The Remedy (Eyes of E'veria)

by Serena Chase

  “That he does.” I agreed. “No doubt he will be the Regent of Veetri’s Storyteller someday.”

  “Hmm.” His look was pensive. “The Regent’s Storyteller, you say?”

  I nodded. “It’s been his lofty goal to achieve that appointment for as long as I can remember. It’s quite an honor,” I explained, feeling the need to add, “in Veetri.”

  Rowlen arose from his deep bow and turned toward the dais where the King and I sat. “For Your Majesty, King Jarryn,” he announced. “And in honor of the beautiful flower gracing your side, Princess Rynnaia.” He turned in a circle, his arms gesturing to encompass the whole of the assemblage. “And for the people gathered here in celebration of the Ryn’s return, I give you a new tale, never before told throughout the realm of E’veria. Though this story is old to me and to our fair Princess, it is one that, until now, I’ve been unable to share. This night, I give you a True Story,” he proclaimed. “I will admit, however,” he added with a wink in my direction, “to having taken some liberties with characterization.”

  Rowlen gave another bow. “People of E’veria,” he said, “I give to you the story of The Rose and The Asp.”

  The Asp.

  Of all the tales Rowlen had to draw from, true and otherwise, why would he have chosen this one?

  I thought I had put my fear of Aspera Scyles away. That it had died with her to be replaced with forgiveness instead. Gratitude, even. Why then my racing heart and teary eyes just at the mention of the nickname we had given her as children?

  I searched my mind, and swallowing hard, checked my emotions. Yes, I had forgiven her. But her actions had scored deep enough questions in my heart that even the memory of them retraced those scars. Perhaps they would always be with me. But they had served a greater purpose, as evidenced by the strong hand of my father, which had reached for my own, unnoticed, while I ruminated over what was to come.

  Rowlen bowed again, flourished out his palm, and blew a puff of air toward his open hand. A black shimmer slithered through his fingers, and several ladies shrieked as it formed into a long black snake before it even touched the ground.

  The asp coiled and hissed, moving its fanged head in a circular pattern around the room as if to encompass every guest within its reach.

  “Our story begins in the merry province of Veetri,” Rowlen began, “in the home of the Duke of Glenhume. Many years before the time in which our tale begins, the duke had taken into his service a woman from Dwons. Though dour and scornful, she was quite efficient as a housekeeper, and in time, Aspera Scyles earned the trust of the family. Eventually she was promoted to the position of Head of Housekeeping.”

  The snake uncoiled slowly, and as it rose, it took on the exact likeness of Mrs. Scyles.

  Of course I had known it was coming, but seeing the Asp’s face again after so long still caused me to take in a rather sharp breath.

  Rowlen blew across his palm and the Asp disappeared, replaced by the image of me, looking as I did upon my arrival in Veetri, at age eight. One by one, the other members of Lord Whittier’s family appeared.

  It was an odd experience, looking back in time at my own life, my arrival at Mirthan Hall, and my adoption into the family there. And yet I remained strangely distanced from the memory now that I knew my true name—and my true coloring.

  The black hair worn by the Story Girl had efficiently disguised her identity—my identity—from most of the onlookers. My father squeezed my hand. Though he had never seen me with black hair, had never known me in childhood but for one brief visit that lasted less than an hour when I was very small, he had enabled Drinius to provide me with the dangerous—and quite illegal—ebonswarth dye that made my disguise possible and more easily maintained.

  “Everyone loved young Rose,” Rowlen proclaimed. “Everyone, that is, except the Asp.”

  On the edges of the scene, Mrs. Scyles appeared again. Soon, the housekeeper shrank back into the form of a snake and coiled around the legs of the Story Girl, who now appeared as I had at sixteen. The asp struck out at her with bared fangs, eliciting gasps of horror from the audience. But the girl stood stoically silent, only wincing at the attacks, but never crying out.

  “The awful Housekeeper used every opportunity to make Rose’s doubts about her own worth grow, and those threats kept Rose from telling her family about the abuse. Soon, even Rose’s long-cherished memories of loved ones were tainted by the lying tongue of the woman she now thought of as ‘The Asp.’”

  The snake grew back into the form of the housekeeper, whose satisfied laugh held an evil note. I couldn’t help but flinch at the uncannily accurate impression.

  “You’ve no business here!” Rowlen proclaimed in a perfectly nasal depiction of Mrs. Scyles’s voice. “Your father doesn’t even want you. He’s ashamed you were even born!”

  Although they were not the exact words Mrs. Scyles had used, they were close enough to clench a fist around my heart.

  My father gripped my hand tighter. Anger and regret seeped from his thoughts.

  “By and by,” Rowlen’s normal voice returned, “a gathering was held to celebrate two family events. The most important, of course, being the sixteenth birthday of the daughter of the house.” Rowlen glanced over to where his brothers stood and shot Kinley an unrepentant grin.

  I laughed aloud, drawing several eyes my way, including Kinley’s. The party had not only been a celebration of my birthday, but also a recognition of Kinley having achieved knighthood.

  Kinley rolled his eyes and shook his head toward Rowlen, but then gave an abbreviated bow, in deference to me. Joy quickened my heart and I laughed again. How happy I was to have my brothers with me once more!

  Most of the crowd was riveted on Rowlen’s tale. As I moved my gaze back to my Storyteller brother, refusing to pause on the face of Tarlo de Veir lest I need to excuse myself to find a basin and lye, I met the smile of Sir Kile, my night guard. He, too, had been at that Veetrish celebration and understood the teasing Rowlen had directed at Kinley, his friend.

  Sir Kile raised his goblet to me and dipped his head in an abbreviated bow. I grinned back, offering a nod of my own.

  “All three of Rose’s brothers, as well as her guardian, were in attendance that night,” Rowlen continued, directing my attention back to him. “Her guardian was a fearsome man whose absence had weighed heavily upon Rose, especially in light of the lies the Asp had cast about the honored knight.”

  Even if only for a few days, Mrs. Scyles had made me question Uncle Drinius’s honor, as well as his affection for me, by implying that he was my father and I, the unwanted, ill-conceived result of a tryst. I was glad Rowlen didn’t elaborate about the content of those lies. While they might have made for a more dramatic story, I’m sure that neither Uncle Drinius’s family, nor my father, would appreciate them being repeated.

  Rowlen blew across his palm and shimmers of blue, silver, and gold trickled through his fingers. At once, the crowded Grand Hall of my Veetrish home appeared, decorated nearly exactly as I remembered it from that night. As he continued the tale, I watched my sixteen-year-old self dancing and moving about the crowd.

  Suddenly, the dancing Story Rose and her companion turned, revealing the face of the man with whom my translucent counterpart spoke.

  Uncle Drinius. My breath caught.

  Soon, Rynnaia. My father’s voice touched my mind. He’ll be restored to us soon.

  Nodding, I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  “The duke’s youngest son was an Apprentice Storyteller at the time, and as a gift to his sister, he engaged the crowd with a familiar tale he had adapted to amuse her.”

  The scene before us changed to a younger Rowlen who immediately began the telling of the story of Lady Anya as he had told it that night, allowing the heroine’s form to mirror mine at that age.

  It was the oddest sight, seeing Rowlen presenting a story of himself presenting the same story he’d told the night of the gathering at Mirthan Hall. Even odder,
since I’d “seen” Lady Anya in a vision and knew, without a doubt, that while her hair was as black as the ebonswarth root dye had made mine, she was as petite as I was tall and her eyes— My gaze shifted to Julien. Her eyes were as brilliant an emerald hue as his.

  The moment was utterly surreal. I was in awe of the enormity of my brother’s gift. It made every aspect of his tale-within-a-tale appear effortlessly believable and real.

  When the Story Rowlen reached the end of his tale, a shimmer of orange fell down upon the Story Anya. The crowd gasped as her hair turned from black to orange and they realized, at that moment, that the “Rose” they’d been watching grow up before their eyes was, in fact, me.

  The Ryn.

  “Well, that explains why Drinius was so angry,” my father said, but quietly so that only I would hear. “Revealing you in that way might well have been considered treasonous, so great a risk did it place upon you. Had I witnessed the end of his tale, Rynnaia, I fear your Storyteller might not be with us today.”

  Rowlen continued. Before us appeared the darkened balcony of Mirthan Hall, inhabited by the Story People representing Rowlen, Sir Drinius, and myself. Coiled next to a flowerpot was the black form of the snake.

  Well, that’s new. I arched an eyebrow at the license Rowlen had taken with the story. When he glanced my way he shrugged, gave a wink, and continued with his tale.

  “The hidden viper listened to the explanation given by the girl, the apology of the Storyteller, and the knight’s warning, savoring the information and tucking it away in order that she might someday use it against the young girl she so despised.

  “A few days later, however, the Asp’s taunts fell on the wrong ears. Learning of the vile housekeeper’s actions, the Duke of Glenhume expelled the Asp from his lands. Unfortunately, she took Rose’s secret with her. And when she grew desperate, she sold the information to the traitorous Cobelds.”

  “No!” A feminine gasp permeated the thick silence.

  “Yes.” Rowlen nodded toward the embarrassed young woman. “Her treachery, however, was paid in full. The Cobeld took not only the information she offered, but her life.

  “Just in time to avoid a Cobeld attack, Rose was spirited away, hidden in the Great Wood until such a time as her true identity could be revealed.”

  Rowlen’s next breath produced threads of fire and smoke. “Within a few days of Rose’s departure from Glenhume, the duke’s lands were invaded. The Cobelds and their allies devastated the village of Glenhume as well as the home where Rose and her family had lived.”

  I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth as the smoking rubble of the home of my childhood appeared before me. Though it had happened two years ago, I’d only learned of the attack just before leaving for Tirandov Isle. To see the devastation like this—and to know that the Asp’s betrayal, fed by her hatred of me, was what had led to it—broke my heart.

  Fire roared. Smoke billowed. Arrows flew from the bows of Dwonsil warriors and innocent villagers and farmers fell. Above all the visible, audible chaos, the cackling laughter of crazed old men echoed in such a way that it sounded as if there were ten Storytellers relaying the tale instead of just Rowlen. It was riveting. And entirely horrifying.

  The sounds faded, the smoke cleared, and my heart broke, just a little bit more.

  Mirthan Hall was a skeleton of stone. Her doors had been ripped from their hinges and rested at odd angles. Tendrils of smoke escaped upward. Windows were broken or missing. The gardens were burned down to ash and the pond, dry.

  Tears coursed down my cheeks. The happy memories I had been privileged to obtain in that home, among the duke’s family, were all that was left of Mirthan Hall. But at least I had that! The village of Glenhume, the families of the slain tenant farmers . . . they had lost . . . everything. Everything!

  Grief tore at my chest, filling me up with its empty maw, and with it came the stark realization that this would be the tragic future of the whole of E’veria, should I fail my coming quest.

  “Rynnaia,” my father whispered, “it’s all right now. Mirthan Hall has been rebuilt. Whittier, Capricia, and their household are safe.”

  Yes, my family was fine. But so many others . . .

  All around me, ladies sniffled. A few loud, manly nose blows rent the air.

  “Rynnaia.” My father’s low voice held a sense of urgency.

  I wiped my eyes and turned toward him. His thoughts were so drenched in gray that it dimmed the blue of his eyes, and though I tried, I could not access them. It was no small feat on his behalf that separated our minds. But why?

  “You must shield your colors, child. Your grief is too vivid. I can only imagine how powerfully it is affecting those without a defense against it. It is too much for the people to accept, Rynnaia. They cannot comprehend it.”

  “What?” I opened my mind to the people around us. Their thoughts were shadowed in the colors of my emotions. I had forgotten to censure the power of my thoughts. Being part Andoven, my father had protection from my grief. But even Rowlen was staring at the scene, an expression of hopeless sorrow written across his features.

  I reached for the grayness I’d let slip away while distracted by the devastation of Mirthan Hall and the losses the dukedom had sustained.

  As the gray filtered the passion from my thoughts, Rowlen and his audience took on slightly bewildered expressions, unsure of why they had been so moved by the destruction of the Story House. After another moment or two had passed, Rowlen cleared his throat and continued the tale.

  “The King’s Army came to Glenhume and restored a semblance of peace to the region, and the duke was able to return home to rebuild his estate.”

  A shining, new, even more charming Mirthan Hall stood where the rubble had been just moments before. The room let out a collective sigh and my father squeezed my hand.

  “Rose remained hidden in the Great Wood for nearly two years. Finally, the unrest in the land forced her out of hiding and she came to know her true identity, the reason the Cobelds desired her death, and the reason her parents had resorted to such desperate measures to keep their daughter safe for nineteen years.”

  The edge of the wood appeared and a cloaked figure stepped out of the trees and into the sunlight. A feminine hand reached up and pulled back the hood of her cloak, revealing the black-haired Story Girl.

  As the crowd looked on, the ebony hair on the girl’s head was suddenly bathed in a coppery shimmer until it transformed into my natural, fiery copper. A glimmer of silver encircled her head and my mother’s crown materialized. The center stone glowed brightly upon the forehead of my exact likeness.

  The audience was silent as the Story Princess turned her head. From the trees behind her, the King stepped forward and took his daughter’s hand. The silence continued as the scene froze, depicting a satisfied King and a confident princess who was sure of her identity and comfortable in her father’s love.

  Rowlen blew into his palm again and the vision disappeared in an upward-arching golden shimmer of light.

  A supreme moment of silence filled the pause and then the audience burst into cheers. Even the occasional whistle could be heard amidst the thundering applause. Rowlen strode to the dais, stopped directly before me, put a hand to his heart, and bowed. Unlike his usual, showy posturing, this bow was formally reverent. When he arose, the crowd had silenced and they all either bowed or curtsied to me in a similar fashion.

  My father stood. “Master Rowlen, I understand you have long desired to become the Regent’s Storyteller in your home province of Veetri.”

  Rowlen’s glance grazed my face before returning to the King. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Would you be willing to forego that hope to serve me instead as the Royal Storyteller?”

  Rowlen’s pale eyebrows lifted. “I would, indeed.”

  “May it be so.” Turning to the servant behind him, my father retrieved his sword. He stepped off the dais. “Kneel, lad.”

  Rowlen’s knee went imm
ediately to the green marble floor.

  “Good people of E’veria,” the King began, “this young man and his family have served my daughter for many years. Even should I put aside the great debt I owe Lord Whittier’s family, I find this young man worthy of an honored appointment by nature of his dedication to the craft entrusted to him. Due to the exceptional effort Master Rowlen has put into learning how to use the Storytelling gifts granted him by The First, I have offered him the position of Royal Storyteller and he has accepted.”

  I looked at Rowlen. His head was bowed, but the hand resting on his knee trembled.

  My father placed the flat of his sword on Rowlen’s right shoulder. My brother jumped slightly and I held in a giggle.

  “Master Rowlen de Whittier,” my father’s voice carried across the Grand Hall, “I knight you in the Order of Conlan, Storyteller to the Second King of E’veria, Stoenryn E’veri. May you use your masterful gift to spread truth, light, and hope throughout the Kingdom!”

  The King tapped each of Rowlen’s shoulders with his sword, handed it back to the servant, and offered his hand to the Storyteller. “Arise, Sir Rowlen!” he pronounced.

  Rowlen took the King’s offered hand and stood with an expression of utter amazement on his face. The King guided him to turn around to face the people and then lifted his goblet.

  “My people, it is my great honor to present Sir Rowlen de Whittier, the first official Royal Storyteller our land has seen in several generations! Lift your goblets to toast a man who is not my son, but who has served faithfully as my daughter’s brother. To Sir Rowlen!”

  “Sir Rowlen!”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear Kinley’s and Lewys’s voices leading the cheer that broke out as the crowd lifted their goblets.

  The disbelief I had felt upon my entrance in the Grand Hall had disappeared. Truth, as seen through Rowlen’s story, had been the catalyst for that change.

  I stepped forward, and throwing protocol to the wind, allowed my more Veetrish nature to reign for a moment. I threw my arms around my brother and kissed each of his cheeks. Twice.