‘Has it been tended to?’ Eydis said flatly.
‘It’s fine.’
‘I asked a question. And I expect an honest answer this time.’
‘No, my queen, but —’
Eydis rang a bell. ‘Mariette.’ Eydis’ voice was hard when the kennel master appeared at the door. ‘Take Nicolai to the infirmary. I task you with this for discretion. You understand?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ the woman said, turning expectantly to Nicolai.
‘But —’ Nicolai said.
‘Go. Jarel can tell us the rest.’
Nicolai’s face flushed. He opened his mouth as though to argue again; however, the challenge in Eydis’ glare silenced him and got him to his feet, his ripped shirt billowing. He bowed his head first to Eydis, and then to Henri, and left, Mariette on his heels.
An icy rage had settled over Eydis.
‘Sister, it’s my fault —’
‘Jarel,’ the queen snapped, ‘were orders obeyed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you are not to blame. Tell me what happened.’
Jarel flinched at his sister’s words, but nodded. ‘We followed the rumours up the mountain. The first two villages were empty. The livestock had been branded with the same mark as … as Nicolai. It’s her face, Eydis, the brand.’
‘I gathered as much. Continue.’
‘The tracks from the village led us to the next – they’re joining, you see. About halfway to the third village, we heard them. It was like a huge … celebration. We could see them from the hideout Nicolai had set up. It was a ceremony – they had a great fire, which they danced around as they heated the branding irons. People were lining up to get the mark, fighting over who got it first. Some people were covered in them …’
There was a green tinge to Jarel’s face, and Henri realised he was in shock. She knew the queen’s brother had gone through rigorous training, though she doubted he had seen the horrors of war before.
‘Was there a leader?’ Eydis asked.
‘We couldn’t see one at first, but Nicolai spotted her, standing at the edge of the … initiation.’
‘Her?’
‘Not Ines, someone else.’
‘Nicolai recognised her?’
Jarel nodded. ‘Farlah.’
Eydis’ face fell, and Henri watched as her friend steeled herself against whatever demons lay beneath the surface there.
‘Who’s Farlah?’ Henri cut in. She needed to have the whole story. Five hundred of her best kindred were a day’s march beneath the East Sea by now – like hell she’d accept anything less than the complete truth.
Eydis met her gaze and understood. ‘Ines has two commanders, Langdon and Farlah, cousins. Torturers, from a line of torturers. Even some who know nought of Oremere have heard those names before.’
‘Are they Ashai?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘How did Nicolai recognise Farlah?’
‘Nicolai’s from Qatrola. He spent time in one of the prisons in Tokarr, where Ines has been in power for years. Farlah has free rein over the cells there. She took an interest in him.’
Henri didn’t try to hide her shudder. ‘Why?’
‘Sometimes, there’s no reason to madness.’
Henri nodded. That concept was familiar to her. ‘How did he escape?’
‘Eydis rescued him,’ Jarel said, his eyes gleaming with pride. ‘She rescued them all, and sent that bitch running back to Oremere with her tail between her legs.’
This was news to Henri. ‘Why didn’t you kill her?’
Jarel jumped to his sister’s defence. ‘She did what —’
Eydis raised a hand and he fell silent. ‘Henri thinks like a warrior,’ she said, ‘as I wish I had back then. I was young, Henri, drunk on the glory of an unlikely victory, and I wanted to send a message, a warning to whoever the enemy was, that we would not be conquered.’
‘A taunt?’ Henri said, struggling to keep the edge from her voice.
‘I was young.’
Jarel looked ready to jump down Henri’s throat at the hint of criticism. Henri met his gaze and held it. Let’s see you try, she thought. She was itching for a fight, pent-up power filling her veins. But then she remembered. Hadn’t it been her impulsive actions with Bleak and the King’s Army that had set everything in motion with Arden?
Eydis rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘She recognised Nicolai in the village. She had him branded, and let him go … A message for me.’
Jarel reached out and gripped his sister’s shoulder. ‘It cannot be undone. You weren’t to know. And if it weren’t for you, Nicolai and the others would not be alive today.’
‘Is there more?’ was all she asked.
‘Nicolai fought them off, he fought the whole time, but they overwhelmed him. Once he was branded, they released him, but it’s …’
‘I know,’ said Eydis. ‘Farlah is combining them all into one army.’
‘But it’s not an army,’ said Henri. ‘It’s an untrained, chaotic mob. They can be overcome —’
‘Three villages and counting will start making an impact on our produce, our livestock. And Ines doesn’t care about their level of combat skill; she will throw the weight of our own people at us, to diminish our strength, our resources, before she hits us with her real forces – the masked soldiers of Oremere.’
‘You’ve seen this?’ Henri asked, ignoring the surge of her own power at the thought.
‘I don’t need to.’
Henri let her head sink to her hands, a headache suddenly blooming behind her eyes. She took a deep breath and looked between brother and sister.
‘King Arden is part of these forces?’
‘You felt her power in him, Henri,’ Eydis reminded her gently.
Henri swallowed the lump in her throat and tugged down the sleeves of her leathers to stop the goosebumps racing up her arms. She wouldn’t forget the strange pulse of foreign magic, nor the king’s naively victorious face as he had wielded power he thought was his. It had felt wrong, and ancient, as though it could burst free of its host at any moment.
Concern furrowed the brows of both siblings before her. Their mirrored mannerisms hit Henri in the chest, but she pushed Sahara from her mind. Sahara had abandoned her, had left her to face the impossible alone. Eydis and Jarel didn’t deserve the envy that poured towards them from her in that moment. And Sahara didn’t deserve to be missed, not now.
‘The immortality rumour.’ Eydis chewed the inside of her cheek as she mulled it over. ‘It’s not true. Or, I don’t think it is. But there’s something not right there. We don’t know the whole story.’
Nicolai did not make a reappearance, and Henri could sense Eydis’ impatience growing as the hours passed and word hadn’t arrived. The queen’s fingers tapped incessantly on the armrest of her chair.
‘Eydis,’ Henri said. ‘Go to him. I’ll retire for the night anyway, and Jarel looks as though he could use a bath and some rest as well.’
Eydis’ eyes snapped up to Henri’s, as though she’d almost forgotten she was there, the exhaustion clear on her face. She nodded.
Henri stepped outside, the sudden chill of the passageway taking her breath away. She made to duck back inside to get her furs, but the heated voices within stopped her.
‘— his queen first, his lover second to that. How dare he —’
‘He was only trying to spare you anguish, Eydis,’ Jarel’s voice sounded.
‘That is not for him to choose!’
‘I agree, which is why you know the truth.’
‘And how much truth is that? Whose truth? I need people I can trust, more than ever. Do I not deserve honesty from him?’
‘Sister, we both know this is not about what happened at the village.’
‘Oh? You know something I do not, brother? Tell me.’
There was silence, and Henri debated striding back into the study at the opportune moment.
Then Eydis said in a quiet vo
ice, ‘You think I like sending him to the infirmary with her? You don’t think I wish I could tend to my lover’s wounds myself? I am the Queen of Havennesse. I have an army of lunatics wreaking havoc on my lands, and a force of much deadlier warriors on my doorstep. I am queen first, always.’
‘I know.’
Henri heard footsteps, and moments later, came face to face with Mariette.
‘Need something?’ the kennel master said, looking pointedly at the door before rapping her knuckles hard against it.
Henri schooled her face into a mask of neutrality. ‘I forgot my furs,’ she said, and opened the door without waiting for a response from within.
Mariette said nothing about her loitering, not then and there in any case. She had informed them that Nicolai’s wound was infected, and that she’d spiked his tonic with a sleeping draught so he was forced to rest. Henri had snatched up her furs and pulled them tight around her. She left them, the enormity of the night finally taking its toll, exhaustion tugging at her like an insistent child. She returned to her lavish guest chambers and closed the door behind her. Like most chambers she’d seen so far in Wildenhaven, the space was cosy. Thick fur rugs and opulent soft furnishings blocked out the chill in the air, along with a massive, full fire. She went to the settee at the end of her four-poster bed and sat, reaching down to unlace her boots. It had been a very long day. She pushed them off at the heel and rested her elbows on her knees, sighing heavily. Tomorrow she’d start the journey through the tunnels beneath Havennesse and the East Sea to meet her kindred. Tomorrow, they would be officially at war.
Chapter 8
The Battalonian training arena was a flat, dry expanse of earth, unprotected from the sun, with tufts of fountain grass everywhere. They waved in the blistering breeze, making a mockery of Swinton. It was too damn hot for armour, and so he wore only light boots, linen pants and a loose shirt, while most of the Battalonians trained shirtless. Swinton watched Fiore spar with Prince Nazuri in the training ring, their chests shining with sweat. The young prince was good. Better than good, and Fi wasn’t holding back as he lunged and struck with the wooden practice sword. Prince Nazuri matched him blow for blow, using his slender frame to his advantage.
Swinton turned back to his own sparring partner and readied himself. His opponent lunged for him, but Swinton was fast and deflected the blows with his battleaxes. He feinted left, and sidestepped a strike. He kept his feet grounded, noting the undisciplined nature of his partner’s footwork. With an angled swipe of his leg, Swinton struck his opponent’s feet from beneath him and ended the round with his battleaxe poised at his partner’s neck. The man nodded at him and accepted Swinton’s hand up. Swinton paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The heat slowed him. His whole body was slick with perspiration, and it made every move ten times heavier. But it would mean that when he left Battalon, he would be stronger and faster than ever.
‘Dimi,’ called Fi.
Swinton looked up to find Fi grinning with an arm around Prince Nazuri.
What in the realm …? Fiore is friendly with the prince?
Swinton approached cautiously. ‘What is it?’
‘His Highness thought you might indulge him in a round?’
‘I wouldn’t dream —’
‘I insist, Commander,’ the prince said, stepping forward from beneath the weight of Fi’s arm. ‘You’ve been watching us like a hawk, it only seems fair that you get a chance.’
Fiore laughed at this. ‘Dimi’s always watching, Highness.’
‘It’s my job,’ Swinton said pointedly.
‘I would expect no less from King Arden’s most esteemed military man,’ Prince Nazuri offered.
Swinton bowed his head in thanks.
‘Are you ready, then, Commander?’
Swinton gripped his battleaxes and nodded. ‘Yes, Your Highness, on your mark.’
The prince didn’t hesitate – he lifted his shield and brought his broadsword over the top, advancing. Gravel crunched, and Nazuri struck with the precision and speed of a Battalonian viper. Silent and fierce, his attack came in a burst of drives and lunges.
‘Your style is unique, Highness,’ Swinton said, deflecting the prince’s overhead thrust with his axes crossed before him.
‘As is yours, Commander. No doubt you have benefitted from your traditional schooling as well as training at the hands of Captain Murphadias here,’ said Prince Nazuri.
‘Yes, I have, Your Highness.’
The prince nodded, switching sword hands. ‘I was trained in the swordplay customs of all four continents of the Upper Realm,’ he said. ‘So I have a similarly mixed style.’
Swinton lunged, catching Prince Nazuri by surprise. The royal stumbled back and Swinton struck again, and again.
‘Dimi,’ Fiore warned softly from the sidelines.
But no, if Swinton was to gain Prince Nazuri’s trust, he would have to do it right. He kept his attack sharp and focused, driving the prince back into the sand. Prince Nazuri slashed the battleaxes away and jabbed, and Swinton easily dodged the strike. Swinton took a deep breath and readied himself for the final attack. He plunged forward, becoming one with his axes as he whirled them at the prince. Prince Nazuri evaded the blows, and began to retreat, shrinking back, until Swinton had him pinned against the wall on the far side of the training area.
‘Dimitri,’ Fiore said. ‘That’s enough.’
Swinton stepped back from the wide-eyed prince with a bow. ‘His Highness will never improve if no one seeks to challenge him in the ring.’
‘Your Highness,’ Fiore began. ‘Forgive the commander, he’s —’
‘There is nothing to forgive, Captain Murphadias. Commander Swinton is right. If my soldiers sought to test me properly, I would be a better swordsman, and perhaps the commander wouldn’t have bested me.’
Swinton returned his axes to the straps on his back and bowed in acknowledgement.
‘Commander, I wish to train with you from now on. You have proven yourself a worthy opponent.’
Swinton ignored Fi’s furrowed brow and bowed again. ‘As you wish, Your Highness.’
Swinton’s Battalonian chambers were far more spacious and decadent than his rooms back in Ellest. When he returned to them, he exhaled a deep breath of relief. He’d made progress: the prince had noticed him. It was the beginning of a slow and delicate game, but Swinton had won the first round.
Swinton washed himself quickly and efficiently with the sponges and soaps Kamath had left for him. The squire was good-natured, but his enthusiasm made him a royal pain in Swinton’s backside. He was also certain that Kamath had to be reporting his movements to someone. Whether it was King Arden in Ellest or King Roswall of Battalon, he didn’t know. Either way, Swinton knew he could trust no one.
He towel-dried himself and dressed in a clean shirt and pants. He tied up his hair so at least the nape of his neck was cool, and wandered back out to his bedroom. And stopped in his tracks. Therese, one of the Ellestian housemaids, was straightening the sheets on his bed.
‘Good afternoon, Commander,’ she said, curtseying.
Even though the young redhead had journeyed with them from Heathton, Swinton was yet to become accustomed to her presence in the shiprock palace. She seemed too timid and delicate for this harsh place.
He nodded in greeting and made to leave. He hated being present when the servants tended to the household chores in his chambers. Plus, Therese made him nervous.
‘Commander?’ she called as he grasped the doorhandle.
He turned to face her. ‘Yes?’
She was blushing furiously and could hardly meet his eyes. ‘I wanted … I wanted to thank you.’
Swinton frowned. ‘What for?’
‘For requesting me. I … I prefer being in your service than …’ Her eyes went to the floor. ‘I am grateful.’
Swinton stared at her. He hadn’t made that request. ‘You’re … You’re welcome,’ he said finally.
As Therese left, a
messenger appeared at the door with a note for him. He glanced at the royal seal, Prince Nazuri’s seal. It had been tampered with, clearly opened and resealed with fresh wax. He glanced at the porter, but his face was schooled into neutrality. Saying nothing, Swinton broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. It was an invitation to dine with Prince Nazuri and King Roswall later this evening. Swinton toyed with the chain tucked into the front of his shirt. He’d never dined with King Arden, not in this respect. It seemed like an odd request from the Battalonian royals. Perhaps … Perhaps Swinton’s prowess in the training ring had impressed the young prince? Whatever their motivations, it brought Swinton another step closer to Prince Nazuri, as King Arden had ordered.
Beside Swinton, the messenger cleared his throat, and Swinton realised he was waiting for a response.
‘Tell the king and prince I would be honoured,’ Swinton said.
‘Very good, Commander,’ the messenger replied, before ducking out of the room.
Later that evening, Swinton was escorted to a dining hall he hadn’t seen before. It was smaller than the one in Ellest, though just as decadent. This must be where the royals dined each night, while where he’d been dining these past weeks accommodated the rest of the household and staff. There was probably another hall somewhere for formal feasts, but for all his training and keen observations, Swinton was still a stranger to the layout of the palace.
The table was set with bronze plates and cutlery, with matching goblets and wine decanters. Swinton was glad he had changed. He now wore a deep-navy tunic with his father’s sigil, a pair of crossed battleaxes, emblazoned on the breast, and a pair of crisp black pants. Kamath had made himself useful by cleaning his boots, too. And so, standing beside the dining table, shifting from foot to foot, Swinton waited for King Roswall and Prince Nazuri to arrive.
The commander let his mind wander, and though he tried not to dwell upon how difficult these last few weeks had been, his mind kept looping back to the subject. Being in a foreign continent was hard enough when he didn’t speak the native tongue fluently, but to make matters worse, he and Fiore were drifting apart. His one ally, his one trusted friend here, was keeping busy, keeping his distance. It was Swinton’s own fault, he could acknowledge that to himself at least. He’d been harsh on Fiore in the weeks before their departure from Ellest. He’d seen him making eyes at the drunk Angovian girl, Bleak, and had exchanged harsh words with him about loyalty and inappropriate relations. The guilt Swinton felt for it was extraordinary. He’d betrayed his friend and the girl, leaving her to rot in a cell before being shipped off to Moredon Tower. Then there were the flyers. The ones that seemed to have spilled across the seas from Ellest and into Belbarrow. The ones that Fiore was obsessing over. Despite Swinton’s orders, he had the sinking feeling that Fi was going ahead and investigating without him, which could get him into serious trouble.
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