by Maya Banks
Definitely the safer of the two.
She walked over to inspect the stone bridge but was nagged by a feeling of doubt. Faith. The monk had said she needed faith.
She quickly spun around and bumped into Merrick. “We take the rope bridge.”
“Are you mad?” he demanded. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
“Faith, Merrick. Father Ling said I must have faith.”
“Faith isn’t about going blindly to your death,” he retorted. “Faith is nonsense. It’s for people who have nothing else.”
She gave him a troubled look and reached out to cup his cheek. “You sound so cynical.”
“Faith is merely setting yourself up for inevitable disappointment,” he said bitterly. “It’s a useless attribute.”
She started to reply but he cut her off. “I won’t let you do this, Isabella. It isn’t worth your life.”
“Where is your faith, Merrick? Didn’t you have it once, maybe long ago? Is it buried beneath that solid wall of responsibility and duty? Do you always go about expecting the worst?”
“I have none,” he said shortly. “And if I expect the worst, I am never disappointed.”
“Do you not have faith in me?” She let the words dangle in the air, pinning him with the force of her gaze.
“I—” He broke off and looked away. He took her hands in his. “I do believe in you, Isabella. If that means I have faith in you, then I do. You are the only person I believe in, and if anyone can succeed in this, you can.”
She could not contain the broad smile at his admission. “If you have faith in me, then realize I would do nothing to jeopardize my life or the future of my country.”
She turned to the rope bridge and the few wooden planks that served as steps and sighed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know this is the way I am supposed to go. Have faith in me, Merrick. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m going first,” he said firmly, pushing her out of the way.
He stepped gingerly onto the first plank, gripping the rope with his left hand and holding the torch in his right hand. With extreme caution, he put forth his other foot and stepped to the next one. The bridge swayed under his weight, and he stood still for a moment to steady it.
She watched as he moved forward again, her chest tightening at his demonstration of concern for her. He believed in her. Had faith in her when he had no other faith. When everyone else in his life had let him down. God, this man meant more to her than anything. She stopped short in her thoughts, mortification surging over her. She had been about to say he meant more to her than any crown. More than this quest, more than avenging her parents.
But she couldn’t allow herself to think such thoughts. Couldn’t become weak. Revenge had gotten her this far, and it would sustain her until Jacques was dead or in prison, and she was on the throne. She had no room for any other emotion.
She looked back up to see Merrick step safely to the other side and relief lessened the horrendous weight she felt pressing down on her. Now it was her turn.
“Put your torch down,” he called out. “Use both your hands to hold on. We can use my torch. Just take it slow and easy and don’t rush.”
After laying aside her torch so it still lit her way, she grabbed the rope in her hands and stepped onto the first plank. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she sucked in her bottom lip, afraid to even breathe. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her foot for the second step.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered. “Focus on me and don’t look down. You can do this.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared across the distance to where he stood, torch in hand. Gritting her teeth in determination, she stepped forward again. She was halfway across when her foot slipped off the small plank. With a cry, she skidded sideways and tumbled off the bridge.
“Isabella!” she heard him shout as she shot downward.
She reached out with her hands and caught the rope. It burned her hand as she slid down but finally she stopped when her hand bumped against the next plank.
She dangled precariously holding on with one hand. Her legs swung below her, and the muscles in her arm screamed from bearing all of her weight. With strength born of desperation, she pulled herself up enough to grasp the rope with both hands.
“I’m all right,” she called, though she was anything but all right. She was inches from death, and she could feel her hands slipping.
“Isabella, listen to me,” he said in a determined voice. “Use your hands to grab the rope and come to me. Hand over hand, let go with one and move forward with it.”
“I can’t,” she said in a ragged voice. If she let go, she was sure to fall.
“You don’t have a choice,” he ground out. “You must do it or you will die. Or I will have to come out on the bridge to retrieve you, and then we will both die because it cannot hold both our weights.”
“Oh God.”
“Where’s your faith, Isabella?” he taunted. “You spoke of faith and asked me if I had faith in you. Well, I do and I know you can do this. Now I ask you, where’s your faith in me? You can do this.”
Why did he have to pick now of all times to be infuriatingly right? If she were standing next to him, she would punch him directly in the gut and tell him what he could do with his newfound faith.
But he was right, and damn it, she did have faith. Faith in herself and faith in her father. If he could do it, so could she. And he was guiding her.
Praying she didn’t plummet to her death, she let go with her left hand and quickly swung forward, grasping the rope. There, that wasn’t so bad. She let go with her right and swung forward another foot.
Shouldn’t she be there by now? But the side of the cliff seemed a mile away.
“Come on, Isabella, move. You can’t stop now.”
“Nag, nag,” she muttered. He sounded like a fishwife. But his words spurred her to action and she continued on.
One hand in front of the other. She ignored the fact that there was nothing below her and focused on Merrick’s hand which she could now see just yards in front of her.
“One more time,” he said, his voice sounding much closer.
With a loud grunt, she threw herself forward, but her hand slipped as she grabbed for the rope. His hand closed around her wrist as her other hand dropped from the rope, and she hung suspended with only his hand holding her.
“Reach up and grab my other hand,” he said urgently.
She looked up to see his hand reaching down to her, and she swung up and slapped her palm into his. Inch by inch he pulled her up until finally her belly slid over the edge.
He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, his face buried in her hair. “Thank God,” he murmured. “I thought I lost you.”
She drew away and pressed her mouth to his, drinking deeply of him. “Thank you,” she murmured against his lips.
He didn’t respond, too intent on returning her volatile kiss. For several breathless moments, they exchanged heated kisses. Then she pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes in sweet relief. Reveled in the fact that she was alive. Finally they broke away, and he helped her to her feet.
“If Father Ling was correct, you only have one more test to pass,” he said.
Wisdom.
The word floated into her thoughts and she cringed. Wisdom was something her father had and certainly not something anyone could ever attribute to her.
Not wanting Merrick to see her indecision, she pulled the map out and traced the route with her finger. “According to this, once we’ve crossed the bridge, we go left, then right, then right again.”
“A veritable maze,” he muttered.
He picked up his discarded torch and took her hand in his. Somehow in the space of a few minutes, the quest had become theirs instead of hers alone. And suddenly it didn’t matter so much that she do it alone.
He squeezed her hand. “Are you ready to continue?”
She nodded and they set out to the left entering yet another tunnel. Instead of entering an open area as before, the tunnel split after a distance and they took the right wing. The second passageway seemed interminable, and she wondered how much time had elapsed since she began her trek. They only had eight hours before the next high tide, and she didn’t want to miss their way out of the caves.
The tunnel branched again and they bore right. Wisdom. Only one test remained. Her stomach clenched in one huge knot. Could she pass the final test? Was she worthy of her father’s legacy?
Their footsteps echoed eerily down the long pathway. Even the sounds of their breathing seemed magnified against the limestone walls.
And then she saw it. A soft glow emanating from a distant point. She stopped, her hand dropping from Merrick’s. He turned, an inquisitive look outlined by the torch on his face.
Reaching his hand out, he cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb over her cheek. “You can do this.”
“I must do this,” she whispered.
She started forward again, moving ahead of him. As she got to the end of the tunnel, she paused at the threshold of the cavern. Giant stalactites alternated with stalagmites formed beautiful, jewel-like pillars in the center of the small chamber.
She stepped inside, her head tilted back to view the ceiling as she turned round and round in awe. The roof twinkled like a starlit night, crystal formations crowded together like a million diamonds.
Her gaze dropped and then she saw it. In the center of the room, surrounded by torches, stood a glassed-in case with the Royal Emerald and the Jeweled Scepter. She had done it!
With a triumphant shake of her fist, she motioned for Merrick to follow her. She approached the display with reverence and trembling hands.
But when she got close she saw that it wasn’t as simple as taking the relics. They were completely encased within the glass in a boxlike structure. She examined the edges, looking for a way to open it but could not find one.
She had been so focused on the relics that she nearly overlooked an identical glass case next to the relics with a simple rolled up parchment bound with a leather tie. She frowned and glanced up at Merrick. “I’ve not heard of a scroll or letter.”
“Perhaps it’s a distraction,” he offered.
She studied the smooth, flat surface the cases rested on and rested briefly against the large table-like rock. Clearly the only way to retrieve the emerald and scepter was to break the glass.
Beside her Merrick wiped the surface of the stone with his hand. “What does this say?” he asked, pointing to a series of letters.
She helped him wipe the layers of dirt from the engraved letters so they could get a clearer view. Then she groaned. “It appears to be in Latin, and I confess, this is one area of my studies I neglected.”
He smiled and pushed her aside. “Lucky for you, I studied Latin at Cambridge.”
He stood over the engravings, his brow furrowed as he attempted to decipher the words.
“I can’t be entirely sure, but I believe it says something along the lines of ‘choose wisely’.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t predict a horrid death for disturbing the relics, I feel comfortable about taking them,” she said with a grin.
She glanced around the floor of the cave, searching for something she could break the glass with. Her eyes lighted on a large rock laying a few feet away and she bent to retrieve it.
Walking back to the case, she took a deep breath. “Shield yourself,” she directed Merrick. She raised her arm and prepared to smash open the glass. Her hand was on its way down when the vision of her father exploded into her mind. She halted her arm in midair, nearly paralyzed with the mistake she had almost made.
“What’s wrong?” Merrick asked.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to choose the relics,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and relived the moment of her meditation.
“Long after everything else is gone, the written word lives on,” she quoted aloud.
Merrick stared at her in confusion.
“My father’s words from my vision,” she replied, sure he would think her crazy.
But he surprised her. “Perhaps you should heed your father’s advice,” he said slowly.
She stared between the emerald and the rolled up paper in agony over what she should do. All her life she had heard of the importance of the emerald and the scepter. How could she not return with them?
Wisdom.
Her father’s words, Father Ling’s reminder. They both had been trying to tell her something. Wisdom was knowing what to do in a difficult situation. Knowing how to make the tough decisions.
In one swift motion, she brought the rock down and shattered the glass. With shaky hands she reached over and took the rolled up paper. As soon as she lifted it, the rock began to shake, and the pedestal holding the emerald and the scepter within the glass case sank through an opening in the rock, leaving the case empty and no evidence that it had ever held anything.
She looked at Merrick and blew out her breath in a long sigh. “I hope I was right.”
“Even if you weren’t, I cannot imagine a more worthy person to rule Leaudor,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Tears pricked her eyelids and she smiled. “Thank you for saying that.”
She viewed the scroll in her hand almost afraid to open it, afraid it would scream her failure. Backing away from the stone base and the scattered shards of glass, she retreated to the far side of the cavern and sank down against the wall. Once she was seated, she began untying the leather strap.
Merrick sat beside her, remaining silent as she unrolled the parchment. She glanced quickly over it and tears flooded immediately to her eyes. It was written by her father!
In his neat distinctive script, he wrote:
All of Leaudor should rejoice this day as you have succeeded where so many before you have failed. Truly you have all the qualities necessary to rule a nation. Patience, courage, faith and now wisdom. I know not which of my three children is reading my words, but regardless of which, know that I am proud, so very proud of you.
Worry not that you have chosen wrong, for the true icons of Leaudorian royalty lie in the monastery guarded for generations by the monks. With this letter, you will have proven your worth and merit. Produce this letter to the senior monk and you will carry with you to your coronation the true Royal Emerald and the Jeweled Scepter. Proof to all people that you are the true and righteous ruler of Leaudor.
As you are reading this letter, it is because my time as king has passed. But I will be with you always, in heart and spirit. Be strong and true to yourself and above all remember you are Leaudorian.
Your loving father,
Fernando Chastaine
Dropping the letter, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed great, raw, gulping sobs. Merrick’s arms came around her, holding her tightly as she wept.
She shook uncontrollably as tears soaked her tunic. He was gone. Her father and mother were both gone. Her heart ached until she feared her chest may burst from the heavy burden. Raw, guttural sounds of agony ripped from her throat as months of grief, fear and anger broke free.
She would never see them again, never hug them, never feel her mother’s comforting arms around her, never chase wildly after her father on horseback over the rolling mountain meadows that surrounded the castle.
The thrill of success paled in the depth of her misery and anguish. Yes, she had proven her merit. She would return triumphantly to the monastery, and her coronation would be planned. But at what price? She didn’t want to be queen. She wanted her family back.
You are a Chastaine. No matter what else you may become, first and foremost, you will always be a Chastaine.
Her father’s reminder drifted to her on the wings of a beautiful memory. Her mother’s laughter echoed through the caves. She had always laughed when her husband spoke proudly of the fa
mily name. Remarked on the irony of a simple farmer’s surname becoming the most revered in all of Leaudor.
According to Isabella’s father, that made it all the more special and all the more reason to be proud. She would carry on that pride. And the dream of a young farmer to make a difference in his country.
Raising her head, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared resolutely ahead. “We must return,” she said, scrambling from her seat on the cave floor.
Merrick stood beside her, a look of gentle concern creasing his face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. And for the first time since her parents’ deaths, she believed it. Folding the letter slowly in her hands, she held it briefly to her heart then tucked it into her pants.
She followed him to the tunnel they had come from and they retraced their steps to the rope bridge. This time she took the bridge with slow measured steps, not allowing herself the paralyzing fear from before.
Unsure of how much time remained before high tide, she increased her pace to the moon room. With only a moment’s hesitation, she plunged into the dark, tight crawl space of the tunnel to the main sun room.
Nearly exhausted, she stumbled back into the well lit cavern where they had begun. Merrick crawled out after her and they strode quickly across to the passage that led out to the water.
Her knees scraped and her palms raw, she crawled down the last remaining tunnel. Suddenly she stopped short, causing Merrick to bump into her. He uttered a muffled curse.
“Shhhh!” she hissed.
She held her breath, praying her mind was playing tricks on her. But no, there it was again. Voices.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Simon swore again. “Come on,” he said urgently, backing rapidly back down the tunnel. They scrambled out of the tunnel and into the sun room, getting quickly to their feet.
His mind working rapidly, he began extinguishing the torches that ringed the carving of the sun.
“What are you doing?” Isabella asked, hurrying to keep up with him.