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.”

è è è è è è è è è

“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.

è è è è è è è è è

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.