by Frost Kay
“A woman?” Tehl repeated, stunned. His face soured, disgust evident as he stared at Marq, his arms crossed. It was rather akin to the look his son had given when he was little and had wanted pudding but received spinach instead.
“I don’t need a wife. I have a higher chance of being struck by lightning than being married.” Tehl appeared thoughtful. “If I took a mistress, would that appease you?”
Marq scowled at his eldest son. “No! That would be disgraceful.”
Tehl’s lips twitched.
Realization dawned: his son was teasing him. His scowl deepened. It seemed sons were more trouble than they were worth. Why couldn’t Ivy have given him daughters? He crossed his arms and his scowl morphed into a smirk. “You may joke now, but just you wait. At your age, I had rather the same attitude, but I received a large slice of humble pie.” Tehl looked at him as he continued: “Your mother.”
Tehl paled and backed away as if he had some disease. “I have to go. Take care of yourself, father. The next time we meet I will have good news about the rebellion.” With that his son turned on his heel and left the chamber.
That boy was headstrong, yet Marq knew he would make an exceptional king. He knew it. He slumped against the stone wall. It seemed their conversation had taken a lot of out him. He hadn’t experienced that many emotions in a long time. And yet…maybe things were looking up for him. As soon as he had thought it, he winced. Hope was a dangerous thing.
Two
TEHL
The king was living in the past. It seemed like he wanted to lose himself in his memories and never come back. Tehl tucked his father’s dagger into a sheath at his waist, moving down the corridor.
Where does he keep getting these weapons?
He needed to increase the security on the armory. You would think someone who wasn’t lucid more than half the time would lose some of their cunning, but not his father. One thing he could say, it seemed King Marq did not dull with age.
Tehl scanned the chilly hallway that led to the part of the castle his father inhabited. He shuddered, it unnerved him. Between the dim lantern light, the chill from the drab, gray stone, and the puddles of darkness, it felt like something out of one of the horror stories Sam would read to him. Goosebumps broke out on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He hated it up here.
Light winked at him from the bottom of the stairway, and Tehl picked up his speed, ready to leave the gloom behind him. He stepped into the bright hallway, glad to have left behind the dreary turrets. How could his father stand it? He resided in the darkest, ugliest part of the castle, and Tehl couldn’t see why.
Tehl loved their castle. It was a true feat of architecture, having been built from the stone bluff on which it rested. White marble columns stretched toward the high, arched ceiling where shimmering gold stars twinkled in the sunlight as it streamed through the windows. It danced over the stained glass, casting murals of colored images onto the smooth white walls. The kaleidoscope of colors helped to soothe his frayed nerves after the depressing conversation he’d had with his father.
He reluctantly turned from the peaceful scenes as he caught sight of a familiar head of curly, golden hair.
“Samuel,” Tehl shouted. “Are the Elite ready for our stroll through the Sanee?”
Sam glanced over his shoulder with an innocent smile that made Tehl pause. There was nothing innocent about Sam. That look boded mischief. He eyed his brother, wondering what he was up to.
His brother turned with militant perfection and executed a courtly bow. “Why yes, my lord. Everything is almost in place, my worshipfulness.”
A deep sigh slipped out of him. “Dear God, Sam, cut it out. I can’t take any of your teasing this early in the morning.” He needed a drink of something strong to cope with Sam at the moment.
His brother’s face morphed into a blinding smile of white teeth, which only irritated him further. It was too early to have that much energy.
“Well, I knew you were off tracking down Father Dearest earlier, so I figured you would need something to brighten your day. It seems I was not far off. I’m sure I saw a dark cloud hovering over you as you approached. Quit being so serious and angry. We have to be on our best behavior enough as it is. Smile, live a little.”
Tehl frowned. “I smile,” he argued. Perhaps not as often as Sam, but he wasn’t droll all the time. It wasn’t in his nature to be as carefree as Sam.
Or rather, he mused, as carefree as Sam pretends to be.
“You do enough of that for the both of us,” Tehl retorted. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“Not if I don’t have to, that’s something you do for the both of us, brother,” Sam joked, slapping him on the back.
In spite of himself, one side of Tehl’s mouth tipped up. As the second son, his brother had always been granted so much more freedom. While Sam ran through the palace, wailing like a banshee, playing pirates or dragons, Tehl had to sit quietly, listening to his father and his advisers. After a time, though, Sam ended up sneaking in, choosing to sit with him through all the long boring talks. It bonded them. Samuel didn’t need to sit there, and yet he did, so Tehl wouldn’t be miserable. Tehl couldn’t even imagine not having his brother around.
Besides their behavioral differences, they were also like the sun and the moon in appearance. Their only shared feature was their eyes. They had the same deep sapphire eyes, so dark they made the midnight sky green with envy. The striking eyes were framed with such thick dark lashes that his mum had always been envious.
But that was where their similarities ended, for Sam was light to his dark. Sam’s curly blond hair, sunny disposition, and boyish smile had an endless stream of women falling at his feet throughout the years, while he’d had a much harder time of it, even with his exotic looks. Despite what some people said, it seemed personality made quite the difference.
Tehl flicked his eyes upward to his own unruly black waves. He had his mum’s hair, so dark it almost seemed highlighted with blue. His strong jawline, high cheekbones, and dimples all came from his father though. Tehl smiled as he remembered his mother telling him they were his father’s secret weapon. Dimples—who would have thought women loved them so much? A secret weapon, yes, but one would have to smile for you to see them. His smile dimmed. After conversing with him, women would run for the hills. So he chose not to say anything. You can’t embarrass yourself if you don’t speak. He didn’t feel comfortable talking to strangers anyway. Tehl was the ‘serious’ one to Sam’s ‘fun-loving’ personality. He didn’t have time to chase women; his duty demanded too much attention.
Tehl eyed his brother, contemplating the difference between the man he knew Sam to be and the persona he encouraged. While Sam held the title of Elite Commander, it was Gavriel, their cousin, who fulfilled the duties, although this was not due to any negligence on Sam’s part. Rather, it served a purpose for his brother’s true talents: information acquisition and manipulation. A more befitting title might have been spymaster, he was possibly the most qualified man to have ever played that role. He had a million different faces for the myriads of circumstances in which he found himself. He was a master of disguise.
However, Tehl thought, Sam doesn’t have the weight of starving, angry people on his shoulders, nor the threat of revolt, war, and invasion looming over him.
Just contemplating it was enough to give him a throbbing headache and send his heart pounding. Because his people were unaware of the true extent of his father’s deterioration, it was impossible for them to understand how Tehl was floundering in a vain attempt to remedy everything unaided.
The sound of Sam’s voice penetrated his reverie. “Sorry?” he said, blinking to clear his thoughts.
“You still in there?” Sam teased, knocking the side of Tehl’s head. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? Perhaps you were dreaming of that sweet little thing vying for your attention last night? She was gorgeous and curvy in all the right places!” Sam wa
ved his hands in the shape of an hourglass and waggled his eyebrows.
Tehl cringed at the memory. The harpy had thrown herself at him, despite his obvious lack of interest, finding a miraculous number of opportunities to do so again and again throughout the evening. Vain was an understatement.
“For hell’s sake Sam, get your mind out of the gutter. She was pretty until she opened her mouth.” Tehl shuddered. “When she smiled at me, it was like looking at a leviathan. She seems needy and manipulative, and I have no desire for her to sink her claws into me. Also,” he continued, wrinkling his nose, “she had so much rose oil on her I could barely breathe. I haven’t survived elite training, battles, and assassination attempts only to die by stupid rose perfume. I don’t care if she is Jaren’s daughter, I won’t spend another evening with her.”
Sam tilted his head, thinking. “It would be rather poetic, wouldn’t it? To die by a rose? Just imagine the tragic retelling: oh, poor Crown Prince Tehl Ramses perished, not by the sword, but because he suffocated by a set of rose-oil-saturated breasts!” Unable to keep a straight face, Sam let out a snigger.
“Not on your life,” he muttered darkly. “I’m grabbing my cloak and then I will meet you on the city streets.”
Sam’s face sobered for a moment. “Be careful. I still don’t know what it is we’re dealing with. I know it is to be an exchange, but I’m unsure how many parties will be involved. Keep your eyes and ears open—though I will stay near you most of the time.” His brother paused, his eyes glittering in challenge. “Let’s see if you can locate me among the crowd this time.” Sam then swaggered off toward the armory.
Tehl once again continued down the corridors of the castle, noting again how much things had changed since his mother died. It seemed all the vibrancy and warmth left with her and now, despite the impressive architecture, the place felt empty and hollow. The flowers had all but disappeared and the cheerful tapestries replaced with dull, muted ones.
He planned to change that though. And it wasn’t the castle alone which required restoration. The kingdom did as well. It had been three years since the last festival. This year would be different. Aermia needed something to look forward to, and he would give it to them.
As he pondered these hopeful changes, he couldn’t help the frustration which also came. Whenever he thought of the changes his mum’s death had wrought, anger seemed to bubble up at the injustice of what he had been dealt. Not only had he lost his mother, but in the aftermath, he’d lost his father and his youth. And if that wasn’t enough, now he had a rebellion on his hands.
He ground his teeth, exasperated with the shortsightedness of those responsible for its incitement. They were ignorant of the havoc and grief their rebellion brought on Aermia and her inhabitants. Shaking his head, he attempted to clear his thoughts. Maybe today would be the day he received answers. Tehl clasped his woolen cloak, slipped on his hood, and departed the palace, completely unnoticed.
Three
Sage
Setting aside her tools, Sage stretched her cramped fingers. She loved creating new pieces, but setting a couple hundred black seed pearls was not her idea of fun. She stood as she placed her hands on her hips and arched her back, sighing with satisfaction. Being hunched over for so long had made her feel like she’d never be able to stand straight again. She limped over to the window and attempted to rub the feeling back into her stiff legs. Sage poked her head out to gauge the time and noted that the sun was high in the sky. She needed to hurry up.
Sage set about gathering up her tools from where she’d left them. The sweltering heat from the forge made her hair stick to her damp neck as she meticulously placed her tools in their proper place. She valued the heavy fall of coffee-colored hair plaited down her back, but days like today made her want to hack it all off. She swiped at the sweat on her brow with the back of her hand and appraised the broad sword she’d painstakingly created.
The sword was beautiful; too extravagant for her own taste but a creation to be proud of.
Sage lifted the sword and placed two fingers under the hilt, testing the balance. She knew the balance was perfect, but she still checked it every time out of habit. It sat still and straight atop her fingers, neither end outweighing the other. The light caught its finely sharpened double edge, gleaming wickedly. She drew her thumb gently across the blade’s length and watched with satisfaction as the line of blood appeared there.
Perfect, utterly perfect, she thought, and made by a woman to boot.
Sage sighed, content, knowing if she and her family were frugal, the coin this brought would keep them fed for a good, long while. They’d need it too. Fine swords were not in high demand anymore. Ever since the Sickness had swept through the land, many swords-smiths moved on, seeking greener pastures in which to ply their trade. She was thankful Colm Blackwell, her papa, had made a name for himself prior to the devastation. They still received commissions from all regions of Aermia due to his renown, albeit less frequently. Their faithful customers and their referrals had kept them afloat. Without them, she’d no clue what they’d have done, and although Sage wished she could forge fine art more often, few requests such as this came.
Holding it before her, she again examined the blade, and a triumphant grin spread across her face, as she let herself admire this deadly weapon she herself had forged. It was truly a work of art. A black dragon adorned the pommel, its sapphire eyes glittering up at her. The dragon’s tail circled up the hilt, and the dragon appeared to be perched there observing the world. The black seed pearls used for scales added luster to the fearsome beast’s hide. She’d outdone herself, and it would fetch a hefty price from whatever nobleman commissioned it.
As a young girl, Sage had always been fascinated with swords and the forge. It was incredible to her that her papa started with a boring lump of metal and could create something useful, beautiful, or deadly. While her brothers, Seb and Zeke, chased each other with sticks she grew up always by her papa’s side. Her mum always tried to get her interested in things more appropriate for a girl of her age, yet Sage always conveniently lost her dolls and sewing needles, instead ending up back in the forge. Her papa took to calling her ‘his little shadow’. This began her long journey in learning how to forge weapons.
As she grew, he was always willing to pause and teach her things here and there. One day, he handed her a wooden sword, and she remembered looking at it unimpressed. Chuckling at the look she gave him, he patted her head and told her a secret that day. One couldn’t know how to craft a fine sword if they didn’t know how to use one, and use it well. He’d then tapped the wooden sword and said this was where she had to start.
At the tender age of five, he’d trained her in sword wielding, and Sage loved every moment. Even when her arms quivered and her body screamed, she was powerful. As she grew, so did the swords her papa made for her. When she came of age, he’d allowed her to fulfill the duties of an apprentice, despite her mum’s chagrin. Her mum was disappointed she didn’t have lady-like aspirations yet her mum accepted it and loved her no less.
Over the next five years, she’d worked hard in her father’s forge, perfecting her skills. No one ever suspected it was Sage who made their swords, and not the famed Colm. Men were fickle that way. They ate up her work, but if word ever spread that a woman had made them, her swords would be considered unsuitable for a warrior. It was rubbish. She loved designing new pieces. Being the secret designer didn’t bother her if it meant she could keep doing what she loved.
Their business had continued to flourish until the queen died. While their king mourned the loss of his beloved, the kingdom slowly deteriorated in his absence. Bandits attacked the outskirts of Aermia, burning crops, and pillaging villages. Business slowed for their finer work, so they adapted and changed the focus of their wares to tools and farming equipment. Though it lacked the complexity and challenge she craved, Sage knew it put food in their bellies, something few people had.
When her papa became ill,
it was by far the worst thing they’d faced. The Sickness started slowly, but eventually he began to waste away. It attacked his lungs, weakening him and stealing away his energy. Her heart broke to see him so ravaged. Their roles reversed after that. Sage ran the smith while he, instead, sat watching her. He and her mum took care of the customers, while she continued to work in the back. She was exhausted at the end of the day, but still thankful that her labor prevented them from sleeping with hollow stomachs and kept a roof above their heads.
It was these circumstances that culminated in a decision which altered her life over the past year. With just one meeting, her entire life changed.
The day was like any other. She’d hiked to her favorite spot, a hidden meadow, and there she practiced her swordplay, as like every other morning. In the middle of an intricate set of steps the forest stilled. Halting, she listened, not one sound could be heard, even the trees were silent, unnaturally so. Sage scanned the forest spinning in a circle. She kept her sword angled in front of her, ready to defend herself. The hair on the back of her neck prickled; she was being watched.
Just come and get me.
“I know you’re there. Show yourself,” she commanded.
A figure emerged from the forest, approaching at an almost leisurely pace, gliding silently in her direction. He was tall, with a warrior’s build, his dark cloak flowing behind him. His arms were loose at his sides, completely at ease, yet she didn’t doubt for a second he was dangerous. She’d bet her family’s smithy on it. No one glided without extensive combat training.