AUTHOR'S NOTES:
First of all, I would like to thank my two wonderful readers: Rosethorn, who I DO remember, and Random Person number 3, whose name I love excessively. Not to sound ungrateful, but I hope more people read this soon, because everyone's ego needs to be gratified at some point.
Secondly, I ABSOLUTELY PROMISE I will finish this story. I've left too many hanging to not end this one.
And third. The updates will be slower than I thought, since my chapters are long (my Microsoft Word document counts this one as 7 pages). I realize I could shorten them, and post more often than to increase presence. However, I'd rather have long ones. I apologize for any errors due to italicization, which seems to be a problem for me while proofreading.
He stuck his head out the window and was immediately shushed by a tousled Sandry. "Be quiet, do you want to wake everyone up?" she hissed. "Lark and Rosethorn only just got to sleep. It was, evidently, a very long meeting."
"What's with the horse?"
"Russet," Sandry emphasized, "is my horse. I went to get him from the Fire Temple's stables. Chumpy bit me, by the way, when I tried to give him an apple."
Briar snorted, unrepentant. "Where's your token?" He made a circle with his thumb and fingers, approximately the size of Lark's permission token that they were often forced to carry when traipsing around the temple grounds.
Sandry raised her eyebrows in an expression reminiscent of Lark. "We don't need them anymore, didn't you know? We're guests, not residents." With that, the noble finished tying Russet to the windowsill- Briar's windowsill, he noted with a scowl- and headed toward the privy. "Go back to sleep," she threw over her shoulder, as an afterthought. "You want to miss the excitement this morning, I guarantee it. Sleep. Now."
"Telling me to will only make me more awake, you know." Pulling himself back into the room, Briar flopped back down onto his mattress-nest of blankets and pillows, but couldn't go back to sleep. He had forgotten that they were only guests, that someone else lived in Sandry's room, and that the four of them would be in Winding Circle for only two months before, supposedly, continuing their travels with their teachers, who had not divulged any further plans with their students.
And if this isn't my home, his mind demanded, then where was? He thrashed about in bed for a while, then, frustrated, threw his pillow back into the pile and stamped quietly into the kitchen. He filled a pail of water at the well, washing his face and hands in the bucket, and then drained the rest of the cool water into the row of parched snap peas. He wondered who had planted in Rosethorn's absence. Maybe Lark? The traces of magic in the garden were familiar, but not Lark's . . .
"Weeding," he muttered, interrupting his own thoughts. If Rosethorn was still sleeping like Sandry said, he might as well get started instead of daydreaming. And he had just made a mud-mess by pouring water into the dirt he was supposed to strip of weeds. He decided to start with the cabbages instead, which had a particularly aggressive invasion of dandelions.
Briar had gathered the designated bucket and trowel when hoofbeats stopped at the gate. Looking up, he saw Crane slide elegantly off the back of an impressive horse, a gelding as glossy as Sandry's Russet. That Crane ain't riding no nag, Briar thought, impressed despite himself. Bags.
Crane cleared his throat, plainly waiting to be addressed. "Ho, Dedicate Crane," Briar obliged him, somewhat. The Air Dedicate's face hadn't changed, except for maybe a twitch of the mouth.
"Briar Moss." The man really did have a face of iron, Briar thought. Except Crane's brown eyes kept glancing at the growing garden behind Discipline's gate.
A connection clicked inside Briar's brain. "You planted for us, while we were gone." Crane flinched slightly. "She'll mind, you know."
Crane sniffed. "Quite likely. But, interestingly enough, Dedicate Lark permitted me to enter her domain in the first place."
Briar, hesitantly, looked at the nicely growing garden, then back at Crane. "Thank you." Crane smiled slightly, gracefully acknowledging a concession. "Though you could have weeded," Briar said with a slight scowl.
To which Crane only replied airily, "Oh, but Rosethorn always keeps young slaves in the summer." Briar blinked. He hadn't realized Crane had a sense of humor about anything. And he had done something extremely nice for Rosethorn. Briar's sense of reality was rapidly disintegrating.
"Briar Moss!" From Crane's tone of voice, Briar could tell his name had been repeated several times.
Crane fixed the boy with a glance. "My visit has a purpose," he informed him. "I came to notify Sandrilene that her party will be arriving shortly, and that she best be ready."
"I'll tell her," Briar said, as Crane hesitated at the gate. Sandry?
What. Her mind voice sounded stressed.
Crane said to tell you they're coming.
I'll be ready, she replied, struggling with something. I'm- almost- in- my- dress! She finished her sentence triumphantly. Just give me a minute to get my shoes.
"She just has to get her shoes," Briar told Crane, who was looking toward the road.
"They're coming. Where's her horse?" snapped Crane. When Briar pointed in the direction of Russet, Crane motioned for Briar to retrieve the mount.
"What for?" Briar protested. He still didn't like it when Crane ordered him around. That was Rosethorn's job.
Crane's eyebrows snapped together in irritation. "It is not suited to her rank that Sandrilene should fetch her own horse," Crane informed him, as a finely dressed gathering rode up to the front of the house. More softly he added, "I don't think you would want to shame your friend in front of her peers."
Briar blushed hotly. He had never quite forgotten that he had been, quite recently in Crane's mind, a street rat. "Of course not!" he snapped, before running toward the back of Discipline. Russet bit at him as he fumbled with the lead, but Briar didn't care. He was just glad to be away from Crane. How dare he say he knows about my friendship, when he and Rosethorn constantly snip at each other. They used to be friends.
But there Briar paused. Crane had known he couldn't let Rosethorn come home to an empty garden, and he had done something about it, something that had taken time and sacrifice. If that wasn't friendship, Briar wasn't sure what was.
And, annoyingly enough, he knew he was only mad at Crane because the man had been right.
What are you talking about?! Sandry demanded, and Briar realized he hadn't kept his thoughts exactly private. He led Russet out through the front gate, exactly as a docile little stable boy should.
"You owe me, Crane," he muttered.
Duke Vedris, at the head of the group, looked down in surprise at the unlikely stable hand. "Is that Briar Moss? I didn't realize you and Rosethorn had returned yet." The other nobles suppressed their surprise at the Duke's familiarity with the boy, dressed plainly in breeches and a very old shirt.
"Just yesterday, your grace," Briar replied with a bow. He could just sense Crane's amusement.
Vedris looked at the young mage gravely. "I suppose Crane put you up to this. Thank you for leading my niece's horse."
Briar could tell that one of two of the Bags had begun to recognize his name, from the way they were peering at him from their saddles. He bared his teeth at them mentally. I'd give a lot to see them try to keep their seat on ol' Chumpy.
Stop thinking of torturing them, Sandry said irritably. I'm coming out now.
"She's coming," Briar told Crane, who had remounted.
Sandry appeared in the doorway, and Briar's jaw dropped. She was wearing a gown so fancy that it almost hurt Briar's street-bred eyes to look at it. The white silk – only nobles would wear white silk, Briar thought, because they're the only ones who can pay to replace it once it's immediately stained- was edged with silver embroideries of leaves and vines, and sewn with dozens of tiny seed pearls. Her hair, smoothly swept back and arranged in a waterfall of golden brown curls, was held back with more pearls strung on silver thread and a network of tiny diamond clasps. A silver circlet glistened brightly in the sunlight, and sheer white scarves hung from her elbows to flutter gracefully in the wind.
She was really, really beautiful.
"Sandry?" The duke's voice was gentle. She caught herself staring at Briar, who stared right back until Crane nudged him with one foot.
You look like a ... a real Noble, Duchess, Briar managed to say, then mentally kicked himself. He knew he had said the wrong thing, he saw it in Sandry's eyes, and he felt terrible.
Stop it. She sounded absolutely miserable. You weren't supposed to be here, anyway.
"Briar, would you do me the honor of assisting Sandrilene?" The Duke was nice, for a Bag. For anyone, Briar admitted. He was still rather stunned, and couldn't seem to put a thought together. "Of course, your grace," he managed to say, before realizing he had no clue how to help a Lady to mount. Uh, Sandry, ...
Just cup your hands, and when I put my foot into them, lift up. Her voice still sounded distant and unhappy. I can do it myself, but it looks better this way.
He did as she said, and she lightly leaped into Russet's sidesaddle, which Briar had never seen her use before. In fact, Sandry always had something disparaging to say about sidesaddles. You're being a Lady for them, aren't you?
A bit of light returned to her blue eyes, which until now had been dark and sad. For now, she replied, as a pale, thin, young man drew his horse closer to Russet, his look clearly sizing Briar up, then mentally dismissing him.
"My dear Princess Sandrilene, I am so glad to have the privilege of seeing you again," the pale chuff said simperingly. Sandry winced and quickly glanced down at Briar, who had heard every word.
"Princess?" he whispered, forgetting even to mindspeak. The pale chuff glared at him. "You're a Princess?"
Sandry opened her mouth to answer, but the noble cut her off preemptively. "Yes," he said stuffily, offended. "The Princess Sandrilene of the Nemornese Empire, a noble fa Toren by birth, and Lady of Torenne Estate and hostess of Emelan." His gaze fell on Briar, "I do not think she gave you leave to speak to her, boy."
Sandry's eyes flashed; she immediately spun in her saddle to wage war with the pale nobleman, who turned even paler as an invisible hand gripped his silken collar. "I don't believe I gave you leave to speak for me," she said, words icy. As she began to hiss something quite inaudibly at the man, Duke Vedris simply sighed and shook his head with a small smile. The pale man began to tremble, and his horse, sensing his anxiety, sidled as far away from Russet as he could.
"Temper, Lady Sandrilene." Crane's dry voice broke through her fury. "I think you have frightened that man enough." The nobleman's head jerked as his collar was released, and spurred his horse to a gallop- in the direction of Emelan.
The duke wheeled his horse around to face Sandry, upon whom he placed a comforting hand. "Don't worry about him."
She looked up, her smile slightly bitter. "I don't think I'll have to, anymore. But Uncle-"
A man in his late thirties spoke, smiling. "Leadley's lands aren't essential to our trade routes, and his pompous attitude is highly misplaced. If his father and councilors are anything like him, I think you may have done us a favor, Sandrilene."
"Thank you, Lord Tennesal." Sandry glanced down at Briar, but he was blankly staring at her right shoe and refused to look at her. Briar?
"Are you feeling well enough to attend, Sandry?" Vedris was no mage, but he didn't need to listen to Sandry and Briar's private conversation –or lack of- to recognize the hurts between them, and just why they had come about. He deeply regretted having to remind his great-niece that they were late for the meeting, but it was necessary.
Briar still wouldn't look at her. "I'll go," she said, very quietly, staring at the top of her friend's curly head. Briar.
Crane actually had to kick him before he would raise his eyes from Sandry's shoe. We have some things to talk about, maybe, he said, trying to tease her. He failed miserably.
I'm sorry. She sounded so heartbroken that Briar reached up and gripped her hand in his. One of her rings –sharp rings- was jabbing into his flesh, but he didn't care.
You know I'm going to have to beat some nitty-gritty out of Daja while you're gone.
After how she teased me yesterday, I don't think I pity her much. Sandry's mindvoice had a tiny bit of a smile in it, which heartened Briar. And, she said softly, I really am sorry. She squeezed his hand once, as proof, then turned to ride towards the Hub.
Briar had been sitting on Discipline's doorstep with his head in his hands for at least an hour when Daja opened the door and had given his skull a solid thwack. "Hey, watch it!" she cried. "I could have really hurt you. I like to open doors."
When Briar said nothing, Daja paused directly in front of him. "Briar?"
He dropped his hands, but they only hung limply from their wrists. "So that was what you were talking about last night. Princess stuff."
Daja joined him on the step, took one good look at his face, and winced. "Yeah. I only knew because I had been in Nemorn during the assassinations. A bunch of the royal family was killed off, you know, and those Nemornese royals always did like having a lot of themselves around. Since Sandry was the Empress's first cousin, it was simply logical that she would be one. They have thirteen of them, you know."
"Of what?" Briar asked, obviously lost in thought.
"Princesses. Thirteen princesses."
"Oh."
"Sandry didn't want everyone to know right away. She didn't want to do it in the first place, of course, but she has that sense of duty and all."
"Why didn't . . . I mean, lots of people would be weird about it, but not us. We're like...like a crew. A family." Briar's distress level was beginning to rise again. "Why didn't she want me to know?"
Daja chuckled sympathetically. "Briar, why are you asking me? But two things." He looked up, almost surprised out of his pathos. "First of all, you are acting weird about it. She's still our Sandry, after all. And second . . ." Daja paused. "You really need to talk to her. Really talk. You'd be surprised."
Briar snorted gently. "You act like you know something I don't, Trader."
"You're not the only one in the shade," Daja retorted. "And monopoly has its benefits," she added, chuckling cryptically as she walked out of Discipline's gates and toward the forge.
The meeting grew quiet as they waited for Duke Vedris's response.
Moonstream sat in front of Vedris, only her eyes betraying her anxiety. "Your grace?" she inquired, after several minutes of silence.
Duke Vedris was deep in thought, Sandry could tell, by the way he was rubbing his callused knuckles with his forefinger. "Is what you're saying true?" he asked finally, voice low.
A muted voice emitted from the speakstone. "Vedris, we think so. The visions are coming clearer, and more frequently, since I've been approaching Summersea; other mages have been reported magical shifts in the areas around North Renall and the Grasslands. Also," Niko added more quietly, "these lesser mages in the region around Renall have mentioned the presence of Jahlaran Glassheart."
"Not the one who-"
"The one and only," Niko confirmed grimly. "And if his magical presence is there, then both Glassheart's puppet mages and Drainril's horde of raiders will also have thrown their lot in, willingly or not."
Vedris's hand, damp with sweat, traveled from his forehead to chin. "Frantsen," he said softly, "just what have you done?"
Moonstream leaned forward eagerly. "Niko and our seer mages have been given images of attack, but can't there be another explanation? Why would Lord Frantsen be so foolish as to lay waste to what will eventually be his legacy?"
Erdogun sighed, and turned to Sandry, who ruffled through a small stack of papers for a copy of Vedris's will. Erdo took the parchment, but paused briefly, looking down at the document in his hand. "We really meant to do this more...tactfully," he said, stiff with regret. "Also, we didn't think our actions would influence so quickly."
Vedris cleared his throat. "What we are trying to say is that Frantsen, as of three weeks ago, is no longer my heir to Emelan."
To Sandry's immense surprise, the room went absolutely silent as every occupant turned to stare at Tennesal, who stared right back. Moonstream, her eyebrows raised, asked, "Then who, my dear Duke Vedris, will inherit?"
Vedris's voice rang out merrily, if only for his second son's sake. "Tennesal, if he will have it." Turning to Sandry, he patted her hand with his and nodded consent. Taking a small leather pouch out of a cleverly hidden pocket, Sandry removed a heavy gold ring.
Standing and walking to Tennesal, whose mouth was still open in shock, she gently offered the signet to the man. "There are two," she explained. "One belongs to Uncle, who is ruler now, and one to you, the heir. If you would like some time to think about this, you may. But at least take the ring, because I'd like to sit down again."
He stood and bowed to Sandry. "Of course I would relieve you of your task. But Father-"he asked, clearly confused, "are you really sure?"
"Of course he is," Erdogun said sharply. "Just take the thing, boy, and move on with it." But then Erdo smiled, and Tennesal's face relaxed.
"Thank you, Father. And thank you Sandrilene, for being so patient with me." He turned back to Sandry, still waiting holding the ring, and accepted it from her hand. She curtseyed and returned to her seat, smiling. She liked Tennesal, and her heart had almost stopped when he hadn't taken the ring from her.
"Now that the happy business is over," Moonstream murmured politely. "Duke Vedris, how many know of this ... felicitous exchange?"
"Myself, Lord Erdogun, Sandrilene, my Lady Provost, and, er . . . Yasmin." Erdogun stifled a laugh at the Duke's expense. Vedris hesitated. "Do you speak of spies?"
Crane leaned forward, his tired brown eyes sharp. "Would anyone have access to these documents? Someone who might have informed Frantsen of his ill fortune?"
"Emelan's good fortune, that is," Erdo growled, wincing as the Duke's elbow jabbed his arm.
"Niko's premonitions began half a month ago," Moonstream said thoughtfully. "It is possible that Frantsen had already been cooperating with Glassheart and that villain Drainril, and that knowledge of his loss was merely a catalyst."
Niko's stone spoke again. "The mages I ... er, interrogated, told me that Glassheart had been a frequent guest at Renall. I have not heard of Drainril's involvement, but he owes a great debt to Glassheart for his help in invading several southern fiefs. I would have said that Drainril barely held any loyalty to Glassheart, except that the King of Kiritain Raiders has taken Glassheart's youngest sister as his wife."
Moonstream's smile was ironic. "And to think we almost could have counted on the dishonor of thieves."
"Definitely not honor," Niko insisted from the stone. "Family loyalties? The fear of what would happen if he denied such a powerful brother-in-law? How convenient for Glassfire. Drainril now has to fear being knifed in his own bed, as well as in the open."
The Duke sighed. "Summersea will defend," he said heavily. "Both Emelan and temple grounds, if it comes to battle." He looked at Moonstream and Crane. "I know Glassheart would love to get his hands on Winding Circle."