Orphan's Blade

by Aubrie Dionne

  Has a second chance.”

  The rider turned around. His armor shone brilliantly in the sun. He wasn’t overly large and muscly, but lean and swift, riding with the grace of a dancer, as if his horse were an extension of his legs. With his visor down, Valoria could not see his face, yet his actions took her breath away.

  As Echo swung his blade desperately in an arc around him, the soldier came up from behind, spearing one of the raiders. The others turned toward the soldier, their attention diverted. Clutching a gash on his shoulder oozing blood, Echo fell to his knees.

  “No.” Valoria dropped her harp.

  Cadence grabbed her hand. “It’s too dangerous. Too many raiders still run free.”

  “Look.” She pointed to where the mist dissipated. “They flee toward the hills.”

  Cadence’s grip tightened. “Still, you should get back in the carriage. There is no place for a lady on a battlefield.”

  Valoria ripped her hand out of her handmaiden’s grip. “Tell that to my new mother-in-law.”

  She ran toward Echo, darting in between minstrels gathering the wounded and tending to the horses, while the Royal Guard captured prisoners. Her mentor lay on his back in the grass, his gaze skyward, as if he longed to meet Helena and Horred in their sacred temple.

  Valoria fell on her knees beside him. The gash ran from his neck to his shoulder, his skin split open by a crude blade. The earth below him blossomed with red. Denying his condition, she tore a piece of cloth from her dress and tied it tightly around the wound. “For a harp teacher, you’re quite good with a blade.”

  “Necessity dictates action, my dear.” He studied her face, raising a finger to her cheek. His usually ruddy complexion had paled. His hair seemed grayer and thinner against the long-stemmed grass. “Shouldn’t you be in your carriage?”

  “Like a prize to be won?” She shook her head. “I missed my harp too much.”

  “I bet a wyvern’s egg you did.”

  “Come on.” She hefted him up. “Your carriage awaits.”

  “Am I to take your place?”

  She laughed, wishing it were so. “I don’t think Braxten Thoridian would like that.”

  As if summoned by a name, the solider turned toward them and dismounted. All four raiders lay at his feet. He pulled his helmet from his head, and brown, curly hair fell around his shoulders. His eyes were a rich, amber brown, his features sharp and rugged. He fell to one knee and bowed before her. “Princess, allow me to help you.”

  Hope glimmered in Valoria’s heart, followed by a swell of desire. This man had led the Royal Guard into battle. His armor had Ebonvale’s double sword crest and the deep violet colors of the ruling house. It had to be Braxten Thoridian. “Yes, help me carry him to the carriage. My handmaiden can tend to his wounds.”

  The soldier took one arm, and Valoria took the other. They lifted Echo and walked carefully to the carriage. Around them, the soldiers patrolled the fields as the last raiders fled.

  The soldier glanced at Valoria with melancholy. “My apologies, Princess. It seems for many of your retinue, we came too late.”

  “Helena looked upon us with grace today. We’re fortunate you came.” Valoria gave him a thankful nod. His modesty impressed her. He’d just defeated an entire horde with only a brigade, yet it was a sad victory. He spoke as if the fallen were his own.

  “Another raid held us up. We had planned to meet you at the forest’s edge.”

  She studied his profile, wondering if he was as kind as he was handsome. “Another raid?”

  “These are dire times we live in. After the wyverns destroyed the southern towns, many of Ebonvale’s people fled north. We only had room for so many refugees, so the rest had to fend for themselves. Who knew they’d become outlaws.”

  They hefted Echo into the carriage. He grunted and held his wounded shoulder.

  Cadence covered him with a blanket. “I’ll keep him safe, my lady.” She stole a glance at the soldier, then looked back to Valoria and raised her eyebrows.

  Valoria ignored her unspoken question. “Thank you.” She placed her hand on Echo’s cheek. “Rest now.” His eyes flickered as he fell in and out of consciousness.

  She exited the carriage, picked up her harp, and took the reins of a fallen minstrel’s horse.

  The soldier followed her and offered his hand to help her mount. “You are not riding in the carriage, Princess?”

  She snorted. “This is where I should have been in the first place: riding with my harp tied to my back.”

  His eyes held amusement and something more. Was it admiration? “Better to fend off foes?”

  She held her breath. Did he know she’d called the mist from the hills to disorient the raiders and buy the minstrels more time? “Better to protect my people.”

  She adjusted the saddle and kicked the horse into line with the others. Just because they were promised to each other didn’t mean she should lose her head like a giddy girl at Summer’s Eve fest. Many had died that day, and she had to honor their memory. “Tell your army they’d best let the minstrels play the fanfare.”

  “’Tis not my army, Princess.”

  She yanked the reins and her horse swiveled back in his direction. Was this some sort of game? “You are Braxten Thoridian, are you not?”

  Ironic amusement passed through his eyes. “You are mistaken. I’m Lieutenant Nathaniel Blueborough, son of the late Alhearn Blueborough, the blacksmith of Shaletown. Queen Danika Thoridian and her husband adopted me. I’m Braxten’s brother, if not by blood, then by name.”

  He mounted his own horse and called over his shoulder. “Around the castle, I’m known as Nip.”

  Chapter 2

  Paintings

  Nathaniel rode to the front of the line distracted and intrigued by the princess of the House of Song. Had disappointment flickered in her gaze when he told her he wasn’t Brax? How could she not know he was the adopted son? Had she never left the resonant walls of the House of Song?

  He resisted the urge to turn back and study her large, silver eyes. She was Brax’s intended, and he had to remember his place. Even though he was the elder brother, he had no blood ties to the throne. Since Brax had achieved legendary warrior status, becoming even stronger than his father, Bron Thoridian, Nathaniel had no chance in commanding the army either.

  Guilt weighed him down. The king and queen had opened their hearts and adopted him, so he should have been grateful for any place in Ebonvale’s castle. Even as a scullion. They could have left him to die as a beggar in the ashes of Shaletown, and he might have turned into a raider himself.

  Grasping the reins, he reminded himself of his debt to the House of Thoridian. He’d served them well all his life, and he wasn’t about to squander his honor on one lovely girl.

  “Battle leave you with ill feelings, my lord?” Timber Rollins kicked his horse up beside him. Flecks of blood and earth painted his timeworn face. An old scar from his left forehead to the bottom of his right cheek shone white and fleshy in the sun.

  “Not battle. Fate.”

  “Ah, a vile beast. Fate can give you the world, then take it away.” The old man had been in battles long before Nathaniel could hold a sword. He’d served King Thoridian, and King Rubystone before him. He was one of the few men who’d seen the dead rise at the necromancer’s hand and lived to speak of it.

  Although Brax passed him off as an old fogey, Nathaniel listened to his council. “My life is the opposite. Fate took everything away, then dealt me a decent hand.”

  “Decent?”

  “Better than the one I had before. I was to become a blacksmith’s son, and now I’m second in command of the Royal Guard. So why am I not content?”

  The old man placed a hand on his armored shoulder. “Nothing can replace what you lost. No matter how illustrious or grand.”

  The minstrels’ fanfare picked up tempo as they crested a hill. Ebonvale’s stone ramparts claimed the horizo
n. Built around the remnants of Helena and Horred’s temple, the stone buildings piled up upon one another until lofty turrets poked from the mass, towering above the highest ramparts. Purple pennants waved in the breeze as soldiers patrolled the battlements.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Timber goaded his horse forward.

  Nathaniel nodded, taking a moment to reflect upon the first time he’d ever seen the castle as boy. “She’s home.”

  They passed the orchards and the farmlands, reaching the city walls. Nathaniel rode ahead. He recognized the guard at duty, yet he still presented the Royal Seal.

  “Tough journey, my lord?” The guard ran his eyes up and down Nathaniel’s muddied armor.

  “Thank the gods we delivered the princess in one piece. We need medics immediately.”

  “I’ll send word.” The guard nodded, allowing the entire retinue through.

  Nathaniel led them through the courtyard, ignoring the other nobles’ stares. Minstrels weren’t to be trusted since one had stolen King Rubystone’s wife many years ago. Hopefully, having the House of Song’s princess would remedy those prejudices. He held their gazes as he dismounted and the minstrels’ fanfares resolved in a beautiful harmony his trumpeters could only dream about playing themselves. Medics rushed to the wounded as the carriage came to a halt.

  Nathaniel found the princess glancing nervously at the forming crowd. He walked to her and offered her his hand. “Princess. If you will, I’ll announce your arrival.”

  She took his hand, squeezing hard. Her fingers shook. “Please, by all means.”

  Nathaniel helped her down, then brought her before the crowd. “Come to us from the House of Song, the only daughter of King Valorian and the late Queen Mayweather, may I announce Princess Valoria.”

  Whispers filled the air. One person managed a meager clap. With Nathaniel’s insisting glare, light applause spread.

  “They do not trust me,” Valoria whispered, loud enough only he could hear.

  “Not yet.” Nathaniel turned toward her and gave her the reassuring look he usually gave to the troops before a battle. The way she’d chosen to ride instead of retreating to her carriage told him there was more to her than a simple minstrel’s daughter. “But in time, they will.”

  She surveyed the crowd with a tight-lipped smile, then turned to him. “Please, I must see my people’s wounds cared for.”

  “Of course. Medics usher them to the infirmary as we speak. You can stay there as long as you like. But, keep in mind the king and queen are waiting to receive you.”

  She pursed her lips as if weighing her personal needs with offending her new family. “I’ll stay only long enough to see them tended to.” She pulled her harp from her back and handed it to her handmaiden, a brown-haired girl with a fierce look about her.

  “Very well.” He offered his arm. Better to keep her beside him then have some hired assassin pull her into the crowd. Ebonvale’s hatred for the minstrels ran deep, even though they had helped them win the wyvern war. “Come with me.”

  The crowd parted before them. Her retinue followed as they walked the cobblestone from the main square to the apothecary, a stone building with vibrant stained glass windows. Various bottles, vials, and rolls of bandages lined the walls. Behind the counter, a backroom filled with beds took up the space of an old, attached barn. Patients from previous raider attacks filled half the beds. Hopefully they’d have enough room for Valoria’s people and the prisoners they’d captured.

  Guilt stung his chest as he saw one of the raiders chained to the bed. He’d have to interrogate him later on, a chore he never liked. But, if he let Brax get to the man, he’d be dead by morning.

  Valoria rushed to the bedside of the older man Nathaniel had helped her carry back to the carriage. The intricate embroidery on his overcoat labeled him as someone of high status in the House of Song. Perhaps a music teacher? His kind eyes reminded Nathaniel of Ludo, the baker in Shaletown who used to slip him sweet biscuits when his parents weren’t looking.

  She touched the medic’s arm with insistence. “Will he live?”

  “He’ll have an ugly scar, but yes, he’ll live to see another day.” The medic nodded curtly and rushed to the next bed where another minstrel clutched an arrow speared through his shoulder.

  Valoria leaned over the old man, and his eyes flickered open. “Did you hear that? A hideous battle scar. Your pupils will listen to you now.”

  “Anything to get them to practice.” He chuckled, then held onto his shoulder as if the movement pained him.

  Valoria took his hand in both of hers. “My father will be proud of your bravery.”

  “And yours.” He tapped her hand. “Although you should have listened to me and stayed in the carriage. You’re too important to both kingdoms to lose.”

  “Lose?” She laughed cynically. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Hopefully, you’re going to the throne room, my lady. Shouldn’t keep the king and queen waiting.” The older man glanced at Nathaniel. He nodded, then backed farther away. He shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on their conversation. This unhealthy preoccupation with his brother’s intended had to stop.

  Valoria leaned over and touched the old man’s forehead. She whispered something in his ear, then left him to survey the other wounded minstrels.

  Nathaniel kept his distance. Instead of following her to each of her people’s beds, he approached the chained raider. He was just a boy with red fuzz for a beard and freckles sprinkled across his dirty cheeks. Sprawled across the bed in tattered clothing, he breathed laboriously, as if each intake of air would be his last. A nasty gash stretched across his stomach. Nathaniel’s gut tightened. This boy must have been close to his real brother’s age the day the wyverns attacked Shaletown.

  Pill. His true brother. He hadn’t thought of him in years.

  The boy spit at Nathaniel, wriggling against his bindings. “You might as well kill me now, because I’m telling you nothing.”

  Nathaniel leaned down, examining the cut. The medic had staunched the bleeding, but the wound ran deep. With so many of their own people needing care, the battlefield surgeon would treat him last. He probably wouldn’t live through the night.

  This could have been him, or Pill, if he’d survived the attack. Where had Ebonvale gone wrong?

  “Listen closely, I’m not here to weed out your friends, just relocate them. Temple monks purge the southern lands as we speak. Soon the soil will be ripe for planting. All Ebonvale needs are people willing to go back.”

  The boy winced and held his stomach. “Lies. All of it. That soil won’t grow a sprig if you brought your royal horse to fertilize it himself.”

  A few soldiers standing by the door placed their hands on their hilts and stepped forward. Nathaniel waved them back. “How do you know if you do not try? It cannot be much worse than raiding caravans on the road for scraps.”

  “Starve here or starve there, the only difference is the scenery.”

  The prisoner was right about that. The wyverns had scorched most of the south, leaving a dry wasteland. The temple monks had a large undertaking in reclaiming it. But, they’d never succeed without volunteers to cultivate the land.

  The boy grabbed his arm, leaving bloody fingerprints on his armor. “What do you know of loss? You have a castle, an army, fancy armor, sprawling orchards.”

  Nathaniel met the boy’s accusing stare. “Shaletown was my home. The wyverns took my entire family away from me. You have to make something of what fate has given you, or else you’ll always be a victim.”

  “I’m not a victim. I’m a fighter.” The boy pulled his arm away.

  Nathaniel shook his head, wishing he could believe him. When he looked down at that bed, he saw himself.

  Someone cleared their throat behind him. Nathaniel turned around, feeling as though he’d woken from a daze.

  Valoria crossed her arms and steeled her gaze like a warrior charging
into battle. Blood stained her white gown across her breasts and down her arm. “I’m ready.”

  If only he could bring her a new dress. Nathaniel thought of the shop across the street, then paused. Perhaps she’d done this on purpose to show the effort and the loss the minstrels had poured into this union. Who was he to take that away and pretty her up like some prize to be won?

  “Very well.” He signaled to the soldiers at the door and offered his arm. She placed her hand on his armor, light as a feather, and he led her back outside where her retinue waited. The minstrels still able to play began their fanfares, and they walked to the throne room.

  When they were out of earshot from the others, Valoria turned toward him. “Tell me about your brother.”

  Nathaniel kept the emotion from his face. What could he tell her and still be truthful without driving her away?

  “Brax is a strong and proud man, and a born leader. He has a clear vision of what Ebonvale should be and fights for that ideal every day of his life.”

  Valoria pursed her lips as if he’d told her nothing she wanted to hear. “Is he kind-hearted?”

  Nathaniel resisted the urge to flinch. Kind was not the appropriate word to describe Brax. “He has a strong sense of justice.”

  “That is not the same thing.”

  “No.” But it would have to do.

  They climbed the marble-veined steps to Helena and Horred’s ancient temple. Most of the rock had been reconstructed or replaced, but a few of the great steps of the past remained. Nathaniel always felt honored to walk upon them.

  They entered the main antechamber and climbed the spiral steps to the main hall above. Paintings of the previous monarchs and their families adorned the walls. Valoria studied each one carefully. Why not give her some information that might help her at court later on?

  Nathaniel pointed to the first painting. “This was King Artemis Rubystone, slayer of the great Necromancer King, and ruler of Ebonvale for twenty-five years.” He motioned to the painting beside it, this one framed in rubies and gold. “Here is his first wife, Islador of the Northern Isles. She died of a fever only a year after they married, but he never stopped loving her memory.”