“Will you just stare at me?” she asked. “I swear, ever since Torsten went away, the quality of your order is...” She grabbed Rand’s jaw. “Would you look at your Queen.” She emphasized each word like she was scolding a child.
The front of Rand’s head pulsed with pain as he forced his blank stare to meet Oleander’s. He didn’t want to look at her. He never wanted to look at her again. His fingers slowly wrapped the handle of his sword. All he had to do was draw it, and the source of all his pain would be wiped from the face of Pantego.
“That’s better,” she said, then released him. “Since the kingdom is left without a Wearer, I need you to go fetch my impetuous brother.”
Rand swallowed. She was literally inviting him to the room of his target. All so easy. All he had to do was hold steady, and he could fix everything. “What…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. He felt like he was holding his breath deep underwater. “What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him his king needs him. And Shieldsman, your duty is to do what I ask and nothing more.” She groaned and stormed away, her heels clacking along the courtyard’s marble perimeter. “These Shieldsmen are going to be the death of me,” she muttered before disappearing into the castle.
Looking down, Rand released a mouthful of air and realized his sword was halfway out of its sheath.
Shieldsman.
Everything she’d put him through, and she had no idea who he even was. He could see it written all over her face like she was talking to any inferior whose name she’d never bothered to learn. She’d rarely gotten his name correct even when he stood guard as Wearer directly outside her chambers.
“By Iam I need a drink.” He shook out his hands, then headed across the courtyard toward the West Tower, keeping his head low. If she didn’t recognize him, he doubted anyone else would, but he still had to be safe.
Three guards walked by chatting. “I hear Sir Unger let the rebel afhem escape down at Winde Port,” one said. “Probably helped Yuri Darkings free the Caleef too.”
“No, Sir Nikserof was there,” said another. “Said he fought like a madman to get them out alive, then just snapped and lost it, blood-crazed.”
“I heard he drove his blade straight through Xander’s heart back in Winde Port, he did,” said the third.
“Yeah? I heard worse, that it was he who slew Sir Wardric Jolly outside Winde Port, not that Darkings traitor.”
A wave of sadness passed over Rand. He’d served under the old Shieldsman Wardric who’d been around in the order forever and refused to wear the White after Uriah Davies died. There was no finer Shieldsman, and now, while Rand drank himself to oblivion, Wardric had been killed at the hands of traitors. Rand understood very few rumors in his drunken spell, but the news of Yuri Darkings, the former Master of Coin, conspiring to free Caleef Rakun of the Shesaitju from King Pi’s grasp was information he retained.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the first guard said.
“Fine… was a Black Sand's wench at the Vineyard who told me, I’ll admit.”
The other two laughed.
“All that time sharing the mad Queen’s bed, I’d lose it too—” his comrade nudged him as they noticed Rand passing. They nodded in acknowledgment.
Sharing her bed? Freeing Rebels? Killing Sir Wardric? Rand couldn’t believe how busy Redstar had been sullying Torsten’s good name. One would think the vile heathen would honor a debt of gratitude to Torsten for allowing him to return alive from the Webbed Woods. Now, instead of answering for his crimes against the Prince, Redstar now served directly under young Pi as prime minister, a position which had gone unoccupied for many kings passed.
Rand glanced back one last time at the slab of stone that would be King Pi’s statue. He circled his eyes and ducked into the East Tower. As he turned back, he collided with something and heard a clattering on the floor. A younger gentleman stumbled, and Rand reached out to keep him from falling too.
“My apologies,” Rand said.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said the young man.
Rand recognized him, thought him an assistant to the Master of Rolls before realizing he had a young page following behind him. Then he remembered that he’d been there when the former holder of the title, Frederick Holgrass, was hanged at the request of the Queen—that he’d fulfilled her request.
Focus, Rand, he told himself as his hands balled into fists.
Liars, monsters, and strangers abounded in the castle where he once happily served. It could all be traced back to Redstar. From Uriah Davies vanishing, to the cursed Prince nearly dying and driving Oleander to do unspeakable things.
He had to trust Wren the Holy. He had to trust Torsten.
He rushed by the new Master of Rolls without bothering to help with the mess. It earned him a glare, but there was no time to dawdle. If he were discovered, everything would be for naught. He’d be hanged for abandoning his post, or worse, thrown into a dungeon to live forever with what he’d done.
He scaled the stairs of the West Tower two at a time. Wren said Redstar was in the Wearer’s chambers—Torsten’s chambers—and Rand knew well where they were. Another noble or council member Rand didn’t recognize passed by as if Oleander had driven away every familiar face in the castle.
He reached the long hall at the second highest level of the castle, where councilmen and other dignitaries kept their quarters. The Wearer of White’s room was first down the line as if he were meant to protect all the rest. The shield of the kingdom’s noblest nobles.
A Drav Cra warlock stood outside, wearing a ratty cloak and discolored furs. A necklace of bones and totems fell to her narrow waist. Her expressionless face aimed forward, with eyes staring off into nothingness as if her soul was already in Elsewhere. She may have been pretty once, before she let her hair go wild and covered her face with paint like a demon, white beneath her nose and solid black above.
Rand grew up like any other proper Glassmen, attending services at the changing of the moons in the name of Iam, receiving His light at the weekly congregation his end of Dockside, honoring the Dawning. Other than being forced to shirk the lazy accent of his upbringing, he’d never been good at learning; otherwise, he might have gone on to study the holy scripture. But he was always good at fighting, at defending his sister even though she rarely needed it. The King’s Shield—sworn protectors of the Iam’s chosen kingdom—seemed the only possible choice.
To see a faithful servant of the Buried Goddess guarding the very chambers reserved for Rand’s leader... suddenly it put everything into perspective. He knew what he had to do. He knew why he had to do it. But only now was he entirely sure he was going to.
The corridor was empty except for the warlock.
“I must speak with Redstar, by request of the Queen Mother,” Rand said.
The woman didn’t bother to face him. “Arch Warlock, Drad Redstar is busy and must not be disturbed. Tell her she can wait.”
“She said it’s in regards to King Pi. It seemed urgent.”
“There is only one being who requires urgency.”
“Please…” Rand begged, letting his shoulders sag. “Do you know what the Queen Mother will do to me if I return to her alone?”
“His convention with the goddess will conclude in due time. You are free to wait, but hers is the only scorn you should fear, knight.”
“Okay, I’ll, uh… I’ll wait right here.”
He went to step by the warlock, keeping his defeated tone and posture. The warlock’s eyes stayed unfocused. Rand took two steps, then whipped around and swung. His glaruium-hard gauntlet crashed into the warlock’s jaw, and she went down in an instant. He’d never been one to hit a woman, but chivalry died for her when she chose to be a warlock.
Rand waited for her to spring up, but she remained still.
“So much for your goddess' powers,” he whispered. He approached the door cautiously. It was unlocked. The knob turned with a barely audible click, and he slowly pushed it in. First
, he saw the familiar relics of Shieldsmen past lining the walls. Then, sitting with his legs folded in the center of the room, was Redstar.
He was completely naked, palms raised to the ceiling, and covered in thick blood. His infamous birthmark stretched down the side of his neck and over his shoulder. Rand never realized it was so extensive. Every inch of his back was scarred—sword marks, frost burn, and even animal bites. All the windows were covered in sackcloth, the wavering light of dozens of candles surrounding, illuminating him.
Redstar muttered under his breath in a strange language, his fingers twitching. Arrayed on the floor before him was a series of stone shards fitted together like a puzzle to create a mural of imagery reminiscent of the stained glass designs of the God Feud found in Yarrington Cathedral. He recognized Mount Lister in the center and the Eye of Iam above it, but much of the rest was unclear including strange, florid inscriptions which wrapped its border in a foreign language.
Rand slowly unsheathed his longsword and approached him. He drew steady breaths, kept his footsteps light, and forced his mind clear. It took all his King’s Shield training to do the latter, but he managed. At the same time, he battled his training—battled his instincts of knowing that stabbing an unarmed, unarmored man in the back wasn’t the way of a Shieldsman. But he was a Shieldsman only in appearance, and even then, barely. He’d failed a long time ago. At least this failure might right all his wrongs. He knew such an act would likely keep him from entering the Gate of Light and earn him a place in Elsewhere, but he didn’t care. As he prepared to strike, he hoped that maybe, perhaps, he was performing the work of Iam.
Remember me well, Sig, he thought to himself.
One last step and he thrust his sword toward the base of Redstar’s skull. The tip stopped just short as if a shield had blocked it, but there was only air.
Rand glanced up from the blade and saw one of Redstar’s bloody hands closed into a fist, blood squeezing out from the creases.
“I wondered how long it would take you to get out, Torsten,” Redstar said, flippantly.
He stood and strolled to his bed. The muscles in Rand’s arms tensed as he struggled, but his arm was frozen along with the rest of him.
He tried to speak, but even his mouth was forced shut by the magic.
“Ah, not Torsten. You two share the same aura.” He chuckled as he put on his robe. He released his fist and said, “Speak.”
“What devilry is this!” Rand questioned.
Redstar turned. He had a grin smeared across his face. “The same aura, indeed. He sent you, didn’t he?”
Rand said nothing; he merely grimaced as he continued his futile attempts to move.
“Your eyes betray you, knight,” Redstar said. He picked up a dagger from atop the stone mural. The handle was carved from bone and the blade curved. The same foreign language found on the mural was etched into the hilt. The edge was still wet with the blood from his sliced hands.
“And your heart betrays you, heathen,” Rand snapped. “You will not make it out of this room alive.”
“Another insufferable zealot? I swear, I thought only your former master was cut from so rigid a cloth.”
Sweat glistened on Redstar’s forehead, and streaks, commingled with blood, drew lines on his crimson birthmark. Redstar kept his voice firm, but Rand could see the dark rings hanging beneath his eyes like bloated coin purses. Whatever dark ceremony he had just been involved in clearly had him drained.
“Wait,” Redstar said. “I recognize you.” He squinted as he scrutinized Rand’s face, then began to cackle. “You’re the Wearer who replaced Torsten, aren’t you? The coward who tucked tailed and ran from my lovely sister? Just like everyone else.”
“Release me from whatever this is, and I’ll show you cowardice,” Rand growled.
Redstar leaned in close. His grin vanished and his features darkened. “You? A deserter and a drunk? I can smell the ale in your sweat. It reeks of weakness. Are you the best Torsten could find to come for me? I suppose after his little performance at Winde Port, the Shield is even less loyal to him than I expected. I thought perhaps that Pasic fellow, Nikserof, but you? I’m insulted.”
“You—”
“Don’t speak!” Redstar raised his other hand and pressed his fingers together. Rand’s lips sealed again, and this time he couldn’t even groan. Redstar then glanced back at the stone mural and the circle of candles around it. “Is this another test, my goddess? I have done everything you ask. Why do you not return to your realm in full?”
Rand remained frozen but noticed that Redstar had to take a breath before the last sentence. He was straining, winded. All the signs were showing of a man in a sparring duel ready to be overtaken, down to the way he held his slumped shoulders.
So Rand pushed with all his might to move his sword. It stung with unimaginable ferocity, but he didn’t back down. He wanted to scream at the top of his voice, but his lips were sealed. He pictured Sigrid with a knife to her throat from one of Redstar’s savage followers. He pictured Tessa’s rotting corpse swinging in the wind at the command of the sister Redstar drove to madness. And then, he remembered himself, vision going black as the sheet tightened around his throat. Ready to give up until Iam’s highest servant arrived to give him one final task, to give him purpose.
His lips suddenly parted, and he released a scream that shook the heavens. His sword hand twitched, and while he wasn’t in complete control, he was able to swipe upward. The blade, forged by Hovom, the castle smith, cleaved Redstar’s hand from his wrist. The Arch Warlock stumbled backward, gawking down at the stump on the end of his arm as blood gushed.
“The madness ends today!” Rand declared. Suddenly, he was free of the dark magic. He charged forward and swung at Redstar, who ducked and spun around. Redstar’s gaze fell to his dagger, still gripped by the cloven hand.
Rand came at him again. The tip of his blade sliced Redstar’s robe as he evaded another blow. He was quick as the dire wolves of his homeland, but Rand didn’t stop. He measured his attacks, desperate to finish him.
“Enough!” Redstar finally roared.
Rand’s blade stopped inches from the warlock’s heart, then flew from his grip as he soared backward. He slammed into the stone wall so hard it cracked, arms and legs spread. Redstar remained on the other end of the room, panting like a wild beast. Two streams of blood trickled down from his nostrils, and his pupils filled the entire iris of his eyes.
He used his stump of a wrist to hold up his other arm and thrust them both forward. Rand felt as if the magic intensified by a hundred times as it crushed him against the wall.
“You think you have weakened me?” he growled. “The more of my blood that falls to the earth, the stronger my connection to her power!” His fingertips remained inward, and Rand’s glaruium armor started to tighten around his body, constricting his throat, bending his ribs. Rand could do nothing but gurgle.
“Do you feel that?” Redstar said. “You fools have spent centuries mining the stone imbued with Nesilia’s power after Bliss struck her down and Iam was too weak to save her. Coating yourselves in a shell of her protection. None of you were bright enough to even question why the stuff was so strong.” He clenched his fingers more, and the armor squeezed so tight Rand couldn’t breathe. “Others are difficult to control but you, Shieldsman, it’s like you’re wearing strings.”
Darkness nipped at Rand’s vision. He felt like he was back in his shoddy room above The Maiden’s Mugs, swinging from the rafters with a noose around his neck. Failing Sigrid. Failing himself. Failing everybody.
“You thought that you could destroy me, her Hand?” Redstar said. “You pathetic, little fool. I will wear your bones.”
“You will not lay a finger on another of Iam’s children,” someone said from the doorway.
The pressure exerted by Redstar’s magic let up. Rand was still pressed against the wall, but as his armor expanded back to its proper form, he found himself able to breathe again. He
and Redstar both looked to the entrance, and Rand was greeted by a familiar sight to eyes blurred by strangulation. Wren the Holy shuffled in with his cane. His scarred face where his eyes had once been scrunched up, leaving crow’s feet as if he were in pain.
“I suggest you leave, old man,” Redstar said. “We wouldn’t want you breaking anything.”
“Wren… go,” Rand rasped.
“I will leave when you let the boy go.” He walked in further and positioned himself between Rand and Redstar. "Not before."
“You would protect a murderer willing to stab an unarmed man in the back?” Redstar asked. “Though I suppose that was the way of your God’s champion, Liam. Win, no matter how many orphans are left behind.”
“Enough posturing!” Wren said, projecting his voice with a timbre no man his age should bear. “Your pettiness and lust for revenge are going to bring this kingdom to ruin.”
“Then I will sleep in its ashes.” Redstar raised his hand high again, and Rand was compressed from every direction.
“This man came at my request. If you must have blood, take mine, but you will let him go.”
“No, Your Holiness,” Rand grated. “You still have a part to play.”
“Release him!” Wren slammed his cane down in front of him with both hands. The floor cracked like he had the strength of a giant and the crystalline Eye of Iam carved upon the handle began to glow. The blinding light folded in front of them as if it were a shield. Redstar’s hold completely vanished, and Rand collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.
“Yours isn’t the only deity with tricks up her sleeve,” Wren said. Redstar’s bloody limbs remained outstretched, the air between them rippling from magical energy. Wren’s shield blocked it all and seemed even to push Redstar back. The sheets whipped off the bed and the many relics around the room clattered to the stone floor, several shattering. The rest of the warlock’s face went red to match his birthmark as he drew on Elsewhere to break through.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3) Page 87
