Mine.
His mind drifted to others in Troborough like Hamm and Alless—though he’d never given in to her romantic advances, she still meant something. There were so many more, many long gone, dead in the razing of Troborough by Black Sandsmen, and the destroying of Fake Troborough by the demons of Elsewhere. But all of them were real to him, nonetheless.
“We’re gonna make it,” Whitney whispered to Aquira. “This is gonna work. It has to.”
XV
The Knight
They stood within the main tunnel leading into the heart of the Tal’du Dromesh. Torsten thought he knew what a gathering of thousands sounded like until he heard the racket of Latiapur’s people above, feet pounding, shaking off dust from the ceiling. A cacophony of chattering voices rumbled like the waves.
Torsten couldn’t tell, within the mess of noise, whether they spoke favorably. Not that it mattered any longer. They were here, and in a short time, the marriage would be official. He had to trust in the future Queen that those who remained in Latiapur were those who most believed her. He had to trust that those who remained might see the victory that this was.
From a people in rebellion to the kin of a new, mighty Queen.
The tunnel walls shook louder. King Pi flinched.
“They are eager for peace,” Torsten said.
“Or foaming at the mouths,” Lord Jolly countered. Torsten glowered at him, and Jolly rolled his shoulders. “I jest. You’re making their leader Queen of the world. I’m sure they’re eternally grateful.” He leaned over to whisper in Torsten’s ear. “Just like the Drav Cra, eh?”
“Ignore him,” Torsten said.
“I simply see all sides of every picture, as is my sworn duty.” He bowed low to King Pi and backed away.
“I’m not making her be Queen,” Pi said. “Was this not her idea?”
“An idea solidified the moment she met you,” Torsten replied.
Torsten marveled at the boy, amazed by how little he had to look down at him these days. Pi was the picture of royalty. A polished steel chestplate with the Eye of Iam emblazoned upon the center covered his snow-white tunic. It puffed out at the elbows and shoulders, making him appear larger than he was. An armored skirt fell to his knees, the plated strips lined by angular crystals that refracted every bit of light around them. And, of course, the Glass Crown sat proudly upon his dark, feathered hair.
It seemed ages ago now, but Torsten remembered Liam wearing something similar on the day Oleander came of age, and they were wed in the Yarrington Cathedral by Wren the Holy.
“You look so much like him,” Torsten remarked.
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Pi said, then frowned. “All I can remember is him stuck in a chair, raving—“
“That wasn’t him, Your Grace. The Liam I knew would have been prouder than you could imagine. To be here, impressing a Queen on your first meeting, after all you’ve been through. His accomplishments may be favored by bards for songs, but yours will be equal.”
“I remember the first time he rode into Crowfall,” Lord Jolly said. “The way his armor caught the white light of snow clouds. We Northerners are rarely impressed, but my wife thought Iam himself had ridden through the gates.”
“I think we all did. His enemies, too.”
“He wouldn’t have been possessed,” Pi said softly. “He would have resisted.”
“No,” Torsten rebuked. “We’ve seen how strong Nesilia is. No child could have resisted.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’m only sorry it took me so long to realize your struggle.” Torsten knelt and held him at arms’ length. “You don’t need to be your father, Your Grace.”
“Nobody can be,” Lord Jolly added. His words didn’t help, but Torsten could tell by his tone that he was trying to. Northerners weren’t known for warmth, not even in their sentiments.
“True,” Torsten said. “Pantego doesn’t need another Liam. You can only be King Pi Nothhelm, and the bards will sing songs of your name for ages to come.”
“They sing for every King, no matter what they’d done,” Pi said.
“That may be so. History will remember your father as the greatest general the world has ever known. Still, it will remember you, I swear it. You told me once, in the castle gardens, how you would aim for peace. Perhaps such things aren’t what make the best songs, but they make the best kings. I see that now.”
“And hey, claiming victory in a second God Feud won’t hurt,” Lord Jolly added.
Torsten smiled. “No. No, it can’t.”
The corner of Pi’s lips lifted slightly as he nodded. “Thank you. Both of you. For everything you’ve done for my Kingdom. I hope you’re right.”
“We are,” Torsten said.
“It’s our job to be,” Lord Jolly added.
Pi straightened his back and dusted off his outfit. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“You really are, aren’t you?” Torsten asked as he cinched Pi’s chestplate tighter. Then, standing, Torsten nodded to the Shieldsmen lined up on either side of them, and so began their slow march.
The crowd reacted as the first of the Shieldsmen emerged, more dust than ever pouring from the ceiling. Pi never flinched again. Not once.
Torsten wished Oleander could’ve been alive to see this. Not Liam. The thought of his only son with a Shesaitju might’ve sparked another war, but Oleander would have approved. In fact, Torsten imagined her loving Mahraveh like her own child. A woman that could be all the things she wasn’t, who could fight like she always wished to, and how she did at the end.
Creating a woman that never was, aren’t you, Torsten? he thought.
Light from the open gate filtered in as they approached. The high sun was impossibly bright so far south, but it was custom—a King should be married under Iam’s clearest gaze. Already, Pi was making history. The first King to marry anywhere but atop Mount Lister.
Then, Torsten noticed a disturbance in the ranks. Someone pushed their way back toward them.
Torsten stuck his arm out in front of Pi and stepped forward, other hand reaching for the grip of Salvation. Then he saw why none of the Shieldsmen cared to stop the intruder. Lucas Danvels stopped in front of them, panting, and barely with the energy to bow.
“Sir Danvels, what is it?” Torsten questioned.
“My Lords. Your Grace.” He paused to catch his breath, then looked straight at Torsten. “You need to see something.”
“You do realize what’s happening right now? Can you not handle it?”
Torsten’s mind raced back to the day of King Liam’s funeral when another Shieldsman—Rand Langley—interrupted with reports of the Shesaitju having razed a dozen villages on the outskirts of the Glass. He tried to ignore the omen.
“Of course, Sir.” He leaned in and whispered, “Please. I don’t want to cause alarm, but I need to speak with you privately for a moment. I would never do this unless it was urgent.”
“Always something,” Torsten grumbled, clenching his jaw. Then, he turned to Pi. “Sir Danvels has an urgent matter I must see to.”
“Torsten, you must be out there,” Pi insisted. “You’re on my Royal Council.”
Torsten regarded Lucas, and the young Shieldsman appeared like he’d seen a ghost. Months ago, Torsten may have scolded him, but they were both at White Bridge and in Panping. Lucas was right, he wouldn’t do something like this unless it was urgent.
“I’ll join you shortly,” Torsten said. “We can’t delay or show any sign of weakness. The sun is at its zenith. Iam’s blessing is upon us.”
Pi took his arm. “Sir Unger.”
“It’ll be fine, Your Grace,” he said. “If the Black Sands’ sages are as wordy as Dellbar, the sun will be set by the time we reach the vows.”
“He’s right,” Lord Jolly agreed. “Come along now, Your Grace. Your safety is more important than anything, and Sir Unger would never risk it.”
Torsten fixated on the plea
ding eyes of his King. He was too young to be married. Too young for any of this. Still, Torsten could see that he was ready. The young King who’d endured so much trauma before the crown fell upon his head was now prepared to bear the weight of leading while Torsten served as his shield.
“Look after him, Lord Jolly,” Torsten said. “As your brother would have.”
“Always.”
Torsten offered Pi a slight smile and a bow before managing to tear his gaze away and follow Lucas down a branching hallway. The line of Shieldsmen parted for them, and soon they were alone.
“This better be important,” Torsten growled.
Lucas didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up his pace, forcing Torsten to a jog just to keep up. They rounded another corner into a tunnel leading to a series of cavernous rooms within the undercroft.
“Lucas!” Torsten barked, clutching his wrist.
“He’s here, Sir Unger,” Lucas whispered, spinning toward Torsten.
“Who is?”
“Rand Langley. The Shesaitju guards found him standing at the gate asking to speak directly with you, and brought him straight to me.”
Torsten froze. The last time he’d seen Rand, he was curled up in a cell, haggard and pathetic, and begging to go after Sigrid. Then, Rand had called upon a blood pact to free her, and they disappeared. Whether or not he knew that Nesilia was controlling his sister’s already cursed body, wasn’t clear in Lucas’ description of what had happened.
“Torsten, if he’s here…” Lucas went on.
“We don’t know anything,” Torsten said. “He could be coming to atone.”
“Or for her.”
“She has an army. Send scouts out across the Black Sands—“
“They’ve already been dispatched,” Lucas interrupted. “Glassmen and Shesaitju alike.”
“Well done,” Torsten said. “If Rand came alone, we have to know why.”
“I agree. He’s being held close.”
Torsten glanced around the corner, back down toward the main hallway. The last of Shieldsmen escort went by. The ceiling quaked more intensely than ever from the crowd above. He couldn’t believe anything but a dwarven engineered structure could withstand such abuse.
“Quickly,” Torsten said.
Lucas led him a short way through the grids of tunnels beneath the grand arena. It was almost entirely empty until they reached one of the combatant waiting rooms. Three Glass soldiers stood right outside, since no more Shieldsmen could be expended. They saluted as Torsten and Lucas approached.
“He’s inside?” Lucas asked.
The guards nodded.
“Wait here,” Torsten told Lucas.
“Sir Unger, I—“
“Last time you were with him, he nearly killed you. I need him calm.”
Lucas opened his mouth to protest, then conceded.
The guards opened the door, then shoved aside a layer of seashells hanging on strings. They clattered as Torsten swept in. During their last meeting, Rand had been so devastated he couldn’t even stay upright. Presently, he stood in the center of the room. His beard was thick and messy, his eyes drawn back from over-exhaustion. The rags he wore were the same as those which Torsten found him in on White Bridge—still stained with Bartholomew Darkings’ blood.
“Sir Unger, you came!” he exclaimed, eyes like saucers, but at least they weren’t black with possession. He took a step forward, but Torsten’s glower sent him cowering to the back wall.
“Not this time, Rand,” Torsten said. “I’ve given you my sympathy, my help, but an assault on any of my Shieldsmen is an assault on me.”
“I didn’t mean it, I swear. It was her, everything. All her.”
“You demanded a blood pact on Sir Danvels!” Torsten roared. “After he brought you food and water. After he watched you, made sure you didn’t cut your own wrists. Maybe he should’ve let you.”
“I thought I was helping Sigrid…”
“And what about the Kingdom that you swore to shield from all evil? Perhaps if you’d stayed, I’d be able to look at you. But you ran again when Nesilia nearly killed us all. Deserter to redeemer and right back to deserter.”
“I know… I know…” he sniveled. He stared at the floor, tears running down his cheeks. Then his gaze snapped upward, bright with energy. “But I’m here now. I want to… I need to help.”
“It’s too late for that, Rand. Maybe you didn’t know, and it was all an accident, but it doesn’t matter now. Your sister became an upyr, murdered Queen Oleander, and then surrendered her body to Nesilia.”
“Sigrid is still inside of her, Torsten! I know it.”
“I was there,” Torsten said. “I fought her, watched her kill. There was no hesitation. Nesilia was in complete control.”
“She turned my sister into a monster…” Rand wheezed. “I didn’t believe it, but I know it’s true. I… I have to help stop her.”
“No. You’ve done enough, and I have done enough protecting you. You’ll be brought back to Yarrington, where you’ll be punished for crimes against our Kingdom. It’s time the people learn the truth about Rand the Redeemer.”
“I can fight!” he said. “You know I can fight. Let me help, and when we save Sigrid, I’ll lock myself in a dungeon myself, I swear it.”
“There is no saving her.”
“That’s not true,” Rand argued.
“All the legends say that a man or woman must accept becoming an upyr. It’s a choice, Rand. One she made, with horrid consequences.”
I know my sister, and even if she lost her way or became an upyr or whatever you all think… this isn’t her.”
“It is now.”
“Then, we have to destroy her!” Rand approached Torsten to plead.
Torsten promptly shoved him so hard his back slammed against the wall. All air evacuated his lungs and crumpled to the floor, a pathetic mess of a man. Perhaps he always had been, and Torsten was too blind—even then—to see it.
“I can’t have her remembered for this…” he wept, sucking in raspy breaths. “I can’t… I’ll do anything, Sir. Anything.”
Torsten clenched his jaw. His hands balled into tight fists. But as he watched Rand floundering, his stance softened. He could never escape the fact that Rand had been broken while Torsten was exiled by Oleander.
“Enough of that.” Torsten sighed.
He moved to the wretch and grasped him by the arm to get him upright. “Now, get up,” he said. “You’ll never fight with us again, but you can—“ As Torsten lifted him, Rand suddenly resisted. And not like a person having a breakdown, but a focused surge of strength.
Torsten’s shoulder came down, and as he pushed Rand off, his enchanted blindfold was torn from his face.
Torsten swung a mighty fist, meeting only air. He swung with the other arm, and as he did, exposed his flank. Something sharp stabbed through a weak point where Torsten’s plated armor cuirass met—one only a former Shieldsman would know about.
“I’m so sorry, Torsten, but she needs me,” Rand whispered.
Torsten caught Rand by the forearm. What Rand wouldn’t have known about was that Torsten now wore zhulong skin beneath his metal armor, a gift after White Bridge. The blade barely pierced his flesh. He smashed his heavy boot down on Rand’s foot, causing him to squeal and pull away. The blade fell out, and Rand broke free, hammering Torsten in the back with an elbow. As Torsten fell forward, Rand stole Salvation from Torsten’s back-sheath.
“Stop him!” one of the guards shouted.
Torsten heard sounds of struggle—grunting, then the clanking of metal. One of the guards shrieked.
“Get off him!” Lucas yelled.
Torsten heard it all. Lucas charged, and his body slammed into Rand’s. They flew across the small room, Salvation scraping across the floor. Lucas cursed like no Shieldsman should as Torsten heard the familiar sound of a fist crunching against Rand’s face.
“I’ll kill you!” Lucas screamed as he punched again and agai
n. Torsten didn’t need eyes to know who was winning.
“Lucas, don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “We need to know what she needs. I—“ His words trailed off as he collapsed to one knee and clutched his side. The left half of his body where Rand had stabbed him went suddenly numb.
Torsten heard the thump of Rand’s body dropping.
“Sir, stay awake,” Lucas said, near him now, voice shaking, struggling to help keep him from lying down. “Help me with his armor!”
Torsten gripped some part of either Lucas or the other conscious guard and squeezed. They yanked his body this way and that to remove his armor and get a better look at the wound.
“It’s not deep,” Lucas said. “Your leather kept it from—“
“My blindfold…” Torsten managed to squeeze through his lips. Now, his fingers went numb and lost grip. His left foot felt like dead weight. Torsten has been stabbed enough times to know that he should be in pain, yet, there was none.
“My blindfold!” he repeated.
“Get that!” Lucas ordered.
The two other guards tripped over themselves, and a few moments later, Torsten felt the familiar feel of his sweat-soaked, enchanted blindfold being pulled over his head. The world formed before him in swathes of white and black, light, and the absence of it.
“I swear… we checked…” one guard stammered. “He had no weapon.”
“What is this?” Lucas asked. While supporting Torsten with one arm, he examined what looked like a long talon in the other. He clearly didn’t recognize it, but Torsten did.
“It’s a grimaur talon,” Torsten said.
Even speaking was difficult as the paralytic toxin expelled by a grimaur scratch moved through Torsten. It wasn’t deadly, but it would be enough to stop a man’s motor functions. Only Torsten’s size and the fact that he’d caught Rand before he could stab too deep kept it from completely immobilizing him.
“The King… Rand is working with Nesilia…” Torsten shoved off and lumbered toward the door. His left side was now entirely numb, and his right limbs felt like they were tied to anchors. He staggered out into the tunnel and hit a wall, where Lucas caught him again.
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