Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (34 page)

She stiffened but did not pull away. “In what way?”

“You know I was a spy for Lord Rejius,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“He sent me to confirm a drak sighting of a woman with a harp in the Aubendahl hills. I found her and told Rejius where she was. My report led to the massacre of the caravan. And the stolen harp. I’m sorry. I hoped bringing the harp back from the Dregmoors might atone for part of what I’ve done, but I can’t make up for Dreia’s death.”

Melaia cupped his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. He wished time would stop then and there.

“I forgive you, Trevin.” She blinked back tears. “I forgive you for the past, completely and forever. Can
you
ever forgive me for what I’ve done to our future?”

“Oh, Melaia.” Trevin kissed her hands.

Shouts rang from the stairwell. Varic emerged, wearing a tunic the same blue as Melaia’s gown. A gold band crossed his forehead and snaked beneath his wavy, dark hair. His beetle-black eyes glared, and he roared, “Get away from my wife!”

Serai dashed through the door, Jarrod behind her. They froze, tense as wagemongers at a cockfight. Trevin expected no help from them unless they decided to interfere in human will for once. He dropped Melaia’s hands.

Varic halted three paces away. “You cripple-handed deceiver,” he snarled. “I should have known better than to leave your fate to the Eldarrans. Idiots, all of them. I should have netted you the moment I first saw you.” He deftly slipped off his silver waist sash.

Melaia stepped between them, her fists clenched at her side. “Put that away, Varic. I’m marrying you. Trevin and I are simply saying our farewells.”

“I intend to make sure they’re final,” said Varic.

Melaia stepped toward him. “This is our wedding day.” Her voice was soothing. “I’ll have no fighting on our wedding day.”

Varic grabbed her arm and flung her aside.

Trevin started toward her, but Varic whirled his net, and Trevin retreated to keep the snare away from Melaia. Watching Varic’s every move, Trevin edged toward the bench where his sword lay.

Varic’s net widened as it spun. Trevin glanced at the bench and silently cursed his luck. His sword lay beyond his cloak and shield.

The flick of Varic’s wrist was almost imperceptible. As the net shot from his hand, Trevin snatched his shield and swung at the mesh, deflecting it. But the net swept the shield from his hands and took it clattering to the rooftop.

Varic drew his sword, and Trevin lunged for his.

“No fighting, Varic,” shouted Melaia. “I’m marrying you for peace. Fighting will do no good.”

“That’s how little you know, Princess,” Varic hissed. “I mean to assure my future.” He lunged.

Trevin twisted sideways, drawing Varic from Melaia, who backed away
with Serai at one hand, Jarrod at the other. Trevin’s move also ensured that the parapet was not at his back so he had room to retreat. But he found his right side now hampered by the temple dome. He would also have to avoid two stools and a lamp table by the stairwell door.

Varic swung. Trevin parried, his mind swirling with Ollena’s drills.
Evade, body first
. Varic had the longer reach, so Trevin knew he would have to stay out of range until he was certain his sword would find its mark.

Varic kicked a stool at Trevin, and it hit him in the shin.
Balance
. He sidestepped as the stool clattered to the parapet.

Varic’s next swing was high. Trevin ducked and cut back, slicing Varic’s sleeve.
Breathe
.

“Cur,” Varic growled. “I shall have the throne. Not you.” He cut across the middle, catching Trevin’s tunic, which ripped as Trevin parried the blade away.

Control
. Trevin advanced, cutting toward Varic’s weak right.

Varic slashed the silk tenting, sending it fluttering toward Trevin.

Ducking under the silk, Trevin kept advancing.
You were born to this
. He could tell Varic was tiring, so he cut again toward Varic’s right. And again. Then he realized the move had placed his back to the parapet, hindering a full retreat. What’s more, Varic’s net lay close enough to trip him if he wasn’t careful.

Varic’s eyes brightened as he saw his advantage and prepared to lunge.

Serai yelped; Jarrod shouted. Trevin sensed Melaia’s silver light flaring toward him and knew she would throw herself between him and the Dregmoorian prince.

Varic lunged. Dropping his sword, Trevin leaped sideways and shoved Melaia into Serai’s arms.

Varic swerved to shift his aim, but his feet tangled in the silver net. He stumbled over the bench and into the silk tenting, which snapped free of its moorings, spilling him over the parapet.

His scream ended in silence.

Trevin scrambled to his feet and looked over the half wall. Jarrod joined him. Below, Ollena, sword in hand, strode to Varic, who lay crumpled at the base of the temple.

“Is he dead?” called Trevin.

She nudged Varic with the toe of her boot. “Is he your friend or your enemy?”

“Enemy,” called Jarrod.

Ollena plunged her sword into Varic’s chest. “He’s dead,” she called.

Trevin gaped at her. “He was the prince of the Dregmoors.”

“Not to me,” called Ollena. “He was Rikin the Betrayer.”

Jarrod headed down the stairs, and Trevin turned to Melaia, rubbing his sword arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”

Melaia trembled. “Varic didn’t mean for it to turn out this way either. He meant for
you
to die.”

Serai dusted off Melaia’s gown. “Guests are assembling in the great hall. I warrant the whole court will be seeking both you and Varic soon. Do you want me to go and make an excuse for you?”

The color was returning to Melaia’s cheeks. “I’ll go,” she said.

Serai smoothed back Melaia’s hair. “What do we say about Varic?”

“I don’t know.” Melaia looked at Trevin, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Say nothing,” he said.

“What if someone asks?” Serai tugged Melaia toward the stairs.

“Then say Jarrod’s offering prayers for him.”

Melaia rolled her eyes. “Prayers and Varic don’t go together.”

“Then try to avoid people who would ask,” said Trevin. “I’ll come to the great hall after I clean up. I’ll tell the king about Varic, but I’ll leave you out of it.” He examined Arelin’s sword. Barely nicked.

Melaia pulled away from Serai, ran to Trevin, and kissed him on the cheek. “Hurry,” she said. Then she dashed down the stairs after Serai.

The loose tenting snapped in the wind. Trevin peered over the wall and watched Jarrod and Catellus help Ollena haul Varic’s body through the Door of the Dead. He turned back to the rooftop. Jagged white silk dangled from the slashed pavilion. The stools were toppled, and one lay near the net, now bunched in a pile where Varic had stumbled. Beside the net, Trevin’s shield lay fused to the rooftop as if it were painted on.

“Disgusting.” Trevin crouched and stroked the frost-cold image.

Then he felt heat radiating around him, and a small flame appeared beside the net. Trevin scooted back as the flame grew, swirling into a figure.

“Flametender,” he whispered.

She nodded. Heat swelled, and sweat dripped from Trevin’s forehead. His hands felt blazing hot.

Flametender knelt and slid the silver net over the shield. Then she held out her hands to Trevin as before. When he placed his palms on hers, she guided them to the net and pressed them to the shield. Then she backed away with a satisfied smile, fading into a flame that shrank until it vanished.

As she left, Trevin felt the net bulge under his hands. He swept the net aside and found his shield whole. He stared at his cooling palms.

“Main Trevin!” Pym’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

Trevin grabbed sword, shield, and net and sprinted downstairs.

Pym met him at the bottom. “Ollena told me Varic is dead,” he said. “What happened?”

Trevin didn’t break his stride as they headed to Jarrod’s quarters. “Varic found us on the roof and insisted on fighting. He fell over the wall.”

“Ollena is cleaning her sword.”

“She made sure Varic’s death was a swift one.”

Jarrod was not in his quarters. Trevin shoved the net under a stool in the back corner, poured a pitcher of water into a basin, and splashed his face clean.

Jarrod entered and pointed Trevin to a towel. “We’ve laid the body among the tombs below.”

“Ollena sent this.” Catellus plopped Trevin’s pack on the table.

Trevin dried his face and dug through the clothing Ambria had carefully folded and packed. “I’ll want the harp,” he said, “in case I have to justify my presence by showing evidence of my ‘successful’ quest.”

He pulled a noble-looking tunic and leggings from the pack and dressed as quickly as he could, thinking he might as well appear to be a success, even if the quest itself had largely failed. The Eldarrans were allies, to be sure. But for all his searching, he could present only one comain, one harp, and himself as the Oracle’s sign. Pitiful.

Jarrod brought out the harp. “Varic’s death kills the peace treaty,” he said.

“Which means the king is likely to kill me,” said Trevin. “Unless Fornian reaches me first. It’s the third death I could be blamed for, including Nash and Resarian.”

Actually four
, he thought, remembering Dreia’s statue as he combed through his hair with his fingers and tried to bind it at his neck. He fumbled with the cord, and Jarrod tied it for him.

“I’m walking straight in,” said Trevin. “I’m tired of skulking along the back streets.”

“Wear this, then.” Jarrod tossed him a blue priest’s cloak. “Hood up. I’ll go with you.”

“And I.” Ollena stood outside the door, her palm on the hilt of her sword.

Pym and Catellus rose to join them.

Trevin tugged on the cloak, tied a sash around the harp frame, and slipped it across his back. Then he pulled up his hood and followed Jarrod out of the temple, flanked by his friends.

Colorful ribbons fluttered from every pole, post, and column around the courtyard. From the rooftops, white tenting billowed in the sea breeze, creating a bright backdrop for the small black drak that swooped in and landed on a window ledge high above.

Dwin emerged from the palace door and met them halfway. “There’s plenty of mumbling in the great hall. Guards are allowing no one to see Varic, not even his friends.”

Trevin didn’t break his stride. “Varic is dead.”

Dwin’s jaw dropped. “How—”

“We fought on the temple roof. I ducked as he lunged, and he went over the edge.”

“Does Melaia know?”

“She saw it, but I’m to announce it.”

Dwin sucked air through his clenched teeth. “I don’t envy you today. Varic wasn’t the most loved among the people, but he was the king’s hope for peace and a favorite of Lady Jayde. It’s good that you have your legion with you.”

Together they strode up the front steps of the palace.

“I bring special guests with me,” Jarrod told the guards. “Visitors from our Eldarran allies.”

The guards waved them in, casting their most wary looks on Ollena.

At the arched doorway to the great hall, Jarrod spoke with guards again and gained entrance into a room draped in white silk and colored ribbons. Aromas of the coming feast drifted through the air along with the happy hum of conversation from well-dressed guests who crowded the benches arranged on the north and south walls.

A wide center aisle crossed from the main door on the west to the dais
along the east wall, where the shields of the missing comains hung, each bearing the image of a different animal in a regal pose. A round, bald, gold-robed priest was placing two white cushions on the floor before the throne on the dais while Caepio strolled along the front of the room, playing his lyre.

Dwin sauntered in to sit by the priestesses Nuri and Iona on a bench along the north wall, which held four tall windows and a gallery above. Nearby, Hanni, the high priestess, chatted with Livia and Lord Beker, the king’s blond-bearded advisor. Pym scooted onto a bench near the entrance. Catellus stayed in the corridor, hidden from Varic’s friends.

Too restless to sit, Trevin opted to stand with Jarrod against the back wall. Silks and ribbons had transformed the hall, but they could not mask memories of Lord Rejius trying to claim the kingship there last year.

A tainted aura drew Trevin’s attention to the south wall, which held four windows that looked across the lip of the bluff to the sea beyond. Two couples casually conversed beside one window. Malevolents, all of them. At the next window stood Fornian, arms folded, eying the guests. Trevin angled his head so his hood would shadow his face.

Ollena strode into the hall, and Fornian studied her as if trying to place her.

“Orin the hunter,” Ollena murmured, passing Trevin on her way to a nearby bench.

Serai slipped in and motioned for Trevin. He joined her in the corridor.

“We stationed a guard at Varic’s quarters,” she whispered, “to tell anyone who asks that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

Trevin sensed Melaia’s approach and looked up. How she managed to look more beautiful than on the rooftop, he didn’t know. He stared, barely breathing. Her hair was gathered atop her head, her face framed with a veil, folded back. The only thing missing was the wedding-day radiance of the perfect bride.

Melaia stepped up to Trevin, while her bodyguards halted a few paces away. Her worried eyes searched his. “After my father takes his place on his throne, I’m to enter,” she said. “When I reach the dais, I’ll turn, kneel, and face this archway. Then Varic is—was—to walk in. I don’t know what to do at that point. I’ve not told anyone. I’ve not even seen my father.”

Trevin peered into the great hall, where Fornian paced the length of the south wall, visibly disturbed. Then the hall quieted, and Fornian halted.

A dark-haired woman in a revealing white gown entered from a door behind the dais. Her sheer white cloak looked like a full veil, though instead of covering her heart-shaped face, it swooped back from her shoulders, displaying a sapphire pendant. She reminded Trevin of a white lion on the prowl, ready to pounce.