2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

It happened again.

This time, Rhys was walking down one of the many corridors of Beaulieu, headed to the library to meet Rory to discuss a new trade agreement with Ardglass.

The voice echoed off the stone walls, and Rhys nearly dropped all the papers he was carrying.

"Evander," Vanya called, faraway and yet so familiar that Rhys' knees felt weak. "Evander."

He'd just passed Anya, and when he heard the voice, he turned back and nearly ran to her, almost knocking her over in his enthusiasm.

"Did you hear that?" he demanded of the dark-haired guard. "Did you hear that voice?"

She frowned in confusion, her brows crinkling together. "No?" she said. "What voice?"

"Evander, Evander, Evander," Vanya called again.

"That voice," Rhys said, resolute. "That voice just then. The one that said . . ." He hesitated. It had been so very long since he'd said that name. But then Anya would have no earthly idea that Evander was him. She did not even know that once upon a time, he had been Evrard. "Evander. The voice called for Evander."

"I didn't hear a thing," she said gently. "Not Evander, and not anything else."

"Oh. Oh." Rhys didn't know what to say. He'd wanted so much for it to be real and hadn't even realized how strong the desire was, until it had turned out to be all in his own head.

An invention of a brain occupied with nothing more important than council meetings and avoiding Rory and Gray's haphazard matchmaking attempts.

You are so very bored, you must find something to do that isn't trade agreements and pretending not to spy on Merleen when he fights Rowen in the courtyard.

"Are you alright?" Anya's smile was kind and she put a hand on his arm, gripping him tightly. Rhys realized that he had been swaying.

Exhaustion? Perhaps. He had slept terribly last night, when he'd slept at all.

He was just so very unsettled by the voice.

"I'm fine, thank you," Rhys said, and it felt good to use his most certain tone of voice. "It must have been a dream."

Anya smiled, softly. "Must have been. I will let you know if I hear it myself, or I hear of someone named Evander."

"Thank you," Rhys said, knowing that she would not.

Because Evander was him, and he had no intention of answering to that name ever again.

That evening, instead of retreating to the silence of his room, where he'd have no choice but to hear the voice, loud and clear, he took his evening meal in the Great Hall.

"We missed you last night," Gray said, as Rhys took his regular spot next to Their Highnesses.

"I noticed that Merleen was also missing," Rory added, with an impudent smile. "You two didn't happen to be together . . ."

Rhys was very old, and had been lying for every single one of his years, but he was still surprised at how easily the falsehood rolled off his tongue. "No, of course not," he said, shooting Rory a look that was intended to discourage any further speculation in that direction.

But Rory, who had not always been so, was now both fearless and confident in that fearlessness, and he merely stared back, blandly.

It had been so much easier when he'd been afraid of his own shadow.

"I think Rhys and I did work out the new Ardglass trade agreements," Rory said.

Gray finished chewing and swallowed. "Good." He lowered his voice. "I debated all day whether it was right for me to excuse myself, but I think now that it was right."

"You'd never have done the wrong thing, and given too much, just because it's Ardglass," Rory objected.

"It wasn't that I would, but the relationship between our two countries is still so new," Gray pointed out, "and even if I was the most objective negotiator in the world, I don't want to give anyone any ideas."

Rhys nodded in approval. There'd been a time, not so very long ago, when he'd despaired of forming Gray into the prince he'd once been. Rory was a good influence, of course, but what had made the most difference was that now Gray actually cared about making good decisions.

In that vein, he'd learned, not only to be the protector that Fontaine desperately needed, but to give his own reasoned opinion.

They don't need you, a voice in the back of his head whispered again.

Not Vanya's voice. At least that hadn't shown up yet, though Rhys wasn't sure how this one was any improvement.

It still skewered him right where it hurt, in the place deep down, where he wanted to be needed.

Rhys watched as Rory struggled. He wanted to say that nobody would believe that Gray would give the Ardglassians a more favorable trade agreement because he'd been Ardglassian, but he couldn't.

Because it was true.

There was still work to be done here, progress to be made in closing the gap between public opinion and the truth, but not for the first time, Rhys wondered if it was actually his work.

He'd told himself that it was, but how could it be, when Rory and Gray understood it so completely and were the only ones who could truly sway the kingdom's old prejudices?

"Perhaps the next step," Rhys suggested as he speared a roasted squash chunk with a silver fork, "is to adopt a child, and make sure the child is of Ardglassian ancestry. Even better, find one that combines both Fontaine and Ardglass in its bloodline."

Rory frowned, but it was Gray who spoke.

"Not this again," he said. His tone was joking, but his gaze was serious.

"You need an heir, and let me remind you again that you won't spontaneously birth one."

"We know that," Rory said, then hesitated. "We don't want to pick a child like . . . like we're at the horse fair and selecting a new mount. That doesn't seem right to either of us."

"Even if we were ready," Gray pointed out.

Rory nodded his agreement.

"It's only a matter of time before another Duke of Rinald decides that it's sacrilege for an Ardglassian to hold the throne of Fontaine, and bed its king," Rhys reminded them.

"Is there going to be another Duke of Rinald?" Rory asked archly. "I thought that threat was eliminated. And you said the count was harmless."

"He is," Rhys said, lowering his voice. "I took care of him, myself."

He'd ultimately been a mere pawn, as had the duke, but even pawns could be dangerous. He'd lured the count into a trap, waiting and watching to see what he'd do to extricate himself, which power he'd reveal he possessed, but when he hadn't, Rhys had let him go.

He wasn't worth killing.

"I think, my love, what Rhys is trying to say is that rumors can be almost as dangerous as shape-shifting sorcerers," Gray said, amused.

"True," Rory said. He grinned. "It's too bad you can't demonstrate your particular talents in front of the whole court again. That would keep them in line."

"What would keep the court in line?"

Rhys looked up and realized it was Merleen and he was sitting down at their table.

He was usually invited to dine at the kings' high table, but he rarely chose to do it. Instead, he liked to sit a few tables away, and stare, like Rhys was a tall, foaming tankard of mead, and Merleen was dying of thirst.

Rhys did not know whether it was better or worse to have him sitting next to him.

Worse, definitely worse, especially after he humiliated you last night.

"Remember when Gray leveled a man with only the fire from his mind?" Rory teased. "That would keep anyone in line."

"It would indeed," Merleen said.

Rhys forgot that he had been there, at the wedding.

Rhys had been there too, but he hadn't been in any of his regular forms. He hadn't been Rhys, or Evrard, or anybody that either Rory or Gray might recognize.

He'd nearly revealed himself and intervened, when the battle with the duke and the count had grown dire, but in the end, Gray had proven just how powerful his connection to Fontaine was, by calling up the fire of Lion's Breath without even wielding the magical sword.

Rhys had been so pleased that day, and a week later, after he'd verified that Count Aplin was harmless, he'd returned to Beaulieu, ready to finally lay down hundreds of years of responsibility.

He hadn't realized then that settling into such a quiet, uneventful life would be so boring or that he would fit so poorly into it.

The thought had barely crossed his mind, when it began again.

"Evander," the voice called, "Evander. I know you hear me. I know you are listening."

No, Rhys thought desperately, not here and not like this.

But his mind—because that was what it had to be, it could not be Vanya calling for him, that was impossible—wouldn't see reason.

It was not exactly impossible, but it was improbable. Because surely if Vanya had been able to speak to him during any of the last few hundred years, he'd have done it already.

"Are you okay?" Gray asked, turning to Rhys, concern shading his voice. "You went white."

"I didn't think anything scared you," Rory said, leaning in. "What happened?"

"It's nothing," Rhys said, wishing that he could brush away the voice in his mind as easily. But he couldn't. Especially not when now the voice was just not merely calling his name, but speaking to him.

"Evander, Evander," it called again, "why are you ignoring me?"

Because you're just me finally losing my mind, Rhys thought pointedly.

"Of course he can be scared," Merleen said, between bites of roasted meat. He said it matter-of-factly, as if he had personally witnessed it.

He's not talking about last night.

Because last night, he had not been afraid. He'd been . . . tempted, and unsettled, by the realization that Merleen reminded him of Marcos, and then he'd been embarrassed.

See? Rhys felt like telling him, none of those are fear. I was not afraid of you. I will never be afraid of you.

"You certainly claim to know me very well," Rhys said stiffly.

He did not want to engage with the man, but he kept making it impossible not to. Of all the ways Merleen infuriated and annoyed him, this was the most frustrating.

He made it impossible to be ignored.

"He'd like to know you even better," Rory said under his breath, chuckling.

Rhys watched as Gray tried to subtly elbow his husband beneath the table.

Rory had grown up at court. He was used to its politics, even its sexual politics. While Gray had been raised on a farm, with only Evrard for company, he'd always been less earthly than Rhys had imagined he'd be.

Gray had always liked private business to stay private business. Rory was far less particular about that, probably because he'd grown up with a whole court watching him. Waiting for him to mature and to grow into the beauty he now possessed.

"I like to observe," Merleen said. "It was why my aunt believed that I'd be suited to this position."

"Have you heard from Shaheen?" Rory asked, clearly attempting to change the subject.

"Evander, Evander, Evander, Evander," the voice called again.

Rhys stood, abruptly.

He'd believed that by coming to dinner in the Great Hall, he'd be too distracted for the voice to bother him.

Except he was now more bothered than ever.

"Excuse me," he said as an afterthought as Rory, Gray, and Merleen regarded him. "I . . . I must have forgotten about an appointment."

"What appointment?" Rory asked, bewildered, but Rhys did not stick around to answer. He turned and left the Great Hall as quickly as his legs would carry him.

As soon as he reached an empty hallway, verifying that Merleen had not followed him, he took a deep breath and leaned back against the stone.

"What do you want?" he asked, out loud.

"I knew you could hear me," the voice responded.

Could it be? Could it really be Vanya? After all this time?

Rhys could barely believe it.

"I can hear you," he said quietly. "But I do not want to hear you."

The voice laughed, so like the Vanya that Rhys remembered that the knowledge made him ache. "Surely you believed you were going insane."

"The thought occurred to me," Rhys said dryly. "I have not answered to that name for many, many years."

An understatement. He'd not answered to that name since the day he'd been stripped of his title and most of his powers, and cast out of the Castle at the Top of the World.

"Do you remember the Well?" Vanya asked—because even though the voice could be the devious work of others, others that meant to do him ill, Rhys found himself wishing that it was truly Vanya.

"I do," Rhys said.

"Meet me there, at the Well." Vanya's voice rang with finality, brokered no argument.

"What?" Rhys asked, shocked. "Meet you?"

But there were no more voices, no more questions, no more proclamations.

Meet me there, at the Well.

Vanya had delivered the message he'd set out to convey. There was clearly no need to communicate further.

Rhys thought of Vanya's request for the next week.

Truthfully, he thought of little else.

That was the blessing and the curse of adopting such a simple life. He had plenty of attention to give.

Almost immediately, he concluded that it could be a trap.

It could also be the beginning of a new life—in fact, the return of an old life. Perhaps Vanya was extending a hand, ready to welcome him back to the Thirteen.

But if he was, wouldn't Deimos have been the one to contact him? After all, he was the leader, and he was the one who had made the decision to banish him all those years ago.

It still made sense, Rhys reasoned, because he had completed his task, had accomplished what he had set out to do.

Perhaps all his hard work was being rewarded and he was being given his place back.

Or, that other voice cautioned, it's a trap.

Rhys knew what he wanted it to be, and he also knew what was more likely.

But because he could not decide which it was, which outcome made the most logical sense, he did nothing.

Just brooded about it.

He rambled around the countryside and avoided the Great Hall at night, waiting for the voice to return, but it did not.

Just when he had come to the conclusion that the voice had gone silent, that it didn't matter if he left for the Well or not, it came to him again.

Rhys was standing in the hallway above the center courtyard of Beaulieu, looking out the window at the training happening below, as Merleen took on both Anya and Rowen, but barely seeing the movements as he was lost in thought.

He had barely seen Merleen this last week, though that had been entirely purposeful, but then when he'd passed by the window and realized it was him fighting, he'd stopped.

Stared.

For the first time not pretending that he'd been distracted by someone else.

Maybe it was the voice, maybe it was that it had been Vanya's voice, a voice from another time and another place, but he'd looked down at Merleen, and he'd seen Marcos instead.

The efficient, brutal movements, the confident surety of his decision-making, the unusual forms he'd no doubt picked up from his childhood with the Mecant.

It all reminded him of Marcos.

"Evander," the voice called out, shocking him out of his reverie.

Rhys' head snapped up.

"Evander, Evander, Evander." Vanya's voice caressed as it commanded. Just as it always had. "You were not always so disobedient."

"Perhaps I cannot leave, cannot go on a fool's errand to the Well."

"And yet you are so bored, here you stand, admiring this human."

I am not admiring him.

Yet, it was difficult to disagree, because it turned out there was so much to admire.

"I am needed here," Rhys said firmly. "I cannot go."

"Lies," Vanya hissed. "You were always a good liar, Evander, but not so good that I could not see through you. You must come to the Well."

"Must?"

"I did not ask." Vanya's voice echoed in his head. "I said come to the Well. And you must."

"In case you need a reminder, I am no longer the Guardians' to command."

"Perhaps not," Vanya said. "But the Guardians still have power. What if . . ." He trailed off, and there was a strength and a heft in whatever he did not say.

Merleen was right; Rhys could be afraid.

"What if?" he demanded.

"What if something were to happen to upset this delicate balance you have spent so many years perfecting?"

"Guardians, hundreds of years ago, did not deign to interfere," Rhys pointed out. After all, he'd been banished for making an attempt.

Rhys could feel Vanya's resigned sigh through their connection. "Are you truly willing to take that risk?"

He was not.

And Vanya knew it.

Rhys ground his teeth together. "No."

"Then," Vanya repeated, "you will come to the Well."

Rhys considered continuing to argue, but the faint connection he'd felt, it was gone, and he knew that Vanya wouldn't be returning.

Trap or not, Vanya or not, he was going to have to journey to the Well. He had no choice, not if he wanted to protect Rory and Gray and the beginnings of what they were building here.

He turned away from the window, and headed towards the library. He had some research to do, and then he would need to pack for the journey.

For a fleeting moment, he considered traveling as Evrard, but then decided against it.

He would go as Rhys.

Because Rhys, whether the skin felt better or worse than others to him, was who he was now.

Rhys considered saying goodbye to Rory and Gray and telling them where he was going. He'd miss them, and he hoped they would miss him.

But considering the possibility that Vanya's demand was a trap and he was not Vanya at all, Rhys did not want to drag anyone else into the situation, and Gray and Rory would never let him travel alone.

They'd insist he take some of their guard members, perhaps even Marthe or Anya, and Rhys was not willing to leave Beaulieu and Their Highnesses unprotected, especially not with Vanya's last threat.

No, he would travel alone.

He still had the remnants of his magic.

He could still change shape.

He could still sense when evil was approaching.

Therefore, it would be better for him to simply slip out in the middle of the night, with nobody the wiser.

Rhys penned a quick note, setting it on the desk in his chamber, informing Rory and Gray that something had come up, and he'd been forced to depart suddenly—but that he would be back.

Because he had every intention of returning, from whatever this was, even as he could feel his heart beat a little faster at the possibility that while on the road, he might find excitement again.

You don't need excitement, Rhys reminded himself, except that there was undeniably a part of him that hadn't stopped craving it.

He shut the door to his chamber and pulling his pack up higher on his shoulder, turned to walk down the dark corridor.

"Trying to run off again?"

Rhys froze.

Merleen melted out of the shadows.

How did he keep doing that?

When he'd been Evander, nobody had ever successfully snuck up on him—except Deimos, the one time it had truly mattered—but Merleen seemed to do it easily.

Not for the first time, Rhys wondered if he had some kind of buried power.

"Running off, now that you've made yourself indispensable?" Merleen questioned again.

Rhys took a steadying breath. "No," he said, "and I am hardly indispensable. Not that it is any of your concern, but there's a situation I must take care of."

"By yourself?" Merleen paused. "And don't try to argue, because you're clearly trying to sneak off in the middle of the night so nobody will stop you—or nobody will go with you."

"It's not worth bothering the guard," Rhys lied.

Merleen's gaze narrowed. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Whether you doubt it or not, I'm going alone because nobody else needs to be drawn into it."

Rhys turned to leave, but before he could take another step, Merleen's voice stopped him again.

"Take me with you."

Turning back slowly, Rhys eyed him up and down. Having someone of Merleen's skill would undoubtedly be useful, but there was much that he did not know about Rhys. Namely, that he wasn't even Rhys.

Allowing Merleen to accompany him on this journey would complicate everything.

"No," Rhys said firmly.

"Why? Because it'll be dangerous?" Merleen smirked. "I would think that would be an issue for you, since I wasn't aware you could even protect yourself."

Rhys told himself not to rise to Merleen's bait, but even in thousands of years, he hadn't been able to train himself out of every gut reaction. "Perhaps I don't look it, but I can protect myself better than you could ever imagine," he snarled.

It was Merleen's turn to eye him, from the top of his head, to the bottoms of his worn traveling boots. The look on his face made it clear just how much he didn't believe him.

And Rhys could give him that, at least. Rhys was slight and somewhat unassuming. He didn't wield a sword. He had a knife in his boot, but that was for appearances and emergencies, and because Gray never would have let him leave the castle walls without it.

For a brief second, Rhys considered changing into something else. He could take Gray's form, or even Merleen's. He could prove, without a single question, just how powerful he was.

But then Merleen would never look at him the same way again.

"You're not going alone. That's not up for debate," Merleen said.

"Oh? And how are you going to stop me?" Rhys challenged. Stupidly. Because in this form, Merleen could absolutely stop him.

Merleen shot him a look. "All I have to do is wake King Graham, because he would certainly never let you go off alone."

"Fine," Rhys said through clenched teeth. "You can come with me to the border."

"Where are you going that's beyond the border?"

"Again," Rhys said, not very patiently, "it's absolutely none of your business."

"It's my business now, because I'm coming with you," Merleen said, and before Rhys could argue again, Merleen was taking his arm, and he was completely, utterly unprepared for the power that shot through him at the contact.

Rhys stared at him.

None of the sorcerers he'd ever come in contact with had ever held power that strong. This wasn't routine, human-held power. It was so much more electric, with a feel and a taste to it that Rhys had once known as well as his own.

"What . . ." He gasped.

Merleen had the nerve to look sheepish. "Shit," he said. "I forgot you'd feel it since you aren't . . . well, you aren't you anymore."

Rhys could still feel the remnants of the power coursing through him. Wild and heady, it thrummed through his body.

Only one Guardian had a power signature like that.

"Marcos?" Rhys questioned.

Questioning his own sanity. Just a few weeks back, he'd realized that Merleen reminded him, in some small way, of Marcos, but he'd never imagined that Merleen was Marcos.

Merleen sighed, and like a snake shedding its skin, he slowly morphed into the form that Rhys still recognized.

The power was still there, but it was the difference between a glancing blow, and a strike that hit home.

Marcos electrified, just by affixing his dark, intense gaze to Rhys'.

He remembered, a second too late, that Marcos had been the root cause of his downfall and he wasn't supposed to be pleased to see him. Even if it was wonderful to feel all that power again, to be back in the presence of another Guardian.

"How dare you follow me," Rhys lashed out. "Not when you . . . when you betrayed me."

Marcos sighed. "That wasn't me."

Rhys rolled his eyes. "Of course you'd say it wasn't."

"It wasn't. And I'm not following you, well, not for the reason you believe."

"Oh?" Rhys asked archly. "And what reason do I believe?"

"That I've been tasked by Deimos to watch you, to make sure you don't betray the Guardians." Marcos said it matter-of-factly. "But I came for myself. I was . . . I was concerned about you."

"Well, you can see for yourself, I'm doing just fine." Rhys said it bitterly. "Now, if you'll move out of my way, I'll be going."

"What?" Marcos demanded. "Now that I know you're not a weak human, but have power, and this . . . this . . . form you've assumed is out of choice, not necessity, you think I'll let you go alone?"

Rhys stared at him. "I don't trust you."

"You don't have to trust me," Marcos said. "That's not required to protect you."

"We just established I can protect myself," Rhys said in a clipped voice, "so your presence is hardly required."

"But I can still wake Graham and Emory and make sure they know that you're leaving." Marcos hesitated. "They don't know what you really are, do they?"

Rhys ground his teeth together. Hundreds of years had not helped make Marcos any more likable. "They do not."

"Just a regular old shape-shifter?" Marcos chuckled under his breath. "Like those even exist."

"It doesn't matter if they do or not, that's what they believe and that's what they'll continue to believe."

Marcos had the nerve to look regretful. Like he didn't really want to force Rhys' hand this way. "Only if you let me go with you." He paused. "It's a trap, you know."

"What's a trap?" Rhys pretended ignorance, but Marcos just smiled.

"The voice. It's a trap."

"You heard it?" Rhys was so surprised he asked before he could continue pretending he didn't know what Marcos was talking about.

"Yes," Marcos said heavily, "and I do not believe it's what you think it is."

"I don't know what it is, but I can't ignore it," Rhys said.

"I know. I knew you'd leave. You'd never leave the people of Fontaine, or Graham or Emory unprotected and exposed."

"Which is why you've been spying on me," Rhys said bitterly.

Marcos nodded.

"Fine, you may accompany me, but do not talk to me, do not intervene, and do not think for one second that you are in command of this expedition. You are not."

"Naturally you would be in command," Marcos said. Rhys swore he caught a glimpse of a smirk before it disappeared swiftly.

Perhaps it was a bit ridiculous considering that of the two of them, Marcos was undeniably more powerful. But power didn't equal trust, and despite his protestation that he hadn't been the one to inform Deimos all those years before, Rhys did not trust him.

He was the most likely culprit, and if he'd betrayed him once, it was likely he'd try to betray him again.

"Let's go, then, before someone sees us, and I have to explain why I'm with . . ." Rhys glanced over at him as they began moving down the corridor. "Why I'm with a human the size of a small mountain."

Marcos grinned. "Merleen wasn't exactly small, either."

"No, but everyone knew Merleen. As far as they're concerned, you're a stranger."

Marcos did not respond to that. In fact, it was a blessing that he stopped talking entirely as they wound their way through the castle. He did not even point out that Rhys was taking the best possible route out of the castle—the one that would ensure that the guards did not see them leave.

They emerged into the courtyard, but stuck to the dark shadows that clung to the outside walls.

"No horses?" When Marcos finally spoke in a hushed voice as they passed by the castle stables, it was apparently to criticize Rhys' planning.

"Too noisy, too messy, and far too much work," Rhys said.

"You're not planning on becoming a horse for me to ride, are you?"

Rhys shot him a venomous look. "Hardly," he said. "We will travel on foot."

"It'll take longer, too," Marcos pointed out.

"Are you in a hurry to arrive at the trap?" Rhys questioned.

When Marcos just shrugged, Rhys skewered him with another deadly look. "I didn't think so," Rhys said.

It was easy enough for Rhys to slide through the little door set into the stone wall, next to the massive iron grate door that protected the castle itself.

It was a little tougher for someone the size of Marcos, but he managed it too, shrinking himself slightly with barely a blink.

Rhys told himself as he watched Marcos slide through the doorway that he was not jealous of how easily the Guardian wielded his power still.

An ease that Rhys had not been able to enjoy for a thousand years now. He'd missed the endless wellspring of power, desperately, at first, but then he'd gotten used to conserving his magic, only using it when he absolutely needed it.

It still did not come quite naturally, and now, watching Marcos, he realized that it never would.

He'd never been a creature created for conservative purpose. But now he had no choice in the matter.

Deimos—and Marcos—had stolen it from him.

"The Well is to the north," Marcos said as they took themselves off the path, away from questioning eyes, and turned towards the mountain ranges that ringed the north side of Fontaine. On the tip of the tallest mountain lay the Well.

"I have not forgotten the location of the Well," Rhys retorted. "It has been many years, but I remember that much."

"Then I will let you lead," Marcos said gracefully, and they turned towards the north.