Lindsey Renee Backen's Blog, page 9

Chapter Thirty-Six

Milan’s fingers were beautiful as they pressed the strings and passed the bow back and forth, but her nose scrunched as the cruit screeched. She laughed, flickering sheepish eyes toward Darshon. “I intended to approach my lessons with a deep desire to learn and a fair amount of determined practice, but little skill. That way, when I discover halfway home that I’ve forgotten it here, it will be a relief to both mother and teacher, and we shall mutually agree that it’s best not sent for.”

Darshon’s laugh echoed off the tombs. “I’ll gather it won’t be painted into any of your future portraits.”

“No!” Milan winced as she finished the simple tune. “Actually, I discovered I didn’t even need to act. I’m going to be as relieved as any of them for the ending of the practice sessions. I haven’t the patience for this foolery.”

Yet she had practiced for weeks, enduring the screeching and scraping, simply for the excuse to bring it to the castle. And just as it was growing hard for him to swallow, the girl set the bow aside and he wondered how many times her tutor had reminded her that she was holding the bow wrong.

“There,” she said. “You’ve heard me play. You can stop hounding me. I wasn’t being modest when I told you I was terrible.”

“But you are beautiful when you play,” he said. She lifted startled eyes, so to offset the compliment, he smiled and added, “I’ll just replace the song in my memory.”

Her face colored but she laughed. “Please do.”

Then it was gone again as she glanced down at the instrument, untucking it from her body and holding it toward him. The teasing was gone and the smiles with it. She’d been in his thoughts since the first night when she’d come back down the stairs with that sheepish look that betrayed her humanity. She’d seen him at his worst, both physically and in mannerisms. She’d stumbled into bits of his life, but the secret of his music dwelled in his soul behind a door he’d never opened for anyone.

His fingers brushed hers as he grasped the neck of the cruit, but his eyes held hers as he transferred the boxed body onto his leg. “I play it on my lap,” he whispered. “It’s easier on the bad days if I don’t have to lift my arms.”

Today wasn’t a bad day, but his heart was pounding hard and slow.

“Just play,” she whispered.

He hadn’t played in weeks, and he wondered if it was nerves or the lack that made him fumble with the instrument. Two strings at the edge that created a drone or could be plucked if he wished. Four strings passing the neck, pushing into his fingers as they found their place. It wasn’t as beautiful as his old instrument, but it was given, not stolen, and the wood only shined where her fingers had touched.

“Nobody ever gave me anything,” he said. “Except from obligation.”

“Well, you’ll give me a song, won’t you?” she asked before adding quickly. “Not from obligation.”

He’d give her more than a song if she gave him any hint she’d accept it.

He flickered his eyes from her face to the strings and drew the bow across it. The low strings filled the room with the drone that complimented every note he created. He watched Milan’s face lift toward the rafters, then the walls as the song resonated, filling the room. It hummed against his leg, carried through his blood, and smoothed out the pounding in his chest. He smiled at her, again watching her own disappear.

She listened to the entire last verse with her eyes on her knees, with a bobbing throat. When he finished, she only whispered, “Thank you.”

He felt his heart jump again, felt a slight tremble set into his hands. He nearly leaned forward to kiss her, but her eyes had fallen to the crack the instrument formed against the tomb as he set it aside. It couldn’t have been the song she didn’t like, and he’d done nothing to upset her.

‘What’s the matter?” he asked.

“My mother told me last night,” Milan said, “that I couldn’t write you anymore. She found the letters.”

She couldn’t write him? If she didn’t write him, he’d have no idea what was happening to her all the way across the country.

“Why not?” he asked.

“She said I mustn’t refuse you here. We couldn’t afford to insult you. But I wasn’t to encourage you.”

He’d received a rather stern reprimand from Remarr himself, but only because the man was overly sensitive to appearances. If he let people speculate his intentions toward Milan, then got her off alone, he could damage her reputation beyond repair even if they’d done nothing to earn it. But he wasn’t his father.

Anger swelled. “Why?” he asked. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “She fears no one would take me after people associated me with the royal family, and she’s convinced I have no chance for a future here.”

He set the instrument to the side, reaching to put his hand over hers, pulling them from the cracks of his carved name.

“But you do,” he said. “I’m not playing games with you, Milan. I’d take you publicly, except…”

Except for the man who’d smashed his cruit because it was below his station. But she wasn’t. He must marry someone, and Milan was a lady. He wet his lips. “We could have a future together. But I – I don’t want my father to forbid it before we have a chance.” Milan swallowed, and he pressed on. “I’m not trying to compromise you. I’d stand beside you, no matter what. If something happened, I’d take the repercussions for you.”

“I believe you,” she said. “And the romantic side of me would take your hand, no matter where you pulled me. But I’m practical, and I’m scared. We’re playing with fire and I don’t mind being burned with you.” Pushing her lips together, she looked away and he watched tears squeeze from her closed eyelids.

His heart was already burning, and they sat silently for a full minute before he worked up the ability to choke. “I’d rather know than guess.”

Her lips parted before she whispered, “We’d have to get consent from your father and my uncle. You can’t leave this castle, and I’m afraid to live with your father.”

“None of that would last,” Darshon said. “Even if they refused, even if we had to wait years and years until Kael became king and I changed your uncle’s mind, those things won’t be forever.”

“But you won’t last either,” Milan said softly. “No matter if we waited and fought or walked into the fire together, I’d walk out of it alone.”

Pain rolled through his head, down his body in waves, concentrating in his chest until he swallowed against the pain. “Milan, no one can promise how long they’ll live. You could marry someone else, and he could be run over by a carriage crossing a road.”

“I know,” she said. “But I also know how quickly a heart can kill a strong man and what it’s like to watch him worsen and worsen. And that’s what it would be. You know it is. Every time you left me, I’d worry. Every day I don’t get a letter from you, I’d wonder if you were alright and this is just the beginning. Promise me that it would more than a few years. That you wouldn’t leave me a prince’s widow under the dictation of your father. I know that’s what it would be. If I took your hand, I’d just feel it growing weaker and weaker and you’d be the one to let go, and then mine would be forced into someone else’s of your father’s choosing. And I…” she lost her whisper in a breath. “I can’t do it. I want to, but I can’t.”

He turned his face away from her toward the cruit who’s life would end when his did if he was to retain it. Milan couldn’t be buried with him. She was as truthful as he. She’d thought out the angles, she’d searched for the solution, with no more luck finding it. If she was selfish to be practical, he was more so in pleading for her to reconsider.

“I can’t promise you that,” he said. “I can’t even promise you that things would be easy, that my family wouldn’t harm you, that your future would be safe. All I can promise you is that I’d try to make more good days than bad, that I’d do everything I could to make you happy, I’d play you music anytime you wanted…”

The promises felt flat coming from his mouth. Even as a prince, he had little to offer her. “I would leave you,” he said. “But I’d fight to stay for as long and hard as I could. No matter how bad it grew, I would fight for you.”

But it was growing bad. He hadn’t fully recovered from the last time he’d gone to his knees, even with his mother adjusting the herbs. He’d grown used to the pain, but he’d noticed it more often now, even when he wasn’t angry or upset, even when he wasn’t dancing, or riding or watching his father’s menacing behavior. He felt it squeezing, searing, protesting, and if he didn’t lay down soon, he was going to prove everything she said true.

His fingers slid over her hand, intertwining with hers and she squeezed it. But her flooded eyes stayed on her knees. She was shaking, holding her breath. She wasn’t going to say it. She wasn’t going to move until he released her. And he didn’t want to. But his heart would force him now, as it would later. He swallowed, gasping for air once. It would be hard to breathe soon, hard because his blood was too thick, his heart too weak to pump it through its course.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered. “Just once?”

Their first time would be their last, but it would say what neither of them could manage.

Shannondant’s eyes flooded still, but she nodded, only pulling in a gasping breath when he was too close to see her face. His lips touched hers, and the warmth eased the pain in his chest. Her hands moved to his sides, her kiss firmer than he’d expected, though when his ran his hands over her back, he felt them shake with sobs. She trembled, but she was brave. Brave in the second kiss, brave in venturing into the taste of what things could have been if they weren’t what they were. And he couldn’t make it last because he could barely breathe as it was. He pulled back, squeezing his eyes shut, resting his face against her shoulder, tightening his arms around her body. And then he gasped for air again, enslaved to his heart that pierced him like a slaveowner, telling him his time was up.

She wasn’t pretty anymore, not with her puffy eyes and blotched face. Not with the misery that glistened in her tears, shrinking back like she was a child who waited to be hit. Not in her raw voice as she rasped, “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t talk, so he nodded that he’d heard, but it turned into a shake of his head as he found he couldn’t reply. He stood, leaned down and kissed her hairline. He measured his steps away from her, away from the cruit, knowing the instrument would be the only thing waiting the next time he came down. But he would, and he’d play it, if nothing more than to defy the death that was stealing his life.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Torn

“I think I can go down if we bind it tight,” Tehveor said, though his grip on the bed’s edge was tighter than Margaret could ever pull bandages and the queen had only cleaned the worst of the lacerations. There were others, healed and older, and Setta wondered who had wrapped those wounds so he could break the fast without anyone the wiser. Fury that he’d concealed the abuse from her and worry about what else he was hiding were overpowered by shame as she watched her son’s stomach tighten, heard the moan catch in his throat, and watched him breathe through pain with practiced skill.

How inept Terrant must think her, and he’d be right. She’d dreamed her entire life of being a mother, but when it came down to it, all of her children had lived through more pain and humiliation than she’d encountered in the total sum of her years. Especially Tehveor.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to stay in bed for a day,” Margaret said. “If we check it every few hours, it will be easier to avoid an infection setting in and running ramped. He did you no favors beating you in a prison cell.”

Tehveor flinched, but said, “I don’t want Kael to know.”

Likely, he didn’t want the Sentarrians to discover this abuse either, but they knew enough already. Gregorn had responded to the request for the stronger Sentarrian herbs, bringing far more than was required, but his questions could not go fully unanswered. Tehveor had gotten hurt, she’d explained, and it was only a precaution, not a true infection.

But it was close, and twice through the night, she’d heard someone shifting in the wall, locked within the tunnel that led to Tehveor’s room. Terrant’s presence, along with her other children, had kept her from confronting the intruder. But it kept her guessing as well, answering her husband’s inquiries about how often things like this happened with only the vaguest of answers.

He’d taken the other two children from the room to calm their temper and tears before breakfast, but his eyes gleamed with frustration, leaving her to resent Sentarra’s influence in her marriage.

Margaret sighed at the mention of Kael. “I think you’re safe there. Kael’s so caught up in his own terror, he can’t see past the king.” When Tehveor offered no more explanation, Margaret frowned. “We’ll wrap it, but if you begin feeling at all dizzy or weak, you come lay down. I think you’re going to change your mind within the hour.”

The boy swallowed as the woman picked up a long strip of cloth. Bruises showed on her wrists as she reached past his torso to pass the strip in front. Setta swallowed and lowered herself in front of her son to help with the winding, wondering if Margaret wasn’t pulling it a bit too tight. The queen never apologized, hardly winced, but at Tehveor’s third grunt, she said, “The king is in a better mood today. I did everything I could to make sure of it.”

Setta looked toward the ground, flinching at her own resentment of not spending the night in her husband’s arms. She’d slept on the bed next to her son, waking every time his breathing changed. Terrant had laid in front of the door. She released a slow breath before saying, “I’ve written to Lord Lesonna about coming for Silvah before the winter sets in.”

For the first time that day, Tehveor’s movements were quick as he lifted his head. “Why?”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Setta said. “I don’t want her to be pulled into our family’s dangers. If Galephy will use you to threaten Kael, what’s to stop him from harming Silvah to intimidate us?”

Besides, Tehveor was spending more and more time at Sentarra. Perhaps Gregorn was right. Perhaps it was time for Tehveor to live there, away from the king’s grip.

But they’d just all gotten back together. Terrant had never shown any sign of being drawn by Fate, and even had he, his Erish blood and rank set Sentarrian hearts against him. Yet he was the true father of Celestion, no matter who they thought the legend indicated, and if that wouldn’t earn him a place in the country, nothing would.

Tehveor jolted as someone knocked on the door and between his pants and her own defenses freezing her, it was Margaret who called, “Who’s there?”

Someone shifted outside, but Remarr’s voice answered, “It’s Remarr, My Queen.”

Margaret’s eyes dropped, but Setta strode to turn the key inside the lock. “Come in,” she said, before returning to Tehveor.

Remarr smiled only momentarily as he spied Tehveor. “You’re up.”

“Trying,” Tehveor said, though he suddenly seemed to second guess his heroics.

“Did Terrant send you?” Setta asked, turning so she couldn’t witness the lines that appeared in her son’s face every time Margaret made another pass with the material.

“No.” Remarr’s eyes dropped to the floor. She witnessed the tinge of red in his cheeks and worried Galephy had sent him instead. But the man took a breath as though confessing a failure. “I needed to speak to the queen.”

Setta glanced backward to share the surprised glance Margeret sent her. Remarr spent most of his time avoiding the queen, would scarcely acknowledge her presences beyond the customary bow.

Margaret frowned, turning her attention back to Tehveor’s back. “Why me?”

Remarr hesitated again. “I could send Kael or Terrant, but I thought you might rather address the matter yourself.”

Setta frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Remarr shut his mouth, then breathed through his nose. “It’s Darshon. He’s well enough,” he added quickly as the queen jolted. He glanced toward Tehveor, but Margaret waved him on.

“You can tell me here. This family has precious few secrets from each other,” Margaret said.

Remarr dropped his eyes again as he spoke. “I have asked Darshon to keep to the public rooms when he’s with the young ladies, but he has informed me that I am a servant and my place is near the wall.”

Margaret’s chin climbed and when it stopped her eyebrows continued the ascension. “Has he now?”

Remarr flinched, shaking his head. “I didn’t come because of that. But he has taken Lady Milan from the main rooms. I’ve checked every place I am allowed to go, but I don’t believe he’d comply with me even if I found him — and the lady is above my rank as well.”

Margaret knotted the wrap with a jerk that made Tehveor flinch, but Setta felt more concern for her nephew’s welfare than the wounded boy on the bed.

“Well, she’s not above mine,” Margaret said. “And if he plays the rank card with me, he’s very quickly going to beg my pardon. If he’s attempting to try a coax a girl into the madness of our family circles, he’s going to at least court her properly.”

“Well don’t go too hard on him,” Setta said. “He’s nearly twenty, and I dare say we did a fair share of sneaking at much younger ages.”

“And got a fair share of scolding from our parents if you’ll remember,” Margaret said. “Darshon’s a prince. He can’t have the same luxurious we did. He already has many people comparing him to his father.”

“But she is good for him,” Setta said.

Margaret winced, slacking her hand on the door as Remarr stepped aside. “I know,” she said. “But she can be good for him in the great hall.”

Remarr flinched as the door slammed. Setta pulled in a long breath, remembering when Margaret had been her closest friend, Terrant and Remarr were inseparable, and Galephy was only a distance face she’d never expected to turn her direction. How they had changed, all caught in the same battle, but fighting it alone.

She swallowed, reaching for the loosest shirt that Tehveor owned – a cranberry cloth she hoped would blend in better with the clothing around him. “Remarr, can you help me, please?”

There was no reason why she couldn’t maneuver the shirt on herself, but Remarr had experienced his own whippings, likely having insight on the most gentle way to proceed. The man nodded, stepping to Tehveor to work the garment over the bulk of the bandages.

“Who knows?” Tehveor asked.

Remarr’s eyes lifted calmly. “Not many. Not the princes’ or guests. But even if they had, there’s no shame in what happened.”

But there was. Setta saw the silver swim before Tehveor blinked to clear them. She reached to squeeze his hand. The scuffling noise came from the wall again. Tehveor stood suddenly, trying to cover it.

Remarr caught his arms, shaking his head. “Too fast. You must do things slowly if you do them at all. Come. I’ll walk with you.”

Fury flickered as she watched her son straighten, watched him shuffle toward the door. When the room was empty, she turned the lock in one door and switched the latch in the other, flinging the panel aside and demanded, “What are you doing here!”

Gregorn’s face was shrouded in the darkness but without remorse as he said, “What has happened to Tehveor? How long will it take to heal?”

She wondered if the man would keep any of the secrets if she told him the entire truth. It was likely not, but she must do something to appease their curiosity, or more Sentarrian men would be crawling through their walls. She lifted her eyes. “The king whipped him, because he’s suspicious. How many times did I warn you that Tehveor cannot sneak away in the daytime? You insisted, and now King Galephy has begun to suspect something is amiss.”

The man coached in a long, slow breath, just as frustrated. “Which is why Tehveor should never have lived here to begin with. The king will search for him if he comes now, but Fate and we will protect him within the caves.”

Setta shook her head. “He’s not leaving until it is his choice.”

“Have you asked him recently, if he stays because he wants to?” Gregorn asked.

Setta stepped into the passageway, shutting the door to envelop them in the blackness that would hide her tears. Even if they ran from the king, they couldn’t run from Fate. But she’d just gotten her family together. Tehveor couldn’t keep losing sleep, trying to lead two different lives. He couldn’t continue to allow the Erish king to harm him.

“Let us take him now,” Gregorn whispered. “We can heal him there. We can shelter him. He’s nearly king anyway.”

“When Fate tells me to send him,” Setta whispered, “I will send him. But not until then and not until it’s his choice. Do not return to this tunnel. It’s for Tehveor, not you. Next time you or anyone else comes into this wall looking for Celestion, they’re going to encounter Celestion’s father.”

“We do not fear Erish princes or kings,” Gregorn said. “Four days. If Tehveor does not return after four days, we’ll send someone to speak to him without going through you.”

Setta shoved the man’s chest, sending him backwards, before she stepped through the panel, slamming it back into place and turning the key. She pressed her fists against her head, stooping in frustration. She’d left, she’d left Sentarra so she could raise her family in Erilerre with Terrant. But she couldn’t lock her past out forever. She couldn’t lock Fate out at all.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“I’m going to be sad when Father returns,” Darshon said.

Tehveor nodded, simultaneously smiling a servant as they passed. In the two months of King Galephy’s absence, castle life had fallen into a comfortable routine which was already being interrupted by the arrival of the noblemen for the harvest banquet before the snow captured everyone for the winter. If Galephy stayed away another week, Kael would host the entire thing alone.

“Perhaps he won’t,” he replied. “He never cared for banquets anyway. The possibility of war will be far more attractive.”

Darshon frowned. “I hope that’s all it is. I keep wondering if he hasn’t arranged something to go wrong at the gathering, as well. If there were ever a time to knock Kael onto his knees, it’s now, while he’s gaining favor with the noblemen.”

Tehveor stopped, but his cousin turned into his bedchamber to fetch the accounts he’d been keeping for his brother.

“You think that’s why he left? To turn everyone against Kael?” he asked.

Darshon shugged. “Perhaps. He must know that he’s falling out of favor and people have begun to refer to Kael as their hope.”

“I can think of better ways to regain people’s favor than to sabotage their champion,” Tehveor said.

Darshon shrugged. “I can too. But people are fickle, and friends aren’t reliable. Fear is.”

Darshon jerked open the drawer, then became so still that Tehveor could watch the sharp breaths though he couldn’t tell if it was fear or excitement that caused the change. He tucked his head to peek into the drawer, glimpsing a stack of letters and strings stretched across the neck of an instrument before Darshon banged it shut again. The boy twisted, glancing around at the rest of the room like he suspected someone had been in it. But he smiled, which was the most confusing thing of all.

“What is it?” Tehveor asked.

Darshon peeked into the drawer again, reaching inside to touch something before he grinned. “I think Milan’s here.” He stood, cocking his head as though Tehveor knew the answer. “She must be here. No one… She’s is here, isn’t she?”

Tehveor spread his hands. “Lots of people are.”

But Darshon brushed his shoulder, already moving out the door before he’d finished his sentence. Tehveor grinned, wondering where how long it would take to find Kael to tell him about that exchange. He glanced toward the doorway once more, then dropped to his knees, inching the drawer open.

A cruit’s strings caught the sunlight and glinted over polished wood. Tehveor shut the drawer before anyone else glimpsed it. He wasn’t sure what the implications of leaving such a clue in the boy’s room – or even how it had gotten there – but it didn’t matter. Darshon understood the elaborate arrival announcement and smiled over it as much as he’d grinned over every message the girl had sent from her home.

Tehveor stood, laughing silently, reminding himself to tell Kael later. He’d been to Sentarra every night for the last two weeks, and tonight would be his first to miss seeing Eslaveth, who had grown as interested as Shannondant in arranging bits of the legend to form a cohesive story. He wondered if he could slip away, at least for an hour or two.

The trumpet sounded from the gate, giving a doleful wail that stopped every person in the halls. Somewhere, Kael’s eyes would be hitting the floor, realizing his reign was ending. But even if Galephy grew angry over his son’s changes, he wouldn’t press it during a banquet. The guests would buy a little time for his temper to lessen.

Tehveor ducked into his bedchamber, shutting the door and resting his head against it. He couldn’t lock it. Not without attracting more attention. Perhaps the king wouldn’t look for him right away or at all. Perhaps he would be pacified enjoying Kael’s humiliation.

He paused with his hand on the panel that would lead him to freedom. He should go to Kael, but if he was going to Sentarra, he must go now. Did he dare risk the king calling for him and not finding him again? Surely he would punish the stablekeeper for letting Tehveor take a horse even if the man hadn’t given permission.

Pressure settled onto his chest, feeling the responsibility to find and fulfill the legend war with the guilt of keeping the Erish people safe. He crept to the window, wincing as he spied Galephy swing from his horse. But it was another rider who caught his attention as boy dismounted, lifting his eyes straight toward Tehveor’s window. Joshah was home. Tehveor scanned the other faces, but none of them looked like his father. Sentarra must wait.

He avoided the main entrance, taking the servant’s door to free himself from the growing crowds. Kael’s shoulders were set, braced, and he held no smile for his father. But Galephy clasped his shoulder anyway, looking every inch a proud father and Kael’s face flickered from dread into confusion. Tehveor stood until the king and prince had stepped back into the castle and the crowd began to move again.

Joshah smiled, striding to meet him with genuine eagerness. The tenuous arms rippled as he pulled Tehveor into a rough embrace, then whispered, “Father’s coming.”

Father.

Hope and fear leaped. He pulled back, searching the brown eyes that replicated Setta’s. “For good?”

Joshah nodded once. “Don’t tell Mother yet — or anyone. She can’t keep a secret like that. But he’s coming, and he’s got the treaty in hand.”

Terrant was returning to live with them. His father would share their table, their lives, even their struggles. Would it stop the king’s summons or only worsen them?

“When?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps as early as tonight,” Joshah said. “But only with the best of traveling conditions, so it could be several days before he manages to arrive.”

“Well, he can’t arrive soon enough,” Tehveor said. “The king is going to be furious when he discovers everything Kael has done in his absence.”

Joshah grinned because Joshah was little affected by the king’s rage.

“Good for Kael,” he said.

Was it good? He wasn’t sure. Kael plans had fallen apart, his orders counteracted each other as he waffled between decisions. Even now, the prince’s face was scrunched with guilt and worry in such tight lines that even his attempts to smile and respond didn’t cover them. Tehveor fought his own, feeling his cousin’s worry transferring to him.

Galephy started well enough, responding to the welcome backs and only occasionally teasing about Kael’s rule in his absence with a sort of fatherly affection. But the king’s smile gradually fell as his goblet rose, and Margaret squirmed as he motioned for the fifth refill.

When Tehveor should have left for Sentarra, he busied himself asking Silvah to dance, drawing the same comfort from her touch that he had her letters. When they should have all gone to bed, he sat with the group, teasing Ceslaya for yawning through Joshah’s stories. When the bell rang the midnight hour, Thymon approached, bobbing his head in a silent call. Tehveor glanced around for the king, but there wasn’t time to find him in the crowd.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered to Silvah, who only smiled at him and turned her attention to Milan, who sat next to Darshon a little closer than protocol predicted.

Thymon’s frown grew as Tehveor approached. He ducked his head, sending tuffs of hair askew as he whispered, “His Majesty has sent for you.”

But he hadn’t done anything. Tehveor caught the protest, caught the tears, caught the fear only an instant before they reached his face.

He glanced across the great hall where Kael sat on the throne, looking as though he expected a summons at any moment. It wouldn’t come. It wouldn’t come because Galephy had sent it to Tehveor instead.

Instead.

He glanced back toward the others; to Darshon, who smiled, despite the tuck in his forehead that indicated his chest was beginning to ache beneath the strain. To Silvah, who laughed with the innocence that he wished he still possessed. To Ceslaya, who cocked her head at him, gaining Joshah’s attention.

He swallowed and looked away. “Thank you.”

Thymon shifted, then whispered, “It’s worse tonight than normal. If you left, he might not even remember the summons in the morning.”

He could go to Sentarra but what would happen here? Galephy would search for him. Perhaps he would find someone else, but someone would fall prey tonight. Perhaps even Kael or Thymon.

Thymon wouldn’t survive a beating. Tehveor would.

He moved away from the servant, already shutting off the thoughts of protest. Obey. Endure. Go on. It wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t die. And someday Galephy would see a crown on his head and a sword in his hand and the man would reach for a shield instead of a whip. He hesitated only a second before he grasped the door to the king’s study and let himself in.

Galephy crossed his legs, leaning with folded arms against the edge of his desk, surprisingly balanced for the amount of alcohol he had consumed. His eyes were red, glazed, as they moved over Tehveor but the malicious delight he’d expected was absent.

“What are you hiding?” Galephy slurred. “Where do you go?”

Was the king still trying to have him followed? Tehveor swallowed, hoping to derail the man’s senses. “You sent for me. I came here. I was in the gathering with the others.”

The smile crept over Galephy’s face as he cackled. “You know Margaret tried to outsmart me. She thought she had friends, thought she could even kill me. I killed her friends. I whipped any who offered her aid. I pulled out her secrets one by one and broke her. I’ll break you too. I’ll find your secrets.”

“I have no secrets, My King,” Tehveor lied.

The king laughed. “We already share secrets, though, don’t we? We don’t have to. I could tie you to a post in the courtyard. I could march you inside that great hall and punish you there for your stubborn silence.”

Tehveor flinched, and Galephy laughed again. “See there? I know how to make people stay quiet or speak. I promised Kael that if he overrode my orders again, I would strip his back and beat him, and I will. Unless you’re feeling generous? Loyal, perhaps?”

He was too scared to feel much of anything. A public beating of the prince would damage the entire family’s reputation. No one was allowed to touch Kael without his permission except his father, and no one had the ability to stop it if the man took it into his head – except him.

He swallowed again, reaching to free the hem of his shirt, to strip his own back. Would the king drag him down to the great hall to whip in front of the crowd? In front of Kael and Silvah?

Sentarra. Think of Sentarra.

His back may protect Kael, but his silence protected his kingdom. Galephy wouldn’t press for answers tonight, not after a beating. But he wasn’t lying about the whip. He’d never been whipped, but Decharo’s back had taken weeks to heal. This would be hard to hide.

He swallowed as he dropped his shirt and the king pulled his elbow to the desk. He planted one of Tehveor’s hands against the desk.

“A prince isn’t allowed to kneel,” Galephy said.

A prince.

Was he still reenacting Kael’s punishment? Or did he know? Did he know? Panic flickered, but he kept it from his face until the king stepped behind him. The lash trailed his back feeling like he’d been stung by hornets. He gasped and gripped the desk tighter.

A second lash, and he scarcely reined in his cry. He couldn’t think of Sentarra or even Kael. He couldn’t think about anything besides catching his breath, only to losing it on the next blow, besides keeping his feet in place when every instinct pulled him toward the door.

What was the punishment for a prince? If he knew when it would end – that it would end – he could bear it. But the whip fell across his shoulder, already sore from learning to weld the Lastern sword and blood crept into the laceration it left.

“Don’t touch him!”

Joshah’s command garbled his thoughts. Tehveor spun in time to see his brother caught the king’s wrists, intervening the next blow, twisting his arm over his head.

“Joshah!” Tehveor cried as his brother hurled the whip across the room.

“If it’s my good pleasure to beat him, I’ll beat him,” Galephy spat. “You are out of your place to refute me!”

The wide fist swung. Joshah ducked, shoving Tehveor onto the ground before he blocked the blow with his arm.

“Joshah, stop! Stop, stop!” Tehveor begged.

Galephy twisted Joshah’s arm, forcing him to hunch forward and hissing into his ear. “You will regret your interference by the time I’m done with you.”

“Please, My King,” Tehveor begged.

“Tehveor you come with me!” Galephy spat. “Not a word from either of you!”

He followed as the king shoved Joshah through deserted halls, steering him down the steps to the dungeon. Joshah panted but held his chin high as he walked past the cells Kael had emptied, only stumbling when the king continued to twist his arms. Tehveor’s stomach rolled as the king shoved his brother into the same cell where Mauran had died.

Joshah made no protest as the king forced his hands into chains high above his head. Tehveor caught the bars, hyperventilating, as Galephy strode past him to jerk a braided coil from the wall.

Joshah caught his eye, whispering, “Be calm.”

But just after, the boy’s eyes widened. He pulled against the chains, crying, “Please, Your Majesty, no!”

The fire trailed across Tehveor’s back again, twice as hard as the others and it ripped his voice out of his throat. Galephy shoved him against the bars, scarcely allowing himself to catch himself before he commanded. “Quiet! The more you beg, the harder he will be flogged. You will learn not to interfere.”

Tehveor clenched the bars as another blow fell, knocking him against the bars. He banged his head, then pulled away, but the lash stopped his backward step.

And now he heard Joshah’s cry, turning into a strangled wail as the boy closed his mouth to stop his own pleas. The next lash came harder still, and his cries blended in with his brother’s. He clung to the bars, holding himself until his legs shook too badly and he sunk between each blow.

The room swayed in and out of focus, followed by a black blur that dipped him toward the floor. He’d tried to beg, but his raw throat rasped. But he couldn’t go on. The king was going to kill him.

“Mercy!” He panted. “Mercy, My King. Please…. Please…”

The blows stopped, bringing hope and relief and dread that they’d start again. He gasped in short breaths, losing them again in the panting refrain of, “Please, please…”

He couldn’t look up, couldn’t lift his head, but he felt the king step away, felt the relief the open space offered.

Galephy’s voice rose above Joshah’s heavy breaths.

“You have an impressive mouth on you,” he said. “And it better offer an impressive apology tomorrow morning. If you ever speak against me again, I will burn out your tongue, and if you raise a fist against me, I will cut it off. Do you understand?”

“Yes, My King,” Joshah whispered.

As the door slammed, Tehveor dropped his forehead into the crook of his arm, feeling his breath bring up bits of straw and dust from the floor.

“Tehveor,” Joshah whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He worked a hand closer to his chest, but he couldn’t loosen his brother’s chains any more than Joshah could pull him up. And he didn’t want to move.

He closed his eyes as Joshah said, “By the gods, you can’t stay here.”

“I’m not…” Tehveor groaned. “Going to stay here.”

He was going to Sentarra.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The nights were growing too cold to stay out for hours. If he didn’t ride by soon, Eslaveth would have to return to the inn and put off speaking to Tehveor yet another day. She’d watched for him in the mornings, though it would be hard to catch him then when he’d be in a hurry, and she faced a full workday. She didn’t know when he rode by on his way to his destination, and though she’d chosen different times to wait each night, he hadn’t come.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

She swallowed and pulled her cloak tighter around her body, scooting her knees further into her chest. She’d sent word to her uncle, but she had no idea how many days it would take before the letter reached him, if he could read the words of the chapel-keeper, or if he would respond to her request to see him again. And now it was too late to recall it. She couldn’t have both lives, surely, so she’d said nothing about becoming a lady. But if taking up that title gained her the ears of people who could put a stop to the sort of behavior that led to Breon’s death, wasn’t it right to try, even if it did require her to leave the home of the couple who had raised her?

And then there was this Sentarra kingdom, these secrets the man claimed she should not pursue. In the end, it all boiled down to meeting Tehveor again, for if he couldn’t take Daryn’s behavior to someone who would look into it, she doubted anyone could. And if he was part of this country–if he was the cause her parents died for–he could answer her questions about that, too.

Muffled hoofbeats sent her heart into a painful pound. She leaned into the shadows until she spied the rider. He wore a cloak but a horse and saddle that fine must be from the castle, and there was something about his stance that made her feel safe enough to push to a shaky stand.

“Tehveor!” she called.

The rider pulled the animal into a circle, turning to search the shadows with his hand on his sword’s hilt. He dropped it only after she pushed her hood back.

“Eslaveth,” he whispered. He nudged the animal closer, his eyes picking up the glint of the moonlight as he asked, “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you,” she answered. “I wasn’t sure when you rode by, and I couldn’t get word to you at the castle.”

“Word about what?” he asked.

She swallowed, glancing down the empty street where most of the fires had burned out. If the moon wasn’t so full, she wouldn’t have been able to see him at all. She unclasped the chain from her neck and held it up to let it dangle between them.

“This is yours, isn’t it?” she asked.

He hesitated for so long that she began to doubt her own guess. Perhaps he wasn’t part of the kingdom. He eyed the ring like it was a hot coal before he reached for it. The chain slacked as he bore the ring’s weight.

“Yes,” he whispered.

She held her breath and the fog from her last rose, clearing the air between them. The kingdom was real. The memories, her father’s claims, they were all real. Had her father not been intercepted, she would have met Tehveor when they were young.

“Then you chose it,” she whispered. “The kingdom?”

He held so still she wondered if he was holding his breath, but then he nodded.

“And the secrets are worth the knowing?” she asked.

“They will be,” he said.

“Then I want to know them, too,” she said.

The silver eyes searched her, the horse shifted, and Tehveor put a hand on its neck without taking his eyes from her. He swallowed, then whispered, “It’s a long walk.”

He held out his arm. He wasn’t going to tell the secrets. He was going to take her there. She swallowed and grasped his hand, gasping as he pulled her onto the horse behind him. She’d ridden before, but it had been so long that she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one would see and pull her back onto the ground where the peasants belonged.

“Hold on to me,” Tehveor whispered.

She seized his waist as the horse began to move.

“How did you remember?” Tehveor asked.

“The song,” she answered. “Flash of Fire. Sound of Steel. My father taught me.”

“What else did your father tell you?” Tehveor asked.

“That our family was to protect a king,” she answered. “And our country needs a good king.”

He turned his face to glance over his shoulder before he answered, “I’m not a king of Erilerre. Only the Erish who came from Sentarra will return to it. Most will stay. Kael is their king.”

“How will they know?” she asked. “If the kingdom is secret?”

“They’ll be drawn,” he said. “As you were.”

She swallowed, wondering if Breon would have been drawn to the secret kingdom. “I need your help,” she said, “as a korvier, not a king.”

“That doesn’t happen often,” Tehveor said. “Korvier’s don’t have much authority.”

“All I need is an ear,” she said. “Do you know Darryn, the son of Lord Yarborrow?”

Tehveor frowned but nodded. “Yes. Though not well. I don’t trust him.”

She swallowed. “He murdered my friend. A few of us, actually.”

She’d discussed the dance with her neighbors, especially during the burials of those who hadn’t survived the intrusion. Even Breon’s death had brought masked questions and speculations. She wasn’t even sure that telling the king’s family could change anything, but at least she’d tried and someone knew. A korvier may not hold much power, but Tehveor was one step above a lord and Darryn couldn’t trample him.

“I know at the end of the day nothing in the world will bring Breon back,” Eslaveth swallowed before she asked, “But can’t you do something?”

Tehveor took a breath. “I could let Darryn know that I know, and that may deter him from future torments. But we must find a way to keep him from suspecting that you told me and returning to harm you.”

“If it comes to harm me,” she said. “He’ll be stirring up a hornet’s nest. Half the town slits their eyes toward his home, and if he pushes them much further, they will swarm. That’s why we must do something now.”

There was nothing amusing in the conversation, but she watched a smile creep across Tehveor’s mouth until it was too distracting to continue her rant and she asked, “What? Why are you smiling?”

“Do you know,” he said, “that the legend predicted that you would come in the form of a protector?”

“A protector?” she asked. “Well, I knew I was supposed to protect you…”

“The second princess does far more than protect me,” he said. “She protects her people by leading them when Celestion is gone, and if I’d doubted that you were her, I don’t anymore.”

“Father never said anything about a princess,” Eslaveth said.

“Celestion – the one with the silver eyes – becomes the high king,” Tehveor said. “But there is another prince and three princesses in the legend, each with a different task, but each who will jointly rule over aspects of the kingdom. We already have the first, who is the messenger, now we have you. The protector. And I think that’s what Fate has been waiting for.”

For her?

Eslaveth swallowed and hugged him a bit more tightly. “I wrote my uncle about the adoption,” she said. “I don’t want to leave the inn, but I thought if I became a lady, I could reach you and help them.”

“Likely your family isn’t part of Sentarra,” Tehveor said. “Perhaps later they will be. But you won’t have to leave the inn – not yet anyway, though it does become harder to keep your separate, to keep the secrets.”

“Your family doesn’t know,” she said.

“Only my mother,” Tehveor answered. “The secrets are dangerous to those not part of Sentarra, and I’ve seen nothing to indicate that Fate has drawn anyone else.”

“Which is why you didn’t tell me,” she said, “when I showed you the ring?”

He nodded. “If you come to Sentarra, it must be of your own choice. But Fate led you here anyway.”

“Led me where?” she asked, because he had pulled his horse to a stop in the middle of the wilderness as soon as the moors blocked the wind.

Tehveor slid from the horse, reaching for her waist to steady her as she followed him down. She landed inches from him, realizing he stood nearly a head above her.

“To the caves,” he said. He turned her to face the jagged mouth of an entrance. “This is where the leaders, and the legends, and Fate all live.”

She didn’t like the dark mouth, gaping in the quiet wilderness. But she asked, “Was my father here?”

“I think so,” he answered.

Had she been here as well? It felt familiar — repelling even as curiosity drew her — but she stiffed as a figure stepped from the blankness with a sword drawn.

But Tehveor called, “It’s only me.”

The man sheathed the weapon and bowed deeply before asking, “Who is with you?”

Tehveor’s hand slipped into hers, squeezing it in a reversal of roles as he called out, “The protector. Her name is Eslaveth, but she speaks only Erish.”

The man stepped into the moonlight, staring at her as though she were a mythical creature. “Mauran’s daughter?” he asked. When Tehveor nodded, an impressed smile crept across the guard’s face before he replied, “Well done.”

“I didn’t do it,” Tehveor said. “She came on her own.”

The man bowed again, only this time to her. When he straightened, his face was kind. “I am Daton,” he said. “I knew your father. He was a good man. He would be proud of you for returning and taking up his cause. When you need my support, you will have it.”

“Thank you,” Eslaveth said with a startled glance toward Tehveor, who only grinned.

“Come meet the first princess,” Tehveor said. “Shannondant’s going to be elated for another girl here, don’t you think?”

Daton grinned and nodded. “She may never let you leave.”

“Eslaveth must leave,” Tehveor said. “She is like me. She cannot stay yet.”

“Soon,” Daton said. “Soon, and neither of you will have to choose.”

Tehveor kept her hand as they stepped into the darkness. She forced her feet across the unseen paths until torchlight cast light across the earthen walls. She’d imagined caves as mazes of black rock, but the walls sparkled with layers of earth and crystal that reflected the flames.

She glanced around as they stepped into a cavern. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“I’ve often wondered what it would truly look like,” Tehveor said. “If you were able to see the entire thing at once in the sunlight. It’s a lot like Sentarra,” he said. “It’s just pieces, some beautiful and some dark, and you’re never quite sure how they fit together or what they will look like when everything is in place.”

“What do you think it will look like?” she asked.

“Freedom,” he answered. “From the secrets. From the king. We’ll finally have somewhere safe, and who’s to say when it’s not a secret anymore, that we can’t bring those we love to the new kingdom if they are not happy in the old.”

She’d heard lots of talk of a new kingdom of late, but it had all revolved around overthrowing and destroying the old. Was it possible to raise another alongside who would provide safety and strength to Erilerre until Kael was able to stabilize the throne? Was that why her father had chosen to become part of both countries? To live as a subject of one as he worked to protect the leader of the other?

Hope flickered as Tehveor motioned her through another winding path. They came to a natural chamber, lit by a fire contained in a large circle whose smoke billowed toward the holes that showed gaps of stars. A boy and girl rose on their entrance, still dressed in day clothes and setting aside bowls of meat and potatoes as though they’d skipped the night altogether.

“Who is this?” the girl asked, and her eyes twinkled with intrigue.

“Eslaveth,” Tehveor answered. “Fate’s brought her.”

“Is this the second princess?” Shannondant inched toward her. “Fate said you would be coming soon.”

She’d never seen this girl in her life, and something cold swept down her spine as she sputtered, “Fate said… Fate told you about me?”

She glanced toward Tehveor to see if he shared her confusion, but he listened calmly as the girl continued.

“He said he’d seen the second princess,” she said, “and she’d already begun to fulfill her role as the protector.”

Fate had seen her? The man had warned her that if she learned the secrets, Fate would begin to watch her – but she hadn’t protected anyone since then. Who had he seen her protect?

“When?” she asked.

“Month ago,” Shannondant answered.

When she’d argued for Karlyn’s life? When she’d warned Tehveor and his brother about the plotters? When she’d gone to the castle, waited on the inn tables, and kissed Breon – Fate had been watching her? She pulled back, but Tehveor tightened his grasp on her hands.

“Fate won’t harm you,” he said. “It’s only purpose is to ensure the legend comes to pass.”

“And it is,” the other boy spoke with a growing smile. “It is coming to pass. We didn’t even have to search for her.”

“This is Decharo,” Tehveor said. “He is the keeper of the light, and if you ever get turned around in the caves, he’s the one who can find you.”

“As I well know,” Shannondant said. “I’ve been here for months and months, and I’m still getting turned around.” She turned toward Tehveor asking, “Have you showed her story yet?”

“Eslaveth doesn’t read or speak Sentarrian,” Tehveor said, conveniently leaving out that she couldn’t read Erish either.

“That’s alright,” Shannondant’s smile didn’t even falter. “She’s the protector. I don’t imagine she’d have much time for reading or sorting through old papers. But I thought – perhaps if she could tell us what she’s done and what she hasn’t, we could better order the events of the legend.”

“She will,” Tehveor said, but his grip stayed tight. “Later, though. We won’t pull her into all of that yet.”

“Oh, please, pull me,” Eslaveth answered. Intrigue overcame fear as she listened to two strangers tell her bits of a legend dictating her life. She watched the fire burn low, frowning as Shannondant regaled her with a short, but detailed story of lying to soldiers, redirecting their searches for Tehveor and even leading the Sentarrian people during one of his unexplained absences. There were gaps and no solid timeline. She wondered whether her boldness had been at all embellished in the tales through the ages, for her hands shook even imagining confronting a soldier.

The story was confusing and terrifying, but exciting. She was no longer the daughter of a lord on the quest to avenge one man. She was a princess, destined to save an entire country. Piece by piece, the mysteries of her childhood fell into place, her parents choices made sense. But her future? Her future, now partially defined, shattered every plan she’d made, jumbling events certain to come to pass with a life impossible to plan for.

What was it Breon had said? That he would going to stay away from fighting the Erish crown, unless he could discover a better alternative? She swallowed.

I found it, Breon. I found it.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Breon

“Just one more place, Esla, please!” Karlyn begged. “I haven’t found any of them!”

Eslaveth clung to the boy’s hand, blinking back tears she’d hope he’d ignore. The six children on the square had been replaced by the body of the man who had ordered them hung, the same who had come into the inn looking for Karlyn. She hadn’t known who he was, hadn’t dreamed of the horrors he’d commit, but she’d seen the gleam in his eye. She’d lied about a boy working there, then snatched the Karlyn’s hand and ran with him out the back door. They’d had a wonderful day together down at the river and for the most part, she’d managed to hide the worry from him. But the story was on every tongue, and Karlyn hadn’t waited to hear of Prince Kael’s arrival at the inn. He’d shrieked and ran out the door, calling the names of every friend who’d ever roamed the streets with him.

She’d taken turns sitting up with her family throughout the night, terrified someone would come to punish them for hiding him. She’d watched the sky lighten, but Tehveor had not ridden by that morning. The king was gone. Kael had been making lots of orders lately. but no one was quite sure what was going on.

“Karlyn, please!” She snapped as the boy wrested his hand from hers, darting into another ally. Someone was going to snatch him before she could if he kept bolting. She sprinted after him, calling, “I’ll go where you’re going, just tell me!”

But the alley was empty. Karlyn stood with slouched shoulders, pushing his lips out to stall the quivering in his face. She reached to pull his face into her chest, listening to him pull in a long sob. “They’re probably still hiding,” she whispered.

Perhaps she shouldn’t. Six children had been buried in nameless graves yesterday. He must know some, if not all of them.

“Not from me!” he squealed before the tears broke loose.

She coached her own breaths, lifting her head at the bit of movement at the corner of the building. She barely glimpsed the eye before it disappeared again.

“Karlyn!” She whispered, turning the boy.

The eye appeared again, then half a face.

“Lincon!” Karlyn’s shout would have attracted any guard within a mile, but Eslaveth breathed a sigh of relief as the boy ripped away from her again, sprinting to meet the other in a collision that looked painful.

One. One was safe. She’d doubted they’d ever clung to each other before, but she wondered if she would be able to separate them or if she’d be taking two boys back to the inn. She hadn’t considered the change in Karlyn until he was standing across from his ragged friend. She strained to hear but stayed in her place so the boy wouldn’t flee.

“The butcher hid me,” the boy said. “Chase is dead. So is Marny and Kalvon. She went after Marny when they caught her. And that new boy that slept at the church. I’ve been looking for Crates all day, but I can’t find him. He wasn’t one of them, though. I don’t know the other.”

It sounded like the talk of soldiers meeting after being on the borders, but it came from the lips of such young boys. She’d expected Karlyn to cry, but perhaps it was the not knowing that was worse than the names. His face twitched a few times, but he only nodded. The boy only said three names. She wondered if he was purposely leaving out close friends or didn’t know the last children, but she stayed quiet.

“Where are you sleeping?” Karlyn asked.

“Butchers,” the boy answered. “He lets me sleep in the room next to the smokehouse. It has the best smell.”

Eslaveth shifted, glancing back into the streets. She was supposed to be gathering the farmer’s offerings for the day, not seeking out street children.

“Walk with me, will you?” she called. “We’re going to be late.”

And if anyone pestered Lincon, she’d claim him too.

Lincon glanced over her, but Karlyn pulled him closer. “She’s alright,” he said.

The pair trailed her, talking about things besides their missing friends. She’d buy them both some fruit for the way home. And she’d have to keep an eye on Lincon to make sure he didn’t snatch anything, though Master Karnon would probably let him. His both had survived pillaging for as long as she could remember and often had children lingering, hoping for apples or sweets from his pocket. That was his rule. They could have something, but they had to ask.

The sparkle was missing from his eye today, but he pushed himself against his staff as he rose to greet them. “Eslaveth,” his word came more of a sigh. “Good to see you. I worried about that one yesterday.”

He motioned toward Karlyn who, for once, was ignoring the apples, intent on Lincon’s animated chatter.

“We’ve been looking for friends all day,” Eslaveth answered, handing her basket over. He’d fill it. She was too tired to look for the best of his fruit.

“I hope you find them,” he said. He picked up one of the larger apples, then shook his head at it. “It’s been a bad time all around.” His throat pumped, before he said, “I’m sorry about Breon.”

Breon?

His name struck, muddling her thoughts and hurting her heart.

Her head snapped up. “What?”

The man stalled, hand lowering into the basket as his body stiffened. “No one told you?”

She didn’t want to know. “Told me what?” The man’s mouth moved until she nearly seized his shirt. “Told me what!”

“He’s was working on Lord Yaboron’s castle on the towers. He slipped.”

“He’s not dead,” she whispered, “Tell me he’s not dead.”

But the man’s shoulders began to shake, and he told her nothing at all. She stuffed her hands against her mouth, suppressing the cry that ripped from her chest. The merchant hurried around the booth to pull her into a stifling hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to tell you like that. I thought you knew.”

“Esla, what’s the matter?” Karlyn hurried up.

Eslaveth reached for his shoulder, panting to bring her breath back in. “We need to go home,” she choked.

“No, you stay with me, lad,” Karnon said. He nodded toward Eslaveth. “We’ll fill up the basket and see it safely home. You go on.”

She nodded, stepping backward. But go where? There was no need to rush, to save his life, even to kiss him before he died. He was gone and the last time she’d ever see him was yesterday morning when he’d smiled and waved on his way to work. She pressed her fingers against her temples, walking with steps meant to avoid scrutiny. No one spoke to her, though several sent sympathetic glances. She’d seen them that morning. She’d assumed they were for Karlyn.

Breon’s shabby little house looked even worse with the black scarf draped over the door. She’d expected to find it filled with neighbors, but the porch was empty. The door was shut, the shutters closed, and people had respected the gesture.

She knocked anyway, ignoring the cobbler who stepped to his porch, perhaps waiting to offer his own condolences to her. Her stomach tightened, but the shutter above in the little room Breon shared with Wendelis, cracked, then shut. Solid footsteps vibrated the boards, and she willed them to belong to Breon who would tell her it was all a mistake. But when the door opened, the gray face belonged to Wendelis, and she nearly didn’t recognize him when his smile was gone. He seized her shoulders, crushing her in an embrace. Breon’s mother sat near the hearth, staring at the wall.

“He’s gone,” the woman said.

“I know,” Eslaveth answered.

Wendelis swallowed, turning his face toward the corner. He spoke in clipped words. “They won’t give us his body. They said it was too mangled to be seen, and they’d they send the box straight to the church.”

A fall that far likely was nothing to see, not for a proper wake, but to not allow the body to come home at all was cruel. She lifted her eyes toward him, afraid to voice her thoughts in front of his poor mother. But the answer was already there.

He fell?

Or he was pushed?

“But they’ll have to let us open it!” Breon’s mother[Look up Breon’s Mother’s name.] called. “He’ll need his things. We can’t send him off with nothing.”

“He’ll get them,” Wendelis said. “I’ll go tonight and pry it open if I have to. They won’t know.”

And shouldn’t know it, not if they were concealing a murder. Esalveth swallowed, glancing toward the box the woman held like it was a lunch she was waiting to give him before he left for work. She turned her face away to hide the tears. She hadn’t even considered what she’d leave with Breon. She wasn’t sure if he would wake or could use the things they left, but if the stories were true, even if he only saw them, there needed to be something from her.

And if Wendelis was going to open that box, he didn’t need to be alone doing it. She nodded, then whispered, “I’ll go with you.”

“We’ll have to wait until nightfall,” he said.

She nodded. “I know.”

But it was just as well. It took until night to exhaust her tears and choose what she’d leave with him. She couldn’t sleep in that bed anyway, not with those beautifully carved horses watching her. She didn’t have many possessions, could spare even fewer of them. In the end, she cut a bit of the material from the sleeve of the gown she’d worn the night of the dance and tied it around a lock of her hair. It was wrong to bury him, wrong that he should be given no future. But this was all they’d have between them. She’d known that since the day Fergon had pushed her from his house, scolding her for meddling in the secrets. She hadn’t been certain what she would do with those secrets, hadn’t known how she could best act on them. But she had realized that possessing her father’s bloodline, and her mother’s secrets threw up barriers she wasn’t willing to drag anyone into. Whether or not she wanted it, she had something interfering with her life, and she hadn’t wanted Breon to be the one forced to decide whether or not the cause was worth it for his life. She hadn’t told him yet and now was glad. He’d died loved, was still loved.

She’d never sneaked into the night to meet a boy, never dreamed if she did, it would be Wendelis. But they met on the corner, whispering “hello” and then walking in silence. The little chapel needed paint, though the elderly keeper had managed to keep the yard neat. If he saw them tonight, he wouldn’t meddle – not tonight – not with Breon tucked away alone. The keeper had left ten candles in burning in the only vigil Breon would have.

The warm light cast a hazy glow that made the iron bar Wendels carried seemed out of place. Her stomach churned, but she ignored it and motioned to the little box in Wendelis’s free hand. “What’s that?”

“What’s left from Father,” he said. “He kept it under his bed. And his favorite toy. Mother insisted, but I can’t imagine what he’d do with it. And a hammer.” He laughed a bit sheepishly. “I don’t know if he can take anything or not, but I supposed when he gets where he’s going, he’ll find something to fix.” He frowned at the shoddy coffin, jagged boards that overlapped at the corners. “I could have made him something good,” Wendelis said.

She set her hand on his arm, then replied softly, “He’ll still need a headboard.”

Wendelis crumbled, hunching over the box with shaking shoulders. She’d never seen him cry, but she reached for him and they clung to each other for several minutes.

“Don’t open it,” she whispered.

“We must,” Wendelis pulled back, face morphed into a grim resolve. “We’ll never get another chance. I have to know.”

“Don’t we already?” she asked. “Breon’s a carpenter. He’s not clumsy. He would have tied himself working that high.”

“He was clumsy around you,” Wendelis said. He stood a moment, eyeing the stones, then turned toward the coffin. His shadow grew on the wall and Eslaveth watched it jab the iron into the side board, prying the boards loose, leaving the top in place.

Eslaveth reached for one of the candles, steeling herself as she crept toward it. She saw Breon’s hair, matted with blood, but his skull wasn’t shattered. Wendelis reached for the candle as she dropped her her knees next to him, peering into the coffin.

Breon’s body lay twisted, sagging beneath broken bones. His knuckles were split – he’d been fighting. Perhaps they had dropped him from the tower, to give the story plausibility. But a fall didn’t blacken eyes.

Wendelis rocked back, surged to his feet and strode away in a smooth motion that panicked her.

“I’m going to kill him,” he hissed.

“No.” Eslaveth set the candle down, pushing herself up to catch Wendelis. “Your mother needs you and going after Daryn is not going to Breon back.”

Wendelis’s face twisted into ugly wrinkles as he spat, “So what? We just let him grow up, get married, and spawn his own children who will kill and trample and–”

“Shh, shh, shh!” Eslaveth crushed his face against her shoulder, cutting off the words, but he clung to her anyway. She lifted her own face toward the ceiling where the candlelight glinted off the dark colors of the windows that would filter the light. She’d never seen the chapel in the day, not where there was time to appreciate its elegance. Perhaps Breon was watching it, would see it’s beauty in the beams of the morning sun, but she hoped he wasn’t here, hoped he’d left behind that mangled body and made the journey on his own without waiting for any of them to see him off.

If she were a lady, she could insist the cover be removed and the story investigated. But if they let Lord Yarboron know that they knew the truth, he’d continue to cover it, even if it meant quieting both of them. There was no one else to approach. Except…

Tehveor.

She doubted he’d ride by this morning, doubted they’d let her into the castle, doubted they’d even believe that she was a lord’s daughter. But she whispered, “Don’t do anything rash. The king is gone and the prince might listen.”

“They’re burying him tomorrow!” Wendelis spat. “It will be too late!”

And he was right. Because there was no justice for peasants.

“Let me write to my uncle,” she said. “Breon must be allowed to go on, but at least once lord will know the truth. And if he cannot take it to the king, I will go. I will speak to the korvier or the prince or whoever they allow me to see.”

“You’re an inn-keeper,” he said. “They won’t allow you to see anyone.”

“I’m a lady,” she said.

“But you’re not,” he insisted.

Eslaveth turned toward Breon’s coffin, digging the lock of hair from her pocket. His hand was too stiff to move and she could barely reach it, but she worked it beneath one of his fingers before she stroked his hair.

She rose, facing his brother and jutting her chin. “But I will be.”

Hometown Book Signing

“So what time is the book signing?”

This question comes from Jami, who’s pouring bits of elastaseal on the loft as I follow with a paint roller, sealing the cracks next to the wall to keep the Texas torrents from leaking onto my computer below.

“1:00,” I say.

It’s somewhere around noon. I’m in a pair of pants that didn’t fit quite right and my “Good Vibes” shirt that looks like it’s seen better days. We finish off the can and clamber back through the window, spending a good five minutes as I scrub grey off my hands. Then changing into a classy, shiny tunic shirt and suit pants like I’m not a sweaty mess and there’s not a bit of gray clumping the hair at the end of my braid.

We decided to go to Subway for food since we’ve both had our fill of Sonic. It’s not until the carhop is handing me the bag that I look at Jami and cry, “This isn’t Subway!”

We took our Sonic food, consoling ourselves with the strawberry-limeades, to the bookstore where Jami reminded me to eat before doing anything else. So with my stomach going from hungry to hurting and full, we carried in boxes of books. Setting up the table cloth with handwriting, letters and butterflies, and adding the books with their corresponding candles.

I got a good response on the candles. Asking three different people which was their favorite, I got one answer for each of them. Lucy, the bookstore dog, wagged her tail smelling each as well. I’ll take that as a good sign. It was nice seeing some of the authors again and meeting new ones that I’d only heard about. Wayne shared my table, selling his cowboy cookbook and came up two books short of selling out. I alternated selling books in bursts, to several people who bought both and a few who choose one or the other, or got whichever they haven’t read yet.

I wrote “Old Main Bookstore” into “Across the Distance” mentioning a few locals drinking coffee during one of Scarlet’s scenes. Today I got to make one of the books out to “the man in the mustache” which was fun. When the readers slowed to a trickle, I got to talk to the other authors about their books, finding a lead for a fair-trade magazine from one and receiving a short lesson on the tax system from another. We talked Civil War family history, natural products, fair-trade and slavery issues, the possibility of doing an author day at a university next year as well as comparing notes about printer services.

All in all in four hours, I sold 2 candles, 7 copies of Swing and 19 copies of Across the Distance. I love this town and the support from everyone who shares it with me.

On Waking Up

Waking up early. I love it. I hate it.

Actually, I hate the way I start dragging after a while of getting up before dark. If I can go to sleep early, I can keep it up, but the few nights I’m visiting or traveling or just plain can’t sleep have a way of throwing everything off kilter. I feel like I’m forever trying to hit the reset button. It’s getting easier, though.

I’m woken every morning with a coffee pot that makes five or fewer cups. Which is good because I’ve been drinking coffee like a fiend lately. It has two settings. One: Wake up and turn it on. Two: 6:00 automatic. It’s a bit of work to reset it, so it’s six or nothing. It’s in my room, so it makes enough noise to keep me from jolting awake to the beep of an alarm clock or a ringtone that trains me to be tired anytime I use it to indicate a real call.

So far, that’s worked, along with moving my Miracle Morning to the first thing. I usually get swept away reading my book and journaling so the extra hour is nice, feeling like I can take my time and still have time for breakfast and such before I start my writing day.
Something else is helping me switch my mindset as well. Do you realize that sleeping in just one hour a day makes you lose seven hours? That’s almost an extra workday. And I know you have to get enough sleep and sometimes it’s worth the loss, but I also know for me, sleeping it late means I’m going to be laying in the dark for hours, waiting to get tired. If I consistently get up early, I’m tired by night. (She says as her head bobs while she types.) So I truly am losing that hour that could have been productive because I’m trading it for a night that I’m too braindead to do anything – yet can’t sleep.
So that’s what I’m going with for now. Instead of wishing for a little more sleeping time, I’m going to start imagining all the things I could make, do or learn with that extra morning hour. Afer all, if I do this consistently enough, eventually it will become a habit and habits become easy. I’d rather end the day sleepy.
Which is good. Because that’s what I am now. I was hoping to finish editing Chapter Two today but it looks like it might have to wait for the morning.
Bright and early.

Why I Broke Up with Amazon

[image error]I broke up with Amazon.

It felt like most break-ups: Good, because I know it was the right choice for me, but terrible because I have to start over. I have to relearn things, and I’m just a little unsure of how to make my publishing life work without Amazon. It started the same way as any break-up, little things didn’t make sense, uncomfortable sensations, warning signs that led to red flags, that led to sleepless nights, that led to this post.

I broke up with Amazon. Here’s why:

It started out reading the fine print. I was getting ready to upload my physical books for sale on Amazon, when I stumbled across this little gem:

4. License.

You grant us a royalty-free, non-exclusive, worldwide, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use, reproduce, perform, display, distribute, adapt, modify, re-format, create derivative works of, and otherwise commercially or non-commercially exploit in any manner, any and all of Your Materials, and to sublicense the foregoing rights to our Affiliates and operators of Amazon Associated Properties; provided, however, that we will not alter any of Your Trademarks from the form provided by you (except to re-size trademarks to the extent necessary for presentation, so long as the relative proportions of such trademarks remain the same) and will comply with your removal requests as to specific uses of Your Trademarks (provided you are unable to do so using standard functionality made available to you via the applicable Amazon Site or Service); provided further, however, that nothing in this Agreement will prevent or impair our right to use Your Materials without your consent to the extent that such use is allowable without a license from you or your Affiliates under applicable law (e.g., fair use under United States copyright law, referential use under trademark law, or valid license from a third party).

Wait, wait, wait…. what does THAT mean??!! If I’m giving perpetual, irrevocable rights to be commercially or non-commercially exploited in any manner, I sure as heck want to know what I’m signing over. Apparently, I’m not alone. This lawyer, who offered a chance to participate in a Kindle Giveaway, wrote about the same clause.

I’ve been researching it and honestly, I’m not really sure. It may be more harmless than it looks. It may have something to do with re-sizing the images of your goods and trademark, which makes way more sense than “We’re taking control of your content and your soul” (insert mechanical laughter). But really, that did make me look a little closer at Amazon in general.

I mean, Amazon is great for writers – it gives us a worldwide platform to an audience who is already going to check there first for their latest read. It gives larger royalties than some other publishers, even up to 70% for ebooks.

But here’s what you may not know if you haven’t published with Amazon (including releasing your books on kindle).

I “unpublished” my book. To “unpublish” a book, you have to go deep into the heart of your account settings, past the “…” button, (no, literally, it’s the ellipsis after a list of all the lovely things you CAN do to edit your ebook like they can’t imagine why you’d ever want to delete it) And bam! Unpublish. Readers won’t be able to find it. However, you can’t delete the book. Once you put a book on Amazon’s virtual bookshelf, it is glued there, never to be taken away. Apparently, Amazon Author pages are the same way. Once you create one, it can never be erased even if it’s pulling books that are outdated in place of the newer editions.

I spent an hour researching, then asked the “Help” department. This is their response:

Hello,

Thanks for reaching out to KDP Support; I’d be more than glad to clarify your questions.

I checked your account and see that you have unpublished your below Kindle titles successfully from your end.

1. B005KV4HP8 – Across the Distance

2. B00VGPHA2E – Swing

3. B005FOBEJM – The Calling

These books are no longer available to purchase and will not be searchable on our website. You may confirm this by searching for your book by Title or ASIN on the Kindle Store.

Rest assured that, the unpublished editions will not come up in the search results when customers search for your book using title name or the author name.

*******************************************

i) To delete from bookshelf: At this time, I’m not able to completely remove a book from the Bookshelf if it was previously published and available for sale in the Kindle Store.

However, I can change your book’s status to “BLOCKED” so it’s unavailable for further editing. If you’d like me to do this, please write back and let me know.

The reason we offered the option to change the book’s status to “Blocked”, is because it will become in-editable and inaccessible. Also, it will avoid any confusion in future as it will be grayed out in your bookshelf.

ii) To delete from website: Please be informed that, the detail page for all the unpublished editions can be accessed via the direct link – for eg http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005KV4HP8. However, the pricing information and the buy box will not appear.

Until customers are aware of this link, they will not be able to access this page. We have an option to remove the detail page for all these books. If you could please write back to us and confirm we can have them removed.

Thanks for your understanding and support. Thanks for using Amazon KDP.

Thanks, Amazon. So if I make the book “in-editable” is that for you or me? It’s not that I don’t want access to my books. It’s that I don’t want you to have access to my books.

Maybe I’m being silly. Maybe I’m misunderstanding how things work or what they mean. It’s possible. But does unpublishing get me out of contract with these people? What would get me out of contract, and what would keep them from changing the contract and me from finding myself stuck into something I didn’t want to be?

And is it even worth the fretting?

Most self-published authors publish or distribute with Amazon. Most of my income currently comes from Amazon. If I break from it, how badly is it going to slam my publishing progress backward? And some of the workers agree with the article but say it’s not as bad as it looks. Researching this feels like watching a brutal tennis match.

I wrestled with this question for three days before I realized, for me, it doesn’t really matter on these legalities (though I don’t like them not giving me my books completely back). Because if I am serious about building my company to work in a way that is free from exploitation or partners that exploit – Amazon’s not an option. Removing me and my layman’s confusion over contracts and publishing and changes, sleuthing into Amazon brought up a whole second level of considerations.

Amazon, in its quest to treat you and me as its customers like kings, treats its employees like crap. The more I read about alleged working conditions including warehouses over 100 degrees inside and  workers being exploited, the harder it became to justify a business relationship.  If I realized this growing monopoly was crushing all competing bookstores,  and engaging in other unethical practices, would I discount it because “they all do that”? If I walked into a store with a box full of books to be packed and shipped out and witnessed things like this first-hand, would I smile at the owner of the company? Would I tell him I’m interested in partnering with him so that he can let people know my books are in existence and ship them out and split the money with me?

No.

I wouldn’t.

Just like I wouldn’t stay with a boyfriend who speaks in ambiguous terms and changes his stance on things. I wouldn’t stay with a boyfriend who shares 70% of himself with me, then turns around and treats another human being as an expendable commodity. Not even if running from that boyfriend knocked out a good portion of my income, made me have to do more of my own legwork, and find other ways to reach my goals. And maybe my boyfriend’s not much worse that the other guys out there – maybe they’re all exploiting their workers this way. Maybe somehow because the workers can quit and find another place somehow justifies the abuse. Maybe the allegations are worse than the reality. But that doesn’t mean I have to complacently go along with something raising so many red flags. Just because they play a financially successful tune doesn’t mean I have to dance to it, and even if all corporate businesses run this way, it  doesn’t make it okay.

It’s not right. And I’m going to pick my box of books back up and walk out the door. Maybe some day those employees can work for me. Maybe I’ll be left hawking books from a bicycle basket. Maybe Amazon will forge new paths and become a dream workplace, extending mutual benefits for all. And maybe I’ll find out I’m all wrong, the red flags and dirty laundry was really a pristine clothesline doing an honest job, and the loss of revenue was for nothing. But maybe not. I’m preparing a business for the day one of my books takes off and I want it to be build on a solid foundation. The Amazon is a big river, but it’s not the only river and it’s certainly not the whole world.

E. E. I. Challenge – Common Sense vs Conscience

I’ve been wanting to write out my personal values and those for my company. I’ve also been resisting it because, honestly, I can sum it up in one driving belief. Common sense screams that living by it 100% would be next to impossible in the way the world is set up today and to even try would be more inconvenient than the good it would do.

It’s this: I will not exploit or support exploitation.

Implementing this one change would shake up every single area of my life. Even imagining a life where I made every decision according to this one value, stirs up complications and questions and fear. It’s all very good and noble in theory, but it’s just not practical.

I’m not blind. I realize that when I make an effort to buy from a mom and pop shop helps my ideas, but doesn’t mean the supplies they use are not from a company that abuses its workers. I can purchase makeup from a company who pays fair wages to their workers (or not) but very likely the sparkly mica in it was mined by a slave child. I went into a supermarket once to see how many fair-trade marked items I could find. There were about six and most of them were condiments. Even buying from a company owned and operated in America doesn’t guarantee there is not massive exploitation or even slavery involved in the making of their goods. I’ve been wrestling with this problem for a few years now, and quite frankly, it’s overwhelming.

But does that make it right to not act when I know something is wrong?

Does the extreme inconvenience it causes for me somehow justify ignoring the damage that has been caused to another person’s life, just so I’m not inconvenienced? I can’t make a change 100% overnight. But I can make a change. Because I want both my life and my company to be built on a foundation of honesty. I want every transaction to be mutually beneficial to all parties involved. I don’t want to partner with companies that are unfair to their workers. I don’t want to use supplies that were made with raw material that harmed and did not compensate their workers.

I don’t want to climb to the top by stepping on people. I won’t do it. Not even my book is worth damaging a life.

And right now is the perfect time to take a step back. I published Swing almost a year ago. I have a better idea of what publishing entails, the different phases of it, and what it takes to get an idea from the computer to the page. Now, I’m going to take a closer look at each stage of my business to see how I can make it line up with my values.

It does feel a bit like conscience and common sense are battling in my brain, but I realized even if they are – people who live according to their highest ideals have fared better than people who listened to fears driving by common sense.

While normally I would err on the side of sense, I’m finding that in the areas when these two collide, it’s because common sense is acting out of fear, seeking a place of comfort and safety. Do I want a business based on fear? No. I don’t, any more than I want my everyday choices to be based on fear

If I’m going to take the time and effort to reinvent the wheel, I sure as heck want to make sure the principals that spin it are sound. So that’s my next project for my E. E. I. Challenge. Along with taking each area and asking the normal questions, I’m also going to ask:

Does this harm other people?

And if it does, I’ll know something needs to change. Because I want to do more than treat my customers and friends well. I want to treat everyone well.

It’s terrifying and it’s been taking up large portions of my mental energy lately. I have no idea how I’m going to do it. Publishing is a tough business, even when you’re not limiting yourself to considering every pair of hands involved. But I know it’s right, not only because it lines up with my values, but because it’s terrifying and uncomfortable and demands more than I’ve ever asked of myself.

And that means there is a massive chance for growth. It means I’m aiming higher than I would normally do, so it means I’m going to get different and better results than I normally do. I just might dip a bit down before I go up.

But that’s okay. Because there’s no point in writing books that inspire humans to treat humans better, if I’m not willing to do it myself.

E.E.I. Challenge – Writing Challenge

[image error]Today was morning number two and – my alarm must not have been set, for not only did I sleep well, but it didn’t go off, leaving me to wake on my own at – well, 7:00. I have no idea what the barometer is outside, but clouds have been threatening rain all day and the gusty wind is enough to cue Mrs. Gultch’s Theme. Right now, it’s gusting through the screen because the house has gone from chilly yesterday to hot today. And my muscles are killing me. In other parts of Texas and the states around me, people are bracing under tornado alerts. So for we have a coastal watch warning, a flash flood watch, and a pollen alert. I hear the bees are rejoicing everywhere.