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York, England
“I think I’m in love.”
“Not again?” Clara asked. I could sense her eyes rolling even though I was too awe-struck by our surroundings to look at her.
As we walked from our hotel over the bridge into the city, I tried to take in everything at once. Remnants of the wall. The hustle and bustle of a swelling Saturday morning crowd, something we’d been warned about. Apparently lots of people were also in love with York.
“Can’t help it,” I half-heartedly defended myself. “Look at this place. It’s like we stepped into a medieval village.”
“Imagine that.” My friend was almost never without her ever-present companion, sarcasm. When we first met in college, I could never tell when she was being serious, but after ten years of friendship, I knew her pretty well.
Clara opened the map the hotel concierge gave us. “York’s medieval streets and buildings are beautifully preserved in the historic heart of the city. Strange it looks so”—she paused for dramatic effect—“medieval.”
Laughing, I looked down at my hand for the millionth time since Mom gave me the unusual sapphire ring. “I still can’t believe we’re here,” I mused out loud, nearly crashing into a passerby. “Sorry,” I mumbled as Clara pulled the strap of my crossbody toward her, saving me from a swarm of bridesmaids.
“They don’t just drive on the left,” she said.
“Right. Of course.” I turned back to see the bride in the center with white T-shirt and veil. “That driver wasn’t kidding about the abundance of bachelorette parties… what did he call them?”
“Hen parties.” Clara stopped on the corner. “I imagine it will only get worse as the day goes on. There’s another one.”
I followed her finger to another large group of ladies across the street. “This is where I want my bachelorette party.” Despite the fact that we were only a few steps into the city, it felt as if I’d been here before. As if it were calling to me, welcoming me home. Maybe because York reminded me of Boston a bit. Or maybe because I’d been anticipating this trip more than any I’d ever taken. Either way, I was smitten.
“Right.” Clara looked up and down from the map. Knowing I was crap at navigation, she attempted to get us around the city. “Maybe get engaged first,” she said absentmindedly, turning around to orient herself.
“I’d need a boyfriend for that.” I peered into a place called Betty’s Tea Rooms. “If we find it, maybe we can come back here for afternoon tea?”
“Do you have any idea how many pubs are in York? I’m pretty sure we won’t be having tea today. Let’s start this way.”
Before we took off, I stopped her. “Wait.” Clara turned toward me. “I’m serious about us making time for tourist stuff too. And for work, of course. This isn’t just about me.”
The last thing I wanted was for Clara to spend the next five days helping me exclusively. It was enough that she agreed to hop on a plane across the
Atlantic with less than two months’ notice, and I was grateful for her company. But she had a job to do as well.
“Every second we’re here, I’m working. Mentally cataloging. I’ll get some pictures at some point, promise. But today is for you. So stop being silly and let’s get started. This way to the Shambles.”
Less than ten minutes later, we’d found the Ye Old Shambles Tavern and, despite the fact that it seemed to be a dead end, Clara and I stayed for lunch. We hadn’t eaten yet, having flown overnight and arrived in York only an hour ago.
“I don’t know how you can eat that with the skin on it.”
In response, Clara took a huge bite of her fish, totally unrepentant. Sticking to my very safe steak pie, I looked around the place. “Two historians. You’d think we could have figured out this wasn’t our place without having to ask the owner. I’m pretty sure he thought we were nuts.”
“At least I have an excuse.” Clara gestured to herself. “Not a practicing historian anymore.”
“Technically not, but you still kicked my ass in Historian’s Craft.”
“This is true. And speaking of the ladies’ room, I’ll be right back.”
“Loo,” I called after her, accustomed to Clara’s quick change of topics.
As I ate, my mind wandered to that class in our first semester at Boston U. Neither of us had a life plan at the time, and except for our mutual interest in history, Clara and I had no clue what we wanted to do with our lives. I somehow ended up as a museum curator specializing in ancient artifacts, and Clara, a travel writer and photographer. I loved aspects of my job, but I was sometimes wistful hearing about my friend’s many adventures traveling the world while I worked in a dusty old office.
But who was I to complain?
I had a mother who adored me, a trustworthy circle of friends, and enough money in the bank to come here on a whim. I peered at my ring again.
Not a whim. A fool’s
errand.
“Mom? What’s this?”
“Mevlida, where did you get that?”
Mom never used my full name unless it was serious. I picked up the small box that contained a silver ring with the brightest, most beautiful blue sapphire I’d ever seen and held it out to her. “I know I shouldn’t have opened it. I found it looking for the silver purse you said I could borrow for next weekend’s wedding.”
My mother looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Taking the box, she opened it. I already knew what was inside. A single black and white photo of her standing in front of a pub, pregnant. Staring at the photo, she looked so sad that I regretted my intrusion even if I’d just been looking for answers.
Instead of putting the ring back and apologizing, though, I pressed her.
“I know you don’t remember anything, but you must know where that is?” I asked, the nondescript buildings behind us giving no clues. “And you never told me there was a ring. Mom, please—”
“Take it,” she said, handing the box back. “You can have them both.”
“I don’t want it. I want answers. Please, just tell me—”
“Mevlida.” There it was again. I knew from her tone I would be getting the same response as always. “I don’t want to discuss it. As I’ve said many times, I simply don’t remember what happened.”
“I know that,” I said. As unlikely as it seemed, my mother had traveled to York having been told it was the place to go for psychics wanting to perfect their craft. She remembered getting there, meeting a few people and then… nothing. According to my mother, she wandered from a darkened pub in the middle of the night onto the street with no memory of how she’d gotten there. And worse, as she discovered after making her way back home, with no memory of the man who had apparently gotten her pregnant. Obviously, she’d been drugged, but Mom always refused to talk about it. She had never gone back to York, looking for answers. “But you never told me there was a picture. And the ring?”
“Some questions—”
This time, I cut her off, already knowing the rest of that refrain. “Are better left unanswered.”
“You’re staring at it again.” Clara sat back down.
“I can’t help it.” As I looked up, the same determination I’d felt the day I discovered
the box flooded through me. Even if Mom couldn’t remember, or simply refused to share, the name of the pub in the photo, I would find it. And answers about my past.
“It really is beautiful.”
Thick like a class ring with strange symbols encircling the bright blue stone, its silver shone brighter than any other silver I’d ever seen. But its mysteries remained a secret, none of the symbols showing up in any database I’d come across.
Taking a sip of ale, I met Clara’s eyes over the brim of my pint glass.
“I know that look,” she teased. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“Yes,” I said, as determined as ever. “Yes, we are.”
Gyorian Midlands, Elydor
“Again,” I shouted, the warriors before me thinking they were nearly finished.
I knew better. They had just gotten started.
The sound of steel clanging mingled with flutters from a flock of glintwing finches. I hadn’t heard the sound in many months. As I looked upward, shimmers of green and gold flew past. Many believed the glintwing finch to be a sign of hope and resilience, and though I didn’t put stock in such signs, I understood why others believed as much. Their appearance meant spring was coming.
“Haven’t you pushed them hard enough today?”
Though I heard my friend coming from behind, I didn’t acknowledge his question. Adren knew the answer already.
“It was a freak accident. Their lack of training was not to blame.”
“My father believes otherwise.”
“Your father is a stubborn fool.”
Sighing, I raised a fist into the air. Almost instantaneously, the sparring ceased. “Change partners,” I called out, watching closely for any sign of complaint. Thankfully, there were none.
“You speak of the king,” I reminded Adren, though my tone lacked the heat it should have, given it was my father I weakly defended.
“The king, and a man too consumed with hate to see clearly. But,” he continued quickly before I could respond, “that’s a discussion for another day.”
I raised my brows, surprised Adren was giving up so easily. Though the warrior had centuries on me, he was still younger than my father. With his imposing height and muscular build, he could easily match the king in hand-to-hand combat. The latter, however, could easily take Adren down with magic. It was the reason Balthor had been king for many years. None could wield land magic as he could.
None could even come close.
“Spring is coming,” I said, changing the subject. I had little desire to discuss the border skirmish that had left a Gyorian warrior dead. He’d fallen on a wooden spike that had pierced his heart, an “accident” as Adren said. But it had happened in battle, which meant the Aetherians were to blame.
“I was just with your brother who said the very same thing.”
I wasn’t surprised. Unlike me, Terran did believe in signs. To him, everything was a sign.
“Did he mention the Summit?”
Watching two particular men, I tried to discern why one continued to be disarmed. A skilled swordsman, he moved with grace and precision, his footwork impeccable and his strikes powerful. Yet, time and again, his opponent managed to knock the sword from his grip. As I observed more closely, I noticed a subtle tell—a slight tensing of his sword
arm just before each disarming blow. His skill was betrayed by this unconscious signal, a weakness his opponent had instinctively learned to exploit.
Realizing Adren hadn’t answered, I looked at him. Dressed in typical Gyorian fashion—a knee-length tunic and fitted trousers tucked into his leather boots—he didn’t appear to be suited for training. Instead of asking about it, however, I continued to wait for his answer.
When it didn’t come, I cursed. If Terran wasn’t attending the Summit, that responsibility would fall on me. “Gods be damned.”
“Terran claims to be needed here.”
“For what?” I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.
“He did not say.”
Also typical of Terran. I loved my brother, but the air of mystery he created around himself, whether on purpose or by design—I could not discern which—frustrated me more with each passing day.
“If I go up there now, after what happened… Adren, you best not be smiling. This is not a jesting matter. Maybe you’d enjoy accompanying me on a journey north.”
Adren pursed his lips together, no longer smiling at the prospect of me having to travel to Aetheria. Apparently my friend wanted to spar. I drew my sword from its sheath. “No magic.”
This time, he didn’t hide his smile. Adren unsheathed his sword. “No magic,” he confirmed.
At the first strike, the sounds of the other men’s swords diminished. At the second, they ceased altogether. All of the Gyorian warriors would be watching us, the prince and his right-hand man, two of the most celebrated swordsmen in our clan, if not all of Elydor. As I circled and struck, Adren easily blocking me, I wondered why we hadn’t done this earlier as a way to ease my frustrations.
Since the attack, a rising sense of dread and anger had welled inside me. I was no longer to rule over Gyoria, nor did I want such a position. My brother was much better suited to the honor. But neither could I sit idly by while Father continued to turn his hate to the humans rather than the Aetherians who had killed one of my warriors. Had killed more Gyorians these past years than any humans since they first arrived in Elydor more than five hundred years ago. Yet the same man with no mercy for one kingdom preached temperance when it came to the other.
As cheers erupted around us, I blocked them out. Adren was one of my fiercest opponents and could easily outmatch me if I became complacent or lost
focus.
“Prince Kael. Prince Kael.” The chorus of cheers grew. “Ad-ren. Ad-ren.”
I was glad to hear my friend’s name being chanted. He deserved every accolade, even as I laid him on the ground. It was a move my father had shown me many moons ago and one I’d never used on Adren, until now, which was what took him unawares. He’d expected a blow from my sword, not a sweep of my foot to his ankle.
Slaps on the back and my men cheering all around me improved my mood slightly. I held out my hand. Adren took it and bounded to his feet with a bow.
“As you are the victor, I do not deserve a boon, but I will ask for one anyway.” He grinned. I knew before he spoke it what Adren would say. “Call an end to their training.”
And this was why they adored him so. He pretended to be just another of my men when we all knew Adren held as esteemed a position in the Gyorian court as my closest advisor.
I sheathed my sword and considered how to respond. Spring was coming, which meant I should be able to…
With a wave of my hand, I covered the training field in flowers of every variety and color I could think of. Those who’d heard Adren’s request had my answer, and those who hadn’t soon learned the reason for the temporary bloom. As they fled the training yard, I watched as the flowers already began to wither. It was too soon for them to remain, the weather still not having broken completely just yet.
“A nice trick,” Adren said, watching them fade with me.
“Those,” I said, indicating the field before us, “or my move that gave you a view of the heavens.”
“Both.”
It wasn’t long before all the flowers I’d summoned were gone.
“When do I leave?” I asked him finally, knowing his message was the reason he’d sought me out.
“Immediately.” Adren tossed his hands in the air at my sharp look. “I am merely the messenger,” he said. “I can come with you.”
“No, you stay here with the men. One Gyorian subjected to Aetheria is enough.”
I didn’t blame Adren for his look of relief. Even when we were at relative peace, the journey was not a pleasant one. With few exceptions,
Gyorians remained in Gyoria. Aetherians, in Aetheria. The humans in Estmere and the Thalassari in Thalassaria.
Peacekeeping summit, indeed. There could be no peace in Elydor. Not any longer.
Not after all that had happened.
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Clara said as we walked away from the church.
I agreed wholeheartedly. But the feeling in the pit of my stomach distracted me from fully enjoying the beauty of York Minster. After two days of searching, we’d come up blank. Insisting on taking a break from our York pub crawl, we hit the Viking museum earlier and now the centerpiece of this amazing city. And it was beautiful, yet…
“Mev?”
I’d been staring at the ring again.
“Sorry,” I said, meeting Clara’s gaze. “I knew it was a long shot but…”
“But you were hopeful. We still have a few days. Don’t lose hope just yet.”
I wasn’t usually one for pity parties and liked to think positively, but it was getting hard to keep my hopes up. Mom had always said everything from the time she went into the pub to leaving it in the middle of the night was a blank, but how could she not remember going there in the first place? I supposed it was a trauma response, though I was no psychologist. “We’ve been to the oldest pubs and every single building in the Shambles. I don’t even know where to try next.”
Clara pulled out the map from our hotel. I couldn’t resist a smile. “Look at you, old school.”
“I like this thing better than my phone.” She lifted it up for me to see. “Look at the cute little pictures.”
Clara was trying to cheer me up, and it was working. “I saw them. Very cute.”
With her head back in the map, I thought about the strategy the museum director and I came up with. He was the one that identified the building in the photo as a tavern, courtesy of the few words we could make out on the glass window and my boss being an expert in European architecture. That’s when I decided to come here, to find answers for myself.
I hated lying to her. Mom thought I was in Italy, accompanying Clara for work. Something told me that if I’d admitted we were coming to England, ...
