by Carol Berg
Slowly, reluctantly, he took it from me, scanning my face for the whole of my ill tidings. When he finally spoke, his voice was quietly harsh. “How did you come by this, lady? I know of no challenge to me, and who would dare challenge him directly?”
So he didn’t know. And his grief for Tomas was real. I had believed it would be so. Evard possessed little enough of love or grace, but I had never doubted his affection for my brother. My multitude of offenses had never altered it. It had produced the unconditional pardon that Tomas had requested in his desire to have me return to Comigor and that I had carried in my sleeve since my meeting with a curious Garlos an hour before. It had preserved my life, for which I had never been grateful until I saw the reflection of Karon’s soul in D’Natheil’s eyes.
“If Your Majesty please, I’ll tell you a story,” I said. “It’s quite a long story, and much of it will defy reason. You may accept it or dismiss it as the fantasy of a deluded woman, as you have judged me. But if you accept it as truth, then you will learn of a danger to your kingdom that is more insidious than any Isker spy, and you will learn how your friend and champion was used and then murdered in an attempt to destroy us all. . . .”
Three hours later I left the king’s chambers. I could not tell whether or not Evard gave credence to anything I’d told him. My tale was alien to everything he believed of the world. But he had neither ridiculed me nor had me arrested. My voice had always carried weight with him. That was the reason for his unrelenting fury at my rejection of him. Evard would never stop hating me, but he might listen and be wary.
On that same evening, it was proclaimed throughout the kingdom that the Duke of Comigor, the Champion of Leire, was dead, having been lured into an ambush by unknown traitors. He had died as he had lived, with honor, defending his king with his mighty sword. A day of mourning was set.
Two notes were added to the proclamation, though rarely were they announced publicly, being minor matters as they were. In gratitude for the late duke’s long service to the crown, his sister, the Lady Seriana Marguerite, was restored to full citizenship, all rights and privileges of rank restored to her under a full pardon for all crimes with which she had been charged. The second note stated that an investigation into the slaying was to be carried out by His Grace’s military aide, Captain Darzid of the Royal Guard. The captain was to produce an explanation of the death of the Champion six months from this day. The appointment had been my suggestion, and Evard had promised to inform me of whatever story Darzid might produce.
Our world lay mired in misery; my husband had been brutalized, my child murdered, and my brother’s life twisted into horror and ended too early. Somewhere in a desert fortress, three corrupted sorcerers who called themselves the Lords of Zhev’Na sat on thrones of black stone and feasted on our grieving, and I prayed that fate or gods or destiny would give me a role to play in their ruin.
One more duty awaited me before I could settle myself to listen for Dassine’s call. I bore a message for my ten-year-old nephew. And so, a few days later, my carriage rattled over the ancient cobbles that fronted sprawling, thick-walled Comigor Keep.
Midsummer was three months gone. The angle of the morning sun and the touches of gold on the barren green hills that stretched in every direction from the windswept hilltop already spoke the waning of the year. The morning air bit sharply through my light cloak, whispering of storm and blizzard and the elemental purity of northern winter.
Thirteen years had gone by since I had left Comigor to attend Martin’s judgment before the Council of Lords, thirteen years since Karon had revealed his secret in the study at Windham and I had chosen the course that had barred me from the home of my childhood and led me into love and mystery and grief. The seasons pass. As my driver rang the bell and waited for someone to answer it, I rubbed the rose-colored stone that lay cool and secret in my pocket, and I breathed deep of the sweet morning.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Though Carol Berg calls Colorado her home, her roots are in Texas, in a family of teachers, musicians, and railroad men. She has a degree in mathematics from Rice University and one in computer science from the University of Colorado, but managed to squeeze in minors in English and art history along the way. She has combined a career as a software engineer with her writing, while also raising three sons. She lives with her husband at the foot of the Colorado mountains.