Minstrel's Serenade (17 page)

He threaded his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “I have to admit, I didn’t think he was alive. But, you were right. Your persistence saved his life, not I.”

Danika paused. The next she’d see him they would be going into battle. There wouldn’t be another moment like this. “I was wrong about you. I’m sorry I never returned your letters.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” He leaned his head down and his nose brushed against hers. She opened her lips slightly. Doubt and a fierce loyalty to Bron kept her from leaning forward to kiss him.

“If you do not try, you’ll never know,” he whispered.

Danika rose on the tip of her toes and pressed her lips against his. So soft, so smooth, so gentle, so sweet. Valorian kissed her back with restraint and respect. She was a princess, and he a prince. A long, drawn-out courtship should have taken place before they even touched. Danika pulled away, still digesting her feelings. A life with Valorian meant many things, good and bad. She’d live in the House of Song and follow in her mother’s footsteps by moving to a new kingdom through marriage and by choosing a minstrel lover. Most of all, choosing Valorian meant leaving Ebonvale and Bron.

Valorian smiled, but it was sad. “Farewell, Princess. A long journey awaits both of us. I hope to see you at the end.”

She knew he hoped they’d be together, but she couldn’t promise him anything. Danika had a lot to think about and very little time.

Stewardess of Ebonvale

Emotions running rampant, Danika ascended the large, table-wide stone steps to her castle. A middle-aged woman carrying a basket of apples hobbled to her left, and two farm kids darted past her, weaving in and out of the crowd in a game of tag. A temple monk hummed as he marched to her right, his face and shaved head painted with ancient symbols. Silver offerings tied to the end of his staff clinked with each step. He smelled of smoke and incense, drawing Danika to turn toward him. The monk locked eyes and stared as if he could see the shape of her soul.

She pulled her hood further around her face and increased her pace, shuffling behind a young castle archer with a bow slung over his shoulder. The travelers formed a line, waiting for the guards to grant them entrance into the main keep.

A guard that had worked for her father for many years held out his hand. “Reason for business, or your pass, ma’am.”

While hiding her face in her hood, Danika dug into the folds of her cloak and brought out a silver emblem of a horse and rider, the emblem of the royal messenger. The guard nodded once and moved to the older woman carrying apples.

Once through the main gate, Danika picked up her long cloak to free her legs and jogged through the courtyard. She passed the fountain and, like always, the airborne dolphins and mermaids brought memories of her mother and the minstrel on that fateful night. The familiar gurgle of water whispered to her and the scent of cherry blossoms rode the wind, bringing fond memories as well, mostly those of her father bringing her flowers from the training field or a sparkly rock from the upturned earth caused by battle. She was finally home.

After presenting the messenger symbol repeatedly, she climbed the spiral stairway to the main throne room. Familiar paintings of her relatives and ancestors greeted her as she passed. Her father’s rigid features belied the kindness in his eyes as he stood in his prime with his sword perpetually raised, clad in shining armor. Her mother’s soft, round face, ivory skin and velvet shawl showed a much earlier time before fate turned her into a scavenger of the woods.

If only Danika had known then what she knew now.

Danika paused by her mother’s sweet picture. Would she have still left?

Between the paintings of her mother and father lay the former Queen of Ebonvale, Islador. Danika had never noticed how the first wife’s painting was the largest and the only frame gilded in gold with rubies and emeralds clustered at every corner. Her face shone like an angel mixed with a temptress, with star-white hair and entrancing, sapphire eyes. She was gorgeous, and now the extent of the golden slippers her mom had been forced to fill was more evident. Sybil had failed because Danika’s father had never moved Islador’s painting. The dead queen still claimed her right by his side, as if she’d entranced him in a spell besting death.

Tapestries depicting her father’s glory over the dead army of Sill covered the walls as she rounded the bend. On the right, he rode a black horse, leading Ebonvale’s Royal Guard. On the left, he swung his sword, slicing a putrefied soldier of the dead in half. One battle after another in a long slew covered the extent of his campaign with precise detail down to the rotting faces and hollow eyes of the enemy and the gleaming silver of the guards’ raised swords.

Her mother’s words had skewed everything Danika knew about the past. Her father had disappeared often over the years, and she had only seen them together on formal occasions. Her mother
had
been a pet, confined in the castle like a bird in a cage. How could Danika have been so blind? Having no time for further ruminations, she took a right turn and reached the throne room, throwing open the massive oaken doors.

The tiles in the marble floor depicted the galaxy above, with swirling cosmic clouds and glinting stars of mica. The artist’s work represented Ebonvale’s never-ending reach throughout the world, stretching throughout the universe. At the center of the cosmos stood three thrones made from the pillars of Helena’s and Horred’s temple before the dead army stomped their palace to ruins. The ancient, cracked ivory was carved with stony ivy and large winged butterflies climbing the sides.

Only one throne, the smaller one between the king’s and queen’s, was occupied. Several handmaidens holding fans and trinkets stood or sat around it. One of them plunked on a harpsichord in the center of the room, singing in a high-pitched, child-like voice.

Danika entered, and the handmaidens parted, revealing a woman wearing a gown of golden silk trimmed with black lace. She rose abruptly and clicked her silver heels, sending all her handmaidens scurrying away.

She gestured toward Danika and invited her forward. “Come.”

Cords were draped around the woman’s neck, holding the pendants of Helena’s sword and Horred’s hammer. A veil punctured by pearls at even intervals covered her face. Her long blond hair was pinned and braided in a severe bun on top of her head.

Danika bowed, her face almost touching the floor. “My Highness.”

“It’s about time you’ve returned.” The princess waited until every handmaiden and guard had left. When the doors closed, she pulled Danika to her feet and wrapped her arms around her. “I thought I’d lost you and I’d have to pose as Princess for the rest of my damned life.”

“Sorry, Muriel.” Danika hugged her, glad to have some female company after so many days with a boy and two men. “Much has happened.”

Muriel ruffled her gown. “Come. Let us discuss this in your quarters where I can shed this awful monstrosity.”

Danika wasn’t looking forward to her old life or wearing the hideous gowns her mother had instated for the Ebonvale women royalty at court. The ensemble’s only logical use was hiding her long absences when she rode off on her adventures. After such a long journey, britches and cloaks felt more comfortable.

They scampered behind the triple thrones to an alcove in the back, where pigeons flew into the rafters and golden sunlight trickled down from windows high above. Muriel pulled the dress over her head, exchanging clothes with Danika. Her handmaiden’s features were blunter, her nose bigger, and her eyes smaller, but they had the same honey-colored hair and small stature. Their clothes fit nicely on one another, allowing Muriel to assume the throne when needed.

Danika pulled off her breeches, embarrassed by her dirt-stained leggings underneath. “What has happened at court?”

“A whole lot of nothing.” Muriel rolled her eyes, pulling the pins from her hair. “Count Viscos wants to throw a party, the gardener cannot decide whether to plant more roses or petunias, and the Royal Guard grows restless without the army of Sill to keep them busy.”

“Oh, they’ll be busy soon enough.” Danika told Muriel of her time in the House of Song and King Troubadir’s story of the She-Beast.

Muriel slapped her hand over her mouth. She looked so vulnerable in her underdress and bare legs. “’Tis untrue!”

Danika tilted her head, weighing the same question. “There’s only one way we’ll know for sure.”

“You’re not taking the army to their lair, are you?”

“Aye.” Danika pulled the dress over her head, feeling ten pounds heavier. “We’ve found a way to beat them, an alloy strengthening our armor enough to withstand their fire breath. Bron is at the smithy as we speak, instructing the blacksmiths on how to forge the armor and weapons.”

“Oh, Danika! You’ve just come home. You cannot leave again.”

Danika paused. She had unknowingly followed in her father’s footsteps. Was she as monstrous as he had been? She tried to convince herself she left for the right reasons and faced Muriel. “Yes, but this time you won’t have to pose as the princess. The kingdom will know.”

Muriel wiped at her eyes. “Why?”

“My father is dead. The troops need a leader, an icon, a symbol of Ebonvale to guide them into battle.” Danika put her hand on her handmaiden’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Muriel. I’m appointing you as Stewardess of Ebonvale. If I do not return, you will be its queen.”

Muriel snorted. “I’m no more a queen than a field mouse is a warrior.”

“You’ve been doing it all along.”

“I don’t have royal blood.”

“You do.” Danika pulled Muriel to a mirror in the far side of the room. Her pulse quickened as she saw what had been on her mind ever since visiting her mother in the woods. “Do we not resemble one another?”

“Aye.”

“And are you not one year my senior, which would place your birth between Islador’s reign and my mother’s?”

“Aye. But my father was lost at sea.”

Danika widened her eyes as if she opened Muriel’s eyes as well. “Since when do fishermen come this far north?”

Muriel covered her mouth again. Her words came out muffled against the palm of her hand. “You don’t mean--”

Danika nodded. “Half-sisters. I have not the paperwork to prove it, but your claim, along with my signature, may be enough.”

“Are you certain?” Muriel’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

Danika nodded. “Aye.”

Muriel threw her arms around her and pulled her close, squeezing so hard Danika thought her dress would pop open in the front. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. Not to be queen, but to be tied to you. I always knew we had a connection, and now I can say we are bonded for life. To lose what I’ve only just now gained... Danika, I don’t want you to leave.”

Danika allowed herself to be held for a long time, finally giving in to her vulnerabilities. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “With any luck, I’ll be back.”

Muriel pulled back to meet her eyes. “You’d better come back. I don’t want to marry a minstrel from the House of Song.”

“If I don’t come back, there may be no House of Song left. You’re to move our people into the mountains and hide in the land of Sill.”

Muriel scrunched her nose and pursed her lips. “That land stinks like rotten garbage. Crows circle the tainted earth to this day, picking at pieces of the bodies.”

“Better to be smelly than to be dead.”

Muriel slumped on an old cushion, now dressed in Danika’s travel gear. She put her elbows on her knees and held her face in her hands.

Meanwhile, Danika pinned up her hair and cleaned the smudges from her face. She was in dire need of a bath, but to get to the wash basins, she’d need to look like herself, the princess.

Muriel’s head snapped up. “How did you figure it out after all these years?”

Danika paused. This wasn’t a subject she wanted to broach again. “I came across my mother in the forest.”

“Your mother! I thought she went back to Jamal.”

“So did we. In a way, I wish she had. At least she’d be happy.” Danika slumped onto a stool. “Oh, Muriel. Fate has not been kind to her. She lives alone, deserted and exiled, with only her precious cherry blossoms to keep her company.”

“How tremendously hideous.”

Danika nodded, pushing away the rising current of emotion. “She said my father paid more attention to the handmaidens than to her. It took me a while to process. Sometime in the shadowy dank cave of Darkenbite, the truth came to me, and I knew if I ever saw you again, I had to tell you.”

Muriel nodded, running her hands through her hair to twist out the waves caused by pinning her shiny locks up for so long. “Don’t you think she stayed because of you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother. She could have returned to Jamal with or without her minstrel lover. Her family would have taken her back. Why did she stay?”

Danika paused with a pin stuck between her lips. She hadn’t thought about her mother’s choice. Anger and hate had blinded her the entire time she visited the cottage. Danika covered her heart with her hand. Her mother had chosen the satiny fabric to complement her honey hair.

“Helena’s Sword! I’ve been so cruel.”

Wish

The heat from the forge wafted down the walkway as Bron parked the carriage and brought the horses to a trough. Nip climbed out and Bron halted him with a steady arm. “I’ll lead. I know the blacksmith well.” The real reason he didn’t want the boy wandering was the danger of the hot metal and flames. Nip had grown up in a blacksmith’s forge, but not one like this.

“Aye.” Nip took Bron’s place by his side. Disappointment slumped his shoulders.

“I’ll need you to speak of what you saw in your father’s forge. Wait for my cue.”

Nip nodded and Bron grabbed a block of pinkish silver. They walked through the door and into a cloud of smoke. Chains, breastplates of all shapes and sizes, claymores, daggers and long swords lined the walls. A large steel vent hung from the center of the room over a pit of searing flames. Beside the simmering bed of coals stood a wrought iron anvil taller than Nip and as wide as their carriage.