To Jahrra’s utter shock, Aeron lifted his eyes to hers, and in a calm voice, he said, “I will do my best, then, to earn your good opinion. If I can. For now, you are free to ask me anything you wish.”
He reclined in his chair, elbows pressed into the armrests, fingers steepled before his face once more. Jahrra could tell he studied her far more intensely than before, and she felt a bit like a bird in a cage, a trophy captured by a collector only to be admired from afar. It grated at her nerves, and that irritation kept her low-burning anger simmering just below the surface.
“Fine,” she sniffed. “If you are the true heir of Oescienne, as you proved by restoring the castle, then why did Ciarrohn think Kehllor was the prince?”
Speaking her friend’s name hurt, and she had to swallow back the pain of that fresh memory, but she also wanted to know the truth. This time, the prince grew absolutely still, his eyes losing some of their focus, that shadow of a smirk on his face creeping away to hide for now. It took him a long time to answer, and by the time he did speak, the kitchen staff had replaced their dinner plates with a light dessert.
“When I was growing up,” the prince began, “my father’s stable master had a son named Raulen, perhaps a few years younger than me. Despite what opinions you have formed, my family didn’t hold to propriety the way other royals did. I was allowed to play with this boy, as were my brothers, as if he were a cousin. We looked rather similar as well. The same hair color, and build, too. As we grew older, people often mistook us for brothers, and the stable lad and I would trick the citizens of Oescienne into thinking he was me and I was one of my older brothers.”
Jahrra sat still, listening as the prince wove his tale.
“When my father and brothers died in Ghorium,” he paused, his voice growing thick with remembered loss, “the stable master went with them. So, when I had grown old enough to lead my own army into battle, Raulen joined me.”
The prince’s words slowed, his thoughts turning entirely inward. Jahrra held her breath. He was going back to that time, to those memories, and even before he came to the end of his tale, she knew what he would say.
“I don’t remember the transformation itself, when Ciarrohn cursed me and all the humans remaining in the world. All I do remember is waking up that morning to an uproar in the camp. Raulen was gone. He’d snuck away in the night wearing my clothing. He meant to face the Tyrant alone, claiming to be me so that if he died in the attempt to assassinate the king, the royal line of Oescienne would remain intact.”
Aeron lifted his eyes to Jahrra’s, and this time she didn’t look away. Regret, sorrow, self-loathing even, shone back out at her.
“You see, Raulen was always the one to sacrifice himself. I can’t tell you what drove him to do so. Even when we were very small boys. If we did something wrong or caused trouble, he was the one to step in and take the blame. I distinctly remember trying to interrupt him on several occasions, only to have him speak over me. Always, he was able to shift the blame onto himself. I am certain this friend of yours, Kehllor, was really Raulen. Why he went by the name Kehllor after the war, I cannot say.”
“Probably because the transformation erased his memory,” Jahrra whispered, her voice tight. “He was later found by another dragon wandering the desert, completely unaware of his identity.”
Aeron simply stared at her then, his gaze hard, his jaw set.
“But how convenient,” she continued, letting that simmering anger boil over a little, “that he was there to step in for you when Ciarrohn wished to end the Sohliendis line.”
The prince’s eyes flared then, dangerous and sharp as a blade’s edge. His tone was soft, but entirely unforgiving, when he said, “What are you accusing me of now, Jahrra?”
“I am accusing you of nothing,” she retorted, “only pointing out the interesting fact that history seems to repeat itself when it comes to you. Kehllor, Raulen, stood in for you five centuries ago, and just recently, when the allies of the Coalition banded together to fight against Cierryon’s tyranny, you were nowhere to be found.”
“And just how do you know I wasn’t there?”
This question caught Jahrra off guard. She opened her mouth to reply, only to find she had nothing to say.
“How do you know I wasn’t among the other Tanaan dragons, flying above the battlefield and fighting the Morli? You refuse to give me a chance to explain myself. Every time I try to engage in a conversation with you, you vanish! You don’t think I notice how quickly you flee in the opposite direction when I see you walking the halls of Oescienne Castle? Or how you always claim exhaustion or illness around the evening meal?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, those intense eyes of his looking her up and down. “You look perfectly healthy to me.”
Jahrra’s broiling irritation erupted. She stood with some force from her chair, throwing the cloth napkin she’d bunched together in her lap onto the pristine table cloth.
“That is because I have no desire to hear your pathetic excuses! If you were truly there, you would have led your people into battle like any prince or king worthy of his crown would have done. Just as Vandrian of Dhonoara and Dhuruhn of Nimbronia did. Kehllor should not have died that day, and if you’d been their performing your duty to your people, Jaax might still be alive, too!”
Rage and sorrow clashed together inside her, threatening to choke her where she stood.
Prince Aeron was on his feet now, as well, towering above his end of the table, as he snarled, “Stubborn, headstrong young woman! Set your grief and anger aside for one moment and look at what is right in front of your eyes!”
She snapped right back, “Conceited, cowardly prince! There is nothing wrong with my vision, and all I see standing before me is a young man benefiting from the sacrifice of others!”
Before he got the chance to say anything further, Jahrra stepped away from her chair and bit out, “Good night, your majesty. I fear I can’t tolerate your company any longer.”
She didn’t bother to curtsey, but before taking that first step towards the door, she turned to face the table once more. Her arm shot out, fingers curling around the stem of the crystal goblet beside her untouched dessert. She lifted the vessel of cider, tipped it back against her lips, and drained it in several swallows before replacing it beside her discarded napkin.
“This might have been a waste of an evening, but it’d be a shame to waste the cider, too.”
With those final words, she pivoted on her heel and marched to the exit. Jahrra didn’t even glance back as she yanked the door open and jerked it shut behind her. She thought she was free as she hurried down the corridor, servants and guards leaping out of her way, but the distant click of the door opening and closing behind her and the steady, sure crack of boot heels against the stone floor of the castle hallway informed her otherwise.
“Jahrra, wait,” the prince called after her.
She would do no such thing. She was done with him and his excuses.
His footsteps grew closer, and just as she rounded the corner into the great hall, strong fingers grabbed her arm at the elbow.
“For Ethoes’ sake, I said wait!”
Jahrra didn’t think. She just reacted. Weeks of bottled up pain and rage and sorrow burst forth, and she spun around, drew back her arm, closed her fingers into a fist, and struck the prince of Oescienne across the face. She was no simpering, pampered nobleman’s daughter. She was a warrior, a fighter, and had a lot more strength than most women, and some of the men, now standing about in stark silence as the scene unfolded before them.
With a curse, the prince released her, his hands shooting up to cover his face. The blow was hard enough to make him stagger back, almost tripping over his own feet. When he finally brought his hand away from his cheek, checking it for blood, his handsome features were twisted into a wrathful expression. A red mark where her fist had connected covered the left side of his cheek, and even though his hands were now a
t his sides, his fingers curled into fists.
“Your majesty!” one of the courtiers exclaimed.
Aeron held up a hand, stopping the man short. He didn’t say a word, only continued to glare at Jahrra. She glared right back.
Blustering a little, the man who had run forward, one of the prince’s many advisors, Jahrra thought, turned wide, astounded eyes upon her. Soon, those eyes were filled with outrage.
“How dare you strike his majesty! Ethoes’ chosen or not, you have no reason to behave like some drunken upstart in a tavern fight!”
Jahrra flashed the man with an angry look, her teeth bared, before snapping her focus back onto the prince. Like him, her fists were clenched at her sides, and that anger she’d been holding at bay bubbled up and threatened to spill over.
“Korenth, enough!” the prince barked, turning some of that wrath onto his advisor.
The smaller man flinched. “B-but, your majesty,” he stammered.
“Apologize to the lady Jahrra for your crass words,” the prince demanded, his full royal authority breaching no argument.
With cold brown eyes and a blank expression, Korenth turned to face Jahrra. He gave her a tight bow and said carefully. “My apologies, Lady Jahrra.”
Jahrra ignored him, as well as the two dozen or so other courtiers and diplomats lingering in the grand entrance hall to watch the display. A tiny part of her felt shame for acting so childishly in front of them all, but a much bigger part cared only about fueling more rage against the prince.
“I don’t care who you are,” Jahrra finally gritted out, her attention back on Aeron Sohliendis, “but you will not touch me again.”
The prince moved then, his steps swift as he closed in fast. Jahrra didn’t have time to escape, and she almost tripped over the hem of her dress as Aeron loomed over her, so close she could feel the heat pouring off his body.
He lowered his head, just enough to rumble quietly in her ear, “Loathe me if you must, Jahrra, but don’t for one second think Kehllor’s death didn’t affect me as much as it affected you. Just because I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve, doesn’t mean they aren’t tearing me apart. Perhaps you would be better served trying to contain yours a little better instead of spreading your misery throughout the entire castle.”
With that, he stepped away just as gracefully, turned his back on her, and marched down the hall back to the dining room. Jahrra was left standing there, her heart slamming against her ribcage, her breath leaving her lungs in small gasps, her face burning. Tears formed in her eyes, tears of anger, sadness, and yes, shame. Curse him, he was right. Just like Denaeh.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Jahrra turned and headed for the stairs that lead to her private suite. She ignored the stares and unwanted attention of the men and women still lingering in the hall, even though she felt them as surely as hot brands pressed into her back. Pity, disdain, disgust … Those emotions followed her all the way up to the top floor of the castle and even tried to sneak in under the space beneath her door. Only when she was assured of the privacy of her own room did she let the tears spill forth, crying more in humiliation than anything else. She crumpled to the floor, her hands pressed to her face, sobbing as that deep-rooted anger dissipated and all the other emotions she’d been so desperately trying to hide poured forth. The rage would be back in the morning, she knew that, for it was the only thing keeping her from sinking entirely into the waiting darkness.
-Chapter Thirty-Four-
The Aftermath of Anger
Jahrra woke the next morning to the rapid sound of someone pounding on her door.
“Jahrra! Let me in!”
She groaned and rolled over in bed, covering her face with her hands.
“It’s an hour before noon, Jahrra. I know you can’t still be asleep,” Denaeh persisted.
Jahrra ignored her for a few minutes more. The Mystic was wrong. She had been asleep, only because she had been up half the night, reliving the nightmares from Vruuthun Castle. Not by choice. Her argument with the prince, and his tale about Kehllor, had only rekindled the strange flashback she’d been so desperately trying to purge from her mind. And as much as she wanted to scream at Aeron and call him a liar, there was too much emotion, too much truth, behind the words he’d whispered harshly to her in the entrance hall. And, not just for that reason alone. He was right about Kehllor. The golden Tanaan dragon had been selfless, even up to the very end.
Tears pooled and dripped from Jahrra’s eyes. She threw a forearm over her face, even as Denaeh continued her insistent rapping at the door. Poor Kehllor. To be cursed then live most of his life without memory of what had happened to him, of who he had really been, only to die before he had the chance to know the truth.
“JAHRRA!”
Tired of feeling sorry for herself, and regretting those things she could not change, Jahrra rolled out of bed and went to the door, yanking it open to find a very perturbed Denaeh standing in the hall. Two guards stood on either side of her, both blushing a little at the sight of Jahrra in her night clothes.
“What do you want, Denaeh?” Jahrra grumbled as she dug the heel of one hand into her eye.
The Mystic arched a brow. “So, you were sleeping. The day is half gone, Jahrra.”
Huffing in irritation, Jahrra stepped back into her room, leaving the door open behind her as she grumbled about having a bad night.
Denaeh turned to the guards. “Thank you, sirs. I’ll take it from here.”
She stepped into the room and pulled the door shut behind her. Jahrra had gone to the trunk at the foot of her bed and was now digging through it for clothes.
“Did you really attack Prince Aeron last night in front of all his courtiers?”
Jahrra flinched a little and paused in her search for trousers and tunics, then turned to face the Mystic. A little bit of that shame from the night before crept along the edges of her consciousness, probing for an opening, but she tamped it down with that ever-present anger.
With a tight jaw, Jahrra glared at her friend. “So what if I did?”
Denaeh gaped. “Jahrra! What were you thinking! Word of your attack has spread through the palace like wildfire. The story Ellyesce reported to me this morning claimed you had punched him and then drawn a dagger, snarling like a wild animal.”
This time Jahrra gasped in outrage. “I did no such thing! I left the dining room, I was angry, I’ll admit, and I only hit him - no knives were involved - because he grabbed me.”
A little bit of Denaeh’s bluster wore off, and instead, her topaz eyes filled with something akin to sadness.
“Oh, Jahrra,” the Mystic said, falling into one of the stuffed chairs set before a tea table. “Aeron is not your enemy.”
“I know,” Jahrra snapped, digging through her trunk once again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just so furious all the time, and for some reason being around the prince makes it that much worse.”
There, a clean pair of pants and a not so wrinkled tunic. Those would do.
“Be that as it may, you cannot go around assaulting royalty.”
Jahrra nodded as she pulled on the pants, then reached up to remove her sleeping gown. Once the tunic was on, she dug around for one of her vests.
“You will have to apologize, you know,” Denaeh added.
Jahrra gritted her teeth. She did know. She really didn’t want to, but it couldn’t be helped. “Not today. I’m still angry.”
Denaeh nodded, her gaze landing on the glass doors leading out to Jahrra’s private terrace. She seemed to drift off to someplace else for a moment before sighing and asking, “What exactly did he do to upset you this time?”
Jahrra stilled as she tightened the laces on her shirt, then let her shoulders slump. A painful lump rose in her throat as she admitted, “I asked him why Ciarrohn thought Kehllor was the Tanaan prince.”
“Ah,” was Denaeh’s response. “And, he told you.”
Jahrra nodded. “But, you already knew, d
idn’t you?”
Denaeh shrugged one shoulder.
“Because you had met the prince before the Tanaan were cursed, and the moment you saw him you recognized him.”
Jahrra remembered the look of shock on Denaeh’s face when they had traveled back to the Castle Ruin. But if she had known Kehllor wasn’t the prince, then why had she been so surprised? She had looked upon Aeron as if seeing someone returned from the dead. Then again, she had thought Ellyesce was dead, too. Jahrra shook her head and fished her boots out from beneath the bed. She was too weary to puzzle over all this right now. She needed to get away from the castle for a few hours. It was starting to feel like a trap.
Turning to Denaeh, she said baldly, “I feel like you’re still keeping something from me, Denaeh. You and Ellyesce.”
The Mystic froze, meeting Jahrra’s cool gaze with her own. Nothing in her expression gave Jahrra the first clue as to what the woman might still be hiding, and she didn’t have the energy to argue.
After a few moments, Denaeh slowly shook her head. “The final piece to the puzzle isn’t my story to tell, Jahrra.”
“Of course it’s not,” she grumbled under her breath as she scooped up her dagger. She buckled the belt around her waist. Her fingers lingered over the sapphire chips set in the crossguard, as well as the dragons’ code etched in Kruelt along the leather scabbard. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she fought to push them back. Jaax had given her this beautiful knife for her eighteenth birthday. She would treasure it always.
Ignoring Denaeh’s look of pity, Jahrra crossed the room and reached for the door handle. Before opening the door, however, she leaned up against it, the smooth wood cooling her heated forehead.
“I could have borne so much of it, Denaeh,” she whispered. “I might have endured the nightmares, the guilt of Kehllor’s death, the lingering cold darkness leftover from the pain they inflicted.”
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 49