by Peter Wacht
“Before we make a decision of such critical import, I believe we must study the matter more,” concluded Sarelle.
Rodric’s mask of calm almost evaporated. He had talked with these two for most of the morning, getting nowhere. The Eastern Festival had begun as a horse market hundreds of years before, when the nomads living on the Northern Steppes herded their animals down along the border of the Highlands and the Clanwar Desert to sell to the lords, ladies and traders of the Eastern Kingdoms. Over time, the annual event had grown: first expanding to include more trading opportunities, then contests of skill and endurance and other entertainment. Rodric normally looked forward to it, enjoying the pomp and circumstance afforded to someone of his station. Yet this year, the Festival had soured for him, thanks to the two people sitting opposite him.
“As you both wish,” acceded Rodric through clenched teeth, thinking of no way to press his point. “We shall wait until we know more, though I truly hope that we do not wait too long for the sake of the Highlanders.”
“As Gregory said, your concern is noted,” replied Sarelle before Gregory could speak. She had a feeling as to what he might say and did not think it would prove very useful. “Yet, the Highlanders, as I’m sure you well know, are a resourceful people. If they request assistance from either Gregory or myself, I’m sure I can answer for my ruling brother and say that we will of course provide it immediately. But until that request is made, I think speaking further on this topic would not serve much purpose.”
Steel covered in silk. That was the perfect way to describe Sarelle. Gregory sat back in his chair. The implication of what Sarelle had just said was obvious, but she had spoken in such a proper manner, Rodric could not legitimately take offense. Yes, she certainly was clever. He’d have to be more careful around her. He sensed that she’d be able to talk the shirt right off his back without him even knowing it.
“Yes, we will all provide assistance if the Highlanders ask for it,” said Rodric, who could barely conceal his rage. His frustration had reached the breaking point. He was the High King, not some snot-nosed flunky to be toyed with. He decided to change the subject.
“That brings me to another matter for discussion, Sarelle. It seems the increasing number of bandits in the Highlands is not isolated to that remote region. In fact, as I’m sure you both know, brigands have become more of a concern for Armagh in the past few months. I’ve had to increase the number of soldiers assigned to the merchant wagon convoys and ships. Unfortunately, my soldiers can only guard the merchants within my own borders. Once they enter Benewyn or Dunmoor they are open to attack once again. Loris has already given my soldiers permission to accompany Armaghian merchants into Dunmoor, and I was hoping you would do the same for Benewyn. As you well know, trade is the lifeblood of our two kingdoms.”
Rodric’s request sounded quite reasonable to his own ears. The pleasant, forced smile he wore quickly disappeared.
“I’m sorry, Rodric, but that just won’t be possible. My merchants have also told me of the increasing danger they face from brigands, yet they tell me they have nothing to fear until they enter Armagh. Remarkably, some say that almost all of the bands of marauders and thieves are made up of Armaghian farmers and peasants who can no longer pay the taxes levied upon them by you, but that is only a rumor. Until I have conclusive proof that these attacks are occurring within my borders, I must table your request.”
And feisty, thought Gregory, as he took in her flashing green eyes once again. His morning may have been wasted, but the last few minutes had been quite entertaining.
CHAPTER SEVEN
New Target
His father’s anger was clear to Ragin, though perhaps not to Gregory and Sarelle. Ragin had learned at a very early age that there were certain times to avoid Rodric. Those usually involved his father’s face turning dark red with fury or the blood vessel in his forehead threatening to explode.
These “talks,” as they were called, were a waste of time. Loris was no help to his father. He only stared at Gregory, his hatred plain. Gregory and Sarelle were of one mind, of course. So his father wasted his time and breath.
Sarelle, now she was quite a beautiful woman, though perhaps a bit too old for his taste. He preferred younger women. Women who knew less of the world than he did, and therefore were more malleable to his whims and desires. A smirk popped onto his face. Yes, he certainly did prefer women he could manipulate. It made things so much easier. Sarelle wasn’t quite to his taste, but Gregory’s daughter certainly was.
He had met Kaylie several years before, and at the time she wasn’t much to look at, at least by his own standards. Though the same age, by then he had already discovered the pleasures offered by women, or taken if the woman proved reluctant. There were many advantages to being a prince, he acknowledged.
But the passing years had certainly blessed Kaylie. The gangly girl was now remarkably beautiful, with eyes that could steal a man’s soul and a body to match. Ragin found her hard to resist. Perhaps even more so because she hadn’t yet learned the power she held over men.
His smirk changed to a sneer for an instant. Unlike his dear sister Corelia. She, on the other hand, had learned early on of the charms she could employ against a man, and made frequent use of them. Yes, Kaylie was a virgin in more ways than one, he guessed. And who better to show her the full pleasure of life than himself. Besides, his father was having little luck persuading Gregory and Sarelle to give in on any of the issues of concern to Armagh. Where his father failed, perhaps he could succeed.
Ragin sat up a little straighter, an idea forming. Sometimes a more subtle approach worked better than a direct one. If what he and his father desired could not be obtained through Gregory, perhaps it could be won through an unknowing, yet beautiful, princess. Ragin sat there trying not to laugh at his own brilliance. The remainder of the discussions were of no consequence to him now. He had his own plan to put into motion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Battle of Wills
“Gregory, I truly must insist as High King!” said Rodric, his teeth clenched in anger.
If he had his way, he would have plunged a dagger into Gregory’s heart and be done with it. Trying to get any type of concession out of him was like wringing water from a stone. His repeated failures wore on his already frayed nerves.
Sarelle sat back in her chair, trying to push her way into the woodwork. The discussion had suddenly turned dangerous. Though Rodric shouted at him — something considered extremely bad manners when talking with a fellow ruler, if not a direct insult — Gregory sat there calmly. Too calmly.
One of Sarelle’s first lessons as a queen was that most of the time you could read a person’s eyes and discern their intentions. As some long-forgotten philosopher had said, the eyes were the windows to a person’s soul. Gregory’s now resembled an animal’s — sharp, focused, offering just a hint of danger right before it was about to strike.
“Gentlemen,” said Sarelle, rising from her chair and walking behind it, “I am sorry to interrupt, but I fear I must leave you. There are other matters I must attend to today. Perhaps we can continue our conversation at a later time?”
“Yes, that is a good idea, Sarelle,” said Gregory, his voice a whisper. “There are other things I must do today as well. Please allow me to walk you to your rooms.”
“Thank you, Gregory. That would be most kind.”
Gregory rose from his chair and walked over to Sarelle, offering her his arm. She gladly took it. They headed for the closed doors. The servant stationed there, surprised to see the two rulers leave, almost fell over himself opening the door.
This was most irregular. No one ever left King Rodric’s presence without his express permission. They were almost out into the hallway when Rodric rose from his chair and placed his hands on his hips.
“Gregory, this conversation is not over. I am the High King, and it will end when I say it ends.”
“You may continue to talk to your heart’s conte
nt, Rodric,” replied Gregory. “But your attempts at playing High King hold no sway with me.” Gregory turned around to face his opponent. Sarelle turned with him, reluctantly letting go of his arm. “I applaud your concern for the Highlands, yet I also understand your desires with respect to that Kingdom. Quite well, in fact. Talyn Kestrel is not here, nor is any other Highlander who can speak for that Kingdom, so that task falls to me.”
“You have no right to do such a—”
“I have every right!” shouted Gregory, his anger finally boiling over. Sarelle looked at the man to her left in a new light. A quiet man, certainly, but also passionate. A true king. “If no one else will defend the Highlands, then I will. You know the law as well as I. The appointed time has not yet come, and until it does, you will keep your soldiers out of the Highlands. If I see one Armaghian soldier anywhere in the Eastern Kingdoms — just one — I will take swift action to remedy that situation.”
“How dare you threaten me!” shrieked Rodric, stepping off the platform upon which his chair sat. His kingly appearance immediately diminished. Rodric’s voice came out in a shrill scream, the vein in his forehead beating furiously. Ragin sat there calmly, jolted from his thoughts. Things were finally getting interesting.
“No, Rodric, I am not threatening you. I’m telling you a fact. You will wait as the law prescribes.” Gregory spun and was about to usher Sarelle out of the room, but he turned back around abruptly.
“You know, Rodric, it is rumored that when Talyn Kestrel and his son were murdered, the grandson escaped. Though no evidence was ever found to support that conclusion, there are many who still believe the child lives.”
“Rumors, Gregory,” said Rodric. Gregory was getting very close to one of Rodric’s greatest concerns. If only Killeran had done as he was supposed to! “Only rumors, Gregory.”
Sarelle watched the High King intently. She had a knack for picking up certain signals from the way a person talked, or walked, or sat, or held a hand. It was one of the reasons she was such a shrewd negotiator. Rodric’s anger had dissipated, replaced by an unexpected nervousness. That pointed to something important. But what?
“Yes, perhaps a rumor. Then again, rumors have an ugly habit of becoming truth. Your Lord Killeran has tried very hard to subdue the Highlanders, but he has failed to break their spirit. If that child still lives, he is of an age to become Lord of the Highlands. If that happens, he will light a fire under the Highlanders that will not be easily dampened.”
Rodric stared at Gregory for a moment, his mouth hanging open from shock. How could he have known the truth about Killeran? He closed his mouth abruptly. Maybe he didn’t and was just guessing. No matter. Rodric had given it away, and the understanding in Sarelle’s eyes confirmed it. Gregory and Sarelle walked toward the door, the servant holding it for them bowing deeply at the waist.
“Gregory!” shouted Rodric. He was certain he knew the answer, yet he could not keep himself from asking. “If this rumor were true, who would you support? Some Highland whelp or me?”
Gregory turned slowly this time, the gleam in his eye giving him a devilish appearance. He laughed softly. To even ask such a question showed Rodric for a fool.
“Rodric, what I do, I do for Fal Carrach. I have heard other rumors as well regarding the Highlands in recent years, rumors that relate to the terrible night when my friend Talyn Kestrel died. Rumors that sound very much like the truth. If I find out these rumors are the truth, you can be certain that I will act upon them — quickly and decisively. For years, I have waited to assist the Highlanders, but they have not asked, and I can do nothing until then. If I were you, Rodric, I would concern myself more with what will happen when the Highlands stir. They are a vengeful people. If those rumors become reality, I will be the least of your concerns. Beware the Marchers when they come down from their mountain hideaways. They’re an unforgiving people.”
CHAPTER NINE
Two Suitors
“Yes, Maddan is cute,” sighed Kaylie. This was not one of her favorite topics. All her friends enjoyed talking about boys, sometimes explicitly. She felt such things should be kept private. “But I’ve known him since I was a little girl and he’s much too arrogant. And there’s a meanness to him that most fail to see. He thinks his father’s money can get him anything he desires. I want to meet someone exciting, adventurous, different. Someone who could make my blood boil with anticipation.”
The picture of what she wanted, or rather whom, stared back at her in her mind, yet she was unwilling to describe the image to her friends. “Maddan is not that person.”
“Maybe not,” said Lissa. “But he is rich, and though his money may bother you, it doesn’t bother me.” The tall blond twisted a curl of her hair in her hand as she thought about it. “Then again, I do like muscle, and Eric has quite a lot of that.”
She had flirted with Eric for years while growing up in the Rock, mesmerized by his barrel-like chest and massive arms. Yet, she found the allure of money hard to resist.
“Compared to some of the other men I’ve seen since I’ve been here,” said Jenna, a mischievous light in her eyes, “I’d have to agree with Kaylie.”
“That only stands to reason,” giggled Lissa. “You’ve had your eye on that soldier from Benewyn for quite a while. What’s his name again?”
“Berral,” answered Jenna dreamily, savoring the name. “I hope Erinn gets here soon. If she doesn’t, we’ll have to leave without her.”
“You’re hopeless, Jenna,” said Kaylie with a grin. “Absolutely hopeless.”
Jenna had walked around in a daze ever since she met Berral. Kaylie hoped that if she ever fell for someone, she wouldn’t appear as love struck as her friend. It just wouldn’t be proper.
Kaylie and her friends continued to wander the halls of the Tinnakilly palace. It was almost noon and Erinn had not yet appeared. They all hoped she would soon. Otherwise they’d be late to the Festival, as Jenna had reminded them constantly for the past twenty minutes. Berral was taking part in the archery competition and she didn’t want to miss it.
“We’ll give her a few more minutes,” said Kaylie.
Dark marble shot through with white made up the hallway floor. From the walls centuries-old tapestries, once bright and vibrant, now dull and worn, hung limply. The decoration of the Palace, as the ancient fortress was called, was meant to impress, but all Kaylie got from it was a sense of age and disrepair. Thus the term The Decaying City, used so frequently by merchants and other visitors. To her it was the perfect metaphor for the Kingdom itself and the man who ruled it.
“Maddan might not be to your taste,” said Lissa, her pouty mouth scrunched up as she tried to concentrate. “Perhaps someone else then.” She smiled wickedly. “Perhaps a certain prince with dark curly hair and a wonderful smile.”
“Ragin?” she asked in surprise.
“At your service, Kaylie. What can I do for you?”
Kaylie spun, put off balance by the bright smile of Ragin, Prince of Armagh. He was probably the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. His dark curly hair framed his face perfectly, and his smile made her knees wobble with uncertainty. She struggled to regain her composure.
“Nothing, Ragin. Nothing at all. Maddan,” she said flatly.
Maddan stood behind Ragin, unwilling to step forward. After their encounter in the training yard, he had kept his distance. Though the same age, Maddan acted like an annoying little brother when around Ragin.
Kaylie adopted the cool tone she had mastered at her father’s court, its familiarity giving her confidence. Still, her knees wavered and she couldn’t pull her eyes away from that smile.
“Shouldn’t you be down at the Festival?”
“Actually, we were on our way there. I thought that you and your friends might like to accompany Maddan, myself and a few of my friends. We are all taking part in the archery competition, and I would hate for you to miss it.”
“You really should come, Kaylie,” piped in Maddan,
stepping out of Ragin’s shadow, but not coming too close to her. In all other things he would defer to Ragin, but not with Kaylie. He had set his sights on her several years before — not entirely for the best of reasons — and was unwilling to let go. “I plan to win it this year.”
His need to stand out had gotten the better of him, and several of the boys standing behind him snickered at the statement. Maddan was certainly not known for his skill with a bow, or with any other weapon for that matter.
“I think not, Maddan,” said Jenna. “I’m quite sure Berral will beat you.”
Maddan was about to reply sharply, but a strong hand on his arm held back his words. Ragin spoke instead.
“Berral of Benewyn? Yes, he is very good with a bow. He probably will beat Maddan. But he will not beat me. It will be fun to take him on, Jenna, and defeat him.”
“Perhaps we will join you,” said Kaylie, seeing Jenna’s expression turn dark. In her current state with respect to Berral, Ragin’s last comment came close to an insult. “We’re just waiting for a friend. Why don’t we meet down in the courtyard in ten minutes?”
“As you wish, Kaylie,” said Ragin, his smile dark and strangely knowing, yet inviting. “I shall win the competition for you, so don’t be late.”
The flash of anger that crossed Maddan’s face could only be seen by Kaylie, as it had come and gone so quickly. Wonderful. Now she’d have two boys pestering her constantly. Ragin turned to go, but before Kaylie could react, he grabbed her hand and kissed it gently.
“Ten minutes.”
Lissa stepped forward as the boys sauntered off down the hall, Maddan the last of the group, his face red with anger.
“As I said, Kaylie, a dark-haired man with a wonderful smile. He’s just the one for you, and he obviously likes you.” She giggled shrilly. Kaylie found it annoying, though most of the boys Lissa pursued obviously loved it. “Did you see how he held onto your hand after kissing it? All you have to do is reel him in, and that certainly won’t be too hard.”