my heart I could have been the son you wanted. I just couldn’t. It was never in me.”
He stared into the empty eyes of the effigy, as if by sheer force of will, he could draw a response from the stone. Duke Teodorus remained frozen, implacable, unreachable.
How long he sat slumped beside his father’s tomb Magnes didn’t know, for he had lost all sense of time in the dark and stillness. Shadows crowded around the tiny pool of light cast by the altar lamp like the spectral presences of his departed progenitors. They surrounded him, accusing, his father’s angry spirit standing at the fore.
Staggering to his feet, Magnes snatched the lamp and fled. He slipped on the slick stairs, cracking his left knee on the brutal stone. Groaning, he stumbled up and out of the crypt, then paused just beyond the gate. Breath ragged with agony, he massaged his knee, trying to get some sense of how badly he had injured it. His probing fingers told him nothing.
The chapel’s narrow windows glimmered like pearl rectangles within the blackness of the surrounding walls. Dawn was fast approaching. Magnes had been down in the crypt for most of the night. Wearily, he limped toward the front of the chapel, pausing to replace the altar lamp in its rightful spot, then he slipped out through the door to the yard.
Already, he could feel his knee stiffening as he made his way back to the keep. As he passed the kitchen, he heard sounds of activity within. Cook and her staff were always the first ones up and working well before sunrise; the bread had to go into the ovens before anything else.
When Magnes came at last to his rooms, his knee throbbed with such fierceness, he feared he had torn something loose. As bad as it hurt, though, it felt as nothing compared to the pain in his soul. By visiting his father’s tomb, he had hoped to ease some of the guilt tormenting him since his return home; instead, he had accomplished the opposite. What peace he had found while living and working with the Eskleipans had been shattered like a dropped mirror into a thousand jagged shards.
You have to find a way to forgive yourself.
Thessalina’s words rang mockingly in his head. Magnes groaned aloud.
How can I, when what I’ve done is so heinous?
Who, in all of Amsara, could help him?
He returned to his bed, but sleep refused to come.
On the Brink
Four days later, beneath the banner of the Duchy of Amsara—three black lions rampant on an azure field—Thessalina rode out of Amsara Castle at the head of a force numbering some four hundred foot soldiers and a hundred light cavalry.
The ruddy early morning light painted helmets and spearheads with crimson. High atop the castle walls where Magnes stood, the sound of marching boots rumbled like distant thunder. He watched Thessalina’s army until it had dwindled to a dark smudge on the horizon, then limped back down the stairs and headed across the yard toward the kitchen. He wasn’t really hungry but the part of his mind which could still think rationally reminded him he must eat.
He allowed Cook to serve him a bowl of hot oatmeal, accompanied by a thick slice of bread, fresh from the oven. The look and aroma of the food elicited no response from his body. Each bite became a monumental struggle. Just as he decided to give up and leave his meal unfinished, Claudia appeared at his side, her own breakfast in her hands.
“Are ye leavin’ already, young master? Why, ye’ve hardly touched yer breakfast! Are ye ill?”
Claudia looked a little more stooped, a little less stout, than when he had last seen her, just before his world fell apart on that terrible night all those months ago. Her pale blue eyes had lost none of their sparkle or motherly concern, however. Magnes had not spoken with his old nurse since returning home. He realized upon seeing her now that she knew nothing of Jelena’s fate.
“No, Claudia. I’m not ill,” he lied. “I hurt my knee and it aches, is all.”
Claudia
He stared into the empty eyes of the effigy, as if by sheer force of will, he could draw a response from the stone. Duke Teodorus remained frozen, implacable, unreachable.
How long he sat slumped beside his father’s tomb Magnes didn’t know, for he had lost all sense of time in the dark and stillness. Shadows crowded around the tiny pool of light cast by the altar lamp like the spectral presences of his departed progenitors. They surrounded him, accusing, his father’s angry spirit standing at the fore.
Staggering to his feet, Magnes snatched the lamp and fled. He slipped on the slick stairs, cracking his left knee on the brutal stone. Groaning, he stumbled up and out of the crypt, then paused just beyond the gate. Breath ragged with agony, he massaged his knee, trying to get some sense of how badly he had injured it. His probing fingers told him nothing.
The chapel’s narrow windows glimmered like pearl rectangles within the blackness of the surrounding walls. Dawn was fast approaching. Magnes had been down in the crypt for most of the night. Wearily, he limped toward the front of the chapel, pausing to replace the altar lamp in its rightful spot, then he slipped out through the door to the yard.
Already, he could feel his knee stiffening as he made his way back to the keep. As he passed the kitchen, he heard sounds of activity within. Cook and her staff were always the first ones up and working well before sunrise; the bread had to go into the ovens before anything else.
When Magnes came at last to his rooms, his knee throbbed with such fierceness, he feared he had torn something loose. As bad as it hurt, though, it felt as nothing compared to the pain in his soul. By visiting his father’s tomb, he had hoped to ease some of the guilt tormenting him since his return home; instead, he had accomplished the opposite. What peace he had found while living and working with the Eskleipans had been shattered like a dropped mirror into a thousand jagged shards.
You have to find a way to forgive yourself.
Thessalina’s words rang mockingly in his head. Magnes groaned aloud.
How can I, when what I’ve done is so heinous?
Who, in all of Amsara, could help him?
He returned to his bed, but sleep refused to come.
On the Brink
Four days later, beneath the banner of the Duchy of Amsara—three black lions rampant on an azure field—Thessalina rode out of Amsara Castle at the head of a force numbering some four hundred foot soldiers and a hundred light cavalry.
The ruddy early morning light painted helmets and spearheads with crimson. High atop the castle walls where Magnes stood, the sound of marching boots rumbled like distant thunder. He watched Thessalina’s army until it had dwindled to a dark smudge on the horizon, then limped back down the stairs and headed across the yard toward the kitchen. He wasn’t really hungry but the part of his mind which could still think rationally reminded him he must eat.
He allowed Cook to serve him a bowl of hot oatmeal, accompanied by a thick slice of bread, fresh from the oven. The look and aroma of the food elicited no response from his body. Each bite became a monumental struggle. Just as he decided to give up and leave his meal unfinished, Claudia appeared at his side, her own breakfast in her hands.
“Are ye leavin’ already, young master? Why, ye’ve hardly touched yer breakfast! Are ye ill?”
Claudia looked a little more stooped, a little less stout, than when he had last seen her, just before his world fell apart on that terrible night all those months ago. Her pale blue eyes had lost none of their sparkle or motherly concern, however. Magnes had not spoken with his old nurse since returning home. He realized upon seeing her now that she knew nothing of Jelena’s fate.
“No, Claudia. I’m not ill,” he lied. “I hurt my knee and it aches, is all.”
Claudia
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