by R. K. Ryals
“The royal mages and scribes,” the king said, his hand sweeping the table. “This will be an informal meeting. We will not stand on ceremony.”
Two more men had joined us as the king spoke, their silent faces hard as they took a seat across from us. No one bowed.
The cloaked figures pulled back their hoods. All of them were advanced in age, with white hair and lined faces. One of the brown-cloaked figures turned out to be a woman, her white hair twisted on top of her head in a complicated circle of braids. The elderly men with her were clean shaven with the exception of one. The bearded man wore a blue cloak, his beard as long as the one I’d once seen on Aedan, the scribe master at Forticry. It trailed past the surface of the table, disappearing beneath the wood. His eyes were dark blue and sharp, his gaze on my face. His stare followed me even as I looked away, my scrutiny going to the new men across from us.
These men were middle-aged. Their faces were lined, but their blond hair was full and untarnished by age. They were both tall. One of them, like the bearded man sitting near the head of the table, stared at me. I fidgeted under the gaze, my eyes going to my hands on the table. I hadn’t realized until now that I was clenching them, my short nails digging into my palm.
“Now that we are all present,” the king said as he stood, “I suggest we convene.”
Cadeyrn and Arien rose with their father, their fingers resting on the table.
“It seems my son has uncovered a plot by the Medeisian king, one that would have caused war between our country and Greemallia. And though foiled, Cadeyrn believes King Raemon is still a threat. Across from you sits the Medeisian rebels who brought this plot to our attention.”
King Freemont gestured at our group, his voice loud as he recounted the events from the day before. The men listened intently, their brows furrowed, their eyes shifting occasionally to us. Shock registered on their features when the king introduced Lochlen as the prince of dragons, and unease flickered in their gazes when they took note of the wolf. But it was my part in the story that stirred the most interest. The brown-cloaked man and woman stiffened, their eyes narrowing on my face when the Book of Truth was mentioned, and I knew immediately by their reaction that these were the scribes.
“The phoenix,” the woman breathed, her old eyes crinkling as she squinted at me.
I sat taller, my heart rate increasing and my palms beginning to sweat.
“Too young,” the brown-cloaked man argued.
“Hush, Eiric. She only looks too young because you are so old,” the woman admonished. She leaned forward, her piercing gaze searching my face. “Astonishing.”
“Watch it, Lucrais. Insulting Eiric will only cause him more disbelief,” the bearded blue-cloaked man teased.
Lucrais waved her hand dismissively. “He just enjoys a good argument.”
“The big question here isn’t the girl,” the king interrupted, his voice breaking into the conversation, “it’s whether we go to war with Medeisia.”
The bearded man stood, his beard sliding with him as he rounded the table, his eyes on my face. “In that case, Your Majesty, the focus should definitely be the girl.”
Pausing behind my chair, one of his wrinkled hands gripped my chin gently before lifting my face. My eyes met his where he towered over the seat’s high back. It seemed wrong that the Sadeemians should be such tall people.
“I am Mothelamew,” the man said. His voice was hypnotizing. It had the raspy quality of age, but was low and commanding. He smelled like incense. “And you, child, are interesting.”
I shook my head, effectively shaking off his grip.
“I’m just a girl,” I whispered.
The old man’s gaze moved to the wolf, and he laughed. “No,” he said. “Not just a girl.”
“What does she have to do with our decision to fight Medeisia?” the king’s heir asked. Arien’s voice was high, as if he had gone through the voice change during puberty but had never come out of it.
Mothelamew looked to Lucrais who stood, her wrinkled hands clutching the folds of her brown cloak. “Because, Your Majesty,” she said, “without the girl, you won’t win the war.”
My heart sunk.
“Then you believe the prophecy?” Freemont asked. “That she will bring her people peace?
Cadeyrn hadn’t moved during the entire exchange. He sat—his back against his chair, his expression even—listening. The rest of the table did the same.
Lucrais cocked her head. “And you don’t, Your Majesty?” she asked. “Even after having fathered one of the foretold?”
Freemont’s jaw tightened, his gaze going to the table before lifting again. “Hence another reason to reconsider. If we go to war, then there is always the possibility we lose a prince.”
Cadeyrn never flinched, but I did.
“And yet,” Mothelamew interjected, “your son is right. I take it Cadeyrn is the reason we’re here, that he has suggested we march on Medeisia?”
Freemont’s silence was answer enough.
Mothelamew grinned, his lips opening to reveal remarkably good teeth despite a little crookedness. “I have taught the prince well, Your Highness.”
“You?” Eirick spat.
Cadeyrn looked skyward. It was the closest thing I’d ever seen him or any monarch come to an eye roll.
“I give you some credit,” Mothelamew admitted, “but most of it I claim.”
The brown-cloaked Eirick stood, his mouth opening in protest.
“Stop this!” the king commanded. Everyone froze as the king pounded the table with his fist. “Tell me why we should go to war.”
Mothelamew gestured at the silent, blue-cloaked man still sitting. This man had milky white eyes, and I knew by their vacancy that he was blind.
“Brother,” Mothelamew prompted.
The blind man rose, his vacant stare on my face. It unnerved me.
“Girl,” he said. His voice was hoarse and broken, and I found myself leaning forward to hear him. “Who was your mother?” he asked.
I hadn’t expected that particular question, and I gawked, my lips parting.
“My mother?” I managed.
The man didn’t nod. He simply stared, waiting.
I looked around the table, at the silent, fascinated faces, my gaze ending on Lochlen where he sat next to me. I waited for him to answer for me, but he didn’t.
I cleared my throat. “Soren,” I answered. “Her name was Soren, but I didn’t know her. She was a midwife who gave birth to me out of wedlock and left me with my father, Garod Consta-Mayria. She no longer lives.”
The man’s dead gaze drilled into me, and I froze. His stare felt physically strange, as if tiny fingers were running along my skin before pushing into my chest and into my hair, digging down into the inner reaches of my skull.
He shook his head. “Garod is not your father,” he said suddenly.
The silence that followed was deafening, his words so blunt and unexpected that I wasn’t even sure how to react. I just stared at him, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. I started counting the thumps, timing them with my breaths.
“Not my father,” I repeated dumbly. The people in the room were gone now. There was only me and the blind man, his stare and my shock. “I don’t understand,” I whispered.
My gaze moved to Lochlen, to the dragon who’d known my mother personally. He was leaning forward, his pupils dilated, his interest as real as mine.
“I knew her mother, mage,” Lochlen breathed. “The dragons protected her during her pregnancy before Soren took the child to her father, hiding her in plain sight among the humans.”
The man’s empty gaze shifted to the dragon. “Even the mightiest of creatures can be fooled. Did you ever meet the father? Did the woman ever speak of him?”
Lochlen stiffened. “Not until the end.”
The man nodded, his face confident. “Garod is not her father.”
I kept swallowing because I was afraid if I stopped, I’d forget how to breathe or
move, talk or function.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered again.
There was a loud cough from the end of the table, the sound almost strangled. It came from one of the blond men. He was handsome despite his age, his blond hair worn slightly long so that it curled just below his ears. It should have looked feminine, but it didn’t. His face was too masculine, too sharp to be confused with a female.
Gryphon leaned forward. “Father?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
The man coughed again, his face going red.
He waved his hand. “I’m fine,” he answered.
I looked between the two men. Gryphon’s concerned eyes searched his father’s face. I could see the resemblance between the two. Gryphon had once said he was the second son of the second most powerful man in Sadeemia. Through my studies, I knew this meant his father was Freemont’s minister of government, the king’s link to the people.
It was Cadeyrn who finally broke the silence, his deep voice calm despite the revelations.
“If Garod is not her father, then do you know who is, Artair?”
The blind man lifted his head. “I do not.”
The minister of government coughed again. Gryphon stood. “Really, Father,” he said. “Are you all right?”
The man lifted his hand and nodded. Freemont watched him.
“Conall?” the king asked.
The blond man shook his head, his eyes red when he finally looked up.
“The mage doesn’t know who her father is,” Conall said, his voice strained, “but I do.”
I was standing before I’d even realized I’d moved, bile rising up in my throat as I stared at him. Gryphon stood across from me, unease in his features.
Conall’s gaze moved to mine and held it. “I traveled often into Medeisia when I was a young man, sailing through the channel beyond Rolleen before trekking for two days through the Ardus to the border. It is how all dignitaries who met with Garod came to discuss affairs of state. Medeisia never wanted to trade, never wanted to discuss a peaceful way to open up the Ardus for travel. Trouble with Raemon began even then.”
“Father,” Gryphon interrupted, but Conall shook his head, his gaze remaining on mine.
“It was on one of these trips that I met your mother,” he revealed.
I think I may have gasped, but I wasn’t sure. The silence was so deafening even breathing was loud.
“No,” Gryphon hissed. He was staring at his father, his face pale.
Conall swallowed. “Soren was Garod’s sister. She was a beautiful woman, kind and quiet ...”
Gryphon reached out and gripped his father’s shoulder. “No!” he repeated, his voice louder than it had been before.
Conall’s eyes closed, breaking our connection. “Garod is your uncle,” he said. “I’m your father.”
Gryphon’s hand came up to cover his mouth, his eyes wide with horror.
“And you left her mother in Medeisia to die!” he roared.
I left the reaction up to Gryphon, my eyes staring at his irate face, at the way his blue eyes shone as he pounded the table in front of his father. I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t even sure I remembered how to speak. I just stared, stared at the man who’d just told me I was Garod’s niece rather than his daughter, stared at Gryphon, my outraged half-brother. My brother. I had a brother.
“I couldn’t bring her to Sadeemia,” Conall said, his voice low.
I knew by looking at Gryphon that he was older than me, knew that he had other siblings, and knew this meant Conall was married. I was the unfortunate off-spring, the child that should have never been born. The same child who’d been born to the forests the night of a Harvest Moon.
Gryphon’s gaze moved to mine, the shock in his eyes as stark as mine. He opened his mouth before closing it again.
“I’m sorry,” Conall whispered.
I finally found my tongue. I should be angry. I should be crying and upset, but I wasn’t. I was angry for my mother—that she’d been left lonely, afraid, and pregnant—but I wasn’t angry for me.
“I’m not sorry,” I managed.
And I wasn’t. I wasn’t sorry I’d been born in Medeisia, or that I’d been raised amongst my uncle’s Archives. Nor was I sorry I’d met the rebels. And I most certainly wasn’t sorry I’d fallen in love with Kye.
I saw flames in my mind, flames and fire. In it, I still heard Aigneis’ screams, and I knew now she’d died with many secrets. She’d known. Even Garod knew. Of course he knew! He’d taken his sister’s child into his home, and lied to his wife, telling Taran that I was his illegitimate daughter. He’d protected me. For that, I loved him.
“I’m not sorry,” I said again.
And I wasn’t.
Chapter 28
I don’t remember most of the council meeting following Conall’s admission. There was a lot of yelling, many suggestions, and a tentative plan for invading Medeisia. And then there was me. There was more talk of the Book of Truth, more stares, more gasps. Because of my birth and my power, I was a direct link to the Sadeemian gods according to the scribes. Daegan protested, his faith in our gods strong enough to induce argument. I was the daughter of the forest, Daegan said, the child of Silveet.
I didn’t say a word. I just stared, my thoughts going to my mother. The kind, quiet midwife who’d given birth to a child she would never know within the protection of the trees.
I missed the trees.
“We are here,” a voice called out.
My head lifted, my gaze going to the arrow slit window. Had the trees heard my call, heard my internal conflict?
“Stay calm, daughter of the forest,” they said. “In the end, it will be your ability to remain calm that will save us all.”
I stared at the window. I should cry. I should scream. Something.
“Why?” the trees asked. “So you discover you are the daughter of a man you never knew? In the end, your true family is the forest.”
I swallowed back my tears, my eyes closing.
Behind me, there was a heated discussion about Raemon. The wyvers would know if we entered the country, someone argued. There is no doubt he has spies among the Sadeemians, someone else countered. This whole war was a foolish idea, impossible, another voice added.
I didn’t know who said what. My ability to discern their voices was lost in my own thoughts, but I knew one thing.
“You’re all wrong,” I said, my voice loud and confident despite my damp lashes and closed eyes.
“With war comes great sacrifice,” the trees said. “Remember your strengths.”
I stood, pushing back my chair before moving to the window. The trees could hear me now even when I wasn’t speaking. They knew my thoughts. I wasn’t sure if my powers had grown or if it was just something I hadn’t allowed myself to experience until now.
My eyes went to the thin line of blue sky beyond the castle wall.
“Ari,” I whispered.
Only one word, and the entire room was filled with an answering kek, kek. A dark shape drifted on the breeze beyond the window, growing bigger as the falcon landed on the stone sill, her beady eyes on mine.
I raised my hand, and she jumped onto my wrist.
“You’re all wrong,” I said again. I turned, the large falcon perched heavily on my arm as Oran padded to my side.
“About damn time you figured this out,” the wolf grumbled.
My eyes swept the room. “War is not impossible. The wyvers can be swayed. Raemon isn’t the only man with spies. Your human spies are fallible. My spies are everywhere.”
It took everything I had not to show any fear, to be the leader the forest needed me to be, to be their voice.
Cadeyrn stood, his sword at his side.
“Nature and steel,” the prince said, his gaze going to his father’s. “The biggest threat lies in the broken pendant you wear around your neck. If Raemon succeeds in getting it, there would be more than war. We would be dominated and destroyed.”
&nb
sp; Lochlen rose. “The dragons need the pendant returned. It is too powerful to remain in human hands, but until we get Raemon’s half of the pendant, it is too dangerous to remove yours. Any weakness could be your downfall.”
Freemont massaged his temple.
“So we are all in agreement,” he asked. “War with Medeisia?”
There were affirmative nods and many “ayes”.
The king reached for a piece of parchment before running a quill pen over its surface, the scratch, scratch, scratching of the pen mesmerizing me.
Freemont signed it before passing the paper to his sons. Both of them left their signatures. Lochlen did the same. The monarchs of Sadeemia and the prince of dragons.
Finally, Conall added his name to represent the people, and wax was dripped onto the page before Freemont pulled his dragon pendant free from the folds of his tunic.
I watched as the king left his seal, my eyes roaming the black scribbles on the page. Words. Such powerful things words were. Powerful enough to start wars. Powerful enough to end them.
Chapter 29
Two days passed after the council meeting with no more than a couple of private council discussions, due to the influx of guests arriving for the betrothal ball announcing Gabriella’s engagement to Prince Cadeyrn of Sadeemia.
There was little opportunity for visiting, although Gryphon stopped me once in the palace, his stance awkward as he patted me on the back.
“I always wanted a sister,” he’d said. “I’m the second of three sons.”
That had surprised me. I had three brothers. I wasn’t sure how to deal with that, wasn’t quite sure how to answer him, so I had nodded. He’d patted me on the back again, and then pulled me into an awkward hug.
“There will be more time later,” he promised.
I nodded again, my heart clenching. I would always look at Gryphon and see the man who’d once held a sword to my back, the same person who’d offered to give the man I loved relief from pain. He was the second son to the most powerful man in Sadeemia, and he was my brother. A warrior first, but also a physician. It seemed healing ran in the blood.