The Ryn (Eyes of E'veria)

by Serena Chase

  The enraged bruin’s face held an unexpected trace of humanity. A Bear-man, I realized. Not only had Ayden explained the story of Lady Anya and the Bear-men, but I’d seen one of the cloaks in use. Still, I shuddered as the fierce gaze of the Bear-man followed me across the room and back. The bear’s green eyes bored into me, as if daring me to push the curtain aside and see what treasure was guarded behind his deadly, piercing gaze.

  I never could refuse a direct challenge, even if it came from an inanimate object.

  I pulled the tapestry aside to find it protected not an arsenal of weapons or a trove of jewels, but books.

  Books! That would certainly help me while away the hours. Locating a tieback, I secured the tapestry out of the way in order to examine the collection.

  I’d enjoyed unrestricted access to the extensive library at Mirthan Hall, and this shelf held many familiar tomes. Mostly philosophy and folktales, the golden-etched titles called to me like old friends. I smiled and ran my hand over their wrinkled spines. The books revealed signs of wear, but few showed any great love for the words within until I picked up an unusually small volume of poetry.

  Carefully sliding it out from between two larger books, I ran my hand across its oft-repaired binding. The leather cover was softened, like a lady’s favorite kidskin glove, and the edges of the pages uneven, without a sharp edge among them. As I opened the cover, the scent confirmed the manuscript as very old indeed, but neither an author nor a title for the work was listed.

  The nondescript pages lacked the scrollwork I was accustomed to in scribe-copied texts, consisting instead of simple, yet feminine penmanship, with an occasional smear of ink marring a page here and there. I moved to a chair by the fire and began to read a rhyming versed account of Lady Anya’s time among the Cobelds.

  Dizziness crept up from my torso to my fingertips, much as when I’d read the King’s letter. I did not welcome the sensation, but I could no more deny my curiosity to finish the poem than I could deny the boredom that would ensue should I decide to stop reading.

  Unlike the coded letter, this poetry was written in my own language. Other than compensating for the fade of time upon the parchment, my eyes did not have to strain. I took a deep breath and pressed on, but with each line of poetry the dizziness increased. My stomach seemed to tumble forward and back, but even that discomfort could not quench my desire to find out where my strange, new Andoven gifts would take me next.

  The book in my hands gradually faded from my conscious view, and although I knew my physical body remained in the chair, I had the odd sensation of being in two places at once. I knew I hadn’t moved, but a part of my consciousness stood behind an occupied desk, looking over the shoulder of a poet who wasn’t really there, as words flowed on to the parchment from the quill in her hand.

  Of slight build, her hair was coal black and plaited in one thick braid down her back. She dipped her quill into the inkpot and set it on the paper. I read the words as they appeared beneath her hand:

  Beyond the rim of firelight, he stood as in a trance.

  The prophesying creature spoke, death’s shadow in his glance.

  “With sky-jeweled eyes and mane of fire,” the withered creature cried,

  “The Ryn Lady E’veria will Cobeld’s curse exile.”

  From all around, the Cobelds let a panicked, outraged cry

  They did not know deception’s beard disguised a ready spy.

  Away she crept, through darkened night. Alone, but armed with hope

  The Great Wood birthed a servanthood ‘til vanquished be the foe.

  The poet paused and a drop of ink dripped just beside the last word. She blotted it with a piece of cloth, set the quill on a stand, and turned slowly in her chair to face me.

  Her eyes widened. She stood. “Ryn Naia.” She pronounced my name strangely, as if it was comprised of two separate words, but she dipped her head as if she knew exactly who I was and had been expecting my arrival for quite some time.

  Wispy black tendrils had escaped their bonds, framing her heart-shaped face and bringing out the deep green color of her eyes. Their familiar emerald brightness held such intelligence, courage, and purpose that I immediately knew who she was, though a part of me knew it to be impossible. Wasn’t it?

  “Lady Anya.” I greeted her, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Time is short.” She placed her hand upon my arm and spoke quickly, almost as if she expected to be interrupted. “Assemble those who will best help you quest for the Remedy. But locating the Remedy is only the beginning, Ryn Naia. You must—”

  A soft noise, like a hand slapping the surface of water, interrupted Lady Anya and arrested the attention of us both for a moment. When she spoke again the cadence of her words increased.

  “This much I have translated,” Lady Anya said. “Listen carefully. Nine marks stand guard to guide the way. Three tasks upon the Ryn will prey. Death stalks the path with fierce desire, a counsel of four will strike the pyre.” She paused and repeated the rhyme twice before prompting me to say it back to her.

  I did. “What does it mean?”

  “I cannot be certain, but—”

  Another noise jarred us both. I followed the direction of her gaze to the door adjoining my chamber to Julien’s. My stomach dropped, like the sensation of falling in a dream, and the part of me that realized I’d never left the chair felt the book of poetry slide from my hands.

  When I turned back toward Lady Anya, her presence was filmy, fading. “Let truth be your guard, Ryn Naia,” her words faded as she disappeared, the last bit barely above a whisper, “and I pray he will reveal the rest.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Julien?” But she was gone.

  A wave of nausea washed over me.

  The noise repeated. Knocking! It was louder this time and accompanied by a voice, but I could not respond. Instead, I concentrated on the rhythm of my breaths as if they were the steps of a dance that would bring the two halves of me back together. In two-three, and out two-three, and in two-three, and out two-three.

  The door burst open just as my mind rejoined itself. I gasped at the shock of being fully present.

  “Princess?” Julien’s voice was strained, almost angry. “Did you not hear me knocking?”

  “I did, but I didn’t know . . . Don’t worry. I’m . . . back.”

  “Back? From where?”

  “From . . . here, I think.” I winced and rubbed my temples. “Oh, my head.”

  “You’re hurt?” Julien sheathed his sword so swiftly it sang against the scabbard. The sound was like ice scraping under my skull. “Did someone enter your chamber?”

  “No. Er, yes, I mean. But . . . no. And yes.” I blinked up at him, knowing my words were as jumbled as my vision. “It was just Lady Anya. No one dangerous. Oh! You have her eyes.”

  Julien knelt in front of me. “Rynnaia, did you fall? Hit your head?”

  “No. I was . . . reading, I think.”

  Was I? Yes. The poetry.

  “It was like before. With the King’s letter!” I struggled to put the pieces together and then into words. “I was sitting right here, but I was also standing behind the desk over there . . .” I looked toward the window. A trunk sat beneath it, but there was no desk, no quill or parchment. “Well, it was there a moment ago.”

  I bent over to pick up the volume and groaned as pain shot through my skull. Julien followed the direction of my reach and placed the book into my hands.

  I leaned back into the chair. “I’m sorry I dropped it. I’m sure it’s quite precious.” I ran my hand over the soft leather cover. “Lady Anya was lovely. In quite a hurry, of course, but—” Even to my own ears my words seemed more than a tad idiotic. But I couldn’t seem to contain them. “You do have her eyes, you know. Such a bright green. Like a Veetrish hill on a cloudy summer day.”

  Julien took the book from my hands, his gaze troubled. “I’ve read this poem many times, Princess Rynnaia, and I don’t recall it ever mentioning
that Lady Anya had green eyes.”

  “She does.” I scowled and shook my head. “Er, she did, rather. I saw her. It was like when I read the King’s letter. But gentler, somehow. She wasn’t—”

  She wasn’t trying to hide something from me, like the King was. Like he always has.

  I shook my head to clear away the sudden resentment. “I saw her writing the poem, Julien. She spoke to me.”

  Julien stared at me for a long moment and then moved to sit in the large winged chair across from mine.

  “In the future,” he began slowly, “I would appreciate it if you would inform me of your intentions before you start reading anything that might—well, anything at all, I guess.” He sighed, but his gaze warmed. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I am.” I was surprised by the admission, but the pain and dizziness had evaporated. “It was easier this time.”

  “Good. Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Really.” I held out the book. “You’ve read this?”

  “Many times.” Julien took the book from my hands. “It has been the belief of so-called experts that this story was penned by a scribe, or even a Storyteller. But I have often wondered, and my sister has always been convinced, that Lady Anya herself was the poet.”

  “I saw the words form beneath her quill, Julien.” The thrill of my experience raced through my torso and out of my mouth. “I, for one, am certainly convinced.” I laughed and it felt good to do so. “Lady Anya looked at me and she spoke to me. And although she pronounced it oddly, she called me by name! I don’t understand all of what she said, but it appears I am supposed to find the Remedy and then stop the Cobelds.”

  “The poem alludes to that,” he nodded. “But this experience of yours is beyond me. Perhaps someone you meet on Tirandov Isle shares this ability and will be able to explain it.”

  “Lady Anya said ‘time is short,’” I said, relating the whole of my unwritten message from Lady Anya’s poem. “Julien, if time was short in her day, it must be infinitely more so now.”

  “Indeed.” Julien pressed the balls of his hands to his temples and then down his jawline before resting them in his lap. “I’ve heard it said that no one can find Tirandov Isle without the assistance of an Andoven guide.”

  “That must be why the King has sent his scribe to Port Dyn! He must be searching for a guide while awaiting our arrival.”

  He nodded. “It’s likely.”

  “Certainly the Andoven would come if the King ordered it, wouldn’t they?”

  He snorted a laugh. “One would hope. The Andoven’s relationship with the crown is . . . unique.”

  A soft knock came from the direction of his chamber’s door. “Do you feel well enough to meet my mother and sister? I could tell them to come back later.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He studied my face for a long moment and then, with a nod he stood. “The maids will ready the table and I will come for you as soon as Erielle and my mother arrive.”

  He paused to look at me again before crossing back into his chamber and closing the door between us.

  Nervousness fluttered through my midsection. Julien’s mother was a Regent’s wife, yet I had never even been to court! I wanted Lady Gladiel and Erielle to like me. To approve of me. But how could I possibly meet their expectations of what a “princess” was supposed to be?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  My nerves had not settled in the least before Julien reappeared and led me through the door. As nervous as I was, it didn’t occur to me that I should block my mind. As soon as I crossed the threshold a rush of images assaulted me.

  A woman, looking much like me—smiling.

  A huge portrait of that same woman, hanging on a stone wall.

  The King.

  Lady Gladiel gasped. Her hand went to her throat.

  “Sky-jeweled eyes,” Erielle whispered as her face split into a grin, “and head ablaze . . .”

  The force of their reaction caused me to take a step backward.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness,” Lady Gladiel curtsied. “I did not doubt my son’s word when he told me who you were, but even if I had, what I see before me now puts all to right. Queen Daithia was a dear friend and—” Her hand moved to her mouth as a tiny sob escaped. “Forgive me. It’s such a shock.”

  I bit my lip and looked to Julien.

  “Mother, Erielle,” Julien lightly squeezed my elbow. His voice was soft so that it wouldn’t carry beyond the room, but jubilant and strangely reverent at the same time. “May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Rynnaia E’veri, our long-hidden heir to the E’verian throne.”

  “Ryn Naia!” Erielle whispered, pronouncing my name just as Lady Anya had. “Well it’s about time, Your Highness!” She laughed. “And might I say that it’s grand to finally meet you!”

  “Erielle!” Lady Gladiel gasped. “That was impertinent. Remember to whom you are speaking!”

  “But we’ve been waiting two hundred years for her! Lady Anya—”

  “A little respect, Erielle. Please.” Lady Gladiel shushed her daughter. “Princess Rynnaia is the Ryn, for goodness sake.”

  “The what?” All eyes turned to me. I turned mine to Julien. “You’ve said it. Aunt Alaine’s said it, the voi—” I was about to say, the voice in my head said it, but thought better of it. “But . . . what is it, really? What does it mean?”

  Julien opened his mouth and closed it. He took a breath. “The Ryn,” he explained slowly, “is the title given to the firstborn child of the ruling family. When the child is named, the word is added to another word of ancient significance and given as a name to the heir to the E’verian throne.”

  “Naia means ‘lady.’” Erielle supplied.

  The Ryn Lady E’veria will Cobeld’s curse exile.

  “The title is incorporated into the given name of each heir to the throne,” Julien continued. “Your father is King Jarryn. His father was King Rynitel. You are Rynnaia and will someday be Queen.” He smiled. “You are the Ryn.”

  “Not just the Ryn!” Erielle let out a little squeak. “The Ryn Naia! The Ryn of the prophecy!” She winced and looked toward her mother. “Sorry.” She bit her lip. “Forgive me, Your Highness. Sometimes I get excited and my manners cease to exist.”

  I couldn’t help but like Julien’s exuberant sister, but her words gave me pause. “What prophecy? Do you mean the poem?”

  But as soon as I asked the question I knew the answer. That was it! Lady Anya’s book was the reason the Cobelds hunted down red-haired girls. The reason they hunted me. “The poem is the prophecy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” Erielle looked at her mother who sighed and nodded permission to continue. “With sky-jeweled eyes and mane of fire, the withered creature cried, the Ryn lady E’veria will Cobeld’s curse exile.”

  “Yes. I’ve read it.” I forced a smile, hoping the dizziness of earlier would not accompany my memory of reading it. “Why do you call it a prophecy?”

  “It was penned by the Oracle Scribe, Your Highness,” she said. “Lady Anya herself.”

  “She was an oracle?” For all the education I’d received, all the stories I’d been told in Veetri, this was entirely new information. Although considering what I’d just experienced reading her poetry, I felt rather like a dolt for not figuring it out earlier.

  Julien came to my rescue. “Princess Rynnaia has lived away from court with no knowledge of her identity until very recently. Certain information was omitted from her upbringing for her own protection.”

  Erielle’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine growing up without knowing about Lady Anya.”

  “Oh, I knew the stories,” I corrected. “I just didn’t know she was considered an oracle.”

  “Oh, she would never have called herself that,” Erielle said. “And no one else did while she lived. It wasn’t until she died that her grandchildren discovered her diary. In the diary she confided that she had no memory of writing the po
etry or the scrolls. So, technically, she was only recording prophesies, not speaking them. That’s why we call her the Oracle Scribe.”

  “Prophesies?” I asked. “There are more?”

  “Yes. The book of poetry is only the beginning. Her diary also spoke of several scrolls that she’d given into the care of a trusted friend.”

  “Who?”

  “No one knows,” Lady Gladiel said. “She never confided, at least not in the diary, to whom they were given or where they were stored.”

  “But she did write other things,” Erielle said.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she mentioned having seen the Ryn Naia in a vision when she was young.”

  I turned my head and Julien met my gaze. His thought was as clear as if he had spoken. And now it has come to pass.

  My mind spun. Had it happened then, or now? Or had we both somehow stepped out of time to meet? I didn’t realize Julien’s hand was still on my elbow until he gave it a slight squeeze. Regardless of when, it had happened.

  “Shall we sit?” Lady Gladiel broke the silence and gestured to the beautifully set table.

  Julien’s mother put me at ease with her genuine care and gentle smile. “Julien tells us you grew up in Veetri?”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t ready to give up the subject yet. “Growing up in a Storyteller’s home, I have, of course, heard many stories of the Lady Anya,” I began, “but not that she was a poet or a prophet.”

  “Her poetry prophesied your birth, and here you are,” Erielle said. She seemed as eager as I to continue the discussion. “When I found the scrolls and they matched the handwriting in Lady Anya’s diary and poetry, I was discouraged because we had no Ryn. Not even a Queen to produce one.”

  “Erielle,” her mother warned.

  “But,” Erielle’s voice calmed, but only for a moment, “since you aren’t dead, like we thought, and since you have the right hair and eyes, well! It’s only a matter of time until the Cobelds are gone forever!”