Chapter Sixteen

 

Mithrais couldn’t remember the last time he joined Gilmarion in this room to talk over a cup of wine. It had to have been before he accepted his commission in the Tauron. Close when they were children, they had managed to resist their mother’s efforts to divide them as they grew older. But it changed when Gilmarion refused to rein in Marithiel’s disregard for their father in the joint regency. They were no longer completely comfortable with one another.

He accepted the cup offered him and sat before the fire in the chair opposite his brother. “It’s fortunate Telyn is in such favor with the Lord of Rothvori,” Gilmarion said in appreciation as he sampled the wine. “This is truly exceptional.”

“Like Riordan himself,” Mithrais agreed. “When I met him, I could see why he and Father were friends.”

“As we were, once.” Gilmarion looked into the fire for a moment before he spoke again. “I owe you an explanation, because you were right to question the way I handled the regency. Last autumn, even I began to wonder what kind of man I am.” Gilmarion sat back in his chair, his brow creased. “I’d just covered up another of Marithiel’s thefts from the treasury when I realized I was powerless. I could not deny the fact I allowed it to happen. I meant it when I said you have always been stronger of will than I. You would have never have become her fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” Mithrais corrected, but his brother shook his head.

“If not a fool, then a willing pawn. Which one is worse, Thrais?” He stared moodily into the depths of his cup. “I looked for a way out but by then lies compounded upon lies, and I was too ashamed to tell Father. When I discovered what she planned to do, I said nothing—because I was relieved. With Marithiel, gone I could at last be my own man. Yet, I betrayed Father by hiding what she had done.”

“How did you manage to keep Father and Marithiel from learning you were named heir to the East?”

“Only chance allowed me to receive the messenger alone,” Gilmarion admitted. “Marithiel was abed with a fever that day and gave instructions not to be disturbed. Even Diarmid was out on some errand.” He took another gulp of wine. “I couldn’t form a coherent thought for the rest of the day. It is a great honor...but at the same time, it confirmed without doubt something whispered about for years. I am not Gwidion’s son.” His eyes met his brother’s and flicked away. “Although I already knew it, I couldn’t face him afterwards.”

“It never mattered to Father, or to me, that there were whispers, Gil. You are his son and heir.”

“I am proud to call myself his son. He will always be my true father. But I am no longer his heir, Thrais. I am stepping down willingly in accordance with his wishes. I can’t oversee both lands at once. They are too far apart, and the responsibilities too great to handle alone. The Wood is yours. It should always have been.”

Even though he had known it was coming, Mithrais could find no words to say. His expression must have mirrored the conflicting emotions warring inside. Gilmarion smiled crookedly at him and said, “Do you remember the day Father took us into the deep Wood for the first time? You were all of five, perhaps, and I nine or ten. He took us into the forest on our ponies and you kept insisting the trees sang to you.”

“The resonance. I didn’t know what it was then.”

“I couldn’t hear it.” Gilmarion shook his head. “Father told us the story of the Gwaith’orn, out there in the Wood. I always thought it the fairy tale Marithiel insisted it was. But you and Father... The two of you have a connection I could never share, with the Wood and with each other. You are the right man to succeed him.”

“The stories Father told us are all true, Gil.” Mithrais took a deep breath and plunged. “The old covenant between the Silde and the Gwaith’orn has been fulfilled, and magic has returned.”

“Then this truly is your path, for I would be ill-equipped to deal with magic.” Gilmarion shrugged, far more accepting of this new information than Mithrais would have anticipated. “Does it explain what I thought I saw in all the chaos? Did light come from your hands?”

“A binding spell. I thought he meant to harm Telyn. Father and I planned to keep it a secret until the hearings concluded, but...”

“Well, this is news.” Gilmarion raised an eyebrow. “But what does it all mean?”

“We aren’t certain yet. There are nine of us who were given full knowledge of magic, so we can be teachers and governors as it is reestablished. Others with talents are just discovering them. We’ve only begun to test the waters.”

“You will not only be master of the largest part of this realm, but a wizard, too. You have the potential to be the most powerful man in history, Thrais.”

“I never wanted power. I still don’t.”

“I think the Fates are at work here. That you would become heir to Cerisild at just the time magic returns cannot be coincidence alone.” Gilmarion rose and poured himself more wine. “And I have been given a chance to begin afresh in the East, to prove I am not just a pawn. Father has said he cannot trust me as he once did, and he’s right. But perhaps I can show him and King Amorion that I can contribute to the good of the realm. I do have a head for numbers if not for magic, and in the trade city, it will be important. One of the things I did when I learned of the delegation is set about righting the treasury. I have my doubts the money she gave to her courier will ever be recovered. The same skills that allowed me to hide Marithiel’s thefts have let me find things that will help make restitution. You and Father will be able to purchase the grain the city will need over the winter.”

He raised his cup, and his ice-blue eyes were far warmer than Mithrais could remember seeing in a long time. “To the future Lord of Cerisild, my brother.”

Mithrais stood and saluted him with his own cup. “To the future Lord of the East, and my brother.”

“May it be a prosperous change for both of us.” Gilmarion downed the rest of his wine. “Now I will definitely have to find a wife. At least you have a head start on finding the right one.”

“If I can convince her.” Mithrais grinned, and then sobered. He could imagine no other by his side as Lady of Cerisild, a woman in every way his equal and his second self. But Telyn avoided the subject of their future even in her thoughts. They were not yet lovers, although the passion they shared left them both trembling with the promise of what awaited. He’d learned the value of patience in the Tauron while he waited out storms and seasons and sunrises. A lifemate was a gift he’d never expected would come to him, and the Fates had chosen well. He had to trust they would continue to guide them both.

 

* * * *

 

Vuldur’s prediction regarding his own demise came true on the same dreary, wet day that had seen violence and justice done. The bitter man drew his last breath near dusk. Unable to let him die alone, Marithiel sat vigil at his bedside until the Fates claimed him. The Lord of the East’s body was removed to a crematory. His ashes would return to his former stronghold, entombed beside Vaddon’s crypt.

Questioned by the King, Searlas confirmed no others were recruited to seek the price on Telyn’s head. Confined to his room under guard until the delegation’s departure, his punishment would be decided by the King upon their return to the capitol.

Telyn could find no regret in her heart for Vuldur’s death. It disturbed her she felt almost nothing in regard to the fate of the men who sought to have her killed, and a strange melancholy came over her. The mood persisted as tenaciously as the grey clouds outside.

She sought comfort in the familiar, earthy scents of the stable the following morning and took an apple to Bessa. Although the mare was becoming a favorite and far from neglected by the grooms, Telyn found a currycomb and brush and slipped into the stall to give her faithful friend personal attention.

Bessa munched the apple contentedly as Telyn started to work. The repetitive circular motions of the currycomb were soothing and mindless. It left too much room for other thoughts to creep in and spin webs in the corners of her mind, cluttering it with doubt.

Mithrais would be Lord of Cerisild one day.

It seemed different when he was a Tauron Warden. She could be the lifemate of a soldier, perhaps even his wife. But Lady of Cerisild? The thought filled her with uncertainty. She remembered the lady wives of other high lords at court, only paraded at celebratory functions and feasts. When they were not at the country estates raising children and running households, they flocked together in apartments in the palace.

She had been asked to play a few times in the sunlit chambers where they gathered to mend or embroider clothing and gossip. Other girls her age were there to learn these crafts and how to be good wives one day. They whispered in groups about the young, unmarried lords they were working to snare as a husband or to whom their fathers had promised them. They largely ignored Telyn, unless they expressed their disdain of her choice to dress in leggings and tunics. She soon grew bored and slipped away, whenever possible, to spar in the practice yard with the same subjects of the girls’ adoration. The young men soon learned to defend themselves without deference to her sex, or risk bodily injury, and came to view her as one of their comrades in arms.

She had more freedom than any other woman she knew, save for the few female Tauron Wardens. Their rare gift of heartspeaking afforded them an opportunity to train as soldier-guardians of the Gwaith’orn. Telyn was set apart from other women by her status, heir to the Royal Bard, almost from birth. Her training consisted of music, history, diplomacy, and the arts of war, not domestic pursuits. It was a ridiculous thought, but she had no idea how to be a girl.

Despair rose in a sudden wave; a heavy flood that took her breath away.

Perhaps Marithiel was right. Telyn’s place at Mithrais’ side might never be hers to keep.

When the horse snorted and bumped Telyn with her head, she realized she’d stopped currying. The comb rested against Bessa’s flank. “I’m sorry, my girl.” She leaned into Bessa’s neck. The strong muscles rippled beneath her forehead as the mare turned her head and softly whickered. Hot tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered against Bessa’s mane.