Six moonturns passed before Rhoane thought again about the pendant. Each day he trained with Claidholm Solais, bettering his swordwork and learning the songs the sword sang, but came no closer to understanding their meaning. They were gibberish at best. The spoke of wars he’d never heard of, and histories not his. Sometimes, the sword sang of the Darennsai, but coded, as if it too were afraid of what she would become.
A fine Harvest morning shortly after his birthing day, he found the cynfar in his drawer, tucked into a corner amid the cruft of adolescent importance. His fingertips brushed the silver, and a jolt of power thrummed straight to his heart. He snatched his fingers from the offending metal and blew on them as if burned. When no blisters formed, he used the tip of his dagger to draw the necklace from its hiding place. A large diamond glittered from the center of a laurel wreath, and several smaller gems dotted a circle above the wreath. With his exhale, the leaves fluttered and he stared, mesmerized. The diamond caught the light and in its depths he saw a sphere, blue and green with wisps of white. He blinked and the vision disappeared, leaving the stone as unremarkable as an acorn.
It is time, Rhoane. Verdaine’s voice whispered through the room on a gentle breeze.
“No,” Rhoane argued aloud. A sense of foreboding overcame him, the same he felt each time he thought of abandoning his people. “I cannot leave the vier. Mother needs me, and Bressal is nowhere near ready to rule. I must stay.”
Silence answered him.
He pushed the pendant to the back of the drawer and slammed it shut. He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. If ever.
This would not do. He’d made the oath when he was too small to understand the magnitude of his promise. Surely his mother would agree with him now. If not her, his father, the king, could command him to stay. He would speak to the king presently and end this silly misunderstanding.
Rhoane grabbed his sword and strode to the inner courtyard, where his mother sat with her ladies-in-waiting, including Janeira, a warrior who had caught the eye of his brother. When Rhoane approached, Aislinn rose to greet him, but he stormed past without saying so much as hello.
“Prince Rhoane.” Those two words froze his hurried pace. “What vexes you, my darling?”
“I cannot do it, Mother.” He refused to look at her, to see the disappointment yet again in her eyes. “You need me. The vier needs me. This is my home, my people. I am their prince, their future king. How can I rule if I am off chasing a myth?” He grasped at his tattered reality, knowing his words were false. He was never meant to rule, never meant to sit on the Weirren Throne. He knew it in the marrow of his being, yet still he rejected his fate. “I was a child when I made that oath. I do not want to disappoint you or Verdaine, but I cannot leave.”
“You can, and you must. We have discussed this.”
“Mother, you are not being fair. Why me? Why not Bressal or Eoghan? Ferran’s bells, Eoghan would love the opportunity to live outside the vier. Is it not possible to transfer my oath to him? I am First Son. My duty is to the Weirren first, Verdaine second.”
“You will do as told.” Pale-blue veins rose on her forehead, a warning of her growing anger. In all the seasons he’d lived, rarely had he witnessed his mother losing her temper. Even on those few occasions, she’d remained in control, but this was different. The air snapped with her growing rage.
Rhoane took a step backward, and his mother shook her head in warning. Her arms stretched outward, fingers pointed directly at him.
“You will not run from me, boy. You were given this honor by our goddess. You not only disrespect her with your infantile whining, but you disrespect all Eleri.” White flames danced along her arms and trailed from her long, ebony hair.
Fear seized him and he bent on one knee, head bowed. “I am sorry, Mother. Please, do not be upset. I will do as you ask.”
His false, placating words did nothing. Her rage grew until she was covered in flames. Aislinn’s power tugged at his own as she attempted to take what was not hers. Claidholm Solais sang a song of healing, but the queen was too far gone, her anger too rampant. Rhoane caressed the hilt of his weapon, unsure of how to stop his mother. This behavior was unlike the queen. A dangerous thought echoed through his mind. His mother acted not like herself, yet he knew it to be her. Therefore, she was creating this spectacle for no other reason than to frighten Rhoane. With a start, he realized the song was not meant for his mother, but for him.
Somewhere in the darkness of his spirit, he knew this was the only way. Aislinn understood Rhoane was beyond listening to reason and only an act of this magnitude would shake his core. Shame flooded his heart, drowning his denial, eradicating his self-righteous objections.
“What is happening here?” King Stephan burst through a door, bellowing to those in the courtyard. When he saw his wife engulfed in the deadly flames, he threw a blanket of his own ShantiMari over her. The flames snapped against his power, dissolving his threads to ash.
Aislinn held out her hand to her husband. “This is for the best. It must be done.” Her voice lowered to a hush. “Husband, mi carae, you have my heart, always.” She raised her head toward the sky and stole Claidholm Solais’s power to her.
“Mother, do not do this!” Rhoane cried as the sword jerked against his grip. He fought against her power, his fist clenched protectively around the hilt. He struggled to stem the flood of light that infused his mother, but it was as if Claidholm Solais and the queen were determined in their efforts. As if they’d planned it almost… No. Rhoane wouldn’t let the thought settle in his mind. Couldn’t allow himself to believe such a terrible lie.
Aislinn screamed one ghastly, agonizing cry before she collapsed to the ground.
Stephan raced to her side and cradled her unmoving body against his. Tears streamed over his cheeks to drip onto his wife’s pale face. The ladies-in-waiting twittered to one another, unsure of what they’d witnessed. They, too, sobbed.
Rhoane stood alone in the courtyard, grief making a statue of him. He neither cried nor wailed nor spoke. If this was a dream, he wanted it to end. But the nightmare was only just beginning.
Verdaine materialized in a haze of crimson, green, and gold. She spoke a few words to the Eleri king before she cradled the queen in her arms. “I will take her to Dal Tara, where she will reside with the other gods.” Verdaine’s glare cut Rhoane’s heart. “Do not let her death be in vain.”
His goddess rose slowly, and Rhoane mouthed the words, “I am sorry.” To Verdaine or to his mother, he wasn’t sure. If only he’d obeyed and done what they asked, his mother would be alive. If only he’d not been intent on defying his oath. If only…
Verdaine rose higher, her stare never leaving Rhoane. The last he saw of the women was nothing more than a spark of light against the verdant leaves of the Weirren.
King Stephan’s chest heaved with his heavy breaths, and Rhoane braced himself for an outburst. Yet it did not come. What his father did say burned deeper than any accusation could.
“You are not to blame, my First Son. This horrific accident was not of your doing, nor of your mother’s.” His father paused. His brow made deep furrows in his usually smooth skin. “But you must leave the Narthvier this very day.”
“She begged me, Father, but I did not listen.” Rhoane collapsed in front of his father, his head bowed. “She told me it was time, but I was not ready. Despite your words, I will carry the shame of Mother’s death until my own.” Shame, hard and ragged and dark, pulled at his thoughts. His mother’s death was his doing. Why his father chose not to blame him, he couldn’t guess, but Rhoane would carry the guilt for the rest of his life.
His father eased Rhoane’s sword from his clasped fingers. He didn’t remember taking it from his scabbard.
“I am sorry,” King Stephan whispered as he wound his son’s hair around his fist. “Verdaine demands it.”
With one slice of the blade, Rhoane’s long, silky hair was shorn.
The ladies gasped. A few covered their faces and wept anew. Janeira advanced on her king. “My liege, it was not the prince’s fault. The queen, she raged, but your son did not provoke the tragedy.”
“Stay out of this, youngling. You know nothing of which you speak. Rhoane is sheanna and will live among the Fadair until such a time as he is fit to return.” The entire time he spoke, Stephan’s steady gaze never left Rhoane’s. It burned to his center as surely as Verdaine’s had. He’d lost his mother, his family, his home, and goddess because of his pride. Rhoane searched his father’s eyes for even a tiny speck of hope and found none. The king’s eyes were dark and impenetrable. A fresh wave of heartbreak washed over him.
“This is not how it is done,” Janeira argued. “To become sheanna, there must be a council. He must be presented before the court so all will know his shame, but there is no fault here.”
Stephan finally turned away from Rhoane, and a chill swept between them. “There is no shame present. No fault he must atone for. But Rhoane must be sheanna and leave the vier.”
No shame, Rhoane thought, no fault? His mother was dead because of him, and yet the king said he bore no shame? Confusion silenced his tongue. His father was mad. That could be the only conclusion for him absolving Rhoane of the horrors they’d just witnessed.
“Why, Your Majesty? Why cast him out?” Janeira demanded. Few Eleri would stand up to the king and right then, Rhoane was grateful for the warrior.
Rhoane rose and looked Janeira full in the face. She met his gaze with a nod. In that small gesture, she said what Rhoane could not. He was sheanna. It didn’t matter if he appreciated her arguments. His words would not be recognized at court until he was no longer exiled.
King Stephan stood and addressed those gathered in the courtyard. “Because,” his low voice cracked, “he is di diendum de la Darathi Vorsi di nobliesse Prientar.”
He spoke in the language of the ancients, a dialect only a few Eleri understood, and even fewer could read or speak.
Janeira bent to one knee, her head bowed in supplication. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Highness.”
Tears stung the backs of his eyes, but Rhoane would not disgrace himself further. His father had placed an even greater burden upon him. One he was not certain he deserved or could bear.
His father had named him the Dragon Prince—a title never claimed, never bestowed upon anyone before. As a child, Rhoane hadn’t believed the stories his elders had told after supper in the great hall. How could one Eleri save an entire race of darathi on their own? For that’s what all the tales foretold. One Eleri would reunite the darathi vorsi with the Caretakers—Rhoane’s people. But how? The darathi were banished during the Great War. Some said it was a witch named Mallaqai who’d led the great beasts astray. Others claimed it had been the mad god Rykoto himself who’d rid Aelinae of all darathi, not just the vorsi. How could Rhoane be expected to find them and remain true to his oath? Rhoane slid Claidholm Solais into the scabbard, not yet ready to believe he was this fabled prince. Still unable to see his path.
Pale light glowed from the sword, illuminating the decorative leather that encased it. He placed his palm over the hilt and flinched at the tremor of power that stung his skin. What did it mean? What did any of this mean?
He bowed to his father and kissed his extended fingertips. Rhoane spoke no words, for all his emotions and thoughts were clouded with grief. His father’s ShantiMari pulsed with his own, connecting them in a way no touch could. Rhoane experienced the king’s heartache as if it were his own. Felt the raw anger Stephan had toward Verdaine. Before he did anything else rash, Rhoane severed the connection and strode away. He refused to meet the stares of the Eleri who’d gathered in the courtyard.
He was sheanna now. No longer one of them.