“Nothing you show me will change a thing.”
“We shall see.” Redstar grinned. “Come.”
The Shieldsmen dragged Torsten along. Behind their group, he noticed Freydis following, soundless and reserved, yet Torsten knew madness stirred just below her surface. Nikserof still refused to look at him, and Torsten wondered if he were being controlled by black magic at their hands. The old coot in the adjacent cell sat against the wall, pawing at his mouth, seemingly unable to open it.
Torsten paused to look in, and Redstar took notice.
“Ah, my apologies,” the Arch Warlock said. “The Lady has been so kind to me with her power of late, sometimes I forget.” He spread his fingers, and the old man gasped for air. He remained cowering in the corner, quiet for once.
They led Torsten to the castle’s entry hall. He’d made himself busy the entire way trying to talk sense into Nikserof, and not getting an answer. He even tried talking to Mulliner, although he knew it would do no good.
When they reached the vast space, drowned in the colorful light of all the stained glass in the clerestory, he was silenced. Glass soldiers, Shieldsmen and Drav Cra warriors patrolled and guarded the castle’s every corner. The Northern savages were no longer merely at the gates, but inside them making themselves comfortable.
Torsten stole a glance into the Throne Room. Pi stood in the center of the room, engaged in a heated conversation with Oleander. Or, rather, it was heated on one end. Oleander towered over the boy. She was tall by any standards, but next to her son, she appeared a giant. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands whipped around dramatically as she spoke, but Pi remained the same stoic boy he’d been since emerging from the Royal Crypt.
Oleander threw her arms up in frustration. Pi shook his head solemnly, then turned and headed toward his throne. Oleander made a move toward the Great Hall and locked gazes with Torsten through the open doors. He expected a glower, but she seemed relieved to see him.
“Torsten, I must have a word with you immediate—”
The doors slammed shut in her face without anyone pushing them. Torsten heard Freydis snicker and looked back. She had a bloody hand raised. Oleander pounded from the other side, her muffled shouting indiscernible.
Torsten’s pulse raced. He was about to have a chance to beseech the King again.
“Take him to my quarters,” Redstar said, smiling. “He won’t want to miss this.”
Torsten veered toward the doors and was about to call out to Oleander when his escorts jerked him back.
“Please, I must speak with her and the King,” Torsten protested. “I must speak with them!” He thrashed with the full weight of his towering body. The Shieldsmen had to anchor their feet to keep him in place.
“Sir Unger, this isn’t the time,” Nikserof whispered into his ear.
Hearing his title whispered caused Torsten to stop fighting, and he was promptly towed to the stairs of the West Tower. It meant that at least a smidgeon of respect still remained. That didn’t change how foolish he felt. All his life in the Shield, he’d hauled hundreds of criminals to the dungeons. He always wondered where they found the gumption to fight the inevitable. Nearly all of them struggled as if they had a chance against soldiers or Shieldsmen with their hands cuffed.
Now Torsten understood. They fought it because in their hearts they believed they were innocent. Not every criminal was as self-aware as Whitney had been. Torsten couldn’t help but doubt himself—to wonder if maybe he was wrong. If somehow, he’d imagined Redstar’s many slights. After all, the only others there that night, a year ago, when Redstar cursed Pi and fled, were Uriah, who died shortly after, and Queen Oleander. When it came to Pi, the Queen never saw things clearly.
No, Torsten told himself, shaking the thoughts out of his head as Nikserof and Mulliner dragged him onto the stairs. The wolves were circling no longer. They now made their home within the camp, and their pack leader would devour everything in his path.
“Nikserof, Mulliner, you have to see the madness in this,” Torsten said as they ascended the stairs. “Drav Cra in our very halls.” He nodded back toward Freydis who followed them at a safe distance.
“Now isn’t the time for this,” Nikserof said. Mulliner remained silent.
“Soon there will be no time.”
They pulled him to a halt at the landing of the second highest floor of the castle, just around the corner from Torsten’s old chambers. Nikserof leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Many of our men defend against the Black Sands. We’re outnumbered.”
“And we don’t need a traitor’s help,” Mulliner snapped.
He shoved Torsten into the passageway. Torsten staggered forward but couldn’t mask his smirk as he found his balance. Mulliner may have been unreachable, but Sir Nikserof wasn’t lost to lies.
I’m not alone.
They stopped outside of Torsten’s former Wearer’s chambers. Two Drav Cra warlocks stood outside, rags and trinkets draped all over them. Both turned simultaneously toward them as if they were connected.
They extended their arms and silently beckoned Torsten into the room. Freydis rattled off to them in Drav Crava. One left, and she took his place guarding the door.
“You may enter,” she said.
The Shieldsmen released Torsten, and he took a few cautious steps toward the doorway. These were his chambers, but he couldn’t help but feel that something was different. He stopped.
“Are we still the Shield that guards this kingdom?” he asked Nikserof.
“Always.” The knight replied.
“We are,” Mulliner said at the same time, indicating that Torsten wasn’t one of them. Then they set off back toward the stairwell.
Spirits lifted by one of their answers, Torsten entered the chambers that had served him and so many Wearers of White before him. He barely recognized it anymore. All the arms of former Wearers which once festooned the walls like relics were askew or fallen. An entire wall was cracked as if a boulder had slammed into its center. Droplets of blood covered the floor, the largest splatter on a mural, its stone canvas pieced together like a puzzle.
That uplifted feeling vanished almost as soon as it’d arrived. Torsten could never forget that painting Redstar once showed him which depicted the God Feud in a way that painted Nesilia, the Buried Goddess, as Iam’s ally and lover. The notion itself was ridiculous, contradicting the Holy Scripture and every glass shard of artwork decorating churches of Iam—both ancient and new. In true history, Nesilia and the One Who Remained, whom Redstar called Bliss, were the two instigators of the feud that nearly reduced Pantego to rubble. Hundreds of gods and goddesses died or fled, never to be heard from again. The One Who Remained defeated Nesilia after they turned on each other.
Iam watched in horror as all his kin ravaged the land that, together, they created. With all others weakened, he created Elsewhere and banished what remained of the gods there for all eternity. All the horrid creations of unspeakable power they conceived to help in their feud joined them. Iam was left with both the feeblest and fairest of their creations; dwarves and men, beings of flesh, blood, and bone. He shed his light upon them from the heavens above, hoping for a day when all the fighting initiated by his fallen ilk might end.
It was the sad story of Pantego’s birth, once intended to be the crowning achievement of the gods. But even they fell prey to jealousy and contempt. Only Iam stayed true, and Torsten had long ago dedicated his life to that truth by following King Liam. His conquest to bring all Pantego under a single banner was everything Iam loathed, but Liam understood the cost. To do whatever it took, even sacrifice the sanctity his very soul to create a peaceful world of tomorrow. A world where man would stop squabbling over false idols and dedicate themselves to the light of the One True.
Now, Redstar sought to undo all of Liam’s painstaking work.
Torsten squeezed his fists tight. There were ancient weapons all around him. If he could find a way to break the chains on his wrists, he could get ou
t and finish what Rand couldn’t. He wasn’t sure why he trusted the broken-down deserter to take down an Arch Warlock alone.
The axe of Sir Quenton Carlsbad lay on the floor, its shaft cracked in half a century ago in a war with the dwarven kingdom of Elnor. If Torsten could get the right angle, he might be able to snap the chain. He’d have to deal with the two warlocks outside, who may be listening to his very thoughts for all he knew. All he’d have to—
“Fair Yarrington!” someone announced. Torsten was immediately drawn to the window which looked down over the castle’s entry gate. Redstar stood atop it with Pi on one side and Wren the Holy on the other. In the bailey, at their backs, were all the members of the now-worthless Royal Council. Arrayed behind them, King’s Shieldsmen and Drav Cra warlocks and warriors, Nikserof at the head of the former, and Drad Mak, the latter.
A crowd had formed down on Royal Avenue, staring up at their lords. It was common-folk, mostly; the only people stirred by affairs of the kingdom. The nobles down the way were happy to stay in their Old Yarrington estates, letting the world pass them by so long as their coffers remained full.
“I stand before you, humbled by the acceptance of my people, and the trust of your king,” Redstar continued. It was only then that Torsten realized it was he who’d been speaking. He’d never heard the Arch Warlock project his voice so loudly. “It has not been easy coming to this strange, vast city. I’ve been working hard to learn how things work so that I might earn the title given me by your King as Prime Minister, his right hand.”
“Ain’t no Drav Cra ever be one of us!” a member of the crowd shouted, encouraged by a smattering of cheers.
“You don’t belong here!” cried another.
“I have heard all the rumors and lies about how I came to be your Prime Minister!” Redstar said, ignoring them. “But today I stand before you, begging you to put aside our differences. Do you not remember we all hail from Drav Cra long ago? Oh, what the years have done to our minds, our memory fails us. Has this alliance not brought us back to simpler times? Times when we were one? Has it not proven the brilliance of your late King in taking my lovely sister, Oleander, as his wife?”
Torsten scanned the platform. Oleander wasn’t present. As Queen Mother, she should've been standing by the side of her son, but Redstar stood there in her stead.
“Lovely as gold-plated shog!” someone else in the crowd hollered, drawing laughs.
“Where is the murderous shrew?” asked another.
Pi glared in their direction. Without anyone needing to ask, two hulking Drav Cra warriors delved into the crowd, grabbed the men who’d spoken out, and hauled them, screaming, back through the bailey.
“There are still those who ignore fact,” Redstar continued. “Since the moment King Pi was brave enough to call on his family for help we have claimed resounding victory at Winde Port, as only Liam could have done. All of Pantego now fears our great army again, but there are still some among us who deny this success.” Redstar lifted his arm and drew back his sleeve. The crowd gasped, Torsten did as well. There was only a stump where his hand used to be.
“A member of your King’s Shield accosted me as I slept. A man, still loyal to the former Wearer Torsten Unger, whose mind was so ravaged by battle he took the life of one of his own. I have been left scarred but not disheartened. For as my life seemed to be coming to an end, a sign—a light from the heavens shown. Wren the Holy arrived at my room at the exact moment of betrayal and disarmed my would-be assassin.” Redstar extended his remaining hand and placed it on Wren’s shoulder, and smiled warmly. “The voice of Iam saved my life.”
Murmurs broke out. Wren limped forward, leaning on his cane, his hands shaking so much Torsten could see it even where he stood. Wren moved like a decrepit old man, and even nodding in agreement with Redstar seemed a struggle. Torsten had seen him only days earlier when he sent him to find Rand, and he appeared healthy. He’d been an old man since Torsten first met him, but never had he been feeble.
“Some of you are loathed even to speak the name of the Buried Goddess!” Redstar announced, stepping forward, arm around Wren’s hunched back. “Some of you believe she is wicked. The bringer of the God Feud. Deceiver. Just as we, for so long, thought Iam our enemy. But it is all of us who have been deceived. History, twisted over eons by liars and cheats who have forgotten the love shared by our holy Father and Mother.”
“Blasphemer!” someone in the crowd called out.
“Hang him!”
“Crucify him!”
“Silence!” Pi bellowed. His voice, like that of a giant, filled the air, sending a chill up Torsten’s spine. In an instant, the crowd grew so quiet he could hear the clattering of glaruium armor far down below. “You speak ill of my uncle and your Prime Minister. The next who does shall speak no more.”
With that, the silence lasted. There was no question that the common-folk of Yarrington remembered the sight of Oleander’s slaughter, dozens swinging from the walls by their necks. Torsten wasn’t sure if Pi would do the same. He’d seen such a glimmer of hope in the boy outside of Redstar’s influence—but that was the problem. There they stood, side by side.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Redstar bowed to him, then turned back to the crowd. “For too long we have fought in mind and body! We have imagined our gods to be enemies until we believed it ourselves, down to our very cores. But I have seen the truth. I have seen it written in texts older than the Glass Kingdom itself, and I have seen it here.” Redstar faced Pi. “Our Miracle King, brought back from the earth.”
He returned to Wren’s side, knelt, and took the holy man’s hand. “And only yesterday, this great vessel of wisdom was sent to my chambers at the exact moment I was to die,” Redstar said. “The voice of Iam on Pantego sent to save me, the voice of Nesilia—as if it were fated. That after all these long centuries of fighting, we might come together once more, as was always intended.”
“Lord Redstar s-s-speaks the truth,” Wren said, stammering.
Torsten grabbed hold of the window-sill and squeezed. Something was very wrong with the High Priest. He’d only just been a part of planning the assassination of Redstar, yet now was supporting him and speaking with a stutter he’d never had before. As if this were his first time speaking in front of a crowd rather than the ten-thousandth.
“I see now how foolish we’ve been,” Wren continued. “T-t-torn apart by unknown grudges when it is so clear. The light of the sun cast upon Pantego is worthless without the earth to bear its warmth. We must come together.”
“And we shall.” Redstar stood and approached the edge of the wall. “The Goddess below and the God above shall be together once more. In the name of our King, Pi Nothhelm, the Miracle Prince, first of his name and son of Liam the Conqueror, we beseech you, therefore, brethren, today, shed your hate and see what we can become. Nesilia, the Buried Goddess stands with you. Iam, the Vigilant Eye stands with you. Your King stands with you!”
Redstar pointed back at Pi, and the crowd erupted. Torsten hadn’t seen anything like it in many, many years. All those loyal servants of Iam, roaring in approval. They probably had no idea what they were even celebrating, but it was clear now that Redstar’s silver tongue made even Whitney’s seem like mere bronze.
Pi stepped forward. “Together, we will finish what my father started,” he pronounced. “I know now that this is why the gods brought me back.” He wasn’t enthusiastic, and nowhere near as florid as Redstar’s speech, but his voice carried. More cheers rained upon him, and when he opened his arms, the soldiers in the bailey marched out. Drav Cra, Glass soldiers, and Shieldsmen marched out side by side through the parting crowd.
“Rebellion still rages in the Southern sands,” Pi said. “I hereby name Sir Nikserof Pasic of the King’s Shield and Drad Mak the Mountainous of the Drav Cra, Co-Wearers of White. They shall lead our armies under a single banner in bringing Afhem Muskigo to justice.”
That was when Torsten noticed. The White Helm he’d wor
n now resided on Nikserof’s head. His cape and a single pauldron were fitted snugly over the Drav Cra chief’s patchwork of fur armor. Nikserof had only just been with Torsten and wore no such thing, which meant all this had just happened down in the bailey. The most experienced Shieldsman, and likely the only one with the pull to stand up to this new shifting of power, was being sent far away to war where he could do naught but serve his kingdom through blood.
No other Shieldsman deserved the honor more, but Torsten knew it wasn’t intended to be one.
“Let Iam’s light s-shhine upon our brave soldiers as they bring peace to this world,” Wren the Holy exclaimed, lifting his cane, so the eye of Iam atop it caught sunlight and refracted a rainbow of colors.
“And let Nesilia bring them swiftly across the earth, from here and back again.” Redstar grasped the cane right above Wren and raised it higher. King Pi stood before them, still calmly taking in the revelry of his subjects.
Redstar glanced back over his shoulder, looking directly up at the window where Torsten stood. Then he grinned. Torsten’s blood boiled. All the most experienced King’s Shieldsmen he might be able to trust in—many of which had fought at his side in Winde Port—were being sent away to finish the war. And all that’d be left behind would be green Shieldsmen and men like Mulliner whose loyalties could be more easily swayed by the promises of survival or glory.
There’s no time for patience.
Torsten whipped around, remembering his intent to free himself, take Redstar down, and end his influence over the impressionable young King. Freydis stood directly in front of him. He went to swing at her, but her hand dripped with blood, and her magic held him back.
Before he knew it, more Drav Cra warriors flooded into the room, and he was hauled back to his cell, deep below the castle, damned to do nothing while Iam’s kingdom was usurped from within.
XVIII
THE MYSTIC
The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3) Page 91
