by Louis Emery
Gav nodded solemnly, his head continuing to droop.
“Good,” Lord Androus said with emphasis, the sound echoing throughout his chamber. “You are free to go. My guards will escort you to the town.” He waved his hand, motioning the two turret guards over.
Gav bowed saying nothing and gave Naomey a solemn look as he was lead out the door.
Thinking back, Gav now knew what Lord Androus’s reserves were for. The missing funds did not go to his creditors or tariff-collectors—they got funneled toward the cause of the rebellion. Likely, the money went to the rebel council via his friend, Lord James Hannery. It was unlikely Naomey had been covering for her father’s affiliations, for she was too young to be involved in such things at the time. But years passed, her loyalties intertwined further with her heritage, her family, and her secret passion for island autonomy.
Gav was also too young at the time to connect the threads. But now his mind was trained to catch such things.
He remembered when Lord Androus’s guards released him that day, and he turned around to defy the man’s wishes, sneaking back up the keep’s walls to the outside of Naomey’s window. Peeking above the edge of the sill, he could see them inside conversing and heard every word.
A tear streamed down Naomey’s cheek, and there was a knock on the door. She quickly wiped the wetness of her cheek away before her mother Carra entered. Dressed in a grayish blue summer gown with white laced trim, her mother strode over to Naomey’s writing desk and grabbed a chair. She placed it opposite Naomey and sat in it, while gently placing her hand on her daughter’s knee.
“You’ve got quite the view,” Carra said, glancing out a side window. Gav ducked, glad she had not looked out the one he hid behind, only to see him spying.
“Doesn’t seem to raise my spirits,” Naomey said.
Her mother squeezed her hand on Naomey’s leg. Carra’s face wore a look of concern, and her piercing eyes, smooth skin, and intricately braided hair gave her a regal look that commanded attention. “Your father has many pressures right now, my dear. I’m sorry about his temper—but you know how he gets when many fires are raging at once.”
“Yes, he gets mean and treats me like one of his vassals.”
“Your father is a stern man,” Carra said, placing her hands on the arms of her chair, “like his father before him. It’s in the Androus’s blood. There’s a certain wellspring of passion within him, and you’ll discover one in yourself someday in the future.”
“I think I already have it—for Gav.”
Carra smiled. “You are young, my dear. He is perhaps one in whom you’ve had your first real feelings for.”
“That’s not true,” Naomey said. She looked back out the window, thinking, then turned back to meet her mother’s eyes. “There was Tomlin the stablemaster’s son and Ser Braxton’s little cousin, Bartund.”
Carra nodded with a look of recollection. “That Bartund was a real snob, wasn’t he?”
Naomey laughed, placing a hand to her lips. “I wanted to go riding that one day. All he wanted to do was show off his skills with the bow. I don’t think he knew how to get on a horse, let alone ride.”
“Ser Braxton practically manhandled him onto a horse, just to please you. I believe he threw his cousin on that palfrey, poor thing.” Carra smiled, shaking her head at the memory. “The things we do out of service in trying to establish family alliances.” She sighed, then stared at the floor.
There was a long silence, and Lady Carra regained her thoughts. “Some things just happen in life only for a little while. I know you like Gav because he’s an outsider, a Cylarnti who likes to get into trouble—someone with your proclivities.”
“That’s not it mother,” Naomey said. “We’ve been together for almost a year. If father doesn’t like him, why does he allow me to see him?”
“Your father won’t prohibit who you want to see. He’s too smart for that. But he knows, like I do, that young love is merely a stepping stone to something greater.”
Naomey frowned. “You mean like a marriage to another lord.”
“Perhaps,” her mother shrugged. “We don’t know where the winds will sway us. All I ask is that you don’t let your passions get the best of you.”
“You mean like father?” Naomey asked.
Carra laughed. “Passionate and stubborn. You truly are his daughter in every way. What’s a mother to do?”
The bedroom door opened again and revealed Maci, her mother’s maidservant followed by her ten year old brother, Dantley. Gav ducked further, his eyes barely above the sill to see.
“Everything is ready in the courtyard, milady,” Maci said, bowing.
“Wonderful,” Carra said, turning. “Naomey, join your brother and I for some lunch and birdsong.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very hungry, mother,” Naomey said. “Think I’ll finish up a few chapters.” She picked up the book sitting on the sideboard.
“Oh come now,” her mother replied. “I can hear your stomach from over here. And “The Histories of Lady Knights isn’t going anywhere. It’s not as if the words will simply vanish from its pages…”
“Please, Naomey,” Dantley said, stepping forward. “Come eat with us in the courtyard. Afterwards we can play hide and seek.” He looked at her shyly, and Gav saw her little brother had won the day.
“Very well,” Naomey said, setting the book down. “Let’s eat.”
A smile emerged from her brother and he rushed to give her a hug. Spirits lifted, Naomey followed her family down to the lower levels, leaving Gav alone on the outside walls, feeling hallow.
19
It took five days to get out of the Southwoods. The river wound its way southeast, and fortunately for them, led to the fells and valleys of the central Backlands. A welcome sight—sprawling green farmlands and quaint townships spread out before them. To Malcolm and Artemis, this meant they could dine on the hospitality of their fellow countrymen. Fortunately, for Leora, they’d stayed an evening under a kind farmer’s roof. He’d let her eat with his family and her two companions, even though she was Ballardian.
As they trekked across fields and villages, they’d received word that the west wing of the Backland’s northern army, to which Malcolm and Artemis belonged, regrouped after the defeat at the hands of Varick’s and Leora’s forces. Malcolm and Artemis were glad to reunite with their comrades and General Beric. Leora was bound and put under guard. Malcolm and Artemis explained to their general their intent to take the Ballardian princess to King Greenvale, so he may leverage her the way he saw fit.
General Beric conceded that Malcolm and Artemis were doing their duty, and wished he could send guards back with them, but he could not spare the men. He’d heard that Lord Varick had bartered an alliance with the Crowleys and together both kingdoms meant to share Alorens. The Crowleys prized their strong army and always held a kingdom with stout holdings. Their capitol of Vatavite hummed with commerce from all over Retha, and their king, Noxton Crowley, prided himself on maintaining his realm’s wealth and military might.
Malcolm felt a pang in his stomach that their enemy had found a powerful ally. He knew King Noxton was foolish, but not that foolish. General Beric was worried the Ballardian-Crowley forces would concentrate on his army’s location, due to their current lack of numbers. He’d written the king, who replied saying reinforcements were to arrive within a week to deflect an attack and help take back Alorens territories. Apologetic that he couldn’t send anyone along with Malcolm and Artemis, General Beric bade them Godspeed, and after two nights in camp, the three left for Em Regis.
Another week on the road brought them to the gates of the Backland capitol. Quarried from Chainmouth Hollow and the Eastlia Pitlands, the stone comprising the outer defenses of Em Regis rose before them, several feet thick, and more than two stories high. Green and gray banners hung from the guard towers, and the sentinels themselves looked down in aquiline surveillance at the citizens entering and leaving the gates.
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br /> “Not as impressive as I’d thought,” Leora said. She’d left her helm in the Southwoods, and her hair blew in the wind, rogue strands crisscrossing her face. Her hands bound, she swung her shoulder awkwardly to adjust her locks.
“You would say that,” Malcolm remarked.
“Hasn’t been effectively scaled since the Syersians,” Artemis mused, looking up, “more than three hundred years ago.”
“Who needs to scale it, when you can batter down the gate?” She asked slyly.
“You can certainly try,” Malcolm replied, “Though our Barricade Brigade has held more gates than they’ve lost.”
“Sometimes, all it takes is one,” Leora retorted, as they passed under the watchful eye of the gate guards.
“And sometimes, one obstacle leads to a slew of others.” Malcolm felt the familiar patterns of cobbles beneath his feet. He inhaled deep and released. He was glad to be home.
They passed through the crowded streets, bustling with carters, hawkers, messengers, and laborers. Nearing Standfirm Avenue, which led to the Gray Keep, Malcolm noticed men-at-arms from other kingdoms taking their lunch, while others ran errands. He knew not what to make of it until they rounded the corner and made headway.
A few blocks down stood the massive walls and precipitous towers of the Gray Keep. The most imposing fortress in all southern Retha, the king’s castle thrummed with activity. Makeshift camps dotted the open grounds outside its walls, and Malcolm made out the banners of Sydonya, Leybourne, Nasantium, Axetrent, Prestonpan Fells, and Eastlia. Large tents with corresponding colors denoted to which kingdom they belonged.
It reminded Malcolm of the king’s tournament a few months back, where the Backland’s lords and their families had set up camp for the week throughout the confines of the keep. Except this time, there were lords from outside the Backlands.
Malcolm strode over to Harper the blacksmith’s place, one of the last businesses on the avenue before it opened into the fields before the castle. The middle-aged man was in, and noticing someone approaching, stepped forward to Malcolm and his companions.
“I say, is that you Ser Malcolm?” Harper said, fanning himself.
“’Tis I,” Malcolm replied, giving Artemis the rope that bound their prisoner. He embraced his smith friend.
“Artemis Poe, glad to see you back as well,” Harper nodded in Artemis’s direction. “My, oh, my. It appears you’ve quite the eye-catching prisoner.”
“A person of import from Ballardia,” Malcolm said.
“Let’s hope she can be of use to us. Your army,” Harper gestured to Leora, “has been causing us lots of trouble and making some seedy friends, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask,” Leora replied.
“Quiet, you,” Malcolm gave her a hard look, and then turned to Harper. “By the keepers of the keep, why does it look like the king’s tournament?”
“Ah, that,” Harper gestured to the camps. “No tournament, unless you see it as the ultimate tournament—that of kingdoms versus kingdoms. A council has been called by King Greenvale. As I’m sure you’ve seen, our northern territories are under attack from both the west and east, and I’ve heard rumors a central assault has been launched.”
“A central assault?” Malcolm raised his brows in surprise.
“Aye, rumor has it the Crowleys have defeated the Furmen at Woodore Pass, making it open to invading armies.”
“Looks like the Ballardians and Crowleys intend to take more than we think.”
“You’re right there,” Harper scratched his head, lowering his voice. “And there are more rumors than that. A darkness is spreading—black magic, I’ve heard—to the east. I know not exactly what it is, but talk’s been circulating in the king’s halls.”
Being a blacksmith to the keep, Malcolm knew Harper’s ears received privy information. He also knew Harper to be a man who didn’t easily discuss that which he didn’t take seriously.
“Well, we’d best find out what this threat is,” Malcolm said.
“I suspect it’s one of the reasons the council was called.” Harper eyed the castle. “Been a long time since outside kingdoms have been summoned to the keep. I was a wee lad last time I saw Sydonya banners within feet of ours. I fear the king has need of his allies more than ever.”
Malcolm sighed. “Northern aggression is something King Greenvale can’t stand. The old pacts of the southern and eastern kingdoms may yet keep the Ballardian-Crowleys at bay. Hopefully, the council unites us on that front.”
“That’s all we can hope for, Ser Malcolm. But councils have been known to end in unsettled arguments.”
“Perhaps we can avoid that …” Malcolm cocked his head at his prisoner.
A knowing look registered in Harper’s eyes.
“We must be off,” Malcolm clapped the smith’s shoulders. “Thanks for the news.”
“Glad to have you back, sir.”
“Glad to be back.” Malcolm turned in the direction of the camps and Gray Keep.
20
Gav walked along the tents with Heinrich in tow. The campfires had died down, the low glows filling the night air with the smell of burning wood and charred leftover boar. Stars punctuated the sky above as soft clouds skidded slowly by. Nearing the edge of camp, Gav came to the wooden cells housing the prisoners. Cut from palms, mangroves, and banyan trees, the structures looked solid enough to keep scheming Konterans from fleeing. Many of the captives would be traded in exchange for imprisoned Backland soldiers. Others would be used as laborers aboard naval ships or used in docks, fortresses, or camp work.
Faces pinched in concern as Gav strolled along the cells. Wearing his full battle armor, with polished steel and boots, Gav wanted to send the message that Burden officers didn’t always hide behind tables in their tents. He met the stares of the soldiers, many of whom were boys fighting either out of idealism or youthful abandon. Likely both, Gav thought. He made sure they were fed and made comfortable in their cells, wanting to let them see the Backland military held high standards in ethics of war.
Passing the common soldiers, he came to the officers’ cell. Much less crowded, Gav thought he could fit a few horses inside along with the captains, sergeants, and squires. Probably not a bad idea, given the more bitter looks a few of the women officers gave him. One of the males gave him the same look, but Gav noticed it was the women, many of whom looked native, that gave him the fiercest glare.
He was not surprised. Gav knew island women to be naturally more passionate and determined than men. Many of the first who fell in battle the previous day were the island’s mothers, daughters, and sisters. An intense dichotomy existed between Em Regis and Kontera. In the capitol women joined the King’s army, sure, but not to the extent inherent to the Prestonpan Isles, especially in the Redwoodian rebel forces. The pride of native Redwoodian women dated back centuries to their earliest ancestors.
Gav approached the last, smaller cell, surrounded by four guards, all of whom snapped to attention on seeing their Captain approach. Returning the salute, Gav looked in on Veela. She sat in the far corner next to a barely-nibbled plate of food. Her arms encircled her knees, where her head rested.
“Let’s open up,” Gav nodded to the turnkey, who untied and unstrung a series of belts and rope that kept the door tightly closed. “You have a good system, considering the circumstances,” he said to the guard, impressed at the efforts to trap the prisoner.
“Thank you, sir.” The guard stood stiff-backed stepping to the side after opening the creaking door.
Turning to Heinrich, Gav said, “You can wait here. I wish to speak with her alone. I’ll be fine.”
His bodyguard stepped back, a dubious look crossing his face.
“You may close the door behind me.”
The soldier did as he bid, and Gav strode in to the dim cell. The moon snuck out from behind the clouds, casting shadows of round logs that comprised the makeshift cage. The light filtered in catching the prisoner’s dark hair and gav
e it a silvery shine that flashed when she stirred upon hearing Gav’s footsteps.
“Hello, Captain,” she managed after looking him up and down. “Come for round two?”
“You can call me Captain Fayne,” Gav said, “and I will call you Veela.”
“You’re in charge.”
“That’s right. I am in charge, and if you want to be treated fairly and given opportunities to come out of this war on the right end, it would be wise to listen to what I have to say and answer my questions when I ask them.”
Veela chuckled, looking off toward the ocean view. A soft hum of distant waves hitting shore contrasted with the tone of Gav’s voice. In order to get the information he needed and get the job done, he had to be harsh. This was war, and Cylarnti or no, he was going to get answers to finish it.
“You Backlanders,” she said, shaking her head, “always making demands, in places you don’t belong.”
Gav folded his arms and stepped closer, but not too close. “These are Backland islands, part of his majesty’s kingdom, holdings of his bannerman and cousin, Lord Staverly of Prestonpan. And yes, I do belong here.”
Veela looked up at him, her eyes shining in the moonlight. It gave her a puppy look that betrayed the skills with death Gav knew she had. “Whatever you say,” she conceded, bringing her gaze down to the straw-littered ground.
“We are looking for Lords James Hannery, Speaker of the Council and Stevyn Appleton of the Treasury. Anything you might know of their whereabouts must be revealed.”
The woman sitting before him sighed as if knowing the question before asked. She cracked her neck and slowly stood, stretching her arms and back muscles.
Gav took a half-step back.
“Relax, Captain Fayne,” Veela said. “You’d think I’d be dumb enough to combat you in a cage surrounded by five immediate guards?”
“I think you’ve done similar things before,” Gav said, arms still folded.