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

by Karen Azinger

  As a bloody sun sank toward the horizon, Blaine hurried to the King’s Tower to learn his fate. Guards admitted him to the chamber outside the king’s solar. He took a seat on one of two hard wooden benches. Tattered battle banners hung from the ceiling and dented armor covered the walls, symbols of ancient glory. Blaine studied them, trying to calm his fears. A guard opened the outer door admitting a young lass in a blue frock. Blaine flicked a glance her way and then returned his gaze to the corbelled ceiling, mired in his own problems.

  “Hello, Sir Blaine.”

  The girl’s voice ambushed him. Demure in her blue frock, the Imp sat small and slight beneath the battle banners. Blaine gaped in shock, but then understanding dawned. Surrounded by the trappings of war, any girl would be out of place in Castlegard.

  The knight marshal opened the inner door. “You can both come in now.”

  “Both?”

  The marshal gave Blaine a curt nod that brooked no arguments. Inside the solar, the king sat on a wooden throne, a scroll in his lap, his face stern. Blaine bowed low, his mouth dry. Pine logs crackled in the blazing fireplace, providing the only sound. The king eventually broke the silence. “You have both disappointed me. My daughter does not know her sex, and you, Sir Blaine, do not know your place. Your combined follies might have been overlooked but one knight is dead and another is unmade. Changes are required.”

  The Imp spoke first. “Father, it is not that I do not know my sex, it is just that I wish to wield a sword. I do not understand why I cannot be the one and do the other.”

  “Silence!” The king roared, glaring at his only daughter. “It is most unnatural.” He tugged on his beard, his voice gruff. “It is not entirely your fault. When your mother died giving you life, I was left alone to raise a daughter when I only knew how to raise sons. Castlegard has never been a place for daughters, or even wives. Perhaps I should have fostered you out at birth instead of letting you run wild, but the past is gone; we are here to speak of the future.” He lifted the scroll. “Queen Liandra of Lanverness has offered to purchase three weapons of blue steel. After much consideration, I have decided to accept the queen’s offer, but only on the condition that she agrees to foster you. If Queen Liandra cannot turn you into a lady then no one can.”

  “But I don’t want to go!”

  The king’s stare was implacable. The Imp fell to her knees. “Please father, do not make me leave! I belong here! Castlegard is my home!”

  “It has been decided.” The king tugged on his silver beard, his gaze softening. “Your mother was a fine woman. Her last thought was for her newborn daughter. In a birthing room crowded with death, I swore to see you settled in a good marriage. It is past time I kept that oath.”

  “But my brothers all have places in the Octagon! Why can’t I…”

  “Your brothers serve, just as you will serve, bringing an alliance through your marriage bed.”

  A strangled cry escaped her, “No!”

  “Honor and duty, daughter, honor and duty!”

  “But I want to make a difference…”

  The king stilled her with a piercing stare. “You’ve run wild for too long, daughter. You will go to Lanverness and conduct yourself as befits a princess of Castlegard. You will learn to be a lady and prepare yourself for the duties of marriage. You leave in six days. Make sure you are ready. You are dismissed.”

  The king’s dismissal fell like an executioner’s blade, cold and final. Blaine watched as the girl rose from her knees, stiff and formal, her green eyes frozen hard like winter lakes, her mouth set in a defiant slash. She bowed to the king, as a vassal to a lord, and left the solar, her back as straight as a sword. As the heavy wooden door shuddered closed, Blaine wondered if the king would get what he wanted from his daughter simply by issuing an order.

  “Sir Blaine, you pose a different problem.”

  Blaine’s attention snapped back to his king. A bead of sweat trickled down his back.

  “I cannot fault you for defending yourself against the attack by those two cravens. Sir Lewis would have lived if Raymond had brought him straight to Castlegard instead of dragging him up into the mountains. Raymond’s actions were equivalent to murder; he has paid for his deeds. As to my daughter, Katherine has explained how she tricked you into giving her weapons practice. It was wrong of her to ask it, but you, at least, were honorable in meeting the boon.” The king paused. “Many knights are envious of your blue blade and many more will be angry with the death of Sir Lewis and the unmaking of Raymond. It is time for you to serve away from Castlegard.”

  Blaine’s heart leaped at the thought of proving himself in battle.

  “I am assigning you to guard my daughter, Princess Katherine, during her term of fostering. Be prepared to leave with her party in six days time.” The king gave him a wave of dismissal.

  Blaine stood frozen. “Surely there are better ways my sword can serve the Octagon? Sire, send me to the border to serve.”

  The knight marshal glared at him. “Enough! You have your orders. Honor your oath and obey your king.”

  Chagrined, Blaine dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Yours to command.”

  The king’s voice was stern, “Indeed. See that you remember. You are dismissed.”

  Swallowing his frustration, Blaine rose and turned to leave. As he reached for the door, the king said, “Tell me one thing, does my daughter have any skill with weapons?”

  “She is a natural, sire, blessed by Valin.”

  The crack of the fire was the only reply.

  Blaine left the king’s solar. Avoiding the other knights, he hastened to his post on the barbican over the south gate. Given the events of the day, he welcomed the solitude of guard duty. Stars crowded the night sky but he did not notice them. He walked the length of the barbican, his mind raging with questions. Blue steel was forged for war not peace. Why waste a blue steel blade to guard a princess in Lanverness? His gaze was caught by the faint glow of candlelight from the town nestled in the valley below. The light seemed to mock him, a sign of peace in the dark landscape.

  “Nice night.”

  The knight marshal stood atop the steps. Blaine relaxed his stance but not his attention. “All quiet, sir.”

  The marshal nodded.

  Blaine continued his patrol, his gaze jumping between the surrounding countryside and the one-eyed commander. But the marshal remained statue-still, wrapped in a maroon cloak, staring out over the wall. On his fourth tour, Blaine’s frustration boiled over. “Sir, may I ask a question?”

  “You’re going to ask me why the king gave you a blue blade.”

  Blaine could only nod.

  “Do you think you deserve a blue steel blade?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you want to be worthy of your blue blade?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Those are two of the many reasons why the king gave you a hero’s sword. A blue steel blade marks a man. To some it is a mark of prowess, to others a mark of rank, of wealth, or of privilege, but I see a blue blade as a mark of responsibility, a responsibility to make a difference. Sometimes the man shapes the task and other times the task shapes the man. Carrying the blue blade has already begun to shape you.”

  “But why not transfer me to one of the border keeps? Let me use the blue blade against the soldiers of the Mordant instead of sending me to Lanverness?”

  “Do you fight the same with a battle axe as with a great sword?”

  “No, of course not.” Baffled, Blaine added, “They’re totally different weapons, each suited to their own styles of fighting.”

  “Exactly, a good general does not deploy a knight with a blue blade in the same way he deploys the rest. You should have known that for yourself. Now let me give you a piece of advice. That night in the Octagon, when you earned the maroon, what weapon enabled you to succeed at the trial by combat?”

  “I chose the great sword.”

  “Wrong. You chose the great sword but the weapon
that gave you your greatest advantage was your mind. Never underestimate the advantage of out-thinking your adversary, with or without a sword in your hand.” The marshal nodded. “Time for you to return to your watch.”

  Blaine had only taken a few steps when he heard the marshal say, “And Blaine, the king was pleased with the design of your sword hilt. Justice is a cause worthy of a blue blade. Use the sword well.”

  Blaine pivoted, only to find that he was once more alone on the battlements.

  17

  Samson

  Samson didn’t know it at the time, but his journey started when a crazed old woman ambushed him at his guard post beside the city gates. Barefoot and dressed in a nightshirt that did little to hide her sagging breasts, the old woman appeared out of nowhere, screaming like a banshee. Digging her claws into his arm, she tried to drag him back through the city gates. He pushed the hag away and she stumbled backwards, tripped and fell. With the wind knocked out of her, the screaming came to an abrupt stop. She pushed the mop of wild tangled hair out of her face. “Samson, help me!”

  Shocked, Samson recognized his mother. Throwing his cloak around her, he bundled her into the guardroom, thankful it was empty, and sat her in a chair. Pouring a cup of steaming tea, he pressed the cup into her shaking hands and tried to get her to drink. He drank a cup himself, hoping to wake from the nightmare. The simple act of drinking tea brought a small spark of sanity back to her eyes. In a quavering voice, his mother told him how guards had burst into their bedroom and taken his father away in chains. “You must save him!” she begged.

  A chill claimed him. With the sun almost directly overhead, the rituals in the temple square would be long over, but Samson had to see for himself. Knowing his mother was not fit to walk the streets alone, he took her to a cheap hostel and left her in the safety of a private room and then sprinted for the temple square. The closer he got to the square the more people jammed the streets. Breaking through a final logjam of celebrants, Samson entered the square. Suddenly reluctant, he edged towards the smoldering pit, his stomach roiling at the smell of burnt flesh. A greasy charcoal lump lay in sprawled in the pit, the sole remains of this morning’s heretic. He stared at the lump, refusing to believe it was his father. With no way to identify the victim, Samson decided to check the bakery; perhaps it was all a mistake.

  As he neared the street he heard the mob. A frenzied mob ransacked his parents’ bakery and their home above the shop. One neighbor leaned out of the upper window and tossed clothing to the waiting arms of his wife. Strangers poured out of the bakery brandishing rolling pins and baking tins. Spilled flour whitened the street, guilty footprints leading in all directions. Samson ducked into a side alley and heaved his breakfast onto the cobblestones. The nightmare was true. But his father was only a baker: how could they do this to an innocent man?

  And then another thought struck him. As the son of a proven heretic, he might well join his father in the flaming pit. He needed to get himself and his mother out of Coronth, beyond the reach of the priests. Pulling his half helm down over his face, Samson pushed his way into the shop and up the stairs to his parents’ bedroom. The closet and drawers stood empty, but the looters had missed the wood planks that hid the attic space over the bed. Moving the planks aside, he found the basket where his mother stored their winter clothes. The basket was too much to carry. Grabbing a sheet, he filled it with the most useful clothes and flung it, sack-like, over his back. A stranger and a neighbor fought over the things he left behind. Samson was sorely tempted to unsheathe his sword and give the looters what they truly deserved, but he fought to contain his rage and fled the house.

  Racing through the city streets, he returned to the hostel where he’d left his mother. He found her curled up on the bed asleep, her long hair disheveled, tears crusting her cheeks. So old and frail, Samson knew they’d need plenty of coin to escape the priests. Draping the salvaged clothes over the chair so she’d see them when she woke, he left the hostel and made his way back to his barracks.

  Soldiers passed him in the streets, their red tabards suddenly sinister. Samson hesitated at the fortress gates, his stomach knotted with dread, but he knew time was his enemy. Saluting the guards, he strode into the garrison like a sergeant with orders. He went straight to the supply room and was relieved to find the quartermaster absent. There he grabbed three leather rucksacks and scanned the shelves for useful supplies. Rolls of blue cloth crammed into the far corner caught his eye; everything else was red and gold for the Flame God of Coronth. He quickly filled two of the rucksacks with blankets, flints, cloaks, and water flasks. On impulse, he took one of the rolls of blue cloth, shoving it into the bottom of a rucksack. Slipping out of the supply room, he headed for his barracks. The central hall was deserted except for three soldiers dicing at the far end. Trying to walk calmly, Samson made his way to the small chamber he shared with another sergeant. Sergeant Elder was the ambitious type, always volunteering for guard duty at the temple rituals. Elder was the last person Samson wanted to run into but he needed to get the coins from his chest.

  Luck was with him; the chamber was empty. He rummaged through the chest till he found the small leather pouch that held his savings. Mostly silvers with too few golds but it was all the coin he had. The wages of a city guard were nothing to brag about. As he tucked the pouch and a few items of clothing into the last rucksack, he heard the door creak open. Samson palmed the padlock from the chest and turned.

  The short burly sergeant entered the chamber. “Springwater, what are you doing here? I thought that you had guard duty at the north gate?”

  “I finished the morning watch and now I’m on break. How about you?”

  “I had duty in the temple square. We baked a baker this morning! Funny thing was that when he baked he didn’t smell like bread or pie or cake…he smelled like roast pork!” Elder slapped his thigh and repeated the punch line. “Baked a baker and he smelled like roast pork!” Suddenly he stopped laughing and looked pointedly at Samson. “What’s the matter? You’re not laughing at my joke.” His eyes lit up. “I remember now, you’re the son of a baker. I’m willing to bet that you’re the son of a baked baker.” He noticed the rucksacks, “and you’re planning to run! Seems I’ve caught myself a heretic’s boy!”

  “Can’t you forget you saw me?”

  “Afraid I can’t do that, heretic boy. Turning you in might just be what I need to get that next promotion.”

  As the sergeant reached the door, Samson sprang to his feet. Using all of his pent-up rage, he hit Elder in the back of the head with the heavy padlock. The sergeant’s skull dented with a wet crunch and the man slumped to the floor. Samson opened the door a crack and peered out, but the hallway was empty. Closing the door, he tried to stop shaking, sweat dripping from his brow. At the start of the day, he’d been a proud sergeant in the city guard. Now he was the son of a heretic, a deserter, and a murderer. He had to get out of this insane city before worse happened.

  He wrestled the burly sergeant onto his bunk and covered him with a blanket. Slinging the three rucksacks over his shoulder, Samson stepped out into the hallway. He wanted to run but he forced himself to walk. By the time he reached the streets, he was drenched in sweat.

  Samson returned to the hostel, thankful to find his mother awake and dressed, but when he looked in her eyes he realized something had broken in her mind. She called him ‘Sam’ instead of ‘Samson’, mistaking him for his father. The loss stabbed at his heart. With a cry of despair he wrapped her in his arms and wept into her snow-white hair.

  Then, empty of tears, he struggled to collect himself. He changed into a brown homespun tunic and a leather jerkin recovered from his chest in the barracks, stuffing the now-hated uniform back into the bottom of the rucksack. Strapping on his short sword, he hid the blade beneath a green wool cloak. Wearing the sword was a risk. In Balor, only members of the guards wore swords, but Samson felt naked without it. After draping a wool cloak around his mother’s shoulders, h
e gathered up the rucksacks and shepherded her out of the hostel.

  His mother posed a problem of another sort. A short frail woman in her late fifties, she would not be able to walk far. The only thing he could think of was to catch a ride with one of the farm wagons returning to the countryside after a day at the market. He steered his mother through the maze of streets to the vegetable market on the south side of the city.

  The square was crowded with farmers hawking their produce from the back of their wagons, creating a noisy din. Women wandered between the wagons, baskets on their arms. Taking his mother firmly by the elbow, Samson steered her through the rows of wagons, looking for a sympathetic face. He stopped at a wagon full of cabbages. Pretending to study the vegetables he tried to get up the courage to talk to the farmer. Before he could say a word the farmer leaned over and whispered, “Looking for a ride out of town?”

  Startled, Samson nodded.

  The man winked at him. “Men your age don’t usually shop for vegetables and you’re toting three rucksacks. You might as well carry a false idol on a staff for the priests to see.”

  Under the cover of his cloak, Samson put his hand on his sword hilt.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t turn you in, but you won’t be leaving the city in my wagon. If you’ve the golds, go see old Chammers, three wagons down, the one selling turnips. He’s the one to ask. Now buy one of me cabbages for helping you out; it will look better if you have a bit of green in your hand. That’ll be ten coppers for a cabbage.”