The Legendary Inge

by Kate Stradling

  His suggestion of an inventory was a good one. She procured pen, ink, and paper from a desk in the corner of her room and jotted the list as she ate her lunch. A knot in her chest seemed to loosen more with each line. She and Gunnar would have to decide what they wanted to do with the smaller blades eventually, but that was a task that could wait, for now.

  Chapter 11: Family Legacy

  That evening, after the royal family retired to bed, Colonel Raske rapped sharply on Captain Bergstrom’s office door. The Captain of the Castle Guard had a habit of working late; Raske’s knock received a terse command to enter.

  “Ah,” said Bergstrom when he saw who had come to visit him. “What can I do for you at this hour, Leiv? You should be asleep already—you won’t be alert enough for your lessons in the morning.”

  Raske hardly needed this reminder from someone with such poor sleeping habits. “I came to deliver this from the prince.” He proffered the inventory that Inge had given him after dinner. Its contents had surprised him: she had described each blade perfectly—length, weight, materials used, visual identifiers, and names, down to the smallest knife in the collection.

  “The prince?” Captain Bergstrom repeated skeptically. “What is it?”

  “An inventory of Torvald Geirson’s legacy. I understand you were already aware of its existence.”

  Bergstrom paused in the act of taking the page. He could not stop the smirk that leapt to his face, though. “Does news travel that quickly?”

  Raske was hard-pressed not to show his instinctive annoyance. “You might’ve told me Gunnar Lang was Master Torvald’s son. I don’t see why you had to be so secretive about it.”

  “I had to confirm it,” Bergstrom replied. He looked over the inventory’s contents as he continued. “Really, I’m surprised you didn’t discern it before me. Gunnar’s style of fighting is remarkably like Master Torvald’s—I watched him in practice yesterday and wondered that no one had noticed the similarities.”

  “I only sparred with Master Torvald once,” Raske retorted, “and that was a decade or more ago. Yes, yes,” he added as Bergstrom opened his mouth, “I know I should always memorize an opponent’s fighting style. I will endeavor to do better in the future.”

  “It’s no matter. The important thing is that Master Torvald’s son and apprentice is back in the smithy, to carry on his family’s legacy for another generation. To think he might have easily been killed at the Border Conflict!”

  “That’s no understatement,” Raske agreed. “He was fearless in battle. Looking back, it almost seems like a miracle that he survived.”

  “The fearless ones always survive. It’s the cowards that second-guess themselves and falter.” Bergstrom returned his attention to the list. “What was the point of giving me this?”

  “Prince Inge was worried that some enterprising soldier might sneak into her bedchamber and make off with a blade or two.”

  “His bedchamber,” the captain corrected.

  Raske ignored him. “The inventory makes record of Master Torvald’s surviving work, so that you and your guards are aware of the trove kept within the castle. That way, the prince has no cause to worry.”

  “I’m surprised Prince Inge did not worry I would confiscate the whole of it. What a wry sense of humor Master Torvald had. Did you see these names? A knife called ‘Daffodil’ and a dagger called ‘Firefly.’ He drew inspiration from such odd sources.”

  Interesting as the inventory was, Raske was not distracted from Bergstrom’s first statement. “Why should you confiscate the whole of it?”

  “Because Master Torvald’s legacy was meant to be used, not hoarded by his children. Oh, don’t look at me like that. This is Master Torvald we’re talking about. Even from the grave he commands respect. Still, this trove is worth a small fortune without his name attached, but with it, it’s priceless. ‘Forget-me-not’—I like that for a dagger. It leaves a lasting impression.”

  “The trove belongs to Master Torvald’s children,” Raske said bluntly. This was so obvious to him that he had not considered that anyone else might feel differently.

  “Right now, Master Torvald’s children belong to King Halvard,” Bergstrom replied, glancing wryly up at him. His eyes returned to the page. “‘Cricket,’ ‘Foxglove,’ and ‘Butterfly.’ Delightful.”

  “Then King Halvard is aware that he adopted his son from Master Torvald’s brood?”

  “Oh, yes. I told him immediately. He’s quite perturbed about the matter—if it’s Master Torvald’s child, we have to take extra pains to keep the prince alive.”

  “Whereas, when she was just an unknown peasant, we didn’t,” said Raske dryly.

  “He,” Bergstrom corrected. At long last, he set the inventory off to one side. His customary sternness had returned. “You seem to be having some trouble recalling the king’s orders tonight, Leiv. That’s twice you’ve slipped and called the prince a girl. And yes, her parentage does make a difference. Of course if she were a mere peasant, we would still try to keep her alive, but King Halvard is in Master Torvald’s debt, to an extent that you probably don’t realize. When word of his death arrived, His Majesty immediately dispatched messengers to collect the family, to make certain they were cared for. The children had already disappeared, though.”

  “According to Inge, their home was targeted by treasure-seekers,” said Raske.

  “Gunnar said much the same thing, and I can well imagine it. Master Torvald lived so far removed from us here at the castle that he’d been dead almost a month before we heard of it.”

  “I often wondered why he lived so far away while Master Kettil occupied the position of king’s smith. Master Kettil is gifted, to be sure, but Master Torvald’s skill was legendary.”

  “Yes, legendary enough for him to earn his choice of life and land,” Bergstrom said. He leaned back in his chair, an expression of faint contempt on his face. “After the Ten Years’ War he opted to settle in that remote northern province and craft farmers’ tools. Halvard himself could not deny the choice—your father and Master Torvald are largely the reason we won that war, you know.”

  Raske did know. He just hadn’t realized that Halvard would still honor a debt incurred so long ago. The monarch had grown very peculiar with age, notorious for doing as he pleased in the moment. His dedication to Master Torvald, then, spoke volumes about the respect he held for the man.

  “And thanks in large part to that debt,” Bergstrom continued, his perturbed frown growing deeper, “starting tomorrow, someone is to be alongside the prince at all times, to ensure his safety. And by ‘someone,’ I mean you.”

  “What?” said Raske, dismayed. “Have I been demoted to babysitter?”

  “King Halvard himself chose you for the job. He trusts you to keep his son out of danger. If you’d rather someone else took the responsibility…” His voice trailed off, and his unspoken offer hung in the air between them.

  Raske wasn’t going to disobey the king, much as the order might rankle him. Still, he asked bitterly, “If he had known Inge was Master Torvald’s child at the beginning, would he have pressed forward with this ridiculous charade?”

  Bergstrom shrugged. “In hindsight, it’s really not surprising that one of Master Torvald’s brood would be skilled enough to take down a creature like Osvald’s night-walker. Whether Halvard would’ve acted differently is of no consequence, though. We have chosen our course and cannot veer from it now.”

  Raske said nothing to this. In the silence, Bergstrom picked up a paper from the stack on his desk and offered it to him.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about this prisoner that’s been admitted to the dungeons, do you? Your name was on the arrest warrant, and I’ve had five letters just like this, all from concerned citizens claiming that the charges are spurious and demanding his release.”

  A cynical laugh escaped Raske’s lips. He had signed only one arrest warrant since coming back to the capital, and he felt it was perfectly justified. H
e took the page, though, and confirmed the name. “Ulfred Rikardson,” he read aloud. He didn’t bother to read the rest of the letter, but returned it to the Captain of the Guard. “He was Prince Inge’s landlord. If there’s anyone in the city that’ll recognize our prince, it’ll be him. I thought it best to have him out of the way.”

  Bergstrom’s brows arched, but he conceded the point. “You’re probably right. But these charges: extortion, breach of contract, attempted exploitation of a minor—”

  “All true, unfortunately,” Raske interrupted. Briefly he summarized the conversation he had overheard between Inge and her brother. “With Gunnar’s release from the military, it seems all the wiser to keep the man who was preying on his family someplace he can’t readily get to him,” he finished.

  Bergstrom eyed the page again with distaste. “I suppose I’ll just continue to ignore these letters, then. They’re coming from people of influence, though.”

  “Some of the clientele from one of his less-than-reputable businesses?” Raske ventured.

  The captain glanced at the signature. “You may be right. The corruption among the nobles is getting out of hand.”

  “My father used to say it was cyclical, that prosperity would breed corruption, which would in turn breed calamity.”

  “Indeed,” said Bergstrom. “Your father was a wise man.”

  ***

  Inge thought that a good night’s rest should have made her feel better, but if anything, she felt worse. Her muscles ached in protest as she dragged herself out of bed and dressed for the coming day. A knock on her door sent her scrambling behind her dressing screen. “Yes?” she called.

  “Your Highness,” said Colonel Raske through the door, “I’ve come to escort you down to this morning’s lessons. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

  The very word “lessons” made her inwardly groan with anguish. Much as she wanted to protest, much as she wanted just to stay in bed and recuperate, she knew she had no such choice. No one in the castle cared how she felt. So, she simply gritted her teeth and got dressed.

  True to his word, Raske was outside when she emerged. He frowned at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m not,” she said, and she started down the hallway.

  He fell in step behind her and kept his silence the whole way. Inge harbored guilt for her curt behavior, but not enough to apologize. She glanced up at him when they arrived at her lessons. He looked as though he couldn’t care less what she felt or how she treated him. With her lips pressed in a thin line, she stalked past him into the room, where her tutor sat waiting.

  Raske wordlessly stepped inside and shut the door behind himself.

  Inge stared. “What’re you doing?”

  The colonel made no response, but simply looked ahead like an emotionless sentry.

  “Your Highness, if you would deign to sit, we have much to cover today,” said her tutor at the table.

  “What is he doing?” Inge demanded with a gesture toward their onlooker. “Why is Colonel Raske watching today?”

  “It’s not my job to question the military,” her tutor replied unpleasantly. “Now if we could please get started—”

  “What are you doing?” Inge asked the colonel again, fully ignoring her tutor at this point. “Aren’t you supposed to be off training or something?”

  Raske did not meet her gaze, but he did answer, in a rather wooden voice. “His Majesty King Halvard has ordered that His Highness Prince Inge’s person be guarded when the prince is away from his own rooms.”

  “Why?” She didn’t want him here, where he could watch her flounder at her studies beneath the antagonistic glares of her tutors. She wanted him to leave, just as he had before, and to come back to retrieve her when the lessons were done. Bad enough that she had to suffer through lessons at all, but to have an audience to her suffering was unbearable.

  “I don’t question the king,” Raske replied.

  “Can’t you wait outside?” she inquired then, her panic rising.

  “Your Highness,” said her tutor from the table.

  “Be quiet!” Inge snapped at him. “Nobody asked you to speak!”

  This imperious order drew the startled eyes of Colonel Raske, at long last. Inge scowled back at him, waiting for his answer to her question as her tutor sputtered behind her. “Wait outside,” she commanded.

  “King Halvard has ordered that I remain with you when you’re beyond the confines of your own room,” Raske said steadily.

  He would not yield, in other words. She glimpsed a flash of pity on his face—he had no more desire to be there than she had, that look said—but that only served to ignite her smoldering wrath. She was a burden. She was always a burden, and always because they made her play that part.

  “Then I’ll go back to my room,” she declared, and she wrenched the door open. Her tutor half-heartedly protested, but she strode away uncaring. He would doubtless welcome a morning away from his duties, especially given what an awful pupil she was.

  Raske fell in step behind her. “You can’t just abandon your lessons on a whim, Your Highness,” he quietly said, but he made no attempt to waylay her. He didn’t want to stand guard over her either, Inge knew.

  She held her peace, silently seething as they trekked back through the castle to her rooms. Cold fury spurred her onward. If her room was to be her only place of privacy, she would never leave it again! It was one thing to be escorted everywhere by Colonel Raske or one of his underlings and quite another for him to stay and watch over her. She was not a child who needed constant supervision. She was old enough to take care of herself, only no one would let her. And she wouldn’t even need their constant supervision if they would just admit they were wrong to keep her here and let her go back home again, the fools!

  In the throes of this mental tirade, Inge turned the final corner, intent upon taking refuge in her room and never coming out again. She stopped short at the sight that met her eyes. The door to her quarters stood wide open, and a line of soldiers emerged, carrying away the cloth-wrapped pieces of her father’s legacy. Her blood ran cold at the sight.

  “Stop!” she shouted furiously, and she dashed forward. Raske followed quick on her heels. “Thieves! What do you think you’re doing? Stop it right now!”

  The soldiers saw her and ignored her. Captain Bergstrom stepped out of the doorway.

  “Ah, Prince Inge,” he said with an aloof expression, “I did not expect you back so soon. Did you forget something?”

  Inge would have flown bodily past him to retrieve the stolen weapons, but one of his underlings caught her fast and held her. “You have no right, Bergstrom!” she cried. “You have no right!”

  “It is the king’s orders,” he replied dismissively.

  Inge was sick to death of the king’s orders. “He has no right either! My father was a freeman! King Halvard has no right to steal away the legacy he left for his children!” She lunged in an attempt to break free, but her captor held her tight. The first of the thieving soldiers rounded the corner out of her sight. A desperate lump lodged in her throat.

  “Master Jannik,” said Colonel Raske next to her, a dangerous edge to his voice.

  “This is none of your concern, Leiv. As for King Halvard not having a claim to the weapons, Torvald’s son and heir is now apprenticed to his own smith and cannot claim the same freeman’s rights as his father. A cache of weapons like this rightfully belongs in the king’s armory, for safe keeping if nothing else.”

  Panic had infused her whole being, but at these words, her former fury reignited. Was that the reason for Gunnar’s discharge from the military, to entrap him and claim his rights as Torvald’s heir? “Give back every last blade, or I swear you’ll regret it,” Inge whispered with full loathing on her lips.

  Bergstrom’s brows arched mockingly. “Is that a threat? You’re hardly in any position to make them, Your Highness. You should know by now that you cannot oppose King Halvard’s will.”


  With that, he swept down the hall to trail after his ill-gotten spoils. Inge watched his back with growing hatred. Stubborn determination welled within her to a bursting point.

  “Sverthin brenn,” she uttered through clenched teeth. The deliberate phrase was barely audible, but infused with such a strange intensity that it caught Bergstrom’s attention. He turned wide eyes upon her. Inge met his stare boldly, hatefully, uncaring of his surprise, uncaring of Raske, who wore much the same expression. For a tense moment, no one moved.

  Then, almost at the same time, both colonel and captain gasped, snatched the sword from his person, and cast it to the ground. Hilt and scabbard together glowed a dull red as each weapon radiated an unnatural heat. Bergstrom’s astonished gaze moved from his precious blade to Inge, who watched with shrewd eyes. From down the hall, a cacophony of yelps and clatters sounded. Bergstrom glanced that direction, then accusingly back at Inge. She grunted with triumph.

  “You! What have you done?” he cried as he strode forward.

  She glared wordlessly. Upon the ground, the two Virtue Swords burned brighter red. The adjoining corridor rang with echoed shouts for water as the glow of firelight cast dancing shadows against the wall.

  Bergstrom bolted into Inge’s chamber and emerged with the pitcher from her washing stand. This he immediately dashed over his own sword. The water hissed into steam. The sword only glowed brighter.

  “Reverse it!” he ordered Inge. He clenched her shirt with fisted hands. The soldier behind her released his grip as Bergstrom wrenched her forward and snarled, “Reverse whatever unholy spell you’ve called down!”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  He turned to Raske, who helplessly shook his head. Bergstrom thrust Inge away in disgust. “Dagmar!” he roared. “Dagmar, you must come quickly!”

  The doorway at the end of the hall opened and the faded sorceress stumbled from the stairwell. “We are under attack!” Dagmar announced in a panic. “Wisdom has ignited upstairs, and I cannot extinguish the spell!”