A smile spread across Lyra’s face at the satisfaction of the moment. She turned toward Jessibel, and the hatred she felt for the woman stirred inside.
“Jessibel, please push your chair out and get on your hands and knees.”
The queen did as commanded, pausing for the next instruction only once she was on the floor.
Lyra kicked her slippers off. “Now crawl over to me and lick the bottom of my feet.”
Much like a dog, Jessibel scooted across the floor and began lapping at the bottom of Lyra’s foot. The licking tickled, forcing Lyra to grit her teeth and bear it. The satisfaction of the moment made it worth the physical torture. She wished she had an artist on hand at that moment to capture the image on canvas as something to cherish.
When Jessibel finished licking Lyra’s other foot, Lyra commanded the woman to reclaim her seat. As the queen settled back into her place at the table, Lyra found herself in an internal battle to push further, to embarrass the woman beyond repair. However, she had promised Tallinor that she would play nice.
“When I stop playing, the only things you will recall are the amazing tenor and range of my voice and the immense skill I’ve displayed on the lute, but nothing more.”
With her final command in place, Lyra ceased her strumming, the final note lingering for a moment before it faded to silence.
The eyes of those seated in the room suddenly lit up, blinking as they arose from their waking dream. Clavelle clapped enthusiastically while the others joined him.
“Truly magnificent, Miss Lyra!” Clavelle exclaimed.
Vernon nodded. “You possess amazing skills, Milady. Surely, you have been blessed by Issal himself.”
“Wonderful, my dear!” Gariella exclaimed, the first words from her in twenty minutes.
“I told you she was talented.” Tallinor grinned and nodded as he continued to clap.
A sour look reflected on Jessibel’s face before she downed her glass of wine. Lyra bowed and smiled at the private joke she shared with herself, a joke at the expense of Queen Jessibel.
Elan’s fist flashed toward Lyra, and she dodged to the side as her own fist jabbed toward his midriff. He bent, absorbing the blow and threw one toward Lyra’s kidney. She twisted and got low as she spun, throwing her leg out to sweep Elan’s feet from beneath him. He leapt clear, much quicker than should be possible for a man his age.
Lyra rose and took on her ready stance, left hand in front of her right, both chest high. Twisting her upper body backward, her leg snapped out toward Elan. He shifted aside, and he lifted her extended leg. Rather than fight it, Lyra flipped her legs over her head until she landed in a ready stance two strides away.
Without hesitation, Elan came at her, slapping away her jab as he smashed into her. “Oof” Lyra grunted at the impact, slamming onto her back. The force of her landing drove the wind from her lungs.
As she fought to reclaim her breath, Elan grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the dirt. Lyra’s lungs regained their function, and she gasped for air.
“You cannot allow a larger opponent to use their weight as a weapon. For you, that includes pretty much anyone you might face.”
Lyra nodded. After years of Elan preaching the same rhetoric, she had learned that arguing would gain her nothing.
“Can you please get off me now?”
Elan smiled. “Of course I can. However, I wonder if you have learned anything today.”
“Sure. I learned that you’re heavier than you look.”
Elan’s smile widened. “That’ll do.” He slid off her and rose to his feet.
Lyra took a deep breath, sat upright, crouched, and stood. She patted the seat of her breeches to clean them, sending a storm of dust into the air.
“We’ve been doing this for years, yet I rarely win,” she sighed. “What am I doing wrong, Elan? You tell me I’m quick, but you’re just as quick, and you’re stronger too.”
Elan patted her shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’ve spent my entire life being faster than anyone I’ve faced. The fact that your speed can match mine is an achievement. You just need to prevent your opponent from using size or strength as an advantage. Playing dirty doesn’t hurt either, as long as it isn’t against me. Just remember the weak points…eyes, throat, temple, and groin. In a real fight, any of those will buy you time and can give you an advantage.”
He smiled again and Lyra nodded.
“We’re done for today. I need a break before the trainees arrive. I’ll see you tomorrow for forms practice.”
“Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Master.” She bowed to Elan before turning to leave.
As Lyra walked back toward her room, she found herself looking forward to a hot bath. She exited the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the second level. Entering, she turned toward the section of the castle where her bedroom resided. Servants bowed to her as they walked past, most of whom Lyra knew by name. The hallway that ran past Jessibel’s room was quiet, lit only by a torch at each end. As she neared the mid-point, light filled the heart of the corridor when the door to the Queen’s room opened and Jessibel emerged. The woman’s eyes flared with anger and then narrowed as she stared at Lyra.
“What did you do to Clavelle?” Jessibel demanded.
“What do you mean, Your Highness?”
“You know what I mean, you little brat. He refuses to see me. Me! He says that I disgust him. There is no way a man would say that without influence. I know what you can do with that lute. It had to be you.”
“I believe you underestimate yourself, Jessibel. You need no magical assistance to disgust a man.”
Jessibel’s eyes grew wide and her open palm flashed toward Lyra’s face. With ease, Lyra redirected the slap and clamped her fist around the Queen’s wrist.
“You’re slow, Milady. Perhaps you should spend time training with Elan.”
“Let go of me.” Jessibel yanked her arm back, but Lyra held firm. The queen yanked harder, and Lyra released her grip, sending the woman tumbling backward to slam into the door.
“I’m sorry, but I’m late for my bath. Have a good day.” Lyra walked past the outraged woman.
“I’ll get you for this!” the queen shouted. “You’ll soon regret you ever crossed me!”
Lyra continued walking, refusing to acknowledge the hateful woman.
28
The pale stones of the pathway shone brightly in the mid-day sun, guiding Lyra toward her destination. A butterfly flitted past, its yellow-streaked blue wings a striking contrast to the dark foliage of the fruit trees surrounding her. She rounded a bend, and the trees gave way to a sea of color.
Flowers of every type dotted the garden. Yellow tulips, white and purple lilies, red and pink roses, orange hibiscus, lavender lilacs, and more, all finely trimmed and tended. The buzzing of bees hummed in the air, joining the sound of the surf from the nearby ocean. Lyra’s gaze fell on a particularly fat bee, black and yellow and fuzzy. The bee’s round body bounced from flower to flower, wobbling and weaving through the garden on its quest for pollen.
The path led Lyra to the heart of the garden, where a lonely tree stood, ten stories tall. Long branches – thick with gold and green leaves – gave the impression that a massive globe had descended from the heavens and hovered just above the garden. In the shade of that tree stood a circle of benches, all facing toward the surrounding flowers. Lyra approached the only occupied bench.
“Hello Tiri, Donte.”
Tiri smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Lyra. We found a green-winged starfetch in the tree this morning.”
Lyra’s brow furrowed. “Green? Starfetches have orange on their wings.”
Tiri’s eyes lit up. “I know. That’s why this one is so special!”
“I seen it too, Lyra. I did!” Donte grinned. “It was real pretty.” The boy nodded emphatically, his eyes glowing with excitement, matching his grin.
Lyra smiled. “That’s wonderful, Donte.” She looked up. “The bird is som
ewhere up there, then?”
“Yes.” Tiri walked around the circle of benches, staring up into the branches overhead. “I hope it hasn’t flown off. The tree is so big, it could be anywhere.”
“Let me try something.”
Lyra began to sing a wordless aria, seeking the right tone. Moments later, a flash of color caught Lyra’s eye as a bird materialized from the branches. It flitted about and fluttered down to land on the bench beside Donte. His eyes lit up, his face grinning so wide, Lyra thought it might split in two.
The starfetch began to tweet along with her song, swaying from side to side as its tiny beak aimed toward the sky. Tiri stood beside Lyra, both facing the bird, just a single stride away. Not wanting the bird to leave, Lyra continued her sad melody, the bird matching her note for note. Eventually, the emotion of the moment resided and Lyra stopped singing. The bird tweeted for a moment longer before it stopped and took flight, circling about the garden once before soaring east, beyond the garden wall. Lyra watched it circle and dip, disappearing behind the wall, somewhere above the ocean waters.
“That was amazing.” Tiri grinned with tears in her eyes.
“Wow, Lyra.” Donte’s eyes were wide. “The bird sang just like you. It sat right by me, too. Did you see it?”
“We saw it, Donte.” Tiri replied.
Lyra smiled at the boy. “I’m glad you liked it, Donte.”
“Oh, I liked it a bunch, Lyra. A whole bunch.”
“What a beautiful day!” Tiri exclaimed.
“Yeah.” Donte nodded. “My uncle is coming today, too.”
“Your uncle?” Lyra asked.
Tiri sat beside Donte, occupying the spot where the starfetch had perched. “Jessibel’s brother is the Duke of Yarth. The duchy became part of Sol Polis when she married my father.” Tiri’s mouth twisted into a frown at the mention of her stepmother.
“I’ve been here for three years, yet I’ve never seen this man.”
Tiri shrugged. “I’ve only seen him twice, myself. He came here when my father and Jessibel wed, and one other time about five years ago. I don’t care for him much. I don’t trust him. There’s something about his eyes…”
“Excuse me, Princess.”
The three teens turned to find Hamilton, the king’s advisor, standing in the garden. He gave them a brief bow and turned to Lyra.
“Miss Lyra, King Tallinor requests your presence in the Throne Room.”
Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say what this was about?”
Hamilton shook his head. “No, Milady.”
Without another word, he turned and walked down the path, expecting Lyra to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, she did so, quickly catching up to him.
Lyra expected that she was in trouble, trouble likely relating to the Queen.
When they reached the Throne Room, Hamilton held the door open, gave a bow as she passed him, and closed the door behind her. She bit her lip as she strode down the stripe of dark red carpet that marked the center aisle. Tallinor watched her approach from his throne, anger apparent on his face. Only after she passed the last row of benches and stopped before the dais, did he speak.
“You promised me that you would stay clear of the queen.”
“I did, Father.” Lyra protested. “She’s the one who approached me when I happened to be passing her room.”
“Well, she’s upset and she’s blaming you.” He leaned forward. “What is this about?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Tallinor shook his head. “Did you forget that I can see your lies when I sit upon The Emblem Throne?”
Lyra groaned in frustration. “Fine. All I did was suggest to Clavelle that he choose his bed mates more wisely.”
Tallinor frowned. “Did you abuse the lute’s magic again?”
“It’s not abuse when it’s the right thing to do.”
“Why do you constantly challenge me, Lyra?” His voice grew louder. “Why can’t you behave like a proper princess?”
“I’m not Tiri.” Lyra’s anger boiled over and she shouted. “You and I both know that I am not, and will never be, a princess. I’m just some stray that you were saddled with. I’m just another burden for a weary king.”
After a long moment of silence, Tallinor responded.
“Is that how you feel? Is that all you think of me?”
Despite the sadness in his voice, Lyra’s anger wouldn’t allow her to respond, to give in. Finally, he waved her away.
“We’ll discuss this another time. I must prepare for a dinner with the Duke of Yarth.” He glared at her. “I beg you to restrain yourself tonight. I hope you can handle that for one simple dinner.”
She spun about and retreated toward the door, resisting the urge to turn back and apologize. Don’t let him off that easy, she told herself. Wait until tomorrow, once you’ve proven your point.
Lyra turned and eyed her reflection, examining her hair. Long needles held her black locks in a pile atop her head, per the latest fashion. The yellow dress she wore was tight in the waist, ruffled and flowing at the hips. While it was uncomfortable to wear, she appreciated the results.
With a nod, she opened the door and passed through the bathing room to knock on the door at the other side.
“Are you ready, Tiri?” she asked through the door.
The knob turned and the door opened to reveal a work of art. Like Lyra, Tiri’s hair was piled atop her head, with lonely strands hanging down at the sides. Unlike Lyra’s black hair, golden hues highlighted Tiri’s brown hair and perfectly offset her jade eyes. With her shoulders and upper chest exposed, her green dress augmented Tiri’s curves in an almost obscene manner. If Lyra didn’t love Tiri as a sister, she would hate her for the way she looked.
“I’m ready, if you are.” Tiri smiled, warm and heartfelt.
“Let’s go then.”
They passed through Tiri’s room, along the dark corridor, down a flight of stairs, past the throne room, and through the double doors that led to the dining room.
The staff had extended the long table, now able to seat twelve. Those already seated were in deep discussion, with three separate conversations happening at once. Tallinor occupied one end, as usual, while the chair at the opposite end stood empty. Oddly, the queen occupied Lyra’s normal position, the furthest side chair from the king. Donte, and a man with dark curly hair and a black doublet, sat between Jessibel and two empty chairs.
Hamilton sat adjacent to Tallinor. Seated beside him were Baroness Lamona, Duke Rionelle of Sol Gier, and Baron Clavelle, whose face was twisted in a grimace as he stared at Jessibel.
Tiri approached the table and gave a curtsy with Lyra doing the same. The man seated beside Lyra’s chair turned and her eyes lit up with recognition.
“Garrett!”
The Duke of Sol Polis stood, and gave her a hug. When he released her, she stepped back and examined him. A finely trimmed dark beard framed his smile, his dark eyes glowing as much as his white teeth.
“You look well,” Lyra remarked. “Dukedom appears to suit you.”
“You look amazing, Lyra. I must say that you’ve grown into quite the young woman.”
“Sol Polis is not so far. You could have visited us before now,” Tiri chided.
Garrett slid around Lyra and hugged Tiri. “Sorry, Tirialle. Getting Sol Polis in order has fully consumed my life these past years. The government and was in shambles after we captured the city. It took quite some time to fill out the necessary positions and to rebuild the city guards with men who were sufficiently trained. And then, there is The Hand…even as little as half a year ago, I found their spies hiding within Sol Polis. ”
“Well, now that things are running more smoothly, I hope you’ll visit more often.”
“I will make an effort to do so, Miladies.” He smiled and gave a slight bow.
Tiri and Lyra gave him a curtsy before all three sat.
“Hello, father,” Tiri chimed.
“Hello, Tiri…Ly
ra,” Tallinor smiled. “You two look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lyra intoned.
“May we eat now, Sire?” Rionelle grumbled, his forehead covered in sweat despite the temperate evening. Lyra covered her nose when the scent of body odor wafted her way, undoubtedly from the vastly overweight Duke sitting across from her. Well known for his love of food, Rionelle was also known for his lack of hygiene.
“Soon, Rio. Soon. We await our guest of honor.”
Rionelle sighed, the motion accentuated by his size.
Two guards unfamiliar to Lyra entered the room. One stationed himself beside the door, the other stopped behind the empty chair at the end of the table. A tickle of recognition teased Lyra upon seeing the guard standing near the table. He was of average height and average build. His short-cut brown hair matched his trimmed goatee while a strong nose and brow surrounded steely gray eyes.
Another man entered the room, striding to the table with a sense of command, an air of confidence. Not a single wrinkle marred his gold-trimmed black coat, nor did one of his brown hairs stray from the others, all slicked back to appear as if he wore a shiny brown helmet. Like Clavelle, he sported a dark mustache, waxed at the tips. Unlike Clavelle, there was a weight to his gaze – visibly measuring his surroundings as his eyes swept the room. He smiled and nodded toward the king.
“You’re Majesty, a thousand pardons for my tardiness. I sincerely appreciate your invitation to dine, but I have been feeling ill and thought it best to let it pass before joining you.”
Lyra stared at the man standing behind the Duke. She couldn’t shake the sense that she knew him – knew those unsettling gray eyes.
Tallinor stood. “Nonsense, Berrilon. Please, sit.”
Upon hearing the name Berrilon, her memory connected the man to the moment.
Rogue Legacy: The Secret History of Issalia Page 17