Solace Shattered (7 page)

Arvana tapped the rim of her wineglass to the beat. Captain Degarius, who had danced the second with Lady Martise, was again with Miss Gallivere, whose shimmering blue skirt swished about her as she whirled in his arms.

“Don’t do that.” Hera Musette grimaced at the tinkling of Arvana’s wineglass. They sat together on one of the couches pushed to the outside of the grand parlor to make a dance floor. “I’m thankful Lady Martise has undertaken this ball. It’s the first time she’s opened the house since her husband died. And her spirits have been low since the chancellor left. But
we
shouldn’t be here.”

“Lady Martise will understand if you go upstairs. I promised the princess I’d watch her dance. As in enjoying music, there’s no harm in appreciating graceful dancing as long as it reminds one of the Maker’s goodness,” Arvana said with certainty, though she really wasn’t enjoying the dancing. She had to stay to try to speak with the captain. After many hours of prayer, she had resolved to tell him about his sword.

Hera Musette harrumphed, gathered her habit, rose, and bustled along a row of chairs. With Musette gone, there was one less obstacle to speaking with Captain Degarius. A hundred others were in the room, though.

The dance wore on. Arvana watched expectantly as Miss Gallivere and the captain circled to her side of the room just as the music wound to the closing beats. They were only a short distance away when it stopped.

“I must dance with Sebastion. He wouldn’t hear no.” Miss Gallivere reached to the captain’s chest, fearlessly piercing his aura of untouchable authority, and straightened a medal. She leveled a satisfied smirk at Arvana. “Mind the fifth, my captain.”

The captain bowed, turned, and then looked about as if searching for a seat. He was immediately before Arvana. The couch beside her was open, but he hesitated.

Arvana plucked her courage and held her hand to the open place, just as he invited her to sit on his cloak. The corner of his lips upturned; he understood her allusion! But as he walked to her, he winced. He tried to hide it, but he was certainly in pain.

“Are you all right?” she asked and recalled how he’d seemed to be in pain after the sword fight in the rotunda.

He sat. “It’s humid tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if it rained. I saw lightning a moment ago.” He nodded to the wall of windows overlooking the garden. His hands rested on his knees. Scars and blue veins rippled over the tendons of his hands. Black upon black embroidery graced his uniform cuffs. Red flecked his sideburns. Creases rayed from the corners of the eyes. She looked to the eyes themselves. His pale blue irises were the color of a winter sky. He was talking about the vagaries of fall temperatures when she wanted to speak of his sword. But how? This wasn’t a private place. She glanced from him. There was a lady to her right and a couple on the chairs beside him.

Suddenly, she felt his gaze on her. “I wanted to tell you I heard you play,” he said. “You’re no amateur.”

“Do you play the kithara?”

“My nose was in my grandfather’s collection of Gherian tactical histories during any attempt to teach me music. It was probably how I earned these.” He pinched the arm of his glasses.

“The Citadel’s archive has many of the Acadian generals’ accounts, both official and private. A guard is stationed outside, but I may put your name on the list of those admitted without the king’s letter.”

“That’s in your power?”

“That’s the extent of my power in Acadia. I’m there most afternoons after I finish tutoring, so the guards know me.”

“I should like that. Very much.” The captain’s neck, and a triangle up to his cheeks, was crimson.

It
was
warm, Arvana thought to say when a familiar voice before her said, “Hera Solace.”

“Keithan!” She rose. But an awful worry that Prince Lerouge had also returned cast a shadow over her joy.

As if Keithan saw the shadow fall on her face, he said, “I am arrived today, alone.”

She smiled gratefully. “Have you been at Lady Martise’s long?”

“Just moments. My ship put in this afternoon, but I was detained with formalities.”

When she turned to introduce the captain, he was already a dozen limping steps away, heading toward Miss Gallivere. As much as Arvana loved Keithan, she wished he had come any time other than now. Still, she earnestly said, “I give you joy in being named governor of Orlandia.”

The music began.

Wearily, Keithan said, “I bring a list of two thousand casualties that I couldn’t just send in a report. Many noblemen’s sons are among them. Orlandia is one trial upon the next.” He took her hand. “Pray for us, will you?”

“I do everyday. For you in particular.”

As he squeezed her hand, his smile fell, and he leaned in close to her ear. “That’s not the only news I bring. Hera, he sent a package for you. I gave it to a maid who promised to put it in your room.” He moved his head from beside hers and looked into her eyes. “He’s somber, thoughtful. There is nothing of the spoiled boy left. In many ways, I think he’ll return from Orlandia better suited to be king.”

An extraordinarily handsome man was holding Hera Solace’s hand, Degarius noted. His lips nearly touched her veil as he spoke into her ear. “Who’s the gentleman in the decorated coat?” he asked Miss Gallivere.

The miss followed his line of sight. “Do you mean Keithan? Or I should say Governor General of Orlandia. How well he has done, considering he comes from the provinces. The governor is quite good friends with our princess’s tutor.
Quite good
, if you know what I mean.”

The room suddenly was insufferably hot. Too many people were dancing and the windows were closed. His collar scratched, and his feet burned. At the end of the dance, despite Miss Gallivere’s plea to get a bite to eat, Degarius said, “You’ll excuse me,” and escaped to the cooler air outside on the terrace.

Smoking men lounged on the terrace. Degarius tugged his neckerchief loose, turned a chair to face the oncoming weather, and sat to rest his feet. The high notes of the musician’s horn, reminiscent of the call to battle, wafted from the hall. His fingers went to where his old sword should have hung. His elbow and wrist ached. It
was
as if he had lost a hand; his blade had for so long been a part of his arm. Damn, he should have brought his pipe and tin of altartish. The sky overhead still hung with stars, but lightning again flashed in the west, illuminating the approaching storm head. Seconds crept by and finally the thunder rumbled.

“I must speak with you.” The low, soft voice pierced him through like a surprise arrow to the back.

He twisted. Here was Hera Solace looking expectant. Why the hell was she bothering him? He thrust his hand into his coat pocket. “If you’re collecting donations—”

“It’s important.” She glanced to the men on the terrace. “And private. Only a minute of your time.”

“It’s going to rain.”

“I beg you.”

She sounded determined. It was probably some damn foolishness. Had the princess told her about getting kissed by Fassal in the woods? Fassal had blurted it to him. Women always worried about the most inconsequential things—and for this one to take a moral high ground on a kiss was ludicrous. The governor’s
good
friend.

“Please, in the garden. There’s a seat on the other side of the tea olives. I know it hurts for you to walk—”

Hurt? Degarius wouldn’t have her know what hurt for all the shields in Acadia. He stood. “As you wish.” He followed her down the steps. A gust whipped her dress snug to her form. It was no crime to look, to think what a man naturally thinks on seeing a fine figure. Pity the governor wasn’t here to see to the exact curve of her hips and thighs. But he’d probably seen more. Touched more.

Thunder rumbled louder.

She sat on the stone bench. Degarius stayed standing with his arms crossed. Seeing he wouldn’t sit, she stood again and said, “You must get your sword back before the king gives it to Prince Lerouge. Offer him anything, everything.”

“What?”

“The line of engraving on your sword is in one of the secret codes used during the Reckoning, but I’m certain it means this:
In Thy Kiss is a Taste of Eternity.
The mark in the horse’s mane contains the letters H, C, and A. They are the initials of the sword’s maker, Henri Claude of Acadia pronounced
osh, say, ah
in Frankish. I guess it was corrupted in old Anglish to Assaea. It’s how your sword came by its name.”

Degarius slipped his hand under his tied-back hair and cupped the back of his neck. “What?”

“Your sword is Assaea, Paulus’s sword.”

“What game are you playing with me, Hera?”

“It’s not a game. When I saw the mark at the top of the blade—”

“You informed the king of your discovery, and he got it from me without a fight.” She was a damn false woman on every account.

“Would I be telling you now if that was the case?”

Pain throbbed behind his eyes. He took his glasses off and folded them into his hand.

“Believe me,” she said, “your life would be nothing to them if they knew what you had.”

“What are my life and concerns to you?”

“I only wish to do what is right. The king is not the best of men, Captain Degarius.”

You aren’t the best of women
.

“He would want your sword not only for their collection, but so Artell and Assaea could pass to the prince’s twin sons. Would you have willingly given your sword to him if you knew what it was?”

Degarius held his glasses to his forehead.

The garden went bright as day and thunder cracked. The storm had swallowed the sky above.

“I saw the king fancied your blade, but I never expected him to request it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to at Ramblewood, but by then it was too late.”

Raindrops started to fall.

Degarius exhaled. “I would’ve found a way to keep it if I knew what I had. Never would I have given it up. Are you certain King Lerouge or the governor doesn’t know?”

“Keithan? No, no one. I promise before the Maker.”

Before the Maker? What else had she promised before the Maker? Degarius dropped to the stone bench and hung his head low. His sword
was
Assaea, and it was gone forever if the king had an inkling of what it was. “It’s going to pour. Go inside.”

“You are the bravest of men. Assaea must be yours.”

He was the bravest of men, she said. The Maker had a special mercy for him, she said. Bitterness filled Degarius’s mouth. He lifted his head. “Must I tell you again to leave me?”

Rain pounded on the stairwell window as Arvana went up to her room. Dear Maker, was Captain Degarius still out there?

She paused before her chamber door. It pained her more than she could explain to know the captain was angry with her, but she’d done the best she could by him.

Now, something from Chane awaited her.

Arvana’s bedchamber

A
rvana took Keithan’s delivery from her dressing table. Wax cloth protected the contents, which were too large to be a letter, during its sea voyage. “What have you sent me, Chane?” she whispered as she untied the string and peeled away the wax cloth.

Inside was a journal filled with the prince’s precise hand. The note on the first page read, “As faithful a translation as my abilities permit.” It was a translation of
the book he had shown her at Summercrest.

She fetched a handful of candles from the window seat, called for a pot of tea, and immersed herself in the work. It was a painstakingly and brilliantly done labor. Any time Lerouge doubted his translation, he included the original word and noted other choices he had considered.

As the third candle sputtered to the end of the wick, she reached a paragraph he’d starred.

“The prerequisite to using the Blue Eye is a soul’s having previously traversed the boundary between the worlds. Although the Blue Eye makes the divide crossable, a soul must already know the way. The Supreme Judge had his heart stopped long enough for his soul to enter Hell. When revived, he was able to freely come and go through the Blue Eye.” Dying, Arvana now understood, or nearly dying, gave one’s soul the instinctual map to make the transition through the man-made passageway.