Pride stole across the king’s face. “So there are advantages to having a bard in the family! I thought so, despite the grumblings of the council. So much for claiming there is no ‘value’ in music. Yes, by all means, get Justin involved.”
The talk of Justin had brought some welcome color to the king’s face. Given the severity of his wound, Duncan thought it best to give the grim problem of Coronth a rest. “Speaking of the Wayfaring, with the recent turn of events, should we keep the Royal Js in Navarre?”
The king shook his head. “The Wayfaring is too important, although the travel plans will have to be modified to avoid Coronth. And I want extra guards assigned to each of my children. They’ll not leave Navarre without protection.”
Commander Isador said, “I’ll see that it is done.”
“For added safety, Jemma, Justin, and Jordan should journey together.” He turned his gaze to Duncan. “You and Justin will need to stay in Navarre for at least a fortnight to prepare the message for the people. Once you reach Lanverness, I want you to meet with Queen Liandra and apprise her of the risk of this new religion. You are to remain at the Rose Court for at least three turns of the moon, serving as Navarre’s ambassador to the queen’s court.”
“What about the Royal Js, sire?”
“I’m sure Justin will enjoy spending time at the Rose Court and I will give Jordan orders to assess the battle readiness of the army of Lanverness before she travels to her Wayfaring with the Kiralynn monks.”
Considering the tasks that lay ahead, Duncan asked, “Sire, it might be helpful if I knew the terms of agreement for the fosterings.”
With a wave of his hand, the king deferred the question to his sister. Igraine explained, “Justin’s training will be the most expensive. Master Haldor demanded one thousand golds for a three-year apprenticeship and any golds that Justin brings in through his performances for the first two years are to go to the master to pay for the boy’s room and board. An outrageous sum but then Master Haldor is the best bard in all of Erdhe. As to the fostering of Jemma, Queen Liandra has not asked for anything in return. This simply means we do not yet know what the price will be. The Spider Queen does nothing for free.”
The commander interjected, “Rumor has it the queen is spinning a web to catch wives for her two sons.”
The king smiled. “The queen may spin her webs but it will be up to our Jemma to decide if she wants to be caught. She has a mind of her own and a stubborn streak as well. Liandra will find our Jemma is not so easy to manipulate.” The king turned to Duncan. “Take Jemma with you when you brief the queen. Once you leave Lanverness, I’ll expect her to continue discussions with the queen regarding Coronth.”
“As you wish, majesty. And what is the fostering arrangement for Princess Jordan?”
Igraine answered, “The arrangement with the monks is most unusual. A year ago, we received an unsolicited scroll from the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order inviting one or more of the Royal J’s to spend their Wayfaring at their monastery in the Southern Mountains.” Igraine hesitated, her glance seeking the king. “The curious part is, the monks specifically asked for Jordan.”
Duncan smothered his surprise. “They asked for Jordan by name?”
Igraine nodded.
“And you’re sending her to them?”
The king answered, “There are few places in Erdhe willing to foster a woman wielding a sword.” The king met Duncan’s stare. “It is one of the many reasons I asked you to join Jordan on her Wayfaring. The monks are too mysterious for most, but Igraine assures me the Kiralynn Order serves the Light. Jordan will go to the monks to learn the art of war and you will discover the truth behind their request.”
Duncan nodded. “It seems Erdhe is awash in plots.”
The king gave him a weary look. “Navarre is a small kingdom. We must chart the currents of change if we are to navigate them.”
Master Simmons poked his head in the room and said, “The king has had enough for the day. You should let him rest.”
Before they reached the door, King Ivor added one last order, “I want all of you to think about ways to defeat this new religion. We will hope for peace, but if it comes to war, we may need more than swords to triumph.”
Duncan bowed, fearing the truth of the king’s words.
20
Blaine
Blaine searched the castle but the Imp was not to be found. Annoyed, he slung his shield across his back and his saddlebag over his shoulder and descended the tower stairs. Reaching the great yard, he was stunned by the crowd. Flour-stained cooks and scruffy stable hands mingled with the folk of the forge. From Master Otto down to the youngest bellows boy, half the castle had turned out for their leave taking. The Imp was a pest, but the girl had a knack for making friends among the castle folk.
Blaine threaded his way through the crowd, hoping the girl waited with her escort. He joined three knights, one smith, and two squires, their horses packed and ready for travel, but the Imp was not among them. Muttering a curse, he greeted his horse with an apple and then strapped his bags to his saddle. His gaze roved the escort. He knew all of them save one. Sir Tyrone stood out with his ebony-colored skin. Tall with a lick of gray in his long curly hair, he carried a great sword strapped to his back. Rumors ran rampant about the black knight, saying that he came from some distant land or that he’d done a great deed to join the Octagon, but rumors had a tendency to exaggerate. Blaine wasn’t sure what to believe, but the king must have a reason for assigning him to the escort detail. In addition to Sir Tyrone, he’d be traveling with Captain Tellor, Sir Kirk, and Carl, a big swordsmith from the forge, and two senior squires. It was a small escort for a princess but the kingdoms of Erdhe had long been at peace.
Blaine secured his shield to his saddle and then scanned the crowd for Kath. The journey hadn’t started yet he’d already lost the Imp.
The crowd parted like a field of grain before the wind, revealing the king. King Ursus was a force to be reckoned with. His hair showed his age, a regal mane of silver, yet he moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior, the hilt of his great blue sword rearing over his left shoulder. His face held a look of mild surprise. Blaine wondered if the king was pleased or annoyed by the revelation of his daughter’s popularity.
The king cast a stern gaze across the escort detail. “Captain Tellor, you have your orders. Convey my daughter safely to Lanverness and return with the down-payment for the queen’s blue swords. Ride quickly, serve well, and bring honor to the Octagon.” He glared at Blaine, “And just where is my daughter?”
As Blaine braced for the king’s anger, the crowd parted and the Imp emerged. Clad in her usual squire’s garb, she’d tied her unruly long blonde hair with a leather cord, a saddlebag thrown over her shoulder. “I’m here, father.” Her voice held a note of defiance but her eyes were wary, a badger baiting a bear.
The king frowned. “Katherine, you’re a princess of Castlegard yet you persist in acting like a foundling. I paid the seamstresses good coin for their work. I expected to see you dressed as a lady. Once again you disappoint.”
The Imp’s mouth tightened to a stubborn slash. “It’s a long ride to Lanverness. We’ll make better time if I actually ride the horse instead of being carried like a sack of grain.” She crossed her arms. “And besides, my gowns are all packed.”
The king’s scowl deepened but the Imp stood firm.
The crowd stirred, like foot soldiers caught in the crossfire.
Perhaps it was the crowd, or the fact that his only daughter was leaving, but for once the king relented. “You leave as a wild thing, but I expect you to return as a lady. Two years in the queen’s court should be long enough. Ride well, daughter, and bring honor to Castlegard.”
The Imp’s voice broke, “Always, father.” She bowed and then walked toward the chestnut stallion held by a page. The Master of Horse emerged from the crowd, offering her a leg-up to the sixteen-hand warhorse. Kath vaulted into the saddle, looking as if s
he belonged on the big chestnut.
Captain Tellor gave the order, and the troop formed up. Blaine rode next to Kath. The girl held her head high, riding out of Castlegard on her own terms, never looking back. Cheers and farewell wishes followed them through the gates, across the drawbridge, and out into the world.
Blaine cast a sour look back at the castle. A knight with a blue blade should be riding north against the Mordant, not traveling south to escort a girl to her fostering. Scowling, he thrummed his horse to a canter.
They took the great road south, settling into an easy routine. Captain Tellor rode at the head of the column, setting the pace and choosing the route. The two squires, Todd and Alain, rode in the swirling dust cloud at the rear, each with a packhorse on a long lead. Sir Kirk took responsibility for the squires while Blaine rode with the Imp in the center of the column, enjoying the company of Carl, the master smith, and the black knight, Sir Tyrone.
The countryside was glorious, bedecked with the brilliant colors of early fall. They rode through farmlands busy with the autumn harvest. Villagers stopped to watch their passing. Small boys raced alongside, their face’s aglow with hero worship. The cheers intensified when the villagers spied the sapphire hilt of Blaine’s great sword. Swelling with pride, Blaine drank in the admiration, until they stopped at a roadhouse for a meal and a night’s rest.
The inn was crowded with travelers, yet the owner escorted the knights to a prime table by the fireside. They supped on roast lamb and potatoes and leeks, enjoying a fine meal until the minstrel stopped strumming and locked his gaze on Blaine. “Sir Knight, I would hear the tales of your blue sword. I swear to fashion your feats of glory into a song worthy of your deeds.”
Blaine stared at the minstrel as if he was a three-headed dragon, but the crowd took up the request. “Tell us a tale! Tell us a tale!” Blaine slunk into his chair, wishing he could disappear, but the chant only intensified. Voices beat against him like sword blows but he had no tale to tell. He was just a fresh-made knight with a sword he hadn’t earned. It was too much to endure. Bursting from his chair, he bolted for the door, escaping into the night.
Bleary-eyed, he met the others in the stables the next morning, eager to put the village behind him. Saddling his horse, he kept to himself, riding at the back of the column, his blue sword strapped to his back; his pride and shame.
The days of traveling dulled to routine. Leagues passed and the sting of the minstrel lessened. Riding in the center of the column, between the smith and the black knight, Blaine listened to tales from their past. The two older men had traveled far and wide before pledging themselves to Castlegard. Carl had worked in Radagar and Wyeth before taking a smith’s oath to the Octagon. Sir Tyrone’s origins were even farther flung. “My parents were spice traders from Yarran. They crossed the Western Ocean and settled in Seaside. Born and raised there, I pestered my parents for stories of our homeland, hungry to hear of a land where all the faces were ebony like mine. On my fifteenth naming day, my parents took me on the long voyage home. The ocean proved a nightmare of storms. Just when I thought we were food for fishes, the master brought the ship to port, landing at a sprawling city on the edge of a verdant jungle. At first I reveled in the sameness of the people, but after a year I realized I felt more like a stranger in Yarran than in Erdhe. With the blessings of my parents, I returned to Erdhe and eventually made my way to Castlegard to take up a sword with the Octagon Knights.”
The Imp pulled her horse even with the black knight. “So even though you look like a man from Yarran, on the inside you feel like a man of Erdhe?”
“Just so.”
“Looking so different, how did you get the people of Erdhe to accept you?”
“In the seaside kingdom, my skin color was merely an oddity, but outside Navarre I was treated as something less than a man, my dark skin taken as a sign of the Dark Lord. I honed my fighting skills, fending off insults and attacks, living by the sword. Perhaps that’s why I was drawn to Castlegard, where a man is judged by his honor and his skill, not the color of his skin.”
“Yet you volunteered to make this trip to Lanverness?”
Sir Tyrone flashed a wry smile. “A maroon cloak and a great sword make all the difference. If the people of Erdhe see a black knight of the Octagon perhaps they’ll be more accepting of the next dark-skinned man they meet. Besides, I like to travel. Caught the habit from my parents and I can’t seem to give it up.”
But the Imp was like a terrier worrying a bone. “If the people of Erdhe can accept a black knight, do you think they might accept a girl with a sword?”
The black knight fell silent, he and Blaine both avoiding the Imp’s stare. Eventually, Sir Tyrone braved an answer. “It is hard to be different. Not everyone can walk that path. You must decide if the destination is worth the journey.” Giving her a half smile, he added, “But you already have four knights and a master smith accustomed to seeing a girl wearing a pair of throwing axes, so perhaps there’s a chance.”
Mollified, the Imp flashed them a warm smile.
They rounded a bend in the road and Ferrytown came into view, a cluster of whitewashed clapboard buildings nestled against the mist-shrouded shores of Eye Lake. The town looked small but prosperous. Smoke curled skyward from stone chimneys and the smell of fresh baked bread wafted down the road like a temptation.
They took rooms at ‘The Gentle Soul’, the inn recommended by the stable master. After stowing their saddlebags, they met in the inn’s common room, ordering a supper of fish stew and tankards of cider. Blaine tore off a piece of crusty bread and tucked into the savory stew. When he’d taken the edge off his hunger, he looked across the table at Sir Tyrone. “So tell us about the Isle of Souls.”
The black knight was a consummate storyteller. With a smile, he settled into the tale. “The stories are legion. Rumors say the Isle is enchanted. For reasons known only to the gods, the gray veil between the present and the future, between this life and the next, is thin on the Isle. Mystics, mediums, and fortune tellers flock there to ply their trade. Lured by the siren’s song of seeing the future, people come from all over Erdhe, drawn like bees seeking honey.” The black knight gestured to the collection of travelers in the common room. “Predicting the future is a lucrative trade.”
Kath’s eyes grew as big as gold pieces, but Blaine asked the first question. “So is the Isle part of the kingdom of Tubor?”
“Ferrytown is in Tubor, but the Isle is a Free City. Owing allegiance to no king, it is run by an elected Council of Merchants and Mystics.”
The big smith barked a rude laugh. “More like the council of thieves and quacks! If you ask me, the whole Isle is just one big con job. If you’re smart, you’ll keep a hand on your purse.”
Confused, Blaine asked, “So why are we going to this den of thieves?”
Carl answered, “Eye Lake is so big it would take weeks to ride around. We’ll save time by crossing to the Isle and then to the other side. Of course, the council knows this, so they only operate the ferries in the mornings, forcing travelers to spend at least one night. It’s all part of their clever scam to fleece travelers of as many golds as possible.” With a wink and a leer, the smith added, “But cheer up lad, it won’t be a total waste. The brothels on the Isle are famed throughout Erdhe!”
Blaine glared at the smith, but the Imp did not seem to notice. Kath’s stare was fixed on the black knight. “Can the fortune tellers truly see the future?”
“If the future can be seen by mere mortals, then the Isle is the place for it. Of course, it helps if you have a gifted mystic.”
“How can you tell?”
“The Guild of Mystics has a way of testing its members, and those who pass display a white ‘spirit’ hand on the lintel of the door to their shops.”
Carl chortled. “Spirit hands! I’ll tell you how the quacks pass the test, by passing enough gold across the palm of the tester!” Gulping down the last of his ale, he waved to a serving girl and ordered anoth
er.
The Imp ignored him. “So how do the mystics see the future?”
“I expect you can find readers of palms, tarots, crystals, and auras, even those who claim to commune directly with the spirits of the dead.”
“Which method would you choose?”
Choking on his cider, Blaine sputtered, “Don’t waste good coin on those charlatans!”
The Imp retorted, “Why not? Don’t you want to see the future? Mine has to be more than wearing gowns in the queen’s stuffy court!”
Sir Tyrone intervened, “Come on, Blaine, let the girl have some fun. Where’s the harm in it? If you like, I’ll go with her to the Street of Mystics tomorrow night.”
Blaine threw up his hands in surrender. “I want no part of it. She’s yours to guard.”
The black knight nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”
Carl slapped a meaty paw across Blaine’s shoulder. “Now you’re free to visit the brothels with me!” Blaine shied away from the big smith, wondering if the morrow would bring magic or mischief.
21
Steffan
Steffan rode the black gelding to a lather each day, always stopping just short of riding it to death. Not that he cared about killing the horse, but it would have been difficult to find a swifter mount, so he tempered his need for speed with logic. Besides, he had work to do at night. He needed to get to Coronth quickly, but it was just as important to arrive with his saddlebags bulging with gold.
Each night he sought out the dicing games that were common in the taverns of Erdhe. He’d always been good at dicing, but now he couldn’t lose. Luck with dice was one of three gifts he’d gained while kneeling at the oracle and Steffan was reveling in the Dark Lord’s favor.
He started the evenings in the pubs frequented by the locals. The winnings were lean but they added to his purse. As the night advanced, Steffan moved on to the more expensive taverns, enticing the rich to gamble away their golds. As ale pitchers emptied, the golds flowed more freely and the dice always fell in Steffan’s favor. If he concentrated hard enough, he could actually lose a roll. He did this just often enough to sucker the gamblers into even bigger bets. His charm was such that most of the losers never objected to his ‘remarkable’ run of luck, and if they did complain, Steffan was quick to challenge them with his dirk or his sword. He took their golds either way and then moved on to the next town, never staying longer than one night in any one place. As he rode north, his saddlebags grew heavier with golds, gems, and jewelry. It was truly a pleasure to serve the Dark Lord.
The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 12