Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1) Read online

  Apart from a pair of scullery maids gathering herbs for the evening’s feast, the garden stood empty. They exchanged a hushed murmur and quickly made themselves scarce, leaving me alone in the vast green space. Bursts of spring growth filled every bed, ringing the broad yard and flanking the central focus of the walled sanctuary at the rear of the house: a vast oak, impossibly tall and broad enough for eight grown men to link hands around its trunk. Branches meandered and twisted every direction, the thick canopy filled with distant whispers of birdsong.

  As always, a buzzing calm settled over me at the sight of that ancient tree, soothing the uncertainty fluttering in my chest. Ignoring the nearby bench, I slumped down onto the soft grass and gazed up into the labyrinth of green.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve anything to say on the matter,” I muttered to the tree. It never did, no matter how often I spoke to it. Still, there was a kind of peace in those one-sided conversations and I liked to imagine someone was listening, whether it be Adulil or the Mother or the generations of my ancestors buried beneath its roots.

  With no reply forthcoming, I turned my attention to the worn book in my hands. I’d read it cover-to-cover at least a dozen times over the last year. Though the bulk of Izikiel’s teachings came from his seemingly endless memory, the stories contained within those brittle pages were the foundation of all my people held sacred. Reverent fingers traced the faded symbols stamped upon the leather. Six sigils – a lyre, a staff, a compass, a stallion, a sword, and a quill – surrounded a seventh, embossed a bit larger than the rest. Adulil’s sunburst stared up at me from the center, delicate rays stretching out toward its loyal companions. At the bottom, almost as an afterthought, four words had been inscribed into the leather.

  The Book of Days.

  With a heavy exhale, I opened to a random page and began to read.

  How long I lingered there, I’m not entirely sure, but the creak of the garden door eventually shook me from the depths of that contemplation. I knew the soft steps that approached, Izikiel’s heavily callused feet and pale green robes rasping on the grass. My eyes remained fixed on the page I’d been studying for an immeasurable amount of time, on the words that had finally settled that interminable debate within.

  Seven oaks, seven families. This land is born anew.

  I shut the book gently, pressing the soft leather between my palms and casting my eyes up at the immense tree that towered overhead. Patient footsteps halted behind me.

  “Are you ready, daughter mine?”

  I stood with a sigh, resolved rather than resigned, and claimed that choice as my own.

  “Aye,” I replied with solemn conviction. “I’m ready.”

  I found James in the kitchens once I’d changed out of my ritual robes, coppery head easily spotted poking up several inches above the rest. His tall, lean frame dodged around the flurry of servants to pluck morsels of this and that from the nearly-completed dinner preparations. A flustered Shera was attempting to chase him from the vicinity with a fierce scowl and a rather heavy-looking frying pan.

  “You can wait until supper like the rest of us!” she barked at him, smacking a tart out of his hand and giving the pan a threatening wave. Despite being near of an age to me, Shera did an exceptional impression of a cranky old crone.

  “But I’m hungry!” he moaned, twisting his face into a pout quite unsuitable for a seventeen-year-old boy.

  “You’ve stuffed a whole meal’s worth into your gob already!” Just then, she caught sight of me and turned her exasperated pleas my way. “Would you get him out of here?”

  I snatched James’ arm as he endeavored to stuff a whole biscuit into his mouth at once, straining against my grip to achieve his goal before allowing himself to be dragged away. He flashed a crumb-ringed grin back at Shera before we disappeared into the hallway.

  “Must you be so obnoxious?” I huffed, shoving him against the wall. He struggled to swallow the mountain of pastry in his mouth before gesturing to my rather ordinary green dress.

  “How’d it go?”

  “…Fine.”

  “Family over faith, then?”

  “Still here, aren’t I?”

  He reached out to nudge the vine bindings at my wrists, warm brown eyes meeting mine. Though I’d removed the rest of the trappings of the ceremony, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to take them off.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he offered carefully.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “I don’t mean the ritual.”

  I shrugged with feigned indifference, crossing my arms. “Wasn’t much of a choice, in the end.”

  His silence told me I hadn’t convinced him, but he knew me well enough to leave it be.

  “Well your parents must be thrilled,” he remarked instead, peering through his ruddy bangs at me. “And with the number of casks we unloaded this afternoon, supper ought to be quite the affair.” A roguish grin crept back across his face. “Speaking of which…”

  I knew that look like the back of my hand.

  “Ohhh no,” I drawled in preemptive refusal.

  “Come on, hear me out.”

  “No!”

  “It’s been a year! Besides, this one’s foolproof.”

  I raised my brows and huffed an incredulous laugh. “Like the flour-dusted chickens? Or that time with the sack of thistle?”

  His face twisted in horror. “No – gods – those were both terrible!” I was inclined to agree. He stood a bit straighter against the wall, chin raising a proud fraction. “This is a work of artistry. Simple and elegant.”

  I doubted that very much. Of the two of us, his schemes were nearly always the worst, often ending in utter disaster or getting us caught. We’d earned more than twice as many lashes as a result of his plotting versus mine. Still, he managed to talk me into it, as he always did. In truth, it was one of his less outlandish ideas and didn’t take much convincing. After the solemn dignity of the last year, not to mention my recent choice of duty over freedom, the child in me was itching for a bit of mischief.

  So it was that, after a long and festive supper, I came to skulk in the shadows of the kitchen doorway with James hovering over my shoulder. We watched in breathless anticipation as Samson reclined in his seat with his usual sour scowl painted across his face.

  We both tensed when he reached for the wine glass on the table before him, took a hearty draught, and proceeded to spew the entire mouthful across the breadth of the table. The sight of it sent us both into a fit, hands clamped over mouths to stifle our laughter as we ducked back into the shadows. The infuriated roar of my father’s captain echoed through the dining room, the constant din of chatter dulling in curiosity. We pressed ourselves into the dark corner, smothering our hysterics as best we could when a number of frightened servants scurried past, retreating to the safety of the kitchens.

  Just as we made to follow and make our escape, an iron grip seized my ear. A choked yelp beside me suggested James had been similarly ensnared. Twisting, I caught sight of our merciless captor in her tidy cotton dress and white apron. Her slight, middle-aged frame belied the crushing strength of those bony fingers, which kept us both firmly in hand as she glowered at us.

  “Should’ve known,” Amita clucked, eyes blazing.

  “Ow, Ma!” James howled in protest when she gave him an unnecessary tug. “Was just a bit of vinegar!”

  She released him just long enough to smack him upside his bright-red head before snatching him by the ear once more.

  “You can tell that to your father when he has you scrubbing troughs for the next week.” She turned that fierce matronly glare on me. “And you, miss, you ought to know better! Dishonoring your own Bronnadh feast with such nonsense.”

  She made a disgusted sound and proceeded to haul us both into the dining room, delivering us to my parents with righteous aplomb. After a brief dressing-down from my father and no shortage of sharp looks from my mother and S
amson both, we were ordered to spend the remainder of the evening serving our penance in the kitchens. We obeyed in sullen silence, knowing full-well that we’d gotten off easy, without even a single lash between us. Elbows-deep in tubs of soapy cookpots, James bumped me companionably from his post at my side. I glanced up to see that same old infectious grin creep across his lips.

  “Worth it?”

  I couldn’t help but smile, even as I shook my head and turned my attention back to the scouring brush in my hand.

  “…Worth it.”

  The next morning, I bid farewell to Izikiel in the fields outside the manor walls. My parents waited at the gate as my mentor and I waded out into the early morning fog, the icy dew soaking our feet and ankles. I was reminded, rather jarringly, of the day I’d met him in that very spot nearly a year ago. He’d appeared out of the same kind of still, gray morning, boney wrists and silvered hair entwined with vines. He’d greeted my parents as old friends and extended his hand to me with a smile.

  Hello, young Lazerin. Would you like to take a walk with me?

  Ah, gods, I was going to miss him.

  At the sight of my eyes brimming with barely-contained tears, Izikiel tilted his head at me with a gentle smile.

  “No need for grief, daughter mine. All things in life must come to an end.”

  I stared at my feet and gave a noncommittal nod in reply. A knobbed knuckle nudged my chin, bringing my gaze back to his.

  “Our paths will cross again, one day,” he assured. “Until then, follow the one you have chosen.”

  Without another word, he pressed a kiss to my brow and vanished into the early morning mists. I stood there a long while, staring after him into the swirling gray, unable to deny the small pang of regret that surfaced in my chest. But to stay had been my choice, and I would not allow myself to resent it. At length, a heavy hand settled on my shoulder, warm and comforting.

  “Come,” my father murmured. “I have a gift for you.”

  In the courtyard, James’ father Stephan struggled to keep a beautiful dappled gray yearling in check. The beast shied at every movement, every sound, dancing angrily across the stones with nostrils flaring. Even at his young age, he towered over the stablemaster. Platter-sized hooves were trimmed with thick wisps of pale gray at the hocks, a broad chest and sturdy flanks rippling with muscle.

  “A destrier?” I blurted in surprise, turning my bewildered gaze to my father. “For me?”

  “A warmblood,” he corrected. “The pick of last year’s foaling for the Briare contract. He’s young yet, but Stephan’s boys will break him to the saddle soon enough.”

  The clatter of anxious hooves on stone and a few muttered curses from the stablemaster drew my attention back to the scene before us. The yearling tossed its head in righteous fury, yanking at the lead.

  “Once he’s gelded, he’ll be much more manageable.”

  “No,” I replied quickly, watching the indignance in the beast’s dark eyes. “He is what he is. Leave him intact.”

  I don’t know that my father would have argued the point, but I didn’t give him the chance. Leaving him and the crowd of curious spectators behind, I went to make my introductions.

  Many thoughts raced through my head as I crossed those stones toward the silver tempest still rebelling against the hand holding him. Awe, uncertainty, gratitude, all muddled amidst a sense of rightness, as though the two of us had been bound long before either of us was even born. Fear, though, fear was not among them, even though I knew those hooves could crush bone.

  “Leave him, please,” I murmured as I approached.

  After a brief hesitation and a glance toward my father for permission, Stephan dropped the lead rope and retreated. The beast before me pawed at the stones, eyeing me warily and blowing out his nose in warning. I held my ground a few paces away, extending one palm to him. No apple, no oats, just me; an offering of self, without bribe or expectation. For long moments he just stared, sizing me up, nostrils flaring as his mistrust gradually waned. Finally, step by cautious step, he approached and pushed his muzzle into my hand to draw a deep, curious breath.

  “Hello, proud boy,” I greeted with a smile, sliding one hand up his cheek. “You’ve a bit of fire in you.”

  I took my time moving slowly about him, rubbing him down with my hands and speaking sweet nothings to him. Dark eyes watched me closely, but he tolerated my touch without much more fuss than an irritated flick of his skin.

  “Told you,” I heard James mutter somewhere nearby, his undertone of pride breaking the long, tense silence. His father merely grunted in response.

  “I still say the bay was the better choice,” his older brother Seth grumbled back. “Waste of a perfectly good palfrey, if you ask me.”

  I didn’t dare take my eyes from that dappled gray coat. No palfrey, this one, but not quite a warhorse either, as he lacked the overwhelming bulk of those thickly-muscled titans we bred specifically for House Montre’s heavy cavalry. No, he was something in between, something apart, something more. He twitched beneath my hands, molten pride shivering through every sinew of his flesh. He was a mirror made of smoke and moonlight; my insides torn out, amplified a thousand-fold, and molded into being.

  “He’s perfect.”

  I heard, rather than saw, the satisfied smile in my father’s voice. “He’s yours.”

  CHAPTER 3

  After another hour or so, I left my new stallion in the hands of James and his brothers with a measure of regret and reported to the study for my daily lessons. My parents stood in conference at the wide desk on the far end, conversing in low tones over a small pile of missives and breeding charts. They fell silent when I approached, my father’s brow knitting at the expression on my face.

  “Something the matter?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied quickly. “I just…” I paused, clenching my hands tightly before me and mustering my courage. With a purposeful breath, I straightened and forced myself to meet his gaze. “I would like your permission to train with the garrison cavalry this summer.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, their shoulders sagged in tandem, my mother dropping the missive in her hand and turning away as though recusing herself from the conversation. Father simply looked at me with something between pity and weariness.

  “You know my answer, Elivya. I thought we were beyond this.”

  “I was too young when I asked before.”

  “You’re too young now.”

  “I’ll be fifteen in a few weeks, same age Seth was when he went.”

  “Seth was nearly twice your size at fifteen.”

  “Same age as many of the conscripts,” I insisted, digging for all my carefully-prepared arguments and fighting to keep my tone level and reasonable.

  “Your age is not the sole issue,” he replied stiffly, “as you well know.”

  “I can disguise myself as a boy,” I pressed, ignoring my mother’s huff of disbelief at the notion. “In breeches and tunic, I look the same as any other.”

  “Elivya…”

  “Or you could order Samson to make some sort of accommodation.”

  He drew a deep, steadying breath as I barreled onward.

  “I’m as good a rider as James-”

  “Elivya.”

  “-and already a better shot than any of the boys-”

  “No,” he barked, short and sharp, silencing me in an instant. A frustrated sigh immediately followed, along with a small shake of his head before he fixed those forest green eyes on me. “The fort is no place for a woman.”

  “Then why give me the warmblood?” I challenged. “A warhorse in all but name.”

  He straightened at the accusation, face darkening. “You are a Lazerin. A fine horse is your birthright.”

  “Am I not also your heir?”

  “You are my daughter,” he replied pointedly, the rest hanging between us in frigid silence.

  Daughter. Not son.
>
  I hardly needed a reminder, that bitter truth having haunted me from the time I developed the capacity to comprehend such things. Whatever he saw on my face, my father quickly turned his attention to tidying the papers on the desk and closed the breeding ledger with unnecessary force before leveling that stern gaze at me one final time.

  “You know my reasons, and you know my decision. We will not have this conversation again.”

  My feet remained fixed to the floor as his heavy steps retreated from the room, leaving me to the twisted knots of disappointment and anger writhing inside my chest. I’d known it was a long shot, but the sight of that yearling had sparked something in me, reigniting the burning beacon of my youth. Father’s latest rejection tolled in my ears like a death knell, the thunder of hooves and the thrum of bowstrings fading even farther beyond my reach.

  Daughter.

  I brooded over the unfairness of it all for what seemed like a long while before the clink of a teapot dragged me from my state of distraction.

  “Come sit,” my mother commanded from a high-backed chair at the center of the room, her attention fixed on the tea service atop the low table nearby. I obeyed in sullen silence, sinking into my own identically plush seat and only half-watching her pour us each a cup.

  “Did you decide on a name?” she asked conversationally, dropping two lumps of sugar into mine.

  “…Valor.”

  Steady hands extended the steaming cup and saucer, the simple gesture feeling very much like a peace offering.

  “Bold.”

  I shrugged, settling the cup onto my lap. “Better than ‘Bastard’, which was Seth’s suggestion.”

  A smile curved her lips as she took a sip. “Men often dislike what they can’t control.”

  A long silence stretched between us, the argument with my father still clinging to the mood in the room. At length, she settled those bright green eyes on me and approached the subject head-on.

  “What is it you want, Elivya?” she asked carefully.