Lyssanne flipped to the next tale in her book. ’Twas as if she’d stepped into its pages and borrowed the life of one of its characters, with the Averys’ continued treatment of her as a lady.. Despite its beginnings, this role she played seemed a gift from the King. What other life would afford her the freedom to rest in luxury when head pain or weakness assaulted her body?
Jarad yawned. “Think Lord Duncan will meet us in the shrine for Kingsday, tomorrow?”
“I hope so,” Lyssanne said. “I’m sure Lady MeMe can persuade him.”
“Here it is!” Jarad shouted, startling her. “The creature, it’s here!”
She sprang to her feet and rounded the table.
He tapped a tiny drawing in the upper right corner of the page. “See, head of a dog, wings of a peacock, claws of a lion.” His finger trailed down to the text beneath. “It says this simurgh is a creature of ancient origins and great wisdom. It can purify water and air, and symbolizes the union between earth and sky. The rest is in Lyryan.”
Lyssanne took the book and squinted at the text. “Its feathers are said to shine like new copper coins and…ah. Several tales of the simurgh’s lair mention mountains and the sea.”
Just then, someone knocked at the open doorway.
“Pardon, my lady,” said a maid. “Might you spare Master Jarad a bit early? The squires are to serve at dinner. Some of His Lordship’s officers just returned from the far-flung villages.”
“Of course,” Lyssanne said. “Jarad, don’t forget to eat a hearty meal yourself before the bustle begins. We’ve had a long day, and you ate little.”
“I will,” he said, “but searching books doesn’t make me hungry like training does.”
“I thought every activity made you hungry.”
Laughing, Jarad gathered his things and followed the maid from the library.
Lyssanne walked to the window to give her eyes a rest. The snows had begun again, not yet heavy enough to blanket the ground. Still, she’d be forced to forego her customary visits with the blacksmith and Reina on the morrow. Would the knights continue to train outdoors? If so, Jarad would need warmer clothes.
An image of Prince Brennus training in the moonlit lists with select warriors filled her mind. Twice, she and Lady MeMe had witnessed friendly, after-dinner duels of swords between the prince and Lord Duncan. In fact, Lyssanne only ever encountered the prince at evening.
Ah, but those evenings were turning an uneasy friendship into a source of joy. Warmth stole over her at the memory of the prince’s humorous fireside stories about Lord Duncan and Lady MeMe, his descriptions of foreign lands, and their discussions of books and other interests.
A sudden prickle at the back of her neck pierced her peaceful thoughts. She spun around, half expecting to find the prince watching her. As with the other times this sensation had assailed her in the library, none but the eerie eyes of portraits stared back at her.
Still, she hastened back into the pool of lamplight, casting a wary glance at the shadowed corners of the room. Foolish as it was, darkened recesses had unnerved her since she’d been accosted in Mr. Fescue’s wood. Perhaps it was time to end this day’s search, after all.
Light. It was everywhere Brennus looked. From the roaring flames in the great hall’s man-high fireplaces, to the tiny candles in the center of each tray of food and drink circulating among the guests, to the bonfires and torches burning throughout the castle grounds and surrounding villages—the night blazed with it. As if every star had left the heavens and come to rest here in honor of the occasion, Avery Hall’s annual Celebration of Lights was in full flare.
“On this, the shortest day of the year,” Duncan said, opening the festivities, “we gather to set the night aglow. Candles adorn every window, bonfires light the snow-covered squares, and peasants and nobles alike laugh and dance to show we’ve overcome the long dark of winter.”
“Here, here!” cheered several guests, glasses raised.
“Each of the Seven Lands has its version of the festivities,” Duncan said. “Ships sail the canals of Aquatonia, catapulting flaming balls into the air. Nobles of Opali parade with gilded lanterns in hand, flame glinting off multihued gems encrusting every garment. Even the earthy tribesmen of Zyungland are rumored to dance about, waving rush torches to the beat of ceremonial drums, and chanting riddles only they can comprehend.”
Amid rising laughter, Navvar filled Brennus’s thoughts. Did its people still celebrate?
“Here in Lyrya, music fuels the festivities,” Duncan said, and his minstrels played a little fanfare. “Ah, but Lastarra, with its fireworks that rival any jewel or flame, holds claim to originating the celebration. Some say it once held religious significance.”
A movement across the room caught Brennus’s eye, a nod from the one light in the hall capable of arresting his attention—Lyssanne.
She wore a gown of blue so rich it would have done credit to the Royal House of Xavier. It shimmered when she moved, like water in the azure Pools of Aquatia. A paler, gauzy fabric flowed from her shoulders and draped from the clinging sleeves at her wrists.
A tiny chain of finely wrought gold girded her waist. Brennus suppressed a gasp. The medallion clasping it at its center bore the Avery elf-head crest. This symbolized as great a loyalty and affection between Lyssanne and House Avery as did his chain of office. Lyssanne’s only other adornment was her perpetual blue and gold star-shaped pendant.
The green she’d worn to his feast had served her loveliness well, but this ensemble fair stilled his breath. She belonged in Xavier blue.
Lyssanne had transformed Avery Hall into a place of light—and not just on this occasion. The wall torches and colored paper lanterns surrounding Duncan’s guests paled in comparison to her gift. Though no judge of such things, Brennus was certain she’d grown stronger in its use.
The household children flocked to her, glowing with reflected Light, as had those in Cloistervale. MeMe had shone with that luminescence since Noel’s escape from death. Even Duncan shimmered at times. And Lily, who had asked to serve as Lyssanne’s lady’s maid, bustled past Brennus with the effervescence of sparkling wine. Did their reflected glow and heightened cheer have anything to do with belief in her invisible King?
Lyssanne’s glow shone without effect over the man who now sidled up to her. Sir Fenard and his sister had arrived ten days prior, both expressing delight to find her still in residence—Sir Fenard, a bit too delighted.
His freedom to stroll the halls with her during the day, while Brennus was trapped in his feathers, inflicted Brennus’s skull with a semblance of the pain her curse caused hers.
He set his empty cup on a sideboard. If only the cook’s steamy flyl could banish the ice settling in his stomach at the sight of that cad again fawning over her.
The baron kept his distance when Brennus was present, but took every opportunity to insinuate himself into Lyssanne’s days. He sat with her in the conservatory, comparing her to the greenhouse flowers; lounged with her by the library fires, reading her poetry or trying to impress her with his travels. He’d even lurked about when the children gathered to hear her stories.
Lyssanne favored the baron often enough with her smiles, but ensured any time in his company was properly chaperoned, a precaution she seemed not to find necessary with Brennus.
He flicked a speck of lint from his black velvet sleeve, straightened the blue sash that cut a diagonal swath across his linen shirt, then approached the group forming around Lyssanne.
“You’re saying it was a simple victor’s feast?” Sir Fenard asked, leaning close to Lyssanne despite the lull in music.
“Not simple," she said, "but a celebration of victory, yes.”
Tonight, it was adults of highest rank she enchanted with her tale. Several of Lyrya’s brightest stars gathered round to hear her version of their feast’s origins. She outshone them all.
Brennus stepped forward, just behind Lyssanne, as she concluded her tale.
&nbs
p; “From that time on,” she said, “every ruler vowed to keep the day sacred each year, so none should forget how the King of All overcame the darkness the Thief of Souls once poured out upon the Seven Lands.”
Brennus rested a hand on Lyssanne’s shoulder. She turned, her eyes widening.
“Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?”
She offered her hand, her eyes reflecting the flames of half the candles in the hall. At Brennus’s wave, the musicians began a slow, sinuous melody, and he and Lyssanne centered the room. She closed her eyes in learned surrender to his lead.
Truth was stranger than tales, for shadow again slithered across the land. No celebratory light would flare in Lastarra’s northern skies tonight. Cloistervale had fallen. And in this story, there was no hero-King to overcome the darkness. Only a prince who had helped reawaken it.
19
Orders
Spring, year 1123 After the Dawning
Jarad stared at Lyssanne across the library table. “It’s nothing but an adventure tale? Someone made it up?” He uttered a sound akin to a disgruntled pig. “Is the rest fiction, too?”
“I think not. All this means is—”
“They lied to us,” he said. “Both of them.” Leaning forward, he snatched her hand from atop the parchment she’d just unrolled. “What if it wasn’t the King who sent us this message? What if the Thief of Souls did it to put you in more danger, to get you to leave this place?”
“Jarad, I truly don’t believe—”
“Yeah, but think about it. You’re safe here.” He released her hand. “They all like you. If we go looking for a stone tree that doesn’t exist, just so we can find a creature that can’t possibly have been born…For what? A message some crazy peddler says the King has for you?”
“I know it sounds foolish, mad even,” she said, “but I just know we must do this. Besides, you liked Mr. Fescue.”
“Yeah, he’s brilliant.” Jarad sighed. “Sorry, I know I’m just a kid, but…”
“You’re happy here,” she said. “As am I. You’ve found a new life. A useful life. Jarad, you repay the kindness we’ve been granted tenfold every day, while I…” She shook her head. “The King didn’t bring me safely this far just to live idle on their generosity. I’m certain He has something more for me to do. Even the faeries hint that this is the path I should follow.”
“It’s just, you almost died before and…” He turned away. “You’re all the family I have.”
“Oh, Jarad.” She resisted the impulse to skirt the table and hug him. Squires didn’t go about hugging their teachers, after all. “It frightens me as well, to ask this of you, to set out into unknown dangers again. I can hardly bear it.” She closed her eyes. “If I thought I could manage on my own, or that you would heed me, I would bid you stay behind.”
“I’d follow you,” he said.
“I know.” She inhaled the scents of new spring wafting through the open windows. “Perhaps if I tell you everything Lord Duncan said, matters won’t seem so grave. And Jarad?” She waited until he faced her. “Never discount your feelings or ideas because of your youth. You have a keen mind and astonishing wisdom. They’ve served us well, and I cherish your opinions.”
“So, uh,” he said. “H-how did he know we were looking for it? People don’t just sit around talking about granite trees.”
“No.” Lyssanne laughed. “Lady MeMe asked whether I was looking for something particular in the library or merely furthering your studies. When I told her I sought the answer to a riddle, she said she adores mysteries. I shared with her only the last few lines.”
“Seek out the King’s message where the sun lays its head in snow and sea," Jarad quoted. "For you and all, one hope remains. Seek it beyond the granite tree.”
“Yes.” Lyssanne glanced at the parchment beneath her hand.
“Had she heard of it? The granite tree?”
“No, but that evening, she asked Lord Duncan if he had.”
“And he said it’s a myth.” Jarad folded his arms.
“An old legend. The tree was fabled to bring travelers ill fortune when they attempted to cross the Lyrynn Mountains. Something about taking the easy path.” She shrugged. “He suggested we search legends for descriptions of landforms akin to those leading to lost treasure.”
“So, it is just nonsense.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “but remember, many would say the King of All Lands is a fable.”
“All this time,” Jarad said, “we’ve been looking in legend books for that simurgh thing, and we should’ve been looking for the tree? We have to search ’em all again?”
“Not all. Lord Duncan says the tale became part of Lyrya’s history. It influenced early exploration of the realm. So, we can eliminate stories from other lands and recent collections.”
“Exploration? I think I saw some travel tales over by the histories and maps.” He jumped to his feet and strode to a crammed set of shelves. “Here they are. I didn’t look in these before.”
Lyssanne rose to join him as he rolled the ingenious wheel-bottomed ladder into place. He climbed several rungs then began passing dusty volumes down to her. One little book proved unyielding. It gave way at last, dislodging another. Leaning backward, Jarad caught the extra book an instant before it could bash him on the head.
He glared at it. “Just a book of noble houses. I wonder if Prince Brennus is in here.”
Lyssanne took the book and read its cover. “No, this lists only the prominent families of Lastarra. Still, perhaps some of our newfound friends or their ancestors are included.”
“Like Lady MeMe?” he said, climbing back down.
Nodding, she set the books on the table and sifted through each. Besides the volume on noble families, she could read only one. Finding no mention of the granite tree there, she opened Hereditary Houses, Heraldry, and History. Was MeMe’s ancestral home far from Cloistervale?
For each family, the book listed a brief history, house crest, and description of holdings. Lyssanne turned to the index, searching the c listings for MeMe’s maiden name, Cintilla.
“Hmm, ca…ce,” she whispered, flipping pages, “co…too far…cl.” A word a few lines down the page arrested her attention. It couldn’t be. “Cloistervale?”
She turned to the page indicated. There it was, Cloistervale, listed as the village allotted to a noble family. This must be the history of the Noble Oppressors, of whom the village elders often spoke. Intrigued, she flipped back to the beginning of the entry, then gasped.
“Did you find it?” Jarad asked.
She explained what she’d discovered, then began to read aloud. “Since the days when the first warrior king established the High Houses, several noble families have become extinct or fallen into disgrace—being lowered in rank or losing title and lands altogether. Of all the High Houses of Lastarra, only one has ever suffered both, the family Mortifer.”
“Mortifer,” Jarad said, “I wonder if that’s what the mountain’s named for. You know, Mount Mortiferra? The one that’s supposed to be haunted?”
“I suppose ’tis likely,” she said, then read on. “After committing an unrecorded offense during the third king’s reign, Lord Mortifer was stripped of his dukedom and lush lands near the capitol. His family was relegated to a northern valley ringed on all sides by mountains, forests, and river. His eldest daughter declared the region bleak and remote as a cloister. The village which grew up there to serve the manor was thenceforth named Cloistervale.”
Lyssanne skimmed lists of subsequent lords until she again found an anecdote.
“Before the royal courts of King Staren IV, representatives from Cloistervale accused the family Mortifer of cruelty, neglect of their subjects’ most basic needs, and sorcery. Receiving no aid from their elderly king, the villagers took matters into their own hands. After fleeing the valley, servants of the Mortifer household reported that none of the family survived. The king’s investigators recovered the bodies of the lord
and lady. However, their young son was never found. House Mortifer was no more.”
Lyssanne stared out the window, one fact eclipsing all else. The family had been accused of sorcery. “The keeper of the Shadow Mist,” she whispered. Was she that boy’s descendant?
“Sorry?” Jarad said. “What was that?”
“Mere idle musings.”
As Jarad continued his search for the tree, Lyssanne renewed her quest for Lady MeMe’s family history. Though she located the Cintilla entry straightaway, she stared at it, unseeing.
“I found it!” Jarad shouted. “Er, maybe. This book’s in Lyryan, I think. There’s a picture of a tree that looks like part of a mountain. Could be granite.”
Lyssanne reached for the book. With the aid of several more lamps and considerable eyestrain, she deciphered the text. “You are brilliant!” she said. “According to this, the granite tree is an ill omen for those who try to cross the Lyrynn Mountains through Stupasce.”
“Stew pots?” Jarad asked.
“Stupasce,” Lyssanne said, laughing. “It means fool’s pass.”
“Oh.”
“Many a traveler never returned once having seen the granite tree,” she read. “Those who lived to speak of it lost their wits, rambling of haunted music and creatures so fearsome, the travelers never again smiled or slept a peaceful night. Many said the pass was a trap to ensnare those who would seek an easy path rather than make the wiser journey.”
“So, we need to find out if that’s a real place, that Stew, Stu…that pass,” Jarad said. “If it is, I suppose we’ll at least know where to start.”
“Yes.” How would she make such a journey, over mountains and through whatever lay between them and Avery Hall?
“Oh, Look at the sun!” Jarad said. “I was to meet the squires in the armory.”
Lyssanne sighed. “Do you never rest?”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 30