Rhoden rode in silence back to the palace, staring sightlessly at his hands. He was barely aware of the shouts and screams around him, of the torches in the night, of his uncle sitting beside him. On the canvas of his mind flashed endless, repeating images and sounds.
He saw the creature, horribly long-limbed and black as pitch. He saw it open its mouth, heard its terrible, shrieking cry.
No! Leave them alone!
He saw Cael tumble through the air, felt his father’s open chest beneath his hands.
Forgive me, Rhoden.
Of—of course.
Mira’s face floated to the surface, her beauty twisted in loathing. He saw her younger sister’s terrified eyes and heard her shuddering sobs.
Stay away from us.
The images repeated, rolling through his head to the rhythm of the wheels. He could not stop them and did not try to. As they grew stronger and faster, a single thought came to the forefront of his consciousness: It’s my fault. All my fault.
He should have planned for such an eventuality. He should have considered all the options. Self-loathing coursed through his body like poison. He hadn’t had the skill to save them. If he had focused more on training with the sword rather than burying his head in books, perhaps he could have beaten the creature back. Perhaps his father and Cael wouldn’t be…
No. He couldn’t entertain that thought. It was too terrible.
The carriage rattled into the courtyard of the palace. Within was a scene of hurried commotion, despite the late hour—servants and nobility alike bustled around long lines of carriages, rushing into the palace, or arguing loudly with the drivers to take them away.
Rhoden’s carriage stopped and he felt his uncle’s firm hand at his shoulder. Without looking at anyone or anything, he dismounted. The courtyard fell into a deathly silence that pierced through his own thoughts. He could feel every gaze like a blinding light, and knew their thoughts.
King Garazor is dead. Prince Caellamar is dead.
It’s all my fault.
His stomach clenched as a squadron of guards drew around and escorted him and his uncle inside. They walked quickly down corridors blazing with light. The air was full of delicious smells: roasting meats, fragrant pies, delicate desserts. The wedding feast, now abandoned. Rhoden’s stomach growled softly, but he barely felt it.
They continued through the palace, leaving the more busy corridors and entering a wing that seemed almost abandoned. Rhoden realized vaguely that they were near the state rooms, where official business was conducted and where the Council of Lords met. Why were they here? All he wanted was to go to his own chambers, to sink into the oblivion of sleep. Though, he admitted to himself, he was unsure whether he would ever sleep again.
Horst led the group into a small chamber, leaving guards at the door and positioning more inside. There was a single chair before an empty fire grate. The guards lit a few candles as Rhoden sank into the chair and stared into the darkened fireplace. His uncle’s voice rumbled somewhere above him.
“Wait here.”
Rhoden nodded dumbly. He had no intention of ever leaving this chair. There was a mumble of conversation, then Horst left the room, his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
It was some time before Rhoden became aware of the dried blood on his hands. He stared at it, then tried rubbing them on his trousers. Some of the blood flaked away, but Rhoden noticed similar stains on his clothing, dark and damning. He remembered hands—his hands—pressing a cloak to his father’s chest. This was his father’s blood.
Suddenly, there was nothing more important than to rid himself of it. He stood quickly and walked to the door, but the guards who stood there blocked his way.
Rhoden clenched his fists.
“Let me pass,” he growled.
The guards shuffled uncomfortably. “Your Majesty,” said one, a stout man with a heavy brow. “Lord Bellenan gave us strict orders. You are to remain here.”
“I wish to leave.”
“Those are our orders, my liege.”
Rhoden glared at them. “Fine,” he snapped. He made to return to his chair when a thought occurred to him.
“Summon my valet,” he ordered. “I would speak with him.”
Carlton arrived shortly, and after Rhoden had given his demands, returned with a basin of steaming water and a change of clothing. Rhoden washed and changed behind a folding screen, shedding the blood-stained clothes with immense relief. The valet’s usual sour look remained as he aided Rhoden, but he was silent of any sarcastic remark, for which Rhoden was grateful.
Though he was tired and suddenly ravenous, a small burden lifted off his shoulders and he felt refreshed from the change. For a moment, he could almost forget the terrible things that had just happened, or, at the very least, push them aside. Carlton brought a small portion of the wedding feast for him, and he ate quickly and quietly.
As he was finishing, the door opened and his uncle appeared.
“Ah, you’ve eaten. Good.” He waved a hand. “Leave us,” he ordered, and both the guards and Carlton bowed and exited the room.
Rhoden set aside his platter and looked intently at his uncle.
“What’s happening?” he asked, standing. “Is Cael all right?”
“He’ll live, for the moment,” said Horst. His normally stoic face was haggard. “But there is something else, something more important, which requires your absolute attention.” He sighed. “The Council of Lords has assembled and we must attend.”
Rhoden’s stomach, filled with food, grew queasy. “Now?” he asked.
Horst nodded. “Speed is of the essence. The Council must decide what is to be done in the absence of a king.”
Rhoden tried not to see his father’s bloodstained body beneath his hands, but the image flashed across his mind like lightning. Once again, he could not comprehend the truth: the king, his father, was dead. That meant someone else must take his place. And Cael was, in all possibility, dying. If he was unable to assume the throne, the only other alternative was Rhoden himself.
His mind shied away from that thought. No, it could not be possible. He was not ready. He was not prepared. How could one possibly prepare for something like this?
His uncle looked at him with pity.
“I know what I must ask of you will not be easy,” he said. “But it is imperative that you attend, Nephew. Do you have the strength to do so?”
Rhoden clenched and unclenched his hands, taking in deep breaths. Did he? He had a feeling he knew what was going to be decided at this meeting, and nothing good would come of it. And he was so tired. His mind was a hazy fog that swirled with confusion, irritation, anger, and grief. He tried to sort through it all.
The lords would not support him. They never had, so why would they now? Perhaps they would even blame the attack of that terrible beast on him. They would not accept him as their king.
The only acceptable outcome, then, was that Cael survived whatever injuries he had sustained. That was the only way their kingdom would continue.
But if he did not…
Rhoden knew he had one option: to act like a prince in the presence of the Council, even if they blamed him, even if they hated him. It was the first—and, in all possibility, the last—service he could offer as royalty.
It will require a great deal of sacrifice, whispered his father’s voice. The price for being royal.
Despite his exhaustion, despite his doubts and the feeling of doom that grew with each passing moment, Rhoden knew that what the people of Aleria needed right now was strength. His strength. He had no plans, no preparations, nothing to help him in this, but he knew it all the same.
Squaring his shoulders, he met his uncle’s eyes and nodded firmly.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s greet them.”
----------------------------------------
The room was full of the chatter of voices, which died immediately upon Rhoden and Horst’s arrival. In the tense silence, all eyes watched as the two men walked around the long table and took their seats. The head of the table was empty, the ornate carved chair a reminder of what they had so recently lost. Rhoden sat in a seat directly to the right of the empty chair. His uncle sat next to him.
Across the table, an aging man with a long nose stood.
“Welcome, Prince Rhoden, Lord Bellenan,” said Lord High Chamberlain Crasmere. “Thank you for coming in this dark hour.”
Rhoden glanced around the table. He recognized Lord Hestran immediately, sitting far away to his right. He had been learning the names of the lords over the past couple of weeks and did his best to match the name to the face: Astrall, Larcasane, Ignatus, Ferrin, Redes, and Wallrick. A body of three white-robed Ennist priests sat at the opposite end of the table, where another empty chair stood, reserved for the high priest. With a pang, Rhoden realized that the priest who had officiated the wedding must have died as well.
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Three faces surprised him. Issa Roth and Croftin Meran sat across the table and nodded when his eyes met theirs. Sitting on the other side of his uncle was Aras Rapidian, who was cleaning his glasses with a cloth. Everyone appeared as tense as Rhoden felt.
Lord Crasmere cleared his throat. “In the absence of our king, I call this meeting to order,” he said in a voice that shook slightly. He cleared his throat again. “We welcome those who have joined us, in absence of their fathers—” He gestured to Issa and Croftin. “—and other honored guests.” He nodded to Aras Rapidian.
Then, he turned to the table at large. “We are in dangerous circumstances. After the vicious attack tonight at the Citadel, Aleria finds itself lacking both a king and a high priest. The treaty, which we had long prepared for, is ruined. The Mesians have fled—as to where they have gone, we can only assume they are on their way back to their homeland.”
“Traitors!” someone spat. “They are clearly responsible for our loss.”
Lord Crasmere frowned. “It is the duty of this Council to make judgements based on facts, not opinion, Lord Larcasane.”
“If I may,” said a priest from the other end of the table, and Rhoden recognized him with a start. This was the sandy-haired priest who had been at Lord Hestran’s manor and had denied him access to the Chronicles. Rhoden was also fairly certain that he had been the one to turn the mob away in the Citadel just hours ago. A whispered query to his uncle told him the priest’s name was Brother Lamb, second in the Ennist Church only to the High Priest.
Lord Crasmere gave his assent, and Brother Lamb spoke. “A few Mesians have remained behind to show their commitment to the treaty,” he said, looking earnestly around the table. “Several Thalist priests and a handful of high-ranking Mesian officials are currently in the custody of the Church. Most notably, the Lady Miriandri Escallon has decided to stay at the palace. She wishes to continue the negotiations of the treaty and is adamant that the attack tonight was through no fault of her people.”
“She could not have been privy to every conversation in her great-uncle’s court,” Lord Ferrin pointed out. “There could have been a plot about which she was not aware.”
“We should have expected this,” Lord Ignatus said, scowling. “This kind of betrayal is typical of Mesians. They are all the same—faithless heretics.”
“I can assure you,” came a quiet voice, and Rhoden saw that it was Rapidian who spoke. He surveyed the table with his bespectacled eyes. “This attack did not come from Mesia.”
Silence fell, several faces looked questioningly at him, but Rapidian did not elaborate. Lord Crasmere spread his hands, drawing attention back to him. “Whether or not Mesia was responsible for this crime, the Council must come to a decision. Prince Caellamar is grievously wounded and the physicians are unsure if he will recover. In this critical time, we need leadership and direction. We must decide on an heir to fill the throne and what we should do about the treaty—if anything.”
“Excuse me,” came the nasal drawl of Lord Hestran. All eyes turned to him, and he looked around the table in mock outrage. His eyes were tiny in his large, bald head. “Am I to understand,” he said, “that we will not address the more important question—indeed, the question that is on every mind of every person in this Council?”
“And what is that?” Lord Crasmere asked politely.
“What, in all the Endless Hells, was that thing?”
He did not need to explain further. Rhoden saw in his mind, as he was certain everyone else did as well, the terrifying beast that had appeared in the Citadel; its horrible long limbs and dead eyes, the flashing claws and needle teeth.
“It is called a Seranach,” said Rapidian. Once again, every eye shifted to him. His spectacles flashed in the candlelight. “A terror from the ancient days.”
“And who are you, who know so much about it?” Lord Hestran demanded. Rhoden held his breath, wanting desperately to know the same.
“I am Aras Rapidian,” said Rapidian, meeting Hestran’s suspicious gaze cooly. “I have been hunting the Seranach for several months, now.”
The room was silent. Finally, Lord Crasmere said, “Aras Rapidian, would you please elaborate? How is it that you know of this beast?”
“I have made it my life’s work to study them,” said Rapidian. “I am a scholar, of a sort. I study what you call the Shadows—the Dryr, as they were once known. They controlled fearful beasts called Seranach, who did their bidding. The Seranach were mindless creatures, forced to obey the will of the one controlling them.”
“I’ve heard of such beasts,” said Brother Lamb. To Rhoden’s surprise, the priest leaned forward eagerly. “I was under the impression that they and the Shadows were one and the same.”
“A detail lost by time and those who wished to bury the truth,” Rapidian murmured, and Brother Lamb ducked his head, his cheeks flushed. Rhoden did not wonder at this. Brother Lamb was an Ennist priest. It was the Ennist Church, which—whether out of fear or anger or spite, it was impossible to know—had initiated the Great Purge, during which thousands and thousands of documents from the past had been destroyed.
Rhoden once again turned his attention to Rapidian and tempered his amazement. Already, he had learned more about the Shadows from this man than years of studying had taught him.
“You said you have been hunting this beast,” said Lord Crasmere, his long face politely skeptical. “If it posed such a great threat, why was the king or the Council not made aware of this danger? We could have taken action to prevent what happened.”
“It was your king’s desire that my search remain a secret,” said Rapidian, and this drew dark looks and muttered suspicions from the men around the table. Rapidian ignored them and continued, “Unfortunately, this decision cost him his life. Perhaps, had you known, this tragedy could have been avoided. Then again, perhaps not.”
“I have difficulty believing you,” said Lord Hestran, tapping a ring-studded finger on the table. “Why would Garazor have kept this from us? And why would he trust you?”
“A fair question,” Lord Ferrin agreed, nodding.
Rapidian straightened himself. “It is a delicate matter,” he said. “And, before I explain, I must be absolutely certain. If you will allow me a moment—”
Then, strangely, he looked at each person around the table, holding their gaze for several seconds. Rhoden remembered how he had felt under Rapidian’s gaze the first time he had met the man, how he felt he had been examined, weighed, and judged. He imagined that the same was happened to the men around the table. The lords shifted uncomfortably in their chairs and an awkward silence filled the room. Issa Roth looked as though she might faint. Lord Crasmere frowned, but did not interrupt. When Rapidian finished, each person seemed wrung out, confused, and embarrassed.
“Thank you,” Rapidian said, and his face was grim.
“Why was that necessary?” Brother Lamb asked.
“I had to be certain that the one I am hunting was not here,” said Rapidian.
“The beast?” exclaimed Lord Redes, a stout man with a large mustache. “It isn’t here, surely?”
“Of course not,” said Rapidian. “Its master has commanded it, and already it is far away. It cannot harm you.”
“Then why this…examination?” Lord Hestran asked sourly.
“I had to be certain that the master of the Seranach was not in this room.”
There was a breathless pause.
“And?” Lord Hestran demanded.
Rapidian waited a moment before his reply. Once again, he swept his eyes around the room. “No,” he said finally. “He is not here.”
Rhoden felt a collective sigh run through the room and a small knot untied itself within him, though he did not quite understand the relief he felt. Rapidian adjusted his glasses.
“I said I was hunting the Seranach,” he explained, “though that is only partially true. I am hunting both the beast and its master. As I explained before, in the past, the Dryr—the Shadows, that is—controlled the Seranach. It is the same today. There is never one without the other. To find the master and stop the beast is imperative.”
“Pardon,” said Lord Crasmere, his long face full of concern. “But you speak as though the Shadows were not lost in the past.”
Rapidian nodded and for the first time looked down the table to where Rhoden was sitting. “In our present company, I believe we can all agree this is the case,” he said.
Several eyes flicked to Rhoden and away again. His face flushed hot at the sudden attention.
“If there were other Shadows in our midst, we would know,” said Brother Lamb. “There are ways of telling these things. Old rituals and safeguards.”
“I wish that were true. The one I am hunting is extremely cunning and dangerous. He can easily bypass your safeguards, because despite the enthusiasm and zeal of the Ennist Church, they are practically worthless.”
Brother Lamb nodded his head in thought, though his eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. “Then, virtue truly has left us,” he murmured quietly, almost to himself. One of the other Ennist priests placed a comforting hand on his arm. Despite what he had experienced at Lord Hestran’s manor, and the role Brother Lamb had played, Rhoden felt a stab of sympathy for the young man. He did not seem to press the religious agenda of the Ennist Church, as most priests did, and was honest and sincere. Rhoden decided in that moment that this was a man he wanted to have on his side.
Rapidian continued.
“Rituals and safeguards notwithstanding, this Dryr has proven to be a formidable opponent. Among other things, he has the ability to change his appearance at will. He can change the color of his skin, the shape of his face, and look like anyone in the world, if he so desired. He could be anyone in the court, or in this room.”
Though Rhoden’s brain was overtired from the night’s events, a memory flashed through his mind of the morning, some weeks ago, when he had sparred with Cael and Derrick Soraldson. He had told the story of the proud and foolish thief who could change his face. It was an old tale he had found in a dusty volume of children’s stories in the Tellegar College library. From what Rapidian was saying, and if his words could be believed, it seemed there was some truth to it.
“So the Shadow—the Dryr—could be anyone,” Lord Crasmere said.
Rapidian nodded. “That is why my task is so difficult.”
“And are we to ignore the obvious?” Lord Hestran said, waving a pudgy hand at Rhoden. “You are looking for a Shadow who controls the creature. You need look no further than this room. How do we know our own beloved prince isn’t complicit in this?”
Rhoden’s face burned and he opened his mouth to protest, but his uncle spoke first.
“Speak that way about my nephew again, Erastus,” growled Horst, “and your servants will carry you out of here on a stretcher.”
Lord Hestran’s face grew beet-red at the threat. Undaunted, however, he tried a different tactic and jabbed a thick finger at Rapidian.
“You know far too much about this whole business. And you are a stranger to us. How can we trust anything you say? How do we know you aren’t the master you claim to be searching for?”
Several other lords around the table nodded in agreement. Rapidian exchanged a meaningful look with Rhoden’s uncle. Horst sighed, his beard twitching.
“Get on with it,” he muttered. “It’s time they knew.”
With deft hands, Rapidian drew a medallion from beneath his tunic. It was about the size of a coin and glinted silver in the light. Rhoden could not make out the markings on it, but Brother Lamb, who could see it clearly, suddenly gasped.
“You are a Brother of the Dawn,” he said in an awestruck voice.
“I am,” said Rapidian simply. He raised his right sleeve and revealed a dark tattoo that had been stamped on his inner arm near the elbow: a single line through a circle, the top half of which was filled with smaller lines, radiating outward from a center point. A sunrise.
“I am a High Master of the Order of the Brethren,” said Rapidian, lowering his sleeve and resting the medallion so that it was in full view on his chest. Then, he nodded to the side. “Horst Bellenan is my squire.”
It took a moment for Rhoden to realize that his uncle had also bared his arm, and that the same tattoo was stamped there near his elbow. He looked at him in amazement, wanting to demand an explanation as to why his uncle had never mentioned this before, but Horst stubbornly would not meet his eye.
“We were taught that all the Brethren perished during the Great Schism,” said Brother Lamb. The other Ennist priests nodded.
“There was only one who survived,” Rapidian said softly. “Since that day, our numbers remain very small.”
“Who or what are the Brethren of the Dawn?” Croftin Meran asked, looking around the table. “I have never before heard of them.”
“They were once a very powerful religious order within the Ennist Church,” Brother Lamb explained. He seemed torn between excitement, awe, and fear. “It was said that they aided the Sun King in his conquest against the Shadows.”
The lords looked at Rapidian and Horst with a cautious but newfound respect. Even Lord Hestran, whose beady eyes continued to rove the table suspiciously, seemed to accept this new information without complaint.
“Our forerunners did many marvelous things,” said Rapidian. “It is our duty now to protect mankind from the threat the Dryr present. That is why I—why we—have been hunting. That is why I know about the Dryr and the Seranach.” He nodded respectfully to Lord Crasmere, then to Rhoden. “And, with your permission, Prince Rhoden, we will continue our search. It is imperative that we begin tonight, while the trail is still fresh.”