Web of Eyes

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I no longer blame your son, but he spoke of the Buried Goddess, my Queen. Communing with her. We’ve wasted a year seeking out your heathen brother rather than considering that he cursed Pi and left for good. That the answer to the young King’s salvation was here all along. Now that he is bedridden from injury caused by Redstar’s curse, we should place our faith in Iam, not in the black magic of a broken people. Let Deturo attempt to coax him from slumber more aggressively. Invite Wren the Holy and the Yarrington priests up here to—”

  “Redstar!” The back of her hand crashed into Torsten’s cheek, unexpectedly powerful for how slight she was. Torsten swallowed his pride and the copper taste of blood drawn by one of her rings. “He wounded Pi’s soul because he thinks I’ve turned my back on my people. On tundra and suffering. I should wipe the rest of them off the map!”

  “Your Grace, we have more dangerous enemies to worry about,” Torsten said.

  “Liam is dead, and Pi cannot speak,” Oleander said. “Am I not your Queen?”

  “You are.”

  “And are you not the commander of the Glass army?”

  Torsten bowed his head. “I am, Your Grace.”

  “Then I command you to stop sending worthless cowards. Lead our entire army into the Webbed Woods, burn it to the ground if you must. Bring my brother to justice, return what was stolen from my son, and restore him.”

  “I can’t.” Torsten knew what her reaction would be before he said it, but it came out anyway. Her eyes went wide, flabbergasted that the Wearer of White would deny anything she asked. Ever since Uriah disappeared, Torsten had served her every need, no matter how ill-advised, but he couldn’t anymore. The Glass was in danger, and he alone seemed interested in saving it.

  “What did you say?”

  “The army must remain nearby Yarrington, my Queen,” he stated firmly. “We need all of them to secure our borders against rebellion.”

  Oleander laughed. It was an unsettling sound. “Rebellion?”

  Torsten shifted his weight, his head staring at his feet. “Two day’s past, the Black Sands razed a handful of our villages.”

  Her glare hardened. The sight made Torsten’s spine quiver.

  “Why was I not aware of this?” she asked.

  “You’ve been at Pi’s side where you belong,” he replied. “I hoped to spare you the news until he recovered from his unfortunate… accident.”

  “Spare me news of treason? That bastard Sidar had dinner in my royal court not half a year ago!”

  “And he will answer for it. I have already sent a demand for an explanation. We have to proceed carefully now to avoid a war we’re ill-prepared for.”

  “We? You have conspired to mobilize the Crown’s forces without informing me?”

  “To defend us.”

  “I defend us! I told you, Torsten, if you cannot perform the duties of the Wearer then I will find someone who can. You’ve failed your new king. Kept secrets from me, his mother!”

  Oleander ripped the white helmet from Torsten’s head and flung it at the door. Tessa entered with a crystal vial of wine at the same time and it clattered to the polished floor, spilling everywhere.

  “My mind is not so fragile it cannot handle the truth of war!" Oleander bellowed. “I am the Queen!"

  “Your Grace...”

  “You are a relic of my husband, Torsten. Nothing more. Another failed servant like Uriah.”

  “You must listen to me, Your Grace. The kingdom needs stability now more than ever. We can’t march our entire army south and leave ourselves even more vulnerable. Uriah said he went to the Woods, but that was a year ago. Redstar’s playing games, and those games have cost us dozens of Shieldsmen. The order is thin now, filled with new recruits whose names I barely know.

  She raised her hand before he could say another word. “I am done listening to you. I should have you hanged for treason.”

  “And I wouldn’t blame you. But—”

  “Out!”

  “Your Grace, we heard shouting,” said Rand as he rushed through the door. He nearly tripped over Tessa who was busy soaking up wine with her dress and trying not to cry. He paused to help the young woman, apologizing profusely, before Oleander stole back his attention.

  “You,” Oleander said. “Take Torsten outside the walls and strip him of his armor. He is not to set foot within the walls of Yarrington again.”

  Rand nearly choked in confusion. “Your Grace. He is the Wearer.”

  “Not anymore.” Oleander rushed across the room and lifted the white helmet off the floor. Then she presented it to Rand. “Take it.”

  “My Queen. I… I’m not—”

  “He’s been wearing the Shield for a barely a week,” Torsten said. “Surely Wardric or Nikserof would be better suited.”

  “No. If you have proven anything it’s that a rat could do this job better than you,” Oleander said. “Take the helmet, boy, or you’ll join Torsten outside these walls.”

  Torsten met Rand’s gaze and tried to calm him. “Do as she asks,” he whispered, nodding slowly, assuredly.

  “But sir?”

  “Your kingdom needs you,” Torsten said.

  “I’m surrounded by infants,” Oleander groaned. She placed the helmet over Rand’s head, scraping his nose in the effort. “There. Now take this traitor out of my sight and leave me with my son!”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Rand took Torsten’s arm, though he grasped without conviction.

  Torsten stopped in the doorway, regarding Oleander. She stood, fuming, wine pooling around her gem-encrusted heels. If ever there looked a queen it was her, but Rand hadn’t seen war, let alone led one. And now she provoked the Black Sands to full-scale rebellion with him in charge of the army.

  Torsten couldn’t believe it but knew the only person with the authority to save his kingdom was in that room, lying unconscious. A boy he barely knew, who’d spent a year scrawling heathen symbols on his walls in blood, cursed.

  “I will always serve the Glass, Your Grace,” Torsten said, bowing.

  “If I see you again, you will join the Black Sands for treason,” she said. “Take him.”

  Rand didn’t wait to hear any more orders. He pulled Torsten out of the room, and after a few steps through the citadel, Torsten realized he’d become the one towing Rand. The sound of Oleander scolding Tessa now echoed down the halls, making the young Shieldsman wince.

  “Sir, what was I supposed to do?” he asked, voice trembling.

  “You did fine, lad,” Torsten said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  They reached the main hall where Wardric stood guard. He eyed Torsten and Rand, brow furrowing when he realized who wore the distinguished White Helm. Rand quickly removed it and tried to hand it back to Torsten.

  “Sir, I don’t want this,” Rand whispered.

  “Neither did I,” Torsten said, pushing the helm back. “Listen to the others. Nikserof, Reginald, and especially Wardric, the grouch that he is. They can help you keep the kingdom in one piece.”

  “What about you? By Iam, we need you.”

  “As long as our new king sleeps, the kingdom isn’t safe. I’m going to do what his mother thinks I must to save him. Even if it is folly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Torsten seized the boy by his shoulder and drew him close. “Rand, focus,” he said. “I need you to do me one last favor as your Wearer.”

  “Anything.”

  “Before the Queen Regent’s edict becomes known, take me to the lowest dungeon and leave me the key.”

  “What? Why?”

  Oleander believed that Pi’s orepul was the key to his health and sanity. For the year after Uriah failed, Torsten had sent some of the finest soldiers after him into the cursed Webbed Woods. None ever returned. But Torsten knew now that if he wanted to make Oleander see reason, earn her trust, and reclaim his helm—if he wanted to protect the Glass, as he swore to Liam he would so many moons ago—then he’d have to be the first. Even if
Pi were truly beyond help, he’d have to bring Redstar to justice and steal back that doll or die trying.

  “I need a thief,” he said.

  XII

  THE THIEF

  Whitney couldn’t remember when last he sat in a cell without plotting a way to break out, whether it was studying the possible routes or digging his way under the guard’s skin to drive them to open the door and attempt to provide a beating. Pissing people off was probably his greatest skill, if he had to choose one.

  This time, he quietly accepted the slop they called food with barely a jab at the hulking guard’s stupidity. Barely. He couldn’t help himself there. But then he settled against the mold-laden wall and let his mind turn off as he shoveled the shog down.

  Whitney caught glimpse of his rat friend watching him from across the cell. His finger still stinging from the bite he’d received earlier, he considering shooing it, but flicked a bit of glop onto the floor instead. Sharing had never been his issue, it just rarely occurred to him. All the things he’d stolen were hidden in buried caches across Pantego or left beyond in new places for some lucky soul to stumble upon. It’d never been about the things themselves, he just wanted to be able to say he took them.

  He’d returned to Troborough because he’d run out of places to go, and as he sat in the darkness, he figured it was time to move on. He’d stolen the crown of Liam the Conqueror. It didn’t matter for how long, he’d done it. A visit from the current Wearer of White himself made that pretty damn clear.

  The rat finished its meal and inched a little closer.

  “Now you want to be friends?” Whitney asked.

  He threw down another morsel, and then it dawned on him: all those hidden treasures were likely worth more in gold than whatever was in the Yarrington vaults. If he broke free… when he broke free… he could go to every small town in the world and distribute wealth in ways no proper king ever had. He could give young fools like he had once been the chance to be more.

  Just imagining the bard’s songs about the ‘Noble Thief of Troborough’ made him smirk. He wondered how they’d embellish his exploits. It’d be tough to make them better than the truth, but they’d find a way. Maybe they'd add a great dragon or some other mythological beast.

  “Thief,” a gruff voice called, clearly addressing him. Whitney thought he recognized it, but the stark, stone walls of the deepest dungeon made everything echo in strange ways.

  “I prefer hero,” Whitney replied.

  “Then find a new occupation.”

  A torch lit the bars of Whitney’s cell, and he saw the Wearer of White once more. Only, Torsten no longer wore the helm of his station, and the dark bags beneath his eyes spoke of days of restless slumber. The lock clicked, the rusty door squeaked open, and the rat scurried between a crack in the wall.

  “You look worse than I do,” Whitney said.

  “On your feet,” Torsten commanded.

  “I told you last time, I’m quite comfortable here.”

  “I said, on your feet. We have no time to waste.”

  “To hang me? Is the Crown short on rope?”

  “Listen, you worm. You can either rot in here, or you can come with me and be useful to the kingdom for once in your worthless life.”

  “Well, that’s just rude,” Whitney said. “Here I am thinking about how to give back to the people, and you call me worthless.”

  “Come with me, now. That is an order.”

  “Where’s your helm?”

  Torsten zipped across the room in one healthy stride, grabbed Whitney by the collar, and heaved him to his feet.

  “Are you the greatest thief in Pantego like you claim?” he asked. “Or are you a talker like all the others?”

  “Depends on my mood,” Whitney replied.

  “Do you know what happens to the criminals who get thrown down here? They get lost. Forgotten. Until the porters are sent down to sweep up the bones. The Crown needs a thief, and the best I can find on short notice is you.”

  “I’m on a bit of a vacation.” Whitney flourished his arms wide to draw attention to the cell.

  “I…” Torsten drew a long, exasperated breath. “I knew it. Just like all the rest.”

  Torsten threw him down and stormed out of the cell. He didn’t even lock the door behind him.

  Whitney dusted off his pants and stretched his shoulder. Then he caught the rat staring at him from the corner of the room.

  “What?” Whitney asked it.

  Torsten’s heavy boots echoed down the hall, drawing Whitney’s attention back toward the exit. The rat took the opportunity to sprint out, grab his bowl and shove it toward his little hollow in the wall.

  “Son of a—” Whitney took a hard step toward it, then stopped and grinned. The rodent tilted the bowl to get enough of it through the crack that the rest of the food spilled out of reach. In comparison, the crafty bugger robbed a human exponentially larger than any of the giants Whitney had stolen from.

  “It can’t hurt to ask, right?” He shrugged. “What’s one more?”

  He tipped his head to the rodent, as if he were wearing a hat, then hurried after Torsten. The Shieldsman moved slowly, clearly expecting him.

  “What’s the catch?” Whitney asked.

  “I thought you were on vacation?” Torsten muttered.

  “I am. Let’s just say I'm curious.”

  “Hey!” the lumbering guard watching the dungeon hollered from his post. “He’s not supposed to—”

  “The Queen Regent needs him,” Torsten said.

  “Regent?” Whitney said. “Didn’t the King have some sort of crazy son? Didn’t leave his room since the last Dawning?”

  “You speak of your new king!” Torsten snapped.

  “Hey, I’m just saying what I’ve heard.”

  “Your new king has fallen ill, and his mother rules in his stead until he is healthy. That is all you need to know.”

  “What could the Queen possibly need with filth like this street rat?” the guard asked.

  “I could think of one thing,” Whitney said as he adjusted his pants.

  Torsten sent a glower so fierce it nearly caused Whitney to bite his tongue. The Wearer of White was a bore, but the claymore on his back wasn’t deckled with scratches and dents without reason. Whitney knew when he was outmatched in a fight.

  “It concerns only the Crown,” Torsten said to the guard before he continued on his way.

  “I meant no offense, sir,” the guard said. “But…wait. The royal keep is that way.”

  Torsten didn’t answer. Whitney tapped the guard on the shoulder, causing him to spin. Whitney swiped the keys from his belt as he did, then jingled them right in front of his face.

  “Farewell, my friend,” Whitney said. “The Queen Regent needs me.” Whitney tossed the keys at the guard’s feet, then scurried on after Torsten, ignoring the flurry of curses at his back.

  “Can you focus for two seconds?” Torsten said, exasperated.

  “I’m just trying to figure out what the Crown could possibly want from me.”

  “Some time ago, the Queen Regent’s estranged brother, an Arch Warlock named Redstar, stole a priceless heirloom from King Pi and fled into the Webbed Woods. The Queen Regent needs us to return it and bring the traitor to justice. She believes this will help King Pi recover.”

  Whitney stopped in his tracks, causing Torsten to do the same. “The Webbed Woods?”

  A Drav Cra warlock was bad enough news, but everyone knew about that awful forest where the trees formed a canopy so thick it was like eternal nightfall. Where the horror of the beasts roaming its swampy floor was only surpassed by a giant, cursed spider ever stalking, ever feeding. The bards said it devoured men instead of insects, but only after it drove them mad first.

  Whitney had been almost everywhere in Pantego, but never there. There were no men to rob there after all. Nothing but death, if the stories were to be believed. They rarely were.

  “Are you afraid, master thief?�
� Torsten asked, a hint of playfulness entering his tone for the first time.

  “No,” Whitney protested.

  “Then what happened to your face?”

  “This is my thinking face.”

  “We’ve sent dozens of soldiers and Shieldsmen after Redstar. None returned. Help me find the wretch who robbed our new king, and you will be pardoned of all your crimes. You can go back to what got you locked in here for all I care if we return alive.”

  “It’s the alive part I’m concerned about.”

  “This is your chance to do something with your life. A long time ago, King Liam gave me a similar chance, and I never looked back.”

  Whitney didn’t care about that. The idea of him becoming a servant of the Crown or worse, a King’s Shieldsman, was laughable. His legs were desperate to carry him back to his cell, but he didn’t budge.

  Arch Warlocks, cursed spiders, and certain death? Whitney was already wanted in every corner of Pantego. He’d already stolen the Glass Crown, among countless other achievements, but as he stared at the knight who somehow hadn’t heard of him, an idea for his next mark popped into his head. His plan to spread wealth to Pantego’s unfortunate children would have to wait.

  “I’m in,” Whitney said, fighting his reluctant tongue to get the words out. “But only on one condition.”

  Torsten glared at him. “What now?”

  “If we get back, the Crown has to anoint me with a new name.”

  “A new name?”

  “Yeah. Fierstown is great and all, but something with a better ring to it. Something noble that rolls off the tongue.”

  And something that belongs to me, he didn’t add. That would be his greatest theft ever. Stealing a new name to replace the one left to him by his good-for-nothing father.

  XIII

  THE KNIGHT

  “You think the Crown would consider ennobling a man like you?" Torsten asked the vagabond standing in front of him. He could see the wheels of inspiration turning in Whitney’s head.

  “What’s wrong with a man like me?” Whitney said.