The Traitor's Daughter

by Claire Robyns

  My world had tumbled and I hadn’t given much thought to the future. Jarvis and Lennard had. Nathanial and I could never live side by side, so they’d made their plans to eliminate the King.

  But before all that… before Nathanial betrayed us, why had my father not fully prepared me to reclaim my place as High Chancellor as he’d so meticulously prepared me to survive and live wild?

  I brought my eyes down and picked up my pace, uncomfortable with the questions my father wasn’t here to answer.

  The training ground was behind the barracks, a large swathe of forest cleared for purpose. There were usually a couple dozen men training informally at this time of the morning, running laps, sparing, tackling the obstacle course. Today the regimental noise of organized hundreds reached me long before I pressed through the last line of trees. Barked orders and the guttural chorus. The stamp of boots thudding the ground.

  The King’s army had swelled threefold since I’d last seen a formation drill and the sight took my breath away as I slipped into the clearing. Row upon row of straight-backed men, wine-red capes tugged by the wind, three hundred black boots marching in unison.

  Standing here on the side lines, pride fisted my heart at the mighty show of force.

  A pair of mounted shadows broke from the shade of trees and cantered up the line. Nathanial made a regal figure. Hair streamed back from his face, royal cape flowing with the wind, he sat his horse with the grace of a King in command of all he beheld.

  The silver-haired man who rode beside him cut an imposing, timeless presence that unravelled my composure. Sunderland was a fixture that transcended reigns. He’d been appointed General by the old King and I had no doubt he’d had a firm hand in shaping the new one.

  I turned abruptly and stomped along the edge of the field to where Markus waited. “What’s the occasion?”

  “The Eagle Trials next week,” Markus said.

  Right. There was always a grand parade for the opening of the annual trials. The top five challengers would be inducted into the army, although I supposed the annual intake could be higher now given the size of Nathanial’s army.

  The Eagle Trials were open to all, but it was highly biased toward the sons of army families—they were trained by the best and started young, and they could enter every year until they either succeeded or reached the age of twenty-one. Everyone else had only one shot at it, the year in which they turned sixteen.

  Someone like Tremaine, the red-headed miller’s boy assigned to dungeon duty, would have had to win his place from seasoned and sometimes older contestants. He would have had to put in the gruelling hours outside of his daily chores and apprenticeship, find creative ways to hone his skill without the tools and guidance, and there were no second chances. That was the fundamental principle on which this kingdom flourished. You could change your birth right, but only if you burned to the flesh with passion for it. The system worked, and it was just, but it wasn’t always fair.

  “They’ll fall out in a few minutes and we can take the field,” Markus said. His eyes searched my face. “You’re early.”

  “Am I?” I schooled my features. “Where’s David?”

  “Liam wants to ride along with us today, so I sent him to the infirmary to get checked out.” Markus smirked. “I sent David along to make sure we get the full story.”

  We already had the full story. “Doctor Lossing specifically mentioned no horse riding until his stitches come out. Too much jostling.”

  “You’ve told him. I’ve told him.” Markus shrugged. “I figured it was Lossing’s turn again.”

  The army trooped past and we fell into silence, watching until the orders were given to stand easy, then to fall out. The rectangle loosened and the men filed off into the trees. General Sunderland rode out, but Nathanial reined his stallion about and trotted up to us.

  He inclined his head at Markus and they exchanged a long, deliberating look before he spoke. “The first round of qualification for the trials is this afternoon. The King’s Guard is represented on the panel and it just occurred to me, we now have a Queen’s Guard.” He’s gaze cut to me. “If you can spare Markus?”

  “You don’t have to spare me,” Markus said stiffly, bristling at the casual delegation. “Liam will do just as well and he’s itching with boredom.”

  Being asked to judge on the panel was actually an honour that, between the two of them, they’d managed to reduce to a scrappy bone. If this was how Nathanial made friends, no wonder he needed my help. As for Markus, I should probably order him to judge the trials, but Liam needed it more.

  “Markus and I already have plans for today that I’m loathe to put off.” I stepped forward, looked up at Nathanial. “Liam will represent the Queen’s Guard.”

  Nathanial raked a look over me. “Another dance lesson?”

  Irritation prickled heat up my throat. He’d seen me and Markus dancing in the map room, but there was only one way he could know that was a lesson of sorts. Amelia had been talking again. I honestly didn’t give a damn how often they cozied up for a good gossip, I just wish they’d leave me out of it.

  “I’m happy to offer my services in that regard and I strongly suggest you consider it.” Nathanial’s eyes glinted dangerously. “My leniency in this marriage has a limit.”

  The warning was clear. He wouldn’t overlook it so easily the next time he found me in another man’s arms. I was almost tempted to see what he thought he could do about it. Almost.

  “I do have more on my mind than ballrooms and dancing.” My hand brushed the hilt of my sword at my hip. “We are here to train.”

  “I’m available for that, too,” Nathanial said, swinging one leg over to dismount. When he looked at me again, the glint had softened. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has, and I’ve outgrown my wooden sword since then,” I said, feeling somewhat churlish about him imposing on my daily routine. “You know, it takes only a momentary lapse in concentration for my blade to slip.”

  His eyes creased in amusement. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “If you insist.” I turned to Markus. “You don’t have to stand around and watch.”

  Markus leant against the bark of a pine at his back and folded his arms. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he drawled.

  I drew my sword, adjusting my grip as I crossed deeper onto the trampled field grass. Nathanial led his stallion to a post and secured the reins before walking out to join me. The wind blew his hair across his cheekbones. He unsheathed his sword between one step and the next without a hitch in his elegant stride. His cloak fluttered, revealing intermittent lengths of black-clad thigh. By contrast, my hair was scraped back into a ponytail, no coat or cape to clutter my movements, but I was pretty sure I made a far less intimidating sight.

  I rolled my shoulders, stepped from one foot to the other to loosen my limbs, my eyes trained on his approach.

  He stopped three paces away and cocked his head. A grin slid out. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

  “Please don’t.” My sword came up and I lunged.

  His blade was there to block, sending a familiar tingle up my arm. Metal sliced metal as he released with a downward swing and took a wide step to the side, then we were circling, watching each other like hawk and prey.

  I took the lead, danced in and away to counter and parry, again and again, but Nathanial was always just a breath out of my reach. I attacked and he defended. I slashed and he blocked. I lunged and thrust and he dipped and swerved around my blade like a shadow. Just when I thought he’d never take the initiative and attack, he saw a gap. His sword came down in a backhand arc. At the last second, his elbow locked and the length of lethal blade stopped dead across my throat with less than an inch to spare.

  My breath caught. It took another moment to realize my head was still attached.

  “Either you’re very confident in your command of precision,” I muttered, using the time to steady my ragged pulse, “or you’re not too conce
rned about chopping off my head.”

  Another grin. His eyes sparked with the devil’s charm. “Which do you think?”

  “Your ego doesn’t need the encouragement.” Somehow, I managed a composed smile. “I’ll take the latter.”

  A deep-throated chuckle shaped his mouth while his gaze sank into me.

  Scowling, I conceded on all points and stepped backward. Very carefully.

  Nathanial lowered his sword and retreated to put the three paces between us again. I flashed a look past his shoulder, surprised Markus hadn’t already taken personal offense at the too-close call. He hadn’t seen. Our dance had put us a fair distance down the field and Nathanial’s body obscured his view.

  Bringing my gaze back to Nathanial, I raised my sword and rocked back on my heels. Focus. I couldn’t beat him on brute force. My strengths lay in the subtle detail, my slender form and limber muscles, lithe grace and lightning reflexes, flickering around the slices of a blade like quicksilver.

  Nathanial prowled to my left and I turned with him, conserving my energy, watching for his tell on when and where he’d strike. He didn’t have a tell. Without a flicker of warning, he dipped into the space. I swung and our swords struck with a ringing sound. I bounced back and Nathanial pressed the advantage. I deflected and whirled away. He followed, his blade cutting the air and I slipped in low with an under-thrust that got confounded in his billowing cloak. I stumbled forward, corrected and practically had to curve my body around the glide of his blade. This went on for long minutes, my manoeuvres mostly defensive—he didn’t give me many chances to get close again—our dance pressing us into the forest of tall pines.

  Sweat beaded my upper lip, my muscles strained. My sword grew heavier and heavier each time I lifted it while Nathanial was tireless. He slashed and leapt and still had energy left over for that slow grin that came on way too often, usually when our hilts were jammed in a chest-to-chest block and it took every ounce of my strength to push him back.

  I feinted left and jabbed right. He spun away from the tip of my blade and completed the spin to deliver an upward thrust that jolted my grip. I grunted an involuntary noise of surprise and pain.

  Nathanial’s arm dropped to his side. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine!” I flexed my wrist and nudged my chin high, challenging him to not give up on me.

  He didn’t. He came forward, our blades clashed again and again beneath the nettled sky of pines, but his touch was shades lighter, each blow wielded with that impressive control. No matter how fast or powerful he swung, he locked it down a split second before our blades touched and the clash barely jarred.

  My frustration mounted until I wanted to scream.

  He was better than me. He had no weakness I could play my strengths up against. He had the muscle and the lithe grace and the reflexes plus some extra tricks—like that spinning thing. I was never quick enough to counter when he came out of that spin. There was never time enough to swerve out of his rebound or leap aside. But that didn’t mean I wanted him to go easy on me.

  Anger spurted through my veins and made me reckless. I charged with my sword raised. Nathanial easily folded his body out of the way and I slammed into the tall pine at his back. I cried out, whirled about and he was right there, trapping me between his slow grin and the tree. But this time he’d made a mistake. His elbow locked his sword in at a high angle above my head and I dropped, slid down the trunk with my weight balanced on bended knee. I kicked out with the other to snag him around the ankles, wiping him clear off his feet. He landed on his back with a winded thump. The broadside of his sword hit the earth with his outstretched arm, although he never lost his grip.

  I bounced up from my knees and slammed a booted foot on his wrist, grounding his sword hand. I dragged the tip of my blade across his chest, teased the edge closer and closer to his throat while my gaze raked up to his face.

  That slow grin furled his lips. Humour warmed his eyes to sun-baked stone. He was downed, vulnerable and alone without a single of his Guard within calling reach, his throat exposed to my mercy.

  But of course he didn’t fear. He was King, his voice reached the length and depth of his kingdom and he’d already given the order. I couldn’t slit his throat without condemning my people. I’d never allow them to go without a fight and Markus had his stash of weapons, but how many innocent lives would be added to the weight I already carried?

  “I yield,” he murmured, his smirk telling me everything I already knew.

  Nathanial was above the law of common man. He had no fear. He’d never have to beg for mercy. He yielded with absolutely nothing to lose.

  The borders of time and place fractured inside my head and suddenly it wasn’t just us anymore. We were back in that clearing six months ago, my father fallen with General Sunderland crowing over him.

  Later, much later, I would tell myself what came next was blind rage, beyond reason and control. But in this moment, standing over Nathanial, the slice of my blade at his throat, I’d always know that for the lie it was.

  I looked into his stone-grey eyes and the vengeance lashed to the grip of my sword was bitter cold and calculated. I wanted—dear God, how I wanted—him to hurt. Not the physical hurt that would come when my blade carved his face. I wanted him to hurt the way he made me hurt. I wanted him to have to look at his disfigured face in the mirror every day for the rest of our married life and pretend he could forgive and forget.

  He saw it in my eyes. He must have. His grin faded before I moved a muscle and when I did, as I flicked my sword from his throat up to his face, he acted. The blade twitched the edge of his jaw as he crunched his knees up and rolled into me. I staggered back a step and he yanked his trapped arm out from under my boot with a force that sent me stumbling back another step.

  He was on his feet before I regained balance.

  I tensed for the attack, for him to lunge with murderous intent, but it never came.

  He just stood there, sword held loosely at his side, hair hanging over one half of his face. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and it came back bloodied. “Jesus.”

  My blade had nicked deeper than I’d thought, blood trickling from the line that edged his jaw.

  “Are you done?” He squared a look on me, a granite-hard look to match his gravel voice but there was no anger, no brimstone and condemnation. “Or should I bleed some more for my sins?”

  My throat thickened. I couldn’t tear my eyes from his darkly tormented features. I didn’t see a King. I saw the nine-year-old scraggly boy who’d carried me in his arms for half a mile after I’d taken a tumble on the slimy rocks and cracked my knee open. I felt his hand squeeze mine beside his mother’s grave, squeeze so tight, as if I were his anchor in a storm, his only lifeline to this world. I saw the boy clinging to that cliff in my nightmares, and for the first time in many months, I heard it again, the desperate urgency at the sound of his approaching soldiers. “You have to go. Rose, you have to go. Now!”

  “Here I am.” He dropped his sword and turned his hands out to me. “I will do it, Rose. I will wear all the scars you think I deserve.”

  Tears threatened to leak like traitorous secrets and blurred my vision, blurred the line where Nate the boy ended and the cruel King Nathanial began. My heart hammered my chest, as if I could let it out before it shattered.

  “Go to hell,” I hissed and ran past Nathanial on hollowed legs, out from the cover of trees. My hand shook wildly as I sheathed my sword and stumbled up along the field.

  Markus saw me coming and started forward, then he broke into a run, shouting, “What did that bastard do?”

  I took a deep breath, swallowed my emotion. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  Markus balled a hand into a fist. “Then what is wrong?”

  “What is wrong?” I dragged out through my teeth.

  The ground beneath my feet was a bed of live coals. It didn’t matter if I hated or if I tolerated. It didn’t matter if I fought or accepted. It didn’t matter if
I slammed my guard up or showed the cracks. There was no place I could step that did not blister and burn.

  That’s what is wrong.

  But I couldn’t tell Markus any of this. I couldn’t tell him that I had cut Nathanial, but it was me who’d bled.

  “Come.” I continued walking, ordering him to walk with me and leave Nathanial behind. “Amelia will be waiting for us.”

  - 17 -

  The herbalist’s cottage on the edge of town was the last stop in our week of visits. True to her word, Amelia had joined Markus, David and me on the rounds to ensure everyone was settled. Coming down from the mountain was a big adjustment and I was pretty sure there was some friction at the very least between us and them, yet I heard no complaints, no grumbles from my people. They were a hardy lot, accustomed to just getting on with doing what must be done, but I never departed a household without my instruction. If you need me, send word addressed to Jeremy at the castle, he’ll see I get it.

  The storm-whipped wind rippled the long grass as we dismounted and looped our reins at the hitching post in a copse of oaks. The awning over the porch of the stone cottage rattled, threatening to fly off its rail.

  Markus and David wrapped their cloaks tighter to keep from blowing away. The tails of Amelia’s navy riding jacket flapped, the rest was buttoned up to her chin. Her britches were double-padded in all the right places and her knee-high boots had silver buckles down the side. She loved to dress for the occasion.

  I’d donned a fresh shirt after my shower, but my boots and tan leather pants were still dusty and smudged from this morning. In all honesty, Amelia would have made a much better Queen. And she probably wouldn’t have tried to carve up her royal husband’s face. I wondered if, finally, Nathanial was regretting some of his less inspired choices.

  I must have sighed out loud.

  Amelia sidled up to me. “It’s only been a week,” she said, looking out to the cottage. “I won’t kick him out quite yet.”

  She was speaking about Jamison, and the reason I’d made this the last stop. I’d been hoping she’d tire of doing the rounds before we got to him. To say she’d been vehemently opposed to assigning him the prestigious role of junior herbalist would be a vast understatement. In fact, she’d flat out refused and I’d had to play my Queen card. I’d always had a soft spot for Jamison. He’d been my first kiss. He’d been the first—and only—boy my father had ever had to chase away. And as soon as I’d heard the junior herbalist position was vacant, I knew this was where he’d thrive. He had a timid heart, but a fierce love for nature and its unbound mystics.