by Aiken G. A.
Caid looked down at his sister.
“No one. I think he lives in this place alone.”
“That actually could work for us.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Keeley walked inside, stood next to him. “Is he showing her that stupid axe?”
“Seems so.”
Gemma walked into the castle with their father. She had her arm looped through his, but his face was red and his hands curled into big fists. He seemed ready to snap and Caid would bet gold his brother knew that.
The War Monk had on her white robes again, making her look like the pious little nun that she wasn’t.
“Uncle?” she called out.
“Niece.” He looked Gemma over. “You’ve gotten chunky.”
The War Monk’s eyes narrowed on her uncle but she controlled her annoyance and forced a smile. “I’m sure, after all these years, you and my dear father can put aside your differences. Move on to a new relationship appropriate to such wonderful men.”
Archibald smirked. “Need my help, do you?” Now his brutal blue gaze examined his brother. “I knew you could never take care of your family.”
And that was it. Angus Farmerson pulled away from his daughter, leaped onto the big wooden table in the middle of the room, and launched himself at his brother.
Laila sighed. “I guess we should stop them.”
“Do we really have to get in the middle of this?”
Caid was in no mood to get between two human males fighting over a gods-damn axe.
But his sister didn’t even have a chance to insist—and she would have—because Keeley was moving. Yet it wasn’t the two men she got between. That was her mother and sister. They struggled to pull the males apart. Keeley, however . . . she grabbed that weak, worthless axe off the wall and dropped it on the floor. Then she unslung her hammer from the sling she had strapped to her back, gripped the steel handle with both hands, raised it high above her head—gorgeous muscles rippling—and swung it down. Once. Twice. Three times. Destroying the wood handle.
That stopped everyone.
“Keeley! What have you done?” Angus cried.
“Mad cow! How could you?” Archibald yelled.
Keeley picked up the pieces of the family axe and tossed them into the fireplace, followed by the iron head.
She faced her shocked father and uncle. “Are we now done with this never-ending bullshit?” she ended on a bellow. “Our family is in danger and you two are fighting over a ridiculous axe!” She gestured to Emma. “And Mum!”
“Oy!”
“We,” she said, leaning down and speaking directly to the two men, “have more important things to discuss than your years-old horseshit! So get your old asses off the ground, put some smiles on your faces so as not to scare the children, and maybe . . . maybe! . . . I will be nice enough to make you two mad bastards a new bloody axe!”
Grudgingly, but most likely afraid not to follow her orders, the brothers stood.
“A steel axe?” Archibald softly asked.
“From handle to head,” Keeley sweetly replied, now that she’d gotten her way, “as long as you two don’t keep pissing me off.”
The brothers gave each other another good glare before nodding in agreement.
“Good.” She motioned to Gemma. “Bring everyone in.”
As Gemma silently returned to the courtyard to gather the children, as well as Samuel, Farlan, and Cadell, Laila leaned into Caid’s side and teased, “I think we may have found the queen’s general.”
“I have to admit, Sister,” Caid said in all seriousness, “I was thinking the same thing.”
* * *
Keeley put her baby sister into the bed, noting the hammer still gripped in her little fist. She pulled the fur over her sleeping form and started to stand, but Endelyon proved she wasn’t asleep when she grabbed Keeley’s wrist. So strong already. Keeley was proud.
“Don’t go,” Endelyon whispered.
“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep,” she promised.
“No. Don’t go. Don’t go away.”
Keeley sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in so she could see her sister’s face in the candlelight.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. Mum and Da won’t let anything happen to you. They’ll protect you.”
“Not protect you.”
Keeley suddenly understood what the nearly four-year-old was trying to say.
“Are you scared for me?”
Endelyon nodded.
Keeley leaned across her sister, resting her elbow on the other end of the narrow bed so they could whisper to each other as they liked to do early in the morning before Keeley had to go to work.
“What are you worried about?”
Endelyon took a good grip on a lock of Keeley’s hair. “B—” she began, but then her gaze moved to something behind Keeley.
Looking over her shoulder, Keeley saw Beatrix standing in the doorway. She gave a short jerk of her head, motioning toward the stairs. Keeley held up a finger before turning back to Endelyon.
“Talk to me,” she gently pushed. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Her sister held her little hammer out.
Keeley grinned. “I made that for you. It’s your protection. I have my own,” she said, reaching down and lifting her favorite weapon.
Her sister giggled, reaching for the hammer. But the head was still covered in blood and her sister was too young for that, so Keeley put it back on the floor.
“One day, you’re going to make your own mighty hammer,” Keeley told her. “And then, we’ll be blacksmiths together.”
“Promise?”
“You bet.” She leaned down and kissed her sister on the forehead. “Now get some sleep. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Love you, little bits.”
“Love you too.”
Keeley kissed her again and then a few more times until the giggling got too much for her younger brother, who threw his wooden sword at Keeley’s head.
At some point before he got his first steel one, she’d have to teach him not to do that, but it could wait for another day.
Keeley tucked her siblings in and closed the door on her way into the hall. That’s where she found her uncle.
“Sorry, little Keeley.” He looked sheepishly at his big feet. “Didn’t mean to upset you so.”
She crossed her arms and bent her neck back so she could look up at her giant uncle. He was a good five inches taller than her father and her father was a big man. That’s why she knew it would be a very bad thing if the fight between the two men went too far. Especially because Uncle Archie was . . . just a little . . . less than sane.
He was a talented stonemason who had, on more than one occasion, gotten himself kicked out of various towns because of the fear that he could “snap” at any time. The royals who hired him always loved his work but couldn’t stand to deal with him for any length of time. But over the years, he’d made a good amount of coin and, finally, went off to build the castle they were standing in. All by himself. Like a crazy person would do. She didn’t know he’d done such a beautiful job, though. He should be proud. But he was too busy feeling bitter and angry about whatever horseshit had gone on with his brother years earlier.
“You’re lucky I didn’t use my hammer on you,” she told him. “You attacked me da.”
“Do you want me to lie and say he didn’t deserve it?”
“No. But I need to know my entire family is safe while they’re here. That includes me da and not just me mum.”
He leaned in and whispered, “But if I kill him, I can have her.”
Good gods. “Uncle Archie, kill my father . . . and my mother will flay the skin from your very soul. And not in a nice way. In the meanest way she can think of.”
He glanced off and she could tell he was actually thinking about it. Wondering if it might be wort
h it.
So Keeley did what she didn’t want to do. She hooked the head of her hammer against her uncle’s leg and yanked, dropping the older man onto the floor, facedown.
“Owwww! You vicious cow!”
She crouched down next to him, pressing her knee against his spine and her hammer against the back of his neck, pushing down just enough... “Now listen up, you mad cock! As my uncle, I adore you. But as my father’s brother, I will kill you if you hurt him. And gods help you if you manage to kill him. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
“Yes.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Yes!”
“Do I have your word, Uncle Archibald? Your word?”
“I give you my word!”
“Good!” She patted his shoulder. “And you will love the family axe I make for you. I give you my word.”
She left him lying facedown on the floor and headed to the stairs. When she reached them, her mother was standing there, grinning.
“That’s my girl,” her mother whispered as Keeley walked by.
* * *
Gemma forced Samuel into a room and made him get some sleep. He felt he should sleep in the stables with the one horse her uncle Archie had and the horses they’d brought from the farm. But why? Because he thought he should suffer as a monk? Except he wasn’t just a monk. He was a War Monk. Or would be, once his training was complete. But she really wasn’t sure the life of a War Monk was for him. Being an acolyte to one of the other, less violent, gods might be his best bet, but she didn’t have the luxury of saying that right now. She needed him. At least until this was over. And the war gods knew he’d served his purpose. His warning of the upcoming attack by the Devourer’s mercenaries had given her family the time they’d needed to survive the fight.
And, like any warrior, he needed good rest when he could find it. So if he had access to a bed, he should take it.
Gemma pointed a warning finger at the young man one more time before she finally closed the door and headed toward the stairs.
Despite having had a very good dinner that their mother made from a deer the Amichais had stalked and skinned near the castle, Gemma was still hungry. Hoping there was some bread and stew left, she went down the stairs and headed to the pantry. She walked past a room with a table and stacks of books. That’s where Keeley and Beatrix were deep in very soft conversation.
Her eyes narrowed and she immediately walked into the room, closing the door behind her.
Both her sisters stopped speaking.
“What are we talking about?” she asked.
Beatrix began to reply, but Keeley cut her off. “I think the bigger question, Sister, is why are you here? I always thought War Monks moved in packs. Like dogs. Or rats.”
Gemma took a moment, using all her training to keep herself calm. She didn’t want to become like Uncle Archie and her father. Fighting with Keeley every time they saw each other. They were better than that. Weren’t they?
When Gemma didn’t answer right away, Keeley went on. “I can’t help but notice your timing. We don’t see you for more than a decade but then . . . there you are. Suddenly. And dressed as a nun. That was delightful.”
“If you’re asking whether I knew about the Witches of Amhuinn, I did. Of course I did.”
“And?”
“And I think Beatrix is a little young to be queen.”
“The Old King was the Old King when he was fifteen seasons. She’s twenty-three seasons. She’ll be fine.”
“Keeley—”
“With the right advisors, she’ll be fine.”
Gemma crossed her arms over her chest. “I knew you weren’t going to be reasonable.”
“How is that unreasonable?”
“She can turn it down. Tell the witches no.”
Beatrix, leaning her butt against the table, calmly gazed at Gemma. “And why would I do that?”
Gemma finally focused on her younger sister and she desperately fought the urge to start slapping the arrogance out of her. She knew that wouldn’t work on Beatrix, but part of her still wanted to try.
“Because you shouldn’t be queen. The land will be torn apart—”
“The land will be torn apart anyway. The brothers will ensure that.”
“You have no army. You have no allies. You have nothing, Beatrix. All you’re doing is putting our family in danger. And for what? So you can wear a crown you couldn’t possibly hold on to? Does that make sense to you?”
“What makes sense to me is that our lands need a new leader. I am that leader. If that bothers you . . . I’m sorry. But I will not turn this down.” She placed her hand on Keeley’s shoulder. “We’ll leave tomorrow. With the Amichais. You tell Father.”
And with that, she and her dark green silk gown swept out of the room.
“Have you lost your—”
Gemma jerked back when Keeley slapped her hand over her mouth.
“Shhhh,” she hissed, her forefinger held in front of her lips. “Keep your voice down.”
Keeley went to the door, making sure to close it quietly. When she was done, she faced Gemma.
“Why can’t you be nice?” she asked.
Now Gemma wanted to slap Keeley.
“Because there is no time to be nice,” Gemma practically hissed. “There is no time to let her believe, for even a moment, that she should or could be queen.”
“Why? Because you don’t like her?”
“I wish it were that easy, Keeley. I wish it was just me not liking her so that she could be queen and the rest of us could go on with our lives. But you should know that nothing is that simple. Not in the world we live in.”
Keeley studied Gemma for a moment before she asked, “And what if we tell her right now, tonight, that she can’t be queen? That our parents forbid it. That you and I forbid it. That no one, not even the Amichais, will escort her anywhere. What do you think happens then?”
Gemma met her sister’s gaze, but she couldn’t keep it. Not when she already knew the answer to those questions.
“She goes anyway.”
Keeley pushed away from the door and went to the table. She slid some books aside and sat down, letting her long legs dangle over the side.
“Of course she goes anyway,” she finally said. “She has been waiting for this all her life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“While you were off with monks, I was watching our siblings grow up. Like Mum, I can tell you everything about each of them. The ones who’ll stay on the farm all their lives. The ones who’ll go off to join the military. The ones who will be rich and the ones who will always struggle. And from what I’ve seen of Beatrix . . . she’s been waiting for this since she was born. Since the day Mum held her in her arms and declared to the world, ‘This one is a bit plain.’ ”
Beatrix was a bit plain but it never mattered to the family. Although, now that Gemma thought about it, it clearly mattered to Beatrix. That’s why she wore those gowns while living in the middle of a farm with horses and pigs and chickens. The elaborate hairstyles and well-made jewelry. Because she hated that she was plain, while the rest of them barely cared at all how they looked.
“She’s been waiting her entire life to be queen, Gemma, and nothing we say or do is going to stop her.”
* * *
Gemma became impossibly still, nothing on her moving, while her mind turned over the information Keeley had given her. For a moment, it didn’t even look like she was breathing.
Then she was coming across the room, her finger pointed at Keeley, until she stood only a few inches from her.
“You don’t think she should be queen either . . . do you?”
“She’s a spoiled twenty-three-year-old girl who has never left the house she was born in. Of course I don’t think she should be queen. Princess, perhaps, but not a ruling queen.”
“Then why are you—”
“Why argue with her at this stage? It’s not going to dissua
de her. If anything, it’s just going to make her dig her heels in. And, unlike you, I know how stubborn our sister can be.”
“You need to stop throwing in my face how long I’ve been gone.”
“You shouldn’t have left.”
“I have a calling, Sister.”
“The gods speak to you?” she asked.
“Sometimes. Yes.”
“But Beatrix is the irrational one with dreams of grandeur?”
“Those are two very different things.”
“Are they? She believes she can be queen of the Hill Lands and you think you talk to gods. Perhaps be careful before throwing stones from that glass castle.”
Gemma waved Keeley’s very sound logic away and said, “If you don’t think she should be queen, then what are you doing?”
“I will be traveling with her to see those witches.”
“Why?” Gemma barked at her. “Why are you feeding this craziness?”
“I’m not letting my sister go alone with the Amichais.”
“They saved our lives.”
“And I’m grateful. I will always be grateful. But she’s still family. And we protect family. I’m not letting her go anywhere by herself.” Keeley pushed her hair off her face but was annoyed when it slipped forward again. “Especially because I know she’ll need me when this all settles down.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once these witches meet her, find out about her, they’ll change their minds. They’ll know she’s not the future queen. And Beatrix will be devastated. She’ll need at least one of us there to comfort her, and Mum can’t go.”
“You so sure that’s what the witches will say?”
“She’s a young woman who has never been more than ten leagues away from the farm she was born in. But, and this is the important part, she is brilliant. I don’t mean she’s smart. I mean brilliant. She’d been able to read when she was still crawling. She could do Mum’s books from the forge by the time she was five. She thinks this is all owed to her because she’s brilliant. You and me . . . ? If someone told us we were going to be queen, we’d say, ‘Me? But I’m a peasant. Who’s going to make us queen?’ But not Beatrix. Beatrix has always known.” Keeley gazed intently at her sister. “And she’s not going to let anyone—especially the two of us—tell her any different.”