Prince of Bryanae (Bryanae Series)

by Jeffrey Getzin

  She glanced at the envelope. On the front, it said in lavish script:

  Captain Willow and Guest

  She held the envelope at arm’s length as though it were a venomous insect, or perhaps merely a smelly one. Now what?

  Only one way to find out.

  She selected a knife from her weapons rack, slid it from its oily sheath. The knife whispered through the envelope, freeing its contents for inspection. She withdrew the two pieces of parchment within. Beneath the Royal Crest, each sheet read:

  Her Majesty, Tiranda, Queen of Bryanae,

  cordially invites you to

  a gala Masquerade Ball

  to celebrate the betrothal of

  His Royal Highness, Vazerian, Prince of Bryanae

  to Her Royal Highness, Sherrilou, Princess of Kyrn,

  said ball to be held

  at Corvus Castle on the last day of Spring,

  commencing at sunset.

  The invitation must have been dispatched before the barbarian onslaught, but only arrived this morning. Bryanae’s speedy pages at work once again.

  Willow stared at the note for an interminable period. Her belly began to shake, and she began to laugh. Then her face contorted and she began to sob. The naked elven woman stood alone in the middle of her vestibule holding a pair of royal invitations, alternately laughing and crying like a madwoman.

  A royal masquerade, Willow thought, tears streaming down her face. I haven’t a thing to wear.

  Chapter 15

  She felt better once she put on a fresh uniform. She hadn’t realized how integral it was to her defenses, how essential a part of her the uniform had become. Now once more in her white shirt and leather jacket, her rapier sheathed at her side, she felt renewed and invigorated. The mark of the previous day’s events was erased, leaving only the slightest stain on her spirit.

  When she opened her door to leave, there were two Elites waiting for her: Lieutenants Munce and Erenble. Erenble had been reaching for the door handle. Willow leapt back into the cottage and her rapier whisked from its sheath. The soldiers were caught off-guard, but recovered quickly. They split left and right, flanking her doorway. She heard their rapiers clear their sheaths.

  “Private Willow?” one of them, Lieutenant Munce, said.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she said.

  There was a pause, during which Willow was sure Munce was gesturing to Erenble.

  “You are to report to the Castle immediately,” Munce said.

  “I was on my way when you interrupted me,” she snapped.

  “Well, we’re here to make sure that you go!” Erenble said.

  Munce shushed at Erenble.

  “What?” Erenble whispered.

  Willow shook her head. Erenble was a competent soldier, but he was barely smarter than Marcus and he lacked Marcus’s sweet disposition.

  Willow sheathed her rapier and stepped out of the cottage between the two soldiers. Their rapiers were pointed at her. Munce held up a single hand.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but Lieutenant Erenble’s right. We do have to escort you. Chancellor’s orders.”

  Munce’s demeanor was embarrassed, apologetic even. His eyes pleaded with her not to make this any more difficult than it had to be.

  So the Chancellor was behind this, was he? Trust that bureaucrat to escalate an already tense situation. That incompetent bungler knew about as much about diplomacy as …

  She shook her head. She couldn’t think of anyone who knew less about diplomacy than the Chancellor did.

  “I’m really sorry about this, Willow,” Munce said, misinterpreting her headshake.

  She glanced at Munce. The lieutenant was a lot smarter than his blond droopy mustache and baggy eyes made him appear. He knew enough to treat a prisoner with respect. A prisoner accorded respect is less likely to turn violent. Well done, Munce, she thought.

  She nodded. “I understand, Lieutenant. Orders are orders.” She gestured towards the castle. “Let’s go.”

  “Not so fast,” Erenble blurted, shaking a head ablaze with orange hair. “We need your weapon.”

  “Be quiet!” Munce shouted at him, but the damage had already been done.

  Willow stared at Erenble with infinite calm. “Oh?”

  Erenble blanched, casting his freckles into sharp relief. Yet he managed to nod mutely.

  “Very well,” Willow said, her eyes transfixing him. “Take it.”

  Erenble didn’t move.

  “Go on, take it,” Willow said.

  Erenble started to tremble. His eyes watered.

  “You need to decide now,” Willow said. Her eyes continued to bore into Erenble’s. “Either take my rapier or don’t, but make your decision now.”

  Sweat trickled down Erenble’s forehead. His eyes flickered down to her rapier, then back to Willow’s stare. He glanced past Willow to Munce for support.

  Munce grimaced and then shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “You’re the one who wanted to take her weapon.”

  “I suppose …” Erenble hesitated. “I suppose there’s no harm in letting her hold onto it. What do you think, Munce?”

  “I think you’re an idiot, Erenble, but a lucky one.” He turned to Willow. “I’m very sorry about this, Capt … ur … Willow.”

  “Apologies aren’t necessary, Lieutenant. Let’s just get this over with.”

  Chapter 16

  A crowd had gathered outside her cottage. Willow was a grand source of entertainment in Bryanae these days. Didn’t the merchants and buyers have anything better to do than stand around gawking at her?

  Lieutenant Erenble led the way like an impatient puppy, marching ahead for a distance, then stopping and glaring at Munce while he and Willow caught up. Munce was clearly uncomfortable about bringing in his former instructor under guard. He tried a few conversational gambits, but all of them failed to penetrate the veil of silence that surrounded her.

  Discipline.

  Up ahead was the infirmary. As she drew nearer, she saw a black face in the window. Her heart sunk. Tamlevar rapped on the pane. When she pretended not to notice, he vanished from the window and appeared at the door a few moments later.

  “Willow!” he called.

  “Get back into bed,” she said without turning her head.

  “What’s going on? Where did that other elf go?”

  She suppressed the bitter smile. Her face remained impassive.

  “She’s at the castle,” Willow said, “with the Queen and the Chancellor.” After all, why else would they be escorting Willow there? They must have discussed Tee-Ri’s terms with her, and have decided to sacrifice Willow.

  “How did you know that?” Munce asked.

  When her eyes met Munce’s, her expression was bland. After a moment, he looked away.

  “What’s going on?” Tamlevar said. The procession had led Willow past the black youth, and now was leaving him behind.

  “Nothing,” said Willow, without looking back at him.

  “What’s happening?” he shouted, a combination of exasperation and anxiety coloring his voice.

  Willow didn’t reply.

  The three soldiers remained silent the rest of the way to the castle. As they approached the open portcullis, Willow’s heart began to beat faster and she struggled to dominate her fear. She would not yield to fear. She could face anything.

  No, not this. Not Tee-Ri and the Warlord. Not that.

  Yes, she insisted to herself. Even that.

  Discipline. Control.

  She passed under the first portcullis, its shadow long in the cold stone entry hall. Then another, and into the long, wide corridor that led to the throne room.

  She counted guards along the way. Forty-five. An unusually large number, even in times of war. Yes, they were going to give Willow to the barbarians. It was the only explanation for the excessive number of soldiers.

  Munce pushed open the door to the throne room. A page approached to greet him, his
face anxious

  Willow’s eyes scanned the throne room. Yes, there was that bitch Tee-Ri standing directly in front of the dais upon which the throne rested. As Willow watched, her mother laughed gaily at some comment the Queen had made. Kindred spirits. Best of friends.

  Seated beside the dais, to the Queen’s right, was the Chancellor. The wizened little coward was as unlike the previous chancellor as sea was from rock. His eyes shifted between the Queen and her elven guest. No doubt reading the lay of the land so as not to utter an unsafe word. It was only yesterday that she had stood before this fawning little toady listening to his meandering reprimand, but now he was in his subservient mode. She couldn’t decide which aspect of the Chancellor she disliked more: the pompous side or the obsequious one.

  Light flooded the hall using the Szun Generator. The Generator consumed a ghastly quantity of wood every day, in return for which it caused the little glass globes that dangled from the ceiling to glow. The result was a pervasive sickly yellow light that always made Willow slightly queasy.

  “Private Willow,” Munce said to the page. The page nodded, and then approached the Queen.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” Munce whispered to Willow.

  “Quit apologizing,” Willow said. “You are doing your duty to your country. Anything else would be treason, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” he said with a sigh. The page had reached the Queen. The Queen looked up, and Tee-Ri turned Willow’s way. Willow could see the smugness in her mother’s smile even from where she stood. Willow flexed the muscles in her hand and cracked her knuckles.

  The Queen spoke briefly to the page, who then returned to where Erenble, Munce, and Willow awaited.

  “She’ll speak to you now,” he said.

  Willow didn’t wait for Munce and Erenble. She strode forward without even a sideward glance to see if they were keeping up. As she approached the dais, Tee-Ri edged away, her eyes shifting nervously between Willow, the Queen, and the guards.

  “Your Majesty …” Tee-Ri said, backing away from Willow. She was dressed less brazenly than before. A long gown of yellow and blue silk trailed at her feet.

  “Do not worry,” the Queen said. “Private Willow won’t hurt you, will you, Private Willow?” The emphasis the Queen placed on private was a gratuitous blow to Willow’s honor, and it smarted.

  Willow arched an eyebrow.

  “Your Majesty?” she said, her face bland.

  “You wouldn’t hurt our guest, would you, Private Willow?”

  Willow glanced at Tee-Ri, who flinched.

  “It depends on the situation, ma’am. If you ordered me to hurt her, I would of course comply.”

  The Queen’s eyes met Willow’s, and their ongoing duel resumed. But this time there was delight in those aging eyes. I’ve got you now, they said.

  “I’m glad you feel so strongly about obeying orders, Private Willow.”

  “I’m a soldier, ma’am.”

  “Yes, you are. Incidentally, Chancellor, is that a Captain’s insignia I see on Private Willow’s lapel?”

  The Chancellor blinked, startled at being thrust into the middle of the battle so abruptly.

  “Your Majesty?” he inquired mildly, his eyes dashing about, no doubt looking for an avenue of escape.

  The Queen tossed her gray-streaked hair, and then brought her gaze to bear on the weak little man.

  “I said, is that a Captain’s Insignia on Private Willow’s lapel?”

  The Chancellor gawked myopically at Willow, his eyes squinting.

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe it is.”

  The Queen took in a deep breath and then let it out in an exasperated sigh.

  “Well then, bring it to me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Chancellor clambered to his feet and shuffled from the dais over to Willow. His head barely reached as high as her breastbone. He peered upwards.

  “I … uh … I’ll need to have that … uh … insignia, Private Willow,” he said, his voice quavering. “Please.”

  Willow considered making it difficult for him, but decided against it. What was the point? She knew how things were going to go here today. Why make it any more unpleasant than necessary?

  She reached to her lapel, found the patch without having to hunt for it. She didn’t flinch as she tore it from her shoulder, leaving a gaping hole her soul.

  She glanced at the crossed swords on the patch, her stomach fluttering. She could still picture the day, over a century ago, when that patch had first been pinned to her uniform.

  She handed the patch to the Chancellor.

  “Excellent, Willow,” said the Queen, as the Chancellor shuffled back towards the dais. “Now you are familiar with Warlord’s terms, are you not?”

  “I am, Your Majesty.”

  “Ambassador Tee-Ri and I have been negotiating. We have worked out a compromise.”

  Ambassador Tee-Ri? The situation was even worse than she had predicted.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willow said.

  “Instead of the five million gold pieces for the return of Vazerian, the Warlord will accept one and a half million …”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  The Queen stopped in mid-speech, startled by Willow’s praise.

  “Yes,” she said, fumbling for her train of thought. “I thought so. I’m glad you agree, Private.

  “Instead of the five ships-of-the-line,” the Queen said, and glanced at Tee-Ri who nodded, “the Warlord will accept one warship and two cargo ships.”

  “Excellent, ma’am,” Willow said.

  The Queen’s eyes narrowed. Her hands tightened on the armrests of her throne.

  “Once again,” she said. “I’m glad that you agree. That of course brings us to the third of Warlord Jabar’s terms.”

  The Queen awaited a response from Willow, and seemed disconcerted when there was none. Willow refused to show even the slightest hint of curiosity on her face. The Queen had already made up her mind, but Willow wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of showing a reaction.

  The Queen cleared her throat.

  “Warlord Jabar has requested that in return for Prince Vazerian’s safe return, I send him you.” The Queen was scrutinizing Willow’s face. Willow showed no reaction. “I have agreed.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Willow said.

  There was a stunned moment, when three pairs of eyes—the Queen’s, Tee-Ri’s, and the Chancellor’s—all widened in amazement.

  “You agree to go?” the Queen said, bald shock unconcealable in her voice.

  “Is that an order, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes.” The Queen’s voice shook ever so slightly as she said it.

  Willow looked at the Chancellor. “Chancellor, do you confirm this order?”

  Once again, the Chancellor looked caught. His eyes darted to the Queen for courage, and having found it, he turned back to Willow with what he must have thought was a steely gaze, but in fact merely made him look constipated.

  “Yes, Private Willow,” he said. “I confirm the order.”

  “Very well,” Willow said.

  “So you agree to go?” the Queen asked.

  Willow sighed.

  “Let me put this carefully,” she said. “I want to get this in the proper order.

  “First, Ambassador Tee-Ri is my mother, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen gasped, but before she could say anything, Willow continued.

  “Second,” Willow said, turning to Tee-Ri, “I still love you, mother.”

  Tee-Ri’s face began to soften, and a smile started to bloom.

  “Third, though I still love you, the next time you and I meet, I shall kill you.”

  The smile on Tee-Ri’s face was stillborn. She brought a dainty hand to her gaping mouth.

  “Willow—!” the Queen started, but Willow overrode her.

  “Fourth, I hereby resign from the King’s Guard. I would have resigned my commission first, but you have kindly taken
care of that step for me.”

  The Queen leapt to her feet. Outrage and astonishment colored her face like a clown’s garish makeup.

  “Fifth, and last, now that I am no longer in the King’s Guard, I am free to say that before you can force me to go to Jabar, you’ll have to lock me in irons. And before you can do that, Your Majesty, you’ll have to climb over the pile of bodies that will surround me.”

  Willow drew her rapier.

  Chapter 17

  There was of course no way she’d make it out of the throne room, let alone out of Bryanae. Drawing a weapon on the Queen of Bryanae was a hanging offense.

  But they wouldn’t capture her. There was no way she’d end her life kicking her feet at the end of a rope. She didn’t expect to live to see the outside of the throne room again, but if she were going to die, she’d make sure she had plenty of company.

  Around her, all the soldiers were drawing their blades. The Chancellor and Tee-Ri were running towards the Queen, no doubt to hide behind her skirt.

  Willow heard the sound of two pairs of boots running up behind her. A glance revealed two guards almost upon her. She lunged and slid into a split. Two rapiers cut the air above her, where her heart had been.

  In one continuous motion, she sliced the tendons above both knees of both guardsmen. They fell to the ground, writhing. One of them was Lieutenant Munce.

  Willow rolled to the side, evading a thrust from another rapier, which sent up sparks from the stone floor. She riposted and that attacker fell, too, bleeding from his thigh. She rolled backwards onto her feet and sprung into a classic fencer’s guard.

  She glanced down at Munce. He was clutching at his knees, tears streaming down his face. While the wound wasn’t fatal, it was alas a career-ending one for him. If he ever walked again, it’d be with a profound limp. The look of betrayal on his face was almost retaliation enough.

  “I’m sorry, Munce,” Willow said, and meant it.

  Three more guards came within range. Willow stole a glance past them: three additional units of guards were pouring in through the door to the throne room. Things were getting tight.