Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (4 page)

After dinner King Laetham rose. A hush drifted over the hall. “Our festivities have only begun,” he said. “We have feasted on fine food and shall soon feast on fine music. But first I present our guests: Prince Varic of the Dregmoors, Lord Hesel, and Lord Fornian.”

Trevin wished he could get a good look at Hesel. The cur was hiding his black eye behind a raised goblet.

The king continued, “This noble delegation has come to propose a peace treaty with Camrithia.”

Murmurs rippled through the audience.

“Tomorrow you shall all be my guests for the appointing ceremony for Main Trevin.” King Laetham swept his ringed hand toward Trevin, introduced
him, and gave a glowing account of how, only a few months earlier, this new comain had rescued him and his daughter from the sorceries of Lord Rejius and his attempted coup.

Trevin thought the king’s story a bit exaggerated. Certainly he hadn’t rescued the king single-handedly. Even so, he basked in the praise, glad for the Dregmoorian prince to hear the king’s version.

“Our kingdom grows stronger,” proclaimed King Laetham. “I am confident we are on the verge of an era of great prosperity. Let us drink to our future!” The king himself filled the prince’s goblet.

Prince Varic rose, lofted his goblet high, then gulped down its contents without pausing. He saluted the king with his empty cup, and the court minstrels leaped into a rollicking tune with lyre, pipe, and tabor.

As the guests clapped and sang, Melaia carried her kyparis harp to the side of the hall. Trevin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He supposed the harp was safe with her, but he hated to see it displayed before the Dregmoorians.

He was hazy about the details, but somehow Melaia’s harp and two others like it had to be united in order to restore the angels’ stairway to heaven, which had been destroyed by Lord Rejius, the immortal Firstborn and ruler of the Dregmoors. Rejius had arranged for the murder of the angel Dreia, Melaia’s mother, in order to steal just such a harp from her. The memory curdled Trevin’s stomach. He didn’t doubt that Rejius would kill for the other two harps as well. With all three the Firstborn could lord himself over the angels by controlling their path home.

Was that why the prince had weaseled his way into Redcliff? Was he here to steal Melaia’s harp?

Trevin touched his bruised cheek. He knew firsthand how Lord Rejius used underlings to reach his goals. Guilt still ate at his conscience for having once served the Firstborn.

He looked down the table at the prince. Varic ran his finger around the rim of his goblet as he studied Melaia, and Trevin’s skin crawled. He drank the last of his fruited wine and turned his gaze back to her. He had never lacked attention from young women, but this one, the one he wanted, was out of reach, and there was no remedy for it. She was a princess, and he could never be more than a lowly comain.

“If only she were a normal maiden,” he murmured.

“What’s normal?” asked Serai, amusement dancing in her green-flecked eyes.

Trevin smiled sheepishly, raising his hands in surrender. For an Erielyon like Serai, normal was hiding her wings securely beneath her cloak. “Maybe ‘normal’ is not the right word,” he said.

Serai frowned. “Your fingers are scratched. The bruise, I noticed earlier. Did you and Dwin have at it?”

“I leaped into a well, then climbed out.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Why did you leap into a well? Demonstrating your rock-climbing ability?”

“You might say that.”

She rolled her eyes. “My brother, Sergai, was always pulling stunts like that.” Her smile trembled, and she murmured, “I should be ready to help Melaia when she’s done.”

Trevin scooted aside to give her room to leave the table. Her twin brother had died a vicious death the previous fall at the hands of Lord Rejius. The past was slow to let go of its choke hold.

Applause erupted. As the minstrels took their final bows and filed to the side of the room, Melaia made her way to a stool in the center of the hall. She bowed to the king, then sat down elegantly with the harp in her lap, her palms to the strings, her eyes closed.

Trevin drifted with the guests into a suspended silence. Then Melaia plucked a simple tune that gradually unfolded and fanned into an intricate melody that danced around the great hall.

Usually Melaia’s music entranced Trevin, but tonight his thoughts kept straying to the gold medallion at her throat. Was it a gift from Prince Varic, a peace offering like the king’s ruby? “I wish to impress the princess,” Varic had said. Why?

More important, had he succeeded?

oon after King Laetham retired to his chamber, Melaia and Serai slipped out the back door of the great hall. Trevin caught up with them in the torchlit corridor.

“I think I saw Peron today,” he said.

Melaia turned to him, wide eyed, the harp in one arm. “Where?”

Trevin grinned. He loved having answers for her questions. “She was in the woods between here and Drywell.”

A shuffle echoed in the corridor behind them. He peered into the shadows where Melaia’s bodyguards were stationing themselves.

“Is that where you got this?” She gingerly touched his bruised cheek.

“Near the woods.” He turned his head so she could see the bruise better—and keep her hand on his face a little longer.

Melaia handed her harp to Serai. “Return this to my room, please. I want Trevin to take me to the aerie to look for Peron.”

Serai hesitated. “You’re going to the aerie? Now?”

“Yes,” said Melaia. “And when you get to my room, see if you can find menthia ointment for Trevin’s bruise.”

“The ointment I’ll take,” said Trevin, remembering how Melaia had spread it over his bruised stomach the previous fall, “but I cleaned out the aerie. The cages are gone.”

“I wouldn’t cage Peron,” said Melaia, “but she might look for us in the aerie. At the least we might glimpse her from the tower.”

“Excuse me,” said Serai. “But—”

“Spotting Peron is best done in daylight,” said Trevin.

“Not for you,” said Melaia. “You can see in the dark.”

Trevin sighed. He would like nothing better than to spend time with Melaia in the dark aerie. “I can’t go right now. Your father’s expecting me.”

“He’s expecting you, too, Melaia,” Serai pointed out. “Or are you conveniently forgetting?”

Melaia pursed her lips. Then her eyes brightened. “If we go to the aerie first, maybe he’ll be asleep by the time we reach his room.”

“You don’t want to see your father?” asked Trevin.

“I was in and out of meetings with him all day.”

Serai narrowed her eyes. “My lady,
you
may be able to put off your father, but Trevin would be wise to respect the king’s wishes.”

Melaia groaned. “Why are you always right?”

“It’s my job,” said Serai. “Shall I assume Trevin will see you safely back to your chamber tonight?”

Melaia nodded toward the bodyguards. “Grim and Glum will make sure I get back.”

Serai rolled her eyes. “You’re in a mood. Khareet and Dano are doing their jobs as well. Be grateful.”

Trevin bit his lip to keep from smiling as Melaia and Serai put their heads together, sharing sharp words. He stepped back and feigned interest in a torch bracket. Serai bore the same direct, no-nonsense authority as her mother, Livia, knowing what to say and when to say it. Her calm confidence had held Melaia steady more than once as she learned the role of princess.

As the ladies’ discussion quieted, Trevin stepped forward. “I’ll gladly accompany Melaia back to her chamber. And perhaps, Serai, you might ask Khareet or Dano to see you back safely.”

“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” Serai asked.

Trevin had seen Livia wield a sword with deadly results and had no doubt that Serai could do the same. “I’m more worried about the harp.”

Serai hugged the harp and lowered her voice. “It’s the Dregmoorians, isn’t it? Is there something I should know?”

“Just be wary,” said Trevin.

Serai nodded and approached Dano, the leaner of the two bodyguards. As he accompanied her down an adjacent hallway, Trevin hoped he had not overstepped his bounds to suggest protection for Serai. He was not a comain yet.

Melaia headed up a short flight of stairs toward the west breezeway. As
Trevin hurried to catch up, he laughed to himself. Never would he have imagined that he would befriend a princess who happened to be the daughter of Dreia, the angel who once guarded the Wisdom Tree and the angels’ stairway to heaven. He tried to picture Melaia escorting spirits of the dying across the stairway and nodding to angels as they ascended and descended, but the picture was ludicrous. He couldn’t see Melaia confined to the interior of a tree, even the Wisdom Tree.

A cool night breeze drifted through the arches of the breezeway, riffling Melaia’s hair. Trevin matched her stride. “Is that a new necklace?” he asked.

“It’s much too large, don’t you think?”

“Was it a peace offering from Prince Varic? Like your father’s ring?”

“How did you guess?”

He shrugged and glanced behind them. Khareet followed at a respectful distance. Trevin lowered his voice. “What do you think of the prince and his friends?”

“What do
I
think? Which I? I, heir to the throne? I, Dreia’s daughter?” She looked at Trevin, her eyes pained. “Or I, Melaia?”

He rubbed the corners of his mouth, wishing he could kiss away her pain. If she were not a princess, he would try.

She sighed. “I, heir to the throne, say a peace treaty is appealing, no matter who proposes it. I, Dreia’s daughter, suppose peace is best, because Father will be more likely to allow me to search for the harps I need to restore the Tree. The task is never far from my mind.”

“As Melaia—simply yourself—what do you think of the Dregmoorians?”

“Arrogant and sly, all three. I wish they had stayed in the Dregmoors, but that’s my heart speaking, not my head.”

Trevin’s spirits rose. “I say trust your heart.”

“You should have heard their boasting.”

“I can imagine.”

“Prince Varic is the son of Queen Stalia of the Dregmoors.” Melaia fingered her necklace. “She’s Lord Rejius’s daughter, isn’t she? He and Benasin spoke of her in the aerie.”

“Yes. I remember.” Trevin glanced through one of the wide arched windows at the aerie tower, rust red in the wash of moonlight. The day Rejius and Benasin fought there, he had been on the wrong side. He wished he could expunge from his past his years of servitude to the Firstborn.

“The prince’s mother may be queen,” said Trevin, “but you can be sure it’s Lord Rejius who reigns. No good can come of a visit from the Firstborn’s grandson.”

“But you have to admit, the offer of peace sounds good,” said Melaia.

“Coming from a braggart who would serve gash in jeweled goblets, an offer of peace is hardly worth the time it takes to turn it down,” said Trevin.

“You’re ruthless.” Melaia grinned, an admiring glint in her eye. “Prince Varic probably does have jeweled goblets. According to him, gold and jewels are as abundant in the Dregmoors as rocks on their shore. He’s building an opulent palace for himself. If Father signs a peace treaty, Camrithia will share in their riches.”

“We don’t need jewels; we need a good harvest, an end to the blight.”

For a moment they fell silent, the only sound their footsteps on the marble floor as they entered the antechamber that led to the king’s stairway.

“What do the Dregmoorians get in return for their peace offer?” asked Trevin.

“I don’t know,” said Melaia as they ascended the stairs. “I didn’t stay for the entire meeting. Maybe the Dregmoorians finally realize it’s better to be our allies than our enemies.”

“I doubt it,” grumbled Trevin. “I wager they’re here to clean up the Camrithian countryside.”

“Meaning what?”

Trevin tramped up the stairs, refusing to groan at the aches in his fight-sore legs. “Meaning they’re here to take all they can,” he said. “And they’ll give us nothing good in return.”

When Trevin and Melaia entered the king’s chamber, they found him draped over a great padded chair, his eyes closed. His personal servant, Nash, cleared away scrolls scattered across a table.