Hallowed Bond (Chronicles of Ylandre Book 2) (14 page)

“There’s naught to apologize for,
Adda
,” Dylen softly replied. “This isn’t your fault.

Now put such nonsense out of your mind and get yourself some rest, all right? And I shall bring home a box of sweetmeats just for you.”

Hirlen managed to curl his lips into a faint smile at the loving but ridiculous offer before sliding back into the half conscious state that had been his lot since Aron began dosing him with opiates to ease his pain. Dylen straightened up, his eyes stinging as his gazed long at his father. Would Hirlen survive the night? Deity’s blood, would he even be alive when Dylen came home from work?

Tarqin quietly came to his side and touched his elbow. “You’ll be late,” he murmured.

“Send for me at once if-if he…” Dylen swallowed.

“I will,” Tarqin promised.

Dylen walked briskly to the Seralye, forcibly shedding the aura of sorrow and anxiety that shrouded him. It would not do for the club’s guests to be troubled by his problems. That was not why they frequented the Seralye.

Reaching the club, he was surprised to find Olfen the doorkeeper apologetically turning away guests. The Deir explained that he’d been instructed to do so but he had no inkling of the reason. All he knew was that a group of richly attired
enyra
had arrived about a half hour ago, and shortly after, Keon had come out and told him not to accept any more guests for the evening.

Dylen entered the premises, frowning in puzzlement. As he did, he glimpsed Deira in

what appeared to be soldiery garb standing unobtrusively in the shadows of the alleys flanking the club. That piqued his curiosity further.

He was mounting the stairs to the second floor when Keon came rushing down to meet him halfway. The secretary excitedly grabbed him by the arm.

“Thank Veres you’ve arrived!” he exclaimed in hushed tones. “Hurry now, we have important guests.
Very
important guests!”

Keon all but shoved him up the stairs ahead of him.

Intrigued, Dylen said, “Olfen claims you aren’t accepting any more guests.”

“They had us close the club,” Keon confirmed. “Paid for its use for the whole night.

You should have seen Zarael’s face when they made the request!”

“I can imagine. Where is everyone?” Dylen asked when they reached the second floor. There was a marked absence of people moving about.

“Readying the bedchambers,” Keon told him. “They said they’d heard naught but high praise for our
hethare
. That they wished to sample their skills. If only you’d come earlier, I wager there would’ve been a fair fight for your services.”

“Who are
they
?” Dylen asked as he and Keon headed for the Seralye’s best and largest taproom.

“
Royalty
, Dy! The Ardan and his kin, can you believe it?”

Dylen sucked in his breath. “And they came because—?”

“A cousin of the Ardan is celebrating his majority and, I heard, the inheritance of a considerable fortune, too. I think he’s the son of the Chief Counsellor. What’s his name now? Oh yes, Rysander Seydon.”

“The Chief Counsellor’s son… But of course, he‘s one of the heirs of Azrael Cordona.”

“Cordona?” Keon’s eyes widened. “As in Bank Cordona?”

Dylen nodded. “Counsellor Yovan Seydon is wed to Mered Cordona. In any case, it’s not surprising they took the entire Seralye for the night. Can you imagine the scandal soup the gossip mongers would dish out were they to get a peek at a slew of rich and royal relations, all of them in their cups or in various states of undress?”

Keon chuckled. “Nay, the Ardan brought his leman with him. A real beauty, that one. I doubt Rohyr will care for any sport we have to offer. Well, I must see to the refreshments.”

Just as Keon dashed off, Zarael slipped out of the taproom, closing the door behind him. The strains of a gittern and merry laughter emanated from within. Zarael brightened when he spotted Dylen.

“Ah, you’re here,” he said, his eyes sparkling with his elation. “Keon told you?

Good, good. Go on in, Almerin and Silve are already inside. I will send Veanthe as soon as he arrives. Now I had better help Keon. The kitchen staff is in an uproar!”

Dylen shook his head as Zarael hurried away. It was rare to see the usually unflappable club master thus affected. He started to open the taproom door.

It was then that it came—a feeling he had never thought to experience. He paused a moment to calm himself then cautiously peered into the room.

He swiftly scanned the guests, taking note of the sumptuousness of their clothing and jewelry and their refined speech even in banter. Royal kin indeed. And not a plain face among them. Indeed, for the first time in a long time, Dylen felt his own oft lauded looks paled in comparison to the comeliness of these scions of House Essendri.

His eyes homed in almost inexorably on the Ardan.

Sable-haired, with eyes of slate grey, and exceedingly handsome—far more than mentioned in the descriptions Dylen had heard of him—Rohyr Essendri was every inch the young monarch of Ylandre. Though he was not more elegantly garbed than his cousins, one immediately knew he was their preeminent relation even if one did not realize he was king.

Taking a moment to steady his nerves, Dylen entered the room. Almost at once, even before either Almerin or Silve acknowledged him, Rohyr paused in mid-sip of his wine and looked up. Searching for him, Dylen guessed. An instant later, Rohyr saw him. The Ardan’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. The others, on the other hand, regarded him with open appreciation.

Dylen bowed low before Rohyr while Almerin introduced him. Putting on his most charming manner, he set himself to entertaining the members of the party.

They formed a sophisticated and well-educated group—sharp-witted, fluent of speech and earthy enough to appreciate bawdy humor and subtly suggestive parlor games. They were the kind of guests whose company Dylen enjoyed very much and would have done so now if not for his encroaching anxiety.

Aside from Rysander Seydon, there were the Minister of Internal Affairs, Keosqe Deilen, and Gilmael Calanthe, the head of Intelligence. To Keosqe’s right was a noble of striking and foreign countenance. Reijir Arthanna, the young Herun of Ilmaren, he learned from Silve. He engaged in a long and lively discussion with a Deir whose hair caught the eye due to the rarity of its red-black color. Aeldan Mithani was the heir apparent to the seaward fief of Glanthar. Beside him was a younger Deir of very similar features—his brother, Ashrian. The latter seemed intent on teasing a blueblood of soldiery bearing. Almerin identified him as Ranael Mesare, a high-ranking officer of the Royal Army.

The last member of the party was as surprising in appearance as he was beautiful. He was obviously no blood relation to the others nor was he an aristocrat. Seated beside Rohyr, he wore his fair hair in a thick plait that reached past his shoulders, a style that markedly contrasted with the loose nape-length tresses of the others. He was clearly a
sedyr
and a stunning one at that.

So this was the much talked about Lassen Idana, the Ardan’s Half Blood leman.

Dylen surreptitiously watched as Rohyr slid an arm around his concubine’s shoulders to draw him closer to his side. Lassen obliged with a warm smile and a tender gaze meant for his lover alone.

The
sedyr
was not in royal service out of mere duty, Dylen realized with a pang.

Lassen Idana was deeply and hopelessly in love with the Ardan.

Stifling a sigh, he concentrated on pouring drinks for Keosqe and Reijir. As he finished, he looked up and happened to meet Keosqe’s gaze. The golden-haired noble stared at him in surprise.

“Am I imagining things or are your eyes just like Rohyr’s?” he remarked. He gestured to Reijir to take a look as well. “Well, what say you, Rei?”

Reijir frowned. “You aren’t imagining things.” The Herun looked over at his royal cousin. “His irises are rimmed just like yours, Roh.”

The Ardan disbelievingly said, “That’s impossible.”

“Yet the impossible stands before us,” Keosqe insisted.

“But how could this be?” Rysander wondered when he got a confirming glimpse of Dylen’s eyes.

Noting Dylen’s discomfort, Silve came to his rescue. “Perhaps one of His Majesty’s forebears had a liaison with a
hethar
,” he suggested. “It’s not unheard of for generations of the same line to continue in the profession.”

Ashrian chuckled. “Oh shame. And here I thought such eyes were exclusive to the immediate family, Roh!”

Smiling, Dylen plucked two nearly empty platters from the table. He extended them to Almerin and Silve.

“Please have these replenished else our repute for hospitality will suffer,” he quietly ordered.

He sensed the guests’ surprise when the pair took the platters and left without so much as a huff of indignation at his peremptory tone. Except for Rohyr, he noted. The Ardan’s demeanor did not change save to observe him with even more interest and, Dylen quickly sensed, mounting suspicion.

Dylen looked sideways at Ashrian. “They
are
exclusive,
Dyhar
,” he said. He managed not to flinch when all eyes turned to him. Taking his courage in hand, he faced Rohyr squarely. “It wasn’t a distant forebear I took after, Your Majesty, but my sire.”

Rohyr’s gaze became watchful. “And who was your sire?”

Dylen drew a deep breath and said, “Your father, Dyrael Essendri.”

Stunned silence met his statement. Everyone stared at him in varying degrees of shock and incredulity. Reijir was first to find his tongue.

“Holy Veres, you must be jesting!” he exclaimed.

Though he’d expected it, Dylen could not help feeling stung by the general air of disbelief regarding his claim. “I’m not,” he retorted. “And this is no matter to jest about, my lord.” He looked at Rohyr. “Surely you felt our kinship, Ardan
-tyar
.”

Rohyr pursed his lips then nodded. “As soon as you entered.” He coolly studied Dylen. “How old are you?”

“I was conceived on the eve of Dyrael’s binding to Keldon Essendri,” Dylen replied.

“Only months separate us then.” Rohyr narrowed his eyes. “Yet in all these years you never approached either him or me. Why?”

Dylen tactfully ignored the Ardan’s challenging tone. “Wherefore? The Ardis came to my father in secret, wishing to play the sword before he was forever relegated to being your sire’s sheath. To reveal that he had begotten a child would have exposed his lack of innocence at the time of his marriage. Besides, I was not conceived in love,” he quietly added. “Dyrael was intoxicated the night he visited my father for the last time. He didn’t take kindly to being refused genital intercourse with
Adda
and took him unprotected.”

Rohyr scowled. “Are you saying he forced himself on your father?” he sharply asked.

Dylen hesitated then nodded. “He asked forgiveness from
Adda
the following morn, when he realized what he’d done.
Adda
understood and accepted his apology. He also chose to keep their affair and my birth a secret lest either became cause for dissension in the Royal House,” he added. “We are loyal subjects first and foremost, Your Majesty.”

The last words were uttered with pride and dignity. Rohyr’s scowl vanished to be replaced with a faint smile.

“So why have you revealed yourself now?” he asked. “What need have you that is

dire enough to require this unmasking?”

Uncertainly replaced pride. Dylen swallowed hard and said, “Your help,
Dyhar
. My father is dying, and you have the power to save him.”

Dark eyebrows so alike to his own rose in surprise. Rohyr leaned back in his seat, his expression thoughtful. Dylen waited with bated breath.

He watched in some disbelief when Rohyr suddenly got to his feet, saying to the others, “Stay on and enjoy the evening. But speak of what you’ve heard to no one.”

When the others assented, the Ardan glanced at his leman. “Would you like to come?” he asked. Lassen nodded and stood up. Rohyr looked once more at Dylen. “Take me to him.”

Chapter Twelve

Elevation

Dylen gestured to a pop-eyed, tongue-tied Tarqin to make space for Rohyr at Hirlen’s bedside. The servant obeyed, darting disbelieving glances at Rohyr all the while.

Indeed, he had been the very picture of shock when Dylen entered the room with the Ardan of Ylandre at his side. Tarqin hurriedly joined Lassen who stood unobtrusively in a corner.

Rohyr bent over Hirlen, touching his fingers to the ailing Deir’s cheek. Hirlen’s eyes fluttered open at his touch. He squinted in confusion at Rohyr.

“Dyrael?” he whispered.

Rohyr stilled and gazed at him. He stroked Hirlen’s cheek with his knuckles until the Deir slipped back into unconsciousness. Dylen caught his breath a few minutes later when Rohyr pulled back the covers and laid his hands on Hirlen’s withered legs.

Dylen thought he saw an unearthly glow in Rohyr’s eyes but before he could look more closely his attention was drawn to the Ardan’s hands. Was it his imagination or did the pale flesh under his palms shine with faint light? He quickly peered at his
adda
’
s
face. The lines that creased Hirlen’s brow and framed the sides of his mouth had eased almost to the point of vanishing. His father looked very much at peace, his sleep unmarred by constant pain.

Rohyr straightened and pulled the covers back over Hirlen. He looked across the bed at Dylen.

“He mistook me for my father,” he commented.

Dylen nodded. Rohyr was said to resemble his birthing father in countenance. “What you did—” Dylen stared at Rohyr in awe. “You took away his pain.”

“And lent him some strength,” Rohyr admitted. “I sensed that he was failing fast. It would be a pity were he to succumb before Eiren gets here.”

Dylen swallowed hard. “Then you’ll…?”

“Of course.” Rohyr moved toward the door. “I need a quiet place where I can focus on calling him.”

“Call—? Ah, this way.”

Leaving Tarqin to resume his watch over Hirlen, Dylen led Rohyr to his own bedchamber. Lassen joined them. He beckoned to Dylen to stay beside him by the door, out of Rohyr’s way. The Ardan stood by the bed, staring ahead unseeingly. After a while, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.