With a low bow, Gandrett retreated back inside and paced the hallway for a minute, debating whether or not it was acceptable to spy on the head of the Order of Vala and his mysterious visitor, before she settled at the windowsill next to the door and peered inside through the stained glass.
The small clear segment that was low enough for her to see through opened the view on an animated discussion. Nehelon, expression so tight earlier, was smiling broadly and openly, an expression which turned his already handsome face into outright beautiful. Gandrett bit her lip and scowled.
Who was this man to simply be allowed to upturn the rules that were valid for everyone who traveled to Everrun? How could he attack one of the Order of Vala and yet be welcomed with a hug by the very same Meister who had set those rules in stone?
As she watched them, the Meister, his face so unusually bright, pulled Nehelon down by the arm as he sat on the edge of the dais, suddenly looking old. His back, normally straight and unyielding, his shoulders, now slumped. While beside him, Nehelon’s muscled body, forearms resting on his knees, dark hair falling in his face and hiding those piercing eyes behind a wavy curtain, displayed the epitome of strength and youth. And as they spoke, both faces slowly grew weary. What were they talking about?
Gandrett’s head grew heavy as the sky turned darker, and she played with the plain iron pommel of her sword, which she had laid down beside her on the windowsill. She was still in her sweaty clothes, dust and dirt making the sand color appear darker in places. Her stomach growled. On a normal day, she would sit across the table from Kaleb and next to Surel, digging into whatever stew they offered for the evening, quietly smiling at Kaleb’s grin’s and ignoring Surel’s jabs in her ribs at every one of them.
Life at the Order of Vala was easy, in a way. Every year at Vernal Equinox, the Fest of Blossoms—Vala’s holiday—four children joined the order. And four left to take on their duties wherever the Meister assigned them. The children were collected from the territories of Neredyn. One child from each human territory except for Sives, the north. Gandrett’s homeland. Sives usually sent two children: two symbolic, for each of the twin capitals—Ackwood in the west and Eedwood in the east. Gandrett shuddered and shoved the thought far down into the black depths of her memory.
Life at the order was obedience, training, worship. Obedience toward the Meister and his rules, training in swordsmanship or, for the gifted ones, magic. And worship of Vala. Every chore, every lap around the city, every sharpening of her blade, was in worship of Vala. That was the life she’d been sent into, and that was the life that had shaped her, sculpted her, inside and out.
Her calloused hand picked up the sword and weighed it while she watched reflections of flickering firelight dancing on the worn metal. Fancy swords were for nobles, not for members of the order who were destined to serve their entire life. Their lives a sacrifice on behalf of each ruler in Neredyn to Vala, the goddess of life and water. A glance at Nehelon’s sword at her hip told her enough to know that he came from a bloodline worthy of setting jewels into the hilt and pommel of their swords. She ran a finger over the crimson crystals and frowned.
Gandrett didn’t count the minutes the two of them spent conversing between the greenery, lost in her own thoughts, and pushed away from the windowsill only when the Meister called her name loudly enough to make it clear she’d been summoned.
“Get our guest to more suitable quarters for the night,” the Meister ordered, his face returned to normal, as Gandrett popped her head into the courtyard, ducking under the short palm tree at the side. “And give him his weapons back.”
Behind the calm posture of the Meister, Nehelon smirked at Gandrett, the look in his eyes letting her only guess that whatever their discussion had been, it had been to the young man’s satisfaction. It made Gandrett want to stick out her tongue, but she bit it instead, preventing herself from falling out of grace with someone who seemed to be favored by the head of the Order of Vala.
“Thank you, Meister.” He bowed low as the Meister glanced over his shoulder, a serene expression decorating his timeless face.
“We will talk tomorrow, my friend,” was all the Meister said before he nodded a silent dismissal.
Gandrett didn’t wait for Nehelon to join her at the threshold before she started out the door after a hurried bow. And even if her face was smooth and emotionless, she heard it in her own footsteps crunching on the stone floor, expressing how the tension was there, how she couldn’t stand to have him out of sight even if, for now, he was unarmed. It went against her nature to turn her back on an opponent—even if technically he wasn’t an enemy. Not if the Meister had welcomed him with open arms. She had never seen him do that in ten years.
“You could have taken the front gate,” she hissed when she felt him close enough behind her to not have to speak up. “I am sure the guards would have let you pass…” she searched for words that wouldn’t make her sound so bitter “…you know, if the Meister is a friend of yours, I am certain you’d have gotten immediate passage into our sanctuary.”
A low snort was all the answer she got, and her mind instantly spiraled into what might have made him choose to make that sound rather than parry with words. He had certainly exceeded doing so earlier.
“You don’t think so?” She prompted.
And got another sound that this time wasn’t entirely identifiable—and had Gandrett peeking over her shoulder.
Nehelon’s face was unreadable, tight again, all hints he was capable of the smile she had seen him flash earlier wiped away.
For a while, they walked in silence, the only sound the waterfall before the entrance arches, rolling like a harbinger of the storm that was brewing above the priory.
When they crossed the yard, leaving the pool at the foot of the citadel behind them, the first drops of rain speckled the ground, making Gandrett choose the long route along the side of the citadel that had the shortest distance to the residential building, and crossed through the tightening rain in a jog with Nehelon catching up to her side in a few elegant strides.
“You must be someone special,” she sniffed, letting her own features distort at the gesture, a sign of how little she cared—tried to, “if the Meister welcomes you to Everrun with open arms… and without insisting on a cell.” They ducked under the roof of the residential building.
Nehelon chuckled, a sound that mixed with the noise of the thick blotches of rain now hitting the building from a sharp angle, forced by spikes of wind that usually remained outside the wall.
Inside, after inquiring with Nahir—the housekeeper and one of the few who had been there for decades to comfort the new arrivals every spring—where to best bring the Meister’s guest, Gandrett led him up the stairs to the second floor, where the ceilings were higher than at the other floors and the rooms equipped with more comforts.
“This might not be what you are used to.” She opened the carved, wooden door and gestured into a room with an antechamber and an adjacent bathing room. Simple but more than double the size of her own chambers. Not that any of the acolytes had the luxury of their own bathing chamber. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”
She half-expected to get a mocking comment, but to her surprise, Nehelon stepped past her, careful not to brush against her side as he slipped into the room, and inclined his head. “It’s more than I expected.” His face loosened a bit as he strode through the pale blue antechamber, and he peeked into the spacious bedroom. “Better than the cell, for sure.” He turned and leaned against the doorframe.
Gandrett eyed him for a moment, unsure of what to make of him, half-anticipating he might still attack her. Then, tense to the core, she reached down to her side to free his sword from her belt and held it out to him.
“I brought you to the Meister,” she said, voice terse. “Now you owe me the truth.”
“You can put that over there.” Ignoring her request, Nehelon jerked his chin at the slim, wooden table next to the door and, much to Gandre
tt’s relief, not showing any signs he was going to grab the blade and leap at her. His face remained unreadable, controlled, as if he had spent a lifetime hiding his emotions.
“The truth,” Gandrett reminded him as she took a cautious step then lowered his weapon onto the scenes of Neredyn legends painted in pale blue and shades of brown.
Nehelon pointed at her own blade. “Yours, too.” His mouth tightened as he watched her hesitate then lower the second blade beside his.
“Worried I’ll attack you?” she asked with the mildest satisfaction, but didn’t even get a chance to gloat as Nehelon responded, “Even with both of them, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
There it was again, that mocking grin and cold eyes—not cold, cautious, calculating. Distant.
“Our short history suggests otherwise,” was all Gandrett said as she dumped her blade onto the table, closed the door, and dropped into one of the wooden chairs beside it, crossing her arms.
And that was that.
“So, the truth,” she repeated, keeping her face indifferent.
Nehelon’s sharp eyes weighed on her, sizing her up, measuring, reminding her of her dirty, sweaty clothes and making her unfamiliarly self-conscious. She knew that when she took the effort and combed her hair and—for the holidays and ceremonies at the temple-rooms of the citadel, wore her only dress—she cleaned up well. But right now, what Nehelon must be seeing was a wildling in linen rags.
As if he’d heard her, he averted his gaze and strode over to the small window at the wall to Gandrett’s right where he observed the splattering rain.
“The truth is, Gandrett Brayton, I have come to get you out of here.
Chapter Three
The girl’s eyes widened at the mention of her name. She hadn’t introduced herself. She didn’t need to. It had taken him a week on horseback to reach the border of Calma—not a natural border but a border where the lush forests of Ulfray and the lakes at the ruins of Ithrylan ended as if someone had cut them off with a knife, turning the other side of the cut into wasteland. From there, it had been three more days before he had made it to the ghost town at the east of Everrun, all of which he had spent absorbed in thoughts of how to best find out if Gandrett Brayton truly was what the Meister had promised—what he was looking for.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He could tell the difference in the way she had eyed him before and the way she did now. The distaste, the mild mockery, they were both swept away by that simple detail—he knew who she was. And being trained by the best warrior in Neredyn—best human warrior, at least—Gandrett understood the attack, his appearance at the wall at the exact time she took her afternoon run hadn’t been mere coincidence.
He turned back to the window, giving her a second of space to sort her thoughts, her expectations of this conversation.
He was aware of the stakes involved. The stakes that Tyrem Brenheran, Lord of Ackwood had placed on Nehelon’s shoulders and sent him on this mission. And now that he had confirmed that at least Gandrett’s fighting skills were what he had been promised, it was time to figure out if the rest was true as well.
“You have been here before,” Gandrett repeated what he had avoided confirming or denying earlier.
“Of course I have,” he bit at her. He needed her, he reminded himself. He had to keep his tongue under control, his temper. With a too-swift motion, less adapted to his human environment than usual, he turned and faced her, only to find intent eyes staring him down. How he hated to need her. To need anyone. “But it has been a while…” He played with a string on his leathers and cursed himself for having to do this. “It’s none of your business, Gandrett.”
The bold use of her first name dulled the fire in her gaze enough to hate himself even more.
He couldn’t forget this girl had not seen the outside world for a decade. Her last memories of it probably—hopefully—as blurry as the rain-splattered window beside him. And if she remembered…
“So, what truth is it you’ve been dying to share with me?” She blinked as if shuttering away that moment of being unsettled. If she did remember, she showed no sign.
“You should choose your words more wisely when speaking to someone who is offering you a shot at freedom,” he growled, his temper rising.
At that, Gandrett snorted. “Freedom?” She unfolded her arms and placed both hands on the armrests of her chair. “What is freedom?”
Her words hit him right in the chest. But for nothing in the world would he let her see, even guess what lay behind that face he chose to wear—a warrior’s face, cunning, unfeeling.
“How will you get me out of here?” she eventually asked, her own face mirroring his, her words carrying a bitter note. “If you have been here before, you know that there are only two ways to get out.” She held up one sun-tanned hand, counting for him. “One, you are a visitor. You come; you go. Two, you turn of age and are sent on a mission.” She pursed her lips as if thinking. “But, wait… I have one more year to go until then, and even if I get sent on a mission, my life will always belong to the order.” Her eyes searched the ceiling in a quite skilled display of someone who was having an epiphany. “So, no, Nehelon—if that is even your real name—now, the second way to get out of here is to be dead.”
He could hardly watch her. Seventeen and so bitter, already tested by life to a degree hardly any child in Neredyn was. And she didn’t even know the half of it. Of course there was no way she could trust him. Not that he deserved her trust. So for now…
“It is my real name,” he simply said, leaving any emotion out of it.
“Nehelon, Lord of—?” she prompted.
“What makes you think that I am a lord?”
A nod at his sword was all the response he needed. How observant she was. The hilt, gold and set with jewels in the color of the House of Brenheran, gave away where his alliances lay even if it didn’t even come close to where he hailed from.
“I have convinced the Meister to release you from your training early to assist in a matter of utmost importance instead.” The words sounded like a joke rather than a real offer, especially given she had just schooled him in how little she thought she could ever attain freedom.
Gandrett fell silent in her chair, face calm despite the disbelief.
“I am to work with you?” she asked, looking about as happy as a fish swimming in glass shards.
“You are to work for me,” he clarified and leaned against the windowsill, posture deliberately aloof. “That is if you agree to the terms the Meister and I agreed on.”
Had he thought Gandrett was unhappy earlier, he now saw what a truly horrified look did to her otherwise pleasant—if dirty—face. Her supple lips thinned, and her eyes, big and clear—even if their color wasn’t identifiable from a distance and in this light, tightened as if she was chewing them off from the inside.
“Not that you have much of a choice, really,” he added with a quiet hope he would see what she was capable of if she were to kick back her check on her fighter’s temper.
Gandrett was still fuming as she ascended the stairs to the top level of the building where she shared a room with Surel. Her lips were almost bloody from gnawing on them so she wouldn’t rip Nehelon’s throat out.
So the Meister was selling her to Nehelon like a prize pony. Even worse, lending her to the upsetting warrior. To give back after the task was fulfilled so the Meister could send her on another mission and another and another—until she no longer was able to fight. And then? What would become of her? Would she live with the priests and priestesses of Vala, serve them like so many of the former acolytes… at least the ones who hadn’t died on their missions?
She stomped down the narrow corridor, footsteps enhanced by the creaking wood that made an uneven floor, and flung open the door to her room with a push of her free hand.
“By Vala,” Surel started on her bed as she took in the expression on Gandrett’s face. “What happened?”
But Gandrett shook her hea
d, dropping on her own bed, and sat wordlessly for half a minute, focusing on the reassuring weight of her sword in her hand.
She hadn’t struck Nehelon. She was glad she hadn’t. But even if she had controlled herself enough to simply turn and leave rather than tell—or show—him exactly what she thought of the proposition, she knew there would be consequences.
“Maybe you should eat dinner before you tell me,” Surel suggested, eyeing Gandrett’s blade with the same respect the other apprentices did. Even if Surel’s primary skill was water magic, she had been trained in the basics of sword fighting, the same way all of them had—and she had sparred with Gandrett and lost countless times. “I am sure Nahir can whip something up for you.”
Gandrett shook her head. Hunger was the last thing on her mind, but freedom…
Freedom tasted like a forbidden fruit on her tongue. And Nehelon had offered it—even if it was temporary.
If she should find herself able to live with that one painful detail of the conditions—she’d work for him. The Lord of Ackwood. Lord Tyrem Brenheran. The man who had given the order to take her from her parents and ship her to Everrun.
No matter how prestigious everyone thought it was to get chosen—everyone made themselves believe it was to get chosen—it wasn’t. Not anymore, not when it was your family. When it was you being publicly sheered and dipped in cold water and consecrated in the name of the goddess. And by his order, Tyrem Brenheran had sealed her fate.
“Do you ever think of what comes after our life here?” She lifted her head and studied Surel, who seemed unsure about how to answer her question.
Of course, Surel as a water mage would have a good life, maybe even become a high priestess one day, be able to make some demands and have a comfortable life—as long as she never went against the order’s orders. And as long as she never fell in love.
For Gandrett, as a fighter, a warrior, going on a mission would likely mean that her life after here would be short. Too short to even figure out what having a life would mean.
Shattered Kingdom Page 3