‘Yes, sire.’
King Arden’s jaw clenched and he tugged on his pale-gold beard. ‘See to it that you get some salve for your own injuries, Commander.’
The queen’s gaze fell to Swinton’s swollen face, and he averted his own eyes, face flushing. The queen was always a quiet figure in his meetings with the king. She sat, often fidgeting with her skirts or jewellery, wordlessly absorbing everything that was said. He sometimes wondered how much the royal couple had to say to each other behind closed doors. But that was neither here nor there.
‘Yes, sire.’ Swinton nodded to the king.
‘You know we can’t let the Valians get away with this.’
Swinton remained silent.
‘They’ve stolen a prisoner I’ve summoned, they’ve attacked my guard, they’re claiming territory that isn’t theirs and they’ve named their matriarch “Queen”? Ever since the unfortunate death of Sahara Valia and all that business with the mist, I’ve turned a blind eye to their antics. However, it’s been far too long, and they’ve done nothing but take advantage. And apparently preach treasonous notions.’
‘What would you have us do, sire?’
The king stood, holding an arm out to the queen. Swinton saw concern flicker across her face, but it was gone as she got to her feet and took her husband’s arm. The royal couple descended from the dais, and Swinton knelt again.
‘Get up, Swinton. If we bothered with every formality in the book, we’d be here all day.’
Swinton stood, his head still bowed.
‘Come to me in the morning,’ the king said. ‘I’ll have a decision for you then.’
The king and queen left the throne room followed closely by their guard, and Swinton found himself alone in the magnificent space. He exhaled a long sigh of relief and loosened the ties at the front of his shirt. Though he had no idea what tomorrow would bring, it was over for now. His position, his ambitions were safe for the time being. Dabbing the perspiration from his hairline, he gathered himself and left the room.
On his way out, he glanced at the embroidered map that hung proudly beside the entrance to the throne room. All four kingdoms and their capitals had been plotted out meticulously – Ellest, with its farmlands, rivers and the Hawthorne Ranges, the mighty castle of Heathton to the west, the very castle in which Swinton now stood; there was Battalon to the north, with the palace beneath the celebrated shiprock stitched into the sandy cliffs; Havennesse, with the icy fortress of Wildenhaven at its centre; and Qatrola – the smallest of the kingdoms and the estate among the people of Tokarr.
Of the foreign lands, Swinton was the most familiar with Battalon. He had journeyed there twice. The first time had been as a foot soldier, as part of an escort to the esteemed Murphadias family from the capital – Fiore’s. King Roswall of Battalon had exchanged a number of noble families with King Arden as a show of trust between the two rulers. Swinton had been in his final years of squireship. The second time he’d been to Battalon was as Commander of the King’s Army, with Fiore as captain beside him, to aid the Belbarrow military in stamping out the Janhallow Desert rebellion.
It was not the fighting Swinton remembered vividly now, but the location itself. Its dry, sweltering heat, its endless dusty plains, and the rocky peaks that demanded climbing. He recalled the sweat stinging his eyes, his heavy boots sinking into the dunes, and the bushes of fountain grass that hid deadly snakes. His was a love–hate relationship with Battalon’s desolate deserts and its firestorms. It was a continent that pulsed with the desire to be conquered, but to do so would bring any man close to death. Yet, it was addictive – pushing oneself to breaking point. As a Battalon native, Fiore rarely saw breaking point. The heat was nothing to him. His skin never blistered beneath the sun’s punishment. His body never sagged with dehydration and fatigue. Swinton knew how lucky they had been to have Fiore with them that year. It had been his advice and tactics that had seen them through the battle, to claim victory against the Janhallow rebels.
He rubbed the scar on his chin as he took a final look at the embroidered map. He liked to study it whenever he had the chance, to remind himself of the other places he’d journey to when he was finally knighted. There was no more time for that now, though; he had to get himself cleaned up.
His chambers were as he’d left them. He’d instructed the servants not to disturb them in his absence. He hated the idea of people moving around his private quarters and tampering with his things, not that he had many. Swinton preferred the simple life. Closing the heavy oak door behind him, he rested against it and sighed. The past three weeks had thoroughly exhausted him. The travel alone was enough to render anyone a fatigued wreck, but the drama of the guard on the road – the bickering and sniping between the men on the way to Angove – had driven him to near madness. And then, the unacceptable behaviour on the return journey had nearly cost him. He hadn’t, as the king claimed, handpicked the men. That had been Tannus, the weapons master, by the king’s instructions. Swinton had only been able to insist on Fiore and Stefan. Though, he hadn’t wanted to seem insolent by bringing this up to the king, especially when he was already on thin ice.
He walked across the room and sank into the soft armchair by the fireplace. As much as he longed to stay there, and perhaps indulge in a nap before dinner, he had things to do, the first of which was bathe. He had done his best to scrub the dirt from his face before he saw the king, but there had been no time for a proper bath. He bent down to unlace his boots. They were filthy; thick mud caked the soles, and they were looking on the shabby side. He sighed again, placing them by the fireplace. He couldn’t afford a new pair just yet. Brushing away excess dirt from the ankles of his pants, he noticed new blisters and calluses on his hands from the riding. He’d have to wait to order a new pair of gloves, too.
He’d hoped he’d get the chance to go back down to the stables to see Xander, his horse, settled back in, but there wouldn’t be time now. The rose-grey stallion had been his constant companion for almost ten years now, and Swinton hated it when anyone else tended to the beast.
There was a tentative knock at the door, and Swinton rose, barefoot, to answer it. It was Therese, the servant girl he’d asked to bring hot water. Her eyes darted to the patches of bruising on his face and flitted away just as quickly. Another girl came in behind her, and between them, they carried four heavy pails of steaming water.
‘Here,’ Swinton said, taking one from each of them.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Therese said, flushing pink.
‘I’m not a sir,’ he told her, making his way towards the bathing room.
Therese took the fourth pail from the other servant and followed Swinton. Placing the pails on the tiled floor, she wiped down the dusty tub. From the corner of his eye, Swinton watched her. She was a pretty young thing – probably no older than twenty. Strands of red hair fell over her eyes as she scrubbed at the inside of the tub. Swinton caught a glimpse of his reflection in the arched mirror above the basin. He grimaced. The left side of his face boasted myriad faded blues and yellowing greens, while his cheekbone was still puffy with swelling. He looked like hell, thanks to bloody Henri Valia. Irritation prickled as he cursed her arrogance, her nerve – what was she playing at, kidnapping the king’s prisoner and assaulting his guards? The Henri he’d known had been smarter than that. He pushed his dark, matted hair from his brow and began undressing. Therese, who had finished cleaning, now put the plug in place, and began emptying the steaming water into the bath.
‘Will that be all, Commander?’ Therese said, not meeting his eyes, cheeks still pink.
He looked down at his toned bare chest, speckled with white scars. The coin of Yacinda rested against his sternum, and he realised he should have waited until she had left before removing his clothes. He wondered if she’d ever seen a naked man before. In that moment, he found her beautiful – her modesty and innocence tugging at something deep within him. But he snapped himself out of it.
‘Yes, that’s
all. Thank you.’
She nodded and left the room, closing both the doors behind her. Swinton ran his fingers through his dirty hair again. He knew better than to dally with women beneath his station. He’d done it once before, and it had ended badly. He shook his head; he wouldn’t think of it now. He pushed his pants down his aching legs, kicking them into the corner with his other soiled clothes, and stepped into the bath.
Gods, it’s hot. Slowly, he lowered his body in, and let out a sigh of relief as he sank to the bottom. It was verging on scorching, but it was exactly what his sore muscles needed after weeks of riding. The scent of lavender hit his nostrils; Therese had added essential oils for his aches and pains. He leaned back and rested his head on the edge of the tub. He was in such a mess. Although the king hadn’t said it outright, Swinton knew he was on thin ice, very thin. This blunder with the Valians and losing the girl, it would cost him. Every trifle like this made any possibility of knighthood seem decades away. And forget knighthood. This failed mission could have endangered his current position.
Who is the odd-eyed girl to the king anyway? Is her magic so powerful? Was she so important that the king would send some of his best men away from the castle, to journey for weeks to bring her to him? It was none of Swinton’s business, of course; his business was to serve and nothing more. He dared not question the king, but the king hadn’t mentioned magic at all, and so Swinton hadn’t brought up Henri and her power either. It was stronger than he remembered. And sometimes, the Ashai were best left undiscussed.
Something about the girl had rubbed Swinton the wrong way. He wasn’t sure if it was that despite her obvious vulnerabilities, she was stubborn – enough to defy him in front of a crowd of people. Or if it was the way she’d studied his men, somehow intuitive to their moods without actually knowing them. Or maybe, he didn’t like the way Fiore had sympathised with her. That was the last thing he needed in his guard.
The bathwater was already growing cloudy as he picked up the fresh cake of soap Therese had left, and began to lather up. ‘Bleak’ had been her name. Or what that young man had called her as they had dragged her out of Angove. One person. One person questioned why they were taking her. It looked like she’d lived on the streets for the past few years – her hair had been lank and knotted, with dirt caked on her face and limbs. It was also clear to Swinton that she was a drunk. He’d noted the way her eyes had often followed not only the men and their weapons, but the skins of wine tied to their saddlebags. Then she’d collapsed and had a fit. Her eyes had dulled and she’d dropped to the ground, her whole body seizing, spit foaming in the corners of her mouth. He’d seen that kind of episode before; it had been a soldier he used to know, a symptom of withdrawal from liquor.
What is this girl going to cost me and the kingdom? Especially now the Valia kindred are involved? If the king wanted to make a move on the Valians, he’d set into motion something that could not be undone. Swinton thought of the jars he’d carried through the mountains, and what he’d released among the old trees there, unknown to even his most trusted friend. He was playing a dangerous game.
The next morning, Swinton was summoned to the throne room.
‘Commander Swinton,’ King Arden greeted him, an elegant violet cloak pooled at his feet.
‘Your Majesty.’ Swinton knelt before the dais, noting that this time, the queen wasn’t in attendance.
‘I’ve made a decision regarding this unfortunate business with the Valians.’
Swinton waited.
‘You and your best man will journey to Valia Forest and deliver a direct summons to Henrietta Valia and the orphan girl.’
‘To Henri Valia, sire?’
‘Yes. Their insolence cannot be overlooked. They know that to disobey a direct summons from the king is an act of treason. She will come. And you will make sure she does.’
‘And if she doesn’t, sire?’
‘I’ll hold you personally responsible.’
All Swinton could do was bow his head.
‘Take whatever provisions you need. My best horses are yours to use, though I know Xander generally goes where you go.’
‘You are generous, my king. When do we leave?’
‘Tomorrow at dawn.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘Go and make your preparations. You are dismissed.’
A flush of heat swept up Swinton’s neck and rose high on his cheeks, a blush that gave away his shame. He had failed his king, failed himself.
‘Thank you, sire,’ he said.
With as much dignity as he could muster, Swinton left the throne room and headed straight to the armoury to tell Fiore the news.
Chapter 9
In the early hours of the morning, Henri returned from her sentry shift. The whole forest had settled, and there were only the scurries of nocturnal beasts and the occasional bird call to contend with. Henri was very much at peace with the realm when she took watch. For those few hours, she could pretend she lived a simpler life. She stretched and swung herself back up onto the living bridge, where the others lay. Marvel groaned when Henri shook her shoulder. Bleary-eyed, the Valian grimaced and headed down to the lower platform to take over the watch. At the edge of the group, Henri found Athene. She was sitting with her back against a tree trunk, watching over Bleak, goosebumps raised across her bare arms.
‘You should be sleeping,’ Henri muttered, her knees cracking as she sat down beside her first-in-command.
‘I know.’
Bleak was fast asleep wrapped in Athene’s cloak, her breathing deep and steady.
‘She’s not Luka,’ Henri warned Athene, nodding to Bleak.
Luka was Athene’s teenage daughter. Athene had Luka when she was no more than a teenager herself. She was a young mother, even by free-minded Valian standards, falling pregnant when she was barely fifteen. Luka was now in the midst of her kindred training, and Henri knew Athene missed the girl terribly.
‘She’s someone’s daughter,’ Athene said.
Henri rested her head against the tree and closed her eyes. ‘Get some sleep.’
The dawn broke upon the living bridges before the world below, and so they were up and on the move well before the rest of the forest was awake. This journey was meant to have been a routine check of the bridges and to scope out if the mist had encroached further into their territory. According to the reports the king sent every year, the mist was advancing on all the territories of Ellest at the same rate. Henri suspected otherwise. In any case, the bridges and the mist were no longer her immediate problem. Now, all she could think of was the statement she’d made in rescuing Bleak from Commander Swinton, and how grave an insult it was to the king. She churned through the possible outcomes in her mind, not realising she was bending the trees alongside them to her will until Athene nudged her. Annoyed, she concentrated on the mossy path ahead and the trees whipped back into place. Her powers often seemed to have a mind of their own.
Her thoughts returned to the king. She’d met Arden on two occasions in her life. The first time had been as a young child, during the more prominent years of her mother Allehra’s rule. At the time, the Valians had been in a bloody, three-year-long dispute with the royal family – a rebellion over how much they owed in terms of military resources. Allehra had eventually agreed to a peace treaty with the king: the first and last treaty to ever be made by the kindred. They would be indebted to no one. When it was settled, Allehra, Sahara, Henri and the most respected kindred met the royals and their entourage at Felder’s Bay for a peace ceremony. Henri could remember the king and queen breaking bread with Allehra, and toasting to an enduring friendship between the Valia kindred and the royals. The famous knight, Sir Caleb Swinton, watched everything, every flicker of movement. At his side was his young son, mimicking his father’s actions, wearing a grey tunic with his father’s sigil embroidered proudly on the chest. Prince Jaxon and Princess Olena were yet to be born. Sahara and Henri were seated with the noblemen’s children, who loo
ked at them like they were giant serpents or teerah panthers – mythical beasts created by parents, used for scaring children.
The second and only other time Henri had come into contact with the royal family had been at Sahara’s memorial. King Arden, Queen Vera, little Prince Jaxon and Princess Olena had all travelled from the capital to the Valia Forest to honour the memory of her sister. The funeral rites of one of the last remaining Valian descendants couldn’t be missed by anyone, not even the king. It had been a blur to Henri, who had spent much of those days in a wildflower haze.
The king was nothing special, not from what Henri had judged. He possessed no unique gifts; he was no Ashai, that was for sure. He lacked the presence that born leaders had, and although he could command attention, it wasn’t out of respect, or even fear. In Henri’s mind, he was a bland, faceless man, who had somehow been fortunate enough to end up on the throne.
‘You’re worried,’ Athene said quietly.
‘I’m always worried.’
‘Not like this. Something’s different.’
‘I shouldn’t have interfered,’ Henri allowed.
‘You had no choice. It’s the Valian Way.’
‘The Valian Way …’ Henri shook her head. ‘Be nice if it worked for the Valians every once in a while.’
‘What do you mean?’
Henri sighed. ‘Forget it.’
They continued walking, the sun bright and clear at its apex above, streaming golden rays across the bridges before them. Henri was quiet and turned right, moulding the trees with her power to steer those lagging behind in the right direction.
‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Athene asked.
‘Don’t be naive, Athene.’ The trees bowed obediently at a casual flick of Henri’s wrist.
‘It’s that bad?’
‘Worse. We’ve always had a tense relationship with the royals. I’ve pushed it too far this time.’
‘If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else, eventually.’
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