“That’s precisely what I want to do,” she replied. “And I will.” She searched for a simpler solution. Something more certain. “I will return to the redbuds and wait for Ryon and Jesse. We’ll hide in the forest. We’ll—”
“Hide away when we are so close?” The disbelief on the prince’s face made Tess ashamed of herself. But had she anything to be ashamed of? What was it he had said that night? She didn’t understand the world . . .
“How close are we, Your Highness?” She pulled her arm away. “And if we finally find the Thane’s Hold, and I have no notion of how to make use of it or the shenìl, what then? What can we possibly do against a murderous magician and the entire Atheonian army?” The aching feeling of the first night of the wedding festival returned to Tess. She saw Aideen’s dying look of hope, placing all her cares on Tess’s shoulders. It was too much to ask of her; she was not even the princess, let alone the queen. How could she ever fulfill her duty to a talisman so hastily given to her, with so little thought to her own consent? Was she to be made responsible for an entire dione by a prince who did not want her on the throne, and a queen who warned her not to wield the very object she was forced to protect?
Linden clenched his good fist. His manner became stiff. “Madame, you confuse me. It was your errand, if you remember—not mine—to find the Thane’s Hold. Now am I to understand our efforts are in vain?”
Tess stood and turned away, shaking all over. She had no answer. Failure leered at her from every corner. And her family’s peril frightened her almost to the point of collapse.
“Young one,” Osiris rumbled kindly. “Only evil comes of forgetting one’s duty. Lend yer ear, now.” She looked into his enormous, feeling eyes, filling her with more shame. But she knew she could never make Osiris proud the way King Wallis did.
“Duty,” she whispered, holding her shaking arms. “I cannot tell you how tired I am of that word.”
Linden shook his head and dropped the old parchment on Tess’s chair. “This is more than a matter of duty, my lady,” he said. “It is a matter of love.”
Tess drew a sharp breath. “A matter of love for whom?”
“For your queen and country,” he answered. “For your family.”
They stared at each other.
A sudden flurry of activity at the open window by the pantry punctured the tension.
“Miss Tessamine Canyon?” came a chorus of exceedingly high voices.
“Who’s there?” Tess said, startled.
In an untidy little line at the top of the back wall, a handful of bluebirds blinked and bowed and tilted their quick heads.
“We have come from the Birch Grove with a message for the sister of Master Ryon Canyon of the FOM.” Their voices hummed against the warm walls of Den Five.
“Forgive me.” Tess forced herself to concentrate on these visitors and walked past Linden toward the pantry. “The FOM?”
“Friends of the Militia.” The bluebirds chirped with enthusiasm. “We are the Stitchipeeps, founding members, sent to inform you the FOM has permission to aid the Glademontians in their plight. Master Ryon has much to do in preparation. He sends his apologies.”
“Oh.” She stepped to the wall, baffled. “But what does he intend to do?”
The Stitchipeeps blinked and bowed and tilted their heads. “Master Ryon goes to battle with the FOM.”
Tess tried to say something several times, but nothing came. So the Stitchipeeps continued with a postscript: “Jesse the Rushing also sends a message. ‘Follow the path of the shenìl, and remain in hope.’”
Tess frowned, keenly aware of Prince Linden’s piercing gaze at her back. “Thank you. Please tell Master Ryon I am safe.” Tess tried to sound more confident than she felt.
Linden stepped forward. “Friends,” he said, color rushing to his cheeks. “Inform Prince Currant of the Birch Herd that Linden is here with Lady Tessamine, and that I will join him as quickly as I can.”
The bluebirds bobbed while Tess stared at the prince with half bewilderment, half residual resentment.
“Farewell,” the birds sang. And as quickly as they appeared, the Stitchipeeps zipped out of sight.
Tess felt a hollow anxiety in her chest as she stood in the awkward silence of Den Five. Just when she thought she had laid a course, the earth shifted beneath her again. Was there nowhere she could hide from this horrible mess? Her world had not stopped exploding into graver and graver plight since she had arrived at her wedding festival. And while everyone around her rose to the occasion with unlimited courage, Tess could hardly keep her head from swimming. It seemed that ultimately she was expected to rescue her home from ruin, and yet no one believed she could do it. Even her young brother was taking matters into his own hands.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, and practically sprinted from the room.
Chapter 30
Tess pried open the green window of her loft and tossed her riding boots out. Pulling herself through the window, she breathed in the morning mist and stepped into her boots on the soggy forest floor. The Hinge was quiet and breezy. Its multitude of distinct, ancient trees stood at respectable distances from one another, reluctant to mingle.
She listened for a moment, wary of birds, then ventured underneath a sugar maple, where the rain had covered the ground with yellow-orange pointed leaves. Sunlight streamed through bare branches and landed on Tess’s shoulders as she leaned against the maple’s rippling trunk. With a sigh, Tess closed her eyes and brought her hands to her heart.
Red star of wisdom, point out my path, she prayed, already bitter at the silence that would follow.
A reluctant tear splashed onto her knuckles. Why couldn’t things go back to the way they were? She wished the skies would speak to her as plainly as Wyndeling or Ryon did.
Some time passed like this, with Tess fingering her trinket, brooding against the sugar maple, and glaring at the indifferent sky. Finally, moving to return to Den Five, she heard a familiar voice that sent her heartbeat erupting into her ears.
“I’m not so sure those little birds can do much against Nabal’s army,” Tynaiv said, leaning against the maple’s trunk.
Tess gaped. And just as she regained her breath, Tynaiv sprang forward and shoved the bowl of a warm pipe against her collarbone. He pressed a finger against his lips.
“Let me be,” Tess threatened in a deep, confident register. “Or I will call my friends. You’re lucky to have lived this long.”
“A bear couldn’t fit through that little hole, Tess. Neither would the good prince, I should think. He is so athletic, by the way.” He grinned, released her, and took a few puffs from his pipe, this time smelling of licorice. “Excellent physical abilities. He had me bound for at least a full minute.” He retreated to the maple trunk, eyes twinkling.
Tess tried to relax her shoulders. She was unarmed, but the shenìl lay in her left hand, prickling her skin. She wondered what that meant.
Tynaiv eyed her hand. “The most sensible choice for both of us is for you to come with me.” Three cuts from Wyndeling’s talons shone bright red on his cheek—the one without the dimple.
“I will not.” Tess’s black hair fell across her face as she spoke. For a moment, Tynaiv stared at the strands, leaning against the maple, and flicked ashes onto the marigold leaves. Clearing his throat, he finally roused himself.
“Nevertheless—” He moved toward her.
“I’ll use it,” Tess said, retreating, but showing him the shenìl. Tynaiv paused, his face darkening.
“You still believe you are doing the right thing? Helping Aideen dethrone Nabal and bringing war on your dione?”
“War is already upon Glademont.” Tess fell back another step. “And it was in no way summoned by Queen Aideen.”
“Ha.” He advanced.
“You are a foreigner,” Tess said. “You know nothing of Glademo
nt.”
“Oh, are your royals so different? Incapable of deception?” snapped Tynaiv. “Your queen feigns illness and smuggles her precious talisman out of the country using an innocent girl, while the prince prepares an army.” He puffed, agitated.
Tess felt the shenìl prickle against her squeezing palm, crackling on her skin like kernels of popcorn in a pan.
“You cannot fool me again. You deal in deceit.”
The seaman peered at Tess, smoke clouding his face. “Have I ever broken a promise to you, my lady? Have I paraded you before a crowd only to abandon you?”
A frightening wound burned in Tess’s heart. It was too cruel, to put into words the hurt Prince Linden had caused.
“That is deceitful,” he said. “That is the way of the royals. They are governed by gluttony and snobbery. Your parents have been filling your head with cute little lies to justify their worship of greedy infants. I watched you dance with that girl from Wallaton. Do you remember her?” Tess did not reply, afraid of what he would say next. He leaned toward her. “I asked around about that girl, Belle, and her mother. Do you know who they are? The mother is the niece of none other than Queen Aideen herself.” He paused, searching for Tess’s reaction. She struggled to deny him the pleasure. “Aideen abandoned her family in Wallaton when she became princess. She left them to their poverty, ordering they never speak of their connection, erasing all memory of her tainted ancestry.”
“Your ignorance astounds me. Our queens are never of royal blood. The dione lauds her Commoner Queens.”
“And yet, vain pride need not be inherited. She was ashamed, my lady. Your royals are not so egalitarian as you’d like to think. Why else would Prince Linden choose a noblewoman such as you?”
“You don’t know that any of this is true.” Tess strained to keep her voice steady. “They are nothing but vicious lies.” But in her memory she saw that pleasant crease under Queen Aideen’s lower lip, a mark that exactly matched the smile of Belle’s mother. There was a chance—a small chance—he was telling the truth.
Tynaiv put a hand on a low branch and rested his head against his bicep. “I know the ways of royals far better than you think,” he said. “I am a prince, Tess.”
He looked away as droplets fell from the treetops in a quiet breeze. Tess’s lips parted, but no words came. Tynaiv continued while Tess stared at his sandy knotted hair and large shoulders.
“My parents sold me to an enemy kingdom as part of a peace treaty. As security.” He allowed the words to sink in. “I had two older brothers . . . and I was disposable. On the ship, en route to a life as a national trophy, I jumped overboard and swam to a pirate ship.” Tess shook her head, wishing she could unhear these things. She didn’t want to know him better. She felt herself becoming entangled, involved. He was inviting her into his inner circle, sharing in a way Prince Linden never had.
Tynaiv emptied his pipe. “Every new continent, every new kingdom or dione I’ve seen since . . . all the same. The people trust those who reign, and their lives go up in smoke.”
Tess squeezed the shenìl against her stomach. “If you truly believed that,” she said, her voice cracking, “you would not serve Nabal.”
“I serve no one, and no one serves me,” Tynaiv said with surprising calm. “Nabal is a pawn in Pider’s game, and I owe Pider a considerable favor. He can call Nabal off, convince him not to take Glademont if you give him what he wants.” Confidently, he stepped over an exposed root and came to Tess. He reached around her neck, pushing her hair behind her shoulder with the back of his hand. He held her arm, just as he had done the night before. “Come with me to hand it over, and my debt will be paid. Your life will be your own again. No royals, no war, no duty except to your own heart.”
At Tynaiv’s touch, Tess felt her face and neck warm.
“I know you think me an insolent pirate, Tess. I speak my mind. But I refuse to watch you be used—by anyone. I haven’t stopped searching for you since we met. I worry that—”
A gruff voice came from behind the prominent mound and small stacked chimney that marked Den Five.
“General? Are yeh there?” The sound of clinking metal and heavy boots could be heard approaching.
Tess stopped breathing. This was it. She would be taken and the shenìl would be in Pider’s possession by sunset. Tynaiv stared at the shenìl in her hand, but he did not move. The boots and clinking grew closer.
“General, Counselor Pider sends for yeh. . . .” Horses nickered.
“Here, gentlemen,” Tynaiv called out in an authoritative tone. Tynaiv looked at Tess, her green-orange eyes glossy with fear. “Will you come?” he whispered.
Part III
Chapter 31
On the fifth night since the wedding festival, Glademont Castle looked haggard. Pider’s men had stripped its decorations from the gates, and only shredded garlands and tattered banners remained. Among the carefully tended hedges outside the castle stood a mass of tents, where several dozen rough men meandered under the shadow of the outer wall. They were mostly mercenaries—hired thieves and criminals released from Atheonian dungeons. Many had been in the employ of the bird they knew as Smooth Crow for some time. They loitered at the foot of the castle in the mountain, tossing half-eaten jerky in the shrubs and rolling their cigarettes.
Removed from this brood stood an elaborate tent tucked between three old pines. Inside, four esteemed Atheonians crowded around a smattering of drawings, weighted down by a fat candle. Lord Cojab and Lord Silverear waited for their sovereign, King Agthew Nabal, to speak first. A coal-black crow cawed on Nabal’s shoulder. Finally, the king shook his head and stroked the beads braided into his coarse beard.
“We don’t know how to get to her private room,” he muttered. “This rendering is incomplete, Counselor.”
“As I’ve said,” the crow replied, “General Tynaiv was discovered before he could explore the entire castle.” Pider’s stony, sightless eyes reflected the candle’s flame. “But your men can easily find their way to the royal chambers once they breach the interior gates.”
“That Glademont vixen is setting another trap for me. I can feel it.” Nabal hammered a hairy fist on the table, rattling the mail shirt on his bare chest. “But she can’t outwit me. There isn’t a scheme on this continent I can’t sniff out. I sit on a throne I paid for with blood, and I’ll spill more to keep it.”
“My wise and lordly king”—the words oozed from Pider’s beak—“Aideen deserves nothing less than a criminal’s execution. But remember you have promised to keep her alive in order to be questioned. We must know the extent of her influence in Atheos. We must be wary of future rebellion at home.”
“The people are calling for her death, Counselor,” the king growled. “I want her head at my feet and her body left to the vultures.” Nabal reached for the handle of a worn war axe. Its short, broad double blades glinted, revealing carefully chiseled grooves to channel the blood of its victims. Above these jutted a long spearhead. The weapon never left Nabal’s reach, neither at the table nor in his bed.
“Your wrath inspires, my king,” Pider said as he preened a waxy feather.
“My king,” said the one called Cojab, “I must intervene.” He wore no beaded beard, but rather an extraordinarily long mustache, which twisted and curled around an angular jaw. Slicked hair hugged his knobby head, ending in a long, thin braid. Several stains marred his yellow military sash, and he pulled at the lapel of his embroidered coat in an effort to hide them. He adjusted his legs in a chair far smaller than those to which he was accustomed.
“It has been weeks since we left Atheos on this . . . errand. You have taken my counsel in the past.” Cojab shot a glance at the crow. “Hear me now, I beg you. Let us burn the castle and return home. This is no place for our kind. We are used to a higher form of civilization, are we not? The people here are simple, lazy. There is no order, no discipline. Peas
ants and farmers and merchants, able to come and go as they please—”
“I could not help but notice, Lord Cojab,” Pider interrupted, “your disdain for simple folk. May I remind you of the origins of your own, rightful king?”
Cojab turned pale.
Nabal stood, the blade of his axe digging into the table. “The aristocracy exists to serve the people, you overeducated, fat worm.” A web of threatening creases formed on Nabal’s brow. Cojab and Silverear glanced at each other, fidgeting.
“Forget your place again,” their king continued, “and no amount of reading or writing, lands or money, will save you from my axe.” Nabal raised the tip of his weapon against Cojab’s neck. “You aristocrats think you can wriggle your way off the battlefield? No, Cojab. You will fight. All you dainty old men will fight, by the skies. Atheos has slumbered long enough.”
From Nabal’s shoulder, Pider cocked his black head at the lords, his frosted gaze shifting. “Atheos will rise like a mighty storm, my king.”
With weepy, sunken eyes, Silverear glared at the crow. His hair lay plastered to a sweaty brow, and his yellow sash barely stretched across his heaving midriff.
“A storm has been brewing in Atheos for some time,” Silverear said in a thin tone. “And I fear it will destroy much more than Glademont.”
Nabal looked hard at Lord Silverear. “Speak plainly, man. You would leave Aideen in her ivory tower to strike at us again? Whenever she wishes?”
Silverear swallowed, wiping his neck with his sleeve. “Much has changed in Atheos, Your Majesty.” He looked meaningfully at Pider. “I simply hope our kingdom does not overreach itself.”
“Out,” Nabal bellowed. “You sniveling comfort seekers.”
Cojab and Silverear rose, bowed stiffly, then hurried from the royal tent. As they left, another Atheonian strutted through the entrance, wearing a general’s blue sash and carrying a pipe.
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