White Penitent

By Tammy Brigham

Of all of the horrors he could imagine…
…he never imagined this.

Ashamed and devastated by a pair of selfish acts that destroy the life he has built, believing himself condemned to worthlessness, Kavan flees the potential rejection of those who claim to love him in search of reconciliation and restoration where no one w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tammy Brigham
• Release date: Jan 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732002470

Book preview

Prologue

I thought she would be over this by now. The prince, nearly the spitting image of his grandfather except for his blonde hair, laughed warmly as he twirled the braided gold band upon the middle finger of his right hand. Though he spoke to the ivory-skinned man next to him, his eyes followed the movements of a young woman across the courtyard of her family home, laughing with two other young women he was only marginally familiar with. When he became aware that the man beside him was watching his absent fiddling, he laughed again, though this time there was a note of embarrassment to the sound. It is going to take some time to get used to wearing this, he murmured, looking at the ring again.

It will come, Muir. The soft intensity of the pale man’s lyrical voice caused the prince to inch unconsciously towards him. The man’s voice had always had that effect on him, as far back as his memory reached. Change takes time to assimilate, even when it is welcome.

As the young woman left her friends and glided across the courtyard with her mother, he shifted away from the prince, making room for the woman who now belonged at Muir’s side. The younger of the two women draped her arms possessively around Muir, aware of the stares she drew and delighting in the attention. Crushing her airy white gown of Elyri lace and Káliel silk against him, she kissed the prince upon the mouth. He returned her ardor eagerly enough, though with noticeably more self-consciousness. Upon her middle finger on her right hand, a gold braid that matched the one he wore.

Turning her face to the prince’s companion, she smiled. You will not object if I steal my new husband to dance, Lord Cliáth? She rested her hand playfully on his arm until her mother’s disapproving expression caused her to withdraw it. It was there long enough, however, to make the bard uncomfortable. Her smile did not falter.

Would it matter if I did? he countered as Muir stepped away.

No, both husband and wife laughed simultaneously.

Muir looked back. We are not finished speaking about this, Lord Harper. And you must play for us privately before you leave.

Yes, his bride agreed, whirling the prince into the crowd, you must.

The second woman, the mother of the bride, settled on a nearby bench, watching the bard’s face as his gaze followed the movement of the dancers. Lost in the music, she knew. It was his sole earthly love, the only passion he allowed himself. Despite the fact that she was younger than him, he looked as if he could be her son, so regal, so beautiful. Those thoughts, and the old emotions brought with them, caused her to swallow uneasily and look away.

There had been enough changes in her life since they first met, and enough time had passed, that she no longer felt as she once had for this elusive man. Yet there were times such as this, when the light caught the silver in his thick waves of white hair, reflected in the emerald of his eyes, or played upon the calm serenity of his features, that she longed to touch him. Longed to make him smile or laugh. Candlelight such as what surrounded them here was particularly seductive. However, unlike those early days, she no longer tried. Even now, as he joined her on the bench, her hands remained in her lap. Experience had taught her what this man desired from her, and physical affection and intimacy were not part of it.

Not finished talking about what? When he did not reply, she smiled and asked, Or is it none of my concern? Man-talk perhaps?

The bard looked at her with an expression of confusion until the twinkle in her eyes told him what she meant. His skin flushed. Nothing like that, Gabrielle. You know me too well. Muir was asking about the state of affairs in Rhidam, his sister in particular.

Oh.

She was disappointed, having hoped for some cherished tidbit of his life. But what he said was the truth, though not all of it. What he had not said, she did not need to know. To change the subject, he asked, Where is Owain? I have not seen him since the ceremony.

Gabrielle smiled. Piran demanded to see the boats, so Owain obliged him. He’s not old enough to be interested in weddings and adult gatherings and there are few children here today. The boats are his favorite diversion. Owain says he has several wooden ones, a whole fleet, which he sails in the horse troughs and fountains in Fiara.

Hearing her melancholy, Kavan asked, It is hard to let him go?

She sniffed, though the smile on her face did not fade. Of course, Kavan. He’s my son. But, she shrugged, Owain missed Muir’s youth, and it is good that Piran spends more time with him. Also, on the practical side, there are skills I cannot teach him.

Such as how to wield a sword.

Yes. Her tone was resigned. A man cannot survive long without one. Well…you can, and Ártur does; most Elyri do. But Piran does not carry the power, or if he does, it is too weak to be of use. He wants to be a swordsman, to be a man worthy of being both a Lachlan prince and a Dilyn diplomat. There are many in the Káliel Guard who could train him, but it is more fitting for his father to do so. Even if Piran did not desire those things, I cannot teach him how to be a man. He needs his father.

Kavan looked back to the dancers, his thoughts drifting to his childhood. He will find his way, Gabrielle. Everyone does.

Perhaps. This is the best we can offer. I cannot live in Fiara, and Owain cannot live here. Our duties will not allow it. At least I get to see them both, and perhaps Piran will return here to live one day.

The subjects of their conversation came out of the house into the rear courtyard. Piran’s deep strawberry blonde hair was windswept, the edges of his white sleeves and hands still dripping with water. While his eyes were green like his mother’s, his face and build, even at such a young age, were clearly his father’s. Owain Lachlan did not share his son’s disheveled appearance, but with the small hand held in his, his face exhibited the same joy as the child’s. That brought a rare smile to Kavan’s face. It pleased him to see Owain happy.

The spectacle of the wedding festival was overlaid in his vision with the image of a considerably older Piran surrounded by Káliel council members. When his vision cleared, Kavan said in a low voice. He will come back to you, Gabrielle. You can be sure of it.

Having seen that look come over his face, one she had seen before, her mouth opened to speak but there was no sound. The Sight had shown Kavan her son. It was enough to let her relax and rise to greet her family with an expression of relief and joy.

Dance with me, mother, Piran squealed, extracting his hand from Owain’s and pulling her into the midst of the dancers. She paid little heed to the sorry state of his sleeves or his dripping hands. Owain took Gabrielle’s place on the bench at Kavan’s side, stretching his legs out before him as he leaned against the stone wall behind.

Neither man spoke. Like Wortham Delamo, Owain could remain silent in the bard’s presence without feeling the need to speak. He was content to watch his sons and his wife and relish the Elyri’s quiet, soothing company. It was a comfortable relationship, except in those moments when Owain felt overcome with guilt at how he had once treated this gentle man. But Kavan never spoke of that time, rarely spoke of times past, and when those memories came, Owain pushed the guilt down to be examined at some other time.

Prince Muir and Clianthe left the company of dancers with few realizing it. Gone into the house, Owain presumed. The sun had nearly set, the courtyard lit only by the glow of dozens of tall, yellow candles. If this were Enesfel, a great feast would ensue, the festivities lasting far into the night. However, this was Káliel. Owain had shared these customs before. Shortly, the new couple would reappear, bestow their tokens of thanks upon their guests, and the public festivities would end. The majority of the guests would depart and the families of the new couple would proceed indoors for a shared meal, to which Kavan was invited, as much family to Prince Muir as anyone else he knew.

Once Gabrielle and Piran completed their dance, they went into the house as well. The troupe of musicians played a few more numbers, jigs and reels that encouraged one final flurry of dancing, until the Prime Magistrate returned with her son, now in dryer apparel. She spoke to the performers and beckoned to Owain. The man nodded to Kavan before joining her, leaving the bard alone.

The next song was of native origin, with a hint of both Elyri and Hatuish influence that spoke of the long history the Islands shared. As the song began, Muir and Clianthe emerged from the villa, both once more wearing the fine metal mesh black veils and pale blue wedding robes of Káliel’s custom they had briefly abandoned after the morning ceremony. In Muir’s hands was a black enamel chest. From it, as they stopped before each guest, Clianthe withdrew an item and placed it in the hands of that person, uttering ritual phrases of blessing and thanks for friendship, support, and acknowledgment of their union as husband and wife. As had been arranged beforehand, the couple made a point of speaking to the other guests first, saving Kavan until the end. The place of distinction.

Blessed brother, began Muir as he handed the chest to his bride. Of the guests here, you are he who has had the greatest influence on my life. If not for your wisdom and guidance, I would not be standing in this hallowed place of commitment. When I mourned, you comforted; when I erred, you judged wisely and brought me back. There is no truer friend. May the forces that grant happiness, and k’Ádhá’s love and peace, grant you all you have ever given me. Accept this and wear it close to your heart, the guardian and protector of the memories we share.

From the enamel box, the prince withdrew a smoky gray crystal hung upon a silver chain. He intended to draw it over Kavan’s head but the bard did not move, unexpectedly overwhelmed by the emotion in Prince Muir’s voice. In many ways, this was a parting, a farewell to what they had shared before. With the King’s indifference to his bastard stepson, Kavan had been the man most responsible for raising Muir. If he accepted this gift, he was severing his former ties with Muir and allowing Clianthe to take the place of supreme importance in Muir’s life…where Kavan had once been. To refuse to take it was an indication that he did not approve of this union and was a curse upon the marriage. Having been through this ritual one other time, he knew the ramifications of his actions. This occasion was no less difficult for him than that one had been, for the last time he had given in to Gabrielle’s union with Owain. For a few brief seconds he could not move, but then he resolutely bowed his head and accepted the cold, heavy crystal.

There was a static spark and pop as the crystal touched the half-moon medallion he always wore. He wondered why. Power in the stone, perhaps, the thought making him curious to study it later. Muir kissed the top of his bowed head and whispered, Thank you, Lord Cliáth. Turning to the other guests, he said, I know it is customary to sing the Cra Nique hymn. However, with the approval of our parents, Clianthe and I have opted to forgo that custom.

Surprised murmuring interrupted his speech. Clianthe lifted her hand and the gathering fell silent. Instead, we have chosen to take advantage of the talent of one of our guests. It is not often that our islands are graced with the presence of the White Bard of Bhryell.

From beside the bench, Kavan retrieved his ever-constant companion, the black kestrel harp, his most treasured possession. People around him were applauding already and he had not even begun playing. Ah well. He had agreed to perform for this blessed event and expected such a reaction wherever he traveled. Play he would. The notes from the brass strings soared into the evening sky, mingling with the breeze and the cries of evening seabirds before blowing out across the ocean. He had rarely been able to turn down the opportunity to make music.

Chapter 1

Coiling and uncoiling her ebony tresses, Princess Diona Lachlan tried in vain to find a style that pleased her. For some reason, none of them did. At least none of them adequately complimented the gown she wore, the gown that would mark her twenty-third birthday. She allowed her hair to tumble down her back and smiled. Most of the men she knew preferred her hair down. Fortunately for them, regardless of popular fashion, she did too.

She should have attended Muir’s wedding, but there was too much to do before tomorrow night. At least, that was what Owain had said when he convinced her that Muir would forgive her for not attending. She loved the man dearly, as she did her half-brother, but she suspected he had convinced her to stay in Rhidam to get Kavan away from her. True, Owain rarely saw Kavan, and she knew how much he desired to be alone with the bard, if only for a few minutes. She could not blame him for that. And she knew there was no way Kavan would miss Muir’s wedding.

And there were many details to see to in preparation for tomorrow, giving the correct guest count to the cooks, having her dress fitted, deciding upon a hairstyle and accessories, and most importantly, greeting the guests who arrived continuously from outside of Rhidam and seeing to their comforts. Why her father did not do that, she was not sure, except that he said it would be proper for her to greet those she had invited…as well as those she had not but were attending anyhow. She had requested this banquet, as she did every year, but this year her father had placed obligation for it in her hands, to teach her some degree of responsibility she was sure. But Arlan was King; she would not question his decision if she wanted this banquet to proceed.

Nevertheless, she had wanted to go to Káliel, both to be with Kavan and to see Muir again. In the last fourteen years, she had not seen much of her half-brother; he spent his time between Fiara and Káliel, stopping in Rhidam when he could to visit her and the bard. After Bertram’s death and Muir’s departure from Rhidam, Diona had felt isolated in an unexpected way. Hagan and Bianca had been initially too young to make good companions, and she and her cousin Wilred had little in common. Muir was her closest friend, and now she had missed his wedding. And he was going to miss her birthday.

As might Kavan, she realized with an irrational flash of anger. Perhaps that was the real reason behind the timing of Muir’s marriage, to provide the bard an excuse not to attend her ball. Not that he needed a reason; he was a nobleman, with business that often took him away from Rhidam. If Kavan wished not to attend, he would not. However, he had promised to be there if he could, and she could think of no time when he had broken an arrangement with her. It was not in his nature to go back on his word. She smoothed the azure velvet of her dress as she studied her reflection in the mirror. It was for his benefit, this gown; he had said this color complimented her eyes and complexion, and that he approved was what mattered. Princess Diona had a mission for tomorrow night.

The sound of children screaming in the courtyard below drew her attention to the window. Of the five children scampering over the stone benches and around the trees in the near darkness, two were boys. Diona quickly identified four-year-old Llucás Phaedr MacLyr. As usual, though he was the youngest and the shortest, he was the leader, coaxing the other children to jump from the bench. Although not a far drop, Diona had often heard Lady MacLyr tell her son not to do it. Like any child, however, Llucás was determined to continue, particularly since his mother was away and his father was otherwise occupied. Besides, he had other children to impress.

Shades of Bertram, she sighed, motioning for her lady in waiting, Belda, to unbutton the back of her gown. Bertram had used more physical means of persuasion however; Llucás used words. A budding master spokesman at four years old, learning the intricacies of language and argument from Princess Diona. He might not be a healer like his parents, but he had other talents the Lachlan Crown could utilize if he chose to remain in Enesfel.

There was a knock on the door behind her; she waved Belda to answer it as she pulled free of her gown. Belda returned shortly, alone.

Who was it?

Lord Flannery, milady.

And you did not show him in?

Milady! The servant looked and sounded appalled. You are not properly dressed to receive male visitors.

Diona chuckled and cut the woman off. Why should it matter? Men receive guests in their underclothing; why can’t I? Besides, if a woman receives a caller as handsome as Lord McGrannis, I think she should welcome him immediately, regardless of her state of dress…or undress. Belda was unsure how to interpret the flippant remark, though she had heard many such comments from the princess during her years of service, thus she said nothing as she helped the woman dress. What did Lord Flannery want?

He wished to inform you that Prince Harcourt has arrived and is waiting in the library to see you at your leisure.

The glibness fell away. I cannot receive the prince dressed like this! Diona cried, struggling to get out of the plain yellow gown she had started to don. The serving woman sighed, wondering why the yellow gown would not suffice to greet the Prince of Hatu if her underclothing was suitable attire to greet Lord Flannery.

Thirty minutes and four dresses later, Diona paused outside the library, smoothed the gently gathered pleats of pale blue linen, and then entered the room. Prince Espen Harcourt stood at the window, his back to her, his deep purple turban in his sun-browned hands. She liked this image of him, dark in his cream-colored tunic, his curly sable hair cut above his collar. He looked exotic, more than Kavan or any Elyri ever appeared to her. It made her pulse quicken and her hands tremble to see him thus, particularly when he was not aware she was watching. He might be foreign, but he was still Teren, that detail she had learned well over the last fourteen years.

Welcome back to Rhidam, Prince Espen.

He turned, surprised by her voice, warmed by the nervous tremor it held, his face turning vaguely crimson beneath its darker tone. I did not hear your arrival, milady. I apologize.

Oh, none of that, Espen, she smiled, the formality dropping away now that they had both spoken. I think we can be casual with one another, can we not? Celebrating the fact that I am another year older is not cause to act like we have just met.

Prince Espen, the younger brother of the King of Hatu, agreed in theory. But the women in his land were more reserved around men, less forward and visible, and it took time to adjust to Diona’s candor and strength after being away from her for any significant length of time. He appraised her appearance without seeming to. You look remarkably well…and as beautiful as ever.

Thank you. Her words were spoken casually, but her eyes and the flush on her cheeks indicated she was flattered at his notice of her appearance. I am pleased you have come. I was not sure you would.

You know you have only to ask, and I will abandon everything to come to your side. He took a step closer. I have waited too long to abandon you.

Like a skittish horse afraid of its rider, Diona took a step away. Espen… she started in a whisper.

He did not pursue her. Aye, he said through clenched jaws, you do not wish to speak of this when I have just arrived. I will leave the matter for now, if you will think on this. Neither of us is getting any younger. Other women your age have long since married…as have men of mine. Noreis has no heirs, and with three wives is apparently incapable of producing any. Hence, it falls to me to see to Hatu’s future and survival. There is any number of women at home I could choose, should I find it necessary, but you are the only woman I have ever…

She turned and cut him off. Would you care for a game of dice, Espen? I am weary of being alone, occupied by nothing except preparations for the ball. I could use the diversion and it is too late to ride. Will you join me? You can tell me all about things in Hatu, about your journey here.

He rolled his eyes, annoyance behind the smile he kept on his face. Once she had been willing to listen to his rationale for their union for hours, for as long as he wished to confess his feelings. Recently her inclination to hear such platitudes had decreased. He wondered if her resistance was weakening, meaning she would soon accept his proposal, or if she was weary of him and was nearing the day when she would deny him irrevocably. He did not think that true, as she still desired his company; if she did not, she would not continue to summon him to Rhidam. And she would not have asked him to dally over dice. She wanted him near, and that was where he wanted to be.

Of course I shall play. What game do you wish?

***

Tusánt, tomorrow you will go to Alberni to take stock of how the chellé’s construction is progressing. Lord Cliáth wants to open for the Feast of Kóráhm, thirteen days from now. Notice from gdhededhá Khwílen indicates they are ready, but I want you to be certain.

Of course, Your Grace, Tusánt replied, meticulously jotting down the instructions upon the parchment stretched before him. The k’gdhededhá did not understand why the Elyri gdhededhá did that; the other man’s memory was like a trap. He never forgot anything.

If they are ready, you are to perform the dedication and conduct the Feast’s Gathering. Lord Cliáth requested it. Please do not disappoint him. Once you return, there will be altar attendants to train; consider this your chance for respite. I expect a full report on the chellé; please take your time in assessing it.

The Elyri gdhededhá nodded, his eyes twinkling at the honor of being chosen to open the new chellé hábhai, or Seeking House.

k’gdhededhá Jermyn turned his attention to the brown haired gdhededhá beside him, his hair tonsured in the latest ecclesiastical fashion. Rankin, prepare the Feast here; I am sure the Lachlans will attend, so everything must be impressive. You are also to begin preparations for the Dhágdhuán and Udhár High Gatherings, as they will be here before we know it. Try to convince Lord Cliáth to play for at least one of them.

Rankin frowned. He has rejected requests in the past, Your Grace. What makes you think he will accept this year?

The older gdhededhá chuckled. I don’t believe he will, but it cannot hurt to ask. I think he expects it; I do not want to offend him by not asking. Perhaps this time he will change his mind. I also want you to see about repairing that hole in the roof of the residence hall before gdhededhá Hazen asks for my head. If it starts to rain before it is repaired, I am going to send her to see you, is that understood?

The younger man nodded gravely, his expression showing he held great respect for the wrath of the ancient gdhededhá Hazen.

One more thing. When you tally the donations between now and Udhár, set aside any funds not directly needed for our upkeep. The orphanage sees an increase around that time; we should donate something to them again. Do not give them the money or we will never know what becomes of it. Buy clothing, food, or any other goods they need. We will take it to them before the Festival.

Again, Rankin nodded, making notes as Tusánt had done.

Claide?

The balding Teren gdhededhá sat apart from the others, his feet propped on the k’gdhededhá’s desk, his heavy eyelids nearly closed. He looked at Jermyn when spoken to, however, and removed his feet from the desk when he noted Jermyn’s annoyance. Yes?

I have some tasks specifically for…

Tone dripping with sarcasm, Claide asked, There are some you have not already delegated?

Jermyn frowned. You know I must distribute the burden as evenly as I can, according to a man’s talents. St. Poul’s in Levonne claims need of major repairs upon their facilities and has requested funds. I don’t know how that can be true; everything seemed in good condition when I was there last spring, though I admit I did not climb upon their roof or crawl in their basement. Please pay them a visit and see what they need. Do not hesitate to turn down their requests if the need is not there. While in Levonne, they have a young man ready to take vows. You are sanctioned to perform the Initiation, and I want you to bring him to Rhidam afterward so I may interview him.

Though his head nodded, his slightly offended expression did not change. Is that all, Your Grace?

No. One of our parishioners has asked that you bless and dedicate his new house near the southern edge of town. I told him I would inquire if you were available; if you would agree to do this, I will arrange for you two to work out the details. Is that acceptable?

Of course.

Thankful that there was no fight over the assigned duties, as had increasingly become the case over the past ten years, Jermyn smiled with relief. Good. You can see to that on your return from Levonne. I should go to St. Poul’s and the chellé myself, but k’gdhededhá Dórímyr has sent word he plans to arrive within two…

k’gdhededhá Dórímyr is coming here? Tusánt sounded skeptical and thought Claide looked ill at the suggestion.

Jermyn shrugged. Well, he says he is. With his schedule, one never knows. But I cannot risk being away or not being ready should he come this time. Besides, I have to review náós appointments, find a home for our newest gdhededhá, and see if there are others who need to be reassigned. If there are problems, please let me know, and if Rankin needs assistance with preparations, I expect each of us to do our share to help him. It is late and I have an appointment with the King in the morning. Goodnight, brothers.

He waited until the other three gdhededhá had departed, noting that, as usual, Claide was the last to exit. Claide was the last to do anything, the last to arrive, the last to speak. There was a great reluctance to the man that had not been there when he had first taken vows. Over the past ten years, Claide had grown quieter, more withdrawn, until he barely spoke to k’gdhededhá Jermyn except in the line of official business. Jermyn wondered if it was his fault; he had never felt entirely comfortable with Claide and preferred Tusánt’s easy-going temperament to the Teren gdhededhá’s pricklier one. Once Rankin arrived, the youngest gdhededhá’s company was his favorite as they shared enjoyment in many of the same things. The bonding of Rankin and Jermyn seemed not to trouble Tusánt; the Elyri gdhededhá went about his business as he always had. But Claide had, it appeared, not appreciated becoming more the outsider.

Jermyn tried to include Claide in as many functions as possible, tried to make him feel welcome in every way he could. He had thought it was working until Claide stopped accepting invitations, and eventually, Jermyn stopped trying, except on the rare occasions when guilt made him feel that the effort was necessary.

Scratching his ear, the heavy man settled behind his desk. He was looking forward to the arrival of k’gdhededhá Dórímyr with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. The Elyri pontiff had not stepped foot outside of Elyriá in his entire career, except when he had journeyed to Rhidam to appoint Jermyn as k’gdhededhá of Enesfel and had then gone to Aralt to appoint Tymothy Borlad as the k’gdhededhá of Cordash. That had been over twenty-five years ago. If he could be certain of the man’s arrival, Jermyn would have invited every gdhededhá in the Teren kingdoms.

But the ancient pontiff had announced his coming many times over the years and each time had canceled his trip. There were valid explanations and reasons for each cancellation, but to Jermyn and the clergy around him, they amounted to the same thing. Excuses to avoid Enesfel. Though Jermyn knew that the same was likely to occur this time, he still allowed himself to hope the pontiff would come. It felt imperative that he do so.

***

I apologize for our tardiness, Bhríd chuckled, watching Tayte being pulled out the door by his younger cousin Llucás. Gaelán is recovering from an illness and Madalyn was reluctant to leave him. But he finally convinced her he would survive for a few days without her hovering. He has to be the strongest-minded child I have ever seen. I hope the princess has not been hounding you for our whereabouts.

King Arlan shrugged and motioned his chamberlain to a chair. The castle library was brightly lit at this hour and empty for the first time that morning. It was the King’s first choice for greeting guests, or for welcoming his friends and advisors back from their travels. I doubt she realizes you are late. She spent nearly all day yesterday preparing her wardrobe. Once Prince Espen arrived last evening, she has had no time for anyone else.

Do you think she will ever marry him?

The question made the King groan. I have given up trying to understand her mind. She thinks like no one else I know. She should be wed; her peers are. Yet she refuses. Given her focus of attention, I do believe if she ever marries it will be him or your cousin.

Kavan? the dark-haired Elyri asked with a snort of amazement. Come, sir. You know that will not happen. Kavan will not allow it.

I know. But, he rubbed his temples, it is not a union I would object to…no matter how awkward it might be to have my best friend, older by seven years, marry my daughter.

The chamberlain chuckled, trying to imagine the quiet Elyri bard married to the outspoken Lachlan princess. Enesfel would object.

Arlan nodded as he stood to pour a glass of wine. You are likely correct in that, Bhríd. I think she turns her attention to Kavan because he is safe; she knows he will not dishonor her. I cannot believe her affections are serious. Once she decides to marry, her attention will settle where it should. Are you certain Gaelán will be well?

Quite. A fever and sneezing, nothing a few days in bed did not cure. He is rarely sick for long, whereas Tayte can spend weeks in bed. I think Gaelán was not feeling up to a long journey yet, but I’m sure he is on his way to being healthy again. He will be running about by the time Madalyn returns home, I suspect.

Good. I have considered asking you to bring him soon, making him one of my pages. The experience should prove beneficial.

Again the chamberlain laughed. Beneficial for whom? You would likely find him trying. Once he gets an idea in his head, nothing can turn him from it, regardless of the consequences. He is not necessarily the most cooperative child, not good at taking orders.

The wine glass was drained and set on the mantle. Like Phaedr.

Remembering his brother fondly, Bhríd nodded. Yes, I suppose he is. I had not thought about it, but that is exactly who he is like. I will discuss your wishes with Madalyn. I doubt there will be any objections. Has there been any other news during my absence?

k’gdhededhá Dórímyr might pay a visit.

We have heard that before.

Precisely, snorted the King. I put no stock in the notice, but I want you to see that the grounds and staff are in top condition in case he does decide to make an appearance.

Of course. May I change first and rest before the ball?

By all means. None of that is pressing for today, and I will not have my daughter accuse me of keeping you away with duty. Before you settle in, however, you should announce your return to Ternce and Minos, if you have not done so already. They have been anxiously awaiting you.

Bhríd stood with a grin and bowed. No doubt, My Liege.

The men to whom King Arlan referred were, at that moment, arguing about the availability of funds required to increase patrols in Rhidam’s streets. It was less a fight than a spirited debate, concluded Ártur MacLyr who was in the dayroom painting when the two entered. The sound of their bickering was commonplace since Guthrie McHador’s death; it was one thing everyone in the keep expected to hear at least once during their daily routine. Kavan more than once commented that the men were actually good friends, but no one quite believed it. Ártur only believed it because his cousin said it was true.

Minos Cornell was sensitive to the need for more men to patrol the streets; he had once been the Lord High Justice himself. He knew what it took to maintain a presence and the latest series of brawls and petty thefts had not gone unnoticed. But recent expenses had left the kingdom’s coffers short; there were no funds available to hire even a single man until taxes were gathered at year’s end. That was several weeks away. He had nothing to give the general or the justice.

The leader of Enesfel’s army had no doubts that the chancellor spoke the truth. It did not, however, keep him from requesting resources. He knew what was needed too, as Lord High Justice Darius Corbin did. While Darius was not about to pressure the chancellor for additional resources, the general was not so squeamish. It was better, he felt, to be vocal about his needs than to remain silent and risk being overlooked when the resources became available.

That they did not notice the Elyri healer’s presence as they entered, debated over details found in a book they drew from the shelves, and continued out of the room made the healer chuckle. He appreciated that some things never changed.

***

Behind him, Caol Dugan could hear Asta laughing politely at some comment Prince Hagan made. He could not define the relationship between his daughter and her cousin, the heir to Enesfel’s throne. Prince Hagan was a quiet young man, shy and gentle. Asta, on the other hand, was boisterous, fun-loving, and would have been a perfect candidate for the Association if Caol were still part of that life. At her request, and perhaps against his best judgment, Caol was teaching her the skills he had learned as a boy, picking locks, climbing, eavesdropping, anything that had ever been useful to him, and some things that had not. His son Wilred had shown no interest in those things, likely because his brush with that part of Caol’s life had led to the kidnapping and the death of his cousin Prince Bertram. If her mother were alive, or if King Arlan learned of Asta’s schooling, it would be halted at once. Asta’s interest sprung from the tales of her brother’s rescue and she was secretly proving to be a capable and willing pupil.

Prince Hagan knew nothing of her inclinations; secrecy was part of the agreement if she wanted her father to school her. And, as Caol had taught her, secrecy was one of the most important tools of that trade. As far as the inquisitor knew, the only person aware of Asta’s side schooling was Lord Cliáth, and that was because he had caught her attempting to climb into his room through the window late one night. The bard kept silent about the incident, but it taught Asta two important lessons. Do not underestimate the target, and take extra precautions if that target was Elyri.

Today, at Prince Hagan’s insistence, they scoured the city for a gift for his sister. They started early that morning and it had taken until mid-afternoon to find the right items. At last, they were returning to the keep. Asta demanded it since she claimed it would take her the rest of the day to prepare for the ball.

Caol had no doubt about that. At thirteen, Asta was still boyish in figure and took great pains to emphasize her feminine features as compensation. Her blonde hair was nearly straight, her eyes a deep azure. Traces of Deidre, though the woman’s hair had not been straight, but in Caol’s eyes, his daughter did not look like her mother. Deidre had been beautiful, loved by everyone, but being a realistic and practical man, Caol had few doubts that Asta would surpass her mother’s beauty. Quite soon, he suspected he would be fending off a number of suitors for his daughter’s hand.

Unless she decided to marry her cousin the heir or one of the Cáner boys as he suspected she would. She was quite fond of each of the three young men and had no difficulty sharing her affection with them. But only Prince Hagan was old enough to consider his future and no doubt his father was thinking about that future as well. Asta was in no hurry to form romantic ties. She was too intent upon what her father had to teach her. She wanted what no woman in Enesfel, or elsewhere, had ever held, the position of High Inquisitor.

***

Diona fingered the parchment, admiring how the light glinted off the sapphires set into the pair of Cordashian combs in her other hand. She had to admit her cousin Wilred had perfect aesthetic taste; the combs were exquisite. But she had hoped he, Bianca, and Lady MacLyr would attend her ball. Wilred and Bianca had not been in Rhidam since their wedding a year ago. She wanted to blame their absence on Bianca but she could not. Bianca could be erratic and fickle, but she was not spiteful or cruel and she was fond of Diona.

Besides, as the letter stated, Wilred’s first child, Coriana Deidre Dugan, had been born the day the letter was written. Bianca was in no condition to make the journey from Durham to Rhidam, and Wilred would never leave her alone. He was more devoted to his wife than any man Diona knew, and Bianca would go nowhere without him, as inseparable now as they had been as children.

The princess wondered absently if she would ever inspire that kind of devotion.

The combs that matched her dress had arrived in time for the ball, and Wilred sent his love. That mattered as much as whether he could attend or not. Tonight would be a happy occasion despite his absence. She wished her twin Bertram were here to share it. It should have been his birthday too.

***

Kavan rolled over, waking to sunlight in his eyes. It brought him to a sitting position at once, wondering how long he had slept. The wedding celebration had lasted far into the evening and he had played more in a single night than he had in many years. His fingers still tingled from the effort but they did not hurt. He could not recall a time when they had.

Blanket falling away, he allowed the autumn island air to chill him as he stared at his hands. There had been freedom in his three days on Káliel, away from demands, expectations, and courtly pressure. The only duty expected here was music, something he gladly gave.

The great clock in Gabrielle’s entrance hall clanged three. Mid-afternoon. Already. There was little time; he must bid those here farewell and return to Rhidam. The princess would be growing anxious and he did not wish to face her wrath should he fail to attend her ball, in spite of the growing cold gnawing within every time he thought about tonight’s event. There was no rational explanation for the feeling except that something in the princess’s voice and eyes of late made him increasingly uncomfortable.

After dressing in the white robe and gray suede boots he usually wore, he rubbed his fingers over the black wood of his harp, closed the case, and went downstairs with it, pausing at the bottom to study the záryph on the rail as he fought with himself over returning to Rhidam.

Kavan, you’re awake. I didn’t realize we’d tired you. I apologize for that.

The prince, currently alone, looked blissful and content. Kavan eyed him curiously, wondering not for the first time what it was about marriage that caused such changes to come over some soon afterward. He doubted he would ever understand. Perhaps sleeping late was an unconscious attempt to avoid the inevitable. Where is Clianthe?

Muir clasped Kavan’s arm reassuringly. With her mother in the back garden. I did not think it prudent to linger and hear what the women were planning to discuss. He grinned, though his face still showed concern for the bard. Father and Piran are in the dining room, I believe. You look ready to return to Rhidam.

Ready? I do not think…resigned is more appropriate.

Seeing pain flicker in Kavan’s eyes, Muir said, Perhaps I should go with you, talk to Diona. I am one of the few she will listen to.

Kavan shook his head. In this, I do not think she will be swayed. I have no idea what can be said to convince her I do not want marriage.

The hand on Kavan’s arm tightened a little and Muir stepped back to allow Kavan to come down the final step. But you do, Lord Cliáth. That’s it. I saw it on your face yesterday. You want that sense of belonging so badly it is unmistakable sometimes. I think Diona sees it as I do, which is why she persists. She believes she can be the one to ease your loneliness.

Kavan glanced at his hand, wondering what it would be like to see a ring on his slender white fingers. The thought made him shiver. It will not happen, Muir. I am resigned to it. Regardless of what I might wish. I have no desire to marry Diona, yet I cannot make her see that.

She will. Soon. She wishes for children and will realize that if she does not accept Prince Espen’s proposal…or someone’s…she will spend her life alone. I think she knows it already, which is why she tries fervently to change your mind.

Her desperation is intolerable.

The prince sympathized with Kavan’s predicament but was also at a loss of how to approach his sister. I tell you what. After the celebration tonight, you are welcome to come here for as long as you feel necessary, until Diona gets the message. I know Gabrielle would welcome you, as would Clianthe, and I do not think Arlan will object.

Kavan shook his head. I will not intrude on life with your bride.

You are never an intrusion. I wish you would realize that. Muir leaned forward and kissed the bard’s cheek. If you will not come here, then go to Fiara with Father; you know he would appreciate your company. He does not like to be far away from you…like the rest of us. He had to smile at Kavan’s embarrassed expression. Or if solitude is what you desire, go to Alberni. You said the chellé will open soon, devote your attention there. That is one place you can go where none can accuse you of shirking duty. Alberni is your responsibility.

Though he agreed with Muir’s logic, he felt no less obligated to attend the ball. When did you become wise, My Prince? he asked.

It has been a gradual process that I owe to my wise tutor. I’ll retrieve our gifts for Diona and send the others to bid you farewell. Please give her my apologies again.

I shall.

It was nearly an hour later before Kavan, Owain, and Piran arrived in the upper oratory of Rhidam’s keep. Over time, Owain had grown to accept the Gates, but he thus far allowed no one other than Kavan, and occasionally the healer, to take him through. Piran, still young enough to find the new and unusual exciting, looked forward to each trip, though it had taken his solemn promise to keep the secret before Kavan agreed to take him. Knowledge of the Gates was too widespread for the bard’s liking, inevitable with the large number of Elyri employed in Rhidam’s castle, and he had ceased taking anyone through unless it was an emergency. Today had been an exception, as the timing of Muir’s wedding and Diona’s ball allowed no other means of travel if they were to arrive on time.

Owain led his son to the room they shared when they were in Rhidam, leaving Kavan in the oratory. The Elyri spent several minutes in prayer, longing for music yet knowing that to play would alert others to his return. He was not yet willing to speak with anyone, particularly the princess.

In his room, he found new clothing laid out on his bed. Crisp blue linen trousers and a royal blue silk tunic. Not his clothes, and from the color, he knew who had left them. There was a note; half curious, half dismayed, he read it, then let the message fall from his fingers.

Sinking upon his bed, Kavan hung his head. Gift from the princess or not, he did not intend to wear anything other than his usual robe. He placed the clothes in a drawer and undressed to bathe. There was water in the washbasin, cold but acceptable, and after changing into a fresh robe, he settled to read while he waited for the evening’s torment. The princess would not be pleased with his decision, but it could not be helped. He would not let guilt manipulate him into something he found even more uncomfortable than attending this ball would be.

Chapter 2

Thank you, milord!

Diona bubbled with excitement as she kissed Owain coyly, and then maneuvered to let him clasp the string of pink pearls around her neck. She grabbed his hands in a manner that made them linger longer than appropriate upon her neck, and then released them with a laugh and a quick flash of her eyes towards Kavan. Her attention turned to the other gathered guests, waiting for the next gift to be bestowed.

To one side of her, on the dais, lay her current horde of treasure: the small cedar, gold, and abalone jewelry chest given by Tayte, Gaelán and Llucás and a book of poetry from Asta and Caol. The princess speculated it was Asta’s choice by the few verses she had peeked at upon opening it. There were six bottles of the finest Dubuais wine, two bolts of Káliel silk and two of Káliel linen…all deep blue…delivered from Muir and Clianthe since they could not attend, and from Hagan, two porcelain dolls, the kind with rosebud lips and delicately painted features she loved. k’gdhededhá Jermyn offered an expensive bound prayer book, a rare commodity outside of Elyriá or outside of the náós walls. She was not particularly pious, but she appreciated the value and the artisanship, and she did value the tenants of the Faith. Beside them, the painting Diona had requested from Ártur, one of her and her twin Bertram when they were much younger, before Bertram’s premature death. In her heart, it meant more than the other gifts, both in its size and significance.

It was not customary for such gifts to be given publically, but Diona had demanded it from the time she was old enough to be considered an adult. Despite a host of admonitions from her father and others, that such a custom would result in the awkwardness of guests being envious of the gifts of others, feeling overshadowed or ill-favored if another’s gift outweighed their own in expense, sentimentality, or extravagance, Princess Diona would not be swayed. This was her day and she would celebrate it as she chose. And judging by the host of other gifts already revealed from other Lords, Ladies, and families of wealth throughout Enesfel and beyond, the King doubted his daughter would relinquish this custom anytime soon. She liked pretty gifts and public adoration.

They helped her, on this day, think less about the twin she had lost.

Milady, Prince Espen spoke, bowing as he presented her with an ebony scroll case. She looked at him quizzically, wondering what significance such an item could have in Hatu as a gift between a man and a woman he expressed interest in marrying. Please…if you will.

Her mouth formed a perfect O. She had to break the seal on the enclosed scroll before reading it, aware of Kavan’s piercing gaze from across the room. He had not worn the clothes she gave him, which angered her initially. Nor had he made any mention of her gown. But her anger passed as the festivities commenced. At least he was present. She wondered about his expression, what he was thinking as she opened Espen’s gift. She hoped he was jealous, both of Espen and of the others she flirted with.

A deed?

Espen bowed. It is a region of fertile, forested land not far south of Natrona. There are several farms upon it and a modest fortification. I have Noreis’ permission to bestow it upon you, in order that you and your family will have somewhere to stay when you are in Hatu. The income from those farms will be directed into the upkeep when you are not there. A goodwill offering, if you please.

A castle? she whispered, her blue eyes wide. I have my own… She looked as if she would throw her arms around him but for once restrained herself. Thank you, milord. No one has ever been this generous.

King Arlan smiled. He had watched his daughter flirt with Flannery, Owain, Kavan, and Prince Espen for years. Tonight was no exception. Owain was married and Kavan had no interest in his daughter’s affections. Flannery was often flustered and unsure of how to behave around her, but Prince Espen was not. The prince of Hatu had made an impression on her with this gift, and upon her father. Such a gesture between the nobility of other lands was a good sign. Perhaps Arlan would live to see his daughter wed after all.

My gift is not as grand as Prince Espen’s, he said, presenting his daughter with a small box while she nursed the scroll case and its contents on her lap, but it is special.

Within the box, a cameo, the woman’s face upon it etched in pink coral. Diona looked at her father, who smiled. That is your grandmother. She gave it to her daughter, and I am giving it to you.

This belonged to…mother…? She stopped, not trusting her voice. Arlan thought she might cry, which had not been his intent. Others looked as if they too believed she might weep. Instead, in a gesture that reminded Arlan of himself, her expression grew calm and neutral. She pinned the brooch to her royal blue almost too revealing velvet gown with its white lace bodice panel. When she looked up, she smiled, any thoughts of her mother’s absence locked away inside.

Lord Cliáth, do not think we have overlooked you. Do you have anything to add?

Kavan did not like the seductive tone of her voice; neither, he noticed, did King Arlan or Prince Espen. The implications seemed lost or ignored by most of the gathering, however, though both Owain and Ártur looked at her, and then at Kavan, with concern. Though tempted to drop his gaze, Kavan did not. Doing so would suggest that her words affected him, and he had learned that nothing quelled her advances faster than denying their effect.

I have but a single gift to bestow, My Princess, the only gift I have to share.

She clapped her hands and grinned like a little girl. You have written a song for me? When Kavan nodded, she said, Play it, milord, if you please.

In this, he could oblige her. Notes swelled and soared to the highest corners of the Grand Hall, filling the room in a way that nothing else did. The melody was complex, intense, full of joy and excitement, the way the princess lived. Beneath it, the countermelody carried a touch of hollow sadness so typical of many of the bard’s works. Most failed to hear that part of his music, as was evidenced by the reproductions he heard played by other minstrels. It was assumed that the White Bard wrote only of the joy, love, peace, and passion he brought to the lives of others, that these songs came from a life of wonder. The White Bard could never write or know despair, except upon the death of those he loved, and thus when those darker elements were present, they were most often ignored. No one in the room appeared to notice it, not even Ártur or Owain. Kavan bit the inside of his lip to keep it from quivering.

There was silence upon completion of the song, a pleased hush he treasured even if he knew the music was misunderstood. He did not need words, expressions, or applause to know his audience approved. He could feel it. But the princess broke the stillness of his enjoyment by throwing her arms around his neck; he turned his head so that her lips found his cheek rather than his mouth as she intended.

That was the most beautiful song I have ever heard, Lord Cliáth, she declared, and then whispered against his ear, and the most seductive. He could not keep the flush from his face as he looked away from her. Pleased that she had gotten a reaction, she added in a louder voice, I think I shall ask you to play that every year.

As you wish, he murmured, grateful she had risen from his lap.

Shall we dance? Knowing better than to push him at that moment, the princess was already pulling Flannery onto the open floor. The quintet hired for the night began a spirited number, calling other dancers to join the princess. Asta Dugan, with her blood-red gown swirling around her feet, was quickly claimed for this dance by Tayte Cáner while Prince Hagan slouched sullenly, watching. He was spared the need of moping when Ordelia Cornell, the granddaughter of the chancellor, approached him, struck up a conversation, and then agreed to dance.

After seven more songs and watching Diona work her way through the same number of partners, Kavan discreetly made his retreat. He had no desire to linger long enough for her to ask him to dance because he knew of no graceful, diplomatic way to turn down the request, particularly on her birthday. Better not wait to be asked. No one observed his retreat, though eventually, someone would notice he was gone. It was something he had done at nearly every formal function held by the King and his family; no one would find it unusual.

He went first to the oratory but did not stay long; that would be the first place anyone would look for him. The back garden, amongst the grave markers of Lachlans long departed, would be the second place. He should take Muir’s advice and leave the grounds, go to Alberni. But he wanted to see Wortham, let the man know where he was going to be. Even more than his cousin Ártur, Wortham Delamo was the one person in Rhidam that usually knew the bard’s whereabouts.

But it was late and Wortham would likely be asleep. He wondered why the Captain had not attended Diona’s ball. Either ill then or the man had watch duty tonight. Regardless, the bard would leave him to it and find him in the morning. Kavan felt weary to his bones, though he knew it to be an emotional weariness and not a physical one. It would be safe to sleep in his room. That would be one of the last places anyone would expect him to be if he desired to be alone.

He awoke some time later to a tendril of alarm, a dream perhaps that he should not have been having. He rarely dreamed; if it was one, he could not recall it. The Sight tapping into his consciousness, he wondered, but memory showed him nothing, left only that snaking feeling of discontent, thus he tried to relax, hoping sleep would reclaim him. But there came the distinctive brush of skin and breath against his bare shoulder at the same moment he became aware of a body lying beside him, and his eyes flew open and he jerked into a sitting position in alarm.

You are shocked, milord? Do not tell me you wish me to leave.

Confronted with the sickening, embarrassed horror in his stomach, Kavan backed away and tumbled off the bed, the sheet coming with him as he fell. He had not sensed her arrival, unless that, or her lying down beside him, was what had roused him. He knew he had not invited her, and knew her presence here meant only one thing.

The princess pursued him, crawling across the bed, over the edge, and then across the floor like a cat stalking prey until he was against the windowsill. Only then did she stop, her body inches from his. Her eyes sparkled with a hunger he recognized but had never seen directed at him, and he could feel the rapid beat of her heart radiating with each quickened breath she took. He tried to breathe but his throat closed around the attempt, causing him to struggle to remain conscious. There were no words