“The perfect time,” Koal replied. “Despair and dark times feed all our doubts. You’ll tell me if you ever need help.”
“I don’t need help. Your focus needs to be on Deegan, our prince.”
The fine hairs on Gib’s neck stood on end. What in the two worlds was this about? Whatever it was, it didn’t sound like anything good. He locked eyes with Joel, who appeared equally perplexed, but both men knew better than to speak.
Hasain glared, red-faced. He seemed done with the matter, whatever it was. “May I go now?”
Letting out a sigh, Koal waved the young lord off. “Go. But don’t think we’re through discussing this.”
Hasain and Tular hurried away without hesitation.
Koal began to follow on their heels but turned back long enough to address Gib. “Stay here. I’m going to check in on Deegan as well and make sure the defenses surrounding his pavilion are sufficient. I’ll return in just a moment.”
They stood in well-rehearsed silence, though Gib could barely hold back a snort long enough to ensure the seneschal was out of earshot. He turned skeptical eyes onto Joel. “What the hell was that about? Or am I supposed to be flailing around in the dark?”
“I have no idea what Father was getting at with Hasain, but—” Joel’s voice trailed off with uncertainty.
Gib let out a sigh. He didn’t have the patience for skirting around the issue. Not today. Not after riding from dawn to dusk. “But what?”
“But,” Joel continued distantly. “I’m beginning to suspect something about Tular. I can’t say for sure yet—don’t give me that look, Gib! If I’m wrong and I say something, I’ll be locked away as a madman. My theory is quite a stretch.”
“It can’t be any bigger a stretch than mine. You should have read the book Diddy suggested to me last winter.”
Joel didn’t respond. Instead, he gazed across the field, watching with a bleak expression as the flurry of work continued.
Gib decided not to press the matter further.
So I’m to be left in the dark for a while longer. What else is new?
“I should find a smithy and have my sword looked at.”
Blinking, Joel seemed to come out of his daze. He offered an apologetic smile. “I need to go through my supplies as well. I think I’ll go to the Healers’ pavilion first, though, and see if there’s any help I can offer.”
“I’m sure they could use assistance dressing blisters.”
Joel’s lips formed a fragile smile, but laughter must have been beyond him. It didn’t matter. Gib would take the smile. Even if the two of them were never true friends again, at least they could continue to converse with one another. Gib didn’t know if he could bear losing Joel entirely.
“Well, there’s Father,” Joel said. “I’ll take my leave now.”
Gib couldn’t think of anything to say, so he simply waved. Father and son passed one another with little more than a mutual nod, and then Koal was standing in the empty space left in Joel’s wake.
“How did the ride treat you?” the seneschal asked.
“Apart from the creaking when I climbed down? Not bad. Tomorrow might be worse.”
Koal watched with stern attention as the servants finished securing his tent. “Your muscles will be stiff. You could ask the Healers for a remedy tonight. It will help until your body’s had time to adjust to the long hours of riding.”
“I might do that.”
A pregnant pause left them both speechless, and despite the mundane nature of tent-lifting, both men scrutinized the progress being made for lack of words.
Finally, Koal broke the silence with a deep sigh. “How are you doing, Gib? I mean really doing? Are you prepared for this campaign?”
Gib chose his words carefully. “As ready as ever, I suppose. If there’s a way to better prepare for the possibility of dying or losing my sister or friends, I can’t think of it. Tonight I’m going to visit the blacksmith and then see if I can find a sparring partner. I’ll brush up on the old drills Roland taught me.”
“Still using that old hand-me-down sword, are you?”
“I could have gotten something a little newer but—I chose to leave what money I had with Tay and Cal. They’ll need it more than me.”
Koal shook his head. “If you were dying of thirst, you’d still send your last drink to those boys. They’re lucky to have you.”
“They’re what I have left. Liza and I might not come back. Tay and Cal need the best chance we can give them. It’s that simple.”
“They have family, Gib. You have family. You’re a good and faithful apprentice, but you’re more than just that. Mrifa and I consider you our son. You know this, don’t you?”
Gib scuffed his foot and tried to think of something to say, but of course, his mind had gone completely blank.
Koal didn’t let the silence fester. “War is serious. It needs to be treated with the utmost respect. You’ll need a formidable weapon.”
The seneschal pivoted and approached a pile of what must have been his belongings. Among the horde sat an elongated crate. Without hesitation, Koal lifted the lid and rummaged through the contents. Even before he turned around carrying a long parcel wrapped in coarse linen, a sneaking suspicion had stolen over Gib.
He opened his mouth to protest, but Koal shot him an uncompromising glare. “Don’t try to say no. This is for you.”
Dumbstruck, Gib reached for the gift with arms that felt as heavy as iron pillars. “You didn’t have to do this. I–I don’t know what to say.” He fumbled under the added weight of the package, doing his best to undo the twine binding the mysterious gift.
The string finally pulled loose, and the linen fell away. Gib’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of a splendid leather sheath, embroidered with crimson ribbon meant to depict dancing flames. His hand passed over the intricate hilt, trembling at the feel of polished dark cherry. The hardwood grip was engraved to resemble a serpent of some sort—no, not a snake. A dragon. The twisting dragon of Beihai had an open maw, breathing fire and giving birth to a cross guard shaped like the Ardenian phoenix.
Gib couldn’t swallow as he gaped at the striking craftsmanship before him. “A part of our king still reigns.”
“You’ll have to forgive my lack of imagination,” said Koal. “Rishi’s sword was the same, with the dragon and phoenix just so. It somehow seemed appropriate.”
“A king’s sword in the hands of a peasant farmer?”
“This one’s a bit shorter.”
The sly edge to Koal’s voice made Gib want to laugh. “I probably couldn’t have lifted his sword even if I tried.”
They did share a restrained chuckle at that.
Koal rested his upturned palms beneath the sheathed weapon, supporting its weight. “Why don’t you try it on for size?”
Gib held his breath but managed to nod. He set one hand around the hilt, grasping coarse shagreen between his fingers, and pulled the blade free of its sheath with the crisp sigh of metal on leather. Koal took the protective casing and stepped away, giving Gib space.
Centering himself, Gib closed his eyes, recalling the teachings of Weapons Master Roland during Gib’s first two years in Academy. His shoulders instinctively squared as he took stance, and with a deep exhale, he swept into motion.
The blade cut through the air in clean, efficient lines. Its weight grounded Gib, but it wasn’t overly heavy. The sword’s length was tailored perfectly to Gib’s arm. His balance never wavered once as he held the weapon out straight in front of him and swung it high above his head in one sweeping motion. Gib wondered briefly if perhaps he’d been born with this sword and was only now being reunited. They were two halves of a same whole.
He came to a graceful rest and met his mentor’s eyes. “It’s perfect.”
Koal nodded. “You’re going to be fine. There’s nothing more I can do for you.”
It was strange how grown up Gib suddenly felt, as though receiving the sword had somehow bridged th
e gap between adolescence and manhood. Yet still a twinge of doubt prowled the edge of his consciousness. When the time came, would he be able to use his newfound weapon? Would he really be able to slay another living man?
“What are you going to name it?”
The question confused Gib. “Name it, sir?”
Koal’s mouth curled into a half-smile. “Every valiant weapon needs a suitable name. What will yours be known as, Gibben Nemesio?”
Gib shook his head. He didn’t know. He’d never been wealthy enough to afford such a glorious weapon. Likewise, he had no idea what sort of name would be appropriate. Gib squeezed his eyes shut. His restless mind wandered, darting aimlessly from one misplaced memory to the next.
But then it settled on one particular instance in time—the King’s funeral—when Gib had looked upon Rishi Radek’s lifeless body, placed so delicately inside the walls of his tomb, and had promised to do everything he could to keep Arden whole. He’d made a vow. An oath.
The name rushed to Gib with undeniable clarity. He opened his eyes. “Oathbinder. For the pledge I swore to protect King Rishi’s legacy and his country.”
With an approving nod, Koal came forward and wordlessly offered the leather casing. Gib reached for it, lifting Oathbinder high into the darkening sky, and when he did, something caught his eye. Engraved in the high polished steel were words.
“Victory not in death, but in life,” he read aloud. “Victory not in persecution, but in justice.”
“Something to remember,” Koal whispered. “When you’re out there, on the field of battle and you begin to think your only purpose is to murder, don’t lose yourself, Gib. Those of us who take up a sword for Arden do so to protect her and her people. When you come home, you won’t be a killer. You’ll be a peacekeeper. I know this of you and will never stop believing it.”
Gib couldn’t say he understood Koal’s advice exactly, but he tucked the wisdom away in the back of his mind anyway. He hoped he wouldn’t ever have to understand the seneschal’s words. He hoped he would never have to kill.
Kirk tapped his fingers on the armrest of Marc’s plush office chair. The dean took notice only after what felt like an eternity.
“Sorry for the delay. Otho should be along any moment. Sometimes his work keeps him late.”
It wasn’t late, only midday, but Kirk’s nerves were on edge. Arden’s army had departed three days earlier, and with it Joel, one of Kirk’s only allies in this strange new world. Now, sitting in this office, with a virtual stranger whom Joel had asked Kirk to place his trust with, he found himself wishing desperately that he could talk to his sister. He hadn’t seen Kenisha in what felt like ages.
I must have been out of my mind. If I get myself caught or am betrayed, Keni and I will both face exile or worse. I shouldn’t even be here—
The memory of misty blue eyes and a modest smile made Kirk’s breath hitch.
No. For Joel, I can do this.
His hand instinctively rose to touch the place where his mother’s pendant usually rested against his collar bone. The pendant was with Joel now, though Kirk couldn’t know for sure if Joel had yet discovered the token, hidden inside a saddlebag.
May its luck keep him safe. May he return unharmed.
Marc continued to shuffle through paperwork, signing some and discarding others as he tried in vain to reach the bottom of the pile. He appeared to be in no mood for conversation, but Kirk couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“So,” Kirk offered gingerly. “This Otho fellow, he seems so different. I can scarcely imagine how he and you know one another. Are you sure we can trust him?”
The sound of Marc’s quill scratching across parchment filled the room. Only after he’d set aside the signed document did the dean finally glance up. “I’ve known Otho since before he could walk. He had a bit of a rough start, that boy—a father who died in combat, an uncle who refused to acknowledge him, and mother who chose hard whiskey over her own son.” Marc shook his head in aversion. “Fortunately, Roland took the boy under his care, and Otho’s been a good and loyal apprentice for years now. He’ll probably take Roland’s job someday if the old knave can ever be convinced to retire.” Marc chuckled, but his eyes remained grave. “You needn’t worry. Otho is loyal to the Radek family, and he’s going to help us while Roland is absent tending to matters on his farmstead.”
Kirk nodded, hoping the gesture would mask his skepticism. He couldn’t help but be suspicious. In his native land, only a fool would place his trust in a stranger. With the exception of Joel and Kenisha, Kirk found it hard to place his trust in anyone. And neither of them were here.
A loud knock brought Marc’s head up. Without a word, he pushed himself to his feet and went to open the door.
“Otho, come in.”
Kirk forced a smile and stood. Otho returned no such warmth, feigned or otherwise. His homely features were set in a hard look of indifference as he crossed the threshold and pointedly ignored Kirk’s offered hand.
A shock of indignation stabbed Kirk in the chest, but Marc stepped between them before anything could be said. “Otho Dakheel, this is Kirk Bhadrayu. Kirk, this is Otho.”
Kirk lifted his nose. “Oh, we’ve already met, Dean Marc. At my sister’s wedding.” He offered his hand a second time, a smug leer spreading across his face.
It was true, the two had met on the day Kenisha had exchanged her vows with the Weapons Master’s son. Otho was apparently some sort of adoptive child and understudy to Roland, but it was Kirk’s impression that Otho was more a quiet, slinking shadow than a man. Indeed, Kirk probably wouldn’t have remembered him at all if not for his eerie amber eyes and unfavorable behavior. To Kirk’s knowledge, Otho hadn’t once wished Manuel Korbin good fortune or offered the new marriage a blessing—though Kirk did recollect Otho snarling something about the foolishness of marrying an Imperial.
What must he think now? Would he take Kirk’s hand?
Beneath the scrutiny of the dean, Otho relented. Their handshake was brief, impersonal, and obviously forced, but Marc talked on as if he hadn’t noticed. “All right. You know each other already. Good. That should make working together easier. You both know why you’re here, correct?”
Otho got straight to the point. “How do we expose Neetra? He’s the steward now. You can bet he’s made certain that he’s exceptionally well-guarded.”
“I know. That’s why we have insiders working with us, too.”
“What insiders?”
Marc waved his hands. “Relax. People we can trust wholly. You’ll see.”
Kirk’s mood only further deflated. The more people who were involved, the bigger the chance of someone slipping up and saying something incriminating. Or what if one of them was caught? “How big is this operation, Dean Marc? How tangled is this web?”
“We’re just a small part, Kirk. One thread in the tapestry.”
“That’s all fine and good, but how do we keep track of where the other threads interweave? If one is plucked, the whole thing could unravel.”
“I understand your concern, but I assure you we’re being as safe as possible.”
“Safety is a relative term. Circumstances being what they are, I have a lot to lose if this goes badly. My sister—”
“We each have our place,” Otho grunted, his voice harsh and devoid of empathy. “If you don’t like yours, then leave.”
Kirk reacted without hesitation—odd, considering how ill at ease he’d been of late. “I will gladly do all I can to help the country which gave Kenisha and me a second chance. Even if it meant draining my magic dry, I would do so willingly. It would be a small price to pay for the future we’ve been given the chance to have here.”
Otho didn’t seem convinced. Kirk knew better than to instigate further, but his temper was now sufficiently stoked. He knew what people whispered behind his back. He knew Otho wasn’t alone in his distrust. And yes, perhaps if the shoe had been on the other foot, Kirk would feel the same. That
only made him angrier.
He turned a piercing glare onto Otho. “And what are you doing here anyway? As the Weapons Master’s apprentice, I know you must be well trained with a sword. Why aren’t you out there, marching toward Shiraz with the other brave men?”
Icy silence blanketed the room, and the bitter stare Otho countered with made Kirk regret his hasty words, if only a little.
Otho curled his nose. “The army doesn’t train itself, Imperial.”
“Enough of this!” Marc scolded both of them. “We can’t be fighting among ourselves.”
Folding arms over chest, Kirk clamped his mouth shut.
Marc is right. We have enough working against us without making enemies of our allies.
He stole a glance at Otho, who had slouched his shoulders and now glared out the window next to where he stood.
Though no one can convince me to place all my trust on the line. Not yet.
Kirk cleared his throat. “What now, Dean Marc?”
“We’re waiting for Aodan to arrive.”
Aodan Galloway? The Queen Mother’s new husband? Unable to still his nervous hands, Kirk straightened the front of his robes. Had he known he’d be meeting a member of the royal family, he would have taken the time to make sure he was presentable for such an occasion.
Kirk ran out of time to worry when a light tap rose from the door.
“That’s odd,” Marc mused aloud. He sprung from his chair and crossed the room. “Aodan doesn’t usually knock.” As he pulled the heavy door open, the sound of creaking hinges gave way to surprised, fumbling words. “O–oh. Prince Didier. What brings you here?”
Kirk’s head swam.
The prince is here?
“I assume I’m welcome in your office, Dean Marc.”
Marc hadn’t yet managed to quell his surprise. “Well, of course you’re welcome. I just—I wasn’t expecting you. Is Aodan coming?”
“Shut the door, please.”
Battle Dawn: Book Three of the Chronicles of Arden Page 9
