“Is there any way I could speak to your King in person?” Emira asked. Hemsmark looked at her like she had grown two heads and she shrunk back into her chair.
“Why would he deign to come into this godsforsaken kingdom and talk to a peasant-born puppet?”
“Ambassador Hemsmark, you are speaking to our Queen. Please show some decorum,” Lord Dovesbane said. He rose from his chair and straightened his tunic. “Her Majesty’s request is not an outrageous one; it has been far too long since our rulers sat down and discussed things. The Rite of Choosing will be held in three weeks time and it wouldn’t be too much trouble to put on a Tournament of Celebration. I can draft up an agreement of temporary peace that will ensure King Olric will be extended protection from our Spirit of the Realm.”
Hemsmark did not reply at once; the silence seemed to stretch on forever as they waited.
“King Olric has always said he wished to witness one of your famous griffin jousts,” Hemsmark said while he rubbed his chin.
“He would be a guest of honor, and it would be the first time in a hundred years a foreign ruler attended a tournament of such magnitude.”
“And what of Prince Felix? What of the nobles he captured?”
“I will ensure they be brought to Avemdal or he will face the full force of the kingdom’s army,” the Dowager Queen said. The Ambassador nodded in agreement.
“I would also like your Queen to swear a blood oath that no harm shall befall my King,” Hemsmark said.
“Absolutely not!” Lady Ethelbright and Lord Greensdale shouted in unison.
“That is extreme,” Lord Dovesbane said.
The table erupted in another argument. None noticed when Emira signaled for a guard and took his dagger. She winced as she sliced her palm and watched the blood drip onto the table. She wiped the dagger on her skirt and handed it back to the guard who hastily retreated.
“Enough!” she shouted and held up her bloodied hand, “I swear to you that King Olric will not be harmed while he is on our soil.”
A look of surprise swept over Hemsmark’s features. Lady Ethelbright pinched the bridge of her nose and said not a word.
“Are you certain you wish to have the Gods hold you to this oath? If you break it, you shall perish,” the High Vestral said, her tone grave.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then the Gods shall hold you to it,” the High Vestral said and glanced at Hemsmark.
“Very good. I shall make the arrangements for my King’s arrival,” Hemsmark said with a bow. He left the room with a slight swagger to his step.
Emira turned to face the others and a guard handed her a small handkerchief. The High Vestral was staring off into the distance with a stony expression. Lord Greensdale leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together.
“Well then, we must do everything in our power to ensure the Queen doesn’t turn into a pile of ashes,” he quipped. Lady Ethelbright glared at him.
“Your Majesty, what were you thinking with such a reckless action?” the Dowager Queen asked.
“I just told you to consult the Spirit of the Realm on such a decision!” The High Vestral exclaimed before Emira could reply.
“It is rather hard to speak when you are all arguing with each other like a bunch of children. Besides, if I perish, then perhaps the Spirit of the Realm will choose someone who is of noble birth. Isn’t that what you all want?” Emira snapped. Lord Dovesbane bowed his head and the others shifted in their seats.
“Your Majesty, we still must decide who is going to be your ladies-in-waiting,” the Dowager Queen protested when Emira marched to the door.
“It seems I will have little choice in the matter, so choose who you like,” Emira turned on her heel and let the door slam behind her.
THE NEXT DAY, EMIRA stood on the shore of the lake.
A Vestral to the Goddess of the Sea stood beside her, cradling a miniature wooden ship in his hands. The vessel was laden with scraps of sackcloth Emira had arrived in, a fish and a tiny jar of ale. An offering for a peaceful transition into a new life. They reserved the ritual for funerals and weddings, but the Vestral made an exception for Emira.
“Your Majesty, we are ready,” the Vestral said. He handed her the ship and placed a small fire rune in the center.
“Thank you,” Emira said. She waded into the lake until the water was up to her waist. The water was cold, but it didn’t hold a candle to how cold the sea could get.
She placed the boat into the water and a slight gust of wind nudged the boat away from her. Sparks filled the air as the fire rune lit up and flames engulfed the wood.
“Goddess of the Sea, though we are far from your dwelling, please accept our offering. Please bless those who...”
The Vestral’s words faded, she’d heard them before at Thomas’s funeral. Emira’s chest got heavier with each breath she took. When Thomas died, at least she had her parents with her. Now she was standing alone, in a place both foreign and familiar.
I should be grateful, I should be shouting praises to the Gods at my good fortune. Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the famine and now the Western Marshes begging for war. How could she be filled with joy with the state of the kingdom? No, that would be foolish and cruel.
Despite all this, her thoughts could not keep the tears from flowing. She covered her mouth with her hands to keep her sobs from reaching the nobles who were watching her from the shoreline.
Gods she wished she could return home and go back to the sea. But she’d been given a task and she was not one to leave them unfinished. Yet, a part of her felt this task was too great for her to accomplish.
“Please don’t let me fail, I don’t want to lead the country to ruin,” Emira wiped the tears from her face.
Only the sound of the wind answered her and a few clouds drifted overhead, casting a shadow over her. Emira held her head in her hands as she struggled to regain her composure. She missed her parents; in times of trouble, her mother would make fish stew while her father gathered them around and told them tales of his adventures when he was young.
Emira felt for the small ring that was in a hidden pocket in her sleeve.
“Thomas, what do I do? I’m not strong enough,” she whispered to the cool metal.
As with her prayer to the Gods, the metal was silent, and Emira did her best to keep standing. Blackened remains of the boat floated past her.
“Your Majesty are you all right?” the Vestral asked. He had waded into the lake, but the water didn’t dampen his clothes.
“I’m fine, I just need a moment longer.”
“Your Majesty, you have been standing out here for ages. It is nearly sunset.”
With a start she noticed the nobles, save for Lady Ethelbright, had left. The sky was beginning to darken.
When she made it onto shore, she braced herself for Lady Ethelbright’s words while the Vestral used magic to pull the water from her dress.
“Your Majesty, are you ready to return to the city?” She asked, her voice was gentle and her face held no judgement.
“Yes, let’s return.”
She glanced back at the lake and a chill swept over her at the sight of a shadowy figure floating over the water. She blinked and the figure was gone.
Goosebumps formed on her skin and she hoped the figure was a sign of the Gods favor.
8
Magic and Mercenaries
FELIX SCOWLED AT THE horizon, watching for signs of dust storms. The new queen had ordered him back to the capitol along with his captives. At first, he had wanted to disobey, but the letter from his mother made it clear that if he didn’t return, he would face the full force of the kingdom’s army. He didn’t have enough men to keep them at bay. He took thirty men with him and left the rest, including his squire, in the hands of General Rothsdale to quell any more bandits from the Western Marshes.
“You’ll damage those good looks of yours if you keep squinting like that,” Lord Rover said as he rode u
p beside him.
“I’m in no mood for jests, Lord Rover. I must return to the capitol and prepare myself to posture to a peasant.”
“You’re just mad you won’t get to hang him,” Lord Rover glanced back at the cart carrying Lord Marshmire and his family.
“Of course, I’m mad! This bastard has caused the deaths of many, yet our peasant queen jumps at the first whimper from the Western Marshes.”
“You know you could always start a civil war,” Lord Rover said. “Take over the kingdom and get rid of that blasted Spirit of the Realm.”
“And that would cause not only our kingdom to fall apart, but also the ire of every kingdom on this continent.”
“With the famine spreading, it is only a matter of time before the other countries seek someone to blame. Who better to blame than our hapless queen?”
“I will not jeopardize the security of this kingdom, even if I disagree with the Spirit’s choice.”
“By sacking that town, perhaps you have jeopardized it.”
“I do not need a lecture, Lord Rover.”
They rode in near silence for a time, the only sounds came from a few men humming and the clink of their armor as they rode.
“The road is awfully quiet,” Felix frowned, and Lord Rover laughed.
“Gods above Felix, you’ve been on the battlefield for far too long,” He turned to the men behind him. “Strike up a song, lads! His Royal Highness isn’t used to tranquility on the road!”
Felix couldn’t stop from sighing when they started singing the ballad of the Maiden of Elmsbay. The melody was bright and cheerful, though the story was rather tragic. It was the tale of the last Countess of Elmsbay and how she lost her home to a charlatan. She was then cursed with her soul bound to the land by an angry spirit. People to this day claimed she still wandered the halls of her old home, killing anyone who dared enter.
Felix hated the song, but his men were singing along with gusto. Not wanting to ruin their fun, he swallowed his grievances and stared at the road ahead.
It wasn’t long before the men fell silent, lost in their thoughts while they passed by deserted villages and crumbling ruins that harbored ancient secrets. No sane man would enter those ruins alone, for ghosts guarded them. At least that’s what the common folk believed.
Which made it the perfect spot for them to set up camp for the night.
“Do you want to anger the dead?” Lord Rover grumbled as Felix watched his men throw logs onto a fire.
“Don’t worry, Lord Rover. I had our War Vestral do the proper offerings.”
A high-pitched scream pierced the air, causing some of Felix’s men to stumble into each other and drop their logs. Felix gripped the hilt of his sword. Ignoring the amused look of Lord Rover, he ordered his men to investigate the sound.
“For Gods’ sake, woman, shut up!” Lord Marshmire’s voice floated through the darkness.
A man guarding them held up a torch so Felix could see.
Lady Marshmire had curled up into a small ball, her children clung to her skirts. She rose and slammed herself into the iron bars closest to Felix. She reached out and grabbed his tunic with surprising strength and yanked him towards her.
“You cannot bring us here! The dead will murder us all!” she screamed, her eyes wide and bright with a strange madness.
“Get ahold of yourself! No dead will disturb us tonight, but you might attract something worse than the dead,” Felix said, inclining his head to the darkness. “Bandits roam these hills and I’m sure some of them haven’t seen a woman in months.”
“You are a fool!” Lady Marshmire’s voice reached a pitch so high his ears rang. Her eyes rolled in the back of her head and she collapsed onto the floor of the cart. Her children waited a moment, before they crawled over and curled up next to her.
“Keep her quiet,” Felix snapped at Lord Marshmire, who merely glared at him and turned his attention to his wife. “Gods, of course his wife is mad.”
“That’s not madness, that is a woman who is partially attuned to the Goddess of Fates,” Alric walked up beside him. Felix suppressed his magic from flaring out when he felt a small gust of magic from the War Vestral hover over the cart.
“Partially attuned? Was she a Vestral, then?”
“No, the Lady Marshmire is one of the... unrefined. Her visions are incomplete, and she cannot follow the threads of fate properly,” Alvar said with a hint of disdain in his tone. While Vestrals had perfect attunement to their chosen God or Goddess, the unrefined were those who had a natural attunement to a God. Most became Vestrals, but some tried to live a normal life. Felix never had this problem; no God whispered in his ears. He only had magic, though he lacked the finesse of a fully trained Vestral.
“Then the dead will not attack us?”
Alvar nodded. “Yes, the dead will not attack us.”
A chill rushed over his body while he scanned the area around him. The firelight cast eerie shadows on the crumbled stone walls. He was not afraid of spirits; no, he was wary of the greed of men. He gripped the hilt of his sword and stepped toward the shadows. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he moved further away from the encampment. He glanced back. The War Vestral was busy waving a rune around the cart. A soldier noticed him looking and started toward him, but Felix shook his head.
“Go rest, I will take the first watch.”
With that, he headed deeper into the shadows. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small stone. To the untrained eye, it was nothing more than a cold gray rock. But pour a little magic in and a rune would appear. It was something he had created after watching the Vestrals flit about with their glowing runes. Telling everyone who could read them what they were going to do next. He had seen many battles where a Vestral was forming a fireball, only for it to be doused by a bucket of water and the Vestral run through with a sword.
The magic from the rune arched out, like a trail of smoke into the dark forest, searching for anything living or dead that might cause them trouble. Soon the magic stilled, and as it nestled onto the ground it became invisible. It would only awaken if something disturbed it.
A lone wolf howled in the distance as Felix leaned against a pile of crumbling stones. His magic hummed softly in his mind while a few bugs crawled past. Felix didn’t have the training to fine-tune his magic like the Vestrals could.
Unrefined. Alvar’s words danced around in his mind over and over.
Now that he was a prince in name alone, he could join the Vestrals and tie himself to a God. But being at the mercy of a God day and night, no matter what one was doing, was not a fate he wished to be tied to.
If he’d become king, he would’ve made it so anyone who wished to learn magic could do so. The Vestrals could keep their divine magic while the rest of the world used the natural magic around them. As a young boy, he had imagined what the crazy wonders those who were not tied to Gods could create, but now those dreams were ashes on the wind.
“It’s a quiet night, Your Highness,” Alvar said as he moved beside Felix and peered at a glyph in the dirt.
Felix did his best to disconnect from the magic he had sent out. If the War Vestral noticed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he knelt and picked up a pebble.
“Some might say almost too quiet,” Felix replied and watched Alvar toss the pebble into the glyph. The swirling silver turned red and the magic flung the pebble deep into the forest.
“Lord Rover was right; you are battle fatigued,” Alvar said, his expression became laced with concern. The sight unnerved Felix, who quickly turned his attention back to the dark forest.
“No, I’m not.”
“When one looks for battles around every corner, that is when he is most vulnerable,” Alvar said and picked up another pebble.
Felix felt his blood warm as a flash of anger swept through him.
“Are you saying I’m turning into my father?”
“No, I’m saying you need to rest. My Vestrals and I will keep the first wa
tch,” Alvar frowned. He peered into the dark forest, magic danced around him like an invisible fire.
“Do you see something?”
“There is something, but I am not sure what it is. Please go, Your Highness, and wear your chain mail to bed. We might have a visitor.”
FELIX AWOKE WITH A start; his dreams had been filled with the screams of dying men. They paraded past him with their lifeless eyes. He stood and wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. He winced when the chain mail he was wearing pinched his flesh. He peeked his head out of his door. Five of his men stood around a campfire laughing while they traded stories.
He stepped back and let the flap from the door close. A sliver of cold steel pressed against his throat. He raised his hands up.
“Step out of the tent,” his attacker said, her voice low and dangerous.
“Who sent you?” Felix asked while they stepped through the doorframe.
“It does not matter who sent me,” the woman said.
A shout of alarm went up from the men around the campfire, they grabbed their swords and ran over. Stopping only when Felix felt a small trickle of blood race down his throat.
“If you come any closer, I swear he will choke on his own blood,” the woman said as one man ran off toward Lord Rover’s tent. Felix grimaced; he would have preferred a Vestral.
“What do you want, lady?” One of his men asked, though he was really a boy who was barely old enough to grow a beard. The lad’s sword trembled and he struggled to keep a brave look on his face.
“I want Lord and Lady Marshmire and their children released now.”
The four soldiers looked at Felix with despair. Felix lowered his hands and gave them the signal to walk slowly.
“Go on now, we must do as she says,” Felix said, letting the woman nudge him forward after the men. When he felt the blade inch away from his throat, he grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled it down to his chest, ensuring the knife was far away from his throat. The woman cried out in pain when he used his left arm to slam into her torso. She was wearing no armor. Another blow and the knife dropped from her hand. Felix broke free from her hold, kicking the knife away as he did so. An arrow flew out of the dark and struck her in the heart. It didn’t take long before her life faded from her eyes and she collapsed in a heap on the ground.
The Spirit of the Realm Page 9
