Elena’s feet stumbled.
“And this very night, they will take your maidenhead upon your marriage bed—by force if necessary.”
Elena grew cold. Though she had already flowered as a woman and her moon’s blood marked her old enough to be wedded, the thought of lying with a man terrified her more than any ill’guard demon. With her body’s spellcast maturation, she understood the needs of a woman. And her own mother had explained the ways of men and women when she was much younger. In fact, she had once practiced kissing with a farmhand from the Nickleburry ranch. But to bed a man? Someone she did not know? A stranger?
“I will not allow this,” Er’ril said with an icy menace.
Mama Freda nodded. “I didn’t expect you would. But these elv’in mean to reclaim their ancient king’s lineage, to rejoin the royal lines.”
Elena found her voice again, but her words cracked. “Y-you hinted of a way out of this trap.”
“As I was saying, these sailors were talkative, and their blood was up with their return to Stormhaven. It seems your looks and charms have not gone unnoticed by the men in the rigging. One of the sailors seemed especially captivated by you. With a coarse laugh, he suggested challenging your bridemate by rite of ry’th lor.”
“What is that?” Er’ril asked.
“I asked my cabin boy as he was helping me from my room. Ry’th lor translates as ‘heart’s blood’ in the high elv’in tongue. A suitor for a woman’s hand can be challenged by another. A trial by combat. The victor wins the hand and no other can contest it.”
Er’ril touched his sword hilt. “Then I will challenge this queen’s man.”
“It is not as easy as that. The challenger must fight the potential suitor with his bare hands. The suitor is under no such restraint. He will be armed with a ceremonial sword and dagger.”
The plainsman’s expression hardened. “I will still challenge.”
“Of course you will . . . and most likely die.”
Elena shook her head. “You must not, Er’ril.”
“And even if you succeed, you will be forced to take your suitor’s place. You must marry Elena within the day of the challenge.”
Er’ril and Elena glanced at each other. Even in the chill air, her face flushed warmly. His own eyes seemed a mix of confused emotions.
Er’ril cleared his throat. “If I must, I must.”
“I . . . I still don’t see how this will help us,” Elena mumbled.
“Upon your marriage kiss, Er’ril can make one request of the suitor’s family. A dowry, so to speak, for the stolen bride.” Mama Freda glanced significantly at them. “It cannot be refused.”
Elena understood almost immediately. “Er’ril could ask that we be let go.”
“Exactly. What cannot be won in war can be gained by love.”
“But would they honor this tradition?” Er’ril grumbled.
“I believe so. Even though they’d take Elena by force to gain her bloodline, they are still a people of tradition and strict law. If the challenge is made, it must be honored. If they broke their code in order to father a king’s child from Elena, the Blood would be tainted—no more than a bastard child. No, I believe they must bow to the challenge of ry’th lor.”
Elena turned to Er’ril. “Then it must be attempted.”
She glanced up to her knight. Deep inside her, something more than hope swelled in her heart. She fought tears, remembering a dance atop a tower roof, arm in arm, the brush of his cheek on hers. No words had been shared during that long night—but it did not always take words to speak one’s heart.
“It will be a hard fight,” Mama Freda warned.
“I will succeed.” The plainsman’s gray eyes never left hers. His words were hushed. “I will win Elena.”
Mama Freda nodded. “Then there is only one other item you must know.”
“What?”
“Before the suitor’s family honors your request, you must prove your marriage.”
“Prove our marriage?” Elena broke her gaze from Er’ril. “What does that mean?”
Mama Freda stared forward, her expression unreadable. “Before we are freed, Er’ril must take your maidenhood himself.”
13
ER’RIL STARED AS Elena was led into the feast hall. She was a beauty in green velvet. Her gown flowed in draperies and trains, held aloft by a pair of young girls in matching velvet as she stepped down the stairs and into the hall. Her hair was woven into a sweep atop her head, held in place by a fine net of silver filigree, fiery with diamonds. At her appearance, polite applause rose from the nobles gathered to either side of the hall.
She was led into the room by the queen herself. Queen Tratal was a cloud of silk laced with gold filaments. In her arms rested a scepter of red iron shaped like a lightning bolt, as stark and unforgiving as the one who cradled it. As she moved, traceries of azure energies danced along the scepter’s length.
Queen Tratal crossed the great hall. To either side, tables were decorated with rose petals amid settings of crystal and porcelain. Overhead, the vaulted beams were festooned with flowering vines. Serving staff waited in doorways laden with wine bottles and trays. Smells of the kitchens wafted up from the hearths below. The hall held its breath for the feast and celebration to begin.
On the room’s far side, atop a raised dais, Er’ril stood with Mama Freda and Wennar at the main table. Each of them had also been bathed, perfumed, and dressed in fineries. As Er’ril stood, waiting for the long procession of courtiers to file in after Elena and the queen, he tugged at his gray jacket and ruffled linen shirt, both a bit too snug for his wide plainsman shoulders.
Elena and Queen Tratal wound through the room and up the three stairs to join them atop the dais. The elv’in queen took her place at a delicate throne of silver, cushioned with midnight blue pillows. Elena followed to take the chair at the queen’s right side, a matching throne but with more stern lines, clearly the king’s seat. She settled into it uncomfortably. Er’ril and the others were positioned a dozen chairs away on Elena’s wing of the table.
Er’ril caught Elena’s attention as she sat down. Her green eyes, flecked with gold, showed clearly that she was scared and worried, but he noted the core of determination behind her gaze, too. She nodded to him, then turned back as the queen began to address the gathered audience.
“This is a fateful day.” Queen Tratal’s words were softly spoken but carried easily across the wide room. “Since our banishment from the shores of our ancient homelands, we have only been half a people. Our ancient king, King Belarion, was stolen from us—his wisdom, guidance, and love were lost in the mix of blood down the ages. And though we’ve grown beyond the need for grubbing the land and instead fashion castles in the sky, we can never forget what was stolen from us, what is ours by right of blood and heritage.”
Queen Tratal motioned for Elena to stand. She obeyed, gliding to her feet. “Though King Belarion’s bloodline was mixed with that of commoners, the iron in the royal blood can never be fully vanquished. Here stands the vessel for the return of our king. From her womb, King Belarion will be reborn to his people.” Queen Tratal reached and lifted a slender glass of white wine. “Long live the king!”
Across the hall, celebrants raised their own glasses. The queen’s words were carried and echoed across the room. “Long live the king!”
Er’ril scowled and was prodded from behind by a guard to take up his own glass. He downed his glass of wine in one gulp and slammed it back down upon the table, shattering the stem of the goblet. No one noticed. They were all too focused on the central dais. Only Mama Freda placed a restraining hand upon his elbow, cautioning him to be patient. Earlier, she had explained the details of rhy’th lor. He could only make his challenge after Elena’s bridemate had been named—then he must state his own claim before the suitor sealed the engagement with a kiss upon Elena’s cheek. After this gesture, no challenge could be made or accepted.
As the hall grew quiet again, Queen Tratal conti
nued her speech. “On this auspicious night, with the moon silvering bright in the twilight skies, I will now seal the two halves of our people. With all here as witness, let it be known that Elena Morin’stal will be wed this night to my own sister’s first son, Prince Typhon.”
It was a well-rehearsed act. A tall slender man stood to the queen’s left. There was no surprise on his dour face, nor delight. He wore a sickly pained expression as he lifted an arm in acknowledgment. He looked as if he were about to be fed naked to a pack of sniffers. Er’ril noted how a small-boned woman on his left touched his hand as he stood. Her eyes were full of regret and sorrow. He gave her fingers the barest squeeze, then released them. It seemed the prince had already given his heart to another. But with the royal princes spread thin—Meric off to the Northwall, Richald off to the South—the burden of uniting the two elv’in houses had fallen upon this young man’s shoulders.
“I accept this offered hand of marriage,” he said formally. “And will fill it with mine own.”
Queen Tratal lifted her iron scepter, which scintillated with energy. “Let the offer be bound with a kiss so all may see the claim sealed. Then as the moon reaches its zenith, we will join these two in marriage. And by the dawn’s light tomorrow, our two halves will be made whole upon their marriage bed.”
Her words were greeted with more cheering. Prince Typhon slipped around his chair and stepped behind the queen’s throne toward where Elena stood stiffly, her eyes wide and glassy.
Mama Freda nudged Er’ril. Now was the time.
Around the hall, the celebrants grew quiet, anticipating the kiss to come. Prince Typhon reached to Elena’s gloved hand. The tall man leaned toward her cheek.
Before his lips could touch, Er’ril pounded his fist upon the hardwood table. Porcelain rattled, and wine spilled from neighboring cups. The crack of his knuckles echoed across the room. Gazes swung in his direction. Half bent toward Elena, Typhon glanced his way.
“By rite of ry’th lor,” Er’ril bellowed, “I challenge this suitor for Elena’s hand.”
The low murmur in the hall went deathly quiet. Prince Typhon straightened, bewilderment in his eyes, but there was no confusion in Queen Tratal’s gaze. Even from a dozen seats away, Er’ril felt the icy chill from the elv’in leader. Tratal’s face was a mask of anger.
“You have no right to claim ry’th lor. It is elv’in law and does not apply to common folk of the lands below.”
Er’ril was ready for this response. He had discussed the details at length with Mama Freda. “It is not your choice to deny my claim or not. Only the woman to be betrothed can dismiss the challenge and deny the claimant.” Er’ril swung his gaze to Elena. “And by your own word, Elena is of elv’in heritage, so by your own elv’in law, she can make this judgment.”
Er’ril noted Elena shift her feet and turn to face the queen. Though Elena’s eyes glinted nervously, her words were hard and firm. “I accept the challenge for my hand by Er’ril of Standi.”
By now, the queen’s scepter spat tiny bolts of energy. Her thin lips had drained of color. She was trapped by her own laws and customs. “Elena may choose to accept the challenge, but I have the right to decide how the outcome will be judged.”
Er’ril glanced to Mama Freda. She shrugged, equally in the dark about this statement.
“As ruler of Stormhaven, I declare that this challenge must be won only by blood. It will be a fight to the death.”
Gasps arose from the gathered throng. Even Er’ril was taken aback by this turn of events. According to Mama Freda, the victor in the challenge merely had to make the other combatant submit, not kill him.
“By our oldest law, from the time of King Belarion himself, ry’th lor was decided by blood. So to win the hand of the king’s heritage, I claim the old rites be followed. Only death will settle this claim.” Queen Tratal turned to Elena. “Do you still accept this challenge?”
Elena’s face had paled with the queen’s words. She glanced up to Prince Typhon. He was young, lithe, and quick-eyed. Armed with a sword and dagger, the young elv’in lord would prove a formidable opponent. Even the prince looked little concerned about the challenge, his arms crossed, his face calm.
Only the young elv’in woman on the queen’s side mirrored Elena’s expression. Both women were frightened for their men.
“Do you accept Er’ril of Standi’s claim for your hand?” Tratal repeated, a tiny smile beginning to form on her cold lips.
Elena turned to Er’ril, her face pained and terrified.
“Make your choice,” the queen demanded.
TOL’CHUK SAT IN the galley of the Sunchaser. He was alone except for a single d’warf who worked at the small stone oven. Magnam was one of the smallest of the ten d’warf warriors. To him fell the more menial chores, like cooking their meals. But he did not seem to mind. He stirred a pot of stew with a long wooden ladle, a soft song bubbling from his lips. The language was unknown to Tol’chuk, but the deep tone and slow cadence whispered of old loss and ancient sorrows. It spoke to Tol’chuk’s own spirit.
Atop the table, the large chunk of heartstone glowed mutely, merely reflecting the small flames from the galley’s hearth. The shade of his father had told him he must take the Heart of his people back to where it was first mined—to Gul’gotha. But now they were all prisoners in the clouds. How could he hope to complete his journey?
Crouched beside the table, lost in his own pain, Tol’chuk failed to notice the small d’warf cook until a large bowl of stew was pushed in front of him, a wooden spoon stuck in the middle.
“Eat,” Magnam said.
“I be not hungry,” Tol’chuk mumbled politely, shifting slightly away.
The d’warf sighed and sat opposite from Tol’chuk. “You been staring at that bauble for days. It’s time you started looking back out to the world.” He used a thick finger to push the bowl toward Tol’chuk. “Even boulders like you must eat sometime.”
Tol’chuk did not move.
“You can pine and mope just as well with a full belly.”
Tol’chuk rolled a large amber eye in Magnam’s direction.
The d’warf’s face cracked with a soft smile. He reached for the jeweled stone, but his fingers hovered above its surface. “May I?”
Tol’chuk shrugged. What did it matter now? The stone was dead, poisoned by the Bane.
Magnam picked up the stone and held it up to the flames of a nearby lamp. He stared at it one way, then another. His eyes pinched with concentration. “Wonderful craftsmanship,” the d’warf said, lowering the stone. “A master’s work.”
Tol’chuk shrugged.
Magnam sighed again, his gaze shifting to the untouched bowl of stew. “I might not have the skill to cut a stone of this quality, but I do make a tasty bowl of stew. It’s the only real reason I was allowed to stay among Wennar’s battalion. The taskmasters of the Nameless One don’t coddle the small or weak-limbed. We’re usually fed to his Dreadlords. I learned early on to concentrate on my strengths, not my weaknesses. An army travels on its stomach, and if you can fill it with tasty stews, you’re less likely to become a tasty stew yourself.”
The d’warf’s easy manner slowly drew Tol’chuk out of his gloom.
Magnam continued. “I’ll make a deal with you, Lord Boulder. You eat, and I’ll tell you a story of d’warves and heartstones.”
Tol’chuk stared warily. But curiosity made him reach for the bowl of stew. He picked up the spoon. “Tell me your story.”
Magnam simply waited, eyeing the empty spoon.
Tol’chuk grumbled and scooped up a bit of potato and a chunk of beef. He started to speak around the mouthful of stew, demanding his story, but then the taste of the stew struck his senses. The beef melted on his tongue; the potatoes were delicate and savory with a thick creamy broth. Tol’chuk’s eyes grew wide. He spooned up another mouthful, suddenly finding his hunger.
“So how’s my stew, Lord Boulder?” Magnam asked with a raised eyebrow.
&n
bsp; “Good.”
Magnam settled back in his chair. “It’ll be even better tomorrow. ‘Twice-stewed is twice as good,’ my ol’ mammy always taught me.” The small d’warf grew silent for a breath, his gaze on the past and distant memories.
Tol’chuk ate in silence.
Finally, Magnam stirred. “But I promised you a story, didn’t I?”
Tol’chuk merely waved his spoon, too busy to speak.
The d’warf crossed his arms. “Do you know where heartstone first came from?”
His mouth full, Tol’chuk grunted his ignorance and shook his head.
“Well, the first piece of heartstone ever discovered was found by a d’warf—a fellow named Mimblywad Treedle. He was mining his claim off in the hinterlands of Gul’gotha, in a mountain named Gy’hallmanti. In the old tongue, this translates to ‘the Peak of the Sorrowed Heart.’ Many considered the old d’warf to be mad. Not only had the mountain been mined dry long ago, tales spoke of hauntings and ghosts in its tunnels. The last group of miners who had entered the mines some two centuries earlier had never returned, lost forever.”
Tol’chuk slowed his eating, drawn into the tale.
“But ol’ Mimblywad insisted he smelled fresh riches down in the lowest shafts of his mine. And mad or not, he was the keenest scenter of his time. It was said his nose could sniff out an opal in a pile of pig dung. So for moon after moon, he dug with pick and shovel. Neighboring homesteads reported the echoing sounds of his work both day and night. They also whispered of other noises, stranger sounds. But when they were asked for details, they would only shake their heads. Many moved away, leaving their claims unsold. After ten winters, the entire region around Gy’hallmanti was deserted, except for the lone Mimblywad Treedle.”
“What happened?” Tol’chuk asked, his spoon forgotten for the moment.
Magnam grew dour and slowly shook his head. “Mimblywad would sometimes trek out of his tunnels for supplies. He would travel to trading stores, a wasted figure of bones and haunted eyes. He would talk to himself, mumbling angrily, as if arguing with someone only he could see. But addled as he was, he always seemed to come down from his mines with enough gold and bits of shattered rubies to buy more supplies and disappear back into his tunnels. He soon became a legend among our people. Ol’ Mad Mimbly. Then for an entire winter, no one saw him. Most guessed he had finally died in the haunted tunnels of Gy’hallmanti, becoming just another ghost himself. But they were wrong.”