Destined for a King

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  As a sign he might point to as proof of his claims, whatever happened now was useless. Any of the Strongholders could deny that that light had been more than a spark.

  “We may as well face the truth,” Torch said to the cell at large. “My quest to regain my father’s crown has failed. We’re to be taken to Highspring Moor and turned over to the mercies of the Ironfist.”

  “No,” cried a voice. In the dark, Torch was unsure which of his men had protested. “The throne is your destiny. You have always said so.”

  He bit back a bitter smile. “So I believed.” And his utter confidence and conviction had led them here. “For your sake—for all your sakes—I wish you’d had a little less faith in me. You might have escaped with your lives.”

  “We’re not dead yet.” That was Hawk. “We could still try to escape when they move us.”

  “That we could,” Torch replied. If nothing else, an escape attempt might ensure them a quicker end than if their fate was left to Magnus’s notions of kindness. Some of his Brothers might even taste freedom once more. It was the least he could offer them after the loyalty they’d shown him. “How fares Owl?”

  Out of the dark, a hand clapped him on the shoulder. “The same.”

  After the humiliation of the hall, Torch expected he had nothing left. No feelings, certainly, not after that sword stroke. The blow had left him numb, but at the thought of Owl, unaccountable rage burst into flame inside him.

  Damn it all to the lowest hell, it wasn’t fair. Owl was just a boy, yet he’d stood like a man before an opponent of far greater skill and experience—and all to defend a maid. Owl had stood up for what was right. How could any of the Three allow a mere boy to be beaten down like a mongrel for acting like a hero out of one of the old legends?

  If anything was wrong, deeply and morally, about this situation, it was that. And Torch had led them all to this juncture, just as surely as he’d planted the notions of defending the weak into the mind of that boy. Him and his thrice-damned utter faith in this notion of destiny.

  Calista had supposedly been part of that destiny, and she’d proven herself no better than a lying bitch.

  He clenched his fist around the Stone at his throat. Its edges bit into his skin.

  The hand returned to his shoulder, squeezing for a moment before relenting. “Now is not the time to lose hope.” Brother Tancrid. He recognized the voice now. “The tale of the years is full of stories of men, low-born and noble alike, who found themselves in hopeless spots, and yet prevailed. Ask any of the Avestari the history of their people and he will tell you how a collection of wild tribes banded together to defeat the Dragon Lords of the South. Why, your own Vandal ancestors—”

  “What of them?” Torch cut him off. This wearisome talk of history did nothing to resolve their current situation. “They have rightfully sat on the throne at Highspring Moor for centuries.”

  “They didn’t always. Before the Vandals came out of the wilds to subjugate the Strongholds, the others fought over the throne. If I told you some of the old names of the men who have sat there, you might even recognize a few. Have you never heard the devise ‘Death to the unworthy’?”

  An odd sort of thrill passed along his spine. “It’s only written on the scabbard of the sword I bear.” Or, more accurately, bore.

  “That devise belonged to the Tarr family, the last to sit in the palace at Highspring before your ancestors. The lord of Kinwood Keep might even claim the Vandals themselves were the unworthy ones.”

  “But they did not die. They prevailed.”

  “Exactly. I like to think the original Vandal king possessed a sense of irony that he did not have that scabbard remade. Or he believed the Tarrs were, in the end, unworthy themselves.”

  Torch held up a hand. “Can the tale of the years tell us how a group of chained men might escape a keep that possesses no bolt-hole?”

  “I can think of no instance offhand, but if I were to meditate on the matter, I might come up with a plan.”

  “What do you require to meditate other than time, which up until now, we’ve had in abundance?”

  “What do you mean by up until now?” Hawk broke in.

  “If we mean to attempt an escape, we’ve little time to formulate a plan. They will come for us tomorrow to send us to Magnus.” Or they’d come for him, at least. There was nothing to stop Hammerfell from sending the rest of the Brotherhood to the Usurper in pieces.

  “I might yet unearth an idea from the lore accumulated in the earth.” Brother Tancrid’s voice seemed to float from somewhere just behind Torch’s ear. “I need only to take another journey.”

  “Do you have what you need for such a journey?” Torch wasn’t completely certain of the specifics. The last time, the Acolyte had only asked him for a quiet room where he would not be disturbed, a commodity in rather short supply at the moment.

  “Alas, I exhausted my supply on the last quest.” Brother Tancrid reached out and touched the Stone at Torch’s throat. “I have no more, but you do.”

  —

  Calista scrubbed the heel of her hand across her sand-filled eyes and cast a glance about the stillroom. Bits of herbs and vials, mortars, and pestles littered every available surface. Some of the mess was intentional—should anyone question what she was about, she could claim she’d been making healing balms for the wounded. But her principal creation now lay dissolved in several wineskins.

  A rush of energy that made her want to run shouting through the bailey overlay her bone-deep exhaustion. She must contain it. What she needed to do now required stealth and secrecy.

  She handed a wineskin to Tamsin before laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Whether to steady the maid or herself, Calista had no idea. “Do you know what to do? Repeat it back to me.”

  “I’m to convince any guard I come across to have a drink with me.”

  Mindful of the sentry outside the stillroom, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “And?”

  Tamsin gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m only to pretend to drink.”

  “Don’t even wet your lips if you can avoid it.” Calista had no way of knowing how strong the potion was. Her mother’s scrolls had been vague on the subject of the lethal dose. It depended on too many variables—the concentration of the decoction, the weight of the person imbibing, the manner of delivery. She could only pray she’d gotten it right.

  “We’ve been through the plan a hundred times by now. I’m to make certain no one from Blackbriar gets any.”

  Calista nodded. As a healer, she should not condone the death of anyone at her hands, but she’d already drawn weapons against her enemies. Poison was simply another weapon, if more insidious than a drawn blade, and her need had become desperate.

  “But if I come across the cavalier who tried to take me, I’ll give him double and a knife in the bollocks besides.” Tamsin patted the handle of the dagger she’d tucked into her apron. Since yesterday, she’d gone nowhere without it.

  “Do not take any unnecessary risks. I will need you.” Calista laid a hand on her maid’s shoulder. “I do not wish to see you come to grief.” The Three only knew their fate would be dire if either one was caught. “Now go. Carefully.”

  Calista followed Tamsin to the door of the stillroom, hovering just beyond the sight of the sentry, while her maid strolled over the threshold. This was their test. If all went well, her plan would continue. If not, she would have to pray they could dispatch the single guard without raising the rest of the keep.

  She strained her ears toward the darkened bailey. Dawn would steal over Blackbriar Keep soon enough, and with it, whatever punishment the king’s justiciar had decided to visit on Torch. If she meant to intervene, she must do so while Torch was still whole.

  For the thousandth time, the scene in the hall played through her mind. It had taken her entire force of will to maintain the façade of cool detachment. In her heart, she’d yearned to look upon him, to know he was unharmed, yet she knew too well
she’d give away her feelings if she permitted herself so much as a glimpse.

  Still, she would never be able to erase the whistle of that blade cleaving the air in its descent, nor the awful shrieking clang as it struck metal. Metal, not flesh and bone, thank the All-Mother.

  No, not now. She could reason out what had happened once this was over. Once Torch was safe. Most of all, she had to believe Torch’s safety was the only possible outcome tonight.

  She forced herself to heed what was happening in the bailey. Tamsin giggled, and the low rumble of masculine laughter soon followed. Good. As long as the girl could convince him to drink…

  Calista closed her fingers about her wineskin of Kingsbane. The moment Tamsin eliminated the threat of discovery, Calista had her own task to perform, one far more dangerous than pretending to flirt with the guards.

  She closed her eyes, ears straining. Outside had gone quiet, eerily so, for all it was the middle of the night. The chirp of crickets echoed loudly in time with her pulse. Then—

  A heavy grunt, a sigh, a dull thud, followed by the even rhythm of footsteps sauntering across the packed earth of the bailey.

  One down, but how many more did that leave on the walls? In the stables? Standing before the door to the dungeon? The Stronghold lords had complained of losing men, yet enough remained to hold the keep. It would only take one to catch her.

  She swallowed a knot of fear and poked her nose into the night air. She must forge onward. She had to, now that she’d sent her maid to set up everything. An indistinct lump sprawled on the ground several strides away.

  Hand on the knife at her own belt, Calista tiptoed closer. No movement. Only deep silence, and the grave and the coppery scent of blood. She leaned over the body. By the All-Mother. The pale moonlight revealed a dark stain spreading beneath the sentry.

  Good gods, what did that mean? Had the Kingsbane not worked or had its effect simply taken too long to suit Tamsin? No time to seek out the maid and ask. She’d have moved on to her next target.

  Retreating to the protection of the walls so she could flit from one shadow to the next, Calista stole into the slumbering keep and padded into the hall. Here and there, the bulk of sleeping men dotted the floor. At least, they’d be fortunate to be sleeping until Tamsin caught up with them.

  Holding her breath, she crept toward the stairs and climbed. In the deserted upper corridor, a glimmer danced on the floor before the lord’s chamber. She caught her lip between her teeth. Was the justiciar still awake? Had some innate sense of self-preservation alerted him trouble was afoot?

  Back to the wall, she eased near enough to peer round the jamb. The flickering glow of a rushlight revealed Starke Hammerfell sprawled across her father’s bed. With one beefy arm flung carelessly above his head, his mouth open and emitting soft snores, he hardly looked dangerous.

  Calista let out a breath and fingered her wineskin. This was going to prove almost too easy. All she had to do was tip some of her doctored wine into the man’s open mouth and await the result.

  And pray she’d made a proper batch of Kingsbane.

  She stepped over the threshold. Out of nowhere, a hand clamped over her mouth while long fingers grasped the wrist of the hand that automatically reached for her knife. Her heart buffeted her ribs like a battering ram. Her shocked cry emerged as a whimper.

  “Not one word,” a voice hissed. A familiar voice, thank the Three, speaking the tongue of the Aranya. “What do you think you’re doing?” Mother breathed into her ear.

  On the mattress, Hammerfell turned his head on the pillow and muttered unintelligible words. Calista watched him with round eyes until he settled back into sleep.

  “I might ask you the same thing,” she whispered, in the same language, against her mother’s hand.

  “In here.” Mother dragged Calista into the small chamber where Papa’s manservant usually slept. She turned Calista to face her. Sharp black eyes fixed on the wineskin in Calista’s hand. “What are you planning? Certainly not a seduction.”

  “No more than you.” It was too much to hope that Mother was lurking in this chamber for the same reason as Calista. Not when Mother had opened the gate to allow this man his victory.

  “What is in the wineskin?”

  Calista looked her mother straight in the eye. “Kingsbane.”

  “Kingsbane?” Beneath her olive skin, Mother paled. “Where did you learn to make that?”

  “You left your scrolls out.”

  Snapping black eyes narrowed. “And you could read them?”

  “I could.”

  “How, when I never taught you? How, when your command of my language has been weak at best—until yesterday?”

  “I don’t know.” Not enough to explain to Mother, at any rate. Calista had her suspicions, but she didn’t want to voice them with so many questions unanswered. But something must have happened in that small chamber when Brother Tancrid attacked her.

  She shook that memory aside. “No matter. I’ve a job to do here.”

  “No!” Mother cried. Too loud. Was that a hitch in the even rhythm of Hammerfell’s breathing?

  Calista glanced nervously toward the bedchamber. “Careful.”

  “He won’t wake. I gave him a sleeping draught.”

  “So much the better. He won’t feel a thing.” Calista shook off her mother’s grip and turned for the main room.

  “No.” Once more, Mother’s fingers circled her arm.

  “By the Three, why not?”

  “You touch that man, and Magnus will take it as if you attacked the king himself. He will take this keep apart stone by stone to press upon our living bodies before he takes our heads.”

  “Not if we get away first,” Calista grated.

  “They hold your father still. His life is tied to the king’s man. Escape with that barbarian you call a husband if you must, but do not touch the justiciar.”

  “I came for the sword as well.”

  “Too late.” Mother waved a hand toward the bedchamber. “He already sent it off to Magnus, along with his account of what happened here.”

  “You seem to know quite a bit of his doings.” Calista followed the line of her mother’s gesture and studied the hulk lying senseless on her father’s mattress. Hammerfell’s right arm lay atop the coverlet. Linen bands swathed his hand and disappeared beneath the sleeve of his tunic. “You’ve been seeing to his injuries.”

  “As I was commanded, and since they hold your father…”

  “Can you explain how Hammerfell came by his hurts, since you’ve seen their nature?”

  “I do not know. His palm is blistered as if someone held it to a fire, and his arm has no strength. Some sort of enchantment is at work.”

  Once more her mind replayed the scene. The arc of the blade’s descent, the blinding light. Sorcery—or somehow the sword itself had acted.

  Her mother eyed the bandage on her neck. “An enchantment. The same as with you.”

  A shudder passed through Calista. No, she did not wish to think about it. “I must go. I’ve wasted too much time talking.”

  Mother nodded toward the sleeping figure on the bed. “I daresay my draught will have bought you some of that time back.” Suddenly her sharp features melted into a semblance of understanding. She laid gentle fingers on Calista’s cheek. “Go to him. I would have done the same for your father. I still would.”

  A brief hug was all Calista would allow herself. Any more, and she might have to face a stark truth. More than any of the other choices she’d made over the past few sennights, the one before her now was the most irreparable. In helping Torch escape, she was essentially exiling herself from Blackbriar. She might never see her mother or father again.

  And yet she did not need that voice in her head to tell her where her path lay. Onward. Onward.

  “You were destined for a king,” her mother said sadly at the last.

  “I still am.” Calista could not be any more certain.

  On stealthy fe
et, she sneaked out of the bedchamber. Like a cat passing in the night, she hurried down the steps, past the hall, to the narrow staircase that led below. A sense of urgency drove her now. Soon. Soon, she’d have him free.

  The torches lining the walls guttered in their sconces. Dawn was not far off, and with it the changing of the guards. She must open the dungeons before any new men came on duty and discovered the bodies Tamsin had left behind her.

  The maid waited at the door to the dungeon, a feral sort of smile spread across her features. The front of her garments was stained with blood. A little farther along the passage, the slumped forms of two guardsmen lingered.

  “What have you done?” Calista demanded. “Did the poison not work?”

  “I merely made certain no one would play any nasty tricks on us.” Tamsin thrust a set of keys at Calista. “I’ve collected as many weapons as I could as well. You’ll be needing them, I think.”

  “Yes, good thinking.” She took the keys, inserted one into the lock. Turned.

  The door swung open, releasing the heavy stink of the slops jar overlain with the sharpness of sweat and fear. A moment passed, before the clink of chains heralded a surge of men pressing forward.

  Torch stood at the forefront, wrists raised, ready to bash her with his shackles. At the last instant, he withheld the blow. An expression of utter scorn took over his features. “I suppose you’ve come to finish us off.”

  Chapter 23

  She came for you.

  Torch pushed that small, hopeful—and in the end, highly irritating—voice to the back of his mind. He knew nothing of the kind. Best he remember that.

  Illuminated by the flickering sconces outside the cell, Calista’s expression passed through any number of emotions from surprise to shock before settling into annoyance. “This is no time for games.” The keys rattled in her hand as she crossed the threshold. “Come.”

  She came for you. Not even the stench holds her back.

  “So Hammerfell can finish me? Did he send you down here to lure me with the promise of escape?”