“He burned plenty of charcoal,” Gunnar retorted stubbornly. “We couldn’t keep enough of the stuff on hand, he burned so much of it! And if you really think that I’m one of those despicable treasure-hunters, you should just cut off my head here and now!”
Bergstrom’s grin had faded to a wry smile. “I do seem to recall that among Master Torvald’s collection of brats, there was one called Gunnar. You’ll look remarkably like him if you ever manage to grow in a proper beard. Why the deception?”
Gunnar rubbed his forehead with one hand. The game was over. Since Inge had already revealed so much telltale information, Gunnar saw no reason to withhold the rest of it. “Treasure-hunters,” he said sullenly. “After Dad died, they flocked to the smithy like rats to rotting food. Inge said we had no choice but to hide ourselves, hide who we were. When we moved to the capital, I couldn’t very well apprentice myself to another smith without raising questions about my first master. The military was the only other occupation I was fit for, but I couldn’t enlist with a sword like Loyalty slung over my back—that one’s mine, by the way, so don’t go confiscating it. Obedience and Patience belong to Eirik and Einar, and Respect was—”
“Master Torvald’s,” Bergstrom interrupted. “Yes, I know. I recognized it immediately.”
A bitter sense of defeat washed over Gunnar. The captain had known from the beginning of their conversation who he was. Bergstrom had manipulated him into a confession, for whatever reason, instead of just confronting him with the facts.
“Gunnar Torvaldson,” Captain Bergstrom said abruptly, and Gunnar’s attention flew to his face, “you are hereby discharged from His Majesty’s military, effective immediately.”
Gunnar started forward. “But—!”
Captain Bergstrom did not give him the chance to protest. “Do you honestly believe that after losing the greatest swordmaker in generations to a mere plague that we would sacrifice his son and protégé to the battlefield? You were apprenticed to your father in the smithy, were you not?” Upon Gunnar’s mute nod, he continued, “From this day forward, you are to continue your apprenticeship with the king’s own smith, Master Kettil. He was your father’s contemporary and friend, and he should be able to finish your education quite nicely.”
Mixed emotions played across Gunnar’s face. “I… I don’t know what to say, sir,” he admitted. He had already thrown away any dreams of following in his father’s footsteps. What’s more, he enjoyed the life of a soldier, the camaraderie and the thrill of battle. Abandoning the smithy had been one of the most painful choices he had ever made, but months later, he didn’t know if he wanted to return to it.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Bergstrom told him. “Master Kettil is waiting at the forge. Get to it, Torvaldson.”
Gunnar instinctively stood. It didn’t matter what he wanted, he realized, for the choice had already been made for him. And in a way, he was grateful.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.
Bergstrom merely waved him on his way.
***
Inge felt like her entire body had been pummeled, like she was one giant, walking bruise. That she was supposed to pretend everything was normal only added insult to injury.
She had been excused from training with the castle guard for now, and she would have been thankful for that had the time not been devoted to tutoring lessons instead.
“You’re not paying attention,” her tutor chastised her. Inge’s drifting gaze snapped up to his face and then back down to the atlas that lay between them. They were in the middle of a geography lesson, a subject that always failed to hold her interest.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, and she grasped her pen a fraction tighter. “What were you saying?”
The tutor snorted. “If you’re to be the next king, don’t you think it’s even the slightest bit important for you to know how far your realm extends, and with which countries you share borders?”
She could see his point. She wasn’t going to be the next king, though. Eventually King Halvard would accept that she was a girl and let her go back to her family.
“Well?”
“Y-yes, of course,” Inge stammered. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay better attention from now on.”
The lesson ended shortly afterward, the tutor no more impressed with her efforts than before. He quickly packed his teaching materials into his bag and left the library in a disdainful snit. Inge rubbed her cramping hand and stared absently out the window.
She heard the door open and shut again and glanced that direction to see Colonel Raske. He was to escort her back to her bedroom so that she could rest before her afternoon lessons.
“How much longer do I have to do this?” she asked.
“It went that badly?”
“Of course it did. I’m not a scholar, and I never wanted to be one. Is magic this difficult?”
“Why?” said Raske. “You want to add that to your list of studies?”
“No!” cried Inge, an embarrassed blush upon her cheeks. “I just… I don’t know. I’ve always had trouble learning things I have no interest in.”
“Learning is a skill you have to practice just like any other.”
“But I don’t really need to know any of this! I’m just biding my time until King Halvard changes his mind!”
“What if he never changes his mind?”
Inge’s mouth opened and then shut wordlessly. King Halvard had to change his mind. He couldn’t marry his daughter off to another girl, for one thing, and he couldn’t very well think that the noble families would accept a mere peasant ascending to the throne, for another. The idea that he might never change his mind was simply preposterous! If it came to that, she would run away now and risk treason rather than stay.
“You look like someone who’s contemplating jumping out the nearest window,” Raske dryly observed.
Inge’s temper flared. “And what if I did?”
“I don’t think it’ll be too much longer,” he said, though. She thought she could probably count on one hand the number of times he had answered the actual question she posed.
“You said that at the beginning, and here we still are four days later.” Inge shoved her school supplies into the desk that had been reserved for her use and stood in a huff. “If he doesn’t change his mind soon, I might really throw myself out a window! I don’t know how much more of this I can take! Tutors and noblemen sneering down their noses at me, mysterious villains attacking me in the middle of the night!”
Sympathy flashed across his face. “Try to bear it as best you can.”
“You said that at the beginning, too.” She slipped past him into the hall.
Raske followed. “You have a surprisingly good memory for someone who claims to have so much trouble learning.”
“Only if I have a reason to remember.”
“So find a reason for the subjects you have so much trouble in.”
She shot a narrow-eyed glare at him, but he ignored it.
“Was Gunnar transferred this morning?” she asked. A muscle shifted along the colonel’s jaw; she took this as an affirmative. “Where’s he stationed now?”
“That’s Captain Bergstrom’s decision, not mine,” Raske said woodenly.
“So you don’t know,” Inge surmised. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. His silence was answer enough.
It was close to noon. Inge usually ate lunch in her room alone, a blissful chance for solitude in the middle of the day. In her old life she had spent every waking hour tending to her younger brothers and sisters. In this new life, she was shuttled around to lessons and gatherings. She was unaccustomed to being alone, but she had come to value this brief hour of respite.
As she and Raske turned the corner that led to her room, though, she knew she would have no such respite today. Her brother leaned against the wall across from her doorway, much to the annoyance of the castle guard stationed there.
“Gunnar!” Eagerly she started forward,
only to stop dead in her tracks. His brows were drawn together in a scowl, but that was not what had taken her by surprise. The scent of soot and ashes clung to him, achingly familiar. “Why do you smell like a smithy?” Inge asked with growing panic.
Gunnar pushed away from the wall. “Oh, the jig’s up, and it’s your fault. After all the times you scolded us to be careful! Honestly, Inge, I don’t know whether to hug you or smack you upside the head!”
She glanced nervously from Raske beside her to the soldier at her door, uncertain how to respond.
“Never mind,” said Gunnar. “I don’t have a lot of time before I’m due back. I’ve come for Loyalty.”
She started. “What? What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Captain Bergstrom finding the entire hoard of weapons beneath your bed and knowing exactly who we are,” Gunnar replied plainly. “There’s no point in secrecy any longer. I’ve been discharged from the army and tossed back into the smithy.”
She was keenly aware of their small audience, but if what Gunnar said was true there was no point in trying to be discreet. “What do you mean, discharged from the army? Just like that?”
“Just like that. I’ve just spent the whole morning smelting ore in the king’s smithy, under Master Kettil’s guidance. I’ve been issued quarters there, and there’s no reason for me not to keep my own sword with me—it’s obviously not safe in your room anyway.”
“Oh, for—!” She broke off in disgust and charged through her bedroom door. She should have known that Bergstrom would search the entire room after that attack, especially once he had found the first dagger. Because nothing had been missing, she had assumed nothing had been disturbed. Of course Bergstrom wouldn’t have been that obvious.
“Hey, careful there!” Gunner cried as she fished one shrouded weapon after another out from under the bed. She haphazardly cast the smaller blades behind her, indifferent to his warning.
“Inge!”
Her hand grasped the hilt of a longsword. She could feel its shape through the covering. “Loyalty,” she said as she dragged it out from underneath the bed. It was heavy. Even with both hands she had trouble hefting it.
Gunnar stooped and grasped the cloth-bound blade. “You’re sure?” he asked suspiciously. Inge glared at him. “All right, all right. I just don’t want to get back to my quarters and discover you’ve handed me Eirik or Einar’s sword by mistake.”
“Theirs are lighter, and the hilts are more squareish in shape. Besides, why should you wait until you get back to your quarters to unwrap it? We’ve made a spectacle enough already, so you might as well satisfy our audience’s curiosity.”
She looked past him to where Colonel Raske and her guard stood at the doorway. Both shamelessly watched the interchange.
Her brother’s gaze followed hers. She thought he might feel awkward, but instead his back straightened. Pride in his every move, he wrenched away the knotted twine that held the sword’s cover in place. The cloth followed, and the sheathed blade saw daylight for the first time in months.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” he spoke to his former commanding officer as he fixed the sword into place. “I lied to you this morning. It seems Captain Bergstrom was more interested in who my father was than in my relationship to the new prince. I seem to recall you were a little interested in that as well.”
From her position on the floor, Inge observed the confidence that radiated from her brother. It was in the way he stood, in the way he held his head. Gunnar’s place in the world had been restored. It made her wonder whether she had been wrong to propose they conceal it.
“I was interested,” Raske said. “It seems I had good cause to be.”
“Are you taking the rest of these with you, Gunnar?” Inge asked. When he turned confused eyes upon her, she elaborated. “I seriously doubt that Captain Bergstrom searched this room on his own. If he knows the hoard is here, half a dozen castle guards know as well, and the story will only spread from there. I don’t particularly want people breaking in to nab a blade or two. The last couple of days have been rough enough already.”
The incident of the previous morning had been kept a secret, even from her brother. Gunnar eyed her suspiciously but admitted, “I hadn’t really thought about the others blades.”
“Well, think about it, and come back for them when you’ve figured out what to do. Now go away. I’m getting a headache.”
“Is that an order, Prince Inge?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yes,” she retorted. “You have what you came for, so go away. Go get all sooty and fire-licked to your heart’s content.”
He reached one hand forward and ruffled her short hair, surprising her with that affectionate gesture. “Put the legacy away nicely, will you? We can finally take pride in it again.”
Then, he strode out the door with nothing more than a brief nod to Raske and the guard there.
Inge made no immediate attempt to replace the smaller blades beneath the bed. She ached too much to put forth the effort. More than anything she wanted to have a good long cry.
“So when you told me you’d heard of Torvald Geirson,” said Colonel Raske, still in the doorway, “what you meant was that he sired and raised you? Or am I wrong that your brother just walked out of here bearing a genuine Virtue Sword?”
Next to him, the guard goggled, having not followed the conversation until that very point.
“I don’t think I understood how famous our father’s work was until after he died,” Inge said dully. “Suddenly all these lowlifes appeared at the smithy, one after another, each claiming that they had commissioned a sword from my father and that they had come to collect. What were we to do but pack up and run away? What would you have done?”
“I’m probably not the best person to ask,” Raske replied. “I firmly believe in justified bloodshed.”
Inge nodded. “You would’ve fought. Gunnar did. If he’d been alone, he would’ve kept fighting, but we had the younger ones to worry about, not to mention the rest of our village. They didn’t appreciate the sort of rogues that kept coming.” She sighed heavily. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Is our father really important enough that Captain Bergstrom would dismiss Gunnar from the army and return him to the smithy?”
“Yes,” said Raske. “If we’d known your brother was Torvald Geirson’s son when he enlisted, his application would’ve been refused. Much as we need soldiers, we need skilled artisans more. I take it your brother was apprenticed?”
“Since he was twelve. Dad was just starting his weapons training, though. Mostly Gunnar made horse and farming equipment, because that was more useful. He was good, though. I’m glad for him.”
Raske said nothing to this. The soldier at the door kept quiet as well. In the silence, Inge rubbed her forehead as mixed emotions writhed within her. Her family had undergone such hardship to protect and preserve that legacy of Torvald’s work, and all their efforts had frayed and splintered in a moment. It didn’t seem real. They had known that their father’s name brought brigands and opportunists running, but they had not realized there were others who would help them.
Her silent melancholy was interrupted by a rustling next to her. She opened her eyes to discover Colonel Raske carefully gathering up the smaller cloth-bound weapons she had tossed from beneath the bed. He pressed the first three into her hands.
“Put these away carefully, as your brother said. If you want to write an inventory of what you have, I’m sure Captain Bergstrom will be glad to know what his men are responsible for guarding. Plus, we’ll know what to look for if anything goes missing.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“Your father was one of the greatest men ever to live,” he told her.
“I know he was. He was to us.”
“He was to many people. You—” He bit off his words, a self-conscious red staining his ears, his eyes alight with enthusiasm that he instinctively tried to suppress. “He was one
of the greatest men ever to live,” he said again, as though restraining himself from speaking more than this.
“I know,” said Inge, gratitude and grief warring within her.
The mingled sorrow and pride that she carried for her father reflected on his face. He was the son of a hero, Lukas Falk, and yet he looked to her father—a smith, a mere craftsman—with such great reverence. It was a humbling moment, one that she wished would linger.
Such was not her luck.
“Come on,” he said abruptly. “You can’t just sit in a stupor all day. Your lunch was brought before we came, and you still have lessons this afternoon, Prince Inge.”
The “Prince Inge” snapped her back to reality. “My dad’s not important enough to get me discharged from this foolish role?” she guessed.
Colonel Raske actually laughed, and the smile that accompanied it was one of genuine amusement. Her heart twisted strangely in her chest.
“It seems not. I’m sorry, but you’re stuck.”
Then, he turned to collect the rest of the discarded blades. Inge distractedly stowed the items under the bed one by one. “The inventory is a good idea,” she said, wary of any silence between them. She already had a mental catalog of the weapons, so committing it to paper would be easy work.
“Write it down and I’ll carry it to Captain Bergstrom with my own hand,” Raske replied.
“Thank you.” The words were hardly more than a whisper.
He handed her the last blade. “Your time is short, Your Highness. I have to go receive reports from my men, but I’ll be back soon to collect you for your afternoon lessons. Please be ready.”
Inge nodded. With that simple acknowledgment of his words, Raske made his departure. Her eyes followed him from the room, and it wasn’t until he had left that she mustered the strength to pick herself up from the floor.
He’d handled the revelation of her parentage surprisingly well. If someone had kept such a secret from her, she probably would have resented them. In contrast, Raske had been level-headed, even joyful about the discovery. The light in his eyes when he spoke of her father brought to mind a child’s wonder, so straightforward and true. A faint smile touched her lips as she recalled it.
The Legendary Inge Page 11