Lindsey Renee Backen's Blog, page 8

Living up the 1940’s in the Luther Hotel

It was a night of firsts.

It was the first time the entire cast had been together, in place, ready to guide small groups through the halls and rooms of the historical Luther Hotel. It was the first time I’ve been approached before the show by an audience member who asked for a cast photo – and certainly the first that when we gathered on the steps, the buzz of a drone caused a stir. It hovered, taking photos and film clips, whizzing away as we waved and teased about Nazi spy crafts. We were happy to wave.

Then it was, “Places!” and a flurry of getting chairs on the porch for the audience, last minute tweaks, and the tour began.

 

The Tour

 

The Luther Hotel was one of the first buildings erected in Palacios, Texas in the early 1900’s. During the 1940’s the local base was turned into Camp Hulen. During that time Mr. and Mrs. Luther restored the old hotel, opening it on their 20th anniversary.

Jeanie and Bill portrayed the grand re-opening, welcoming the audience and sharing the restoration projects along with mentioning famous people who stayed in the hotel in older days. They welcome musician Artie Shaw portrayed by Mitchell, (who came equipped with a clarinet from the school where he works as a music teacher.) His performance was interrupted by the announcement that Pear Harbor has been attacked and the soldiers burst into action. Once the war started, Palacios became so full of soldiers who brought along their wives that people began renting out spare rooms and even chicken coops to provide shelter for

the throngs. The hotel was full providing a social life for both soldiers and locals. Many stars came to entertain the troops at Camp Hulen, staying at the Luther while they performed. The audience was invited in by Mr. and Mrs. Luther and treated to a barbershop quartet, local talent “Spare Change” branching off of the “Coastalaires.”

One film star who stayed at the Luther Hotel was Rita Hayworth. In the tour, the actress descended in a portrayal of Rita, posing to speak to a soldier where her photograph had been taken on the stairs of the Luther. She’s asked for an autograph, and with nothing to offer to sign, the soldier bums both pen and a cigarette box off a nearby comrade. She promises to save him a dance while the second soldier demands back his pen but sacrifices the cigarettes, making his way to the telephone booth. It’s already is use and his request for the soldier to hurry is met with, “Who you calling, kid? Your mother?”

The soldier in the booth has more important things in mind than ensuring a soldier gets a chance to call home. He’s decided not to wait until he returns from the war to get married and wants to know if his girlfriend can travel down by train to make things official. The distraction of the knocking boy has derailed his plans and his allotted time slot runs out, leaving him with a dead line and no answer. He also has empty pockets, but his plight is rescued by money from the waiting soldier with an, “Oh geez. Call her back and good luck.”

Across the room a couple on the couch is finding their own way to love, via an invitation to the singing held at the church. It’s a good time for the girls and guys in a sanctioned activity the parents couldn’t approve. Or can they? The couple’s conversation is interrupted by the entrance of her younger brother, who’s all too happy to remind her that Father said she wasn’t allowed to date the servicemen. The spunky girl’s been living on her own, working at the dry-goods store, and informs her brother that the servicemen behave like gentlemen which is more than can be said for a few of the local boys. After reminding the boy about the watermelon rinds from a neighbor’s garden that are hidden behind a tree in the backyard, and a recounting of repercussions of watermelon-stealing from the soldier, the boy welcomes the soldier to the family.

Mrs. Luther begins to book small parties to go upstairs, talking about how busy they’ve become since the war began, and how excited they’ve been by the guests in the hotel. One guest is the renowned Shirley Temple, who is now thirteen years old. She’s been attending boarding school after retiring from film, but she’s beginning to work on a new script, and she’s staying one one of the rooms. Peeking into the room offers a glimpse of Shirley most people don’t often see. A sophisticated, smart young woman, ever hopeful that even if her career in film doesn’t make a comeback, she will continue to flourish, making new friends at school and studying – perhaps to become a brain surgeon or even work in politics.

 

Moving on to the next room, the audience discovers time passing in the hotel, glimpsing a woman cradling a baby. Letters from her husband lay near the radio which plays a command performance of Bob Hope’s Christmas special, aired not only to the troops but for that night, to their families as well. Occasionally, that room received a cameo appearance by the show’s director ad-libbing an impromptu story from a young secretary working at Camp Hulen.

(Side note: This particular theater baby doll is creating an impressive resume. After surviving the sinking of the Titanic, and sleeping as a newborn in a manger, it was nice to see him cradled and cozy by the fire, finally receiving the treatment he deserves.He may or may not have ended up participating in a practical joke on me by peeking out the back window of my car (all the way to my house) from the prop box.

No hotel is complete without its staff, and

the maid at the Luther has plenty of juicy gossip to share about President Lyndon B. Johnson who is returning to America, called home from the front. She recounts that he too has stayed in the Luther, and describes the overheard story about his narrow escape when a trip to the “little boy’s room” caused him to miss boarding a bomber which crashed, killing all on board. Her friend brings up more local disasters, gossiping about the hurricane that recently hit Palacios and the damage that it left behind.

A delivery of towels brings the audience to the next room where Gerald and Francis, husband a wife, played Col. Phillip Younge and his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Younge lived at the hotel during the war while he worked as a judge advocate for Came Hulen. In the scene, they readied for dinner while discussing the growth of Palacios and the effect of the camp on the town. Reaching the hallway, they run into a young man lingering in a uniform just large enough to raise suspicion. The young hopeful has a photo and a pen, hoping to gain the signature of Mrs. Rita Hayworth.

Mrs. Hayworth arrives, giving the tongue-tied fan his wish, then enters her room to find another fan waiting. This time, it’s a little girl in possession of Rita’s love letters. The child wants to go to Hollywood and Mrs. Hayworth offers tidbits of encouragement, and the warning that being a star takes a lot of work and demands a lot from childhood.

Her own childhood was filled with dancing performances with a demanding father, never-ending rehearsals, and an early marriage living in an apartment with no furniture while her husband spent his money on advertising her as the “it” girl. But she’s made it, found a new love, and is drawn by the singing from the kitchen where a young lady does her own rehearsing.

 

 

Ann is queen of the kitchen, and dishes won’t stop her from being a star as she sings along with the record player. Darla sits at the table engrossed in deciding how to pen a letter to her husband who is in the war. A photo of the army group hangs above. Despite Ann’s reassurances that Dave’s letters will arrive in a large stack like they always do and she’ll have worried about the lack of them for nothing, Ann’s nerves don’t go away.She has news – a baby is on the way – but after the last miscarriage, she fears to raise his hopes too high. A knock at the door startles them both. A soldier delivers, not a stack of letters, but a single page with the condolences of the country. Dave’s body was recovered in Cecily. The sympathetic soldier ushers the audience through a small hallway into the next room, leaving Ann to comfort Darla.

The mood in the next room comes to an abrupt turn around as we meet a woman in a bright red dress with the personality to match. She is voluntarily husbandless after being given the ultimatum by her husband between “the real thing, and an emotional affair with the voice on the radio.” The voice belongs to Bing Crosby and she’s spent so much time listening to him on the radio that she’s neglected the house and her husband. In this, she is not alone, for more than one divorce paper has stated neglect caused by Bing Crosby binges, but this woman has a plan. She’s going to be a star and she’s staked herself at the Luther after hearing that Bing has come in the past. She’s not sure when he’ll come, but she’ll be ready. And his friend, Bob Hope, is in the next room.

Bob Hope brings up the final room of the tour. He’s been out on the front bringing smiles and a bit of home to the boys, hoping to chase away a few of the shadows on their faces. Even now, he practices his routine with the audience, until he is interrupted by an announcement on the radio.

Japan has accepted the terms of surrender.

The war is over, and so is the tour. At least, until next year.

Over 70 people went through the tour, raising over $700 to help restore the building. Audiences and actors alike enjoyed the evening. After the last guest left, the actors helped break down the set, carrying pieces to a trailer to be returned to my house. Several of us went to Dairy Queen, invading the place in street clothes and a few costumes. The conversation turned to, “What’s next for Palacios theater?”

I make no promises. But if it happens, it will be next Summer. And it will be “Swing,” brought to life on stage. Despite my vow to take things easy and turn my focus back to publishing, I returned home excited. For, what is better than putting out books, is watching them be brought to life? For me? Very little. And this show-despite the hours of prep, sweat, and lost sleep-was fun.

Click to view slideshow.

 

 

 

 

Signings, Sneekpeeks, and Paradigm Shifts

I’ve been wallowing lately.

Seriously. It never goes away. I’m dreaming about being part of the WWIII prisoner camps and childbirth (both just as stressful in my brain.) I wake up early to get my writing in, since that’s my number one goal. Some mornings I write a lot, some I wallow, and lately I spend most of my time delegating stuff, answering emails, and trying to figure out how to get breakfast before I have to be somewhere. Then I’m off to clean a building, swing by the breakfast shop because I didn’t have time to make it at home (again), and patting myself on the back as I walk into the library at 9:00, having already conquered (or not) two jobs. Then there’s the library until 6:00 when I come home determined to finish writing. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I get distracted by the lawn, or the tree that fell on the greenhouse, or the messy house, or making a semi-healthy meal, or doing stuff for the Luther Tour.

My emotional world is a mess. It’s everywhere from a high of, “Murphy’s law rocks! I have no idea how I fit all that into that one hour” to crying over my keyboard because I’m going to be alone and seventy years old before I can reach my dream of publishing my own books with a team and working on turning them into films with the incredibly dazzling people who dominate my brain. I’ve come home from rehearsal so vamped that I can’t sleep, and been so tired I’m tearing up on my way to yet another task. People ask what I’ve been up to and I either give them a long list of TMI about everything I’ve been doing for the last 24 hours or I decide I don’t need to do that and say something habitual like, “Oh, not much.”

Whereupon they look at me like they don’t believe that for a moment.

In 2012, I directed a 30 person play about the Titanic. The pressure was intense and I felt certain people sabotaging me. I cried every day, feeling like I was going down with the ship. This show is still about 30 people. We’re rewriting the script, scrambling to find props and costumes on a slim budget, and I’m doing it on top of working full time which I was not doing in the last show. I’ve been proud of myself because even when I get frazzled, I’m not falling apart. I’m not crying.

Two days ago. I fell apart. I don’t even remember what triggered it. One minute I was writing. The next I was sobbing and I wrote the ramblings that became a blog. I’m not going to lie. Yesterday I went with Sharon to Houston. We checked out her favorite spice store and bebopped around vintage and seedy resale shops looking for costumes for the Luther Tour. I was relieved to be out of the house, relieved to see new places, relieved not to be alone even on a day off I’d been looking forward to.

Today I slept with my phone off. My clock was reset during an outage so I had no idea what time it was. Lately I’ve slept in a few times, convinced it’s at least 10:30 only to find it between 7 and 7:15. So I was shocked to turn on my phone to find texts from my friend Val coming in between the clock declaring it was…. 11:45.

11:45??? Forget writing in the morning and working in the afternoon. There wasn’t any morning left. I felt exhausted. Unmotivated. Even a bit pouty because I want a day off, darn it, and the house needs cleaning and my green house is going to collapse under that tree and it’s the only sunny day we’ve had in a while to dry up the field enough to mow and…

I made breakfast anyway, after texting Val back that I was indeed alive. Sorta. And despite the September 30th deadline to have Tehveor’s portion of Sentarra complete, it still took me a while to get to my computer, sit down, find good writing music, figure out where the story was going and whose viewpoint to write it in. And then the writing flowed all the way until I was supposed to take costumes to the Luther. It worked well. The actress I needed to try on clothes happened to be there. I got to talk to the woman helping with costumes and Jack about the upcoming book signing for Across the Distance and sneak peek for the Luther Tour on September 8th. It was a great reminded that I’m not in this alone.

Lately there’s been more and more people coming out of the woodwork, telling their friends about the show, hanging posters, donating costumes, and helping with set and costumes and tickets. I’ll be sharing the flyer as soon as I get the chance to turn it from PDF to JPEG so the computer will take it. It’s been great, y’all.

But I haven’t felt like myself. My normal, motivated, get it done, life is going to be fantastic self. I’ve been feeling like my “How can I possibly reach my dreams when I’m too busy to work at them or even breathe?” self. I keep reminding myself this pace is only going to be a few more weeks before it slows and I have more time for things like Ever Ink, yard work, and even the occasional novel or movie.

What I have had more of lately is money. Not a ton of money, but enough to outsource and start building my publishing team. Along with some friends who volunteered to give feedback on “The Calling” and “The Captive,” I’ve been able to get “Swing” professionally proofed before it goes to Barnes and Nobles. I have an editor going over “The Captive” and I have help typing up what I am managing to write for “The King.” Now the feedback and work is piling up on my side but it’s a nice change from earlier this year when I felt like I’d done everything I could without getting help but had no money to pay anyone.

But my life is drastically different than it was last month or three months ago. It’s good changes for the most part, but I haven’t gotten into a new routine. I haven’t found myself among the whirl of changes. Until tonight.

Tonight I listened to a man talk about paradigms. Paradigms aren’t new lessons for me, but it’s reinforced what I’m missing. Paradigms are the beliefs you have that control your sub conscience mind and therefore your actions.

Paradigms are what’s made me be able to take a full-time job knowing I’m enabling myself to reach my goals instead of feeling like I’m giving up on them. They’re what’s made me respond “Not yet” instead of skeptical laughs when a boy asks if I’m rich because I’m a writer. I’m not just shelving that book at the library. I’m a publisher, noticing fonts and art work, what stands out on the shelves and what gets lost between the other spines.

I also see where paradigms are getting in my way. The beliefs that turn a compliment into a creeper no matter the man’s age. The repeating that it’s “just me” doing this show when I have people all around asking what I need help with and following through. The panic that a regular job is going to keep me from even finishing this manuscript, that the tree will come crashing down on me if I go at it, that I can’t take a day off without my week ahead falling apart. None of that is true, yet the thoughts keep replaying and undermining what I’m trying to do.

So tomorrow I start afresh. I am a person who cleans a building. I am a library worker. I am a publisher with her own team. I am a director who contributes to my community. I’m like everyone else in the world, doing things I love, doing things I don’t love, working toward a goal, daydreaming, happy, frustrated and busy. But I’m Lindsey. I’m learning. And that’s enough.

P.S. If you’re interested in wine, cheese, book signings and sneak peeks of the Luther Tour, check out the lovely flier above. If you want to see the Luther Tour, that’s below. Stay tuned, and let me know if you want to get your ticket ahead of time, so I can make sure you get your spot.

 

 

 

 

What’s Real, What’s Raw

They say write what you know. That the best work comes when your soul is infused into the page. I don’t usually show that writing. It’s too raw. It’s too real. I worry it will harm those I love, and those I loved. Tonight I’m working on Sentarra. The book I’ve had with me since I was eighteen, even earlier if you count the first versions. I published the first and I stopped writing it. Because I wasn’t ready for people to see my soul. Because I realized what I hadn’t while I was penning the words: it was too close to home. It was too close to me. Realizing I was raised in something based in truth but assimilated lies and misunderstandings. Realizing the way I looked at the world contradicted who I wanted to become.

I don’t regret the pain because it did give me something to write. Something real. Something that, I hope, will touch other people on as deep a level as I wrote it from. But tonight, coupled with things that happened recently, it’s again too deep and I wrote something else entirely. So forgive me, if this hurts you. But I hope it touches you in the same places you have that you fear to show anyone else. This is what it looks like when I pour my soul onto paper. Inspired by my friend Jami, who blogs feelings that are real and raw, and my other friend, Nate, who just published his book on losing his brother to suicide, I’m allowing you a glimpse of something real. Something raw. Something that, like every ache in life, carries a tinge of hope if you look hard enough. Some of it is true, some my head tells me is false. But tonight, my heart cries. I don’t know whether the heart lies or speaks what we’re too afraid to admit.

I don’t hate him. I never did. But I hate what he did to me, demanding that I choose between being loved and giving up everything that I love. I hate that when I chose, he cut me out, he pretended I wasn’t there, he pushed me away over and over and over again. I took back the spark that had died. I fanned it back to life. And it burns bright, so brightly that everyone who sees it is drawn.

But I can’t trust them. Because I don’t know whose going to try to take it away from me again. They want to capture it. To keep it in their hands for themselves until it’s smothered to death by their desire, or crushed by their contempt.  They see it. They envy it. But they have no idea the price I pay for it.

A price I made myself because I learned not to trust. Because when I tried, they left. They left me in the parking lot. They left me on the porch. They left me alone sitting in the chairs at church to go with their families, their lovers, their friends. And the ones that reached out – they only wanted my spark. They wanted to guilt me into holding their hand. They wanted to feel my body, leaving me feeling disgusting and trapped.  They want my spark but they don’t want me.

So I walk alone, monitoring them, their eyes, their manners, feeling like a hunted animal. Even the ones who are kind, I chase away. I know who I want, what he’s like, but I can’t find him. And he can’t find me. And when I glimpse him in someone, just a piece, they don’t want me either. Only the hunters, who want my spark.

And they can’t have it. Not now. Not ever. Because I know what I love. I chose it. And when he comes, he’ll have to choose it too. Because our sparks are meant to ignite each other, to do what we can’t do alone. To blaze, to change, to be extraordinary.

He doesn’t have to be perfect. He just has to be extraordinary. To be different. Some are good. Some have a place in my life. But they’re not him.

But even if I find him, I don’t know if I’ll be able to open my heart to him. Because once upon a time, I loved. I loved, and I had to choose.

I chose, and I lost.

And I believed them when they told me it was my fault. That I ruined him. I vowed never to ruin anyone else. But I can’t help it. They don’t stop – not the ones I want to. It’s like they want to be ruined.

So night after night I sit alone, avoiding, distrusting, even hating.

I have the things I love. But I don’t have the man I love.

And lately, that’s the hardest to bear.

Update! And my first Vlog entry.

Hello Everyone,

So life has been busy lately. So busy that, even though I think about blogging, I literally can’t get computer, time, and blog on the same page. So, inspired by my friend’s accountability page, I’ve started making short videos every day letting you get a glimpse into my life, my books, and what’s it’s like to live and create in a small but very cool town.

Coming out of Hiding

 

I used to be affected by other people’s words.

I used to flinch when they called me sheltered.

I believed them when they told me I was too short to be hired for stage acting or modeling.

I used to shrink when they praised marriage and motherhood like it was the only thing that a girl was created to do.

I used to wonder when the boys and men called me things like, “Intense, and various but almost identical version of “the impenetrable fortress.”

 

A much younger version of myself with my cousin Lauren and friend Olivia.

But I don’t anymore. I’ve realized that more and more lately.

Because my brain comes up with instant responses. Sometimes they come out of my mouth. Sometimes they don’t.

“You’re brave. I wouldn’t want to start a business in this economy.” And I think, “But I’m determined, and I know I’ll succeed because I won’t stop changing, altering and moving forward until I do.”

I hear, “The economy is failing. The taxes are too high.” And I think, “But most of the Fortune 500 companies were created in depression and recessions.”

I hear, “I couldn’t really get into your book,” and I think, “That’s alright. It wasn’t written for you.”

If I don’t know something, I can learn it. If something is not working, I only have to find what will.

Maybe all the work I’ve been doing on my mind and outlook for the past year and a half is taking hold. Maybe it’s a by-product of my approaching 29th birthday.

 

I’m getting confident. Sometimes the decisive statements that come out of my mouth shock me. I catch a man leering at me and instead of ducking my head and scurrying away, I glare back. Once upon a time, I let an old man trap me in a room, touch me because I couldn’t make my mouth tell him to stop, and didn’t push him out of the way when he blocked the door and kissed my forehead. Something snapped in my brain that day, something I’m still trying to repair, but I know this time if someone pulls a stunt like that, they’re going to find a totally different response from me.

I used to put weight on what the grown-ups said. If something couldn’t be done, it couldn’t be done. Now I think, “You only say that because you haven’t done that in your experience. It doesn’t mean it can’t be done, or I can’t do it.”

The words I’m not so good at changing are the ones in my head that crop up.

A nice boy talks to me. I wonder if he’ll ask me on a date, then worry he’ll want to spend all the time with me, that if I got married, I’d have to give up my dreams, I’d be on his agenda, his schedule, go where he has to go, do what he has to do and I’d lose me. Or he’ll drop me and walk away as soon as he finds out I’m not like the other girls who are eager to start a family.

I know my books will take off if I just keep putting them out there. But it doesn’t keep me from realizing they’re not coming up in the search engine, blanching when I realize that all of my editable text for Swing is gone, and it’s going to take massive rework to release it as an ebook. The pep talks are harder when studying “distribution” fine print that promises you less than a dollar in royalties but requires you to pay the expense of creating the books and buying back any that stores ship back as unworthy. It doesn’t keep me from crying tears of frustration when I work so hard and so long with such little results and find myself sitting alone in a house, scrolling through posts of all my friends who are posting pictures of their husbands and families.

It’s harder to fight the statement of “People don’t buy books anymore. They can just pay Amazon $10/month and read as many as they want.” And it’s true. In a world of second-hand online sites selling books for .99, why pay $9.99 plus shipping for a new one?

But I do.

Because I know the kind of man that I want to team up with, and I know what kind of woman I need to become to match him. If he’s meant for me, what I am will make up for what I am not. And we’ll be a force to be reckoned with. I don’t want to raise children; I want to free them from brick mills and prostitution joints, and clothing factories. I don’t want to write books to send off to a publisher; I want to create books that are treasures because they’re beautiful. I don’t want to act in movies that I can point out to my friends; I want to create films that change the way people look at the world. I don’t want to exist in a “normal job.” I want to thrive, I want to create, I want to be wealthy enough to support myself and people and causes I believe in.

Maybe I am intense. But I no longer think that’s a bad thing.

 

Lauren and I kicking off our lives as entrepreneurs in 2016.

Photo courtesy of Catchlight Imagery.

 

Chapter Forty-One

Rain fell, repelled by the fibers of the cloak which had been woven by an Erish hand. The knotted patterns of his Castallion heritage draped across his shoulders, then Eslaveth’s to cover the girl who clung to the mane of the horse his father had given him. Erish innkeeper, Sentarrian princess, protector, perhaps bride. Her titles and roles didn’t matter.

She was Eslaveth, a friend who knew his secrets and she had chosen to stay, to ensure he didn’t ride into this alone. He tightened the arm that held her steady, wondering if what her father would think if he was here. Her parents’ deaths, his own parents’ sacrifices wouldn’t be for naught. Nor would Decharo’s, he realized, as he spied the man ahead.

Decharo’s cloak made him look like a bear as he stabbed his dagger into the peat, hunched as he sawed the earth free. Tehveor slid from the horse, leaving it with Eslaveth and holding his fingers to his mouth when Shannondant straightened to look at him Eslaveth grinned as Shannondant turned back to tying a horse’s saddle to the small wagon filled with fuel.Tehveor stepped toward Decharo’s back, finding him too engrossed prying the peat free to check the footsteps behind.

He’d meant to tease his friend, but the panting struggle, the dogged loyalty made guilt win. Tehveor rounded Decharo, kneeling in front and reaching to help him cut the last of the slab free.

Decharo lifted a face, grinning beneath the dirt he’d smeared across his cheek. “I knew you’d come back,” he said. “Some of the men feared you’d bolt, but I told them no.”

Blood tinged his face, but Tehveor nodded. “I’m not just back. I’m here,” he said. “For good.”

The smile grew, crinkling the brown eyes before Decharo threw himself across the gap they’d created, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. As quickly, he shoved Tehveor away, saying, “Then why are you kneeling in front of me? On your feet, My Prince. You need not kneel to any man ever again. Don’t degrade yourself digging fuel like a swamp-dweller.”

“You let Shannondant help,” Tehveor said.

The girl tossed her head. “They think I’m out for a ride. I implored with tears to be allowed a few hours of solitude and sunlight.”

Tehveor kept his eyes on Decharo as he gathered the peat, hugging it against his chest. He stood, then froze as his attention shifted to the woods behind them. A Shlaton stood in the trees, flickering his ears toward the group. A lead rope hung from the halter, trailing the ground.

Alerted by Tehveor’s alarm, Decharo turned slowly, then breathed.

“I haven’t seen him before,” he whispered.

Tehveor’s own horse nickered as Eslaveth transferred it into Shannondant’s care.

“It’s Fathoth,” Shannondant said.

Tehveor took a slow step toward the animal before Eslaveth laid a hand on his arm. “Let someone else catch it,” she said. “It could be a trap.”

“Decharo shook his head. “It won’t respond to anyone, but its proper rider. This is Fate’s doing. Tehveor needs a Shlaton before his coronation.”

“Doesn’t mean that he has to be the first to approach it,” Eslaveth said.

“Fate will protect him,” Decharo countered.

Was that what this was? A sign of Fate’s approval? Had the legend been stalled, waiting for him to fully embrace Sentarra? Was this a final test of his heart?

He shrugged off Eslaveth’s arm, and she planted it on her hip with something close to a glare to Decharo. “What would you do if Fate told you that you must die to bring the legend about?”

“Then I would die,” Decharo replied.

“And if it told you to kill Shannondant?”

The boy paled, casting a troubled glance toward the girl as though Fate really had just given him the order.

“Softly, Eslaveth,” Tehveor said. “You sound like Joshah. Fate won’t ask any such thing.”

No matter the intentions behind the horse’s appearance, someone had put on that halter and someone must remove it before it harmed the animal. The horse couldn’t be completely wild. He stepped away from the group, keeping his movements slow, watching Fathoth’s head bob. It matched his steps, backing away as he grew closer, then bolted into the woods.

“After him! After him!” Decharo called.

Tehveor swung onto the gray, pulling Eslaveth up behind him and kicked the animal in pursuit of the Shlaton. Decharo raced to tether Shannondant’s horse. Tehveor slowed his horse as they entered thicker woods, unwilling to harm the animal or the horse they pursued. When Fathoth disappeared ahead, he turned his attention toward the earth floor, following the tracks his future mount had left.

“Too bad they won’t let me be king on you, eh?” he muttered, patting the gray gelding’s neck. He heard the voices behind him, turning to risk a shout. “I’m here!”

“Did you lose it?” Decharo asked.

Tehveor nodded. “I’ve got the tracks. That’s all I need.”

The tracks, however, grew more narrow. They were forced to dismount as the brush thickened, the branches crowding out the light. Undergrowth accentuated the narrow path, more fit for animals than people. The trail wrapped around a group of saplings, covering the source of the thrashing, but snorts indicated they’d caught up to their prey. Fathoth danced at the end of the tether, jerking his head against the reins that had snagged onto a thorny brush. Tehveor grunted as he waded through the branches, “Hey, hey.”

His voice soothed the animal who lowered his head, flicking his ears forward. Tehveor kept out of reach of the hooves, risking his own balance as he leaned over the thorns to unsnarl the lead rope. “You can’t run,” he said. “Fate will stop you every time. You’re lucky you can stand.”

The horse blinked, lowering his muzzle to sniff at Tehveor’s hand. He wasn’t sure it wouldn’t bolt, taking the tender skin of his palms with it, but he coaxed the animal out of the clearing. The others watched silently, but when he turned toward them, Decharo pointed up and behind.

Ivy covered the stones of the tower, tapering at the top as it loomed over them. While in no danger of falling, the structure sat at a decidedly slanted angle. A rusted gate gaped, raised to hide all but the tips of its bars, sharpened like spikes.

Fathath pulled away from Tehveor, and he released the reins, allowing the animal to jog through the gate. He beckoned the others to follow, then stepped through. The walls of the village held back the forest, providing the first cleared steps he’d taken in over an hour. Cobblestones completely covered the square, only allowing the most enduring weed to grow through their cracks. Leaves blew in circular puffs of wind. A lizard climbed along the wall, the only movement that caught Tehveor’s eye except for the spring fountain in the middle of the square. Water bubbled to the surface, carried off in every direction like the spokes of a wheel that ended running beneath the walls of the houses.

From where he stood, he could see through the window where cloth hung in shredded vestiges. The house stood with a cold hearth, its table carved from stone. Quarried limestone benches lined the outside walls as they walked up the street. A few earthen jars sat on shelves, but each home was empty as though plundered or waiting for people to fill it. The village was created entirely from stone, slabs of coral chiseled from primitive tools.

There is a castle that leans which you will find. They mean you to be crowned in it, but danger lurks inside.

Tehveor turned his face toward the castle ahead.

“Decharo, be careful!” he called, as the boy stick his head rather recklessly through the doorway of the castle. As Shannondant pulled back the door, he saw straight through to the throne that sat inside.

“There’s no one in here,” Decharo called.

“Not much of anything really,” Shannondant answered.

She stepped inside, and Tehveor followed. A fine layer of dust layered the benches that lined the main area of the room. It was clean, cared for, but like the rest of the village, entirely empty. Tehveor kept his fingers around the Lastren, but whatever danger the woman had spoken of was no longer here. Light spilled into the tall windows and illuminated the stones on the floor. The golden path striped the passage to the throne, spilling across the wooden seat.

He’d be crowned here. The seal. The horse. The throne room.

Eslaveth touched his arm from behind as she joined him on the doorstep.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I really am a king,” he said.

She laughed. “What did you think all of these years?”

Tehveor eyed the throne, then swallowed. He wouldn’t be a king in theory, the way everyone spoke of Kael as a vague future hope. He’d rule like Galephy with no one to dictate his decisions or curb his power. All of the choices were his, and thus, the consequences they entailed. If he became corrupted, it would be fear, not power that undermined him.

He stepped through the pools of light, to the base of the throne feeling like he was approaching the king. But the throne was empty, the throne was his, untainted by the Erish king’s hand, entirely independent of his power. This deserted kingdom was untainted by the touch of an Erish ruler, unaffected by the events that may arise in Erilerre. A shelter for all of them.

How many Sentarrians had spat Galephy’s name with the disrespect of a foreigner? How many had spoken so carelessly, words that could destroy if said within the walls of the castle? Galephy was not their king. His power did not reach into the caves, the walls. He couldn’t approach as Tehveor. Only Celestion could rule.

He stepped onto the third step, where Kael’s seat held prominence, trembling because it was above his station. His back throbbed from the lashes. When he’d left the castle behind, he’d left his title as a Korvier. Unlike Kael, he need not wait until his father died to inherit the throne.

A prince doesn’t kneel.

Galephy was wrong that his loyalties lay elsewhere, that he would betray Kael. He stepped up again, treading on the fourth step which was only touched by a king or queen. The throne appeared larger as he approached it, the wooden limbs gnarled and twisted, allowed to rise out of the backboard in their natural grain, as though the throne had been coaxed out of the oak itself, instead of the wood hacked and forced into submission.

He took a breath, trained from years of hiding his fear. He trembled, but he was not weak. Fate was not protesting his assent. The final step brought him level with the throne. He reached to touch the backboard, following the grain of the wood. Galephy may laugh if he saw it, but he wouldn’t laugh for long.

Tehveor looked back toward the four friends standing near the rows which waited to be filled. A throne room, a village all ready for the Sentarrians to be gathered and lead back. A table lay next to the throne, waiting to hold the seal he’d found in the chest. It was long, and he frowned at the odd crevices before he recognized the vague pattern. He unsheathed the Lasterin, sliding the tip along the sanded wood until he laid the hilt into place as though the sword had once burned its way into the wood. The sword he’d lit already. The sword he’d light again, but not as a prince.

He smiled. Not as a prince, but a king.

End of Book One

Chapter Forty

Twilight

“He has guards surrounding him,” Remarr said. “Even now, he has his men planted all over this castle to watch us. He’ll have someone listening at the doors before long.”

He sat on the floor, legs stretched straight, ankles crossed in a casual stance that belied the mood in Terrant’s bedchamber.

“He’s not stupid,” Terrant answered. “He did himself no favors with a blatant attempt on Kael’s life.”

“He didn’t shoot that arrow,” Kael said. “Demarra’s son did. Even had he not confessed, three of the servants saw him.” No one interrupted him, but Margaret pulled the bandage tight on one of his hands, preventing him from another attempt to shield his father’s blame.

“Even if they did and they’re telling the truth,” Darshon said, “It doesn’t mean that he didn’t order it done. You said he was up there with you just before!”

Kael winced though it was hard to tell if it was from the burns that marred his hands or being at odds with his younger brother.

“But…”

And this time, his defense was interrupted by Darshon. “Why do you find it so impossible to believe that he would harm you, Kael? He’s hurt everyone else in this room!”

“Why are you so quick to lay the blame on him?” Kael snapped back. “I’m sorry he’s hurt everyone. He’s not incapable of harming me, I know, but it’s not like him. It’s inconsistent. He’s never hurt me.”

“You’ve never challenged him either!” Darshon spat. “Not the way you’ve been doing lately. He knows the people like you better, and he knows they’re not going to fight for me the way they will for you. Why wouldn’t he kill you?” Darshon planted himself knee to knee, towering over the prince, shouting, “He doesn’t love you. He’s not going to love you, ever.”

Hurt flared in Kael’s eyes, but he shook his head. “There is a vast difference between loving me, and murdering me. And if I turn around and murder him, how does that make me any better than him killing his own father for the throne!”

Because you’d be saving hundreds of lives, that’s why!” Darshon snapped.

“No one said you had to murder him, Kael,” Margaret said. “But you can’t go a moment longer believing that he won’t kill you. Because he will. He absolutely will. He will destroy everyone in this room without a second thought if he thinks they’re a threat to his throne.”

“We can’t kill him right now anyway,” Terrant broke in. “He said as much, and he gave no signs of bluffing. I don’t know what he’s done, but he’s built up his defense. If he dies, no one in this room will inherit the throne. It’s likely he’s written something into the century decree. And if he hasn’t sealed it already, he will by now.”

Darshon shrugged. “He can’t enforce it if he’s dead. We could burn it and pretend nothing happened.”

“Not with ten witnesses required to open it,” Kael said.

“I’m sure we could find ten who would agree to the modification,” Darshon said.

“If we got twenty-five lords on our side,” Terrant said. “We could dethrone him on charges of mental instability and legally pass it on to Kael.”

“How would we keep him from intimidating them?” Setta asked. “If he realizes he has nothing to lose, he’s going to cause havoc and kill a lot of people.”

“Some of the lords are already here,” Terrant said. “Most of the others will come for the winter’s start. If we kept the trial quiet until the moment it happened, any reaction Galephy gives may further our cause.”

“Or perhaps not,” Margaret said. “He’s shrewd. He’ll find what we’re trying to do, and he’ll fight it. He’s too calculating. We can’t beat him!”

“Yes, we can,” Remarr spoke softly. “We’ve all bought into his lie that he’s invincible for too long. Kael is old enough to rule now. We can’t allow it to show until the rest of the lords have gathered.”

“Remarr is right,” Margaret said. “We’re already in a war and the lines are drawn. No one can stay neutral.”

“We’re all on your side, Kael,” Darshon said more subdued than he’d been all night. “But we have to know that you’re on ours. And if you’re on ours, you can’t be on his.”

Tears welled in Kael’s eyes, but he slid from the bed to hug his brother on the floor.

“I’m not on his,” he whispered.

“We can’t meet like this again,” Terrant said. “If we congregate, we’re an easier target, and likely they’ll begin to listen. We’ll send for the lords we can count on and ensure they’re invited to the gathering. We won’t kill the king unless doing so is the only way to save Kael or Darshon.”

“How do we know he won’t burn us all in our beds tonight?” Darshon asked.

“I’ll be with him tonight,” Margaret said. “He won’t do anything that I don’t know about.”

“You don’t need to go anywhere near him!” Setta snapped. “My god, Margaret! I just buried my son! I can’t bury anyone else!”

Ceslaya covered her face and Tehveor pulled her into his side, swallowing as he searched for Setta’s eyes.

They could all go to Sentarra if Fate would allow it? Could he speak to the cloaked man and convince him to allow him to shelter them in Sentarra? And did the permission matter? Once he became king, the kingdom was under his rule, not Fate’s.

He snapped his eyes to Setta, who nodded slightly, then swallowed and glanced toward her husband who was pacing the room.

“He’s right,” she said. “We must act as normally as we can. The guest are waiting for dinner. They can’t see that we are afraid. We can’t risk them leaving us alone before the needed lords can join us. We must let Galephy think that he’s subdued us.”

“Dinner and dancing,” Darshon said. “Sounds like typical Castallion plotting.”

Kael rubbed his face, then stood. Terrant reached for Ceslaya’s arm, whispering, “Stay within sight tonight.”

With little feeling of resolution, they filed out, grim purpose morphing into relaxed stances and smiles for any they met in the hall.

Setta touched Tehveor’s arm. “You cannot stay here,” she whispered. “He knows something. That vial was Sentarrian.”

“What about Father?” Tehveor whispered. “He’s going to look for me. He’ll assume it was Galephy.”

Setta shook her head. “I will be with him.”

A shaky breath slowed his steps. They turned to face each other in the hallway. When would he see her again? Any of them?

“It could be a refuge,” he whispered. “Later, if any of you needed it.”

Setta nodded with a closed lipped smile. “I know, but you must ensure Fate’s approval before any of us can follow,” she whispered. She touched his face. “Until now I didn’t see what Fate was doing. But when you’re king, Fate will not guard the borders.” She stepped back abruptly, turning her face away. “Don’t tell me when you go. Just slip away.”

He surged forward, pulling her into a hug without speaking a farewell. He pushed for a smile, realizing how much shorter than him she’d become. “I’ll build you a house there,” he whispered. “A little cottage?”

She huffed a laugh, then pushed his chest. “Perhaps a bit bigger. We might be kidnapping a few princes.” She glanced down, letting out her breath. “Honestly, though. Your father won’t leave them. Not until Kael is secure.”

Kael wouldn’t be secure until the king was dead. It felt wrong to leave now, but what choice did he have? Another king could fight the king. He nodded and offered his arm, staying close until they reached the great hall.

Even the music sounded tense tonight, the bows scraping, strings taunt as the musicians’ eyes roved the crowd, focused more on the movement than the music. Darshon sat near the wall, without even the pretense of feeling energetic. There were herbs in Sentarra that could help him too. Would Fate allow any of them in if they were not standing in the way of his calling? Or would it kill them, like it had Joshah?

Silvah stood next to the general who had been assigned to watch over her for the last week. Her eyes were touched with sadness, but a smile pulled at her lips as she responded to the man. Tehveor wondered if she had realized yet that he was a bodyguard.

He caught her attention and she bobbed, excusing herself from the group before she wove through the crowd. He would have to leave her too, and he had less a chance of seeing her again than his own family. He felt his mother’s eyes turn toward him again, already dreading when she’d look and not find him.

Silvah barely stepped close enough to speak to before he took her hand, whispering, “Dance with me.”

Color flushed the fair cheeks, but she took his hand. “With pleasure,” she said.

He’d chosen the dance well and swept her into the circle, taking advantage of the ability to keep eye contact with his partner. No one ever looked into his eyes for long, and Silvah was no exception, dropping her focus to his chest.

He glimpsed Kael attempting to listen to a small cluster of guests, Remarr watching from his place by the door. Could he leave them? Could he simply walk away? What choice did he have?

“What’s the matter?” Silvah asked.

I have to go.

His grip tightened a bit on her waist as he spun her once. Her finger slipped further back on his shoulder, the tips pressing slightly against the scarred welt.He felt his face flush then tucked it downward away from her as horror melted the curiosity from her eyes.

“Tehveor,” she whispered.

But it was just as well. She’d have a reason why he’d left. “I have to leave,” he said. “But I couldn’t without telling you. No one but mother knows.”

Her head tipped to the side, already distressed, “Why?” she whispered.

“You know why,” he responded.

Her eyes misted as she looked past his shoulder, then whispered, “Where will you go?”

“I have a refuge. He won’t find me.”

“Will we?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “But I’ll find you. And the others.”

Her mouth parted. She didn’t understand, but she searched his face with eyes that blended innocence with understanding. She blinked slowly, squeezing her eyes shut once but when she opened them the tears had retracted and she nodded.

They fell silent, dancing together, yet already retracting their emotions from each other. She was close enough to kiss. He thought of it, then thought of the third princess he would marry, if he didn’t marry the second who was currently hiding in an inn. He’d have to talk to her too, convince her not to resist Fate, but he pushed his thoughts from her.

No matter who he married, it wouldn’t be his to choose. And realizing it wouldn’t be Silvah only made it harder to leave her. But the music ended. She curtsied. He bowed. They walked together from the dance floor. She slowed, then stopped turning her face from him. He squeezed her hand, let go, and kept walking.

When he reached the streets of the village, he kept his hood up and his eyes down, though the horse gave away his status as an elite Erish. Eyes turned toward him, then away. Perhaps they realized he was a korvier but how many of them would one day see him as a king? His back pierced from the newly healed lashes where Joshah’s weight had torn the tender fibers of his skin.

What cruelty forced him to walk a path to save his people, yet denied his efforts to save his own brother? Yet, Fate wasn’t a human who could be reasoned with. It existed only to make him king. If he was to keep it from harming anyone who knowingly or unknowingly blocked his progress, he would have direct them away from Fate or draw them toward it.

He’d passed the gallows, feeling his face heat. Kael was often criticized for being too compassionate, too emotional. But no matter how he deceived himself about his father, Kael rose every morning with his own drive to salvage his family’s reputation and restore his people without Fate to either guide or protect him. For now, Tehveor must continue his own path, to become king, then ensure that Kael took his own throne. In the end, it didn’t matter which people on this street stayed in Erilerre and which followed the call to return to Sentarra. They would be safe beneath either boy’s rule. Just a little longer.

Kael must bide his time until Terrant overthrew Galephy. Tehveor must follow Fate to the steps of the throne, knowing when he descended, he would descend alone. No one else would be harmed, if they all just hung on a little longer.

He lifted his eyes to the familiar sign of the horse, to the blue scarf that draped the window of the inn in public tribute to his brother. Had Eslaveth hung it or someone else?

His throat tightened, but Karlyn provided a distraction when he carried a candle to place in the window.

“Karlyn,” Tehveor called softly.

The child’s face snapped toward him, then split in a grin before he disappeared, scampering to the door and down the steps.

“Hello!” he called. Then remembered to drop his voice before he looked conspiratorially around. “Is the prince with you?”

“Not today,” Tehveor said.

“Aww!” Karlyn stuck his thumbs into his pants.

Before he could speak again, Tehveor asked, “Do you like it here?”

The child nodded. “Magar said I could call him Papa. And there’s always food.”

Tehveor laughed softly. “I’m glad.” He glanced through the window again, then asked, “Could you tell Eslaveth I’d like to tell her something?”

“Very well.” Karlyn darted up the steps and Tehveor watched the boy’s progress through the inn. Eslaveth leaned down, listening, then swung her eyes toward the window. They flickered away again, but returned, and she made a small motion for him to circle round the back.

The alley made him think of Joshah again, and he kept his eyes on the boards of the step until she opened the door, closing it softly. Her curls were drawn back, tied with a ribbon at the base of her neck, but her hair flattened as she pressed against the door.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why aren’t you with your family?”

He felt the tension, the distance, and he winced as he slid from the gelding’s back. Now she was above him on the top step, but it did little to alleviate the fear in her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to kill your father,” he whispered. “He was sick. The king gave me wine and said it help him get well. I didn’t know it was poisoned.”

Lines crinkled between her eyes as she listened. “And you believed him?” she asked.

Yes, though even now he wasn’t sure why.

“I didn’t know him very well,” he said. “I didn’t even know people put poison in wine.”

“Why did he kill him?” Eslaveth asked.

“I don’t know,” Tehveor whispered. “But he knows about our country. I think he fears it. He must have realized your father believed in it.”

She tucked her chin, fisting her skirt. “When I go there,” she said softly, “I don’t like the way I feel. It’s like a strange dream. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen or even who I can trust.”

“I don’t know what is supposed to happen either,” Tehveor said. “But I know it won’t unless you are there. Like it or not, we are the only ones who can raise the country again. We won’t be free from Fate until I am king, but we will be free of it.”

She let out a breath, then leaned forward pushing away from the door. “I don’t like Fate, Tehveor.”

“Fate controls Sentarra,” Tehveor said. “It’s working only for its good and ours in it. The only reason Joshah died was because I stayed too long. I wasn’t following hard enough. I was clinging to Erilerre when I should have been leading Sentarra.”

“Because you’re scared,” she said softly. “Ever since you were a child, you were expected to be a savior. But how can you save anyone, if you’re a slave yourself? What if Fate doesn’t let you go?”

It would. He felt the resolve, the fear, the desperation, all rising and sent it back down. “I can only fight one battle at a time,” he whispered. “Right now, I’m fighting for my family. And you must fight for yours. And after I become king, we will shelter those who need to be sheltered whether they are Sentarrian or no.”

She cocked her head toward the door as someone clattered a pile of dishes. Then she spoke softly. “A stranger in a cloak told me that after you became king, you will resist Fate and it will destroy you.” She kept her eyes on his horse as she shook her head. “I don’t want any part in destroying you.”

“Then help me,” Tehveor whispered. “Please.”

She held one arm, shifting through thoughts he couldn’t read, before she sighed. “I don’t like Fate,” she whispered. “But I’ll come.” Her eyes lifted to him. “For you. ”

“Thank you,” Tehveor whispered.

“I won’t leave here completely yet,” Eslaveth said. “Someone needs to be aware of what is happening in Erilerre. There are men who are going to approach the king, to force him to resign.”

“I know,” Tehveor said. “And when they do, we must have our country ready as an ally for Kael.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to go back?”

“I’m not,” he answered.

He eyed the ice crusting the river where he’d pulled Joshah from the rapids before he whispered, “But it’s better to be somewhere with one place where he died, than to live in hundreds where he lived.”-`

She lifted her face, dropped her eyes, then nodded once, offering a smile as she said, “It’s a long walk.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“I wish to God that we were burying my husband instead of your son,” Margaret said.

Setta flinched, finally turning her eyes from the wake bed where three curtains enclosed Joshah’s body. Laid on the thin velvet mattress, he looked so out of place. His hands cupped the hilt of his sword, his elbow covering the unlit candle rested next to his arm.

His battered face blurred again as she sucked in a slow breath and Margaret sat in the chair across from her, reaching for her hand.

“I keep trying to imagine he’s sleeping,” Setta answered, “except he never slept on his back, even as a baby.” Margaret squeezed her hand, and Setta whispered, “We just got back together.”

Margaret smoothed her skirt with her free hand, keeping her eyes downcast as she asked, “You don’t think Galephy had anything to do with it?”

“No,” Setta answered, more firmly than she’d spoken all day. She shook her head to emphasize as she repeated, “Not this time.”

It was Fate, zealous in its quest to protect her youngest son, that had taken the life of her eldest. Her eyes went to the trinity candle, burning in front of her son’s deathbed. When it burned out, the entire board would be lifted, carried down to the grave room, and sealed away forever. She took a breath, reaching for the candle resting near Joshah, then approached the tiny flames. The three tapered candles twisted around each other until the wicks sprang away from each other like a flower in bloom.

Fate protected her youngest, but now Eldon protected her eldest, and Fate couldn’t reach him there. She clenched her teeth, reaching to the middle candle, whispering the traditional prayer.

“May you return to the creator from which you came.”

She inserted the base of Joshah’s candle into the hollow center created by the other three, watching the wax trickle down to meld it into place. Within the hour they would burn down, joining in one bright flame. Her son would be with the creator god and out of the realm of Fate.

She closed her eyes, feeling a helpless tear trickle adding her prayer while Eldon was listening.

If you’re there, know that Fate protects Tehveor, but please, protect Tehveor from Fate.

When she opened her eyes, all four candles caught a draft of air and flickered. She felt the pressure lift from her heart for just long enough to remember what life felt like when she wasn’t terrified. She let out a slow breath, eyeing Joshah’s face, knowing soon she’d never have another chance. But she turned away to sweep the crowds in the room, searching for her two living children.

Ceslaya sat in the corner with Silvah with red eyes but for the moment, she laughed softly at the words of a red-haired soldier who had come to pay tribute to his fallen comrade. The wake was the time to remember Joshah’s life, not dwell upon the separation of his death.

And there was Terrant with Tehveor near the wall, both sober and steely. Tehveor’s eyes flickered from his father’s moving lips to the wall behind the man, and she recognized the stance that warned he would become unresponsive soon if she did not intervene. If Joshah’s spirit was still here, he was probably watching with as much concern.

Her eyes lifted to Margaret as she whispered, “Will you stay with him?”

The woman nodded. “Of course.”

Setta felt tears building again, but she bent to kiss her son’s head, wondering if the flames would unite before she returned. But halfway across the room, she glimpsed Gregorn’s face and turned toward him.

“I’m sorry about your son,” he said.

The sincerity of the apology didn’t soften its blow, and she opened her mouth, then caught harsh words before they cross her lips.

“Thank you,” she amended. “There was no need for you to come all this way.”

He hesitated, fighting to find veiled words which would arouse no suspicion. “I only wish I could have been there to interfere with Joshah’s fate.”

What was he telling her? His eyes held steady when she searched them for answers. The location itself suggested that Joshah had stumbled into Sentarra, but Tehveor had not disclosed any more information.

“I understand that he slipped,” she said.

“He did,” Gregorn answered. “Tehveor tried to pull him to safety, but he told Tehveor to let go, fearing he’d pull him over.”

The back of her hand pressed into her mouth in the reaction she couldn’t hide. This story, even from Gregorn’s mouth, she had no trouble believing.

“I fear had Fate not interfered,” Gregorn said, “You would be burying both boys.”

Fate? Had Fate actually forced their hands apart? It must be so. Tehveor would never let go, even under command.

“If Fate saved one, he could have saved both,” she said.

Gregorn’s eyes fell. “Perhaps under different circumstances, he would have. I fear he was more concerned over Tehveor’s future.”

“Then he was very wrong,” she snapped.

Gregorn swallowed, but pressed forward, “Setta, please let me take him. It’s time. With what happened it would be natural for Tehveor’s grief to drive him away.”

Anger flickered. “You are asking me to use the death of one son to account for the disappearance of the other.” She wrung her hands together. “You are asking me to give up Tehveor the very day I bury Joshah.”

“You’ll still see him,” Gregorn said. “Any time you like. Surely you don’t wish to keep him here where they king may harm him again?”

“And Terrant?” she asked quietly. “He just lost Joshah. Must he lose Tehveor as well?”

“He scarcely knows Tehveor,” Gregorn snapped. “The longer he is here, the harder it will be when that happens – and it will happen.” He touched her arm. “Setta, Fate is not abducting your son. Fate is guiding him to where he needs to be.” He glanced toward Galephy, who watched Tehveor. “Even you know things must change.”

And quickly. Even Terrant was saying as much.

“Setta.” Margaret’s touch made her jolt, but her friend’s voice came as the same relief it had back when they’d saved each other from unwanted suitors. The queen offered a nod toward Gregorn, promptly returning her attention to Setta. “The flames are close to joining.”

Setta nodded, stepping around Gregorn to cross the room, frowning as she approached her husband and son.

“No one is blaming you,” Terrant said. “We simply don’t understand what happened.”

“I told him to stay away!” Tehveor spoke through grit teeth.

“Away from where?”

Tehveor shook his head.

“There is something more!” Terrant pressed. “It’s in your eyes! It was there before Joshah died. Is it Galephy?”

Tehveor wasn’t successful in covering the plea in his eye as she approached, but she’d planned on interrupting anyway. She reached for her husband’s arm.

“The candles are joining,” she said quietly, feeling her stomach tighten at the pain that washed across Terrant’s eyes.

Terrant nodded, then stepped backward to indicate the servant who signaled the solemn ring of the bell. Gregorn had honored her wishes and slipped out quietly, leaving the Erish to bury their own. She reached for Tehveor’s hand, frowning at the trembling.

“This isn’t your fault,” she whispered.

Tehveor let out a slow breath. “I think it is,” he said. “I’ve stayed too long.”

She squeezed his hand tighter as Terrant returned with Ceslaya, joining the others. Her free hand slipped into Terrant’s, and Silvah reached for Tehveor’s. As the bell rang again, she watched the hands join one by one, her family, her countrymen standing together. Even Margaret took the king’s hand without a shudder, but the circle was broken on Galephy’s right by Darshon, who twisted, seeking Kael.

At the third ring, Darshon blinked, taking the man’s hand, unwilling to ruin Joshah’s sending off. The line shuffled again as Remarr left the group, backing slowly up the steps in the most reverent and efficient exit he could manage.

The candles flickered as the wicks grew closer and closer, then merged in a flame that leaped and smoked. In times of old prayers were said, but they’d been forbidden. Setta straightened her chin, holding in breath and tears, for it would grieve Joshah to leave while they mourned.

The smoke continued to rise. She felt the tremble in Terrant’s massive hand on her right and Tehveor’s loose grip on her left. She sniffed, then frowned at the smell of woodsmoke, wondering if her husband still stood too near the fire or if Fate’s scent still lingered on Tehveor from wherever it had separated him from his brother.

The bell continued to ring, and somewhere voices wailed. Perhaps the servants were keeping up the traditions of old to mourn in the only way they were allowed to participate. The flame began to dance and sputter, struggling to stay alive.

Galephy leaned toward Darshon, whispering something that made the boy break the chain, stumbling back like he was hit by an invisible entity. Irreverent even for his standards, his eyes swung to his father before he shouted, “What have you done??”

Faces turned, questions rose, breaking the silence, but Galephy’s mouth lifted as he fixed his son with eyes that gleamed with their combination of merriment and bloodlust.

One of the wails upstairs carried down, sparking a chain of cries, “Fire! Fire!”

Across the circle, Margaret’s eyes widened, standing still as the circle broke apart around her. They met Setta’s for a horrified moment before the woman turned and pounded into the hallway as quickly as any of the soldiers who responded to the cries.

Joshah’s candle sputtered, driving erratically in every direction as people rushed passed as shouts carried louder. Setta stood frozen as the king remained in place across from them, fixing his eyes on Tehveor. He stepped toward Joshah, and Tehveor surged forward, rounding the deathbed and planting himself in front of the trinity candle. The king pulled out an empty vial, holding the crystal sphere to catch the light as his eyes moved past Tehveor to Setta.

“All this time,” he said. “I thought it was Margaret.”

Joshah’s candle sputtered, the wick drooping into a tiny ball of red that curled smoke as it rose. Setta surged forward, grabbing Tehveor’s hand and yanking him toward the steps. When they reached the doorway of the courtyard, people passed buckets down a line that led to a tower. Flames licked from the windows, steam hissed from the base as the water sloshed against it.

Remarr hacked at the door with his sword with a few other men, while a battering ram made a slow progression across the courtyard. Tehveor lifted his face, squinting at the wall until he realized it was Darshon crawling across, far above everyone.

“Kael’s in there,” he whispered.

Margaret’s voice carried from behind, echoing down the hallways, “Give me the key!”

Hearing her call, Terrant unsheathed the ceremonial blade that replaced his battle weapon, sprinting passed them. Cracking timbers resounded across the courtyard. Fire billowed from the windows as timbers inside collapsed. If Kael had been in the top to escape the flames, he’d have fallen. If in the bottom, his body would be crushed.

Even Darshon fell back, sitting on the wall and shielding his face with his arms.

Tehveor dropped Setta’s hand. She ran for a bucket while he sprinted toward the second tower. He had never scaled the walls, certainly not with the agility Darshon had developed during his childhood escapes from Galephy. He crawled on his hands and knees, swallowing when he found nothing to steady himself against. He inched across the narrow wall, reaching to clasp Darshon’s arm pulling him from the heat radiating from the window. “Come down! You can’t reach him this way.”

“I heard him,” Darshon cried before he choked on the smoke. “I heard his voice.”

The door below collapsed in on itself, billowing flames and rising sparks. Darshon kicked the wall with the same animalistic cries that he’d so recently felt. The flames leaped and hissed as several stable boys rushed forward to pull out the burning timbers, their clothing drenched by the water the others thrown into the mouth. Kael would be dead, crushed, suffocated, or burned, but his body must be recovered before the fire could finish its desecration.

But Remarr backed up, his hands going to his head before he sprinted toward the doors of the castle again.

“He’s not in there,” Tehveor said.

“I heard him in there!” Darshon snapped, “I heard him calling for help.”

“They got the door open,” Tehveor said. “Let’s go down.”

Before Darshon’s heart gave out on the wall.

His hands shook as he crawled back to the second tower, hurrying down the spiraling steps before someone set fire to them too.

Boards crisscrossed, charred and broken but the general called, “There’s no one in here! Split up and look everywhere else.”

“He was in there!” Darshon insisted, but no one heeded him in light of the boards that burned lower and lower showing no body. Then Darshon spun to Tehveor. “Where’s mother? That lunatic is going to kill all of us.”

They eyed each other, then raced back to the castle. The great hall was empty now, except for Joshah laying demurely with his sword. He shouldn’t take anything from the dead, but Tehveor pried the hilt from his brother’s hands.

“Stay close,” he whispered to Darshon.

A clash of swords already rang out from the hallway. They followed the sound, congesting at the doorway as Remarr met them.

“Go back! Go back!” he barked. “Get out of here!”

Tehveor glimpsed his father, driving Galephy back three steps before the king retaliated. They’d never see either Father fight, but the brothers made even the most realistic practice sessions between Kael and Darshon look like children. Even Remarr stood with a wide stance, watching intently, though he planted himself next to Darshon, torn between his duty and his friendship.

With Joshah laying behind, Kael at large and no sign of either mother, the battle drove all grief from Tehveor’s heart, coiling into horror. He glanced toward Darshon, who returned the acknowledgment, then back toward their fathers, realizing someone else would to die today.

The fight became disorienting as the brother’s spared their way into the Great Hall, their reflections turning into an entire army in the mirrors.

“Enough!” Galephy called. “Or I’ll call my men!”

Men he had and the threat was enough to end the fight with the swirl of his blade. Terrant danced back but didn’t step forward again, panting as the king bellowed. “If you kill me, none of our sons will become a king!”

Darshon stepped forward, but Remarr grabbed his arm. “It’s true,” he whispered.

“Where’s Kael!” Terrant snapped.

“How should I know?” Galephy threw back. “I’ve been fighting you! Ask Remarr! He’s in charge of him!”

“Terrant!” Setta’s voice carried down the hall before she swung around the doorway faster than was decent for any woman. Still hanging on to the frame with one hand, she cried, “He’s in the wall! He’s alive.”

The wall?

Tehveor nearly dropped Joshah’s sword. In the tower. In the wall. Kael had found a passageway. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the front hall, but he can’t hear us.”

There was a web of passages beneath the outer walls, but even Tehveor had never explored them beyond the passageway that took him to the woods of Sentarra, fearing once in, he would be unable to find his way out.

They left the king, following Setta to the cluster of servants that had begun to follow Kael’s passage. Terrant barked orders to the guards to take up positions at every known entrance, whether it was rumored to be blocked or not. No one was to go in without permission from him.

It was a bold move, but no one protested. Someone had set fire to that tower and locked Kael inside. Someone could reach him in the tunnels before they did.

Tehveor swallowed, then sent a subtle nod toward his mother before he handed the sword to Darshon and left the group, sprinting to the passage they may not know about. Lighting a torch was dangerous inside the passage, but he took one along with a flint and swung the Lastrine over his shoulder.

He followed the familiar route until it split, turning to the left instead of the right, slowing as he put his hands out in front to find his way. It passed through thick webs, but at least he knew no one was ahead of him. If anyone was in the passageway, he was bringing attention to himself by calling out, but he did it anyway, pausing at the break offs to orient himself against the vague outline in his head.

Kael was unarmed out of respect for Joshah’s wake, and his own father’s sword had been ceremonial. Whether this stemmed from the king’s madness or another attempt on Kael’s life, it had been well-timed.

“Tehveor?” Kael’s echo was faint when it carried down the passage to Tehveor’s left.

“Keep coming!” Tehveor shouted. He felt above and to both sides to ensure the passage was large enough to accommodate a torch flame without igniting. Then sparked his torch, watching the path light the stones beneath, beside, and above, braced by wood so rotted it could easily ignite if he didn’t take care with the torch. Beam after beam stretched forward until darkness filled the passage ahead. Tiny skeletons of mice lined the floor, and he grimaced as he realized what he’d stepped on.

“Kael!” He called again.

Kael’s answer came from so close that he jumped as the prince stepped out of a passage to the side that he hadn’t even seen.

“I can’t see a thing,” Kael said.

Tehveor felt his arm, then his shoulder and they embraced. The hilt of the Lastrine dug into his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“My arms are burned mostly,” Kael answered. “Someone locked the door and shot an flaming arrow through the window. Are the others alright?”

“As far as I know,” Tehveor said.

“Can you get back?” Kael asked. “Every door I’ve found has been boarded up.”

“I know where one is,” Tehveor said, “If anyone finds us, stay quiet, and I’ll let them think I’m alone.”

Kael asked. “Do you know who it was?”

“I don’t know who shot the arrow,” Tehveor said. “But your father knew it was happening.”

“No,” Kael said. “It wasn’t Father. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Tehveor asked, glaring at his cousin. “He wants us dead, Kael. He wants all of us dead.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“I was just with Eslaveth,” Shannondant protested. “She was worried about you when she left, but she wasn’t upset.”

There were far too many emotions showing on his face and Tehveor tried to pull the worry into a mask. “Did you tell her that we were to marry?”

The girl blinked, shaking her head slowly. “No. We worked on the timeline together, but there’s nothing of your marriage at all in it. Why? Is that what she was upset over?”

“I think she was more upset over people not telling her things than the things themselves,” Tehveor answered, though he wasn’t sure that it was true.

The sun would be rising soon. He couldn’t seek her out at the inn without calling attention to both of them. He swallowed. “If she returns before I do, please tell her things aren’t like they appear and I’d like a chance to clarify.”

“Clarify what?” Shannondant asked.

The call of a bird echoed through the caves with the resonance of a man’s lips and the two fell silent staring at each others.

“Someone’s approaching,” she whispered.

Tehveor reached for his cloak, wincing at the movements required to pull it on. The call came from the back parts of the cave, from the direction of the entrances near the river. The intruder would have to take a complex path before he stumbled onto the man caverns of the room. No one would meet him with a sword unless he ventured too far into the caves.

But Decharo rushed into the room, grabbing Tehveor’s arm and whispering fiercely. “I don’t know who it is. But he’s wearing your family’s colors.”

“What?” Tehveor asked. Had his father followed? No matter who it is, he had to meet them, to draw them away. He clutched Decharos’ arm in return asking, “Where is he?”

“Just passed the river’s opening,” Decaharo said.

Tehveor took a torch, already turning over explanations in his head. The light from the torch flooded the path, illuminate Joshah’s sharp features. His brother swung toward him lifting an arrow, relaxing the string only when Tehvoer called out, “It’s me!”

“What is this, Tehveor?” Joshah’s question was almost stern, but he couldn’t have seen any of the writing, and this far from the main chambers, it was unlikely he’d seen any workers either.

“Caves,” Tehveor answered. “I found them a few years ago during a storm.”

“Birds don’t live in caves,” Joshah called, “And their calls don’t echo outside of them. Who else is here?”

His brother was doing himself no favors, so blatantly showing his suspicion. He swallowed and said, “Come on. I’ve got a light. We’ll find the entrance and return another day. I’ll show you around then.”

He stepped toward the path that led to the opening, but Joshah stayed planted, flickering his eyes from Tehveor’s torch to his boots before he nodded and fell into step. But close to Tehveor’s ears, he asked, “Is Master Gregorn here?”

He wasn’t going to let him alone without explanation. Tehveor tried to compromise with half the truth. “This is where Gregorn procures the herbs for Darshon. But they don’t like outsiders.”

“I’m not an outsider,” Joshah said. “I’m your brother. And you’re trembling.”

“Shh,” Tehveor hissed, casting the soldier a look. “You are not safe here. Walk.”

Joshah obeyed, but his frown grew. “Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying,” Tehveor lied.

“Yes, you are,” Joshah snapped. “I’ll leave, but you’re leaving with me, and you’re going to tell me what is going on here.”

“I’ll tell you anything if you’ll walk faster!” Tehveor hissed through grit teeth.

He watched Joshah’s mouth tighten, but the river roared below, preventing them from talking at all without shouting. Joshah’s eyes lifted, searching the crevices above them. His fingers still clutched the notched arrow. When a rock fell nearby, he halted, aiming into the darkness. Tehveor grabbed his arm, jerking his aim off balance and sending the arrow to the ground.

“They won’t’ hurt you if you leave!” He snapped. “Come along!”

Joshah turned his head, eyes sweeping down Tehveor. He knelt to pick up the arrow, replacing it into his quiver before he asked, “Who are you?”

Tehveor’s shoulders collapsed as he flinched under the sudden suspicion of his brother.

“Tehveor,” he answered. “Now come. Just come.”

He turned and walked, deciding not to stop until he’d reached the mouth of the caves, giving Joshah no choice but to follow. A sudden surge of dirt cracked, rolled, clattered, creating a soft sound in his left ear that was nearly covered by the distant roar in his right. The sudden cry from Joshah filled both. He spun around in time to see Joshah’s bow scrap across the path, spinning into the rocks that lined one wall. Joshah’s body disappeared over the ledge; knees, waist, chest swallowed by the cavern dug by the river that roared below. Joshah caught the ledge with his finger.

Tehveor slide to his knees, wrapping his hands around Joshah’s arms. Earth fell from the side cliff beneath Joshah’s shoes as he searched for a steady foothold. His muscles trembled as he pulled his weight with one arm, working his elbow over the ledge with the other.

Tehveor cried for help and the words resonated off the walls before he realized they were Sentarrish. Joshah pushed himself a few inches higher, countering his weight against the jagged ledge. Tehveor searched for a handhold, finding only Joshah’s shirt.

And then the foothold gave. Joshah’s arm scraped off the edge, taking another inch of the surface with it. His hand went free, waving before Tehveor grabbed it.

“No, no, I’ll pull you over!” Joshah shouted.

Tehveor scooted backward, trying to haul his brother up, cursing at the Sentarrian watch for not coming to his aid. A hand clamped Tehveor’s shoulder, reinforcing his stability. But a black boot slammed into the joint between Joshah’s collarbone, breaking their hold. Joshah’s head disappeared, then his fingers. The arms wrapped around Tehveor’s chest, dragging him from the ledge. He screamed, wrestling free and falling onto his hands and knees.

The daylight from the entrance lit the rapids, highlighting the water that leapt away from Joshah’s body as it hit the water.

“Tehveor, no!” Now it was Decharo’s voice, coming from the far right.

When Joshah resurfaced, Tehveor shoved himself to a stand, rushing to the rope the men used to gather water. Shaking, he slid down the rope he’d meant to repel, landing with a jolt that traveled up his spine. Joshah swam with the current, making a slow crossing toward him, but the water churned around the rocks in a large circle, sweeping him back into the center of the river. His head turned, searching for shore, then swung to the right just before his shoulder crashed against a bolder that loomed from the stream like a ragged tooth. The current dragged him beneath the surface. Tehveor rushed into the water, feeling the current tug at his own boots. It was too deep. He couldn’t swim and even the shallow undertow nearly knocked him down. Joshah’s head reappeared, slammed into another rock, knocked to the side. His body slacked riding the rapids as the water carried him toward a shallow passage. He should stand, but his face stayed in the water, his back bobbing to the surface, giving no protest as two currents collided, twisting it into a circle before sending it through the mouth of the cave.

—

“It was Fate that eroded his footing. It was Fate that prevented you from falling with him. Joshah was trying to stop your destiny. This is what I warned you about!”

Tehveor’s face was as wet as the body he clutched against his chest. He’d never seen so many Sentarrians in daylight, though most of them blurred and cleared through his tears. Decharo knelt next to him, the only one who’d helped pull Joshah from the rapids.

Skafar to one side, Gregorn to the other, various men from the lookouts completing, some distressed but every mouth pulled down in disapproval.

And though he’d just been demanding to know why they hadn’t answered his summons for help, he snarled like a dog when one of the men stepped closer.

“Stay away from him!”

Joshah’s head rolled with the movement, blood trickling from his mouth. His limp arms were already stiffening, already setting into a chill that carried into Tehveor’s skin.

“Sire, we mustn’t stay in the open,” the man protested.

“Get me a horse!” Tehveor snapped, shifting Joshah’s body before it began slumping again. “I’m taking him home!”

Gregorn’s head rolled back, before her burst, “You’re returning home is what brought him here in the first place!” His voice fell to a hushed whisper, “He’s dead, Tehveor. Taking him back’s going to do no good and if you do the king may not let you leave again!”

“We’ll bury him here,” Decharo said. “No one need know.”

“Get me a horse!” Tehveor screamed. “I will not spend one more day doing as Fate requires unless you help me get him home! I’ll come!” His shout faded as he realized he meant the words. “I come,” he repeated in a whisper. “But have to do things first.”

Gregorn pinched his lips together. Decharo brought a horse. They worked without speaking or looking at each other as they strapped Joshah onto the horse Terrant had given Tehveor that morning.

“He’ll turn back,” someone muttered behind him, “when the shock wears off.”

But he didn’t. Tehveor grabbed the reins as Gregorn set a hand on his arm. “The horse will take him home,” he said. “You need not go. You father will believe you were taken. Your mother will come here and know the truth. She can find something to tell him.”

Tehveor glared, yanking hard on the reins, starting the trek home. The animal followed, flickering its ears as Tehveor’s heavy breaths turned into ragged sobs.

Don’t think of it. Don’t think of it.

He shut off thoughts of the past and future. He focused on each step, some meeting spongy ground, others crunching against rock, one after another after another until he was too weak to stand. Driven by the fear that Fate would follow him and demand him back, he eased himself onto the animal in front of Joshah letting it take him back to his family’s home.

The clattering gate mingled with surprised cries and barked orders of the guards. Servants, stablehands all responded, rushing toward them. Setta’s cry rose above the hubbub as she pushed her way through the parting crowd, just as the gatekeeper cut the rope.

The woman’s hands went to her head, a strangled cry wrenching as several men stepped to catch Joshah’s body. It landed in Terrant’s arms, sending the man to his knees as he lowered his son before his face swung toward Tehveor.

“What happened?”

Tehveor sat frozen, feeling his mouth hang incapacitate, suddenly wishing he had sent the horse alone. He swung from the animal and the world swirled until someone caught his arms.

“The river,” he croaked. “He hit the rocks.”

He flinched at their faces, spying Terrant’s general confusion, and hearing mother’s drawn breath of suspicion.

“What river?” Terrant asked.

“By the caves,” Tehveor answered.

Setta hunched like someone had hit her. General Larson reached to catch her as Terrant lifted Joshah. Darkness crept into Tehveor’s vision as his mind sought the same refuge it had when he’d been forced to beat Decharo. The majority of the group moved toward the castle with Terrant.

“Come inside, Sire,” General Larson whispered into his ear. “You’re not well.”

“I can’t stay,” Tehveor whispered.

But Setta pulled her shoulders back, gasping for breath as she held out her hand. After a moment, he took it. Curse Sentarra.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“So how do they know exactly when all of this happens?” Eslaveth asked. She eyed the scraps of papers that overlapped each other on the small table, belying the gaps in the story they told.

“They don’t,” Shannondant said. “They’re going by threes, as it’s the 320th year of Erilerre’s recorded history–which is all we know, really, though Sentarra goes further back. If Tehveor wasn’t born that year, it would have to be another 300, but he was. And the legend says he’s old enough to be married, but doesn’t mention children, so likely he marries around the same time that he takes the throne. It also speaks of the night of the fourth moon ushering in the coronation – and we’re at nine moons now. Though that leaves much for Tehveor to do between now and then. There seem to be bits still missing.”

The idea of Tehveor being a mere five moons from becoming king made Eslaveth frown deeper than Shannondant. Everything pointed to Celestion being a war-king, and the idea of an approaching battle made her want to go back to the inn and hide beneath a pillow until she’d convinced herself that life would continue as normal.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Well, Fathoth, for one thing,” Shannondant replied. “And Ogetterna.”

“I don’t know what either of those are,” Eslaveth said.

“Fathoth is the white horse Celestion rides,” Shannondant said. “Tehveor lost his horse because of the Erish king, so naturally he needs another, but it can’t come from the Erish stables. It’s must be a Shlaton, and he’ll need time to train it.”

Eslaveth’s hand slipped from the edge of the table causing her to lurch toward it. “A Shlaton?” She stared before scoffing. “Well, he is tempting the fates, isn’t it? Even my father wouldn’t dare ride a Shlaton.”

Larger than riding horses and smaller than work horses, the breed were both fast and powerful. But they were wicked creatures who would charge like wild boars. “Even if the tales aren’t true, they have nasty tempers. He could easily be thrown.”

Shannondant nodded. “His heart’s pure enough to master it, even if the horses do harbor evilness. That I believe. Don’t you?”

“I think Tehveor has a good heart.” Eslaveth frowned at the paper she unrolled. “But I don’t think the purest heart will allow anyone to walk up and ride a Shlaton unscathed.”

“Fate will,” Shannondant said. “Fate protects Tehveor.”

Then why was it sending her to protect him if it was so capable? Eslaveth’s eyes fell back to the faded ink. “It doesn’t sound like its protecting him inside of the castle. Even if he’s come down with a fever he doesn’t wish to share, something else happened.”

“We don’t know for sure,” Shannondant said. She frowned as she searched the timeline for a place to lodge the next sheet paper before she admitted. “You’re right, though. The herbs Setta called for, sound more like an injury, not an illness. I think…” she swallowed before admitting. “I think Fate’s not protecting him there because he’s not supposed to be there.”

“I can’t say as I blame him,” Eslaveth said. “I don’t want to leave my family behind either.”

Shannondant nodded once. “Princess Setta did him no favors by marrying in defiance to the country.” She dropped her voice, “Though, I cannot say that I blame her either. I just hope – whomever I marry – it doesn’t create as many complications as she has. No matter what she decides, she’s going to have to choose between her children. I don’t think she’ll come to the final kingdom.”

“Not even to visit?” Eslaveth asked.

Shannondant shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe things change after the legend is gone. But the Erish and Sentarrian worlds don’t mix well.”

Eslaveth flinched. Likely Tehveor wouldn’t come tonight, and the Erish world would be waking soon enough, leaving her little time for sleeping before morning. She’d hoped for news from the castle, but the man Gregorn had sent to inquire why Tehveor had not been heard from for days, had yet to return. And someone couldn’t just run a message to the inn.

She’d have to wait.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t want to leave, but it time I go home before my aunt and uncle wake to find me gone. I’ll return as soon as I can to see how things are here.”

Shannondant nodded. “I hope Tehveor’s here when you come back. I’ll find out what I can.”

“Thank you,” Eslaveth said.

Walking through the dark woods unnerved her, but after a few days of Tehveor not showing to meet her, she’d grown worried enough to venture to the caves on her own. Last night, Decharo had walked her back to the borders, but the masters assigned him to work tonight. It was just as well. She wanted the time to think, and the moon lit the woods well enough to find her way without exposing herself with a candle. She’d borrowed her uncle’s dagger in the illusion that it would keep her safe if animals or people accosted her, but she wished she had the faith in Fate the others exhibited when confronted with circumstances that common sense declared dangerous.

A horse’s snort and the footfalls of hooves crunched nearby, sending her to crouch behind a young tree. She reached for the hilt, though her heartbeat sped with hope. Perhaps she need not wait another day to see Tehveor after all. It was hard to tell, now that he’d lost his horse and the rider was cloaked, concealing his shape. The red horse looked nearly a dark purple in the night, and the cloak was black.

Her heart slammed as the rider pulled the reins toward her. When his face dropped to her tracks, she stood, welding the blade, braced to run.

“Who are you!” she demanded, hardening her voice to cover the tremble.

The figure continued to sit on the horse, giving no response at all. Should she run toward the caves or away? The caves were closer – they would help – but she lead a stranger straight into Sentarra, and they hadn’t taken kindly to Decharo’s exposure of the caves.

The voice was young, but retained a smooth, dark tone as he asked, “What is your purpose with Celestion?”

Was this Fate?

Her heart slammed as her fingers tightened on the dagger. When she didn’t reply, the man continued the questioning. “How willing are you to protect him?”

Was he threatening her? Or threating Tehveor? What if the boy wasn’t at the castle recovering from an illness or injury? She swallowed, demanding. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you protecting him because of your calling?” the man asked. “Or is there something more?”

Something more? Did he think she had an agenda? Or feelings for Tehveor? And what business was it of his anyhow? He had no right to question her. But he was on a horse, he carried a sword, and they were alone in woods where patches of snow mingled with thorny briers. She couldn’t flee, so she’d have to fight.

His voice softened as he said, “Eslaveth, Tehveor isn’t who you think he is. I’ve seen parts of the legend that others have not. Perhaps Fate has sent you to protect him, but you cannot trust him.”

She frowned. She trusted Tehveor and strangely, always had. It was Sentarra that unsettled her.

“Meeting me with a cloaked face in the middle of the woods at night, doesn’t make me eager to trust you either.”

“Nor do I expect you to,” the man replied. “You have brains about you. I wouldn’t bother warning you, had you not.”

She lifted her chin, hoping she looked like she knew more about this situation than she did. “Warn me about what?”

“Celestion has two sides.” The man held up gloved fingers. “The legend told in the caves stops when he becomes king. But the legend from Sentarra itself, from the place and people he will rule, foretells that his power will corrupt him. He will change after he becomes king.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Eslaveth demanded.

“So you may leave,” the man answered. “Fate has drawn you, but it has not yet secured you. Tehveor ascension to the throne depends largely on you. If you were to refuse your part, Tehveor could not take the throne, and it would not destroy him. Nor you.”

Her face was so tight that it hurt. There was no reason why she should believe this man, but there was less reason why he should try to scare her from Fate when everyone insisted she had no choice in the matter unless he didn’t want Tehveor to take the throne and meant to undermine it.”

“And if I were to do my part?” she asked. “What happens then?”

“The legend goes on,” he said. “Tehveor will become king, but he will fail. He will gradually destroy the kingdom, then you, and finally himself. He has given himself to Fate, and that is what Fate has decreed.”

He wasn’t making any sense, and likely wasn’t telling the truth, but she pretended to believe him. “I thought Fate was his friend.”

“It is his friend. But you heard him say the other day that once he becomes a ruler, Fate will not dictate his life.”

Tehveor had said that though she hadn’t realized anyone had overheard.

“He’s already begun to resist Fate,” the man said. “Once he becomes king, he will turn on it – and if he does – it will turn on him.”

“Tehveor is dedicated to Sentarra,” Eslaveth said. “He has no intentions of turning on it.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Anger crept into the voice. “He’s not strong enough for the role.” He brought the horse close to her, so close that she stepped backward into a thorny bush. But his whisper weighted her. “He obeyed the king this week and gave him his back for a beating with as little resistance as he showed when he was commanded to kill your father. But he didn’t tell you that part of it, did he? And likely he won’t tell you about the beating, either.”

Her father?

The man was mad. His eyes glinted in the moon though she could see little else. “The king killed my father,” she said. “Tehveor was a child then.”

“A child can kill,” the man said. “Ask him about it. And after you’ve seen your answer for yourself, you ask him everything else that’s been knocking about in your head. But you must ask him quickly. If you stay here much longer, you’re going to be trapped with the rest of us. Only worse, because you’ll have to marry him.”

“Marry?” she sputtered.

“Aye,” he answered. “He didn’t tell you about that now, either, did he?”

Thorns or no, she scrambled further into the bush, fighting her way to the other side, but the branches grabbed her skirt. She fell backward into the snow, too entangled to rise. While she rent her dress with a reckless struggle that gashed her legs, the man rode around the bush. He lowered his arm, but she didn’t take it, hobbling stubbornly to her own feet, though the thorns still jabbed her skin.

Another ring dangled from a chain, a cluster of crystals pulling it toward the snow and concealing their beauty. “I’ll not stop you if you accept his ring,” he said. “But if you change your mind – at least if you change it soon – put on this one instead. I’ll see it and know, and I’ll help you break free.”

Her hand took the ring so he’d go away, even as her mind screamed not to accept it, not to believe any of it. Apparently satisfied with rattling her to the core, he left, riding his horse back into the trees parallel to the caves. Her own father told her that Tehveor was worthy of their trust, worthy of their lives even. But her father was dead, whether by the Erish king or –

She shook her head. She needed a fire and sleep and the safety of her uncle’s walls to drive away the distortion that the stories of Sentarra seeped into her everyday life. When she woke, she’d have the distance she needed to think logically. Tehveor had never given her a reason not to trust him, and this man had given her no reason that she should. A man in a black cloak who warned her Tehveor would turn against Fate didn’t mean that man was Fate or even the man that Decharo claimed to be Fate. So why did she assume his authority?

Her steps halted before she quickened them. It was because he’d told her what Tehveor had said. He’d told her what had happened to Tehveor when the rest of the Sentarrians’ were speculating. The king had beaten him.

Her heart seized. Tehveor had been beaten hard enough to keep him from Sentarra for four days. Galephy was massive, his arms as thick as a soldier. She couldn’t protect him – not at the castle, not from the king. Who was protecting Tehveor now?

She blew out a breath, shaking her entire body to shed herself of the feelings. If Tehveor had been beaten, he could hardly hide it even after a week. Then again, he couldn’t compelled to show anything more than his face and hands.

When she heard the second hoofs, she spun, too angry to be frightened. But the horse was the dappled animal Tehveor had brought last time he was here. And the cloak was blue – covered with the designs of the Erish court.

“Tehveor!” His name burst from her mouth.

Tehveor pushed his hood back, sending her a smile. “I worried you’d be out here walking alone without me. Are you coming or going?”

“I was going,” she answered. “Are you alright? He didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m alright,” he said. But he didn’t offer his hand to pull her onto the horse, either. And his stance was stiffer than normal.

She swallowed, stepping closer. “Did the king beat you?” He flinched, and she added quickly. “Don’t lie, Tehveor. Not to me.”

He gripped the reins, and the scars of his palms peeked out beneath the leather.

“Don’t tell,” he said. “And I won’t lie to you.”

She reached to steady herself against the saddle, unsure how much of the nausea was for his ordeal and how much was realizing one thing the man said was true.

“Are we supposed to marry?” she asked.

The horse shifted its weight away from her. She wasn’t sure whether or not Tehveor had, but he flinched again. “I don’t know. The legends don’t say much of who I’m to marry. Some say the second princess but others, the third.

And now both men were speaking the truth, and it was irksome to realize half the caves knew whom she was to marry before she herself. And – Tehveor? She’d been marrying Celestion, but she’d also be marrying the boy who had ridden by the inn each morning.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Tehveor said. “Because I don’t know for sure. And I don’t – well, I don’t want to make any assumptions.”

Neither did she. She couldn’t even decide if the flush was stunned anger or suppressed intrigue. She stared straight ahead at his leg because she couldn’t look at his face. But she stuffed the plethora of thoughts away and whispered the thing she wanted to know the most.

“Did you kill my father?”

The world froze so quickly, she nearly felt the words float away. She couldn’t move more than her eyes, but when she lifted them, Tehveor was as frozen as the rest of the forest. The moonlight made him shockingly pale, made his eyes glimmer.

“Who told you that?” he whispered.

She couldn’t have answered him if he’d commanded her. She stepped backward, willing him to deny it, even if it was a lie.

“You did?”

Perhaps Fate had bound them. Her body swayed from him, but her feet stayed rooted, something deeper held taut between them. Something she wanted him to pull, bringing them back together and restoring the comfort – and something she wanted to cut, sever herself from and run. Perhaps he sensed it as well because his mouth moved without saying anything.

His nod, as imperceptible as it was, vibrated the string. Her backward step snapped it. The questions, the suspicion she’d pushed down in the caves, the discomfort that made her draw closer to Tehveor and away from his friends, crowded around her as she broke free of whatever he’d used to entice her. The web the man had warned her about.

And she would escape it.

“Eslaveth, wait,” Tehveor said.

But, even though he could overtake her on a horse, she ran. Her dress hung in shreds before she reached the edge of the woods. The stones of the road, the boards of the inn’s porch, seeped into her mind enough to slow her before she burst through the door and roused half the inn. She stood with her hand on the door, panting before she turned to the stable. She needed to move, needed to pace, needed to force the fear into her steps and trod it to pieces.

She burst through the stable doors, bringing the room alive like a wasps nest. The horses backed up, tossing their heads and several men encircling a lantern on the ground sprang back like water from a dropped rock. Three charged her.

“Stop, it’s Eslaveth!” Danel’s shout stopped boys in front of her.

He’d leaped over a feeding trough, grabbing her arm and planting himself in front. Their feet skid as the boys fell back.

“What are you doing here?” Danel demanded.

“What are you?” she threw back before she realized.

Plotters.

She swung her face from his to Reshton’s who glared from the corner. Back to Danel who’s chest heaved and she couldn’t tell if he was angry with her or afraid for her.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “We’ll both be silent, and we’ll both be fine.”

“She’ll tell,” Reshton growled.

The boys hesistated, glancing toward each other for guidance.

Her heart seized and fell as she recognized every face. Not plotters. These were her friends, they couldn’t be plotters.

But Wendelis stood in the corner, turning from her, and the shame in his face gave the truth away. He winced but raised his head.

“She’ll listen to reason,” he said. “We can’t kill her. We’ll have to convert her.”

Who’d converted him? Breon?

Her cousin’s arm shook as he pulled her toward the circle again. “Eslaveth knows more about it than any of us,” he said. “If anyone can approach the royal family with our terms, it would be her. And she will, even if she doesn’t agree with us” he ordered eyeing her, “because she doesn’t want them killed any more than we want to kill them.”

“The terms are fair,” Wendelis said. “The king would have the choice to resign and pass the throne along to his son. His family could go on ruling with no bloodshed, only now they’d be held in check. Others – people representing us – would have to agree to the terms.”

Reshton shook his head. “If we’re to have a new kingdom, it’s best to wipe it clean and start over.”

“We don’t have the means to fight,” Wendelis said quickly. “And it’s not necessary. If we set out to murder the king, we’ll have to destroy his supporters as well, and I’m not willing to do that.”

“No more said tonight,” Danel said. “We’re done here. I’ll ensure she doesn’t talk.”

“And if she does,” Reshton asked.

Eslaveth stood still, feeling Danel’s fingers tighten on her elbow. She kept her eyes on the floor. Wendelis swayed toward her as taunt as an arrow on a string, but his eyes were on Reshton. She saw Danel’s hand snake around onto his dagger. It glistened in the torchlight as he pulled it free and the blade glittered in front of his face as he held it toward Reshton.

“I will stake my life on her silence,” he said. “She will not speak, but if she were to, then I am yours to do as you wish.”

Eslaveth closed her eyes against the barbaric practice, feeling a glimmer of surprise at her cousin’s loyalty.

“He’s right,” she said. “I won’t speak.” She lifted her eyes toward the boys repeating the words, “The king killed my father. I have no opposition to his death.”

She felt her chin tremble, felt their eyes on her.

Reshton’s fingers tightened on the hilt, taking her cousin’s blade from him. “If you or she betrays me, Danel,” he said. “I will kill your entire family.”

“I understand that,” Danel said. “But I’m not worried about it. Because I don’t break my word. And even Eslaveth wished to save the king, she’ll want to save us more.”

Wendelis stepped forward, taking Danel’s hand without looking at her. “Good night, then,” he said.

The other boys followed suit, and she kept her eyes turned down. The boy with the dagger brandished it on his way out the door.

Danel released her elbow, but neither of them moved. She swallowed, then whispered, “Thank you.”

“Why did you come out here?” he snapped.

“I didn’t know you were out here, I swear,” she answered. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She turned to watch him as he picked up the candle from the floor. “This could lead to a battle.”

“Aye,” he said. “That’s what I’m trying to prevent.”

“Please, keep trying,” she whispered. “We’re already on the brink of war.”

“I know.” He turned, and the candle lit the stubble that had begun to make him look more like a man. “But the battle is already starting, and I don’t think anything or anyone can stop it.”

Apparently the prophets hadn’t thought so either. Was that the freedom Celestion was to lead his people from? Tehveor, from his own people? Was this the battle that Shannondant’s father would turn the tide to win? And were they fighting with Erilerre or against?

“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t fight either for or against anyone. You just handed to your dagger to your closest friend.”

He nodded. “He’ll use it too. So don’t give him the chance.”