Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (7 page)

“Does Rejius scry through the birds’ eyes?”

“Or one of his lackeys does. The Firstborn no doubt licks his wounds while he prepares another attack.”

And the Second-born?
Trevin wondered. “What about Benasin? Where is he?”

“My father’s whereabouts are anyone’s guess, but he’ll rise again as well. The feud is far from over.” Jarrod eyed Trevin. “Did you and Dwin settle accounts?”

“Dwin and I have a truce of sorts,” said Trevin, “but he worries me.”

“Where is he now?”

“At the field. He’s determined to play the spy. He thinks it’s all excitement and glory. He has no idea of the risks involved.”

Jarrod chuckled and headed to the field. “I’ll speak to him.”

“Your mount, Main Trevin,” called Pym, leading Almaron to the archway.

Trevin laughed at Pym’s wet hair, spiked in all directions like weeds in the woods. “Don’t tell me you took a bath for this occasion.”

“As much of a bath as I could stand.” Pym handed Trevin the reins. “I can abide the water. It’s the soap I don’t take kindly to.” He scratched his scalp. “Flustrations! Makes me itch, it does.”

Trevin stroked Almaron’s broad, smooth forehead. “Here’s one who enjoys being cleaned and curried.”

“I might enjoy it too if someone gave me a rubdown after.” Pym took a pack from the stableboy, who led Pym’s roan.

“We’ll beg for baths after a fortnight of traveling the roads,” said Trevin. “Lord Beker will be here within the week. I intend to leave as soon as we get his counsel.”

“Then you have a week to accustom yourself to carrying this.” Pym slid an oval shield out of the pack.

Trevin squinted at the black-and-gold design painted on it. Each comain had carried a shield adorned with an animal—a leaping white stag, a proud ram, a regal osprey. “What is this symbol?” he asked.

Pym scratched his head. “The painter said the princess chose it. He claims it’s an eagle.”

Trevin turned the shield this way and that. “The painter must have been in a hurry.”

Pym took the reins of the roan. “I wasn’t lucky enough to see my old master Undrian appointed comain. I’m pleased to serve you, Trevin, but once we find Main Undrian …” He heaved himself onto the horse.

Trevin mounted Almaron, impressed that Pym had not given up hope of finding his comain alive and well. “When you serve Undrian as armsman again, I’ll have Dwin at my side,” he said. “If he can avoid getting himself hanged before then.”

Trumpets blared, and Trevin urged Almaron through the archway. As he and Pym cantered over the bridge and down the crowd-lined path, cheers filled the air.

Across the field Melaia and King Laetham stepped onto the platform where two thrones stood. Prince Varic and his cronies had seats of honor in the stands on the right. Dwin was all smiles in the crowd to the left, standing
between Iona, the lovely raven-haired priestess, and Nuri, the dimpled novice. Hanni, the high priestess of Navia, looked on, her almond eyes attentive to her charges, who served with her at Redcliff until the Navian temple could be repaired from the damage it had received during a raid the previous fall.

Trevin and Pym dismounted within the broad ring of spectators. Trevin handed his shield and Almaron’s reins to Pym, then strode with a confident air toward the platform, where he bowed on one knee. He smiled to himself. Melaia was not wearing the gold medallion today.

King Laetham rose and welcomed the crowd, gesturing broadly with the hand that wore the ruby ring. This was the demeanor Trevin admired in the king, the calm manner that inspired confidence. No one would know that the monarch held “healthy suspicions” of the Dregmoorian peace delegation—or of his new comain.

A bard flamboyantly readied his lyre. As the music began, Prince Varic leaned over and, with a look of amused disdain, spoke to Hesel and Fornian. They laughed.

Trevin clenched his teeth and swore to do everything in his power to make certain the king did not pawn off Melaia to this gash breath.

As the last strains of the ballad drifted away on the breeze, King Laetham stood and fixed his dark gaze on Trevin. His deep voice rang out. “Trevin, you have been chosen as comain because of your courage defending this kingdom and this crown.” His eyebrows met in a frown. “Do you pledge to faithfully serve Camrithia?”

“I do,” said Trevin.

“Do you
vow
to aid those who support this realm and oppose those who threaten it?”

Trevin felt Varic’s gaze. “I do.”

King Laetham nodded. “I therefore grant you the favor and authority of the king’s house.” He took Melaia’s hand, and they descended to the field, where Melaia lifted a sword from a purple cloth.

The king placed his hand firmly on top of Trevin’s head. “It is my privilege”—he paused as the suspense gathered—“to appoint you … and proclaim that you will henceforth be known as … Main Trevin, comain of the kingdom of Camrithia. You may rise.”

The crowd applauded as Trevin stood and Melaia placed the sword across the king’s outstretched hands. When the people quieted, King Laetham said, “Main Trevin, receive your sword.”

Trevin raised the sword high. Sunlight glinted off the highly polished blade. Though not ornate, the weapon was solid. Pym strapped the scabbard belt around Trevin’s waist.

As Trevin turned, sword raised, to face the crowd, a grand cheer exploded. He felt his soul ignite with a fire of purpose, courage, and destiny. He slipped the blade into the scabbard, strode back to Almaron, and mounted. Then he rode slowly back to the gates of Redcliff, weaving from one side of the road to the other and leaning down to shake hands with well-wishers.

“Main Trevin!” the crowd shouted. “Main Trevin!”

He nodded at their greetings and grinned at young boys in whose eyes he could see dreams of someday riding for the king. As a boy, he had joined throngs that greeted comains as they rode forth, but he had used those occasions to pick a few pouches. Never did he imagine he would one day be a comain.

When Trevin reached the city gates, he looked back, then wished he hadn’t. Varic strolled across the field with Melaia and King Laetham.

“Main Trevin!” cried those who waited in the streets of Redcliff.

Trevin sat tall and turned his eyes to the road ahead while both his love and his loathing walked the fields behind him.

tars speckled the late-night sky and torches burned low as the crowd celebrated and dancers paired off. Trevin tried to cross the courtyard to reach Melaia, but a buxom young woman bobbed up to him. He pressed his palms to hers as the music began. He felt as if he had danced with every woman in the world but the one he wanted. His cheeks ached from smiling.

As he twirled with the grinning maiden, he glanced at Melaia, who danced with King Laetham, both of them obviously delighting in the other’s company. At least her partner was not Varic again, Trevin thought as he led his admirer round and round, closer to the princess. When the song ended, he bowed and turned to Melaia as she turned to him.

“Do you have another dance in you?” she asked.

“For you, my lady, I would dance all night.” He touched his palms to hers, and the music played. They circled. He felt her pulse in his fingertips, and his hands tingled.

“Do you like the shield?” asked Melaia. “I chose the eagle for you.”

“I love it.” He laughed. “It resembles a gutted pheasant after a certain prince has dined.” He shot an accusing look at Varic.

Melaia’s smile faded. “You don’t like it.”

“Of course I do. I like it because you gave it to me. It doesn’t matter if the eagle looks like a half-eaten pheasant or a battered drak. It’s a gift from you.”

Melaia bit her lip and looked away.

“Truly. I like it.”

They formed a ring with the other dancers. As they circled to the right, then to the left, Trevin’s heart circled downward. Only a dolt would voice such a slur about a gift from a princess.

They faced each other again, palms together. Melaia said, “I chose the eagle because you wore the eagle mask when we disguised ourselves to get into the palace at Qanreef. The eagle is king of the wind, the only creature who can look into the sun.”

Gazing into Melaia’s intense eyes, Trevin felt as if he were indeed looking into the sun, but he could feel her tension. “I didn’t mean to make light of your gift,” he said.

“It’s not really my gift. I simply chose the eagle.”

“The eagle is perfect. I was too fog headed to catch its meaning.”

Melaia did not seem comforted. “I need to speak to you but not here.”

“And I need to speak to you.”

“Come to my quarters. As soon as we can get away.”

Trevin laced his fingers through Melaia’s. Step close. Step back. At the last strum of the lyre, a bow.

The night spun on. Wine and ale flowed, most of it into Varic, though Dwin drank his share as well. Trevin kept a watchful eye on his brother. Like a fly lighting first here then there, Dwin casually laughed his way from Nuri and Iona to Varic and his men.

After Trevin saw Melaia and Serai leave the festivities, he lingered only a short time before heading to the palace and making his way to Melaia’s quarters. Serai ushered him inside, then excused herself to the roof garden.

Melaia sat by a window, inspecting a purple flower propped in a gilded finger bowl. “I’ve not yet seen Peron,” she said. “This is her favorite flower.” She held the bowl out to Trevin.

He sniffed the blossom. “Smells nice. Like a rose.”

“I asked the gardener to plant some in my garden. Somehow Prince Varic heard about it and brought me this one.”

“Prince Varic visited your quarters?”

“He heard about my garden and wanted to see it.”

Trevin clenched his fists. “He visited your quarters!”

“
You
are visiting my quarters.”

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with the cur.”

“Trevin!” Melaia set the bowl on the windowsill.

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t want to marry the prince, but I can’t shun him. You heard my father’s compromise. I have to keep the weather at Redcliff agreeable until you come back from consulting the Oracle.”

Trevin leaned against the window ledge. “Maybe you won’t have to wait that long. I requested a meeting with you this morning to tell you something Dwin discovered. Varic’s friend Hesel is a gash runner.”

“What’s that?”

“He transports and sells gash. But that’s not the worst of it. For payment he takes not only coin but sheep, goats, and
children
too.”

Melaia paled. “Are you certain?”

“Dwin has proof.”

“That’s sickening,” she said. “Have you told my father?”

“I’ve tried, but I can’t get in to see him.”

“I’ll tell him. First thing tomorrow. I wonder if Prince Varic knows.”

“Of course he knows. But he’ll deny it.”

“If he knows, he’s heartless, which is ironic, because the flower he gave me is called true-heart.” Melaia stroked the purple petals.

“True-heart,” Trevin muttered. “It was certainly not named for the giver.”

“The name comes from a folk tale that says if you sleep in a field of these flowers, when you wake, you’ll know your true heart on a matter. Do you think if I grow them, Peron might visit?”

“It’s worth a try,” said Trevin, though he hated to think of Melaia growing a flower that reminded her of Varic.

“At least this blossom is alive, unlike the other one.” She led Trevin to a chair adorned with the image of a sunset-red poppy.

“He’s a painter?” asked Trevin, disgusted. What else could the jackal do?

“He’s an artist, he says, but”—her eyes widened—“this image isn’t painted. Varic placed the poppy on a silver net, then pressed it to the wood. When he removed the net, the flower was part of the chair.”

Trevin rubbed his hand over the poppy. He felt no brush strokes, no inlays. The bloom seemed to have become wood. He scowled at it.

Melaia ambled back to the window. “Varic says his gift is preserving images in wood and stone.”

“Preserving or killing?” Trevin growled.

He moved to stand by Melaia and followed her gaze. Serai and Jarrod strolled arm in arm through the roof garden in the moonlight.