“I did not join the Mystics,” said Loren. “I am—”
“Stop,” said Shiun. “You did not join the Mystics, but you accepted your assignment from the High King. That grants you privileges, but it also comes with responsibilities. I swear on the darkness below that I will pull my hair out if you seek reassurance from me one more time. That is not my duty. It is your duty to reassure us—or rather, to reassure Uzo, if he should need it. I require little for myself.”
Loren found herself on her feet, fists shaking by her sides. “How do you think I can promise him that all will be well? I have little faith in myself, much less our mission.”
Shiun, too, stood, matching Loren’s glare with one of equal fury. “Never say that again,” she hissed. “Not to any soldier who follows by your side—and, if you do want my advice, which you should not, then never say it to the children, either. If you believe in some Elf-tale where you are all friends on a grand adventure, I assure you that they do not. They see you as their leader, even if you do not act like one.”
Loren almost argued. She wanted to. But her mind flashed back to her dream. She saw Damaris standing before her. She felt the merchant’s embrace and the peace it had brought her. Reassurance. Safety. Comfort. Things she had not felt for so long, not since Jordel had died.
Shiun was studying her, and now the woman tilted her head with satisfaction. “Yes, Nightblade.” Her voice was no longer angry, but quiet—and mayhap even a little sad. “That is your place. I take no more pleasure in it than you do, I am sure. But that is the way of it all the same.”
Almost, Loren apologized. But then she thought better of it and nodded instead. “You … you are right.”
Because of course Shiun was right. Loren rarely stopped to consider her own actions. That was partly because there was little time. But, too, she did not always like what she saw. She had left the Birchwood with dreams of becoming a great thief, a woman who could bring fear to kings and succour to the oppressed. Yet sometimes she still acted like a young girl, one who longed for the kindness and love of a mother and father who had never shown her either.
“You are right,” she said again, slowly. “I will do better. And I thank you and Uzo for your patience with me. I could hardly have asked for better soldiers to serve in my first command—all of you but Niya, of course.”
Some of the tension seemed to flow out of Shiun, and she nodded slowly. “Now that is the sort of thing a commander might say. And as for Niya, I hope that sow has felt all the torments of the darkness below.”
Loren nodded, passing a hand over her eyes. “I … I should return to sleep. Do not stay up all night. Make sure you wake Uzo to replace you.”
Shiun resumed her seat. “I will. Sleep well, Nightblade.”
Loren returned to her room and lay down. But she could not find sleep. Shiun’s words echoed in her mind. She dreaded the thought of becoming a hard-bitten commander like Kal. But then, he did seem the sort of leader whom soldiers would follow into battle. Loren pictured herself in the role and wanted to laugh.
Annis still slept, her mouth open slightly. Loren studied her. Did the girl see Loren as a commander, the way Shiun said? It seemed ridiculous. Yet the children had followed her into dangers more deadly than most soldiers faced on a battlefield. But then again, they had done so while Loren acted like herself, and not the war commander Shiun seemed to want.
She sighed, pinching her chin. Her thoughts spun around each other and seemed determined not to sort themselves out. One more worry. One more crushing weight atop all the others, threatening to snap her in two.
She could not sleep, at least not yet. So she sat up in the bed and thought about what she would say the next day. Words came slowly, and she fumbled over them. Eventually she rose and began to pace. The motion helped her, and she began to form some semblance of a proper speech. She only hoped that the plan would go smoothly, and she would in fact be able to deliver it.
Moonslight peeked through a gap in the curtains. Loren went to the window and leaned against it, pulling the cloth aside to look out. The red roofs of Danfon were silver in the night, accented in red by torches set in the walls of the buildings.
Ever since she could remember, she had dreamed of becoming a thief of legend. Something from campfire stories. Tomorrow might be the most significant single step she had yet taken on that road. It frightened her, as she knew it should. But far more than that, it excited her, if she was being honest. She often cuffed or chastised Gem when he made too much of the stories that surrounded her. The tales were embellished, made to sound like extravagant adventures when in truth she had struggled just to survive. But now she meant to pit herself against a false king before the eyes of an entire city—indeed, an entire kingdom.
“What under the sky has my life become?” she whispered.
And who was the Nightblade? A thief in the night, gallivanting across Underrealm with her band of merry companions? Or an agent of the High King and a commander of Mystics?
She blinked, and her lids were slow to rise. Weariness had come at last. She lay down in the bed once more and drew the covers over herself. At last her head settled comfortably into her pillow, and sleep claimed her quickly.
THE MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT AND fair, the air as warm as one could expect in winter. Loren woke the moment Annis began to stir. When dressing, she almost reached for her normal clothes, the white shirt, green vest, and brown trousers she had worn ever since she left the Birchwood. But her hand paused on the garments. Today was not a day for simple clothes. Today she would don the new clothes Annis had bought for her.
Carefully she untied the string that held the brown cloth package together. New boots were wrapped around the rest of the clothes—not made by the tailor, but procured by him from a nearby cordwainer to go with the outfit. Loren did not think they were all that different from her old boots, though certainly they were less worn and had a few more buttons running up the calf.
The new trousers were a bit tighter than she was used to, but they still let her move about with ease. The shirt buttoned twice, inside and out, and had more buttons at the wrist. The sleeves hung somewhat loose, and they fluttered when she moved her arms. Over the shirt was a long waistcoat with many pockets on both the inside and outside. Loren thought it looked somewhat ridiculous, but the green velvet trim did catch the eye.
When she had finished dressing, she turned to find Annis staring at her. Loren had no idea how long the girl had been watching, but now she smiled with satisfaction.
“And the cloak,” she said. “Put that on.”
“Why?” said Loren. “It is warm in here.”
Annis rolled her eyes. “Oh, come now, Loren. Let me see it. I picked these clothes, after all.”
Loren sighed and went to the wall, fetching her cloak and putting it on. When she turned back to Annis, the girl squealed and clapped her hands.
“It is perfect. Every stitch of it. That merchant is worth twice what he charges. If we survive all of this, I shall have to send him a mighty gift of gold.”
Loren looked down at herself. “Annis, I think I look ridiculous.”
“Of course you think so,” said Annis, sniffing. “You have never had good taste when it comes to the finer things in life. Do not worry how you think you look, for I assure you that you are wrong. Are the clothes comfortable?”
She had not thought about it. Loren crouched, then gave a jump, then twisted all around. “Actually, yes. Very comfortable indeed. Is this silk?”
Annis rolled her eyes again. “Honestly,” she whispered, before speaking in a normal tone of voice. “No, it is not. Do not trouble yourself over the fabrics. We have more important things to worry about today.”
Once Annis had donned her own new garments, she and Loren stepped out into the common room. The moment they stepped into view, everyone in the room froze. Loren stopped as well, pausing on the threshold. Chet and the Mystics were looking at her, their eyes wide. Kerri was there, too, and she
had her head cocked, as if Loren were a stranger she did not recognize. Even Wyle paused in eating his breakfast, his eyes traveling up and down her new garments. Gem’s mouth hung open.
“Sky above,” breathed the boy. “You look like the Nightblade now, and no mistake.”
Loren ducked her gaze, fidgeting with one of the cuffs of her shirt. “I think you are an idiot,” she muttered. “Besides, I am not the only one in new clothing.”
Gem looked down at his own little suit. Somehow he had rumpled it already, but its fine cut was still eye-catching. “I like it,” he said simply. “But it is nowhere near as impressive as yours.”
Chet stepped up before her, smiling. But Loren could see the sadness and doubt in his gaze. For a moment she thought of her dream, but she forced that thought away.
“It suits you.”
“Thank you,” said Loren. “But we should be off.”
They all left the manor, making for the square where Wojin would deliver his speech. It was somewhat late in the morning, and the streets were busy. Wojin’s address was scheduled for midday. They had intended to give themselves some time to prepare, but Loren suddenly worried that the crowds might make them late.
She touched Kerri’s arm briefly, drawing the girl’s attention. “Is there a faster route?”
Kerri glanced at her. “I can take us down some side streets if you wish.”
“Please,” said Loren. “I would rather not be late.”
Kerri smiled, and her gaze darted down to Loren’s outfit. As they ducked off the main thoroughfare down an alley, she looked at Loren again. “Your outfit truly does look wonderful.”
Loren tried to suppress the burning in her cheeks. “Not you, too.”
The girl only chuckled, a light sound that played musically on the morning air. “Do not look so flustered. I told you when I met you that you were not quite what I expected, from the stories I had heard. But now you look much closer to the mark.”
Loren chose not to answer that, and instead only urged them on to greater speed. Soon they reached the place where Loren would climb down from the rooftops. There they left Kerri, who would guide them in their escape. Loren and the others pressed on, crossing the last few streets that took them to the square.
A large crowd had already gathered. Some were there to trade, and made their way among the merchant stalls that lined two sides of the square. But most had clearly come for Wojin’s speech, for they stood expectantly, looking up at the manor from which he would address them. Loren saw more than a few of them frowning and muttering to each other. She wondered if they were agents Wyle had placed in the crowd, or merely dissatisfied residents of the city. She hoped it was the latter.
“Up we go,” said Gem.
He bounded up the pile of timbers, which was unchanged from the day before. Loren followed quickly, as did Chet. Shiun and Uzo remained on the ground, there to support Loren if she should need it. If all went well, and Loren escaped on the rooftops, they would vanish into the crowd and rejoin the party at Yushan’s manor. Annis and Wyle had remained there, for they would be little help today.
Atop the roof, Gem bounced on the balls of his feet. When Loren and Chet reached the top, he turned to them with a grin. “I am glad to be here,” he said. “Today is the day the Nightblade turns from a campfire story into a true legend.”
“Be silent, Gem,” said Loren. “And get down.” She followed her own directions, lying on the rooftop so that she was nearly out of sight of the square below. For a moment she worried that she might be getting her knees and elbows dirty, but she quickly shook the thought away. Darkness take her if she would become someone who always worried about her appearance.
“I am worried,” said Chet. He frowned down at the crowd. “There are many guards down there. The moment they see you, they will try to find a way up. It will not take them long.”
“Then I will be quick,” said Loren. “By the time they reach the building, we will no longer be here.”
“Of course,” he said, forcing a quick smile. Loren returned it, hoping hers looked more genuine.
Suddenly the crowd below them quieted. It left the air feeling empty, yet also charged with power. Loren turned. Across the square, the balcony door opened. For a moment she was uncomfortably reminded of her dream, of the balcony where she always found Gregor.
But then figures stepped through the doorway, and she shook off the thought. First came four guards. They wore armor and carried swords, but Loren noted that they did not have bows.
Then Wojin stepped into view. His robes were red trimmed with yellow, the colors of Dorsea. Upon his head was a thin circlet of gold set with many rubies. He was thinner than she had thought he would be, and his chin came down in a severe point. The point was not lessened by his thin beard, which was combed into an even sharper angle. He wore no weapon as the High King often had, not even an ornamental one. Apparently his guards were enough of a show of force for him.
Just behind Wojin came a younger man. Loren guessed that he was Prince Shun, Wojin’s son. He wore robes like his father’s, but a little less ornate. His head was bowed, and he kept his eyes averted from the crowd, almost as if he was ashamed to be there. Loren wondered at that for a moment, but then all her attention was taken by the next figure stepping through the door.
Damaris of the family Yerrin emerged into the sunlight. Gone were the kindness and concern Loren had seen in her dream. Damaris strode with purpose, her head held high and haughty. She was imperious, commanding. Loren did not doubt that many in the crowd ignored Wojin to study her. Some had to wonder who she was, and what had earned her the right to stand at their king’s side.
A plan began to form in Loren’s mind. She watched the balcony door a moment longer, but Gregor did not appear there. She smiled to herself.
Wojin paid no attention to Damaris. He stepped to the balcony’s railing and raised his hands. The crowd, which had begun to buzz below them, quickly fell silent. Wojin looked solemnly down at them all, no trace of a smile touching his features as he gradually lowered his hands.
“My people,” Wojin proclaimed. His voice was powerful, Loren had to give him that. She thought she could almost feel it in the tiles beneath her hands. The words hung on the air for a moment, and the last mutterings of the crowd faded to silence. “My people,” he said again. “I give you my blessings, just as the sky has given us this beautiful day. But my heart is no less heavy. Day and night, I mourn the loss of my dear nephew. No parent should have to bury their child, and though Jun was not my son, I feel his loss no less keenly.”
Gem snickered aloud. Loren shot him a glance, and he shrugged. “Oh, come, Loren. The man is a pompous fool.”
“Silence,” she whispered.
Wojin leaned forwards, his hands gripping the balcony’s railing, and his brows drew together in a frown. “But with that sense of loss comes a sense of duty. My nephew’s death must not go unavenged. For the so-called High King Enalyn, there can be no forgiveness. No amends or reparations can return what we have lost. The debt can only be repaid with blood!”
He paused for a moment, as if he expected the crowd to roar in approval. They did not, and Loren thought she saw Wojin swallow.
“That is why I have joined Dulmun,” he went on. His voice rose, as though he was shouting to be heard, but no one else had made a sound. “Enalyn’s tyranny has had its day. For the last time, she has interfered with our sovereignty and that of the other kingdoms. No longer will we let her meddle in our affairs, keeping us from reclaiming our birthright. Dorsea should command all the southern lands that Selvan now calls their own. We did once, and we will again. Are any of us surprised that Enalyn would intervene on behalf of the kingdom she once hailed from? Underrealm is a strong nation of proud laws—but Enalyn has corrupted those laws. She calls us rebels, as she calls the kingdom of Dulmun. But I say that we ‘rebels’ uphold the true ideals of Underrealm!”
The time had come. Loren could feel it. She leaped to h
er feet and threw back her hood.
“And do those ideals include kinslaying?”
The air fell deadly quiet. Wojin gaped at her, stunned to inaction. Every head in the square turned to look. But Loren kept her gaze on Damaris. The merchant was as surprised as Wojin—but where the king stood staring at her in wonder, Damaris wore a look of open hatred. If her eyes had been longbows, Loren would have been pierced a dozen times in the space of a heartbeat.
Loren smiled briefly at Damaris, hoping the merchant could see it from such a great distance. But then she dropped her gaze to the crowd below. For a moment, she froze. They were all staring at her, many of them as dumbfounded as their king, but all of them clearly expecting her to say something. Panic struck, and her mouth worked without producing any sound.
Say something, she shouted in her own mind.
“Wojin is a usurper,” she cried. They were not the first words she had planned the night before, but they seemed to do the trick. She could see a ripple move through the crowd. It was as though her words were traveling through the people like a wave. Some of them cast dark looks at Wojin where he stood on the balcony.
“A usurper, a murderer, and a would-be kinslayer,” said Loren. Now that she had managed to speak, the words began to come more easily, and she remembered her speech. “Yes, I say would-be, for Wojin was not even powerful enough to bring his plans to fruition. He may have overthrown King Jun by force, and he sits in the palace now. But he is no king. King Jun is alive, and he will soon return!”
The crowd gasped. Some of them began to mill about. Glancing around, Loren could see some figures fighting to push their way through the press—guards of Wojin’s, no doubt, trying to reach the base of the building upon which Loren stood. For a moment she had almost forgotten that she would need to escape.
Yerrin: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 6) Page 16