Secrets of the Night Special Edition (55 page)

Roric Gamal remained a painful mystery, one that intensified her despair. Was he loyal to the kingdom and all her father stood for, or had he long ago transferred his allegiance to Balor? Had he truly deceived her all this time? Foolish woman! She had actually thought that he cared for her. His looks, his expressions, had surely indicated that he felt something for her, or had she been mistaken all along? Was it all just wishful thinking on her part? She wanted to drive him from her mind, but images of him refused to leave. She feared he would always remain in her heart, a deep, aching wound that would forever torment her.

Keriam pressed her hands to her throbbing head. She couldn’t stay here, for she could accomplish more for her people away from the palace.

She must escape.

Chapter Fifteen

Long after the stunned, griefstricken crowds had dispersed from Moytura and darkness had fallen on Avador, Roric returned to the capital, a long ride in the late night hours. Arrived at the city square, he dismounted. He tied Donn's halter to a low-hanging oak branch at one of the many trees that added grace and beauty--but also concealment?--to the area. He stood in thought, his gaze lingering on every tree that faced the dais. Silvery moonlight pooled down on the city, aiding him in his quest. Not a cloud drifted in the sky, while street lamps cast warm yellow light on the cobblestone streets.

Could a determined archer have shot the fatal arrow from one of these oaks? Where else would the missile have come from? Not from within any of the one-story buildings that faced the square, for it was obvious that the shaft had come from a greater height. Still, he had only scant hope of discovering the assassin's identity, for he had no reason to believe the archer would have left any evidence. Indeed, most likely his search would prove futile, but he must try. To neglect a probe would be foolish, no, negligent.

Miniature flags and souvenirs littered the square, mute testimony to the tragedy that had struck this day; normally people treasured these keepsakes. Vendors' stands had long since disappeared, their merchandise packed and taken home. Not even the taverns remained open on this tragic day. Only silence prevailed in the capital, except for an occasional vagrant shuffling along the city streets.

Lips pursed in concentration, Roric gauged the distance at which he stood and considered it too close for an archer to commit the crime and escape detection. He must move farther back. His booted footsteps rang on the cobblestones as he strode farther away, to a distance of about one-thousand feet. There two oak trees, about one-hundred feet apart, gave shade in the daytime, wooden benches resting at their base.

Minutes later, a search of both trees, branch by branch, yielded no clues. Roric cocked his head, his eyes covering the entire city square. A tree about fifteen-hundred feet from the dais offered only a slim possibility as the spot where the assassination happened. He strode in that direction, doubting that even one of Balor's best archers could hit a target from such a tremendous distance. Reaching his goal, he stood with hands on his hips, his gaze shifting from the tree to the dais and back.
No, an impossible target.

But wait, he’d better explore this possibility, no matter how remote. Grabbing a bottom branch, he swung himself up into the tree, then moved farther up as before, branch by branch. Almost at the top, he sighed with disappointment. What had made him think--

Now, what was this? Reaching higher, he touched a piece of silk--a dress? He loosened the material from the branch and caught a strong musk scent. Aradia! His fingers searching for further evidence, he found an ash arrow stuck between two twigs. Perched high in the tree, he leaned against the trunk, his mind raging with all the ramifications of this proof of Aradia's guilt . . . and Balor's. And hatred for them both. Sacred shrine! He could hardly see for the anger that pulsed through him. He wanted to choke them both to death.

Roric tucked the dress under his wide belt and, arrow in hand, clambered down the tree. He must tell the princess of his discovery. But when would he have the chance to speak to her again, or would he ever? He longed to talk to her, hear her dear voice, smell her sweet fragrance. He must see her again, but how?

Poor princess! His heart ached for her. In one day, she'd witnessed her father's murder and been banished to virtual imprisonment, all her activities monitored. How could she live like this? Ah, but he knew the answer. She'd face her situation with her usual composure and rise above it, emerge stronger than before. Keriam, no woman like her! More than anything, he regretted their present estrangement, but surely she'd eventually see that his pretended collaboration with Balor was the best course--for her and the country.

Reaching his horse, he placed his foot in the stirrup and mounted, then touching heels to the chestnut, rode away from the square, the horse's hooves clattering on the cobblestones.

The palace guards, forced to switch their allegiance upon pain of death, now served Balor. Conneid Delbraith, the king's secretary, had disappeared with his pregnant wife, and where, no one knew. So much had changed in only one day. So much tragedy. Roric passed the many stores and shops--the silversmith's, a sword shop with its fine selection on display, a fabric store with its silks and linens in the window. Would life remain the same for these merchants, or would Balor disrupt all business in Moytura, indeed, in all of Avador? What if the new king started a dispute with Elegia, prompting their government to invade Avador? Roric imagined the city in ruins, stores and businesses burned to the ground. His gut churned at the thought.

So he had evidence of the assassin now, Roric mused as he rode his horse back to the palace. Much good the proof did him with Balor firmly ensconced at the palace, his coronation scheduled for later in the nineday. But would the dress and bow serve as adequate proof before a druidic tribunal? For now, he disregarded that concern. He had his own evidence, enough for the moment. He knew a safe hiding place for the dress and bow back at the palace, at the bottom of an oak chest in his apartment.

As his horse covered the miles of dirt roads back to the palace, Roric noted the peaceful dark countryside, the farm houses nestled in the valleys, the trees and bushes that dotted the hills. How normal everything appeared, as if the kingdom remained as it always had been, ever since he could remember, with King Tencien on the throne. Talmora’s bones! What would happen to the kingdom now, to the people of Avador? Would life in the country ever return to its previous tranquility under Tencien?

No, not until Balor was killed.

* * *

For one distressful moment, Keriam paused at the kitchen entrance, then entered, head high, as if she'd always dined with the household staff. Hunger gnawed at her insides, making her queasy. Two full days without food or drink had passed since her father's murder, and she realized she'd gain nothing by starving herself. Indeed, she must eat to maintain her strength, to enable her brain to function. She needed clear thinking in the coming days.

"Princess Keriam!" Seated at a long oak table, the staff stood at her appearance, the long wooden benches scraping on the flagstone floor. The servants all looked as heartsick as she felt, but none looked overly-shocked. Apparently they'd been apprized of her new status. The dwarf children at a separate table looked up and waved a greeting, each one calling her name. She returned the greeting, trying to maintain a cheerful demeanor for their sakes. Bertha, the chief cook, had her own chair at the head of the table, and she drew it out for Keriam, her misshapen hands clutching the chairback and removing the stool set there to give her extra height.

"Please, madam, sit here." In a quick aside, she motioned for one of the other cooks to take up a plate for Keriam.

Keriam smiled. "Thank you, Bertha, but where will you sit?"

"We can make room, madam." The palace gardener motioned for the others to scoot along on the bench to make room for the head cook, who carried her stool over to the new place. Most--but not all--of the household staff were dwarves, and Keriam saw now that could create an awkward seating arrangement.

Kormlada returned to the table with a platter of roast beef and steaming vegetables, setting it down beside Keriam. The savory beef aroma tempted Keriam, reminding her how much time had passed since her last meal.

One of the chambermaids turned a tearful face in her direction. "Ah, madam, that it should come to this. What will we do now that--?"

"Please, Angharad, we must take each day as it comes. And don't worry. We'll manage." Her smile covered the assembled group. "Do you know, I consider this a learning experience. Why, I'll wager the palace staff has always saved the best cuts of meat for themselves." An exchange of sheepish glances around the table confirmed her suspicion. "So you see, I'm learning already." She gestured to the others. "Now please, go ahead and eat," she said, dipping her fork into a vegetable melange of carrots, potatoes, and broccoli, cooked in a cream sauce and spiced with thyme. "Bertha, this is delicious. You must give me your recipe," she said, attempting to put the woman at ease. And who knew? She might have to do her own cooking sometime in the future.

With a scratching of knives and forks on tin platters, the others followed her lead, none speaking. Keriam swallowed hard, wondering how much longer she could maintain this pretense, as if no tragedy had struck, as though her father had left on a royal journey and would return any day now. She stifled her tears and tried to divert her thinking to more productive pursuits.

What was Balor's and Aradia's game? She wondered. To make life so miserable for her that she'd leave the palace in desperation? Or was she, indeed, a prisoner for life? One thing she determined: she would set her own course, would not let anyone dictate her actions. If Balor or Aradia dared try to confine her to the palace, she'd find a means to frustrate them. Keriam's gaze skimmed the layout of the kitchen, studying the door that led to the outside. She hoped to soon have one of her spirit journeys, to discover the route of the guards, inside and outside the palace.

And what about King Barzad of Elegia and the treaty with Avador? If he knew of her father's assassination, would he come to Avador's aid? But he wouldn't know unless someone from Emain Macha sent word to him, a quite unlikely possibility.

Maudina still resided here, serving Aradia, but prevented from any interchange with her former mistress. I must contact her, Keriam vowed, if only to find out how the poor girl was adjusting to service under Aradia.

Painfully aware of the silence, she lifted her hand. "Please, all of you, feel free to talk." She addressed the gardener. "How do the roses and other flowers fare in this dry weather?"

Annan set his knife and fork on his plate, resting his gnarled hands on the table. His wrinkled, nut brown face evidenced his years of working in the sunlight. "I water the plants as often as possible, madam, but that's no substitute for rain. If it don't rain soon, I fear many plants will wither and die."

"Fleas, too, madam," Bertha said, "if you'll pardon my blunt talk while we're eatin'."

"Yes, and fleas can bring the plague. I pray to the Goddess that doesn't happen now. A plague is the last thing we need, what with everything else . . . ." Keriam's voice trailed off, and she took refuge in silence, an awkward silence that lasted too long. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the subject. "Only think of all the squirrels in the kingdom. What if they should carry a disease?"

The servants looked at her in shock. "But madam, what can we do then?" Bertha asked. "We can't destroy them. Since they're sacred, they're protected by royal decree. But of course, you know that." She stared down at her plate. "Pardon me for speakin' so bluntlike."

"You spoke only the truth," Keriam said. She smiled brightly. "But perhaps we see trouble where no trouble exists, or will exist." She had enough to deal with now.

* * *

She must get through this day. Keriam viewed Balor and Aradia--recently crowned and married yesterday--as they stood before her father's open gravesite for his burial service. As was the Avadoran custom, the ceremony took place at dawn, while the sun was beginning to crest the western horizon, turning a bluish gray sky to lavender, then pink, and finally a golden burst of light illuminated grass, trees, and flowers, the palace in the background. A cool breeze blew across the royal cemetery, stirring up clouds of dust and bringing a hint of autumn.

Three bearded and sandaled white-robed druids presided over the grave, each performing his own function. Dunlang rang a clear bell, its tones imbuing a solemn atmosphere to the ritual. Tuathal swung an incense bowl, a strong myrrh scent wafting through the air. A third druid, Mothla, murmured an incantation over the grave.

The kingdom's ministers had gathered here for her father's burial service, and Roric Gamal, still the palace steward, had joined the others. Dressed in red, the color of mourning, Keriam stood alone, opposite the royal group, refusing to mingle with any of them. Struggling against her tears, she gazed at her father, embalmed in cedar oil, as he lay in his deep grave. She wanted to throw herself into the pit and hold him close one last time. But no, she wouldn't give Balor and Aradia the satisfaction of witnessing her sorrow. Her gaze scanned the ministers across from her, for the most part the same ones who'd served her father, for only a few of them had refused to work for Balor. How she missed her father's secretary, Conneid Delbraith, absent from the palace since the king's murder. What was he doing now? She wondered, and how did his wife manage, this lovely woman who was expecting a child within another moonphase?