ONE

Epiphany
​

No moonlight bathed the black granite hulk of Dorlevan Palace. Among the walnut trees of the long-standing forest thick beyond the towered ramparts, bare boughs waved like bony arms reaching up to catch the steely flakes of faintly falling snow. The heavy hand of Boreas, the north wind, subdued the surrounding countryside into submissive silence. Even the vast Lake Nuhilyv north of the palace was stilled by ice.  In the darkness, a hawk and a fox dared to call out in hunger.
     Inside the palace, the great Woods Hall sparkled with the joyous harmonies of lutes and lyres, flutes and horns, familiar Yuletide tunes to delight the merrymakers.  An invitation to spend the holidays at Dorlevan was highly coveted, and the noble guests here gathered celebrated this annual gala with feasting and dancing.
     Lord Brant could not stop laughing as he bounded down the hall’s cedar staircase, its lustrously polished balustrade bedecked with festoons of fragrant pine, in pursuit of his friend.  She had snatched something of his, and he wanted it back.  Screeching with glee herself, Lady Adalia evaded capture, zig-zagging between tables bountiful with platters of tempting foods and choice wines, around the towering fir tree glittering with golden ornaments, among the lords and ladies, and around the dais of the throne, replaced tonight with a manger, beside which burned bowls of the rare incense bdellium.
     She had not counted on the floor of mosaic glass being so slippery, however.  With her blue satin slippers no longer under her, she slid in a flutter of lapis lazuli and gold brocade under a table.  A strong hand on her ankle pulled her out.  Still laughing, they wrestled for the item.  Not everyone was laughing, though. Lady Adalia looked up at the frowning face of her nurse, silhouetted by the chandeliers blazing overhead, reproaching her for the untidiness of her gown and the childishness of her behavior.  A far more distressing truth flashed upon Adalia: her tumble had mussed the looped plaits of her carefully coifed silken tresses. The girl cast Brant’s treasure away and scampered off with her nurse to freshen herself up.
     Not stopping to retie the umber laces of his short tunic of sienna velvet, embroidered at the hem with verdant hickory leaves, Brant hunted on hands and knees with his friend Lord Darrin for the lost item.
     The floor was made of small cubes of renowned Ispezian glass, seamlessly fitted and polished, creating in appearance a floor of smooth ice. The center of the mosaic depicted in topaz a nine-pointed starburst, or crown depending on how it was viewed, surrounded by stylized leaves of oak, rowan, reed, maple, laurel, cedar, birch, hickory and spruce, the foliose emblems of the kingdom’s nine duchies, sumptuous in iridescent green.  An ingenious system of pipes beneath the floor, warmed from the furnace room, kept the Woods Hall at a pleasant temperature.  The magnificent Glass Floor of Dorlevan was commissioned fifty years ago by King Roderick, grandfather of the reigning king, Durwin II, and remained one of the great wonders among all the Oriome kingdoms.
     Near the wall of leaded glass windows soaring up to the gilded fan vaults of the lofty ceiling, their in between spaces painted cobalt blue with gilt stars, Duke Eben of Galsha stood watching the boys with a gaze as penetrating and as icy as the chill passing through the windows.  He was an elegant man in his late thirties, tall and imperious.
     The young lords retrieved the item: a flint and steel set housed in a silver case inset with polished malachite which Darrin had given Brant that evening as a Twelfth Night gift.  It was the set Darrin had received four months earlier as part of his kit.  All first-year cadets at the Military Academy were expected to have a set, and Lord Darrin’s father had gotten him a deluxe one.
     Lord Brant again expressed his appreciation for the gift.  “How can you spare it though?”
     “I’ll just say I lost it.  I’ll get a scolding from Lord Simon—he’s my advocate, but don’t worry, Father will replace it.  I’m glad for you to have it. A piece of the academy if you can’t be there.”
     A mix of sadness and anger rushed through Brant.  Though he was the same age as Darrin, a rumored death threat had succeeded in keeping him away from the academy, a rumor Brant scorned as nothing but a bluff.  His dearest dream was to become a brilliant swordsman and achieve knighthood, but no, here he remained, restricted to this palatial cage.  He snapped the case shut with his frustration.
     Lord Darrin crossed his arms across his short tunic of fine olivine wool; a hint of emotion was in his gaze searching among the merrymakers.  Lord Brant noticed.
     “So, were you successful?  Did you kiss her?”
     Though Lord Darrin’s reply was to the affirmative, his excessive boasting made it transparent that Princess Elisia had eluded his purpose.
     “She is saving her first kiss for Sir Basil,” Lord Darrin scowled.
     Lord Brant laughed. “She’ll be old and toothless before then!”
     “You think so?”
     “Well, I supposed…”
     “Then, where are they?”
     The man in question, Sir Basil Motikema, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Griffin, Count of Hanfordstev, and Headmaster of the Military Academy, was not in the hall.  Nor was the princess.
     “Where did they go?” Lord Brant murmured.
     “I don’t know, but look over there.  Looks like the Ebrulfs might be strolling toward at least one wedding!”
     By the huge stone fireplace opposite the staircase forty-three-year-old Princess Alexa Ebrulf, Duchess of Lairenkin, swept up her training overskirt of taupe netting trimmed with otter and led Lady Adalia to an intricately carved oaken bench to sit with Prince Halsey at the hearthside.  The gleaming strands of her golden hair impeccably restored, Lady Adalia tried to mask her displeasure.  Svelte and stately, the duchess made no effort to conceal hers.
     “Have you forgotten, young lady, that Halsey is waiting for you?” Princess Alexa irritably fingered the brooch she always wore, a golden gift from her first husband.
     “I thought it would be later,” Adalia lied to excuse herself; she hated the arranged courtship.
     Adalia’s fingers toyed with the new pendant she wore: a cabochon garnet with a lion carved in relief, a Twelfth Night gift from the Count of Hanfordstev.  He had reminded the girl that the carving symbolized honor and protection.
     “How often must you be told?” the duchess scolded. “I hope these memory lapses are a sign of your immaturity and are not an inherent aspect of your mental state.”
     “He’ll probably talk all night about moss!” Lord Brant laughed, watching them. He arranged his face to mock the prince’s and he mimicked Halsey’s soft voice, “‘Gee, Miss Adalia, you must see the newest addition to my collection; it is the most amazing piece of moss I have ever seen.’”
     Lord Darrin smirked.  “As his bride, she’ll probably have a moss bouquet! They will probably raise moss instead of children!”
     Prince Halsey Ebrulf, Viscount Ternsmeade, stood and greeted the girl with a smile that squinted his happy eyes.  A year older than Adalia, the prince was lanky with a head of hair the color and texture of straw.  He wore a tunic of canary satin, but his posture made it look boxy and rumpled.  The one ornament he wore, as did Adalia, was the Queen’s gift of a golden reliquary encapsulating a small splinter of charred wood from the pyre of a burned witch, a prized good luck charm.  He gestured for Lady Adalia to sit beside him but reconsidered, not wanting to appear ardent, and then gestured to a chair several feet away but reconsidered, not wanting to appear alienating; he stood muddled and waited for his mother to seat the lady.
     His awkward bearing contrasted with his position as claimant to the throne. Indeed, he little understood the regulations of the rambling and convoluted Decree of Division that clarified it.  He knew only what his father told him: when King Durwin died, the crown would pass to him.  However, not everyone shared that opinion: there was a faction of court historians who championed Princess Sonia’s son, Lord Nicholas Palendt (Darrin’s older brother), as the next male in line.  Though Halsey and Nicholas were third cousins, both descended from Prince Anthony, the younger brother of King Crispin V, Halsey could also trace his lineage through Crispin’s daughter, whereas Nicholas was indisputably Halsey’s senior by three years.  All of this, of course, hinged on whether Brant received the crown he was poised to inherit.  To Prince Halsey, the decree was none the more admirable for not being simple.
     Lady Adalia sat on the oak bench with, but not beside, the prince.
     “Have you had a happy day, Miss Adalia?” he asked earnestly.
     “It was average.”
     “You did nothing worth remembering?”
     “No.  Today was a gigantic bore.  How was your day?”
     “It was very pleasant.  I went on a hike to look for moss.”
     “How positively exciting,” Adalia remarked flippantly, bracing herself for a detailed account of his hike, which he prolonged further by describing his favorite hat along with a ponderous rumination about which year he had received it as a Twelfth Night gift and from whom.
     “Then we came upon a nightingale,” the memory animated his voice.  “We—did I mention that my valet was with me?—oh, I guess I did.  Miss Adalia, I wish you could have heard it; it had the most splendid song.  Fit for an emperor.  I had to see it up close.”
     “Were you able to?”
     “No.  Just as we were closing in, it took wing and was gone.  So we turned back.  We passed a huntsman along the trails.  He had snared a wildcat and a quail.”  He refrained from upsetting her sensibilities with gory details.  Halsey continued his narrative about the moss he had found on the hike back.  Not listening, Adalia noticed Brant and Darrin grinning at her.  She stuck out her tongue at them.
     From the sky overhead came a screeching sound like the four winds colliding.
     “Did you hear that?” Lord Brant asked his friend as they lingered at the buffet table gorging on a plate of apple nut bread.
     “Hear what?”
     “That sound, it sounded like rain on the roof.”
     “Couldn’t be.  It’s freezing outside…it’s been snowing all day.”  Lord Darrin refilled his glass with punch. “I hope it’s not raining: that’s more miserable to travel through than snow.”
     “When do you have to leave?”
     “In the morning.”
     Near the fir tree, ostensibly chatting with Queen Edlyn, fifty-year-old Prince Wesley Ebrulf, Duke of Lairenkin, kept an eye on the Duke of Galsha.  Stroking his trim grey beard, Prince Wesley let his gaze periodically stray to the curves of a teenage noblewoman, swaying in time to the music.  She was the guest of the Duke of Galsha and would punish him for ignoring her the whole evening by ignoring him.  The wine was superior and the music was festive, and she could enjoy them both without him.  More to the point, she would enjoy them with the other young males here.  Her smile lingered on Brant; she winked.  He winked back.
     “Don’t get mixed up with her,” Lord Darrin advised.  “Duke Eben won’t like it.”
     “Observe how the Master gets a kiss,” his friend boasted and cleaned his fingers of nut bread residue.
     Exuding grace, Lord Brant bowed to the young woman and held his hand to her to dance.  She appraised him first.  Satisfied that he was an acceptable height, a trim and attractive weight, carried himself well in stylish clothes, had a face that was likeable though not handsome, with light brown hair fashionably cut, had good teeth and smelled pleasant, she looked to see that Duke Eben took notice, then placed her hand on Brant’s.
     Before Lord Darrin could sigh in reproach, Princess Elisia stormed into the hall.  Her eyes were flashing, Darrin noted, but also she was alone.  He was available, she noted.  By the time she was close enough for him to present his hand, she had assumed an angelic face of surpassing beauty.  She forced him to coax her briefly before she accepted.  They clasped hands and integrated into the formation of the dance; promenading past Brant, Darrin gave his friend a look that crowed, “Who’s the Master now!”
     “Miss Adalia, would you like to dance?”
     Adalia tucked her feet deeper under the bench.  Halsey’s attempt at dancing with her earlier that evening had been as nimble as his narrative.
     “No thank you.”
     Lord Darrin, however, was a fine dancer, and her sour gaze lingered on his lucky partner.
     The lord and the princess made an attractive couple.  At fifteen, he was tall for his age; at almost thirteen, she was well developed for hers.  Clad in cherry velvet embroidered with orchids, her violet eyes gleaming out from her flawless complexion, raven-haired Princess Elisia Ebrulf strove to be the most beautiful female at whatever gathering she attended.
     “Have you noticed Lady Ethelda is absent?” observed Princess Elisia.
     Darrin peered around to see that Sir Basil’s sister was not in the hall now.
     “I saw her slinking up a back staircase muttering some very impolite words.” There was a sneer in the princess’s lovely eyes. “She was soaking wet, like she had been caught in a downpour!”
     “How odd,” Lord Darrin remarked, “Lord Brant just said he thought he heard rain.”
     “In this weather?—Impossible!  More likely Sir Basil doused her with a ewer because I also heard him exchanging fierce words with Lord Daequen.”
     Princess Elisia cared not what the reason; she beamed with delicious satisfaction that her most serious rival for beauty had fallen away that night.
     Deciding a plate of food would form a good shield against any further invitation to dance with Halsey, Adalia got up and headed toward the laden tables.  As she walked past the towering fir tree, her attention still on Lord Darrin dancing with the princess, she bumped into Lord Daequen standing there.
     “That’s a lovely pendant,” he praised, touching the gem with his long crooked finger.
     Not wanting to be touched by the unattractively thin Ispezian, Adalia scurried on to the buffet tables.
     With an eye on Lord Brant Meinrad and with a word to no one, the Duke of Galsha left the hall.
     Sleepy from food, dancing and wine, Lord Brant returned to his suite. Outside the frosted window panes a steady flutter of snowflakes danced by.  The embers in the fireplace had dwindled to a meager glow and a bitter chill had invaded the room.  Brant set his candle on the table beside his four-poster bed, next to the Psalter he had received as a gift that afternoon from King Durwin. Turning to his bed, he stopped in surprise.  A small white and black box about six inches cubed, tied with red velvet ribbon, sat there.  He smiled: someone else had remembered him on the holiday.  There was no tag.  He shook the box curiously; something loose inside bounced around.
     “Go ahead, open it.  It won’t bite.”
     Brant pivoted toward the voice.  Leaning against the wardrobe, the Duke of Galsha stepped out of the shadows.  He smiled at the young lord.
     “Sir, you startled me,” Lord Brant chided.  “Is this from you?  What is it?”
     “A trifle.”
     A slash of dismay at the possibility of facing retribution cut through the boy’s middle.
     “My lord, I only danced with her.  Then I only kissed her hand.”
     The duke waved away the matter and gestured to the box.  The boy pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.  His deep blue eyes, darkened by the dimness, snapped at the duke.  A small scorpion crawled within.
     Loathing tightened Duke Eben’s cheeks.
     “Just a foretaste of the tidings to come.  Be assured, my lord, the royal procession north on the equinox will be your funeral cortege.  By Lady Day I shall be crowned and you will be buried.”
     Brant resisted the impulse to fling the creature at the duke; the result would not be that Eben would be stung, but that the scorpion would be free to hide in the room.  He slammed the lid back on the box.
     “I prefer to give gifts anonymously,” Duke Eben continued. “If you are thinking of proclaiming your delight over receiving this bit of Yuletide joy to anyone whomsoever, especially His Majesty, think twice.”
     Behind them, a hand guided the door open a little more.  From the doorway, only their backs could be seen as they stood near the curtains tied to the bedpost.
     “How tragic it would be if marauders should harm Lord Darrin on his return to the academy—they make the byways so dangerous these days,” Duke Eben continued to threaten.
     “Sir!  What is your business here!”
     Duke Eben’s lips twisted in annoyance at the silhouette of the Duke of Lairenkin in the doorway to the anteroom.  The Duke of Galsha bowed with imitation gentility to his fellow duke. “My lord, I have come only to offer our dear young friend a Twelfth Night token.”  The smile he gave Brant insinuated his threat.
     Prince Wesley frowned.
     “Upon my life and soul, no harm will come to him.”
     “No, only ‘happy’ gifts.  A peaceful rest, my lord,” the Duke of Galsha inclined his head to Brant.
     With a confident swagger he quit the suite with Prince Wesley.
     Lord Brant cast the box onto the embers in his fireplace; the box and its content burst into flame.  Grimacing, he flung himself onto his bed.  He would have to be vigilant.  Lethal ambition had catered many a feast for worms, especially when a crown was at stake.  He felt something tickle his back.  Leaping up, he thrust a hand under his shirt.  It was just a hair.  He regarded the bed.  In an instant, bedding flew to the floor.  No dangerous creatures lurked within.
     Though relief placed an assuring hand on his pounding heart, fatigue took hold of him.  Picking up a blanket, Brant sat in the corner and rested his head on his knees.  The silver and malachite case in his pocket pressed against his flesh.  He took it out and let his fingers play with it.  The ache to be a cadet throbbed in his breast.
     “Why can’t I have a normal life?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “All I want is a safe, normal life!  Is that too much to ask!”
     His imagination tormented him with scenes of the academy: swordcraft training, equestrian training, the thrill of tournaments on the lists—camaraderie!—achievement!—glory! He envisioned Lord Darrin’s journey and his arrival at those hallowed buildings and grounds in the vale of the Mheyphainian Mountains.  If only he could go with Lord Darrin.
     Brant lifted his head.  Maybe he could go.  Maybe it was not impossible.  Yes, he could smuggle himself with Darrin’s luggage tomorrow morning!  His scrambled to his feet.  At last, his destiny would be his own to claim.
     “Eben’s threats are not going to stop me!  The headmaster will keep me safe.  And when I am king,” he thought with grit, “I will be King Brant, Knight of the Griffin.”
     He threw the blanket cloaklike over his shoulders.