Erland closed the door to the barracks through which he had been watching Ivanore take her daily walk around the courtyard. What was he thinking? He had no right to her. He berated himself for allowing himself to get distracted. In two days’ time he would lead his men away from the castle and continue the long-abandoned pursuit of the Guilde, something Erland had hoped he would never have to take up again. The past few nights, his dreams had been plagued with eyes and mouths wrenched open in silent screams. He told no one of the nightmares but did his best to ignore them. Only the image of Ivanore quelled the horrible tightness in his chest as the day drew nearer. He wondered, as all soldiers do, if he would fail to return this time. Would some vengeful villager take him by surprise and end his life? Would they find the Guilde armed and waiting for them around some hidden bend in the road? Would he become ill, or die from an infected wound? The possibilities were ever present.
He might never have another chance to speak with her. If he could only hear her voice, even once, he could move on with courage in his heart. He could lead his men even to their deaths if necessary, without regret.
Erland took a deep breath. He was surprised at how weak he suddenly felt, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. It wouldn’t do to faint in the Lady’s presence. So, he gathered his strength, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunlight.
5
“How have you been, Magda?”
Jayson lowered himself into a chair by Magda’s fireplace as she scrabbled in her cupboard for a clean cup. She finally found one and set it on the table. “Don’t get many visitors these days,” she said, filling the cup from a pitcher of water. She grasped the cup with knobby fingers, her hands trembling slightly as she carried it across the room and offered it to Jayson, who accepted it and drank.
Then she dropped into a rocking chair across from Jayson. “Partha is a skeleton of what it once was,” she said. “Even in the year since you were here last, families have been leaving, searching for homes away from the Ministry’s spying eyes. They believe that anyone might be next, anyone might be accused as a traitor to the Vatéz.”
“But you’ve stayed.”
“Aye, I’ve stayed, along with many others of my generation. Too old to pack up our lives and move on. What purpose would that serve? Someone has to stay behind and spy on the Ministry!” Magda let out a short satisfying snort of a laugh.
Jayson rubbed the side of his cup with his thumb, the rough texture of the crude baked clay reminding him of his own humble background. “So, how are Brommel and the boy?”
Magda leaned forward, retrieving a bucket from under her chair. Inside were half a dozen small scrolls tied with thin strips of leather. “Fine, fine,” she replied, holding out the bucket to Jayson. “Take these. Write your reply, and I’ll see it gets out on a ship in the weeks ahead.” Magda sighed. “Losing Brielle broke that man. A tragedy.”
Jayson retrieved the scrolls and tucked them into his satchel. He’d read them later.
“So, you’ve turned spy, have you?” he asked, hoping to shift the subject to something more positive. “What has the Ministry been up to lately? I admit I don’t hear much. I do my best to stay as far from them as possible.”
“You don’t see them, so they can’t see you, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
Magda began to rock in her chair, the wood creaking in a steady rhythm. “This new Minister, Arik, he’s got a heart of stone, that’s all I can say about him.”
Jayson raised a curious brow at the name which still sent spears of anger through him. “I can’t argue with that,” he said, “but Brommel and I are both long gone. We haven’t been around for Arik to torment. The Guardians too have vanished from the kingdom, haven’t they? You’d think Arik would be satisfied.”
“Arik satisfied?” Magda grunted. “He’s hungrier for Guardian blood than ever before. This past year, since the last harvest, things have been happening, Jayson. These old ears hear better than people think. I go to Nauvet-Carum to sell my eggs. I stand at the steps of the Ministry, my basket on my arm, my back hunched with age. No one pays me any mind. They say things, the senators, the citizens, the rebels, the supporters. They all talk too much for their own good.”
Jayson leaned toward the old woman. What was his old friend, his nemesis, up to now? “Tell me what you’ve heard,” he said.
6
The dawn cast long, thin shadows along the cobbled roads of Dokur, distorted silhouettes of the shops and taverns that lined them. The air was chill, though the clear morning sky promised a perfect spring day ahead.
Brommel tilted his face back, gazing to the east where the single road out of town wound its way down the side of a steep cliff to the valley below. He watched as the sunlight spilled over the crests of the Jeweled Mountains like molten gold. It was a sight that should bring him pleasure, and he did think it a beautiful image, one that he had now witnessed hundreds of times, but instead it never failed to make him melancholy. For beyond those mountains, beyond the Isle of Imaness, beyond the sea lay Hestoria — his home, where Brielle and their infant daughter lay in their coffin, rotting in the ground.
In the years since he’d been forced to flee Hestoria, not a day had passed that he hadn’t ached for them. The pain of losing them in the fire had not diminished. Rather, his anger toward those responsible grew stronger with time. He was glad Jayson had kept his promise to avenge his loss and had killed Emir, but it wasn’t enough. All the Vatéz were at fault, and all the Vatéz should pay. Brommel wondered if he would ever find the courage to return to Hestoria and do it himself.
Brommel tossed the heavy sack of flour onto the bed of the wagon. Then, taking it by the corner, slid it back against the front board. That made three, along with the crate of roots, bundle of dried meat, and the barrel of drinking water, all of which he secured with rope. He added to his cargo a few blankets and a leather portfolio containing the contract for the man he was to collect. Satisfied that all was ready, Brommel turned from the wagon and went into the Seafarer Tavern.
Breakfast waited for him at his usual table in the far corner. He sat and took his first bite of fried hash, but the vague sense that he was being watched prompted him to turn around. Above him, leaning against the second-floor railing, was his son. Though only eight years old, Rylan was often mistaken for being older, due to his height and the broadness of his shoulders. The boy was built like his father, Brommel had to admit, but the likeness ended there. Though Rylan did share the same dark complexion and onyx eyes as his father, his temperament was his mother’s, soft-spoken, pensive, and gentle to a fault. They were the qualities that had once attracted Brommel to Brielle, but now, seeing them all too clearly in his son, they served only to make Brommel bitter.
Brommel turned back to his food and took another bite.
“What are you doing hiding up there like that?” he asked, still chewing. He listened to the quiet footsteps descend the staircase and cross the floor until the boy stood beside him at the table. Brommel spared him a quick glance. “Have you eaten?”
Rylan nodded.
“Good,” replied Brommel. “I’ll be leaving shortly. Be sure to do as you’re told, and don’t slack on your chores. You know how Mrs. Peagry likes the eggs gathered early. I don’t want to hear again how you’ve dawdled. Understood?”
“Yes, Papa.” Rylan rubbed his nose. “Papa?”
Brommel tore a chunk out of the loaf of bread beside his plate and sopped up the grease with it. “Hmm?”
“Will you be gone very long this time?”
Brommel chased the bread down with a glass of milk. “No longer than usual,” he said. “Why?”
The boy’s feet shifted, the toe of one pressing against the insole of the other. His eyes were cast down so that his dark brown hair fell into his eyes.
Brommel set down his glass and considered his son a moment. At times, he was glad to leave him behind so that he would not be forced to remember the past each time he
looked at him. But other times, like today, he wished he never had to leave at all.
Reaching his brawny hands beneath Rylan’s arms, Brommel lifted the boy onto his lap. “Is it really so hard when I’m gone?” he asked gently.
Rylan shook his head. “No, Papa. I like Master Peagry, and Mouse is my friend. We like to go to the cliff together and toss stones into the waves.”
“Then why so melancholy?”
Rylan shrugged his shoulders, but a playful squeeze from Brommel brought a smile to his face. “When you’re away,” he said finally, “I dream of her, and I cry in my sleep.”
Brommel kissed the top of Rylan’s head, and then set him on his feet again. Then he reached into his pocket and held out a silver coin.
“Do you see this, Rylan? I’m going to leave this with you. When I return, it will be time for the festival. You and I will go together and use this coin to buy sweets.”
Rylan’s face lit up and a wide smile appeared on his face. “Can Mouse come, too?”
“Of course, she can come.” Brommel laid the coin in Rylan’s outstretched palm. Rylan closed his fingers around it. “Hold tight to it. Keep it safe. I’ll be back when the moon is full again.”
Brommel kissed Rylan again and watched the boy scurry happily back up the stairs to tell of his good fortune to his friend. Finishing off the last of his breakfast, he headed back out to the wagon. It didn’t take long to hitch the ox to it, and by the time the sun had cleared the tops of the Jeweled Mountains, he was ready to go.
Brommel climbed onto the wagon and took hold of the reins. The first of the morning’s merchants were just setting up their tents near the fountain at the center of town. Soon the streets of Dokur would be filled with people bartering their wares, haggling over prices, heading to this shop or another to tend to their business. Ships would be arriving from the mainland, goods unloaded and delivered, money passed from hand to hand. A few months from now, Brommel hoped to be among them selling his own commodities to the highest bidders.
Brommel scratched at the stubble on his chin. He did not find his current line of business appealing. Still, he was grateful Peagry had set him up. He had to have some means to provide for Rylan and himself.
The ox grunted as Brommel snapped the reins, and the wagon jerked into motion. The wooden wheels clacked against the cobblestone, a jarring sound against the quiet morning. As Brommel pulled away from the tavern, Rylan appeared at the door, an expression of longing on his face. Brommel gave a short wave and focused his attention on the road ahead. But try as he might, he could not clear the image of his son from his mind. The picture was seared deep into his memory.
7
“Aren't you hungry, sister?” asked Arik, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth and setting it on the table beside his empty plate.
Ivanore’s roasted pheasant and potatoes had not been touched. She had spent most of dinner staring at the candle burning in its elaborate silver candlestick, the only barrier between her and her brother. Her mind had been swirling with memories of when they were children together, playing tag in the woods near Dokur, holding hands to jump the waves on the seashore. But those days, those children, were long gone.
She blinked and glanced up at her brother’s inquiring face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say?”
Arik smiled and leaned back in his chair. A servant whisked away his plate and replaced it with a smaller dish bearing slices of fresh fruit.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But your mind seems far away tonight. Are you feeling ill, Ivy?”
She wished he wouldn’t call her that. It was so personal, the name he had called her since they were children. But he wasn’t the same boy he once was. He had changed. They both had changed.
“I—” She paused, considering what to tell him. “I do feel more tired than usual. Perhaps it’s the change in the weather.” She intentionally reached for her fork and speared a slice of now cold meat. She didn’t want Arik to think she needed a physician or worse, one of those horrible Ministry healers with his dark magic potions and incantations. She knew most of it was for show, but it still made her feel uncomfortable.
She took several bites of the pheasant and ate half her potato. Then she pushed her chair from the table. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said. “The fresh air will do me good.”
Arik narrowed his eyes, then he nodded to one of the men standing guard. He took a step forward, but Ivanore put up her hand.
“Really, Arik. You still insist on treating me like a prisoner, but where do you think I’d go? I can’t climb over the gates, can I? Or leap from some window into the sea and swim back to Imaness.” She forced an amused laugh, determined not to reveal the loathing she felt for him. “You’re so mistrustful.”
Arik nodded again at the guard, who returned to his position.
“I’ll be to your room this evening at the usual time. Be sure you’re back by then, or I’ll send an entire garrison after you.”
He said this with humor, but there was a veiled threat behind it.
Ivanore chose not to respond to Arik’s comment, but she smiled anyway and then excused herself from the table.
Auseret Castle was not as spacious, or as inviting, as the Fortress back home in Dokur. She had learned how to navigate its halls and vast rooms, which sometimes felt more like a labyrinth than a royal home. Sometimes, especially when she had first arrived, she would often stop to gaze at the monolithic sculptures that stood watch in the courtyard like guardians frozen in time. It made her feel as if the world had ceased revolving around her, that she was the only person still breathing. There was one additional statue in the great entry hall, a metallic black dragon, with wings spread apart ready to take flight. The first time she had seen it, it had given her a start, it looked so lifelike with its claws and open snout preparing to breathe fire. It wasn’t until she had hesitantly touched the cold, unyielding iron that she was finally convinced it wasn’t alive. Since then she had always avoided its piercing gaze by skirting the edge of the room when she passed. Today she followed her usual path, keeping the dragon as far out of reach as she could before arriving at the massive wooden doors that led outside to the castle courtyard. She felt relieved once she had finally closed the door behind her, leaving the dragon, Arik, and her prison behind her.
Normally, a guard would accompany her. And though Arik had not insisted this time, she knew she was being watched. Likely from the windows above. Arik or some other sentinel assigned to the duty kept a dutiful eye on her at all times. Still, she preferred to pretend she was alone.
The courtyard ran the entire length of the castle, surrounded on three sides by a high stone wall and on the fourth by a covered corridor connecting to the castle itself. The eastern wall acted as a barrier between the castle and the sea. Beyond the courtyard, west of the castle, was the kitchen’s garden. In the spring, the grounds were alive with blossoms and fragrant greens, melons and fruit, vegetables and herbs of all kinds. It was her favorite place to pass her afternoons, not only because of its beauty but because of the treasure she had discovered there the previous season. But now that winter was coming, the garden was mostly dormant, and Ivanore preferred to draw her captive’s attention away from it.
Ivanore strolled to the courtyard’s east wall and placed both palms against the rough ancient stones. They were cold to the touch, and damp. Unlike the other walls, this had a thin layer of green lichen growing over it. She loved this spot, where she could hear the protesting waves on the other side. It reminded her of Dokur and how she used to run through the waves when she was a girl, her mother and father each holding onto one of her hands, counting the seconds as each wave approached and then pulling her into the air, squealing with delight, to fly over the crest. Arik, too, loved the sea as a boy and would frequently share his treasures of sea shells and stones with her.
Ivanore rested her cheek against the wall and closed her eyes. The smell of salt and moss and centuries past re
laxed her. She drew in a deep breath and let it out very slowly.
“I would think you would prefer a pillow,” said a deep, playful voice behind her.
Ivanore spun around, more surprised than embarrassed. “Captain!”
She smoothed a stray bit of hair behind her ear and let out an easy laugh. “I was so caught up listening to the waves, I didn’t hear you approach.”
“My apologies, Milady.” Erland was Arik’s Captain of the Guard, the man responsible for training and leading the troops of Hestoria. He bowed slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on Ivanore.
Ivanore had first met Erland before Arik became Minister, when Hestoria was led by Emir. From what little she knew about him, he had started out as a soldier and had swiftly risen through the ranks. Now, Arik trusted him completely. It was Erland who carried out Arik’s orders, no matter what they entailed. He was normally out in the field with his men. Ivanore only saw him occasionally when he returned to the castle to make his reports.
“How goes it with you, Erland?” asked Ivanore, moving away from the sea wall to stroll the perimeter of the courtyard.
Erland followed beside her. “Well, Lady Ivanore, I’ve just returned from Nauvet-Carum where the Ministry hosted their autumn session.”
“Doesn’t Arik usually attend?”
“He asked that I go in his place this year.”
“He must think very highly of you then. I don’t remember Arik ever missing a session before.”
“In truth, Arik doesn’t care too much for the Ministry. Nor do they care much for him, I’ve discovered.”
Ivanore was surprised at Erland’s candid remark. She glanced at him and found that he wore a calm, playful expression in his pale brown eyes.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 3