Web of Eyes

by Rhett C. Bruno

  He raised his scepter topped with the Eye of Iam. The crowd echoed his words, then traced their eyes with their fingers and bowed their heads, as was customary.

  “Long has Liam lifted our people to fulfill the will of the one true God. A thousand years ago, Iam watched from the Gate of Light as his brethren battled each other over who might rule Pantego. For the Vigilant Eye of Iam saw the trouble in their hateful ways, just as his chosen son Liam saw it here. Our King fought, in His name, to bring peace to fair Pantego. Praise be the Vigilant Eye.”

  The assembly repeated those words.

  Another blind priest shuffled over and presented Wren with King Liam’s claymore, known across Pantego as Salvation.

  Wren lowered his cane, then balanced the sword across his hands. The weight made his arms shake as he made his way to the open casket.

  “With this sword, Liam brought this kingdom to new heights,” Wren said. “And so shall it join him in the Light, and we must never forget the greatness he has left in our hands.”

  Torsten watched Oleander with a heavy heart as Wren laid the blade over Liam’s chest and folded his liver-spotted hands over the golden hilt. Pi’s nearness to death had made her inconsolable, and with him to be named the new king, in no condition to rule, it would leave her the most powerful person in Pantego. The Queen Regent.

  Wren stretched out his back, retrieved his cane, then turned back to the crowd. “It is with a heavy heart we bid farewell to our kind and pure King, but he is with Iam now, watching over us for all of time, in darkness and in light. And he has not left us alone. For we are fortunate that Liam has left us with a fine, young heir.”

  “Then why is the Crown Prince not here?” asked Yuri Darkings, Master of Coin. The handsome, if not rotund, gray-haired man from Winde Port stood at the front of the Royal Council, where he’d served since before Torsten was born.

  Oleander seemed to be in a fog until those words caused her to sit up, eyes smoldering.

  “We haven’t seen him in months,” Yuri continued. “Should the Crown Prince not attend his own father’s funeral?”

  Murmurs flared through the crowd, filling the Great Hall like a swarm of angry bees.

  “Yes, where is he?” asked another.

  “They say he’s locked away in his room like a mad hermit,” said the Master of Rolls, Frederick Holgrass, earning a glare from Oleander that could stop hearts.

  “Pi Nothhelm is the one true heir of Liam Nothhelm,” Wren stepped forward and declared before Oleander could react. “He is our rightful king, and when he is done mourning the loss of his great father, the Glass Crown shall be placed upon his head, as is the will of Iam.”

  Oleander made a weak attempt to smile, though her glower never left the council members who’d spoken out. Torsten’s heart plummeted further. The upcoming coronation would be merely symbolic of course. Pi was king the moment Liam’s heart stopped beating, and the faces of many of the Glass nobles glowed with the hope of another great leader.

  They were all being lied to, and Torsten could do nothing about it, even if he wanted to.

  The truth would do more harm than good. If the people found out that Liam’s only living heir might be dying already, or had spent the last year in a fog of madness and not rooted in studies as Oleander always claimed, Torsten couldn’t imagine where new enemies might spring from. For Iam’s sake, even the Glass Crown itself had gone missing, stolen or lost in the confusion of the masquerade. Torsten loathed to think how people might react to such a failure of the King’s Shield, or his queen whom he’d decided not to tell until the search ran dry.

  Wren returned to Liam’s casket and lay a hand upon it. He whispered a prayer first, then turned his attention back to the crowd. “Until Celeste is full once more, we join the future King in mourning the loss of his father. Then, at the crest of Mount Lister, under the full moons and Iam’s Vigilant Eye, Pi’s coronation will be complete. Praise be the Vigilant—”

  Suddenly, Sir Rand Langley barged through the side doors. He was supposed to be off inspecting Fort Marimount but entered the Grand Hall instead, ready to speak until he realized what he’d interrupted. A bit of blood stained his right pauldron.

  Torsten lowered his hand from the handle of his sword, then stood quietly, waiting for an explanation.

  Oleander’s glare hardened.

  “Sir… I’ve been sent to fetch you,” Rand stuttered as all eyes fixed on him. “It’s important.”

  “Enough to interrupt the funeral of my late husband, your king?” Oleander questioned.

  “I… uh.”

  The poor kid looked like he was going to piss himself.

  “Your Grace,” Torsten whispered to her. “Allow me to go with him. I assure you, you’re in good hands.”

  “What is the meaning of this, Your Grace?” Yuri Darkings questioned.

  Oleander regarded the longstanding Master of Coin, then nodded. “Go, Torsten, and show him what happens to those who can’t follow orders,” she said. “I will be fine. Your men are trained well…. Most of them.”

  It was the closest thing to a compliment Torsten had ever received from her. He bowed low, his gaze falling upon King Liam’s glass casket.

  I’m so sorry, Your Grace, he thought, looking to his king’s casket. All those years of service to the man who raised him from the dirt, and now he would miss watching his body committed to the Royal Crypt. But duty, as always, came before personal feelings, and a young Shieldsman like Rand wouldn’t barge in on so sacred a ceremony unless it was urgent.

  Torsten turned to follow the petrified knight, who required a firm nudge to get moving. They quietly but hastily traveled through the servant’s tunnels. It was the quickest route to the Shield Hall. The circular war room was carved into the cliffside upon which the castle stood, with a clear view of Mount Lister.

  Tapestries telling tales of Liam’s conquests hung from the walls surrounding a long, shimmering table. Statues were placed around the edge of the room, not of kings like in the Grand Hall, but of former Wearers of White. Men who’d served the Glass Kingdom before Liam was even a thought. Like the Shieldsmen armor and swords, each of the effigies was carved from glaruium—a potent ore found only in the belly of Mount Lister herself. The circle wasn’t yet complete. Although Uriah’s likeness had been formed of glaruium, his was the only one not holding a sword, as his body had never been found after he disappeared into the Webbed Woods.

  Two other Shieldsmen huddled over the massive sheet of glass, intricately etched, engraved with a map of the kingdom and beyond. Torsten noted the sand-blown glass flames positioned on the map in at least a half-dozen locations southeast of Yarrington.

  “What is this?” Torsten asked.

  “Go on boy, tell him,” Wardric, the gruffest of the Shieldsmen, addressed Rand. The Wearer of White had no official second in command, but if anyone were, it would have been Wardric. He’d served long before Torsten, before Uriah was even Wearer of White, but had been passed over for Wearer of White when Uriah died after Liam personally chose Torsten. The oversight never seemed to sit well with him.

  Rand swallowed hard. “Sirs Nikserof, Mulliner, and I were doing a routine inspection on Fort Marimount in the South, as Taskmaster Lars assigned us when we saw smoke rising. We followed it and engaged a raiding party razing Troborough.”

  “Where are they?” Torsten asked.

  “Still dealing with the aftermath in Troborough. They sent me back to tell you.”

  “We also received galler birds from Lilith’s Mill and Flatpost at the start of the ceremony—said they also were hit but not nearly as complete.” Wardric pointed to another small farming town south of Yarrington and then another.

  “Who?” Torsten asked.

  “The Black Sands,” Wardric said with the venom of a man who’d fought the Shesaitju on more than one occasion.

  “I saw them myself,” Rand said. “We tried but...”

  He hung his head. Torsten patted him on the shoulde
r. It was a tough first ask for any new recruit to do better. “It’s all right, lad,” he said. “Who could have imagined they’d do this with King Liam only freshly in his casket?”

  “Those heathens will do anything to keep their gold,” Wardric spat.

  Torsten drew a deep breath and let the information settle. Burning defenseless towns seemed like a random act of hatred, but the Shesaitju had clearly learned from losing to Liam. Cities, no matter how large, were fed by farms, and they’d just laid waste to countless yards of them; enough to cause unrest in the population. They were feeling out their enemy first instead of charging carelessly as they’d tended to do in the past.

  Had Liam incidentally taught all of Pantego how to win a war?

  A dead king, a dying heir, an act of rebellion—what else could go wrong?

  “Did we capture any raiders?”

  Rand shook his head. “None alive.”

  Torsten cursed under his breath. “How about survivors?” he asked. “Did anyone see anything that might help us figure out where they attacked from? If they managed to raid that many towns, it means there might be an army gathered somewhere. They aren’t Drav Cra. They never stray far from their numbers and their warlords.”

  “Townsfolk and farmers who don’t know the Black Sands from Brekliodad mostly,” Rand replied. “Nobody of interest except for one. He’s in the dungeon. But sir…”

  “What?” Torsten snapped without meaning to.

  Rand produced a bag and dumped the contents onto the table. Half of the recently lost Glass Crown tumbled out.

  “I found this on the man,” Rand said. “I recognize him from the masquerade. He came in from the courtyard soaking wet, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”

  Torsten lifted it, eyes wide as he noticed a few gems missing.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary?” Wardric reprimanded, causing Rand’s features to sink back. “He stole the crown right off our king’s still-warm corpse. For Iam’s sake boy, he might have even poisoned him!”

  Wardric raised a hand to smack the young Shieldsman, but Torsten stopped him. “The royal physician assured us it was natural causes,” he said.

  “You know the gray men and their poisons. Perhaps it’s something new they concocted in their sand pits.”

  “Why poison a man on his deathbed? They wouldn’t risk being caught trying to assassinate him when they could merely wait.”

  “Did you not become a Shieldsman by thwarting an assassin from those very lands?”

  Torsten regarded the old man. His face didn’t show it, but the resentment in his tone was clear. Whether it was in regards to Torsten’s humble origins, or Wardric’s desire for the White Helm, Torsten wasn’t sure. He decided to let it go.

  “Those were different times,” Torsten said. “He could still lift a sword.”

  Wardric grumbled but didn’t disagree. “Then what? They sent a thief to show us how vulnerable we are?”

  “Their warlords are brazen, you know that,” Torsten said.

  “I’m not sure,” Rand said. “I had to keep one of the Shesaitju bastards from gutting him on the battlefield.”

  “So, he isn’t with them?” Torsten said.

  “Or he betrayed them and got caught,” Wardric said.

  “We can’t rule anything out. Where’s the rest of the crown?”

  “That’s all we recovered,” Rand said.

  “Well, a man doesn’t stroll into the holy King’s masquerade and steal the crown for no reason. Whether the theft and raids are connected or not, it’s clear our enemies smell blood. We must stand strong now brothers.”

  “What are your commands, sir?” Wardric asked, fist to his chest. He could be difficult, but Torsten never questioned his loyalty or his talents.

  Torsten leaned on the table, closed his eyes and drew a long breath. “Have the Royal Council request a surplus shipment of grain from the Governor of Yaolin City to make up for what was lost,” he said. “Do it quick, we must maintain control during this transition. Have Taskmaster Lars quietly inform the King’s Shield that we are under attack. We must reinforce the southern forts around Winde Port and have a unit sent to every farming village in the southern reach.”

  “And what of our response to the Shesaitju aggression?” Wardric asked.

  “First, have the Master of Coin detail a full report on the Shesaitju’s delinquent taxes, so I gain a full understanding of the situation. Then, dispatch gallers to the Caleef in Latiapur. Demand explanation for these unprovoked attacks.”

  “A letter?” Wardric said, incredulous.

  “They killed all those people,” Rand protested. “We have to do something about it. Don’t we?”

  “I agree with the boy, Torsten,” Wardric said. “They kneel to the Glass no matter who died. We should remind them of that, lest our new king appear weak.”

  “And we will,” Torsten said. “But before we declare open war, we must decide if this was an action sanctioned by the Caleef who declared his fealty and mortality before Liam, or an overeager warlord acting of his own accord. For now, we must quietly secure our own borders and appear unshakeable.”

  “If King Liam was alive—”

  “He isn’t,” Torsten interrupted. And for the first time, the dire circumstances of his kingdom felt real. More than just nightmares. “The Queen Mother does not need the stress of open rebellion at the moment. Not with our new king…” He nearly let the truth of Pi’s condition slip. “In mourning.”

  “He should be eager to live up to his father’s name.”

  “Just move the troops,” Torsten ordered. “The Shesaitju merely prod because they fear us. A display of force in the South should keep them at bay until we can assess the state of the kingdom.”

  “Whatever we can do to keep the fragile mind of the Flower of the Drav Cra comfortable you mean?” Wardric said.

  Torsten stood proudly. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Shieldsman. Liam may be dead, but I’m still the Wearer of White. Follow your orders, or I’ll find someone else who can.” Torsten almost stopped himself before that last sentence. He sounded just like Oleander.

  Wardric ground his teeth and saluted. “Right away, sir.”

  “Good.” Torsten turned to Rand. “Now, take me to the thief who stole the crown.”

  “With respect, sir, towns are burning,” Rand replied. “Can’t he wait?”

  Torsten exhaled. This is what happened during times of unrest after Liam’s slow descent started. Everyone wearing Shieldsman armor forgot that they didn’t wear the white helm. They started doubting and asking questions. Uriah never stood for it. He commanded, and the King’s Shield obeyed. Torsten had only been Wearer for a year, but he’d had two great mentors show him how to lead.

  “With or without respect does not change the fact that you are questioning my command, boy,” Torsten said.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Rand stammered. “I’m only trying to understand.”

  “I intend to find out what kind of thief would be so bold as to steal the royal crown only to get caught a few days later in a Shesaitju ambush.”

  “Not a very good one,” Wardric remarked.

  Torsten let his eyes carry over the glass-blown flames donning the war table. “Or one who intended to be caught.”

  X

  THE THIEF

  “I’d wondered if I’d ever see you again, scag.”

  Whitney had hoped he never would. He stared at the same scarred, ugly mug of the brutish guard who’d flattened him for stealing jewelry on the day of his last incarceration in Yarrington.

  “Looks like it’s your lucky day, then,” Whitney said. The comment was met with a swift punch to his gut.

  The guard then shoved Whitney into the small cell before he got a chance to swipe the key from his belt again.

  “Not my lucky day… stuck down here with the likes of you, thief,” the guard said, taking his time with his terrible retort. “But, it looks like yours is far worse.” “Real
ly?” Whitney said, finding the wind in his lungs again. “I like it way down here. I was hoping for a darker cell.”

  “Well, get used to it. Our great King is dead, which means nobody will have time to worry about filth like you.” The guard laughed, deep. “Thieves rot down here, forgotten with the dirt and shog.”

  “Last guard who said something like that had a nice view of my hind-quarters on my way out. I forget, was that you?”

  “Try to escape again. I beg you. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to put you down for good.” He dangled a key in front of the cell, then quickly snatched it back.

  “Oh, you found your key. I knew I’d misplaced that.”

  The guard lips pursed in frustration. “You got lucky. Never again.” The guard banged on the bars in a futile attempt to give Whitney a fright, then lumbered away grumbling.

  Whitney groaned. Guards never realized what kind of challenge they were issuing when doing such things. But as the guard left, Whitney sat down, resigning himself to the cell. His mind wandered back to Troborough, his once-home.

  Never before had he seen battle up close like that. He blinked as he remembered the feeling of blood-soaked dirt in his eyes, shuddered at the sight of the nearly black stuff under his fingernails. He closed his eyes to drive out the images and banged the back of his head against the stone.

  This cell was different from the last, which had been dark, wet, and gray—this one was as well, but it was somehow darker, wetter, and grayer. Here, there were no windows or even an adjoining cell. This was the lower dungeon, where only the worst of Pantego were thrown; heretics and assassins, witches and conspirators—the worst. And then, of course, one quick-fingered thief who’d managed to break a priceless crown that’d been in the Nothhelm family for centuries.

  A rat squeaked by him, brushing his leg and causing him to flinch. It stopped and circled back toward him. Whitney had a fondness for rodents. They shared the streets with him all these years—free spirits. He figured they must have known he was like them, too, as they rarely feared him like they did other humans.