Chapter Six
To the unobservant eye, it looked like Emery, Lydia, and Ryan were just sitting on the grass in the courtyard. Not talking, not even really looking at each other-- just sitting. But Vale knew better. He could see their expressions changing, their hands gesturing ever so slightly; he could even see, when he really looked, the almost undetectable movement of their lips and tongue as they spoke so softly only they could hear. He didn’t like being left out of events like that. Ever. Sitting himself hard on a bench, he kept watching them, even though he couldn’t hear. His eyes were riveted on them.
***
Surrounded by common people, many with the Seeker’s braid on their arms, Zanthys watched as Jaidyn and Hoeth turned and left the plaza, pushing their way through the throng. Even with Jaidyn whispering, he had heard what was said. So Jaidyn believed himself Cheyne reborn. That is some information many people would be very interested in.
Turning, he made his way through the crowd. He hated these kinds of festivals. On normal days, the commoners would realize who he was and make way for him, even if he didn’t have his guards around, shouting for them to move. That was only proper. But on festivals, they didn’t seem to see him, or if they did, they simply didn’t care to give him his way. And he had slipped out of the manor without his guards. Good thing, too. Had Jaidyn heard them shouting to make way, he would never have heard Jaidyn’s “secret”. That in itself was worth being jostled a bit, he supposed.
Finally, he came to the door of his father’s plaza-side manor-- the other manors were either in less busy parts of the city or out in the country-- and nodded slightly to the servant who opened the door for him. He strode the carpeted hallways towards his chambers, thinking about exactly how to approach this information. What gossip! A few whispers in a few choice ears could make things very interesting in Jaidyn, Cheyne Firdin-supposed-reborn. He actually found one of those choice ears in the hallway, a man in the gold and white livery of House Advissen. He whispered his words along with an order to pass to another fellow, and dismissed him. That other fellow would see to it that Zanthys knew exactly where Jaidyn was when he needed to.
His bedchamber was empty when he stepped in and closed the door behind him. Striding to his study, he smiled at the many full bookshelves. Once his father had learned of his love for books, he had begun buying every one he could get his hands on. Zanthys had one of the largest collections in all of Gaern. But the book he took from the shelves was probably not in any of the other collections. It was a chronicle of the known lives leading up to Cheyne, including a rarity: a full description of the legendary blade, Sonsedhor.
Sitting at his desk with the book and a writing box, he copied the description and went on to commit it to memory. It couldn’t hurt, after all, to really know what it looked like. The twisted grin on his face felt strange; he wasn’t usually one to play jokes like this, but Jaidyn was asking for it. He couldn’t be Cheyne Firding reborn. Zanthys liked to think he could see the good in anyone, but it was very difficult to see anything in Jaidyn except spite and envy. Perhaps this would put some humility into him.
Certain he had the description memorized, Zanthys tucked the copy into his pocket. A word to his father, and the best blacksmith in the city would be to work within the hour. Zanthys had no training with the sword. He had never even touched one, not even in play. There was no need. Dozens of others, scores even, would do any fighting required for him, would die in an instant to protect him from the slightest threat. But if he told his father now that he wanted a sword, Banjay wouldn’t object. And Zanthys wanted a sword. This sword.
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