Ilythra tore her gaze away from the small indentation. Funny how something so small could soften the stark lines of the king’s face. “No, I don’t.” She wiped her hands on her leggings.
“Are you willing to learn?” Challenge sparkled in his pale eyes.
Her mood lifted. “Of course.”
He offered her his arm. Ilythra took it and noticed again his subtle fragrance; it was more subdued this time, lighter, drifting on the edge of her senses. It didn’t smell like any herb she knew, but it was mild and pleasant.
“I will also take my leave, Your Majesty.” Rothit bowed to Erhard and nodded to Ilythra before turning to Aclan.
“His lesson can wait an hour or so. I’d like him to join us,” Erhard said.
Rothit bowed again and then faced Ilythra. “Are we still sparring later?”
She’d almost forgotten. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Can I watch?” Aclan asked.
Rothit hesitated then glanced to Erhard. The king’s expression must have given him an answer. “Yes. I’m sure it will be instructive.” He smiled as he looked at Ilythra. “For both of us.” Rothit bowed toward the king and left the room.
Erhard tucked Ilythra’s arm through his as they walked down a short hallway. “Rothit is teaching Aclan the art of the sword. It will be good for the boy to see an expert such as yourself.” He paused to glance at his son. “How are you progressing?”
“Rothit is satisfied.” Pride infused the boy’s voice.
“I see, but I hope you are not.”
Aclan’s jaw tensed. “Of...of course not.”
Erhard leaned closer to Ilythra. “When you are satisfied with what you have or know, then the thirst for knowledge becomes sated and dull.”
Ilythra glanced at Erhard. She hadn’t missed the slight barb toward Rothit, but the king’s expression held no ill will. Ilythra turned toward Aclan. His face was void of emotion.
“Do you disagree?” Erhard asked.
They began up a narrow staircase toward another hall that looked familiar. “Not in principle. My grandfather once said ‘Learning is like rowing upstream—not to advance is to drop back.’”
“Ah, a wise saying.” The king patted her hand.
She glanced at his hand, feeling vaguely annoyed, but the emotion seemed distant and unimportant. “However,” Ilythra continued, “we all learn at our own pace, and being proud of what you have accomplished is no crime.”
“Are you?” He paused before a door and held it open.
Ilythra stepped into the same small room she’d met the king the night she arrived. Was she proud of what she’d accomplished? More and more she realized learning had been more than a way of life. It was who she was. From grandfather to Maelys and finally Zeynel, she’d always had at least one mentor guiding her path. Until Bredych stole Zeynel from me. The thought was strangely without the usual heat that accompanied it. “I’ve worked hard. But I have much left to do.”
In the light of day, she was better able to see the tapestries lining the walls, flanked by unlit torches resting in dark metal holders. Ilythra admired one depicting a young man holding a sword against the backdrop of an impressive mountain. The thick carpet covering much of the floor felt luxurious after the hard stone floors. Glass vases on the mantel glowed under the soft light entering through the single narrow window. Another door pierced the wall opposite the fireplace. Through dusty gray light, she could see half a dozen candles burning golden on a candelabra stand, wax dripping like icicles onto a bare stone floor. The candlelight illuminated a worn wooden table piled with parchments and a large metal weight for sealing documents with wax.
“Do you practice your arts?”
Ilythra looked at the king. He stood before the fireplace; the flames flickered on his pale blond hair, infusing it with life and color. “Every day.”
Erhard nodded, his eyes bright as if he’d won a challenge. “See, son? Even one as accomplished as Ilythra knows she has much to learn.”
Aclan glanced from his father to Ilythra and back again. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied without enthusiasm.
The king didn’t seem to notice. He led her to the table in front of the window and pulled out a chair. Aclan sat near her. The tabletop was divided into four sections. Glass pieces, half dark and half clear, nestled in a velvet-lined case. Erhard placed them on the game board.
Ilythra observed the boy. He seemed so eager to please, for his father’s approval. “There is another saying. ‘Don’t be afraid of going slowly, be afraid of standing still.’ If you are progressing and your teacher is satisfied, that is something to be proud of.”
A small smile flittered at Aclan’s mouth before it fell under his father’s gaze. She turned away. Leather-covered books nestled in bookcases along one wall. More books than she or her grandfather had accumulated on the island. Or rather, more than Jith had been able to bring them.
“Do you read?”
Ilythra glanced back at Erhard, whose smile held a touch of amusement. Would there be books on the Siobani in Erhard’s collection? Something that would give her more information about the stones? Why not? Another stone keeper lived here. “Yes, I do. Would you allow me to read them?”
He waved a hand almost dismissively. A large jeweled ring on his finger caught the light. “They’re mostly history, but of course.”
“There’s the other library,” Aclan offered.
Erhard narrowed his eyes at his son. Aclan visibly shrunk. “Dusty. Not even the servants go in there.”
Ilythra glanced from father to son. It sounded like a place she wanted to find. She made a mental note to ask Aclan about it later.
As he settled across from Ilythra, Erhard cleared his throat and smiled. “So have you decided to stay the winter with us?”
“Thank you for your generosity, but I think I’ll be leaving as soon as the rain lets up a little.”
“Satisfied your curiosity already?” His gaze seemed suddenly guarded.
“You’ve been most kind, but I do have duties elsewhere.”
“I see. That is a shame. I was hoping... Well.” He glanced down at the game board. “Shall we?” At her nod, he continued, “Crist is a game of strategy. Not only do you need to plan your own tactics, but anticipate mine. Are you ready?”
She focused on the playing pieces and nodded again.
Erhard pointed to the clear glass pieces arranged on diagonal squares. “These are your players. Your goal is to capture all of mine.” He pointed to the dark pieces. “It’s easier to learn if I instruct you as we play. There are quite a few rules.”
The game was as complex as it looked but as she played, tension drained from her shoulders and Ilythra relaxed. The king ordered a hot beverage, its aroma blending with his fragrance. The distant bustle of the castle and crackling fire lent a cozy ambience to their laughter over her mistakes. Aclan offered himself as her tutor, and Ilythra found he was as skilled at the game as his father, though less confident.
Ilythra held up an empty glass cup. “So far, this is my favorite part of Greton.”
“Out of my entire kingdom, the glassblowers are your favorite?” The king smiled to Aclan. “I think we’ve been insulted, son. But she’s right. It is fascinating how they turn a lump into a thing of beauty. An ancient art, really. There are families who have spun glass for many generations. Back when the kingdoms were united, we sent our glass into the far reaches of Anatar. It made us rich.” Erhard paused, a faraway look in his eyes.
“The kingdoms? Do you mean in the east?”
“No. The kingdoms along the Har Neider. Before the time of my grandfather’s father, they were united.”
“Are you at odds now?”
“No. We have an alliance of sorts with our closest neighbor, Elston. Hirion, toward the south, does
a bit of trading with us, and farther south there is Ilia, with whom we have an amiable though infrequent relationship. Farther north, there is only Isolden. We have not spoken to anyone from that kingdom in my memory.”
Ilythra examined the board before her, digesting the king’s information. Erhard had two of his armies threatening her castle. She touched a game piece, glancing at Aclan for his opinion.
The prince nodded then turned to Erhard. “Father, if our guest is interested in our history, why don’t you tell her the story of Scrivian?”
“Ah, it seems you have an ally.” Erhard smiled. “He’s trying to distract me from the game. Very well, the story of Scrivian, the king who united the eastern kingdoms. You were looking at him earlier.” He pointed to the tapestry of the young man and the sword.
Ilythra glanced toward the tapestry.
“Before Scrivian became a great king, he was prince of a small, poor kingdom,” Erhard began. “In those days, Glyths roamed these mountains.” He paused. “A Glyth is a large creature very much like a snake but with wings, short, stubby legs and very long claws. They were greedy, amassing great hordes of gold and jewels, and cruel, killing anyone they chose. Tribute was paid to appease them, but Scrivian’s father was not able to meet the price.”
Erhard moved a piece on the board. “Scrivian didn’t want his father shamed or his land laid waste, so he climbed the mountain to slay the great Glyth, Berenga, who ruled from Elston to Ilia in the south. Berenga was the greatest of the Glyths. Scrivian climbed the treacherous slopes with ten companions. The acrid smell of Berenga reached them long before they spotted her cave. It is said that once you smell Glyth, even the smell of the sweetest rose is tainted with its scent.
“Drawing their swords, they entered Berenga’s lair. Gold and precious gems lay in heaps around the cavern, but the Glyth was not to be seen. Suddenly, the light disappeared. They spun around only to find Berenga blocking the entrance—the crafty Glyth had heard them approach and fled through another passage.
“Scrivian rolled toward the Glyth’s hoard. He had seen a giant’s shield and hid behind it as flames shot through the cave. When the heat faded, Scrivian peeked over his shield. His companions lay dead, burned in Berenga’s fires. With only his sword, Tralek, Scrivian faced the Glyth. Berenga eyed the prince. Great founts of steam rose from her nostrils and out of the corners of her mouth.
“‘You come to challenge me, little man?’ she sneered.
“‘Blood for blood.’ Scrivian’s voice was a mere whisper, slowly gaining in strength as he found his courage. ‘I’ll have your blood for the men you’ve slain. For the homes you’ve destroyed. We’ll have an end to your blackmail and terror, Berenga!’
“‘I have lived beyond your reckoning, little man. You are nothing to me.’ The great Glyth shook her head, eyeing the burnt bodies in the cave. ‘Do you think you are greater than these? Many have desired to slay me. Their bones line my den, are playthings for my hatchlings. Do not flatter yourself. You amused me, but now you are growing bothersome. I will rid myself of you like an overgrown scale.’
“The great Glyth opened her mouth to draw on the fire that would end Scrivian’s life, but Scrivian was clever. Instead of drawing back, he lunged forward, taking Tralek and burying the sword in the Glyth’s upper jaw, thrusting it deep into her brain. Berenga jerked back in surprise but it was too late. Scrivian dragged himself from the cave to escape Berenga’s death throes, his sword arm burnt beyond recognition by the Glyth’s breath. Tralek, which he still grasped, was nothing more than a melted parody of a sword, but Scrivian had faced the great Berenga and survived.”
Erhard paused to glance at Aclan. “He lived, and by his wisdom and strength, he joined the kingdoms and rid the land of Glyths, destroying every last hatchling.” His voice changed, hardened. “And now, son, attend to your lessons.”
Aclan rose and, without any show of emotion, bowed to his father, then inclined his head toward Ilythra.
“Thank you for all your help,” she said.
Aclan blushed and left the room.
Ilythra waited until the door shut. “He is fine young man. It’s not my place, but do you think you were a little harsh on him?”
“I can see why you’d think that. He is a good boy. But that is not enough. He needs to be a fine king.”
He had a point. What did she know about raising a king? Perhaps Erhard was wiser than she gave him credit for. Ilythra changed the subject. “Is the story legend, history or both?”
Erhard sipped his tea, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Both. I do not know if there were ever Glyths who roamed these mountains, though I’ve seen what some could call evidence. Men have found great bones too large for animals we now know, and there are caves peppering these mountains. Some have even gone exploring, looking for Glyth treasure. Foolish.
“Scrivian, however, was a real person and one of my ancestors. He was the king who united all of the eastern kingdoms. In those days, we rivaled the great kingdoms of the west in power and glory. The land prospered, people were happy. Bredych told me the ancient stories on cold winter nights when my father was busy with his duties.”
“Bredych has served this family for a long time.”
“Since I can remember.”
“Then he is very old?” She knew the stones gave their keeper a long life, but presumably Erhard didn’t. Why didn’t the king find it strange?
Erhard lifted one shoulder. “I suppose. I don’t know how old he is. It doesn’t seem important, does it?”
A wave of dizziness washed over her.
“Are you okay?” He leaned forward, touching her cheek.
“Yes. Fine. Just tired.” She wasn’t getting enough sleep. What had they been talking about? “You said the kingdoms were once united. What happened?”
“What always happens. One weak king after another gave their lands away piecemeal, divided among sons, offered in compensations for battles lost or just poorly managed. It’ll take a great king to reunite these lands.” Erhard’s eyes shone in the firelight.
“And you think it’s necessary for the kingdoms to reunite?”
“It’s essential. Peasants struggle to grow enough food to fend off starvation in the winter. If we were a united kingdom, we could pool our resources. Everyone would be fed.”
“It’s a sound principle, but it’s been tried before. It doesn’t always work out well.”
Erhard leaned forward. She became aware of his scent again, drifting in the air, invading her senses. She found herself relaxing further. It was a pleasant fragrance.
“That’s because there wasn’t a king strong enough to rule the people.” He examined the pieces on the board. “Life is like Crist. You must fight for your place. Show no weakness.” Erhard leaned back against the chair, sipping hot tea.
A breeze brushed her face. She glanced at an open window. “By weakness, do you mean mercy?”
“Mercy can be weakness, can’t it?”
Ilythra considered the man before her. He seemed kind, but something bothered her about him. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Mercy can only be offered from a position of power, so no, I don’t agree with you.”
“If you show mercy, your enemy will rise and strike you as soon as he sees your back.” He lifted a Crist piece and placed it back in its velvet case.
She watched, mesmerized by the light playing on the dark and light pieces. “I agree that’s always a possibility.”
“Then where’s the sense in mercy?”
“The same place forgiveness and charity find their sense. These things are part of what makes us different from animals.”
“I never expected such altruistic sentiment from a legend,” a voice said from the doorway.
Fear brushed her skin, leaving raised bumps in its wake. The moment
seemed to stretch and expand to embrace all moments before and after. Ilythra froze, feelings of dread and excitement intermingled and so blurred they were indistinguishable. Her heart raced and her skin tingled.
She’d stopped expecting him at every turn, but now, a man who could only be Bredych had entered the room, and she didn’t feel ready. Ilydearta hummed against her skin. She could feel the full song of Crioch along the winds of Teann. How did she not feel it before? She should have been aware that Crioch had neared. Her stomach soured.
Run! She’d heard the voice once before, in Tyrol right before Bredych slaughtered an entire village. But I’m not the same naive, frightened girl.
Ilythra felt his dark eyes focusing on her. He was not tall or short, handsome or ugly. He seemed almost ordinary. Dark hair and a dusky complexion suited the snow-white shirt and crimson tunic with dark leggings. A black cloak swirled about his legs as though he’d just come in from the cold. He made the impeccably dressed Erhard look disheveled in comparison.
“Ah, Bredych, you’ve returned. I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to our guest. Bredych, this is Ilythra. Ilythra, my advisor, Lord Bredych.” Erhard placed his cup and saucer on the table. The clink of glass echoed in her head.
Bredych neared. “I’m pleased to finally meet the Ilythra. I’ve heard much about you.” His voice was soft, cultured, yet reverberated deep into her mind like an invading presence. “Forgive me for not greeting you earlier. I’ve had pressing business for the king elsewhere.”
She stood, her legs like rubber as she met his outstretched hand. His warm lips on her skin seemed to leech the heat from her body. “You’re here now.” Her voice lacked any power. This was the red man. The man who had Zeynel murdered, Tarak. Why couldn’t she move?
“Yes. I am.” His dark eyes danced with the fire.
Erhard rose from his chair. “I am sorry, Ilythra. We will have to finish our game another time. There are matters I need to discuses with my advisor.”
“Game?” Bredych glanced at the board then back to Ilythra. His smiled widened, revealing straight white teeth. “Once you learn, I’d love to test my skills against yours.”
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