I thought of the gezgin, and tried to understand. “And you?” I pressed. “Is that still how you see us? How you see me? As some frail, sacred thing in need of protection?”
He might have laughed if our hearts were not so heavy with grief. “Frail is not a word that comes to mind, no.” His faint smile faded as he addressed the unspoken core of my query. “I am Tuvrian. I will always be Tuvrian. But no, I no longer believe as I once did.” He nodded at my sword. “You have as much right to those arms as any man.”
“Thanks to you,” I pointed out, my heart a bit lighter knowing he no longer took such offense to my unconventional proclivities.
Pressing one fist to his chest, he offered me an unexpected bow. “It has been an honor to train you.”
Over the next week of travel, we stowed our grief and set ourselves to the mission. Once we gained the Septim River, we followed it north a short ways, tension building with each step we took toward Litheria. As we drew nearer to the white city, we saw more and more Persican patrols on the river road. Ducking into the hoods of our cloaks, we managed to avoid their scrutiny. As we passed through the shadow of the city walls, my eyes searched for James’ tree. I yearned to stop, to seek out his resting place and finally grant him the marker he deserved, but we didn’t dare risk drawing unwanted attention.
Instead, we pressed on to Kingston and sought out Tommy. He wasn’t hard to find, his warehouse claiming a sizable portion of the wharf. Will recognized a few familiar faces, and after some discreet conversations, we were delivered to him in haste. My heart leapt to see his sharp, lean figure among the stacks of crates. Hazel eyes turned toward us as our escort called out to him.
“Damn ye, lass,” he growled as he folded me in a tight embrace. “Ye might have warned ye were comin’.”
“More fun to surprise you.” I took in his time-worn face, spotting more gray in his stubble than I remembered. To his credit, he didn’t flinch at the sight of my strange eyes, merely knitted his brows in query. “We’ve much to tell you.” He nodded, satisfied to wait for more discreet environs.
He turned from me to clasp Quintin’s forearm and to prod at Will and rustle his hair affectionately. Our mounts were taken from us by a few of his men, with promises they’d be well cared for. Tommy’s house was a modest but well-kept wooden building not far from the docks. A solicitous cook served us a hearty dinner of mutton and crusty bread as we filled Tommy in on all the events of the last year. Will took over most of the telling, spinning the tale with surprising eloquence. I wondered how long he’d been rehearsing it in his mind. When he told Tommy of my death, hazel eyes turned on Quintin with barely-concealed fury. My wheat-haired companion met his gaze unflinching. He’d not shrink from what they both saw as his own failure.
I told him of the dead city myself, eager to distract him from laying undeserved blame at my guardian’s feet. He struggled to accept my recounting of waking among the ashes, though my eyes stood as an undeniable testament to the truth of my words. The deaths of my last remaining kin hit him harder than he let on, and I could see the grief flickering behind his gruff countenance. He had spent as much time as any of us with young Patrick and his kind-hearted parents. When at last we told him our plan, he listened without comment until I fell silent.
“You’re just as mad as your damned mother,” he grumbled fondly. “Divin’ headfirst into anywhere ye don’t belong.”
My lips twisted into a wry smile. “Does that mean we can count on you when the time comes?”
He tilted his head at me, offended. “Do ye really need to ask?”
I nodded, knowing I didn’t. He put us up for the night, having a few of his boys draw baths for us. I soaked in the small wooden tub until the water was cold, clinging to one final comfort before the grueling road ahead. In the morning, he saw us off with fresh supplies and a promise to be ready to move at the solstice. I lingered at a polite distance with Will and our mounts as Tommy exchanged a few quiet words with Quintin. Whatever was said, they parted ways with a stiff handshake, and the latter was quiet and removed that first day on the road.
Having crossed the river at Kingston, it took us just shy of two weeks to cross Estia and a large swath of Tuvria to reach the first of our four destinations. We stopped at villages along the way to resupply and rent rooms at the occasional inn. In Estia, the evidence of Persica’s press outward echoed everywhere. Haunted faces and suspicious eyes followed us through every hamlet and town. Priests and soldiers of the Divine Origin went about their mission with confident solemnity. I watched as my countrymen shuttered their windows and clutched their children to them in fear. The beast in my chest coiled eagerly, but I tightened the leash and we pressed on in silence.
Their presence was markedly absent once we crossed into Tuvria, for which I couldn’t help but feel a wave of satisfaction. We rode and slept a bit more at ease inside their borders.
The walls of the first garrison were both a welcome and unnerving sight. As large as the fort in my own province, I was well aware that it was merely one of many within a short distance. Beside it sat the fortified manor of Tuvria’s ruling family. With a deep breath, I hardened myself to the task and led our small company to its gates. A pair of guards called us to halt, two archers atop the walls training arrows on us.
“We bring word to the Lord of Tuvre,” I called out to them as Valor sidled beneath me. “From Her Majesty Queen Selice fen Adulil.”
They exchanged a glance, and the order was given to admit us. A veritable sea of eyes followed as we picked our way carefully into the courtyard. The manor was as well manned as any fort I’d seen. One of the gate guards bid us wait as he ducked into the house, returning minutes later with a stern bear of a man in tow.
He scowled at us through his thick black beard and bushy eyebrows. A long scar marred one side of his face from temple to jaw. As rehearsed, Will took the lead as Quintin and I lingered behind, my hood shrouding my face.
“Lord Tuvre,” he intoned with respect as he bowed from his saddle. “My companions and I bring a missive from Her Majesty Queen Selice fen Adulil. Will you hear it?”
I could feel his eyes on me, piercing the feeble cover of my cloak. Fear gripped my chest as I realized just how severely I’d underestimated the difficulty of the task I’d set for myself. After a moment, his gruff voice ordered us to relinquish our mounts and join him inside. He didn’t wait for us, disappearing back into the house as his chamberlain hovered in the courtyard. We handed our reins to a pair of straight-backed stable boys and followed him through the door.
The house was stark, stone walls adorned with banners and tapestries, shields and ancient arms. What few paintings there were depicted great battles from history. We trailed after our silent escort as he delivered us into a study of sorts, his lord waiting. A large table carved as a map of Alesia monopolized the center of the room, a few chairs and shelves of books the only other furniture. Nicholas ben Tuvre watched us with a warrior’s dispassionate mien as we bowed. The door clicked shut behind us. Carefully positioned behind my male counterparts, I swept my hood from my head as I made my obeisance.
“Speak,” his grizzled baritone commanded.
Will took a breath and started in on our well-rehearsed petition. “Her Majesty stands poised to reclaim-”
“Not you,” Lord Nicholas snapped. Dark eyes settled on me.
Damn.
I straightened and stepped to the fore, meeting his gaze with difficulty. He was an intimidating man. I held myself straight and tall under his regard as he took in my breeches and tunic, my sword belt and my short black hair.
“Lady Elivya fen Lazerin, my lord, at your service,” I began with a polite bow, forcing my voice to steadiness and reminding myself that I had prepared for such complications.
“The kingslayer of Lazerin,” he corrected coldly.
My temper flared. Careful. I took the royal missive from Will and extended it to him calmly. “This is a letter from Queen Selice, requesting your a
ssistance in the restoration of her throne. With the aid of the scions of Tuvre, we can reclaim the white city and our nation.”
His beard twitched as his lips twisted into a wry smirk. “You expect me to believe this isn’t another one of your forgeries?”
This, too, I’d planned for. I raised my chin a fraction, still holding out the sealed letter. “I suggest you read it, my lord, and decide for yourself.”
After a moment, he snatched the hefty missive from my hand. Cracking the golden seal, he took his time with it. We waited. At length, he tossed it onto the map table before him, fixing us with his terrifying gaze and jutting his chin at Quintin. “The last time this oathbreaker showed up at my door, the message was the same. Barely two months later, you were named a traitor by the same king your parents claimed to be serving.”
“We did what we thought was necessary to preserve Alesia,” I countered calmly, hands folded before me.
One nostril twitched, his stiff dignity giving way to venomous loathing. “There is a distinct difference between service and sedition. Your father knew as much, once, before that Dockside trollop slithered her way into his bed.”
I didn’t trust myself to open my mouth. Every lesson, every moment of my mother’s training was put to the test in that furious instant. I squeezed my hands together, willing my raging pulse to steady as my blood roared in my ears.
“Amenon may have been misled, but he was still my king.” Lord Nicholas leaned forward onto the table, dark eyes cleaving my calm. “Tell me: did you slit his throat yourself, like they claim?”
I shuddered beneath the heat of my anger and held his gaze. “No.”
He sneered. “Thought not.” Straightening, he waved one hand at the paper in disgust. “Even if I were to believe this wasn’t a blatant fabrication, my men will not follow a woman into battle.”
“Selice is your queen, and the blood of Adulil,” I snapped at him. “You owe her your respect, as well as your allegiance.”
His eyes glinted. “I am not talking about the Queen, girl. She’s not the one insulting my House with her presence, pretending she knows how to wage war.”
It took every ounce of my self-discipline to keep a cool head. Fire burned in my gut, but there was too much at stake to give way to my ego. “I don’t expect them to follow me,” I replied carefully. “I expect them to follow you, my lord."
His scarred face twisted angrily, his rage amplified by the fact that I would not rise to meet his fury. “I will not follow a woman into battle!” he snarled. “Especially not the traitorous bitch-spawn of a whore!”
Quintin bristled beside me, and I snatched at his arm to waylay him before he could do anything rash. His flesh tensed beneath my hand.
Lord Nicholas was even more disturbed by this latest exchange, that my male counterpart - and a Tuvrian, no less - would defer to me. His dark eyes turned on my companion in disbelief.
“Where is your honor, man?” he demanded incredulously.
“Here,” he replied, thumping his chest, voice laced with the cold menace I’d not heard since the crossroads. “And on the field, should you have the courage to test it.”
My heart sank.
Damn your pride, Quintin.
I attempted to redirect the tension in the room, raising my voice and forcing a cool edge of authority into it. “You will obey the command of your queen, or be forsworn, Lord Tuvre.” My words fell on deaf ears. Lightning practically crackled in the air between them. The challenge had been laid, and nothing I could say could take it back.
“Careful, boy.” Nicholas seethed at him in warning. “This is not Laezon. Words like that will get you killed, here.”
It was an out, and I begged my guardian to take it with a squeeze of my hand still locked on his arm. I knew before he spoke that he wouldn’t.
“I think you’ll find that a difficult task, my lord.”
Dark brows knit as he blew his breath out his nose in a sharp laugh. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“At your convenience, my lord.”
All hope of salvaging the situation was firmly extinguished. Nicholas’ convenience was immediate and we were escorted back out into the courtyard with alacrity. The challenge called and accepted, soldiers watched from their posts atop the walls and beside the gates. I saw a few lay wagers, calling cheerfully from station to station as Lord Tuvre’s chamberlain helped him into a sturdy suit of handsome armor, heavy plate enameled with black and gold, the crossed arrows of his House emblazoned across his chest. Between matching greaves, chausses, and gauntlets, fine chain mail covered nearly every inch of his flesh.
Quintin had no additional armor, his leather breastplate accompanied by a motley assortment of other boiled leather pieces. He looked horribly vulnerable as our party of three posted up at one side of the makeshift arena. I wanted to hit him. Instead, I checked the buckles on his single pauldron. We exchanged a meaningful glance, in which I scolded him silently for his recklessness and he quirked his mouth in half-hearted apology. Drawing his swords, he gave them a few flourishes to loosen his wrists.
“Can you beat him?” Will asked nervously.
“We’ll know soon enough,” came his pragmatic reply.
“Quintin,” I murmured, drawing his eyes. Fear clawed at me from the inside. Don’t do this, I begged him in my mind. “He favors his left leg,” I said instead, having noticed a faint limp as Lord Tuvre led the way back out of the house. He was careful to conceal it, likely some old injury never quite healed, but it was there all the same. My stoic companion nodded his thanks, a flash of regret on his face. “Win,” I commanded.
The corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk, and he left us to meet his opponent. They were day and night, as they faced off in the center of the cobblestones: Quintin, bare-headed and wheat-haired in his mismatched leathers, Nicholas, dark beard emerging from the bottom of his gleaming plate helm. A hefty longsword sat bare in his hand, tip resting on the stones at his feet.
“Any terms, boy?” Lord Tuvre asked, voice echoing in the vast courtyard.
His anger had cooled, replaced by careful control. I could hear it in his voice. “Your allegiance, and your aid.” He pointed at me behind him. “And an apology.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Nicholas’ face split in a fierce battle grin. “And if I win?” Quintin gestured to him in invitation. The dark-plated lord considered silently, eyeing me, and for a moment I feared he might demand some unspeakable favor, but his eyes quickly returned to his opponent. “The proditor notum.” I searched my catalog of language lessons as my guardian stiffened at the words.
Traitor’s brand?
“I laid the challenge, not her,” he protested firmly.
“I’ll let you wear it, then, on her behalf,” he intoned charitably, pointing at me. “But she will give it to you.” After a long hesitation, he agreed. Nicholas lifted his heavy blade, resting it casually on his shoulder. “To the yield, then?”
“To the yield.”
It was the longest seven minutes of my life.
Under different circumstances, it might have been awe-inspiring. I’d never seen such deadly skill in action. Our morning drills seemed like child’s play compared to the relentless brutality that unfolded before my eyes, like two flooding rivers colliding, sweeping and churning over one another in a frenzied surge of destructive force. Even his bouts with the Freyjans paled in comparison. Nicholas was a man well into his forties, but patient and seasoned with it. He wielded his claymore with devastating strength, battering Quintin’s guard over and over with the sheer power of his stature. For his part, my wheat-haired Tuvrian spun and slashed with the speed and vigor of his youth, but struggled to find purchase in the heavy plate armor.
I saw when he started to flag, chest heaving. So did Nicholas, who tapped his carefully-preserved strength and pressed all the harder, catching his opponent across the side of the leg with a well-placed backstroke. Will grabbed me by the shoulders as I cried out i
n alarm.
To his credit, he barely limped, though I could see the blood slowly soaking his breeches. He squared up once more, that familiar determined set to his shoulders. The next slip of his guard cost him a deep gash on his unprotected left shoulder. I swallowed a second cry and clutched Will’s arm as he held me in place.
Bleeding and exhausted, still he stood.
“Yield, boy,” Nicholas demanded, circling him. He, too, breathed hard, but the protection of his armor had left him unscathed. Quintin was too tired to follow, and once behind, the Lord of Tuvre kicked the back of one leg, dropping him hard to his knees on the stones.
Yield, you stubborn ass.
One sword lay discarded on the ground a few feet away, the other hung loosely in his hand. Lord Tuvre circled him with predatory ease, longsword resting on one shoulder.
He’ll kill you.
Paralyzed with fear, even I didn’t notice him muster his final reserves of strength. Fingers closed on the hilt in his hand, smashing the pommel into the side of his opponent’s left knee. Nicholas gave a sharp cry of pain, his leg buckling. Quintin leapt to his feet, catching the lord’s plumed helmet as he fell, yanking it from his head. Lord Tuvre hit the ground hard, burdened by his heavy plate. I held my breath as my champion scrambled atop him, grasped a handful of black hair, and pressed his blade to a freshly-exposed throat.
The only sounds in the courtyard were the creak of armor and the gasping breath of the two men on the ground.
The longsword fell to the stones with a clatter. Quintin waited to hear the word.
“Yield,” came the gruff call of surrender. I watched as he climbed off his opponent and offered his hand. Nicholas accepted it after a short hesitation and struggled to his feet. The two exchanged a private word before his chamberlain rushed over to help him out of his armor and Quintin backed away with a crisp bow. He turned toward us with a weary grimace and retrieved his second blade from the ground, sheathing both with effort as he limped our way.
A Crown of Lilies Page 54