"Blasphemous fool! You dare insult the Jalora in its stronghold? You and your cohorts will never take the Regent Medallion."
Jorge pulled his hatchet and threw it in one well-practiced move. It stuck with a sickening thud in the bald man's forehead. Orryo and his short friend raced toward him, weapons striking downward. Jorge rolled across the broken glass and yanked his hatchet from its gruesome target. He swung the weapon up to meet Orryo's blade. Its deadly edge stopped inches from his throat. Tobacco and smoked meat scented his attacker's breath. Jorge kicked out, making contact with the man's knee. Orryo buckled. He fell with a howl onto the broken case. Jorge took the advantage and struck at his head with the blunt end of the hatchet. The short man's boot kicked the hatchet out of Jorge's hand before it could make contact. He lifted his sword, ready to thrust it into Jorge's heart.
"Halt or we'll fire!"
Four palace guards had their muskets trained on them. Brilliant red and gold uniforms stood out against the darkness. They were an impressive sight, almost too ornate to be functional. Jorge had seen them train for their duties. Vetted by the Valdeonian rangers, they were deadly shots. He raised his hands and stayed still. His short attacker wasn't as judicious. He jumped over the broken case and tried to run. A single shot echoed in the ancient halls. Howls of pain confirmed they preferred to keep their prisoners alive.
Their lieutenant stepped forward, taking in the scene. Men fighting among the treasures of the D'Antoiné family. One of the perpetrators dead. Jorge could imagine the criminal charges he was building up against them.
"It was the barbarian!" Orryo struggled out of the case. "He was trying to steal treasure. We stopped him. He killed my friend in his escape attempt."
"Would you like the lieutenant to search me, Orryo?"
Jorge slowly got to his feet, very much aware of the muskets trained upon him. He was bluffing of course. Jorge would do what was necessary to escape with the medallion. He had to make sure it was put safely into Wolf's hands.
"We can go before the entire court together and talk about tonight."
Orryo shifted his eyes from Jorge to the lieutenant. "An unnecessary inconvenience for the assembly during such a tragic time. You were stopped before taking anything."
"Silence," the lieutenant barked. "You'll get your chance to explain why you are in the museum without permission. I'm sure Prince Julian and Chancellor Benito will be very interested in hearing your case."
Going before Julian would be a death sentence. One Jorge was certain Chancellor Benito would enjoy carrying out. They'd have him buried deep in a hole before Wolf caught wind of any foul play. The Regent Medallion would find its way around Julian's treacherous neck while any hope for Valdeon faded away. No. He would kill or be killed before allowing such a thing.
"I demand you take me to the Lords of Valdeon. They are the only justice I will acknowledge in the East." Jorge retrieved his hatchet and put it in his belt. "Come now, Lieutenant. It is a simple request. If Wolf will not see me, then I will accompany you to my cell without further resistance."
The lieutenant regarded Jorge with the suspicious eyes of a man who knows he is on the verge of making a career decision. He dropped his gaze to the dead man again. To his credit, indecision was visible only in the small twitch of his fingers upon the trigger.
"Bind them."
Chapter Seventeen
Wolf ran his finger down the long list of names in the arrest log book. The rangers had found over a hundred possible traitors who had instigated violence around the palace in the past few days. He rubbed at his tired eyes. It was drawing close to midnight. Worry and frustration refused to let his mind rest. Never in his memory had so many foolish souls blatantly disrespected the Altar of Providence. In their arrogance, they were challenging the Jalora in its own house. He feared what their transgressions would mean for Valdeon.
Basilio placed a glass of amber liquid before him. Bourbon, a De Vincente family specialty, had been aged in barrels in caverns under his estate for as long as anyone could remember. Wolf took a long drink, closing his eyes as the warmth ran along the back of his throat. It was a much-needed taste of home.
His thoughts wandered to his estate in San Rudalfo. It seemed a lifetime had passed since he sat with Dulcina on their patio watching the stars. Their sons were tucked safely in their beds, sleeping in peace on such nights. Somehow he would find a way to restore order and take his family back to their simpler life.
Shouts and pounding boots invaded his daydream. He closed the log and covered his doodles of possible conspiracies. Wolf nodded to his squire with a sigh when the respectful knock came. Basilio didn't look pleased when he opened the door. He stepped back to allow the invaders entry.
Jorge Pacarro stood in the center of four palace guards. His wrists had been restrained. Several weapons were trained upon him as if he would break free at any moment. Wolf was well aware of Jorge's battle capabilities. They'd served together for many years. He was a fierce warrior, but he was also a wise man. The Pacarro tribesman stood patiently before them now, chin lifted high.
Basilio did not share his patience. "What the devil are you about? Release him at once."
"We've come to see My Lord De Vincente." Jorge gave Wolf a pointed look. "I will submit myself to his judgment."
Wolf probed Jorge quickly. The Jalora had wrapped its favor about him. Indeed, it had saved his life tonight. Strange. Something was different about his energy. Wolf scanned his body again. A palm-sized circle of blue-green power pulsed in the aura cloud just beneath Jorge's right kidney.
"You will release Lord Pacarro into my custody, Lieutenant."
"Yes, my lord. What of the other assailants?" the palace guard asked. "I have a dead man in the private family museum. Someone must answer for his murder."
"Hold them." Wolf gave Jorge another appraising look. "I will question these men personally in the morning."
The guards bowed, satisfied now that a Lord of Valdeon was going to solve the mystery for them. They released Jorge and left the room. Basilio handed Jorge a glass of bourbon with a huff of disapproval. Wolf ignored his show of temper. He led the other squires to the Lords of Valdeon and had once been Jorge's commander. The two men had come close to blows many times.
"And just what have you been up to, Jorge?" Wolf leaned against the desk. Curiosity had shaken the fatigue from his mind. Something important had happened tonight, and his old friend had played a key role.
"I went to the D'Antoiné family library to find most of the books packed away. Julian's men were roaming around as well. Their movements seemed suspicious, so I followed them into the museum." Jorge took a long gulp, emptying his glass. "They were attempting to steal the Regent Medallion. We have proof at last the bastard prince has designs on the throne, Wolf."
Basilio took Jorge's empty glass and refilled it. "They didn't get it, did they?"
"No, I was able to grab the medallion before they could lay their filthy hands upon it. I have it right here. I thought it would be safe with you, Wolf."
Jorge opened his shirt and reached inside to the spot where Wolf had seen the strange blue-green circle of energy. His face grew worried as his hand searched around inside. Stripping off his shirt, Jorge began to poke at the cloth. His fingers came away empty.
"That's impossible! I put it inside my shirt. I can still feel it's warmth upon my skin."
Wolf held his fingertips over the pulsing blue-green circle on Jorge's skin. He reached out with the Jalora. The strange circle of power was not a circle at all. Rather it was a shaft of energy penetrating deep into Jorge's being. He let his hand drop away.
A single word drifted into his mind. Safe.
Jorge's expectant eyes were upon him. Wolf took up his own glass again and drained it. The brave man before him had taken a great risk to save his homeland and defend the Jalora's honor. Would he be prepared for the consequences of his action? Perhaps it was wiser to keep the medallion's location to himself for the time
being.
"Valdeon owes you a great debt, Jorge Pacarro. You have saved the Regent Medallion from the hands of the bastard prince and his followers. The Jalora is satisfied the medallion is safe."
Jorge nodded. "I heard them speaking of the medallion's magic, but wasn't sure what to expect. I'm glad it's safe."
Wolf nodded slowly and turned to look out the window at the darkened gardens beyond. This was troubling news. It was not surprising that Julian knew of the Regent Medallion, but the details of its magic were a well-kept secret. And such blatant blasphemy in the Palace of Kings must not go unpunished. The ruling class of Valdeon had grown complacent and disrespectful in the good graces of the Jalora. If they continued down this path, the Jalora's punishment would be fierce.
"We must take action, but without proof there can be no justice."
"I fear Julian and his allies no longer respect the Jalora in their thirst for power." Jorge had pulled his shirt back on and was fastening the front. "You're right, Wolf. We must have undeniable proof. I will be your spy."
He was a Pacarro, the last of the full-blooded plainsmen. If anyone could move about unseen — other than a ranger of course — it was him. His courage and loyalty were beyond question. It was a logical course of action, but the Regent Medallion must be considered as well. It had chosen Jorge's body as its new hiding place. The fatigue returned to Wolf's body in a wave.
"Very well, Jorge. I call you to service. Search these men out and discover their plan. We have no way of knowing how deep this conspiracy runs. You must stay hidden from everyone. Even Cesar and the other rangers. I want you to report directly to me. Tell no one else. Understood?"
"Yes, Wolf. It will be as you say." Jorge ran his hand over his right rib cage. "There's something you're not telling me. Isn't there?"
"Go, Jorge and the Jalora's blessings go with you." Wolf nodded to Basilio. His squire doused the lights and opened the window latch. Jorge Pacarro gave him one last look and then disappeared through the window into the night.
Chapter Eighteen
The autumn sun at his back, Seth stood facing his targets. An empty lantern oil can, discarded bottles, and a broken wagon wheel lined the short garden wall at the back of the McCloud home. He thrust the sword-length branch toward them. Twirling in unsure movements, he attempted to reenact Leo's battle the night before. The Valdeonian warrior’s strikes, however, had been far more elegant than Seth's clumsy dance.
Lowering the branch, he rubbed at his sweaty forehead. Leo. He was another mystery to occupy Seth’s thoughts. Clearly he was someone important. Why would he take a keen enough interest in Seth to journey all the way to Marianna? Perhaps it had something to do with Emma's promise to send a letter to his mother's friend asking for help in finding Edmund. Maybe his father didn't want to see the son he'd abandoned and sent this Leo in his stead? Sixteen years had passed on the island without him in their lives. Another sixteen could pass without his interference as far as Seth was concerned.
Body tingling in strange waves of power, he raised the stick again and struck at the wheel. Brittle spokes splintered under the savage attack. Collapsing into the ground in a pile of ruined wood and iron, the wagon wheel succumbed to its death blow.
"Put the silly stick down and stop messing about."
Emma let the back door slam shut as she tied her bonnet. A large, empty shopping basket teetered on her arm. He held it as she adjusted the ribbon at her chin. She hadn’t worn her best dress today as was her usual habit. He suspected she wouldn’t spend time gossiping among the other women in town. Not when her own household was the subject of discussion.
"I’ll be at market for a few hours. You had best make yourself look busy when your uncle returns from town hall."
She gripped the handle of the basket, gave him one last disapproving glare, and exited the back garden toward town. He closed the back gate after her. Counting to ten, he hurried to the other side of the yard for an unobstructed view of the street. Seth was grateful for his unusual height this morning. He carefully peered over the fence, waiting for Emma’s bonnet to disappear into the square.
Emma and Fergus had left him precious little chance to search his mother’s bedchambers. Each time he'd paused by her door, one of them was quick to send him on his way. They weren't, however, as vigilant in guarding the rest of the house. It hadn't taken a great deal of searching for Seth to find his uncle's hiding place and the key to his mother's door.
Creeping across the floorboards toward the headmaster's study, he hurried inside. Sharp angled furniture and muted hues, the study was cold like its owner. He took hesitant steps toward the desk. A dull gray tobacco tin stood in a perfectly symmetrical line with the headmaster's quill and ink set. Seth opened it, crinkling his nose at the harsh aroma of strong tobacco. His fingers shifted through the dried leaves until they found the large silver key. He grabbed it, spilling some of the leaf bits upon the desk.
Turning away from the mess, he headed purposefully toward the staircase. His mother's bedchamber door stood at the top. Climbing the stairs, he was acutely aware of the silver key drawing closer to the lock. Anxious fingers slipped it into the keyhole. The lock popped. His hands paused at the knob. He'd waited for an eternity to look for answers; now the uncertainty of what he might find threatened to snatch away his nerve. Heart thudding in his chest and ears, he turned the knob and pushed open the door.
A wall of stale air stood vigil at the entrance of the darkened room. Cobwebs hung along the ceiling and bedposts, meeting in an intricate pattern along the wall. A layer of dust settled upon the neglected furnishings. Devoid of life, it looked like a tomb. He pushed through the feeling of gloom and entered the solemn chamber. His eyes were drawn to the bed where the Valdeonian guitar lay untouched. Unbidden memories came in a rush. Choking on her memory, he turned away.
Weak sunlight broke through the lace curtains. He pulled them open. A cloud of dust puffed into heavy air. He held a hand up to shield his nose and mouth. Well, there was light enough to search now, though the morning sun seemed irreverent in the room. Hardening his will with grim determination, he began looking through her wardrobe and trunks. Anne McCloud was all about him now. He rifled through her things, ignoring his hurt and the guilt he held invading her privacy.
Nothing. Piles of clothing and her drawings of Seth as a child littered the ground where he’d thrown them. He sunk down among her things in utter defeat. Weeks of waiting for a rare chance to search her room had turned up absolutely nothing. He’d convinced himself she'd hidden something important in her chamber. A clue to her past or the whereabouts of her Edmund would make the waiting worthwhile.
Then he noticed the nightstand beside her bed was a few inches out of place. Sliding across the short distance, he edged the tip of his finger between two floorboards slightly askew under its legs. One of them was loose. He pushed the nightstand carefully to the side and pried the board up. Inside a small, hollowed-out space in the floor were Anne McCloud’s secret treasures.
He reached in and pulled out a stack of letters. They were tied together with an ornate pink ribbon. He ran his fingertip along the thick grade of the envelope. Expensive parchment, much nicer than any even Elder Newcastle used. He carefully flipped the bundle over and spread them apart for a quick glance. Ranging from sixteen years prior to a month before her death, they were all addressed to his mother in care of a post box in Port City on Eastland Isle. The handwriting was identical on each envelope and sent from the same address — Cottage on the Cliff, Isle of Carlotta.
Eastland Isle was a major air and sea port stop, connecting several island nations with the mainland and each other. He could understand why his mother had set up a post box for her secret correspondence there. Search as they might, it would take a hundred years to find someone on one of the many islands if they didn't want to be found. His mother's connection to the Isle of Carlotta wasn't as straightforward. Not much was known about the tiny island, except it rested a few miles off Va
ldeon's southern coast. How in the green, green fields had Anne McCloud come to know someone there?
It was best to read them away from prying eyes. He stashed the letters in his coat and reached in again. This time he pulled out a drawing sketched inside a banner from the Horner Isle festival. His mother — a beautiful young girl of seventeen or eighteen at the time of the portrait — smiled from the page. Ringlets draped along the material of the pretty dress she wore. It was a much different style than any he had seen her wear.
A handsome man dressed in a uniform of some kind had his arm wrapped around her waist. He held Anne against his chest, blocking Seth’s view of the military insignia there. Their joined hands rested in his mother’s lap. They looked happy. What had happened to make them part? Seth let out a long sigh. He had happened.
He held no doubt this was Edmund, Seth’s father. The resemblance was striking. They shared the same cheekbones and strong chin. Even diminished in pencil and time, his father’s amber-flecked eyes commanded full attention.
Rolling up the drawing, he tucked it inside his coat with the letters. The man who’d raised him would be home soon. No argument would be good enough to explain to Fergus why he had trespassed into Mother’s room.
Satisfied her hiding place was empty, he almost missed the tiny crystal necklace. It glittered like the sun off the ocean’s wave. A heart crystal, the very rarest of all gems. Could this be a love token from her Edmund? Seth absently lifted the silver chain over his head and let the stone fall inside his shirt.
"What are you doing in here?"
Fergus stood in the doorway. His body leaned forward in a rigid stance as if he were a cornered animal ready to spring. The headmaster’s fierce gaze avoided the bed and stayed focused upon Seth. Guilt. He wore it like a cloak. Was his cold heart feeling remorse? Anne's death may have been avoided if Fergus had stayed home the night of her murder. He hoped the headmaster hated himself for it.
"Well!"
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