Dark Lords of Epthelion Trilogy:Warrior Queen of Ha-Ran-Fel, A Dark Moon Rises, Castle of Blood

by Sandra Kopp

  “I suspect she thought she defended your honor against some perceived insult on my part.” Merewyn smiled nervously. “Coming from a foreign country and without my parents’ guidance after I came of age, I sometimes lack social sensitivities.” She looked at him earnestly. “Tell me, my lord. Did something I said or did offend you? For I still wonder why you left me so abruptly.”

  Ruelon pulled in a deep, uneven breath. “’Twas nothing more than a foolish thought in an old man’s mind. I thought it best to leave before it surfaced.”

  “I don’t believe you capable of such thoughts.”

  “Do not deify me, Merewyn. I am just a man, possessing all the weaknesses, failings, and lusts that plague the basest of us.”

  Merewyn shifted uncomfortably at the sternness in his tone. “I speak truthfully. I find your conduct above reproach, but sometimes feel you speak too highly of me.”

  “Like you, I speak the truth.” Ruelon smiled wistfully. “I fear, however, I put too great a burden upon your young shoulders.”

  “When I asked to join you, I knew the way would be hard. I expected no less than this.” Merewyn rose from the chair and knelt beside him. “I am privileged beyond words to hold a place in your ranks.”

  “Up, up.” Ruelon gently raised her to her feet and back to her chair. “I didn’t bring you here as my servant.” He leaned forward and took both her hands in his, studying for a moment the delicate fingers cradled lightly between his large calloused hands. Raising his head, he earnestly searched her face. “Merewyn, you are young and beautiful. When first you came I loved you as a daughter, but my love for you runs so much deeper now my heart can scarce contain it.” His gaze intensified as he squeezed her hands. “You truly are a warrior queen, worthy of the throne of Ha-Ran-Fel. I offer you this throne, along with my heart. Merewyn, I beg you, share my life as my queen, my pride, and my joy.”

  Merewyn’s eyes welled, and she rapidly blinked to keep the tears from spilling over. “My lord! As a warrior I might have some worth—but a queen?”

  “My queen.” Ruelon paused. “However, upon my passing Attalia must inherit the kingdom. But I will make provision that you never lack for anything after I die.”

  “Do not speak of death, my lord.”

  “It claims us all at the time ordained. But I agree: let us speak now of life and love.”

  “I hardly know what to say, my lord. I never expected such an honor.”

  “The honor is mine, Merewyn.” Ruelon’s blue eyes shone with such tenderness she melted. But a thousand thoughts raced through her mind. As queen, she would also be Ruelon’s wife. As wife, she might also become a mother. She could not refuse the king, but how could she fight with a child in her womb?

  Zithri. If anyone would know, Zithri would; dared Merewyn delay her answer until she could speak to her?

  Ruelon studied her intently. “I know that killing the puppet concerns you foremost. I promise you will accomplish that. Your sword will topple him off Valhalea’s throne.”

  A mixture of indescribable love, desire, elation, and warmth washed over Merewyn. Again she knelt and pressed his hand, first to her lips and then to her forehead. “I will be honored to be your queen—and bear your children, if Providence allows.”

  His strong arms encircled her and pulled her onto his lap. Merewyn relaxed and allowed him to mold her body to his. His beard brushed her face, and she quivered with excitement as his mouth searched for hers. Her free hand traveled up his arm, stopping above the elbow, and she nestled into his shoulder as their lips locked in a long and passionate kiss.

  WARRIOR QUEEN OF HA-RAN-FEL

  Merewyn stood before the mirror in her chamber, watching the transformation taking place. Already she scarcely recognized herself. Zithri and Attalia hovered around her, fussing over every detail.

  “Everything must and will be perfect,” Zithri told her firmly.

  “How can I reply? I never could argue with you,” Merewyn conceded with a smile.

  “When you become queen I shall be yours to command,” Zithri said.

  “When I become queen, you shall answer only to the king, as will I,” Merewyn returned, and noted from Attalia’s expression that she approved that response.

  The preparations for her marriage to King Ruelon continued as Zithri and Attalia dressed her in her bridal attire. First, a long woolen skirt dyed a silvery olive green, its hem a golden yellow topped by a narrow band of red. A wavy pattern of white crested with red divided the hem from the green sea above it. Over this, a red-violet jacket with full sleeves. Beautiful ornaments of fine hammered gold adorned its bottom, the edges of its sleeves, and the outer side of each sleeve. A narrow belt of light blue leather studded with silver encircled her waist, and from this hung a pouch containing a small round mirror.

  Attalia fastened a string of milky blue beads around Merewyn’s neck while Zithri attached her earrings, each a gold circular plate from which hung four small rings. Next, a pair of red boots made of fine soft leather decorated across the tops with cross-shaped pieces of gold. Zithri pulled Merewyn’s long hair behind her, smoothed, and then plaited it into a loose two-stranded braid, which she folded under itself and fastened with a gold barrette. A long train of red velvet edged with the same ornamentation as the jacket topped the final article, a tall tiara covered with gold.

  For several moments after they finished, Merewyn stared at her reflection. A tangle of emotions—anticipation, elation, and fear—filled her heart to bursting. Her eyes misted as she considered what the coming night might bring.

  Zithri and Attalia stood behind her, smiling. In their wedding finery, they looked as splendid as she, Merewyn thought. Zithri wore a floor-length skirt and long-sleeved tunic, both tan and richly embellished with white stripes overlaid with red and pale blue triangles. A pouch and mirror hung from the wide belt encircling her waist, and her thick black hair, normally braided, tumbled down her back in long, loose waves.

  Attalia wore a gown and slippers made of royal blue velvet elaborately embroidered with gold thread. She had rolled her long red-gold hair into a beautiful coiffure not unlike those once worn by Valhalea’s higher-classed women. A tiny but elegant jeweled crown completed the ensemble.

  How strange, Merewyn thought, to become stepmother to a maiden nearly her own age! Her gaze shifted to Zithri’s reflection, and a crimson flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

  “I’ll go now.” Attalia went to the door. “When Father is ready I’ll return for you.”

  Zithri acknowledged with a nod and moved to Merewyn’s side.

  “How will I talk to her?” Merewyn asked, gesturing helplessly toward the now-closed door.

  “As you do now.” Surprise and sharpness filled Zithri’s voice. “She’s the king’s daughter, not yours. You’ve no experience of life to talk to her as a mother would. Afford her the respect due a king’s daughter, and she’ll afford you the honor due her father’s wife—the king will ensure it.”

  “I seek no honor for myself.”

  “Hold to that thought and you will do well.” Zithri fell silent as Merewyn, turning her attention to the mirror again, shyly reached up to touch the tiara.

  “You look quite different now, do you not?” Zithri put her arm around Merewyn’s shoulders.

  Merewyn nodded.

  “Didn’t I tell you your road would take a new direction and that you advanced to a higher calling?”

  Again Merewyn nodded. “I would never have believed this. It all happened so fast. Scarcely a fortnight has passed since we returned from battle and now. . .now I will become queen.” She turned to Zithri. “You seemed to know.”

  Zithri gave a little shrug and smiled. “King Ruelon, his first wife not easily replaced, remained alone most of Attalia’s life.” She paused and then continued slowly, “I think that in many ways you remind him of his former queen. I thought of her the first time I saw you riding Windrunner.”

  “Ah,” Merewyn said softly. “I have some
high expectations to fulfill.”

  “Be yourself, Merewyn. You can never be the prior queen, just as no one else can ever be you. Ruelon sought someone courageous and kind, and he has found that in you.” Zithri returned her focus to Merewyn’s reflection. “Do you understand the meaning of the colors in your attire?”

  “No.” Merewyn shook her head. “In my land, a virgin bride dresses all in white to signify her purity.”

  “Ah, but this is Ha-Ran-Fel and you are queen.” Zithri ran her finger along the side of Merewyn’s skirt. “As queen you represent the land itself. The green signifies the fertile steppes covered with rich, tall grass.” She moved on, gesturing toward or touching each article as she described it. “The yellow hem represents the gold beneath the rushing waters of the Elgar River, and the white waves above it are the river’s whitecaps. The red bands stand for the rich veins of ore which supply the metals for our weapons. The purplish hue of your jacket signifies royalty, and your blue belt the calmer waters of the Nomadic River flowing through the midst of your realm. The blue stones adorning your neck depict the open sky with windblown clouds resembling the tails of running horses. The golden tiara declares your royal station and rightful place at King Ruelon’s right hand. And the red train—” Zithri paused and gently fingered the cascading velvet—“signifies both life and death—our blood spilled in battle and also life returned to us by spilling—and drinking—our enemies’ blood. This is Ha-Ran-Fel. . .and at its heart is you, our queen.”

  Drinking blood! Merewyn gulped. She drew a shaky breath, blinking rapidly to stem the tide of tears now welling up. “My future overwhelms me,” she whispered.

  Zithri gave her an affectionate hug. “As I’ve said before, I say again: you will do well. I am proud to have known you, Merewyn Havalseth. You are a worthy consort to our king and will rule with wisdom and compassion.”

  Merewyn smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re a good friend to me—nay, you are my sister. I am very happy and very blessed.”

  She squeezed Zithri’s hand. The two embraced.

  Attalia knocked softly and opened the door. “My father awaits.”

  Merewyn released Zithri and turned. “I’m ready.”

  They left the chamber then and joined the entourage of noblewomen assembled in the hall to conduct the bride to her waiting groom.

  The storms that had pummeled Tagenryd not a fortnight before had passed. The winds had stilled, and the grudging sky relented and drew back its dreary curtains to let the sun beam its blessing upon the celebration below. A good omen, many villagers said, for Heaven itself to smile upon the union of their beloved king and his young bride. That Merewyn lacked at least twenty-five years on Ruelon mattered not. Such arrangements often occurred among the nobility. And as king, Ruelon could choose whichever maiden he desired. The villagers deemed his choice both obvious and understandable. The maiden, not only very beautiful and an able warrior, had saved the king’s life at Ptarmania.

  Merewyn’s relationship to one of Ha-Ran-Fel’s most loyal and trusted allies also worked in her favor. The elders who had fought alongside Ruelon in the last war still remembered the thoughtful but stalwart Valhalean who had aided them in their darkest hour. He and those with him came as equals, with none of the pomposity or disdain with which so many Valhaleans regarded the peoples outside their borders. Ruelon wished to retain him as his chief advisor. Havalseth might have accepted but for his delicate wife who, struggling with a difficult pregnancy, refused to leave her homeland and family. That day Havalseth, the man, had departed Ha-Ran-Fel. This day, Havalseth, the maiden, would become its queen.

  The wedding day dawned bright and clear and warmer than previous days. The courtyards teemed with well-wishers eager for their first glimpse of their new queen. Most already knew by sight the solemn and subdued Valhalean maiden with the colorful, fleet-footed steed she rode so expertly she seemed a part of it.

  The ceremony began at eleven o’clock. A dozen elite warriors positioned themselves in two lines on either side of the palace’s double doors. A wizened old man named Benuel, who had served as both advisor and physician to King Ruelon and his father, took his place to the right of the doors. The guard at the end of the right-hand line signaled to another guard in the watch tower, and the deep, mellow tones of Tagenryd’s great horn sounded.

  The palace doors opened. King Ruelon, wearing his sword and crown and splendidly arrayed in a tunic and cape of royal blue edged with hammered gold, emerged with Merewyn on his arm. Aethelion and Attalia followed, and after them Hamiel and Zithri. Aethelion carried a cushion covered with red velvet upon which rested Merewyn’s crown. Hamiel brought the diamond-encrusted gold band that Ruelon would place on her finger.

  The men stood next to and a step behind the king, the women likewise beside Merewyn. The crowd’s cheers melded with the horn’s rich tones. Merewyn blushed, subduing her smile as best she could as she gazed out over the crowd. She felt she should acknowledge in some way, but Zithri and Attalia had both charged her to do nothing until bidden by the king. And so she stood, her left hand tucked securely in the crook of Ruelon’s right arm, smiling shyly while the king raised his other arm, turning slowly from side to side in response to the crowd’s ovation. At Benuel’s signal, the end guard raised his hand. The horn fell silent; the crowd hushed. Ruelon began to speak.

  “My people. . .noble citizens of Ha-Ran-Fel. I stand before you this day to pledge anew that I will fight to my last breath to protect this realm and its people—and I present to you now a young woman, Merewyn Havalseth, who already has proven herself worthy to be our queen. At Ptarmania, she fought valiantly beside us and saved my life. Before that, she stood in the breach between our brothers at Stanslav and Ryadok’s beast, willing to sacrifice her own life so our children could live. With many such acts has she shown kindness and compassion to our people, as did her father, Jonah Havalseth, before her. We will never forget him.”

  The king turned his tender gaze upon his bride-to-be. “Merewyn has graciously consented to be my wife and your queen.”

  The crowd applauded wildly, and Merewyn could no longer hold back a radiant smile as she turned to look up at him. Ruelon smiled back and squeezed her hand.

  Benuel stepped forward. The crowd quieted as he took his place before the royal couple.

  “Ruelon Aram-Turien, mighty and beloved king of Ha-Ran-Fel, we have heard again your pledge to protect and defend this land and its people. We now bear witness to the vows you will exchange with this young woman, Merewyn Havalseth, whom you take this day as your wife and the queen of this realm. Do you pledge, before God and those assembled here, your love, devotion, and fidelity to her and her alone?”

  The warmth of Ruelon’s gaze upon Merewyn resembled summer sun upon a grassy meadow. “I do so pledge.”

  “Will you stand by her through all the uncertainties of life, and cherish her above the most priceless treasures of Ha-Ran-Fel?”

  Ruelon’s voice trembled with emotion. “I will cherish her as I cherish my own flesh and blood, for indeed she is part of me.”

  Merewyn trembled. Throughout her budding womanhood she had so wanted to be loved, and now fate had joined her to a man—no mere man, but a mighty king!—who adored her.

  She pulled in an uneven breath as Benuel turned to her.

  “Merewyn Havalseth, do you now pledge, before God and those assembled here, your love, devotion and fidelity to Ruelon Aram-Turien, king of Ha-Ran-Fel, whom you take this day as your husband?”

  “I do so pledge.”

  “And will you cherish him and stand by him through all the uncertainties of this life, and through the dark days ahead?”

  “I will treasure him above all I hold dear, and walk with him through the darkest night to meet head on whatever fate awaits us.” Merewyn’s throaty voice floated over the crowd.

  Hamiel approached and, bowing to the king, presented the ring, which Ruelon placed on Merewyn’s finger.

  Aethelion st
epped forward next and bowed, first to Ruelon and Merewyn, and then to Benuel. As he presented the crown to Benuel, Attalia and Zithri stepped forward, removed the train from Merewyn’s tiara, and fastened it with hooks to her jacket’s shoulders. Attalia took the tiara from Merewyn’s head. Zithri placed a cushion before her, and Merewyn knelt.

  “Merewyn Havalseth, I crown you this day before God and these witnesses, Queen of Ha-Ran-Fel.” Benuel placed the crown upon her head and stepped back. “And I pronounce this couple man and wife.”

  Ruelon held out his hand to Merewyn, and she took it between her own and kissed it. For a moment he stood over her, his golden crown gleaming in the winter sun and his face glowing with indescribable love. Her liquid eyes rose to meet his as she gently caressed his palm. His hand tightened over hers.

  “Arise, Merewyn Havalseth Aram-Turien, Warrior Queen of Ha-Ran-Fel!”

  The thunderous shout must have shaken Myamina’s very foundation. Ruelon lifted Merewyn to her feet and held her close while cries of “Long live Ruelon, King!” and “Long live Queen Merewyn!” reverberated off the Alpenfels and rang out across the steppe.

  Tears of joy welled in Merewyn’s eyes. In that single moment, the chains of bitterness, loneliness, and lust for vengeance fell away, broken by unspeakable love and happiness, and as she basked within the protective circle of her husband’s arms, Merewyn wished with all her heart that they might yet have peace.

  PART VI

  WAR!

  THE GATHERING STORM

  March

  Clanging steel marked the passage of time. Throughout the winter the Horse Lords prepared, increasing their store of weapons and honing skills already polished to perfection.

  Merewyn trained ceaselessly with bow, dagger, and sword. Her body ached. She felt she would drop from sheer exhaustion. But her eye grew sharper, her muscles harder, her movements swifter and more fluid; and every night she snuggled deep into Ruelon’s broad chest, encircled by his strong arms, while he lulled her to sleep with gentle caresses and whispered words of tender love.