Then Jovan stood, the gleaming sword at his hip rattling against the table. Tala knew the blade’s name: Sky Reaver. Aeros Raijael’s own sword, captured by Leif and gifted to Jovan. Her brother glared down at her for a long time, as if contemplating what to say. “Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick now, Tala?” He straightened his posture, an authoritative, yet slightly absentminded look on his face. “Saying you witnessed a murder? And claiming Glade Chaparral is the murderer?”
“He is a murderer,” she said.
“Lindholf is the murderer,” he said bluntly, loudly. A handful of nobles nearby were now looking in their direction. The five Dayknights behind Jovan stiffened. There was a nervous tension hanging over the king’s table now.
“You must believe me.” Tala would not give up. Lindholf’s life was in the balance. She’d heard the rumors that he would soon be hanged. “I saw Glade kill Sterling Prentiss. With a knife across the throat. Prentiss was stretched out over an altar in a secret chamber deep in the castle. I know. I was there. I led Glade there.”
“It would be disastrous to accuse Glade Chaparral of such things now.” Val-Korin stared at Jovan fixedly. Jovan’s cold eyes met those of the Val Vallè ambassador. He looked at Denarius next, pursing his lips in contemplation.
“You cannot lose the allegiance of Claybor Chaparral,” the Vallè continued with that half-amused, ever-watchful quality in his eyes, a sly quality. “Not now, not as we prepare for war with the White Prince. We will need his fighters most. I say the subject should never be brought up again.”
“Val-Korin speaks the truth,” the vicar affirmed.
A chill slithered up Tala’s spine, as she realized that Jovan would never listen to her with these two snakes around.
“You are both right,” Jovan spoke in a controlled, assertive voice with a slightly crazed undertone. “Lott Le Graven will hardly speak to me as it is. Both he and Mona are mad at me because I threw their son in Purgatory. They are not even at court tonight, embarrassed and humiliated by the whole affair. But yet, by some miracle, Lott is still willing to offer his soldiers and fealty. Claybor would be far less forgiving. . . .”
Jovan paused, staring long and hard at Tala. “So,” he finally continued, “as the evidence bears out, Lindholf is the true culprit here. Not Glade.”
“Lindholf is innocent,” Tala fired back, anger and frustration rising.
“Lindholf conspired to murder me!” her brother shouted, looming over her.
Tala detected even more nobles watching them now. It didn’t stop her from shouting, “You are wrong!”
“Enough!” Without warning, Jovan slapped her across the face. It was so rapid and swift Tala could scarcely register that it had even happened. Then he smacked her again. Harder. Her head buzzed with a sudden, startled pain. She stood, wobbling on her legs, vision turning white, unfocused.
Jovan was preparing to hit her a third time when a deep, booming voice thundered through Sunbird Hall. “Do not strike her again!”
Tala turned. Through a pale haze, she saw Squireck Van Hester standing in the center of the chamber, the point of his long Dayknight sword aimed directly at the king. Every eye in Sunbird Hall was on Jovan and Tala. A weighty silence shrouded the hall like a smothering blanket.
“Strike Tala again,” the Prince of Saint Only snarled, “and I will cut through every knight in this room to get to you!” His cold stare sliced into Jovan.
The king’s eyes were wide, his breathing hard.
Grand Vicar Denarius stood, as did the Val Vallè ambassador.
Tala’s knees gave out. She folded against the table, barely able to keep her wits, head ringing in pain. Val-Korin at was her side in a flash, propping her up under one arm. He smelled of sweet-scented pine needles, and the fragrance revived her some.
In fact, things were becoming particularly clear to her now. The physical pain of Jovan’s two blows had woken her from the pain that was piercing her soul. I cannot win against him, she realized. She wanted to scream to the court that Jovan and Leif were lovers and that she had seen them kissing. But that will only add to the absurdity of my accusations. Only make me look more a fool. But I must do something. . . .
Then Jondralyn was pulling her away from the Vallè ambassador. “I’ve got her.” She took Tala by the arm, pulled her close. The Silver Guard armor was cold and hard and unforgiving against Tala’s flesh. “You vile bastard,” Jondralyn snarled at Jovan, holding Tala tighter to her chest. “Striking your own flesh and blood like that. Tala can barely stand, she’s so rattled.”
“Any man who dares strike any woman within my sight ever again, and I will kill that man!” Squireck roared. “King or slave, I will slay him!”
The crowd gasped at his pronouncement. All eyes flew to Jovan.
But Tala’s own tear-streaked eyes stayed on the Prince of Saint Only, still standing tall in the middle of Sunbird Hall. Never a more gallant sight had she seen—long blond hair, polished Dayknight armor glinting in the firelight, imposing and sharp, the tip of his sword still pointed directly at Jovan.
The knights that had previously been sparring with Squireck looked wary, uncertain. But their blades were still drawn, poised and ready.
The Prince of Saint Only paid them no heed, his hard, unwavering eyes lancing across the room toward the king, his sword thrust forward.
“I am drunk.” Jovan plopped back down in his seat. “I am drunk. And I am acting stupid. I beseech you all, forgive me.” He picked up a wine goblet, studied it, swirled the contents gently in hand. He looked at the Prince of Saint Only. “Forgive me, Squireck. I did not wish to upset you.”
“It’s not me whose forgiveness you should beg.” The tip of Squireck’s sword dipped.
“I apologize to whom I want.” Jovan took a sip of the wine and pursed his lips contentedly before continuing. “Do not presume to give me orders. You are to fight Gault Aulbrek in the arena soon.” His eyes hardened to points. “ ’Tis I who order you to continue with your training, Ser Squireck.”
“Not until you promise never to strike another woman again!” Squireck demanded.
Jovan shook his head slowly as he sneered. “I will make no such promises. Tala will be escorted from Sunbird Hall. And you needn’t worry about her well-being, Ser Squireck. Do not presume to push me further than you already have.”
The Prince of Saint Only’s blade rose. His eyes narrowed. To Tala’s foggy gaze, it appeared Squireck was more than prepared to rush the king and stick the black sword straight into him.
“Remove Tala from my sight!” Jovan shouted, motioning for his Dayknights to take her away.
Jondralyn, still clutching Tala, placed her hand on the hilt of the Silver Guard sword at her hip. Her voice rang out loud and clear. “I alone will escort my sister to her chamber!” And then she gently guided Tala from the raised dais.
And as they took their leave of Sunbird Hall, nobody challenged them.
* * *
Make no mistake: be he friend or foe, in the time of Fiery Absolution, the Dragon will come bearing a gold coin unto my Brethren.
—THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
JONDRALYN BRONACHELL
11TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
Jondralyn made her way through Sunbird Hall toward the balcony at the far eastern end. She needed fresh air. She felt claustrophobic in the bandages. Her frustration mounted with each step. Tala had lied to her, not just about her trip into Purgatory with Glade, but about her argument with Jovan. And when pressed about the argument, Tala had clammed up. An uncomfortable quiet had followed them through the castle. But she did her duty as escort, leaving Tala to her bedchamber to stew in the silence.
Pushing her way through the crowd, Jondralyn climbed the staircase quickly and stepped onto the balcony, breathing heavily from the weight of her Silver Guard armor. The ivory-paneled doors were thrown op
en, a slight breeze drifting over her. Once outside she could finally breathe. It was dark, near midnight, she guessed. But the clean air calmed her as she placed both hands on the stone railing and breathed deep, letting her gaze drift down toward Memory Bay.
From her lofty castle perch so high up Mount Albion, the starlit view below was magnificent. Ships bobbed in the bay as moonlight danced off the choppy waters. Stone outbuildings crouched at the base of Mount Albion, clinging to the vast castle’s base, huddling against the bay. She tried to spy the wooden quay at the base of the mount near where she and Squireck and Hawkwood had dived into the water for the Rooms of Sorrow. But everything near the base of Albion was naught but clots and shadows.
The twining ivy and crimson petals lining the carved stone balustrade and castle walls above the balcony smelled blissful in comparison to the musky smoke-filled hall behind her. Flowers and vines arched over the doors behind her. Now that Squireck Van Hester was done sparring with Tolz, Alain, and Boppard, the orchestra had launched into song. The sound of their soothing tune drifted over her. Spellbound by the swelling tide of the music, she closed her eyes and listened, concentrated on every sweet note, letting it clear her mind, allowing herself to relax, scarcely daring to breathe at all lest she disturb the serenity of the moment.
There was a commotion to her left. She opened her eye to find a couple just up from Sunbird Hall leaning against the balcony railing not twenty paces away from her, giggling and kissing playfully. The amorous pair broke their embrace when they saw her there. They both knelt before her. The young man, a dark-haired nobleman’s son, embarrassedly begged her forgiveness for not noticing her. Jondralyn bade the young couple stand and pay her no mind and go on about their night, enjoy the balcony view. They stood, bowed to her again, and then continued their mischievous flirting and kissing. The girl was blond and petite and cute, her face immaculate in shape, pristine pale skin flawless and smooth. Jondralyn dipped her own head in shame.
Squireck Van Hester stepped out onto the balcony behind her—a formidable bleak shadow. His black-lacquered armor seemed to devour what moonlight fell upon it. The black-opal-inlaid pommel of his sword was visible just over his shoulder, the Dayknight blade sheathed and hanging on the black leather baldric crisscrossing his back. She had not spoken to her former betrothed since that day in the Rooms of Sorrow with Hawkwood, that day of their shared disappointment when they’d gone in search of Ethic Shroud. Truth was, she had been avoiding the Prince of Saint Only.
He frightened her. He had very nearly killed Hawkwood.
Squireck bent his knee to her, black helm under the crook of his arm. He stood and was about to say something but was interrupted by the kissing couple, who had just now noticed him. “We will be rooting for you against that evil Sør Sevier knight,” the dark-haired young nobleman’s son said, bowing to Squireck.
“We will both be at the arena on the first day of the Fire Moon to watch the match,” the blond girl added, blue eyes gleaming up at the Prince of Saint Only.
Squireck bowed at the waist to the couple, low and graceful. Everything he did seemed large and perfectly balanced. His presence dominated even the looming hulk of the castle behind him, as if Mount Albion and the massive stone structure that covered it combined weren’t even big enough to hold him.
“We pray to Laijon for you daily,” the girl said. “We pray daily to Laijon that you will win,” she repeated.
“And I thank you for your prayers.” Squireck nodded to both. He turned and plucked a crimson flower from the vine near him and placed it gently behind the ear of the girl, who blushed.
“It will be a grand event,” the dark-haired young man went on. “All of Amadon is abuzz about it. All of Amadon is wishing you great victory.”
Squireck reached out and shook the man’s hand, clasping his elbow as he did. “I thank you for your support.” He broke his embrace, dipped his head to the couple a second time. “But may I speak with the princess alone, if it please you both?”
“Most certainly,” the young nobleman’s son stammered, bowing on last time. He led his girlfriend from the balcony and into the yellow glow of Sunbird Hall.
Alone, Jondralyn and Squireck faced each other, him towering over her; confusion, pain, anger, betrayal, love, all evident in his eyes. “How is Tala?” he asked.
My sister is a liar, she nearly blurted. But she certainly couldn’t say that, not without inviting a whole host of other questions. It had all had grown so complicated. And she did not want to have a conversation with this man before her, this once familiar presence in her life who had so suddenly become a total stranger to her. He very nearly killed Hawkwood. As she gazed up at the uncertainty on his face, the fight between the two men in the Rooms of Sorrow was all she could think of.
A chill wind blew over the bay, howling as it dragged over the battlements and spires above. She breathed in deep, shuddered. “Thank you for coming to Tala’s defense earlier tonight. You did not need to stand up to Jovan like that. I know you have worked hard to get back into the good graces of the court—”
“To the bloody underworld with the court,” he cut her off. “A great nest of scheming bastards, all of them. Grand Vicar Denarius, Val-Korin, they are too smooth of tongue, getting Jovan to do their every bidding.” His gaze traveled out to the bay behind her. “At the moment they wish for me to be a hero, rather than a convict. Jovan knows he cannot touch me now. As does the vicar. As does Val-Korin. They need me more than I need them.”
“But have you considered what treachery may live within Leif Chaparral? It is he we should all fear. He will soon be your captain.”
“I am not worried about him, either. Leif is no threat. You heard the couple who was just up here, fawning over me, both giddy for my arena match with Gault. Like they said, all of Amadon is a-talk of it. Jovan needs me to be the hero.”
“And you don’t even mind being used,” she countered. “That is what they are doing, using you. My brother hated you, until he realized he could use you.” She motioned to the golden light of Sunbird Hall below. “Now he throws a celebration, just to knight you. A Dayknight. And when you kill Gault in the arena, he will use your victory to prop himself up in war against the White Prince. And if Gault slays you, then all the better for Jovan: you will become naught but a martyr and a rallying cry for the populace and other knights. Like I am. Like my ruined face is. The two of us, we are both but a means to an end for my brother and his scheming court.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Bitterness laced Squireck’s words. Anger, too.
“Then why let them use you?”
“Better to be used by them than hunted by them. Better to be used and free from that dungeon cell under the arena. Better to be used and free than sitting idle on that island you had me hiding on. At least now I am doing something useful. At least now I can truly fight. At least now I give Gul Kana hope.”
“Hope? How? By defeating Gault Aulbrek in the arena?”
“I am the Gladiator.” His eyes flared with purpose. “I accept my destiny. We all must accept our destines, Jon. For the return of the Five Warrior Angels is soon upon us.”
“And I am the Princess.” Jondralyn looked out over the balcony to the bay beyond. The entire city had forgiven Squireck his crimes and welcomed him back into their good graces. The Prince of Saint Only, the champion of the arena. The Gladiator. The hero. Exactly what she had desired for herself. Victory in the arena to supplant her brother. A chilling thought struck her. Is that Squireck’s goal now too? To supplant my brother and become king himself?
“My quest to find my own destiny nearly claimed my life,” she muttered, staring out at the flickering waters. “Without Roguemoore or Culpa Barra, I am lost. I’ve no one to turn to. And with Hawkwood in hiding . . .” She trailed off.
“You can lean on me, Jon,” he said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I, too, am one of the Brethren of Mia. You can trust me.”
She pulled away from his
touch. “But what you did to Hawkwood, assaulting him as you did—I do not know if I can forgive that. You held him down, cut his face. When he was only trying to help us. A man who has helped the Brethren of Mia so much. And you nearly killed him. A man who has helped me so much.”
“A man you love?”
She turned, looked up at him. Plus the horror on your face when my bandages came off that day. I also do not know if I can forgive that. Or forget it. “Must we really talk of such things?” she asked—pleaded really.
“You cannot trust him, Jon. The proof was in the Rooms of Sorrow. Ethic Shroud and the angel stone were gone. He hides them from us. If he ever had them at all.”
“Why would he hide them? Why would Hawkwood agree to take us down there if he knew they were gone?”
“Because he is the Betrayer.” His face grew hard, rigid. “He is a son of Black Dugal. A Bloodwood. It is all games and subterfuge with the likes of them. He is the assassin who killed your mother.”
She drew back at his deceitful words. “Alana died whilst giving birth to Ansel.”
“Do not be so naive, Jon. Even your father suspected she was assassinated.”
There had been whispers in court that Queen Alana’s death had been suspicious. Roguemoore had even mentioned it to her, including the rumors about Hawkwood. But nothing had ever been proven. Anger rose up in her. “Do not call me naive, Squireck Van Hester.”
To his credit, he did not press the subject. Instead his face softened. “I did not come up here to argue with you. I came to mend things between us. Can you forgive me? We have gotten off to a wrong start.”
“Mend things?” she asked.
“Please allow me to start over, Jon.”
The Blackest Heart Page 55