The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  Enya lifted her gently smiling lips to murmur in his ear. Though I closely watched and strained my hearing to its highest level, I caught only ‘boy’, ‘Blaez’, and ‘princess’.

  “Thank you, mother.”

  Finian beamed, his cheeks rosy with triumph and red wine. His rough fingers caressed her knuckles as Enya lifted her lovely face to offer me a ghostly wink and a quick nod. Dread wormed its way down my spine and a voracious rodent gnawed my guts. When Finian smiled at me, trouble followed on fleet feet.

  “Gods be praised, she rode out without an escort and they caught her,” Finian continued, nodding, still grinning like a dark, leering monkey. “My spies, those loyal and dedicated men, seized her venomous person. They’re on their way here, right now, boy. Praise the gods, we captured the Bryn’Cairdha prophetess and princess.”

  My jaw sagged a fraction. “Prophetess?”

  Finian smiled wide and rubbed both hands together in unashamed delight. He rose from his chair to pace behind my mother’s and stroked his blunt fingers down her smooth, pale cheek. She leaned into them, smiling, Fainche’s dimples curving into deep hollows to either side of her full, rosy lips. Why she loved him, why she could love him, fell far beyond my ken. She loves you, too, a small voice inside of me mentioned with casual indifference. Perhaps there was no accounting for taste.

  “Indeed, boy, indeed. She knows the child’s been born and where it lies.”

  Child? Prophecy? What the hell was he –

  Somewhere inside my head, a memory flashed. My father speaking of the sacred prophecy, eons old, of the fabled child who would eradicate magic from the lands forever. That in its birth, the two lands of Raithin Mawr and Bryn’Cairdha would find peace and plenty as one land. Countries conjoined, one people, one destiny, as they’d been in the beginning.

  The people and rulers of Raithin Mawr prayed for that time to come, fearing the evil shape-shifters, the bizarre creatures, and the hold magic had upon their neighbors to their south. They were cursed, the folk of Bryn’Cairdha. Men who could take on any shape they desired were nothing less than demons. They surely worshipped the cursed ones, for how else could the melding of man and horse, eagle and lion, bull and man occur? Strange spirits kept them company, weird lights with wings flying hither and yon, dropping deadly secrets into their ears. What evil was this?

  They were cursed, the folk of Bryn’Cairdha. All of them, as a country, were nothing less than malevolent and the abhorrence of those upright and strong under the gods’ light. Kill them, spoke the Raithin Mawrn mantra. Kill them, scourge their evil and take their lands. I grew up under the priests screaming invectives against the Bryn’Cairdha people, largely ignored them as the rantings of lunatics, and seriously considered crossing the border in search of sanctuary.

  Bryn’Cairdha and Raithin Mawr had never been neighborly, despite the close quarters. Minor wars broke out over the centuries, here and there, never serious. They minded their business, we minded ours – with the exception of the fanatics. They sent in their suicide-crazies to plant bombs and blow up, not just themselves, but whomever they managed to take hostage. Crazier than a fox in a trap, they thought to single-handedly wipe out magic every time they killed themselves. Bezerkers. I never suspected my own father counted as one of them.

  “She’s our key,” he went on, pacing, excited. Back and forth on the priceless carpet he strode, waving his hands, as Enya eyed him sidelong. She caught me watching her and dipped her face, a we-know-better, milk-mild mien crossing her expression before vanishing an instant later.

  “This is our chance to take from them what is ours.”

  “And what is ours?” I asked, polite.

  “What? Our rights, of course. With the child in our hands, we’ll scourge that black land to our south, kill the demon King and his family, and take what was once ours.”

  I caught a sympathetic blue glance from my mother as her slender fingers hid a smile. Humor him, those blue depths suggested. Her prior attitude shifted into the realm of do-as-he-says despite the non-verbal alliance of moments ago. I frowned slightly before Finian’s bulk passed between us.

  “Uh.” I coughed diffidently. “When was Bryn’Cairdha once ours? Sire.”

  Finian waved a restless hand, still pacing before the fire, stomping the fleas from the carpet. “Centuries ago, boy, centuries ago. But we will prevail, I swear it. Bryn’Cairdha will merge with Raithin Mawr and her two people shall become one. Without their evil magic or their loosed demons.”

  I bit my tongue as he swung hard toward me, raising his hand. Though I stood too far away for him to strike me, I flinched anyway, out of instinct. My hand crept toward my sword and dropped away without touching the hilt.

  He didn’t notice my protective stance. “Escort her here, boy,” he said, his tone commanding, yet eager. “You’re royal, a prince, my only son. She deserves the highest honor, my son and heir extending his hand in friendship. She’ll give us the child, of course.”

  “Uh, give, sire?”

  He waved his hand, impatient. “She’ll see the truth, boy, count on it. She’ll find the errors in her ways and find the right path.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  Finian folded his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. Enya watched him for a long moment, then, with the fire behind her, watched me. Within her deep eyes I read nothing at all. I waited, patient, knowing he liked the sound of his own voice too much to not continue.

  “She will give us the child,” Finian said at last, his tone low and thoughtful.

  This was getting too weird. Between her eyes and his calm, I suspected I was out of my element and swimming the wrong way. I didn’t want to hear more. I took his tone as my dismissal. I dropped to my knee in quick obeisance and backed the required three steps, head bowed, before turning. Inside my mind, I planned a rapid and evasive route among the dead knights and stuffed horses, hoping to disappear as quickly as a rat down its hole. I didn’t much like the comparison, but it certainly suited the situation.

  “You’ll leave at dawn.”

  I halted in my tracks, my right foot raised to take that crucial fourth step in escape. I spun about, my throat tight as I gulped. I hoped he hadn’t heard the dry click. I bowed low. “Your will, sire.”

  His next words froze me before I might straighten the thing I called a spine. “You’ll marry her, boy, in due time.”

  I my head rose involuntarily as my gut stiffened. My fists clenched, though I forced them to open and hang at my sides before he noticed and beat me for defiance.

  “Sire?”

  Finian waved his hand again, expansive, permissive. “Princess Iyumi. You’ll have her to wife. The marriage will ease the transition and unite our two nations as one.”

  “Um,” I began, my mouth dry as cotton and twice as sticking. “I’m already married.”

  Finian’s brows lowered and he ceased his happy pacing. His dreadful eyes settled on me and his right hand clenched into the familiar fist I dreaded. “You married Sofia against my will and better judgment. I allowed it as the match made your mother happy. But I will annul it, posthaste, and you’ll set her aside. Do I make myself clear?”

  I gaped, unable to speak. “Father, please –”

  The King stepped closer to me, looming, hiding my mother behind his bulk. “Set her aside,” he said, his tone low, for my ears alone. “Or I’ll execute her. Is that what you want, boy? Shall I kill her so you’ll be free to marry Iyumi?”

  “No, sire.”

  I dropped to my knee, lowering my head for the blow, my hands clasped behind my back. “Please don’t.”

  “Then find your excuse to set her aside. I don’t care what it is.”

  Still on my knee, I bowed low. “Immediately, sire.”

  “Go on then. See Commander Blaez at dawn. You have your orders.”

  I did indeed. I danced to them, marched to them, obeyed them when my blood sang a sad song of unrequited freedom. I dared raise my eyes fr
om the carpet when his fist failed to knock me flat onto it. Finian returned to his heavy, scarlet-cushioned chair, smiling at my mother as he took her hand, kissing it, gazing deeply into her cornflower blue eyes. Just as though he hadn’t threatened to murder my wife under the laws he created. He’d kill me just as quickly should I fail him.

  You can escape him, that inner voice muttered. You can be free of him and go where you will.

  Right. Sure.

  Bowing low, walking backward the expected steps, I retreated from my parents’ private chambers. Walking faster than I had on arrival, I dodged the suits and mounts without raising my eyes from the blue slate floor. Like magic, the huge oak and teak opened wide as though the wardens knew the instant I came close, although they stood on the far side.

  I crossed the threshold, sweating, my tunic sticking to my back, my shoulders. I didn’t turn around, yet heard the solemn creak of centuries-old hinges. The door-wards shut the great teak and silver doors with the same hollow boom and rattle of chains as I stumbled into the corridor, all but blind. I straightened at last, shaking, unmindful of their pitiless stares. I dragged deeply of the cool, moist castle air, my lungs relishing the change of atmosphere. My sigh of relief caught on a sob, snagged my throat. I walked away, feeling as though I’d just escaped the executioner’s axe.

  Sofia.

  Under the torchlight and the guards’ blank-eyed enmity, I ducked into the shadows. Where I belonged. Anonymous. A well-bred nobody. I grinned bitterly, with no humor. I do what I do to survive, I told myself. I’ll tell Sofia to go home. Find another man, one better than I, and bear his children. After she scratches out my eyes, she’ll do as I bade her. In due time, I’ll marry Iyumi, as commanded.

  Protect Sofia, gods of old, I thought, praying without conviction. For I love her.

  CHAPTER 3

  A Broken Code

  “Are you ready?”

  I nodded, trying to forget how his voice echoed in my dreams with that very question. I straightened my uniform, and eyed Malik sidelong as he held my sword out for me to accept. His unfathomable, deep-set dark eyes studied me as I hesitated, wiping my damp palms on my tunic.

  “It’s yours,” he rumbled softly. “Cleaned and oiled once a week, sharpened monthly. Go on.”

  I took it heavy weight onto my palms, and curled my fingers about its plain leather sheath. “Malik –”

  “Can it, plebe,” he snapped, wheeling away from the gratitude he saw in my eyes, heard in my voice. His hooves resonated off the slate tile flooring as his broad hands crossed his immense chest. His shaggy black hair, held from his face by his rayed star headband, cascaded down his bare shoulders. “Put that bloody thing on, and be ready,” he said to the twin doors that led into his command center.

  I obeyed him, sliding my sword’s sheath onto my belt and rebuckling it about my hips. Its heavy weight, both familiar and comforting, granted me much needed courage. Are you ready? I bloody hoped so, for all our sakes.

  Clean, shaven, and sober for the first time in months, I stood at his right shoulder, taking up my former position as his second-in-command. Three hours in Malik’s private chambers and attended by his mute Centaur servant, Innes, gave me the appearance of the man, the soldier, I once was. Inwardly, however, I quaked. Three hours of sobriety left me nauseous, shaky and craving drink as I never had before.

  “I dare not give you more time to recover,” Malik said as his magic dumped me in a hot bath upon our arrival. “Every minute wasted was another hour on the chase. Sober up but fast.”

  As I soaked in hot water and suds to my chin, Malik’s hand on my brow purged much of the ale and wine from my blood. As though I’d gone a week without a drink, not a few hours. I was now clean from my alcohol consumption and my years as a bar-fly. The horrid queasiness and my shaking hands informed me that was not – quite – enough.

  Cleaned, sober, wearing my Atani uniform with its insignia of rank on my shoulders, I felt the creeping weakness of the unhealthy lifestyle I’d been living. Sweat dewed my brow and my tunic beneath its leather harness crossing my chest grew damp. My usually tight-fitting black breeches hung on me, for I’d lost much weight and muscle tone over the last two years. My knee high black boots still fit and my spurs jingled when I walked, but my fitness to ride my horse was at best laughable and at worst dangerous.

  “You’re an Atan,” Malik murmured, raising his head as Innes strode sedately into view, ready to open the doors at Malik’s signal. “The King’s chosen.”

  I nodded sharply, and sucked in my breath. I stiffened my spine. “My Lord Captain Commander.”

  Yes, I am an Atan. I am First Captain Vanyar, and Malik’s right hand. Outside Malik’s authority, I answered only to the King himself. I’ve fought the enemy, shed my blood, witnessed enough death and horror to last a lifetime. I earned my place at Malik’s right hand, and I’d kill to maintain it.

  I breathed in a slow shuddering breath to quell my belly, staring straight ahead at the gilded double oak doors, waiting for them to open upon my destiny. Waiting, patient, I pondered the chambers I stood in, and knew so well. I knew this place upside down and backwards. How many days did Malik and I spend in here, receiving reports, conferring with patrol leaders and ferreting out Raithin Mawrn terrorists? How many nights did we share company: drinking ale or wine, talking shop, sharing gossip and secrets? How many times did we seriously discuss those ever mysterious and elusive creatures known as – girls?

  We spent endless nights brooding or chuckling into our mugs: brothers, companions – the best of friends.

  Beyond the massive double doors of heavy teak and inlaid with silver and gold waited his Atani sub-commanders in the huge conference room slash conference center adjacent to his private suite. Called by Malik to organize the hunt for our missing Princess, they waited with reports, intel, idle gossip, speculations and questions that held no answer.

  Ready or not, sober or not, the moment arrived. By standing with him, I silently accepted his mission: retrieve our royal Princess whatever the cost. I’ll finish this task or die trying. I will, I must, conquer the effects of the last two years of indulgence. Or slink back to the gutter and slit my throat, forever shamed. This one chance at redemption knocked only once before ambling on down the road.

  Innes stood by, patiently awaiting Malik’s request to open them. Innes, his silent, aging and only Centaur servant, kept his private chambers neat and organized. I’d known him for years, yet never inquired as to his history, or conferred with him directly. Rumor had it that Innes was a not-so distant relation whose tongue had been cut out by Raithin Mawrn mercenaries. True or not, Innes never spoke. Nor did he ever smile.

  Malik glanced down at me, his dark expression soft, and, oddly, mildly affectionate. He toyed with the solid ruby signet on his left forefinger, a sure sign Malik fretted. The many hard angles and planes of his face didn’t smile easily, yet he found a small one somewhere. “For what it’s worth,” he said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “I wish I could answer I’m glad to be back,” I said, my tone low. Lifting my face, I met his eyes squarely. “Bringing me here might be a costly mistake, Malik.”

  He tilted his face slightly, considering. “I think not,” he replied slowly. “What do you fear, Atan?”

  I stiffened. “I fear to fail in my duty, my Lord Captain Commander.”

  “You fear – what?”

  “I fear to die without honor, my Lord Captain Commander.”

  “And?”

  “I fear to live without honor, my Lord Captain Commander.”

  “You need a haircut, First Captain Vanyar,” Malik said, his heavy lips lifting slightly. “But, as ever, your King and I both need you. Come. It’s time.”

  Waiting for his signal with the patience of a saint, Innes placed his hands on the gold handles. His dark, hooded eyes never left his master. Innes’ strong capable hands readied, awaiting his lord’s command to open the heavy doors. As Malik’s personal servant, he’
d not cross the boundary into the vast conference room. He left the military life behind him, in another age.

  Malik dropped his chin, once, in a nod.

  Innes swung wide the doors. Side by side, we strode forward in marching step, into the vast vaulted and buttressed conference chamber. With my head high, and my hand gripping my hilt, I gazed strictly forward, my eyes carefully blank, seeing yet not. My spine ramrod straight, none who watched us enter might find fault in my precise military bearing. I was an Atan. I was, I am, First Captain Vanyar of the Weksan’Atan and the Lord Captain Commander’s second.

  Like a spirit, Innes bowed us through the solid oak before silently shutting their expanse behind us. With a hollow boom, the comforts of a simple life closed hard behind me. For me, I could no longer turn back. Why did my throat suddenly dry up? Damn, but I needed a drink.

  In the Old Tongue, Atan meant ‘loyal’. Only the best of the best were invited to join the King’s royal Weksan’Atan, his private army. Those humans, Clan, Centaurs, Minotaurs, and Griffins competed every year to be among those tested. Only those individuals, the rare few with the deadly skills, the high intelligence and the proven loyalty were accepted into His Majesty’s Weksan’Atan.

  The King’s Royal Secret Police.

  The royal army protected the realm, the royal navy her shores. Liveried guards shielded the city and the palace at the same time the City Watch protected the city from thieves, miscreants, common murderers, rapists, and dishonest innkeepers. Highwaymen, as they were named, roamed the nation’s road system and protected the vulnerable travelers, merchants, pilgrims, peasant class and the occasional foreigner. Local aristocrats governed their own territories with their soldiers and knights, maintaining the King’s peace on their estates in his name.

  However, the Weksan’Atan protected His Majesty, his family and sniffed out the machinations of our enemy to the north, the Raithin Mawrn. Some likened us to the realm’s Home Defense Ministry. We did indeed defend our King and our home with our blood and our lives. We acted as the King’s sword, his justice, and his mercy. Although we often neglected that last portion, we fiercely considered ourselves his devoted right hand. As obligated to one another as we were toward our liege lord and King, our blood oaths included protecting and serving our own. No other military arm claimed that privilege. Our savage loyalty to each other bordered on the fanatic.