Legacy (25 page)

With Faramay providing an unexpected diversion, I rushed from the box without a word to anyone, my head spinning. What had I just witnessed? Steldor, the best fighter the Recorah River Valley had ever seen, defeated by a sixteen-year-old?

Narian's unusual weapons had frightened me, but that was nothing compared to the raw emotions that now clawed at me. I was frustrated and furious at myself for my naiveté—I had trusted Narian and had been at his mercy many times. Now, when I thought of the peril in which I had unwittingly put myself, I was almost traumatized enough to join Faramay on the floor.

I hastened down the slope through the milling crowd, my
cloak billowing behind me, frustration building every time my progress was impeded.

“Alera!” Destari called, coming after me.

I did not slow down, but he nonetheless overtook me.

“Where are you going?” he growled, stepping in front of me and putting a hand on my shoulder to force me to a stop.

“I need to see him,” I said, trying in vain to move past my bodyguard.

“Lord Narian?” His voice was tinged with disbelief.

“Yes!”

Deeming it futile to argue with me, he took me by the arm and forged a path through the spectators, who gave way to the large and powerful man much more quickly than they would have to me, and we crossed the short span of field to where the participants had prepared for the competitions.

As we wove our way through the tents, we saw healers tending to wounded fighters, but did not see Narian or Steldor among them. Destari intercepted one of the doctors to determine Narian's whereabouts, and we were directed to a medical tent. Destari ducked his head and stepped inside to announce my arrival.

As I entered, Narian was sitting on a wooden bench, his blond hair sweat-dampened and his shirt tugged down off his shoulder so that his wound could be cleansed, stitched and bandaged by the physician. He rose to his feet when he saw us, pushing the doctor's hand away and returning the sleeve to its rightful place.

The physician bowed to me on his way out, and I directed Destari to likewise leave us.

“If you need me, I'll be right outside,” he muttered, eyes narrowed in distrust as he exited the tent.

I was now alone with Narian and we stared at each other until I found my voice.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

Narian did not reply but watched me like a hawk watches its prey. My frustration mounted, and I became more insistent.

“Are you the one of whom the legend speaks? Are you here to destroy Hytanica?”

Though he was adept at hiding his emotions, I could tell that my knowledge had startled him. Still, he gave me a straightforward response.

“I did not come here for that reason, though it is the legend that led me here.”

I rolled my eyes. “Then pray tell why you are here, if not to
fulfill your destiny!
”

There was true conviction behind Narian's words when next he spoke, my hostility having spurred him to explanation.

“I did not know of the legend or that Hytanican blood runs through my veins until six months ago, when I learned of both through a discussion that was not intended for my ears. I came here only to discover my heritage and perhaps find my family, but that is all. I did not come here to harm anyone.”

My racing heart began to calm as I listened to him, and a wave of compassion swept over me for the young man who in age was my equal but who in all else was years beyond.

“Is it your plan to return to Cokyri?” I asked, my anger dissipating, replaced by a strong sense of foreboding.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “There is something that holds me here, something unconnected to my resentment toward the people who raised me and lied to me.” His eyes captured my own, the longing within them achingly clear, then he finished. “But, Alera, if ever I do find myself back in Cokyri, the Overlord will be difficult to refuse.”

A tremor shook my body as I grasped the reality of Narian's situation and to whom he would have to answer.

“The Overlord?” I murmured.

Narian stared over my shoulder for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

“The Overlord was and is my teacher. He is the one who trained me, as well as the one I serve.”

Nausea broke over me, and it took most of my strength to stay on my feet. London's description of the Overlord sprang unbidden to mind—
He is a fierce warlord, evil and terrifying. They say he has the power to wield black magic…. That he can kill you or worse with a wave of his hand—
and I thought of London's condition after having escaped the tyrant's clutches. Narian had faced the Overlord almost every day since he was six, learning his methods and skills, and no doubt, his prejudices and beliefs.

“I did not choose this to be my fate,” Narian went on, his countenance softening, the horror upon my face apparently causing him distress. “You need not fear me, Alera.”

There was a trace of hopelessness in the short laugh that preceded my next words.

“Needn't I? Perhaps now you mean me no harm, but should Cokyri reclaim you, what then?”

His face shut down, his rare show of emotion disguised and contained. In exasperation, I turned to leave, but he caught my upper arm. Before I could react, his other hand was upon my waist, pulling me toward him, and his vivid blue eyes captured mine of deep brown. As my heart raced, his lips met mine, lightly at first, then more insistently, and I succumbed to his embrace. I melted against him, my hands upon his back, all reason abandoning me. After several moments, our lips parted, and he briefly leaned his forehead against mine.
Then he stepped back, his hands on my hips to create a little distance between us.

“I will never hurt you,” he swore.

As my good sense returned, I stumbled away from him, then turned and fled the tent.

Destari looked at me suspiciously in light of my hasty exit, but he said nothing, choosing to lead me back to the royal box where the awarding of the prizes had begun. Normally it would have been my responsibility to assist the King in this ceremony, but my sister had been called upon in my absence. I approached the box, worried that Father would be angry with me for shirking my duty, but he gave me a knowing look, thinking I had gone to check on Steldor. I climbed the stairs and took up position beside Miranna, who eyed me curiously but was too occupied to say anything. As Lanek announced the names and deeds of the winners, I joined in extending congratulations, the King awarding bags of gold while Miranna and I bestowed elaborate figurines. Ebony falcons went to the winners in archery (including Galen, who was renowned for his skill with the bow), knife throwing and axe throwing; gilded horses to those who had triumphed in the races; and goblets made of gold to the victors in the combat events.

After the tournament had closed, I returned to the palace with my family. Sensing my frame of mind, Miranna withheld her questions, for which I was thankful. I begged off from the small dinner my father always hosted for the tournament winners, claiming fatigue, and retired to my quarters, unable to feign a festive mood.

I prepared for bed and sought sleep, but my mind was plagued with terrible thoughts about Narian and the Legend of the Bleeding Moon. Narian had been raised by the Overlord to destroy my homeland and all that I held dear. He claimed
that he did not intend to harm Hytanica, but what choice did he have? Just as it was my destiny as Crown Princess to become Queen, so was it his destiny to fulfill the legend.

But as I struggled to sort through all I had learned, I placed two fingers against my lips, recalling the pressure of his kiss. I had felt such contentment in his arms. How could someone with such a horrifying fate evoke such tender feelings from me? How could I desire the company of a person who was doomed to become my enemy?

With no answers to these questions, I longed to escape into oblivion, but sleep came slowly and provided no rest when finally it arrived.

THE GUARDS PULLED OPEN THE DOORS THAT led into the antechamber and Steldor emerged from between them, magnificent in his long-sleeved, black leather military jerkin, his distinctive long sword sheathed at his left side, a dagger on his right. With a practiced pace, eyes straight ahead, he began the long walk up the center of the Hall of Kings toward the royal family, the only sounds his footsteps against the stone of the floor and the crackle of the burning logs in the fireplaces on the eastern and western walls. My parents sat upon their thrones, my father's personal guards in their usual formation, while Miranna and I sat to the left of our mother with Halias and Destari beside us, every person watching Steldor's advance.

Three days had passed since the tournament, giving him time to recover sufficiently from the injuries he had acquired during the so-called exhibition. The only remaining sign of the fight was some faint bruising along his jawline. Cannan, who stood beside my father's throne, had requested this audience with the royal family at his son's behest, though I, at least,
suspected that Steldor had not been informed of the meeting until after it had been arranged. The purpose of the audience had not been divulged, but it took no scholar to ascertain it.

As Steldor arrived before the dais, he fell to one knee, bowing his head before the King.

“Rise,” my father said, his aspect for once stern as he confronted the captain's son.

“Have I permission to speak, Your Majesty?” Steldor asked as he stood.

“Granted.”

“I humbly come before you to ask forgiveness for my behavior of late, particularly at the tournament during the fighting exhibition.” Steldor's voice was rich and strong, and his dark eyes were fixed upon my father. “I acted rashly, Sire, and allowed my temper and my competitive nature to overpower my reason. I deserve the disgrace I have brought upon myself, but the disgrace I have brought upon you and your family is inexcusable.”

Letting his admission resound for a moment, Steldor switched his attention to me.

“I also ask pardon from Princess Alera, as I was unable to fulfill my duties as her escort following the incident.”

His apology did not move me, and I let my scorn show upon my face. He had obviously concluded that as long as his father was forcing him to apologize to the entire royal family, he should do so eloquently, and at that he was succeeding. I could already feel my father's resolve breaking, and I knew Steldor would have been forgiven even if those had been his final words.

After a theatrical pause, the contrite soldier continued, once more addressing the King.

“I would also like to express regret on my father's behalf
for administering
unnecessarily
to me when he should have returned at once to His Majesty's side.” One eyebrow arched in irreverence as his eyes flicked to Cannan. “While duty to a son is important, duty to a king is supreme.”

Cannan looked disgruntled, but not surprised, as if this jibe had been expected.

As he finished, Steldor dropped again to one knee. “In deep remorse, and as an act of contrition, I offer my resignation as a field commander of Hytanica to my king.”

He hung his head, the very image of penitence, and I wondered how many times he had rehearsed this highly effective performance. Steldor had made an offer my father would never accept, but which portrayed him as the most repentant man who had ever lived. I could scarcely believe his audacity, much less my father's gullibility, as the King stood to speak.

“That's quite unnecessary, young man. Your apology is received without reservation.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Steldor replied, his tone solemn and a touch too respectful as he lifted his head.

My father extended his hand so that Steldor could rise and kiss the royal ring. With one final, graceful bow, Steldor pivoted and walked with the same steady cadence away from us and out the antechamber doors.

 

One week later, at mid-afternoon, my mother, Miranna and I were having tea in the small refreshment room on the main floor. We sat at a quaint table in the room's center, bathed by the rays of sunlight entering through the bay window, and enjoying the West Courtyard in all its late-fall splendor.

Our conversation covered a wide variety of topics, from the latest and most unusual raiment we had observed upon the backs of the nobility attending the tournament, to old friends
and acquaintances my mother had encountered at the faire. Thankfully, Steldor had not been mentioned, nor had my distracted state of mind. I tried to participate in the chitchat between my mother and my sister, but had difficulty concentrating, as had been the case ever since the exhibition.

I had not seen nor contacted Narian since we had kissed on that day, and I wondered if he was as confused as I. My response to his kiss had made my feelings for him quite clear to me, but I could not understand why or how these feelings had evolved. And I had departed immediately from him—without a word. What if I had given him the opposite impression, that I did not return his affections?

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the tearoom door, and Destari granted entrance to Orsiett, the Elite Guard who had been Miranna's secondary bodyguard during the search for the traitor and who was now working as an aide to Cannan.

“Destari,” Orsiett said. “I need a word with you.”

Destari exchanged a concerned look with Halias before stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Halias shrugged in reply to our inquisitive stares, then scowled at one of the Palace Guards who accompanied my mother everywhere, as he was inching toward the door in an attempt to overhear the discussion taking place on the other side. The guard was forced to pull away to avoid a collision with the door as Destari reentered the room.

“Halias, we are to escort the princesses and the Queen to their quarters without delay.”

“For what reason?” Halias asked as he stepped to Miranna's side.

“A Cokyrian has come to the palace to speak with the King.”

“What?” my mother whispered, reaching to touch her honeyed hair, her blue eyes uneasy. She moved closer to Miranna, placing a trembling hand upon my sister's shoulder.

“We do not yet know why she is here,” Destari continued. “She arrived under a white flag. The three of you are to return to your quarters until the purpose of her visit has become manifest.”

Halias did not speak, but stared straight ahead, the clenching of his jaw made apparent by the fact that his hair was pulled back in its customary style. We left the room surrounded by guards, Miranna worriedly watching her bodyguard, then glancing to me for the reassurance she craved. I had none to give. I could hear nothing but the thrum of blood in my ears. Everything I knew about the Cokyrians suggested that they acted, they attacked, they
slaughtered
without warning. Why had they decided to come and talk? My thoughts flew to Narian. Had they come, as London had predicted they would, to reclaim him? And if that were the case, would we be able to keep him safe?

Miranna and I were allowed to stay together in my rooms, but my mother was taken to her own quarters for security's sake. If the Cokyrians did intend to use some form of trickery to harm the royal family, separating us would make it more difficult for them.

Upon the passing of a little more than two painstaking hours, Orsiett returned and informed us that we were to report to my father's study. Accompanied by our bodyguards, we proceeded down the spiral staircase and into the King's Drawing Room, Orsiett breaking off to head down the corridor to our right. From the drawing room, we entered the Hall of Kings, and crossed its expanse to reach the study through the door to the east of the thrones.

My mother was already seated upon the sofa, and my father's form filled the armchair beside her. He was bent toward her, one of her hands in his, serious expressions on both of their faces. As we entered, he motioned for us to sit, and Miranna chose the other side of the sofa, while I sat in an armchair opposite him. Destari and Halias remained standing, hands clasped behind their backs.

“I've already informed your mother of this,” my father said to my sister and me, his manner uncharacteristically subdued. “The Cokyrian messenger came with a request. Tomorrow at midmorning, you must all report to the Throne Room wearing your finest attire. The High Priestess of Cokyri desires an audience with the royal family, and I have granted her petition.”

I heard Miranna's intake of breath, as did my father.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he said. “The Cokyrians come under a flag of truce, and there will be no shortage of guards in the Throne Room tomorrow.”

“Do you think…are they here about Narian?” I stammered.

“If they are, Lord Nar—Kyenn will be safe. Cannan is sending for him as we speak. He will be brought to the palace and will stay in one of the guest rooms for as long as it takes to learn the Cokyrians' intentions and assess the situation.”

I nodded, outwardly composed but inwardly in turmoil. Then I fixated on a small detail and dared to correct my father.

“He chooses to be called Narian.”

My father stared at me for a moment, as if trying to figure out why this was important to me, then returned to the matter at hand.

“You will stay in your quarters until it is time to come to
the Hall of Kings tomorrow.” Turning to Destari and Halias, he added, “You will remain on duty through the night, as an extra precaution.”

Our bodyguards nodded and bowed, and we departed, leaving my father and mother alone in the study.

Destari and I retreated to my quarters, and I sat in the parlor, dazed, as he loitered by the door.

“The King is right, Alera,” he said in an attempt to reassure me. “You will be in no danger.”

“And Narian?” I asked, wringing my hands.

“The captain will keep him secure. As for what the future may bring, I cannot say.”

 

Palace Guards lined the Throne Room, looking eerily identical in their royal-blue-and-gold tunics, with swords at their hips and long spears in their hands. My parents, robed and crowned, sat stiffly upon their thrones. Miranna and I occupied the chairs to our mother's left, attired in brocade gowns with gold-and-pearl tiaras topping our softly falling tresses. Despite the glowing embers in the twin fireplaces, the room was chilled, and I buried my hands in the golden fox fur throw upon my lap. The twelve Elite Guards who protected my father formed two arcs, one on either side of the royal family, while Destari stood directly behind my chair and Halias stood behind Miranna's. Cannan, as always, was to the right of my father, while Kade, the sergeant at arms, was next to my mother.

Just like the Palace Guards who lined the walls, every Elite Guard wore his uniform and stood with weapons at hand. The official weaponry of the Elite Guards consisted of a formidable long sword, a short sword that strapped across the back, and a double-edged dagger that hung from the belt.

My father rose, looking majestic in his royal-blue robes, as the antechamber doors were pulled open. The Palace Guards gripped their spears, and the tension in the deafeningly quiet room increased. Then the contingent from Cokyri walked forward, led by the woman who had at one time been our prisoner, their measured footfalls resounding in the stillness of the room.

The High Priestess's striking green eyes perused my father's face as she, accompanied by six guards who stood two on either side of her and two behind, neared the thrones. She was clad in a black tunic and leggings, a sword sheathed at her side. Red stitching accented the front of the tunic as well as the black cape that was attached at the shoulders. A ring adorned her right hand and the silver pendant that I knew concealed a dagger hung around her neck, but she wore no crown upon her head.

Her guards, all women, were likewise dressed in black, but their shirts buttoned asymmetrically off to the side, just like the coat Narian had worn at the palace celebration in his honor. All of their clothing was loose fitting, designed for ease of movement, and each carried a sword at her hip, a bow across her back and a dagger in the shaft of one of her tall black boots.

The High Priestess halted fifteen feet from the dais, watching the King of her enemy country warily, her flaming chin-length hair falling around her bronzed face. She extended no indication of respect or deference to my father—ruler did not bow to ruler—but waited in haughty silence.

“State your business,” my father commanded as the tension in the room became almost intolerable, his words as frosty as the air.

The High Priestess did not hesitate to speak, and when she
did, power seemed to pulse from her the like of which I had never before felt.

“I have come to demand the return of a Cokyrian boy who is being held here in Hytanica. Do you know of whom I speak?”

“I know of a boy who was abducted as an infant and raised in Cokyri but has now found his true home in Hytanica,” my father replied.

The High Priestess did not appreciate the King's disputatious response.

“You know we speak of the same boy,” she said, sounding controlled yet impatient.

My father came back with a new tactic. “What reason does the High Priestess of Cokyri have to pursue the return of one runaway child?”

“I would pursue the return of any Cokyrian held within Hytanica,” she answered.

“We have not forced the boy to remain here,” my father rejoined, bridling at her insinuation. “He has stayed of his own volition.”

“Then you would permit his return to Cokyri if that were his choice?”

After a moment of thought, the King declared, “I would.”

The High Priestess's voice grew strong once more as she issued her second demand.

“I insist that I be allowed to speak to Narian.”

My father for the first time looked to Cannan, and the imposing Captain of the Guard stepped forward. I saw the High Priestess's perceptive eyes flick between Cannan and the King, as though assessing the balance of power between the two men.