Battle Dawn: Book Three of the Chronicles of Arden

by Shiriluna Nott

  Without further questioning, Marc hurried to obey the command.

  Prince Didier’s demeanor was not entirely friendly as he stepped into the small office. He was a handsome young man, tall and of a medium build, with dark eyes and hair that offset his fair complexion. It was a shame he seemed intent on maintaining a scowl. His father’s death must still have been haunting him.

  Didier’s eyes landed on Kirk. “You are Kirk Bhadrayu, correct?”

  “Yes, Highness.” Kirk bowed low for good measure. “I’m happy to be at your service.”

  “And where is—oh, Otho! I nearly didn’t see you back there.”

  Otho gave the barest of bows. “Greetings, Highness.”

  “My family is grateful to have one as brave as you helping us.”

  Brave?

  Kirk’s chest tightened. If Otho was so courageous, then why wasn’t he at war with Joel and the others? Surely Weapons Master Roland could handle training recruits by himself. Nothing was honorable about hiding away in the city when healthy, young men were needed in the field.

  “Just doing my job,” Otho replied, recoiling from the praise.

  A smile finally graced the prince’s mouth, proving Kirk’s theory correct. Didier looked better when he wasn’t frowning. “Aodan trusts you. That’s no easy task.”

  “He trusts Roland. I’m just a familiar name.”

  “You sell yourself short, Otho Dakheel.”

  Marc coughed, redirecting the conversation. “Diddy, what are you doing here? Is Aodan coming?”

  The smile vanished from Didier’s lips. He turned somber eyes onto Marc. “Lord Galloway is under tight lock and key of late. As I’m sure you recall, there are those on the High Council who would rather see him exiled. It was easier for me to slip away this afternoon.”

  The dean’s jaw tightened. “Of course. Since Aodan sent you in his stead, does that mean you’ll be helping?”

  “There’s not much I can offer you today, but the near future may yield better results. As Neetra’s servant, Bailey has access to the steward’s chambers. When opportunity presents itself, he intends to steal a key.”

  “The key to Neetra’s chambers? That’s dangerous.”

  Didier’s face hardened with agitation. “Do you have another suggestion, Dean Marc? A better option? Bailey is a grown man. He understands the risk he’s taking.”

  “I know, Highness. I only worry for his safety—”

  “So long as you refrain from giving him any remedies, I’m sure he’ll be perfectly safe.”

  The sudden chill in the room nearly froze Kirk to the bone. He had no idea what the prince meant, but the hollow desolation that flashed behind Marc’s eyes was proof enough that the conversation had tread into forbidden territory. Kirk dared glance sideways at Otho, but the apprentice also appeared to be at a loss.

  Marc folded his arms across his chest. “All right. You’ve made your point, Prince Didier. If that’s all, I suppose we’ll wait for more news.”

  “Yes. Someone will be in touch. I suggest you remain alert.” Didier pivoted away from Marc and strode toward the door. “I’ll show myself out. Kirk, Otho, thank you for meeting with me today.” He’d left before either man had a chance to finish bowing.

  Kirk winced as the door slammed, leaving nothing but uneasy silence and a plethora of questions behind. What had all of that been about? Kirk wanted so badly to ask Marc, but the dean seemed to be at wit’s end.

  His skin took on a pallid hue as he slumped into the seat behind his desk. “You two may go. I’ll send for you when I have news.”

  Chapter Five

  Over the next two sennights, Kezra fell into the routine of life while marching. Breakfast came at dawn, and they were on the road before she was even fully awake. Midday meal was taken in the saddle, and they stopped only at dusk for dinner and sleep. Most nights, however, once food had been eaten and personal needs were met, there would be a spare mark or two to enjoy recreational time before the campfires fizzled.

  Kezra and the others had taken to sparring on such evenings, as both a means of maintaining contact with each other and a way to loosen their stiff muscles after a long day’s ride. Most importantly though, it also helped hone their weaponry skills. And it was something Kezra needed for herself.

  Sitting atop Epona’s back all day left Kezra’s mind to wander, circling over the same damned issues again and again. How many times would she have to rethink her problems before they finally disappeared? She couldn’t console her mother or do anything to help her siblings while she was out here. Her father would either get what he deserved or he wouldn’t. And Nawaz—Nawaz might as well be a shooting star. No matter how badly Kezra longed for him, he remained entirely out of reach. He’d made his decision and so had she.

  Training served as Kezra’s release, and it wasn’t long before she found herself the unspoken leader of the nightly sparring sessions. Really, she didn’t mind. If she was busy correcting posture and re-teaching technique, her own woes could be temporarily pushed aside. So she approached her new role with a willingness that probably shocked all who knew her.

  Of their group, it quickly became apparent Gib was in need of the most practice. Kezra feared her friend had perched upon his cozy chair in one too many council meetings. His lack of finesse was proof enough that he’d all but forgotten Roland’s lessons from the first two years of Academy.

  Nage was better prepared, though the same couldn’t be said of Kezra’s own brother. When she’d tried to convince Zandi that learning how to swing a sword might prove to be a wise decision, he’d scoffed and assured her his magery skills were quite sufficient enough. Kezra had stormed away in frustration after that. Mages! They were impossible!

  Now, a fortnight into their long trek, Kezra raised her sword to counter Gib’s attack. Already he was showing improvement, though it wasn’t in Kezra’s nature to be nurturing. “Come on, Lovely, you can do better than that, can’t you?”

  Gib kept his own blade close to his torso, but experience told Kezra he’d soon rush her.

  “You know,” he snorted. “I’ve spent the past two years sitting through political classes and council meetings. It’s reasonable that I’ve gone a little soft around the edges.”

  Gib lunged, as expected, and Kezra spun away from him, laughing. “With that cushy job of yours and homemade meals from Lady Mrifa, I’d say you’ve gone a little soft in the middle.”

  Chuckles arose from their gathered spectators, and Gib’s face darkened into a most stunning shade of crimson.

  Another misstep and Kezra had Gib’s feet out from under him. He landed with an ungraceful thud on his back, eyes as wide as saucers. Their audience clapped at his blunder.

  “Ha!” Kezra jeered. “What’s your excuse now? Too much riding today?”

  “Maybe,” Gib groaned. He remained unmoving in the dirt. “Riding makes the knees weak. Keep this up, and you’ll make me soft in the head.”

  “I don’t think so, Nemesio. Your skull is pretty thick.” Kezra offered a hand and pulled Gib to his feet, noting how good it felt to smile again.

  More laughter arose from the crowd. Gib dusted himself off and took a bow, bits of clay and grass ensnared among his mousy curls. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. I’d bet there isn’t a single one of you who can stand up to Kezra and fare any better than me!”

  Kezra’s own face flushed as she gave him a hearty clap on the back. Sometimes she didn’t know what she’d do without Gib’s friendship. No one else had ever given her such encouragement. No one else had ever made her feel more valid.

  It crossed her mind that perhaps it was time for another good, long talk with him. She needed it, even though it was difficult to admit. Gib could be counted on to listen to her woes yet pass no judgment, and his advice always proved to be invaluable.

  Yes. They needed to talk. But not tonight. She just wasn’t ready to open up quite yet. She would face her emotions in due time, but right now, it was beyond her.


  Kezra turned to face the crowd. “All right, who’s next?”

  Gara Leal was on her feet before anyone else could think to move. She was a wiry wisp of a thing, barely weighing enough to keep from being blown away by the wind. Dressed in mud-brown scouting gear and hair cropped shorter than even Kezra’s, Gara barely resembled the pampered dame Kezra knew from court.

  “I suppose it’s time for my beating.” Gara laughed, grinning sheepishly.

  Nage, who lounged atop a supply crate, whooped loudly. “If Kezra knocks out all your teeth, you’re gonna be the one explainin’ it to Nia and your ma!”

  The look Gara shot him made even Kezra chuckle.

  Gara unsheathed her weapon, a flimsy, short blade that reminded Kezra more of an oversized dagger than a true sword. Given Gara’s modest stature and her work as a scout, Kezra couldn’t say she was surprised.

  She still needs to know how to best an opponent, even if she’s outmatched. Hell, I’ve won duels with nothing more than a broken whiskey bottle.

  Kezra took stance. She didn’t bother offering encouragement or well wishes. Weapons Master Roland had always said such formalities were a waste of words, and Kezra tended to agree.

  Both women had just given a nod—the sign for commencement—when a slithering voice drew away Gara’s attention.

  “Remind me again, Seneschal, why you were in favor of women soldiers?”

  Kezra flinched, but she refused to look at the general. Morathi’s callous words were terrible enough without actually seeing him.

  The sound of Seneschal Koal’s exasperated sigh suggested he had just as little tolerance for the general. “I’ve made the same argument since the topic came upon the council table. Why would we dissuade half the country’s population from enlisting?”

  “I see. And when a farmer harvests his wheat, half of its weight is the chaff. You don’t see the farmer trying to sell the unfit portion as food.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kezra watched Gara tighten her jaw. Kezra’s own heart hammered in her chest, stoking her anger. If Morathi weren’t the general—if Kezra had any rank or power over him—she’d have told him exactly what she thought of his analogy.

  Seneschal Koal came into view even though Kezra had made a point to avert her glare. “This is clearly something you and I are going to have to agree to disagree on. I never have, and never will, see women as useless weight. Weapons Master Roland has had only positive things to say since we allowed women to train as sentinels.”

  The disgust in Morathi’s voice was nearly palpable. “Roland Korbin is a lowborn imbecile. He wouldn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.”

  Nope. Too far.

  Kezra whirled around, setting fierce eyes upon Morathi. “Then you better pray that imbecile has trained your army well.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  Stupid!

  Kezra bit her lip. How could she be so stupid?

  All around, people froze. Nage’s mouth hung open. Zandi sat rigidly, cupping one hand over a horrified grimace. Gara’s eyes were so wide they might pop right out of their sockets. And Gib—humble, quiet Gib was—smiling at her?

  His grin reignited the fire Kezra had nearly let gutter. She raised her chin defiantly. So she’d said it. There was no going back now. She might as well embrace the consequences.

  “You there, girl!” The general’s bark made Kezra want to wince, but somehow she managed to stay motionless. “What did you say?”

  Her lungs refused to expand. “Kezra Malin-Rai, sir.”

  “What?”

  Kezra took in a gulp of air as she tucked her sword back into its sheath and turned to meet Morathi’s glare. “My name is Kezra Malin-Rai, sir.”

  Menacing grey eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Soldier, I didn’t ask for your name, and you’re very soon going to realize that neglecting to answer my questions is the same as refusing an order. It’s a dangerous game you play. Now, I suggest you tell me what you said before you were permitted to speak.”

  Somehow Kezra’s voice cooperated with her trembling lips. “I said, ‘you’d better hope that imbecile has trained your army well,’ sir. It seems illogical the general would allow such a person to train his troops—”

  Morathi advanced on her so fast she fell back a step. “No one asked you to think of anything! Your job is to follow orders and die for your country if you fail to defend it. Do you understand?”

  Kezra opened her mouth, but nothing came out. All she could think about was the time during her first year of Academy when Liro Adelwijn and Diedrick Lyle had coerced her into the hallway and attempted to force her out of her weaponry classes. The path she’d chosen had never been guaranteed easy, but she’d not shied away from it then, and—The Two help her—she wasn’t going to now.

  Morathi loomed above her, his rage stifling and terrifying. “Do you understand, girl?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them spill over. Not for this son of a bitch.

  “She understands, sir.”

  Kezra blinked when Gib slid a hand onto her shoulder.

  “Kezra is one of the smartest and most talented soldiers from my year,” Gib went on, his voice calm and steady, an anchor in the rolling sea. “She’s also one of the best trained of us and has even been kind enough to help whip me back into shape.”

  If Morathi had been upset before, he was nothing short of furious now. He shot back to his full, towering height and pivoted on one heel to glare at Koal. “Look! Even your apprentice has forgotten his place!”

  Koal nodded, a flicker of mirth gleaming in his eyes. “You may have a point. Despite saving the King’s life, Gib still thinks of himself as a peasant. I’d say he’s more along the lines of a hero.”

  “In my day, heroes didn’t spar with women.”

  “The winds are changing,” said Koal. “Those days are hopefully gone for good.”

  Gib’s grip tightened against Kezra’s tunic. She wished she could muster the courage to raise her eyes. Surely Gib must have been as taken with the seneschal’s words as she.

  Morathi, however, was fed up. He shook his head, disgust tracing his hard features. “I sincerely hope these changing winds are all you’ve hoped they’ll be, Seneschal. You favor women soldiers so greatly, yet look around—how many of them do you see? What hope will there be for Arden if her army abandons her from fear and cowardice?”

  Kezra balled her hands into fists at her side. The general could go to hell! Who did he think he was to denounce the women who’d fought so hard to be taken seriously? Anger rocked her body with so much force she had to lean against Gib to stay on her feet.

  Koal’s frown deepened. “Let’s move on, shall we? We still haven’t discussed a plan of action to ensure the safety of our supply train nor the concerns I have with Prince Deegan’s protection.”

  Morathi curled his nose and fixed Kezra with one final, superior glare. “Yes. Finally a topic worth discussing.”

  Kezra’s heart continued to pound as she watched the two men disappear into the crowd. Her jaw and fingers ached from being clenched, but she ignored the pain. Her hands itched to take hold of her sword and throw it right into that bastard’s back.

  Damn that man. Damn him!

  “Don’t listen to him,” Gib muttered. “Morathi is the worst sort there is.”

  Kezra knew Gib spoke the truth, but rage had pushed her beyond caring. “But he’s right, isn’t he? Where are the women soldiers, Gib? We were never many, but now we’re nearly none.”

  No one said anything for such a long stretch that Kezra was sure the conversation had ended, until Gib sighed. “You’re here. Gara’s here. Liza’s here, somewhere. You and the others are making history. This is only the beginning. Nothing changes overnight.”

  Gara cleared her throat. “Gib’s right. Slowly, the tides are turning. And you can’t fault the women who opted out. No one wants to go to war—”

  “No,” Kezra growled. Dark, startli
ng rage scorched her veins, turning her insides black. “But the brave have shown up anyway.” With nothing left to say, she tore away from Gib. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Kezra—”

  “No, Gib. Not now! Just stay here. I need to be alone.”

  Kezra sped away from Gib’s outstretched hand, knowing deep down she wasn’t being fair. It had crossed even her mind to stay behind when Neetra had given them the option. Of course, she’d put the silly idea to rest, but—she’d entertained the thought, hadn’t she?

  It didn’t matter. The brave had come. The general didn’t know what he was talking about—and for that matter, Morathi had best learn to watch his foul mouth. If he wasn’t careful, someone might one day teach him a lesson. They might even rip that treacherous tongue right out of his mouth. He deserved as much.

  Joel worked the metal wedge into the space where the two slabs of wood connected and pushed down with both hands. The lid of the crate lifted away with a loud pop.

  “Careful of broken glass,” Nawaz warned. “Those supplies have been traveling for more than a fortnight. Some of them prob’ly got jostled on the barge.”

  Joel eyed the contents of his container: four rows of neatly stacked jars, squat in size and each filled with pea-green healing ointment. He raised his face, uttering a chuckle. “Worry not. Your unlimited supply of mugwort salve appears to be safe.”

  “Good,” Nawaz replied, not bothering to glance up. He rummaged through a second crate close by. “Not even a moonturn in and we’re already running low. Hopefully now that we’ve reached the Nishika, they’ll keep us supplied.”

  Joel snorted as he hauled the crate to the opposite side of the tent and set it with the containers that had already been checked. “I hope so, too. Morathi would probably face complete mutiny if we suddenly weren’t able to treat the soldier’s blistering feet.”

  “The blisters I can handle. But, Chhaya’s bane, if I have to look at one more saddle sore—”

  Both men shared a laugh as they continued to sort through the supply crates that had been delivered to the makeshift Healers’ pavilion a mark earlier.