Heartstone Under the Shadow

By John Schreiber

Ten years after the events recounted in Heartstone, enemies threaten Elinala´s peace by threatening its chief architect--Derrick of Loneoak Island. Not only does this conspiracy have roots in the mysterious Shadow Empire, but the conspiracy also has a far more terrifying goal--to force Derrick into reawakening heartstone.

The method used by this conspiracy? Destroy everything Derrick loves.

Once again, ancient evils threaten to destroy Elinala, but this time the greatest evil may be caused by Derrick himself.

Exactly what the Shadow Empire wants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465344038

John Schreiber

John Schreiber grew up in Saint Paul, Minnesota, reading science fiction and fantasy novels. At Hamline University he was awarded departmental honors for his study of science fiction, and he later wrote his master’s thesis on the modern epic fantasy. Today he lives in southern Minnesota, where, in addition to being an award-winning teacher and theater director, he has written three novels set in the Midwest (Hillcrest Journal, Passing Through Paradise, and Life on the Fly) and the short story collection, Tales from 2 A.M. He now returns to his literary roots with the epic fantasy Heartstone.

Book preview

Heartstone:

Under the Shadow

John Schreiber

Copyright © 2011 by John Schreiber.

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4653-4402-1

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4653-4403-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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An ancient power is like a mirror, reflecting the Promise and spreading its light, the sage observed, but if used for evil, it becomes like a whirlpool, pulling all things into itself, destroying all.

—the Stewards’ Book of Tales

I do not trust anyone in power, including myself, the High Steward said, to which Commander Hazar replied, And that is why my soldiers and I trust you with our lives.

—The Heartstone War, by Manfred Caird

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Contents

Prologue

BOOK ONE:

The Lion and the Unicorn

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

BOOK TWO:

The Shadow and the Horn

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

BOOK THREE:

The Wrath of Heartstone

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Appendix of Names and Terms

Prologue

I grip the dragon’s rough-scaled neck and rise higher into the biting, frigid wind. Far below, the alpine forest thins into barren tundra and frozen streams. Above, the gray clouds gather rapidly, billowing, churning.

Flying farther. Snow-topped mountains, then rocky plateau.

Landing. Jolt—nearly fall off—as dragon’s talons scatter rocks.

Hands numb with cold.

I step off dragon’s back and waves of snow blow across feet.

Icy wind whips cloak, freezes face.

Tall heartstone tower—green and brown spire against gray clouds.

I grab pendant and form cocoon of heartstone warmth.

Power surges down arms and legs, power that raises seas and topples mountains—

Derrick gasped and sat up on the wide bed. Breathing rapidly, he rubbed his perspiring forehead.

Beside him, Valerie stirred and touched his arm. Bad dream again? she mumbled, half asleep.

He slid out of bed. It’s nothing.

She turned over while he stepped out onto the balcony overlooking moonlit Riftedrock. Sometimes he could hear strains of faint music from a distant tavern, fragments of melody carried aloft by the night wind, but tonight all was quiet—not even the clattering of a horse-drawn wagon or a crying baby. Far below, the street lanterns looked like stars that had fallen into the city.

Looking over the city reminded him of his dream, of riding on the rough back of Endilthron, the last Elinalan dragon, when he had held unlimited power in his heartstone pendant.

He leaned on the balcony’s cold stone, the moonlight silvering his light brown hair. What I could have done, he whispered to the night, if I had known what to do with such power.

He knew that he had done the best that he could, yet he could not stop berating himself: And if I had to do it over, would I have the strength to reject heartstone power?

He rubbed his forehead: Such is the nature of temptation. It never lets go.

He turned to look at the curves of his wife’s body under the sheets: I am blessed. Married to Valerie, Maid of the Unicorns. High Steward of Elinala. Friends for councilors. My country experiencing nearly ten years of growing prosperity.

Yet the nightmares are coming more frequently, with greater intensity: My time of peace is coming to an end.

BOOK ONE:

The Lion and the Unicorn

Chapter 1

In the spring of his ninth year as ruler of Elinala, High Steward Derrick, the Lion of Riftedrock, saw all that he had done and all that he hoped to do teeter on the edge of a sword.

—The Lion and the Unicorn, by Manfred Caird

Derrick galloped into the Riftedrock square, the morning sun reflecting off the emblem on his red breastplate: a black lion standing before five silver circles. He hated wearing the stifling, uncomfortable chainmail and breastplate, but he knew that his soldiers gained confidence whenever he appeared before them in regal splendor.

Easily recognizing Commander Hazar by his black cloak and red armor, Derrick reined in his horse beside Elinala’s seasoned military leader and dismounted. Derrick removed his black leather helmet with its side guards, revealing the plain gold circlet he wore for a crown. The early morning breeze cooled his light brown hair: Perhaps this will turn out well after all, he thought.

Hazar bowed to Derrick, the scar running down Hazar’s left cheek showing white on his florid face, and, as he rose, his shoulders relaxed slightly in Derrick’s presence. High Steward, I have given them our terms.

Did they respond?

Hazar pointed to the tall brick building across the square. The messenger said that we must pull back our forces and declare them a legitimate religion, or they will sacrifice the children.

Derrick clenched his fists, his blue eyes narrowing. Commander, when you advised force early on, I disagreed. Now I see that you were right.

Hazar’s gray eyes looked away. Derrick’s humility always caught him off guard. My liege, if you had followed my advice days ago, force would have only hastened us down this path. Though I did not believe your diplomacy would work, it did offer a chance for peace. And hope, though I don’t trust it, can occasionally bring success.

Derrick looked over the cordon of Riftedrock Guard, an ominous line of blue-armored men. Hands resting on their swords, they impassively faced the brick temple of the Sons of Shadow. Near their feet lay a scattered collection of garbage that had been hurled from those trapped within. He was glad to see that his soldiers had not responded to the taunts of onlookers. He must remember to commend them later.

Should we bring in the King’s Guard? Hazar asked.

Derrick shook his head. I am not in danger. By using the Riftedrock Guard, we demonstrate that we are defending the city, not me.

But if the soldiers must enter that temple, the King’s Guard is better trained for close quarters combat.

I will not belittle these men by bringing in the King’s Guard. It is the Riftedrock Guard’s job to protect this city from all dangers, including this cult. Derrick nodded to the six archers waiting behind the main line. As one, they nocked arrows, but kept their bows down. Commander, how old was their last messenger? Was he as young as the previous ones?

Fourteen, at the oldest.

At that age I had already started my apprenticeship to Hodge, Derrick said, then sighed with regret. I, too, obeyed many foolish things when I was young.

Hazar surveyed the throng of onlookers around the square. Children, not unlike soldiers, are taught to blindly obey.

But I never want anyone’s blind obedience, Commander, especially yours. I need your experience and opinions to enlighten mine.

A slight smile graced Hazar’s usually somber face. Most monarchs are not like you, King Derrick.

Derrick glanced at Hazar, exasperated. How many times have I ordered you not to call me ‘king’? Then he realized that the Commander was only trying to break the tension of the moment.

A third-story shutter on the temple abruptly swung open and a dark-haired, bearded man leaned out. In the street, the archers raised their bows, awaiting Derrick’s order.

So, the great King Derrick comes himself, the man shouted, as much to Derrick as to the curious crowd lining the square. You know our terms.

Derrick walked up to the line of soldiers, his telltale limp showing, and the line separated to make room for his passage. Derrick raised his voice so that everyone in the square could hear. As you know, the Elinalan Council asked that a representative be allowed to visit your ceremonies, but you refused. On behalf of the Council, I ask again. If you agree, these soldiers will withdraw. We wish harm to no one.

The man’s face turned red, his hands shaking with anger. We worshipped freely under your father, the glorious King Farrel. He never interfered in our affairs.

The crowd of onlookers murmured slightly, some agreeing with the man.

Derrick took another step forward, and the line of soldiers shifted toward him, fearful that he was getting too close to the building. Derrick waved them back: This exchange needs to end quickly, he thought, and safely.

My father, Derrick said, also demanded that he be worshipped. That practice has been abolished, along with all sacrifices.

The crowd murmured a bit louder, siding now with Derrick.

The bearded man stepped back, then reappeared holding a struggling young girl by her neck. He shouted, This is my reply to your ban on sacrifices.

He grabbed her roughly by the hair, yanked back her head, tried to muffle her scream, and then slit her throat. Her body slipped out of sight.

Derrick stared, horrified, a sob catching in his throat, and then raised his hand.

Six arrows struck the man in the shoulder and neck as the throng in the square hastily pushed each other back.

A second volley hit someone trying to close the shutters.

Derrick drew the Sword of Thrylain, the sun reflecting off its blade. He pointed his blade at the door, and four soldiers hoisted a battering ram and charged the entrance. Terrified screams were already being heard from inside the building.

Disheartened, Derrick limped back to his horse and sheathed his sword. An aide helped him mount as the soldiers finally broke down the door.

Commander Hazar approached Derrick, laying his hand on Derrick’s knee. You did everything possible, Derrick.

Derrick glanced down at Hazar, surprised. Hazar rarely dispensed with formalities.

The Roadsend Guard pushed their way into the building.

Their orders are clear, I hope, Derrick said.

Hazar nodded. Save the children above all else.

Derrick wanted to turn his horse and flee from the carnage to come and seek refuge in the palace library, but he knew he must stay and appear bold and commanding for the appalled and gawking onlookers, then ensure that survivors were properly treated.

But inside the building now was only death. The Riftedrock Guard would try to save as many as possible, but Derrick also knew that their efforts would be insufficient. When people refused to reason, it was impossible to show them another way.

More soldiers charged through the main door while archers kept arrows aimed at the shuttered windows. A side door suddenly opened and two soldiers emerged, one carrying a crying baby, another a bleeding boy. More soldiers now pushed in through that doorway.

The soldier with the injured boy carried him to a waiting healer, while Hazar, ever conscious of public opinion, directed the other soldier to take the baby to Derrick. The soldier ran over to Derrick, and then lifted the baby. The baby, unharmed, swung tiny fists and cried angrily.

Derrick took the baby girl from the soldier’s gloved hands and cradled her against his cold breastplate. As the baby cried even louder, the watching crowd applauded, but Derrick was oblivious to them as he stared at the baby’s red face and angry tears: That seems to be my only task in life, he thought. Face death. Save only a few. And then try to assuage the anger.

Only Hazar was close enough to see Derrick’s tears.

*     *     *

In northeastern Elinala, the tall ogre leader, Magiton, sat before a large fire that had been built along the edge of the Desolate Canyon. Following the directions the spies had given Magiton, his attendant poured ogre blood from a pewter flask into the flames, and a shimmering portal appeared above the flames. Magiton’s thick lips twisted angrily.

Add more blood, he growled, and this time his attendant cut his own arm, letting the blood run onto the burning logs. The spitting fire sent more smoke and the portal grew brighter.

A thin face with short blond hair and red eyes appeared.

Magiton grinned, revealing his broken teeth, and his yellow eyes widened. Has the time come for the ogres to revenge ourselves on Elinala?

*     *     *

As the amber lights of evening fell across Riftedrock, Derrick, having exchanged his armor for a simple shirt, vest, and pants, walked into the palace courtyard. Passing the stone fountain, he dipped his hand into the water falling from the center column. The tumbling water, cold and fresh from the city’s aqueduct, briefly reminded him of the Cascading River. Near the courtyard’s center, he found Valerie pruning one of the three apple trees.

Valerie, who usually heard another’s approach, did not turn, so intent was she on her task. He watched her slender back as she clipped another branch and tossed it aside. Her moves were ever graceful—not a motion wasted.

Her long white hair, tied back into a single braid, swayed slightly as she worked. He recalled the turmoil when she had first publicly displayed the troll style of braiding, but the style quickly caught on among the poor in Riftedrock. Now, even the wealthy women were adopting the style.

The varied scents of the early spring flowers filled the courtyard: I should spend more time here, Derrick thought. It could prove more relaxing than the library.

How did the confrontation with the cult go? Valerie asked without turning.

You knew I was here?

Just now, when I heard your sigh.

Instead of answering, he watched her work for a few moments, and then asked, I thought you pruned these trees this past winter.

I did. Now I’m just cutting off the shoots that won’t produce apples.

I don’t think those trees have ever seen such care.

He glanced back at the walls stretching up behind them: The palace had fallen into disrepair during my father’s reign, its crumbling walls a metaphor for the entire country. When others saw the improvements I made to the palace, they should have known more change would be coming to the country, yet I never expected so much resistance.

Valerie faced him and removed her gloves. You never answered me.

I’m sorry. What was the question?

It must have gone badly. She smiled sympathetically and sat on the stone bench near the path. Come sit down. As he did so, she affectionately touched his hand. Would you rather not talk about the cult?

He leaned forward, still troubled. I was hoping they would prove reasonable.

Reason requires a willingness to see another’s point of view.

He stared at the courtyard path.

How many? she asked.

We were able to save a little over half the children. They killed their own rather than surrender.

You had no choice. They had begun performing human sacrifices.

Derrick idly touched an apple blossom on a low-hanging branch, and then quoted the Book of Stewards: Something necessary is not necessarily easy.

She laid her head on his shoulder. But you never neglect those necessities.

He put his arm around her, drawing strength from her, but as Valerie looked at the fountain’s flowing water, she felt the overwhelming need to flee from the constant demands of the palace for a time, perhaps even flee from Derrick: I cannot breathe in Riftedrock, as if the air itself is growing musty and rank. The palace walls confine us like a prison.

She knew this moment was not the best time to tell him, but when would that time ever come? Though part of her knew she was being insensitive, she broached the subject anyway. Late last winter you promised that I could take a journey. I need time away from this palace.

He pulled back. I said it was a good idea. I think the whole city knows you desire to walk in the country again, but this is such an awkward time.

There is always something in this kingdom urgently demanding your attention.

I have no choice. I am High Steward of Elinala.

Even the High Steward needs to step back from his duties and rediscover his priorities.

I do not mean to neglect you.

I am not talking about me. You are constantly surrounded by responsibilities, by people hounding you. Don’t you see that you need to escape as well, for your own peace of mind?

I do find escape.

In the library. Or when you were making those pendants.

Doesn’t this courtyard help you?

She glanced at the flowing water in the fountain, a poor substitute for the Cascading River. It is not enough.

Tomorrow evening we meet with Ambassador Gariuth. After that, plan your excursion.

Very well, she said. For your sake I will play the gracious hostess, but in my mind I will be packing my bags.

Chapter 2

Queen Valerie, unlike previous queens and consorts of kings, employs only one handmaiden. This irritates the nobles, whose excess of servants appears laughably ostentatious.

—Caird’s journal

Mistress Silhanna efficiently set out Queen Valerie’s assortment of tiaras and diadems on the counter before her. Silhanna briefly primped before the mirror, then she picked up a seldom worn pearl necklace, wondering if she could ask to wear it the next time the King’s favorite bodyguard was on duty. Perhaps he didn’t like that her brown eyes, black hair and olive complexion marked her as a southern Elinalan—perhaps he would like her more if she dressed like a Riftedrock noble.

At that moment the Queen called to her. She rushed into the Queen’s bathing room where she found Valerie angrily pointing at the disarray of used personal linens around the wicker basket.

Indignation replaced Valerie’s usual congeniality. They’ve been at it again.

Silhanna hastily shoved the linens back into the basket. What some servants won’t do, Milady, to be rewarded by gossip mongers.

I want to know who is paying for such nonsense.

Commander Hazar would be the only one capable of dredging to the bottom of that mystery.

Valerie sighed. You’re right. And then Hazar would pull the offenders before the Council for treason, which would only create more gossip.

Silhanna closed the wicker hamper. You know it is just foolishness.

Valerie stormed into the dressing room. Oh, Silhanna, when will it end?

Silhanna hurried after her. We are not privy to the great mysteries, but it will end when the time is right and you bear the king’s child.

Valerie sat before the counter and mirror, staring absently at the various headpieces, then ran a hand through her white hair and her anger subsided. Oh, Silhanna, I was fortunate when we met during my coronation. You didn’t fawn on me like those other cloying servants.

I just knew how I would want to be treated.

And you have sacrificed your own desires to help me through these times.

Nonsense, Silhanna said, handing her a hairbrush. I have been part of the great history of Elinala. Besides, no one in my family expected me to rise this far in the Riftedrock palace, especially since my mother was born in the Southern Empire.

Your value may increase, now that the ambassador from the Southern Empire will be arriving today. Sighing, Valerie leaned back. But now we must get back to the immediate business. Which headdress did I wear the last time we hosted a dinner for visiting dignitaries?

The gold diadem.

Are you sure?

Very.

Valerie laughed. I can’t remember these things. It would be better to have one headpiece to wear all the time.

You can certainly do whatever you wish. After all, you are the Queen.

Valerie glanced up at Silhanna’s reflection. If only it were that simple. When I first came to Riftedrock, I wore the same tiara two days in a row—such gossip it stirred.

But times have changed. You have won over the hearts of the Court, just as you won over the hearts of the people.

There are many who still resent me.

If you mean the old harem of King Farrel—

Valerie turned, facing Silhanna. There are others. When you upset a cartload of old nobles, they do not forget their bruises.

But Elinala is more prosperous than ever. Taxes have been lowered—

Yet those nobles whose luxuries relied on others’ taxes are not happy.

The decadent rich have ever been the minority.

Valerie patted Silhanna’s arms. And we must ensure that those self-indulgent nobles stay few in number. Valerie spun to face the mirror again. Perhaps, for the Arpathian ambassador, I shall dispense with all aristocratic styles. No headdress at all.

But a gold headpiece complements your golden eyes.

My eyes are more hazel.

Silhanna pointed to the mirror. No, Milady. Look—your eyes have been gold for some weeks.

Valerie stared at her reflection, the irises now completely gold. That’s strange.

Is it true that unicorns have golden eyes?

Yes. Valerie leaned closer to the mirror. Perhaps my eyes have turned gold because I miss the unicorns so.

Well, Silhanna shrugged. Now you are more than ever the ‘Maid of the Unicorns.’ But if you wear no headdress, how will you wear your hair?

Perhaps keep it braided, troll-style.

Silhanna raised her eyebrows. You will get the tongues wagging in Riftedrock again, my queen.

They will have plenty of time to wag once I am out of this confining city. Meeting the ambassador will be my last official appearance for a while. In a few days I shall slip out of Riftedrock and breathe free again.

So soon? Where are we going?

Are you sure you still want to accompany me? We will be leaving the comforts of the palace.

It would be good for me to see more of Elinala. I have only seen the land between Riftedrock and Darnel.

Perhaps we should travel up the Black River. Hazar has told wonderful stories about growing up there.

Has the High Steward reconsidered? Will he join us?

He says he cannot just now. Too many duties. She smiled at Silhanna in the mirror. I am sure that Derrick will insist that several guards join us. Should we request a certain sword master?

Silhanna blushed. I don’t know who you mean.

*     *     *

By the Riftedrock lower docks, Caird, the slender Court Historian, paced anxiously near the flagship, The Royal Mane. He nervously adjusted his tunic and sleeves, hoping that his knowledge of the Southern Empire’s etiquette would prove adequate.

Desmond, his broad frame stooping with age, joined Caird on the cobblestoned walkway. This morning, the former Steward of the House wore the scarlet sash indicating his leadership of the Elinalan Council. Stroking his gray beard, Desmond admired the flagship. Like most Elinalan ships, its tall, square mast gave it plenty of speed when winds were favorable, and its raking foremast helped it navigate in a crosswind. It had a lower deck, with ample room for storage and passengers, but what set it apart from other ships was its gilded prow and its ornately carved lion figurehead. Built by Derrick’s grandfather, was it not?

Caird paused in his nervous pacing. Yes, though rarely used since his time. I’ve always thought it odd that when Derrick visits the Five Cities, he travels by land, even though he was raised by the sea.

He finds a ship too confining. You know he prefers options.

Caird began pacing again, and Desmond stopped him with a gentle hand. "Please, relax. It will go well. You began this process last year when you took The Royal Mane to the Southern Empire."

Caird’s turquoise eyes looked down the wide river to the south. You would not believe the size and number of their ships. They use an angled sail called a lateen. It maneuvers quite smoothly on the open seas.

I recall your report to the Council, but I find it hard to believe that they need so many ships just to protect their coastline from sea brigands.

I can only hope that they were honest.

Some members of the Council, Jarvis in particular, fear that the Southern Empire has built such a navy in preparation for war. That is why your diplomatic mission was so important.

Caird laughed lightly. I thought I went to spy.

Desmond crossed his thick arms. Nonsense. A spy ferrets out information during a war, but a diplomat gathers information to prevent a war.

Then I hope my mission proved successful.

Clearly, otherwise we would not be waiting for an Arpathian ship. Ah, here she comes.

A long, slender ship with an angled sail moved swiftly upstream, propelled by twenty oars on each side. The ship bore a flag with a three-spiked crown, the round scepter, and the star of the Southern Empire.

Caird straightened his tunic and sleeves one last time. That flag hasn’t been seen in Riftedrock for many generations.

Desmond put his hand on Caird’s shoulder. You see? Your trip to the Southern Empire was a turning point in Elinalan history. The historian made history.

*     *     *

Derrick walked over to where his heartstone pendant hung on the wall. It had been several days since he had occasion to wear it—and now he found himself wishing to leave it on the wall. His nightmares about heartstone were coming more frequently, and even during his waking hours, he found himself wishing to possess such power again.

He reluctantly took the pendant, then paused, surprised. Odd, he thought. The stone within the gold pendant felt slightly warm, as it used to feel before he had ever grappled with Whitehall for the fate of many worlds.

He walked to the side table and anxiously opened the ornate box. Inside were the five copies of his pendant, the stones themselves cut by his own hands. He touched each pendant in turn; each heartstone was slightly warm.

He snapped the box shut: Heartstone is no longer safe. And neither am I.

*     *     *

Ambassador Gariuth from the Southern Empire was adorned in a flowing, red silk robe and white sash, and was accompanied by his armed personal guard who wore chainmail over a leather shirt. After welcoming them, Desmond escorted them to an open carriage drawn by four white horses. The carriage had ample room for six persons, three facing each way.

After Gariuth and his guard sat facing forward, Desmond and Caird joined them. Gariuth, a tall, olive-skinned man with short, curly hair and a goatee, ran his hand lightly over the soft leather seats, then looked back at his ship moored beside the shorter Elinalan ships along the wharves.

Caird pointed to The Royal Mane. As I told you, our ships cannot compare to yours. We have nothing larger than our flagship.

Gariuth nodded approvingly and his dark brown eyes turned to Desmond. As Historian Caird informed us, proving, once again, his honesty. Did you know that some in my retinue doubted his integrity during his visit last year?

Desmond shifted forward. You will see that Elinala desires but one thing: an open and honest friendship with your country.

That is my hope as well, Gariuth said, but change can be a frightening thing.

We hope to alleviate your concerns. Desmond glanced at the bodyguard, a square-faced young man with long, black hair tied back, a trimmed beard, and thick eyebrows. Does your attendant wish anything?

Caird gripped Desmond’s arm. Do not acknowledge the guard or speak to him.

Waving his hand slightly as if swatting a fly away, Gariuth forced a polite smile. We ask that you do not distract a bodyguard. They are trained to be observant and wary, not to engage in conversation.

The carriage lurched toward the Riftedrock palace, and Desmond folded his hands. You will have to pardon my diplomatic blunders. What I think, I usually say. If I have a question, I ask. It is a training deeply embedded from my youth.

Gariuth nodded. Yes, I forgot, you are a former steward. Has it been hard, adapting to a new life?

Change, as you said, may be frightening, but it is often necessary.

Do you regret no longer being a steward?

I am still a steward, as our High Steward Derrick has taught us, but a steward of Elinala.

So I have heard. I find it strange that King Derrick has not allowed himself the privileges due him.

The High Steward seeks what is good for Elinala, not for himself.

All rulers say this.

Derrick has proved it.

Gariuth did not reply; instead, he glanced over the people walking along the streets of Riftedrock, startled that women walked beside the men.

*     *     *

Tired even before the days’ duties had begun, Derrick sat on the simple oak throne. The small stones embedded in the throne room floor glistened in the late morning sun streaming in from the tall, narrow windows. Each stone is needed in the floor, he thought, yet each stone is unique. If I could only get the Five Cities to acknowledge each other’s distinctiveness, like the stones in this floor, and see the strength in cooperation.

I fashioned the five pendants to unite the Five Cities; yet now, heartstone’s reawakening may rip us apart.

Derrick looked up as Jarvis entered with the day’s load of petitions. In preparation for the noon meeting, Jarvis was wearing his blue robe with the steward symbol over his heart. In the throne room light, his blue robe looked like water, and his gray hair looked white, reminding Derrick of seagulls on Loneoak Island, and a pang of nostalgia struck him.

Valerie is right; we both need to get out of this palace and rediscover the beauty of Elinala. And each other.

Then Derrick noticed how much slower Jarvis walked, his shoulders stooped: This soft-spoken steward was once bonded to the Coastal Gales; he knew the power of unfettered wind, but now age wears him down. Soon, all his generation will be gone.

Yet there was no time to mourn the past; instead, Derrick forced a buoyant tone: Have you removed the frivolous petitions?

The age-spotted hands of the former steward trembled slightly as he set the papers on the small table before the throne. As always. And sorted by priority—more or less.

Well, let’s see what we can get through before Ambassador Gariuth arrives.

Jarvis picked up the top letter. From Lost Harbor. The mayor is complaining about the tax rate.

Derrick leaned forward, disgusted. I lowered them throughout Elinala last year. Twice. What is he upset about?

He says that five years ago he was paying less than Darnel. Now they’re paying the same rate.

Shouldn’t each city pay the same rate, and be glad the rate is lower than before?

He demands a lower rate than Darnel.

So he is upset because he believes Darnel was given more, is that it?

Jarvis smiled wryly. Approximately.

Are we not all one country? Derrick asked.

Jarvis stammered, Sire, I think—

Derrick stopped his intended tirade. I’m sorry, Jarvis. I wasn’t really asking you. Sighing, Derrick settled back on the throne. Please draft a letter to the Lost Harbor mayor, stating that we are all Elinala, not individual cities. If he would like to propose a return to the old tax rates for each of the Five Cities, he may bring it up at next year’s Assembly. You know how to make it sound better, but clearly state his option to return to the old tax rates.

Jarvis made several notes on the paper and set it aside. The next letter involves both personal and state matters—a letter from your sister.

Intrigued, Derrick shifted forward. Sarah has replied to one of my letters?

It’s quite an involved letter, but the heart of it says that she officially accepts your invitation to visit Riftedrock.

That is good news I never—. Derrick broke off when he noticed the anxious frown on the councilor’s face. What is it, Jarvis?

You have visited Darnel many times since coming to the throne, yet during those visits she rarely met with you, and she has declined your many invitations to the palace. So I wonder what has caused her to change her mind?

What are your suspicions?

She was the presumed heir before you were born. After Galen’s death and before you were officially vested, she had a legitimate claim to the throne.

Which she never brought forward.

How could she? You had the armed might of Elinala behind you. And, if I may add, an intimidating force of centaurs and trolls as well as the support of the House of Stewards.

Derrick crossed his arms. I see what you mean.

Since your first visit with her in Darnel years ago, she has rejected almost all contact with you, yet now she accepts an invitation that is nearly nine years old. She has never officially accepted your title, and those in Darnel refer to her as Princess Sarah.

And you think her sudden visit may have to do with our diplomatic overtures to the Southern Empire?

Jarvis shrugged knowingly. In all of Elinala, Darnel has the strongest trading ties with Arpathia.

Perhaps she wants to be involved in negotiations.

Perhaps she senses an opportunity.

For Darnel?

For herself.

Derrick stepped off the dais. Very well. Draft a reply saying that I would be glad to receive her when it would best fit her schedule—

Jarvis interrupted. A reply is not necessary. Her letter says that by the time you receive this she will be on her way. She expects to be here the day after tomorrow.

What? She could not have picked a worse time to visit. After his initial shock, Derrick folded his hands behind his back. Well, she can’t expect a full palace reception on such short notice. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Notify my mother. Ask if she will oversee the reception. She’s good with those things. Then tell the palace overseer to prepare several suites. We’ll worry about the political repercussions with Sarah after we meet the Arpathian ambassador. What’s next?

A letter from Ajax—

A letter? Ajax can’t write. Derrick snatched the paper from Jarvis’s hand and eagerly began reading. Well, ‘by the Horn,’ as Ajax would say, the centaur has learned to write. Forgetting that Jarvis had already read the letter, Derrick read parts aloud: All is well with the dark centaurs in the Western Plains . . . . Some are teaching the trolls still living in the Eastern Plains to build above ground . . . . Recent signs of unicorn in mountains near the Doran Pass. He folded the letter and slipped it in his vest pocket. Valerie will be glad to read this—especially his news of unicorn signs. If only the rest of Elinala would cooperate as well as the centaurs and the trolls. He paced excitedly. If only others would capture that vision, instead of constantly maneuvering for advantage.

Jarvis cleared his throat.

Very well, Derrick said. What is next?

An update from Jason’s expedition. He handed Derrick the letter. As you will see, the expedition reached the base of Grothgrot. By now they should have reached the summit and should be returning soon.

Good. I want to put the rumor to rest. He stared anxiously at his simple throne. Or else I need confirmation that it’s true.

Jarvis noticed Derrick’s mother waiting near the door to the conference room, a clear sign that she wanted to speak to her son. We will save the rest for later, Jarvis said and departed.

Derrick stared at Jason’s letter. The memory of when he had faced Whitehall on top of Grothgrot, when he was wrapped in heartstone power and facing a tower that would soon topple onto the icy plateau, haunted him.

Deidre approached Derrick, touched his arm. You need to leave these things for a time.

These tasks need to be done, he said, picking up another letter.

See what I mean? Do you hear the tension in your voice?

Many problems need to be addressed.

And they will still be there if you let them wait. She walked to a window and looked out onto Riftedrock. How is Valerie?

He finished reading a petitioner’s request. Fine.

She seems distracted.

Derrick set the letter aside, then picked up the next document on the pile Jarvis had left.

His mother cleared her throat. Riftedrock is filled with rumors, but you know that.

Which ones? he asked, only partially listening.

About Valerie.

His anger flared. I will not take a second wife, if that’s what you mean.

She laughed lightly. Of course not. I was referring to her unhappiness.

Derrick signed the document, and then looked up. She’s restless, that’s all.

All the palace talks about her intended pilgrimage.

How do such rumors get started?

It is quite easy in a palace with so many visitors. But is it true?

She wants to leave Riftedrock for a few days, but it was to be a secret between us.

Secrets cannot exist when you are constantly surrounded by servants and guards in a palace located in the center of a bustling city that loves news of its young king and queen.

Derrick laughed dourly. I don’t feel young any more.

She left the window and walked back to him. Age—youth—it’s a matter of perspective, like choosing to read those papers or looking out the window at the sun shining on the flowers in the courtyard. Did you notice that the yellow bells have bloomed?

Derrick rubbed his forehead. Mother, what exactly are you trying to say?

Your wife needs some space. Perhaps you do too.

I cannot leave Riftedrock just now. The delegation from Arpathia is here, and I just recently learned that Sarah’s arriving in a day or two. In fact, Jarvis will be asking your help with the reception. Will you please help? You know royal protocol better than anyone else.

Deidre smiled. I will gladly take charge of that if you promise to set a time for you and Valerie to escape this confining palace. Make it as important as one of your sojourns to the Five Cities. She needs to know that your being with her is as important as these diplomatic maneuvers.

Derrick nodded. You’re right. I’ll set a date after all our visitors have left Riftedrock.

Deidre walked away, hoping that it wouldn’t hurt to wait that long.

*     *     *

The afternoon sun shone in through the window of Valerie’s dressing room, glistening off Silhanna’s long dark hair as she held up another dress before the Queen. How about this one? Valerie looked up from her desk, perturbed. She wanted to finish the letter before the reception for the Arpathian ambassador.

You decide, Silhanna. Your choice is always so much better.

Silhanna held it out at arm’s length. I don’t know. It is elegant, but it does not display your royal position.

Valerie paused in her writing and looked at herself in the mirror. Her white hair seemed to glow with an extra luster that belied the irritation she felt within: I am not getting too old, she thought, recalling the latest rumor. Silhanna, have you heard anyone say that Derrick should take a second wife?

Silhanna paled, lowering the dress. Milady, I would never think that!

I didn’t say you did. I wondered if you had heard anyone say that.

No. Then Silhanna added, Of course, I don’t think someone would say that to me, your handmaiden.

The other day I came upon two servants gossiping in the corridor, discussing the possibility of the High Steward adding a second wife.

But the High Steward loves you. Why would he take a second wife?

Valerie stared coldly in the mirror. Because we have no children.

Silhanna laughed lightly. Yet. You are not even thirty. Look at me. I am almost twenty-six and not even married. Now, in the old Arpathian days, or so my mother says, women not married by twenty were farmed out as nannies for the rich. Silhanna left to select a different dress from the walk-in closet. Fortunately, those days are long gone.

Valerie frowned. I also believed that the acceptability of a second wife was long gone too.

Silhanna’s voice carried from the closet. "The Book of Promise speaks of one husband with one wife."

That never stopped past kings from taking multiple wives, nor building up elaborate harems. Some of the rich have several wives.

But your husband dismantled his father’s harem and found positions—and even husbands—for the royal concubines.

Valerie picked up the pen. "I know I worry needlessly. Still, Derrick has not outlawed multiple marriages. He says that people must be convinced by The Book of Promise, not forced by royal edict, but at what point do we use human law to temper human desires?"

Silhanna brought in another dress. I’m sorry, Milady, but when you talk like that you are far above my feeble thoughts.

Valerie smiled at Silhanna’s reflection in the mirror. You are not as simple as you like to appear, Silhanna. I know you too well. Valerie added a sentence to her letter, then turned to the dress Silhanna held out. Oh, that won’t do. Tell me, if you were meeting someone from Arpathia, what would you wear?

Silhanna returned to the closet. I don’t know. I’ve never seen how their women dress.

Valerie frowned. Never? During your childhood in Darnel—you never saw a visitor from the Southern Empire?

Only sea traders in the market and sailors at the docks.

Did they buy clothes for women back home?

I did see sailors buying hair accessories. Simple ones made from spun cotton, rather than gold.

And your mother never told you how women dressed in Arpathia?

Her family came to Darnel when she was very young.

Valerie resumed writing. I must finish this letter to Jason so the courier can leave before dark. I know—get me the gown I wore to the troll celebration.

Oh, Milady, that’s much too simple.

Valerie became irritated. Since Arpathian women aren’t seen at public forums, my dressing ostentatiously might offend them; therefore, I will dress simply. If they don’t like that, then they can go back home.

Silhanna did not reply. Valerie’s exasperation was most unusual. Silhanna brought the dress over to the Queen. And your hair?

I’ll wear it in the braid.

Silhanna pursed her lips, disapproving, but said nothing.

Valerie stared down at the letter and spoke softly: After the ambassador has been duly met, we will pack for our trip.

Have you decided where, my lady?

Definitely west of Riftedrock. Hazar has always told me about a favorite trout stream he knows along the Black River.

But so soon? Have you asked the High Steward?

He knows that when my mind is set, it is set.

Silhanna sighed.

*     *     *

Council Chief Desmond knocked, and then entered Derrick’s dressing room. Caird was sitting at the table while an attendant pulled Derrick’s linen sleeves beneath the chainmail.

Wearing armor to dinner is ridiculous, Derrick snapped. I’m taking this off.

Desmond assisted the flustered attendant. High Steward, you’ll not look like a king to them.

I am not a king, and I don’t wear chainmail with guests.

Desmond sighed. At least wear the leather vest.

Very well. While the attendant helped Derrick pull off his chainmail shirt, Derrick glanced over at Caird. Historian, you’re quiet. That means you have something to say.

I’m thinking that Arpathia’s agenda is somewhat broader than increased trade.

Such as?

The ambassador asked many questions on our ride to the palace. He is gathering information.

The chainmail armor off, Derrick stood straight and stretched. Of course they want information. So do we.

"But a different sort of information. They don’t care about our