The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “In an arena battle?” Pi said, incredulous.

  “That is their way,” Torsten said. “When an afhem fails in such grandeur, their life is forfeit, and their afhemate handed either to a surviving son of proper age and ability or the winner of their sacred tournaments.”

  “Like the jousts father used to host?” Pi asked.

  “I believe he got the idea from them. Only the Shesaitju prize is more than mere renown—theirs is wealth and the loyalty of an army.”

  “An entire army?”

  “Depends on the name. They are a strange people, my King. But we must study our enemies if we ever hope to defeat them.”

  “I thought only some of them are our enemy?” Pi asked innocently.

  “But we must study our allies as well. Seasons change, as do allegiances. Leaders pass on, and sometimes their descendants forget what is best for their people.”

  “I’ll never forget.”

  “I hope not,” Torsten said. “Now, come. Enough questions. Let us see what our people want from their Crown.” Torsten extended his cane to find the nearest bundled column bearing the weight of the high, vaulted ceiling and the glass spire. From there, he figured out his position and followed the footsteps of the young king toward the throne.

  Liam was often too busy to hold public court, where any soul from the kingdom could stand before the Glass Crown and beseech their monarch. His wars to unite Pantego took up much of everyone’s time. In his later years, as his health declined, he avoided being seen altogether. For a time, Queen Oleander would receive guests, dignitaries, and representatives from all walks of life, but her ruling was harsh as the tundra from whence she came, and soon, it stopped altogether.

  Presently, Oleander had surprised Torsten with the idea to have Pi hold court weekly, building his rapport with the people. She’d hated it so—dealing with the “rabble” as she once called them—but the kingdom knew Pi only as the Miracle Prince and then Cursed King, not as the young, capable boy he seemed. Torsten didn’t know him either, and was coming to find that, while he wasn’t Liam, neither was he dull, or ordinary.

  “Is mother coming?” Pi asked as he plopped down on the Glass Throne, then slid back on the oversized chair.

  “No, she still needs rest,” Torsten said. He found the groove of the dais and stepped up, then made his way around the throne, careful not to stand beside it, but slightly behind. No mere Shieldsman should have been permitted so high, only the Wearer of White, but Pi insisted when he’d named him his newly created position of Master of Warfare—the chief military advisor. Torsten could do nothing but accept the will of his king.

  “Will she ever stop resting?” Pi asked.

  “She’s lucky to be alive, Your Grace.”

  The doors at their backs creaked open. Torsten heard a few members of the Royal Council shuffle in. Then the clanking of armor as Shieldsmen formed an arc around the rear of the throne, and Glass soldiers lined the hall.

  “Do you really remember nothing of what happened atop Mount Lister?” Torsten asked, keeping his voice low. Pi didn’t respond, but Torsten heard the boy’s collar brush against his chest. “I can’t see your head movements, Your Grace.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s like I told mother: everything since Uncle Redstar came to my room so long ago is… it’s like a dream. I remember the color red, then darkness, then light again… snow… it’s all—”

  “It’s okay, Your Grace. All that matters is you’re here with us now.”

  Pi grew somber any time those dark days were revisited. Torsten couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have endured so much and remembered so little. At first, he thought Pi was blocking the memories, but the Buried Goddess’ curse clearly ran deep.

  Perhaps it would be better for him not to remember in detail what it was like to leap from a balcony or wake up in a grave. Or how he’d instigated Muskigo’s sacking of Winde Port and allowed Redstar to usurp the kingdom. One day, Pi would figure it all out, but for now, while he learned what it meant to be king, Torsten and Oleander told him they’d made those decisions together. Peace of mind was the least they could offer for how they’d failed him.

  The doors of the Throne Room swung open, echoing as they banged against the inner wall on their way around. Torsten turned his head to try and better hear who was coming through. No armor clanking toward the throne was always a good thing.

  “A Sister from the Hornsheim Convent,” Caspar Brosch, the Master of Rolls, whispered in Torsten’s ear.

  Torsten nodded. By law, Lucas wasn’t permitted beside the Glass Throne to help him. Pi would, however, probably have allowed it had he asked, but Torsten wanted to appear strong at the boy’s side in so hallowed a place.

  As the sister grew nearer, he could smell the familiar scent of charred pine on her. Hornsheim was nestled in the frigid Northlands overlooking the Yevet Cove. It was there that priests took their vows of sightlessness, and that monks and sisters offered their service to Iam’s holy church. For sixty years, Wren had served as High Priest, long enough to have crowned Liam himself beneath the Eye of Iam.

  Now it was time for a new one, and all the priests in the kingdom were locked in Hornsheim for the sacred selection. And they wouldn’t leave until a majority settled on their next High Priest, when it was clear Iam showed them the proper path. Considering all the recent troubles and the rise of the cult of Nesilia, a decision was taking longer than usual. Priests from all over Pantego felt they knew what was right, what was needed.

  Torsten knew that without a High Priest, decisions came slower, with less conviction, and the people who’d come to fear so much would start to question. Freydis’ execution was made public to distract the people—a decision which backfired. Every day that a sister or a monk showed up without news, full recovery from Redstar’s betrayal was delayed.

  “Your Grace,” the sister said. “My Lords. I have come to inform you that a decision has yet to be made.”

  A chorus of groans sounded behind Torsten.

  “Are they any closer to a verdict?” Pi asked. For a boy not even yet in his teens, he had remarkable self-control and aplomb in smaller settings, not to mention the vocabulary of a scholar—nothing like the possessed version of him, prone to lashing out after long bouts of silence.

  “It appears not, Your Grace,” she said. “At this period of great consequence, there is much deliberation.”

  “A king should not sit upon this throne without the full support of the Church of Iam,” spoke Lord Kaviel Jolly. “Especially one so young.”

  “Wren the Holy served for a long time,” the sister explained, “but he was in fine health. His passing was unexpected, and there is a great deal of concern over who might be—”

  “What is your name, sister?” Torsten interrupted. He stepped forward.

  “Nauriyal, sir,” she answered.

  “By your voice, I can tell you are young. I doubt there are many who yet live from the day Wren was chosen. But I hear he was young and unexpected, known to his flock for speaking bluntly. He arrived in Hornsheim to support another more renowned priest, and in speaking on that man’s behalf, won over the entire convent.”

  “That is indeed what they say,” Nauriyal agreed.

  “They called it a miracle, same as they did the waking of our king. Can we not expect another? I fear this wait has to do with scared men deliberating, and not closing their minds and listening to Iam.”

  “Perhaps that is true, my Lord. It is not my place to say. I merely deliver the news.”

  “The people grow anxious without the priests to offer morning Light,” Pi said. “That warlock’s escape reminded them of their fear. I agree with my Council. Please, ride back and inform the clergy that a decision must be made soon for the sake of our kingdom.”

  “I will try, but the affairs of Iam cannot be rushed,” Nauriyal said.

  “Or are these more of the Darkings’ games?” Lord Kaviel Jolly remarked.

  Torsten heard the
breath catch in the sister’s throat.

  “What do you mean, Lord Jolly?” Torsten questioned.

  “I recognize the sister here from a trade meeting with the traitor’s son, Bartholomew. I’d remember a face like hers even with her head shaved as it is. She is the granddaughter of Yuri Darkings, the bastard who murdered my brother!”

  Murmurs of disbelief broke out behind Torsten. He couldn’t tell who from.

  “Those who take the cloth forsake their names, you all know that,” Torsten pronounced, raising his hand to instill silence.

  “She might know what her father did with the Caleef,” someone blurted out. Much of the Royal Council was new to Torsten, so he couldn’t identify all of them merely by the sound of their voices, especially not while in a group.

  While men argued, Torsten heard Nauriyal slide closer to the throne. “Your Grace,” she addressed Pi, “my father, Bartholomew, banished me to Hornsheim before all of the horrible things they did, all because I helped a lost soul when he wouldn’t. I have not spoken with them since, and I don’t plan to again. My faith is in Iam alone.”

  Pi took a few seconds, then replied, soft and gently, “I believe you. If we ever hope to find the Light again, we must all learn to trust each other once more. Return to Hornsheim with word of our urgency. And do not worry. We will find the traitors in your family, and they will pay for everything. For now, be glad you left that vile name behind you. Darkings no more, Daughter of the Light.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Many speak of the miracle that is your life, but not of your kindness.”

  Torsten heard the soft pucker of her kissing the foot of the throne, then she shuffled out of the room. Another week, another lack of decision.

  At least this one came with some excitement.

  “Why do they not just send a galler if their news is no news at all?” asked a voice that sounded as if it could have been Caspar Brosch.

  “I figured she vanished with the rest of their house,” Lord Kaviel said ignoring the first. “Your Grace, your leniency is welcome, but could we not use her to expose them? It’s the least they deserve.”

  “If they sent her off to Hornsheim, they either did so out of bitterness or protection from their devious plans,” Torsten said.

  “You were there, Sir Unger, when her family betrayed us all,” Jolly said. “Murdered my brother in cold blood. Who knows what they were up to.”

  “If we punished every child for the sins of their father, we’d all be dead. The Darkingses will pay when the Shesaitju fall, but young Nauriyal’s fate is out of our hands now. She’s made her choice to serve Iam, as they have made theirs to forsake him.”

  Bastards and disappointing daughters were sent off to Hornsheim to serve as sisters and monks all the time, leaving their houses and their loyalties behind. As much as Torsten may have wanted justice for all those the Darkings family had wronged, including himself, maintaining a tight bond with the church of Iam was in the Crown’s best interest.

  “Sir Unger is right,” Pi said. “My father fostered harmony with the church of Iam throughout his rule. I will do the same.”

  “As you wish,” Lord Kaviel said, and Torsten couldn’t mistake the bitterness in his tone. Men from Crowfall grew up hard and distrusting; being in the shadow of murderous Drav Cra raiders and greedy dwarves was bound to have that effect. Another time he might have scolded the new Master of Ships for his attitude, but he knew they needed men like him during this great transition. His experience defending against Drav Cra longboats at Winter’s Thumb made him invaluable.

  “A just cause, Your Grace.” This time, Torsten was sure the voice belonged to the Master of Rolls, Caspar Brosch.

  There was a shuffling movement behind him as a door squeaked open. After several whispered exchanges, Lord Kaviel Jolly said, “Your Grace, if I might be excused. We’ve just received word that two Glass galleons went down near Ice Deep.”

  “Drav Cra?” Torsten demanded.

  “I shall report back when we are sure it was the result of an attack and not just an unfortunate accident with icebergs, Master Unger.”

  Torsten still wasn’t used to being called Master, and he didn’t like it.

  “Thank you, Lord Kaviel. You’re dismissed. Sir Unger can accompany you if needed.”

  “My place is here until we have more information, Your Grace. Let us continue.” Torsten said.

  Waving in the direction of the great doors, Torsten beckoned forward the next guest of the Crown. His muscles tensed involuntarily every time. He knew guards and Shieldsmen surrounded them, but he was trained to be ready in defense of his king. The boy’s age hardly mattered; he was king and Liam’s heir.

  Torsten had a knack for spotting untrustworthy visitors—at least, he thought so when spotting could still be done with his eyes. But then there was the Darkings debacle.

  Feet shuffling across the marble floor tore Torsten from his thoughts. Knees slid. “Your Grace,” a withered old voice said. “My name is Murray, and I’m here on behalf of the South Corner. My baby boy was murdered, and my wife scarred by the cultists who ran rampant this Dawning past.”

  “You have my eternal condolences,” Pi interrupted. “In the name of Iam and all the former kings of Glass, we will make those monsters pay more than they already have.”

  “Thank ye, Grace,” Murray said. “But I’m here to request only that the Crown send more builders to help with repairs. Winter breaks, but there are still so many without beds to sleep in.”

  “Between the war in the South, repairing Winde Port, driving back Drav Cra raiders, and the selection of a new High Priest, the Crown’s resources are drawn thin, sir,” said the new Master of Masons after Pi allowed some time to pass in silence. Young Lord Leuvero Messier was the son of the governor of Westvale, who’d returned just in time from an apprenticeship with dwarves to be named to the post.

  “The Young Master of Masons is correct,” Torsten said. “Until the South is returned to order, income from trade has slowed considerably. We will do what we can to help fix South Corner, but for now, that is all we can do.”

  “I’d ask that ye’d please consider more,” Murray implored. “We are yer people too, Grace, and it was ye who invited the Drav Cra here. Who gave the cultists power and—”

  “You dare speak to your king in such a manner?” one of the Council spat. “I suggest that you leave before you get yourself hanged.”

  “I… I meant no offense,” Murray stammered. “It is merely the truth. Please, Grace—”

  “The Lord is right,” Torsten said, embarrassed he knew not which. “I assure you that South Corner does not go forgotten. You have our sympathies for your family, but we are doing all we can.”

  “Well, do more!” Murray barked, and Torsten heard the sudden clatter of armor. Then the gasp as the pommel of a sword struck the man in the gut. “Ye brought the devils here!” he screamed as he was carried away. “They took everything!” His enraged shouting echoed out into the greeting hall.

  “He’s right, Torsten,” Pi whispered after a brief period of silence, voice cracking slightly.

  “You were not you when Redstar came,” Torsten assured, leaning in toward his king’s ear. “None of us were. He twisted and cursed these lands like his own playground. But he’s gone now.”

  “What he did will never be gone…”

  “It will, Your Grace. Magic can be a wretched thing, but your father survived all the attempts of the Eastern mystics to unravel this kingdom before their own people turned on them. So shall we.”

  Torsten waved again toward the doors. One by one, dozens more citizens of the kingdom arrived. More displaced people from South Corner and witnesses of Freydis’ magic, fearing for their lives. People came asking about war or the Church of Iam or for Pi to settle a meager dispute between traders. Lucas Danvel’s father even showed up over the stolen shipment of flour. Unfortunately, there was no proving that the rival he’d indicated was behind it. Crime festered in the
district with so many homeless—and starving people were known to turn to crime to survive. All Torsten could do was offer his personal apologies.

  Then came the raving loons—more of them than anything, as usual.

  Dwarves from a Northwestern trading post arrived, suffering from the Drav Cra presence wherein protection was an arrangement Liam had established long ago. A diplomat from Glinthaven as well, the small province north of Panping from where Torsten’s worthless parents had hailed, which had long ago bowed to Liam without a fight. Their duke sought to renegotiate their rate of taxation. Pi wisely requested they wait until a new Master of Coin was appointed. Torsten and others agreed.

  Eventually, the flow of visitors slowed to a trickle. A few more angry citizens were hauled away, but getting through court without anyone hanged or sent to the dungeons was a success. Oleander rarely had such successful days when she’d received guests. And Liam seldom lasted so long before he was drawn back to the practice grounds or Shield Hall to study war strategy.

  None were complaints that indeed required the Crown’s involvement, but Torsten knew it was necessary for the people to see Pi as more than a legend, especially since he couldn’t yet fight at their side. Maybe he never would. Torsten had yet to see any indication he possessed the heart of a warrior; he’d yet to even join a hunt as the cold thawed and animals stirred.

  During what seemed to be the first prolonged period of silence they’d experienced all day, Torsten stretched out his sore legs and cracked his neck.

  “Are we done yet?” Pi asked, exhaustion setting in.

  “I think so, Your Grace,” Torsten replied. “I know this isn’t easy, but you are a natural. To think I ever doubted you—I deserve Iam’s punishment for it. Your mother will be proud.”

  “She won’t care.”

  Torsten was mid-response when the great doors creaked open once more. Murmurs from the Royal Council broke out as another guest arrived, and this time the soldiers lining the hall joined them.