“Nor did I,” Princess Nabelle said. “But you cannot deny that too many have ignored Arman’s ways for too long.”
“Tell me about this prophetess,” Jorger said. “What does she look like?”
“I have not met her,” Trevn said. “The message described her as pale-skinned. ‘A winter palomino with eyes like diamond gemstones’ were the exact words.”
“How poetic,” Jorger said. “I’ve never seen such a person. How can you be certain the man was not drunk when he wrote this message?”
“The guardsman who carried the message met the prophetess as well. His story is the same. She said many things that came true on their journey.”
“Give me her words again,” Jorger demanded.
“I have a copy of it here.” Trevn handed a scroll to the king.
The king unrolled the scroll and squinted. “‘Wail, for the day of destruction is . . .’” He went still as he continued reading. “‘. . . foundations of the earth . . . violently shaken . . . Mountains will tremble . . . only a remnant will endure . . . remnant will set sail and begin anew . . . In the lands beyond the sea . . .’” Jorger looked up from the scroll. “I have heard many versions of this prophecy in my life. Why are you so certain the time is now?”
“Because it is happening,” Trevn said. “Walk with me to the beach and I will show you my theory.”
“How academic.” The king stood. “Lead on, boy prince. Let us see your theory.”
“Very well.” Trevn quitted the room.
“Sâr Trevn,” Prince Loran said behind him. “Is this really necessary?”
“It is the only way I can think to convince you.”
“It cannot hurt, brother,” Princess Nabelle said.
The beach in Brixmead came right up to the castle walls on the northeastern side. Trevn slogged through the dry sand and onto the hard-packed grit near the surf. He dropped to his knees and began to dig. By the time the king and his two adult children caught up, he had a good-sized hole.
“Wait and watch,” Trevn said.
They all stared. From below, brown water filled the hole, rising slowly. Perfect.
“See how the water fills my hole to the same level as the sea?” Trevn said. “That’s the problem with our land. The underground of the Five Realms is made up of caverns and canyons and canals that are deeper than the sea’s surface. Too many collapses and the sea will rush in and fill all the holes. And with the illegal evenroot harvesting in Armania, there is little solid ground beneath us anymore. It won’t be long until, as the prophetess warned, the sea swallows the land.”
“Your experiment proves that the sea would flood underground passageways,” Prince Loran said, “but it does not prove that the Five Woes are upon us so soon.”
“Farway, Hebron, Kaptar, Ebro,” Trevn said. “That’s four cities gone, that we’re aware of, and Sâr Wilek witnessed the growth of many cracks on his journey along the King’s Canyon. Sâr Wilek and I are not willing to risk our people. Are you willing to risk yours?”
Prince Loran sighed. “I cannot deny that these disasters have weighed heavily on my mind. How much time do you think we have?”
“The Prophetess said perhaps a few months, but that was weeks ago.”
“We will move onto boats at once,” the Godking said, walking away.
Trevn chased after him. “Your Highness, Sâr Wilek has requested I meet him back in Everton as soon as possible. I had hoped you would send Princess Nabelle and her daughter back with me so that his betrothed could be there when he returns.”
“Excellent suggestion, boy prince,” the king said. “They must marry immediately.”
“But, Father,” Princess Nabelle called out. “If the world as we know it is coming to an end, we cannot dally with a wedding. The prophecies have always said that Armania would fall. If Zeroah and I are there when it does—”
The king turned back to his daughter. “Nothing matters more than this wedding!” he snapped. “It will show our people that all is well.”
“But all is not well!” Princess Nabelle said.
“Which is why we will move to the boats.” Jorger continued walking.
Trevn did not understand why the man was so intent on the wedding. But if it meant that Mielle would return with Trevn to Everton, he was thrilled.
Prince Loran caught up with Trevn and the king. “How will we decide which people can board the ships?”
“I will decide,” the king said.
“That’s hardly a fair way to go about it,” Prince Loran said.
“I am tired,” the king said, entering the castle and turning toward his chambers. “I must rest. Do not disturb me.”
Trevn stood with Prince Loran and Princess Nabelle in the northeastern vestibule.
“Do you see it now?” Prince Loran said to his sister. “He is mad, I tell you. Something is wrong.”
“Then call the physician,” Princess Nabelle said.
“I did. Father refused him.”
Princess Nabelle glanced at Trevn. “Ywan will show you to your chambers, Sâr Trevn, where you can rest until dinner is served.”
“Thank you, Princess.” Trevn was happy to have completed his task and eager to get far away from the discussions of mad King Jorger. Besides, once Trevn was away from the princess, he could look for Mielle.
Mielle
Mielle hurried down the hallway to Trevn’s chambers. She glanced over her shoulder, knowing Zeroah was not far behind. She only wanted a minute alone with him.
Cadoc saw her coming. “Miss Mielle, good midday. Come to see the sâr?”
Mielle beamed. “Yes, sir.”
He knocked once, pushed open the door, and poked his head inside. “Miss Mielle, Your Highness. Shall I tell her to come back later?”
“No!” Trevn’s voice. Her heart leapt. “Send her in, please. Beal, you may go check on . . . um . . . something.”
Mielle bit back a smile.
“I shall inquire as to how quickly your clothing can be laundered, sir,” Beal said in his breathy voice.
“Excellent, thank you,” Trevn said.
The door opened wider. Beal stepped aside to let Mielle in, avoided her gaze as she entered, then slipped into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Well, good midday to you too, Beal.
Trevn stood gazing at her; his eyes seemed bigger somehow, glossier, deeper. His feet were bare, and sand was caked to the knees of his trousers. He’d already found the beach!
She curtsied, clasped her hands, fidgeted, and leaned against the door to try to keep still. Trevn kept staring. She hoped he would speak soon.
Blessedly he did. “Good midday, Mielle.”
“And you,” she said.
“I’ve been thinking about you much lately. I can hardly believe you are standing here.”
Oh . . . She suddenly felt very hot and . . . exposed. She wished she could sit or hide somehow, which was silly. Why would she want to hide?
Trevn walked to her, took her hands in his, which sent tingles up her arms and down into her belly. His fingers slid over the scab from the Renegade R she’d cut on her hand. He closed her fingers and lifted her hand, inspecting it. His eyes lit up and he smiled.
“Is it wrong that I want so badly to kiss you?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He kissed her gently, and she breathed in his sandy, salty beach smell. She grabbed his face, pulling him closer, trying to put all her sentiments into her kiss, wanting him to know how he made her feel.
His hands slid around her waist. He was always so timid—no, careful, like he might scare her away. It was the opposite of how she expected him to be, but she liked it. It made her feel in control. Safe.
Trevn broke the kiss and buried his face in her hair. “Mielle, I’ve missed you.”
She loved when he said her name. She reached behind his neck and tangled her fingers in his coarse minibraids. “I missed you too.”
Trevn stumbled back a step, tripped on something. One of his boots. He sat down suddenly on a longchair, pulling Mielle awkwardly onto his lap. One of her feet was tangled in her skirt. She felt off-balance and held tight to his tunic.
A knock on the door made Mielle jump. Her sharp movement caused her to slip off Trevn’s knees. He held tight, trying to keep her from falling, but it was too late, and she pulled him with her. They hit the floor with a thud.
Trevn started to laugh.
“I’m sorry!” She tried to get up, but he was lying on her skirt and she fell back down.
Another knock.
Trevn twisted out from under Mielle. He stood and helped her to her feet, then went to the door and opened it a crack. “Yes?”
“Lady Zeroah to see you, sir,” Cadoc said.
Trevn glanced back to Mielle. He looked her over and his eyes widened. Well, he didn’t look any better! His hair frizzed out behind his round ears, and her red ochre lip powder was smudged all over his mouth.
The door swung in. Trevn tried to push it closed, but a dainty shoe blocked the opening.
“Let me in, Your Highness,” Lady Zeroah said. “I know Mielle is with you.”
Mielle. So unlike Zeroah! She’d wanted to talk to Trevn about how strangely her lady had been acting, the loss of her manners and propriety, but seeing him had sidetracked her. And now they’d run out of time.
Lady Zeroah shoved her way inside and closed the door with a swift kick. She glanced at Mielle, raised one slender eyebrow, then turned her penetrating gaze to Trevn. “Really, Your Highness. Not more than an hour has passed since your arrival in Brixmead. Does Everton have no women?”
Oh! How could she speak so rudely? Trevn choked a laugh, clearly shocked by Zeroah’s ribaldry. Surely he must see there was something very wrong with the lady.
“And you,” she said to Mielle. “Give everything so soon, and he’ll tire of you.”
Mielle’s cheeks burned. She folded her arms, wanting Zeroah to leave and never return.
“I beg your pardon, lady,” Trevn said. “Can I help you?”
“How soon do we leave for Everton?” Zeroah asked.
Trevn smoothed back his frizzy hair. “Um, that depends on King Jorger. You are his to command, not mine.”
Zeroah rolled her eyes. “I am no one’s to command. I want to go to Everton. Right away. And it is Godking Jorger. Don’t forget.”
Mielle cringed. This was wrong. All wrong! What had happened to her dear friend? Had Zeroah and the king caught some kind of mania?
“I will not go against Godking Jorger or your mother,” Trevn said. “If they say you may leave, we can set out first thing tomorrow.”
“Good. Be ready. I shall have my way.” Zeroah opened the door. “Come, Mielle.”
Mielle glanced at Trevn, and a moment of boldness seized her. “I will join you momentarily, lady. Allow me to say farewell.”
Zeroah sighed heavily. “If you must. Remember, though . . . Princess Nabelle, my mother, said that should anything happen to Wilek, Prince Trevn is contracted to marry me.” She left, closing the door behind her.
Mielle stared, dumbfounded, at Trevn. “Is that true?”
Trevn looked everywhere, it seemed, but at Mielle. “What is wrong with Lady Zeroah? I have never seen her behave so strangely.”
Mielle crossed to his side and whispered, “She’s been acting like this for several days. It’s like she woke up with a different personality.”
“Just like the, uh, Godking?”
“Exactly like that,” Mielle said. “I’m sorry she was so rude.”
He offered her a kind smile. “I could never tire of you, Mielle.”
His words melted her anger, but she could not return his smile. “You’re contracted to marry Zeroah?”
He sighed, shrugged. “Only if Wilek died. And he returned in perfect health, so there is nothing to fear.”
Mielle’s heart seemed to shatter. “You lied to me!”
He shook his head, eyes pleading. “Not a lie, exactly. I did not wish to upset you. Mielle, I am sorry. Let’s not fight. We will sail for Everton tomorrow, and Lady Zeroah will plan her wedding to my brother. All has worked out perfectly.” He wiped his thumb over her cheek and it came away dusted with red ochre. “I will see you at dinner?”
She frowned. “They will seat you beside Zeroah, won’t they?”
He grinned. “Probably, but I’ll be able to see you better that way.”
Such words! She kissed him softly and breathed him in, happy to have made peace and to have confided her fears about Zeroah. Trevn would help make everything all right again.
Hinck
Hinck considered not going. He thought about playing sick or riding alone back to Everton and begging Trevn’s forgiveness for his cowardice.
He could do none of those things, of course. His sovereign had given him an order. More than that, his friend had asked this favor. He could not let Trevn down—especially if he was about to gain insight into the mysterious Lahavôtesh and the plots against Trevn and Wilek. Rumors around Canden said that the king had arrested Wilek for treason. Hinck found this inconceivable. Perhaps he might learn something tonight that could help.
So into the dungeon he went, twisting his way through a grid of cells until he saw a masked man standing before a door at the end of the final corridor.
Oh gods, oh gods. A deep breath and he walked the final stretch on legs of pudding. He stopped just out of reach of the guard, feeling as if he had arrived for his own execution.
The man stood a head taller than Hinck. He wore a white mask shaped like a bird’s face. The breast of his black tabard was embroidered with silver spirals.
Hinck held out the runestone. The man grabbed Hinck’s arm and yanked him close.
“Why have you come here?” His voice was unmistakably familiar.
“Oli?” Hinck held up the marker again, relieved to speak with someone he knew. “They said to give this to the man at the door.”
“Leave. Quickly!” Oli hissed. “Before anyone else sees you. I cannot explain now. Just trust me.”
Oli’s words made everything worse. Hinck had to know what was beyond the door. He could not fail. “Is this about Eudora?”
Oli shook him. “Fool! This . . .” He tapped the marker. “Once you enter, they’ll own you. Forever. They’ll consume your soul, use you to hurt those you love, use you against Sâr Trevn. Once they have you . . . death is your only freedom.”
Five Woes, the man was foreboding. “What is this place? Who are they? I must know.”
Footsteps behind Hinck sent him spinning around. A second man approached, this one wearing a bronze fish mask.
“Too late,” Oli whispered, snatching the stone from Hinck’s hand.
The man stopped before them. “Is there a problem?” His voice was deep and oddly familiar, yet Hinck couldn’t place it. Curse his foggy brain!
Oli held up Hinck’s stone. “The gods have set you before us, Hinckdan Faluk.” His voice was now cold and formal. “You have been weighed and found worthy to enter the Sanctum of Mysteries. First you must take an oath. Will you answer the call with a vow of loyalty?”
Hinck spoke before he lost his nerve. “I will.”
A small sigh. “Inside the sanctum you must never use your name. Inside, our identities are hidden. You enter a Spark. Next time you are summoned, hood and mask yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Then enter the Sanctum of Mysteries.” Oli pushed open the door. Nothing but a dimly lit corridor lay beyond.
As Hinck hesitated on the threshold, the fish man slipped past him and entered. Hinck followed. The corridor was lit with torches, the air clouded with incense.
The fish man walked briskly, and Hinck hurried to keep up. At the end of the corridor, a stone door hung ajar. The man ducked through. Hinck glanced behind him, saw no one. Oli must still be guarding the entrance.
Hinck slipped through the open
door and froze in the darkness, blinded. He waited for his eyes to focus. A pale yellow glow on the left beckoned him. He stumbled his first few steps, but once he turned a corner, a rectangle of fiery orange light straight ahead silhouetted the fish man’s figure.
Hinck walked forward, praying that the father god—Arman, if Father Tomek had been right—would protect him from whatever went on here tonight.
He reached the doorway and peeked inside, breathless. The room was the size of the great hall above. On the far end, opposite where Hinck stood, a dais stretched the width of the room. In its center, a smaller stone platform stood as high as a man’s waist, like a table.
The room was filled with black-clad, masked people—some men, some women—standing in groups, talking. Men wore black ensembles. Women, black gowns. All but Hinck wore masks. He saw every kind of mask: animals, solid colors, multiple colors, one that depicted a huge eyeball, another a yellow sun.
Hinck suddenly wished he had heeded Oli’s warning and fled. Everyone here would recognize him, yet he knew only Oli. How was that fair? How could he tell Trevn who was involved in this cult when he could not see their faces?
The smell of lavender gusted over him. “Are you coming in?” a soft voice asked.
A woman was standing behind him. A silver mask covered the top half of her face, leaving her lips and chin exposed.
“Eudora.”
“Shh! No names tonight.”
“I don’t have a mask.” A stupidly obvious statement but all Hinck could manage.
“You are being initiated. You aren’t supposed to have one.”
Initiated? “What will happen?”
Those lips twisted into a smirk. “You’ll see.” She kissed his jaw and slid past, her body tight against his in the doorway.
He followed her, not wanting to lose the one person he knew in the room. She stopped in a group of men, who greeted her, each kissing her hand.
Hinck felt exposed, standing in the center of the room, the only one without a mask. Eudora and her admirers seemed in no hurry to end their discourse, so Hinck backed into the corner opposite the dais and waited.
More people entered, all masked. The chatter grew until a gong silenced it. Hinck located the bronze disk on the back corner of the dais. A masked man gripping a mallet stood beside it.
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