The King's Commander (Kingdoms of Meria Book 1)

by Cecelia Mecca

  “Which one?”

  If there is a sword to be forged, Father will prioritize it above all else. As the only smith in Murwood, his days are usually spent making tools and nails.

  “The commander.”

  Vanni commissioned a weapon from my father?

  “When did he speak to you?”

  And why did he not mention it to me? After we parted ways last eve, I told Amma about our conversation. As was her custom, she did not tread lightly with her advice.

  “Your attraction to him will cause poor judgment.”

  Not that I told her of any such attraction, but she is a Garra, after all.

  “This morn, at daybreak.”

  Oh, he is a slippery one.

  “What did you think of him?”

  Father takes another swig of water before putting the skin back down. He will not bring it inside the forge, even sealed. Coal dust tends to find its way inside of every crevice in the shop.

  “He is Galfrid’s man.”

  Apparently that was all he planned to say. It should have been enough. None in Murwood have any great love for either court, their appeals to our people to fight for one side or the other something we do not tolerate.

  “Aye, he is that.”

  “What of you?”

  Father knows I spoke to him that first day, but unless Amma decided to tell him, he doesn’t know about our private meetings. I plan to save the coin and give it to Father when the commander is well on his way back to the southern coast.

  “He is not to be trusted,” Father adds, which I know to be true.

  Lying to my father does not come naturally to me. So I find myself saying, “They are looking for Kipp.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “I’ve heard the same,” he says. “We need to warn him.”

  Father knows of his true parentage, of course, after Kipp’s mother told us all so many years ago.

  “Aye,” I agree. “Do you think he will return soon?”

  Father nodded. “Any day. You can keep watch for him. You spend as much time wandering the village as you do in the forge.”

  What good luck that he should suggest it.

  “I know you do not approve . . .”

  Father pushes himself away from the wall. His face is an entreaty. “I would keep you safe above all, Aedre.”

  He glances over my shoulder, and his expression changes so drastically my stomach drops. I follow his gaze and groan.

  Father Beald.

  I’d not heard the Elderman was in town.

  Traveling from port to port, he lands at the docks in Murwood End twice or thrice a year.

  His visits are much the same each time. Around the village he goes, soliciting support for a church to be built right here in Murwood End. He simply cannot understand we need no such structure to believe in many of the same ideals as those who claim the Prima represents God’s will here on Earth.

  “Good day,” my father greets him.

  I echo the words, grinding my teeth as I say them.

  “Master Dal. Mistress Aedre.”

  I nod, trying not to let the deliberate slight bother me. Never mind that Garra are given the courtesy title of Lady—he refuses to use it. I care nothing for such trivialities, but I do care about the intentions behind his omission.

  He’s never been subtle about his scorn for Amma and me, which is the reason my father is unable to contain his distaste for him. I put my hand over Father’s, reminding him of the Elderman’s power. Even here, in Murwood End, the church can touch us, and Father Beald’s visits remind us of the fact.

  “Did you come on the Talisman?” my father asks.

  “Aye,” he answers, regaling us with tales of the bad weather they’d encountered. The Elderman, who despite his title is no older than Father, notices I am not listening and glares at me.

  “Working in the smithy today, Mistress Aedre?”

  I’m tempted to tell him exactly what I’ll be doing this afternoon, but I don’t. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of—I seek only to heal—but Amma often reminds me that he dislikes not only our profession but the Voyagers’ unwillingness to build a church, which would allow him, or another, to stay on.

  We may worship the same God, but we do not follow the laws of the Prima. To us, he is not God here on Earth but another man, just like Father or Kipp or Agnar. Those views make us a target—that I’m Garra makes the target larger.

  If he dislikes us so, mayhap Father Beald should just stay away. Yet he does not, and each time he returns, his threats become more direct.

  “Aye, she is assisting me with a new commission. A sword for the king’s Curia Commander. You’ve heard Galfrid’s men have come?”

  He’s diverted the Elderman’s attention well.

  Father Beald’s lips purse, but the extremely verbose Elderman does not answer. So, he knows something.

  The Talisman sails from Murwood to the port of Brecklow, north of the Royal Court of Edingham. Surely he could not know why Galfrid’s men are here?

  “We’ve heard little of their purpose,” I say, as sweetly as I’m able, “but perhaps you know more than we do?”

  I do not scare easily, but the look Father Beald gives me isn’t one I’d care to see again soon.

  “As always, it has been a pleasure speaking with you,” he says stiffly. Then he shuffles away, having answered neither of our questions, moving down the winding alleyways toward the center of the village.

  My father shakes his head, mutters a word that would have turned the Elderman’s ears red, and turns toward the forge. I follow, prepared to spend my day here before meeting Vanni this afternoon.

  If I’m looking forward to that meeting, it is only because I need information. If Father Beald knows something I do not, something that can affect Kipp . . .

  Aye, that is the only reason my hands will not steady as I begin filing the spoons again. Although maybe, possibly, it has something to do with the thought of seeing Lord d’Abella again.

  Chapter Ten

  Vanni

  “Ho! Do we have a man who can best him?”

  I hear the taunts and cheers of the men but block them out of my mind. I’ve one purpose now, and that is to defeat my opponent. Our swords are real, the points sharp. Losing my head today will not do. Thankfully, Galfrid is many miles away.

  The king forbids me to take part in such sport, with good reason. Training, with blunted weapons, aye. But this? Nay, he’d not be pleased.

  “Ah,” someone shouts as a familiar man steps forward. I recognize him as Aedre’s friend, a large man who looks part Voyager and part bear. “Agnar has the commander.”

  Nay, he does not.

  The makeshift training yard has filled to capacity. I’ve been victorious thus far, but my strength is beginning to wane after facing six opponents.

  Agnar’s sword strikes my shield with a clang that reverberates through my arm. He’s strong. And quicker than one would expect for a man his size. Which makes it all the sweeter to close in on victory. Something flashes in his eyes when he realizes he’s been backed up against the stone wall of the inn. When he tries to spin his way out, my sword is there. On the other side, a cart laden with grain.

  Trapped, he attempts to strike once more, but I am much too close for him to land a good blow. He tosses up his arms, apparently as unwilling as I am to draw blood this day, an easy enough feat with pointed swords.

  “Yield,” he shouts.

  Cheers and groans fill the yard. Though many are disappointed their man has been defeated, I’ve earned the respect of some.

  My goal has been met.

  Let Aldwine return to whispers of a king’s man who is worthy of his consideration. It wouldn’t do much to sway him, but I’ll take any advantages I can. I fear we may need them.

  “Well fought, Lord d’Abella.”

  “Vanni,” I say. He offers his forearm, and I grasp it gladly. The Voyager sign of respect, and one not easily won. I am exhausted and in need of
a bath and a meal before I’m to meet Aedre again.

  “Vanni. A name I’ve not heard before.”

  As the crowd disperses, my men leave with all the rest. I find myself walking toward the back of the inn with my former opponent.

  “They say my mother had a unique . . . way about her,” I explain.

  “They say?”

  We reach the back door of the inn, my temporary home here in Murwood End.

  “She died when I was nine. My father too. The sleeping illness took them both.”

  Agnar looks up to the skies, a gesture of respect for the dead.

  Then he glances back at me and says, “I’ve seen only one man fight as you do.”

  “Aye, someone from Murwood?”

  If there’s a man as skilled as I am, he is one I should like to challenge. My abilities were hard won—the result of the brutal lessons the king insisted on from the very day he took me in.

  A young boy runs by us, kicking up dirt as he chases a dark brown dog that barks his displeasure at being run down.

  “The same one you seek,” Agnar says, tilting his head.

  All of Murwood knows our purpose for this visit, it seems. Though none can know the reason. Soon enough they’ll learn the Oryan has sunk, its prince with it.

  “He is skilled with the sword, then?”

  I ask the question but already know the answer.

  When the queen, who was none too happy to learn of her husband’s affair with one of her own ladies in waiting, insisted Aldwine’s mother and the babe leave d’Almerita, the king reluctantly agreed. But he made provisions for the safety of the mother and son, hiring the most skilled swordsman of his day, a mercenary with a highly regarded reputation in both kingdoms to bring them to Murwood End.

  Galfrid was pleased to learn of the marriage between his former lover and the mercenary, even more so because the man had returned the trunk of gold coin he’d been paid to escort her to Murwood End. Throughout the years, Galfrid sent men to Murwood End to check on the boy, now a man.

  The boy was well cared for . . . until his father died in battle and his mother succumbed to the same sleeping illness that took my own parents. Though many healers claimed to know cures for the mysterious illness, every few years it seemed to sweep through Meria, tiring its victims, who then succumb to the longest sleep. Some are hardy on Sun’s Day and dead by Wooden’s Day. As it had been with both my mother and father.

  “More skilled than any,” Agnar says, snapping my attention back to him. “I’d give a goat’s head to see you fight.”

  “No goat’s head will be necessary. I look forward to honing my skills with any worthy opponent, yourself included.”

  Agnar grunts something that sounds like “thank ye,” though I cannot be sure.

  Remembering our first meeting, I ask a question that should probably be off-limits.

  “Tell me of the blacksmith’s daughter.”

  The good graces I’d gained with Agnar ebb away quickly. His look of displeasure is swift. But my need to know more about her overpowers my wish not to offend this man, even if he is of fine character and a decent swordsman.

  “She’s spoken for.”

  Mistrustful by nature, I don’t believe him. But the tug in my chest at his words is unmistakable.

  “Oh? She didn’t mention it.”

  “You’ve spoken with her again?”

  “Aye.” I offer no more than that. “She is betrothed, then?” Another grunt. So I try a different question. “’Tis odd for me to see a Garra practice so openly. In Meria, they hide in the shadows.”

  Agnar shrugs. “Southerners have many strange customs.”

  “So there are none here who speak against it?”

  “Her father, though he’s too fond of her to put up much of a fuss. The Elderman, when he comes. None other.”

  “The Elderman?”

  Agnar sheathes his sword and peers around the building, as if looking for someone. Perhaps he just wishes for an excuse to end our talk.

  “Father Beald. His mission, to bring a church to Murwood, brings him to our shores a few times every year. They say he came this morning on The Talisman.”

  Something about the way he says it makes me think I should pay a visit to this Elderman. Clearly, he is a threat to Aedre. Which makes him a threat to me.

  She needs no protection, but I will give it anyway.

  “And her father?”

  I should not have gone to him this morn, but I wanted to meet the man for myself.

  “Fears for her.” Another shrug. “Her grandmother no longer serves Murwood, but she has treated many here, parents and grandparents of the Voyagers. I did not know Aedre’s mother, but they say she was quite a woman, like Lady Edrys. None would think to disparage her, or her granddaughter. But our ports bring in outsiders who know nothing of her history.”

  As if realizing he’s said too much, Agnar abruptly stops talking. “Aedre is spoken for,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Her father can handle a sword as well.”

  I’m undaunted by the unsubtle threat. If anything, I am more curious than before, both about this Elderman and Agnar’s claim that she is taken.

  Though if she is spoken for, it matters naught to me.

  A woman such as Aedre, who clearly despises me, has no place in my world. My duty is to the king, the man who saved me and whose protection I’ve devoted my life to because of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aedre

  Last eve, we agreed to meet at the same time, in the same place. I felt restless today, however, and I left before the shadows indicated it was time. No matter. This place, close to the village but distant enough to see few visitors, is one I’ve come to since childhood.

  Amma and I sat on this very rock. This is where she told me of the natural powers of the stones that can be found along the shoreline. How healing could be conferred to the body by their power alone. And then, at night, looking up to the stars, she explained how their arrangement in the sky determined which plants to pick at various times.

  With the arrival of a physician who came from Midenear, an island north of Murwood, Amma and I were free to practice the traditional healing arts of the Garra, focusing on ailments affecting the heart. From difficulty conceiving a child to stimulating lust for sexual intercourse.

  I watch the water crash against the Cliffs of Murh to my left, remembering when Amma deemed me of age to treat such problems. Very much against my father’s wishes, she’d long ago explained sexual intercourse, its importance unequivocal for the furthering of our people.

  My smile deepens as I remember their argument, Father explaining he understood the merits of the Garra’s duty, having married one. He just did not believe his daughter should be learning such things.

  “You are quite beautiful when you smile.”

  Startled, I sit up straighter and offer Vanni a frown.

  “How did you arrive here so quietly?”

  This is the first time I’ve seen him without armor. Not even a padded gambeson. He wears just breeches and a loose cream shirt, wide open at the neck. Although his sword, ever present, is still at his side.

  If I’m more beautiful with a smile, his has a similar effect. He looked less royal, less threatening. Dressed casually, hair damp from washing or a swim, Vanni d’Abella appears more like a Voyager than a Southerner today.

  “I’ve many skills, my lady. Stealth is just one of them.”

  He sits in the same place as before, after unsheathing his sword and placing it next to him. The vulnerability he’s showing me does not go unnoticed. He’s far enough away that we are not touching, but close enough for me to smell his scent. A pleasant one, though pleasant is not the word I would use for him, precisely.

  Striking.

  Intent.

  Very handsome.

  Lord d’Abella must be quite popular with the ladies at court.

  “You wished me to instruct you on our ways,” I say. “But it seems my counsel
is not necessary. Already I hear your name whispered throughout the village.”

  “Whispered by your intended?”

  Since all spoke of Vanni’s victories, including his match against Agnar, who is considered our finest swordsman, save Kipp, I have no need to ask where he got that information.

  “Agnar wishes it were so,” I say, annoyed. “He should not have said that to you.” I’d told myself he’d moved on, but clearly we were due another conversation.

  “So ’tis not true?”

  I do not mistake his tone this time. Nor the firm eye contact he’s making, which I’m unwilling to break.

  Oh, this man is dangerous to me.

  I knew it from the very start, yet here I am anyway. A moth to a flame.

  “Nay, not at all. Agnar is a friend, nothing more.”

  I could not presume to guess his thoughts on what passes between us then, an unspoken awareness that my body refuses to refute.

  But his question prompts one of my own, for I’ve treated many whose only affliction is a willingness to warm marital beds other than their own.

  “What of you? Are you not promised?”

  His laugh is quick, harsh.

  “Nay. Nor will I ever be.”

  I wet my lips, which are suddenly dry as stone.

  “So says the man who has acquired the services of a Garra.”

  Vanni’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Marriage is very different than . . .” He stumbles.

  “Sex. You may say the word. ’Tis not blasphemy to my ears.”

  His amusement only grows.

  “Forgive me, Aedre. I’m unaccustomed to speaking with a woman so openly.”

  “A Garra,” I correct him. “My mother and grandmother, and theirs before them, have taught me there is no shame in the very act which ensures our continued survival as a people.”

  He considers my words. “Then you know marriage is not necessary for sexual relations. But you also know that my . . . affliction was a pretense for these meetings.”

  I nod, for I know it well. “Why do you not plan to marry? Will it not be necessary to carry on your name?”