Badgerblood: Awakening

by S. C. Monson

  “He had magic?”

  “His charm,” Rhoswen continued, correcting her, “never fully developed. There were hints of magic in him, but it wasn’t complete. A full charmer hasn’t been seen for generations.” Another heavy sigh. “Holden always hoped someone would break that trend. We thought a cousin of his had, but she left Tilldor years ago and we could never be certain. He hoped you might show some signs, but the charm was never obvious. After he died, I let the matter drop and tried to forget it.”

  “I have magic?” Allinor couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Charm, dear. It’s called charm,” Rhoswen said in a suffering tone. “And it comes with a price—the stronger the charm, the stronger the sense of invincibility. I suspect that is what drives your impulsiveness.” She grew wistful. “Your father…displayed similar tendencies.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Rhoswen’s focus turned back to her daughter. “It’s dangerous, Allinor. If you’re not careful, it can be especially so for those around you. Charm seeks to protect the bearer first. Your father believed an inexperienced charmer under dangerous circumstances draws luck from others nearby, hence leaving those others more vulnerable to the danger themselves.”

  “My curse,” Allinor said under her breath.

  “What?”

  Choosing not to repeat herself, she asked instead, “Can you teach me?”

  Her mother shook her head. “I don’t think it can be taught, dear.”

  Allinor’s face fell.

  Rhoswen seemed to give in to her daughter’s disappointment then, and sighed, yet again. “It’s an innate gift that grows stronger through wise practice and should never be used for ill. Your father once told me a charmer’s success depended on three factors—will, focus, and contact. In your case, I suspect that’s eye contact. You seem to get your way more easily when you’re looking at people,” she said wryly.

  Allinor could barely contain her excitement. “What can it do? Are there limits?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhoswen said. “There aren’t many records on the subject. And as far as what it can do—a good deal, I’m sure. Within charming reason of course.” She eyed Allinor. “You’ll want to experiment, I suppose. Nothing I can do will stop that. But, my dear, if I suspect you of misusing it, I will set the limits. Your escort will increase. You won’t just have that friend of yours tailing you all day. I’ll hire Vahindan shield maidens—their wills should match a charmer’s,” she mused. “Is that clear?” Allinor nodded and Rhoswen held her at arm’s length. “And now, promise me you’ll conduct yourself properly through the rest of the trade negotiations?”

  In response, Allinor tempered her ear-to-ear grin and bowed her head, the picture of a demure, submitting princess. Smiling, Rhoswen pulled her in for a hug.

  They returned to the meeting hall and shortly thereafter, negotiations resumed. Allinor sat primly at the table, pretending to listen. In her mind, however, she plotted Kor and his friends’ rescue. She’d need Merrick’s help, of course, but he’d been missing from the proceedings that day. As soon as the meeting ended, she inquired after the prince.

  A young serving girl pointed her in the right direction. “Behind the barracks, milady, training with the soldiers. Right solid beating he’s getting, too.” She and another serving girl giggled.

  Before leaving the castle, Allinor fetched a warm cloak from her chambers. As she stepped out into the chill air, she pulled the furry white cloak more tightly around her. Alyss walked along beside her, but they didn’t talk. Behind the barracks, soldiers were bunched together in a wide circle, whooping and shouting. Allinor couldn’t see over their heads.

  “Excuse me,” she said, jostling her way through with Alyss in tow. The soldiers, mostly Perabon men, bowed their heads politely and parted. They stood around a yellow circle painted on the cold hard ground. At the center, Merrick fought a hairy-chested man nearly twice his size.

  27

  Merrick ducked a brawny fist and swung his arm. In each hand, he held a sheathed knife—a gift from his father for his twelfth birthday. He had yet to win a match with them.

  His opponent batted his swinging attack aside and drove the breath from him with a punch to the gut. The prince gasped and doubled over. A few cheers rose from the crowd.

  Someone shouted a warning. Merrick saw Allinor wave urgently from the sidelines as his opponent attacked again. He tried to dodge, but the man swiped out with a sheathed dagger of his own, catching Merrick below the eye. The prince stumbled back. A sense of deja vu nearly overwhelmed him with the smarting in his cheek. He almost stepped out of the ring, an action that would have automatically disqualified him from the match. On instinct, he lurched forward to keep himself in the fight, but his mind was elsewhere. The sting in his cheek reminded him of a play fight he’d had once, years ago. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but they shifted to Kor’s hearing instead, and the scar on the prisoner’s neck, and the carving on the item in his father’s waistcoat pocket…

  The clasped hands of his opponent bashed into the side of his head, interrupting his thoughts, and Merrick’s vision exploded with stars. He crashed to the ground, dropping his weapons and tasting blood. Before he could recover, he was flipped on his back and a hairy, sweaty leg locked around his bare chest. A thick arm wrapped around his neck, cutting off his airway. In vain, Merrick scrabbled in the dirt for his weapons, then pried at the man’s arm as he fought for breath. But the man only squeezed harder.

  The prince tapped out. He slapped the man’s arm and the arbitrator called the final match for the day. As the soldier released Merrick, the crowd dispersed.

  Merrick fell back on the dirt, chest heaving. The soldiers didn’t go easy in the matches, even for the prince. One couldn’t improve in defensive or offensive strategies if one was pampered while learning—so the instructor claimed. And King Leon approved the sentiment.

  Overhead, a blanket of gray obscured the sky. Merrick stared up at it. The edge of one cloud, not quite blending in with its brothers, curled in a spiral and he thought he saw a badger head profile at its center. A faint memory teased him, just out of reach. He rolled over and pushed himself up on his knees. Gathering his sheathed knives, he lurched toward the painted yellow ring around the designated fighting arena. Despite the cold, he was dressed in knee-length, tapered shorts—customary dress for training matches. Allinor and her maid waited by the rest of his clothes and gear.

  She uncorked his water pouch and held it out to him. He took it and plopped down on the ground for a long drink.

  Allinor spoke down at him in a whisper as Merrick’s thoughts wandered. His stomach rumbled and he realized he was hungry. Corking the waterskin, he dragged his sash-belt closer and dug in a pouch for a snack. There were only the wilted petals Allinor had given him the day before. They would have to do. He popped one in his mouth and chewed, absently fingering the knives in his lap. The fog of familiarity that had descended at the end of the fight still hung in his mind, but soon solid images and memories began working their way through it—Kor’s scar, the badger head carving in his father’s pocket, even the set of knives in his lap.

  Once, as a young child, he’d snuck the knives from their hiding place with the help of an older boy. They’d played “sword fight” with them. Then Merrick had been cut on the cheek and the older boy had been punished.

  Merrick raised a hand to his cheek. It still smarted from the match with the soldier. There was an old scar there, barely visible now under the fresh bruise. He’d nearly forgotten it, along with the childhood incident. The memory washed over him now like icy water. With it came the older boy’s name and face—he had piercing blue-green eyes, a scar on his neck, and wore a circular bone pendant. The pendant had a badger head carved in its center.

  Merrick shot to his feet as the memories came together. The waterskin fell on the ground with a heavy sploot and the knives clattered after them. He swayed as the sudden rise made him
lightheaded. Tremors of exhaustion shook his body and he clutched his head.

  Allinor stepped closer. “Are you alright?” He glanced distractedly at her and she frowned. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” She sighed. “I have to talk to you.”

  “It’ll have to wait.” He stepped around her, picked up his sash-belt, and secured the knives to it. Then he strapped the leather underside of the sash-belt around his waist. He tied the sash attached to the top of the leather at one side, letting the silk ends trail down to his knee.

  Allinor turned to face him. “It’s important,” she said in an urgent whisper.

  Merrick slipped on his jacket, but didn’t bother buttoning it. “I have to talk to my father,” he said, stepping forward.

  Allinor grabbed his arm. “Like that?”

  He glanced down at himself. Sweat and dirt stained his shorts and jacket. The rest of his bruised and scraped body looked no better. “It’s good enough for him,” he said in a low voice and strode away.

  “But—Merrick,” Allinor called in exasperation.

  Without looking back, Merrick waved a hand. “Later!” Her protests faded from earshot as he hurried to the castle. He took the back steps two at a time, and strode down the hall to his father’s chambers. The guards, two Salkaran mercenaries, barred his entry.

  “His Majesty, King Leon, is not to be disturb—”

  Before they could finish, Merrick ducked between them and burst through the door. The guards tumbled after, trying to stop him. Leon sat at his desk, reviewing parchments, a quill in hand. At the commotion, his head came up, quill hand hovering over a document.

  “We have to talk. Alone,” Merrick said.

  The king looked from the disgruntled guards to Merrick, then back at the guards. With a brief nod, he sent the two men bowing from the room. As they closed the door behind them, Leon settled back in his chair to survey the prince. “You didn’t think to clean up first?”

  Merrick ignored the question. “You knew, didn’t you?” he said. “You knew who he was, and you sentenced him to death anyway.”

  Leon clutched the quill in his hand tighter. “What are you talking about?” he said in a quiet voice.

  The prince’s chest rose and fell in short angry breaths. “Kor—Kayor,” he said, waving a hand. “He’s my brother and you tried to kill him.”

  “Kor?” Leon scoffed. “That murderer is not your brother.”

  “Brother, half brother—it’s all the same,” Merrick said. “I remember the scar now, and the pendant. And you…you…” He balled his hands into fists.

  “He is not your brother,” Leon said quietly.

  “I remember,” Merrick said through clenched teeth. His hand went to one of the knives at his side. “We fought with these knives when I was small, I got cut, and you punished him—unfairly. But you’re good at that sort of thing, aren’t you?”

  The quill creaked in Leon’s grip as he rose from his chair. “Careful, boy.”

  Despite the warning, Merrick plowed ahead. “He ran away after that and I never saw him or the pendant again, until now.” He clenched his fists so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms. “You told me he was dead and I believed you. Now he’s back and you want him out of the way.”

  “He’s a murderer.”

  “He’s the heir,” Merrick retorted. “We never saw him kill anyone. He belongs on the throne. Not me.”

  The quill snapped. “Kor was a servant only,” Leon said, his voice dangerously low. “A murderer and a thief. He stole your mother’s pendant. He is the reason she is dead.”

  Merrick reeled at this new accusation.

  “You have always been the rightful heir, boy. Always.” Leon fairly spat the word. His face twisted in disgust as his gaze dropped to Merrick’s sweaty, half-dressed appearance. “But your mother would be ashamed of the heir you’ve become.” Without another glance at the prince, he sat down. “Now get out.”

  At the words, Merrick’s face flushed with anger, embarrassment, and confusion. He stormed from the room and the castle, and was almost to the garden wall when Allinor came up beside him. She was alone.

  “Merrick, I have to talk to you.”

  He ducked through the vines and hidden gap into the garden beyond. Allinor climbed through after him. Merrick sat on the same footbridge they had talked on the day before, and dangled his bare feet over the water. Leaning forward over the lower railing, he watched the kotai swimming below. A pleasant heat rose up around him from the hot spring stream.

  Allinor stood at his left. There was a brief silence before she finally spoke, her tone serious. “I can’t talk long, Merrick. Friend or not, Alyss will go to my mother when she fails to find me herself, but I wanted to ask a favor. It’s a sizable one, so if you turn me down, I’ll understand. It’s about Kor and his friends.”

  Merrick cast a sidelong glance up at her.

  She turned to lean against the upper railing, absently rubbing her thumb over the chipping wood. “I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

  “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t,” Merrick said, trying his best to sound indifferent. “Either way, he is my brother.”

  Allinor sank to her heels beside him, staring.

  “Well, half brother,” Merrick said, correcting himself. “At least, I think he is. My father denies it but…” He trailed off, leaning back as Allinor leaned toward him. She studied his eyes intently.

  “That’s why they looked familiar,” she said. “I couldn’t quite place why when we talked here the other day, but I thought I recognized them.”

  “What?” Merrick asked, confused.

  “Your eyes. You and Kor have the same starbursts. Merrick, we have to help him, and his friends.”

  “I know,” Merrick said.

  “We’ll forge a letter—” Allinor began.

  “Allinor,” Merrick said.

  “—and set your father’s seal to it—” she continued.

  “Allinor.”

  “—and free them all—”

  “Allinor!”

  “What? You have a better idea?” Allinor asked, sounding irritated.

  “I’m the prince, remember? My father is always talking about my duties. It’s time I exercised my authority,” Merrick said. “I can go to the Isle and order their pardon myself.”

  Allinor dropped her chin in a flat stare. “If we want to succeed, we need to forge a pardon—from the king.”

  Merrick scoffed sourly and leaned over the middle railing. “That’s no guarantee, either,” he said, miffed at her lack of confidence.

  The amber-eyed Tilldoran princess smiled. “It will work—with a bit of charm.”

  28

  Peter knelt behind a stack of barrels on the pier, watching as Kor was prodded from a prison cart at the end of a spear. The wielder was a burly man with a curved sword and a whip at his side. His face was covered in scars. Peter recognized the man as the Vahindan mercenary who had injured and captured him earlier. Beside him stood Martt, overseeing the proceedings.

  The woodsman started with surprise as he noticed Eliker and Serah trudging down the docks in another line. He and Kor had been careful to cover their friendship with the miller and his daughter to protect them. Until that point, he had assumed they were safe in the village.

  Serah stumbled as they walked, and a mercenary struck at her with a whip. Before it could touch her, Eliker threw himself over her, catching the brunt of the blow on his back. In an instant, Kor was free of his line and barrelling into the attacker. He stood between his friends and their assailant, wrestling with the man. After a brief struggle, he managed to seize the whip and turn it on the mercenary. Then the other guards swarmed him. Several of the bolder prisoners cheered and joined the fray. The skirmish was soon broken up, however. Soldiers restrained the revolting prisoners and pulled Kor off the mercenary. They beat him to the ground with whips and spear shafts.

  Spart struggled in Peter’s arms, trying to get to Kor’s attackers
, and Peter nearly slipped in the fish guts spread under him. “Easy, boy. Not yet.” The badger snarled and Peter clamped a hand over his muzzle. “Quiet, Spart,” he said. “You want to give us away? I’m in no condition to help now. We have to wait.” Spart’s snarl turned to a whine and he went limp. Since the badger was no longer resisting, Peter relaxed his hold and watched as the unconscious Kor was dragged toward the prison boat.

  Peter rubbed his injured leg and glanced down. He still wore his colorful cook’s attire. Blood seeped through the bandage on his leg, staining the parsley leggings a darker color. It hurt worse today than it had the day before.

  His stomach gurgled unpleasantly. He was weak with hunger and pain, and the stench of old fish guts made him nauseous. Over the past couple of days he’d toted a stewpot around to nearly all the castle grounds’ prison cells, barely pausing for a bite himself. He reached in his tunic for an end of bread he’d stowed there earlier, and shared a piece with the badger.

  Just before coming to the docks, he’d found Spart outside the castle grounds. Or rather, Spart had found him. That same day, Peter had nearly given up his search for Kor, hoping the lad had escaped. None of the guards had mentioned any foresters or prisoners named Kor except Rimak. Even then, the mercenary had never actually said the boy’s name. Peter had been about to leave the castle grounds when he’d spied the prison carts rolling out of the gates. Kor had been packed in among the other prisoners. There had been no sign of the McPhersons. Peter had followed, using the secret passage in the castle grounds’ outer walls to escape the area unseen. Then Spart had caught up with him.

  A shout interrupted his thoughts. “Ho there, cook!”

  Peter spun to see a soldier pointing at him. Spart growled, and Peter released him with an order to attack. The badger raced toward the man and Peter made for the port market beyond the docks, trying not to fall on the iced-over fish slime between the barrels. The weather had turned cold quickly since yesterday. Tiny snowflakes drifted down around him.