Page 1 of My Lady Melisende (Ladies Least Likely #6)

PROLOGUE

MERANIA, AUGUST 1578

T hey were coming.

The writer knew this as surely as they knew the shape of the mountains that etched the sky outside the window set with panes of precious glass that winked small diamonds in the pure morning light. As sure as the bakery across the small, paved square wafted the scent of savory kiachl into every crevice of the palace, the men were coming.

And when they came, they would take everything.

The pale hand shook as the quill dipped into the precious last of the ink. When that was gone, when would there be more? When would there be more of anything? The stores had already gone to feed the fighters who would protect their homes and their city, to man the walls of the great castle that had withstood so much wind and earthquake and plague. The tapestries of the palace had been torn down to make beds for those who had been burned or driven out of their homes by the rebellion. The art was hidden deep, the jewels deeper still.

The task must be completed before the men arrived, for they would take down each stone, smash the windows. These invaders had no mercy. Unless Merania fell to its knees, the emperor’s army would raze every statue, every monument, every brick, smash it all to powder and roll in the dust of their conquering glory like the demon pigs they were.

Someone must remember what belonged to the duke, the brave man who had stood between warring armies and wrought peace. Someone, in years hence, must know what their mighty leader had achieved.

The writer winced as the quill slipped on an imperfection in the parchment. There was no time to scrape away the mark and make a clean copy. The symbol must be written over as best they could. It was imperative to finish to finish the map and the key. All the pieces must be in place for this work to make any difference.

The writer’s ears picked out the rumble in the distance, welling from the feet of the mountain. It rolled like the drumming of iron-shod soles on pavement, like the iron wheels of cannon creaking along on their ropes. Locusts, they were, or worse than locusts, for they did not merely feed to be fed; they took pleasure in the destruction.

Quickly now. Though the hand tired, the writer pushed the quill across one page, across another, praying that they remembered right, praying that what had been taken apart could be reassembled someday. For if this work did not survive, then all was lost. Merania would be nothing more than another medal on a great man’s sash rather than a crown jewel in its own right.

Someone, even centuries later, must find this and know. So the family could not be erased from the scrolls of history. So the beautiful landscape recorded in these leaves of parchment, all the hopes and glories and travails and wonders, would not disappear under a greedy man’s boot.

Someday, someone must find these books and piece together the truth. These fragments were all that was left.