“Shouldn’t you be planning?”
Torsten whipped around to see Oleander in the doorway of his chambers. It was neither modest like Rand’s apartment nor luxurious like the King and Queen’s, but it suited him. Instead of paintings and sculptures, the flawlessly cut stone walls were covered in weaponry. The shield of Sir Roderich of Cornhovel—a city no longer on the map thanks to so many battles, the Spear of Sir Von the Valiant—relics of great Shieldsmen he could aspire to.
It was, however, no place fit for the Queen Mother.
“Your Grace.” Torsten bowed. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“At least someone still bows to their queen.”
She entered the room, her long legs carrying her to Torsten’s bedside in only a few strides. She sat on the edge and her handmaiden made sure her dress didn’t bunch—not a dress, Torsten realized. She wore a negligee as extravagant as any gown in Pantego. The frills were woven with gold, and the blue fabric was stitched in a tight floral pattern. The light of the moons poured through Torsten’s window and caught it, allowing him to clearly see the silhouette of the lithe figure beneath.
Torsten averted his eyes, wondering if she knew. Then, he realized that he too was out of uniform, wearing only the sweat-laden, baggy tunic worn beneath his armor. He could only imagine the stench. The audience with the Caleef had every ounce of perspiration rolling down his back and from his shaven head.
“Forgive me,” Torsten said. “If I knew you were coming I would be dressed appropriately.”
“Can you stop being such an insufferably honorable man for once?” she groaned.
“And you…” She spun on her handmaiden. “If I wanted you to follow me in here I would have asked.”
The young woman froze and stuttered, “Your Grace, I—”
“Get out!”
The young handmaiden scurried out of the room like a rat caught foraging at a banquet. Torsten watched the young lady’s retreat and caught a glimpse of the Queen making herself more comfortable. His heart raced. There had never been a woman on his bed, let alone her.
“Your Grace, is there anything you need…” His words trailed off when he heard her snivel. His eyes lifted and found her face buried in her palms, crying.
Torsten rushed to her side. “What happened?”
“He’s so… cruel,” she whimpered.
“Who?”
“He wasn’t like this when he was younger. Before everything. He was a sweet, kind boy. Uriah always said so, too. Now, I… I don’t even know him.”
Torsten sat beside her. He was a hair’s breadth from laying his hand over hers but thought better of it. He slid away a bit, where the overpowering scent of her flower-blossom perfume wasn’t so intoxicating.
“Oh, him,” he said. “He’s been through a lot, Your Grace. He’s just figuring things out.”
“I should’ve never let Redstar anywhere near him.”
“None of us should have, but he can’t poison Pi’s mind any longer. He’s locked up and won’t be seeing day’s light anytime soon.”
“Don’t you see, Torsten? I’ve been caring for a stranger ever since that day.” She turned to him, tears causing her makeup to run. The last time he saw her so affected was when he found her cradling Pi’s corpse. Now the boy was alive, yet she cried all the same.
“I only knew him from afar before then, so I cannot say.”
“He loved to read. I’m not sure where he got it from. His father was a man of action, and I… I didn’t learn to read until Liam brought me here. There’s no reason for a woman to study in the far North.”
“Then I’m glad you’re here, Your Grace.”
“Do not spin lies. Do you think I've not heard the whispers all these years? About the ‘foreign whore Queen.’ Do you think I don’t know how they talk about me now? The murderous witch who lost her mind. I was only trying to save him.”
“And Iam heard your prayers and returned him to us,” Torsten said before thinking. He didn’t believe that. The people prayed, maybe, but Iam didn’t reward senseless killing. In the corner of his mind, ever since that day, Torsten always wondered if he’d been the one who’d caused the miracle. If it had been his unwavering faith that broke whatever curse Redstar had laid upon Pi and inspired Iam to return him to the realm of the living.
He never presumed to know the machinations of Iam. All he knew for sure was Oleander’s rampage wasn’t the cause of it. It couldn’t have been.
“I thought everything would be back to normal when you found him in the crypt,” Oleander said. “But now, when he starts talking, all I see in him is his father.”
“Liam was a great man.”
“He was. From the moment I saw him in the tundra, I knew he had no equal. Redstar couldn’t understand why I left without a fuss. He still doesn’t.”
“I remember.”
“You were there?”
Torsten nodded. “I was Uriah’s squire.”
How could he forget that day? Liam sought to conquer the Drav Cra before he realized he never could. The land beyond Winter’s Thumb was wild and always would be. But then Liam saw the stunning daughter of a chieftain, barely of proper age. She stuck out like a flower growing through the ice.
Oleander ran her fingers along her tear-covered cheeks. “Oh, how time has ravaged me since then.”
“You are more radiant than ever, Your Grace.” That, he meant. How Liam fell for someone so young, he would never understand, but the man had an eye for seeing beyond what others could. Somehow, he knew the marvel Oleander would blossom into. A fierce queen and the greatest beauty in Pantego... now sitting on Torsten’s bed.
“How in Iam’s name are you not betrothed, Torsten?” She smiled, though her swollen eyes made it pitiable, and sidled closer.
“The Crown is a Shieldsman’s only love, Your Grace.”
“Right, of course. You’re not still chaste though, are you?”
“My Queen?”
“A virgin, Torsten.”
“I know what it means, Your Grace. I just—”
“You are, aren’t you!” Oleander said, seemingly forgetting about her tears.
“Of course not!” Torsten exclaimed, cheeks red as cherry plums.
“No, how could you be? Conquering all those foreign lands with my husband. I’m sure you were treated like a king by all the whores he brought in.”
Torsten choked on his next breath.
“What? You think I don’t know?” She laughed. “He had enough mistresses to fill the Great Hall.”
“I… the King kept to his tent….”
“My sweet Torsten, you don’t have to lie to me. I know who my husband was. Within these walls, I was the love of his life, but out there? Every time he returned from some great battle, it wasn’t blood I smelled on him.”
“He loved you, my Queen,” Torsten said softly. He could think of nothing else, and even those words barely managed past his lips.
“I know he did. And I loved him when I could. But the others were all beautiful, faultless and fleeting loves. Only I suffered under the weight of his honesty. As I now suffer under the weight of my own son’s—his son.”
“For a boy his age to have been through so much… I can’t even imagine. I truly believe he’s simply still figuring things out, Your Grace.”
“Torsten, please do away with the formalities. We are alone in this room.”
“Of course, Your Gr—Oleander.” He didn’t need the reminder of their solitude, it was all he could think of.
She rested her head against Torsten’s shoulder. He quaked with conflicting emotions. He had never—could never—deny how stunning she was, how powerful, but he’d been on the receiving end of her wrath far too many times.
“I did it all for him,” she said quietly after some time had passed.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t!” She removed her head from his shoulder, but her anger quickly subsided and she returned it again. “How could you?” sh
e continued, calmly this time. “You have no child of your own. You’re like all the rest. You think I’m some crazy, murderous shrew.”
This time, Torsten was the one to break the connection. He stood, hands balled into tight fists. “I think you were broken by grief and made mistakes. And I may not have a child, but my quest to bring young Pi back to this realm showed me terrors no man should see. Included are your brother’s torments, masquerading as a man I respected, and a beast so grotesque her visage assaults me in my dreams.”
He stared off into the shadow of his room and imagined her there. The Spider Queen Bliss, her eyes like amethysts staring back at him, wanting to devour him.
“Torsten.” The Queen took his hand, pulled him toward her. When he drew his gaze away from the shadows and back toward her, he found her solemn again. Bliss was said to be a goddess, and at that moment Oleander seemed her equal.
Before he knew it, they were sitting so near one another, their legs touched. Her long, painted nails ran up his arm and along the bare flesh of his neck. All the tiny hairs on his body rose with it.
“My greatest mistake was losing faith in you. Sending you away,” she said softly, leaning in. Her perfume wafted around his nostrils, making it impossible to retreat.
“I’m here now,” he said, voice quavering.
“Of course you are, my loyal, handsome, knight. I never properly thanked you for stopping my brother.” Her other hand gripped the back of his neck. Her fingers were cold, but her breath was warm.
“You can start by finally executing the bastard.” His voice shook and his breath came in spirts. “The coronation is over now. I cannot bear another day knowing his shadow looms over us. Especially with war to come.”
“Tonight, then? I’ll let you hold the sword.” She drew herself closer, throwing one leg over his, her knee resting between his thighs. Her negligee stretched, falling off one of her slender shoulders as her body contorted. “I’ve heard Pantego has no finer swordsman. Surely, you could handle it.”
Torsten knew he should back away, but he’d never seen her so intimately. Her milky skin was supple, without blemish. Her eyes bore so many different shades of blue it made the summer sky seem dreary. There wasn’t a man in all the Glass and beyond who hadn’t dreamed of this. He wasn’t sure what Oleander was up to—she was always up to something—but he couldn’t stop. His heart beat so fast he felt like it would drive him to an early grave. Her lips fell upon his. They tasted as wonderful as her perfume smelled.
He didn’t lean into it. He couldn’t even move. But she did all the work. One of her long legs wound its way around him and squeezed until their chests pressed together.
He could deny her no longer.
He kissed her hard in return. His hand found its way to the small of her back, and as he prepared to lay her down and give into the silent, sinful cravings that had been building in him for so long, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone familiar pass by his chamber. Realizing the door was still open made his eyes go wide, but the man he thought he saw caused him to release the Queen.
“My Queen, stop,” he panted. He tried to remove her leg, but she only stretched the other around him, laid back on the bed, and tried to reel him in again. “Oleander, stop.”
Hearing her name gave her pause enough for Torsten to break free without having to lay his hands on her.
“What?” she said. “Liam can have all the fun in the world but his sweet, widowed queen can’t?”
“No… I… it’s him.”
Torsten sprinted to one of many racks filled with various arms. He grabbed his most trusted claymore, then swept out into the corridor.
“Redstar!” he bellowed.
He wasn’t sure he was right until halfway down the passage, the man stopped and turned. It was Redstar no doubt, free of chains. A luxurious robe now fell around his feet, the same color crimson as the birthmark covering his face. A mischievous grin split Redstar’s face. If he feared being caught, it didn’t show. By the looks of him, he’d even found time to have a bath.
“Torsten, my old friend!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping to stumble upon you first.”
“Show me your hands, now.”
Redstar raised them without protest, not even a spot of blood on his scarred palms.
Torsten rushed him, pressing his sword to his throat. “On your knees.” He advanced the blade, pulling it back before drawing blood, only just realizing how dangerous that could be. “If you try anything, I swear to Iam I will—”
“Torsten what is the meaning of this?” Oleander called from his room.
He glanced back just long enough to see her features darken as she realized the situation. Her negligee was still askew, her hair as wild as the land from whence she came.
“Redstar?” she whispered.
Redstar’s brow furrowed. “Oh, now this is interesting.”
“Quiet!” Torsten growled. He extended the sword further, until the tip put an indent in Redstar’s skin. “How did you escape?”
“Escape?” he cackled. “I was set free.”
“On whose word?”
“Mine.”
Torsten whipped around. Further down the hall, past the entrance to his room, stood Pi. Oleander straightened her clothing before turning to see him as well. His frame was cloaked in darkness. What was easy to see, however, was how serious he was—as stern as Liam Nothhelm on the eve of battle.
VIII
THE MYSTIC
Sora couldn’t remember her long trek from the Panping Region to Troborough. She was far too young all those years ago. However, she’d been told she was a part a large group of refugees, orphans, mostly, whose parents were slaughtered in the Third Panping War. Somehow, she’d never been angry with the Glass, not really. Maybe it was Wetzel’s influence and teaching, but she understood war. She realized the Glass wasn’t really the enemy any more than her own people. Besides, had it not been for Wetzel, a Glassman, she’d likely have died, starved and exposed to the elements.
Her childhood was pleasant, but in light of recent events, she started to see how she’d been treated differently from the rest of the children. She’d thought it was just because of weird, old Wetzel. But now she knew it was more. An inherent distrust of her kind by nearly everybody in the western Glass Kingdom, whether they realized it or not.
The only times she’d really felt normal was when she was with Whitney. He didn’t look at her like she was a great, big mistake. Whether they were splashing in the Shellnak, or nabbing little cakes from the baker—that was Whitney’s favorite. Sora’s favorite was sneaking into the Twilight Manor to listen to the traveling bards spin melodic yarns about far-away places, but that was hers alone. Whitney never believed her when she said she’d done it and she’d never showed him how, even though he practically begged her. To Whitney, she was just Sora, the girl from downstream with funny ears.
Music always had a way of making Sora feel comfortable when she was among all the older folk of Troborough. Some people had long walks in the fields, or riding horses, or thieving, but for Sora, it was the sweet tones of a lute expertly plucked. She didn’t play an instrument, but always wished she had.
Standing there in the entrance to the Winde Traders Guild Hall, Sora realized that all the best bards who came through Troborough—Fabian “Feel Good” Saravia, Dudley “Dreamboat” Blanco—they’d all been nothing compared to what Winde Port had to offer. As she listened to the notes, she felt like she really stood before the golden arches of Glinthaven, birthplace of the bardsong.
“Sora!” Whitney’s voice snapped her back to reality. “Let’s go see what fortune holds for us!”
Whitney tapped his foot, waiting for her, clutching his letters patent, the document the Glass Master of Rolls had drafted for him. They somehow proved him nobility, even though she knew his parents were simple farmers. The stupidity of the entire situation constantly astounded her.
She knew from Wetzel’s dusty, but limited library that
in the land of her ancestors, there weren’t any papers to prove a person was of worth. They proved it. From great mystics to great minds, any man or woman could rise… at least until the King of Glass took hold.
She sighed.
At least these papers might help get them to Panping faster. She tried not to show it around Whitney, but she’d never been so anxious to get anywhere in her life. Something had awakened in her when she defeated Redstar. Torsten thought it was Iam, she’d said it was the blood of Bliss, but somehow, she knew there was more to it. And she knew the answers had to be somewhere in Yaolin City, a land where mystics once freely drew on the powers of Elsewhere without blood sacrifice or condemnation.
For now, she needed to play the role of Mrs. Whitney Blisslayer. She certainly looked the part of nobility. They’d received quite a handsome sum from the goods in Grint’s wagon. Enough to buy her a sparkling gown with lace trim fit for the Queen of Glass herself. Long, fingerless silk gloves covered her up to her elbows, assuring no one would discover her dark secrets by spying the many scars crisscrossing her hands and forearms.
Had she been wearing the Glass Crown, she could have passed for royalty. She hated to admit to herself that Whitney could as well. High, leather boots met his green, silk tights at the knee. He wore an exquisite doublet marked with intricately embroidered filigree. The whole ensemble was inexplicably both dashing and ridiculous all at once, much like the man who wore it.
But that was nothing compared to the others eating and drinking within the guild. Ladies wore unnaturally-colored hair high in plumule fashion, layer upon layer. Their faces were masked by makeup worthy of a masquerade. And the men looked no better, wearing puffy white wigs and collars so thick and ruffled they looked like they were being strangled by fluffy kittens.
Whitney had told her on the way over that the longstanding merchant families of Winde Port put the nobles of Yarrington to shame with their pomp and circumstance. The real thing made her feel more out of place than ever before, regardless of what she wore.
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