by Jaime Castle
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a man die in battle, but the first time he’d been holding the weapon. Killing was a thief’s last resort, and Whitney was good enough to avoid doing it.
His gaze darted from side to side at the fighting soldiers. He’d never seen such chaos. Dirt swirled in the air, dyed red from blood and the glow of flames. Clashing blades sparked, screams echoed, and it was impossible to tell who was winning. He went to take a step, then an archer lost his head to a Glass soldier.
Whitney spun, searching for a way out. He heard movement beside him and turned. A gray fist crashed into his jaw and took him down hard.
"As brittle as glass without your King, eh, my Lord?" said a heavily accented voice, laughing. The brute was a towering stack of muscle.
Whitney rolled onto his shoulder and used his momentum to shoot back to his feet. The soldier closed in on him. Whitney took a step back and tripped over a bow. Now that was a weapon he was proficient with. In one fluid motion, he grabbed an arrow from the quiver on a dead man’s back and notched it. The Sandsmen brought his sword up, Whitney let the arrow go.
It stabbed through the Shesaitju man’s chest, but he didn’t slow a bit. Instead, he grinned as he snapped the shaft, stalking forward. Whitney groped for a second arrow but found none. The man pressed a heavy boot down on Whitney’s chest and brought back his blade.
This is how the greatest thief in Pantego is going to die? On my back, with the broken crown of a dead conqueror in my pocket, in a fight I have no horse in.
A part of him felt it was fitting. The other part closed his eyes and prayed to Iam for a miracle. Whitney wasn’t a religious man, but a good thief always hedges bets.
The weight suddenly lifted. He reopened his eyes and found the man’s tree trunk of a neck without a head on it. He folded over on top of Whitney, hard, knocking what little breath he had left in his lungs right out of them.
The clip-clop of horse hooves drew his attention.
"I don’t think that belongs to you, Thief,” said a young King’s Shieldsman sitting atop a white steed. He sheathed a fine longsword and hopped down. Behind him, Whitney heard the cheers of his men as the Black Sands attackers were forced into retreat.
The man knelt and reached into Whitney’s open cloak without bothering to free him from the heavy corpse first. His eyes went wide as he grasped the Glass Crown and only one half came out.
“The Black Sands stole it,” Whitney wheezed. “Was just on my way to return it, I swear.”
The man ground his teeth in frustration, glanced up at his fleeing foes, then back at Whitney. "Tell it to the Wearer of White,” he said, right before bringing his foot down into Whitney’s head.
XI
The Knight
THE KING WAS DEAD and Queen Oleander shed real tears, though not for him.
Torsten had trouble sleeping ever since he’d carried Pi’s nearly lifeless body inside. He couldn’t get that gruesome vision out of his head. The poor boy, driven to attempted suicide by some manner of curse, and now he lay in fitful sleep from the fall.
I should have listened to her about him…
For once, Torsten actually wanted to discuss Redstar with Oleander. He had been attempting to come up with a way to broach the subject without angering her but couldn’t find a moment alone. King Liam’s funeral overwhelmed the capital while Pi’s fate remained secret.
Torsten watched the servants toiling to transform the Grand Hall into a viewing chamber. The casket itself was crafted out of glass and ornately decorated. The King’s body was covered by a thin sheet of light blue silk. It was all employed to ensure that Liam would be remembered as he was when Torsten fought at his side and not as he now was—frail and rotting.
Flowers filled the hall, chirard and salda, even lilacs were in bloom. Incense burned; a sweet, almost too sweet smell. At least the room no longer stank of death.
Once everything was set, Torsten took his place at Oleander’s side.
“Your Grace,” Wren the Holy, High Priest of Iam addressed her on her throne which had so long stood beside Liam’s. The Glass throne itself remained empty. “Is the Crown Prince coming?”
“My son mourns in private for his beloved father,” she asked, not missing a beat.
“But, Your Grace, it is customary for the Crown Prince to be present at the burial of his father. And being that Pi is Liam’s only—”
“My son, your future King, wants to be alone.”
“I understand, Your Grace. These times of loss are never easy for the young.” He bowed, then turned to face the amassed crowd. They were nobles of the Glass Kingdom, from the wealthy families within the walls of Yarrington, to the members of the royal council.
“Esteemed people of Yarrington and beyond,” he bellowed with power and clarity. “We gather here under Iam. May he watch over us and guide our steps.”
He raised his scepter topped with the eye of Iam. Everyone present echoed his words, then traced their eye-sockets with their fingers and bowed their heads, as was customary.
“Long has Iam lifted our people to fulfill the will of the one true God. A thousand years ago, Iam watched from the heavens as his brethren battled each other over who might rule Pantego. For the Vigilant Eye of Iam saw the trouble in their hateful ways, just as his chosen son Liam saw it here. Our King fought, in His name, to bring peace to fair Pantego. Praise be the Vigilant Eye.”
The assembly repeated those words.
“It is with a heavy heart we bid farewell to our kind and pure King, but he is with Iam now, watching over us for all of time, in darkness and in light. And he has not left us alone.”
Another priest shuffled over and handed Wren the Glass Crown—or rather, a forgery of it. Torsten had the castle glassmith rush-craft a new one using gems from the vaults after it was discovered the crown had gone missing. Torsten didn’t think it was right replacing the thing Liam wore so long, but in a week the city guard had turned up nothing searching for it and it wasn’t worth troubling Oleander over. A lost relic, just like the once-great King.
Wren took it, praised Iam, then made his way to the empty throne. Torsten watched Oleander with a heavy heart as he placed it down on the seat. Pi’s nearness to death had made her inconsolable, and with him named the new King and unable to move, it would leave her the most powerful person in Pantego. The Queen Mother.
“We are fortunate Liam has left us with a fine, young heir.”
“Why is the Crown Prince not here?” said Yuri Darkings, Master of Coin. The white-haired man from Winde Port stood at the front of the Royal Council. He’d served on it since before Torsten was even born. “Is he not to be named King?”
“Of course, he is King!” Oleander snapped.
“Then where is he?” asked someone else in the crowd. Murmurs flared, filling the Great Hall like a swarm of angry bees.
“Pi Nothhelm is the one true heir of Liam Nothhelm,” Wren stepped forward and declared, before Oleander could react. “He is our rightful King and when he is done mourning the loss of his great father, this crown shall be placed upon his head, as is the will of Iam. For now, it shall sit on the empty throne of mighty Liam as is custom, so we are reminded of the greatness that is no longer with us.”
Oleander made a poor attempt to smile. Torsten heart plummeted further. The faces of many of the Glass nobles glowed with the hope of another great leader. They were all being lied to and Torsten could do nothing about it, even if he wanted to. The truth would do more harm than good. If the people found out that Liam’s only living heir might be dying already, he couldn’t imagine where new enemies might spring from.
Wren returned to Liam’s casket and lay a hand upon it. He whispered a prayer first, then turned his attention back to the crowd. “But for today, we join the future King in mourning the loss of his father for a Clora’s full cycle. Then, at the crest of Mount Lister, under the Vigilant Eye, Pi’s coronation will be complete. Praise be the Vigilant—”
Sudde
nly, Rand Langley, the newest member of the King’s Shield, burst through the side doors. He was supposed to be posted beyond the city walls, but entered the Grand Hall instead, ready to speak until he realized what he’d interrupted. A bit of blood stained his right pauldron.
Torsten lowered his hand from the handle of his sword, then stood quietly, waiting for an explanation.
Oleander glowered.
“Sir… I’ve been sent to fetch you,” Rand stuttered as all eyes fixed on him. “It’s important.”
“Enough to interrupt the funeral of my late husband, your King?” Oleander questioned.
“I… uh.”
The poor kid looked like he was going to piss himself.
“Your Grace,” Torsten whispered to her. “Allow me to go with him. I assure you, you’re in good hands.”
Oleander regarded her people, then nodded. “Go, Torsten, and show him what happens to those who can’t follow orders. I will be fine. Your men are trained well…. Most of them.”
It was the closest thing to a compliment Torsten had ever received from her. He bowed low, his gaze falling upon King Liam’s glass casket.
I’m so sorry, Your Grace, he thought. All those years of service to the man who raised him from the dirt, and now he would miss watching his body committed to the Royal Crypt. But duty, as always, came before personal feelings, and a young man like Rand wouldn’t barge in on so holy a ceremony unless it was urgent.
Torsten turned to follow the petrified knight, who required a hardy nudge to get moving. They quietly but hastily traveled through the servant’s tunnels. It was the quickest route to the Shield Hall. The circular war room was carved into the cliffside upon which the castle stood, with a clear view of Mount Lister.
Tapestries telling tales of his conquests hung from the walls surrounding a long, shimmering table. Statues were placed around the edge of the room, not of kings like in the Grand Hall, but of former Wearers of White. Men who’d served the Glass Kingdom before Liam was even a thought. Each of the effigies was carved from glaruium—a potent ore found only in the belly of Mt. Lister herself—like their armor, and held the swords they’d wielded in life. The circle wasn’t yet complete. Although Uriah’s likeness had been formed of glaruium, his was the only one not holding a sword, as his body had never been found after he disappeared into the Webbed Woods.
Two other Shieldsmen huddled over the massive sheet of glass, intricately etched, engraved with a map of the kingdom and beyond. Torsten noted the sand-blown glass flames positioned on the map in at least a half-dozen locations southeast of Yarrington.
“What is this?” Torsten asked.
“Go on boy, tell him,” Wardric, the gruffest of the Shieldsmen addressed Rand. The Wearer of White had no official second in command, but if anyone was, it would have been Wardric. He’d served long before Torsten, before Uriah was even Wearer of White, but had always turned down the position of Wearer.
Rand swallowed hard. “I was doing a routine inspection on Fort Marimount in the South, as ordered, when I saw smoke rising. We followed it and engaged a raiding party razing Troborough.”
“We received galler birds from Lilith’s Mill and Flatpost—said they also were hit but not nearly as completely.” Wardric pointed to another small farming town south of Yarrington and then another.
“Who?” Torsten asked.
“The Black Sands,” Wardric said with the venom of a man who’d fought the Shesaitju on more than one occasion.
“I saw them myself,” Rand said. “We tried but...”
He hung his head. Torsten patted him on the shoulder. It was a tough first ask for any new recruit to do better. “It’s all right, lad,” he said. “Who could have imagined they’d do this with King Liam only freshly in his casket?”
“Those heathens will do anything to keep their gold,” Wardric spat.
Torsten drew a deep breath and let the information settle. Burning defenseless towns seemed like a random act of hatred, but the Shesaitju had clearly learned from losing to Liam. Cities, no matter how large, were fed by farms, and they’d just laid waste to countless yards of it; enough to cause unrest in the population. They were feeling out their enemy first instead of charging carelessly as they’d tended to do in the past.
Had Liam incidentally taught all of Pantego how to win a war?
A dead King, a dying heir—what else could go wrong?
“Did we capture any?”
Rand shook his head. “None alive.”
“Are there any survivors?” Torsten asked.
“Townsfolk and farmers,” Rand replied. “Nobody of interest except for one. He’s in the dungeon. But sir…”
“What?” Torsten snapped without meaning to.
Rand produced a bag and dumped the contents onto the table. Half of the recently lost Glass Crown tumbled out.
“I found this on the man.”
Torsten lifted it, eyes wide as he noticed a few gems missing.
“Stole it right off our King’s still-warm corpse, he did,” Wardric said.
“For the Black Sands?”
Rand shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I had to keep one of the bastards from gutting him.”
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all we recovered,” Rand said.
“A man doesn’t stroll into the Holy King’s Masquerade and steal the crown for no reason. Our enemies smell blood, but we must stand strong brothers.”
“What are your commands?” Wardric asked, saluting.
Torsten only took a moment to think. “Have the Royal Council request a surplus shipment of grain from the Panping region immediately to make up for what was lost. We must maintain control during this transition. Quietly inform the Shield that we are under attack. Reinforce the southern forts around Winde Port and have a unit sent to every farming village in the southern reach.”
“And what of our response to the Shesaitju aggression?”
“First, have Master of Coin Darkings detail a full report on the Shesaitju’s delinquent taxes so I gain a dull understanding of the situation. Then dispatch gallers to the Caleef in Latiapur. Demand explanation for these unprovoked attacks.”
“A letter?” Wardric said, incredulous.
“They killed all those people!” Rand protested. “We have to do something about it. Don’t we?”
“I agree with the boy, Torsten,” Wardric said. “They kneel to the Glass no matter who died. We should remind them of that, lest our new King appear weak.”
“And we will,” Torsten said. “But before we declare open war, we must decide if this was an action sanctioned by the Caleef who declared his fealty and mortality before Liam, or an overeager warlord acting of his own accord. For now, we must quietly secure our own borders and appear unshakeable.”
“If King Liam was alive—”
“But he is not,” Torsten interrupted. And for the first time, the dire circumstances of his kingdom felt real. More than just nightmares. “The Queen Mother does not need the stress of open rebellion at the moment. Not with our new King…” He nearly let the truth of Pi’s condition slip. “In mourning.”
“Just move the troops,” Torsten ordered. “The Shesaitju are prodding because they still fear us. A display of force in the South should keep them at bay until we can assess the state of the kingdom.”
“Whatever we can do to keep the fragile mind of the Flower of the Drav Cra comfortable you mean?” Wardric grumbled.
Torsten stood proudly. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Shieldsman. I’m still the Wearer of White. Follow your orders, or I’ll find someone else who can.” Torsten almost stopped himself before that last sentence. He sounded just like Oleander.
Wardric ground his teeth and saluted. “Right away, sir.”
“Good.” Torsten turned to Rand. “Now, take me to the survivor who had the crown.”
“With respect sir, towns are burning,” Rand replied. “Can’t he wait?”
Torsten sighed. Th
is is what happened during times of unrest after Liam’s slow descent started. Everyone wearing armor started doubting and asking questions. Uriah never stood for it. He commanded, and the King’s Shield obeyed. Torsten had only been Wearer for a year, but he’d had two great mentors show him how to lead.
“With or without respect does not change the fact that you are questioning my command, boy,” Torsten said.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I’m only trying to understand.”
“I intend to find out what kind of thief would be so bold as to steal the royal crown, only to get caught a few days later in a Shesaitju ambush.”
“Not a very good one,” Wardric remarked.
Torsten let his eyes carry over the glass-blown flames donning the war table. “Or one who intended to be caught.”
XII
The Thief
“I’D WONDERED if I’d ever see you again, scag.”
Whitney had hoped he never would. He stared at the same scarred, ugly mug of the brutish guard who’d flattened him for stealing jewelry on the day of his first incarceration in Yarrington.
“Looks like it’s your lucky day, then!” Whitney exclaimed. The comment was met with a swift punch to his gut.
The guard shoved Whitney into the small cell. It was different from his last cell beneath the Glass Castle. It had been dark, wet, and gray—this one was as well, but it was somehow darker, wetter, and grayer. In this, there was no adjoining cell or even windows. This was the real lower dungeon. Where the worst of the worst wound up.
“Not my lucky day, stuck down here with the likes of you,” the guard said. “But without a doubt, it looks like yours is far worse.”
That was true.
“Really?” Whitney said, finding the wind in his lungs again. “I like it down here. I was hoping for a darker cell.”
“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, sinister. “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.”
