The Ryn (Eyes of E'veria)

by Serena Chase

  Rose sucked in a breath, feeling suddenly naked in the crowd, but her gasp was drowned by the audience’s applause.

  Rowlen gave a second bow. As he straightened, his grin found Rose. His eyes narrowed. He cocked his head, but turned suddenly when someone grasped his arm.

  “Rose?” Lewys placed his hand on her arm. “Rose, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Rose’s voice squeaked. She tried for a smile. “It was amazing, wasn’t it? His talent has developed so much!”

  Rose scanned the crowd, but no one seemed confused or concerned. Indeed, it seemed as if not a soul in the room had taken any special note of the last, brief view of Lady Anya. “Would you excuse me, Lewys?” She looked at him finally. “I need to find Rowlen and thank him for the story.” Immediately she moved away, but when her eyes sought the Storyteller, he was moving toward the doors, prodded along none-too-gently by Sir Drinius de Wyte.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rose pushed her way through the crowd and slipped out on to the terrace just in time to hear her uncle’s low, angry voice.

  “What was the meaning of that, Storyteller?” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “I demand you tell me how you know about—”

  “Uncle Drinius, wait.” Rose pulled the door shut behind her and rushed forward. The look of cold fury set upon the knight’s face could not bode well for her brother. “You remember Rowlen, don’t you? Lord Whittier’s youngest son?”

  Drinius did not spare a glance at Rose. Instead he took a step closer to Rowlen until there was barely space between them. “Answer me, Storyteller.”

  Rowlen did not cower. “It was just a story, Sir Drinius. I assure you I meant no harm.”

  “No harm?” Drinius growled, leaning until his nose was but an inch from Rowlen’s. “No harm?”

  Rose slid between the two men, placed a hand on each of their chests, and pushed them apart. Rowlen stepped back. Drinius, however, was like a deep-rooted oak.

  She faced the knight. “Don’t be so quick to blame Rowlen,” she said. “It’s my fault he knows the truth. And speaking of which.” She spun to face Rowlen. “How could you spill my secret like that? You promised!”

  “Rose, it was a story about Lady Anya, not you. No one will—”

  “She looked just like me! And at the end you—urrgh! Row-len!” she growled and, splaying two hands on his chest, shoved him back another two steps. “But why stop there?” Her whisper was as violent with sarcasm as if she had shouted instead. “Perhaps next time you should have her sing a song glorifying the benefits of ebonswarth root powder!”

  “Rose, quiet! Hold. He knows about the powder?” Sir Drinius put a hand on her shoulder but she was too busy glaring at her brother to turn around. “Rose, you have no idea—”

  “Maybe I know more than you think I do.” She whirled to face Drinius. Her voice was low, but carried a thickness, a fury, that didn’t need volume to be conveyed. “I know it’s poison. I know it’s illegal for me to have it.” She paused. “But it certainly isn’t because you told me!”

  “The powder.” Sir Drinius ignored her, looking instead to Rowlen. “How did you learn of it?”

  “It was when we were children,” Rowlen explained. “We were swimming and—”

  “It was an accident,” Rose snapped. When the knight’s eyes widened, she took a breath and let it out slowly, allowing some of the anger out with it. “It was an accident,” she repeated in a gentler voice. Then, in whispered tones she told him about her disastrous first swimming lesson.

  “Who else knows of this?”

  “Well, Koria,” Rowlen said, “but—”

  “She’s always known.” Drinius ran a hand through his graying black hair. “Rose, your safety depends upon your identity remaining hidden.”

  “So you say.” Rose blew a quick, hot breath through her nose and crossed her arms at her chest. “And perhaps I would take your warnings more seriously if I knew why you persist in giving them!”

  “I wish that I could tell you, but I cannot.” Drinius paced four steps away and back. “There are enemies infiltrating every area of the Kingdom, Rose. There are even rumors that the Cobelds are planning to cross the Veetrish Bog. If they found out about you, even something so seemingly simple as the color of your hair could make you a target.”

  “Cobelds?” A chill rode the length of Rose’s spine as she pictured the muddy, mossy goblins from Rowlen’s tale.

  “Don’t worry, Rose.” Rowlen patted her arm. “Cobelds have never crossed the bog. It’s kept them at bay for hundreds of years.”

  “It may not stay them much longer.” Drinius shook his head. “Rowlen, you must never, never tell that story again. At least not with a vision of Rose at its core.” With a staccato grunt, he paced again. “You must take more care, Rose,” he said when he came to a stop. “We don’t know what might betray your location.”

  “I hardly think my story could reveal her identity.” Rowlen crossed his arms and arched one pale brow. “Especially considering that no one seems to know it but you.”

  Sir Drinius mirrored the Storyteller’s expression, but the glare brooked less argument upon his stony face than it did on Rowlen’s.

  “And that is the way it must stay,” Drinius said. “If the Cobelds or their allies knew of Rose’s true identity she would be in the gravest danger.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Rowlen scoffed. “The only person the Cobelds have reason to fear is the—”

  “Silence!”

  Rose almost missed the look of alarm that passed over the knight’s face, so quickly was it replaced by something much more fearsome.

  “Rowlen, you must swear, on pain of death, that you will never reveal what you know of this.”

  “Indeed. Though I know nothing but the true color of her hair.” Rowlen’s look was shrewd. “Sir Drinius, my brothers and I want nothing more than to protect Rose from anyone who might cause her harm, be they Cobeld demons,” he said, taking a step toward the knight, “or indifferent uncles who only rarely deign to visit.”

  Rose paled as the skin at Drinius’s collar turned an instant shade of red. “You would dare accuse me of being indifferent?”

  “Stop it!” Rose’s hands pressed against each man’s chest again. “Both of you.” She sighed. “Rowlen, for love of Rynloeft, don’t push him. He’s a knight. And Uncle Drinius,” she said, turning toward the knight, “I consider the duke’s sons as brothers, and they, in turn, have accepted me. Rowlen is trustworthy, Uncle Drinius. I would trust him—or Lewys or Kinley, for that matter—with my life.”

  “And it appears you have.” Sir Drinius’s look was grave. His gaze speared Rowlen over Rose’s head. “Do I have your oath, Rowlen? Not a word? Not to . . .” he paused and his eyes glanced quickly at Rose before lighting once again on the Storyteller, “anyone. Understood?”

  Rose stepped to the side so she could see both of them again. A line had appeared between Rowlen’s pale brows as his eyes locked with hers a moment, and then, with a nod, he looked at the knight. “You have my word.”

  Rose jumped when the terrace door creaked open. “Rose?” Lewys stepped outside, “Oh! You’re with Sir Drinius and Rowlen. Good.” He greeted the knight and smiled at Rose. “I was worried when you didn’t return. Mother was asking after you.”

  “You worry too much Lewys.” She gave him a warm smile. “I’m in fine company, as you can see.”

  “Brother!” Rowlen slapped an arm around Lewys’s shoulders. “I’m parched. Shall we go find that delicious punch for which Cook is so famous?”

  Lewys looked to Rose. “Are you . . . ?”

  “I’ll be in shortly,” she assured him.

  After her brothers left the balcony, Rose turned to her uncle. “I should go inside.”

  “Come then.” Sir Drinius nodded and led her to the door. “But do be wary, Rose. In the wrong hands your secret could prove deadly.”

  Rose’s mind was still spinning with a mixture of anger and confusi
on when she crossed the threshold of the grand hall.

  “Pardon me, Mistress Rose.” Mrs. Scyles ducked her head. “My apologies, Sir Drinius. I did not see you there. I only just now came to see if there were any guests on the terrace who might require a fire built. Will you be returning outside, Sir Drinius? Mistress Rose? Should I call for someone to light a fire?”

  Rose suppressed a grimace. “The other guests might appreciate it,” she answered swiftly, “but I will not be in need of it.”

  There was something almost triumphant in Mrs. Scyles’s steady gaze that caused Rose to wonder: how close had she been, really? And had she heard any of Rose’s conversation with Rowlen and Drinius? But she had no time to ponder it, for a moment later Rose was surrounded by young men, vying for her favor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Three days after the party, Rose nibbled a piece of toast at the breakfast table while Sir Kiggon, Uncle Drinius, Lord Whittier, and Kinley discussed the state of affairs in the rest of the Kingdom. Youth had allowed her to recover from the loss of an entire night’s sleep given over to the revelry of the gathering much more quickly than the older generation, who sat stirring honey into very strong tea, and who were still, three days later, stifling the occasional yawn.

  “We haven’t seen the violence yet in Sengarra that they’ve experienced in Stoen, Shireya, and Dynwatre,” Sir Kiggon said. “Insulated as we are by the Great Wood on one side and the southern sea on the other, we are fairly protected from the Cobelds. But if the rumors are true and Dwons has fallen—”

  Lord Whittier cleared his throat and lifted his chin toward the far end of the table where Rose sat near Lady Whittier. He stood. “Perhaps we should adjourn to my study, gentlemen.”

  “I will plan to join you later,” Drinius said as he pushed back his chair. “My exhaustion has allowed me to neglect both my horse and my niece these past two days. If Rose is willing, I think a good, long ride is in order. Rose?”

  “Of course.” An idea suddenly lit her mind. “Lord Whittier?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir Drinius’s horse is a large animal and I fear he won’t be exercised as thoroughly if he is forced to keep pace with my mare. Might I be allowed to—”

  Lord Whittier interrupted her with a resounding laugh. “Yes, you may take Falcon, Rose.” Chuckling, he shook his head. “But just this once, dear one,” he said with a wink, “lest he become more fond of you than me. Besides, we wouldn’t want your old mare to become neglected, would we?”

  “Thank you!”

  “Mind that you’re back in time for Sir Kiggon’s departure,” Lady Whittier added. “I’m sure Lewys will want to tell you good-bye.”

  Rose hadn’t been alone with her uncle since he had arrived, and considering how stilted their conversations had been, she couldn’t help but be a little nervous as they collected their horses. Drinius raised an eyebrow when Falcon was brought out, but he didn’t gainsay Lord Whittier’s decision, for which she was glad.

  After the animals’ muscles were sufficiently warmed, Rose suggested a race. Finally, when they were more than a mile from Mirthan Hall, Drinius slowed his mount and she followed suit.

  “Whittier said you were a fine horsewoman. He was right.”

  Rose glowed with pleasure. “Thank you. I do love to ride.”

  “You always did. I remember when you borrowed my horse once,” he chuckled. “How you got him saddled, I’ll never know. In the dark, no less! How old were you then? Five? Six?”

  “I was nearly eight. It wasn’t long before you brought me here.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Time has a way of creating a gulf in the memory. I wish—” he sighed. “I wish we’d had more than just eight years with you.”

  They both fell silent for a few minutes. Finally, when the horses paused to nose around in the snow, Drinius said, “Shall we walk a bit?”

  They strolled in silence, but for the occasional snuffle of a horse. Finally, after a deep breath and a long, drawn out sigh, Sir Drinius spoke. “You are safe in Veetri for the time being, but I expect you will soon have to leave Mirthan Hall.”

  “But this is my home.”

  “No.” He shook his head and looked away. “It is not.”

  “It has been for years.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry to have to take you from here, but Gladiel and I plan to come for you before your next birthday.”

  An argument rested on the tip of her tongue, but his tone made her swallow it whole. A year, she thought. I may still have a year. “Where will you take me?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact location yet, but if all goes as planned you will be able to be with Alaine and Lily again.”

  Just the mention of Uncle Drinius’s family caused Mrs. Scyles’s accusations to burn in her mind. “Are you sure that plan will meet with Lady Drinius’s approval? I wouldn’t want to impose on her hospitality.”

  Drinius laughed. “Impose on her hospitality?” His laughter faded into a mild frown when he glanced at Rose’s face. “I forget, sometimes, how fleet time truly is.” His smile returned. “You needn’t fear that time has lessened your hold on Alaine’s heart. She will welcome you with open arms.”

  “Indeed?” Rose’s words were bitter, but softly spoken. “Why would a refined Stoenian woman like Lady Drinius want one such as me under her roof?”

  “One such as you? Whatever do you mean?”

  “A young woman of questionable birth,” she said, looking toward the horizon. “A pariah of society. A girl whose father is so ashamed of her that he would distance himself entirely from her association, even to the point of denying her his name. Need I go on?”

  Drinius stared at her in silence. “Is that what you think, Rose?” he asked finally. “That you are ill-born or . . . unwanted?”

  “What else am I to think?” She threw up her hands and let them fall back to her sides. “I’ve been told that my mother is dead, but never her name or station. My father imposes my care on others for years at a time without giving me the benefit of his name—or even the knowledge of it!—only to rip me away from those I’ve come to love at his whim.”

  The volume of her voice increased with each statement, but her anger refused to censure it.

  “I’ve been instructed to apply poison to my hair—poison that if discovered to be in my possession could send me to the gallows as a witch!—to avoid anyone connecting me to my dead mother or my mysterious father! So I ask you, Sir Drinius,” she clenched her teeth, “what else am I to think but that my very existence is the product of disgrace?”

  The Asp’s accusations stretched the air taut between them. Lifting her chin and silently cursing the tears that burned her eyes, Rose pressed on, desperate to know the truth.

  “Who am I, Sir Drinius? Am I the unfortunate result of your own shame? Is that why my presence was so painful for Lady Drinius to endure? Is that why you sent me here? If it is,” the pitch of her voice rose, “then let me stay! I’m sure the duke and his family will look after me and you need not concern yourself even to visit.”

  The knight’s face paled. The look of shock in his eyes seemed to confirm Rose’s worst fears, but still he did not respond.

  Rose’s eyes threatened to spill over. Her voice fell to that just above a whisper. “Do you deny it, Sir Drinius?” she asked. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you are not my father?”

  Drinius ran a hand over his face. “Yes.” The grim set of his jaw registered a grief-laden defeat that made Rose’s heart, even angry as she was, ache.

  “Yes, you can deny it?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Or yes, you are my father?”

  Drinius drew a shaky breath, but when he met her eyes, his gaze was solid and sure. “From the day you were born,” he said, “I have loved you as if you were my own child. But, no. I am not your father.” His voice was rough with emotion. “Lily is the only child I have ever fathered. You are not of my blood.”

  “I’m not of your blood?” she asked.
“You are not even,” the tears that had threatened finally spilled over Rose’s lashes, “my uncle?”

  “Oh, but I am!” Sir Drinius’s eyes brightened and he smiled. “That, my dear, is an honor I can claim, though not by blood. It is through my wife’s relation to you that I am your uncle.”

  “Aunt Alaine is my true-blood aunt?”

  “Yes.” He smiled, but then his brows drew together. “Well, no, actually.” The smile did not completely leave his face, though it lost a bit of its sparkle. “Alaine is not your aunt by blood.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “Though I cannot tell you all, I will tell you enough to try and ease your mind.” Drinius paused. “Your mother was orphaned at a young age,” he said. “Alaine’s parents adopted her into their family, much as the duke and duchess have taken you as their own. Alaine and—” He cleared his throat. “Alaine and your mother were, indeed, true sisters. Not by blood, perhaps, but by the bonds of love.”

  Rose brightened again, some of her hope restored. “She did not resent the care of me?”

  “Never,” Sir Drinius stated. “She has missed you most grievously these last years. As has your cousin, Lily. Believe me, Rose,” he said with a sad smile, “if we are, as I hope, able to reunite you with them soon, they will rejoice with such fervor that the Cobelds will quail from the force of it.”

  “Speaking of Cobelds,” Rose wrinkled her nose, picturing the hideous creatures from Rowlen’s story. “Why are you so concerned that the Cobelds will find me? Why would they even care about me? I’m no one.”

  “There is an old . . . poem, I guess you could call it,” Drinius began. He spoke haltingly, carefully, as if he was giving thought to each word before he allowed it to be voiced. “It was written in the time of Lady Anya. It describes a young woman who is quite powerful. Powerful enough to defeat the Cobelds.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “Without the ebonswarth dye, you greatly resemble the description of that lady.”

  “I resemble a character from an old poem?” Rose blink twice and then laughed.