“I’m sorry, but I cannot,” he said. “There will be no ravens, no outside influence on this election.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am very serious,” Natarios told her. “As houndkeeper, and now the lord of proceedings, it is very much my prerogative when and where to send ravens. I’m sorry. Good day.”
And with that, Natarios turned and walked away from the sorceress as quickly as his legs would carry him without looking ridiculous.
3
Blood in the Water
Perched upon its plateau overlooking the city and bay below, the white-marble palace of Sol Valaróz glinted in the late morning sun. It was already hot in the practice yard, but Caile hardly noticed. He guffawed—half-laugh, half-grunt—as he parried Thon’s overhand sword stroke, then countered with a backhanded swing. Thon parried in turn, their blunted sparring swords clanging dully. If he hadn’t know better, Caile never would have guessed the man had been near death in a Khal-Aband prison cell three weeks prior. Though still wiry thin, Thon was strong and graceful in his movements. His visage was no longer gaunt and obscured with a mangy beard. Cleaned up and well fed, he looked to be no older than twenty years at the most, not the forty or fifty years Caile had initially surmised. Most surprisingly, the man was a damned good swordsman. Caile was holding back, but just barely.
“I yield!” Thon finally grunted, lowering his sword.
Caile pulled off his practice helmet and handed his sparring sword to a nearby squire. “Good thing,” he said between heaving breaths. “If we’d gone much longer, you or I or both would have passed out.”
Thon threw his own helmet onto the ground and brushed back his newly trimmed black hair. His smile was broad, reminding Caile of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on whom. The déjà vu feeling nettled at him, but he brushed it aside.
“You’re taking it easy on me,” Thon said. “It’s a bit obvious. But I am feeling stronger. Give me another week and a flail and I’ll give you a proper challenge.”
“Luckily for me, we don’t have any flails in the armory. No one in Valaróz uses them.” That was the truth of it. As far as Caile knew, no one but the Sargothian cavalry used flails. Caile still couldn’t comprehend why Thon, a Sargothian cavalryman himself, had been sent to Khal-Aband. Thon claimed to not know why either, and while Makarria had yet to hold his official retrial, Caile took the man at his word. Emperor Guderian had been a madman. He could have simply not liked the way Thon looked and sent him away for fun.
“Is it my turn now?” someone asked from the observation bench next to the sparring stock.
Caile turned to see Fina, the other newly released prisoner from Khal-Aband, sitting there. She had snuck up on them without either of them noticing. She too had recovered well. Her ebony hair had been neatly cropped, shorter even than Caile’s, but there was no mistaking her for a man. She had filled out in the three weeks since her release, leaving her with full cheeks and lips, and a bosom her loose-fitting, sleeveless tunic did little to hide. Only the faintest hint of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes suggested she was older than a maiden.
As with Thon, Caile felt like he’d seen Fina somewhere before. But again, he couldn’t place her.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” Caile said. “Your turn for what, my lady?”
“For sparring,” she replied, hopping over the waist-high fence toward them. “And you can call me Fina. I’m no lady.”
“Lady or not, you’re still a woman,” Thon said. “You’d be better suited to spinning wool, I think.”
Caile regarded them, unsure whether Thon was joking or not. The two of them had shared a prison cell for some time at least, but neither had spoken much of what they experienced there or how much they had spoken to one another. Had they become comrades in the darkness and isolation? Enemies? Or had they simply remained anonymous strangers?
“If spinning isn’t your thing, perhaps milking cows would be more to your liking,” Thon suggested, grinning.
The kick came so fast, Caile hardly realized what he was seeing before Thon hit the ground with a thud. He had never seen someone move so quickly and with so little effort. Fina had kicked Thon square in the chest and was standing back in her original stance before he landed in the dirt.
Caile instinctively reached for his sword hilt only to find it wasn’t there. Of course not. He’d set it aside to take up the sparring sword, which was now in the hands of the squire who stood staring slack-jawed at Fina. Caile eyed Fina warily, trying to decipher her intention.
Luckily Thon began laughing. “Sargoth’s hairy arse, woman. You kick like a mule.”
Fina smiled and offered a hand to help him up. “All the times I saved you from beatings and you still doubted it?”
“I didn’t doubt your ability, just your temperament,” Thon replied, dusting himself off. “I thought maybe it was only the ill environment of the prison that made you so violent. It seems I was mistaken.”
“You were,” Fina said, grabbing up Thon’s discarded helmet and sparring sword. “Well, how about it, Prince? Is it my turn now or are you too tired?”
Her name suddenly fell into place in Caile’s mind. How had he not realized it before? “I am a bit winded, now that you mention it,” he said. “But our young squire here is always eager to spar.”
“Uhm, what?” the doltish lad asked.
“Into the ring, son,” Caile told him. “Helmet on and sword up, that way she doesn’t hurt you too badly.”
Though skeptical at the prospect of sparring with a woman, the squire did as he was told. He made the first tentative pass with his sparring sword in the direction of Fina and she nearly swiped it out of his hands with her own sword. He took the sparring more seriously after that. Despite being only fourteen, and a numbskull at that, the boy knew his way with a sword and he was oafishly strong. Caile had observed him enough times in the sparring yard to know he was no slouch.
Fina disarmed him and knocked him to the ground in less than three seconds.
When he got up and engaged her again, she disarmed him with a flip of her sword and kicked his feet out from beneath him. The second time he got up she knocked him senseless with a sword blow to the head that left him gasping on the ground. Her movements were fast, purposeful, restrained—each one meant to position her body within close proximity of her opponent so he overreached with his weapon, each movement positioning her own weapon to finish its tightly arced trajectory and strike her opponent in a vulnerable spot.
“Enough,” Caile said, grinning. “I figured it out. I know who you are.”
“Of course you do,” Fina replied, tossing her helmet aside with a dissatisfied frown. “I told you my name, didn’t I?”
“Not your full name, no. You are Mistress Alafina Infierno, protector of Don Bricio’s harem. I remember you now. You should have told us when we released you.”
Fina let the tip of her sword dip to the ground. “Yes, that was my station in life once. The old ways come back quickly, it seems. I was going to say nothing until my retrial with the queen, but when I saw the two of you sparring…well, I guess I’ve grown restless sitting around in the infirmary.”
Caile smiled, excited at the prospect of telling Makarria who it was they had rescued. “I was here as ward of Don Bricio during the same time you were here. Some of it, at least. You and I probably only ever met in passing, but Don Bricio spoke of you often and how you protected his women from drunk guards and jealous merchants who thought themselves stealthy enough to slip into the harem. What happened? You were still here when I left for Pyrthinia, yet when I returned with Makarria, you were nowhere to be found.”
“Parmenios Pallma made his claim to the throne is what happened. Don Bricio was livid and came to the women in a drunken rage, not to bed them, but to take out his anger on someone weaker than him. I did not stand for it, and he in turn did not take kindly to my defiance. He sent me away before he set sail to mak
e war on Pyrthinia.”
That was all she said, and Caile respected her enough not to push the matter. “Well, they are all free now, all the women of the harem,” he said instead. “If I’d known who you were, I would have urged Makarria to hold your retrial sooner, so you could be officially appointed to a position suited to your skills. Your fighting prowess is practically legendary. You should have said something.”
“I suppose I like to let my weapons do the talking.”
Caile opened his mouth to ask her more about the prison, to ask Fina and Thon both, but thought better of it. They had suffered much and were just now starting to feel like themselves again. There would be time enough later to question them about Khal-Aband when Makarria was ready. He was anxious to know, but he could bear to wait, he decided. That’s what Lorentz was always preaching to him and Makarria both: to work on their patience.
“Well, let’s get ourselves dusted off and out of this armor,” Caile suggested.
“Indeed,” Thon said. “I’m thoroughly thrashed, and didn’t you say that you had a hearing to attend to?”
Caile cringed. Usually, he had Lorentz around to keep him on task, but since returning from Khal-Aband, Lorentz had maintained his role as Makarria’s bodyguard, following her around like a lost puppy and leaving Caile to his own devices. Caile checked the sun to gauge the time and cursed inwardly. “Looks like I’m running late,” he told Thon and Fina, and with a wave goodbye, he dashed off toward the palace.
• • •
Makarria looked up from the sheaf of documents in her lap and gave Caile a dissatisfied glare when he finally arrived in the private sitting room adjoining the throne room. He was bathed and dressed now in his formal doublet bearing the red and gold stripes of Pyrthinia with the Valarion seal at his breast, pronouncing him not only a Pyrthin Prince, but also an official advisor to the Valarion throne. He glanced sheepishly from Makarria to Lorentz, who stood guarding the doorway to the throne room.
“It’s about time,” Makarria said. She too was dressed in her royal garb, in her case a blue gown. She had refused from the beginning of her reign to wear anything with a corset, no matter what her handmaiden and tailor said about tradition, but the royal gown they had tailored for her was still tightly fitted from the waist up and had more pleats and folds in the skirt than she knew what to do with. The damned thing took her an hour to get into and revealed more of her developing figure than she was comfortable with. She was already self-conscious enough as it was wearing it in front of Caile, and seeing him stroll in late only made her more aggravated.
“What took you so long?”
“Sorry, I was in the practice yard sparring with our new friends and had to get myself cleaned up.”
“Friends?”
“Yes, Thon and Fina. There’s more to them than we have guessed.”
“Of course. They wouldn’t have survived in Khal-Aband if they were unremarkable people. You’ll have to tell me about it later, though. We have more pressing issues. A ship arrived this morning with official ambassadors from Khail Sanctu—the Old World has come calling.”
She stood up from where she had been sitting in the ring of padded chairs and handed Caile the official writ from the Khail Sanctu delegation, trying not to let her nervousness show in her shaking hands.
“What do you suppose they want, Caile? It says they are only here to make an official state visit, but I don’t believe it.”
“Who can say? We had no interaction with the Old World during Don Bricio’s rule.”
“But I thought Don Bricio was from the Old World.”
Caile shrugged. “Sure once, but he was an outcast, living at the far north end of their empire, just south of the Spine. Guderian and Wulfram recruited him and his underlings when they made their way north to reclaim the Sargothian throne. With the stifling power Guderian wielded, I don’t think the Old World wanted anything to do with the Five Kingdoms. Unfortunately, I’ve had as few dealings with them as you have.”
“That’s it then,” Makarria said. “That’s why they’re here, because they know Guderian is gone and it’s just a girl sitting on the Valarion throne, barely old enough to be considered a woman.”
“Not just a girl,” Caile said, handing the documents back to her. “A girl with Vala’s blood running through her veins, descendant of the Pallma line, true heir to the Valarion throne, and the dreamwielder who killed Emperor Guderian.”
“Right. I keep forgetting that part.” She straightened the folds of her gown and made her way to where Lorentz stood. He had been strangely quiet lately, but she didn’t have time to worry about him right now on top of everything else. Going to Khal-Aband herself had perhaps been a mistake. Her mother had ruled in her stead while she was gone, but the Valarion people trusted her no more than they trusted Makarria, and now there were all sorts of new political problems to sort through, chief among them this visit from the Old World.
“Well,” she asked Caile with a sigh, “are we ready?”
“Yes, just remember that this is Sol Valaróz, not Khail Sanctu. This is your throne room—you’re in charge. Feel free to remind them if need be.”
“Right,” Makarria said with a nod, and Lorentz pushed his way through the double doors that opened upon the white marble dais of the throne room.
The vast, rectangular throne room was not even filled to half capacity, but even so, there were dozens of onlookers standing on the main floor beneath the glass-domed ceiling overhead. Makarria recognized many of the attendees: mostly merchants, traders, guildmasters and a variety of others who were always around to try to bend Makarria to their will, and profit. Even worse, the spokesman for the Brotherhood of Five was in attendance, she saw. Master Rubino. He was her most outspoken critic, and cared not to make money, but rather to get her married so she could hand off the throne to a man and focus on having babies. The only friendly faces in the crowd were those of her mother, Prisca, and her mother’s bodyguard, Captain Haviero.
Makarria steeled her countenance, then strode toward the throne with Caile trailing behind her. The two of them took their seats, Makarria in her throne and Caile in the advisor’s seat to her side, and then Makarria nodded for the herald to begin.
“Her Majesty, Queen Makarria Pallma!”
Everyone in the audience kneeled.
“Please rise,” the herald continued. “By decree of the Queen, all hearings scheduled for the day have been postponed in order to welcome a special delegation. Your Majesty, lords and ladies, I present to you Ambassador Mahalath and Senator Emil of the Old World Republic.”
A surprised murmuring echoed through the throne room from the audience as the delegation entered from the far side of the room. The two Old World officials strode forward, both garbed in white togas. Behind them came six attendants, also wearing togas, and four legionnaires, clad in maroon cuirasses and bearing long pikes. Makarria felt an urge to glance behind her to make sure her own guards were at the ready, but didn’t dare do so at risk of offending them. I might be an inexperienced farm girl still, but I’ve learned that much, at least.
When the delegation came to a stop before the dais, Makarria inclined her head in recognition. “Welcome to the realm of Valaróz, good sirs. It is our pleasure to receive you. To what do we owe this honor of your visit?”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” replied Ambassador Mahalath, a tall, slender man who wore a turban on his head and sported a giant, black mustache. “We visit here from the Old World Republic to officially recognize your rule as the new Queen of Valaróz. Your predecessor was hesitant to interact with us, your southern neighbors, but we come here in peace, hoping to forge a new relationship between realms. If you will have me, the Republic has sent me as ambassador to work with you in opening new avenues of trade and commerce, and ensure peaceful interactions.”
“Of course,” Makarria told him, hoping that was indeed all the Old World was after. “We would be honored if you would stay with us in our embassy wing, alon
g with the ambassadors from the Five Kingdoms and the East Islands. I think you will find the Kingdoms are much friendlier now with the dissolution of the Sargothian Empire. In due course, I would even like to send my own ambassador to Khail Sanctu.”
Ambassador Mahalath bowed his head. “It would be my great honor to facilitate the very thing.”
Makarria smiled at him. She found the gesture surprised most petitioners and dignitaries, in a positive way. Mix strength with kindness, her mother always told her.
“It is settled then, Ambassador. We will make arrangements for your permanent residence immediately. In the meantime, I’m sure you all must be weary from your journey. Unless there is something pressing we need discuss, it would be my pleasure to have the palace staff see you all to your temporary quarters where you can rest. We can meet again tomorrow in less formal circumstances.”
“I beg your pardon,” the other delegate said, “but I’m afraid we do have pressing matters to discuss.” It was the senator. He was a nondescript man, of average height and coloring, clean-shaven, and with a crisply cut head of graying blond hair, but there was something about him that put Makarria on edge. It had to be his facial expression, she decided, the way his mouth curled up at one side and how the outer corners of his eyes were raised in disdainful amusement. He exuded arrogance.
“Please proceed then, Senator Emil,” Makarria told him.
“Word has reached us that the Kingdom of Sargoth is in turmoil. We have learned that a king is still not in place, and in fact, your own lord of proceedings, Talitha of Issborg, has been impeached. As you can well imagine, we in the Republic are concerned the turmoil might spread. If widespread revolt were to occur, it could easily spill over into our lands.”
“Did you say Talitha of Issborg has been impeached?” Makarria asked, stunned by the very thought.
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