Chapter 9: A Rare Beauty

Ambrose Drak

"Are you sure she was here?" Braylin leans against the trunk of a twisted tree by the pond. "Think about it. You've not slept for almost forty-eight hours."

Gingerly, Ambrose touches his cheek which still throbs. "I didn't imagine her." He plucks a fig from a tree then tosses the fruit at Braylin. "There was an injured female in the gardens." Frustration etches his words. "Not just any girl."

Nay, she wore leather pants with boots.

After biting into the fruit, Braylin approaches him. "She give you that bruise?" Cupping Ambrose's face, he takes a closer look. "If so, you might not want to go around telling everyone a girl bested the Drachn Prince - Ambrose of the House of Drak - soon to be King of the Bastaff Region."

"I want her found."

"Did she say what she was doing?" Braylin yawns then rubs his jaw. "Why she was here?" He finishes the fig and tosses the core into some bushes. "Or why she hit you?" A chuckle passes his lips.

"Nay."

"You said she was injured."

Ambrose leans against a statue. "Her shoulder was bleeding."

He looks at the winged figure, a female. She's kneeling. Long wavy hair spills over her shoulders. Her wings stretch out, pointing to the night sky. The coloration of the stone contains a ruddy hue, which matches the reflection of the blood moon in the pond.

"Well," says Braylin. "If she's still here, the hounds will find her."

A member of the king's guard approaches. He holds a thick leather strap connected to a chain collar around a beast of a dog's neck.

The animal sticks his nose in the air and sniffs a couple of times before firmly planting his muzzle on the ground plodding forward, producing a series of loud snorts.

"What's he doing?" Ambrose steps to the side, clearing the canine's path.

"He's signaling." Braylin kneels next to the pond. "He's found a scent."

The dog continues to snort. He blows air out of his nose along with a fine spray of snot. At the base of the statue, where Ambrose had just stood seconds before, the animal stretches out and paws at the angel's feet.

Braylin touches a dark splat on a paver under the figure. He rubs his fingers together then smells them. "It's blood."

Shifting his weight, Braylin pivots around and follows a dotted trail.

"Looks like she walked from the tree to the pond." He examines the knotted roots of the twisted tree trunk.

"So, if she came this way, where'd she go?" Ambrose scans the pavers. His gaze lingers on the grass. "Her trail ends right here."

"She might have stemmed the flow of blood to cover her tracks." Braylin approaches the guard. "Give me your hound." With the leather strap in hand, he directs the dog toward the twisted tree. "I'll have the men perform another sweep." He points, staring at droplets of blood on the interwoven roots. "She's still here. From what I can tell, she isn't going anywhere, especially over the wall with a bleeding wound. It's only a matter of time before we catch her."

Ambrose stretches. The motion does little to work out the kinks in his neck. "I'm going to my chambers." Yawning, he covers his mouth with a hand. "Let me know the minute she's found."

Nodding, Braylin trudges deeper into the gardens.

At the pond, Ambrose views the angel, again. He traces the jawline of her hidden face. The tips of her ears curve into a point.

Scanning the area, he takes in the other statues. They all have normal looking ears. Their wings resemble birds with feathers. Whereas, the female before him, hers are smooth almost bat-like.

He shakes his head and yawns once more. Rising, he trails a finger along the tip of the angel's ear, the, heavy-footed, makes his way across interlocking pavers leading to the secret entrance of his chamber.

Outside the entry point, a guard stands at attention. "My Lord." The man steps aside, head bowed.

"At ease." Ambrose slips through the opening then closes the door behind him.

Drawing in a deep breath, he drinks in the dank smell of dirt, dust, and wet stone. The aroma is familiar, a scent he's known since he first found the secret passage as a small boy.

During his early years, he and Braylin spent countless hours hiding from the Queen Regnant, servants, and guards inside the safety of these walls. Now, while surrounded by a kingdom full of people, his subjects, he finds himself alone, longing for the games of his youth.

In his room, the yellow hue of a candlewick flickers. It casts shadows across the walls and ceiling. The light beckons him like a star in a black sky.

He approaches the desk and wraps his hand around the scrolled neck of Ebony, his viola. The one his father - his birth father - gave him the year before the man lost his life in battle.

Cradling the instrument under his chin, he revels in the cool, sleek surface for a moment then plucks the taut strings. Softly, he hums the tune he played earlier. The same song the girl had mimicked.

So, who is she, the girl? What was she doing in the garden? More importantly, who hurt her and why?

An image of her ginger-colored hair blowing in the wind flows through his thoughts. Her skin, as white as ivory, seemed to glow under the moonlight. Her irises, as blue as crystal-clear water, call to him, even now.

The one burning image he can't extinguish is the expression on her face, the loneliness. Those eyes, soulful yet haunted, contained a deep-seated anguish. One of loss and that of sadness, which he knows all too well.

Next to him, she had seemed so small, delicate even.

A soft chuckle passes his lips, and he rubs his chest, which is still sore from their first encounter.

She may be small, but the fiery phoenix knows how to fight.

"A girl, nay, a woman," he whispers under his breath. She said he fought like a girl. It's not his fault he couldn't think. One look at her, he felt the enchantress' pull on his heart. Her beauty and free spirit snared him like a rabbit in a trap.

A rap at the door pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Enter." Ambrose sets the viola on his desk. "Has the girl been found?"

"Not yet, my Lord." Jacks, his manservant enters the room with folded shirts nestled between two twig-sized arms. "Your uncle is . . ."

"What girl?" Lord Maxton pushes past the manservant. "Out of the way, servant."

Jacks, who has a short, stiff leg, hobbles to the side.

Ambrose wraps a hand around Jacks' thin waist, keeping the older man on his feet. "Thank you, Jacks." He removes the garments from the servant's arms.

"Shall I prepare a bath?" Jacks peers down, avoiding Lord Maxton's gaze.

"Not tonight." Ambrose pats Jacks on the back. "You may take your leave. Return in the morning."

Jacks bows. "As you wish." He exits the room, leaving Ambrose alone with his uncle.

"So, who is she? This girl?" Lord Maxton grabs the royal seal on Ambrose's desk.

"Someone I met in the gardens. Do not trouble yourself regarding this matter, it is trivial."

"Trivial." His uncle examines the seal, rolling it between his fingers. "What if she's a scout or assassin?"

"I hardly think she's a spy." Making his way to the balcony, he gazes out into the darkness. "The enchantress, she didn't seem intent on killing me." He observes several lit lanterns moving through the grounds. "Now, what's on your mind?"

Lord Maxton places a hand on Ambrose's shoulder. "I am truly sorry about your mother." He tightens his grasp. "She was a brilliant gem. A rare beauty inside and out."

Ambrose rubs his jaw. "Thank you." The beard stubble scrapes against the palm of his hand. "You didn't come here to discuss my mother's beauty. So, what brings you into my chamber at this hour that couldn't wait until morning?"

"My boy," sighs Lord Maxton. "It is a heavy burden you now carry. I want you to know, I'm here for you just as I was for your father and your dear mother."

He pats Ambrose on the back, again. The gesture is just that, a gesture. It holds as much warmth as the north wind on a chilly winter's night.

"Make me The Hand," croons his uncle. "Let me ease some of the load you now must carry."

"What do you have in mind?" Ambrose struggles to keep the irritation of this unwelcome intrusion from his voice.

"You have enough to contend with. So, let me deal with William Stouffer's trial." Lord Maxton stands toe-to-toe with him; however, he's a head shorter than his nephew. "As well as his execution. I'll make sure it is swift, just."

"Nay, you may attend the trial." Ambrose retrieves the leather necklace containing the seal from his uncle and slips it around his neck. "Whether he lives or dies belongs to me and me alone."