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

by Karen Azinger

  “Then I’m the lucky one.” Jordan tucked her wayward hair behind her ear. “My father always supported my choice. I wanted to go to Castlegard for my Wayfaring, but the council turned down my request. They said the knights would never train a woman.” She gave Kath a solemn nod. “It’s disappointing to hear they won’t even train one of their own.” Her voice carried a hint of anger. “The reluctance to train women with the sword runs deep in the men of Erdhe. It is almost a primal fear.”

  Kath stared, amazed to find a kindred spirit. “So where will you foster?”

  Disappointment flickered across Jordan’s face. “Instead of Castlegard, I’m bound for the Southern Mountains to train with the Kiralynn monks. The monks are not known for their sword work, but they’re supposed to be wise in the art of war. So you see, I am also trying to find my way with the sword.” She extended her hand in friendship. “We should be friends. After all, we’re sisters of the sword.”

  The two women grasped forearms in the way of warriors. Looking into Jordan’s eyes, Kath felt she’d finally found a kindred spirit. “I like the idea of having a sword sister.”

  Jordan smiled. “Then it’s settled. We’re true sword sisters. Of course, we’ll have to dance the steel to celebrate.” A competitive gleam filled her eyes. “I’ve never crossed swords with someone trained by the Octagon. I warn you, I intend to win!”

  It was the perfect thing to say. Kath laughed. “I expect nothing less from my sword sister!”

  Sharing a laugh, the two women fell into an easy conversation, talking first about their experiences with the sword and then trading stories from their childhoods. Kath talked about growing up in the legendary castle built by the ancient mages and about the prowess of the Octagon Knights. She showed off her throwing axes with the red hawk tooled on the leather harness. Feeling comfortable with Jordan, she described her kidnapping and the sword fight in the meadow. The tale was simply told, minus any reference to her gargoyle or to the broken tower. Finishing the story, she studied her friend’s eyes for any sign of disbelief but all she found was respect. Kath was surprised at how much it meant to her.

  “So you’re a blooded warrior.”

  Kath nodded, and then smiled. “Tell me about Navarre.”

  Jordan explained the Navarren custom of Wayfaring and about her six siblings, each with an equal chance at the throne. She explained how Jemma wanted to foster with the queen in order to learn the power of multiplying golds and how Justin hoped to go to Coronth to change hearts with his music. The conversation deepened to a heated discussion about Coronth when Jordan suddenly glanced over at the casement window. Astonishment washed across her face. “The sun has nearly set and I almost botched my mission.”

  Kath gave Jordan a confused look. “Your mission?”

  “I was supposed to invite you to soup night. My siblings want to meet the mysterious princess from Castlegard. So can you come?”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, now. Dinner was supposed to be at sunset, but I got caught up in our conversation and I forgot to ask you. So can you come?”

  Intrigued by the idea of meeting Jordan’s siblings, Kath replied, “Why not. But shouldn’t I change first?”

  “No need. Soup nights are always casual, Duncan wouldn’t have them any other way.” Gesturing toward the weapons and armor strewn across the floor, she added, “I’ll help you put these away and then I’ll show you to our quarters. Castle Tandroth is a labyrinth, but we’re just one floor below you.” The two women gathered up the weapons and then left the suite. The floor below turned out to be identical to the one above.

  Entering the Navarren suite, Kath caught the savory scent of fish chowder. A round table set for six waited in front of a roaring fireplace. Three people were already seated. Rising from his seat and executing a courtly bow, a young man with mousy brown hair and an irrepressible smile said, “Welcome to soup night! We’ve banished the servants and we’re about to serve supper. Come join us.”

  Kath assumed he had to be Justin.

  Jordan led the way to the table. “Sorry we’re late. We got to talking and found we had a lot in common, but introductions first.” Gesturing around the table, Jordan said, “My brother, Justin the bard. My sister, Jemma.” Resting her hand on the shoulder of a handsome man in the green and white of Lanverness, Jordan flashed a brilliant smile. “And this is Stewart, captain of the Rose Squad and the crown prince of Lanverness, but we don’t bother with titles on soup night.” Turning toward Kath, Jordan added, “And this is Princess Katherine of Castlegard. She likes to be called Kath, and she’s a fellow dedicate of the sword. She’s here to foster with the queen.”

  Greetings exchanged, the two women took seats at the table. Jordan slid into the seat next to Stewart. Kath took a seat next to Jordan.

  Jordan asked, “Where’s Duncan? It’s not like him to miss soup night.”

  Shrugging, Justin answered, “Something came up. He said not to wait for him.” Reaching for the tureen, he added, “I suggest we start before the soup gets cold.” Justin served Kath a large ladle of steaming chowder rich with chunks of potatoes and river trout. Stewart poured the wine. Fresh bread and spicemelon were passed around the table. A light banter flowed between the siblings. Kath found the conversation even more welcoming than the food. The meal was like nothing Kath had ever experienced, awash in friendship and sibling banter, but her chance to sit back and listen was short-lived. Justin peppered her with endless questions about the legends of the blue steel blades and the great castle raised by forgotten magic. Kath did her best to answer, but the bard’s interest was insatiable. The candles melted to stubs and still their questions did not tire.

  Jemma rescued Kath. “You’ve told us so much about Castlegard I feel I know the great castle even though I’ve never been there. There must be something you’d like to know about Navarre. Jordan couldn’t have told you everything in one afternoon.”

  Accepting the invitation, Kath said, “There is one thing I’m curious about. Seven siblings and you all have names that begin with the letter ‘J’? Did your parents just like the letter or is there more to it than that?”

  Jemma smiled, a gleam of amusement in her dark eyes. “It’s tradition. In Navarre, each successive generation to the throne advances one step down the alphabet. We are the Royal Js just as our father, the king, is a member of the Royal Is.” Winking, Jemma added, “As Royal Js we are always on the lookout for first names that begin with K.”

  Justin said, “We’re always joking about future generations stuck with some of the uglier letters like U or X or Y. Can you imagine some poor future queen having to name her children Una, Uta, Ursula, Ursus, Uther, Ulysses and Umtilla? But she’d better limit her brood to seven. Collecting names is a family hobby, but no one has ever discovered more than seven first names that begin with the letter U and even then there’s some debate about whether Uta is for a boy or a girl.”

  Jordan added in a hushed voice, “And then there is the curse.”

  “That’s right!” With a mischievous grin Justin added, “We mustn’t forget the family curse, the dreaded Curse of the Vowels.”

  At this point, Kath thought the siblings were pulling her leg.

  Her disbelief must have shown on her face because Jemma looked at her and said, “No, it’s true! There really is a Curse of the Vowels. And it is nothing to laugh about. If we seem to joke about the curse, it’s only a sign of relief, knowing that we won’t be tested again for many generations.”

  Kath was surprised to see solemn agreement on the faces of both Jordan and Justin. Still doubtful, she asked, “But that would mean that your parents’ generation was somehow cursed?”

  Jemma said, “That’s correct. According to the curse, there is a bad seed sown in every royal generation where the first names begin with a vowel. Our father’s generation was no exception.”

  With the voice of a seasoned story teller, Justin jumped in to tell the tale. “There were eight children born i
n the generation of the Is, Igraine, Ivy, Iris, Ingrid, Isador, Irwin, Ian, and our father, Ivor. The curse did not rear its ugly head until the siblings had completed their Wayfarings and were being judged as possible candidates for the throne. Rumors said Irwin was always our grandfather’s favorite. Irwin was a natural born diplomat, able to resolve any argument, but his talent also gave Uncle Irwin a way with the lasses. One day, he did not return from his tryst on the beach. They found the young lovers dead, their lips and mouths stained a dark purple from the summer wine. The royal healer was suspicious and kept the remnants of the summer wine for study but his findings came too late to make a difference. The treachery of the curse had already passed to another.”

  Taking a deliberate sip of wine, Justin continued in a hushed voice. “The second candidate for the throne was said to be Ingrid. Much like our Juliana, Ingrid was a sailor of uncommon ability. A nimble climber, she was at home in the rigging and the crows nests but she fell to her death on a routine training cruise just outside of Seaside harbor. They say the sea that day was as smooth as glass. Ingrid’s death shocked the royal family but there was no explanation. The mystery deepened and the curse moved on.”

  The logs snapped and crackled, giving the listeners a start. With a nervous laugh, everyone focused back on Justin and the telling of the tale. “The next to fall victim was Uncle Isador. Isador was captain of the royal guards. He’d never been sick a day in his life, but he suddenly came down with a severe burning in his stomach and an intense thirst. Suspecting poison, he abstained from all foods except for apples picked fresh from the trees and tea boiled over his own fire. As he began to recover, he convinced his brother Ivor to help him search the castle for telltale poisons. Ever conscious of the curse, Isador suspected his sister Iris. Iris was ever the ambitious one yet the crown never seemed within her grasp. Isador’s suspicions were compounded by Iris’s Wayfaring. She’d gone to Radagar to study healing with a master, but the nobility of Radagar is famous for their artistic use of poisons, killing each other for a chance at the royal succession. As it turned out, Isador’s suspicions were well founded. In the false bottom of a locked chest, the brothers discovered Iris’s secret hoard of herbs and poisons. Among the collection of dried plants and roots, they found a stoppered flask of the deadly nightshade berry, with its distinctive dark purple color. There was also a pouch of small black seeds from the hemlock plant, known to cause vertigo and death. Sorting through the powders and vials, the apothecary found the last piece of evidence, a vial containing the colorless powder of the bloodroot plant, a deadly poison said to cause an intense burning in the stomach and an unquenchable thirst. Hidden within Iris’s locked chest were poisons that could account for the dire symptoms of all three siblings.”

  The bard paused, staring at his audience. “The brothers confronted their sister with this evidence, but Iris only laughed, saying she was weeding out the weak so only the strong survived. Furious, Isador demanded his sister’s death, but their grandfather could not give the orders to have his beautiful daughter killed. Instead, he exiled his dark daughter to a small rock in the harsh chain of islands known as the Orcnoths. Given a fisherman’s cottage and surrounded only by goats and the rough ocean waters, Iris was expected to live out her days in isolation. She had no visitors except for the guards who delivered her food once a week. But rumors said that Aunt Iris had more skills than just the craft of herbs and poisons. Whispers said that the true purpose of her Wayfaring was to study art of seduction.”

  The fire cracked, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth. The friends laughed, reaching for more wine, as the bard continued his tale. “Iris stayed on the island for exactly six turns of the moon, long enough for the guards to grow complacent. One day, the guards did not return. A search party found them naked in the bed of the cottage. One had his throat cut and the other had a knife in his belly. They also found a note written in Iris’s spidery hand. She vowed to return to Navarre when she was ready to claim the throne. No one knows where she went and none have seen her since.”

  The room fell quiet except for the crackling of the logs. No one wanted to break the spell of the dark tale. Kath shivered, making the hand sign against evil. “So the curse is real?”

  Justin nodded, his face solemn. “It’s real. Some believe the curse is an evil seed planted by the Dark Lord himself, an attempt to gain the throne of Navarre.” Lowering his voice, the bard added, “No one knows the reason why, but there is always one dark seed in each generation named by a vowel; one seed that holds the promise of death, destruction, and treachery.”

  “Then why not skip the vowels altogether?”

  Justin flashed Kath a broad grin. “A logical suggestion, except for the other part of the curse. If the royals ever skip a letter, a vowel or otherwise, then the kingdom of Navarre will fall.” Justin shrugged. “No one is willing to take the risk, so we stick to the alphabet, vowels and all.”

  “At least you’re forewarned.”

  Jemma shook her head. “You’d think knowing would be a blessing but sometimes evil is most cruel when it is predictable. Imagine the torment of the queen who knows she is about to give birth to a cursed generation. The Dark Lord’s cruelty knows no bounds.”

  Justin uncorked the last bottle of wine, topping all the goblets. “Enough talk of curses and the Dark Lord, I have some good news to share. Bring your glasses and let’s get comfortable by the fire.”

  The table was quickly deserted. Everyone found a comfortable spot in front of the warming fire. Jemma curled her slender legs under her long wool skirt and reclined like an elegant princess while Jordan and Stewart snuggled comfortably against the back of a chair. Kath sat cross-legged in front of the fire, sipping her wine and waiting to hear Justin’s announcement.

  Taking a seat in front of the fire, Justin raised his glass in the manner of a toast. “This morning I had the honor of joining Master Fallon in a private performance for the queen. Her majesty graciously approved the new ballads related to Coronth.” Stewart and the siblings cheered the news. Bowing to his audience, Justin said, “So you are all formally invited to attend the first public performance. I’ve booked a front row table at the Green Stag for three nights from now.” Looking specifically at Kath, Justin said, “I hope you’ll be able to attend.”

  Kath nodded, pleased to be included.

  Jordan said, “Give us a song!”

  Justin cradled his small harp and began tuning the strings. His fingers rippled across the harp, releasing melodies that teased the heart and rhythms that soothed the soul.

  Basking in the heat of the fire, Kath felt a warm glow inside. She wasn’t sure if it was the wine, the fire, or the music. Looking at her newfound friends, she felt an acceptance and strength she’d never known. Kath smiled. Perhaps there were good reasons to be in Pellanor after all.

  54

  Blaine

  The great blue sword whistled as it sliced through the cold morning air. In the dawn light Blaine practiced the classical forms. Raising the sapphire blue blade high above his right shoulder for a powerful diagonal attack, he executed slash of the eagle. The diagonal slash flowed directly into strike of the snake, followed by a sweeping undercut named claws of the mountain lion. Each form flowed seamlessly into the next, carving graceful arcs through imaginary foes.

  Stepping through the forms, Blaine’s boots beat a soft rhythm into the hard-packed dirt floor of the training yard. His strength was such that he could execute some of the forms with a single hand on the sword. Cut, parry, and thrust, Blaine picked up the pace until the sword blurred into a shimmering slash of blue, creating the illusion of many blades instead of one.

  In the solitude of the early morning, he lost himself in the dance of steel, exalting in the feel of the great blue blade. The sword became an extension of his arm, an extension of his will. As the pale winter sun rose over the castle walls, he made a final lunge to end the dance with the deadly strike of the dragon.

  Breathing hard,
he wiped the sweat from his brow. Too deadly for sparring matches, he could only use the great sword in solitary practices. By rising early he avoided the hero-worshiping crowds that gathered whenever he unsheathed the blade. He’d learned to ignore their stares, but he had a harder time avoiding warriors who sought to challenge him. Looking for bragging rights, they yearned to defeat a knight who carried a hero’s sword. Remembering the words of the knight marshal, Blaine had to agree that the blue steel blade had a way of constantly testing him, as if it was the man who was being shaped on the forge to meet the needs of the blade. He laughed at his own thoughts, awfully deep for such an early morning.

  Finished with his practice, he wiped the sword clean with a soft cloth and sheathed the great blade in his shoulder harness. He paused to watch the sun’s golden rays edge over the castle ramparts. Now that they were safe behind castle walls, there was little to do besides train. The princess put her whole heart into the practice sessions but outside of the sparring ring it was obvious she chaffed at the Rose Court. He had to admit a queen’s court was no place for a princess dedicated to the sword, but he looked at their time in Pellanor differently. To Blaine, it was the calm before the storm, a time to prepare. With the intervention of the gods at the Isle of Souls and later at the broken tower, Blaine had no doubt that a dark storm was looming on the horizon. Each day in Pellanor gave them more time to sharpen their fighting skills before the storm struck.

  Retrieving his maroon cloak, he left the sparring yard to make his way back to his quarters. Lost in thought, he must have taken a wrong turn, suddenly finding himself in an unfamiliar part of the castle. Roaming the stone corridors looking for a landmark, he almost slipped on a slick puddle. A heavy metallic tang hung in the hallway. Recognizing the coppery smell, he unsheathed his sword. A pool of fresh spilled blood stained the castle floor.