Her Reputation (The Empire: Book 1)

  *

  Wren paused to catch his breath and looked around. He scanned the forest, searching for the swatch of red. Mosquitoes buzzed around his head, taking advantage of his rest to swarm towards him. The tell-tale whine of their wings beating near his ear caused him to reflexively swat at them, and he smacked himself upside his head. He scowled as pain lanced through his temple.

  “Darn bugs,” he muttered, wiping his hand on his pant leg.

  Finally, he spotted what he was looking for in the branches of a nearby tree. He knew he’d been in the right place. He was no woodsman, so he had marked the areas he’d already searched with pieces of bright cloth. This was the one from yesterday. He walked over to it and fingered it for a moment before turning his gaze outwards once more.

  To his left was a well-worn game trail, leading deeper into the forest. To the right the trees petered out, giving way to fields beyond. Straight ahead was a steep bank, leading down a gorge to a stream below. The water would be the most likely place to find it, but the trek down to it looked treacherous. He stood there for a long moment in indecision. Grunting, he haltingly moved forward down towards the stream.

  He grabbed hold of a small sapling sticking up out of the bank and held onto it as he took a cautious step downwards. His foot slipped a tiny bit, and he gripped the small tree tighter. Very slowly, he lowered himself farther and put his foot down again. It held this time, and Wren let go of his tree and looked for another. There were no others within reach, but a large stump stuck out of the ground a few feet in front and below him. He lurched towards it clumsily and threw his arms around its supporting bulk to stop his descent.

  He hesitated, slapping at another bug. He searched the area below from this vantage point. A lovely brook flowed in and around nature’s artfully carved rocks. Moss lined the edges of the stream, the bright green accentuated by flowers of various colors here and there. A chipmunk scurried along the edge, halting as it spied him to rear up on its back legs and chirrup at him before darting off. It was beautiful, but a nice landscape was not what he was looking for.

  Now that he was here, the slope looked much steeper. He glanced behind him. There didn’t seem to be any way he’d get back up that. He let out a short breath and focused on the bank in front of him. There was no helping it; continuing on was the only way to go.

  He let go of the tree stump reluctantly and leaned forward, letting gravity take him down the steep embankment. His legs beat furiously underneath him, trying to keep up with his tumbling body, as he half-ran, half-fell down the bank. As he passed another sturdy-looking tree, he reached out for it, grasping for its branches. They slipped past him, causing a sharp pain, and only served to knock him off balance. He twirled around, his feet flailing out from under him, and he fell the rest of the way down the hill.

  As he bounced to the ground below, his head sharply collided with a rock, and a burst of pain overtook him. He felt something warm and sticky dribbling down his face. A red haze swam over his vision, and then it went black.

  When he woke a short while later, he blinked in confusion a few times, trying to sit up. Vague blurry images danced in his eyes, refusing to still and let him focus. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ears, and he felt itchy in several spots where they must have already enjoyed a meal while he was out.

  Finally, his vision cleared, and trees came into view. The soft sound of a bubbling stream met his ears above the bugs, and birds chirped. Memory of where he was returned to him. Sunlight streamed down through the treetops and sparkled on the water.

  He squinted at a sudden bright light that reflected into his eyes, and slowly opened them again. He bit back a gasp. There it was! After all this time, he’d actually found it!

  A beautiful black unicorn with a silver mane stood at the edge of the stream, its head bent to drink the cool water. Its horn shone brightly in the sunlight, sending tiny rainbows out around it majestically.

  Wren lifted his head to get a better look, but the motion set off a dull ache. He groaned softly. The unicorn’s head whipped up, and it looked straight at him for a split second before turning on its heel and fleeing. He sat up swiftly, ignoring the pain in his head, and reached out a hand futilely.

  “Wait!” he called after the retreating form, but it didn’t slow.

  He half-heartedly gave chase, but he knew it was pointless. He’d only get himself lost. After a few minutes, he gave up, slumping against a tree, panting. He lifted a hand to the gash on his head and was surprised to find himself intact. There was blood all over him, caking his hair and clothing, but no evidence of the wound it came from. Wren looked down at his hand, which had been torn in his fall, only to find that this had been healed as well.

  Wren let his hands fall to his sides and his head gently lean back onto the tree’s trunk. He closed his eyes. It had been so close, only to have it slip away. He opened his eyes abruptly in excited astonishment. But he’d found it; it really did exist! He couldn’t wait until he told Phoebe.

  He glanced up at the sky. As he thought of Phoebe, Wren realized he would need to hurry to get back in time. He pulled himself to his feet and retraced his steps back to the bottom of the cliff. Peering upwards, he realized that there was no way he’d be able to climb back up that. Instead, he wandered downstream, following the edge of the embankment to look for a path leading up. His foot slipped on the mossy wet rocks more than once, and by the time he spotted a section he thought he could get up, he was soaked. The trek to the top was much less harrowing than the descent, and luckily all he had to do was follow the river back to where he’d started. He was soon back to his tied cloth.

  He found where he’d left his horse to graze and clumsily mounted. Forcing the horse’s head up from where it was munching on grass, he steered it back towards the city. He nudged at its sides, jerking his body forward with each motion, and finally got it going. It broke into a cantor, and Wren struggled to keep his balance as the landscape whizzed by.

  Endlyfta came into view just as Wren’s backside was beginning to protest the abuse, and he slowed his mount to a more comfortable walk to enter the city. The magnificent walls were whitewashed and gleaming, the architecture predominantly comprised of smooth marble columns and arches, following the design of the massive temple that towered over the city and extended out over the Great River.

  People still sent prayers down the river, though not as many as days past. Most days there were one or two offerings, floating shrines of flowers and fruits asking for favor and giving thanks. Since the Kiani Stones that once resided at its source had been moved to Naoham, the Word no longer flowed down the river. Even so, it remained a symbol of faith. Pilgrimages across the country were made to view the statue holding the stones in Naoham, but the legacy of the Word of the gods coming down the river lived on.

  Today, rather than one or two, there were thousands of floating offerings, a rainbow of colors snaking gracefully across the water in celebration. He paused a moment to enjoy the sight. Then he steered away from the shore, winding deeper into the city towards the palace.

  Wren reined in his mount as he neared the stables. Thankfully, a stable-hand rushed out to greet him, taking control of the unruly horse. Wren allowed himself to be helped off the animal, pausing a moment to regain his balance once back on solid ground. His legs felt a little wobbly as they always did after riding.

  Thanking the boy who led the horse away with a small smile, Wren pointed himself in the direction of his rooms. In short order, he’d arrived, and he threw open the door, inhaling deeply. He exhaled as he glanced around his cramped quarters. He didn’t care that it was tiny compared to the suites he’d grown up in. These were his. He’d finally convinced his parents to let him move out, and the independence was exhilarating. He also hoped that it might impress certain people.

  Though technically he was half a country away from his parents and where he’d grown up, a
permanent gate within the two palaces connected them. Therefore, his move away wasn’t really as far as it seemed even though his mother tried constantly to convince him that it was.

  He stepped around a large pile of books lying next to the door, awaiting his eventual organization. Opening the closet, he shuffled around several rolled up parchments and moved a box of papers out of the way to get to his formal attire. He’d last worn them a year ago when he’d graduated from the scores of tutors to finally be allowed to study at the Hall of History, pursuing his own agendas.

  He swept these out of the closet, carefully extricating the fabric when they snagged on a number of books stuffed inside, and laid them on the bed. He stripped out of his sweat-and blood-caked clothes, and used his wash basin to clean himself up. He marveled at the wound-that-wasn’t in the mirror, wondering how it had healed itself. His mother always made him wear a healing charm – perhaps it had done the trick. He’d never before had the chance to test it out on a wound so severe. Usually it was just one of the many bumps and scrapes that he tended to get. He brushed a finger over where he should still be bleeding profusely. Instead, there was not even a mark and the skin was perfect, no blemish nor even a red line to betray where he’d been cut only this morning.

  Shrugging, he pulled the finer clothes over his head and sighed with pleasure as the silky fabric clung to his skin. They felt so much better than his riding clothes. Stifling a yawn, he hurried through gathering the rest of what he would need and gave the room a once-over. Satisfied that he was ready, he grabbed the package off his desk and strolled from the room.

  His parents were waiting in the Gateroom, having previously made the jump from the Gelendan palace to meet him here and attend together. His mother beamed when she spotted him. “Look at our little boy, all grown up,” Katrina commented as he grew close, pulling him in for a hug.

  Wren glanced around to see if anyone else was within hearing range. Luckily, most seemed too preoccupied with other things to notice the embarrassing display.

  “Don’t embarrass him now,” his father gently rebuked her, and she let go.

  “Sorry,” she whispered with sheepish grin. “I just can’t help myself.”

  She maneuvered them all into the line of people. Usually it was just residents of the palace who used the Gateroom; people who lived in one capital but worked closely with its sister city. Today, however, there were people from all over clamoring to use a newly erected gate to get to the celebration. His parents had come over just in time before the gate to Naoham’s palace was temporarily disabled to allow the use of the Gateroom for the public’s transportation through the new gate. Pity they hadn’t been a tad too late, Wren thought.

  “You missed out on some delicious coffeecake that your mother made this morning,” his father commented after a few minutes of silently shuffling forward in the seemingly never-ending line.

  Wren tried not to groan. Ever since he’d moved out, his parents were constantly making remarks about how he was missing out on things by not living with them anymore. “I wouldn’t have had time for it anyway,” he replied. “I was out doing research this morning.”

  “Oh?” his mother asked. “What are you researching now? Did you already finish your paper, ‘When the Gods Walked Among Us?’”

  “Not yet,” he answered distractedly, standing on his tiptoes to try and see how close they were to getting through so he could escape this conversation. “I’ve gone off on a bit of a tangent.”

  “About what?” she persisted.

  “I don’t want to say until I’ve followed the lead through to the end.”

  He bit back a sigh of relief as they reached the front of the line and his mother’s relentless questioning ceased as they prepared for the nauseating journey to the meeting place.

  His stomach did the familiar flip-flop as they were magically transported to the docks upriver. Normally, he would find himself in the Gateroom of Naoham when he traveled, but instead of the well-known stone wall and tapestries that usually greeted him, he blinked in the bright morning sun.

  There were people everywhere, scores of them bustling along the shore and countless others trying to access the barge itself. Wren fell into line once more beside his parents to pass through the inspection of the knights to gain entry to the vessel. He walked slowly through their ranks, feeling the strange twinge of magic pass over him as he was surreptitiously tested for any signs of malicious intent.

  He smiled and greeted several of the guards by name, and they saluted him smartly. Once aboard, he abandoned his parents quickly, slinking off into the crowd as one of their friends distracted them with a welcome.

  He searched the crowd for signs of Phoebe – Princess Phoenix – but she was nowhere to be found. He surmised that her parents would want her to make some kind of grand entrance. He spied his friend, Rhys, glowering in a corner and looking rather worse for wear. He slowly weaved through the throng of people to make his way over to him.

  “Morning, Rhys,” he nodded to the other boy. “Looks like you’ve already started your day off right.”

  Rhys glared at him. “Had a run-in with an old friend earlier.”

  Wren and the younger boy had been playmates when they were little, having both grown up within the care and protection of the royal household. In recent years, however, their paths had begun to diverge. While Wren had chosen to pursue a career studying history books, Rhys had become involved in…less desirable activities.

  Rhys’s blackened eye looked to be causing him considerable pain, and he closed it for a moment. “You know those rumors I was telling you about?” he asked without opening them.

  “Yes?”

  “They’re getting worse,” Rhys supplied, now opening his eyes to look intensely at Wren. “I keep trying to quell them,” Wren shuddered to think of his means, “but someone is awfully persistent. I haven’t been able to figure out who is behind it all.”

  Wren’s brow furrowed. That was not pleasant news on such a joyous occasion. Though the current excitedly frenzied state would seemingly belie Rhys’s words, they both knew that rumors could be disastrous to a person’s reputation. He would have to report this back to his mother later. At least it would give her something other than his absence to think about.

  “I’ll pass it along,” he promised. Then he asked, “Would you like me to find some ice for that eye?”

  Rhys was squinting again, as though the simple task of keeping it open was paining him, and he nodded gratefully. Wren excused himself and headed off in search for someone to beg ice from. There was an ice sculpture in the middle of one of the tables, a large dragon reared up, looking ready for flames to burst forth from its mighty jaws, but Wren didn’t think that the royal artists would be amused if he broke part of that off for his friend.

  He passed several other boys he knew, though none were ones he’d call friends. He called out to them, asking if they’d seen Phoenix yet. All shook their heads negatively, going immediately back to their own conversations. He finally made his way to one of the inner cabins, and he poked his head inside. The servants were all racing about, seeming just as excited as those out in the party itself. He had to step in front of one to get his attention. The man gave him a sour look, but it softened as a glint of recognition passed over his features.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Wren said politely. “I was hoping to get a bag of ice for my friend’s eye.”

  “You mean Master Rhys,” the man said, his tone disapproving. “His poor mother and father are at their wits’ end trying to figure out where they went wrong.” He gave Wren a penetrating stare. “You turned out alright. Maybe you can talk some sense into the boy.”

  Wren simply shrugged as the man reached around him into a cooler box to get the ice. “I’ve tried,” he admitted, “but he doesn’t listen to me either.”

  “Hmph,” the servant mumbled, handing over the bag of ice. Wren
thanked him and moved off, allowing the man to resume whatever task he had interrupted. By the time he found Rhys sulking in the corner, the ice had half melted.

  “Thanks,” Rhys said as Wren handed the dripping bag to him.

  Rhys immediately put it onto his blackened eye. From his wincing grimace as he moved his arm, Wren guessed that Rhys’s face wasn’t the only place that had been bruised that morning. He shook his head slightly. Rhys had glanced out across the crowd and didn’t seem to notice.

  When it was clear that Rhys wasn’t going to be much company as he leaned against the wall nursing his wounds, Wren meandered through the masses. It appeared that every youth Phoenix’s age had been invited to the celebration, though Wren doubted that the Princess knew many of them personally. He puffed out his chest with pride that he was one of the few with whom she kept company. Along with Rhys, the three of them had been constant companions for a time.

  Before Rhys had gone his own way, Phoebe – as her friends called her – had gone hers, learning to be a princess. Though in Wren’s opinion, she didn’t have to try very hard. She was naturally regal, so the training only enhanced her innate being. Everything she did seemed to be just right. His thoughts darkened. It was unfortunately this truth that made the rumors so unsettling.

  As Wren came to the outside of the crowd, he saw with surprise that they were already in motion and a fair distance downstream already. He hadn’t even noticed that the huge ship had begun to move, which was good given his propensity towards sea-sickness. Just thinking about the rocking back and forth made him feel a bit queasy, and he pushed himself to a railing in case the urge overtook him.

  Before he could get himself too worked up and actually make himself sick, he was distracted by a commotion. He turned his attention to the upper decks where the King and Queen were and saw that knights were taking places on either side of the staircase. Phoenix was about to make her grand entrance.

  The crowd fell silent as the previously soft background music suddenly burst to life with a triumphant and excited melody. Lights dimmed in the main part of the cabin and those around the staircase brightened. The knights drew their weapons in unison; the sound of metal against scabbards timed perfectly with the music and adding to the excitement. They created an archway of swords over the red-carpeted stairway and at the captain’s signal all turned as one towards the top in anticipation. The eager faces of the crowd turned upwards. Wren held his breath, waiting for her to appear.