by Jaime Castle
He reached his chambers without complications and removed his armor as he stared out his window on the north side of the castle. Looking out over Mount Lister, he let his mind wander to the things he'd seen and heard.
"Iam help us," he said.
IV
The Knight
QUEEN OLEANDER wore a pale blue gown, low cut and high-collared, with white lace and frills along the ends. On her left wrist, she wore a glass bracelet adorned with diamonds, shiny and glinting in the bright room. She wasn’t alone, but powdered her face in the vanity as if she was. She had a way of doing her eye makeup to make it look like her lashes extended in great lengths on the sides.
The sweet aroma of flowers filled the room—oleanders, her namesake. To call her beautiful would be as understating as calling dragons large. Torsten eyed the Queen with the same look any man would but forced himself to remember his place, shifted his weight and cleared his throat.
“Oh, yes," she said. “You’re still here. You were saying?"
He gathered his thoughts. “Since the King's illness took and he stopped appearing publicly, we’ve noticed a shortage of tax payment from Shesaitju. I spoke with the treasury, and Lord Sherry swears all is well with the coffers, but I believe we should send a royal emissary south to the Black Sands."
Her fingers snaked along a necklace—a long, silver chain with prongs grasping a blue crystal.
“Come, Torsten, hold up my hair,” she demanded.
“Your Grace?”
“You heard me. Since we excused Tessa for this titillating conversation, I require assistance.”
Torsten approached, his heart pounding as she wafted her hair up, exposing her slender neck and shoulder blades. Her gown’s back plunged into a deep V, and the curve of her spine drew his eyes so low it caused a sudden pang of shame.
Torsten may be the Wearer of White, but he hadn’t always been on the road to such prestige. He had been a harbor rat—a bastard born in the crowded hovels by the bay—when he’d unknowingly saved King Liam’s life. He was living off scraps discarded by fisherman—stuff no rightborn man, not even dogs, would have eaten. But for Torsten, it was eating scales and bones or die.
Then, one humid summer day, a misstep thwarted an assassination attempt on the then-young-and-virile King. Bumping into the Black Sands archer hidden in the adoring Yarrington crowd was an accident, but the King didn’t see it that way. He had Torsten made an armiger under Sir Uriah Davies, gave him a name, and transformed him from street rat to the man he’d become.
But none of it ever made him feel comfortable while alone with nobles, least of which, Oleander, the ‘Flower of the Drav Cra.’
Torsten had been at the King’s side that day—little more than a child himself when they traveled to the far north, across Winter’s Thumb, to the place where the savage Drav Cra made their homes. Their fleets were legendary—even mythological—sailing Ice Deep and the Torrential Sea, raiding and pillaging to survive. Nomads and pirates, their lands were too hard with frost to offer much in the way of resources and most civilized men had long since fled those wastes. Liam sought to conquer all of Pantego in the name of Iam, but he was ready to turn from those harsh lands until he saw the young daughter of a powerful chieftain, long before she’d bled.
The moment the young King laid his eyes upon Oleander, he had to have her. The chieftain protested, fought, but when Liam had something in his sights, no army, or combination of armies, could stand in his way. Torsten followed Uriah Davies and his Grace as he’d taken an oath to, and they returned victorious with the head of Oleander’s father on a spike. For his valor in battle, Torsten was finally anointed a knight in the King’s Shield.
Oleander was soon chosen, from amongst a kingdom of rightborn women, to be Liam’s Queen. Her acceptance did not come easily, the commoners and nobles alike whispering in the streets and court. Some spoke too loudly and ended up without tongues. She had been festooned with many titles: The Northern Whore, The Wild Queen, and others worst still.
Likewise, the King was no fool, giving her a name of his own: The Flower of Drav Cra. Torsten watched as the young girl grew into a Queen and forgot her savage ways. He watched her carry and lose two of Liam’s daughters in the womb, had been there when the King nearly shattered his own throne in anger over it. It was the catalyst for Liam’s descent toward the haggard man now seated upon the Glass Throne, a shell of his former self.
The entire court thought their foreign Queen cursed. And then, by stroke of luck or the hand of Iam, she became pregnant with Prince Pi. Torsten had never seen Queen Oleander happier than when she’d carried him. Maybe it was because the King had finally left her alone for those nine months, or maybe she knew the connection she’d have with the child even during gestation.
He was the heir promised by God. Only, now that Torsten had seen the object of Pi’s passions, he questioned which one.
Torsten shook the thought away. Nesilia is dead. Only Iam remains.
He reached up and gingerly held the Queen’s hair in place while her willowy fingers reached back and drew open the clasp of her necklace. He thought about his own necklace hanging beneath his armor, a pendant of Iam’s Vigilant Eye presented to him by King Liam himself.
He felt guilty as the scent of her perfume greeted him, flowing through his nostrils, touching a portion of his mind that drove him wild with desire.
"Shall we?" Torsten asked, refocusing.
"Shall we, what?" The Queen's mind was clearly elsewhere. She picked up her costume for the masquerade and absent-mindedly stroked the fabric, letting her fingers play over the embroidered flowers.
"Send an emissary to the Shesaitju Caleef."
"Don't be silly, Torsten. The Black Sands have been faithful to the Glass Crown for more than a ten-year since Liam’s war. Caleef Sidar visited the court not too long ago. I am confident: all is well."
"As you wish."
“Where were you last night?” Queen Oleander asked abruptly.
Torsten swallowed so hard he thought she’d heard the spit go down. “I’m sorry?”
“Last night,” she repeated. “I sent for you, but you could not be found.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know when you’re referring to. I finished training and returned straight away to my quarters."
"I had Yuri Darkings come to your chambers and he reported them empty."
"Oh, of course, I must have been sneaking a bite of food from the kitchens. Training works up the hunger.”
He hated lying to her, but he couldn't allow her to find out about his trip to Pi's room. The Queen was most known for two things—her beauty, and a temper sharp as broken glass and just as fragile. King Liam had a knack for keeping her in line, but in his condition…
“I would prefer if the Wearer could be found when needed.”
“Apologies, Your Grace.”
“Luckily, your new man… Rhett was it?
“Rand, actually,” Torsten corrected.
“Ah, yes, Rand. He’s a good boy. He helped in your… absence.”
Rand was a good soldier, but Torsten couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy passing through him. Torsten was now the Wearer of White because of his King. It was the last coherent order he’d given a year ago after Uriah went off after Redstar and never returned. Now his King clung to this life like a beggar to his last coin. He worried what might happen if Oleander no longer found him useful.
She started to pull away, and Torsten allowed her hair, soft, silky and the color of the sun, to flow through his hands. Torsten stepped backward, inching toward the corner of the room. Suddenly, her demeanor changed and her features darkened.
"When was the last time we sent men to retrieve my son's effigy?" she questioned, a harsh edge creeping into her tone.
"It has been long enough," Torsten said. "If they were successful, they'd have returned by now."
"Send more."
“But Your Grace—"
"But what?" she spat, terse.
<
br /> "It's just…I am sickened by the thought of how many have been sent to their deaths. Our army dwindles and we need to—”
“What we need,” she interrupted again, “is to bring my precious boy back from the living dead. He will soon take his rightful place on the throne and he can hardly stand on his own, all thanks to my thieving brother.”
More talk of the effigy, but now Torsten knew the truth. He wanted to shout it at her—to tell her that her son was not invalid, but instead, he was locked up in his room trying to resurrect a goddess, possessed by the same dark desires as her brother had been.
He kept quiet instead. Told himself he couldn’t bear to share information that would bring her pain. Even that, he knew, was a lie. He merely didn't want to chance of being on the receiving end of her anger. He'd seen men beheaded for far less, and his future was foggy. If Queen Oleander knew the truth and was trying to keep it secret, who knew what she’d do to keep him silent.
“We’ve been sending soldiers for years, Your Grace,” he said. “Since Sir Uriah Davies failed to return from the woods.” It pained Torsten to speak the name. Uriah had been a brilliant fighter and mentor, and even he was claimed by the Webbed Woods. Every father in Pantego was guilty of telling tales to their young ones about the place, about the evil, giant spider that devoured anything which dared enter its domain.
“Because they’re weak!” the Queen shouted, stirring Torsten from his thoughts.
“Any more loss will leave us weak. Our enemies will take advantage of the first opportunity they have once they discover the true nature of the King’s condition—if they haven’t already.”
“Don’t be such a fool, Torsten. We have not been at war for many years. We have no enemies left, thanks to him.”
An ill King brings circling wolves, Torsten thought to himself. Uriah had spoken those words often at the first sign of the King’s waning mind.
“A kingdom, as long as it rules over conquered peoples, will always have enemies,” Torsten said. “King Liam spent a lifetime spreading the word of Iam, but he can no longer speak. For all we know, the Panping or others have already begun plotting.”
“As if we don't have a strong enough army to thwart any uprising? Has not Panping City been secured? Have they not flown the Vigilant Eye for nigh on three ten-years?”
“Of course, Your Grace. I am simp—”
“Enough of this,” she said, waving her hand. “You know I hate politics.”
It was true, she preferred to pry, and taunt, and seduce, and that was precisely what she was doing at the moment. She turned toward Torsten, applied a liberal amount of shimmer to her neck and collarbone, then reached down to lift the mask she would wear to the masquerade. It was frosted, white glass, lightly adorned with a filigree of gold. She placed it against her face, her full lips still visible.
“Do I look okay?” she asked, wearing a crooked smile.
“My Queen,” he said. “You look perfect.”
“Yes, yes,” she droned, pulling the mask away from her face.
Again, her features twisted with concern. She strolled to her window and, from its sill, lifted a glass of wine with a stem so thin it was barely visible. She swirled the contents before taking a long pull. Turning back to Torsten, lips stained a deeper red she said, "The Prince hasn’t left his room since the effigy was stolen.”
Torsten held his tongue again. He’d had this conversation with the Queen countless times. The effigy didn’t hold a piece of the boy’s soul. It was ancient, Drav Cra hogwash, pagan folklore that she’d happily forgotten until she needed something to blame beyond only her wretched brother.
No, what Pi needed, more than anything, was faith in Iam.
"He grows old," she continued, "and hardly remembers why he is so sad. You speak of lost men, but we can’t have another invalid King. As much as I love my son—he is unfit to rule. You will recover what was stolen or I will find a new Wearer who can.”
She was a mistress of manipulation, knowing just what to say in any given situation. She ambled toward Torsten, rising to the same height as him. All Drav Cra were tall, but for a fleeting moment, he felt like she’d grown.
He bowed as low as his armor would allow. “Yes, my Queen.”
When she got like this, he knew it was best not to press.
“Leave me,” she demanded.
Torsten turned toward the door.
“And knight,” she said, stopping him. “Do not disappoint me.”
He bowed again and exited her chambers.
V
The Thief
YARRINGTON, the capital of the Glass Kingdom, practically sparkled like the waves on the Torrential Sea. Whitney could only guess that was how the kingdom’s name was derived. It was a city that had stood the test of time, whose winding, spindly streets appeared in constant motion as people from all over Pantego went about their daily business. It was a city whose architecture proved the melding of these peoples—buildings with tall arches designed to allow giants passage, small homes bore into boulders for dwarves, but mostly those more appealing to humans.
The towering, white walls surrounding it had helped it survive innumerable wars and sieges over the ages—at least until King Liam had established himself and conquered those threatening the peace.
Mount Lister could be seen standing tall and proud from anywhere in the city. Anywhere except the spot where Whitney found himself. From there, he could only see the gray, damp walls of a cell somewhere in the castle dungeons. He wondered why dungeon cells always had to be so dark. Motes of dust floated about, dancing in a thin ray of light pouring in through the barred window. He wiggled his fingers, creating shadows on the dirty floor.
“Ah, fresh meat,” said a voice from the darkness.
Whitney had been listening to the old man snore from the adjacent cell for what seemed like hours. He’d wondered when he would awaken.
“Hello, stranger,” Whitney said, applying his best impression of nobility.
“A bit overdressed for a place like this, dun’t ye say?” The man stepped out of the darkness, his bony limbs creaking, shaking and wobbling with each step. He wore a filthy, tattered, gray tunic like he’d just been draped with a sack. The few teeth he had left were yellow and thick with grime.
“Prince Breynard of Gilly Gale,” Whitney said with a flourish. That was his go-to identity in times like these. Gilly Gale was the name of some forgotten stronghold at the base of the Dragon’s Tail, the mountains in the North where the dwarves dug their hollows. Whitney stumbled upon the ruins while running from an angry barbarian horde after he’d spent a night with the leader’s favorite concubine. It was manned by a group of monks who worshipped a god they called the Lord of Eternal Silence. It was no wonder no one had heard of it, the crazy bastards had all taken a vow of silence.
“Never heard o’ no Gilly Gale,” the man said.
“Oh, it’s a beautiful land. Tall mountains, lush valleys. You know the sort.”
A good lie was the very essence of thievery and a lie was most easily told and believed when it was sprinkled with bits of truth. Whitney believed lying to be an art, not a skill, taking great pride in crafting his tall tales.
“He ain’t a Prince!” a guard roared, voice distant and removed. A series of laughs followed.
Whitney counted four distinct voices.
He moved closer to the bars separating him from the geezer.
“They’re right,” he whispered, looking around as if trying to keep a secret.
The old man’s cackle turned into a wheeze, followed by a moist hacking. He almost fell over before finally recovering.
“What’s your name, old man?” Whitney asked, casually leaning against the prison bars.
In response, the man simply lowered himself to the hard stone floor. Whitney cringed when the man stretched his wiry legs, his aging bones popping. Old people were the worst. They smelled—their bodies half-decayed already. They were difficult to communicate with, always ha
ving trouble hearing.
“Since you’re likely too old to hear me, allow me to be the first; my real name is Whitney Fierstown, perhaps you know the name?” It didn’t matter if a withering old prisoner knew the truth. He needed the man to trust him if he planned on getting out.
The man cackled more. "I been in this cell longer than ye’ve been alive, boy. Every day passes I wonder why they ain’t hanged me yet. No, I never heard of ye.”
He probably wasn’t exaggerating. He was ancient. Probably knew the Buried Goddess before she got buried.
“How about a different question, then?” Whitney turned his back and took a few steps away before returning his gaze to the man. “What’s an old man like you done to deserve the cell?”
The man eyed Whitney—his face beginning to soften, if only for a moment. His eyes scrunched and his mouth curled into a snarl.
“That’s two questions, ye biff,” he said. “I seen a hunnerd of ye come and go from these cells and not one of ye deserved to be here more than I.”
“For all you know,” Whitney said, “I caused a riot and killed the Queen.”
“Ye dun’t.”
“That’s true, I didn’t.” He smiled. “But I might've. Actually, all I did was steal one little coin.”
Whitney pushed himself away from the bars and fell backward into a roll, head over feet until he was seated on the floor with his back against the wall.
The old man stared at him but didn't seem the least bit fazed.
The sun was beginning to set outside, the blue-purple light of night painting the cells the same color. Whitney settled against the wall with one leg propped up, arm on his knee, examining dirty fingernails.
“So, ye dressed like a fruitcake?” the old man asked after a brief silence.
“When in Old Yarrington…they say.”
He looked down at the tattered hems of his pants and swore under his breath. It was all part of the plan to get into the King’s soiree, but he hadn’t counted on the sky unleashing a torrent worthy of the gods and his outfit getting completely ruined. When he escaped, he would have to find someplace to clean up if he was going to fit in at any masquerade—royal or otherwise.
