Disclaimer: Anything that you recognise from the Tamora Pierce books belongs to her.
A/N: Sorry about the laziness in not updating, but I've been having a bad run of the flu at the moment. I'll try to be better about it! :)
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed: fuzzfurry, Elementalmoon, um, Kit49, Lady Deathstrike, Darking Queen (LOL, it wasn't intentional with Braydon's name, but I like that! I'll be thinking of him as kind of an ass now. :)), soccerchick08, Roherwen, Fantasizing-Lady-Knight, Narm's Briton 44, KelDomForever, nam mum, fell4adeadguy (yes, definitely a DN fic. I'm obsessed with them as a couple! :)), TrafficLights, Equestrian-babe101, AnnaWeb, Liako, elvenprinzcess, DramaQn621, simi, Goddess Of The Moon, TheWildMage, CrAzYhOrSeGiRl88, Whisper, Ami4, Aindel S. Druida and surfergurl16.
I will do individual acknowledgements next time, I'm sorry I didn't this time, but I appreciate all of your reviews and ideas heaps!
From her perch on the sill bench, Daine drew her knees up to her chin and rested against the window casing, watching as the afternoon ripened into dusk. A few courting couples strolled the paving below, backs held rigidly, eyes averted, fingers sneaking to touch and entwine. Palace servants bearing breadsticks and wine casks, salted meat and corn husks, scurried to prepare the meals that would not touch their lips. Thoughts whirling, she gazed down at the activity before her, feeling oddly detached from it.
She turned her head to scan the bedchamber, and smiled involuntarily. Numair lay sprawled on her bed, oblivious to the scattered papers and books crushed beneath his long form. He'd brought his findings from Daionarus' body back to her room, declaring his intention to examine them further from there. Daine knew his overprotective habit when it emerged. Everything that was happening had him concerned for her safety, and he'd shield her as much as he could get away with.
She rolled her eyes suddenly, remembering something he'd said last Midsummer: "I prefer it when I can see you with my own eyes, magelet. Aside from the reasons that would make you blush, I'd rather be around when you inevitably get yourself into mishap than have to imagine it. Either way, I'm going to end up with white hair."
Despite everything, amusement sparked in Daine's face. Whatever Numair's reasons for dogging her steps through the palace, he wasn't fulfilling them. Not five minutes after he'd picked up the first sheet of quill-scratched parchment, the mage had fallen asleep. Which he'd either deny soon, or else chastise her for not waking him. She couldn't bring herself to do it, knowing he'd slept fitfully the past nights. Wriggling into a more comfortable position, she leaned back, calmed by the sound of his deep, even breaths. Briefly considering curling next to him, she knew that she would be unable to sleep. Energy – instinct perhaps – was zinging inside her blood, and she couldn't shake the awareness that they should keep their guard up.
Her mind was constantly drawn back to the conversation with Azassandra, that first damning statement.
"The Sailan Isles' rightful royal family."
There had been a slightly stunned silence, before Thayet cleared her throat. Three times.
"I'm sorry," the queen had said finally. "I'm afraid that I don't quite understand. You're...are you not...?"
Usurpers. An ugly word and an even worse situation. In halting phrases and slightly defiant tones, Azassandra had given them a brief account of the Isles' recent history. Although it was rarely discussed aloud and no longer fodder for gossip, King Benjamin and Queen Lijana, and the rest of the Micharon line, did not rule by birthright.
The Tortallans had remained quiet while the princess spoke, eyes narrowed. Everyone understood the impact of that revelation; they all knew that the stakes had just been raised. There was nothing, Daine thought now, like the premise of a crown for the promise of bloodshed. Grown warriors would squabble like babes - and kill like assassins - for that symbol of power.
Or they would plot and scheme, break bonds of loyalty and fealty, and slaughter in cold blood.
She shook her head, readily understanding Azassandra's humiliation. T'was surely not a family heritage she would like to inherit.
According to their new friend, the Sailan people had, several generations earlier, existed in joyful disarray. The king and queen of the time, Khioran and Jessmine Renaikev, were a kind and carefree couple. Wondrously in love with one another, their delight in that happiness and with their young family had spread to the court, the knights, the servants and the peasants. Yet benevolence did not always translate to effective leadership. Despite the near universal goodwill, the kingdom had been falling apart. To put it bluntly, Azassandra grimaced, Khioran was a terrible superior. Generous, welcoming and friendly, but also vague and unable to make decisions. And far too trusting.
That unconditional trust had indirectly pushed him right from the throne. The king made the mistake of placing it in his closest companion, his Champion, Salomain Micharon. Khioran Renaikev and Salomain Micharon had been boyhood friends and, or so the royal believed, grown allies. That belief and trust had persisted through their weddings, the birth of an heir, and numerous battles. Only to be shattered, finally and irrevocably, by the vassal's ultimate betrayal.
Salomain had apparently connived against the Crown for years, working without discovery under Khioran's lenient and naïve rule. Having eventually gathered enough rebel forces, he attacked during a festival of the gods and the result was an utter massacre. Lazy with drink and laughter, the King's Own were taken by surprise, completely unprepared for the slaying. Azassandra, not bothering to hide her contempt for her great-grandfather, told them of the triumphant log he had kept, detailing the killings, the cries, and his glory. Not satisfied with his stolen power, Salomain had then carried out the murders of Queen Jessmine and her daughters. To the fury of the usurping king, Khioran's son had escaped the manhunt - a fact that his father paid dearly for. Denied the "mercy" of death, Khioran spent the remainder of his life below ground, chained to a hitching post for oxen.
King Salomain's resulting reign had led the Sailan people out of oblivious cheer and into tyranny. Away from the trappings of subservience, his true nature had been allowed to shine: that of a cruel, vindictive, evil man.
"It doesn't say much for natural justice, does it?" Jardan had commented soberly. "When a good man can die alone in a dungeon, while a bastard like Salomain Micharon – no offense, Aza – dies in a warm bed."
Daine remembered looking out another window then, and wondering that such a beautiful, seemingly serene, place could have such bloody, traitorous roots.
"I'm not proud of all my ancestry," Azassandra had told them fervently, "I'm downright ashamed to share the blood of a man like that. But my parents' thrones are not founded solely on treachery."
It seemed that indecision had fallen on the kingdom after Salomain's death; they had once more faced the potential for civil war as the question of an heir arose. While Salomain's son Tobias was prepared to accept the role, the return of Khioran's son Philip had complicated matters. Although it may have seemed simple to return the throne to its rightful family, Tobias had, it seemed, been nothing like his father. A man with both intelligence and character, the Oppressor's child was dearly loved by the people. When the palace advisors, at a loss, determined that each knight should be allocated a vote, the results were overwhelming. Tobias Micharon, and his son Benjamin, became the new royal line.
"Nobody heard from Philip, or any of the Renaikevs, again," Jardan had concluded. "They disappeared from the Isles a couple of weeks later. And that was that."
Until now? Sighing, Daine dropped her legs to the floor and stood, stretching out stiff limbs. It was almost dark, the room cast into shadow. Stepping quietly, she reached for a taper and lit it from the bedside candle. As she carefully set a candelabrum ablaze, she looked at Numair again. He had turned to lie on his back, dark hair tugging loose of its hold, but was still sleeping deeply.
Pulling impatient fingers through her own tangled curls, she approached the bed and gingerly clambered up beside him. A grin curved the corners of her mouth as she moved to lightly straddle him.
"Numair," she whispered, stroking one hand down his chest.
His hand moved to cover hers, and he smiled, but still didn't waken. Her grin widened.
"Numair." A little louder.
He rolled over slightly, almost tipping her off.
Daine gave up. "Numair!" she snapped loudly, right into his ear.
He sat up with a start, leaving sleep abruptly behind. Two strong arms instinctively folded about her waist and drowsy, confused eyes met hers. They were almost nose-to-nose.
"Did I wake you?" she asked innocently, tightening her grip on him.
Drowsiness immediately changed to offense. "I wasn't sleeping," he said defensively. "I was studying...these papers."
He quirked a rueful eyebrow as he pulled a pile of particularly wrinkled scrolls from beneath his leg. Then he grinned at her.
"I concentrate better with my eyes shut," he explained with mock-seriousness.
"I see." She nodded with equal sobriety. Her fingers slid along his jaw and into silky black hair.
Desire lit the depths of Numair's eyes. Even as he frowned at her in completely unconvincing censure, his hands moved to stroke Daine's waist.
"And what do you think you're doing?" he asked teasingly, as her mouth moved to his.
Her lids lowered to hide a wicked gleam.
"Concentrating," she murmured.
Daine sneezed loudly as yet another dust cloud burst in her face. Spluttering in a most ungainly and unladylike way, she glared through the grime at her two companions.
"Why are we stuck down here again?"
Azassandra reached up and tried to rub grease from her forehead. She only succeeded in transferring it to her nose, chin and neck.
"We're looking through any remaining Renaikev belongings for clues," she recited. Then her nose wrinkled, and she looked at Daine and Jardan. "Does anyone else suspect that we've been moved out of the way?"
King Benjamin had ordered the three of them to search the palace cellars for anything that had belonged to the Renaikev family. No one was prepared to rule out the possibility that they were behind the Blazewing attacks. Hence the reason they were up to their hair-partings in years-old dirt. Having, as yet, found nothing.
Meanwhile, Benjamin, Lijana and Thayet were closeted together in close royal conference, Numair and the Elders were pooling their magic in another attempt to uncover evidence from the flesh and blood samples, and she wasn't sure where Alanna and Onua were. Her friends had all sent her encouraging, slightly sympathetic, looks as she'd departed beneath ground, but – she noted rather sourly – none of them had volunteered their services to help.
With good reason.
Daine didn't mind getting dirty; she was more comfortable covered in pig swill than clad in a lace ball gown if it came to it. But this was fair ridiculous! She didn't think anyone could have stepped foot in here since Philip Renaikev had left the Isles. Taking the last tapestry out of a bronze trunk, she examined it doubtfully then put it down.
"Nothing in this one either," she reported, rather carelessly tossing things back in.
"Nor this one," Azassandra replied, slamming the wooden lid closed.
"What are we looking for exactly?" Jardan queried, picking up an engraved trinket box and peering at it from all angles.
"I'm not sure what Da expected us to find," the princess admitted, shrugging. "Anything, I suppose. We're all getting a little..."
Desperate. The word went unsaid, but they were all thinking it. Daine frowned. The tension in the air was thickening as days passed uneventfully. It couldn't be over, and nobody wanted to know what would happen next, but this waiting...
"It could be worse," the other wild mage said suddenly, as if he'd read her thoughts. "At least Braydon seems to be making himself scarce."
"I'm not sure that's a good thing," Azassandra replied. "With my brother, as much as you wish him away, it's best to know where he is. Especially after what happened the day we found Daionarus' body."
Jardan's face darkened a little, and Daine cast him a quick glance.
"When is Daionarus' burial to be?" she asked quietly.
Jardan looked down at his filthy hands, before quickly busying himself with a shelf of books.
"The other Elders believe that it is best to wait until all this is over...one way or the other." His voice was grim.
Daine nodded. She picked up one of the books, starting to flip through the pages as she spoke hesitantly. "I'm sorry, Jardan. About Daionarus."
He let out a harsh breath and shook his head. "I'm too tired to grieve again," he stated simply. "It'll sink in one day, no doubt. But for now...I can only focus on what has to be done."
They all fell silent, only the sound of rustling paper breaking the quiet.
Mind drifting, body itching to be outdoors, Daine almost missed the charcoal portrait. It was small, but deftly executed and entirely familiar. Blinking, she stared blankly at the page for a moment then flipped to the cover to check the title.
Yes. It was definitely a Renaikev history log. With portraits of Renaikev ancestors.
Not sure what to think, she continued to gaze down wordlessly.
"Daine, I...Daine? What is it? Have you found something?" Azassandra asked sharply.
Jardan left the rest of the volumes alone, and looked up.
Finally, Daine coughed and turned the book over, holding it up jerkily.
"Does this portrait bear a certain resemblance to anyone, do you think?"
Two pairs of eyes widened.
And the silence stretched.