by Cayla Kluver
“I’m going to seek out my mother,” I announced. “I have hardly spoken to her in weeks.”
While this was not my true reason for wanting to spend time with the Queen, it was accurate all the same. I had seen her only occasionally at dinner since my birthday celebration nearly a month before. We operated on vastly different schedules, and my mother existed at my father’s beck and call.
London and Tadark stood to escort me to the quarters that my mother and father shared. I knew my mother would be there, as the sun was going down and it was her habit to retire early. She jealously guarded her sleep so that there would be no circles beneath her sparkling eyes or lines upon her delicate face, for it would be unacceptable for the King to have anything less than a beautiful wife.
My parents’ quarters occupied the opposite corner of the second floor from my own, and consisted of five luxurious rooms: two primarily for my mother, two primarily for my father, and one large parlor used by both. It was thought unwise for the rulers of the kingdom to sleep beside each other at night for the simple reason that separation made it more difficult for an enemy to pose a threat.
A servant girl answered my knock.
“Is my mother in her bedroom?” I asked, glancing around the elegant room, with its cream brocade armchairs and gold velvet sofas.
“Yes, Your Highness,” she responded with a curtsey.
I entered the parlor, leaving London and Tadark in the corridor with the Queen’s personal guards, and went to rap upon her bedroom door.
“Come in,” my mother responded, her voice airy and melodic.
I opened the door to find her sitting at her dressing table, brushing her beautiful, long, honey-blond hair. She was already in her nightgown, and her personal maid had drawn the heavy velvet drapes across the window that looked out over the garden.
My mother turned with a smile, gazing at me with blue eyes that were identical to Miranna’s in every way, although their depth was currently enhanced by the rich plum color of the furnishings in her room.
“It’s good to see you, my darling. I trust Cannan’s restrictions have not been too stifling for you?”
“I’m managing,” I said, electing not to mention my escapade with Steldor. “I just wish that the mystery of the Cokyrian prisoner’s escape would be solved.”
My mother nodded sympathetically and laid the hairbrush on the table.
“Tell me what you wish to know,” she said, gliding to sit upon the bed and gesturing for me to join her, surprising me with her insight.
“Don’t look so astounded,” she lightly admonished. “I was the same way at your age—always wanting to know everything. But you mustn’t tell your father that it was I who enlightened you.”
“I won’t, Mother.” I went to sit on her velvet spread, scooting close to her. “What can you tell me about Cokyri? I mean, other than what they put in the books.”
She studied me for a moment, and I wondered if I had raised a proscribed subject.
“I’m not sure I am the one you should come to for knowledge of Cokyri. There are many who know more than I, London in particular.”
I cocked my head, a bit confused. “Why would London know so much about the enemy?”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, apparently realizing she had made reference to something about which I did not know. “It may not be my place to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She hesitated, and I feared she would not continue. With a whisper of a sigh, she relented, reaching out to push my hair away from my face.
“Years ago, toward the end of the war, London was a prisoner of the Cokyrians for almost ten months.”
My eyes widened in shock, and it was suddenly much more difficult to breathe.
“There was a ruthless battle in which our soldiers were greatly outnumbered. London was in command of the troops at the time, and when our soldiers were forced to retreat, he stayed to the end. When we went back to collect the bodies of our fallen, London was not among them, leading us to the conclusion that he had been taken for interrogation. The Cokyrians rarely took prisoners, and he is the only one who ever survived. Most of the information we have about the Overlord and the High Priestess has come from London.”
My mother’s lilting voice was sharply out of character with the nature of the topic about which she was speaking, making the story she was telling all the more unreal.
“He was a prisoner at the time the Cokyrians were stealing our children. He said they must have found what they were after, as they abruptly withdrew from our lands. All we really know is that they vacated their encampments and took flight. It was during the disarray surrounding the return of the troops to Cokyri that he managed to escape.”
“What exactly do you mean when you say he was ‘taken for interrogation’?” I asked, anticipating the worst.
“We know little of what London went through while he was in the enemy’s clutches,” she replied, patting my hand. “Those details were not something he wanted to share.”
“But did they hurt him?”
I felt ill remembering how London had spoken of the Overlord. I did not want to believe that he had incurred the warlord’s wrath, but it was inconceivable that a prisoner would not have been mistreated.
“As I said, we know very little about what he endured,” my mother repeated.
It was clear she hoped I would cease my inquiries if she refused to satisfactorily address them, but the determination in my eyes told her otherwise.
“He returned to us in a very strange state,” she continued.
“What do you mean by ‘strange’?”
“He had no physical injuries that we could see, but it took months for him to recover.”
“Well, of course it would,” I reasoned, relieved that my bodyguard and friend had not been tortured by the enemy. “It would take a while to put such an ordeal behind you.”
“Yes, it would, but that’s not the kind of recovery I’m talking about.”
She raised a hand to massage her forehead, as if encouraging the memories to surface, and I waited, bewildered, for her to carry on.
“He was terribly sick, but not from any illness that our doctors could identify. He seemed feverish, but his skin was colder than ice. He was delirious, unable to speak coherently or respond in any way to what was said to him. He screamed in agony, but our doctors could not locate a source for his pain. He ate and drank little for weeks. Our doctors bled him several times, but it made no difference, and they advised us he would die.”
She sat deep in thought for a moment.
“We can’t imagine the willpower it must have taken for him to return to Hytanica in that condition. When he regained his senses, he told us what he could, about his escape and about the Overlord. I’m afraid your father and Cannan quite besieged him, concerned he would slip back into the mysterious illness that had incapacitated him for so long. Then I suppose he needed time to come to terms with the torment he had endured. He was withdrawn for many months, but eventually returned to his former self.”
I contemplated the pattern of the woolen tapestry that blanketed the floor, trying to make sense of the information my mother had provided.
“London has never mentioned any of this to me,” I murmured.
“London is a very private person,” she said. “If you ever ask him about Cokyri, don’t let your questions become too personal. Some things are better left buried.”
I agreed, knowing that bringing up any of this with London would be uncomfortable for us both.
“Good night, Alera,” my mother said, giving me a kiss on the cheek before returning to her dressing table to resume brushing her hair. “Do not let your curiosity lead you to err.”
“Good night, Mother. And thank you.”
I left her bedroom, taking my time crossing the parlor to the door leading to the corridor. I had been so naive when I had asked London about Cokyri and the Overlord, on the night the Cokyrian woman had been discovered in th
e garden. I now understood why London never spoke of fighting in the war or his experiences with the enemy. I very much wanted to know what he had suffered, but I would never raise the subject with him. I had to accept that I might never know.
I tossed and turned in bed that night, plagued by disturbing images, my restlessness tempered only by the knowledge that Tadark and London were on duty in my parlor. London had claimed the sofa, which meant that Tadark would try to catch a few winks, rather gracelessly, in an armchair. It was usually the sound of the lieutenant’s moaning and complaining that put me to sleep, but tonight the noise was irritating rather than calming in its familiarity.
I lay in the darkness, imagining my longtime bodyguard starving in a Cokyrian dungeon, not knowing whether he would live or die. Our dungeon was a horrific place, and I dared not consider how the Cokyrians housed their captives.
He had said he’d seen the Overlord. I had been frightened by the reality that such a person existed in this world. London had faced him. He had borne his fury. Or had he?
London had not sustained any physical injuries, but had suffered from an unusual illness. Perhaps it was a Cokyrian illness—one of which Hytanicans had not heard and to which we had never been exposed. But if that were the case, the disease would have spread to everyone London had encountered, and the whole kingdom could have become infected. And London should have died. The doctors had said it. Maybe the illness was unidentified, but surely a doctor would know when someone was going to die.
As I continued to sort details out in my mind, comprehension dawned. London knew Cokyri better than anyone in Hytanica. It was implausible that someone could have seen the Overlord and not also have seen the High Priestess. He had recognized Nantilam in the garden, and had later told me who she was, then had tried to claim he was mistaken. Why would he withhold such information from the captain and the King? And if he were reluctant to reveal what he knew, why had he shared it with me? I could only presume that my pledge to maintain his confidence had made him more willing to speak than he perhaps should have been, and that he had not thought my father would permit me to attend the interrogation.
And why would he lie to me, not once, but twice? London had never lied to me before, but here, with the Cokyrians, came a side of him that I did not know or like. He had left my quarters during the night of Nantilam’s escape, and though he had tried to convince me otherwise, I knew it was true. I wanted to believe there was an explanation, but I had no faith that he would tell me even if I demanded it of him.
I came to a decision, one that made me anxious and sad, but that I judged to be right. London might lie to me, but he would not lie to his king.
The next morning, I sent word to Lanek that I wished to see my father, then visited our family chapel, which was in the East Wing just past the Queen’s Drawing Room and the Music Room. At this time of day, sunshine filtered through the stained-glass windows set high into the eastern wall of the Royal Chapel, glinting off the gilded altar and cross at the front of the room. I slid into one of the carved pews and bowed my head in unspoken prayer, soliciting strength and guidance as I carried out the decision I had reached. Then I departed, determined to see my father, London and Tadark joining me when I reentered the corridor.
I paced in the small antechamber outside the Throne Room, for I needed permission to enter. The antechamber provided a waiting area for formal audiences with the King, and was accessed by walking beneath the Grand Staircase. There were three other points of entry into the Throne Room, one next to the Captain of the Guard’s office, another by the sergeant at arms’ office, and the last through the King’s Drawing Room. The King’s Drawing Room was in the West Wing across the corridor from our private staircase and therefore gave my father easy access to the Hall of Kings from his quarters.
London and Tadark were both in unusually good moods, or perhaps it just seemed so in comparison with my own. They remained on their feet, despite the availability of several armchairs, unwilling to sit down while I remained standing, although London rested his back against a wall.
“So what time is your ‘appointment’?” London teased, referencing my father’s need for formal arrangements just to meet with his own daughter.
I gave no response, but continued pacing, feeling as though the elaborate tapestries on the walls that depicted battle scenes were telling me I ought to retreat.
“It’s rather ironic, really,” London persisted. “The Princess can’t see the King without an appointment. I suspect it would be easier for her to swim the Recorah River than to see her own father on short notice.”
Tadark chuckled, then snapped his head around, apparently to check that no one had seen him acting less than dignified while on duty.
London was more relaxed than he had been the previous afternoon in the library, and it pained me to be in his presence in light of what I was about to do. The military was his whole life. Was I prepared to destroy that? I shook my head. London would have a good explanation for everything, and if he didn’t…then he had destroyed his life himself.
Deciding I was in no mood to reciprocate his teasing, London moved on to his new pastime—antagonizing Tadark. While this was entertaining for both London and me, Tadark did not appreciate the pursuit.
Just when my younger guard had finally conceived of a retort to a rather unkind comment of London’s, the doors to the Hall of Kings were pulled open, and I was motioned inside by one of the Palace Guards who stood just over the threshold. I felt weak as I entered, aware that this was my last chance to turn from my decision, but no matter how I felt about what I had come to do, I believed I did not have a choice.
London and Tadark remained outside for the second time in two days while I stepped up to speak to one of my parents. I curtseyed upon approaching my father where he sat upon his throne, my eyes falling on the royal coat of arms that hung on the wall behind him. Banners in the kingdom’s colors of royal-blue-and-gold framed the imposing shield, which was divided into quadrants. The top section of the shield was red with a golden lion to symbolize courage, a quality I definitely needed right now. The right section was purple with a silver moon for justice, reminding me that I was relying on my father to be fair. A blue tear upon gold in the bottom section encouraged me to trust in my father’s usually kind nature. The final section of the shield consisted of a falcon on a blue background for loyalty, a characteristic I had always believed London to possess and that I hoped he would now display.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” my father asked, his brown eyes warm and bright, and I knew at once what he was expecting me to address, like a rush of cold wind hitting me in the face.
“It has nothing to do with choosing a husband or with Steldor,” I told him, not wanting to address that topic.
His face fell, and he lost a bit of his good humor. “Well, then, what can be so pressing as to seek me out at this time of day? You know I have a busy schedule, Alera.”
“I think you’ll find this of greater importance than today’s business, Father,” I asserted, twining my fingers.
His eyebrows drew together. “Is everything all right? You’re rather pale, my dear.”
I took a steadying breath before inquiring, “How close are you to identifying the traitor?”
“How do you know about that?” my father demanded.
“Word travels. The guards suspect each other.”
“Still, this is not your worry. You needn’t be afraid within the palace, and you should not concern yourself with the military’s business.”
“Father, please. Do you know who he is?”
He exhaled heavily. “No, we do not. But we will find him…if in fact there is a traitor. Do not fret, Alera. Cannan is taking care of everything.”
My eyes passed over the Elite Guards who stood in their usual formation, six on each side of the King.
“Could we talk privately, Father?”
“If that is what you wish.”
He stood, p
uzzled, and stepped down from the dais, motioning me through the door beside the thrones that led into his study.
My father’s study was warm and inviting, if a bit cluttered. On our left as we entered, shelves overflowed with books, and a mahogany desk, littered with parchments, was straight ahead. Against the wall to the right was a brown leather sofa, upon which were strewn even more books. The near right corner of the room was occupied by a fireplace, and several armchairs sat haphazardly in front of the hearth. In the far corner, between the sofa and the desk, was a table that currently held my father’s prized chess set. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, and furs strewn on the floor provided softness beneath our feet.
I crossed the study and sat on the sofa, my palms moist from nervousness. My father gathered the books and dropped them on the floor with a resounding thud, then sat beside me, waiting for me to speak.
“London left me alone in my quarters on the night of the Cokyrian woman’s escape,” I began, without any preliminaries.
“What?” he exclaimed. “Are you certain?”
“I woke up during the night and London was gone. I called for him—he was not there.”
“You have no doubt of this?”
“I am certain, Father,” I confirmed, feeling somewhat queasy. “I would not have come to you if I were not.”
“He knew he was not to leave you. Why did you not tell me this sooner?”
“Because London is my bodyguard and my friend. I was afraid of what might happen to him if I did.”
My father laid a hand upon my own to quiet them, as I had been clasping and unclasping them in my lap.
“And you no longer fear for him?”
“I fear for him,” I said, head bowed. “But I could no longer keep this from you.”
“Have you spoken of this to London?”
“He lied to me, Father,” I said disconsolately, raising my head to gaze upon his troubled countenance. “I know he left, but he claimed he was with me all night. He said I must have been dreaming.”
“Perhaps he is right. In any event, it is your word against his. Royal or not, you are a woman, and London is a highly respected soldier of Hytanica.”