Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (33 page)

“I’ve never viewed Qanreef from the sea,” said Dwin. “I didn’t realize the whitewashed buildings were so bright.”

Trevin shaded his eyes. The white of the city wavered. “That’s not the buildings,” he said. “It’s flags and drapes.”

The city was festooned in white. For a wedding.

Trevin stood beside the tethering post across from the Full Sail. He and his company had disembarked after nightfall and made their way straight to the tavern. Paullus had told them that while they were gone, Pym spent his days searching for news of the comains, keeping his ear to the talk, following threads of rumors. In the evenings he dined with Jarrod at the temple, then returned to the tavern for the night, bringing the daily gossip with him.

Hungry for news, Trevin watched for Pym to shamble down the street from the palace. He took some comfort in knowing Jarrod and Livia were at
Alta-Qan. On the other hand, being ultimately loyal to the Angelaeon, they may have convinced Melaia that marriage to Varic was the way to reach the third harp.

Trevin dug his staff into the dirt at the foot of the post. His stomach felt like one big knot. The local chatter, according to Cilla, centered on guessing the date the wedding would take place. White silks had adorned Qanreef for three days, and the whole city waited for the presentation of the bride and groom. No one knew if the wedded couple would be King Laetham and Lady Jayde or Princess Melaia and Prince Varic. Possibly both.

A bandy-legged shadow approached, picking up his pace as he neared. “Main Trevin!” called Pym. “You’re back. News of you hadn’t reached the palace.”

“Good. I’d rather lie low until I have a plan. Am I still a wanted man in the king’s eyes?”

“That’s a concern, it is.” Pym ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

“What about the wedding?”

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

The knot in Trevin’s stomach eased. “Any news of the comains?”

“Plenty of rumors but nothing of value. I wormed about the docks, trying to learn of any men who were shipped out—or boys, in the case of Catellus’s son—but the search proved as hollow as a drained barrel. Except for one thing I learned by accident. I mentioned Lady Jayde to a sailor from the southern isles. He claims he hears the scuttle that goes on in the islands, but he’s never heard of Lady Jayde.”

“Then who woos the king?”

“Jarrod’s asking the same question.”

Trevin poked the road with his staff. “Do you think Jarrod can arrange for me to meet privately with Melaia before I request an audience with King Laetham? She may be able to get me in to see him.”

“I’ve seen nothing of the princess for days. I hear she’s confined to her quarters, but if anyone can arrange it, Jarrod and Serai can. You sit tight here. I’ll speak to them first thing in the morning and let you know what’s possible.”

Benasin strode out of the tavern. “Arme Pym! Just the man I need. I’m leaving at daybreak. Can you procure a mount for me, one for swift riding and long distance?”

“I know the right horse,” said Pym. “She’s at a stable down the way. You have coin for her?”

Benasin patted his side, and his pouch clinked.

“I’ll see to it.” Pym trotted down the street. “Save me a mug in the tavern,” he called over his shoulder.

Trevin eyed Benasin. “I thought you planned to stop running.”

“I’m not running but leading. Rejius will be after me, and it’s to your advantage that I take him far from Qanreef.”

“Then take this.” Trevin handed him the staff. “From Jarrod. He asked me to give it to you.”

Benasin flexed his fingers around the staff. “Timely.”

“Before you leave, maybe you can answer a question,” said Trevin. “Rejius changed Melaia’s young friend Peron into a drak.”

Benasin hissed.

“Can the process be reversed?”

Benasin rubbed his brow. “I’ve never tried to undo the transformation. But I suppose it’s possible, though it wouldn’t be without pain for the girl. If it failed, her spirit would be subject to my brother’s whims.”

“At least now she flies free,” said Trevin.

“A point to seriously consider.” Benasin sighed, then squared his shoulders. “Arelin’s son, I hope we meet again.”

“I’m sure we will.” Trevin studied the lights of Alta-Qan. Why not stand up to Varic as an equal? He eyed Benasin. “Will you travel north?”

“As far north as I can, and quickly.”

“Will you carry a message to Eldarra for me?”

“Easily done.”

“Tell the king and queen of Eldarra that I accept.”

Benasin raised an eyebrow but asked no question. Trevin gave no explanation, preferring not to risk the circulation of rumors until he chose to reveal the Eldarran offer.

“I’ll convey your message.” Benasin studied his staff and smiled sadly. “Tell my son you’ve seen me.” His eyes grew moist. “Tell him I wish him well.”

“Gladly,” said Trevin. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to deliver the message at a wedding celebration.

revin spent the morning waiting for Pym to return from the palace. He circled the common room until Cilla sweet-talked him into sitting still for breakfast. Then he paced the cellar, where he recalled a morning almost as tense as this one, when he inadvertently told Melaia the king was her father. If he had kept his mouth shut that day, events might have unfolded differently.

When he heard voices overhead, he sprinted upstairs, only to find a couple of sailors ordering their morning grub. He continued up to the chamber he shared with Catellus and paced the room while Catellus sharpened and polished his dagger, his knife, his sword.

“Land somewhere, would you?” said Catellus. “You’re nervous enough for both of us.”

Trevin plopped onto a stool and slipped his sword from its scabbard. Pym had kept it perfectly polished. He wrapped his hand around the hilt. His father had held this sword. Arelin. The Asp. Trevin sighed. If only he had turned faster in the corridor, he might have seen his father. They had been close enough to touch.

He studied his reflection in the blade. Wise, confident—the image had not changed. Neither had he—a fact he knew well after groveling before Rejius. But for the first time, he saw in the reflected eyes a resolve that resonated in the core of his being. He would become that man whatever the cost.

At noon the door banged open. Pym leaned against the doorframe, hands on his knees, panting. “Jarrod says … if you want to see Melaia … you’ll come now.”

Trevin shot to his feet. He and Catellus buckled on their sword belts,
secured their daggers, and grabbed their shields and cloaks. Moments later they followed Pym down a back street toward the citadel. Trevin realized he hadn’t bothered to tell Ollena he was leaving, but he suspected she had heard.

“Why the hurry?” asked Catellus.

“Don’t know,” said Pym. “Jarrod will have to tell you. He’s waiting at the temple by the burial door.”

“Are malevolents about?” asked Trevin.

“They are. They’re aware of Jarrod, Serai, and Livia. So far the one side’s keeping a fair distance from the other, but they’re all wary.”

“And King Laetham is oblivious,” said Trevin.

“Or pretends to be,” said Pym. “He lives by the old saying ‘Ignore trouble, and it will ignore you.’ ”

Catellus snorted. “More likely it’ll become your bedmate.”

Jarrod opened the Door of the Dead as they approached, and waved them in. He pulled Trevin aside. “Melaia will join you on the roof as soon as she can. It’s draped with white tenting, so you’ll not be visible to onlookers, but Melaia hasn’t much time. Her wedding is midafternoon.”

“Midafternoon?” The word stuck in Trevin’s throat.

“Melaia persuaded the king to allow her to come to the temple to pray before the ceremony.” Jarrod held his torch high as they swept through the burial vault with its death masks, gravestones, and statues, an eerie reminder of the stone figures in the Dregmoors.

“Condemnation!” said Trevin. “Are you taking their vows, Jarrod? Can’t you prevent the marriage? At least postpone it.”

“Lady Jayde brought her own priest,” said Jarrod. “A round, mealy, completely obsequious puppet.”

They sprinted up the stone stairs to the main floor. “Pym,” said Jarrod, “I suggest you and Catellus stay in my quarters.” They nodded and dashed away as Jarrod and Trevin headed for the stairs that led to the roof.

“I saw your father,” said Trevin. “Traveled with him from the Dregmoors.”

“Dwin told me.”

“He asked me to give you his greeting and wish you well.”

“He couldn’t find a way to give me the message himself?”

“He’s traveling north to distract Rejius from us.”

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Jarrod.

Now that Trevin longed to see his own father, he recognized the same in Jarrod. But a bitter anger coiled beneath Jarrod’s pain.

Jarrod pointed to the stairway ahead. “As soon as Melaia arrives, I’ll send her up.”

“Does she know I found the second harp?” asked Trevin.

“She does, but she asked me to keep it hidden in the temple. She also knows you went into the Dregmoors.”

Trevin gazed up the stairs. The roof door stood open, and the sea breeze flowed down the steps, along with a slant of sunlight.

Jarrod caught his sleeve. “Be wise, my friend. Make your farewell in such a way that you don’t regret it later.”

Trevin trudged up the stairs, numb.
Make your farewell
. After this day Melaia would be at a distance he could not cross.

As he climbed, the door and its slant of sunlight blurred into one image. He wiped his eyes and stepped from the door in the dome of the temple onto a rooftop pavilioned in white. The breeze-billowed silks stretched from the dome across the wide walk around it to the parapet.

Trevin set his cloak, sword, and shield on a bench by the north wall and gazed through the gap between the silk and the ledge of the parapet to the burial ground below. Today might be his only chance to tell Melaia about his role in Dreia’s death and beg her forgiveness. At least they would have their own private pavilion. But how much time would they have? He sighed. No matter. He wouldn’t waste a minute.

Footfalls echoed in the stairwell, and Trevin sensed Melaia’s silver light. He turned as the most beautiful being he had ever seen stepped onto the roof. She wore a fitted blue gown with a sheer white over-robe. Her dark-honey hair flowed loose across her shoulders. She studied him with her rich brown eyes, her smile wavering, uncertain.

“Princess.” He bowed.

Melaia laughed. “Enough, Trevin. You know I’ve never really been a princess to you.”

“You’re right. To me you’ve always been an angel, and you ever will be.” He stopped before his voice cracked.

Melaia blushed and strode regally to him. “You’re changed. You’re—”

“Better?” He tried to be inconspicuous as he inhaled her lavender scent.

Melaia placed her hands on her hips. “How can the best get better?”

“Wiser, I hope. More aware of what I have—and what I don’t.”

Melaia took his hand and drew him to the bench where his cloak and shield lay. She still wore her harp pendant. “Trevin, I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who should apologize.” His throat felt thick. Heavens, how he loved her.

“I didn’t know you would return,” she said.

“You didn’t trust me?”

“That’s not it.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I saw you in my book. Through the harp. I saw you chained. I was so afraid that I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. Not until I had a way to get into the Dregmoors. I thought as Prince Varic’s wife, I might have some influence in freeing you.”

Trevin tensed. He couldn’t bear to see her cry. “Benasin helped me escape.”

She perked up. “You found Benasin!”

“He escaped with me, but I couldn’t bring the harp. I’ve failed you.”

“You’ve not failed me.”

“I failed you long ago.”

Melaia frowned.

Trevin wished he could kiss away that frown instead of making it darker. He looked down at their clasped hands, his rough and scarred, hers soft and scented. There was no easy way.

He took a deep breath. “I should have confessed long ago. I’m responsible for your mother’s death.”