Eye of Truth

  The elf lifted her hand, and the ivory carving floated away from Zenia, coming to rest in her palm.

  Tears threatened, more of frustration than loss. Why couldn’t the elf have taken the damn thing from her while she’d been unconscious? Why had she forced Zenia to choose? To make the choice that betrayed her mentor and everything she’d been for the last twenty years?

  “I thank you, Inquisitor Cham.” The princess shifted toward the fountain. “And I thank you—Lornysh is the name you’re going by now?”

  “Yes,” he said, nothing inviting in his tone.

  “I thank you for activating the meeting stone. We never expected a favor from you, not after the choices that were made.”

  “The choices that were forced to be made,” Lornysh growled.

  “You didn’t have to join the humans and take up arms against us.”

  Lornysh switched to the elven language to give his angry retort. Jev must have understood, for his eyebrows twitched minutely, but he did not translate.

  “Then why this help now?” the princess asked, still speaking in the kingdom tongue.

  “In the end, peace is more desirable for all,” Lornysh said.

  “Said the mighty blood-letting warrior.” The elf’s expression grew bemused. “You are a puzzling rysheria.”

  “Yes.”

  The elves said nothing more to each other. The princess inclined her head toward Jev and Zenia, then turned and walked out into the night. She seemed to disappear before she passed over the drawbridge.

  “Are you all right?” Jev whispered.

  Zenia shook her head. “No.”

  He hesitated, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him and closed her eyes, not wanting to deal with the world. Or the repercussions of her choice.

  Hoofbeats sounded on the drawbridge, and she opened her eyes again. A rider in the king’s blue, purple, and gold livery entered the courtyard.

  “Zyndar Prime,” he said, bowing from his horse to address Heber before turning his focus to Jev. “Zyndar Jevlain Dharrow?”

  “Yes?” Jev asked, not lowering his arm from Zenia’s shoulders.

  “Excellent. I’ve been searching for you. You were last seen… many other places.”

  “Imagine that.”

  The rider slid off his horse and jogged over, pulling out a scroll with a purple seal on it. “Soon-to-be-crowned King Targyon requests you join him for breakfast tomorrow before the coronation.”

  “I would be happy to,” Jev said.

  The man offered the scroll and pulled out a compact writing kit. He unrolled it, unstoppered an ink bottle, slid a quill into it, and offered the implement to Jev.

  “Signature required?”

  “To make it official, Zyndar.”

  Jev signed for himself and added a plus one to the end.

  “You’re invited,” he told Zenia as the rider accepted the scroll back, blowing gently on the ink.

  “Is that allowed?” Zenia couldn’t imagine being invited to the castle to have breakfast with the king, even the new king, who sounded less intimidating than the old one. Nor could she imagine cavalierly adding a guest to an invitation that hadn’t offered the option.

  “Absolutely. He owes me a few favors.”

  “The king owes you favors?”

  “Lieutenant Targyon certainly does. I doubt being turned into a king will make him forget them.”

  Zenia wondered if she could find a healer and deliver her report to Sazshen in time for a breakfast meeting. Oh, how she dreaded making that report.

  “It’ll be fine,” Jev said, watching her face. He lowered his voice to a murmur. “And it’ll give you a reason to leave early tomorrow morning. In case reporting in to your superiors doesn’t go well.”

  When had he learned how to read her face so well?

  “They can’t torture you if you’re having breakfast with the king,” he added.

  Zenia sighed. Torture wasn’t what she worried about. The future? That was another matter.

  20

  Jev paced on the perfectly manicured brick drive that led through the massive gate at Alderoth Castle. The guards watched him blandly. He’d already shown them his invitation, so they knew he wasn’t some panhandler, but one kept glancing pointedly at a clocktower inside the gate. Jev couldn’t dally much longer.

  Zenia hadn’t accepted his invitation with glowing enthusiasm, and he couldn’t fault her if she didn’t come, but he would worry about her if she didn’t. She hadn’t seemed concerned by the idea of torture from the temple archmage, but she hadn’t been the one in that cell, having her mind ripped to pieces. His brain still throbbed at the memory.

  He hadn’t been surprised in the least to learn the artifact belonged to the elves and that the Water Order had stolen it—attempted to steal it. But Zenia… Technically, she hadn’t seemed that surprised either. But he believed she was a good, moral person—especially after he’d watched her hand over the artifact—and he doubted she’d known anything about her Order’s history with the piece before she’d been given the assignment.

  One of the guards cleared his throat. “Is that your date, Zyndar Dharrow?”

  Jev had been staring down at the bricks as he paced. He jerked his head up and clapped his hand to his chest in relief when he spotted Zenia.

  He started to grin and wave, but when he realized she wore a sedate beige dress instead of her blue robe, his grin faltered. Other than her brief stint with nudity, he hadn’t seen her in anything but the inquisitor garb. True, he hadn’t known her for long, but he felt certain she would wear her formal robe for a meeting with the king. If she were still an inquisitor.

  She walked stiffly, but not as stiffly as the night before. He hoped the Order had let a healer work on her before kicking her out. Bleakly, he noticed that she no longer wore a chain around her neck. Had the archmage demanded she give her dragon tear back to the temple?

  “Good morning, Jev,” Zenia said, her eyes grave as she nodded at him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked without preamble.

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her, but she didn’t look like she wanted that. Besides, the guards might snicker.

  Zenia drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I am no longer an inquisitor or in the employ of the Temple of the Blue Dragon.”

  “Founders’ razor talons. Your archmage blamed you?”

  “For not finding a way to bring in the artifact, yes. And even more for not trying in the end.”

  “It didn’t belong to the Water Order. It never did.”

  Zenia spread her hands. “I’d rather not talk about it. I have some money saved so I won’t be on the street. I’ll figure out something.”

  “You’re welcome at my home anytime.” All the time, he added silently.

  Her chin came up, some of her old fire in her eyes. “I won’t accept charity,” she said, perhaps more stiffly than she intended.

  He almost joked and asked if she would accept a marriage proposal, but it was far too early for that. Besides, marrying her would have been difficult even before she broke into his family’s vault and took something from it. Father would consider her a commoner, which was almost a worse crime. Not that Jev cared a whit about bloodlines, but his head ached at the idea of dealing with his family over it. Everything was already a riotous mess after his grandmother’s revelations.

  “I do thank you for the offer,” Zenia added more softly. “I didn’t say anything about your grandmother or share that part of the story with the archmage. Is she—what will you do?”

  “Father, as zyndar prime, is responsible for everyone in the family and what gets reported to the watch offices. If anything. We’re outside the city limits. What happens on rural zyndar property has historically been under the jurisdiction of the individual zyndar families. I will say I was very glad not to have to be the one to make any decisions regarding her. She should be shot for what she did, but how do you shoot someone who
doesn’t even grasp what’s going on half the time?”

  Jev had been angry—furious—last night when everything had settled down, and he’d realized the full implications, that his grandmother had shot his mother. Even though he’d been young when she disappeared, he’d never stopped caring for her and hoping she would return one day. No chance of that now.

  “I’m not sure she’s as demented as she lets on,” Zenia said.

  “Perhaps not, but could you stand an eighty-year-old woman up in front of a firing squad?”

  “She did attempt to drop a castle on my head.”

  “Just the corner of the castle.” Jev smiled, hoping to lighten her mood.

  She snorted. In amusement? He wasn’t sure.

  “She will be punished. Father said so. I just don’t think it will involve dungeons and firing squads. I’m guessing he’ll exile her from the castle.”

  Zenia nodded.

  “Zyndar?” One of the guards pointed at the clock tower.

  “Yes, we’re coming. My stomach is rumbling, and I can’t remember the last time I sat down for a meal. It was biscuits on the ship over here, I think. We sat cross-legged on the deck and played chips.” He shook his head at how much had happened in just a couple of days. That meal on the ship seemed like it had been weeks ago.

  “Are your elf and dwarf friends staying around?” Zenia asked quietly as they headed into the castle.

  “Lornysh is meditating in the woods somewhere, though he mentioned sneaking in later in the week to gauge the talent of the Korvann Symphony. Cutter is waiting for me to introduce him to Master Grindmor. You haven’t heard anything new from her, have you?”

  “No, but I’ve been preoccupied.”

  He grunted. “Me too.”

  “I’ve been wondering about something. What did your elf friend—Lornysh—say last night? When he answered the princess in Elvish.”

  The guards escorting them past the gardens, fountains, and statues of the grand courtyard looked curiously at Zenia. Jev waited until they’d been led inside and handed off to another set of guards to answer.

  “Essentially, he said, ‘You kicked me out. You’re responsible for my actions.’”

  “He worked with you in the army?”

  “As a scout these last few years, yes. He’s shot many of his own people.” Jev wished their discussion had gone into more detail. He still wondered how his friend had come to be exiled.

  They reached double doors leading into the great hall and were waved in. They didn’t have to take more than a few steps before someone in blue and purple rose from a chair and stepped out to greet them. A familiar someone.

  “I’m already sweating through my armpit guards, I sat down and wrinkled my silk trousers, and I’m so nervous I may wet myself.”

  Jev blinked at this greeting from Targyon, delivered as a sunbeam streamed through the vibrant stained-glass windows and spattered colored light onto him. Jev had been in the middle of sticking out his hand and offering congratulations.

  “I hope that’s not the opening line for your speech,” he said.

  Targyon grinned, though his eyes truly held a frantic—or maybe terrified—aspect, and grasped the offered hand. His palms were sweaty. Jev couldn’t blame him, but since they still had almost two hours until the ceremony, he thought the nerves were premature. Targyon should wait until no more than ten minutes beforehand to sweat profusely and wet himself.

  “Do you not think such candidness will endear me to my subjects?”

  “I suppose it could make you seem personable. But they might not know how to deal with a personable king after Abdor.” Jev looked over his shoulder. Zenia had walked in with him but had stopped a few steps back.

  “Don’t worry. Someone wrote a speech for me. It promises a complete lack of personableness. And personality.” Targyon grimaced.

  Though he probably wasn’t supposed to presume to touch his monarch-to-be, especially when six dour-faced guards lined the nearby walls, Jev risked stepping forward and clapping Targyon on the shoulder.

  “Be the man you want to be,” he said, “not the man they think you should be.”

  “I’m not sure that’s allowed.” Bleakness mingled with the other daunted expressions in his eyes.

  Jev frowned, wondering what Targyon had endured these last couple of days. He’d been so busy with his own problems that he had no idea. He wished he’d asked his father what had gone on at the meeting between Targyon, his advisors, the Order archmages, and many of the zyndar primes. But he’d been distracted by other matters last night.

  “You’re about to have power over half the kingdom,” Jev said. “You get to say what’s allowed. And you should be able to influence the other half of the kingdom too.” He flicked his fingers toward one of the stained-glass windows that showed off the founding dragons, each in the color and element of the religious Order it represented.

  “In theory, but that half put this half here.” Targyon pointed at the window, then at his chest.

  “Oh? Is that how it played out? Have you figured out if…” Jev hesitated, not certain he should insinuate his belief that foul play had caused the deaths of the princes.

  Targyon got the gist anyway. “I’ve been trying to snoop, but I haven’t had a moment to myself. Everyone wants to trail me around and fit me for clothing while teaching me etiquette. Jev, I was never supposed to have to know etiquette. That was for my older brothers who would have zyndar duties. I was—am—I’m supposed to just be a random sixth-born child that nobody cares about.”

  Jev groped for something encouraging to say. His reaction would be similar, though, if someone thrust the position onto him. And he was older and supposedly wiser than Targyon. At the least, he had seen more battles and had more scars. But it was a different kind of battle experience that would help a man here.

  “If you set your mind to doing well,” Jev said, “I’m positive you’ll be more than competent at the job. The kingdom could use someone with a logical mind who isn’t bloodthirsty. We’ve had enough war for a long time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Orders chose you because they believe you have a kind soul and will seek to do what’s best for the people, rather than worrying about making up threats where they don’t exist and trying to foist our religiosity off on other races.”

  Targyon’s mouth twisted. “I think they picked me because I’m young and they think they’ll be able to manipulate me easily.”

  “If so, your awareness of that should make manipulation difficult.”

  “Seeing manipulation coming doesn’t always mean you can avoid it. I don’t know if I’m smart enough to outmaneuver all of them.”

  “No? You knew how to find edible and fermentable tubers in a foreign land, create a vodka still from rusty pots and pans out in the middle of a field, and make alcohol for the men. That’s the hallmark of a clever mind.”

  “Knowing how to make booze?”

  “Knowing that the men needed a morale booster.”

  “What does it say about humanity that alcohol is all it takes to make us happy?”

  “Not all. Women are important too.” Jev grinned, then looked back toward Zenia again. He lifted his hand in invitation, wanting to introduce her.

  Targyon’s mouth twisted into an even wryer expression as he watched her walk over. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been so open in front of a high-ranking member of the Water Order.” He rested his hand on his stomach and bowed deeply. “Inquisitor Cham. I read about a couple of your cases in the newspaper before I was shipped off to Taziira. It’s an honor to meet someone who’s done so much good work for the kingdom.” Targyon lifted his head. “Though I must admit that when Jev checked the himself-plus-one box on his breakfast invitation, I didn’t expect him to bring an inquisitor.”

  Jev grimaced, lamenting that Zenia would have to again explain how she’d lost her career.

  Zenia stopped at his side. For a moment, nerves danced in her eyes—she hadn’t likely expected Targyon
to recognize her. But she masked her nerves and lifted her chin.

  “You needn’t worry about me sharing any of your words with others in the Order. I’m not an inquisitor any longer, Zyndar—er King—Targyon.”

  “Zyndar works. Or just Targyon. I have two more hours before anyone has to call me king or sire. I’m trying to enjoy my last free morning.”

  “Is that hard with soggy armpits?” Jev asked.

  “It is. I should have waited until later to put on the formal clothing.” Targyon tilted his head and regarded Zenia again. “You say you’ve quit your job?”

  “I was asked to resign due to a choice I made to do…” She closed her eyes, her lips flattening. She had to be wondering if she’d made the correct choice, if it had truly been worth giving up her career.

  “To do the right thing,” Jev said firmly.

  “I suppose,” Zenia murmured. “For the moment, I’m unemployed. I don’t know yet what I’ll do tomorrow. Or the next day. Apply to the watch, I suppose, to become one of their detectives, though I’m not looking forward to starting at the bottom of their system. I have acquaintances there who I’ve shown up over the years, and they might enjoy zyndaring it over me.”

  “Zyndaring it?” Targyon asked. “I didn’t know that was an expression.”

  “None of the soldiers ever used it around you?” Jev asked.

  “No. They called me a librarian sometimes when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. Also, when they knew I was.”

  “It’s not quite the same.”

  “I’d like to hear more of this story of choices over breakfast.” Targyon waved his hand at both of them. He didn’t appear that in-the-dark about their oblique comments, and Jev wondered if he’d received some intelligence from someone about the artifact hunt. Or had the elf princess already visited him? “Will you follow me?” Targyon asked. “I can’t promise you the company will be scintillating, but I can feed you well, especially compared to army rations.”

  “I’d be disappointed if the king’s castle couldn’t produce better than army rations. Who else will be at breakfast?” Jev wondered what company he referred to. The idea of having to make conversation with a bunch of Order representatives or crusty royal advisors made him grimace.