The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Well, get used to it. Our great King is dead, which means nobody will have time to worry about filth like you.” The guard laughed, deep. “Thieves rot down here, forgotten with the dirt and shog.”

  “Last guard who said something like that had a nice view of my hind-quarters on my way out. I forget, was that you?”

  “Try to escape again. I beg you. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to put you down for good.” He dangled a key in front of the cell, then quickly snatched it back.

  “Oh, you found your key. I knew I’d misplaced that.”

  The guard lips pursed in frustration. “You got lucky. Never again.” The guard banged on the bars in a futile attempt to give Whitney a fright, then lumbered away grumbling.

  Whitney groaned. Guards never realized what kind of challenge they were issuing when doing such things. But as the guard left, Whitney sat down, resigning himself to the cell. His mind wandered back to Troborough, his once-home.

  Never before had he seen battle up close like that. He blinked as he remembered the feeling of blood-soaked dirt in his eyes, shuddered at the sight of the nearly black stuff under his fingernails. He closed his eyes to drive out the images and banged the back of his head against the stone.

  This cell was different from the last, which had been dark, wet, and gray—this one was as well, but it was somehow darker, wetter, and grayer. Here, there were no windows or even an adjoining cell. This was the lower dungeon, where only the worst of Pantego were thrown; heretics and assassins, witches and conspirators—the worst. And then, of course, one quick-fingered thief who’d managed to break a priceless crown that’d been in the Nothhelm family for centuries.

  A rat squeaked by him, brushing his leg and causing him to flinch. It stopped and circled back toward him. Whitney had a fondness for rodents. They shared the streets with him all these years—free spirits. He figured they must have known he was like them, too, as they rarely feared him like they did other humans.

  Whitney stuck his arm out, palm up like a bridge from the ground. The little creature crept up on him, slowly at first, then, without reservation, crawled up to his shoulder. Its little whiskers bobbed as it sniffed the skin of his neck. It tickled, and Whitney shivered a bit. They really did have a lot in common. Even growing up on his parents’ farm, he’d often found grander company in the field-mice than other people—especially with any child his age not named Sora. The rodents seemed smarter. When they needed food, they found it. When it rained, they sought shelter, even if that meant braving old Wetzel’s broomstick.

  Determined little creatures.

  Whitney lifted a finger to scratch the rat on its brown head. The rodent lashed out with sharp teeth and bit him, drawing blood. Whitney reeled his hand back and sucked on his finger. The rat scampered away.

  “Even friends bite,” he whispered to himself in the dark.

  Figured after all that’d happened, he’d learn a lesson from a rodent. In the end, people, like animals, were only interested in one thing: their own interests.

  What had it all amounted to? Every heist, grift, and pocket picked? Living it up in Winde Port or Yaolin City until his last autla was spent. Even his time in Latiapur, on the black sands was disappointing—except for the brothels. The brothels never disappointed. Not one bit.

  Seeing the world and experiencing all its decadent pleasures, some of it was just as amazing as Whitney had hoped. But now he was alone in a cage all the same, without a soul in the world wondering where he’d gone, and this time he hadn’t planned on being there.

  Piss in the wind.

  He let his head fall back again, lightly bumping the wall this time. He breathed deeply, lungs still burning from the smoke caught in there. On the bright side, he wasn’t chained to the wall. Plenty of holding cells around Pantego did that. In Latiapur, the Shesaitju capital, the cells opened right up to the Boiling Waters, inviting criminals to take the chance and drown. Nobody had ever made it out that way… well… nobody but Whitney.

  Snap out of it, Whitney.

  If nothing else, it was fun, the life he led—it was exciting. It wasn't putting one's shoulder to the plow and barely scraping by for no good reason.

  He stood and stretched, then strode toward the bars, a new vigor overtaking him.

  “Guard!” he shouted. When none came, he shouted even louder.

  The hulking guard peeked around the far corner, knowing better than to get too close. “Aye?” the guard said. “Gotta piss? Hole’s in the corner. Don’t fall in.”

  The man shamelessly laughed at his own joke.

  “No sir,” Whitney answered, buttering him up. “Hoping you could tell me what happened to all those at Troborough?”

  The guard’s face scrunched up into a vengeful sneer. “You’ll find out soon enough, Thief.”

  “I’m also wondering why you jailer types are always such shogs?”

  “I told you, you ain’t stealing the keys from me this time.” The guard chortled and went back to what he had been doing. Probably practicing his next awful comeback.

  Whitney couldn’t imagine what would’ve been done with the refugees of Troborough, assuming there were any. With King Liam dead and the kingdom under attack, Whitney could be left rotting in that cell forever. Forgotten.

  He sighed, closed his eyes, and slumped back down against the walls of his newest temporary lodging. He was about to nod off when he heard the clatter of heavy armor. “Who’s there?” The guard jarred awake, apparently attempting to nap as well. “M…my Lord,” the massive man stammered, an even more massive knight of the King’s Shield standing before him. “What’re ye—shouldn’t ye be at the funeral?”

  “I was,” the Shieldsman said. “Now I’m here waking up guards.”

  “I wasn’—”

  “Enough. Where is the crown thief?”

  “Crown… Oh, aye. Right piece of work, him.”

  The guard led the Shieldsman by torchlight to Whitney’s cell. A few other prisoners pled for freedom and grasped at him through their rusty bars.

  “This is him,” the guard said. “Ey, thief! Wake the yig up.” He rattled on the bars until Torsten grabbed him by the forearm. The guard reached for his cudgel with his other hand, but the Shieldsman stuck out his arm.

  “That’s enough,” the knight said. “Unlock it and leave us.”

  The guard eyed him, confused, but when the Shieldsman’s face didn’t waver, the guard did as asked. Taking the torch and sticking it through the bars, the Shieldsman squinted to get a better look inside. He was enormous, a mountain of armored muscle with a strong jaw. His head, which appeared to be bald, was covered by a shiny white helm that had to be made from glaruium metal. He was of obvious Glintish decent, which seemed rare for a Shieldsman, with skin brown as mahogany and eyes even darker.

  There was no questioning that he was impressive, but Whitney had met plenty of men who looked the part. He pretended to yawn himself awake and fully stretched out like a stray cat in Latiapur. He glanced up, smacking his lips as if he’d been waiting for dried meat instead of rotting in a dungeon.

  “Another guard come to take his shots?” he asked. “Right then, let’s get it done.”

  “Stand up,” the Shieldsman demanded.

  “I think I’m good right here.”

  “I am Torsten Unger, the Glass Kingdom’s one and only Wearer of White. You will obey my commands.”

  “Wish I could, but my legs are a little tired from battling all those Sandsmen. You people are basically useless against them.”

  “Really? I heard my men found you being crushed under one of their gray heels.”

  “People tell tall tales.”

  “Why did you take it?” Torsten asked.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  Torsten slammed on the bars. “You know exactly what I am talking about!”

  “I’ve taken lots of things from lots of rich people in lots of cities. Visit one. You’ll see this beautiful face on p
osters in half the barracks in Pantego. Some of them even captured my nose in all its perfection.”

  Torsten bit his tongue, reached into the satchel dangling from his belt and produced the half of the Glass Crown Whitney had in his possession when the last Shieldsman he met took him in.

  Whitney grinned. “Oh, that.”

  “Oh, that?” Torsten said. “Do you realize what this is?”

  He shrugged. “I was just enjoying a party when it rolled right into my foot. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “This is the King’s crown!”

  “Was.”

  Torsten swung the cell door open and rushed in. His thick fingers wrapped around Whitney’s throat, and he lifted him and pinned him against the wall, feet dangling. “You are guilty of stealing from the Crown. You’ll be in a noose by morning, so I suggest you start talking.”

  Whitney pawed at his neck like he wanted to say something. Torsten let up.

  “I can’t talk when you do that,” he rasped.

  Torsten flung him to the floor and paced the cell. “What’s your name?”

  Whitney coughed, but drew himself to his feet and performed an exaggerated bow. “Name’s Whitney Fierstown. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  Whitney sighed, then drew in a deep breath. “He who stole the Sword of Grace and the Splintering Staff from the Whispering Wizards? The very same who lifted the Ring of Pandula from the Latiapur Vaults and now, of course, my finest accomplishment, the Glass Crown.”

  “Finest failure. In case you forgot, only half of the crown is sitting here in my pocket, and the other is nowhere to be found.”

  "The way I see it, I successfully stole that crown. My mistake was stopping to gloat about it long enough for thieving dwarves and murderous sandsman to get the jump on me. I guess we both have new enemies.”

  “Did you really think you would get away with this?”

  “I never think.”

  Torsten punched the wall right over Whitney’s shoulder. The stone cracked around his gauntlet. “Why did you take it, thief?”

  “I told you, it came to me. It was like… fate. Iam’s will and all that.”

  “If it were fate, you wouldn’t be locked up like a hog in a pen.”

  “Unless this is exactly where I want to be.” He put on a grin like he was in on some joke, which only served to vex the Shieldsman more. In truth, Whitney wasn’t sure where he’d hoped to be after showing Grint his quarry, but it certainly wasn’t back below the Glass Castle.

  “Who put you up to this?” Torsten asked. “Does Valin Tehr think he can turn more of the city into his own personal playground again with King Liam gone? I already know you aren’t with the Sands, so who else? The Panpingese want revenge for their Mystics?”

  “I saw something shiny and wanted it,” Whitney stated. “Simple as that.”

  “Who’s your fence? Thieves don’t work alone.”

  “This one does.”

  Torsten’s fingers balled into fists. “You really expect me to believe you did this by yourself?”

  “I don’t care what you believe.”

  “I could say you poisoned King Liam to get the crown if I wanted. One look at you and not a soul would doubt it.”

  “Go ahead. As you’ve said, I’ve got a date with a noose either way.”“There are worse fates than death, thief.”

  “If you say so. Can I get back to my nap now?” Whitney groaned, making himself comfortable on a loose stone like it was a pillow.

  “It’ll be your last,” Torsten said. He let himself out of the cell and called for the guard to come and lock it.

  “Let him rot and starve until he’s ready to be honest,” Torsten said.

  “My pleasure,” the guard snickered, almost salivating on getting vengeance for his failure. Torsten took a few steps down the long, dark hall when Whitney stopped him.

  “There was nobody left to steal from,” Whitney said.

  “What?” Torsten turned and found Whitney with his eyes closed.

  “That’s why I took it. There was nothing left.”

  XI

  THE KNIGHT

  Word on the condition of the young King Pi found its way across Yarrington. Torsten wasn’t sure who let the news out, but with so many wolves circling it was impossible to know. Any of the whispering sycophants on the Royal Council could have been behind it, and Oleander had already threatened to have any of them executed if it was found that they did.

  The story spun to the public by Wren the Holy through sermons in the market and the cathedral square was that Prince Pi, distraught over the loss of his father, accidentally slipped and tumbled down the stairs of the West Tower, but would survive.

  The news seemed to sate the masses, but it didn’t stop the rumors from stirring—a hornet’s nest of stings and accusations about the foreign Queen Mother at the top of the mill. Many said she’d poisoned her husband and tried to kill her son in an attempt to usurp the throne. Torsten, on her command, had been so busy arresting anyone caught speaking such blasphemies he hadn’t even had a minute to address Redstar’s role in Pi’s condition with her or consider the Black Sands situation.

  Presently, he approached Oleander’s chambers upon her request—always the Shield. She’d been appointed Queen Regent after Pi’s condition was made public, so it was even more difficult to deny her now.

  He was just about to enter when the royal physician, Deturo, stormed out, his long, gray beard swishing.

  “That woman is going to be the death of—” He caught himself upon noticing Torsten. “Ah, Sir Unger.”

  “Is everything all right?” Torsten asked.

  “Just examining our young King. I was hoping to take him to my study where I could try forcing him to ingest a rare herb concoction from eastern Panping. I’ve heard of great results. The Queen Regent, however, won’t allow me to risk giving him anything but water.”

  “Does he seem in pain?”

  “He doesn’t seem anything. Still, he wheezes but does not wake. If we do not try something more drastic, I fear we might lose him.”

  “Pray, Deturo,” Torsten said, laying a hand on the agitated man’s shoulder. “Beg for Iam’s light as I have every night since Liam passed. There is no better salve for the wounded.”

  “I am a man of...” He stopped and drew a deep breath. “Just try to get through to her, Sir Unger. She nearly had me hanged assuming I spread news of Pi’s condition. I fear she won’t heed my advice that rest alone is not improving anything.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. I’d rather not prepare the body of another king for eternal rest.”

  He walked away, grumbling under his breath, and Torsten continued on his way to Oleander’s chambers.

  “You called for me, Your Grace?” he asked before entering.

  “Did I?” she replied.

  “I... Yes. You sent Rand for me.”

  “Well, come in then, my Wearer. Sit.”

  Torsten entered, but remained standing by the door.

  Oleander sat, her hair freshly washed and being combed by her favorite handmaiden Tessa, barely aware of Torsten’s presence. Torsten watched, but his gaze listed continuously toward the Queen’s bed where Pi lay, his small head poking through the covers, eyelids sealed and face tranquil for the first time in longer than Torsten could remember.

  “Tessa,” Oleander said, addressing her handmaiden. “What do you believe about my husband’s untimely death?”

  Torsten could see the discomfort on the poor girl’s face as she took a moment to collect her thoughts.

  “Your Grace,” she answered in a thick accent from the northern regions—maybe Crowfall or Fessix. Each word was a bit slow and drawn out. “Twas a shame, right forward. I dunno how it could be seen any other way.”

  Oleander smiled. “And of my son?”

  “I, myself, cried at the news,” she said. “He was a sweet boy.”

  "Is." Oleander snapped.
"He is sweet.”

  “Y…yes, of course. Tis what I meant.”

  She settled down, cleared her throat. “A result of your simple mind, I’m sure.” It was as if Oleander had wholly forgotten her roots in the savage North.

  Tessa’s hand shook now as she continued combing, glancing periodically over at Pi.

  Smart girl, calling the boy sweet. No one who knew Pi in the last year would have called him sweet, and Torsten hadn’t known him much before since he was too busy serving the kingdom elsewhere. Uriah said there’d been a time he was kind, quiet, and studious, but since the day Redstar betrayed them, Pi was disturbed and often violent, especially toward the help. Even the simple act of knocking on his door could cause him to throw anything he could get his hands on.

  Torsten always figured Uriah was exaggerating about the boy’s former nature for Oleander’s sake, but he was starting to feel foolish for doubting. The more he thought about it, he almost blamed himself for not barring Pi’s windows after the night he’d witnessed him teetering on its edge.

  Incapacitation is better than worshipping a fallen goddess.

  Torsten quickly admonished himself for having such a cruel thought. It wasn’t the way of Iam.

  “Tessa, I’d like some honeyed wine,” Oleander said, breaking the awful silence.

  The servant placed the brush down immediately and curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Torsten watched with pity as Oleander picked up the brush and continued where the girl left off. He could see her reflection in the mirror before her. Her puffy eyes started watering again. She slammed the brush down on the vanity, startling Torsten.

  She moved to sit beside Pi, brushing his moppy hair like she would her own. Torsten followed but kept his distance.

  “I can feel him fighting still, Torsten,” she said.

  “He comes from good stock, Your Grace,” Torsten said. “Liam’s blood runs through his veins.”