Legend of the Ravenstone: Ravenstone, #1

By M.S. Verish

They were destined for failure.

When William, a mysterious and manipulative wizard, learns the deadly Ravenstone has been uncovered by a self-proclaimed regent known as the Priagent, he hastily assembles a group of mismatched travelers to steal the stone and deliver it to safety.

The Ravenstone is an ancient relic—a remnant of a battle between gods—and it has the power to unravel magic. The unlikely company sent to retrieve it consists of Arcturus, an exiled politician with a fondness for wine, Kariayla, a winged slave girl on a quest for redemption, Jinx, an unlucky thief and his imp counterpart, and Hawkwing, William's personal spy, at the helm.

Distrust, secrets, and inexperience threaten to compromise the mission as the group is forced to travel in the company of the enemy. Doubt turns to the wizard who employed them on this precarious quest—the quest to obtain a mythic source of dark power: the Legend of the Ravenstone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Night Apple Creations
• Release date: Feb 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507063798

M.S. Verish

M.S. Verish, better known as Matthew and Stefanie Verish, are co-authors as well as husband and wife. They knew they were destined for marriage when they could write together without killing each other. Their writing partnership has rewarded them with wonderful journeys into the realm of fantasy, culminating in their epic world, Secramore. The couple shares a love of nature and art and lives in Northeast Ohio with their Kirin and large family of cavies.

Book preview

World MapNorthern MapLegend of the Ravenstone

PROLOGUE

IN THE DARK

There was a hole in the floor: a gaping patch of darkness large enough for a man to fit into and descend. The Priagent of Lornabaez was not an average person. He was a short, wiry man, and before Tyrianne could protest a tenth time, he was being swallowed into obscurity.

She glared at the hulking giant across from her. I can’t tell you how many ways this is going to be a mistake, she grumbled.

Nesif said nothing, his dark eyes meeting hers for but a moment before he looked away. This aggravated her even more. I don’t like this. Not at all. She stepped down into the hole, barely able to see her footing.

The Priagent’s voice found her. You do not have to like it, Miss Xiuss. You need only do your job.

Difficult since you went ahead of me, she thought. As she descended the narrow steps, a soft, amber light—too constant to be a flame—broke the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, her liege waited beside an illuminated rune in the wall. Jornoan magic. In a secret passage. No good can come of this. He is up to something. Something big. The Priagent’s face, however, betrayed nothing. She joined him just as Nesif finished the stairs. She had scarcely heard him descend; the passage, like the darkness, devoured nearly all sound.

Tyrianne had been in many unpleasant places: alleys, dungeons, tombs… It was to be expected in her line of work, and she had come to expect a certain feel to these locations. Darkness, dingy, slimy stone, dank, oppressive air weighted with the smell of decay—none of this was new to her. This passage, however, was different in that it lacked any sensory familiarity. There was no odor, no sense of moisture, coldness, or warmth. There was darkness, but it was unnatural darkness, as though someone was purposely shielding their eyes from what lay beyond. She suppressed a shiver and noticed the Priagent’s black eyes were upon her. Immediately she straightened her shoulders and faced the passage ahead of them, but her fingers subconsciously wrapped around the hilt of her sword.

The Priagent moved forward, his hand grazing against the wall so that more hidden runes began to glow. For each new illumination, the one behind it faded into blackness. There were no rats, no beetles or roaches, no spider webs or stringy roots. They were surrounded by stone, shadow, and silence, moving forward in a dim oasis of light. Trapped, Tyrianne thought. She half expected Nesif’s hand to fall upon her shoulder—to assure her as he usually did when his people’s magic was involved. For the years of service she had given to the Jornoan ruler, she was still a foreigner in an ancient land built upon customs and powers she did not—or would ever—understand.

When her shoulder remained untouched, she glanced to see if Nesif was attentive to her at all. His eyes were locked on his brother, but she knew better. You are a terrible liar—with or without words. And you know what this is about, don’t you?

Miss Xiuss, you are treading upon stone that has not been touched since the days of the Cataclysm, the Priagent said, his voice nearly too soft to be heard.

How did you learn of this, my lord? she asked. What is it that brings us here?

Did you know, he began, that there is a tower in this palace that contains an old archive?

She frowned. He is mocking me. Of course, my lord.

Knowledge is mightier than any blade forged by man, he said.

And now he is being cryptic. He should know Jentica was forged by a woman. She sighed and tried again. What does this passage lead⁠—

We have arrived, the Priagent interrupted. A low arch stretched above them, slowly brightening with amber inscriptions. Beyond the arch was a small chamber that contained a stone altar at its center. The Priagent strode forward and set his hands upon its surface. As shameful as it is that my people’s legacy has been forgotten, I will be the one to reclaim the future, he murmured.

Tyrianne looked to Nesif for enlightenment, but it was a wasted gesture. Much like the altar, he stood motionless, his face blank. She turned back toward the Priagent, but she was reluctant to pass beyond the archway. Her grip on her sword tightened when she saw his hands pass through the stone and into the altar.

Whether it was a look of triumph or a look of madness, she could not say, but never had she seen such an expression upon the ruler’s face. Eyes wide, lips parted, his hands emerged from the altar laden with an object the size of a Human skull. It was black, lustreless, and shaped like the withered corpse of a…bird? A dead crow, Tyrianne thought, disgusted.

As the Priagent raised it higher for them to see, she realized that it flickered dimly from within—a glimmer of silver light to indicate some magical vitality. At any moment she expected an explosion of lightning, a thickening cloud of deadly mist, or a malevolent demon to emerge and destroy them all. Her knuckles were white on Jentica’s pommel, though she knew there was no way she could battle such a force. Magic was evil; magic trumped all.

You can relax, Miss Xiuss, the Priagent said. You need not fear the Ravenstone, as you are not a being of magic.

What is that thing? she demanded, dispensing with formality.

The Priagent smiled, and ice could have formed around his lips and beard. It is a gift from beyond this world. It is a beginning and an ending. It is the future that I wield.

I don’t understand, Tyrianne said.

I expect if you did, you would have acted against me long ago. The Priagent made a gesture—not to Tyrianne, not to Nesif, but to someone else.

Tyrianne spun to see a tall, broad form had moved up silently behind her. His unyielding arms enveloped her so quickly that her grip was wrenched from her sword. What is the meaning of this? she cried. Her eyes darted from the Priagent to Nesif, but the latter would not face her.

The Priagent left the altar, cradling the black object in his arms. You have done your job well, and you have done it faithfully, he said, moving past her. My future ambitions, however, do not require your services.

She could feel a change in the air as it came alive with an unseen force. It swarmed around her, brushed against her, pushed into her. Her flesh tingled, and she fought frantically against her captor’s hold. No! I won’t let you do this to me!

Do what? the Priagent asked over his shoulder. I wanted to kill you. It is my brother’s compassion that has granted you a merciful end. Be grateful.

Grateful? she cried, but her voice was not her own. Nesif! she shouted, commanding the lingering man’s attention. "Islai!"

He looked at her then, and it was his unuttered words that engulfed her in fury. Sorry.

Damn you! she spat, her struggle renewed in a fit of twists and turns. But Nesif was already out of sight, disappearing with the last trace of light.

1

THE FOREIGNER

M y name is Kariayla, she said to herself, examining her blackened fingers before cleaning the quill and sealing the ink well. Then, slowly, she straightened her back and felt the tears well in the corners of her eyes. She wiped the evidence away on her sleeve, took a deep breath, stood, and waited.

Like the promise of a new day, she heard it: the tolling of the tower bell. The darkest recesses of the library could not mute its peal. Thank the Spirits, she thought, shoving the stool beneath the desk. She had begun to feel like the gargoyles perched above the grand doors: hunched and immobile.

My name is Kariayla, she repeated in a whisper. He will learn my name. I must make certain that he learns my name. She wiped her hands on her apron, blew out her candle, and left her cell. Her feet scarcely made a sound on the old wooden floor; she knew where to step so that it would not creak. The head librarian’s desk was at the heart of the vast labyrinth of a chamber, and she wove her way around the shelves and tables until she could see that it was….

Empty? Kariayla stopped and glanced around her. The man seldom left his desk, as much a fixture in the room as the oldest, most dust-covered book attached by a rusty chain to the shelf. She took a hesitant step forward, deciding if she should wait or search for her overseer.

If he should see me idle… Her feet set to motion as she navigated the narrow passages between the shelves. Beyond her sight, around the corner, she heard the sound of paper—a page turning. She pushed her shoulders back. My name is Kariayla, she mouthed like a prayer. Then she rounded the corner.

Ur! she gasped, and her determination dissolved in the presence of a red-skinned old man. To her it seemed like a full minute of paralysis, her eyes bound to the wine-hued figure who sat at the table, several open books before him. The hair receding from his face was as white as the marble statue of King Jannus in the Great Hall, and it was brushed neatly back from his fleshy face and over his shoulders. His thick frame filled the chair in which he reclined, a book in one hand, a pipe in the other. The chair groaned as he shifted and came to look directly at her with his black eyes.

Kariayla darted from sight, dumbstruck by his appearance. When the library was visited—which was not often—it was visited by the nobility, and though they were literate, their presence was usually attributed to a secret rendezvous or flirtatious affair. Red-skinned men with pipes were even more uncommon. She must have been at the transcriptions longer than she thought, for her eyes were no longer trustworthy.

Needlelike fingers gripped her shoulder, and she started. The head librarian stood behind her, glaring down. Come with me, girl.

She shrank at his words and followed him back to his desk, her head bent. For what it’s worth, my name is Kariayla.

He sat behind his desk and was no less ominous than a vulture eyeing some carrion. With his black robes draped upon his hunched shoulders, his bald head, and pointed nose, all he need do was hiss at her, and she would be convinced. But the head librarian did not hiss. He opened his ledger, dipped his quill in the ink, and began to write. As he did so, he spoke to her in a quiet but patronizing voice.

You left your cell. I do not recall relieving you for the evening.

No, sir, Kariayla said, staring at the floor, but the bell….

Means nothing to you, he said without a break in his activity. For you to be here is a privilege. Someone discovered you were literate, and I happened to need the help. If you prefer to be a scullion, I will send you back to Clerk Melgora. Otherwise, I expect a bit more dedication. At last he looked at her, and his sudden silence lifted her head.

Yes, sir. I will wait for your dismissal, Kariayla said, defeated.

Since you wish to wander, you may do so with a broom in hand. When the floor is clean, you may go.

Yes, sir. Her shoulders sank a little lower as she turned to go.

One more matter, the head librarian said, his words holding her fast. Under no circumstances are you to associate with the patrons.

I didn’t— Kariayla started to protest, but his frown stopped her. Yes, sir.

When she was out of his sight, she could breathe again. She retrieved the broom with her shoulders slumped. If she hurried, she might still be in time for dinner. Unfortunately, every motion of the broom flared the pain in her back.

It doesn’t matter if he learns my name. Not if it’s attached to an order or a punishment. This may be an improvement from the kitchen, but it will never earn me redemption. Not if I swept the entire castle or copied every book on these shelves. I will grow old here—dusty and worn as these forgotten tomes.

Kariayla stared, forlorn, at the chains attached to the books before her. I’m chained, too, but not for any sense of value. She paused to rub her shoulders. I need to stop complaining. The Spirits have given me shelter and food. I feel they have been watching over me since I left Nemeloreah. I must not be ungrateful.

She straightened her back and focused on the accumulating pile of debris. Her thoughts meandered back to the red-skinned stranger. Who was he? Where was he from? Someone like him surely possessed magic… His eyes—like the night sky—a field of black with a pale moon at their center. Could he be some sort of demon—like the one who terrorized travelers in the desert?

Don’t be stupid, she chided herself. A demon—in Belorn’s royal library? Because demons read books. And smoke pipes. The broom took her down an aisle—the same aisle, in fact, she had been down before. The very aisle that had surprised her with⁠—

Gone! she thought, peering around the corner. The chair was empty, but the table was not. The hefty book through which the strange man had been browsing was now shut, abandoned. Cautiously Kariayla crept forward and craned to see the title. Famed Cantalere of Mystland. She drew a breath. A book about magic!

The cook’s line was empty, though the mess hall tables were not. It seemed all the castle’s servants were occupied with dinner and gossip. When Kariayla approached the serving counter, the cook tipped the pot to give her the traces of broth left at the bottom. Among the crumbs on the wooden trencher was half a chunk of bread. He shrugged at her and turned away to give the empty platters to the scullion.

Clerk Melgora’s scratchy voice assailed her from beside the hearth. That’s what you get for being late, you whelp.

Kariayla stifled a shudder and hurried away from the counter before anything else could be said. I wasn’t hungry anyway, she tried to convince herself. She found room on a bench near the chamber maids, who were already immersed in a whispery discussion. They turned their backs to her when she glanced in their direction. Kariayla was not one to eavesdrop, but she was naturally an attentive audience. When the words, red and foreigner crossed her ears, her spoon paused halfway to her lips.

Have you seen him? Mary said she passed him in the corridor to the library. Skin the color of blood. Can you imagine? He must be appalling!

My cousin traveled a bit, and he told me about such people. ‘Blood Mages,’ they call them. And they can poison your blood just by looking at you.

That is absurd!

Do you think so? Then you go and find him and see what happens.

Analind is in charge of his room. Where is she?

Probably poisoned.

Don’t say such a thing!

Well….

As I hear it, he has come on the good graces of Duke and Duchess Barendorn.

Whatever does he want? And why would Lord Barendorn have any dealings with such a foreigner?

Blood Mage. And I heard he saved the duke’s life.

Right after he poisoned his blood, no doubt!

"What are you looking at?"

It took Kariayla a moment to realize the question was directed at her. The women were all glaring at her. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was staring, she said, turning away.

You can mind your own business, one of them said. This castle is full of foreigners. The good king is too tolerant.

Kariayla tried to focus on her soup as they continued to whisper about her.

Where’d she come from?

The Land of the Hunchbacks, obviously.

They found her begging at the castle gates. One of the garrison felt bad and took her in.

We should invite all the ugly foreign beggars to serve His Majesty. What a fine staff we would be.

Watch yourself, Mary. Barendorn’s daughter has taken a shine to her. Had her moved from the kitchen to the library.

Then that’s where she should be kept—where no one has to lay eyes on her.

The bread in Kariayla’s mouth had turned into a tasteless lump of dough. She fought to swallow it, but she fought harder to hold back her tears. Her head hung over her bowl, the meager content of which was but a blur. She knew she should leave before they saw her face.

Oh, I think you hurt her feelings.

Should I care? I’m entitled to speak my mind. I’m not saying anything she doesn’t know.

Spill your tears somewhere else, one directed. We’re trying to finish our meal in peace.

Go on! Away with you!

Kariayla felt a shove. She brushed her sleeve over her eyes to clear her sight when she was pushed again—harder. Awkwardly she stood and collected her bowl. Without looking at anyone, she headed for the counter as quickly as her feet would take her. The entire hall was murmurs and snickers. Her cheeks burned, and so did her eyes. She did not care if she starved; all she wanted was to be alone.

A sudden obstruction snared her leg, and she was falling forward before she knew what was happening. She landed on the filthy floor, the remaining soup from the bowl soaking into her clothes. The vessel itself had clattered away with the spoon—beyond her reach. There was a moment of silence before the hall filled with laughter.

Kariayla clambered for her bowl, but just as she was about to snare it, someone kicked it away. She reached again, and a foot pushed her back to the ground. She nearly cried out in pain, but even if she had, it would not have been heard above the din. Pinned beneath the boot and frozen with humiliation, she lay there in misery, wondering if this was all not some horrific nightmare.

But then the laughter went away, subsiding to the cold, steady pressure that seized her mind. Her breathing slowed, her heart marched calmly onward, and she looked up to meet the gaze of her antagonist. Let. Me. Go.

The man laughed and shifted his foot, but he did not relent.

"Let me go," Kariayla repeated, and though she had not raised her voice, her words penetrated the surrounding noise like a bitter frost. The man’s eyes widened, and his momentary surprise was time enough for her to break free of him and quit the hall.

She did not remember the journey to the library. Her senses did not return to her until she was standing inside her cell, a lit candle in her hand. She set the candle down as she began to tremble. What is wrong with me? she whispered, overcome by emotion. She sank to the floor and closed her eyes, squeezing the remaining tears from them. What do I do? Great Ones, please help me.

The silence and the darkness of the library cradled her, broken only by the sound of Kariayla’s breathing. Was this the only peace she would ever know? Slowly she extended herself like a snail from its shell. With great care she lifted the bulky shirt over her head and began to untie the bindings that constricted her chest. She shivered against the cool air, but the anticipated freedom was worth the chill.

With a long, pained breath, she exhaled, at the same time allowing a pair of dark, leathery wings to unfold. Though she could not stretch them completely in the small room, she felt she could finally move again. The darkness, the solitude—it belonged to her—for only in such times could she truly be herself, alone with her secret and her shame. She closed her wings around her and wept, a prisoner to this kingdom, and a prisoner to herself.

2

AN OPPORTUNITY

W here were you last night?

Kariayla kept her back angled toward the young woman as she replaced another book upon the shelf. Where am I any given night? she asked.

The porcelain doll who followed her did not relent. Kariayla, please. I went to the servants’ hall to find you, but you were not there. Unless you skipped dinner⁠—

I didn’t, Kariayla mumbled. I had forgotten something, and I needed to come here.

There was a pause as the young woman studied her. You are not so good a liar.

I am not lying. I had forgotten how much I enjoy the peace and quiet of my cell. At last she turned to look up at her friend. I’d rather not speak of dinner.

The scrutiny turned to sympathy. What happened?

Kariayla frowned. Didn’t you hear me?

Slender, alabaster fingers gently took hold of Kariayla’s arm. I heard you, but I know there was an injustice done. Is it so wrong to express concern for one’s friend?

Kariayla looked away. Why are you my friend, Eleana? You have nothing to gain in associating with me.

Eleana’s hand dropped. Is that all you think of me? Is that how little you think of yourself?

I’m sorry.

Eleana flicked back a lock of wavy gold. I care about you. If I did not, I would not have had you moved here, to the library. I do not want your gratitude; I want your friendship. That is all. She guided Kariayla toward a table and made her set down the armload of books she had been carrying.

Kariayla could not help but glance around to see if the head librarian was watching. She did not see him, but each book seemed to be an extension of his awareness. Doubtless he would round the corner at any moment and⁠—

"Do not worry yourself over him, Eleana said, drawing back her slender shoulders. I have it on good authority that he will no longer be standing over you with his orders."

I won’t be⁠—

Do calm down, Eleana said. Allow me to elaborate, since I could not do so last night. She drew out a chair. You should sit.

Kariayla sat, watching the noblewoman expectantly.

I am to be wed.

By the Spirits, that is wonderful!

Is it? Eleana produced an envelope and withdrew a letter. This is from the Duke and Duchess Barendorn: my parents. Her painted lips drooped as her eyes seemed to burn through the envelope. She did not open it, though her hand brandished it like a knife. They are coming here to discuss my marriage to Lord Sabastian Gallant of Thorondon.

Kariayla said nothing, uncertain how to interpret her friend’s fortune. Eleana had come to embody her ideal of Human nobility. She was beautiful, educated, kind, and perhaps a little headstrong. Her parents had sent her to the castle to learn the etiquette of a proper young lady, and it seemed only a matter of time before a suitor would be found. Kariayla would admit only to herself that she slightly envied the certainty of Eleana’s future.

I knew this day would come, Eleana said, setting the letter down, and I had thought I would be accepting of it. There is, however, one problem.

Kariayla leaned forward.

I have fallen in love, Eleana whispered.

With whom? Kariayla asked, surprised.

A squire. Fredrick is his name. Do you know him?

Kariayla shook her head. Though she had come to the castle nearly a year before Eleana, Kariayla was not familiar with the majority of the castle’s occupants. This was, in part, because of her status as a slave, but it was also because she had no cause or desire to be overly social. She was nearly invisible to others, and those who did acknowledge her did so only out of necessity. Eleana, of course, was the exception.

He is dashing and handsome. And we meet every day after lunch to talk, Eleana said wistfully, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. He is always very polite, and he said— She bit her lip, and her face colored. Kariayla thought she might cry.

What was it he said? she asked gently.

Eleana swallowed and straightened. He said that if he had been born of higher blood, he would already have my hand. She took a breath and looked away. If it was my decision, I would have given it to him.

Does he know of Lord Sabastian?

Not at present, but I must tell him soon. There is naught to be done. I envy the freedom of peasantry— Eleana stopped when her gaze returned to Kariayla. Forgive me for such a heartless comment. I know of your hardships, and I could not endure as you do with such strength.

You do not know of my hardships, and there is nothing of strength to be found in me, Kariayla thought, rubbing her own back. I merely exist because it is all I can do.

I admire your strength, Kariayla, and I hate to see you spend your days in this dark and dusty library. You are my friend, and because you are dear to me, I have come to a decision. I will have you at my side in this new life I must embrace. I choose you to be my lady-in-waiting.

Kariayla’s hand dropped to her side, just as her lips parted without the hope of a response.

Eleana smiled. You will come with me to Thorondon.

Eh—

Does that mean you are pleased? Eleana teased, apparently delighting in her reaction.

I…I can’t begin to say… I am honored—I— She brought her hands to her face and shook her head.

I have not written word of this to my parents, Eleana said, but they will not refuse me. It is my only request of them if this marriage must take place.

I am your only request? It was too much to believe.

I will need to have you fitted for a proper dress to wear to dinner.

Kariayla felt the warmth leave her face. Dinner?

Of course. I will present you to my parents at dinner the night they arrive. She patted Kariayla’s arm. Do not look so frightened! I will coach you in proper etiquette. That is, after all, my purpose here. You will do well.

Kariayla reluctantly drew her hands from her face to fold them tightly upon the table. It’s not my etiquette that concerns me. How do I stuff a pair of wings into a gown?

It was one matter to work in the shadows of the library, sorting and shelving books, transcribing scrolls and fragile texts; it was another matter entirely to be someone’s shadow. And when that someone was Lady Eleana Barendorn, even a lowly attendant earned attention. Kariayla found herself especially vulnerable to scrutiny, for she was every bit the opposite of the young noblewoman. Eleana was a painted rose: flawless white skin with a carmine bloom to her lips and cheeks. Her sun-gold hair and sky-blue eyes were like a glimpse of summer in the castle’s dim corridors, and her dainty feet carried her with the grace of a wistful cloud. Her dresses filled curves and colors around her slender frame, and like a kitten, she inspired smiles wherever she tread.

If storm clouds were the backdrop of rainbows, then Kariayla filled the role well. Her black hair and dark skin marked her as an obvious foreigner as she trailed quietly behind her high-born charge. Her diminutive size and bulky clothes only accentuated the hidden mass that rounded out her back. There was nothing bright or attractive about her, and even her steps were weighted with the shameful burden of her past. Whispers from nobility and servants alike fell after her like raindrops, collecting in social puddles that reflected the gloom she felt inside. Kariayla tried to seal her senses from the criticism and rumors; her time was coming. She would leave Belorn’s castle for the open world beyond. She had every reason to be hopeful.

I have arranged for the tailor to measure you for your dresses today, Eleana announced in her sing-song voice as Kariayla brushed her hair.

The brush clattered to the floor. Sorry, Kariayla murmured and bent to retrieve it.

The herald has announced the arrival of my parents for tomorrow night. You have done well with all I have taught you; they will never know that you had any role other than my attendant.

Kariayla frowned. But there is one matter, she said, unsure how to express herself. She gestured to her back. I can’t wear a dress.

Eleana seemed unconcerned. Nonsense. I have already considered that matter. There are many styles of dresses. We have only to pick the right one.

Kariayla bit her lip. Perhaps, but I… She turned her gaze away from the mirror. I should tell her. I should show her my wings. I will have to soon, if I am to be her lady-in-waiting. I have to trust her as she clearly trusts me. She has not judged me as a foreigner or as a slave. Maybe she⁠—

"You have nothing to fear; all eyes will be upon Medoriate Prentishun. He is not even Human."

Kariayla’s thoughts shattered, and she looked at her friend, speechless.

Eleana smiled. If you have not seen him, then I know you have heard word of his presence at the castle. He would be the gentleman with the red skin—a ‘Blood Mage’ from Mystland. You see, my parents are the open-minded sort, and they have sponsored his stay in Belorn. He is here for the library, as curator of some magical museum in wizard territory. I can’t imagine what he hopes to find in that old, dusty storage room.

Medoriate Prentishun will be at dinner? Kariayla asked.

As he is every night, Eleana said with a wave of her hand. He is a guest in the castle. I think he is quite the spectacle.

Kariayla recovered her senses and began to braid the noblewoman’s hair. So he is a wizard?

He must be, to look as he does. I think he is rather rude and boring. He seldom greets anyone, and when he does speak, he goes on and on about events in history. He is also never without a cup of wine. Anyway, I have nothing to say to him. I am as polite as I must be, and that is all.

Kariayla nodded and finished her task, binding Eleana’s hair with a ribbon. Any notion of revealing her wings had vanished like the morning dew.

I cannot wait to show you the dress you will wear tonight. The color will be stunning on you—a deep green like the pine boughs. There is a length of fabric that will cover your neck and shoulders, but it will look elegant….

Eleana chattered excitedly as Kariayla tidied the room. She slept on a pallet beside Eleana’s bed—a vast improvement from the cot in the library. Unfortunately, privacy was no longer a luxury, and she suffered the consequences of neglecting her wings. She wondered if she would not be crippled before she could ever return to her homeland. I will have to tell her. After dinner, if all goes well. Then, maybe….

You are awfully quiet, Kariayla. Have I upset you?

Kariayla turned to find her friend staring at her with concern. No, she said quickly. I just hope that your parents will approve of me.

Eleana folded her arms. They will adore you as I do. My entire future is guided by their approval, and the least they can allow is for me to have my lady-in-waiting. Her pout softened into a frown. Jedinom’s Grace, I do not know if I can bear it. She crossed the room to the bed and sank down upon it, her hands covering her eyes.

Kariayla rushed to her side, a handkerchief in hand. You mean the marriage, she murmured.

Eleana nodded through her tears. The thought of marrying a stranger, heading off to his manor to serve him for the rest of his life… He could be cruel, he could be vile. I will leave my heart behind with Fredrick. That is the only true promise I can make. She accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

Say something to console her. It is your purpose to ease her grief. Say something! But Kariayla could think of nothing. She knew about fate and the hardships of a future dictated by others. There had been no solace for her either. I will be with you, Kariayla said, taking her hand. And that is my promise.

The dress alone would have drawn all eyes to her, for no amount of binding could have kept the black, leathery appendages from protruding from the silken material. Kariayla had insisted upon solitude when she dressed—even threatened tears so that the tailor would not be there to gaze upon her disfigured body. She felt guilty for cutting the beautiful gown to