The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1)

by Karen Azinger

  When he replied, his voice was laden with disapproval. “Knight-candidates have no time for skinny girls, especially not the king’s daughter.” Wrapping his maroon cloak around his shoulders, he turned his back on her and strode away.

  Kath scrambled to keep pace, “It’s not what you think,” but he didn’t reply. Walking in the knight’s chilly shadow, she considered ways to break his silence, perhaps a bargain of sorts. “Sir Thorlin is slated to spar with Sir Brent on the morrow, a great sword against a battle axe,” she offered. “They say the odds are three to one in favor of Thorlin.”

  Sir Bredon threw her a hard look. “Wagering on sparring rounds is forbidden.”

  “The odds are wrong.”

  He raised a bushy eyebrow, his voice gruff. “What does a girl know of odds?”

  “My mornings are spent in the healery.”

  He stopped in mid-stride and turned to stare down at her, a glint of avarice in his dark eyes. “And?”

  “And I want to know about Blaine.”

  He gave her a slow nod.

  “Sir Thorlin has a bad left shoulder, an old war wound from patrolling the steppes. Damp weather makes it ache. He’s been to the healer for a poultice. I know because I ground the mustard seed myself. Sir Thorlin will fight tomorrow, but his left shoulder will not be at full strength. So you see, the odds are wrong, Sir Brent will win the bout.”

  Sir Bredon grunted, “Good to know,” and resumed walking.

  “And Blaine?”

  “Tall, lanky, blonde, comes from the farms of Tubor.” He stopped to gaze down at the sleepy village nestled in the valley below. “Blaine came to the castle as part of the peasants’ levy. He’s the son of a pig farmer, but he’s taken well to training. Some of the veterans speak highly of him.” He cast a sideways glance in her direction. “The young buck will have his chance to earn a knight’s maroon cloak. Why?”

  Kath chewed her lip, trying to frame the question. “If Blaine succeeds in the trials, do you think he’ll follow the old ways?”

  “A strange question, Imp.” He turned to walk the battlements and Kath fell into step beside him. They completed a circuit before he spoke again. “The king would say the Octagon is built on honor, and so it is, but some of the younger knights stray from the old ways. The maroon is not what it once was. Combat exposes a man’s true mettle. Blaine’s test will come in the trials. From what I’ve seen of him, he’ll make a good addition to the maroon.”

  Relief washed through her. Blaine was different from the others, fighting with his mind instead of just the strength of his arm. For her dream to have a chance, he had to be a man of honor. She stared down into the great yard, surprised to find sunlight dancing across the curtain wall. The morning was slipping away, and by order of her lord father, Kath was supposed to be at the healery gaining a “lady’s education”. The thought was enough to sour her stomach. She longed to practice swords with the squires, but that would never be allowed.

  Bidding Sir Bredon a good day, she raced down the tower stairs taking them two at a time. Rounding the last spiral, she found a maroon-cloaked knight blocking her way. Kath glared at Sir Raymond, a sour-faced nobleman from a minor barony in Radagar, one of the few knights she went out of her way to avoid. She tried ducking around him but a mailed arm snaked out to block her way.

  “Can’t keep away from me, aye, princess?”

  He was always taunting her with rude remarks, but so far it was only words, and only when he caught her alone. Kath recoiled against the wall, watching for an opportunity to run past.

  He leered at her. “You’re a skinny, wild thing, but a man could do worse than wed a princess. You hide under that baggy squire’s tunic, but I’ve noticed those young tits of yours shaping the gray wool.” His leer deepened. “Your father thinks you’re a child, but we know better, don’t we princess? Maybe this will be the year I ask for your hand. You could do worse than a baron’s son and a knight of the Octagon. What do you say to that, princess?” His right hand reached out to touch her face.

  It was all the opportunity she needed. She spit in his face, aiming for his eyes, and dodged around his outstretched hand. He roared in anger but Kath was already well past. She sprinted for the tower doorway, dashing out into the safety of the open courtyard. He wouldn’t bother her if there were witnesses around.

  Her father would banish Sir Raymond if he knew about the knight’s behavior, but Kath’s greater fear was having her father realize she was old enough for marriage. Better to keep her silence and stay in Castlegard. Time was her enemy. Shaking off the rude encounter, she detoured through the great kitchen, comforted by the smells of fresh-baked bread and the warm greetings of the kitchen folk. She filched a quarter loaf of bread for breakfast, and a handful of leftover meat scraps to feed to the healer’s giant frost owl. It seemed to Kath that if you could win over the pet, the master was sure to follow.

  She took a short cut through the great yard, waving to the crippled veterans. She loved arguing with them about the relative sword skills of the squires and knight-candidates. Without realizing it the veterans were giving her a practical education in the principles of arms practice. Kath absorbed every detail, but there was no time for talk this morning, she was already late.

  A cavalcade of knights thundered through the ironbound gate, shattering the peace of the morning. The returning patrol rode in disciplined ranks, a proud flourish of maroon capes and burnished helmets. Sunlight glinted off arms and armor, making a grand sight. Kath paused in mid-stride, swelling with pride, but then she noticed that the horses appeared lathered and blowing hard. They’d been overridden; something was wrong. A shiver of apprehension feathered down her spine.

  The captain reined in his stallion and dismounted, his voice a beacon of command. “Wounded man here! Get the healer and the knight marshal!”

  Weapons jangled as the knights dismounted. Warhorses stamped and churned, fighting their bridles and whinnying for attention. The yard became a whirlpool of snorting horses and armored men, a chaotic swirl of sweat, leather, and steel. Ignored by the knights, Kath waded amongst them, just a piece of flotsam caught on the tide of curiosity. Making her way toward the central knot of maroon-cloaked knights, Kath caught a glimpse of a man in bloodstained leathers slipping from the back of a warhorse. A flash of bead-embroidery marked him as a stranger, the patrol must have found him on their rounds. She crept closer, angling for a better view. Two knights lowered the stranger to the ground, laying him on his side. A pair of arrows protruded from his back, two circular stains of blood leached into the cream-colored leather. Kath stifled a gasp; the arrows were fletched in gold and black, the colors of the Mordant.

  “Where’s the healer?” The urgent shout echoed through the yard.

  The knights shifted, obscuring Kath’s view. Crouching, she peered between their legs, and found herself staring straight into the stranger’s face. Shock rippled through her. Whirls of tattooed blue covered the man’s skin, turning his face into the snarling mask of a mountain lion. “A Painted Warrior!” She’d heard tales of the renegade fighters of the far north but she’d never seen one in Castlegard. She studied his face, finding the blue tattoos oddly compelling; a fitting mask for war. But beneath the whirls of blue, his flesh was ghost-pale, his breath a ragged rattle from between parched lips.

  Her healer’s training took over. Kath scrambled to the side of a warhorse and untied a water skin, then pushed her way back to the Painted Warrior.

  A voice of command split the air. “I need a report.” The stern-faced knight marshal stepped into the central clearing, his one-eyed gaze staring down at the wounded man. “Where was he found?”

  The patrol captain answered. “At the extreme northern end of our ranging, left for dead in the grasslands. We held the horses to a gallop, hoping to get him to the healer in time.”

  The marshal’s one-eyed stare found Kath, pinning her to the ground, a mouse caught by an eagle. Trying to justify her presence, she lifted the wate
r skin. “He needs water.” The marshal gave her a skeptical scowl, but gestured for her to proceed.

  She knelt by the man, gently pouring water over his face and across his cracked lips. The blue tattoos were even more striking up close. The snarling mountain lion seemed more than mortal, like something out of myth, man and animal melded together. And his clothing was almost as exotic, supple cream-white leathers embroidered with glass beads, the pattern showing a pale blue flower on a field of white. Kath wondered at the story behind the mountain lion, behind the delicate blue flowers. The Painted Warrior gasped like a man desperate for life. Startled, Kath nearly dropped the water skin. His eyes still closed, he turned his head toward the cool wet flow, his mouth open for more. She tilted the spout against his lips. Water trickled down the side of his face, but he swallowed more than he lost.

  Overhead, the marshal growled, “Did he say anything on the ride south?”

  A knight answered, “Nothing of note.”

  “Get the healer, I want this man saved.”

  The Painted Warrior’s eyes flew open, wild and urgent. Kath shrank back but her movement drew the man’s attention. Sky-blue eyes stared up at her and Kath thought she saw recognition in his face, but that was impossible. His gaze drilled into her, latching onto something deep inside, something that she didn’t have a name for. Struggling for breath, his words barely audible, he rasped, “The Mordant seeks to be reborn!”

  His words shivered through Kath, lodging in her soul.

  The knight marshal crouched beside her, demanding answers. “Tell us about the Mordant’s forces. Why were you so far south?”

  A tattooed hand shot out, grasping the front of Kath’s tunic with surprising strength.

  The Painted Warrior pulled her close, his breath sour against her face. “Claim the war helm! Yours…to…use.” His words beat against her with the strength of destiny.

  Then his eyes widened and his back arched in pain. His fist released her, the arm falling limp, the eyes glazing. A death rattle gurgled from his lips, a trickle of blood escaping his mouth. He slumped backward the spark of life gone.

  Kath rocked back on her heels, struck by loss and confusion. She wanted to send a prayer to Valin, but she didn’t even know the man’s name.

  The marshal sighed, “The arrow fletchings reveal more than the ravings of a dead man.”

  Commands were issued and men snapped to obey but Kath sat in a fog. Mailed arms reached past her, lifting the Painted Warrior from the ground. The soldiers wrapped the body in a cloak and carried it away. The patrol of knights followed the marshal to the King’s Tower, a jangle of armor and weapons. Stable boys took command of the warhorses, ushering the great beasts out of the yard and sweeping up the dung. Even the old veterans found a reason to leave. A shroud of stillness settled across the yard as if the gods stood watch.

  Numb, Kath sat forgotten on the hard-packed earth. The dying words of the Painted Warrior shivered through her mind, “Claim the war helm.” She shuddered; bound by death to a man she did not even know. She reached for the empty water skin, replacing the stopper and only then noticed the bloody handprint staining her tunic like a blazon. Death had left its mark.

  2

  Katherine

  Kath crept up the tower stairs, careful not to make a sound. She’d left the great hall while the others still lingered over supper, certain she would not be missed. After retrieving a cloak, she used the castle’s secret ways to slip past a handful of guards. Quiet as a ghost, she made her way up the tower, her doe-skin boots nothing but a whisper on the mage-stone stairs. In all of Castlegard only the Octagon Tower was forbidden to her, but Kath knew the way. She’d dared it once before, drawn by the challenge as much as a burning curiosity, but never during a trial and never when it mattered so much.

  Shadows darkened the staircase, an orange sun setting beyond the arrow-slit windows. Kath trailed a hand along the inner wall, counting the turns of the spiral. A cold wind gusted from above, warning her that she neared the top. Kath slunk low, peering through the open doorway, relieved to find the battlement empty. To be safe, she circled at a crouch till she reached the far side. Of the many towers of Castlegard, the Octagon was unique. Crowned by crenellated battlements, the eight-sided tower was hollow, protecting an octagonal courtyard of mage-stone open to the night sky above. Hiding behind a merlon, she peered into the tower’s hollow heart.

  Torchlight blazed below, awaiting the start of the trials. Her breath caught, knowing she spied on hallowed ground. An iron throne sat against the south wall while an altar to Valin dominated the north. Between the king and the warrior god, a great maroon octagon stretched across the center, a battlefield of blood-red marble inset in the floor. Kath stared at the blood-stained marble, wondering how many dreams had died there, wondering if her own would survive the night.

  Footsteps echoed from below. Kath ducked behind the merlon. She’d come for the gods-eye view but she dared not be found. Her heart hammering, she waited till curiosity got the better of her. Daring a glance over the merlon, she was surprised to find the knight marshal below. Second only to the king, the one-eyed marshal placed an array of weapons upon the altar to Valin. So these were the weapons of the trial. Keen-edged, they gleamed in the torchlight as if blessed by the god. Kath gave them a hungry stare, knowing which one she’d choose. It was always the sword for her, the weapon of heroes, the very symbol of the warrior god, but for her dreams to come true, Blaine would need to win his trial. Gripping her good luck charm, she sent a silent prayer to Valin.

  Knowing the trial was still hours away, Kath set her back to the merlon, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. Huddled beneath her wool cloak, she tried to keep warm, watching as the sunset faded to dusk and the first stars appeared in the night sky. Dragon, Knight and Swan, she studied the star patterns, counting three shooting stars before the Great Ladle rose in the east.

  Horns echoed from below. Startled, Kath peered over the edge, watching as the king and his officers entered the hollow tower. Bowing to Valin’s altar, the king took a seat upon the iron throne, setting his great blue sword across his knees. From this angle, Kath could not see her father’s expression but she could well imagine his stern gaze set in a sun-weathered face. Honor and discipline meant everything to the king and he would expect to see both in the trials. The horns blared again and the champions entered the tower. Eight knights in elaborate armor claimed their stations at the corners of the marble octagon. Kath studied the knights, guessing their names by their size and their weapons. One towered over the others, Trask, a vile-tempered knight with the strength of an ogre and the brutal fighting style of a berserker. Kath shuddered, making the hand sign against evil. Rumors said the champions were chosen by lots, but judging by the eight waiting below, Blaine’s luck had turned dark. His trial would be difficult if not deadly.

  The king gestured and the marshal climbed the steps to settle a maroon cloak across the altar. A commotion at the doorway caught Kath’s stare. Blaine appeared at the entrance. Dressed in simple armor, devoid of any weapons, he stood straight and tall, waiting to be summoned, but this time there would be no trumpet blare, no fanfare, just a lowly knight-candidate called to the octagon to prove his worth. She studied his face, finding a strange mixture of anxiety and elation. Kath could well relate, for the same feelings raged within her. Driven by dreams, she’d come to witness the trial, knowing the outcome would determine two destinies not one.

  3

  Blaine

  The candidate strode through the door into the Octagon Tower, the crucible where knights were made or broken. Mage-stone walls soared to crenellated battlements open to the night sky, as if the ancient builders wanted the heavens to stand in judgment of his trial. Taking a deep breath, he nodded toward the jeweled stars, acknowledging the gods and praying for victory. The night carried a chill, the last vestige of winter, but if the stars held any reply he could not tell. Eager to prove his worth, he turned his gaze toward the king. />
  King Ursus of Castlegard sat upon an iron throne, his face chiseled with the stern lines of duty, a hero’s great sword across his knees. Age was clearly upon him, yet he wore only steel and leather as befitted a warrior-king who counted his wealth in loyal swords. The silver-haired king leaned forward, pinning the candidate with an unyielding stare. “What name will you be known by?”

  Pride swelled within him. “Blaine, sire.”

  “And what lineage do you offer to the Octagon?”

  Thinking of the poverty of his father’s farm, Blaine struggled to keep the shame from his voice. “None save what I earn here this night.”

  The king nodded. “The brotherhood of the maroon accepts all those found to be worthy. We few are the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms, standing against the Mordant’s hordes. Are you ready for your trial?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Raising his voice, the king cried out the words of ritual. “Let the swords decide the candidate’s worth!”

  A thrill shivered through Blaine the chance to change his fate was at hand. He turned to face the center of the hollow tower. A blood-red marble octagon stretched across the heart of the floor, defining his crucible. Eight knights stood stationed at the corners, their helms closed, their weapons drawn, torchlight reflecting off bright steel. Daunting in their maroon armor and elaborate helmets, the knights seemed more than mortal.

  Blaine studied his opponents, guessing their names by their size and chosen weapon. One towered above the others, a brooding hulk holding a moon-shaped battleaxe. Trask. So the nobleman dared bring his grudge to the octagon. Anger threaded through Blaine; there was more on trial here than his dreams.

  Undaunted, he bowed to the eight champions. By tradition, candidates showed their faces in the octagon. Blaine wore a simple half-helm and plain gray armor devoid of any emblem or device save the heart-rune. All candidates came to the trial stripped of their name, lineage, and past deeds, but the trappings of noblemen meant nothing to Blaine. His dreams and his future depended on the trial.