by Elise Kova
“The princess was like the Goddess herself, dipping her face into the primordial flame of life and emerging, red-eyed and aglow. She told me that my life would follow my mother’s, in the service of a crown of gold. That the sword would be heavy, but I would carry it until my final hours. That these events would bring me home.”
Raylynn dropped her eyes back to meet Baldair’s. There was a mix of emotions on his face. She could see how disbelief, even cynicism, narrowed his eyes slightly. Just beyond that ran an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. But nothing was hostile.
“You think it’s talking about me?” he said finally.
“Frankly, for the longest time, I thought it was talking about your brother.”
He burst out laughing. When Baldair finally regained control of himself, he spoke: “Forgive me, I’m merely not used to it being the other way. Usually people hope for me above him.”
“I’d bet it happens more than you know.” Putting him in his place was far too easy. Raylynn gave a huff of amusement that turned into a suddenly tired smile at how easily his ego deflated. She really was being saddled with a fragile young man. “I’m not upset with how it turned out.”
“You’re not?”
“Far be it for me to question the will of the Mother.” Raylynn stood and began to clear the cups from the table.
“Is that all?”
She stopped her busy work and assessed the question for a several long seconds. What was he looking for? What did she want to give him?
“Well, the Mother is everything.” She gave a small smile. “But I’m glad it worked out this way.”
“Does this mean you’ll join my guard?”
“You are incorrigible.”
“How can we question it if it’s destined?” Baldair grinned his normal princely grin. Smug, arrogant, but this time… also playful? There was a confidence there that wasn’t unappealing.
“I’m still thinking on it,” she confessed.
“Why?” Baldair frowned slightly. “Haven’t I proved my worth yet? Haven’t I done everything you asked? Haven’t I shown my merits as a warrior?” He was on his feet, though she didn’t recall him rising from the floor. She breathed, and he was before her, in her space, taking her air, making it so she could think of nothing but him and the questions he posed. “Tell me, Raylynn, have I not served you in all the ways you asked?”
“In all the ways I asked, but in none I need.” The words fell from her lips like raindrops; his ears were the thirsty desert. “There are things beyond you.”
“What?” He took her hands. Raylynn found herself devoid of any inclination to pull away. The urge to avoid his touch had died somewhere in the desert, far away from where they now stood. “You told me of your future reading for a reason—because you believe it. Then I will believe it, too. I will believe that we are meant to be together.”
She laughed, and the sound echoed off the shards of her broken control over the situation. “Do you always have a tongue of honey?”
“Yes.” His cheeks pulled into a grin not of arrogance but joy. “However, this time I get to have the honey and the truth at once, which makes it all the sweeter.”
Raylynn studied the prince before her. He was on the cusp of what she’d define as manhood, teetering day by day toward the side of growing into a proper adult. He was reckless and brash. But he showed those traits because of the openness of his heart.
She slowly pulled her hands away, his smile dropping to confusion as her arms dropped to her sides. “On my own terms, Baldair. And I am not ready yet to be your guard. I still have a task to complete.”
“Then tell me. Tell me what it is and let me help you accomplish it as you claim to have intended all along.”
She looked at him and bit her cheeks. She should follow him faithfully to the ends of the earth as the Mother so clearly desired—as she herself was feeling drawn to do. But it was hard when the one mission she had kept for years—finding her mother’s sword—was still before her.
Raylynn could say nothing and leave the confused royal behind her, her treacherous mind running amok with possibilities and unsaid things. She grabbed the pommel of her sword, running her fingers over it time and again, gripping the familiar leather. If she sorted it all out, there wasn’t a true barrier to her going with the prince, merely a loose end she wanted to tie.
It was something she didn’t have to do, but she knew she would never live with herself if she didn’t. She couldn’t devote herself to Baldair while living in any margin of fear from the most annoying shadow group of the West. She had to deal with the Knights of Jadar—in her own way, on her own terms—first.
15. Baldair
This woman was impossible, and damn him for loving the challenge.
When he was with her, all he could think of was pleasing her. When he wasn’t with her, all he could think of was pleasing her. He wanted to oblige her and serve her so that she would be compelled to do the same for him. He didn’t want her for fate or his crown. He wanted her for himself, he wanted her to want him for reasons much the same, and he wanted to be worthy of her for no other reason than his own merits.
Baldair folded his arms, leaning against one of the buildings’ sandstone sides. Down at the bottom of the dune, Raylynn ran drills with invisible opponents for the benefit of other swordsmen. She had taken one or two duels; the caliber of fighters in the Nameless Company was as good as the highest majors in the Imperial militia. Just one of their number would be worth three regular soldiers.
Just Raylynn would be worth the whole army.
“What do you think is most impressive about her sword style?” The sudden proximity of a voice startled Baldair back to awareness. Raylynn’s grandmother stood, closely poised between the two makeshift buildings.
He turned back, watching the woman in question. For the first time in… ever, Baldair didn’t feel like talking. He wanted to be silent, to think.
I am turning into my brother.
“Her footwork,” he said finally. Baldair took the time to work through a thoughtful response, not only because Sophie expected it, but because Raylynn deserved it. “She moves her feet like a dancer. Her blade work is, of course, impeccable. But it’s the grace of her step that oftentimes gives her the edge.”
The woman gave a motion of approval at his assessment. “She moves like a dancer because her mother taught her the Song of the Sword.”
“Song of the Sword?”
“A way of fighting that focuses on listening to your opponent to outsmart them.” The elderly woman folded her hands at the small of her back, standing straighter than any grandmother Baldair had ever seen. “Everyone fights to their own rhythm. If you can sing in harmony, then you can also achieve dissonance.”
Baldair thought about it, watching Raylynn move. He didn’t completely understand it but didn’t have to. He was content to see her carve notes in the sand with the sweeping of her toes and shuffling of her heels.
“Her mother taught her?”
The grandmother nodded.
“And you taught her mother?”
Another nod.
“All the way back ten generations?”
“She’s told you that much, has she?” Sophie hummed a noise that suggested she was mulling over the idea.
“Was her father a swordsman, too?” Baldair expected she inherited the skill from all sides.
“He was some unimportant solider, according to her mother.” The grandmother shrugged. “She never spoke much of whoever he was—some Southerner occupying the West.”
Baldair kept his mouth shut, wondering if Raylynn somehow resented her mother for sleeping with a random soldier—a random Southern soldier, who had ventured into the West for war. Someone not entirely unlike himself.
“I didn’t expect to find her with a pretty boy,” Sophie continued, oblivious to his pl
ight.
Deep amusement resonated from his chest. “You think I’m pretty?”
It was her turn to laugh. “You’re soft yet. Your mettle hasn’t been tested in battle. A warrior can always tell the eyes of a man who has killed, and the eyes of a man who has killed more times than he can count.”
“I won’t deny it,” he confessed. The summer prior, when he had made his first kills, was still fresh in Baldair’s mind. They stood out to him like gaunt shadows at high noon, marring his soul in a way he didn’t expect. They were gashes that still oozed the last of his innocence—that represented something he’d lost, and gained, and could never change back to the way it was. “But I’m going to try.”
“What else can you do?” The woman stated the question as though it were obvious, in no need of an answer. “You’re not one to run.”
“You don’t think so?” She’d known him for mere moments and was already making bold assessments. Given her nature, Baldair didn’t take her for the sort to make such a claim without having confidence behind it.
Almost like Aldrik, in a way.
“If you were, she wouldn’t have brought you here.” Their attention turned once more to Raylynn, who was now actively sparring—and winning, it would seem. “You’re not the first companion she’s acquired along the way. But you are the first she’s brought here.”
“I’m not the first companion?”
“She’s told me of other men she’s found, here and there. After her mother died, she continued to wander the desert on her own. It gets lonely, and a woman has needs.” Grandmother Sophie let out callous laughter upon a glance in Baldair’s direction. He didn’t need further explanation to know she was laughing at him. “My Raylynn is not like your court flowers.”
“No, she’s not.” Baldair spoke rudely, not even making eye contact with the elder woman. He couldn’t, for when a sword was in Raylynn’s hands, there was only her in his world. Golden wisps of her hair whipped around her face like sunbeams; the strength in her legs, the deft dancer-like grace by which she moved—it was far more entrancing than anything he had seen before. No, she was as far from being a “court flower” as one could imagine. And thank the Mother for the fact.
“For her to bring you here, you must be determined… and something quite different.”
Baldair heard a note of appraisal and wished he could live up to it. But surrounded by skilled and fearless warriors, far from home, his own insecurities had been wrenched to the surface of his mind.
“I don’t know if I am,” he said, mostly to himself. “I haven’t done much with my life beyond chasing skirts, because a man has needs.” Baldair laughed softly at the fact that he was cracking the remaining shell of adolescence before this complete stranger. It was as good a time as any. “But I want to do more, and be better. I want to merit her loyalty with merits of my own.”
“You may never merit it.” The woman pulled no punches. “But, prince, that’s not your decision to make.” At that, he finally looked at her. He searched the woman’s leathered face for a meaning to her words. He sought to find what she was trying to say and how he could really understand it. “It’s not if you deem yourself worthy—it’s if she deems you worthy. And should she, you have no choice but to attempt to live up to that. After all, isn’t that really what being a prince is: being given the loyalty of others for no reason at birth and striving your whole life to be worthy of it?”
Was that what royalty was? Was that his role? Baldair didn’t have the answers, but he felt, in a way, he had now been given the right questions. They were questions he’d never asked before.
“It’s how her mother lived and died. It’s how Raylynn will live and die.”
The notion of Raylynn dying in his company filled him with a strange and dizzying nausea. That’s what he was doing. He was leading men and women to their deaths, and the Golden Guard would be nothing more than a hand-picked collection of sacrifices. Baldair swallowed hard. Just because that was a truth didn’t make it the entire truth.
“I will fight to keep her safe,” he said softly. Just as he would try to keep Erion, Jax, and whoever else joined their group safe. He might not be comfortable yet with the mere idea of killing, but he would for the people who were truly worthwhile.
The woman laughed softly, again at his expense. “You? No, prince, it will be the other way around.”
She was right, of course, Baldair realized. Everyone in his company swore their lives to him; every soldier in the Empire took an oath to fall in the service of the Emperor and his family. He couldn’t help a sudden appreciation for the irony of worrying over his ability to protect those who had vowed to die for him.
“If you allow her into this ‘golden company’ of yours, accept that you will be the death of her.” The sun continued to set over the dunes, as if attempting to flee the sudden somber shift in conversation. “But also know that she will only die when she is ready.”
“On her terms,” Baldair whispered.
“Indeed.”
“How did her mother die?” It was a morbid conversation, but Baldair deeply wanted to know.
“Honorably.” The grandmother shifted, standing a bit straighter. She looked with her dark eyes directly at the horizon, as if peering into the realms beyond. “She died a warrior’s death.”
“Dueling, like Raylynn does?” Baldair attempted, hoping his gut speculation was wrong, hoping it wasn’t a result of her duty to the late princess.
“No. They killed her over her blade.”
“Who killed her?” That was the only important thing. He didn’t care about shadow soldiers or mysterious Western lore. He cared about the woman whose sword rang out like song bells to his ears. He cared about justice for her and for her mother.
“The Knights of Jadar.” Sophie turned to leave. But she paused and remained still for a long moment. As if working toward a decision, she spoke again: “And the one who swung the killing blow... his name is Lord Twintle.”
Is, not was. He’s still alive, Baldair noted. He only had about two weeks left before he needed to make it back to the Crossroads and march to war. Two weeks was enough time to find some Western Lord, and practice killing again before the war front.
16. Raylynn
Exhausted and slick with sweat, Raylynn collapsed onto a sunning blanket. Every muscle in her body was pulled past its breaking point. It felt like they had snapped off her bones, which now hung limply around her jelly-like form. She let go of her corporal container to focus on the darkening sky above.
Another person collapsed next to her. The woman was a familiar shape no matter how far Raylynn roamed. Anya had grown up alongside Raylynn, training beside her since she could remember. Anya was far more skilled with a bow than with a sword, and Raylynn always felt the slightest bit guilty giving her friend a thorough beating when they went blade to blade, knowing it wasn’t her weapon of choice.
That being said, Anya could still give most men and half the trained soldiers in the world a thrashing with the sword. Raylynn ran her hand up Anya’s arm in a quiet greeting. She only made it halfway up the forearm before her hand collapsed tiredly back onto the blanket.
“You had a fervor.” Anya smiled. She had the most perfect white teeth Raylynn had ever seen.
“Been a long time since I had a real challenge.” Raylynn’s breathing was almost under control.
“Has the West really gotten to such a state?” Anya mused. “There used to be good swordsmen across the land.”
“The war took its toll. Le’Dan and Ci’Dan are no longer warring, and their families have closed their grooming programs as a result.”
“And we have a new war upon us.” Anya leaned back, falling to her elbows and tilting her head to the sky. Raven-colored hair pooled behind her, set free from braids and still perfectly straight.
Raylynn admired the woman’s dark locks. Th
ey reminded her of the Firebearer who gave Baldair and Raylynn their escape. Hair similar to every Westerner, but reminiscent forever in Raylynn’s mind of the Princess Fiera.
“Speaking of which,” Anya continued, “I never expected you to bring a prince back to us. Especially not the younger Southern one.”
“I’m half Southern,” Raylynn pointed out with a small grin at Anya’s obvious distaste.
“Your hair and eyes got all the Southern.” Anya ran a hand through Raylynn’s tresses, stringy with sweat. “But in your heart? Darling, you are a child of the West through and through.”
Raylynn chuckled and gave a small nod, looking back to the stars. She had never so much as set foot in the South, despite her parentage. The West was all she’d ever known, and yet she harbored no fear of leaving—just a small distaste for the idea of how wet the North was, and how cold the South could become.
“Why is he with you?” Anya asked outright.
“He wants me to join his Golden Guard.”
“Golden Guard?” The woman snorted at the very notion. “Some boy prince’s pretend soldiers, no doubt all name and no substance. Why would you even entertain the idea?”
“Fate.”
Anya was silenced instantly by the single word and asked no further.
“But I’m unsure yet of him.” Raylynn still struggled with the bitter notion of falling into line behind a prince after what had happened with her mother, even if the gods decreed it as their will.
“For this, you cannot be blamed.” Anya looked over her shoulder. “The way he walks even screams arrogance.”
Raylynn propped herself up enough to look behind her. She noticed that most of the other people who’d been training had already returned to their homes on the plateau above. Baldair was making his way through the sand toward them.
Certainly, she could see Anya’s point. He had a sway to his shoulders and a stretch to his gait that would always be the look of someone who was used to having all eyes on him by virtue of his mere existence. But for Raylynn, he had relaxed during his time in the Waste. He no longer had the same air about him. Dirty, sun-bleached clothes, ruffled hair, and sun-kissed skin had transformed the prince before her. He had found an iota of humility and did not seem ashamed to show it. His movements were more relaxed, less expectant.