“As you wish, Princess.” Wistfulness lightened Bron’s voice.
Longing tempted Danika to look back. No, Valorian needed her. Instead, she pushed open the cottage door and allowed the golden light to burn away the secrets in the morning mist outside.
Sybil sat on the foot of the bed, cleaning the bloodied scarf she’d once left behind for Danika in a reed bucket full of soapy water.
Guilt overwhelmed her. Valorian lay in pain while she spoke of secret longings with Bron. Danika knelt by the minstrel’s side, sliding her fingers over his hand. “How is he?”
Sybil glanced up and down again quickly, as if afraid to meet Danika’s searing gaze for too long. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll survive. He’ll have to rest for a day or two, and he won’t regain full mobility for another week or so.”
Danika breathed in relief. “Will he be able to play his lute?”
Her mother nodded. “Although, I don’t wish to hear it. Too many memories.”
The comment piqued Danika’s interest. Had her mother’s minstrel lover died? She quelled her curiosity. With Bron needing attention, talking of the past would only slow her mother’s nursing down. Danika gestured for Bron to come forward. “Can you tend to one more?”
“For Bronford, I would do anything.” Sybil’s face cracked into a smile. “Come here, my son.”
Bron must have felt like a son to Sybil because she’d recruited him when Danika was ten and he sixteen. Danika remembered Bron competing in the tournament and her mother bestowing him with a gold medal of honor. The competition must have been one of the most meaningful days in Bron’s life. He must share her mixed emotions concerning Sybil. Although, forgiveness came easier to him.
Bron walked over and knelt near her mother, bowing his head. “My Queen.”
“No need to address me so formally here.” She gestured for him to rise and peeled back his leather jerkin. “Please, call me Sybil.”
Bron’s face set in a grim line. Danika doubted he’d ever address a former queen so casually. His loyal heart would never allow such a dishonor. She could learn from his steadfast nature. He’d spoken the truth earlier. If only she could allow herself the luxury of taking his advice.
Chapter 9
Brilliant Sun
Bron gazed into the former queen’s face. A regal woman still lived behind the mask of freckles, age spots and a clouded left eye. Every now and then, when she pursed her lips or straightened her neck with commanding poise, the queen shone through.
“Hold still.” Sybil dabbed at the cut in his shoulder. “This should heal nicely. You’ll have another proud scar.”
“I’ll add it to my collection.” Bron smiled, wondering how a woman with so much elegance, power and grace could fall to such lowly means. But, beyond her impeccable composure, he needed to know if the path she’d chosen for her life contented her. He owed her at least that much consideration. If unhappiness plagued her, he owed her a means of escape.
The beggar should always remember the hand that threw him the first coin.
Years ago, the queen had elevated him from poverty to distinction. Now the festival tables were turned and he held the hand full of coins.
A cooling sensation spread down Bron’s arm and throughout his body as Sybil spread ointment over his shoulder. His blood had run hot ever since he sensed the kobolds proximity, and now he finally allowed his body to relax.
“Time for rest.” Sybil pulled out another cushion and dragged it next to Nip.
She gestured for Bron to sit and he followed her instructions, letting the weariness of the day overtake him. “Close your eyes and let the medicine work its miracle.”
“The princess?”
“She’s outside. I’ll find a bed for her as well.” Sybil’s voice grew authoritative. “You take excellent care of her, but sometimes you must refuel your own wells. Rest, my son.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bron settled with his back against the wall and his long legs stretched out in front of him. His mind wandered back into memories he hadn’t visited in a long time.
Bron wove in and out of the crowded thoroughfares of Ebonvale’s inner district, following Hule’s head of golden curls. The limitless wave of people pushed both boys forward in a relentless tide. He could have turned back at the city gates, or even before they hitched a ride on a manure wagon from Oaten’s Dell to the capitol. Not now.
Bron stifled his anxieties as he ducked under cages of vibrant birds and skirted a fruit stall reeking of overripe plums. He’d come for a reason, a dream, and the sheer number of people would not sway him, even if he was accustomed to cows outnumbering people.
His gaze strayed to a soothsayer sitting in a wicker chair on the corner of the road. Her layers of floral skirts rustled in the breeze as her blind eyes rolled through the crowd and settled on him. She fingered a scratched onyx stone tied around the hollow of her neck and mouthed the words “chosen one.” A shiver ran across Bron’s shoulders. He averted his gaze, and sure as Helena’s aim the old woman hadn’t meant him. A farm boy vying for a place in the Royal Guard wasn’t chosen for anything, unless she meant ridicule. He turned back to the crowd and Hule was gone.
Horred’s Gambit! His eyes shouldn’t have wandered. He needed his older brother by his side to reach the second round. Anxiety rushed up his spine. What if he had to enter the arena alone? He ground his teeth together. Then he’d fight hard, just the same as if Hule stood with him.
A hand closed on his shoulder and he whirled around thinking a thief reached for his good sword. Hule’s freckled face stared back at him, his eyes sparkling with amusement and something more: hope. “Come on, Bronnie! We’re almost there.”
Behind his brother’s face, the rafters of the coliseum rose, reminding him of his bottom place on the hierarchal chain. Bron jolted forward, following Hule through a back entrance where guards herded other boys their age. The underside of the rafters stunk like pigeons’ nests and mold. Bron covered his mouth with his bare arm, smelling the scent of the cool river he’d bathed in that morning to make a good impression.
Last year the contestants had to fight each other for the honors, and the year before, they had to complete an obstacle course guarded with tigers from the queen’s home city of Jamal. Bron couldn’t imagine what the king had dreamed up for this year.
The same thoughts must have burdened Hule, because he turned to his brother with the first signs of nervousness creeping into his round face. “What do you think they’ve planned for us?”
Bron shrugged, trying not to let his imagination rule his heart. “Whatever it is, we stick together, right?”
“Right.” Hule put his hand on Bron’s shoulder. Although Bron was younger by four years, he’d already reached his brother’s height and surpassed Hule’s chest width. Lifting all those carts filled with goats had paid off. Both boys rivaled the competition, but farm-town hicks had a disadvantage over the professionally trained, elite charter-school boys from the city. Some fathers paid members of the Royal Guard to train their sons, while Hule and Bron’s father taught them how to plant for the optimal season’s bounty each year.
Bron clenched his fists, eyeing another boy’s jeweled armor, as sleek and smooth as the surface of the lake by his home.
“Don’t let their shiny asses shake you.” Hule clapped his brother on the back. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”
Although Hule exuded confidence, his brother returned empty-handed every year, besides the gashes in his skull and bruises on his arms and legs. Bron wasn’t going back to the farm like his brother. His muscles itched to learn swordplay. He couldn’t handle another season of plowing fields.
Hule opened the travel sacks he’d carried on his back and handed Bron the plate armor they’d made by banging together scraps from old pots and shovels. The dinged surface wasn’t pretty, but Bron had faith the thick metal would hold up against most blows.
The doors to the stadium creaked open, and the boys shuffled into th
e blinding brightness of the sun. The city boys’ armor gleamed like gods. Bron and Hule’s unpolished patchwork shone dull slate gray, like the cloudy eye of a storm.
“Gives you character,” their father had said after stumbling in on them trying out their armor before they left. “Shows them where you come from.” Then again, he knew his father wanted them to stay in the safety of their home.
Safe and tedious.
Bron imagined them as maelstroms waiting to strike. He couldn’t wait to put the first dent in one of those flawless armor plates. His fingers danced upon the hilt of his sword.
Hule nudged his arm. “Look there! The king and queen.”
Bron shielded his eyes and gazed up at a platform protruding from the rows of onlookers. The king and queen stood dressed in Ebonvale’s colors of deep purple and green, waving to the crowd. The sun caught a head of golden hair between them, and Bron spotted the princess for the first time.
“Probably more spoiled than old milk left out in the sun all day during mid-summer.” Hule cursed beside him. “I’d like to pull her golden hair.”
Bron had the opposite reaction. To him, she represented everything fair and innocent in the world. He wanted to protect her like a dandelion growing in a newly planted field. In time, the other plants would shoot up around her greedily, stealing her sun.
A horn blew, churning the oats that had coalesced in Bron’s stomach. Bron and Hule turned around as an army marched into the stadium across from the group of hopefuls. The soldiers wore tattered black robes with tails dragging through the grass, collecting mud. They held serrated spears and long bows made from blackwood and horsehair. Hoods covered their faces, and dark fabric concealed every limb from fingertip to shoulder. They exuded the stench of death.
Bron’s stomach dropped to the grass as the crowd gasped in shock. He’d only heard stories from the tradesmen traveling by the farm from the North Country. He’d never seen the undead with his own eyes. How could the king control them? He would never sell his soul to become a necromancer.
“Don’t be frightened. They’re not real.” Hule pointed to a lock of brown hair fluttering out of one of the hoods. “They must have rolled in the butcher’s entrails. The Royal Guard is in disguise.”
Betrayal blazed in Bron’s heart and he felt like a fool. Only the king’s court would devise such deceit. His mother had warned him of political intrigue and enemies pretending to be your closest friend. Never would he have imagined a ploy this size meant to frighten the new recruits.
A second horn blew and the army broke into a sprint. Bron turned his anger into determination. Undead or not, these were real opponents and he still had to fight. Gaining momentum, Bron steeled his nerves and unsheathed his long sword.
Hule’s pace increased and his brother ran ahead of him. “For glory!”
The world moved as fast as lightning as Bron struggled to stay with Hule. They hit the oncoming army in a clash of metal, grunts and sweat. Bron collided with one of the robed figures, the reek of old blood and decay filling his lungs. He pushed, straining his muscles against the other man’s force. He matched Bron’s strength well, and they stood in each other’s grip like two statues while the battle raged around them.
Bron’s fingers yanked the fabric back, and the man’s hood fell from his face. He was older than Hule but younger than their father, with sneering lips, a crooked long nose and eagle-sharp eyes.
“You’ve got some strength in you, boy.” The man clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on Bron’s upper bicep.
Hule pulled that move on him all the time. Bron feigned weakness and dropped his sword, allowing the man to push his right side back. Bron released his grip and delivered a blow to the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward. In one move, he swiped up his sword and stuck the tip near the man’s throat.
His attacker’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“A point for this young man.” The Chief of Arms had spotted them locked in the position of conquered and conqueror. He signaled for Bron to release the man; Bron nodded in compliance and lifted his sword. The man on the ground rolled away and rejoined his group.
Bron bowed before the general, thinking of all the stories his dad used to tell him at bedtime about this man’s lofty deeds. He’d never seen the Chief of Arms this close. His boulder-like jaw and swollen chest made him more intimidating in person. The hawk-nosed man studied him, running a hand through his head of flowing silver hair.
“Well done, son.” The Chief of Arms held out a bronze medal.
Bron reached for the dangling prize. A familiar voice cried out from behind him, tearing his heart in two. Not Hule. It couldn’t be Hule. He stopped, craning his neck.
Out of the corner of his vision, a robed figure a head taller than him sent his brother flying through the air. Hule hit the ground hard, unmoving. The tournament participants weren’t supposed to fight until the death. However, accidental casualties happened every year. Bron couldn’t take that chance. He bolted toward his brother.
Robed figures stood in his way and he crashed through them, using his momentum and his weight to send each one to the ground. The attacker stood over his brother, swinging a spiked ball on a chain over his head. His arm arched and the angle changed, the ball grazing the air over his brother’s gut.
“No!” Bron reached out with his sword and sliced through the chain, sending the ball spiraling through the air. The attacker grinned at him with the perfect white teeth only seen in the city and brought out his long sword, glittering with gemstones. His blue eyes sparkled. “Want to be a hero?”
Ignoring his comment, Bron lunged, and their swords clashed, raining sparks. Bron slid his sword down the length of the attacker’s blade. Once free, he whirled around and sparred low, allowing the attacker’s sword to skim the hair on his head. A lock of his honey blond hair fluttered to the ground as his blade cut a gash in the man’s lower leg. The man stumbled back in shock. He regained his footing and swung toward Bron’s gut. Bron leaped sideways and the blade sailed through clear air. The man brought his fist down on Bron’s back and the ground came up in the blink of an eye, grass prickling his cheek.
Bron rolled instinctively as the tip of the sword sliced the grass where he’d fallen. He kicked the man’s leg out from under him and the man fell on top of him. His weight knocked the air from Bron’s lungs. Bron struggled to throw the man off, muscles burning with nothing left to give.
This was it. He’d failed.
Bron’s cheeks heated with shame. Hule lay on the ground. He’d come home disappointed each year. His mother shouted in joy each time Hule returned alive. The soothsayer’s words came back to him, cooling the burning pressure in his arms. Chosen one.
No. It could not end this way.
The attacker’s spittle and sweat dripped on Bron’s face, dribbling down his neck. Bron blinked the droplets away and heaved, pushing the man over. Before he could regain his footing, Bron scrambled upright and sat on top of him, pinning his legs. Chest pumping with exertion, he brought his sword to the man’s throat. “En garde.”
The man grinned back at him. Somehow, he knew Bron wouldn’t deliver a fatal blow.
A horn blew, signaling the end of the battle. Carefully, Bron allowed him to rise, making sure the man wouldn’t try anything. He ran off with the others, leaving Bron with Hule still lying on the ground.
“Hule!” Bron stumbled to his knees. He rolled Hule over, wiping grit from his brother’s face. “Please, brother. Do not desert me.”
Hule coughed and opened his eyes. “Have we lost again?”
Relief flowed through Bron, and he brought Hule’s head to his chest, hugging him close. Thank Helena he’d been there the year Hule needed him. They would both return alive to Oaten’s Dell. “It matters not.”
The royal guard departed, and healers dragged the wounded boys away. Those with medals stood in line to report to the Chief of Arms. Bron thought of his prize dangling before him, but he couldn’t stand i
n line with nothing like a beggar. The Chief of Arms probably wouldn’t remember him in all the chaos.
Hule struggled to stand. Bron hefted him up, balancing him on his shoulder.
“We return to Oaten’s Dell.” Resignation weighted Hule’s words.
“Hold fast, young warriors.” A woman’s voice, as keen as a birdcall and as sweet as nectar cut through the air. The men parted. A regal lady with a silken gown flowing over the battlefield like the clouds of heaven stepped into view. A three-pointed crown caught prisms of the brilliant midday sun. She strode to them, staring at Bron as if he were the only man on that battlefield. It was the first time anyone had ever referred to him as a warrior and not a farmer, and from the queen, no less.
She extended her arm toward him, the bell-shaped sleeve draping to the grass. “What is your name, son?”
Sweaty, tired and caked with grime, Bron struggled to meet her sharp eyes. “Bronford Thoridian of Oaten’s Dell, Your Highness.”
“Well, young Bronford, I watched you from afar. You have exhibited great strength, bravery and fortitude this day, attributes warranting a bronze medal or two. Most of all, you showed us loyalty and selflessness, giving up your medal to protect your brother.”
Hule whispered in his ear. “She speaks the truth?”
Bron nodded to Hule and put a finger to his lips. Not wanting to disrespect, he turned back to the queen.
“These qualities are worthy of the highest honor this tournament has to offer.” She dangled a golden pendant from her fingers. “Go on, take it. This prize is yours and yours alone. Bronford Thoridian, you have bypassed the subsequent rounds. You are now a member of the Royal Guard.”
Bron stepped to the queen and she dropped the pendant in his palm. With her delicate touch, she closed his thick fingers over the prize and kissed his bloodied knuckles. Behind him, Hule hollered in excitement.
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