Lord Erastus Hestran sat in the center of the room before the wall of mirrors, the men spread out on either side of him like magistrates dealing a sentence. Rhoden stood alone as if he were the accused, facing the men and mirrors. His reflection rippled back at him, blurred and distorted. At the far end of the room, light streamed through a tall window.

“Prince Rhoden,” said Lord Hestran. “At last we meet.”

The smug smile on his face was echoed in a few of the others’. There was now no question that the inclusion of such an audience had been deliberate.

Rhoden swallowed. Gain control of the situation! he thought furiously. If he thinks he has the upper hand, he will take advantage of that. Best to show confidence, catch him off-guard somehow.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing slightly. “Forgive me; it appears I have come at a bad time. Clearly, you already have company. Shall we reschedule?”

Hestran’s smile widened. “Reschedule? There is no need. We are ready to discuss your request.”

Rhoden met a few of the eyes around the room. He recognized Lords Astrall and Larcasane, both from the Council of Lords, sitting close by. Strangely, a group of white-robed Ennist priests took up nearly half of the seats. Rhoden knew Hestran was not religious, and so they must be there because of the subject of this exchange. His heartbeat quickened. This complicated matters greatly.

He looked back at Lord Hestran, who had rested one of his pudgy hands on the table top.

“I was under the impression,” Rhoden said, fighting to keep his voice calm, “that this was to be a private conversation.”

“They are here at my invitation,” said Hestran. “I needed some…assistance with your request, and they have provided it.” He cocked his balding head. “Their presence surely does not disturb you, Your Highness?”

Rhoden heard the mockery in his tone and anger rose in his throat like bile. Hestran had the upper hand, and he knew it. If he had hoped to catch Rhoden unawares, he had succeeded. All the preparations Rhoden had made were practically useless. He had prepared for a private conversation, had crafted his arguments based solely on that fact. To now address a roomful of people who had been invited specially by his host was more than daunting—it was terrifying. Rhoden berated himself mentally. He should have considered this option more seriously.

With great difficulty, he swallowed the fear and anger away. To allow himself to show Hestran anything other than confidence was a victory for his opponent. This had now become a game, and Rhoden was beginning to feel he might lose it.

But he would still try. His desire to read Dorican’s Chronicles was greater than his pride. He could take a few pointed jabs from Hestran.

He straightened his shoulders. “They do not disturb me,” he lied. “You have the Chronicles, then? As you said?”

Hestran motioned to a servant who stood in a corner. The man stepped forward, carrying a large cloth-wrapped parcel in his hands. He handed it to Hestran, who unwrapped it carefully. As he dropped the final fold, Rhoden felt his heart hammer against his ribs.

In the center of the fabric were two very old books, bound in cracked leather. Each was thick and yellow-paged, though in surprisingly good condition. Rhoden could just make out the gold leafing on the spines that spelled the author’s name: DORICAN. For being nearly six centuries old, Hestran’s copy of the Chronicles was remarkably well-preserved. It was clear that the previous owners had taken good care of it, despite its being banned for centuries.

Rhoden itched to hold the books, to open the covers and smell the parchment. He wanted to feel the pages and read the words, but more than anything, he wanted to know what those words would tell him. It was said that the Chronicles possessed the only complete history from before the Great Schism, before the censorship of the Ennist Church. It was a miracle that copies of this great work had even survived the purging, let alone the ensuing centuries. Lord Hestran’s was the only one in Aleria of which the scholars at Tellegar College were aware.

It was also dangerous. Though no longer banned by law, there were consequences for owning or even reading the books. Rhoden had counted on Hestran’s lack of affiliation with the Ennist Church to make the exchange possible. But the inclusion of Ennist priests within this conversation was problematic, to say the least. Not once in his planning had he anticipated this. Was there a way he could still get what he wanted?

Rhoden tore his eyes away from the books. “I am honored, My Lord, that you would allow me access to such a priceless artifact,” he said. “I thank you.”

“Your thanks are misplaced,” said Lord Hestran, running a ring-studded finger along the cover of the topmost volume. “I have not agreed to anything, Prince Rhoden, other than to prove that I owned the Chronicles. Well, here they are. And here they will remain.” He picked up a corner of the cloth and began wrapping the books in it.

“But—” Rhoden couldn’t stop the word before it left his mouth. Hestran looked up at him, a knowing smile on his face.

“Yes?”

“I—I had hoped,” Rhoden stammered, trying to find the right words, to conceal his shock and disappointment. That couldn’t be the end of the conversation! He cleared his throat, raised his head.“I had hoped that I would be able to—to read them.”

Hestran shared a look with one of the Ennist priests who sat at the table with him. “And why, in the name of all that’s holy, would I allow that?” he asked.

Rhoden felt his face flush red-hot. As he tried to find a response, the Ennist priest moved and laid a hand on Lord Hestran’s arm. He looked up at Rhoden with a genuine smile. He was younger than most priests Rhoden was accustomed to seeing, perhaps a decade older than himself.

“Prince Rhoden, please do not take offense,” the priest said. He frowned at Lord Hestran. “I am certain none was meant.”

Hestran’s face grew slightly pink, but he sat back, motioning for the priest to continue.

The priest turned back to Rhoden. Light from the window shone on his wavy, caramel hair. “We cannot blame Lord Hestran’s attachment to his personal belongings,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “After all, I understand that these books have been in his family for countless generations.” His fingers brushed the top of the half-tied parcel, then his gaze caught Rhoden’s and held it.

“Though, despite his outburst, there may be some truth to it,” he mused. “You see, there is some concern among us as to the nature of your request, Prince Rhoden. You wanted proof of the Chronicles’ existence, but now you have made it clear that you also wish to read them. You are aware, I presume, that doing so would expel you from the Ennist Church?”

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Rhoden’s mouth was dry. He had known this possibility, of course, but he had anticipated negotiating with an already known heathen, not an Ennist priest. His plan of gaining the Chronicles and reading them in secret, without the knowledge of the church, was now obsolete.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“You know what the Chronicles contain, or else you would not ask,” the priest said. “You know the danger that knowledge presents.”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you are a royal prince,” the priest continued. “You would risk expulsion from the church, merely because you wish to read these forbidden books?”

Rhoden swallowed hard. “Yes,” he whispered.

A few mutters passed around the room, and several men shook their heads. The priest held up his hand, looking curiously at Rhoden.

“Then tell us,” he said. “Why would you risk so much, for knowledge that is so dangerous?”

Thoughts raced around Rhoden’s head. He had prepared several angles to convince Lord Hestran with: that the scholars at Tellegar were looking to compile a history of the last millennia and needed the information; that Rhoden’s father, King Garazor, wished to add the volumes to his personal library. But each excuse now seemed trite, and were not entirely true. Meeting the young priest’s gaze, Rhoden knew that honesty was his only choice, that he needed to tell him the truth if he was to have a chance at getting what he wanted. Not the whole truth, of course, but as much of it as he could.

He took a deep breath. “In my years at Tellegar, the scholars have encouraged me to find a particular branch of study to pursue. It is how they came to be masters, and how they know to teach. As I am likely to remain at the college, they expect a place will be available among their ranks when the time comes. After many years of deliberation, I chose history.”

“Ah,” said the priest. “Yes. I understand why you would be interested in the Chronicles, then. But there are many histories that have been compiled. Many far more informative and less controversial. Why this one?” He patted the top of the volumes.

Rhoden clenched his teeth and wiped his sweaty palms against his trousers. There was no way to say it, except bluntly.

“Because I am studying the history of the Shadows.”

Silence filled the room. Rhoden held the gaze of the young Ennist priest, but felt every other eye in the room pierce him like arrows.

“I see,” the priest murmured, his eyes narrowing. “Then, I suppose Lord Hestran’s concerns were, indeed, merited.” He turned to speak quietly with another priest who sat close to him. Hestran’s beady eyes beamed with triumph.

Rhoden’s heartbeat thrummed inside his throat, threatening to choke him. Why couldn’t he have lied? Why couldn’t he have held that part of the truth back, said that he had wanted the Chronicles for a different purpose?

The Shadows were a dark stain in the past, a piece of Alerian history that the Ennist Church had tried to erase, along with the Shadows themselves. This terrifying race of people with skin as black as coal had once lived in Aleria, long, long ago. They had been destroyed once their evil works had been revealed, destroyed by a man now steeped in legend: Renthalas, the Sun King. He and the Shadows only existed in myths and children’s tales now, the truth distorted and lost by time. Rhoden had studied those stories, had tried to extract truth from fiction. He had hoped that the Chronicles would provide the answers he sought, but now…

Rhoden raised his gaze until it was fixed on his reflection behind the seated men. He had failed. The public admission that he wanted to study the Shadows was a seal on his fate. They would never allow it. When his father found out, not even Cael’s silver tongue would be able to salvage this situation. He would be forced to change his area of study, and everything would be lost.

His reflection rippled in the tall mirror before him: a tall, young man with dark hair, otherwise nondescript, but with one damning feature. His skin was black. Black as a storm cloud at night. The mark of the Shadows. A curse he could never escape.

The Ennist priest finally cleared his throat, and the room, which had been buzzing with conversation, quietened. Rhoden dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to look anyone in the eyes, unable to see himself in the mirror, unable to look at the books, which he had so longed for and had now lost.

“Prince Rhoden,” he said, his voice loud and firm. “We cannot authorize your request. The information you seek within the Chronicles is extremely dangerous. We cannot allow that information to be known. The Chronicles will remain in Lord Hestran’s custody, as they have hitherto been, and he will keep their secrets.”

“In your hands it would only lead to evil,” Lord Hestran said softly, but everyone in the room heard.

Rhoden clenched his jaw so tightly he thought it would break. He nodded once, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Lord Hestran—” the young priest began to protest, but Hestran cut across him.

“This interview is over,” he said. “You will leave.”

A stronger man may have objected. Certainly, had Cael been present, he would have demanded more respect for a royal prince. He would have known the risks in taking on Hestran and his machinations. But Rhoden was not his brother, and to his shame he found that he had no words to say.

He turned, and with trembling steps, walked from the mirrored room.

----------------------------------------

Rhoden and his uncle rode back to the palace in silence. Rhoden was grateful, though the experience of that morning tumbled through his head, repeating itself over and over again.

Why in the name of all that’s holy would I allow that?

In your hands, it would only lead to evil.

He turned his face away from the rain-streaked window. The streets of Torran were quiet, all the inhabitants sheltered away from the storm. But that storm raged inside of him. No one knew. No one understood the depth of the shame he now felt. Not even Horst.

It wasn’t until their carriage rolled to a stop in the palace courtyard that his uncle spoke.

“I’ll go directly to your father,” he said gruffly. “The king must know what has happened.”

Rhoden did not move from his seat. “To what purpose, Uncle? He’s bound to learn of it eventually. If not from you, then the Council.”

Horst frowned at him. “You are a royal prince,” he said. “And, more than that, you are his son. He will want to know what has happened today. If you will not tell him, I will.”

Rhoden fingered the cuff of his sleeve. The embroidery felt rough beneath his fingers. “I would rather you not speak with him,” he said quietly. “I would rather this is forgotten.”

“Oh? And how do you think the other men in attendance will treat this incident? The news that Prince Rhoden has made it his life’s mission to study the Shadows will not disappear overnight.” Horst glared at Rhoden, his beard bristling. “They will not forget it, and neither should you.”

“Why do you care?” Rhoden snapped, anger and shame rising to his face. “I’ve lost everything. I—I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and I lost my chance. I’ll never know the truth about—about them.”

“Never is a foolish word,” his uncle retorted. “It fixes the mind on false absolutes. People change. Things are forgotten, new doors are opened. You’ll get another chance.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I care, because however much you try to deny it, Nephew, you are a royal prince of the house Toradian. There will be consequences to those who choose to treat you with such disdain.”

“I doubt my father will see it so,” Rhoden murmured, and Horst sighed.

“You’ve never given him much credit, Nephew. If you were to talk with him—”

“No,” Rhoden said firmly. “You may speak with him, if you wish. I will not.”

Horst’s beard ruffled. “One day,” he said, moving to open the door of the carriage. A servant stepped forward with an umbrella in hand. Horst looked back at Rhoden. “One day, you will let go of this foolish anger and see him for who he truly is.”

“Unless my skin changes, that day will never come,” Rhoden said, quiet enough that his uncle, who was now waiting for him outside the carriage in the rain, did not hear him.