The sun was westering but still strong when a man appeared in the courtyard. He carried himself with authority. When he spread his arms, the multitude grew quiet. He raised a hand and another man, dressed in leather armour and carrying a bright sword, danced out to the centre of the courtyard. The crowd cheered him with fierce hurrahs. He kissed his hands to the people and smiled, bowing as if he’d just finished a great performance. Tamand was graceful and cocky. Landen feared it was a foolish stance for a man about to fight for his life.
A third man rushed into the courtyard. He too carried a sword, but wore only a loincloth. Landen recognized the agile strength of a wrestler in this man: those arms and legs, though smaller than Tamand’s, would be supple and deceptively mighty.
Tamand’s attention was still taken by the crowd as his opponent charged. The people yelled a warning. At the last instant, Tamand turned to meet the appalling ferocity of a sword-thrust. Though he leaped away, the sword caught him in the thigh. Blood spurted over the stones of the courtyard. Tamand stared aghast, crying out.
The other man didn’t wait. He struck again, this time to the heart. Then he stood warily, watching while the soldier died. Before the spectators could take in what had happened, guards emerged and escorted the criminal off, presumably to freedom.
Landen gazed mistily at the body on stone below. It lay as though flung, one twisted arm still gripping the sword, blood pooling round it. The people in the stands sat in gaping silence for a few moments.
A rumble of disappointment travelled round the tiers. They had paid to see a fight. Now it was over and their favourite had died without striking a single blow; died protesting the reality of his wounds.
Abruptly, soldiers were thick among the benches, meeting the grumbling crowd. The people were herded through the gates into the street, Landen among them.
As he watched the taverns swell with disgruntled citizens, he guessed many would seek the outlet of frustrated men, fighting each other in alleys, damaging themselves with heated punches and raw booze. It would not be a night to make friends without paying the price of split lips, broken noses, or worse. Still, the friends made at such times often stuck together for life. Landen hesitated, listening to voices already raised in anger. He ached to do something himself, to forget the laughing young soldier who had underestimated death. He lingered in the street as the sun met the horizon, drawn to join noisy Desantians at the door of a tavern.
No, the timing was wrong. Tomorrow he meant to enlist in the king’s forces if they would take him; he didn’t want to present himself with bruises. He returned to his inn to spend the evening alone. He passed the time thinking of a new name to go with his Desantian life.
In the morning, the groom told him where to enlist. He rode out among the bleary-eyed populace, to the training grounds of the king’s army.
Here I am, exiled again, with ambitions to become a soldier in the service of a king I feel no allegiance to.
His sword and bow gained him an immediate interview with a captain. Required to display proficiency with a variety of weapons, he easily demonstrated his usefulness. When they asked his name, it was no effort to answer ‘Bellanes’. The chosen alias seemed to belong to him as much as the name that had once been given to a king’s son. He claimed to be from Guelhan, an outer province of Desante, far enough away to account for being unknown.
They told him it was peacetime. King Ardesen had just signed a broad treaty with King Dahmis, the powerful leader of Glavenrell that men called the high king.
As a soldier, his skills would be used to keep the peace, unless war broke out. Pay was one rasho a year, doled out in monthly stipends, plus room and board. He was issued leather armour and given a place in a contingent led by Captain Hadnell, a decent man who reminded him of Emid. Then he entered training to apprehend criminals and protect citizens.
A few days later, Landen stood in morning review exercise, a cold wind blowing his hair. Captain Hadnell looked over the rows of soldiers.
‘I have news,’ he announced, ‘that may affect our kingdom.’
The men stood erect, waiting. Their captain was not given to overstatement.
‘As you know, across the mountains to the west is our neighbour, Archeld,’ Hadnell continued. Landen braced himself. ‘Ten days ago, King Kareed, her ruler, was murdered with a poison-tipped stiletto.’
So soon! For a short moment, Landen felt a child’s bursting, painful exultation, to hear this poetic justice. His father’s murderer finally dead! Kareed’s life cut short, just as he’d cut short the lives of so many.
Then he remembered that Kareed had trained him to meet a world he must now live in. Without that training, he’d be lost. And Kareed was her father. If he was dead, that meant Vesputo was alive. How did she bear it? He recalled her grieving face the last time he had seen her.
‘The killer escaped, no one knows where,’ the captain went on. ‘His description might fit many of you!’ His eyes narrowed, and he shrugged. ‘Young, tall man with dark hair, good with weapons and horses.’ There was a collective chuckle. ‘It’s believed this young man may try to set up as a bow-maker.’ Landen blessed the foresight that had ordered him to relinquish his craft.
‘His name is Landen. Rumour says he’s the dispossessed prince of that fabled land, Bellandra, conquered by Kareed six years ago.’ Hearing his name, Landen struggled for calm. It was no more than he had expected. Yet, it was official now. He was a hunted man.
‘Each new entry to the city will be carefully searched and questioned. All new mercenary hires will be examined. He was riding a grey stallion and wearing Desantian weapons and clothes. If you find this man, he’s to be turned over to the king, alive.’
Chapter Eight
Torina asked for hot water. She bathed, soaking away the traces of her grief. She combed her hair, did it in a single neat braid, and dressed herself with care. Then she sent for Vesputo.
‘Irene says you wanted to see me?’ His voice was smooth as oil.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you through with your mourning?’
‘Even if I grieve for the rest of my life, you won’t see it and I won’t speak of it.’ Her face was expressionless. ‘I’m ready to marry you.’
‘Wise decision. The people will rejoice.’
‘They must see, as I do, that you’re the one man capable of governing my father’s kingdom. You lead the army. You know the laws. It’s best for Archeld.’
Vesputo took both her hands and clenched them in his large fists.
‘I lead the army – something for you to remember always,’ he said. ‘As queen, you will follow in your mother’s footsteps. Your habits will be domestic and pious. You will leave the affairs of the kingdom to my judgement. You will look in the crystal each day, and tell me all the visions you have.’
She bowed her head. ‘It’s what I want.’
He dropped her hands. ‘Then we’re in perfect agreement.’ His smile reminded her of a predator’s grin, a predator who knows its kill is sure. ‘Tomorrow evening, we celebrate the wedding. At noon, you will see your mother and tell her of your joy.’ His arms went round her, pulling her into a fierce kiss. Torina submitted.
‘Remember, one word against me—’
‘Don’t concern yourself, my lord,’ she replied, letting him see her fear. He seemed to relax, moving to the door.
‘Now we must rest, in preparation.’
She reached out to him. He raised an eyebrow. ‘May I have a sleeping draught tonight?’ she said. ‘My sleep has been fitful.’
‘Ah. Certainly. Irene will bring it.’
He left, trailed by Irene. Torina heard the key grinding. She stared at the door and thought of her mother. For the first time in weeks, she let her tears fall.
Irene, dressed in one of her favourite gowns, the soft green one with lace at the collar and sleeves, swished through the halls of Archeld’s castle, carrying a tray with a goblet on it. Her hair was in a single braid down her back. Many
women envied her that hair, she knew, so long and thick and golden.
She had to remind herself that this time she was going to Torina’s room. Usually, when she carried a goblet, it meant the queen.
The goblet the queen drank every evening made her sleep long and deeply; it took her until noon to be roused each day. Then she would go to Torina’s door to plead with her daughter. Torina always played her part, sending her mother away. The queen would be carried back to her rooms to mourn and cry. Will I start bringing the princess a goblet every night, now that she’s going to be queen? Irene wondered.
Torina was so quiet; never any trouble. She just mooned around, listless and slow. Vesputo still planned to marry her, and expected her to look in the crystal for him, to tell him what was in store. Not if I can help it. Irene fingered the pocket of her silk dress, feeling the weight of Torina’s crystal. Tonight the moon was full. When she told Vesputo what Torina said about how to see the future, he agreed she could keep the stone till morning. Once I can see visions, Vesputo will keep me with him, always. I’ll be the queen of his heart for ever.
Toban leaned casually against the wall by Torina’s door. He had orders never to look as if he were standing guard. If anyone enquired, he was there in case the mad princess needed anything or anyone. Irene smiled at him, even though she knew her veil made it hard to see her face. He glanced both ways down the hall and opened the door. Yawning as he waved her through, he pinched her as she passed. He always pinched or squeezed, and Irene let him. She could tell Vesputo, but what was the harm? Toban was handsome.
She entered the room, and heard the sound of the key behind her. Torina was in bed, dressed in a night gown, hair over her shoulder in a red braid, covers pulled halfway up.
Her hair is as thick and long as mine; I wonder if Vesputo likes it? Her face is strange though. She used to be beautiful. Now she’s far too pale.
Irene stooped to set the tray down by the bedside. As she did, Torina flashed off the covers and sprang up, a dagger bright in her hand. Irene felt her braid grabbed from behind, her head tilted back. She gasped as steel was laid against the skin of her neck.
‘One sound and I kill you,’ Torina hissed. Irene whimpered. The knife dug into her neck. She froze.
‘Drink it,’ Torina ordered. Irene’s thoughts spun wildly, panicked by the pricking steel.
‘Drink it,’ she heard again, and realized Torina meant the goblet. She lifted the sleeping potion and set it to her lips. She drained it, a few drops dribbling on her chin.
‘Good. Now sit.’ Torina yanked on her braid, steering her. Irene’s knees gave and the bed caught her. Torina let go of her hair. The knife left her neck, but the princess remained in front of her, dagger poised, eyes burning.
‘Wh-what are you going to do?’
‘In a few minutes you won’t know what I do, or care, until tomorrow.’
Tomorrow! Then she would not be killed. She was only being put to sleep. Torina must intend something desperate, but she, Irene, would not be harmed. Vesputo would be angry, but what could she do? She’d been taken by surprise. How could she know that the docile girl would turn dangerous?
Torina stood over her, watching every breath she took. Irene looked down at her hands, captivated by the pattern of lace on her sleeves. Her breathing changed, getting slow and heavy. Her eyelids drooped beyond the call of her will. The lace glimmered oddly. She sank on to the pillow.
Dagger ready, Torina examined the sleeping girl. She lifted Irene’s arms and let them fall back limp. The drugs, whatever they were, had taken full effect. Good. Irene wouldn’t be able to tell anyone anything until morning.
She set to work. Grabbing Irene’s long blonde braid, she cut it off with her dagger and tossed it on the bed. Closing her eyes, she reached behind and severed her own braid. She took off Irene’s lace cap and carefully pinned the yellow hair inside it.
‘How fortunate that you wear those foolish little veils,’ she said to the sleeping figure on the bed. She bent to undress Irene.
Faint sounds from the hall hammered at her heart. Soon she stood by the bed, adjusting her own simple nightcap on Irene’s head. Pinned to it was the red braid. Only the curve of Irene’s cheek was visible. Torina hurriedly got into the other woman’s elaborate dress, deft fingers nervously buttoning and lacing.
In the skirts of the gown, her hand found a pocket weighted with some object. Her fingers recognized the crystal! Drawing it out, she clasped it.
She fastened Irene’s cap on her own head, dropping the veil over her face.
She pulled a stone from the hearth. It concealed a recess she’d hollowed out as a child, playing games of secret intrigue suggested by Landen. Here, long ago, she’d placed the little dagger and a small velvet bag of rubies. She remembered his solemn eyes the day he told her, ‘You never know when your life will change.’ She’d laughed then, believing nothing could disrupt her secure future. Still, she’d enjoyed playing at preparing for evil times, storing secret treasures against some distant, dark day.
That day was come. She slipped the crystal into the bag of rubies. She gave a last tug to the blankets over Irene, picked up the tray with its empty goblet, and went to the door.
She tapped out Irene’s series of knocks. She knew them perfectly. The door opened. Toban peered in, looked at the bed, nodded absently. He squeezed her waist as she went past him. Torina’s heart jumped. What would Irene do? Sweat trickled down her back under the silk. She took her cue from the man, who touched her as if out of habit, and pretended not to notice.
‘Good night,’ he said. She waved two fingers at him as she sashayed away. She knew it was one of Irene’s favourite gestures.
Eric Aldon paced out his duty in front of the great stables. He liked the stable post better than watching the castle or grounds. In King Kareed’s day, there had been few sentries: King Kareed took his safety for granted when he was at home. Now, the place teemed with active soldiers.
Yes, the stables were better. Here, at least, he was alone, now that the early evening guard had left for the night. He could walk to relieve the tedium of the long hours, the view was pleasant and soft nickers of the horse soothed him far more than human conversation. He was free to ponder in solitude, though his thoughts gave him no peace.
It seemed to Eric that his twenty-four years shouldn’t be enough to make him feel old. Yet old was how he felt, and sad, when he looked at what the kingdom had become in two short months.
It was as if all of Archeld had darkened. People neither laughed as much nor talked as loud as they once had. It was strange to have Vesputo behaving like a king, when he’d never been crowned, and people scrambling to serve him, as if it were an honour. He was going to marry Princess Torina, everyone knew, but . . .
Eric missed the princess. Oh, she’d led him on many a goose-chase over the years. In the old days, whoever was on duty might find himself looking for her. Now, it was a pity. Everyone said she was half-mad. Never let anyone near her but Vesputo.
And the queen? No one saw her any more either. She kept to her rooms, and there were rumours.
Eric’s thoughts broke mid-branch at the sound of soft, hurrying footsteps. He knew his orders. He was supposed to hail whoever it was, loud enough for the other guards to hear. Instead, he stepped back into the shadow of the stable and watched to see who was coming.
It was a woman. Eric knew her. That veil, that hair. Only Irene dressed and walked that way.
She sauntered up to him, all silk and lace. ‘I need the king’s horse. Vesputo commands it.’ Her voice sounded strained.
Eric felt anger welling. ‘You get no horse just by saying Vesputo. Do you carry his ring?’ He folded his arms. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘he ain’t king yet. And you are no princess.’
He thought she was breathing very hard. Too hard. He stared at her, annoyed at the way the veil kept her face from him, puzzled that she wore no cape in the chilly air.
She reached her hands to the veil as
if it was something heavy to lift, and pulled up the gossamer fabric.
The princess! It was she. But her face was all changed. Thin and white. Her face had always reminded him of a rose. Smooth and pink and full of sweet life. She used to have a joyful glow. That was gone. Now her eyes looked like something was hunting her that she wanted to kill.
‘Now will you give me a horse?’ she asked.
‘Princess!’
‘I need a horse. Please. If you ever loved your king or me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away.’ She looked at him with unwavering eyes, and no smile. She always used to smile, at least a little, when she talked.
‘You’ve gone mad, just as they say!’ It was out before he could think.
For a moment, he saw the familiar Princess Torina blaze into her face. ‘Have my old friends believed that drivel? Do I look mad?’
Eric smiled suddenly. He wondered how he could have trusted such a tale.
If she was sane, though, something was very wrong. He drew her into the darkness of the stable wall, putting a finger to his lips.
‘Where have you been, then, Princess?’ he asked softly.
‘Vesputo killed the king and wants to force a marriage. I’ve been a prisoner since my father’s death. Vesputo says if I tell my mother she’ll be killed.’ The words rushed from her like stream at flood.
Eric’s smile vanished. ‘V-Vesputo killed King Kareed?’
‘Yes, Eric, he did. Please. We must hurry! I just escaped, and need a horse.’
Eric gaped at her pale, pleading face, her thin hands twisting over each other. Was this then, the truth he had vaguely sensed? A murderer posing as king? He heard a faint ringing in his ears. His legs and arms floated in a tingling numbness.
He nodded and opened the stable, taking the lantern from where it hung on a hook by the door. Torina followed him in. Lantern light flickered and danced. The animals stirred. Torina went to Amber’s stall.