Web of Eyes: (Buried Goddess Saga Book 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Ah, so he wouldn’t have approved of barging past Glassmen in Bridleton,” Whitney said, giving her a break.

  “Let me finish.”

  Whitney didn’t dare push her further.

  “I wasn’t like you I guess, able to put the past behind me so easily. I saw the city and thought I’d want to run down and experience all the things I never had. But all I could think about was Wetzel. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had, and he was getting sickly in his old age. Could barely remember how to brew his potions. His hands shook. Sometimes, I wondered if he even knew who I was. He needed me, and before I knew it, I found myself heading back home. To Troborough and Wetzel. I told myself that if I wasn't important enough for you to come see on your visit, you probably didn't want to see me anyway.”

  “Sora—”

  “No, it’s okay, I get it now. I don't believe that anymore.”

  She took a moment to gather her breath. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes. Whitney thought better of letting the quip bouncing around in his head come through his lips.

  “I returned at the same time the Black Sands were driven away, when the King’s Shield carried your limp body back to Yarrington. There was smoke everywhere from the fighting. Wetzel’s shack was up in flames, and when I found him, he’d already suffocated on smoke. I... I... I ran away, and I wasn’t there to help him because I thought I wanted to leave. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. I should have been there.”

  Whitney reached out to take her hand, thought better of it, then decided to do it anyway. Her gaze snapped toward him like he’d stabbed her, but he held on. “The only good being there would have done is gotten you killed or worse, caught by Glassmen for using dark arts.”

  “I could have saved him.”

  “I know you could have. But do you think he would have wanted you to miss out on our glorious reunion?” He got her to crack a smile.

  “See?” he said. “I didn’t know the old coot well, but if he cared about you at all, he would’ve wanted more than for you to be stuck in that town all your life. You took down an Arch Warlock for Iam's sake, whether Torsten admits it was you or not. Wetzel may not have known if you were ready to be out on your own, but I do.”

  Her gaze turned to her mug as she blushed, her smile widening. The sight of it invigorated Whitney so much he wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her tight like he used to when they were children.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Whitney said.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “It wasn’t. It was the Black Sands who destroyed your home, but not just them, the Glass too. All these shog-eating lords and ladies and their ancient rivalries, thinking we commoners give a yig.”

  “Soon to be not-commoners. At least, one of us.”

  Whitney released her and raised his mug. “Right. To forgetting the past, and to new beginnings.”

  “To new beginnings.”

  They clanged their mugs together and were about to each take a sip when the sound of a bell reverberated through the tavern. It chimed three times. The bartender’s face immediately knotted with concern. Whitney had heard the castle bell ring in that pattern only once before—the night he’d disappeared with the late King’s crown.

  It only happened like that when a ruler of the Glass Kingdom passed.

  Whitney and Sora exchanged a nervous glance.

  Did Torsten kill the Queen?

  Whitney thought what they dare not say aloud. If Torsten was willing to lie about his position, he could have been lying about everything else. It seemed unlikely, but Whitney knew a thing or two about pretending.

  XXXV

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten skidded to a stop at the entry of the Glass Castle, kicking dust at the guards stationed outside. They lowered their halberds as Torsten hopped down. He only realized then that while he was still wearing his white armor, it was so caked by mud and blood it was impossible to recognize. The people of Yarrington hadn’t seen men return from war in nearly a decade, and he looked like he’d seen war.

  “You will lower your weapons in his presence,” Wardric ordered. “Now!” The guards retreated so quickly they almost dropped their polearms. “This armor still holds some respect.”

  “Take Redstar,” Torsten said. “It’s time to fix all of this.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Unconscious.” Torsten spoke the word with venom.

  Sora had found a combination of herbs along the road she’d ground to dust and force fed to the Arch Warlock, keeping him in a barely-alive state. Never had Torsten known a man who deserved death more. Cursing a child, impersonating and tainting the memory of Uriah, a good and loyal servant of Iam—it wasn’t easy to spare him, but he knew the Queen Regent would want to deal with her brother in her own way.

  Wardric slung Redstar over his shoulder, then they entered the castle side by side. Torsten clutched Pi’s effigy in his hand.

  The Grand Hall was as barren as the rest of the city. No visiting dignitaries or nobles seeking the ear of their king. A thin film of dust covered glass sculptures of old kings, and the throne was in a similar state of disrepair. Two King’s Shieldsmen stood on either side of it, but its seat was unoccupied.

  “The people are being ignored, Torsten,” Wardric said. “She hasn’t held audience with a soul since you left. Not our emissary from Panping, not the head of the mining guild, not even a farmer. Plans for Pi’s hopeful, public coronation have been delayed, and when Lord Holgrass tried to broach the subject of drafting legal succession papers just in case Pi didn’t wake, well... It didn’t go well.”

  “There is no grief like the fear of loss,” Torsten said. “I felt it every day as I watched Liam suffer.”

  “This is more than grief. It’s as if Iam has turned his Eye from us.”

  “No. Never that. He twisted the darkness into light in the Webbed Woods and saved us all, I felt it. This is the work of his enemies: Redstar, Nesilia. It’s over now.” Torsten lay a hand upon Wardric’s shoulder. They weren’t close, never had been, but they were brothers in arms. “He is still with us.”

  They continued to the castle’s main tower and climbed. Light refracted through the crystal at the top, painting the stairs with a rainbow as it so often did when the sun peaked. Torsten had no time to admire how much he missed the color. He took three steps at a time, and nobody arrived to stop them. The castle seemed abandoned, as if everyone were hiding.

  A large, generous hallway lined with glass candelabras awaited him at the top. Broken glass and cracked tableware covered the floor. At the end of the lush, blue carpet, stood Rand and two other members of the King’s Shield outside Pi’s chambers.

  Whereas Wardric looked like he’d aged terribly since Torsten left, Rand didn’t look a day older. And he still looked scared, like a boy off to battle who’d freeze in camp at the first sign of winter. The white helm he wore lolled off to the side, barely fitting.

  “Halt!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Nobody is permitted on this floor.”

  They didn’t listen, striding right up to him until his eyes went wide with concern upon realization of who Torsten was.

  “You’re back?” he said.

  “Step aside, boy,” Wardric said. “He’s here to see the Queen Regent.”

  Rand drew his longsword. One of the other guards did the same, but the second hesitated with his hand on the hilt.

  “You’re not supposed to be back,” Rand said.

  “We won’t ask again. It’s time to end this.” Wardric went to draw his weapon, but Torsten stopped him.

  He stepped forward until Rand’s sword brushed against his chestplate. The boy quaked. Torsten reached onto his back. The other guards took hard steps forward, but Torsten didn’t grab his weapon. Instead, he unlatched his back-scabbard and let his claymore clang against the floor.

  He was sick of fighting. All he saw as he stared into Rand’s wet eyes was a kid in over his head. A kid forced to have innocent
men hanged by the demands of the Queen Regent. He saw himself, lifted out of shog of the docks by King Liam and made into a man.

  “I’m so sorry, Rand,” he said softly. “This is not where you belong.”

  “Her Grace asked to not be disturbed,” he said, lips trembling.

  “I return with a chance to show the Queen Regent the error of her ways. To help her see the light again. All you need to do is step aside.” Torsten raised the orepul.

  Rand eyed it like it was as worthless as it really was, and he didn’t budge.

  “You were exiled,” he said. “Please leave, Torsten. Don’t make me force you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, kid,” Wardric said. “Just move.”

  “The Queen Regent was not in the right mind,” Torsten said.

  “Her word is law now,” Rand said. “No matter what state her mind is in.”

  “Do you have a family, Rand?”

  “What?”

  “A family; do you have one?”

  “Well… yes. A sister down in Dockside. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Since I was younger than you, I’ve dedicated my life to the Glass. Liam, Oleander, Pi, they are all that I have. I would do—have done—anything to protect this throne. So, you see, the Crown is my only family.”

  “I still can’t let you in. She… she… demanded it.”

  “And she demanded someone find this orepul and bring her brother to justice.” He gestured back at Redstar, whom Wardric had deposited on the floor in case it came to fighting. He noticed that the Arch Warlock’s eyes were open again, flitting side to side to figure out where he was.

  “I have finally done both after far too long. I can reason with her.” Torsten stepped forward, but Rand angled his sword up at his throat.

  “Stand down, Sir Ung… Torsten!” he ordered.

  “If I have learned one thing in my many years, it is that the Crown is fallible. All of Iam’s children make mistakes, even Liam. I have known Queen Oleander since the day he claimed her as his own. Since she was half your age. She has grown into a woman unlike any other, but she has made mistakes in her grief. All those men out there, hanged, they aren’t on you.”

  “I am the Wearer of White,” he sniveled. “I passed the sentence.”

  “No, I did. The moment I left on a fool’s errand instead of standing my ground. The moment I lost faith in the Queen Regent because she wasn’t her husband, and I didn’t believe she could see reason without a miracle. Let me bear the weight of her mistakes, as I should have before.”

  He extended an open hand toward Rand’s white helm. Rand’s sword pressed against Torsten’s neck until it drew a pin-prick of blood.

  “Go. Be with your family, Rand,” Torsten said. “Let me handle mine.”

  He stared straight into Rand’s eyes. He’d seen the same look on the faces of young soldiers after battle a thousand times before. Soldiers who weren’t yet numbed to the horrors of war—and there was a war on its way from the South.

  He held Rand’s gaze, even as a stream of red ran down his neck. Then, suddenly, Rand lowered his sword. He reached up, lifted the helmet off his head and dropped it at Torsten’s feet. He didn’t say a word. He just left it there and walked down the hall. He didn’t cry, at least not while he was within sight.

  The other two guards sheathed their weapons and stepped aside. Torsten regarded the helmet, his helmet. He considered putting it on, but without the blessing of the Crown, he’d be wearing a lie.

  “Now what?” Wardric said.

  Torsten drew a deep breath, then opened the door a crack.

  “I said not to bother me, you insolent child!” Oleander shouted, and something shattered against the wall inside.

  Torsten didn’t miss getting scolded by her. He swallowed hard, then pushed the door until he was fully inside. She sat at Pi’s bedside, stroking his head. Even with her hair and clothes in disarray, she was as stunning as ever. Beautiful as her namesake.

  “I said leave!” she whipped around. Her hard glare softened the moment she saw who it was. “Torsten?” she whispered.

  He fell to a knee and bowed his head. “My Queen.”

  “Torsten where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling for you, but instead I’ve had to deal with that useless boy, Ralph.”

  Torsten didn’t bother correcting her. “You sent me away, Your Grace.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d be so soft. It is your job as Wearer of White to know when I need you.”

  Torsten took a moment to gather himself upon learning he never even had to leave. That she had no idea she’d stripped him of his station. She needed this closure anyway, he told himself.

  “I have captured your brother, My Queen. And I have reclaimed what was stolen from your son.”

  “You did what?”

  He presented the doll. She eyed it a long moment before a smile stretched across her face.

  “His orepul!” she exclaimed. “I knew I could count on you, Torsten! My loyal Wearer of White. Bring it here!”

  Torsten stood, and it only took two strides toward her before he noticed that the room smelled like the outside of the castle. Like death. She snatched the doll out of his hands, and he didn’t fight it. He was too busy staring at Pi. The boy’s flesh was a sickly shade of light purple, and he didn’t look to be breathing.

  “Your soul is complete again, my sweet,” Oleander whispered. She stroked Pi’s hair and placed the doll in his hands. There was no strength in them. She had to pry open his fingers just to place the doll in, but it kept slipping away, so she had to help him hold it.

  “Now my awful brother’s curse may be lifted.”

  Torsten slowly circled to the other side of the bed so that he could lean over for a better look. The boy’s chest didn’t rise, and the stench was so foul Torsten had to force himself to stifle a gag.

  “How long has he been like this?” Torsten whispered, barely able to get words out.

  Oleander continued to smile as she pulled him close and rocked with him. “None of the castle doctors could do a thing for him, but I knew we could trust you. Loyal Torsten.”

  Torsten felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Oleander had been so convincing in her obsession with Pi’s orepul that a part of Torsten hoped it could bring him out of his sleep. In truth, he was a child that fell from a window after the curse of the Drav Cra’s Arch Warlock drove him mad. A child whose mind and body were broken.

  “Iam, let not his sinful dalliance be remembered,” Torsten said, tracing his eyes with his fingers. “Shower him in your light, oh Vigilant Eye.”

  “Come now, my sweet,” Oleander said. “Wake up. It’s time for your eyes to open.”

  Torsten returned to her side.

  “There’s no reason to be afraid,” she said.

  Torsten reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder, and only then realized he was shaking as much as Rand had been. She didn’t even seem to notice his touch. She just kept stroking Pi’s hair.

  “He’s dead, Your Grace,” he said. “Liam’s only son is dead.”

  She turned toward him. He expected to face her wrath as he had so often but instead saw something he never expected. A tear ran down from her crystal blue eyes and anguish gripped her features. Oleander looked… shattered.

  Perhaps it was hearing him say it that ended her denial. Honesty with her was always one of his gifts. As honest as one could be with their monarch that is.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I was too late.”

  “My baby boy…” she stuttered. “Have all the gods forsaken us.” Despite the filth of his armor, she threw her arms around Torsten’s waist and wept. He didn’t even know she was capable of it. She hadn’t even cried when her husband passed. Not even a tear.

  He drew her tight against his armor and squeezed. “I should have been here. I should have been stronger.” He wanted with all his heart t
o join her in grief, but for her sake, he held back.

  His head whipped around at the sound of a cackle. Redstar lay against the door, arms drenched in blood, a dagger in his hand. His gag was removed, and the bindings around his wrists were surrounded by embers as if they’d been burned away. The bodies of the two guards were outside, blood pooling around their throats.

  “You traitorous cur!” Torsten roared. “He’s your nephew!” He released Oleander and charged Redstar. The Arch Warlock merely grinned as Torsten lifted him by the throat and squeezed.

  “He got the jump on me,” Wardric groaned from the hall. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his head.

  “I should crush the life out of you,” Torsten grated.

  “My work is already complete,” Redstar gargled.

  Torsten felt the man’s trachea beginning to collapse, and right before it did, he dropped him.

  “No,” he muttered. “All of the kingdom will watch you burn for poisoning the mind of your nephew. They will see what evil is wrought from those who follow false gods and idols.” He glanced back at Oleander, expecting her to be watching intently but she only continued cradling Pi like her hated brother had never shown up.

  “In the name of the Queen Regent, and as Wearer of White, I Torsten Unger, sentence you to death.” Before Redstar could get another word out, Torsten’s boot crashed into his face and knocked him out.

  Torsten reached over him, grasped the white helm of the Wearer, and placed it over his head. Then he turned to Wardric. “Throw him in the dungeon and chain every part of his body to the stone. Then tell Wren the Holy to ring the bell. King Pi Nothhelm is dead. Long live the Queen.”

  XXXVI

  THE KNIGHT

  King Liam’s public ceremony was attended en masse by dignitaries from around Pantego. Former enemies, allies, foreign and domestic. At Pi’s, Torsten could hear the coughs in the small crowd dappling the castle hall as Wren the Holy gave his eulogy. A eulogy for a boy nobody knew, driven mad by the whispers of his uncle’s curse. Even Torsten only knew him in his brokenness, but now he believed the stories Uriah used to tell about how smart and kind Pi was before Redstar’s curse.