Solace Shattered (9 page)

The king put a torch to the kindling under the bonfire’s cone of timbers. Within minutes, it roared, the flames licking upward at the poison draeden effigy made of white cloth with huge opal-like stones for eyes and silk wings. Its body curled around the center post. Whether it was from the heat of the fire or the intricate effigy’s passing resemblance to the creature he’d fought in the lake, Degarius’s skin burned as if the sun had baked it deep red. All over again, he was on the lakeshore, tearing off his soaked clothes so the rain could wash away the acidic lake water. He stiffened, fighting the urge to remove his coat until an
ooh
from the crowd brought him back to the moment. Finally, an ember had ignited a silky wing. The fire spread to the body. On the breeze, thousands of bright burning bits floated aloft. Everyone stood in silence until the last remnant of the draeden was gone, either crumbled into blackened bits or flown away as ash. The king then bellowed, “Spread the word of the saviors’ victory. The draeden is dead!”

As the celebrants cheered, Degarius wondered if the creature he’d fought in the lake was dead. Or if it had been a draeden. The Solacian said his sword was Assaea. There she was, with the governor, taking their punks to the bonfire so they could light the candles in their boats. It was a bold move, going together, or did they think no one suspected them. But what business was it of his?

Miss Gallivere handed him a punk, then leaned against his arm. “Let’s take our turn.”

They lit their candles and took the glowing boats to the river’s edge. Really, it was the sandy edge of the river’s wide estuary where it emptied into the sea. Miss Gallivere, seemingly without taking the time to make the required reflection on what good she’d accomplish this year, knelt and sat her boat afloat. She rose and turned to him. The light of his candle cast a deep shadow in the hollow between her breasts, and he completely forgot the draeden. Suggestively, she swept her tongue over her lips. “Do you know what I pledged to do this year?”

Why had she spoiled the moment? Degarius wouldn’t guess aloud for a thousand fine warhorses what she’d pledged for this year. The candle’s light symbolized not only Lukis and Paulus’s victory, but also one’s promise to do a good deed to brighten the world so it would never fall into darkness again. The candle-boats were set on currents to spread the light, just as Lukis sent out missionaries to spread the word of the end of the Reckoning. It was why the Lerouge family had the spot closest to the sea. Their boats would be first to find the wider world. Degarius crouched to the water and thought of the coming year. The war with the Gherians would certainly start before the next Feast of the Saviors. He must do all he could for Sarapost. If only the generalship were his and the sword returned. Those were beyond his control, however. What within him was of value? Honor. Perseverance. Courage. Vowing to abide those principles, he crouched and placed the boat in the water. It buffeted, in constant peril of overturning. The river at Ferne Clyffe, though far from the wider world, was a better place to launch a candle-boat. His boats there glided slow, steady and bright on the dark flow.

“What did you pledge of yourself?” Miss Gallivere asked as he uncrouched.

“What every soldier must.”

She arched a brow and brushed her nail over his Valor in Service medal. “Every conquest has its reward. A medal is a cold, hard reward.”

“Few have ever received that award.”

“No doubt. But there are engagements where the reward is rarer still.”

He wanted to question the value of a conquest in which the enemy was as good as surrendering, but a serving boy handed him a plate of food. The boats set afloat, wine and trays of delicacies were going around. He finished a shrimp and grilled pineapple pastry and set aside the plate when the princess called to the musicians to play a lively dance.

Miss Gallivere, like the other ladies, kicked off her slippers.

At the thought of what dancing in sand, even in his boots, would do to his feet, Degarius crossed his arms and sat on a bench.

“You’re not going to dance?” Miss Gallivere’s mouth hardened. “But I insist.”

The fellow with the pockmarked complexion, Sebastion was his name, made a gallant bow to Miss Gallivere. “It would be
my
pleasure.”

She drew her lips into an alluring smile but then turned to Sebastion and accepted his offer. For half a moment, Degarius reconsidered. Her hair, piled high on her head, showed her long, slender neck. Couldn’t she forsake one moment’s pleasure, though, to sit by him in the firelight? Rather, she took Sebastion’s offer to spite him. He had underestimated his enemy. She hadn’t surrendered. She was going to make him fight. But a good general never allowed himself to be lured into battle by trick maneuvers. He let her go.

A circle formed. It was a chaotic, infectious free dance. They reversed directions, swarmed in and out, raised and lowered their joined hands. Degarius noted he wasn’t the only observer. The governor had stayed with the Solacian. At least the governor had devotion, though he wasn’t spending these nearly private moments acting like her lover; he kept glancing in Degarius’s direction. Afraid of being caught?

At the end of the dance, calls came for another and the music started again. The governor came across the sand. Near Degarius, he stopped and watched the dancers a moment before turning and extending his hand. “I haven’t been introduced to you, but I know you’re the Sarapostan chancellor’s son, Captain Degarius. I’m Keithan.”

Degarius accepted the handshake. “You’re the new Orlandian governor.”

“Unfortunately.” The governor sat and withdrew a fine silver flask from his coat. “Care for a drink?”

Though dubious what the governor wanted from him, Degarius unscrewed the cap and held the flask to his nose. A dense, heady, sweet smell wafted out. Brandy. He tipped the flask. The liquid drained into his mouth and was warm on his tongue. It was a damn good brandy. He passed the flask back. “That’s remarkable. Where did you find it?” The Acadians were fond of wine, but liquors were rare here.

“My father imports it from Garonne.” The governor took a drink, obviously relishing it. “Acadians think strong liquor a vice. But some vices are too fine to forsake.”

Degarius looked askance at him. “Like fine women?”

The governor was quiet. To hell with him if he’d hit upon a sore spot, Degarius thought. Then, however, the governor said, “That has
never
been one of my vices.” Looking directly into Degarius’s eyes, the governor offered the flask again. “Has it been yours?”

Degarius drank. “No. I’ve been careful to avoid that fate.”

The governor smiled. “I
thought
so. Miss Gallivere and you...you’re not really...you’re true.”

What in all hell? Did he look like a monk?

As Degarius gave back the flask, the governor’s hand, instead of taking the flask, covered his and exerted pressure. “You should come to my apartments after the feast.”

So that was what the governor wanted of him! Keithan was one of those who sought other men. Degarius pulled his hand away, the flask still in it. “I believe you’re mistaken.”

The governor wore a mask of confusion. “I thought...you were watching...”

Watching? Him? Oh hell, he
had
been staring. Degarius shook his head.

The governor awkwardly stood. “Forgive my mistake.”

Degarius rose, too, and extended the flask. “A fine brandy, sir.”

As the governor moved a few steps away, Degarius saw that the Solacian had been watching. She showed neither the anger nor shock of a betrayed woman; it was pure pity. She knew what the governor was. She was his friend, but certainly not his lover. Though it had all been so damnably awkward, Degarius smiled to himself, felt like getting up and moving about. He rose, thrust his hands in his pockets, skirted the bonfire and dancers, and went to the river’s edge. Boats from upstream jostled in the current. His was long gone. What had he pledged? Courage, honor, and perseverance. Hera Solace was courageous. She’d risked her life to try to save his sword. A measure of Degarius’s happiness left him as he remembered the night at Lady Martise’s. How had he rewarded her courage? With anger and suspicion. She once thought him good; what must she think of him now? What a blackguard he was.

The music stopped. Miss Gallivere darted from the circle of dancers and linked her arm through his. Her breath was warm on his neck. “Change your mind about dancing?”

He narrowed his eyes on her smirking lips. She was the one who had insinuated about the Solacian and the governor. “Not about dancing.”

The exhausted dancers kicked through the sand back to their seats and eagerly partook of glasses of sparkling wine. Poor Keithan, Arvana thought as he sat back beside her as if nothing had happened. What a life to be always pretending. If only she could have warned and spared him.

“We must play a game now. Truth or Torture,” Miss Gallivere said, drawing Arvana to the moment she both looked forward to and dreaded. The one person who would forestall her plan to test Captain Degarius with the relic was gone; the king had left to make appearances at other bonfires along the shore. She doubted he could consent to play her game, but his image, though it was one of his youth, was stamped on Acadian coin. The Scyon might recognize him and learn the location of the relic.

Arvana raised her voice. “I have another game. One you haven’t played before.”

“You have a game? It should be quite amusing,” said Miss Gallivere.

“Perhaps we should hear what the game is,” the princess said. “We can play Truth or Torture next.”

Arvana rose and prayed for the Maker to forgive the lie she was about to tell and all those that would follow. “It’s a Sylvanian game, a game about what you most deeply desire.” The women twittered with anticipation. “Not your profession or what you’ve been born to be, so gentlemen must remove their coats. Princess, you must take off your coronet. Put your things behind you.” Arvana lifted the headband from her temples and drew the head cloth from her hair. It was a breech of conduct, but necessary to hide her identity. The setting was innocuous enough. Feast of the Saviors bonfires were everywhere in the Easternland tonight, but Keithan’s Acadian reds, Captain Degarius’s black coat, the princess’s coronet, and her own head covering were clues Arvana didn’t want to give The Scyon.

Captain Degarius, thanks be to the Maker, took off his coat.

Arvana gave her veil and headband to Keithan, who stowed them with his coat. With an eye to him, she pulled the locket from under her habit and eased the chain over her head. Had Lerouge told him about it after the night in Summercrest’s garden? She doubted it, but wanted to be certain. Keithan paid no special attention to the locket. It
was
a secret bond between Lerouge and her as it had been between Paulus and Mariel, the Founder. “Here are the rules. Be silent while a turn is taken. During your turn, clear your mind, look into the stone, and see what your heart shows you. After I close the locket—and only after—tell what you’ve seen. At the end, we guess who had the courage to speak the truth. Who wishes to go first?”

Several eager shouts went out, but Arvana deferred to the princess. She stooped before the girl, raised her hand for silence, and then pressed the locket’s latch. She watched the girl closely, just as the superior must have watched her, and every other novice, when they kissed the open Founder’s Relic to pledge to the Solacian order during the Engagement Ceremony.

“Oh, how unusual,” the princess whispered but showed no sign of distress.

Arvana held her finger to her lips. “Shh.”

After staring into the swirling light for a moment, the princess raised her large, luminous eyes and smiled. Arvana closed the locket. “My heart’s desire is to marry for love,” the princess said.

“No one can doubt the truth of what you say,” said Miss Gallivere.

Arvana moved to Prince Fassal who said he wanted half a dozen children. The princess laughed adoringly.

Keithan. Arvana dreaded subjecting him to the game for two reasons. Whatever was in his heart, he surely couldn’t speak it. And, he might be able to use the relic. Would he buckle to Prince Lerouge’s command and use it against the Orlandians? Without a hint of emotion, Keithan looked into the stone, then into Arvana’s eyes. She closed the locket. “Hera, I want no more casualties in the Orlandian Occupation,” he said earnestly.

No one laughed. They knew the length of the last casualty list Keithan had brought. Relief flooded Arvana that he couldn’t use the relic.

She moved along to Sebastion. He was rubbing his knuckles over his pockmarked cheek and darting his gaze between her and the closed locket. It was unlike him to seem uneasy. She had watched him play cards. A master of deceit, no matter his hand, he had always looked smug and satisfied. Perhaps he, like Keithan, held a secret close to his heart. Whatever it was, she didn’t care to know. He was one of Chane’s friends.

Sebastion shifted in his seat to get a better look into the relic as she lowered her hands before him.

His features went as stiff as a corpse’s.

Please Maker, let it not be him
. Even if he could use it, she wouldn’t consider giving it to him.