The Remedy (Eyes of E'veria)

by Serena Chase

  He paused. “It may seem an odd thing to allow for celebration while our land suffers under the oppression of our enemy, but the occasion calls for nothing less and much more than I am able to give you. Tonight, we celebrate because the Ryn lives!”

  Immediately, the crowd’s silence was broken by a raucous cheer, but I couldn’t help but note that the cheer seemed limited, even though it was robust, considering the size of the Grand Hall.

  Our knights. As my father’s words touched my mind I could feel the affection in the smile that accompanied them.

  When the cheer died down he continued, “Our Kingdom is experiencing its darkest days since Lady Anya and the Bear-men of Mynissbyr sent the Cobelds into hiding centuries ago. But even though our enemies have removed themselves from exile, we yet have reason to celebrate. And at long last, reason to hope.

  “For nineteen years my daughter has been forced to live in secrecy, her identity unknown to all but a very few. Even she did not know of her name, nor,” he paused and I felt the cold shrill of his fear for me, “her destiny, until recently. Our enemies were lulled into a false sense of security and I can only imagine how they quake now to learn that all those years ago their evil plot to kill the Ryn and my Queen failed.”

  Again, the knights cheered.

  “It is with great pride and indescribable joy,” he said, “that I am finally able to introduce to you my daughter, Rynnaia.”

  A flash of scorn hit my mind. I closed my eyes, following the crimson-tinged thread of silver to the far west corner of the Grand Hall where, among a small gathering of nobles, a few bore a particularly vivid disbelief among their thoughts.

  I pulled my mind back, retreating to protect my emotions within a cloak of gray.

  “E’veria,” my father’s voice rumbled with pride and love, “meet your Ryn.”

  The herald’s staff met the marble again and the vibration of that crack resonated to the roots of my teeth.

  The first set of curtains parted. I took a deep breath in through my nose, entirely conscious of the way it caught several times before reaching my lungs, and stepped through the first set of curtains into the vestibule. The curtains fell shut behind me and I was left in darkness while my name rang out over the people below.

  “Her Royal Highness, Princess Rynnaia E’veri!”

  The second set of curtains opened and I was greeted by my father’s smiling face. His hand was outstretched toward me and his eyes shone with tears that he speedily blinked away.

  I slipped my hand into his and stepped onto the balcony. In just three more steps, I stood at the white marble rail, at the right hand of the King.

  A collective gasp ushered in a silence thicker than any I had heard before, even on Tirandov Isle. I didn’t have to look far to know it was due to my resemblance to my mother. But the crowd’s surprise couldn’t steal the sudden sense of rightness that formed in my belly and moved outward through my blood, stilling the subtle shake in my limbs, and restoring my breath to its proper cadence.

  Standing here, beside my father and before our people, I had finally taken the place I was born to inhabit. The warmth of my father’s hand on mine and the truth of his love and acceptance, overrode my fears of what anyone else might think of me.

  My chin lifted just the tiniest bit, almost as if pulled by a string. Purpose sizzled through my blood.

  I am the Ryn.

  Suddenly, the silence was rent by the cheers of my father’s knights. Our knights, he had called them. Even louder than before, the cheer was so celebratory, so optimistic, that one would think I’d already retrieved the Remedy.

  “My daughter is beautiful, is she not?” My father’s words were laced with the sort of chuckle that warms a room, but his eyes were on me. “And I assure you that her heart is as lovely as her face.” When he turned back to the crowd, however, his tone changed. “The Kingdom still suffers under the Cobelds’ treachery. The Queen’s illness has raged nineteen years due to their curse. And yet,” he paused, “we have hope.”

  With an authority that was as clear as the stony determination in his bright blue eyes, he continued, “Tonight I call upon each of you to serve as witness to this truth. Let there be no doubt that Rynnaia E’veri, the firstborn and only child of King Jarryn and Queen Daithia, is alive and well and has claimed her position as your Ryn!”

  The knights cheered again, but this time their voices were joined by more members of the crowd.

  “Tomorrow we begin moving toward a true and lasting victory over the Cobelds, but tonight, we celebrate!” A smile spread wide upon his face.

  A voice I knew well, Julien’s, shouted up from below, “May it be so!”

  “May it be so,” the King agreed and the affirmation moved through the crowd.

  The King nodded to the orchestra master, who turned toward the musicians and lifted his arms. A moment later, to the rousing anthem of E’veria, my father led me down the spiral staircase.

  When the anthem ceased, a slower yet merry tune began and the crowd parted for my father to lead me to the center of the Grand Hall. I eased the gray from my thoughts just enough to sample the mood of the room, but the colors swirling about were a little disorienting. I was able to distinguish many thoughts of loyalty and admiration, but also caught a few shards of disbelief and even a few feelings of betrayal.

  With my hand still in his, I took a step back, swept my right leg behind my left, and curtsied low. When I arose, the King let go of my hand only to reach for the other and place his left hand at my waist. A count later, his small pressure at my back moved my feet into the dance.

  My father swept me across the floor with such fluidity that one would think I had grown up here, with him as my dance tutor. The tune was brief. At its end he leaned down to drop a kiss on my forehead. The next sound I heard was a chorus of ladies’ sniffles, but as he leaned back, his eyes met mine and his voice touched my mind.

  Be on your guard. As soon as his warning had been “voiced,” however, a smile forced a wink from his eye. But remember to enjoy yourself, as well. It is, after all, a ball.

  The Regent of Dynwatre approached and my hand was thus offered. My father would likely be the only man present given an entire dance with the princess. But he was, after all, the King.

  Other dancers filtered onto the floor, and before long, the eldest son of Gladiel de Vonsar, Regent of Mynissbyr, tapped on the Regent of Dynwatre’s shoulder.

  With a smile and a slight bow, the Regent backed away. Julien bowed and offered his hand. “May I have the honor of a dance, Your Highness?”

  “The honor is mine, Sir Julien.” The formal words felt silly and rather over-dramatic when spoken to one I knew so well, but there were listening ears about and I was determined to follow the protocol expected of me.

  My father’s dancing skill was beyond compare, but there was something about being partnered with Julien that infused my own steps with an airy lightness that released anxiety and made me feel as if I was one with the music itself. I connected my thoughts to his. As green and gold filtered into my mind, I didn’t have to think about the counts, about the people watching, or whether my feet would get tangled in the ribbons of my gown. Neither of us spoke a word beyond our greeting, but our eyes never disengaged. When Gerrias cut in, even though he was a fine dancer and I enjoyed the ease of his company, I couldn’t help but feel a great loss.

  A succession of partners followed—no less than three per song. For a while I tried to remember their names, but they soon became jumbled in my head.

  As my father had predicted, the youngest son of the Duke of Port Dyn was easy to identify, especially with Sir Kile barely a breath away from him all night. When the Herald of the Dance presented him to me, I was impressed by his skill with the lively steps of the Veetrish reel. The equally dashing Sir Kile kept close time with us, much to the exertion of the dowager he had partnered for that particular tune.

  Tarlo’s long-lashed eyes, the same shade as his cinnamon-brown hair
, were set off by a wardrobe that must have cost his father dearly. I doubted Tarlo would be refused a dance by any maiden present, but I did hope the maidens present were a discerning lot, for there was a slickness just under the surface of his smile that seemed to lack the sheen of honor. As my father had suggested, I applied my gift and peered into the edges of Tarlo’s thoughts.

  “And will you go home to Salderyn soon?” he asked after we’d completed the first turn. His tone was friendly, yet vague. Still, something about the question seemed . . . rehearsed.

  “Eventually,” was all I said, for in his thoughts I had seen greed and a lust for power that might not hesitate long before considering betrayal.

  “It will be a great loss to Dynwatre when you leave us for your northern home,” he said with a smile that would likely turn a girl’s heart as quickly as it would her head. “And your mother? Will she join you there?”

  “When she is able.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  He smiled again, but this time his gaze intensified. Even my heart, as well-anchored as it was to Julien’s, couldn’t help but quiver.

  “Your Highness, I find that having you in my arms is doing damage to my heart.”

  I blinked, caught off guard by the earnestness of his tone. “It . . . is?”

  “Indeed.” His smile was warm. “A damage that might only be relieved should your father deign to allow me to confess it as the first herald of love.”

  Well, then! Another quick peek into his thoughts found that I was not the first maiden to receive that particularly poetic bit of flattery. A sour taste filled my mouth and cooled the blush on my cheeks.

  “You flatter me, Lord Tarlo! I could not possibly speak to my father’s opinion on that subject, of course.” I gave him a sweet smile. “But I daresay my suitor would object to your proclamation.”

  His eyebrows rose like two brown caterpillars, mid-crawl, yet the muscles around his mouth gave away the quick burst of anger at being thwarted.

  “You have a suitor, Your Highness? So soon after being returned to your father?” he asked. “And who is this most favored of all men?”

  “Sir Julien de Gladiel.”

  Something unpleasant flashed in his eyes, but it cooled as quickly as it appeared. “Ah,” Tarlo said, his smile tinged with what appeared to be sadness.

  I was only too glad when the Herald of the Dance interrupted, bringing my next dancing partner. In fact, had my next partner not been Kinley de Whittier, I might have excused myself. After dancing with Lord Tarlo, the desire to wash my hands was fierce. It wasn’t that he was unclean in any outward way, but his thoughts seemed to leave a trace upon the skin like that of the garden slugs Rowlen used to tease me with as a child. Few present needed the herald’s service so much as I, but I was ever so glad he took his duty—and my father’s directive concerning Tarlo de Veir—seriously.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Ro—” Kinley chuckled, correcting himself, “Princess Rynnaia.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know,” he mused, “I’ve known you were the Ryn for over three years now, but it’s still difficult to reconcile it when I hear your voice. You still carry much of Veetri in your speech.”

  “As well as in my heart,” I said.

  “I am glad to hear it.” He smiled. “Julien is a good man.”

  I blinked at the change in subject.

  “I say that because, as your brother, I want you to know that I approve of your choice.”

  The dance required we turn back-to-back then and we couldn’t talk for another three measures, but the pause didn’t keep Kinley from picking up right where he’d left off.

  “Julien and I have trained together, fought together, and,” he paused to give me a sly wink, “we’ve had a fair bit of fun as well.” He chuckled. “I’ve watched him mold mediocre squires into fearsome and honorable knights and I have been witness to him ferreting villains from their hiding places. Julien’s a loyal friend and a fine knight. The finest. Not only will he make an honorable husband, he is worthy of serving the Kingdom beside you.”

  “Kinley, you speak as if I’m already wed, yet we’ve only begun to court. I can’t possibly know if we—”

  “Ro—naia.” We both laughed at the interesting combination of names that tied his tongue as he interrupted me. “I think your heart knows more than you will admit. Perhaps more than you yet realize.” He smiled and surprised me with a twirl that was not necessarily an ordered part of the dance.

  I laughed as I spun back into his arms. Kinley’s style of dance, so very Veetrish and so lacking the formality of my other partners, relaxed me in familiarity. He led me with an easy grace in which a misstep, if I made one, could be interpreted as a flourish rather than a mistake.

  “It is refreshing to dance in the style of Veetri again,” I said, as he spun me yet again.

  “Not all the ladies I partner would agree. I think they find our freedom disconcerting.” Kinley nodded. “But I prefer to believe that what they interpret as whimsy is what makes us more open to knowing our own hearts, more able to see the nuance that defines a person’s character, and more willing to reach for an adventure, regardless of the consequences.” He gave me a knowing grin, passed my hand into his brother’s, bowed, and walked away.

  “Princess,” Lewys bowed.

  “How is your shoulder?” I asked. His eyes had betrayed a moment of pain when he lifted his arm to initiate the twirl this particular dance required.

  “Still a bit sore, but I’m one of the lucky ones.” His expression grew serious for a moment, but then he smiled. “You know, it’s amazing how right you look as yourself.” A mischievous glint sparked in his eye. “Now your hair matches your spirit. Wild as fire and just as able to burn those who cross you.”

  “And you are quite brave to say so, Lewys. Are you, then, feeling so impervious to flame?” We were still bantering when Rowlen appeared, forcing Lewys to present my hand to his youngest brother.

  Rowlen bowed in the custom of the Storytellers, low enough to make my own back ache just from watching him. Rising with a familiar twinkle in his eye, he lifted his clasped hands to his chest. Giving me a wink, he pulled his hands apart with a slight flourish and produced a beautiful nosegay of copper-colored roses, tied with a blue ribbon.

  “Your Highness,” he said, offering the nosegay to me.

  I couldn’t help myself. Even though I knew better, I reached to take the offered bouquet. But my fingers closed around . . . air.

  The vision vanished and Rowlen shook his head. “How quickly she forgets!”

  “You do know, I hope, that were there not an audience expecting the perfect behavior of a princess, your upper arm would feel the pain of my exasperation. As it is, however, you will remain unbruised. Unless, perchance, I am able to crush your toe during this lively tune.” I held out my hand, which he took with a grin. We danced across the floor, laughing in the delightful exchange of familiar wit.

  “Have you yet danced with Erielle?” I asked.

  “Erielle, you say?” He furrowed his brow. “Which young lady is she?”

  “Don’t act as if you don’t know, Rowlen. Erielle de Gladiel, of course!”

  “Ahh.” His smile told me he knew very well to whom I’d referred. “Yes, I’ve danced with the young lady from Mynissbyr. And I must say I prefer that lovely pink gown to the breeches and tunic in which she was attired when first we met. I prefer it so much, in fact, that I may find another opportunity to compliment her on it during a second dance later this evening.”

  I grinned. “Beware her brother, Rowlen. Julien is fearsomely protective of her.”

  “Then I shall do nothing to raise his ire. Although I doubt he would notice who dances with his sister while he is so entirely consumed with noting who dances with mine.”

  I ducked my head. “He’s asked the King’s permission to court me.”

  “And the King consented?”

  “Most readily.”

  �
�And are you . . . pleased with the arrangement?”

  From anyone else, the question might seem impertinent. But Rowlen de Whittier was not only my foster brother. He had long been my closest friend and most trusted confidant.

  “I am. Julien has quite won my heart.”

  Rowlen’s expression softened. He sighed and was about to say something else when, once again, the Herald of the Dance appeared. Rowlen relinquished my hand.

  The evening wore on and I was delighted and dismayed in turn by the various men who sought my company on the dance floor. Several hinted at hoping to win my hand—one man even went so far as to list his qualifications as a future King!—but when I was given the opportunity, one mention of Julien’s courtship seemed to still the poor fellows’ hopes.

  For most, however, it was unnecessary for me to verbalize Julien’s claim. For throughout the course of the ball, my knight danced with no lady save myself or his sister. And he was always near. More than once, my cheeks warmed when I caught him spearing one of my partners with his gaze.

  Proceed with caution, he seemed to warn with that look, for she shall be mine.

  What he didn’t yet fully realize, however, was that I already was.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Having been away from Veetri for so long, I was woefully unaccustomed to such vigorous, continuous dancing. My feet cried for mercy for a good hour before the orchestra finally took a break. When they did, I made my way to my father’s side, and the gilded chair that awaited me there, to enjoy Rowlen’s entertainment.

  After my father and I had been served, trays of beverages and hors d’oeuvres were offered to the breathless dancers. When the servants finished their rounds, the Storyteller swept onto the middle of the floor.

  “Beyond what I know of him from Kinley,” my father said, “I have heard of Rowlen, your Storyteller. He is reputed to have quite an amazing gift.”