Akolom cleared his throat in a deferential prompt, the sound echoing in the deathly hush that had fallen.
Blinking out of her stupor, Orlla opened her mouth and began to recite. “Noble, honorable, just, these I strive to be in the name of Efyllsseum and the cause of all that is pure and admirable. Bravery, restraint, trust, these I offer for the protection of our chosen kingdom’s borders upheld by the power of the glorious Opal of Light. Strength lies with a cord woven from three. Bind my loyal heart with these. This is my solemn Keeper pledge to all who hear me this day.”
“Who sanctions this pledge?” Akolom asked, making a sweeping gesture around the room with his right hand.
Orlla willed ice into her veins when the king himself rose from his pew and stepped forward. “I, King Ferghell, sanction this pledge.” He reached for the censer filled with burning incense and swung it back and forth three times in front of her. She swayed back on her heels trying not to gag from the smell—perturbed by the hard glint in the king’s eyes.
“Forthwith, Orlla of the house of Radmount is declared a Keeper of Efyllsseum for time and eternity,” Akolom proclaimed. “May the Opal of Light grant you favor.”
Orlla forced herself to keep breathing as a surge of voices offered congratulatory remarks. This was not how she had envisioned embarking on her life as a Keeper. Her father should have been here to swing the ball of incense and pronounce a blessing over her, his eyes gleaming with pride at her accomplishment, his rough hands cradling her face as he kissed her gently on both cheeks.
Despite the honor of King Ferghell himself stepping up to sanction her pledge, his words had rung hollow, like a bitter echo in the empty chambers of her heart. As every other Keeper before her, she was nothing more than a tool to secure his kingdom. He had reigned undisturbed for over two hundred years and now that war was once again on the horizon, he sought by whatever means at his disposal to keep it that way. A rune protégé had crossed his path at just the right time.
The stained-glass cupola of the chapel shot prisms of blinding light her way as jewel-bedecked courtiers stepped forward one-by-one to congratulate her. Her heart was leaden even as she held her head high. The overweight woman who had sat next to her at luncheon clasped Orlla’s hand in her sweaty fist and pressed it firmly to her flabby chest. “My heartfelt congratulations on your new posting, and my deepest gratitude for your service. I wish you all the fruits of your labor in tenfold blessings.”
Her fat lips wriggled like fleshy worms as she jabbered on. Orlla’s head spun, the decadent food she had consumed only minutes earlier churning in her gut, the peppery odor of the incense grating on her. Everything about the excess of flesh and jewels pressing in around her was nauseating.
In the midst of the cacophony of adulation, Orlla felt the weight of calculating eyes on her. She glanced across the chapel at the two Protectors who held her in their gaze. Despite their unreadable expressions, she sensed their disapproval behind their masks—skepticism that a young rune weaver from the Conservatory could hold the mainlanders at bay on the cusp of war.
“You look pale. Are you sickly?” Akolom raised a sharp eyebrow.
Voicing her concerns would serve no purpose. The wheels had already been set in motion. Orlla waved a languid hand. “The incense is overpowering. I need some fresh air.”
“A couple more minutes and we will depart,” Akolom assured her, before turning to clasp the hand of another courtier.
When the crowd began to disperse, Akolom took Orlla by the elbow and guided her over to where the two Protectors waited. He nodded gravely at them. “We are ready.”
Without a word, the Protectors turned and led them out of the chapel through a side door, down a steep flight of winding stone steps, and along a labyrinth of narrow, flagstone corridors that seemed to mock their plight with every echoing footstep until they finally exited the back of the castle near to the stables.
“The king has a boat loaded with supplies waiting to take us across to the mainland,” one of the Protectors said. “If we ride hard, we can still make it to Grisalt Wharf before the tide turns.”
Despair lanced through Orlla’s gut as she followed Akolom over to the saddled horses, snorting and pawing impatiently to be underway. There would be no opportunity to stop at Ballinkeld to say good-bye to her father or brother.
She eyed the armed Protectors warily as she adjusted the stirrups on her mare, wondering if they ever removed their masks. She found it unnerving to converse with men who hid their faces from her. Was King Ferghell really dispatching two of his personal Protectors to the outpost for their safekeeping, or was it to keep a close watch on them? Undoubtedly, the king was aware of her Macobite ancestry. Perhaps he was afraid she might be moved by the plight of her fellow countrymen—or a sizable bribe—to reveal the pass through the mountains. The king had lauded her to her face, but she suspected behind closed doors he trusted no one other than his personal Protectors. It would be in her best interest not to alienate them.
“You have the advantage of knowing our names,” Orlla said as she climbed astride her horse. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourselves?”
“Daglin,” the taller of the two replied in a tone of thinly veiled contempt.
“I am Khor.” The second Protector inclined his head in Orlla’s direction before swinging himself up into his saddle. Unlike Daglin, his tone was not harsh, but not exactly an invitation to friendship either, which only served to strengthen her suspicion that the Protectors were there to make sure the king’s edict was adhered to. What other reason could there be? Protectors and Keepers never worked together.
Before she could pose another question, Daglin kicked his steed into motion and led the way out of the stables. Akolom and Orlla urged their horses after him, and Khor took up the rear.
They trotted through the choked cobblestone alleys that bustled with vendors hollering at passersby as they sought to offload their wares before the day’s end. Crossing back over the drawbridge, the stench of the moat was overpowering after the heat of the day had warmed and festered the filth in it. Orlla buried her face in her sleeve until they were well beyond it.
Once outside the city, they loosened their horses’ reins and rode them hard through the foothills until the road widened into the highway leading to the coast. After a while, Orlla gave in to the numbing pounding of hooves on the hard-packed road as her steed flattened into the wind. Her body melded with her mount as it galloped in fluid strides, and for a time she rode unencumbered by the fears for her kin that plagued her. The scent of wildflowers in the air blended with the pleasant sweat of the horses in her nostrils—comforting, familiar smells that bound her inextricably to life on Efyllsseum, a life she couldn’t be sure she would ever return to if war consumed the mainland.
All too soon, Grisalt Wharf loomed on the horizon, and the foreboding feeling that had come over Orlla in the chapel returned with a vengeance as they slowed their pace and trotted down to the docks. Akolom had assured her that Grizel would explain everything to her father, but he wouldn’t comprehend her sudden disappearance, and her brother would act like he didn’t care. Samten would be too intoxicated with his new-found freedom to give more than a passing thought to the permanency of his sister’s new posting. Eventually, it would begin to dawn on him that it was his responsibility to tend to the house in her absence, to get himself up in time for training, replenish food and supplies, and even care for their senile father. Orlla pulled a shaky breath as they trotted closer to the harbor, the salty tang of sea air drifting up toward them. It wouldn’t be long before Samten tired of the responsibility, and then what?
Her stomach tightened when the Pegonian cloak and chalice she had stashed beneath her bed came to mind. She would have to send a message to Samten and let him know where she had hidden them. There was nothing else for it but to hope he could return the items the same way he had procured them, without getting caught. An uncomfortable nagging at the back of her mind told her Samten
might be more inclined to keep them, but she ignored the feeling. As Akolom liked to remind her, there was no point in worrying about things she couldn’t control.
She startled when she heard her mentor’s familiar whistle up ahead and glanced up in time to see Abe swooping down and landing on his wrist. A smile crept over her lips as she watched Akolom slip a leather hood over the falcon’s head for the journey. At least Akolom would have his feathered kin along.
When they reached the end of the wooden pier, they dismounted and led their horses one-by-one up the gangplank and onto the waiting boat. Once the horses were safely tethered, and Abe stowed in a cage, Orlla and Akolom joined the two Protectors on the rough-hewn plank seating while the boatsmen untied the dock lines.
“A pleasant enough evening,” Akolom remarked, watching the waves lap against the pier. “I imagine it will prove a smooth crossing.”
“That would be your job, wouldn’t it?” Daglin said, in a tone dripping scorn. “Fashioning a rune for a smooth crossing.”
Akolom smiled benignly. “When the occasion calls for it. Tonight, it appears you are blessed and will not need to rely on a Keeper’s intervention.”
Daglin snorted in contempt and stomped away to assist the boatsmen coiling up ropes and lashing down cargo.
Orlla slid her gaze to Khor. So far, he was proving the more congenial of the two. If they were to be stuck with each other for an indeterminate amount of time, she might as well make the effort to become better acquainted. “How long have you been serving as Protectors to the king?”
“We served his father before him,” Khor replied, his eyes gleaming black as oil through his mask.
Orlla contemplated the magnitude of his words as she watched the boatsmen raise the gangway. The king’s father had reigned for almost three hundred years, which meant the Protectors could be as much as five hundred years old. Unconsciously, she ran her finger over the snowy streak in her hair. No one on Efyllsseum, not even the elderly, had a single white or gray hair. It remained to be seen if the power of the Opal of Light would be enough to preserve her youth despite the fact that she had been born in Macobin.
A shout from the shore startled her. She glanced up to see one of the boatsmen waving his hands frantically above his head. “Missive for Akolom!” he bellowed.
Akolom rose and hurried to the side of the boat. The boatsman swung himself beneath the last bow line securing the vessel and crossed his ankles over the rope. He propelled himself along it until he reached the boat railing and then jumped nimbly down. “This just arrived.” He presented a vellum to Akolom with a flourish. “Glad I caught you, master mentor.” He bowed low to the waist and then shimmied back across the bow line to the shore.
“It’s from Barhus,” Akolom said, as he sat back down. He broke the seal and hurriedly unrolled the vellum. His eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the spidery script.
“What is it?” Orlla asked, her voice strangely thick in her throat.
Akolom straightened up, his eyes a grimmer gray than she had ever seen them. “Samten has been arrested.”
Chapter 4
Orlla leapt to her feet, her stomach contorting in a sickening knot.
Akolom grabbed her by the arm, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “What are you doing?”
“I need to go home,” she burst out, not caring if Khor overheard. “I can’t leave Samten alone to defend himself in court.”
With a deft maneuver, she twisted out of Akolom’s grasp, darted to the side of the boat and reached for the quivering bow line the boatsman shimmied across moments earlier. Before she could swing herself onto the rope, a black-gloved hand clamped down on her wrist.
“No one disembarks until we reach Narto,” Daglin said, his tone dangerously even.
“Release me at once!” Orlla cried, pivoting left and right in a valiant attempt to free herself from his grip.
“Still your tongue, Keeper! You will proceed to the mainland on the king’s orders or you will be charged with treason.”
Orlla stared into his stony eyes, her heart knocking against her ribs. As she had feared, Daglin and Khor weren’t here to serve her as the king had feigned. She was his tool to be wielded at his pleasure, no better off than a prisoner, and, now, when her brother desperately needed her help she was powerless to do anything for him. Her eyes filled with salty tears as Daglin marched her back to the plank seating and forced her to sit, keeping a restraining hand on her shoulder in silent warning not to make another move.
Orlla directed a meaningful look Akolom’s way. If anyone could convince the Protectors to grant her a temporary reprieve to help Samten, it was him. “Please,” she stammered. “You must persuade them to allow me an extra day to resolve this. You are the master mentor. Even the king hearkens to you.”
Akolom rolled up the missive in his hand and then murmured something in Daglin’s ear. With a scarcely concealed grimace of disgust, Daglin released his iron grip. Orlla rubbed her shoulder distractedly as she followed Akolom over to the starboard side of the boat where they had some privacy from the boatsmen preparing for departure.
Akolom’s face was strained when he spoke. “You must understand that we cannot defy the king’s command as long as the future of our island is at stake. The Protectors have the authority to enforce his edict upon pain of death. I assure you I will do everything in my power to make sure Samten is well represented at trial. But first, you must tell me what is going on.”
Orlla wrung her hands, deliberating how much to disclose. Akolom’s influence as a master mentor carried considerable weight at the Conservatory, but Samten’s latest escapade came on the heels of a long litany of offenses. It was unlikely the other mentors would show mercy if they discovered he had broken into the vault. She needed to be sure that was the reason for his arrest before she confided fully in Akolom. “What exactly did Barhus’s missive say?”
Akolom smoothed out his long mustache, a solemn expression settling on his face. “There can be no doubt of his misdeeds on this occasion. Samten was caught in the Conservatory vault with a Pegonian cloak and a silver chalice in his sack.”
Orlla groaned, the chill in her bones deepening. “He wasn’t stealing them, he was returning them. Some of the other students dared him to break in last night and take them as a prank.”
Akolom tapped the rolled-up missive on the boat rail, his face creased into a distant frown. “I will need names to call upon to testify in Samten’s defense.”
“He didn’t say which students were involved,” Orlla replied with a defeated shrug. “I was going to talk to him about the situation tonight.”
Akolom’s eyes glimmered as he considered Samten’s predicament. “Unless someone comes forward, it will be impossible to prove the theft was perpetrated as part of a dare. Barhus writes that Samten is remaining tight-lipped.”
Orlla clutched the railing and looked out over the gently lapping waves. “That comes as no surprise. Samten is a renegade, not a snitch.” After a heartbeat she added, “If only I could persuade him to rein in his impulses and become a responsible citizen, his loyalty would prove a huge asset to Efyllsseum.”
Akolom released a frustrated breath. “I fear it is too late for him to prove anything. He risks losing his place at the Conservatory after this latest caper.”
The vessel lurched, and the sails began to draw, and Orlla realized with a flicker of despair that the last bow line had been tossed into the boat and they had pushed off into the harbor. Whatever chance Akolom might have had of persuading the Protectors to delay their departure was gone. She would have to resort to desperate measures and enlist the help of the person she least cared for Samten to be associated with.
“As soon as we make land, I beg you to send a return missive to Barhus,” she said to Akolom. “Urge him to speak in Samten’s defense. Explain that I have been ordered on a mission for the king and cannot be there to vouch for my brother. Surely it is Barhus’s duty as Samten’s mentor to be his ad
vocate in my absence.”
Akolom pressed his mouth into a tight line. “Let us hope Barhus is up for the challenge and can conduct himself in a reasonable manner for the duration of the trial.”
The skepticism in his words was disheartening but merited. They were putting their faith in the Conservatory’s most undependable, and ofttimes inebriated, mentor.
After an uneventful crossing, their boat turned into the wind and slid into the small dock at Narto, tucked into the base of the towering Angladior mountain range. The boatsmen tied off the ropes and began offloading the horses and cargo, which Orlla noted included two pack horses, at least a three-month supply of grain, and enough tools and lumber to shore up the cabin through the winter. Another indication King Ferghell was not expecting the standoff between Brufus and Hamend to end any time soon. Orlla reached for her bow and adjusted her quiver around her waist before stepping onto the wooden gangway and making her way to shore. Moments later, Akolom joined her with a leather-hooded Abe. Orlla shivered, craving the sun she would not see again until she returned to the island. A familiar pall hung over the mainland, lending a charcoal tone to everything it mantled, muting even the colors of the wildflowers that struggled to bloom in pockets around the port.
While Daglin and Khor secured their supplies to the pack horses, Orlla watched the boat head back out on the shadowy water on its return voyage to Efyllsseum where her father and Samten would spend the first night of many fending for themselves.
“Come hither!” Daglin called, tugging impatiently on the reins in his hands. “We must make haste before this insidious darkness overtakes us entirely!”
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