by Elise Kova
Raylynn laughed. “Hush, princeling. This is not about you.” The words were direct, almost harsh, but her smile was tender—a play of the rough and soft he had come to admire about her. “These Knights stood for Mhashan long after their king died. They were led by one soldier after another, a warrior of prestigious birth usually sired in the Ci’Dan bloodline. For a time, they were even led by the young Princess Fiera.”
“Aldrik’s mother?” Baldair couldn’t imagine Aldrik leading a squadron even now. Then it dawned on him that his brother had likely started marching already in that infernal black plate he’d crafted to his own liking, leading his legion of sorcerers.
History had an eerie way of circling on itself, year after year after year.
“The same,” Raylynn continued. “She was the youngest of the four royal children. Were it not for your father, she would’ve never dreamed to even sniff a ruling throne. So, she followed in the footsteps of Mhashan’s other great young royals, and assumed the way of the warrior—sword and shield of our nation.
“She was the person who made your father wait ten years to claim Mhashan as his ‘West’. The poets still sing songs of her military genius and fearlessness, even in her youth.”
“Too bad Aldrik didn’t get any of those qualities.” Baldair instinctively took a low jab the second he saw one open against his brother.
“Careful, Baldair. Because if he didn’t, that means the only qualities he got are from your father—a patronage you both share.” It was the first time Baldair found the woman’s smirk annoying. She had begun to settle in his mind as a tutor in both the blade and bed, a role that made him lust after her all the more. “In any event… When Norin fell and Princess Fiera announced her marriage to the Emperor, making her our first Empress, the West found joy in the compromise. It was far better than anyone expected. A genius move, really, on your father’s behalf. Had he not cemented the heir of the throne with Western blood, I doubt he could’ve kept it this long. The West won’t rise against its own.”
Suddenly, Baldair found his brother cast in a new political light. His existence was less the story of a child born of warrior’s passion in the heat of battle, and more of a calculated political play than Baldair had ever given his father credit for. The West had been the strongest of the four regions from a military perspective. Even war-worn, they could’ve stood against the Empire not long after the war had been lost.
But Mhashan stayed loyal, a nearly eager supporter of the Empire.
If Aldrik was lost… would they remain so friendly toward the idea of the Solaris Empire, a continent united, if Baldair was the one to sit on the throne? He had never wanted the sun crown, and now he wanted it even less.
“The West, Mhashan, was pleased overall with the marriage of Princess Fiera and my father… except for the Knights?” It was an easy presumption for Baldair to make as he tried to keep focused on Raylynn. He resumed his caresses toward the same end.
“You do have a brain under that messy ocean of gold,” she teased with a ruffle of his hair. “Yes, prince, that is just how it was in those early days right after the war. The divide between the Knights and the majority grew deeper and deeper. Their order became a haven for those who clung to the old ways. When their ideals became too radical for the general populous, they were pushed underground. That was the worst of it—for ideas spoken freely are only half as dangerous as the ones whispered.
“The Knights fell out of favor, and in the span of a year had declared themselves the only remaining force true to Mhashan as it had been. They renounced the royal family and began to actively work against them.”
“Aldrik has traveled West a number of times, and they’ve never been a problem.” Baldair would think that killing the heir that represented a union they so hated would be an easy mission for the Knights.
“Unfortunately, they’re smarter than that.” Raylynn sighed and shifted onto her side to look at him. It was a more vulnerable position, curling slightly in on herself. “They won’t step into the sunlight again until they know victory is assured.”
“That’s a good thing then,” Baldair insisted, instantly feeling the need to reassure her. “Because they’ll never gain enough ground to assure victory.”
“Not without help.” Raylynn looked at him now with eyes as piercing as daggers carved from obsidian. “There is one way to gain such strength.”
“How?”
“The Crystal Caverns.”
Baldair’s palm stopped mid-caress up her arm. The Crystal Caverns were a mysterious place of dark magics—the sort of sorcery that could drive a person mad and twist the body into an abomination. The kind of place that made monsters of men. “The War of the Crystal Caverns?” he whispered, as if evoking the memory would bring that dark power back to the earth.
Raylynn nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind it.” Baldair felt an instant pang of guilt for all the times he’d used the war as an insult to Aldrik, now that he knew it could’ve well been caused by a group that sought his brother’s death. He silently vowed to never again use the incident as fodder in their ongoing war of words. “Which is part of the trouble. My knowledge—most people’s knowledge—of the Knights has become hazy since the war. They’re very secretive and become more so every hour, it seems.”
“So…” Baldair dragged out the word, letting his thoughts catch up. “Your mother, she likely knew something about their secrets.”
“Well…” Raylynn glanced askance. “I can tell you this: she was betrayed—killed in Lord Twintle’s estate, in a post she’d accepted on behalf of Princess Fiera. And whoever killed her stole her sword.”
“And you want revenge?” he asked.
“And her sword.”
Baldair pursed his lips. It was not as much detail as he’d been hoping for. He’d wanted a clear assurance that her mother had been slain in cold blood, that he was fighting for justice and not revenge for what could have been a lawful killing.
He looked at—no, admired the woman before him. He had to believe her mother was just as noble. If half of what Raylynn said about Zira Westwind was true, her honor had surely been beyond reproach. The Knights of Jadar certainly couldn’t claim such sanctity; they were, as far as he could tell, terrorists of a kind.
It wasn’t the proper thing for a prince to do. The proper thing would be to call a court of justice before the Mother Sun. But, at least for the next week, he could be just a man in the desert, helping the woman who had so ensnared him.
“So, this Lord Twintle… How do we kill him?”
21. Raylynn
The day’s early light glinting in her grandmother’s eyes didn’t betray the slightest bit of surprise. The woman sat with a rigid back and assessing eyes—eyes that could root out weakness more effectively than a hog could sniff out truffles. Raylynn sat equally poised, letting her chest fill with all the determination she could muster for this mission.
“Your mind is made up, then?”
“It is.”
“And when this task is completed, you’ll go with him?” her grandmother asked.
“I will.” The words still made her want to shift uncomfortably. She was giving up her life of wandering, of going where coin was good and her blade could sing. All she could hope for was that the prince had well and truly learned that she would only stay at his side as long as she wished. If her wishes changed, she would leave.
“It has been foretold.” Deep lines drew across her grandmother’s face as she pressed her eyes closed with a small sigh. When she opened them again, Raylynn saw her kin foremost, no longer the woman who had trained her for most of her adult life. “This is your path. The Company will not walk with you on it.”
“I understand.” To commit oneself to a single master meant to give up the life of the mercenary. Raylynn wouldn’t return to the Nameless City unless she had forsaken her deal with Bald
air. She would not rely on the Company, just as her mother had ceased to rely on them once she established her loyalty to Princess Fiera.
“That being said…” Her grandmother’s face transformed into a loving smile. “Do not embarrass us.”
“Have I ever?” Raylynn shared in what had become a conspiratorial grin.
“Never,” she said without hesitation, and stood. “We will see you both outfitted before you go.”
“I have what I need. I won’t take from the Company.”
“Who said anything about taking?” Grandmother Sophie arched her eyebrows. “You acquired a fair bit of coin in your last loop—gold I don’t think you’ll need in the service of a prince.”
Raylynn gave a huff of amusement. “My gift to the Nameless Company. For the years of generosity.”
She stood as well and followed her grandmother out of the abode. Baldair waited just beyond, leaning against the wall by the door. Sophie stopped to assess him.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Baldair said, hastily pushing away from the wall. With his hand on his sword and his chest puffed out, he looked a little more like the noble prince he seemed to want to be.
Grandmother roared with laughter. A wrinkled, weathered, but still strong hand reached out to clasp his shoulder. “I do believe, my prince, that quite the opposite will be true.”
Rather than his ego deflating as she would’ve expected, Baldair laughed as well. “As usual, you are quite right.” He turned to Raylynn. “When do we leave?”
“Nightfall.” She decided in that moment.
“So soon?”
“No point in delaying the inevitable.” They only needed enough time to collect necessary rations and anything else the Company could spare for them. Her choice had been made; stalling did no one any favors. “Go with my grandmother and fetch rations. I’m going to see Anya.”
Baldair followed her orders without hesitation, heading in the opposite direction with Grandmother Sophie. Raylynn adjusted her leathers before starting for Anya’s abode.
Her friend wasn’t home, nor out sunning on her usual mat. Raylynn found her down by the washing troughs, getting in some much-needed laundry during the morning hours. A Waterrunner perched on a nearby wagon oversaw the water in the barrels; even when droplets of the desert’s most precious resource sloshed out and soaked into the sand, every bucket remained full.
“Anya—”
“I’m proud of you,” she interrupted without turning.
“Proud of me? For what?” Raylynn put a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side, waiting for her friend to give her attention.
Anya was in no hurry. She continued to scrub blood from the arm wraps she had been working on before Raylynn arrived. Satisfied at last, she stretched them across a drying fence, the sun quickly siphoning off the water like a thirsty beggar.
“For finally truly seeking revenge against your mother’s killer.” Anya adjusted the knot of hair at the nape of her neck. “It’s about time you took up her sword.”
“I was under the impression you had encouraged me not to.” There had been many a conversation where Anya had explained how foolish such a course of action would be.
“And if I could discourage you so easily, you didn’t want it badly enough.” Anya shrugged and began fishing through her pile for the next bit of laundry. “You know as well as the rest of us: you must have a hunger before you draw your blade.”
Hunger, that was Anya’s song. Everyone in the Nameless Company had their own relationship with the sword. Anya’s was one of need. She went too long without combat and her bow grew ravenous, gnawing away at her until she fed it the blood of a paid kill.
“You found your hunger.”
“I found my song,” Raylynn corrected, as she always did.
“When will you leave?”
“Tonight.”
Anya paused for the briefest moment before continuing to scrub the tunic she’d chosen. Sentimentality was a stranger among the Nameless Company, which made its occasional appearance all the more noteworthy.
They both knew they would likely never cross paths again. Raylynn’s line of fate took her into the prince’s service. She would go to war with him and, like her mother before her, would likely die in service to the crown. They were all facts she could count as easily to herself as numbers.
But it did not mean she wouldn’t miss her friend. It did not mean her departure this time was a little heavier than all the others.
Anya draped the tunic over the drying fence and regarded her pile. She stuffed the few remaining articles into a woven bag. “Very well. Come with me, Ray,” she said finally.
“Where are we headed?” Raylynn asked, but not before falling into step with her friend.
“You are off to avenge your mother, and then work in the service of the Empire. You’ll need a good braid for the start of this journey.” Anya gave a small smile, one Raylynn returned.
“And I’d be honored if you were the one to give it to me.”
They continued back to Anya’s abode, barely speaking another word while the woman destined to stay carefully plaited the hair of the woman destined to leave into a tight knot at the top of her head. Their thoughts filled the air well enough, and the ritual-like movements filled their souls.
22. Baldair
They set out just before dusk and rode into the night. Raylynn decided their headway in relation to the sun and adjusted once the stars emerged.
There wasn’t much fanfare for their departure. Far less than he’d expect for a woman leaving her home for what very well might be the last time. A twinge crept up his spine; Baldair clenched the horse’s reins tighter, as if he could wring the neck of guilt itself and purge it from his blood.
Raylynn had made her choice. She didn’t need anyone to feel sorry for it—least of all him. The woman who sat astride the saddle before him, sword strapped perpetually near her—even for the ride, made her own decisions. He didn’t know if he believed everything the Westerners espoused about lines of fate set by the Mother, but he did believe Raylynn had made her choice with both eyes open.
“We should stop for the night,” she finally suggested.
“As you wish.” He tugged on the reigns, not feeling much tired.
“Sleep while we can, keep our strength,” she continued, as if reading his mind.
“I can’t argue that.” He dismounted, then held out his hand for her.
She was still clearly unnerved by the idea of being around a horse. But she hadn’t pitched any sort of opposition against using the mysterious mount for their benefit as they departed the Nameless City. They could cross twice the distance in half the time, and time was no longer a commodity they had to waste.
Raylynn dismounted stiffly, practically leaping away from the Warstrider as though it could turn and nip at her at any moment. The horse huffed softly. Baldair caught the creature’s eye and suppressed a knowing grin.
“We should name him,” he mused aloud.
“Why?” She side-eyed the creature as she took their sleeping rolls from Baldair.
“Because he deserves a name.” He would’ve thought the fact obvious. It wasn’t as though they could keep calling it ‘Horse’.
“Horse is fine.” Raylynn clearly didn’t grasp Baldair’s roar of laughter at the remark.
He chuckled through her incredulous look, regaining some scrap of composure. “He deserves a better name than that. He’s a good mount—quite fine, actually.”
“Well, he did come from Princess Fiera.”
“You still believe that?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Because the princess was long dead, he wanted to say. But the woman who had delivered the Warstrider was the same one he’d seen perish in a whirlpool the summer prior. Neither explanation made more sense than the other.
She hummed as he set up the bedrolls, mulling over their conundrum. “Nox?”
“What did you say?” He stopped mid-stride as the name of the deceased woman he had just been thinking about tripped so nonchalantly off Raylynn’s lips.
“Nox,” she repeated.
“Why would you say that name?”
“It means ‘night’ in the old tongue of Mhashan, and he’s all black… Why does it bother you so?”
“I knew someone who called herself that.”
Understanding seemed to dawn on her all at once. “You said the name that night...” The woman remembered; of course, she would. Baldair suddenly wondered if the suggestion had been entirely innocent.
“Jealous?” He grinned.
“Please.” Raylynn rolled her eyes.
“She was a weird one…” He’d never forget the image of the girl throwing ancient treasure into the vortex with an inexplicable fervor. “In any case, not that name.”
“Very well then. What about Baston?”
“Another Western name?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“What does this one mean?”
Raylynn studied the creature for a long moment, as if the definition was somewhere hidden under his coat. “It’s a hard word to translate. It’s like… the apex of fate? A weapon of destiny?”
She continued to hum and haw over the best way to translate the word into Southern common.
“Baston is fine,” he said before she could trouble herself further. Every definition she’d rattled off seemed well enough, and it was a noble sounding name, one that befitted a steed of the stallion’s stature. It was a proper name for a prince’s mount.
“Glad that’s settled.” She rolled onto the ground, tugging at the specially woven blanket to fight against the desert’s nighttime chill. Raylynn looked up at him, arching her eyebrows. “Sleep?”