Hope. That was what Ruenen had heard in the guard’s voice, had seen in that smile. Ruenen’s arrival had given the boy hope. Nevandia was a war-ravaged nation that hadn’t known safety and security in over forty years. The young guard had grown up fearing Rayghast and Tacorn, waiting for the day when his country would crumble. Ruenen hoped he could give these people peace.
The door opened and the commander returned. “The council will speak with you.” He cut the bonds around Marai and Ruenen’s wrists. “You’ll remain under guard the entire walk to the castle, but we won’t let the people see you bound. If you are our prince, I don’t want to be remembered as the fool who treated you as a prisoner.”
Ruenen gave him a true smile. “What’s your name, Commander?”
“Avilyard, sir.” The man inclined his head. “Head of our military forces, and Captain of the King’s Guard.”
“Thank you, Commander Avilyard,” said Ruenen and followed him from the office.
Ruenen took in the sights and sounds of Kellesar as they walked up the sloping cobblestone streets. Tall, thin buildings crammed together in narrow, winding streets and alleys. Their facades were stone or brick, and plaster accented with timber framing. The wood frames and beams were painted in bright reds, blues, greens, and yellows. Small empty flower boxes perched outside windows. Lanterns and colorful signs dangled above shops, inns, and restaurants, which posted hand-painted menus on their exteriors. They looked inviting, interesting, which surprised Ruenen since Nevandia’s lands were so lackluster. The city itself still kept a bit of its spark. He nearly had to be dragged away from a wide open window where a woman sold fragrant, savory hand-pies.
Citizens gawked as they passed. Most people on the main streets lived above their shops. Ruenen spotted heads peering down at him from above. Ruenen assumed it was rare for a group of golden-clad soldiers to accompany strangers through town, especially ones who weren’t Tacornian prisoners. First impressions mattered, so Ruenen kept a smile on, stood erect, and walked with confidence.
Up and up the winding streets. They turned a corner and the pale stone wall surrounding the castle came into view. The metal grate was already raised. A bower of dead vines hung limply from the archway. If they’d been blooming, the sight would have been breathtakingly beautiful. They passed through the portcullis and entered the courtyard. It might have once been stunning, with vines and flowers winding up the trellises. Shrubbery and dogwood trees lined the walkways, but all those plants were crumpled, barren, and dead. The clay pots by the castle doors were empty, save for dry dirt.
More golden soldiers stood at the massive entryway. They didn’t move, but their eyes tracked him as he entered the castle.
It was truly remarkable inside, despite the gray hue that encircled the city. Colorful tiles in patterns of swirls and shooting stars decorated the floors. Further in, the tiles shifted to the golden Nevandian sunburst. Painted frescoes lined the walls, depicting various scenes of the gods: flowers bursting to life around Lirr, Laimoen charging forward in an epic battle, Lirr playing her lute and singing to children, and Laimoen sitting amongst books in the Nine Kingdoms Library. Nevandian banners hung interspersed between the frescoes.
Ruenen’s gaze kept traveling upwards. His jaw dropped.
A large marble staircase twisted up to the second floor. The vast windows brought in streams of natural light, which made the gold paint in the tiles shimmer. Ornate lanterns and chandeliers lined the walls and ceilings. A large stained-glass circular window was the focal point in the entry hall. Its vivid colors created a design upon the walls when the sun shone through. Flying buttresses and beams crisscrossed above his head.
But despite its grandeur, the castle had a stifling atmosphere of emptiness. He saw no one other than guards.
“The throne room is through here, where the Lord Steward awaits you,” said Avilyard, indicating a set of large oak doors to his right. There was a matching pair of doors to his left.
Ruenen swallowed, heart pounding, as two guards opened the door and he saw his throne for the first time.
Chapter 10
Rayghast
“What is this?”
Rayghast slammed three coded messages down onto the long table. His council, commanders, and spies shifted guiltily in their seats, none of them meeting his black-eyed gaze.
“Why has no one cracked this code yet? Why am I still being brought these letters?” he asked with quiet fury.
“Dozens of these letters are going out each day, Your Grace. The same message, copied over and over again, but it changes daily. We try to intercept all of them, but they seem to be coming from every point in the city: the fortress, taverns, inns, markets, even the army barracks,” said Falien, one of Rayghast’s best decoders and spies.
“We’ve questioned the owners of these establishments, everyone within the vicinity, but most are completely oblivious,” Commander Shaff, Boone’s replacement, said in the council chamber. Shaff was a large man, tall and broad, dark and severe, but had none of Boone’s vigor. “We’ve found messages glued to the bottoms of goblets, in packages, bags of grain, beneath a horse’s saddle. It’s a whole network.”
“And the rumors are certainly not helping,” added another commander, new to the position.
“Rumors?” repeated Rayghast.
The young commander flinched. “Yes, Your Grace, rumors are circulating all over the city . . . about you . . .” He bowed his head as Rayghast stood from his throne.
“And what do these rumors say?”
Rayghast approached, and the man shrunk lower in his seat.
“That you are cursed, Your Grace. That you cannot have a child. That your wives are destined to die.”
Cronhold hacked out a cough. “That’s preposterous! Our King is virile and beloved by the gods!”
“Yes, of course, you are, Your Grace,” stammered the commander, receiving a scathing look from the council, “but the problem is that the people are beginning to believe it. They have doubts.”
Rayghast remembered the two servants whispering in the hallway the previous day. Since then, he’d certainly garnered more stares than usual, more nervous glances.
“Well, this seems easy enough to solve,” Wattling, who was built like a tree stump, said. “The queen must become with-child immediately. All those silly rumors will disappear once we have a healthy male heir.”
“The fault clearly lies with Queen Rhia,” Dobbs said, caterpillar-brows furrowing. “You’ve been married for eighteen months now. It’s taking far too long, and she has a duty to give you a son, Your Grace. That’s all she’s here to do. The queen must try harder.”
“It didn’t take this long with your previous wives. I suggest, Your Grace, that you, uh, visit her rooms tonight, and every night thereafter to ensure she gets, uh, with-child,” Cronhold said, receiving several agreeing murmurs from the table. “She must do everything in her power to produce an heir.”
“What good is taking over Nevandia if Your Grace cannot pass the territory down to your son? We are building an empire,” Wattling stated, giving Rayghast a simpering smile.
Rayghast turned to the young commander, who sheepishly met his gaze. “Is that the only rumor?”
The man hesitated, biting his lip. “Some people say that darkness, an eerie miasma, surrounds the fortress–”
“Yet again, the answer is simple: arrest those circulating the rumors and we’ll have them hanged,” Wattling said to Shaff and the other commanders at the table.
Shaff stood and bowed low to Rayghast. “Your Grace, I will hunt down all those who wish to stir up discord in our city.”
He pulled the young commander to his feet and dragged him from the hall. Rayghast knew the new commander would submit to punishment from Shaff and may even be stripped from his position for the words he spoke at the meeting. But he’d alerted Rayghast to a worsening problem in Dul Tanen. Was his control slipping?
