stepped back just a little and dropped the knifepoint. One of his dark brows rose in silent question.

Swallowing hard once again, Grant stepped down the hallway and timidly motioned to an adjoining room. “Please. I have it in the other room. Please.”

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“Zoe! Zoe!”

Zoe stopped and looked around herself in the crowd, wondering who had called for her. Her brow furrowed and she pivoted in place, scanning the many faces surrounding her. She was near the Elangsian palace, where she had been staying during the peace negotiations of the last week. She thought she never would have wanted to see the inside of the stone palace again, considering her lengthy imprisonment there, but the atmosphere was much different when she was free to come and go as she pleased.

“Zoe!” The cry came again; this time from Zoe’s far left.

Zoe turned and was almost knocked over as a dark-haired girl propelled herself into her arms. Instinctively Zoe wrapped her arms around the slender form and staggered back a couple steps to regain her balance. After she was steady again, she looked down at the young woman who had thrown herself at her.

Laughing brown eyes peered back up at her, set in a pretty face that was framed by long black hair. Zoe’s breath caught. “Marisa?”

“Yes! Oh I’m so happy to see you again,” the girl exclaimed, finally pulling back from Zoe. “I did not know you were still here in Ruma! Has your master kept you here all this time?”

“I escaped after a few months, actually,” Zoe grinned, knowing full well that the story was in truth much longer, but deciding against delving into all the details. “And I’ve just been here some of the time. What of you? Why aren’t you back home?”

“I’m leaving for Aerilya tomorrow,” Marisa said with a huge smile. “I gained my freedom immediately after the new queen’s edict. My mistress was a good woman, believe it or not. She gave me money after I was freed and I have been buying supplies for my trip home.”

“Who are you traveling with?” inquired Zoe with a trace of concern. Marisa had grown up over the last year, she could tell that just by looking at the younger woman’s face, but she could not travel by herself or she would almost certainly fall prey to something or someone.

“I’m traveling with a group of other freed Aerilyans,” Marisa replied.

“Any of you know how to defend yourselves?”

“Yes, silly,” Marisa giggled. “There are many capable men coming who will protect the women and children. You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Zoe smiled. “Not too much. But enough to count for something, I guess.”

“So where are you staying? Are you going back to Aerilya?”

“Actually...I’m staying at the palace.”

Marisa’s brows shot up. “The palace?”

“I know the prin—I mean, queen. It’s a long story,” explained Zoe. “Oh, but it should do you good to know that Rebekka and Tryna are free too. I saw them safely back to Aerilya just over a month ago.”

Marisa’s face expressed her relief and happiness. “That’s wonderful. And Grace? Have you news of her?”

“She was liberated too,” Zoe nodded. “By the Hunter of Mairbrac, no less.”

Marisa’s eyes went round. “The Hunter?” she murmured. “You found him?”

“I found him...he found me—or something,” smirked Zoe.

Before Marisa could reply, a deep voice came from their right, grabbing their attention. “Marisa! There you are.”

Zoe glanced over to see a young man of medium height with a thatch of light brown hair. His dark eyes were fastened on Marisa, but they flashed up to meet Zoe’s a moment later. He nodded his head at her. “Good day, mistress,” he said. “I’m Quentin of Aerilya.”

“Zoe Romany,” she replied cordially. She glanced at Marisa and noticed with amusement the flush that had overtaken the teen girl’s face. “You are traveling back to Aerilya with Marisa’s group?” she asked Quentin.

He nodded and gave her a crooked smile. “Aye. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning.”

“I wish you both a wonderful trip,” Zoe said warmly.

“Thank you,” Marisa said, her eyes shining happily as she stepped a little closer to Quentin.

“Stay out of harm’s way,” added Zoe as she started to walk away. She placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder for a brief moment. “Keep her safe.”

“I will,” he replied sturdily.

Zoe smiled and then merged into the crowd as she made her way toward the palace. Thank you Deus, she prayed. Had she not met Marisa today, there was a good chance she never would have found her in Aerilya. Now I know that she is well and heading toward a good life. It was a blessing from Deus that Zoe had been able to see all her friends again, with the exception of Grace, and celebrate that they were rising from the ashes and moving forward with fresh strength and irrepressible spirit.

It is good, she thought with satisfaction.

Negotiations were almost completed between King Jaeger and Queen Brysa. Within the next couple days, the king of Aerilya would depart for his own country. As a sign of good faith, Prince Garrick Jaeger was remaining behind in Ruma for some time. He planned to work with Brysa on enforcing the massive task of the freeing the thousands of Aerilyan slaves that were sprinkled heavily across Elangsia.

During the week, there had still been no news from Kristalyn or her company who had gone after the Wild Men. Scouts had been sent out to find the small group of the Hunter’s men, but they had returned just that morning, unsuccessful. Zoe prayed that all was well with Tancred’s younger sister. Though he did not talk about it, she could sense the massive burden that still rested on his shoulders. Sometimes she caught him staring off into nothingness, his hands clenched and jaw tight. Relief would not come until he heard news.

Before long, the city of Ruma would be behind Zoe. After she found Terrance Grant and dealt with him—something she had been trying to do since the first day she had entered the capital—she would return to Aerilya with the king’s contingent...and then what?

She had not really thought past the battle. Aerilya had triumphed. Really, Zoe’s allegiance to the country and King Jaeger had no reason to continue. This was not her country. It was wonderful to see peace coming, but she was no sure where she fit into the picture. My home is far over the Cirthian Mountains, in a wooded forest called Braedoch, with eight siblings whose faces I have not seen for two and a half years.

And a guardian who likely still brooded and haunted the shadows of their home.

Zoe sighed. No, Braedoch was not home to her anymore. But neither is Aerilya, really. King Jaeger does not need my services. She paused. For that matter, nor does the Hunter.

Something about that last notion disturbed her. It was true: Tancred had never needed her, though he had accepted her help; but still it disturbed her. Her head lowered as she kept walking at a fast clip toward the palace, a chilly autumn breeze fingering through her hair and her thoughts stirring.

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The Hall of Kings was awash with luminous light from candles, torches, and the huge fire that flickered and crackled in the large stone hearth. Fresh rushes were layered on the floor, the doves cooed in their perches high above, and the rich scents of the feast that was laid out atop the long tables filled the air.

Quietly, Brysa surveyed it all from her vantage point at the head of the room. The meal had concluded some twenty minutes earlier, and now the noblemen and women were socializing all around her. She spotted King Jaeger in deep conversation with Lord Myron, an old councilman who had pledged his devotion to her as the new queen of Elangsia and backed up his words by giving her countless bits of advice and wise council even over the short space of the last week.

Across the room from King Jaeger and Lord Myron was the Hunter and several of his men, all of them also caught in lively discussion. Brysa’s brows rose when she noticed the conspicuous absence of a certain young woman whose habit was usually to stay close to the Hunter’s men. Zoe was gone.

She must have slipped away after the meal concluded. Brysa sighed but was not surprised. Zoe had appeared uncomfortable during the entirety of the feast, merely picking at her food and not entering into the conversations around her. Something had been bothering her. Brysa had no idea what, but prayed Zoe would find relief soon. Though Brysa suspected Zoe’s time in Ruma was almost ended, she wished only the best for the young woman. I fear she has much still to work through before she will find final peace and release, though, thought Brysa somberly. There was so much she knew that Zoe had not told her. That in and of itself spoke of the vast amount of finality Zoe would need to seek out.

A hand lightly tapped Brysa’s shoulder and she turned to see Rhys, her chief minstrel, standing there. “Yes?” she inquired in an undertone.

“Seeing as the meal has concluded,” Rhys said quietly, “might I suggest that now would be a good time to introduce some music and dancing?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed,” Brysa swiftly agreed. “Do whatever you think best.”

“As Lady of the Court, you are usually expected to lead the dancers,” the minstrel continued after a moment’s hesitation.

She had forgotten that. Her mother and father had always done the honors at affairs like this, though Brysa had always seen it was just another formality that they suffered through. There had never been any love lost between her parents.

“Ah,” she finally replied to the chief minstrel, for lack of anything better to say. She stood still for a moment, her brow furrowed. Her eyes scanned the crowd. Who in the world should she dance with? What would be the best tactical choice, considering she was not just the princess now, but in fact Queen Brysa Alustate?

Despite the fact it was merely a dance she was participating it, the partner she chose would be of huge importance, especially with such a multitude of Aerilyan and Elangsian nobility present. The Elangsians, especially, would want to see what she was made of. Who would the untried maiden queen pick for her partner? Brysa’s hands clasped tightly together and she swallowed. Should it be a lord, a councilman, a knight? What would present the best image to her people?

“Good evening, minstrel, Lady Brysa.” Prince Garrick Jaeger walked up beside Brysa at that precise moment and effortlessly included himself into the conversation, his dark eyes inquisitive. His gaze ran over her expression. “What is wrong?”

“Just a slight trouble with the order of dance,” she told him, collecting herself easily. She had finally reached the point where she was at least slightly used to the foreign prince’s forward ways.

“You’re leading the first dance,” Garrick said, more of a statement than a question.

She dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“Perfect. We’ll begin with a slow step and then follow it up with a quicker, more engaging dance. It’s the best way to start out a celebration.”

She tilted her head; her silky hair cascaded over one partially-bared shoulder as she pointed stared at him. “We?” she asked, placing heavy emphasis on the single word.

“We,” he replied with an audacious grin. “A word typically construed to encompass more than one individual; in this case, you and me. You and I—we—are otherwise recognized and heralded as Prince Garrick of Aerilya and Queen Brysa Alu—”

“Thank you, I know well the definition of the word we,” she said shortly. Still, she could not help the smile that tugged its way up her face.

Garrick glanced at the minstrel, who had backed up a pace and had his head respectfully bowed to give them some semblance of privacy. “Play the music, please.” He looked back at Brysa as Rhys scampered away and extended his hand. “My lady?”

Now that his hand was extended, Brysa was helpless to do anything about the situation. Half a dozen onlookers had seen the foreign prince’s bold move and she could not turn him down without making herself look like a fool and Garrick like a bigger one. Brysa placed her hand in Garrick’s and followed him past the tables to the large dance floor. Several courtiers and noblewomen stood around the outside, watching them and whispering behind their hands. Brysa kept a calm smile on her face as she turned to face Garrick with a graceful swish of her long skirt, but gritted out in a hard tone, “What are you doing?”

“Dancing with you,” he replied evenly, a roguish twinkle still lighting his earthy brown gaze. “You cannot think I am that repulsive of a partner, I trust.”

“No,” she murmured. The music started and she did not further elaborate.

Garrick released her hand and bowed deeply. Another beat passed and she dipped into a curtsey. The dance was slow but very graceful, requiring great precision and control. Brysa had been dancing since she was little, so she knew she could do the proper steps in her sleep. To her slight astonishment, Garrick appeared to be likewise skilled.

“You’re quite good,” she told him after a few moments.

He paused, clapped in time with the music, and then stepped back toward her. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was courteous but Brysa thought she discerned a teasing gleam in his eyes. “That is indeed high praise from you, my lady.”

The minstrel called for others to take to the dance floor, and out of the corner of her eyes, Brysa saw other ladies and lords filter out around her and Garrick. She disregarded them all, keeping her gaze fixed on Garrick. “You mock my praise, which was honestly given,” she stated at length.

“Nay,” he shook his head. “I value it for its sincerity.”

Her brows rose and she did not respond as she spun away and then came back to him after a few beats of the music.

“Why do you feel I am not to be trusted?” he asked her when they came back together.

“Have I said anything along those lines?”

“It’s impossible to miss, my lady,” he said kindly. “You possess a remarkable amount of poise. But you tend to abandon that when around me.”

“You are by far the most direct man I have ever encountered,” she said, speaking what she thought without considering the consequences.

He just laughed. “My mother used to call it tactlessness. I’ve tried to temper it over the years but apparently I have not worked hard enough.”

Reluctantly, she smiled back. Whatever else she might feel while around him, Garrick Jaeger was an amiable man, once she was used to his candor.

The music shifted, and the more lively strains that accompanied a faster paced dance filled the Hall of Kings. Laughter and shouts of excitement rose around Brysa as the tempo increased. Garrick faced Brysa and asked, “Do you want to do this one too?”

Lords and ladies were lining up with their partners all around; at this point, Brysa could easily snag a different partner if she wanted to. Instead of seeking out a different man, she merely slipped her hand into Garrick’s offered one and replied, “Let me assure you that I am never one to back away from a challenge, my lord. I promise I can and will match every step you take.”

“Oh really!” he laughed. “So be it, then.”

The minstrel and his fellow musicians were plucking out the lively tune with gusto; taking that as their cue, Garrick and Brysa fell into the steps of the athletic dance. It differed from the previous one by requiring less poise and more fleet-footedness. They rapidly stepped and whirled as they wove in and around each other and their fellow dancers. Deep, rich laughter rose in Brysa’s throat and escaped as she spun and her curtain of hair whipped around her face and shoulders. It was easy for her to lose herself in the music and this time she did so with abandon. She could not suppress the joy and freedom she felt as she effortlessly completely the difficult maneuvers. By the looks of Garrick’s wide grin, he was enjoying himself too.

At last they whirled off the floor and Brysa brushed strands of hair back from her face, still laughing as she gasped out, “I’m afraid I’m spent! I can take only so much of that dance.”

“Me too,” chuckled Garrick, who was also breathing hard.

After a few moments of silence in which they caught their breath, Garrick turned toward the table they stood beside—a scarred, heavy piece of oaken furniture—and surveyed the large floral display that was prominently positioned on its surface. An almost-black lock of hair had fallen over his forehead during the dance, and when he withdrew a flower from among the bright array of blossoms and turned to Brysa, she was struck by the way his dark hair brought out the deep brown of his eyes. His expression was full of strength and steadfastness, a mixture she thought suited him perfectly.

“For you, my lady,” he said quietly, extending the flower to her.

It was a white rose, creamy in hue and perfectly proportioned. At first Brysa just stared at it, uncertain of how to respond. Then, slowly, her hand came out and grasped the stem. Their fingers brushed just scarcely, then he let go.

Feeling uncommonly awkward, she looked down and murmured shyly, “Thank you.”

“Aye.”

When she looked up again, she flushed, for he was still staring intently at her. “What is it?” she murmured, completely self-conscious.

“Permission to speak frankly?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. “Uh...th-thank you,” she stuttered out. Where have my wits gone? What kind of intelligent response was that?

“You’re welcome.”

Brysa smoothed her skirt with one hand, still clutching Garrick’s rose with the other, and said, “I...I must fulfill my responsibilities and properly mingle with my guests. Thank you for the dance, my lord—”

His warm hand on hers stopped her words and sent her wide blue gaze flying back up to his face. With an earnest look to his eyes and a half-smile, he told her in a low tone, “Please, it’s just Garrick.”

Breathless and not really sure why, Brysa just nodded and managed to say, “Very well...Garrick. You must call me Brysa, then.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “Now, go mingle. Enjoy tonight.” Unexpectedly bringing her hand up, Garrick brushed the barest kiss over her knuckles, still keeping eye contact with her. “Until next time, Brysa.” He released her hand, turned, and walked away with a flutter of his gray cloak.

Leaving Brysa wondering what exactly had just happened, and why her hand still tingled after being enclosed in his gentle touch.

Chapter XLI - Aftermath

This is a nice long chapter to make up for the length of time between this and the last post. Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

The sweet, golden trill of the Aerilyan horns rang across the field. Tancred threaded his way through the lines of the Aerilyans, the afternoon sun casting everything in bright light, and called for order. “The horn is blown! Let them flee, unmolested!”

His voice grew hoarse as he galloped on and the trumpet continued to sound. The panicked Elangsians fled, and the Aerilyans reluctantly slowed their attack. They were loathe to lay down their arms when victory was so obviously won. But because it was already won, more bloodshed was unnecessary.

“Tancred!”

Prince Garrick’s cry came from Tancred’s right and Tancred turned his head to see the prince’s mare fall in stride with Chale. Tancred pulled the reins back slightly and Chale slowed to a trot, blowing noisily from his run.

The prince’s dark eyes were alight with emotion and he said, “We won! By the Almighty, Tancred—we won.”

“By the Almighty indeed; without Him it would have been unattainable. As it is, the price of victory is almost too great to pay.” His last words were uttered so quietly they were almost impossible to hear. His throat tightened as he remembered Jaedon’s death. The battle was over, yes; but there was so much that remained to be resolved.

Abruptly, Tancred pulled Chale to a sudden halt and cocked his head, listening. The terrified cries of the Elangsians had slowly lessened and now began to fade completely. What changed?

Garrick also stopped. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Tancred replied as he scanned the lines of Elangsian army tents, half of them overturned and trampled. He frowned as he noticed that the Elangsians had mostly stopped their retreat. Why? What had caused them to stop?

A glimmer of white caught his gaze. Tancred narrowed his eyes against the light of the sun and made out two distinct forms riding through the Elangsian army toward him. One bore a tall, hastily fashioned banner of white cloth. The other wore a long, green kirtle that fluttered in the breeze as they rode closer.

“Ach, it’s the princess of the filthy enemy,” growled a soldier to Tancred’s right.

Instantly Tancred knew the man was right—it was Brastus’s daughter, Princess Brysa Alustate. He had not seen her for a couple months, but the black-haired beauty was difficult to forget. And riding beside her was.... Tancred’s lips thinned with faint, cynical amusement. I should have known it would be Zoe. He was not sure he really wanted to know how she had gotten all the way to the other side of the Elangsians’ camp and contacted the princess.

But, on that subject, he thought abruptly, why is the princess here? She ought to be back at Ruma.

“Did you know the princess was present in their camp?” he asked Prince Garrick.

The prince shook his head. “No.” Squinting back toward the riders, he observed, “She is here to negotiate for terms, though. She must know her father has fallen.”

By way of my sword, thought Tancred. He wondered if Garrick was aware of how Brastus had died.

Brysa and Zoe rode closer and Tancred thought of what an odd pair they made. Zoe was streaked with dirt, dried blood, and battle-grime. Her weapons were sheathed and her right hand firmly grasped the long wooden shaft that held up the white banner. In contrast, Brysa looked clean and fair to the eye, dressed in a gown that was simple but finely cut, revealing her shapely form. A circlet of gold sat on her brow. The quick gleam of the sun upon a golden hilt at her waist told Tancred that the princess was not as helpless as she appeared. She wore a weapon of some sort.

“She’s armed,” he warned Garrick, heeling his horse forward.

“But she rides under the banner of peace,” the prince pointed out. Garrick glanced to their left and added, “There’s my father with Kane.”

Tancred and Garrick fell in line with King Jaeger and General Kane a moment later. Zoe and Brysa rode directly toward them, the men parting for them to ride through. Various expressions—ranging from awe, to disgust, to hostility—were written across the faces of the soldiers. Tancred’s eyes roved them, watching for raised weapons. Though the white banner signified parlay, a fool might take it into his head to try to strike down the princess, or the king, or the prince.

The Elangsian princess and Zoe stopped about ten paces in front of them. Tancred’s gaze ran over Brysa perfunctorily but zeroed in on Zoe. For a moment, their eyes locked; almost immediately, however, Zoe disengaged them and deliberately focused on the king, prince, and general.

Brysa dipped her head at them. “My lords of Aerilya,” she said in a strong but not abrasive voice, “I am Brysa Elain Alustate, Lady Maid of the Court, Servant of the Crown, and Princess of Elangsia. I bid you welcome.”

“Princess Alustate,” King Jaeger acknowledged her and then began his own formal address. “I am Trystallen Jaeger, Lord of the lands from Mairbrac to the Cirthian Mountains, King of Aerilya—and Servant of Deus. You have my most cordial welcome. You ride under the white flag, my lady. Do have authority to speak for your people?”

“My father has fallen and no general has come to fill the place of protector and leader. As princess of my people, I am here to advocate for their safety...” Brysa’s blue eyes shone as she paused and then finished, “even if it costs me my life.”

The king smiled. “I assure you, that is a cost I will not exact from you. Have you terms to propose?”

“I do, my lord.”

Tancred was impressed by the young woman’s poise in such a situation. Brysa’s gaze flicked from the king to him for a moment and she paused. He wondered if she recognized him. He had attended her engagement banquet, so his face might be familiar to her, though he rather doubted it. Still, the expression on her face caused him to speculate.

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His face. I have seen him before.

Brysa looked long on the face of the broad-shouldered Aerilyan man, but could not place him. As they had ridden down to meet the Aerilyan lords, Zoe had murmured the names and ranks of all the men. This man was Tancred; sometimes known as Cormac Alstair but usually as the Hunter of Mairbrac. He was the one whom Brysa’s father had longed to kill, and whom Brysa had tried to find when he was in Ruma. As far as Brysa knew, she had never met the Hunter. But he looked so familiar she could not help but wonder.

Shaking her head a little, her long hair tangling in the wind, Brysa looked back at the Aerilyan king. He asked for terms. Answer him before your distraction causes a problem.

“I seek to end the war between Aerilya and Elangsia,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “As of today, the battles and turmoil must cease. My people and I will search for ways to live peaceably with the Aerilyans. I ask that you and your men return to your lands, and that mine be allowed the same courtesy.”

“What of the Aerilyans who are held as slaves in your land, my lady?”

The questioned was uttered by the prince of Aerilya, Garrick Jaeger. Prince Garrick sat firmly on his white mare beside the Hunter, his bearing noble but not stiff. His brown gaze locked challengingly with her own, prompting a quick, firm reply from Brysa.

“A proclamation will be sent through Elangsia, freeing all slaves and giving them leave to return to their homes.”

Those brown eyes did not release her. “You will see this done?”

A little surprised by his tone, Brysa lifted her chin. “I will see it done,” she responded coolly. Turning her head regally back to the king, she added, “I understand you hold a certain number of Elangsian prisoners of war in your country. I ask that they be released. In exchange, I will free what prisoners we have.”

He nodded. “Aye, my lady. Now I must know: what of the Wild Men? Were they not to join your forces on the battlefield?”

“To be quite honest, I do not know where they are,” she said quietly. “They were supposed to arrive to aid my people at the conclusion of the battle.”

“Do you wish they had come?” the prince spoke again.

Brysa looked at him, her forehead furrowing slightly. What sort of a question is that at a peace treaty? she wondered. The time of wishes is past, if it ever was truly here. Negotiating our current situation is the purpose of this meeting.

Lifting her chin slightly, she inquired, “What is your interest in that, my lord?”

He cocked one dark brow at her. “If they had made it here, you likely would have won today,” he pointed out. “My question is simple: do you wish the Wild Men had come?”

Why did she feel as if this outspoken young prince was testing her? Brysa clenched her steed’s reins tightly. “If they had come, Elangsia may have won, you are correct. But that victory would have been hollow indeed for me, seeing as I was to be sent back to Rulaan as the wife and war prize of their Prince Jaquin—a fate I would not wish upon any woman.” Her eyes flashed at Prince Garrick and she finished coldly, “Now, is my willingness to negotiate terms of peace acceptable in your eyes, my lord prince, or am I still to be regarded with mistrust even when I ride beneath the white banner?”

Something darted through his eyes—amusement? Respect? Both?—almost too quick for Brysa to identify it. “Nay, my lady,” he said softly. “I see that your motives are pure.”

Pleased at his admission but unwilling to show it, Brysa turned her face away from him again. “I will organize my camp, then, my lords, and request that you withdraw your own troops.” Weariness abruptly swept over her, but she finished strongly: “Further negotiations may be conducted upon your earliest convenience. I will remain here until everything is concluded to the satisfaction of all.”

“As you wish, princess,” assented King Jaeger. Without a further word he and the general dipped their heads at her, turned their steeds away, and rode off.

Brysa glanced over at Zoe and received a brilliant smile. “You did it,” Zoe murmured with fierce joy. “Everything is going to work out now.”

Now that the actual deed of meeting with the king was finished, Brysa felt weak in the knees at the thought of what she had just done. I conferred with the king of Aerilya. I ended the war.

“I ended the war,” she whispered her thoughts in a shaky voice.

“You did.” Zoe’s voice was warm and approving. “We must spread the word far and wide. Do you have emissaries that you can send throughout Elangsia?”

“Yes,” Brysa nodded, still in shock. “I will make sure that is done by this evening.”

Zoe nodded.

Brysa raised her head and caught the dark blue gaze of the Hunter. Curiosity grabbed hold of her. “Your Hunter is very young. Younger than I ever imagined him.”

“He is not ‘my’ Hunter.” Zoe cast a glance in the direction of Tancred and the Aerilyan prince. “And yes; he is young,” she added simply.

There was something about the undertones to Zoe’s voice that piqued Brysa’s interest. Tearing her gaze from Tancred, she studied Zoe’s face, which was a study of emotions that swirled together beneath a thin veneer of restraint. An old memory rose to the surface of Brysa’s mind, intriguing her anew. When Zoe had first been brought as a captive into the palace of Ruma, Brysa had inquired if she was the Hunter’s lover. Zoe had scoffed at the suggestion then, clearly considering the notion utter madness.

And yet....

Brysa’s shrewd eyes slid back to the Hunter. He was speaking to the prince in a quiet tone, but he seemed distracted. A moment later he turned his head away from Prince Garrick and met Zoe’s gaze head-on, seemingly oblivious to the armies and people around them.

He fancies her. Brysa knew little of love, at least not firsthand, but she had seen enough star-crossed lovers among Elangsia’s noblemen and women to recognize the look in Tancred Ralyn’s eyes. His affection was there, plain for anyone to see if they were willing to look for it. And judging by the way Zoe pointedly looked away from Tancred’s piercing blue gaze not half a moment later, Brysa guessed she was not yet willing to see it.

“I will be returning to my own camp this evening,” Zoe said, breaking into Brysa’s musings. “I’ll see you soon though. Finishing up negotiations will take a while. It could be a few days before we leave the plain here.”

The finality of it all hit Brysa with sudden clarity. Soon, she would return to Ruma, and of course Zoe would not go with her. Their reunion had been pleasant, but separation loomed once again.

It was as if Zoe read her thoughts. “You may not be traveling to Ruma alone,” she stated quietly.

Brysa swiftly looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I have certain...unresolved business in your city,” Zoe said vaguely, a cool light shining from her eyes.

“Unresolved business,” Brysa repeated questioningly, arching a brow.

“There is a man, a slaver I must find. He took something from me long ago that I swore I would regain.”

The soft thump of hooves sounded and Brysa noticed out of the corner of her eye that Prince Garrick Jaeger and Tancred Ralyn were riding closer. She did not turn toward them yet, however, wishing to get a straight answer out of Zoe. “What is his name? I shall see he is punished for whatever misdeeds he has done to you.”

“His livelihood shall be destroyed once you abolish the slave trade,” Zoe said with a slight smile. “That will be punishment enough, I think. No, my quarrel with him involves a personal matter.”

Brysa’s brow puckered. “But who is he?”

“His name is Terrance Grant,” Tancred answered before Zoe could reply. “He owns a residence in Ruma.”

Forced to acknowledge their presence now that they had entered the conversation, Brysa inclined her head toward the two men. “Terrance Grant? How do you know the name of the slaver, my lord?”

“I bought Zoe from him a year ago,” Tancred said quietly. “I remembered his name and dwelling place for my own purposes.”

A flicker of surprise ran over Zoe’s face, almost too quick for Brysa to catch it, but obviously the foreign girl was taken aback by Tancred’s statement. Curious about the story she felt lurked just beneath the surface of the conversation but intelligent enough to know that now was not the time or place to hear a tale even if they were willing to tell it, Brysa looked down. Vaguely she was aware that Zoe and Tancred nudged their horses a few steps away and starting a conversation in low tones, but she could not discern what they were saying.

When she glanced up again, she was met with Prince Garrick’s unswerving gaze. “Well met, Princess Alustate,” Garrick greeted her in a low tone. “Your countrymen fought well on the field of battle these last days.”

“As did yours,” she said a trifle reluctantly. “That is evidenced by the reality of which side ultimately won the conflict.”

“But I gather you realize that this is not about who won or lost anymore; it’s about ending a conflict that has spanned a generation.”

“Yes,” she assented quickly. She had a lot to learn about what to say during a conference between a former enemy and herself. With each of her words, she had the ability to graciously extend forgiveness and tenuous trust toward her new allies, or drive the years-old wedge of strife even deeper between them. “I trust our interactions with Aerilya will be strictly peaceful from now on. I will see to it that all Elangsia upholds our end of the bargain.”

“I’m sure you will, my lady.” The prince smiled at her, an easy expression that softened his features. “I must tell you, I was impressed by your cool judgment and quick wit while negotiating with my father.”

“Thank you,” she replied, keeping her tone appropriately cool though she felt pleased by his praise. “Your questions posed to me were very...direct.”

Garrick’s eyes flickered. “I wished to see if you were to be trusted.”

“And are you quite satisfied with what you found?” she asked, feeling unexpectedly tense as she waited for his reply.

“Quite,” he nodded. Another smile flitted across his face, larger than the first one, and Brysa was astonished by how striking he looked with the golden sun highlighting his dark curls and lending an extra twinkle to his deep brown eyes. His teeth were white and straight, contrasting with the tanned hue of his skin. He was a warrior-prince; yet even after the battle he seemed clean-cut and...appealing.

His grin deepened and she realized he was reading her like an open book. Furious with herself—and her treacherous thoughts—she pulled back on her horse’s reins abruptly, backing the mare up a few steps.

“Stay, lady,” he said swiftly, riding forward to make up for the distance she had put between them. His countenance was serious again. “I have one question more for you. This prince you are pledged to, the prince of the Wild Men: does he yet live?”

She scanned Garrick with her features schooled to reveal nothing of the revulsion and fear she felt each time she thought of Prince Jaquin. “I do not know,” she finally answered. “As you know, he and his people were supposed to arrive here to assist us in the battle. That is why I am here; my father promised me as Jaquin’s reward once the battle was finished.” She reached up to brush a long black strand of hair out of her eyes and shrugged. “They never came.”

“And you are glad,” he finished.

She just looked at him, one brow raised. I’m not about to confirm to him that he can not only see right through my face and words, but he accurately sees what is beneath them.

“I would be glad if I stood in your stead,” he said quietly. “You are too fair a treasure to be the prize of a man who would not truly value you, Lady Brysa.”

Shocked by his words, Brysa just stared at him. By heaven, this man was direct with his words! Unsure of how to respond, she merely looked away and felt a slow, hot flush begin to work its way up her face.

è è è è è è è è è

Not long after, Zoe, Tancred, and Prince Garrick parted ways with Brysa and turned back to the Aerilyan camp. Zoe and Tancred spent the remainder of the day there, staying close to the king and prince as messengers and scouts were sent throughout Aerilya. As the sun began to slip behind the edge of the world, Zoe glimpsed riders issuing out from the Elangsian camp in a similar manner. They would tell Elangsia of the battle’s outcome, along with the edict from Brysa that would free all the Aerilyan slaves. King Jaeger had also decided, after sending a couple messages back and forth to Brysa, that he and a contingent of Aerilyans would accompany the remainder of the Elangsian army to Ruma for a few days to finish solemnizing the peace treaty.

“I will come too,” Tancred stated after hearing the plan.

King Jaeger looked up at Tancred and raised his eyebrows. “You’ve earned your rest, Ralyn,” he said. “The war is over. Go home.” He did not say the words unkindly but gently, as if he were grateful that he could at last release the Hunter from his duties.

Tancred refused. “I’ll stay with you until this is finished. The trip to Ruma and back will take but two weeks. I can wait that much longer before leaving your side.”

Zoe noted that though Tancred’s attitude was respectful, his jaw was set with determination. Nothing the king says will sway him, she thought with the faintest touch of amusement.

Apparently Trystellan Jaeger realized that as well; he did not argue further, and the matter was settled.

Dusk fell over the land; slowly stars began to peep forth, shedding their light across the land below. The bodies of Aerilyan and Elangsian soldiers burned, smoke and flames wafting up toward the darkened sky from the countless pyres lit across the plain. The smell permeated everything, lacing the air with a tangible reminder of the death that surrounded those who remained.

Yet despite the sorrowful atmosphere that wrapped around them, commemorating those who had passed on, Zoe and Tancred had bid farewell to the king and Garrick and ridden almost all the way back to the Hunter’s camp before realization hit Zoe.

Pulling back on her horse’s reins, she sucked in a deep, painful breath. “Jaedon!” she breathed.

Tancred stopped Chale and looked back at her. The moonlight was strong and growing stronger, allowing her to see the hurt that flashed through his eyes. Horror washed over her, incapacitating her. Not Jaedon, please not Jaedon... Her body trembled as insight continued rolling over her like gigantic waves, the ebb and flow of emotion growing stronger with each surge. Shaking, she slid off her horse and laid her hands on its neck, her wide eyes seeking Tancred’s. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have missed the presence of the kindly older warrior for so long?

“Where’s Jaedon?” she asked in a croaking whisper. She knew the answer as well as Tancred’ but refused to believe it until he told her the truth plainly.

Tancred dismounted Chale and looped the stallion’s reins over his arm. He walked toward her, but Zoe backed away, clutching her own horse’s reins. “No,” she murmured. “No.”

He stopped. “Zoe.” He spoke her name in a tender voice that merely served to further confuse her already riotous emotions, uttering both syllables of Zoe with care, as if her name was a precious word to him.

“He’s not dead,” she whispered, on the verge of tears. “He’s too strong, too brave. He was a protector, a warrior, a fighter. He’s not dead.”

“Jaedon died fighting for his country,” Tancred said in the same quiet, calm voice.

How could he be so composed when his best friend had died that day? Abba, why? Why did you take him? Zoe wanted to scream the words aloud but desperately struggled for self-control. Tancred’s calm. You can do this too, Zoe. Be strong. Block it out. Block it out—

This time her inner monologue did not work. Tears sprang into her eyes without warning and began streaming down her cheeks. But no, she could not break down here, not with Tancred watching her. Zoe abruptly turned away. Silently she stood there, scalding tears blazing a path down her cheeks, fighting to keep her agony from his knowledge and scrutiny.

A strong hand touched her shoulder.

For a moment she fought Tancred’s touch, trying to wrench her shoulder free, but his firm yet simultaneously gentle grip did not release her. Inexorably he turned her back around, so that she was facing him. Stubbornly she glared at the ground, unwilling to lift her face to his. He’ll see the tears; my weakness. I will not let him...

His finger lifted her unwilling chin. Her eyes clenched shut, closing him out.

“Look at me, Zoe.”

She refused, trying to jerk her chin free from his grip. Again he was not dissuaded but continued to hold her in place in the same calm, almost gentle way.

“Open your eyes.”

Finally she obeyed. Her gaze was instantly captured by his. The moonlight glowed on his features: highlighting his cheekbones, the shadow of a beard dusting his firm jaw, and his piercing deep-set eyes.

“When will you see?” he asked her, his voice husky as he looked down at her with an unfathomable expression on his face.

She swallowed past the huge, painful lump in her throat. “See what?” she asked thinly.

“That you don’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t think—” she began to protest in a ragged voice, but when he dropped his hand from her chin and shook his head at her, she cut herself off.

“Don’t try to hide your feelings,” he commanded softly. “Besides, your tears and pain are nothing to conceal. It’s good for you to mourn. Jaedon’s death is...” his voice caught for the barest moment, then regained its even tone, “it is a grievous blow to us all. For once, Zoe, don’t do this on your own.”

She just stared at him, her cheeks shimmering and throat painfully constricted.

Emotion flashed across his face, swift but intense. “You chose to trust me just a few days earlier. You told me about your family and your past. Blocking me out now is just going to throw up the wall that took years to tear down.”

I don’t want to block you out! she yearned to scream at him. But I don’t want to let you in, either. There’s too much uncertainty, too much I don’t understand. Who are you, Tancred Ralyn? What do you want of me? I feel like you’re asking me for something, but what is it?

Suddenly Lance’s words from the battlefield earlier that day flashed back to Zoe and she involuntarily quivered. “Ask him! Ask Tancred himself. He will tell you he cares for you.”

Stark terror fell over her like a thick, wet blanket. I cannot ask him that! He would laugh me to scorn.

Tancred saw her shudder and his hands came to rest on each of her armored shoulders. “What is it?”

“I...cannot tell you,” she whispered at last.

“Cannot, or will not?”

Closing her eyes, she deliberately stepped back. His hands fell away from her. “Cannot.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Zoe’s eyes snapped open. Tancred’s voice, still even, was nevertheless underscored with what sounded like cold, unyielding...fury. She drew herself up, her fingers tightening around her horse’s reins.

“I don’t lie, Tancred.”

“You’re lying right now,” he countered.

She looked away, calculating if she could duck around him and make a getaway without having to finish this conversation.

“Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t make it ten steps.”

Angry, her gaze flew back to him. “I made it to the other side of the battlefield when I tried to get to Aiden yesterday, and you couldn’t stop me!”

“I didn’t stop you.”

“What’s the difference?” she snorted.

“You implied I was incapable of stopping you. I’m clarifying that I could have, but chose not to.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Because I had a small hope that perhaps that man really was your brother and you could reunite with him.”

“Oh, you were looking about for my happiness, even in the middle of a battle?” She tossed the barb scornfully, feeling irrational anger taking over.

“Yes,” he growled, stepping closer without warning. He released Chale’s reins, and the stallion dropped his head and cropped at the grass, apparently unconcerned about the swelling argument. Before Zoe could back up to compensate for the space Tancred was invading, his arms shot out and grabbed her shoulders again.

Giving her a faint shake, he demanded, “I am a patient man, Zoe, but this borders on lunacy. How much more do you require? What do you want proven? Every time we grow closer and you start to trust me, you always try to run away. That’s what is so ironic to me. You run away from nothing and no one—no one!—except for me. Why?” His eyes blazed in the moonlight like iridescent sapphires. “Why is that?

In the face of his unexpected anger, Zoe rallied herself for a fight. Instead of feeling the heat of renewed anger rush through her, however, her emotions began to ebb away and fade, leaving cool remorse and quiet surprise in its place. She had never seen such a display from Tancred before.

“Because...” she began in a wavering voice and then stopped. Why did she run away from Tancred? He was right, she never backed down from anything if she could help it, but with him she had made a habit of taking the nearest escape route whenever he was close to her or her emotions. The one notable exception had been several nights ago when she told him about the banishment.

“Because why?” he said after an elongated pause. His strong fingers dug into her upper arms, despite the protection of her leather guards. “Finish your answer.”

“Fine,” she said, giving in. “It’s because you challenge me.”

He laughed harshly, still scrutinizing her ruthlessly. “So? You don’t let that stop you with anything else.”

“It’s true, anyway.” She drilled him with her green gaze and took a deep breath. “You’re strong and smart. Despite my training and expertise, I have to fight within an inch of my life to stay afloat. And usually despite my efforts, I lose control anyway.”

“Why must you control everything?”

“I don’t try to control everything!”

“No? Why then did you despise me when we first met?”

She hesitated and her coming words wedged in her throat. She had despised him because he bought her. While his action saved her from a different, worse fate, she nevertheless begrudged him because he had done something she could not be in charge of.

“You still carry vestiges of resentment towards me, don’t you?” he stated in a low tone. “That’s why you’re unwilling to trust me, to relinquish control.”

She wanted to refute him, but found she could not speak.

“It has to be that.” Tancred’s voice seemed dead, completely emotionless. “There is no other explanation. You say you run from me because I am strong and smart—yet Jaedon was strong and smart and you were completely comfortable with him.”

The thought of Jaedon, dead, swept over Zoe again. “Jaedon was different” was all she managed to breathe out. Again her throat tightened like a noose and she swallowed painfully.

“Why was he different?”

He was like the father I never had. You, on the other hand, are hardly a father figure to me. The answer was on the tip of her tongue but she held back, for she could almost hear the question Tancred would pose after she said it—“If I’m not a father figure, than what am I?”—and she did not want to have to deal with that. Not now. Maybe never.

“Zoe?”

Lance’s words floated back again, resonating mockingly in her head. “...ask Tancred yourself...he will tell you he cares for you.”

Extreme weariness and sorrow buffeted Zoe, and suddenly she could not take it any more. “I don’t know,” she moaned in reply. “I just don’t know anymore.”

Her hands came up and covered her face. She would have cried had she not already exhausted her supply of tears. Dry, empty pain pulsed through her with each beat of her heart. How could she feel so badly when the war was over and peace was coming? But peace without Jaedon? Peace when there’s this barrier between Tancred and me that I cannot understand and therefore cannot fix? when I’m hopelessly confused by myself? What peace is that?

His iron-like grip on her shoulders loosened and then dropped away. Almost immediately she sensed him stepping a little closer, and then his arms encircled her. For a long moment she resisted, standing stiffly in the haven of his embrace. Finally, however, she relented. Her hands slipped away from her face and around his back. Her cheek pressed against the embroidered fabric of his tabard; beneath the cloth she could feel the hard, linked chains of his mail shirt. How can I resist him so staunchly one moment, then accept his embrace the next? How can he be angry and frustrated with me, then brim with compassion? It made no sense, but his silent comfort felt so good to her bruised emotions that she could not move away.

As she stood there, images of Jaedon began flashing through her mind and again she began to tremble. Powerful, dry sobs shook her like a doll, weakening her to the point of despair. “I am going to miss him...so bad,” she managed to gasp out in the midst of her sorrow, clenching her eyes shut and balling her hands into fists where they laid against Tancred’s back.

She felt his cheek resting on the top of her head. “Zoe,” he sighed, his voice deep and reassuring. “It’s okay. We’re all mourning him. We all have to. It’s okay.”

He did not say anything more but simply stood there like a rock and sheltered her as she shuddered out her pain and sorrow. At any other time she would have drawn away soon after and returned to the camp. But now, with death and pain so near, she took what comfort was offered her. Though she could not pretend to understand everything about this man who held her—the Hunter of Mairbrac who relentlessly challenged yet calmed her—right now she knew that he was there to help her.

And it felt good to accept it.