Sword's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  “What was that? I didn’t hear you, milady.” Petra’s dark brows were drawn together.

  “Oh, it was nothing. Will you help me dress?”

  “Of course, milady.” The girl hurried to her side.

  Only just back in the world of the highborn, and she was already tired of Lady Ryhan, my lady, and especially, milady.

  “Where was Master Aldern placed?” Cera needed a distraction from the miseries of formality.

  “The older or younger?”

  “Well, both, I suppose.”

  “Young Lord Aldern is directly across the hall from you.” Petra helped Cera into the restricting corset.

  “Lord Aldern?” She threw the maid a look.

  Did Petra know something Cera didn’t?

  The girl averted her gaze, smile fading. Petra studied her shoes. “Master Aldern, I mean, milady. I was mistaken.” But the maid still wouldn’t meet her eyes and Cera’s instincts flared.

  Is the king up to something?

  “His father is in a chamber next to the elf wizard, down the hall from here, milady.” Petra’s words were rushed.

  Cera stared, but the girl looked down again.

  She would get nothing out of Petra. She’d have to get to the bottom of things some other way. Making the young maid uncomfortable wasn’t her aim, so she dropped it—for now. “Am I to be escorted into the hall?”

  “I wasn’t told, milady.” Petra’s slim shoulders relaxed and she lifted her head, meeting Cera’s eyes again.

  “I can find my way down, I suppose.”

  Glancing at Trikser, Cera frowned. He’d have to stay in her rooms. Sleeping by the fire should keep him content for a while, but her wolf would want to hunt later.

  Swallowing a sigh, she mentally listed and relisted all the reasons she hated court.

  Even when she’d lived in Terraquist at Rider Barracks, she’d avoided the castle as much as possible.

  Unless summoned.

  Or Aimil and Ansley—her two Senior Rider best friends—had forced her to a stupid ball.

  “How shall I do your hair, milady?”

  “I want it down.”

  Jorrin likes my hair down.

  “I’ll place flowers in the front,” Petra said, smiling.

  Cera nodded, wincing as the girl tugged the corset tighter. “Let’s get it over with.” Regret punched her the moment she saw Petra’s crestfallen expression. “Oh, it’s not you. I promise. I don’t like being a lady.”

  The young maid grinned. “But you look like one. Beautiful.”

  Cera glanced over herself in the mirror and gave a slight smile.

  The bodice was cut lower than she was used to, but the gown was gorgeous, highlighting her dark red hair and skin tone. Breasts high, but her cleavage was still modest enough.

  The corset hugged her sides and hinted at her hips more than a jerkin did. Even with legs hidden, her body looked fantastic.

  She admired the silver embroidery.

  Roses had always been Cera’s favorite flower, but she was already uncomfortable.

  Stifled.

  “Thank you, Petra. I appreciate it. How about my hair?”

  The girl nodded and Cera slipped into a chair in front of the guest room’s oversized, gilded vanity.

  With a sigh she couldn’t quite hide, Cera handed the young maid her hairbrush.

  ****

  Overwhelmed.

  Intimidated.

  Out of place.

  Just a few words of the words that popped into Jorrin’s mind as he looked around.

  How is this even happening?

  He didn’t belong here.

  How could he remain in this world?

  Jorrin would never be comfortable.

  Nothing he’d ever wanted.

  Even standing in the corridor, the richness of his surroundings was daunting.

  “Jorrin?”

  Cera.

  Something he wanted more than anything he’d ever wanted before.

  When he saw her, Jorrin’s breath caught. “You look beautiful.” Heat engulfed his neck. He tried to convince himself to relax.

  She blushed and smiled.

  Cera was wearing a rust-colored gown with prominent silver stitching that made her hair seem a richer shade of red. Her tresses fell in soft waves past her shoulders, free of all confines, save some small flowers woven in the front.

  The corset hugged her torso, hinting at her delectable hips and pushing her breasts up just enough to make him growl.

  She was still fashionably appropriate, but Jorrin would rip out the eyes of any man who decided to appreciate her body.

  Cera was his.

  Gorgeous . . . more beautiful than he’d ever seen her before.

  A true lady.

  Another reminder of her belonging here and him not.

  Jorrin sighed and tugged at the embroidered kit he’d been gifted to wear. He’d never in his life worn anything so finely made. The elaborate decorative stitching on the soft silver doublet was rust colored—he and Cera matched.

  “Are you all right? I know this is overwhelming . . . Even for me . . .” Cera’s gray eyes were full of concern. “I’ve only been to court a few times.” She gestured helplessly to her gown.

  “I’m fine.” Jorrin smiled. Her worry for him washed over his magic, and he swallowed.

  “You don’t have to do this. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.” She looked down.

  Stepping over to her, Jorrin tilted her chin up so she’d meet his eyes. “You’re here, are you not?”

  Confusion clouded her expression. “Yes . . .”

  “Then I am staying.” Jorrin quieted any further protests by covering her mouth with a gentle kiss. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Besides, King Nathal summoned us.”

  She smiled. “I believe he invited us, as his guests for a feast in our honor.”

  “I don’t believe we really had a choice.”

  “Perhaps not.” Cera shrugged. “As you know, he said he needs to speak to me.”

  “About Greenwald?”

  “I guess so.” She averted her gaze. “I don’t think he’ll force me to marry.”

  Panic, then jealousy, hit Jorrin squarely in the chest. He had to plant his feet so his magic wouldn’t bowl him over.

  Since she had no male blood relatives, it was the king’s place to decide such things for Cera, but he would not give her up, no matter what he had to do.

  He wanted to marry her.

  Cera had given herself to him, given him her innocence.

  She’s mine.

  Nothing and no one could change that.

  But did she feel the same?

  She loved him, but did she want to marry him?

  Jorrin had no idea how to ask.

  He had nothing—no land, no title, and no coin. Just love for her. Would the king even consider a landless nobody of mixed blood for the daughter of one of his closest friends?

  “Lady Ryhan? Master Aldern?” a male voice called.

  Jorrin recognized the young knight who’d been at the king’s side for the ride back to Terraquist.

  “Sir Tegran, good evening,” Cera said, taking Jorrin’s attention as she curtsied.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised at her show of manners. This was her world, after all.

  He bit back a groan.

  “Leargan, my lady,” the young knight corrected, smiling. “Good evening to you both.”

  Jorrin was hit with a flare of jealousy as Cera nodded and smiled sweetly at him.

  “The king has asked me to escort you into the great hall, Lady Ryhan.”

  Cera threw a nervous glance at Jorrin and shook her head. “I assumed Master Aldern would do so, Leargan.”

  The knight looked smug, and Jorrin wanted to punch the look off his face.

  “His Majesty would like to have a word
with Master Aldern, milady.” Leargan offered his arm to Cera.

  “With me?” Jorrin croaked and then grimaced at his rough voice.

  Leargan nodded.

  Another knight appeared out of the shadows of the corridor. “I’ll escort you, Master Aldern.” the knight gestured for Jorrin to follow him.

  He nodded, but looked at Cera. “See you in a while.”

  She looked good on the arm of the handsome Leargan and Jorrin growled, unable to rid himself of the jealousy. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  Cera smiled tenderly, and his heart flipped.

  Leargan had the nerve to look amused, and Jorrin started to glare, but caught himself, repeating the order to mind his manners.

  She loved him, not some stupid knight.

  “Yes, see you in a bit.” Cera nodded and squeezed his hand.

  “This way,” the other knight said as they fell into step together.

  Jorrin didn’t speak. He was sorely out of place and had no idea how to make conversation with a knight, though the man didn’t look much older than him.

  The knight rapped lightly on a door about halfway down the wide corridor.

  The king bellowed for them to enter.

  “Master Aldern as requested, my liege.” The knight bowed.

  The king’s personal ledger room.

  Butterflies stormed in the pit of his stomach.

  “Aye, thank you, Willum,” King Nathal said.

  The king was seated in an oversized, gold-inlaid, carved chair with a golden lion perched on the raised seatback.

  Jorrin could have laughed at the irony of not noticing before. A lion was exactly what King Nathal reminded him of.

  His desk was equally imposing and oversized. The furniture took up much of the small room, but perhaps considering the king’s stature, the chair and desk really weren’t all that oversized.

  Willum bowed again and slipped from the room, leaving Jorrin alone with the king.

  He swallowed back a gulp, feeling like an errant child about to accept a harsh admonition.

  “Come, come, Jorrin . . . may I call you Jorrin?”

  Like I can say no to the king.

  “Of course.” Jorrin cringed. His voice had been little more than a croak. He’d just given away his nervousness.

  Dammit.

  The king looked amused. “Have a seat, lad.”

  Lowering his frame into one of the two chairs in front of the king’s desk, he forced a breath. Heat settled in his cheeks. Jorrin looked around the room, needing a distraction.

  A large framed map of the Provinces dominated one wall, and the king’s seal, also depicting a lion, on another. The seal was surrounded by a sword and shield and the blue flag of Terraquist. The lion looked like it might hop off the wall and devour him at any moment.

  Jorrin skimmed bookshelves—most full to the brim—lining all four walls in the room. The king liked to read.

  A learned man couldn’t be all that bad, could he?

  He chided himself for being a coward and met the king’s pale blue eyes.

  It was obvious the man was waiting for him to acclimate before he began their conversation.

  “You wanted to see me?” Jorrin grimaced at his wavering tone.

  “Aye, lad.” King Nathal intertwined his fingers and rested his hands on top of his desk. “I need to discuss a few things with you.”

  “Cera?”

  One corner of the king’s mouth lifted. “Aye, among others.”

  “I want to marry her,” Jorrin blurted. His cheeks burned; his face had to be bright red.

  “I thought—or I should say—I hoped as much.”

  “You did?” Jorrin croaked.

  “Aye. I see how the lass looks at you. I wasn’t going to force anything on her, but if she wishes to marry you, you have my blessing. Greenwald is hers, no matter what.”

  Blinking, he bit his lip to keep from gasping. Emotion rolled over him. No way could he have imagined King Nathal would approve of him for Cera. Jorrin’s heart raced.

  The king’s smile was gentle. It was a smile Braedon would flash, a fatherly smile, and full of encouragement. Actually, the king’s accent also reminded Jorrin of his father.

  “I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “Well, for your bravery and assistance with the cause, I’m knighting you,” King Nathal said.

  Jorrin gaped, but the king didn’t react.

  “Your father, as well, young Lord Lenore, and Master Rowlin. Young Lucan, too, the bravest one of all of us. Last, but not least, young Lord Dagget, though honestly, I should’ve done so a turn or two ago with all he’s done for me.”

  Jorrin sputtered.

  The king chuckled and shook his head. “I see I’ve shocked you. If Cera agrees to marry you—and I’m sure she will—you’ll be a duke, lad. The Duke of Greenwald.”

  “I couldn’t . . . I don’t . . . it’s hers . . .”

  The king’s eyes softened considerably and once again Jorrin was reminded of his father. “Do you want the lass?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Then that is what you focus on. After all, you have to get her to agree to marry you. She can be headstrong, you know.” King Nathal winked.

  Jorrin’s heart pounded and he stared into his lap, his fingers laced together, knuckles white. He hadn’t been born for running a Province. Had no idea what it entailed.

  He wanted to marry Cera, yes.

  He loved her, but he wasn’t a lord, a politician, or experienced in anything relevant to what the king was suggesting.

  “Look, lad. If you marry Lady Ryhan, it’s a win-win situation for me. I declared her heir of Greenwald; no one will dispute that, no matter how the pompous old lords will complain. She loves you, so I don’t feel bad about giving her to you. She’ll be married and you get a title. I’m going to give you the title regardless, Jorrin. You’ll be Lord Aldern. I’d rather award you Greenwald by marriage than some far-off tiny holding not worthy of being called a dukedom.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Jorrin whispered.

  “You’re both young, so you’ll not go back to Greenwald on your own. I’ll send someone who knows how to run a Province.” The king winked again. “And replace all of the staff Varthan killed.”

  Jorrin winced.

  “Aye, I know it, lad,” King Nathal whispered.

  “That’ll be a sad reminder of what she lost.”

  “She’ll have you, lad,” the king said. “You and your children are her future.”

  Jorrin managed a nod.

  “I’m sad to see him go, but I’ll send Leargan, too. To train your men and captain your personal guard.” The king quirked an eyebrow when Jorrin growled aloud.

  He composed himself, but when Jorrin made eye contact with the king, the big man chuckled.

  Great. He can see right through me.

  Jorrin cleared his throat.

  “Also, Lord Tristan Dagget has expressed the wish to accompany you to Greenwald and act as your Second-in-command,” King Nathal said.

  “All of this has been decided? I’m the last one to know?” Jorrin asked.

  Should he be upset he was left in the dark?

  The king gave him a long look. “It is what I wish for Greenwald. And you are not the last to know. Cera is. Blessed Spirit, I hope she forgives me.” King Nathal looked chagrined.

  Jorrin grinned.

  King or not, the man would be in hot water with his beloved.

  “I needed to speak to you, before I announced your betrothal.”

  “Announce it? I haven’t asked her yet.” Jorrin’s stomach fluttered.

  “Tonight, in the great hall.” King Nathal’s pale eyes bored into him.

  Jorrin squirmed, the hard back of the chair biting into his shoulders. “Tonight . . .”

  Will Cera say yes?

  What if she says no?

  “If you announce
it before I ask her, she’ll be furious for not being consulted,” Jorrin whispered.

  “Aye, I know it,” King Nathal said, laughter wrapped in his words.

  His stomach did a back flip. “What if she thinks it’s only for Greenwald . . . that I don’t want her, but I want the Province . . . the wealth?”

  As soon as he voiced the thought, he pushed it away.

  Cera knew him.

  She knew he’d never do such a thing, didn’t she?

  “Then I’ll explain things to the stubborn lass,” King Nathal said.

  Jorrin looked him in the eye. “How long do I have?”

  “About twenty minutes.” The king laughed.

  “Twenty minutes?” Jorrin gasped and popped up out of the chair so fast it screeched on the tile floor.

  King Nathal laughed harder, but Jorrin didn’t slow his retreat.

  He ran out of the king’s ledger room, not pausing to worry about his lack of manners, either.

  Jorrin had to get to Cera.

  Now.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Jorrin raced through the corridors, not contrite at the looks of surprise and disapproval he received from several courtiers as he ran by them.

  Twenty minutes?

  How could he convince Cera he wanted her to marry him in twenty minutes?

  He’d never kept his distaste for the noble class a secret, but would she think a knighthood and a title had changed his mind?

  Not to mention the wealth of Greenwald.

  Slowing, Jorrin forced a breath; he didn’t want to burst into the great hall of the king’s palace. The giant double doors leading inside were open, a guard on either side.

  They didn’t react to his hasty stop as Jorrin entered the hall.

  His heart pounded, and it wasn’t from his run. He forced a few more breaths and surveyed the huge room.

  The meal was not yet being served, as it was customary to wait for the king, but pleasant music drifted from the raised stage in the corner of the room. Four bards concentrated on their instruments while a fifth—the only woman of the group—added words to the melody with her sweet voice.

  At the head table, on a dais higher than any Jorrin had ever seen, the queen was already seated. Against tradition, the king and queen’s two children were also at the table.

  Prince Roblin was perhaps twelve or thirteen, and young Princess Mallyn was no older than nine or ten turns.