Blaine could only stare, confused by the strange question.
“What’s your name, candidate?”
“Blaine. The knight marshal ordered me here for my First Weapon.”
“So you’re the one!”
Blaine was sinking in a sea of confusion but no one seemed to notice.
The master settled the ore back in the crate and clapped his meaty hands, breaking the spell. “Back to work, people! We’ve weapons to forge and armor to repair and it won’t get done if you stand around gawking.”
Smiths and apprentices scurried back to hammers, bellows, and tongs. The throbbing heartbeat of the forge returned. The master turned to Blaine. “Come with me.”
Blaine followed the master to a small courtyard behind the forge. A strange assortment of half-formed weapons adorned the four walls. All the leather-wrapped hilts were finished, but unworked bars of steel took the place of true blades. The master gestured to the implements. “This is where we measure successful knight-candidates for their First Weapon. We take pride in crafting a weapon designed to suit the reach, strength, and fighting style of each knight.” The master gestured to a wall filled with implements shaped like battleaxes. “Two-handed battleaxes crafted for the wild style of berserkers, or maces for knights who bull their way through battles with pure brute strength. Then there is the morningstar, a rare combination of brute force and finesse…but I don’t think any of these are right for you, are they?” He looked Blaine up and down. “The weapon is the very soul of the knight. Which will you choose?”
The words came of their own will. “A sword.”
“The weapon of pride and honor. But what type of sword?”
“In the trial, I chose the great sword, but the weight was almost my undoing. The four-foot claymore has almost as much reach but also offers the flexibility of being wielded with a strong hand. So I thought to choose a claymore.”
“Honor and flexibility, a difficult alloy.” The master selected three implements, each with the hilt of a two-handed great sword. Handing the longest to Blaine, he said, “Swing this one.”
“But I asked for a claymore.”
A broad smile stretched across the master’s face. “No, what you really asked for is a great sword you can wield with one hand.”
“But that’s not possible.”
“It’s entirely possible…if the great sword is made of blue steel!”
Blaine could barely believe his ears, yet his heart raced with excitement. Blue steel weapons were for heroes, not fresh-made knights.
The big smith clapped Blaine on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “I like you, Sir Knight! Your face tells me that you’re honest enough to know you haven’t yet earned a hero’s blade. I’ll enjoy crafting this sword for you.”
“For Valin’s sake, how is this possible?”
The master grinned, “By order of the king, signed and sealed. But whatever the king’s reasons, the blade is mine to craft and yours to wield. And now we have work to do. Show me your swing. The design of the blade must be worthy of the metal.”
Blaine wrapped his hands around the hilt of the five-foot weapon and began executing the classical forms. Elated by the thought of the blue steel blade, he celebrated by plunging into the patterned dance of the sword, each swing of the blade dispatching an imaginary foe. In his mind, he cleaved a path through the Mordant’s hordes, all the way to the very gates of the Dark Citadel. Tightening his grip on the hilt, Blaine danced the steel, imagining deeds worthy of the ancient heroes, deeds worthy of a blue steel blade.
8
Katherine
Moonlight streamed through the narrow windows of colored glass, filling Valin’s chapel with a sense of peace. Others might be surprised to find peace in the warrior god’s chapel but Kath knew peace could exist only in the shadow of a strong sword and a stout shield. Bowing before the iron sculpture of a mailed fist thrusting a great sword up to the heavens, she paid homage to the warrior god, asking for his help in achieving her dreams. After lighting a candle at the altar, she retreated to an oak pew in the back of the chapel and curled into her hiding place beneath the bench.
A moment later the double doors flew open, admitting a maroon-cloaked honor guard.
Kath held her breath, thankful when their footsteps passed her by. Peering around the side of the pew, she watched as the guards escorted the three knight-candidates to the central altar of rough stone. In the flickering candlelight, they presented their arms to Valin, laying their First Weapons atop identical shields, their silver fields emblazoned with the maroon octagon. When men joined the Octagon, they left the heraldry of their past behind, but while the shields all bore the same emblem, the weapons were as different as the men. Kath knew each one. She’d practically lived in the forge over the last fortnight watching the smiths pound raw steel into gleaming blades. John’s weapon suited his fighting style, a wicked double-headed battleaxe. Kirk’s choice was a hand-and-a-half claymore. And then there was Blaine’s blade, a hero’s great sword forged of rare blue steel.
Bowing low, the candidates stepped back from their arms. Sir Clement, the sergeant-of-arms, broke the silence. “By ancient tradition the candidates stand vigil with their arms on the eve before knighthood. It’s tradition but it is not mandatory. Will you stand vigil, or will you go, returning at sunrise for the oath taking?”
Kath reached into the pocket of her tunic to grasp her good luck charm. Holding it tight, she prayed to Valin for Blaine to remain.
John spoke first, his voice too loud for the small chapel. “I know a far better tradition of hosting the honor guard to ales at the Iron Tankard. Drinks are on us!”
The sergeant did not reply, but several of the guards clapped John on the back. “Kirk, what about you?”
“I’m with John.”
The sergeant nodded. “It’s your choice. And you Blaine?”
Blaine shook his head. “The king has honored me with a blue blade. I’ll stay the night and stand vigil.”
John hissed, “A night on your knees won’t make you worthy of that blue blade, pig farmer.”
The sergeant intervened. “You’ve each made your choice.” He dismissed the guards and the other two candidates, and then turned to Blaine and saluted, fist against his chest. “May you find the strength of Valin in your vigil.” Then he strode down the narrow aisle, the doors of the chapel closing behind him with a dull thud.
Kath watched as Blaine knelt in front of the altar. In the light of the votive candles, his silver surcoat shimmered like a drawn sword against the dull gray stones of the chapel.
Kneeling in the back, Kath kept her own vigil. She yearned for a chance to matter, worse than a tree yearns for sunlight, but being born a girl she was always overshadowed. Staring at the altar, she prayed for her boon to be answered, but if the gods heard, she could not tell. Cold from the stone floor seeped through her hose and into her knees. An owl returned from the night hunt to hoot in the rafters, its eerie call echoing through the chapel. The night seemed to last forever. Kath’s gaze wandered to the statues crowding the stone archways, deities known as the Lords of Light, waiting for the prayers of men. All the gods were welcome in Castlegard, except for the Dark Lord of hell, or the strange Flame God of Coronth, but Kath’s prayers were solely for Valin, the god of warriors, whose ways were as honest and as straightforward as a steel sword.
Unbidden, a tattooed face filled her mind. The Painted Warrior remained a riddle. After his death, the castle had stood at alert for more than a fortnight, but the threat of the Mordant’s hordes never came. Most shrugged off the warning as the ravings of a man at death’s door, but Kath took his message to heart, wondering at the meaning behind the words. Candles guttered, sending shadows dancing across the stone floor. Blaine remained erect in his vigil, but Kath’s knees hurt. Sleep stalked her. She slumped down on the hard stone floor, resting her aching back against the oak pew, struggling to stay awake till dawn.
She dreamt of holding
a sword aloft in victory, defeating the Mordant at the gates of the Dark Citadel, an army of Octagon knights at her back.
Her head banged against the pew and she woke with a start. She glanced up at the stain glass windows, relieved to find them dark. The moon had set but she hadn’t missed the dawn.
Soft footsteps moved down the aisle. “Imp! What are you doing under there? It’s almost dawn: you should be in bed!”
Startled to find Blaine staring at her, Kath stalled for time. “Have you named your sword yet?”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You know the stories as well as I do. It takes time for the name of a blue sword to become known.” Scowling, he added, “You shouldn’t be here. Get back to bed before someone finds you gone.”
The first rays of morning light struck the east windows, illuminating the stained glass with a brilliant blaze. A smile of triumph spread across her face. Turning her gaze back to Blaine, she said in a clear voice, “Sir Knight, on this thy day of knighthood, I would be the first to beg a boon of thee. By thy honor and thy sword, will thou grant my request?”
His mouth dropped open in shock. “You what?”
She flinched, wondering if she’d gotten it wrong. “I would be the first to beg a boon of thee, will thou grant me my request…those are the right words, aren’t they?”
“No one begs boons anymore! Boons are something from out of childhood stories. Now be gone before you get us both into trouble.”
Kath stood her ground. “The master healer said that the granting of boons on the day of knighthood was an ancient and noble tradition. I thought that a knight with a blue blade might be the type of man who would honor such a tradition. Where is your honor now, Sir Knight, or was your vigil just a sham?”
He glared for a moment but then he dropped to one knee. “My lady, I would hear your boon, but by tradition, your request must be something that is within my power to grant. What would you have of me?”
He was mocking her but Kath refused to be baited. “I want you to teach me to wield a sword.”
“But you’re a girl! Why do you want to wield a sword? Your lord father would have my head!”
Disgust warred with anger and words that were long buried came to the surface. “In this world, you are nobody unless you can wield a sword, and I will not be nobody! My life will count for something!” She took a deep breath. “I have watched you in the practice yard and even in the octagon. You are slender compared to most of the other knights. You fight with your mind as much as with the strength of your arm. I know that I will never have the strength of a knight, but if I learned your style of fighting I could hold my own. I will learn to wield a sword and I know you are the one to teach me. Will you grant my boon or will you dishonor yourself on your first day of knighthood?”
“You’re only a girl. You don’t have what it takes to wield a sword.”
“So you won’t grant my boon?”
“Swords are dangerous. We all have scars from the practice yard and worse from battle. For Valin’s sake, just look at the knight marshal’s ruined face and that gaping eye socket of his!”
“My mother died birthing me. I’ll take my chances with the sword.”
“You’re impossible!”
She stared at him, waiting.
“Choose a different boon, something sensible.”
Crossing her arms, she refused to retreat.
“It takes strength and reach to wield a sword. You don’t have either and you never will.”
“I’m only asking for a chance to learn.”
Blaine strode to the altar. Grasping Kirk’s claymore, he drew the sword, letting the empty sheath clatter to the floor. Naked steel glittered in the candlelight, a promise and a threat. “Come here.”
Kath stared at the claymore and then back at him. When boys came to Castlegard for training, they were tested with a two-foot infantry sword…not a four-foot claymore. She considered the challenge, feeling the weight of Blaine’s stare, knowing he wanted her to recant…but her dreams would not be denied. “I’ll take the test but it won’t change anything.”
He handed her the sword, hilt first. “You can use two hands with the claymore. As always, the test is to sixty, the same as for the boys.”
Standing barely a head taller than the weapon, Kath accepted the sword. Bracing her legs in a wide stance for strength, she lifted the claymore and extended her arms, holding the sword straight before her. Strain rippled through her arms, back, and chest, but she held it steady.
Once the blade was horizontal, Blaine began counting aloud, using the slow, rhythmic cadence of a weapons master.
Kath tried to ignore the count, focusing on the blade, trying to hold it steady. By the count of twenty, her arms ached; by thirty, the tip began to dip and waiver. Biting her lip, she steadied the sword. At forty-five, sweat dripped from her brow and her arms shook with fatigue, but the blade remained horizontal. At fifty-five, her back was bowed and her strength was gone, but she refused to give up. Tightening her grip on the sword, she made it to the full count, but even then she did not drop the blade. Fighting through the pain, she found the will to hold the sword until the count reached sixty-seven, at which point her arms gave out and the point of the claymore clanged to the stone floor. Quivering from exertion, she waited for Blaine’s decision.
“There’s more to you than meets the eye.” A note of unwilling respect filled his voice as he took the sword, sheathing the claymore and replacing it atop Kirk’s shield. When he turned back to her, his face was thoughtful. “Valin only knows what good it will do, or for that matter what trouble it will cause, but I’ll grant your boon, on one condition. The lessons will be done in secret. If word gets out, your father will have our hides. Agreed?”
Kath nodded solemnly, then flashed him a radiant smile. “Thank you.” Turning, she ran for the chapel doors.
Halfway down the aisle, she saw the brass handles turn and the double doors begin to open. She dove to the floor between two pews.
The stern voice of the sergeant-at-arms rang through the chapel. “The knight-candidates are called to the great hall to swear their lives to the king and the Octagon. Gather up your arms and follow me.”
From her hiding place, Kath watched as John and Kirk strode to the altar to recover their weapons, looking bleary-eyed and disheveled. In the candlelight of the chapel, the son of a farmer looked more like a knight than either of them.
As the three knight-candidates filed out of the chapel, Kath thought of her boon, a chance to learn the sword. She hoped the Painted Warrior’s shade would be satisfied. Perhaps the gods listened to prayers after all.
9
Liandra
Beauty to beguile, spies to ensnare, and gold, always gold, to tempt, to trap, to control. Liandra, the Queen of Lanverness used weapons more subtle than swords to preserve her crown and kingdom. Erdhe was crowded with kings, but Liandra was the only sovereign queen on the board. Peace reigned in Erdhe and Lanverness was by far the wealthiest of the kingdoms, but the queen was not seduced by success. Ever vigilant, Liandra spread her web of spies to guard her throne.
Her shadowmen had just returned with a harvest of new secrets. Liandra sifted through their reports, searching for advantages. A vein of blue ore had been discovered in Castlegard, a threat in the wrong hands but a possible opportunity for Lanverness...and perhaps a chance to further unsettle the ambitious men of her court. Something to consider. A second source warned of the growing cult of the Flame God in Coronth, a threat on her northern border. Religions could be dangerous; she would have to keep a close eye on Coronth. But the message that most concerned her was the news that a Painted Warrior had been found, felled by arrows fletched with the Mordant’s colors. Castlegard readied for war. Liandra hoped the Octagon Knights could hold the threat in check. Perhaps she could find a way to bolster the knights, not with men but with golds.
A timid knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come.”
The door eased op
en. A tow-headed lad in the emerald livery of a royal page bowed low. “Majesty, your council awaits.”
“The lords can wait.” She gave the boy a gracious smile. “Waiting is good for noblemen. It reminds them that they serve.”
The lad’s blue eyes went round as an owl’s. He retreated, shutting the door behind him.
The boy would learn, but sometimes she wondered about her loyal lords. Liandra knew what her lords thought of her. A prize to be wooed, a wealthy widow ripe for the plucking, but more than a few had discovered sharp thorns hidden among the roses. Her shrewder courtiers called her the Spider Queen behind her back, wary of her silken webs…but how else was a woman to rule? Sighing, she gathered up the coded dispatches and consigned them to the fire, watching till the scraps of parchment blackened to ash. Information was a form of wealth, and the queen never squandered a penny.
Arranging the pleats of her silken gown, her dagged sleeves nearly touching the floor, she left the haven of her solar and swept through the gilded halls of Castle Tandroth. A herald banged his iron-shod staff against the marble floor, announcing her arrival at the council chambers. “The Lords of Light save her majesty, the Queen of Lanverness!”
Petite in size yet great in presence, the raven-haired queen captured the attention of every man in the room. Ten powerful lords leapt from their seats and bowed low, eager to gain her royal favor. Liandra greeted each of them with a nod or a name as she took her seat at the head of the table. Even in the privacy of the council chambers, she made use of a raised dais bearing a carved wooden throne to remind her lords that she was above them.
She studied her royal council, a talented group of men drawn from across the kingdom. Liandra prized intellect over ambition, but all too often she had to settle for the grasping and the greedy. Men flocked to her court in droves, drawn by the opulence and power of the Rose Throne. Choosing the best among them, she used competition to harness their energies to the needs of the kingdom. Liandra made good use of her lords, but she never gave them her trust.
The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 5