The King's Whisper

by T. S. Cleveland

  Unsurprisingly, Selon refused to be ignored. “Sleep well?” she asked in a way that alluded to nothing but vulgarities.

  Felix whipped the hair from his eyes with a nod of his head. “Wonderfully,” he answered, and though he would have responded the same whether he’d experienced a restful night or not, the answer was irrefutably true. He had slept wonderfully, and for a moment there, he’d woken wonderfully, as well.

  He felt a phantom flash of heat on his waist and his cheeks burned. He tried to turn his head away, but Selon caught the tinge in his complexion and chuckled darkly. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was about to open her mouth for reasons beyond the insidiousness of her laughter, and so he moved quickly to Dot’s side, shamelessly using the cook as a shield.

  Dot scoffed at him and then peered over his spectacles at Selon with contempt. “Why are you torturing the flautist?” he asked with a point of his spoon. “Didn’t King give you work to do?”

  Selon pouted and tried to tug at Dot’s braid, but he maneuvered out of her reach and smacked her outstretched hand with his spoon. “Since when are you his protector?” she asked, rubbing at the pink mark left on her hand.

  “Since he annoys me less than you,” Dot said. “Now stop sulking and get started before you slack off too long and I get wrangled into helping you. I don’t have the time or the patience.”

  Selon kept up her pouting and remained where she stood, not looking at all interested in tending to her chores. “I hate having to go to so much trouble,” she whined. “Why should I have to set up extra tents when we all know they’re going to get drunk and pass out around the fire anyway?”

  “If you’d rather put together a meal enough for twice as many mouths as usual, with only half a day’s notice, please, by all means, let’s switch chores,” replied Dot with a sneer.

  Felix looked between the bandits, feeling his curiosity pique. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is someone coming for dinner?”

  Selon cackled brusquely and Dot rolled his eyes at her before turning to Felix. “King received a message before breakfast from another bandit gang. They’ll be here for dinner and stay the night. We’re,” he shot Selon a dark look, “less than excited to be hosting them.”

  “More bandits?” Felix asked, instant apprehension prickling the back of his neck. “Is that a usual thing, to visit each other? Or is it just because Torsten is the bandit king?”

  Dot, Selon, and every bandit within hearing distance broke into laughter. There was a chorus of eye wiping and the slapping of knees while Felix looked around in confusion. “Why are you laughing? What’s so funny?”

  It was Dot who regained his composure first. He set his stirring spoon down and wiped at his spectacles before finding the strength to speak without laughing. “Dear Felix, there is no such thing as a ‘bandit king’. What in the world gave you that idea?”

  Deeply puzzled, Felix pulled his furs more snugly around his shoulders and breathed in a whiff of peppermint and pine. “When I was first brought to camp, you lot called him the King of Bandits,” he insisted, casting his thoughts back to those first horrifying moments. “And you all call him King!” The bandits started laughing harder and Felix nearly stomped his foot. “So he’s not the King of Bandits?”

  It was Selon who spoke next. “Bandits don’t have a king,” she said. “It’s just a nickname.”

  “But why is his nickname King?”

  “Because he’s our leader,” answered Dot, waving Selon off again with his spoon.

  “That’s not why,” Selon said, dodging Dot’s swipe. “We call him King because it’s hilarious.”

  “I tried to call him King and he got angry,” complained Felix.

  “That’s why it’s hilarious,” Selon continued wickedly. “He doesn’t like it, because it’s so close to the truth.”

  “Stop cackling, Selon,” Dot ordered. When he focused back on Felix, the humor had mostly left his face and his eyes were serious behind his thick lenses. “We do it to torment him, yes, but it’s good natured torment, I assure you,” he explained, as if Felix cared whether Torsten was tormented good naturedly or not. “King is of noble birth, you see, so we find it quite amusing to anoint him as our King of Bandits.”

  “He’s a noble?” Felix asked, painfully aware of the jump in octave his voice had taken. “Is he from the Royal Quarter?”

  Dot looked a bit reluctant to spill any more details. Luckily, Selon was made of more ambiguous morals and loyalties. “He’s the bastard son of the queen’s favorite councilman,” she revealed. “He’s not just from the Royal Quarter; he grew up in the palace.”

  Felix could hardly believe it. “Then what’s he doing out here in the woods? Why is he a bandit, stealing from his own people?”

  “Because we’re his family now,” said Selon. “Not those royal assholes. And he does a lot more good for Viridor’s people out here than he ever could’ve done in the Royal Quarter, working for that imbecile of a queen.”

  Felix had to admit—quietly and to himself—that he had not been especially impressed by Queen Bellamy in the scant time they’d spent together. She was elegant and beautiful and presented herself with the air of confidence and regality all royals strove for, but she had also allowed anti-elemental zealotry to choke Viridor into a world inhospitable for those who were different. A terrible thing, made even worse by the discovery that Queen Bellamy herself was an elemental. Even now that the High Priestess was dead and her followers had scattered, now that Scorch had forced the queen to destroy the laws against elementals, and she’d decided—with help from Audrey—to open a school for elemental training, Felix didn’t fully trust her competency as a ruler. It seemed as if all her good ideas had come from others, and that, if left to her own devices, Queen Bellamy would have let the anti-elemental decrees remain forever. He didn’t think he would call her an imbecile, but he was reluctant to offer her praise, all the same.

  But he couldn’t explain that to Selon and Dot, mostly because he didn’t need them thinking he was well acquainted with the Queen of Viridor. They might think him a royal again, and then what would they do with him? Torsten didn’t appear to be a fan of anyone from the Royal Quarter, which was odd, now that Felix knew that’s where he hailed from. He wondered why he had left the Quarter in the first place, and how he’d come to lead a band of bandits.

  “Selon, get started on those tents,” a voice boomed behind him.

  Felix spun around with a jolt to find Torsten there, looking cross. Selon gave him a sharp nod and headed off at once, with no more hint of complaint. Then Torsten was stepping into Felix’s space and taking his chin in one hand, angling his face. “Flautist, hold still.”

  “W-what are you d-doing?” Felix asked, cringing at his stutter.

  Torsten’s fingers were warm and demanding on his skin, his hand cupping Felix’s jaw and his thumb smoothing beneath his eye. Torsten was looking at him with such concentration that Felix did not even notice the stick of charcoal in his other hand until he was holding it up in front of his face. “We have guests coming,” Torsten began. “Close your eyes.”

  “B-but—”

  “Close them,” Torsten demanded, and Felix let his eyes drift shut. A cool pressure passed carefully over his lids. “Don’t take this off until they’re gone,” Torsten muttered, moving to Felix’s other eyelid and marking it with the charcoal. “Open.”

  Felix opened his eyes, thinking Torsten would unhand him and step away, but he remained close, holding Felix’s face in his hand. “Look up,” he ordered next. “And keep your eyes open.”

  Felix did as he was told, flinching when Torsten brought the charcoal stick close to his eye.

  “Hold still,” Torsten whispered, his fingers tightening around Felix’s jaw. “I won’t hurt you. Trust me.”

  It was said so casually, so earnestly, that Felix was shocked into compliancy. He held still, trying not to shy away as the charcoal neared his eye. Torsten continued speaking as he drew
a thick line across Felix’s lower lids. “Stay close to me while they’re here. Don’t wander off on your own. You may speak if spoken to, but don’t go out of your way to make conversation.”

  “You mean with the other bandits?” Felix asked, blinking hard when Torsten finally finished with the charcoal.

  Torsten moved his thumb to the corner of Felix’s eye, presumably to fix a smudge, and then he backed away completely. “They’re dangerous,” he warned.

  “I’ve been conversing with dangerous bandits for a while now, if you haven’t noticed,” Felix said.

  “Yes, but these aren’t fruit bandits.” Torsten’s smirk returned, but there was a strain that remained at the corners of his eyes that was worrisome. “I’m serious. Stay close to me while they’re here.”

  Felix nodded.

  “Say it,” Torsten pressed.

  Felix swallowed, exhaling slowly. “I’ll stay close to you,” he promised.

  Torsten looked him up and down, and he must have been satisfied with the looks of him—the oversized shirt and trousers, the fur pelt, the charcoal smudges—because he nodded his head in approval and turned his attention to Dot. “Let’s have the casks open and ready for their arrival.”

  Dot saluted him with his spoon and Torsten looked ready to leave, but Felix caught a handful of fur before he could go. “Why are they coming here?” he asked, slowly extricating his fingers from Torsten’s pelt.

  “They wish to trade.” Torsten’s words were clipped. It was obvious how anxious the thought of the other bandits was making him, a stark contrast to the man who’d been laughing and play fighting the day before.

  “Do they have something you want?” Felix remembered Rex, the tradesman from his village, but he had a feeling the bandits wouldn’t be trading in fabrics and woodcraft.

  Torsten’s gaze sharpened. “Yes. I think they might.”

  “And what do they want? Apples?”

  Torsten studied Felix for a quiet moment, and then his shoulders stiffened and his mouth tensed. “We’ll see.”

  9 - A Simple Trade

  They came at nightfall.

  When the campfires were blazing and the casks of guild-brewed whiskey were opened and the extra tents were set up, their horses could be heard from the trees. Felix—who had been sentenced to collecting dirty mugs from around camp and bringing them back to Dot’s cooking station to clean—had his hand submerged in a bucket of water when he first caught sight of them.

  They were shadows at the edge of the clearing, still too far from the campfires to be detailed, but Felix could see they were dismounting, some passing their reins to Harold. And because he’d been waiting for the past hour, tugging at his hair and ordering people around, Torsten was right there to greet them. He moved with authority, and Felix was transfixed as he spoke inaudible words to his guests. The camp was eerily quiet during those first few moments, when no one could hear or see much of anything, and even Dot was holding his breath as he stirred his pot. Selon was nearby as well, looking ashen-faced and cagey.

  Felix looked at the cook askance. “Why is everyone so uneasy?” he whispered. “It’s just more bandits, right? Same as you.”

  Dot’s spoon slowed to a measured whirl in the stew. “We’re not exactly friends.”

  Felix felt his stomach drop. “Oh, sorry. You’re right. I’ll just—I’ll stop bothering you.” He got back to rinsing his mugs, and was berating himself for trying to gossip with one of his captors when a spoon thwacked him on the head.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” Dot chided. “I was talking about Gethrin’s bandits.”

  “Oh.” Felix rubbed at his head and watched as Dot wiped down his spoon and returned it to the pot. “So you don’t get along with them?” he asked. “Do they visit often?”

  “No,” Dot answered darkly. “They’re from the woods in the north, and King doesn’t like them at all.”

  “So this isn’t going to be a friendly night of fun and games?” he asked, his voice crackling with nerves.

  Dot stopped stirring and looked Felix dead in the eyes, a tactic only made moderately less terrifying due to the steam clouding up his spectacles. “You don’t want to play games with these people, Felix,” he said. “You want to stick close to King and stay close to the campfires.”

  Torsten had been reminding him of such all day, but the warning was much more daunting coming from Dot. “I will,” he promised.

  “You might look like one of us at a glance, but Gethrin has a reputation for liking pretty boys, and no amount of furs or charcoal is going to keep him from noticing you. Especially with those curls. And you don’t want him to notice you. Got it?”

  Felix completely abandoned the idea of rinsing the rest of the mugs, in favor of wiping the nervous sweat from his brow. “You’ve made it pretty plain,” he answered faintly.

  It was several more minutes of high tension before he heard an unfamiliar laugh, low-pitched and gravelly, and then Torsten was turning and heading back into the light of the campfires. Behind him trailed a dozen men, but Felix’s eyes went instantly to the man at his side. He was bearded, like Torsten, but his beard was longer, pointed, and within its russet coloring were two wide streaks of white. The hair at his temples was also white, but as he moved closer, Felix could see he wasn’t old, but handsomely middle-aged, his skin weathered, indicating a lifetime spent in the sun. Upon seeing a man so staunchly in his middle years, it occurred to Felix that he had never given much thought to Torsten’s age, but seeing him now, beside the older bandit, it was clear he could not be past his mid-twenties.

  As Torsten and their guests approached the center of camp, they fell into greeting with Jossy and the others, and Felix was free to make further assessment. The leader, whom Dot had called Gethrin, was taller than Torsten, but not nearly as muscular. He wore his hair long and unkempt, and there was a sword strapped to his waist, his hand resting idly on its hilt. His smile was smarmy and insincere, and Felix didn’t like the way he clapped his hand on Torsten’s shoulder and didn’t let go.

  Gethrin’s accompanying bandits were also worthy of wariness, and as a handful of them passed Felix, a chill of fear made him take several steps back. These were the bandits of song and legend; he could tell from their gazes: unhurried and rude, behind eyes that had seen cruelty and basked in the thrill of it. They did not wear bandanas around their necks or charcoal around their eyes. Instead of furs for warmth, they wore thick leather capes that hung heavily over their shoulders. They carried swords instead of bows, like their leader, and they were filthy, more of them than not boasting streaks of red across their faces, where hunting had become messy, or a fight had ended in blood.

  These were the sort of bandits Felix had feared he’d fallen in with when Jossy first threw him in front of Torsten’s dais, the sort who grabbed mugs from his hands with chipped-tooth grins, and filled them to the brim with whiskey without thanks. The lot of them guffawed and cursed as they banded around the central campfire. In comparison, Torsten’s bandits were gracious, politely giving up their favorite places by the fire and passing baskets of bread, and, to Felix’s amusement, apples.

  The newcomers grabbed greedily at everything offered, some biting into an apple but a single time before throwing it wastefully into the fire. They finished their whiskey quickly and then came staggering back to Felix for another, eyeing him rudely all the while. These were true bandits, Felix decided, his gaze wandering over the dirty bulk of them in awe. These were outlaws who ravaged and killed. A fresh wave of panic swept through him, and just as he was concocting a plan to seek out Torsten and glue himself to his side, a hand gripped his shoulder.

  It was Torsten, and he was wearing a smile previously unseen by Felix, which meant it was solely for the benefit of their guests, especially the bandit leader at his side. “Do you see?” he said, obviously speaking to Gethrin and not Felix. “Nothing special. Just a helper for my cook.” His eyes swept quickly over Felix’s face before his attention landed
on Dot. “Is it ready?” he asked, and then he turned back to Gethrin. “My cook is very good.”

  It was clear to Felix that Torsten was trying to change the subject, but Gethrin would not be deterred. He stepped around his host and smiled down at Felix. “I noticed you all the way across camp,” he said in a voice dripping with oil. “Torsten tells me you’re one of his bandits, but there’s no way a slight thing like you can handle a bow.”

  Torsten’s hand tightened on Felix’s shoulder. “Like I said, he helps Dot with the cooking.” In Felix’s periphery, he could see Dot nodding enthusiastically. “Our numbers are large enough that we don’t need everyone to fight.”

  Gethrin chuckled, and Felix had to struggle not to stagger back as he took a step forward. “But are supplies so rich that you have enough to,” his eyes fell to Felix’s lips, “fill extra mouths?” He smiled, and his teeth gleamed sharp, predatory. “He has to have other uses.”

  Torsten’s hand dropped from Felix’s shoulder. “Hardly,” he huffed, but Gethrin didn’t look convinced. He took another step closer, his eyes still fastened on Felix’s mouth.

  “I’m a flautist,” Felix blurted, desperate to pull the bandit leader’s thoughts away from debauchery. “I play the flute. That’s why I’m useful. I-I entertain Torsten.”

  He could feel Torsten tensing beside him, but Gethrin couldn’t look more thrilled. “A flautist?” He leaned into Torsten and snaked an arm around his shoulders. “Were you trying to hide him away from me?” he asked. “You know I love music.” Gethrin’s stare was searing, and that’s when Felix realized he should have kept his mouth shut. “Would you like to entertain me, boy? I bet you look pretty with an instrument between your lips.”

  “I-I don’t,” Felix stammered, casting a helpless glance at Torsten. “I’m supposed to stay here and help Dot.”

  “Come on, Torsten,” Gethrin purred. “I’ve found you out. Let’s have some music.” When Torsten returned his plea with a stony expression, his tone darkened. “Are you not going to share your boy? Is that a good way to start our evening?”