Trell’s fervent kiss was his answer.
They made love until the first glimmer of dawn lightened the sky. Fhionna left him then, but not without regret. Their fierce and passionate lovemaking was a harmonic of the bond they’d forged in their week together, and they both knew that it was a different kind of magic that bound them now.
“They say a love that can end has never been real,” she whispered into his ear as she stood at the bedside. “You will always own a part of my heart, Trell of the Tides.”
He pressed a parting kiss to her palm in reply.
She looked down at him as she slipped back into her robe. “Do not forget me.”
He laughed. “How could I?” Suddenly he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back into his embrace. Pressing a kiss into her hair as he hugged her close, he murmured again, “How could I possibly?”
Then she slipped from his grasp and was out the door before he could find more words to say.
Rising and readying for the day, Trell paused and looked down at the garments he planned to wear, both of them gifts from the Mage. The tunic and gambeson were fine enough to wear to Krystos’ table, but Trell had chosen them for a different reason that morning. When paired with black britches tailored trim in the northern fashion, the outfit was presentable anywhere in the North.
Not just presentable, he thought as he donned the garments. Noble. Indeed, the clothes were expensive both in fabric and construction—too expensive to be worn by a man of common blood. It made him wonder why the Mage had given him such fine attire…the Mage who surely knew his family name.
Trell belted on his sword and then stood looking at himself in the full-length mirror for a long time. The deep grey of the wool tunic and felted overvest brought out the color in his eyes and made his dark hair seem that much richer in hue.
I look entirely different.
Not that he’d ever looked much like the darker-skinned desert tribesmen, but now, in the sleek, tailored clothing…now he saw in himself what others often had: the height and sharp features of a Northman. And in his grey eyes…an image of the ocean flashed to memory, a different image than before, but the same sea, richly mercuric beneath an overcast sky, where dark waves crashed violently against chalk-white cliffs, their waters murky near the shore where the milky chalk mingled and remained…
Trell knew that he stood at another milestone, much like his crossing of the Ashafani bridge; his donning of northern clothes somehow marked a turning point in his life. He was about to take a vital step toward his past, one that placed him across that line he both anticipated and feared…the line across which there was no turning back. East of Sakkalaah was the life he’d known for the past five years. West, was the life he’d been born to live.
That morning, he traveled west.
Trell looked at his bearded face one last time. Then he slung his packs over his shoulder, picked up the letter for Lily—which he planned to leave in Krystos’ care—and headed out the door.
He imagined a silent departure, expecting to slip through the gates of the Inn of the Four Faces before his recent companions rose to greet the day. Thus it was to his great surprise that he found an assembly waiting for him as he arrived in the courtyard.
Krystos and Aishlinn, Lily, Korin and Fhionna all stood waiting, the ladies garbed in colorful silk robes, the youth in a loose desert tunic and pants—all no doubt compliments of Krystos, who himself wore his same resplendent coat of the night before.
“Thought you’d escape without saying goodbye did you, my old friend?” Krystos’ blue eyes sparkled above his smile. “Not a chance!”
Trell lowered his packs to the limestone tiles and smiled at the others, feeling unexpected gratitude to find them all come to see him off. He shook his head, not quite knowing what to say, and then he remembered the letter in his hand. “This is for you,” he told Lily, handing it to her.
She received it with a nod of thanks. Then she lifted onto tiptoes to place a grateful kiss upon his cheek, warm and soft, chaste and sweet. “And that is for you,” she murmured abashedly as she pulled away. “For luck.”
“I willingly accept,” Trell said, smiling down at her.
Korin shook his head. “I get the idea we are somehow not exactly on the same side,” he remarked quietly, “and yet you are helping us. Why?”
Trell thought about Jaya’s admonishment again, her declaration on the truth of wars; the statement troubled him as much as it mystified him. To the youth, he replied, “Honor does not always hinge upon which side you support, Korin, and wars are not always fought for noble reasons.”
“Trell is a man guided by conscience,” Krystos observed cheerfully, casting Trell an admiring smile even as his easy good humor broke the tense mood. “He is, I believe, as noble in deed as he is in blood.”
Trell shook his head with a rueful grin. “Krystos would like to think I’m some kind of lost prince—”
“But of course I would!” Krystos interjected, waving his hand in typical dramatic fashion. “Think of the story I might recount! History is rife with romantic tales, but there is always room for one more, Trell of the Tides,” and he finished this with an affectionate wink.
Trell held up his hands in surrender. “Far be it from me to deny you a good story.”
Krystos took him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. “Fortune guide you, my good friend, and may she one day lead you back to us.”
“I will it so,” Trell agreed as they parted.
Aishlinn leaned to kiss his cheek, her gaze unreadable, and Fhionna just hugged him fiercely, not trusting to words.
Then he was hefting his packs over his shoulder and waving farewell to all of them.
Lily came running after him as the others were dispersing.
“Trell—wait!”
He turned to receive her curiously.
She held out a vial on a long silver chain and bade him drop his head that she might hang it around his neck.
“And what is this?” The engraved silver vial was sealed with dark blue wax. Trell studied it curiously.
Lily regarded him with her sad, dark eyes. “It is the truth, Trell of the Tides, should you ever decide to know it.”
Trell held her gaze for a long time. Then he tucked the vial into his tunic, nodded one last farewell, and headed off into the future to find his past.
Part 3
Emergence
Thirty-two
‘Only the nightingale understands the rose.’
– The Fire Princess Ysolde Remalkhen
The coach carrying Tanis, Alyneri, Ean and Fynnlar reached Fersthaven as the sun was nearing its zenith. The manor drive led through a yellow-leaved apple orchard, and with the sunlight shining through the branches, Tanis thought the trees seemed made of gold. Prince Ean was gazing out the window with a solemn look on his face, while Alyneri alternated between staring out the opposite door and casting affronted looks at a loudly snoring Fynnlar.
“Is something wrong, Your Highness,” Tanis asked the prince.
Ean turned and gave the boy a smile. “No, Tanis, not really. I was just…” he shrugged and smiled, “I was just thinking about how I might never see this place again, and it made me sad, because it’s quite lovely here.”
“Don’t be maudlin, Ean,” Alyneri muttered.
“Why wouldn’t you be able to come back here, Your Highness?” Tanis asked.
Ean looked back out the window just as the last of the orchard was passing by, giving way to the tall red-gold maples that lined the drive. “No reason, Tanis. It was just a feeling.” He turned the lad another smile. “Heading off on a journey such as ours, who knows when we’ll be back?”
Tanis forced a smile in return, but Ean’s words made him sad. He knew his prince was lying; he just didn’t understand why.
As the coach pulled to a halt in front of the stairs and the assembled manor staff, Alyneri veritably flew out the door and vanished inside with her chamberlain before T
anis even set one foot upon the earth. The lad likewise left the two princes to their own devices and went to gather his things as he’d been bidden.
Prince Ean’s strange mood notwithstanding, Tanis was excited almost to bursting. To think of going on an important quest as Prince’s Ean’s personal Truthreader! The thrill of it was nearly more than Tanis could bear. If only he’d been able to share the amazing news with Tad and Killian, but they’d had no time for farewells—Morin d’Hain had practically pushed them into the coach after the briefest of explanations and an ultimatum that originally had Her Grace fuming. Tanis was surprised that he wasn’t more tired, what with being up most of the night—and what a night it had been, too!—but now he couldn’t stop thinking about the adventure ahead.
Tanis finished packing and looked around his room. It seemed barren without his things, yet there had been little of him in it to begin with, in truth—just a wooden sword he’d used for practicing and some books Killian leant him. No doubt the chamberlain would see them returned. Seeing his packed bags lying on the bed, Tanis couldn’t help but think of Farshideh. Surely she’d be so pleased to know of his new and important position with the prince.
You take care of him now, Tanis, khortdad, she’d say. He’s your most important ally; he’ll protect you even as you protect him from those that would infect his reign with lies and deceit.
Tanis thought he could almost hear Farshideh, her words seemed so clear, and he fought the urge to look around to see if she was somehow standing behind him. “Farshideh,” he whispered, just in case she was somehow watching. “I love you.”
And I love you, Tanis, dearheart. Now get a move-on before Alyneri winds up in a fuss.
Carting his heavy bags on either shoulder, Tanis found Her Grace in her infirmary preparing her vials of extracts, powders and tinctures for the trip. She looked up as he entered and gave him an annoyed look, though the lad quickly surmised that her irritation was in fact aimed at Prince Ean, who was lounging in the far doorway watching her with a crooked grin.
Tanis realized he’d walked into the middle of a conversation when Prince Ean remarked after a moment, “Are you sure about this, Alyneri? It will be dangerous—more than you know. What if I can’t protect you?”
“And who shall protect you, Your Highness?” she countered, casting him an arch look. “What happens when the next assassin finds you?”
“When? When?” he complained. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He shifted disagreeably. “I do plan to be as cautious as possible,” Ean confessed then. “I’m the first to admit the danger. People are looking to kill me.”
She harrumphed irritably at the truth of that. “All the more reason I need to be there, like it or not. If something happens again, Ean, you won’t have that zanthyr—”
“No, Alyneri,” he interrupted, “you misunderstand my concerns. For all I fear our lives on this endeavor, I couldn’t bear the thought of going without my beloved at my side.”
“Do stop that nonsense!” She shot him a prickly look. “I’m certainly not going because of any affection for you. As Morin d’Hain so mercilessly pointed out earlier this morning, it is my duty as Healer to the crown to protect the heir to the throne. That’s why I’m going.”
Ean gave her a shadowy smile. “Of course. That must be it.”
She responded with a withering look.
“Well, I’m all packed,” announced an entering Fynnlar. He held two bottles of wine in each hand and carted a satchel brimming with more.
“We won’t be that long away from civilization, Fynn,” Ean said with a grin.
“What do you mean? These are for tonight.”
“Fynnlar,” Alyneri posed without turning from her task, “have you never stopped to wonder what you might accomplish with your life if you spent less time worshipping in the temple of inebriation and more time actually focused on some form of productive contribution to society?”
“Fill what’s empty, empty what’s full, and scratch where it itches, Your Grace. That’s my motto.”
“And you live up to it so completely.”
“One must have some principles,” Fynn pointed out.
“Fynnlar,” Ean said, “I was just filling in Alyneri on our plans.”
“Oh? Do we have a plan then?”
“Only in the barest sense of the word,” Alyneri muttered.
“Alyneri, be nice.” Ean gave her a chiding look. “We have a destination, and we have a direction in which to travel to reach it. That’s plan enough for now.”
Alyneri arched a pale brow in unconvinced response.
“I hate to agree with Her Grace, Ean,” Fynn remarked, “but with all the people trying to kill you, you’re going to need a better a plan than that if you mean to take any of them down.”
Ean crossed arms and settled him a level look. “Really? You think so?”
Fynn frowned at him. “Sarcasm and mockery are my territory.”
“Speaking of territory,” Alyneri cut in exasperatedly, “mine is feeling infringed upon. Why don’t you both go see to your horses or whatever it is princes typically do before embarking on ridiculously perilous and ill-conceived quests that stand about a snowflake’s chance in hell of resulting in any sort of happiness for anyone even remotely connected with them.”
Ean grinned at her. “Alyneri,” he sighed happily, “I didn’t know you cared so—”
“Out!” she snapped, waving at him with her marble pestle. “Out—both of you!”
“See,” a pouting Fynnlar grumbled as he followed Ean from the room, “I told you she was maniacal. Did you see the way she brandished that club? And this is the girl you’re thinking about courting…”
Tanis watched the princes leave and then came over to observe Alyneri grinding a mixture of dried roots into a powder. “Your Grace,” he posed after a moment, “why don’t you want to go with Prince Ean?”
She turned him an astonished look but then apparently remembered that he was, after all, a Truthreader. This seemed to annoy her. “What does it matter what I think, Tanis?” she said, exhaling a weary sigh. “We’re going, and that’s that. I know it makes you happy.”
He grinned eagerly. “Yes, and it would make Farshideh happy too. She always wanted both of us to get out into the world, to travel and see things, and have… adventures.”
Alyneri’s look softened. “That’s true,” she admitted. She set to grinding her herbs again.
“She wanted you to go home, too.”
Alyneri’s hand froze. “What do you mean?”
“To M’Nador. She told me the night she died. She said you have a lot of family there who…who will love you…your father’s people. She said you mustn’t stay in this cold place because you’re a child of the desert.”
Alyneri stared down at her hands. “She said all that?”
“Yes.”
“What else did she say?”
Tanis thought back. “Only…I don’t know, it was strange. She said the dead can see so much and now she could see what she should’ve seen before.”
“Which is what?”
“That this world is dying.”
Alyneri frowned. “What an odd thing to say.”
“Yeah. So anyway, I think Farshideh would be pleased that you’re leaving Dannym on a great and grand adventure with Prince Ean.”
Tanis’s enthusiasm must’ve been infectious, because Alyneri finally smiled. She turned and placed a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “It is going to be a grand adventure, isn’t it?”
Tanis nodded brightly.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Then Tanis, do you know what we need?”
He shook his head, colorless eyes large.
“For a grand adventure,” she whispered, “…we’re going to need a lot of Avataren yellowroot.” Turning back to her mortar and pestle, she finished primly, “Might you bring me the last of it from the cellars?”
Thus tasked, a grumbling Tanis set off to retrieve t
he roots for his lady.
***
Alyneri finished packing her bag of herbs and then turned to lean back against her workbench, exhaling a long sigh as she gazed around the infirmary. She had so many memories of that room. It seemed she could see all the varied moments overlaid upon each other—her mother and Farshideh tending the sick, mixing herbs, cleaning the windows with lemon water so they shone in the morning sun…her father sitting with his darkly handsome smile, watching as her mother made a bouquet to hang for the Beltane festival, Tanis as a babe, a boy, a young man…
Alyneri had grown up in that room, and now as she prepared to leave, she wasn’t sure if she would ever see it again. Oh, she’d criticized Ean for his earlier comments, but she’d known her own hypocrisy even then. No matter what happened on this journey, Alyneri had a feeling she would not return to Dannym. Her future was in Kandori, or perhaps elsewhere, but the heavy ropes that once bound her to the Eagle Throne were mere threads now and those already fraying at the edges.
She had a strange and lonesome feeling that everything had changed, that it was not merely a new chapter of her life opening to her but an entirely new book altogether. When exactly the shift had occurred she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was losing Farshideh, yet she’d felt a stranger in her home long before her seneschal passed away.
Oh, Farshideh… Alyneri lamented, swallowing back tears. What shall become of me without you?
You must go home, soraya, Farshideh seemed to answer, to your real home, to your people. You are loved in Kandori. Do not forsake what family is left to you for this cold and faithless kingdom.
Alyneri sighed at the thought. The North wasn’t entirely without faith. They believed in the old ways, and in the Returning, and they upheld the sacred festivals; but she also knew that few understood the deeper meanings of their fetes anymore, preferring to admire the trappings without embracing the faith they hung upon. Alyneri had been raised with an understanding of her mother’s beliefs as well as instruction in the pantheon of her father’s desert gods, but neither dogma seemed to fit her well. Nor did the Veneisean gods of Virtue and their endless rituals and rules hold any answers for her.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 53