THE THIEF
“Stop, thief!” a Yarrington guard shouted.
Whitney tore around the corner of one of Old Yarrington’s winding streets. He accidentally plowed over a nobleman, who fell into his wife and knocked her over as well. Whitney paused just long enough to help her up, peered over his shoulder at the two guards rounding the corner, and dug in again.
“Sorry, milady,” he said, bowing his head as he went.
Whitney thrived in chaos. This had been his passion since the day he’d left the farm—the thrill of being chased by guards armed to the eyeballs after snatching some rare treasure. But even as he dodged an especially deep puddle in the cobblestone road, narrowly escaping a third guard new to the chase, he found himself going through the motions.
The massive, armored man splashed face first into the water, arm still stretched out toward Whitney's ankle, The sound that followed told Whitney the other two tripped over the newcomer, but this time, Whitney didn't look back. He veered off toward the stable of one of Old Yarrington’s many mansions. The horses inside whinnied, startled by the sound of clanking iron of armor from the recovered guards still in hot pursuit. If that wasn’t enough, thunder cracked, sending the equine beasts into a frenzy.
One painted horse burst from its pen. The gate swung open, nearly clipping Whitney’s side, forcing him to cut a sharp turn. Wetness plastered his face as he slid in what he hoped was mud. He cursed his luck. He’d already stolen some costly clothing to wear for the masquerade, and now they were ruined.
But that wasn’t why the guards were after him. The small gem in his pocket he’d snagged from a noblewoman in broad daylight was enough to get him thrown in the district lockup. Fleeing the guards to the heart of Old Yarrington, however, would land him in the castle dungeon. They’d be too lazy to drag him flailing and screaming anywhere else. It was all part of his greater plan to infiltrate the royal masquerade.
That furry dwarf will eat his words.
The party started in mere hours, and Whitney had to be in the castle when it did. Although intended to celebrate King Liam’s birthday, rumors hinted it would be a final send off to the King who’d done more to shape the Glass than any other.
Whitney’s mother once told him, “The only thing worse than stealing is stealing from a dying man.” Even though the Queen would have a man hanged merely for whispering about the King’s alleged condition, Whitney knew there was a bit of truth to every rumor. This year or next, it didn’t matter—everyone knew the Glass Kingdom stood on the precipice of a new ruler. The sky seemed to as well. Fog laid like a thick blanket over the streets of Yarrington and rain fell in heavy sheets as if Iam Himself were in mourning.
Good conditions for a thief... usually.
Whitney shook off his stained sleeve and squinted back at his pursuers. While Liam the Conqueror was bedridden, his guards were very much alive, and he couldn’t let them catch him yet. Though, from the sound of it, they weren’t fairing much better in the wet conditions.
He jumped back to his feet, and as he ran, he scoured the map of Old Yarrington he’d purchased down in South Corner. It was yellowing and brittle—and apparently out of date. Whitney turned another corner and wound up face to face with a wall made of solid stone piled three meters high.
This was supposed to be a garden.
He slid to a stop before the towering wall, kicking up mud. He used to love this part, thinking on his feet, improvising in the face of certain doom. But lately, it had all become so mundane, whether it was a lord’s mare or a lady’s gem. He found himself disheartened, frozen, wondering if he should just slip away and end this wild boar chase.
Whitney shook the thought away, unwilling to chance facing the dwarf in defeat. He shoved the mud-slick tip of his boot into an almost imperceptible notch in the stone and pushed himself up just enough to wrap his fingertips around the lip of the wall. One hand slipped on the smooth, wet stone. He squinted back after he caught his balance to see the guards closing in, but the heft of their armor slowed them. If he had trouble climbing the wall, those lumbering fools wouldn’t stand a chance. Besides, he didn't want to escape, or else he would have by now. But if they caught him now, it would make it seem too easy. He needed them angry to ensure he'd make the castle dungeon.
Once more, he dug in and thrust upward. This time his fingers found purchase, and he yanked himself up. Wiping his face and glancing back at the guards, he decided it hadn’t been mud he’d slipped in earlier. He fought back the urge to vomit over the edge of the wall.
This isn’t worth it, he thought. Nothing seemed to be worth it anymore. Piss in the wind and shog in my mouth.
Again, he forced himself to focus. He could only count two guards through the driving rain now, both struggling to pull themselves up the wall, shouting up at him to stop. He looked in all directions for the third guard before swearing and hopping down the other side. Again, his foot slipped in what definitely wasn’t mud, sending him into a split. He used the momentum to roll, thoroughly tarnishing his new clothing. Nonetheless, he was soon on his feet again, running.
Mud spattered below, rain fell from above. Visibility wasn’t great, but he could just make out the outer wall of the Glass Castle now, looming in the distance as if taunting him.
He peered back again. Now, none of the city guards could be seen. When he turned back around, the third and missing one stood in the path before him. He was a hulking brute with a scar from what appeared to be a bad burn covering the bulk of his face and neck.
Why is it always the big one?
The guard reached for Whitney with both hands.
Whitney easily dodged the man’s thick, sausage-like fingers and threw a punch of his own. The guard smiled down at him mirthlessly as his blow landed harmlessly against his boiled leather armor. Whitney put on a nervous grin, then aimed for the man’s bare elbow with his next punch, just below where the arm pads stopped.
His fist cracked hard against bone. Whitney yelped and flexed his hand. He probably broke a knuckle, but the blow forced the guard to stop momentarily and shake out his arm.
A moment was all Whitney needed.
Behind him, he heard the clatter of the other two guards who’d decided to take the long way around the wall. Whitney slipped past the hulking guard and ran. So far, in spite of a couple hitches, the plan was working. Only one thing remained. It needed to look absolutely real.
He reached a locked, iron gate at the end of a street serving some Royal Councilman’s absurdly large mansion, still under construction. He shook the gate, a family crest—a ship and a coin—rattled against the metal. The fence was so high he’d never be able to climb over it, but this was a dead end he'd prepared for.
At least that old map was good for something.
He stopped, feigning surprise, frantically looking for a way out. He attempted to scamper up the slick iron bars in futility, then turned back toward the guards.
He dug his hand into his wet, muddy pocket and produced the little gem he’d swiped. “Look, fellas,” he shouted over the din of rain as he walked toward them. “I think this is a misunderstanding.”
“Lady Holliday’s jewels jumped into your pocket then?” the hulking guard asked. The others bellowed in laughter.
“Here, you can have it back. No harm done, right?”
“Wrong.” The big guard approached slowly, the other two behind him.
Whitney held his breath. There were plenty of joys to be found in thieving, but the next few minutes would not count amongst them.
When the brute was only paces away, Whitney feigned left, then spun and went right instead. He knew it wouldn’t work, but it needed to appear like he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. As expected, the hulking guard planted his feet. Whitney braced for what he knew was coming. The man reared back, and a second later, Whitney Fierstown was swept off the streets of Old Yarrington.
IV
THE KNIGHT
Queen Oleander wore a pale blue gown, low cut and high-collare
d, with white lace and frills along the edges. On her left wrist, she wore a glass bracelet adorned with diamonds, shiny and glinting in the bright room. She wasn’t alone, but powdered her face in the vanity as if Torsten wasn’t there. The sweet aroma of flowers filled the room—oleanders, her namesake. To call her beautiful would be as understating as calling Brotlebir cold.
While he waited for an answer to a question he’d asked, Torsten eyed the Queen with the same look any man would but forced himself to remember his place, shifted his weight and cleared his throat.
“Oh, yes," she said. “You’re still here. You were saying?"
He gathered his thoughts. “Since the King's illness took and he stopped appearing publicly, we’ve noticed a shortage of tax payment from the Shesaitju. I spoke with Lord Darkings, the Master of Coin—”
“I know who he is,” she snapped, although Torsten wasn't sure she did.
“Yes, of course.” These sorts of political conversations seemed to repulse her, so it had become a habit for Torsten to ensure that she knew the names of all the Royal Councilman. “As I was saying, he swears all is well with the coffers, but I believe we should send a royal emissary south to the Black Sands."
Oleander’s fingers snaked along a necklace—a long, silver chain with prongs grasping a blue crystal.
“Come, Torsten, hold up my hair,” she demanded.
“Your Grace?”
“You heard me. Since we excused Tessa for this titillating conversation, I require assistance.”
Torsten approached, his heart pounding as she wafted her hair up, exposing her slender neck and shoulder blades. Her gown’s back plunged into a deep V, and the curve of her spine drew his eyes so low it caused a sudden pang of shame.
Torsten now stood as Wearer of White, head of the King’s Shield and commander of his royal army, but he hadn’t always been on the road to such prestige. He had been born a harbor rat to a pair of Glintish traders, con artists really. He lived off scraps discarded by South Corner fishermen—stuff no right-born man, not even dogs, would have eaten. But for Torsten, it was picking meat off scales and bones or die.
“The King is going to love this celebration, Your Grace,” he said as he approached.
“Don't be daft, Torsten. My husband won't know this night from a night spent watching lightning bugs twinkle in the bailey.”
Torsten’s heart, perhaps more than any, broke for the King. It had been he who’d rescued Torsten from a life of squalor after a fortunate childhood misstep thwarted an assassination attempt on the then-young-and-virile King Liam. Bumping into the Black Sands archer hidden in the adoring Yarrington crowd while Torsten was trying to steal bread had been an accident, but the King refused to see it that way. He called it Iam’s hand at work and immediately made Torsten an armiger under Sir Uriah Davies.
Still, none of it ever made him feel comfortable while alone with nobles, least of which, Oleander, the ‘Flower of Drav Cra,’ as she’d become known. He reached up and gingerly held the Queen’s hair in place while her willowy fingers reached back and drew open the clasp of her necklace. He felt guilty as the scent of her perfume greeted him, flowing through his nostrils, touching a portion of his mind that drove him wild with desire.
"Shall we?" Torsten asked, refocusing.
"Shall we, what?" The Queen's mind was clearly elsewhere. She picked up her costume for the masquerade and absent-mindedly stroked the fabric, letting her fingers play over the embroidered flowers.
"Send an emissary to the Shesaitju Caleef."
"Don't be silly, Torsten. The Black Sands have been faithful to the Glass Crown for more than a decade since Liam’s war. Caleef Sidar visited the court not too long ago. I am confident all is well."
"I still think it’s prudent for us to consider—”
“Where were you last night?” Queen Oleander asked abruptly.
Torsten swallowed so hard he thought she’d heard the spit go down. “I’m sorry?”
“Last night,” she repeated. “I sent for you in your quarters, but you could not be found.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know when you’re referring to. I finished knighting a few new Shieldsmen and returned straight away to my bed."
"I had one of my servants come to your chambers, and she reported them empty."
"Oh, of course, I must have been sneaking a bite of food from the kitchens. Hiking Mount Lister works up the hunger.”
He hated lying to her, but he couldn't allow her to find out about his trip to Pi's room. The Queen was most known for two things, her beauty, and a temper sharp as broken glass and just as fragile. Many said that, other than Prince Pi, her son, the only thing in all the world she was kind to was her pure white, prize horse from the far east. King Liam once had a knack for calming her, but in his current condition…
“I would prefer if the Wearer could be found when needed,” she said.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Torsten said.
“Luckily, your new man… Rory was it?
“Rand, actually,” Torsten corrected.
“Ah, yes, Rand. He’s a good boy. He helped in your… absence.”
Torsten couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy passing through him, good a soldier as Rand might’ve been. Torsten was now the Wearer of White because of his king. It was the last coherent order Liam had given a year ago after Uriah went off after Redstar and never returned. Now his king clung to this life like a beggar to his last autla. Torsten worried what might happen if Oleander no longer found him, Torsten, useful.
Oleander started to pull away, and Torsten allowed her hair, soft, silky and the color of the sun, to flow through his hands. Torsten stepped backward, inching toward the corner of the room. Suddenly, her demeanor changed and her features darkened.
"When was the last time we sent men to find my son's orepul?" she questioned, a harsh edge creeping into her tone.
"It has been long enough," Torsten said. "If they were successful, they'd have returned by now."
"Send more."
“But Your Grace—"
"But what?" she spat, terse.
"It's just… I am sickened by the thought of how many have been sent to their deaths. Our army dwindles, and we need to—”
“What we need,” she interrupted again, “is to help my precious boy get back to normal. He will soon take his rightful place on the throne, and he hardly wants to leave his room, all thanks to my thieving brother.”
More talk of the orepul, but now Torsten knew the truth. He wanted to shout it at her—to tell her that her son was not overwhelmed by grief, but instead, he was locked up in his room trying to resurrect the Buried Goddess, possessed by the same dark desires as her brother’s people, that Redstar’s lies had likely sent him on this mad quest when he visited a year ago.
Her son was the heir promised by God after Oleander struggled so long to produce a son. Only, now that Torsten had seen the object of Pi’s passions, he questioned which god.
Torsten drove the thought away. Nesilia is dead. Only Iam remains.
He kept quiet, told himself he couldn’t bear to share information that would bring her pain. Even that, he knew, was a lie. He merely didn't want to chance being on the receiving end of her anger. He'd seen men beheaded for far less, and his future was foggy. If Queen Oleander knew the truth and was trying to keep it secret, who knew what she’d do to keep him silent.
“We’ve been sending soldiers for a year now, Your Grace,” he said. “Since Sir Uriah Davies failed to return from the woods.” It pained Torsten to speak the name. Uriah had been a brilliant fighter and mentor, and even he was claimed by the Webbed Woods. Every father in Pantego was guilty of telling tales to their young ones about the place, about the evil, giant spider that devoured anything which dared enter its domain.
“Because they’re weak!” the Queen shouted.
“Any more loss will leave us weak. Our enemies will take advantage of the first opportunity they have once they discover the true weight of th
e King’s condition—if they haven’t already.”
“Don’t be such a fool, Torsten. We have not been at war for many Dawnings. We have no enemies left, thanks to him.”
An ill king brings circling wolves, Torsten thought to himself. Uriah had spoken those words often at the first sign of the King’s waning mind.
“A kingdom, as long as it rules over conquered peoples, will always have enemies,” Torsten said. “King Liam spent a lifetime spreading the word of Iam, but he can no longer speak. For all we know, the Shesaitju, Panpingese, or any countless others have already begun plotting.”
“As if we don't have a strong enough army to thwart any uprising?” Oleander asked. “Has Yaolin City not been secured? Has the entire Panping Region not flown the Vigilant Eye for thirty years?”
“Of course, Your Grace. I am simp—”
“Enough of this,” she said, waving her hand. “You know I hate politics.”
It was true, she preferred to pry, and taunt, and seduce, and that was precisely what she was doing at the moment. She turned toward Torsten, applied a liberal amount of shimmer to her neck and collarbone, then reached down to lift the mask she would wear to the masquerade that night celebrating King Liam’s birthday. It was frosted white glass lightly adorned with a filigree of gold. She placed it against her face, her full lips still visible.
“Do I look okay?” she asked, wearing a crooked smile.
“My Queen,” he said. “You look perfect.”
“Yes, yes,” she droned, pulling the mask away from her face.
She strolled to her window and lifted a glass of wine with a stem so thin it was barely visible from the sill. She swirled the contents before taking a long pull. Again, her features twisted with concern.
"Is it not true that the Prince hasn’t left his room since the orepul was stolen?” she said, turning back to Torsten, lips stained a deeper red.
Torsten held his tongue again. This conversation with the Queen seemed endless. The doll didn’t hold a piece of the boy’s soul. It was ancient, Drav Cra hogwash that she too didn’t truly believe in. Pagan folklore that she’d happily forgotten until she needed something to blame beyond only her wretched brother.
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