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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “The Queen did not wish to besmirch the miracle of Pi’s rebirth by spilling the blood of her brother before the coronation,” Torsten replied.

  “Well, that’s done with now, and nothing boosts the people’s spirits like a good execution.”

  Torsten smiled and patted him on the back. “His time will come. Now, you seemed in a hurry. Is everything all right?” He’d become used to things going awry. When someone of any stature approached him, he assumed the worst. However, the old, weathered Shieldsman appeared calm.

  Wardric led the way through the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the Glass Castle. “Queen Oleander is requesting your presence in the Throne Room,” he said. “He’s arrived. A day late and with no notice.”

  “Naturally. The Black Sands want to see Yarrington as it is, not as we would present it to be for the coronation. Afhem Muskigo tested us with fire, and now Caleef Sidar Rakun will test us with his eyes.”

  “If they’re working together,” Wardric offered.

  “If Muskigo truly did attack without blessing, Caleef Sidar will have no choice but to align with us.”

  Wardric sighed. “I tire of these games.”

  “Brace yourself, my friend. I fear the games have only just begun.”

  “Iam save us all.”

  “So, you have faith He’s with us again?” Torsten asked.

  “The only legitimate heir of Liam Nothhelm rose from the dead. Wren the Holy believes it a miracle, why shouldn’t I?”

  “A miracle, indeed,” Torsten said.

  But whose?

  He couldn’t keep the thought from popping into his mind. Every time he pictured Pi standing in the Royal Crypt, crown and bloody Drav Cra orepul in hand, Torsten thought of those last words he’d heard the boy whispering in darkness—Redstar’s words.

  Buried, not dead… buried, not dead.

  “You went to see him again?” Wardric asked as they rounded a corner into the castle’s east wing. Tall, pointed-arched windows lined the hall, stained glass shining like precious gems beneath the winter sun.

  “See who?” Torsten asked, happy to be stirred from impure thoughts.

  “The boy, Rand.”

  “He’s a boy no longer.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Torsten.”

  “I refuse to let another worthy soul abandon his post.”

  “Then consider the reason he left,” Wardric pleaded. “Consider the reason the Royal Council is sparse, and those who remain are grossly under-qualified whelps.”

  Torsten shot a glower his way. Wardric took him by the shoulders and stopped him outside the door to the Throne Room. “How long will the miracle steal everyone’s attention? Eventually, we have to address what happened while you were gone. How can the people trust leaders who hang physicians and servants for merely speaking truth? Our dungeons still overflow, and we don’t even know who really belongs there.”

  Torsten lightly shrugged Wardric off. They’d grown closer in the weeks since he’d returned from the Webbed Woods. Of all the Shieldsmen, Wardric had given Torsten the hardest time after he’d taken over for Uriah Davies, his long-time predecessor. It took horrid times, but Torsten now knew that if he could trust anyone throughout the kingdom, it was the gray-haired Shieldsman standing before him.

  “Let us deal with one problem at a time,” he said. “We were all lost after Liam passed. A new king doesn’t change that. None of what happened was right, but we can only look forward now. Agreed?”

  Wardric drew a deep breath, then backed away. “Agreed. Now, go make sure the Caleef answers for what was done.”

  “He will, my friend. You have my word.”

  Torsten turned, but Wardric grabbed his arm. “Don’t let her cause a war we cannot win. We’ve lost enough already.”

  Torsten nodded, then stepped into the Throne Room. Pantego’s ultimate seat of power, a Glass Throne possessed by a juvenile king, towered over the room. By the new king’s side stood Queen Oleander, and behind her the Council of nobodies her unbridled rage had left them with. Torsten was the only among them who’d seen war while serving under Liam. For Iam’s sake, he was the only one who’d ever even held a sword.

  Glass Soldiers lined the hall along with a handful of Shieldsmen. The former remained at attention, stoic, disciplined. The latter saluted Torsten, fists against their chests as he passed. Torsten recognized only a few of the Shieldsman beyond Nikserof who remained downstairs. Sir Mulliner, Reginald, a few more faces he couldn’t put to names.

  His own fingerprints upon the Shield, compared to Uriah’s, were nearly imperceptible after he spent so much time catering to the Queen’s will and sending others to their deaths at the hands of Bliss. And now there were fewer within the walls of Yarrington than ever before. Following the death of Liam, dozens had been dispatched to strongholds throughout the kingdom by Wardric when Oleander wasn’t looking. All across the southern reach, they trained the Glass armies and fortified, preparing for another attack by the Black Sands. Then there were those like Rand and Lord Yuri Darkings who had fled Oleander’s wrath and deserted their post.

  “You’re late,” Oleander said from beside the throne. She was easily one hundred paces away, but her voice carried down the vaulted ceiling like a galler in flight.

  Torsten bowed low. “I had some affairs of the state to address, Your Grace.”

  She slowly shook her head. “You know I don’t like waiting when I call.”

  “Apologies, Your Grace. It won’t happen again.”

  “You always say that.” She held her stern glare for a few seconds before it gave way to a smile.

  Just the sight of it gave Torsten pause. Her late husband had named her the Flower of Drav Cra, and never had an epithet been apter. A month had passed since Pi was reborn, and since that day she was as confident as ever, never leaving her quarters without a veritable army of handmaidens preening her.

  Presently, she wore a blue gown—always blue—more extravagant than any Torsten remembered having seen her in. It was cut low—always low cut—revealing the lines of her collarbone, then sweeping up around her slender shoulders like peacock feathers. The bottom cascaded down the throne’s dais. With Tessa dead at the hands of her wrath, Oleander’s new favored handmaiden—he wasn’t sure of her name—was busy unfurling the ends, so it appeared like a waterfall cascading down glass steps.

  Torsten couldn’t help but remember when he found Oleander at Pi’s bedside, shattered by grief after the boy died. It was as if she too had experienced a rebirth through his resurrection, the whole castle even. The court went from cowering from her grief-stricken wrath, to impossibly busy with the coronation and other affairs. And now, the royal entourage of the Shesaitju Caleef was arriving in the heart of Pantego. On the surface, everything seemed back to normal, but one look around, and it was painfully clear how much it wasn’t.

  As Torsten took his position to the left of the throne, he realized he’d never attended an audience with any but Liam seated upon it—even when the King was sick and his body rendered useless, it was him.

  As usual, Pi slumped to one side of the glass seat three sizes too big for him. The chair’s arm was so high it could have served as a headrest. He dressed in an elegant satin tunic, his long, dark hair combed as his mother spent so much time doing every night. Torsten found himself growing angry at the sight of the boy’s beautiful crown, so much more extravagant than Liam’s but fought it off.

  “The Shesaitju are a proud people,” Torsten whispered to Pi while they watched the main doors of the castle. “Choose your words carefully, but do not give an inch.”

  King Pi half-turned his head to regard Torsten with a single eye. Torsten averted his gaze. The boy’s expression didn’t change. Not a word. Not even a nod. His mother would tell him to take his time finding his voice again as she stroked his hair every night. But Torsten remembered his voice—the voice which whispered to the Buried Goddess in the night; thanks to Redstar.

  “The Shesaitju will
learn humility,” Oleander said, standing on the opposite side of the throne. “Don’t worry, my precious child, they are here to grovel and apologize to their new king, nothing more.”

  “We must distill more information about the attacks,” Torsten implored. “Find out if that afhem was acting alone so we can pit them against one another.”

  “Nothing more.” Oleander shot Torsten a cold glare he knew was meant to silence him. As beautiful as she was, even Liam the Conqueror couldn’t wield a glower with such vinegar.

  Torsten swallowed the lump forming in his throat, but didn’t back down. He couldn’t. The Miracle King didn’t talk, and so the Queen Mother had been his mouthpiece. When Rand Langley failed to contest during his short run as Wearer, all who spoke ill in her presence found themselves on the wrong end of a noose.

  “He will declare his fealty,” Torsten said, “but first, please consider a tactful approach. The caleefs once fancied themselves living gods. Appeal to their dignity and we can use the truth to our advantage.”

  “Weren’t you there when Sidar Rakun bent the knee to Liam and renounced his deification?”

  “I was,” Torsten said proudly.

  “The greatest warlords in the world, and we crushed them. The Caleef knows his place, unlike some of us.”

  “My Queen… I—”

  Before Torsten could finish, the double doors opened. Light poured in, shimmering off the gold clothing and beads of the Caleef’s entourage. Wardric arrived to greet them and disarm the guards. When he was finished, he nodded at Torsten, who waved them to approach.

  Torsten glanced at King Pi who didn’t even budge at the sight of them. Oleander, however, grinned wide, her lips a dark shade of violet. Torsten turned back to the hall to watch the entourage of dignitaries and shirtless servants approaching. A handful of them carried the Caleef on a golden platform, plumed at the back with broad palm leaves, the veins painted gold.

  Unlike the rest of his people, Sidar Rakun wore all-black, head to toe. Even his dark gray skin had two bars of paint, black as the beaches his people came from, running down from his eyes to his chin. And though Liam’s longtime, defeated rival was as old as he had been, his dark hair didn’t show a touch of gray.

  They stopped in the middle of the hall. An afhem barked something in Saitjuese. From behind the Caleef’s chair, his Serpent Guard—the elite defenders of the Caleef and his afhems, masters of the Black Fist combat technique—silently fanned out to form a line on either side of him.

  Their name was well-earned. According to legend, they were just as slippery and impossible to strike as snakes—though Liam had little trouble. Golden leather armor covered them head to toe. Gilded masks, bearing the shape of a snake’s head, hid their faces from their hairlines to the tips of their noses. Rumor had it they filed their teeth into fangs, though their mouths remained closed.

  Servants lowered the Caleef’s platform. Two took his hands and helped him down. Torsten struggled not to roll his eyes. Last time he saw Sidar Rakun, more than a decade ago, he groveled on the floor and declared his mortality. Liam never needed a servant to hold his hand when he could still walk. Even after his legs failed him, he never needed to be carried or fanned. The man had dignity unto death.

  “So, it’s true,” Sidar said as he approached, staring at King Pi. His voice was deep and full of timbre, but Torsten knew it was all bravado. He’d heard his true voice when he’d surrendered the first time.

  Sidar stopped before the dais and stood tall. Oleander’s face twisted with rage.

  “You stand before Pi Nothhelm,” Torsten said. “Son of Liam Nothhelm, first of his name, the Miracle of Iam, and High King and Lord of the Glass Kingdom.”

  “’The Miracle King,’” Sidar said as if imitating someone. He remained standing straight.

  Torsten coughed and looked toward the Caleef’s legs.

  “Ah, yes, my apologies.” The Caleef bent his knee, though never allowed it to touch the floor before standing proud again. “I am so very pleased to see you well again, King Pi.”

  “Turns out no one believes in punctuality,” Oleander said, eyeing Torsten.

  “Your Grace?” Sidar said.

  “We expected you here yesterday on the day of my son’s coronation under Iam.”

  “We set out from Latiapur the moment we received Sir Unger’s galler bird. We ran into a few delays at Marimount, however. I wish I could have been here, but your son wears the crown of his father proudly.”

  “The crown is his own,” Oleander corrected.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? It is a great pleasure to see you again as well, Your Grace,” he addressed Oleander. “I believe the last time I saw King Pi, he was this tall.” He held his hand just under his kneecap.

  Oleander stepped forward, her hand falling upon the arm of the throne. “Yes, I believe it was the day you wore the white of surrender to these very halls and cowered before my husband.”

  Torsten coughed from shock.

  “Your Grace, today is a day of celebration,” Sidar said.

  “No, yesterday was a day of celebration,” Oleander interrupted.

  “Ah, yes,” Sidar said, tipping his head slightly. “But Liam’s great son has returned to us. Iam smiles upon you again. Must we dwell on a bitter past?”

  “Iam smiles upon us all,” Oleander said. For once, Torsten agreed with her. Showing the godless Shesaitju the way of Iam after they were conquered wasn’t easy. Many of them still clung to their old ways of worshipping their ancestors and warlords.

  “Yes, of course. I will admit, I have struggled to feel his light since my heart was opened to him, but seeing your son alive and well, sitting right in front of me after hearing of his unfortunate fate…. It truly is a blessing.”

  “Enough pandering, Sidar. You are going to make me sick. Do not pretend you were only invited here to share a feast in the name of our new king. The Wearer of White sent for you because your people raided villages under the protection of the Crown.”

  “When I heard what happened, I prayed for the well-being of your people. Whoever raided your lands did so without my knowing.”

  “Ah, of course. Then who should I blame for killing my people?”

  One of Sidar’s afhems whispered something into the ear of another. They smirked.

  “I do not see the humor in this,” Oleander snapped at them. “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t hear, Your Grace,” Sidar said. “But my people would be wise to remain silent whilst I converse with their queen.” He glared back at his entourage, and they immediately fell silent.

  Torsten’s understanding of Saitjuese was rough, but it was enough for him to put together the comment. “I hear she kills her own,” they said. Torsten decided it was better not to translate.

  “Your Grace, have I done something to offend the young king?” Sidar asked, clearly in an effort to change the subject. “He has avoided looking at me since I entered.”

  Oleander wrapped her way around the throne and sat on the armrest. She ran her fingers through Pi’s hair, then stroked the crown. Pi continued staring blankly at the wall.

  “My son, your King, does not wish to look upon you until you swear fealty to him,” she said.

  “I do not understand your meaning, Your Grace.”

  “’Your Grace.’ ‘Your Grace,’” she mocked. “Are you so kind to all your friends before you stab them in the back?”

  “Your Gr—Queen Oleander. The Kingdom of the Black Sands remains loyal to Yarrington. Our lands have prospered under the rule of your late husband.”

  “Torsten?” the Queen said. He preferred Sir Unger in such a public setting, but she never was one for the ceremonial.

  “Yes, my Queen?” Torsten replied.

  “In your vast experience, do loyalists delay tax payment and then burn a handful of innocent farming villages to the ground, destroying crops that would help this city… oh, how did he put it… ‘prosper’ through the winter.”

  To
rsten feared where her bluntness would lead, but there was only one clear answer: “No.”

  “Then you see why I hesitate to believe a word out of your mouth, Sidar.” She turned back to him, and Torsten saw him shudder slightly. “Perhaps you came here to discuss the weather, but you were summoned here to answer for your transgressions.”

  “Your Grace, you must understand,” Sidar said. “Storms in the Boiling Waters ravaged us this year and cost us greatly.”

  “How convenient.”

  “If the Master of Coin lists all discrepancies we will fulfill our obligations as we are able.”

  “You think I care about a few loose coins? You walk up to this throne, up to your holy King, as if nothing is wrong. You wear black when white is more appropriate. The smelting of your little platform would pay for all your discrepancies. But would payment and apologies put those villages back together?”

  “As I said, the perpetrator of those attacks is unknown to me.”

  “So, it is a mystery to you that one of your afhems is secretly raising a vast army west of the bay? What did you hear them call him, Torsten? Mosquito was it?”

  “Muskigo, Your Grace,” Torsten said.

  “Indeed.”

  A flicker of emotion passed over Sidar’s face. Whether it was confusion, guilt, or surprise the Queen knew, Torsten wasn’t sure. There was a reason Muskigo raised his army in the fog of the Fellwater Swamp. He didn’t want to be known.

  “My Queen,” Sidar whispered, “perhaps we should continue this conversation in private.”

  “Anything you want to say, you can say here in front of my son, your King, and his Royal Council. Do you admit the afhem called Muskigo was acting on his own authority when he attacked my lands?”

  “I was not aware of his intentions. I was led to believe he raised a fleet to answer the call of the Breklians who have been under the heavy hand of pirates.”

  Torsten studied his face as he talked. Either Sidar was the best liar he’d ever met, or Torsten had his answer. Muskigo was acting entirely of his own accord, and Sidar Rakun was as shocked as Torsten had been when he stumbled upon the army.

  “Strange, we’ve heard nothing of the plight of the Breklians,” the Queen sneered. “Unless my loyal Wearer and scouts are lying, he is camped in the Fellwater, preparing to ravage my kingdom even further.”