A Vow So Bold and Deadly

by Brigid Kemmerer

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  GREY

  I’ve spent what feels like a hundred lifetimes being a guardsman, but I’ve never truly been a soldier. Even still, I know how to fight, how to train as part of a unit. I know what it looks like when soldiers are committed to a cause, unified in their desire to support their leaders.

  I know what it looks like when they’re not.

  Under Karis Luran, the soldiers and guards were fiercely united. There was a sense of honor to serve their queen—but also swift and brutal punishment for those who failed to perform. I remember standing on this same field with Karis Luran at my side, watching a commanding officer put a dagger through the hand of a man who was repeatedly too slow during an exercise. She’d nodded her approval.

  Lia Mara would never have stood for such a punishment.

  These soldiers expected Nolla Verin to take the throne, a girl who, at sixteen, was every bit as vicious and calculating as her mother. But by law, Lia Mara is queen, and soldiers who’ve been trained to be as merciless as possible seem to be faltering when confronted by a leader who eschews brutality.

  I’m not sure if I expected the soldiers to be better or worse in Lia Mara’s presence, but they’re the same—which says enough. They’re never truly insubordinate, but they’re a second slower to follow orders than they should be. They hold my eyes a moment longer than necessary. They mutter and shift and exchange glances when they think I’m not paying attention.

  For weeks, I’ve thought it stemmed from a lack of trust in me.

  Today, seeing it in front of Lia Mara, I wonder if it’s a lack of trust in her. She may have inspired gratitude in that serving girl with gentle kindness, but that won’t work here.

  My eyes flick across the groups sparring on the grounds, the more experienced officers leading the newest recruits in drills. I’m not surprised to see Nolla Verin among them, her hair in twin braids she’s twisted across the back of her head. The soldiers fighting with her aren’t defiant and shifty at all—but she’d probably pin them to the turf if they were. I expect to see Tycho in the group, but when I cast my gaze across the younger recruits, I discover that he’s not on the battlefield.

  “Jake,” I call. “Where’s Tycho?”

  He steps out of his sparring group and shoves sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, looking over at the recruits. “I have … no idea.”

  Solt, the captain who gives me the most trouble, is leading the sparring group in front of me, and he snorts without missing a parry with his sword. “Probably fawning over that demon,” he says in Syssalah, and his opponent, a younger recruit named Hazen, snorts with laughter.

  They mean Iisak. Solt might think I can’t understand him, but I do.

  Lia Mara definitely does.

  “The scraver is a friend and ally,” she says coolly. “As is Tycho.”

  Solt disarms Hazen easily, but neither of them are taking it seriously now. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He salutes her with his sword, touching the flat side of the blade to his forehead, but there’s no deference in his tone. Instead, there’s a hint of mockery.

  Lia Mara sucks in a breath to retort, but her eyes are locked on his sword, and she seems to freeze.

  It’s like the moment in the tavern, but this time, he really does have a weapon.

  If I can feel her fear, likely everyone else on this field can feel it, too. I see the moment it registers in Solt’s eyes, because there’s a flicker of surprise, quickly followed by disdain. Even Hazen’s expression is shadowed with impudence when he mutters under his breath to one of the other soldiers.

  Solt exhales dismissively, then sheathes his sword and turns away to allow another two to spar.

  “Captain,” I snap.

  Lia Mara catches my hand. “Grey.” Her fingers are tense against my palm, her voice barely a whisper. She expects me to do what Nolla Verin did, or possibly what her guards did. She expects me to undermine her, to rule over her. Maybe she even thinks I’ll draw my own sword and spill his blood right here in the grass. I can see Nolla Verin watching, and she definitely would.

  I don’t. “Run the drill again,” I say.

  Solt hesitates, and his eyes narrow, but he turns back. Hazen frowns and steps back out of line, casting a dark look my way.

  No one here likes me.

  But they fight. Swords clash and spark in the sunlight.

  The battle ends exactly the same way. Going through the motions, making little effort. Following the order to the letter, but nothing more. Hazen mutters something to Solt.

  I don’t know the word he used, but the tone is enough.

  “Again,” I say.

  They fight again.

  “Again.”

  Again. Again. Again.

  They’re both breathing heavily by the time they break apart the tenth time, but the insolence is gone from Hazen’s eyes. When I order them to do it again, he nods and ducks his head to shove sweat out of his eyes.

  But Solt doesn’t lift his sword. His chest is rising and falling rapidly. “We’ve run it enough,” he grinds out.

  I stare at him and wait.

  He stares back, until the moment shifts, thickening with animosity. We’ve drawn some attention from the closer sparring groups, because many of them have broken apart, watching, sensing the tension between us just like yesterday. Jake has sheathed his weapon, but he’s edged closer like he sees trouble brewing.

  I didn’t get along with Jake at first, but it was nothing like this. That was me and him. This is me against an army. An army expected to fight on my behalf. An army full of men and women who might die on my behalf. In their eyes, I’m young and untested, a man from an enemy kingdom allying myself with a girl who took the throne from her sister.

  A girl who’s clinging to my hand instead of ordering Solt to be dragged over broken glass or whatever Karis Luran would have thought of.

  Solt hasn’t looked away, and the anger in his dark eyes makes me think he might draw his sword on me instead of Hazen. For real instead of a drill.

  Solt takes a step forward, and my hand twitches near the hilt of my weapon.

  But Hazen taps the flat of his blade against the other man’s greaves. “Captain.” His tone is resigned. Subdued. “Rukt.”

  Fight.

  Solt mutters under his breath and draws his sword. He’s tired now, so he’s a little slower, his movement more labored. He’s a man who relies on strength instead of speed. For the first time, Hazen puts his heart into the drill. He pushes hard against Solt’s defense, and he’s rewarded with an opening. He disarms the other man, and Solt swears.

  “Hazen,” I say. “You’ve earned a rest.”

  Hazen is panting, jerking at the buckles of his breastplate. “Thank you.” He hesitates, then gives me a nod. “Your Highness.”

  I freeze. Since Karis Luran died, it might be the first time someone has offered me any kind of deference on this field.

  I keep my eyes on Solt. “Again.” My eyes flick to another soldier, someone who snickered when Solt made a comment about Tycho. “Baz.”

  Baz isn’t snickering now. He’s quick to obey. Solt gives me a glare, but he fights when Baz draws a blade.

  At my side, Lia Mara speaks, her voice is low and quiet, just for me. “How long are you going to make him do this?”

  “Until he takes it seriously.” It sounds petty, petulant even. In a way, it is—but it’s also not. I need them to respect me. I need them to respect her. We’re on opposite sides of the same coin: I’m every bit as frustrated as Solt. At least he can burn off his anger on the field.

  But with every day that passes, we draw closer to the time when everyone will have to take this seriously, or Rhen’s soldiers will run us through. My magic can’t protect the entire army.

  “He could refuse to fight,” she says.

  “His pride won’t let him do that.”

  And it doesn’t. Solt spars with Baz for six rounds.

  He learned his lesson with Hazen and w
ins all six—then glares at me derisively when I say, “Again.”

  We’ve gained the attention of most of the soldiers on the field by now, and I don’t care. Solt is breathing hard. Blood is in stripes on his sleeves where he’s gotten sloppy on defense, pink where it’s been diluted with sweat. His arms are shaking.

  Pride or not, he won’t win many more. I can tell.

  Then again, desperation always makes for a good ally.

  “Again,” I repeat. Baz coughs, but he lifts his blade. I glance at the other soldiers. No one looks defiant now.

  I was right. In this match, Baz is able to knock the blade right out of Solt’s hand. The soldier goes down. Baz has a weapon against the other man’s throat in less than a minute.

  “Baz,” I say. “You’ve earned a rest.”

  Baz steps back and nods. He glances at Hazen, then back at me. “Thank you. Your Highness.”

  Solt reclaims his sword and shoves himself to his feet. His breathing is ragged now. He looks like he wants to vomit on the field. No, in all truth, he looks like he wants to run me through and then vomit on my corpse.

  Good. I inhale to tell him to do it again.

  “Enough,” says Lia Mara. “If you please, Prince Grey.”

  I glance at her. Her voice is strong and clear.

  “Of course,” I say.

  Solt is still panting, sweat dripping off his jaw, but he looks at her in surprise.

  “My mother would have made an example of you,” she says to him. “Burned off your fingers or forced you to swallow boiling oil. You know this, I am sure.” When he says nothing, her eyebrows go up. “Answer me, please.”

  Please. They see her courtesies as weakness. Rhen did too. They’re wrong. She’s not weak at all.

  His breathing has slowed a bit, and he nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “You believe I will not be so cruel,” she says. “Is that correct?”

  He hesitates. If Karis Luran asked that question, it would be a trap. It would be a trap from Rhen, too. But Lia Mara is forthright with her kindness, and I think that is what’s most unexpected here. I watch as a flicker of uncertainty crosses his expression. He wonders if he’s pushed her too far.

  “I do not believe you will rule as your mother did.” Solt’s eyes flick to me briefly, but she notices.

  “Prince Grey can be as vicious as my mother,” she says. “You may not have seen it, but I have. You are lucky that he respects my hope to rule without violence. I believe he would have ordered you to fight until your hand was too weak to hold that sword. I am tempted to let him.” She pauses. “But you’re a good soldier. I can see your strength and talent. I would not like to see it wasted. Do not force my hand.”

  It’s a good speech, but her fingers have a death grip on mine. I’m the only one who can feel her uncertainty. This isn’t like the moment in the tavern. It’s not even like the moment she was attacked by a clear enemy. This is one of her soldiers—and she’s worried he will force her hand.

  But I wish she could see herself as I do. As they do, right now in this moment. Because this is when she’s most impressive, when her strength shines through her words. Rhen was such a fool to turn her down when she came seeking peace. Even today, I made them fight, but she made them stop.

  Solt nods, then drops to a knee. There’s no repentance in his gaze, but there’s a shred of respect, which is better. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Lia Mara looks up at me. “I should return to the palace. I have duties to attend to. Will I see you at the evening meal?”

  “Yes, of course.” I pause. “Should I return with you now?”

  Her eyes meet mine, and I know she hears what I am not saying.

  Do you want me to remain at your side?

  Lia Mara lifts her chin. “I can manage.”

  “I have no doubt.” I lift her hand to kiss her knuckles, and she blushes.

  “Well,” she says coyly. “Perhaps you should not take too long.”

  That makes me want to follow her immediately. But I have a field full of soldiers, and I’ve gained ground. I can’t lose it now.

  When she turns away, I look back at Solt, then offer him a hand to pull him to his feet. He eyes it derisively for a fraction of a second but must think better of it, because he clasps mine.

  I’m no fool. There’s no love lost between me and this man.

  He begins to turn away, but I hold fast. “She was wrong.”

  He hesitates, glancing from my hand to my face. “Wrong?”

  “She said I would have ordered you to fight until you couldn’t hold a sword.” I lean in, keeping my voice low. “She was wrong. I would have tied it to your hand.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GREY

  By the time I call for a break on the training fields, Tycho has not yet appeared. Solt made a comment about the scraver, but Iisak is as driven by duty as I am. He wouldn’t call Tycho away without telling me—and Tycho himself wouldn’t skip drills. He loves swordplay more than breathing.

  The soldiers have begun heading back to their quarters, and I stare after them. I should return to the castle to check on Lia Mara, but concern set up camp in my chest when I first noticed Tycho was missing, and it hasn’t gone away yet.

  Jake has sheathed his weapons, and he comes to my side. “I wish Lia Mara hadn’t made you stop,” he says, his voice low even though most of the soldiers have already moved off the field. “I wanted to see that guy puke on his boots.”

  “Me too,” I say, and he grins.

  When I don’t smile back, he says, “What’s wrong?”

  “Tycho missed drills.”

  “His unit leader said he was off his game this morning, and he asked for leave to skip the midday meal. Want to check the barracks?”

  The youngest recruits sleep in the farthest building from the fields, near the stables and the edge of the forest that leads up into the mountains. Tycho has a room in the palace, but as the weeks have worn on, he’s spent more nights here to build a rapport with the soldiers.

  We check the barracks and the stables, but he’s not there. When we walk past the armory, Solt is splashing water on his face from a bucket, speaking in low tones to another senior officer. She must call his attention to the fact that we’re nearby, because he glances over, and he swipes the water out of his eyes. His gaze could cut steel.

  “Your Highness,” he says in Syssalah, his tone so cold that he might as well be telling me to dig myself a grave.

  My steps slow, but Jake grabs hold of my bracer and drags me along. “Kill him later. Come on. If Tycho wasn’t feeling well, maybe he went to the infirmary.”

  The palace has two infirmaries. One houses a healer named Drathea, an older woman with a pinched mouth and surly demeanor who says the healing arts are better left to the feminine mind. She wanted nothing to do with Noah, who proved himself better at curing fevers and stitching wounds and treating ailments in his first week in Syhl Shallow. Regardless of his talents, he still leaves many in the palace feeling wary and uncertain. I don’t know if it’s his supposed allegiance to me or to Emberfall, or if they believe he has some magic of his own, but Lia Mara doesn’t want to make her people uncomfortable. She gave Noah a space at the northern end of the palace, which leaves him closer to the training fields and the barracks.

  I once asked Noah how many people come to him after Drathea fails to cure their ills, and he graciously said he doesn’t keep track—and then Jake leaned in and whispered, “I’ve seen his notes. He’s up to seventy-six.”

  I know which one Tycho would visit.

  By the time we stride through the palace, my worry has grown into a tension around my gut that I can’t shake loose. Tycho isn’t naive, but he’s young. Not overly trusting, but innocent.

  I was so preoccupied with Lia Mara’s safety that I didn’t take a moment to wonder about the fate of the rest of my friends. No one would dare to hassle Iisak unless they wanted to see their skin in ribbons while taking their last breath,
and Jake is more than capable of fending for himself. Noah is savvy and cynical, and he’s endeared himself to enough people here that he doesn’t face the same kind of grudging acceptance that I endure every day.

  But Tycho … My breathing has gone tight and shallow by the time I stride into the infirmary. “Noah. Have you seen—”

  I stop short. Noah is sitting on a bench by a low table strewn with an assortment of instruments. Tycho is right beside him. A small orange kitten is on his lap, chewing on one of his fingers.

  “Grey.” Tycho leaps to his feet when he sees me, scooping the kitten onto the table. The animal hisses at me, then scrabbles at the wood, leaps to the floor, and dashes out of sight.

  Tycho looks from me to Jake, then at the fading light in the window. “Silver hell.” He grimaces. “I missed second drills.”

  “I knew they’d come looking eventually.” Noah glances at us. “Hey, Jake.”

  “’Sup,” says Jake. A platter of nuts, cheese, and fruit sits forgotten at the corner of the table by Noah. Jake shoves it to the side to cock a hip against the wood, then grabs two apples.

  He tosses one to me, and I snatch it out of the air, but I don’t look away from Tycho. He’s in an army uniform, trimmed in green and black, the colors of Syhl Shallow. His leather-lined breastplate and greaves are still buckled in place, though his sword and bracers are on the ground beside the table. His blond hair is shorter than it was when we were stable hands at Worwick’s Tourney, and his frame is a little leaner, a little more muscled from all the time he spends with a sword in his hands. But there’s a youthfulness to him that hasn’t been stolen away yet, an edge still waiting to be chiseled.

  There’s also a shadow in his eyes, something I haven’t seen in months.

  My eyes narrow. “Are you unwell?”

  “Oh! I—no. I’m fine. I had—I had—” He falters.

  I frown. I don’t want to be irritated, because this is unlike Tycho—but my role here is so precarious. I can’t chastise Solt for failing to take drills seriously if my own friends are going to skip out. I can’t expect a unified front from the Syhl Shallow soldiers if I can’t demonstrate it from within my own circle.