The road cut a path through tall evergreens and budding foliage threatening to overtake everything. There would be no roundhouse tonight.
As I dumped the bundle of canvas and poles to the ground, warm dust billowed up around me, sticking to my face and neck. I arched my back, my hands behind my neck, and stared at the sunset’s orange haze painting the sky above the tree line. The wind didn’t bite as much the farther south we traveled, and the flowers were brighter, more varied. Spring held the land firmly in her grasp.
It took Aleinn and me three tries to get our tent up, with only vague instructions from Hafa. The soldiers, who already had theirs staked, laughed as the canvas fell down around us. They called out advice—some helpful, some meant to make our poles fall faster.
At dinnertime, Aleinn tried to step in as I stirred our meal over the fire, but I didn’t let her. The meat burned, but she didn’t complain.
After dinner, Hafa took me to a small meadow just beyond the trees lining the road. He bent and brushed his hand along the ground, then turned.
He pulled his arm back as if to throw something, and a second later, a sharp pain registered in my shoulder. I jumped back and squinted in the fading light at what had hit me. A pebble.
“Did you just throw a—”
Another rock hit my leg. Then my stomach.
“Ow! Stop—”
He pulled his arm back again. I ducked away, my hands covering my head. A rock scratched my right hand.
“Block them, Princess,” he growled.
“I can’t block them if I can’t see them,” I growled back, jumping to the side as he launched yet another.
“If someone attacks you with magic, you won’t see it, either.”
His casual reference to magic jerked me to a stop. He threw another rock—hard—but this time my hand came up on its own and batted it down, all my focus on him, on his face. Hoping for and dreading his next words.
“Your father gave you that sword and ring to protect you against magical attack.” Another pebble pinged against my ribs—I’d failed to block it. “So we train with both weapons.” He unsheathed his sword, and the sound rang through the night. A steel blade. Not a practice sword.
I swallowed thickly and drew my own.
Hafa ran at me, swift and silent, his sword arcing toward my head as he threw another pebble. My left hand—with the ring on the middle finger—came up a fraction too late, and the rock hit my stomach while I sloppily deflected his sword.
He retreated a step, a frown marring his features. “You can do better. You must do better.”
Thoughts of the traitor, of the note, of Ren facing magic on the border rippled through me. I rolled my shoulders back. Adjusted my grip on my sword. Widened my stance.
This time I dodged the pebble and met him sword for sword, but the tip of his blade cut into the fabric of my tunic.
“Again,” he commanded.
He kept attacking until only the stars lit our battleground. Too many tiny bruises to count ached where I’d failed to deflect Hafa’s “magic,” and my tunic had two more tears that would need to be mended.
When he finally said I’d had enough, my dirty skin itched and loose strands of hair stuck to my face and neck. Muscles I didn’t know I had screamed at me for relief. There was a reason no one sparred with Hafa, including me: He was unbeatable. In all the years I’d trained, no one had won a match against him.
He started back to camp, but when I didn’t follow he turned. “You need rest.”
“I know,” I replied, chest heaving, out of breath. But instead of going with him, I lay down in the grass. “I just want to watch the stars for a bit, then I’ll wash up and come back.”
Hafa studied my face, then nodded and left.
Dark triangle tops of evergreens framed the canvas of the sky. The stars were mere pinpricks of light, yet they bathed the world in their glory. No moon overwhelmed them tonight. But the sounds? The sounds were deafening. Frogs sang out to each other by the river across the road. Crickets played their haunting harmony. Families of little creatures nestled together in the brush or up in the trees.
The air had finally cooled, but I found I missed the bite of the wind back home. I missed the sanctity of the library. I even missed the white walls of the castle. Mostly, though, I missed Ren. And my father. Their tethers were nothing more than a gentle hum inside me, but both held an ache that resonated with my own. I cradled the connection, amplifying my homesickness yet soothing it as well, in its own way.
When the chill had fully seeped into my back and my breath had settled into a normal rhythm, I stood with a sigh, brushing off the bits of leaves and dirt sticking to my uniform. Hushed murmuring came from the camp settling in for the night. I picked my way over the road and through the stand of trees separating the road from the river.
My hair and hands were filthier than they’d ever been. But I was finally alone for the first time in two days. Squatting on the muddy riverbank, I untied my braid and ran my fingers through the mass of tangles. Dirt scattered as I shook out the strands, but I still took care to keep the white streak hidden. Even now. Even when there was no one else to see.
The icy river water smelled like home. It sent shivers up and down my skin as I dipped my hands and washed my face, as I dipped them again and again to rinse out as much of my hair as I could. By the time I’d finished, my fingers were numb and my eyes half-closed from exhaustion, but my braid was tight again.
A branch snapped somewhere behind me. Drops of ice slid from my hair into my tunic. The little noises of the forest had dimmed. No more frogs. No more crickets. No chirping insects. Just my breath puffing out. My hand wrapped around the hilt of my sword.
“Princess.”
The voice came from the darkness to my left. I jumped back, my mother’s sword drawn and ready. But it was only General Leland who stepped out of the shadows.
“Glaciers, General, you startled me,” I said, clutching my tunic over my heart.
“Forgive me, Princess,” he said with a slight bow. Had he finally recovered from Ren’s departure? His face remained shadowed and his voice was flat, giving away nothing.
He jerked his chin toward my sword, which I sheathed, my heart still thumping against my ribs. “I’ve noticed some of the soldiers eyeing that weapon of yours.” He lowered his voice, and the haunting notes of an owl’s call swam through the trees above us. “Take care. You wouldn’t want to lose such a valuable item.”
Shadows flickered against the black trees from the meager firelight that had made it across the road. Another branch snapped nearby. “I will. Thank you.”
My back itched right between my shoulder blades with every step until I finally made it back to camp. The sensation didn’t go away until I was safe in my tent, where Aleinn snored lightly, burrowed under a thick blanket.
Only then did I unsheathe my sword to finger the etchings and the blue stone. I couldn’t see them, but I remembered with almost perfect clarity their hue and depth and shine.
I unwrapped and rewrapped the leather strips on the hilt to cover the stone in the cross guard. Like this, it looked like an old, beat-up blade. I hoped I wouldn’t have to draw it at all, let alone on one of the soldiers in our group.
* * *
I kept vigilant watch over the next three days, but the journey continued on the same. Endless riding through patches of forest or rolling hills dotted with sheep. Leland snapping at anyone who stepped in his path. Hafa watching me like he would an enemy. Or a friend. It was hard to tell with him.
Our nightly practices kept getting harder. Welts covered my hands, and I ached more from the rocks than I did from the riding.
Our last night in Hálendi, our last night before we crossed the border into the Wild, we stayed in the largest inn yet. A bustling town was nestled on the plain a few hours’ ride from the
looming forest of the Wild, a place of refuge and rest for those preparing to enter or leave.
Leland stomped around ordering that more supplies be loaded, his captains supervising the packing and preparations. Hafa had beaten me faster tonight than ever before, and I sat—admittedly sulking—near a fire in the courtyard, my saddlebag at my feet. A cool wind came from the direction of the Wild with a chill that shouldn’t have been in the air this deep into spring.
The tethers of both my father and my brother flickered with worry, popping and snapping along with the flames of the fire. But I didn’t know why they were worried. Was it because they knew my journey through the Wild would begin tomorrow? Because of something uncovered about the note? The traitor? Something happening near North Watch? Ren would almost be there by now. Would soon be taking command, leading the people as he was always meant to.
Hafa settled in next to me with a gusty sigh. “Moping won’t change anything,” he said, shedding his outer coat. He meant our practice fight, but he was right about more than that. I couldn’t dwell on Hálendi anymore. But once in Turia, perhaps…I sighed. I didn’t know what I’d do, what I’d find.
I scrubbed my hands over my face. “I know. Nothing I do will change anything,” I muttered dejectedly.
The firelight reflected off the silver bits in his beard and the steel in his eyes. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” he asked in the softest voice I’d ever heard him use.
My scalp itched. I didn’t scratch it—didn’t want to draw attention to my hair. I can’t do this, I wanted to tell him. Instead, I unbuckled my sword from my hip and held it in my lap. My fingers brushed against the now-hidden stone in the cross guard.
“Throwing rocks won’t prepare me for what I’ll face in Turia. That threat is at the northern border.” If Hafa was entrusted by my father to accompany me, he probably knew about the magic being used by our enemies.
Hafa drew his sword from its sheath and his sharpening stone from his bag. “There is always a threat nearby. You have forgotten your lessons so soon?” He drew the blade along the flat surface, its shushing drowning out the surrounding chatter.
“My lessons never included magic,” I said in a low voice, wary of the topic even though the few people nearby were being ordered around by Leland.
“Maybe they should have.”
Someone dropped a crate and cursed loudly. Neither of us reacted. A single question looped through my mind: How could he know about my magic?
Hafa kept his head down. Pulled a rag from his pocket to polish his blade. My head still itched. I scratched my neck instead. But I couldn’t speak. Not a single word.
He nodded to my sword. “If the king is giving you magical artifacts, he should have had the foresight to teach you about magic.”
Oh. My breath left me in a rush. “I—” My throat caught on my relief that he only meant my sword and ring, and I tried again. “It was just a precaution. I don’t think my father thought I’d ever have to use them.”
“Even though he’s sending you through the cursed depths of the Wild?” he muttered, jerking his sword against the stone.
I swallowed. “If we stay on the road, the Wild’s magic won’t touch us.” My voice wavered the tiniest bit. Was I trying to convince him or me?
Hafa raised an eyebrow, gaze still fixed on his sword. “So you don’t want to know more about your weapon?”
“Wha…? Yes!”
Leland looked at us quizzically from across the yard but continued yelling at some poor soldier. I cleared my throat. Focused on Hafa. “I mean, yes. I would love to learn more about my sword…and the Wild.”
“To know about a magical artifact, you must know where it hails from.” The fire popped and danced as I settled in. “Ages ago, before our ancestors came across the Many Seas to the Plateau, there was a great war on the Continent.”
I knew about the Great War, but I nodded and stayed quiet to show him I was listening. He always gave information in a roundabout way.
“There were many kingdoms on the Continent, all squabbling for power over each other—even worse than now. When the first mages found that they could manipulate their surroundings or even enhance their own abilities, the fighting became widespread. Their original intentions were unclear, but someone who has power over others will always want more of it. Some push this desire away. Others embrace it.
“Many who held this power began following one called the Black Mage. They took all they could—invading kingdoms, recruiting followers, and enslaving others until their presence overwhelmed the entire Continent. Those not gifted with this magic banded with the mages who denied loyalty to the Black Mage, to fight against him and their other oppressors.”
Hafa’s tale, told by one who’d spent his life studying Hálendi’s military, wove around me like wool threads pulling tighter, intertwining.
“They fought even with no chance of winning?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Do not underestimate the power of desperation.”
I didn’t respond. With one week left until we reached Turia’s capital, and my wedding awaiting me there, desperation and I were becoming fast friends.
“After many years of battle,” he continued, “a man named Gero, destined to become the Continent’s first emperor, finally defeated the Black Mage. Gero’s youngest son, Kais, along with his army, pursued the Black Mage’s surviving followers across the Many Seas until they reached a new land, its sheer cliffs jutting out of the water. When they found a way up, they tracked the mages over snow-covered hills, through forests, and into the Ice Deserts. Many in Kais’s army died from exposure, and eventually, Kais could no longer track the mages over the ice, so he left them there to die.
“Fearing another Continent-wide war, Gero banished all knowledge of magic across the sea. He exiled all artifacts with magic—his own, as well as those he’d taken from the Black Mage and his followers—to the edge of the world to be forgotten.”
I sucked in a breath. “My sword came from the mages’ library?” I asked, though I knew Master Hafa didn’t like to be interrupted.
“Not exactly.” He sheathed his sword, then drew a dagger from his boot to clean. “Kais spared a very few magical artifacts from banishment. He felt they would be necessary to combat the power of the mages, should they survive and emerge from the Ice Deserts.”
“But they never did,” I said, holding my sword with a new reverence. My father’s Medallion must be one of those artifacts too. If these had been kept out, what other marvels did the mages’ library hold? No wonder someone on the front lines was looking for it. And, perhaps, even Hálendi could gain an advantage themselves. “And what of a key to their library?”
Hafa’s hands paused over the knife before he returned it to his boot and turned the full force of his gaze on me. “A key?”
I ran my fingers down my braid, smoothing its strands. Father had trusted Hafa to bring me to Turia. I’d never had any reason to doubt him. Still, I hesitated. “I recently heard there was a key, but I wasn’t sure what that meant.”
Hafa’s beard twitched as it always did when he was thinking. “I haven’t heard of a key, though it’s been many years since anyone fancied themselves an explorer and went digging up the past.”
My lips twisted up in a wry smile. If only that were true. “So Kais hid away everything to do with magic? Why not use the mages’ own weapons against them to defeat them entirely?”
Hafa let out a gusty sigh. “The Ice Deserts are too unforgiving, and the mages either died or were lost for good. But also, Kais and his father worried about anyone having that much power, that much knowledge to manipulate the world and, in turn, those around them.”
“But magic is just magic,” I said, his words hitting a little too close. I brushed my braid over my shoulder. “The same magic used to gain power over others and cause suffering c
an be used wisely with good intentions and a pure heart.” It was something Ren had told me over and over when I’d worried incessantly that having magic would make me act like the sister who’d tried to kill her brother and take the throne.
Hafa’s beard twitched. “You are correct, Princess. But they had just spent decades fighting. Emperor Gero believed the quickest way to start healing from the poison of war was to push the cause of the turmoil as far away as he could. He invited anyone with magical abilities to either renounce all use of magic or accept banishment to the Ice Deserts. Those living on the Plateau—the Turians—gave the land north of the Fjall Mountains to Kais, who became the first king of Hálendi—your ancestor. Our land, our entire purpose, is to protect the Turians from the plague of magic Gero sent here.”
My mind spun as the yard around us quieted. Leland had finally gone inside the roundhouse, and there wasn’t much more to pack. But Hafa had said something I’d never heard before. “Gero banished other mages to the Ice Deserts?”
Hafa nodded, waiting for me to make the connection.
It connected like a punch in my gut. “You think they survived and their ancestors are the ones invading from the north.”
Hafa held his hands out to the fire in a show of warming them in case anyone was watching, and spoke, his voice low and urgent. “There are rumors of strange occurrences on the front lines. Odd enough to make me wonder.”
He hadn’t said it directly, but he agreed. Glaciers. Mages hiding away in the Ice Deserts all this time.
“How did they escape the enchantments Kais placed on the border? No one is supposed to be able to break through and return from banishment.”
Hafa’s expression darkened, the angles and planes of his face sharpening. “They can return. If they’re summoned.”
“Glaciers,” I exhaled, aloud this time. The traitor. The burned note. And my father was now alone at the castle. Hafa and Leland were with me. Ren was in North Watch.
I stood and began pacing, buckling my sheath around my waist. “I can’t go to Turia, Master Hafa. I can’t. What if—” I swallowed the knot of dread rising from my stomach. “What if it was someone within Hálendi’s borders who summoned them?”
Shielded Page 8
