Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Oraeyn gave a shout of joy and raced to the boy’s side.

  “Yole!”

  He put an arm around the lad and helped him sit down on a nearby bench. “I never thought to see you again.”

  Yole managed a wan smile. “You very nearly never did.”

  Kamarie knelt down and peeled back Yole’s pant-leg, revealing a deep, red gash. She set down her pack and pulled out clean cloth and began wrapping it around the wound.

  “What happened after we left?” Oraeyn asked. “Where is Thorayenak?”

  Yole’s mouth twisted, his face crumpling in heavy sorrow. “After he urged the rest of you to run, Thorayenak and I returned to battle with the whyvrens. We held them at bay as long as we could, but they wounded me and... they killed Thorayenak. They must have believed I was dead as well, for as soon as we had both fallen, they raced away in the direction you had gone. I tried to follow, fearing that they would catch you, but I could not find any trace of your path. I wandered for a long time with no notion of where I was, lost and confused. Then, yesterday morning, the clouds parted and daylight shone through the trees. I found the path once more and made my way to the palace. I had no way of finding you, but I knew you had come this way, and had not yet returned. I have been waiting since then. But what happened to you?”

  Yole listened as they related the story of their journey down the tunnel. When they reached the part about Kamarie falling, Oraeyn took over the story-telling and explained how he had made the decision to save her first. Then he described the second earthquake and how he had found himself cut off from his goal. Yole was curious about how he had discovered the answer to the final riddle. Oraeyn could not explain it himself, except to say that he had felt what he was supposed to do through the sword.

  Yole nodded his head, his expression filled with grief and wisdom. “It was good for you to trust the sword. It has the magic of dragons buried within. It knew its true place and owner. You were its bearer for many reasons, most of which we will probably never know. But it knew when the time came that it had served you long enough and must now serve another to fulfill a different purpose.” Yole stopped speaking and then his face turned bright red. “I sounded like my teachers just then.”

  They related to him the battle between Brant and Ghrendourak, and at length the stories had been exhausted.

  Yole let out a weary breath. “Others must be told of this. The word must be spread that a High King sits on the throne at Emnolae once more.”

  “In good time,” Brant agreed. “But there are other things that need finishing first. We must discover what has happened in our absence before we can turn to celebration. It was always our assumption that defeating Ghrendourak was the key to victory, but I would like to see with my own eyes that the invasions have ceased before I turn my thoughts to what it means to be High King.”

  “I cannot carry you all by myself,” Yole’s words held an ocean of loss. “I will see if I can contact any of my brethren and request their aid.”

  “Thank you,” Brant replied. “We would be much obliged.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Kamarie stood with her father just outside the garden gates as soft music filled the twilight air around Ardura Palace. It had been three months since Ghrendourak’s defeat. There had been much sorrow in the months since the battle, and endless days of back-breaking work as the people of Tellurae Aquaous worked to rebuild their lands. Much of what had followed their victory on Emnolae still seemed to her like it had passed in a blur. The somber flight home. The memorial services to honor the heroes, both those who had fallen in battle, and the ones who had survived. The solemn task of beginning to rebuild what had been destroyed by the enemy. But now there was time for a moment of joy.

  A pair of fireflies flitted past and Kamarie’s gaze followed them, a fluttery feeling of her own matching their flight. Arnaud smiled down at her and lightly brushed the end of her nose with a gentle finger. She laughed at the familiar gesture and then leaned forward impulsively to embrace him.

  “How do I look?” she asked, nervously raising a hand to her hair and patting the flowers that had been braided into a crown. She pulled her fingers away, internally reminding herself that playing with them would just cause the arrangement to loosen, and also refrained from fiddling with the pearls worked into the long white skirt of her dress.

  “You are beautiful,” Arnaud said. His voice brimmed with a type of love and affirmation that only a father can truly express.

  Kamarie beamed up at him and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder and breathing in the familiar scent of wool and lumber and freshly mown hay. Even when he was king, Arnaud had managed to carry with him the aroma of commonplace things, and now that he had his own farm, the scents of his daily life seemed less incongruous.

  Kamarie let out a deep breath as she pulled away. “Don’t let me trip.”

  “Never.” The music intensified and Arnaud offered his arm. “Are you ready?”

  Kamarie took the proffered arm, the fluttering of butterflies within her stomach growing stronger. “Absolutely.”

  They walked through the gate into a garden of vibrant color. The night was clear and cool. Lanterns hung along the path, swaying in the gentle breeze and casting their ethereal glow over the small gathering. As she glided on her father’s arm past rows of familiar and beloved faces, Kamarie’s focus was wholly fixed on the man waiting for her at the end of the garden.

  He looked so handsome, standing next to Brant, watching her come towards him. His boots were polished to a fine sheen, and the soft green of his shirt reminded her of the forest canopy. His hair was slightly tousled, though, as if he had run his hands through it. Kamarie felt a little relieved to see this sign of nervousness. It made her feel better about fiddling with the flowers in her hair.

  When they reached the end of the garden path, Oraeyn stepped forward to take Kamarie’s arm. Arnaud kissed her cheek and then turned to sit beside Zara. Kamarie held Oraeyn’s hands and gazed into his eyes. The love she saw there washed through her in an overwhelming flood, calming the fluttering of her stomach. Then he winked, and she bit back a giggle.

  “In the sight of Cruithaor Elchiyl and before their family and friends, Oraeyn and Kamarie have come today to pledge their hearts, hands, and lives to one another,” Brant spoke the traditional words. He nodded to Yole, who came forward with a length of golden cord.

  Fingers intertwined, Oraeyn and Kamarie held their arms up as Yole looped the cord loosely around their wrists.

  “Now you are bound together with a tie not easy to break,” Brant said. “Grow in wisdom and love that your marriage may be ever strong, that your love may last in this life and beyond. Will you speak the words of that pledge together now?”

  “My beloved, my friend, my wife,” Oraeyn said, tones of love pouring from his lips with every word. “I pledge my heart to you, now and forevermore. Where you are, there I will be. I will love you and care for you until the end of our days. The path you walk, I shall walk with you.”

  A lump rose in Kamarie’s throat and she felt all her emotions welling up in an attempt to tumble out together. She cleared her throat and Oraeyn squeezed her fingers gently, reassuringly.

  “My beloved, my friend, my husband,” Kamarie’s voice was soft and overflowing with love. “I pledge my heart to you, now and forevermore. Where you are, there I will be. I will love you and care for you until the end of our days. The path you walk, I shall walk with you.”

  Brant nodded once more, and Yole removed the golden cord from their wrists. Brant handed Oraeyn a ring. Oraeyn turned to Kamarie, holding her hand up and slipping the small circlet—crafted in an intricate pattern designed to look as though bands of silver had been woven together—onto her finger.

  “I take you, my heart, at Toreth’s rise and at the setting of the stars, to love and to honor through all that may come in all our lives.”

&nb
sp; “It is completed,” Brant said. Then he grinned. “Oraeyn, you may kiss your wife.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  It wasn’t a huge wedding, but the celebration lasted long into the night. Oraeyn danced with his bride as Kiernan played several pieces of music he had written specifically for the occasion which he presented as humbly as he knew how. Friends and family offered their congratulations and said words of blessing and peace to them, but Oraeyn did not notice any of it. Kamarie was the epicenter of his entire being, and he could spare no thought for anyone or anything else.

  She was radiant with her long hair flowing down her back in loose waves, lavender flowers braided into a crown around her head; her entire being sparkled with starlight and laughter and love. She thanked their guests graciously, with a poise and elegance that Oraeyn envied and adored.

  As he spun her around the garden, the perfume of night blooming flowers wafted on the barest breeze. He pulled her close.

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I love you, Kamarie.”

  She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  A full six months after Oraeyn and Kamarie’s wedding, the people of Tellurae Aquaous gathered on Emnolae to witness an historic event. Brant knelt on the dais in the massive throne room of the Hall of the Great Kings as Kiernan raised a crown above his head and spoke the solemn words. The room was filled with a captive audience, and many more stood outside the great doors, listening and craning to catch a glimpse of the new High King. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the Fang Blade and fought down the rise of panic welling within him.

  I never wanted this, the thought reverberated throughout his mind. I did not seek this out.

  And yet, as Kiernan Kane lowered the circlet of gold onto his head, Brant felt a renewal of purpose fill his soul. It was hard to admit that he had been floundering for the past few years, searching for a new direction. But it was true. Guiding and mentoring Oraeyn and Jemson as they took their thrones had given him meaning, but both young men were more than ready to stand on their own. Brant knew in his heart that his advice was no longer vital to either of their kingdoms. They may not know it or believe it yet, but he did. It was time for him to distance himself as a mentor so they could stand on their own as kings.

  Brant rose and turned to face the audience, his people. A cheer greeted him and he raised a grateful hand in response, his gaze seeking out one face more dear to him than the others. He found Dylanna, and he shrugged at her slightly, questioning. She suppressed a small smile and nodded her approval and Brant’s heart filled with an emotion he had denied for far too long.

  “Friends,” he began, “I want to thank you for making the long journey to witness this event. As a token of my thanks, I would like to invite you to join us for a celebratory feast.”

  The crowd dispersed, following stewards and hosts to the largest of the ballrooms, where tables were set and waiting. Brant was concerned that they would not all fit, and yet the room managed to accommodate every guest, and still have plenty of room for dancing.

  Brant had not been keen on the idea of a formal coronation or celebration, but Dylanna had convinced him that it was necessary.

  “The people need to celebrate,” she had reminded him gently. “In the ruins that are the wake of Ghrendourak’s march, everyone is aware that the only victory we can claim is that of survival. Even Kiernan Kane keeps muttering dolefully about how the true enemy hasn’t been defeated, but is biding his time until he rises again. Truly, I’ve never seen him in such a foul mood. I don’t know if he is even aware that others can hear him, or how it affects their morale. A celebration is needed, and you are all we have. Besides, it will be a good reminder that there is now a king on the High King’s throne. And it will also be a good time for the kings you now serve to pay the homage due your new position.”

  Brant had muttered beneath his breath, sounding every bit as sour and pessimistic as the minstrel, but eventually he agreed that Dylanna was right and made no further complaints.

  He stood now at the head of the room, greeting people as they came to meet him, speaking a word or two with each of his guests. He took in the array of colorful garments, the happy faces, and the way the bright candlelight chased away the shade of grief haunting each face and was forced to admit Dylanna’s wisdom, but then, she had always understood people better than he.

  At long last, the line of people dwindled and Brant felt himself relax as he finished speaking to the last guest. His stomach was rumbling. Brant took a half step towards the nearest table, everything looked delicious.

  “Your Majesty,” a new voice made him pause. He had been so sure the line of guests had come to an end. He gave a little sigh and turned to stare directly into a most welcome face.

  He relaxed. “Dylanna.”

  “I brought you a plate of food. You could have excused yourself to go eat, you know. The guests would have waited.”

  “I didn’t want to make them wait. I serve them, now. I wanted them to feel that I was available from the start.”

  “Your humility is your strength, but an attitude like that will bring you to your knees in exhaustion in under a month,” Dylanna’s lips quirked to the side. “You are going to need a good staff around you that will protect you from yourself.”

  “You sound as if you have some people in mind.” Brant took the proffered plate of food and took a bite of a delicacy he did not recognize. It was delicious. He took a moment to just enjoy the flavor.

  “A few,” Dylanna admitted.

  “Whoever cooked this,” he said as he took another bite. “I want them on staff.”

  Dylanna shook her head, chuckling. “That can be arranged.”

  Brant cocked his head to the side, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Want to help me find a good staff for this place? I think the palace will take care of itself to some extent, but it’s kind of big for just me.”

  “You are planning on living here, then?”

  Brant nodded. “I didn’t want to, at first, but there’s a connection between me and the palace. And it’s been getting stronger. I think it has something to do with Yorien’s Hand. I’m sure I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to figure out what exactly Yorien’s Hand is, and how holding its power is going to affect me.”

  “I see.” Dylanna turned her head and stared across the room of people engaged in laughter, conversation, and dancing. She turned back, a bright smile on her face, but there was a hint of sorrow in her expression. “Of course, I’d be happy to help you find a staff.”

  Brant finished chewing his last bite of food, swallowed, and handed the plate to an accommodating server. Then he reached for Dylanna’s hand, taking it in his own.

  “That is good to hear,” he said, earnestly. “You are a dear friend, Dylanna.”

  She made a small sound in her throat that resembled a whimper, but she smiled thinly at him. She opened her mouth to reply, but Brant put a finger to his lips.

  He knelt down, and a hush spread across the room as his movement attracted the attention of the guests. “But you’re also so much more than a friend. I’m not one for grand gestures, Dylanna. You know me enough to know that I don’t show my heart very often. However, you are very dear to me, and you are worth a little embarrassment and a grand gesture. I love you, Dylanna. Will you marry me?”

  Dylanna gave a soft gasp and covered her mouth with the fingers of her free hand. Then she knelt down and threw her arms around his neck.

  “Yes,” she gasped, laughing and crying all at once.

  The guests broke into wild applause and cheering and Brant rose, lifting Dylanna with him and then leaning forward to kiss her. She beamed at him and he offered her his arm.

  “Care to dance?”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  “Well, it’s about time,” Kamarie said to Oraeyn as Brant led Dylanna out onto the dance flo
or.

  He smiled down at her and pulled her close before spinning her around. Music filled the room. Thousands of candles hung above them, held aloft in diamond chandeliers. Outside, the glittering stars had crept down from the heavens to peer in at the windows in honor of the new High King. The ballroom was filled with kings and queens from every land, as well as noblemen, merchants, shepherds, and farmers.

  The women wore silk and satin gowns, which rustled when they moved. Entertainers were at the front of the room playing music together, and myth-folk in human form could be glimpsed throughout the gathering, if one knew how to spot them. There were many people from Llycaelon and Aom-igh, but those faces Oraeyn was most familiar with were lost in the sea of guests, for neither Oraeyn nor Kamarie had seen anybody they knew more than once.

  He studied Brant as he danced with Dylanna. He had never seen the man looking so relaxed or happy. The Fang Blade hung at his side, gleaming with unparalleled brilliance in the ceremonial crystal sheath that had been designed for it by the dragons as a coronation present. His clothing was well-made, but as unadorned as the simple gold circlet on his head.

  “True power doesn’t need to be flaunted, it speaks for itself,” Brant had once told Oraeyn, and he embodied that statement now as he stood before the crowd that had gathered to acknowledge him as their new High King.

  Looking at Brant now, Oraeyn realized that the man had been right. Every move Brant made spoke paragraphs. There was nothing flashy or pretentious about his appearance. It was just something about his mien: the way he carried himself, a tilt of his head, the way he held his shoulders, his stance, the graceful but authoritative way he strode across the room. He was authority and justice, strong and valiant, every inch a king. When Oraeyn looked at him, there was no question about who Brant was or whether or not he was the right person to claim the throne. He simply was the High King. This was the man who would bring worlds together, the man under whom peace would reign.