A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

  Oli passed the center of the great hall and meandered closer to the dais. “What have you done to Rosârah Mielle? Why does she stare so?”

  “My magic holds her captive.” Mother held her hands out to the side as if considering a work of art not quite complete. “Don’t you like how submissive she looks? When Sâr Trevn sees how we have made his wife our captive, he will renounce the throne and swear fealty to you.”

  “No, Mother. He will never do that.”

  “Then you will kill him and all this nonsense will be over.”

  “I would really rather not.”

  “Do not worry. When he sees my power, he’ll have no choice but to agree to our demands.”

  “What power?” Oli asked, hoping to insult her. “You may have scrounged together enough root to sneak past the garrison, but I know you. Your skill is minimal at best.”

  “You men have always underestimated me,” Mother said, scowling. She gestured at the queen. “This is magic you see before you. I also fooled that root child. He sat right beside my mask, clueless that he was following my maid.”

  “I’m sorry!” Grayson voiced.

  Oli had no idea where the boy had hidden himself. “Stay on guard, Grayson, and be ready for my cue.”

  Oli had almost reached the dais. As he neared the front row of tables, Cles, one of Mother’s guards, stepped into his path. Oli had trained with Cles when they were younger. He had no interest in fighting the man, so he turned and walked behind the front table, heading toward the right wall and the steps that led to the dais. Cles turned as well and walked along the front side of the table, a few paces behind Oli.

  “At least let the queen sit,” Oli said. “To keep her stiff like that . . . It’s terrible manners, Mother. I expected more from someone of your good breeding.”

  Mother glared at Rosârah Mielle. “This common orphan deserves no noble treatment. That she would be queen of Armania is an insult to us all. My Eudora was meant to be queen. All her life she trained for that role. She should have married Sâr Janek. They were beautiful together. Filled with grace and poise.”

  And deceit and selfishness and cruelty and a bit of insanity. “Janek would have been a terrible king. And Eudora never wanted to be queen. She didn’t even wish to marry.”

  “She would have done as she was told,” Mother said.

  The distant clicking of approaching hobnails signaled the arrival of the rest of the garrison. Oli bounded past Cles and up the stairs to the dais, eager to make his move before the great hall became a war zone.

  Cles followed like a shadow, twice as wide and three times as ugly.

  Oli reached his mother and bowed. “I’m afraid I bring bad tidings.”

  “Now, Grayson,” he voiced.

  Grayson appeared behind Oli’s mother, grabbed the hem of her cloak, then vanished only to reappear in front of her, still holding the cloak, which he twisted over her head.

  Mother screamed, tangled in her cloak. Oli lunged around her to the queen. He crouched and grabbed her around the legs with his arm. “Hold tight, Your Highness. I’ll get you out of here.” He lifted her, hoping she’d fall over his shoulder, but she remained stiff from the spell.

  The magic would likely wear off once it faded from Mother’s system, but that could be days. Mother, who was still screaming. Grayson had somehow pulled the bottom corners of the cloak around to her back and tied them behind her. She looked as if she had a potato sack over her head. Oli carried the queen awkwardly behind the throne and toward the curtain.

  Cles stepped in his way, sword drawn. “Release her, Your Grace.”

  “Grayson! Distract my pursuer. Rosârah Zeroah, open your secret door. I’m coming.”

  Grayson appeared between Oli and Cles, holding a pitcher, which he heaved forward, dousing the soldier in a stream of red wine.

  Oli hobbled past Cles and into the curtain. He pushed against it, struggling to find the center opening, and might never have made it through had Grayson not pulled the curtain aside to make way. The serving antechamber had only four torches in wall sconces to offer light. Oli strained to find Zeroah in the dimness.

  “Here, Your Grace.”

  He walked toward the sound of her voice, and together they moved the queen into the dark passage. Some five or six paces in, Zeroah dropped the queen’s feet and went back to the door. She pulled it shut, and everything went black.

  Zeroah’s voice rose out of the blackness. “Are you well, Your Grace? Your shoulder?”

  Mention of his shoulder wound brought attention to its sting. Oli had forgotten all about it. His father had stabbed him. And he had killed his father. He swallowed as emotion threatened to overtake him. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’m thankful for that,” Zeroah said. “And very sorry about your parents.”

  Father dead. And Mother would surely be executed. Oli did not want to think about them. “I must message the king now.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Your Highness?” Oli voiced to Trevn. “Your wife is safe.”

  But while he was able to sense the king’s mind, he received no answer.

  Trevn

  One dead, then another and another. Trevn must kill or be killed. A man came at him with a spear. Trevn plunged his blade into the man’s stomach, elbowed him, and jerked free his blade. When no more attacked, he searched those writhing on the ground, finishing all he could.

  “Your Highness!”

  Trevn spun around, sword out, ready to strike. Someone grabbed his wrist from behind and disarmed him. A second attacker wiped snow over his face. Trevn screamed and tried to throw a punch, but several men seized his limbs and pushed him to his back on the ground, holding him down. They heaped snow over his chest and throat. The cold shocked, and he struggled until he could think of nothing but cold.

  “Trevn!” An icy hand slapped his face. The touch of skin on skin jolted his mind into the present. “Look at me. At my eyes.”

  Trevn shifted his gaze to the man half kneeling on his chest. The concern on that familiar face washed over him. “Cadoc?” His voice came out hoarse, throat sore from yelling. The stench of sweat and blood and horses filled his nostrils.

  The battle.

  Fear rushed him and he thrashed, wanting to be on his feet, sword in hand so he could protect himself. “Get off me!” he shouted. “Let me up! I must fight!”

  Cadoc slid off Trevn. “Calm, Your Highness. The fighting is over. We’ve won.”

  “Over?” Trevn pushed himself to sitting. Three paces away, a dead horse stared at him, its eyes glassy as the snow melted on their surface. That he couldn’t recall what had happened unnerved him. Hair hung over his eyes and he pushed it away. He’d lost his helm. “Was I struck in the head?”

  “I removed your helm, Your Highness,” Cadoc said, motioning to Rzasa, who held the bronze piece under one arm. “You lost yourself to the battle rage there toward the end.”

  Trevn’s cheeks grew suddenly warm. He felt ashamed to have lost himself when he was supposed to be leading.

  Cadoc stood and extended his hand. Trevn took hold, and his High Shield hoisted him to his feet. Trevn’s legs felt like custard. He had never felt so weary, even after awakening from days of sleeping draughts after his hand had been crushed.

  He walked out from the cluster of guardsmen, wanting some space to work his aching legs. He surveyed the killing field, a vast bloody stain on a white plain scattered with corpses and discarded weapons. Some of the bodies jerked or heaved, resisting as death fought to take them. Some moaned, choked, gasped. Some wept.

  Most lay still.

  A weight pressed upon Trevn’s heart as he regarded the immense loss of Puru life. It brought him no joy, knowing the natives had been pawns used by a coward. And how many Armanians were among the dead? That they might have all lived seemed impossible, though Trevn saw none at first glance and hoped against logic that all had survived.

  “Oli?” He suddenly wondered about his First Arm
and how his wife fared, for while he could sense her presence, he still could not hear her thoughts. When the duke didn’t answer right away, fear flitted through his mind that Oli had in fact chosen to betray him.

  But then, “Yes, Your Highness?”

  Trevn berated himself for doubting the man. “My wife?”

  “My mother put a spell on her that will likely remain until the root wears off or is purged. But the queen is safe, Your Highness, and will recover fully.”

  Immense relief brought tears to Trevn’s eyes. He turned from his men and blinked them away. “And the castle?”

  “Secure,” Oli replied and then explained all that had taken place. They had almost been outmaneuvered, but Arman had been with them.

  “How many of our garrison did we lose?”

  “Thirty-one, Your Highness.”

  Thirty-one. “And how many of theirs died?”

  “Of the one hundred forty-three that entered the castle, fifty-two were killed.”

  Such low numbers compared to what Trevn looked upon. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Trevn ended the connection. He felt oddly hopeful despite standing in a field of bloody snow. He watched his men carry bodies toward one of two piles: pales to his left, Kinsman to his right. At first glance he guessed the Puru had died twenty to one.

  A Puru man sat on the bloody field, clutching an arrow that protruded from his stomach and mumbling in his native tongue.

  “Nu naawakna-qa niina,” he said, then repeated it.

  “Grayson?” Trevn voiced. “A Puru man is saying ‘Nu naawakna-qa niina.’ What does it mean?”

  “‘I don’t want to kill.’”

  The words sobered Trevn to the point of shame. Had his people not landed in Er’Rets, the Puru people would never have suffered such atrocities. Arman, forgive us, though we don’t deserve it. And have mercy on the Puru victims of this war we brought to their land.

  Trevn wandered the field, mourning the loss of so many innocents. He stepped on something that jerked under his boot. He jumped back as a Kinsman man covered in snow tried to sit up. Trevn recognized him from the battle. Dark blood glistened on his torso all around where a spear had impaled his chest. Someone had broken off the end.

  “Help me,” he croaked.

  Trevn knelt and took hold of his hand. It seemed clear that the man would die soon. “You fought well,” he said. “Help is here.”

  “My king,” he said. “I fought for you.”

  “I thank you. You are very brave.”

  Trevn sat with the man until he died. Then he wept. He was wet with blood. It had spattered and seeped and soaked him as much as the snow, though none of it seemed to be his.

  “Here come some traitors, Your Highness,” Cadoc said.

  Trevn stood and regarded the approaching soldiers. Captain Veralla’s sons, Sir Keshton and his brother Zanre, and three other Kinsman soldiers were leading four men this way. Trevn recognized one as Sir Briden.

  “We captured them trying to flee around the lake,” Sir Keshton said. “There was no sign of the general, I’m afraid.”

  “Because General Agoros was not on the battlefield today,” Trevn said, eyeing Sir Briden’s general’s uniform. “He bade Sir Briden act as his decoy while he breached the castle. But he and his men failed. All that are not dead will be soon.”

  “He’s a coward,” Sir Keshton said. “To leave his army to fight without him.”

  A great deal of Kinsman soldiers had gathered round. Trevn knew what he must do, though it took effort to make himself speak. “Execute these men,” he said, following the order with a deep breath. “As to the rest of you, soldiers of Armania, you are all as brave as any general. I am glad to know you and proud to have fought beside you. Thank you for risking your lives for our great realm and our great God.”

  The men cheered, and Trevn again had to choke back his emotions. He felt as weak as a newborn babe, completely spent both physically and mentally. He had done the best he could. Time would tell if it had made a difference in how the nobles saw him. For now, Castle Armanguard was safe, though he doubted it would be long before Barthel Rogedoth marched upon them. Trevn could only pray that they would be ready when that day came.

  Grayson

  The aftermath of the battle would take days to recover from, but one of the king’s first decisions was that they could not get caught off guard again. They needed any information on what Barthel Rogedoth’s plans might be, so the order was given for Grayson to rescue his grandmother.

  Much had happened since his last visit. Grayson worried she wouldn’t want to come. That she’d be too angry that he’d helped in the attack against her daughter.

  When he arrived inside Lady Islah’s tent, he could see better than last time. The sun shone down on the canvas and bathed everything in a rusty orange glow. Lady Islah sat hugging her knees to her chest and rocking. The chains that held her ankles grated against themselves.

  The chains. How foolish to have forgotten. If Grayson carried her away, would she be hurt? Maybe he should go back to Armanguard and carry a locksmith here?

  He might as well talk to her first. He entered the physical realm. “Hello, Grandmother.”

  She twitched, turned her head slightly, but continued rocking.

  “Are you all right?”

  She grunted. “No different than usual.”

  Had she not heard about her daughter’s death? Well, Grayson wasn’t going to tell her. “I, uh . . . I’ve come to rescue you. I mean, if you want to go.”

  She stopped moving and turned her big golden eyes his way. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It might be risky, so I’ll understand if you don’t want to try.”

  Those eyes narrowed. “Risky how?”

  “Well, you’ve seen how I can move about. It turns out I can carry a person with me. But I’m worried about your chains. What if they can’t come with us and they . . . um, they . . .” He paused, not wanting to say “rip off your feet.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Good. She seemed to understand.

  She fingered the chains. “Steal the keys, then you have no worries.”

  Grayson perked up. “You know where the keys are?”

  “On Perchard’s belt.”

  That shouldn’t be too hard. “Be right back.” Grayson thought about the gray-haired man with the red cloak and popped into the Veil. He found Perchard pacing between the king’s tent and Lady Islah’s. A faint clinking brought Grayson’s attention to a set of keys hanging off the man’s belt, opposite his longsword. Grayson could take the keys easily enough, but Perchard might come into Lady Islah’s tent or call for help before they could get the chains off.

  A better idea came to mind. Grayson popped behind the guard, grabbed him around the waist, and carried him through the Veil to the back side of the New Rurekan castle. He released him on the riverbank and snatched the keys off his belt.

  Perchard staggered back from the water’s edge. “What in the Five Realms . . . ?”

  Grayson popped away before the man could see him. He returned to his grandmother’s tent, sank to his knees beside her, and handed her the keys.

  “Where’s Perchard?” she asked.

  “I carried him to the Rurekan castle. We have plenty of time now.”

  Lady Islah chuckled. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”

  They worked together and managed to unlock the chains. Lady Islah released a cry and pushed to her feet. “Oh, legs. The slave hasn’t done much walking in a long while.” She took hold of his arm. “I’m ready.”

  Grayson focused on King Trevn’s office in Armanguard and felt himself shift. He jerked through the Veil and stopped just outside the tent. Grandmother was heavy! Grayson moved slower when carrying people, but no one had ever had so much weight before. And from such a skinny lady too. Scared he might lose her, he grabbed her around the waist and tried again.

  The journey went very slowly, as if Grayson were leaping like a stag. He jumped over
barren fields, snowy hills, and thick forests. The ground seemed to pull at him, as if wanting him to stay. He grew weary and thought about stopping to rest. King Trevn voiced him to see what was taking so long. Grayson explained as best he could, then kept on, determined to finish.

  The moment they reached the council chambers in Armanguard, Grayson released his grandmother and sank cross-legged to the floor. King Trevn had been waiting, along with Jhorn, Rosârah Brelenah, Cadoc, and three more guardsmen.

  Grandmother cackled. “You did it, my boy! You broke the spell of a great.” She kissed the top of his head and mussed his hair. “How strong your magic must be! The slave never thought it possible to be free from Dendron.”

  Grayson didn’t understand what Dendron had to do with anything, but he liked seeing his grandmother so joyful. “What do you mean?”

  “They didn’t just lock up the slave,” she said. “There were compulsions binding the slave to that place. You broke all those spells!”

  Was that why it had been so hard to move?

  “Aunt Islah?” Rosârah Brelenah stepped forward and extended her hand.

  Grandmother took in the other people in the room. Her eyes shone as she paused on the former queen. “Brelenah. How lovely you look, after all these years.”

  The two women embraced and started crying. Grayson never understood why women cried when they were happy. “If Grandmother is related to Rosârah Brelenah, why can’t she speak with the voices?”

  “Lady Islah is Rosârah Brelenah’s aunt through marriage to Rogedoth,” the king said, “—er, to Prince Mergest, I mean. She does not have royal blood.”

  Ah. That made sense, then.

  “Why did he do this?” Rosârah Brelenah said, stepping back from the hug.

  “You mustn’t blame him alone,” Grandmother said.

  “But I do!” Brelenah said. “We all do!”

  “Could the slave have a chair, please?” Grandmother asked. “And some water?”

  Trevn motioned to one of the guards, who pulled out a chair at the table, then went to the sideboard and poured a cup of water.

  Brelenah helped Grandmother sit down. “Why do you call yourself a slave, Aunt Islah?”