Rinnet of King's Helm (COMPLETED)

Epilogue

By the time Irya, Yurovin, and the rest of the diplomatic party arrived in Villotta, Distya was gone.

A Tevarian scout, one Yurovin recognized, had tracked them down in the north. She had told them the gist of what had happened and that Rinnet was no longer who she seemed. Her explanation often faltered, the scout clearly not understanding her own message but compelled to deliver it anyway.

Irya, for her part, had remained impassive. "Can you tell me who sent you?" she asked.

The scout paused. "I was sent on behalf of a fellow Tevarian," she said.

Irya raised an eyebrow and waited. The scout straightened herself but said nothing further, and finally Irya nodded. "Return to your post, then," she said.

Yurovin stayed quiet, but he knew. He was sure Irya knew as well, asking the scout only as a test. Whether the woman had failed or not remained in question.

They had south through the hills and highlands at a rapid pace. They flew the blue flags of a diplomatic party, but the Coretians they met on the road shied away or gawked more than they might have in the past. The news had traveled fast, its meaning uncertain. The onlookers seemed afraid of the Tevarian party.

After dusty miles of sagebrush and scraggly, wind-bent trees, Yurovin and the others came to a ledge looking down over Villotta. The vast city spilled to the edges of the valley, the sun glittering off windows and metal arches. Minyavo was not so elaborate; though it boasted limestone pillars and lush gardens, nothing could compare to the colored glass and massive domed buildings below. People swarmed the streets like a reflection of the brush birds circling overhead.

They were greeted at the ornate palace gates by none other than Rinnet. Or what appeared to be Rinnet, anyway. Her voice took on a strong Hatawan lilt, and dark circles ringed her eyes as she welcomed them and brought them into the keep to discuss matters.

Yurovin's head spun with Rinnet's—Kozua's?—explanation. The lavish decorations of the inner keep didn't help, distracting him with bright colors and deep textures of velvet and silk and fur. The tapestries in the throne room itself depicted Coretian myths, ones where tiny, embroidered people seemed to control objects without ever touching them. In the past he might have thought these scenes were simple fantasies, but now he did not know.

As soon as they arrived, Kozua unclasped the black velvet cloak and removed the gold laurel from its nest of curls. "There," he said, draping both on the throne before descending from the raised platform. "It's all just for show, you know. The Guardsmen and such. Otherwise I'd never have held on to those things."

A large, tasseled rug of burgundy and forest green sprawled across the center of the room, and Kozua gestured for them to sit. As they did, Irya began asking questions, and Kozua answered. Yurovin found it hard to listen to what they said, wondering instead if Distya was safe. Kozua had mentioned while leading them past the outdoor fountain that she had been here, had sent the news to the scout before leaving Villotta with Tregan in tow. Irya's lips narrowed, but whatever she meant to say she kept to herself. Yurovin had made no attempt to hide his relief at her survival.

The keep, strangely empty but for a few nervous Hatawans lurking in the halls, was so muted their conversation sounded thunderous. Blue, red, and gold light wavered over the stone floor and the others' faces, an echo of the glass mosaic overhead. It nearly kept his eyes off Rinnet, though he still flinched if she moved too fast.

There was something clearly different about her. Her face looked serene, not pinched and irritable, and she often paused to think when she spoke. And, of course, her hands. They stayed still at her sides except when she had made the closed-fist Hatawan gesture of peace at the gate. They no longer spasmed or drummed like living things of their own.