Whisper of War and Storms (Heirs of Elydor #1)

Chapter 1

1

MEV

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.”