The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  The king folded his arms and drew his mouth tight. “Reduvi spent a great deal of time talking on the way back here. He attempted to rile me by relating the numerous tortures he subjected you to, and while I realise some of it will be true – I must know what is false. I will see to it that he is made to suffer for what he has done to you, Artemi, butI must know exactly what it is that he has done.”

  She did not want to revisit her experiences at that camp. Not for anyone or anything. “WillI have a say on how he is punished? He and Passerid?”

  “Of course.”

  Artemi stood from the chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. She began moving about the sparse furniture restlessly. “I want you to show kindness to Passerid.”

  Concern flashed across the king’s brow. “Why should I?”

  Typical that a madman should promise one thing and then go against it. “He quenched me to save my life. He did not participate in the beatings. He fed me when no one else bothered to consider my survival. He could have left me to fall into stasis or die from those beatings. But he didn’t.”

  The king sighed heavily. “He could have released you and saved you from suffering entirely.”

  “No.” Artemi shook her head. Why did no one else seem to understand? “He truly believes wielders are dangerous. He thought he was doing the right thing – I was just his necessary casualty in it. And I would rather it was me than some other poor girl who didn’t

  know how to fight back.”

  Her words only seemed to make him angrier. “Then what he believes is wrong. And you ought to have been no one’s casualty!” He spat the last word out.

  “It is only a matter of perspective,” she whispered.

  The king’s green eyes flashed as he appeared to work to form a measured response. He gripped onto the table behind him, released it, folded his arms and then unfolded them again. “You are innocent, and he committed a crime against you. Will you agree with me on that?”

  Artemi paced a little while she thought, stroking the sword scabbard that descended from her waist and over the sleek skirt of her dress. “His crime was principally against you.”

  Then she approached the king slowly. “Why did you agree to those outrageous terms?”

  He chewed his lip for a moment, evidently still annoyed at her. “That is my business.”

  “Clearly, since it seems to make no sense to anyone else.” She released her scabbard and held her hands calmly in front of her while the room remained quiet. That line of silvery hair was an odd thing indeed; she’d never seen such a colour on anyone’s head. “How did that happen - your hair?”

  “If one more person asks about that-” He took a breath. “I’m not sure exactly. The Sky Bridge we were on collapsed. I tried to do something with the energy in the structure as it fell, but whatever it was didn’t work. And I woke up with two burned eyes and this.”

  Artemi inclined her head and moved closer. “Can I... ?” she reached forward with a hand, and he gave a single nod, ducking his head a little so that she could reach. As she came closer she noted the hair had started to re-grow black at his temple. “Well, whatever it was will be gone in a few months.” Artemi touched the curious silver hairs gently with her fingertips. She had no idea what she was looking for, especially since she could no longer sense any fire from his skin. His hair felt as it should have: soft and smooth. The Blazes, now locked as far from her consciousness as possible, burned in the same way as before. No, this was pointless when she wasn’t even a wielder anymore.

  “Anything?” he asked intently.

  She dropped her hand and stepped

  back. “No.”

  Another long silence filled the vast chamber, seemingly echoing about the cold, grey walls.

  “I want to join your army,” she said quietly.

  He blinked in surprise, but let no more emotion show on his face. “You will have to ask Silar and Beodrin, but I’m sure they would be happy to have you.”

  She nodded. “Then you approve?”

  “Yes. But army decisions are theirs, not mine.”

  Her shoulders relaxed visibly. It meant he wasn’t going to continue with wrapping her up in lamb’s wool like a newborn child.

  “And I don’t believe you’re ready to return to training yet,” he added.

  Well, not as much lamb’s wool, anyway. “Then that makes two of us,” she admonished. Her stomach wound still complained when she stood or twisted quickly, but it really wasn’t problematic enough for him to detect in her movements, was it? She returned to her seat, just in case.

  The king rubbed at his short stubble briefly. “You still haven’t told me about your time in captivity.”

  “There is not much to tell,” she clenched her jaw.

  “You said they hit you.”

  Artemi took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  The king’s face became unreadable. “How often and for how long?”

  “Does it matter?” Why did they have to talk about this? It would only reduce her to a

  gibbering wreck for the thousandth time, and Morghiad was the last person she wanted to cry in front of.

  “Tell me,” he persisted.

  She bit her lip and began building a wall of emotional defences. They would not have the satisfaction of making her weep over her own stupid misfortune! “Every day I was there. I don’t know how long - as much as they thoughtI could take.”

  The king nodded slowly and cleared his throat. “Reduvi said he stripped you. Is that true?”

  “I was naked for most of it and left outside, yes,” she said quickly. The cold and the rain: those had been the most soul-crushing of things. It was so cold outside of the tent.

  The king gazed at one of the blank

  walls for a moment and then started pacing. “Is there anything else?”

  Artemi shook her head. There was no need for him to know about the dagger.

  “You are hiding something from me.”

  She met his eyes this time and shook her head again.

  The king pulled a chair close to her and sat on it, keeping his injured leg outstretched. “I know you’d rather everyone thought you were tough. Though you are more resilient than a mountain ox, you’re not invincible. I will tell no one else of it, if that is what you want.”

  She didn’t want to tell him! Never mind any-bloody-body else. But those eyes: they seemed to burn into her soul. He probably already knew what Febain had done by reading her thoughts, and just wanted to test that she

  spoke the truth. But it was alright. She wasn’t going to well up over this. Artemi calmly explained how her captor had used his dagger on her.

  At first the king listened quietly and intently to her words, but slowly his mood changed while he looked at the floor. His breathing slowed, his hands clenched into fists, his shoulders tensed to iron, and his face became stone. “How many times?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth; she’d lost track and wouldn’t have cared to count, anyway.

  He snapped his gaze back to her. “I’m sorry, Artemi. Allthis is... I’m sorry.” Morghiad moved his hand towards hers as if to take it, but stopped short. Instead he rose from his chair and paced out of the room; the air seemed to darken around him.

  Artemi remained in her seat for a few minutes, alone in the bare chamber. She felt much stronger than she’d anticipated after relating the truth to him. She hadn’t wept or lamented over her own misfortune like a small child that had fallen over. She was still there, alive and strong, ready to repay her debts to Calidell’s army.

  To say that Febain Reduvi was a fractured husk of a man would have been the greatest understatement of an age. His injuries had not been carefully planned or executed by any measure, and the king had seen to exacting the worst of them. A broad and smooth pool of blood shone over the floor of his cell, seeping gently out into the hallway beyond. An uninformed onlooker might have deemed his treatment cruel and inhumane, but to Morghiad it was entirely warranted
. And Reduvi had to live to tell of his punishment. The world would learn what would happen if anyone dared to touch Artemi, if anyone dared to exploit her when she was vulnerable. She would be more than capable of exacting her own revenge, but until she reclaimed her memories she was

  Morghiad’s responsibility.

  He locked the barred door in front of the shaking, wailing prisoner and turned to leave. His hands were covered in the ruddy evidence of his retribution, but he was in no rush to wash it off. The king strode out of the darkness and into the warm light of the castle’s oil lamps, revelling in the relative freshness of the air.

  Silar was waiting by the green stairs when Morghiad reached his apartments, oddly without the company of Artemi. The pair had become remarkably close in the short time they’d known one another, and the happiness each brought to the other was enough to assuage the king’s jealousy. Just.

  Silar’s dark blue eyes widened at the sight of him. “Blazes, Morghiad! When are you going to stop using that man as a butcher’s haul?”

  “WhenI feel we’ve both paid our price.”

  Silar twisted his mouth in obvious disapproval. “This is taking you to a very dark place. I don’t like it.”

  Morghiad raised an eyebrow. His friend was a useful advisor most of the time, but some things were not his concern.

  He folded his white-shirted arms. “Well, I’ve no plans to help you clean up. I’ll be at the fountain.” He turned to go.

  “Wait, where is she?”

  Silar made an exasperated noise, “Sleeping in your old rooms, lastI heard,” and walked off.

  Sleeping this far into the morning? That

  was unlike her, even if she was still recovering. He winced as he remembered his own injuries. Aura had made a good effort at cleaning and stitching the cut in his leg, but their hard travelling afterwards had not helped at all. Once inside his rooms, he tore off his clothing and dropped onto his sturdy reading chair, and lifted his leg onto the desk surface. Plenty of people had offered to fuss over him at his return, and he’d hated it. One day they’d realise he was quite capable of looking after himself. One blazed day!

  He unravelled the bandaging rapidly and pulled out the already-decaying stitches. It was one of the peculiar aspects of healing wounds; that the injury would hungrily consume whatever thread was used to bind them. Morghiad limped into his shower room and hit

  the broad lever to release the plunging waterfall of water. It was ice cold and had apparently been so since one of the vast boilers blew its casings, sending a slew of steaming-hot water throughout the kitchens. Still, the freezing water here worked well to numb the wound as it washed over his skin. One clean, he stepped out, dried-off, stitched, re-bandaged and donned some fresh clothing. The long, dark blue velvet coat was next to go on, fitting snugly over his arms and shoulders. He buttoned up several of the gold buttons hastily and strapped his ribboned sword to his waist, before standing in front of the mirror to put on the crown.

  The city’s blacksmith had done a sterling job of fixing the dent in the organic vines of the silver circlet, and he placed it

  carefully onto his head. Acher had always looked as if he’d been born wearing it, though perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth, and Morghiad had never felt as if he wore it well. When he’d entered the world, the expectation had been that his sister would rule. Protect the borders of Gialdin: that was the duty of the younger siblings of its royalty. Now he had that responsibility and more besides.

  Today was one of his less pressing engagements, though he had to put on a ridiculous show all the same. It would have been so much easier with a fine-looking queen on his arm - the bedrock he so badly needed. Still, the sun was rising in the sky, and there was no more time for whining over her. Morghiad pushed the odd silvery hairs under the rim of the crown. Although they remained

  visible, they had at least grown out a little more. Feeling ready, he strode out of the gilded doors and down the stairs to the grand white fountain at the centre of the nearby courtyard.

  “I swear you grow more comfortable in that arrangement each time you wear it,” Silar laughed with amusement.

  Morghiad merely grunted in response. He certainly didn’t feel comfortable in it.

  Silar joined him to walk back into the darkness of the castle building. “Though you should think about investing in another formal coat. That one’s all very well, but people must be bored of it by now.”

  He wasn’t a peacock! “This one’s fine.”

  “Something else might turn Artemi’s eye.” Silar grinned mischievously. “You’ve seen the effect she has in that red dress of hers. There are clothes that do the same for men.”

  That red dress... designed to display everything and hide it all at once, somehow tearing a man’s soul into the hopeless situation of simultaneous desire and irritation. Morghiad cut the image out of his mind and considered some form of response. “I don’t want to end up looking like Lord Saturnia.”

  Silar laughed briefly. Lord Saturnia famously followed all of the latest fashions at the expense of his dignity. “Do you need my help?” He smiled excitedly. Silar certainly knew how to impress women with his looks, but it would be far too odd employing him as master of the king’s wardrobe.

  “Just tell me whenI look like an idiot,” Morghiad murmured.

  “Easily done.”

  They walked out to the stables in the main courtyard and collected the horses, before marching slowly through the Cadran streets. Beodrin had insisted on a sizeable guard to accompany them, really many more soldiers than had been necessary. Perhaps he’d thought there’d be one more person to protect, or that more people would want to assassinate Morghiad than usual. They paraded through the city walls on horseback, and the sound of the crowds beyond roared between the ancient stones. There were so many of them gathered at the other side of the gate - thousands upon thousands assembled to watch the infamous Spring Games.

  Morghiad couldn’t help but smile to himselfat the huge display of enthusiasm, and

  the similarly anticipatory smiles on the audience’s faces. Tyshar stamped forward to the stands and huffed noisily as he halted, flicking his mane about in the air. The animal did like to show off. Morghiad patted his mount’s neck and dismounted, before ascending the wooden steps to the overly extravagant chair set up for him. All of this was really very silly, but irritatingly necessary. A king had to be seen being a king.

  He settled on the green silk and black fur that covered the makeshift throne, and waited while his guard arranged themselves around him. Silar took a seat nearby, his eyes intent on the course that had been arranged for its contenders. Dorlunh arrived with a rolled parchment containing the names of the contenders. The man’s ancient eyes blinked at

  Morghiad as he unfurled the thick paper.

  “Ah – sire, your hair-”

  Morghiad pulled his sword across his lap to stop the hilt digging into his hip. “For the last time-” He drew his annoyance into some form of control. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. “I know.”

  Dorlunh’s brow furrowed. “Yes, but do you have any idea of its significance? You had to have done a very dangerous thing to cause it...”

  Now was not the time. “Alright, Dorlunh. You can explain it to me later. Whom have we got running today?”

  The archivist hesitated briefly, and then handed him the list. “I would recommend you favour number seventeen, my lord,” he said in serious tones.

  “Why seventeen?” Laurus Daienara didn’t look like an especially inspiring name.

  A small smile touched the old man’s lips. “Ah... a good all-rounder, sire.”

  Silar leaned over to appraise the list. “Oh Laurus, yes. Peculiar little man - barely out of his tender years. But very quick.”

  Some of the other names Morghiad recognised as repeat contenders, one of whom had won for the last four years running. He liked favouring newcomers and apparent underdogs. It made the whole event much more entertain
ing. “Very well, let’s see them lined up.” He signalled for the forty contestants to be brought out, and the crowd cheered with anticipation.

  One by one, the contenders marched out to take their places in four rows often, and

  at each corner of the temporary stadium, bookmakers began their roll-call of betting odds. The masked competitors would remain there for several minutes while the audience sized them up like livestock in an auction. It was thought that, with people unable to recognise faces, it would make for a fairer game.

  Morghiad rose from his chair and trotted down to the front to inspect the entrants, pacing along the lines. Few of them met his height, though more exceeded his width through musculature alone. Two of the contenders appeared to be women, which was pleasing. Though, Morghiad had become rather predictable in favouring them over the men in the last decade. He walked to one of the smaller competitors who wore a black panther

  mask. The man, or more likely boy, had the symbol for seventeen daubed on his front in red paint. Morghiad folded his arms and assessed the lad carefully. Had Dorlunh really recommended this one? There was something not quite right... “Look at me, Master Daienara,” he ordered.

  The panther’s face slowly angled up in response, revealing a pair of very dark brown eyes - the same, warm eyes that Morghiad had seen every night in his dreams. He made an exasperated noise in spite of himself; it was an impressive disguise if nothing else. He leaned to whisper in the panther’s ear. “Don’t think I’ll come and rescue you if you get your fool self into trouble during this.”