“How many times have I told you not to call me master? You are not a servant, Etan.”
“I am,” I said to the ground, to the dirt at his feet. “I am your servant. Like my father.”
He studied me, then sighed. I sensed his approval of my loyalty.
“Son, stand up and look me in the eye.”
I was taller than the king at my full height. I rose but didn’t lift my head.
“Eyes,” he commanded. I looked up.
Fire greeted me. Burning power behind a kind, knowing gaze. I struggled to hold it.
The king stepped closer, into the brighter glow of a candelabra. His blue eyes shone as crystal. Glittering like the sea that surrounded his palace at Talemet. Warm like the waters that lapped on his shores. They were eyes of legend, already famed in lands across the water. The Just King, some called him, and it was true.
But on this night, the night at the beginning, they carried a sorrow so powerful my knees trembled to behold it. I’d known him since my birth. He’d held me the day of my first breath, standing by the hearth of our small quarters, smiling down with as much pride as my father.
But never had I seen his eyes so pained. He knew more than he let on. Understood what would come.
“You risked your life today to save mine,” he said. “The very air I breathe is a gift you have given me.” His palm pressed to my heart, and his voice dropped to an insistent plea. “There is a great deal of courage buried here. And more spirit than most men I’ve known in my lifetime. But son...” His gaze bore into mine, searching me out. My heart pounded beneath his hand. After a few seconds, he stepped back.
“You saved my life,” he said again. “Understand that I am truly grateful. But today, trust was broken. And broken trust is as cracked armor: a fracture in the very thing that protects us.”
I felt Belin’s sharp glare at my back, and defenses rose in a rush of heat. “Sire, he was invisible to the other soldiers. I watched him. And when I reached the valley floor, a force tried to keep me from you. An unseen barrier following him in. It didn’t lift until I killed him.”
The king nodded, brow furrowing as he paced over a faded rug. “Sithians wield many powerful weapons. That you reached me at all is a wonder.”
“It was sorcery, sire.” The word left my mouth as a whisper, but I knew it to be true. I’d felt it when I pressed through the madness. The air around me suddenly thick and rippling, reacting as my shoulders drove through it as if through a malleable wall. The effort called on every ounce of my strength.
“Indeed,” the king answered solemnly. “I felt it too.” He looked over my shoulder, to Belin. “Sorcerers once governed their land, until they were called back to their own land. Sithian lords were greatly feared.” Slowly, he ambled past me, holding on Belin as the two shared in what seemed a distant memory.
“It would appear they have returned,” came Belin’s gruff voice, “if the boy was indeed protected.”
He had been a boy. Five years younger than me at the very least. Standing in the king’s tent, I still felt the impact of my blade through his back. There had been a moment, when the barrier of protection lifted, that he rolled to his side, and our eyes met. I’d thought of my father, of the grief my death would bring had it been me bleeding on the ground. That boy must have had a father too.
I shook off the image of his tear-stained grimace. “But their oath was fulfilled. My father told me...it’s been years since they returned to Valk.”
A shadow crossed the king’s face. A dark-winged memory.
The entrance flew open, and Maledin rushed in with a blast of cool air. He was a young, lean-muscled knight the others called dainty. But I’d fought at his side countless times that first year. A lean build made him fast. Deadly.
He dropped to a knee and bowed his head. Between breaths, he said, “Majesty, we have word from the villages.”
I moved toward him. “What news, Maledin?”
The young knight lifted his face to the king, and my heart sank. There he wore only defeat.
“Tell me good news,” implored the king, though his voice carried little hope.
Maledin shook his head, working the muscles in his jaw before words would yield. “I cannot. Dozens have been taken. While we were under attack, men raided the villages. Their dead...they outnumber ours.” His eyes grew dark. “They’ve taken children, sire.”
The silence that followed draped thick like sweltering heat. The king erupted.
“What game is this? Would they stoop to attacking my men as a diversion? As a distraction while they steal my children!”
“We must follow them in!” I exclaimed. “They can’t have gone far if they’ve taken so many. Send word to the citadel. Call in more men.”
Belin fixed a glare on me before turning to the king. “We should return the dead to their families. If our army crosses into Sithia, it will be an act of war.”
“What was today,” I shouted, “if not an act of war!”
Belin bristled at my tone. “Some of us,” he hissed, stepping into my space, “prefer not to rush carelessly into the heat of battle before considering the situation fully. Another war with Sithia is the last thing our kingdom needs.” He pivoted his attention to the king. “Send a message to King Dreonine, my lord. If he’s not behind these attacks, he has no reason to shield those who are.”
Maledin jumped to his feet. “Are you suggesting we can reason with the wicked king? Are you mad?”
“Sire, you saw their strength today with only limited numbers,” I pressed. “Sending a message will only give him time to gather a stronger force. We must act now.”
“You challenge me before the king,” the older knight growled. I tensed. My rise never settled well with Belin. To him, I was a servant’s boy. My business was with horse dung and troughs. I held my gaze on the king. I believed he agreed with me. Drew on my childhood at his feet, playing with his dogs under the music of his warm laughter as my father prepared his clothes; standing at his high window, listening to stories while my father readied his room for sleep.
I believed, then, that my connection was the strongest. That no other knight compared to the bond between the king and me. I believed many things. And while the king did love me, I wish now that I had better known my place.
“It’s not a challenge,” I answered Belin. “but reason. Sense.”
“And I suppose you know better than your superiors, now that the stable dust has cleared from your eyes.”
Maledin shot forward, but I stopped him with a palm to his chest. “You insult the man who saved our king!”
“Enough!” The king’s bellow drew all our eyes. Softer, he said, “That is enough.”
He pinned a chastising look on Maledin and me, and my face burned when his eyes slid to mine and held. It was Belin’s order I had disobeyed. It was Belin who bore the fracture of distrust when he sent his nephew with me. But was the life of the king not some payment for my sin? I regretted Belin’s pain, but men die in war. Good soldiers fall. It had been the king’s life in the balance. I’d been left with no choice.
“Sir Belin,” the king said, “has a point. I do not wish to start a war with an entire kingdom if only a small band are responsible.”
The words hung in the air, and I wrestled with the impulse to snatch and rebut them. Belin raised his head, pleased. I shook mine.
“That was no small band, Your Majesty. They held us in battle through the night.” I moved closer, imploring. “Call in more men. And not only soldiers. We need not fear their strength or their power. Should you ask it, you would command an army one hundred thousand strong.”
His lips tugged at the corner, suppressing a sad smile. I realized I was looming over my master and stepped back, lowering my head.
“One hundred thousand,” he echoed quietly.
“Indeed,” said Maledin, moving around Belin. “No king is more beloved.”
“This is madness,” Belin whispered, wide eyes trained on the
ground. They jerked up. “We’d be marching to our deaths.”
Silence fell at the words. Despite myself, worry crept into my heart. I was inexperienced, that much was true. But I wasn’t as foolish as Belin might have thought. I did pause in that moment and wonder. The power I’d fought through had been impossibly strong. Perfectly controlled. Such force could destroy us in greater numbers. Doubt wriggled into my once sure confidence. How did anyone defeat that kind of strength?
When the king finally spoke, the words reached us gently. But the tone of authority resonating just beneath muted all our tongues.
“Our children face great horrors as we speak. They shiver with fear in the hands of wicked men. Women,” he said, “whimper for help in a strange, foreign land. I do not fear Sithia’s lords. Nor will I risk all-out war if it can be avoided. I fear only failure, and what the innocent suffer while we stand in this tent debating.”
The air shifted, displaced under the weight of his quiet rage.
“One day, I may call on that hundred thousand. As for now, send riders to gather the army. We’ll rally in the Great Forest, waiting for Dreonine’s answer. In the meantime, let us deal with our dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
ERIS
His gaze burned into the back of my neck.
I focused on my steps, navigating the rocky path back to camp. A steep hill at my left sloped down to a fast-flowing river, spotted with trees just sprouting color. At my right, the forest stretched on for acres, thick and concealing. Danior walked a few paces behind, silent save for his steps.
My feet landed quiet, much more careful than his. His stomping would scare off game if we were hunting or call in the wolves if we were prey. But he didn’t care what lay beyond the brush.
I threw out words to cut the tension. “Your father returns tonight.”
A short growl rolled in his throat. “I’d rather not be reminded.”
Breathing came easier when we were talking, when his gaze was drawn away. I felt the second it left me. I was reminded, then, that we were once children together, and he’d been kinder. Sometimes.
“It’ll mean less work for you. I thought you’d be pleased.”
He closed the distance between us, falling into pace at my side, the black of his tunic and pants a cloud of darkness in the corner of my eye. I kept my gaze ahead, willing the trees to reveal our gathering of tents.
“Are you saying I’m not fit for leading?” he asked, lacing the words with amusement. Arrogance. He combed a hand through his dark hair, raising an eyebrow at me. I cleansed my lungs slow, looking away to hide a deliberate exhale.
“Not at all,” I answered, tossing a lifeless smile. “But don’t pretend you won’t enjoy the rest.”
He laughed, turning his face to the woods. My expression fell to stoic again.
“You do know me,” he murmured. I cringed at the softness...at the intimacy the words suggested. Anyone listening might mistake their meaning.
His hand wrapped around my elbow, and my feet stopped. I glared at the ground. He knew better than to touch me.
“My father’s return isn’t all bad. More time for fun.” He stepped closer, and I stiffened. “I’ve seen you dance, Eris. I know what fire burns in you.”
My jaw tightened. “Release me.”
His fingers squeezed, not painful, but enough to make me bristle. “It doesn’t matter to me that you’re Sithian. Not many Omarian men would say such a thing.”
The word flew from his tongue like poison. Sithian. I was not of his land. I balled my hands, hiding the scars that branded me.
“I said release me.” My muscles tensed. Coiling. Ready to fight him off if I must. His fingers sprung apart, but the pressure remained like prints.
A laughing breath left him before he stalked ahead without another word. I stood a moment longer, heart drumming, rubbing my elbow. I’d been right to hit him as a child, when we were eleven and he’d grabbed a handful of my hair to impress the other kids. Then again at fifteen, when he spread lies through the camp, blaming me for lost supplies. I’d taken punishment, but I summoned the strength to shove him against a tree and bruise his chest with my fist. He was smaller then, with round, brown eyes that still dared to show remorse.
We reached camp as the women began dinner preparations, chopping root vegetables and fresh meat for stew. A few glanced up when we crossed the perimeter, heads crowned in colorful ribbon, the soft strips braided and woven through their hair. Children ran past in a game of chase. Several yards from the food, a wiry-haired dog lay gnawing on a bone. The low sun cast everything in gold, adding warmth to their chilly stares.
Nan, a young, fair-skinned woman who shared my tent, called to Danior from the center fire. “It’s about time you returned. Couldn’t spare any men for patrol today?”
Her icy gaze landed on me. I didn’t stop until I’d reached our tent at the edge of camp, nestled against a wide evergreen. I removed a knife from my waist and sat on the deer skin rug just inside, pulling off my boots.
“She has a sharp eye,” I heard Danior say, as if his decision to use my skills required an explanation. “You know we take extra care this time of year.”
He wasn’t lying. The warmer months brought travelers, traders and smugglers alike. We’d not moved camp in all the years since I arrived, and Danior’s father, Nehemiah, had no desire to do so.
Nan said something I didn’t catch, eliciting a laugh from the women. I pursed my lips and rubbed at an ache in my foot. Like Danior, Nan and I shared a childhood roaming these woods. Learning to hunt and forage. But as age opened our minds to the truth, she withdrew from me. I was Sithian. She was Omarian. And even among the drifters, I was less worthy, tainted by the increasing sins of my people.
I turned my hands palms up, examining the scars left by the master so many years before. I had few memories of the act, but when my mother was cross, she would remind me of what had been done. When I asked her why her palms weren’t marked too, she hit me. I grazed one finger along the line on my left palm. But the touch raised too many memories, and I pressed my hands to the rug, clenching my teeth to keep the pain at bay.
A woman’s voice drifted through the tent opening. “He’s back!”
I tied the cord that sealed our doorway and slipped from the dark fitted pants and green sleeveless tunic I wore for spring hunting. My fingertips grazed the intricate brass decorating the leather bracers I remove from my forearms. Danior’s mother was never particularly kind to me, but the night she left, she snuck into the tent while Nan was away and gave them to me.
Someday you’ll leave this place, she whispered, kneeling on my bed. And they will find you. I don’t know how, but they will.
Who will find me? I asked. I was thirteen, and her words frightened me.
She never told. Your blood is not your destiny, Eris. Promise me you’ll remember. You can be what you choose.
She leaned closer, desperate. Do you promise to remember?
There was fear in her eyes, that is what I remembered. Sorrow for the things she would leave. Terror at the path ahead.
Do you promise? she pressed again. I nodded.
I promise, Rowyn.
She sat back on her heels, considering me a short while. Her hand reached out, soft fingers sliding over the scar on my palm. Her eyes stayed there a moment, then shot up to mine.
Take these. She removed the bracers and pushed them into my hands. So that you won't forget.
I never saw her again after that night.
Nan’s voiced found me as I changed my clothes, her giddy laughter abrasive to my ears. How no one saw through her, I never understood.
The simple brown skirt I chose fell over my bare feet, and an airy white tunic flowed past my waist. I loosed my long hair from braids and let it fall, tying a strip of blue fabric around my head to keep strands off my face.
The solitude of the tent closed me in while the others greeted Nehemiah. Their joyful sounds filled the air outside the canvas wa
lls. A familiar ache poured through me, a longing I’d learned to endure. I’d had a friend once. I touched my nose with two fingers, remembering Ada’s instructions. The goodness of her actions. It had been years since smiles led my dreams. My eyes closed, and I pursed my lips, folding away the ache of her memory.
A hand appeared through the separation of fabric at the entrance. Through the opening, Nan scowled at me and pulled the cord to let herself in.
“Hiding?”
She smirked and crossed to the far side near her sleeping space, pulling the first blanket from a stack and spreading it across the floor. She did that every evening in which she planned to drink. The bed would be made, ready for her collapse. She grabbed the next blanket.
“Nehemiah wants you.”
“I’ll find him now,” I said, pushing aside the fabric to leave. Her voice followed me out.
“I hope you aren’t planning to dance.”
I stopped with my hand still gripping the tent and turned my head. She sighed.
“You were.”
I turned fully, glaring at her false pity.
“Just try to restrain yourself, Eris,” she whispered. “It’s embarrassing. No one wants to tell you.”
Her features were delicate. Soft. With hair so light it was nearly white. They likened her to the fairest things. To magical creatures and myths. But I didn’t see it. She showed her ugliest side to me.
“Don’t drink too much,” I said before exiting.
Savory smells greeted me in the open air. A fire burned high, sending sparks into the gray, dusk sky. A gentle breeze billowed my clothes, just cool enough to raise bumps over my skin. I spotted Nehemiah standing over a pot of stew, raising a spoon to his lips for tasting. He swallowed and laughed, pleased. I caught his gaze.
“Eris, you didn’t greet me.” His tone chided. “Come here.”
I held my skirt against my thighs with both hands, lifting it enough to keep from tripping. The cool ground on my soles anchored me, shoring my confidence. I’d swore long before I wouldn’t show fear in this camp. I gripped the fabric tighter and raised my head.
Songs in the Night: Book One Page 3