How had this old woman known he had a red-haired daughter? But then, he was a red-haired man.
My son! The pain possessed his soul again. He had seen the tiny, waxy-blue, perfectly formed infant who would never draw breath. If I rode slowly, would you have lived?
He was sure Dreea would have no more children. Yet he could not bear to put aside his beloved wife for a younger, fertile woman. The king looked fondly down on Torina’s shining head, bent over the crystal.
The last child in a long and formidable line.
Thinking of her that way made him remember the end of a different lineage.
‘I brought you another present, Torina,’ he said, suddenly grim. ‘Vesputo! Fetch the boy.’
The commander quickly returned. Before him walked the former prince of Bellandra. Dark, curling hair matted round his face; his features, under bruises and scrapes, looked still as driftwood. Dust and dirt had obliterated the elegant lines of his clothes. His legs, just beginning to lengthen towards manhood, were unsteady; his arms tied behind his back.
Vesputo thrust the young prisoner forward. The boy stumbled and fell. Torina sprang to help him. Kareed saw the boy’s eyes flicker wide for an instant, his gaze like a hot sun frozen in ice, as the king’s daughter pulled him to his feet.
‘Who is he?’ Torina asked.
‘The son of a king.’
‘Why are his hands tied?’
‘He’s a prisoner. And the son of a king no more. I brought him here for you, Torina. He will make a fine slave.’ Silently he added, Yes, a slave. No matter that none of your other servants are slaves. This is different. This will crown the defeat of Bellandra.
Torina looked at the boy, at his heavy curling hair and wild, remote eyes.
‘If he is my slave,’ she asked, ‘does that make him my own?’
‘All your own.’
‘I can do whatever I want with him?’
The king nodded.
The princess shivered. ‘What is your name, son of a king?’ she asked.
‘Landen.’ The boy’s manner, still that of a prince, contrasted oddly with his dusty rags and bruises.
‘Vesputo,’ Torina said.
‘Princess?’
‘Cut his ropes, please.’
The commander looked to his king, who inclined his head. A blade was drawn. Vesputo severed the ropes carelessly, trailing fresh blood. Landen rubbed his wrists as Torina stepped closer to him.
‘My father fought your father.’ She said it very softly, speaking as if no king or soldiers looked on. For her, they must have been forgotten.
Landen looked at the ground. A pulse in his neck beat, like the heart of a new-hatched bird.
‘Landen,’ she whispered. ‘I never had a slave.’
The boy stood quietly.
‘And I never will,’ she continued, lifting her chin. ‘Papa,’ her voice rose. ‘You gave him to me. I set him free.’
Kareed’s eyebrows billowed, a ferocious storm gathering. When Vesputo suggested making Landen a slave, it was to demean the spirit of Bellandra. King Veldon had strutted for too long behind his magic Sword, looking down his nose at warrior kings. Prince Landen of Bellandra, King Veldon’s only son, a slave to Kareed’s daughter! That would give everyone pause.
Now, she threw in his teeth this gift so dearly won. For a century, no one had dared attack Bellandra, but he, Kareed, had done it. The king felt the familiar battle rage rising. He wanted to strike Torina flat. There she was, standing small and white beside him. But there was something in the way she clasped her hands together; it was what her mother did when he told her he was going to war. Kareed remembered how Dreea had pleaded with him to spare Bellandra, to let them keep their ways. Women knew nothing of war. They knew nothing of battles, princes and kings. He sighed, swallowing his anger. Perhaps I’ve allowed this war to sully my judgement. Torina knows I don’t keep slaves. And Bellandra’s defeat is complete without this boy. After all, he’s only thirteen – hardly more than a child.
The king forced his face into a smile and pushed a laugh from his chest. ‘By my helmet!’ he cried in his battle voice. ‘She’s the true daughter of a king!’
A light wind picked up the collective sigh in the courtyard and carried it away. Men went about their business; taking horses to the stables, oiling weapons and stacking leather armour.
Landen stood, islanded, in the stream of activity. He rubbed his wrists with shaking hands, chest heaving as if his lungs were a bellows demanding more air. The girl near him pretended not to notice, looking past him to the distant mountains. Vesputo had gone. The young princess spoke affectionately to King Kareed, calling him to her side.
Landen’s knees trembled as his father’s killer approached. He remembered that cruel fist batting him down, in the chamber of the Sword.
‘Landen.’ The king’s rough voice held no animosity.
‘Sir.’ The word felt like a betrayal.
‘You are now a member of my household. You’ll receive warrior training with the other boys.’
The exiled prince felt faint. His father’s dying words rang in his ears. Find someone who can teach you to fight.
Kareed shifted his feet. ‘I bear you no ill will. The past is buried.’
Not for me. My father is buried.
‘Torina,’ the king said. ‘Attend to this boy. See he’s fed, and get him washed.’ Kareed turned and left them.
Landen felt a small, confiding hand touch his arm.
‘This way,’ the red-haired girl guided. She led him into the castle. She moved with assurance through the halls, to a private room. There she gave him a soft chair, then went out into the hallway.
Landen scanned the room. It was the first time he’d been out of bonds or cages since Bellandra fell. If he ran out of the door, would anyone stop him? He was a fast runner. He could get away, steal a horse, make his way back to Bellandra.
But what about the Sword? His father had told him to get the Sword. And what about learning to fight? Did anyone in Bellandra even know how?
He heard the red-haired girl speaking imperiously to someone, ordering a bath, steaming hot. Landen’s filthy, blood-scabbed skin cried out for the relief of a soaking. His hands shook, much as he tried to control them. The girl came back.
‘Your bath will be ready in moments,’ she told him, and there was kindness in her haughty voice.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, ashamed of the weakness that made him shiver.
‘My name’s Torina,’ she volunteered.
He mumbled her name, feeling exhaustion in body and spirit. He knew he should thank her: for setting him free from slavery; for having the good nature to tend him. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He looked at the furniture. It was rich, well placed, well polished. This was the castle of the most powerful king on the continent, if the soldiers were to be believed, and he was inside it. How had Kareed gained so much wealth and influence? Not by justice or compassion. Not by kindness.
How had Landen’s father, wise King Veldon, renowned poet, generous, honest man, been overcome by a harsh aggressor like Kareed? How had justice been routed, and peace bled to death? Where had Bellandra gone wrong?
Landen bit quivering lips as he pondered the answer. Veldon was good, but not a good warrior. He didn’t know how to fight, didn’t think he’d ever have to. Kareed won because he was the stronger warrior.
Landen didn’t like it. He didn’t like it, but knew it was true. In the Sword’s chamber, it had been Kareed who knew how to pick up a weapon, and he had done it without hesitation, with power and with glee, while Landen faltered, wasting precious seconds.
Running now would lose him his chance to find out what made this king the victor in every conquest he undertook. If Landen left, it would be like handing Kareed the Sword all over again. No, he must not go. He had to stay, learn everything he could. Kareed had promised he would be trained; and though Kareed was a ruthless invader, Landen had heard that
his word was good.
I’ll hold you to your promise, King Kareed. And one day, I’ll take the Sword from you. When I do, I’ll know how to use it.
A tap on the open door, and a large woman appeared. Torina took Landen’s hand again, as if he was a small child, and he allowed her to lead him. They followed the woman down a hallway to a luxurious private bath.
The boy bathed without thought of modesty, nearly weeping with gratitude for the water’s heat and the glorious abrasions of fine soap. He was so tired it was a valiant effort to towel himself dry and step into the clothes Torina thoughtfully brought him. Sturdy, working clothes, they fitted, more or less. His ragged, stained Bellandran garments were gone.
She took him back to the other room, and had food and water fetched. As he ate and drank, she watched quietly. The bath, and coming to a decision to stay in Archeld, had washed away his tremors. He was glad.
Torina went to get more food, and he felt himself slipping into sleep; only dreamily aware when she returned. He was never sure if he imagined it but, as sleep claimed him, he thought he felt her light finger tracing the features of his face.
Chapter Two
In the bowels of the castle of Archeld stood an ancient door, cut in stone. Kareed, carrying a torch, fitted a key into the lock. Beside him, Vesputo held a long wooden box. The door opened with a creak of disuse.
The dank smell of close air greeted them as they entered the vault. A bare dirt floor and stone walls housed boxes covered with dusty cloths. In the centre of the room was a large, pyramid-shaped steel box. Kareed bent to open it. Taking the long box from Vesputo, Kareed set it down. He lifted its lid, revealing the Sword of Bellandra. The blade shimmered pale and sharp in the torchlight. It was so resplendent that a stab of reproach hit the king as he closed the Sword into the pyramid. He shot bolts and fastened locks on the pyramid’s sides.
‘Old Talsed counselled me that this pyramid of steel will disguise the Sword of Bellandra and mute its power,’ Kareed said. ‘And he knows more than he ought to about enchantments.’
‘Forgive me, my lord, but why not carry it yourself, as a token of your victory?’
‘Ah, my friend, I dare not. There’s said to be a mighty curse on anyone who lifts this Sword for conquest. Who knows if it’s true; it may not be. Certainly, the weapon turned out to be useless to Bellandra, for all its reputation of invincible magic. But there’s no call to invite a curse. I don’t have any need of this Sword, I’m strong enough without it.’
‘True indeed. If you don’t intend to wear it, why not get rid of it?’
‘My advisors tell me it cannot be destroyed. There is an enchantment on it, though of what sort I can’t tell. Perhaps it’s losing power. It hasn’t been raised in battle since King Landen the First fought off hundreds of invaders, all of them warriors of note, and that was many generations ago.’
‘Strange that Veldon never tried to use it.’
Kareed shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Stupid. Stupid to remain complacent after the message I sent him. Stupid not to post scouts or send spies. And stupid to try to parley his way out of war when we arrived to do battle. After the warnings I gave, did he think I wouldn’t keep my word? He was a fool to ignore me.’
Vesputo nodded wryly. ‘Who can account for it?’
‘At any rate, this weapon holds the spirit of his people, and must not be set free.’
‘Ah. Then you want to keep the Sword in this vault so it doesn’t fall into anyone else’s hands?’
The king assented, making sure all the locks were secure. ‘You and I will keep this secret. If anyone asks what became of it, say the Sword was destroyed.’
* * *
Before she went to bed, Torina slipped into the small room where she had left the strange boy. He was still fast asleep. Should she wake him? Take him somewhere? Her father said he was now a member of the household. All the boys in training lived in a barracks on the far side of the king’s house, near the practice field. Zeon had told her about it; they slept in bunks, took their meals and practised the arts of war. All under the fierce eye of Emid, the trainer.
Should this boy be with them? If he woke up, would he wonder what to do? She would not like to be alone at night in a strange house in a far land. Her father had called him the son of a king. King Veldon ruled Bellandra, so King Veldon must be Landen’s father. What happened to kings who lost the war? His mother was Queen Anise. She had died before this. But what about his father? Where was his father now?
Torina went to Gramere with her problem. The sharp old eyes watched closely.
‘Veldon’s son, Landen,’ she murmured. ‘Sad those two men fought – your father and King Veldon. I always hoped they would keep the peace. Torina, my dear, my son takes no prisoners among rulers. Landen’s father is dead.’
Torina felt a cold shudder. How dreadful, that when kings fought, one of them must die.
‘What’ll I do, Gramere? No one else is helping him. I think they forgot him.’
‘Go to bed, child. I’ll send Maude to be with the boy. If he wakes up, she’ll let him know to stay in the room. In the morning, come to me and we’ll take him to the barracks.’
Torina walked through the familiar halls of the castle, her mind sad. What would it mean to her, to sleep alone in a foreign country, with her parents dead? All those bruises and cuts she’d seen; why had the soldiers been so unkind?
As soon as dawn filtered in, Torina was awake. She bounced into her clothes. She found Gramere snoozing in the great carved bed of her ancestors. The old queen was instantly awake at Torina’s touch. Together they went to the small room where Landen lay. Ancilla dismissed her servant as the boy stirred. He stretched guardedly, looking at them with large, doubtful eyes.
‘I knew your father,’ Ancilla said. ‘Long ago. He was a fine man. None better.’
Landen sat up. He looked at the floor.
‘Come, young man, there’s no cause to be ashamed of grieving for a good man who died too soon.’
He gave her a darting glance. She sat beside him and spoke firmly.
‘I am Ancilla, mother to King Kareed. I say what I please in this house, though I may not choose to say it to everyone. You’ve lost your father, and your country. It will not be easy for you – not for a long time. But remember, you can still be the son your father would be proud of.’
Landen said nothing, but his shoulders relaxed.
‘You’ve met my grandchild, Princess Torina. We’ll take you to the barracks now. That’s where you’ll live until you’re grown. Now help me up, and I’ll show you where to pass your water.’
Fascinated, Torina saw Landen get to his feet and bend to Ancilla. He lifted her grandmother with graceful ease. Torina realized, with awe, that this boy had been raised a prince in a fabled country. A little while ago, before her father went to Bellandra, Landen was going to be a king. King of Bellandra.
Torina had heard stories of that mystical land. Her mother had been there. Dreea had been friends with Queen Anise, years before. When Anise died, Dreea lit candles for her. Dreea said that in Bellandra people did the work they most loved. All the children wore bright colours. Every building was beautiful. The sky filled with rainbow sights whether it had been raining or not. And no wars . . .
No wars.
Torina had learned to be proud that her father always won the wars. Now, looking at the bruised and haunted face of a dead man’s son, she was seized with shame. Her father should not have brought war to Bellandra. Why had he done it? There must have been a good reason. But what if there hadn’t? What if King Kareed only wanted to fight? What if he killed a good man (he must be good, Gramere had called him good), killed him just because he wanted his kingdom?
She wanted to curl up and never move. Gramere’s eyes bathed her with tenderness. The tightness in her stomach eased.
* * *
Outside, the world shimmered under a spell of dew. The upright figure of the old queen led the way over the grounds b
ehind the castle. Close behind came the captive boy, with an expression in his eyes like a creature that cannot be tamed yet knows it has been snared.
Trees dripped on either side as they went, while gold rays of new sun shot through here and there. Torina wondered if she’d see inside the barracks at last. After hiking for perhaps a quarter-hour, a large wooden building sprang into view. It was built simply and sturdily, left unpainted.
Marching to the front door, Ancilla rapped sharply. They could hear boys inside. Eric, a tall young man, opened. He squinted at them. Torina spoke up eagerly.
‘Eric, would you fetch the trainer?’
Eric disappeared inside, while other boys grouped themselves in the doorway, the young ones staring.
Soon Emid, the trainer, stood there. Torina had seen Emid about the grounds since she could remember. His fierce face never scared her. She knew he was there to protect her.
Emid rotated his great shoulders. ‘You called, my queen?’
Ancilla gestured towards Landen. ‘Emid, the king has left word that this boy is to be brought up in his household.’
‘The prisoner from Bellandra?’ Emid made a sweep of his arm to scatter the gawking boys surrounding him, and stepped out of the barracks. The door shut behind him.
‘You are telling me to train this boy, madam?’
‘My dear Emid, the orders do not come from me. Keep in mind, this child should not be answerable for the actions of my warmongering son.’ She looked every bit as ferocious as the trainer. ‘Let him grow up here. In time, Archeld will become his home. He has no other now.’
Emid shook his head. ‘Child he may be, but he won’t forget.’
‘Give him something else to remember.’
Emid turned on Landen. ‘Boy—’
‘His name is Landen,’ Ancilla interrupted.
Emid sighed. ‘Landen. Can you live here in Archeld, forgetting the past? Obeying my orders?’
The boy’s voice was clear and ringing, without being loud. ‘You said yourself I wouldn’t forget,’ he answered.