“
And what of you, Reeve—will you live content, knowing you sent me to the same fate as our mother? Are you so anxious to be rid of me, dear brother?” Fueled by anger, she flung her words at him like a knife, knowing they would cut deep.
He paled as the blood drained from his face. For a moment, neither said anything. Neither moved as they glared at each other, both of them holding their hurt in front of them to shield them from additional wounds. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Reeve spoke. “Riya, no.” He rose from his chair and crossed over to where she still stood in the doorway. Stiffly, he pulled her against his chest. “I would never wish her fate on you. Never. But Riya, I am afraid that fate is exactly what faces many of our people. Death at the wicked hands of Sheas. They are heathens, dear sister. And make no mistake: they are coming for us.” His fear for their people was one she shared, but that didn't excuse him trying to send her away. She pushed away, not ready to let him comfort her.
Still angry, she spat back at him, “Our mother was one of those 'heathens'. They are our people, too.”
“
Emariya, our mother's people no longer control Sheas, or have you forgotten your lessons? The Roths were overthrown many years ago. We can't afford to think kindly of them, because I assure you, they won't stop to think kindly of us. They will burn whatever is in their path. Our mother was not what they have become.” His defense of their mother was as quick as her own. After her death, Valencia's uncle, Rees Hendel, had revolted. The Roths were overthrown and Rees had ruled Sheas with an iron fist ever since.
The thought of her people, her friends and neighbors, living as slaves or impoverished under the dictator of Sheas, made her knees weak. “Reeve, can't we find another way? I do want to help—really, I do. I just don't want to do it by going away. If Father returned and I wasn't here…” Her words broke off as the sob that had been pushing its way up into her throat escaped.
“
Emariya, I need you to be strong. Our people—they are depending on you. I know this is not what you would have chosen for yourself. Please try to understand,” he pleaded with her. “Those of us born to lead are not born free; we are born shackled to a duty to make sure our people go free.” He used the oft-repeated words of their father.
She looked up at him through the tears pooling in her eyes. “Reeve, I am being strong. I know you are doing the best you can until Father gets back. But Father will come back, and if this is what Father wants, then so be it, I suppose I won't have a choice. But right now, I do. And this is my choice. I won't marry Torian. I won't marry anyone until my father is here to bless my hand. But I will help our people. I will find another way.” She knew Reeve didn't like it, but she also knew he would forgive her. He was her brother, and they were all each other had. They had fought, as siblings did, many times before, and each time they had made up. This would be no different. After planting an affectionate kiss on her brother’s stunned cheek, she turned on her heel and walked away.
***
He had just received the word. He couldn't say it was unexpected. Still, he had dared to hope that she would agree. Fortunately, he hadn't been counting on it.
Who lets a fool hearted girl make the decisions that would effect an entire kingdom? The entire Three Corners really. It wouldn't do. Someone needed to take her firmly in hand. But he couldn't—not yet, anyway. But someday soon, maybe. Yes, maybe someday soon he would show her that he had the upper hand. He would tell her what she was to do, and she would comply.
Taking her by force wasn’t an option. He needed her to make the journey willingly. Her compliance was essential if the lines were to be bound, if the people were to follow her. That was why he had already set in place the beginning of an alternate plan. His father had taught him that. To lead, one must anticipate those that would attempt to stand in your way. By planning smarter, anticipating, and leaving nothing to chance, he would prevail. He was accustomed to getting his way. Why should this be any different?
But what did he have that could change her course? What was driving her? Well, there was one thing. Something he had truly hoped not to have to use. It was deplorable, even for him. So she wants her father, he thought. Perhaps it was time to put him into play. It might make things more complicated for him downwind, but he could be flexible.
“
Jaryl!” he called.
The sinister little man appeared and stood in the doorway, silently awaiting his orders.
“
Release our prisoner; I think he will likely feel obligated to spread word of Oren,” he said. “We'll see if that makes her change her mind.”
“
It will be done at once, Your Grace.”
***
Nestled beneath the earth, the air in his cell was stagnant and laced with the smell of rot. Swallowing the dank and musty air made the bile rise in his throat. With a groan Oren shifted, leaning his opposite shoulder against the dirty wall. He ached. He thirsted. But he must not give up.
He feebly raised a hand to his overgrown mustache. Something skittered beneath his wrinkled fingers as he scratched. The weight of the iron shackle bit into his thin wrists. Exhausted from the effort, he let his hand fall. He laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Moments like this, death would have been a welcome visitor. But death didn't come, and neither did anyone else. Once a day—or at least he thought it was once a day—the small hole on the wall by his feet would open and a hand would quickly shove in a wooden tray of food, taking the empty one left from the day before. The portions were meager, and when they were gone, the empty tray taunted him, a constant reminder of his hunger. But even worse than the hunger was the thirst.
He thirsted for more than water—he at least was given small quantities of that. What he thirsted for most was companionship. As far as he could tell, there were no other prisoners in the dank dungeon. Several times he tried to talk to the hand that brought his meals, but no one ever talked back.
The irony was not lost on him. For years he had kept out the world. He had wallowed in his grief and refused even the most basic comforts, blaming himself. And when he got tired of blaming himself, he'd tried blaming everyone else. Turned out it was easier to return to blaming himself. He'd gone to Sheas to confer with the Roths and the Hendels. He figured the only way to make his wife’s death mean something was to pursue the peace she had sought. He hadn't told his children, too afraid they would try and follow. Of course, that was only one of many things he hadn't told his children. He knew now it had been a mistake. He had known that the time would come when he would have to tell them why their mother had died. They needed to be told all of it. They would be in danger, and their lack of knowledge would leave them unprepared.
Hendel had refused to see him. He'd been on his way home when the two had come upon him. He grappled with the one with lizard-like hair when the other hit him from behind. If only he had told someone where he'd gone. He had given up praying for rescue. He knew the chances were slim to none. Instead he prayed for his children. He thought of his sweet Em, with her mother’s hair and deep blue eyes. He had gotten lost in those eyes. Reeve, his headstrong boy. The last thought he had before falling blissfully back into unconsciousness was:
By The Three, son, please protect her.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Stones Are Stiring
She opened her eyes. She didn't think she had fallen asleep, but she must have. After all, one needed to be asleep to dream. She heard the voice again, and this time she was definitely not dreaming.
The Stones are stirring
. She shook her head, and looked around. She was still alone, unless she counted the robin pecking around for his evening meal. She was positive she'd heard it, but from where?
Ours is the whisper of the leaves, the song on the breeze. Heed us. The Stones are stirring.
Emariya blinked, trying to fully wake up. She couldn't believe she'd fallen asleep in the meadow. She'd done it before, but not in several years.
If she was being honest with herself, she knew it wasn't the first time she had thought she’d heard someone whispering to her, either. Even when there was no one nearby. She generally dismissed it, but this time she was so sure. She knew she had heard it. Was she losing her wits? She'd heard once of a wife of one of the farmers whose mind had gone before the age of twenty. Hopefully she wasn't doomed to the same fate. The Three knew she had plenty of reason to lose her mind. She'd lost her mother. Her father was missing. And now a war was coming, about to strike right at her very home.
The Councilors had all returned to their own estates. When the news Emariya wouldn't be traveling to Thalmas to wed prince Torian spread, the reactions varied drastically. Of all, the Councilors themselves seem to offer the most differed of opinions. Two claimed Oren would never have approved, and they were glad the offer from the prince had been respectfully declined. Two seemed inclined to think she needed to learn her place, that the disobedience she had shown her brother was unacceptable. Old Man Bosch had simply seemed confused.
Around the square, where everyone knew her and most had watched her grow up, they were overjoyed to hear she would be staying. She had never received so many hugs before. Of course, some of the other girls volunteered to go in her place. Emariya laughed at the memory. She couldn't fault them for it. It must have seemed like quite the honor to them, and she at least partially understood why they were a bit standoffish toward her. They thought she took being born into privilege for granted.
She stood, brushing the dried up leaves from where they clung stubbornly to her gown. Not surprisingly, Reeve was livid at her refusal. Emariya thought he might have felt a bit embarrassed.
It was easy for her to see why. Here he was, trying to lead the Council in governing the entirety of Eltar, and he couldn't convince his sister to obey his wishes. She was sorry for the difficult position she'd left him in, but she had not backed down. Much of the pressure seemed to relieve itself after the Councilors took their leave. Last night they shared an almost pleasant supper together. At least the tension between her and her brother had seamed to ease.
She stuffed the last of the herbs she had collected from the patch of flowers under the great willow tree into the pouch she carried beneath her cloak. Eltar was rich in soil. They not only grew their own crops to keep themselves fed, they produced cotton for linens, as well as herbs. Those with the knowledge and the skill used the herbs to administer at least some relief to those in need.
One of the things she loved about Eltar was that wherever she looked, she could find something different growing. She had always taken a special delight in discovering some unfamiliar plant to take to Neela, the wise-woman, to learn what she could about it. She looked toward the wall of the estate, which was just visible in the distance. She should head back if she wanted to make it home by dark. She had been making a conscious effort not to worry her brother needlessly.
Nearby, her palomino mare, Drea, was grazing contentedly on the last of the grass. Drea was a gift from her father when she turned eight.
He’d brought her down to the stables on her feast day, and told her she could pick out any horse she wanted. He'd proudly informed her she was old enough for a real horse now, instead of her little old pony.
She took her choice very seriously as she walked back and forth, up and down the aisle, carefully inspecting the inhabitant of each stall.
Too old, she'd said of the gentle bay gelding.
Too short, she'd said of a pudgy black mare.
Too mean, she'd said as the crabby gray stallion at the end reached out to nip at her gown.
Her father had watched with amusement touching at his eyes. Truth be told, she'd drug out the process more than necessary, seeing the joy it brought him.
Finally, she'd stopped in front of Drea's stall and nodded.
Not too old. Tall, but not too tall. She announced her choice as she and the mare quietly regarded each other.
“
Are you sure?” her father had asked.
She nodded. “She is the one.”
Later, her father asked her why she picked the one she had.
“
Because she eats her hay before her grain. She savors it, saving the best for last, unlike the other horses, which only care about the best. She does it her own way. And because she is different from the rest: she has hair as white as mine.” she'd replied seriously.
“
She's not just different, my little palomino, she's special. Never forget it,” he’d said affectionately.
In the sea of memories of her father—him drowning in his grief, drifting further away—the memory of the day he'd given her Drea was one she held on to to remind herself that her father was always in there, somewhere. He would come back to her, right? He must.
Drea had served her well. She felt so proud the first time she accompanied him to visit a neighboring estate, sitting astride her very own mount instead of in front of her father’s saddle.
Gathering up the reins, she mounted easily and set off for the estate at a brisk trot. She wasn't sure if she felt it or heard it, but the wind was whispering of a coming storm. Well, it was about time for them to have the first snowfall of the year. She smiled as she pulled her cloak tight around her against the growing chill as the sun drooped lower in the sky. Snow would mean that winter was upon them, which would make the seas all but impassable. It would hopefully slow the advance of Sheas on Thandrel's Fjord, giving them a little time to prepare. If, however, the snow held off too long, there was the possibility that the resistance they had mounted on the other bank of the fjord would not be enough, and they could be besieged here, at Warren's Rest. Worse still, the weather would inevitably be turning rougher, and they might be isolated here, fighting their own private war.