Queen of the Pale

by Sarah Hawke

  “You better not let Delaryn hear you say that,” Zin said with a mischievous smirk. “She’s the High Queen now—she could have you flayed for less.”

  “We both know he’s more worried about her husband,” Sehris teased, looking back at Rohen. “If the king ever found out just how well you know his new wife, he would—”

  “Don’t make me put this back on,” Rohen growled as he held the gag up in front of her. He still felt the annoying rush of embarrassed heat in his cheeks, and Sehris giggled impishly.

  “Gods, I wish we could be here for this,” she said, her violet eyes twinkling. “You’re going to melt when she looks at you.”

  “I’m glad you both find this so amusing,” Rohen muttered. “In case you’ve forgotten, there are a few thousand Chol out there rampaging across the tundra.”

  “Yeah, and I bet you’re still more frightened of Delaryn than the horde,” Zin said. “I can’t wait to hear about this reunion when you finally get to Rimewreath. Just make sure to tell the king that you saw his wife’s tits before he did.”

  He and Sehris shared another chuckle at their friend’s expense, and Rohen quietly seethed in place. They weren’t wrong, unfortunately—that was the whole problem. Standing here amidst the haunting memories of the last war was bad enough, but the thought of being forced to see the love of his life on the arm of the High King made Rohen want to retch.

  Everyone says that Thedric treats her well, and they assure me that she adores her husband. I hope they’re right, because I don’t know what I’m going to do if I have to watch her cringe every time he lays a hand on her.

  “We all miss her,” Zin said. “You know we’re just jealous, right? At least you’ll get to see her. We’ll be on the road.”

  “Even if we stayed, I doubt the king would allow her to speak with a sorceress,” Sehris whispered, her smile fading into a frown. “Can you imagine what the rumormongers would say if the daughter of the Usurper King and the Winter Witch was spotted ‘consorting’ with a dark elf channeler?”

  “Nothing good,” Zin muttered. “Never mind the fact the two of you were braiding each other’s hair when you were ten years old.”

  “Maybe someday,” Sehris whispered somberly.

  Zin sighed. “Just let Del know we’re thinking about her, huh? And if she wants to name a royal baby after me, I won’t mind.”

  Rohen forced a tight smile. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”

  While Zin finally brought the steaming porridge to Sehris’s lips, Rohen glanced up the steps to the castle’s main keep. His stomach had been twisting in anticipation ever since he had left Griffonwing Keep. It had only been three years since he had last seen Delaryn, but it felt like a completely different lifetime. It was a completely different lifetime, really. He had been a foolish seventeen-year-old boy trying to court the daughter of Duke Haldor Whitefeather, the so-called “Usurper King.” Rohen had given up everything to join her father’s army, and he had been firmly convinced that he would either become a legendary hero of the revolution or die in defense of the woman he loved.

  He never could have imagined that Thedric, the “rightful heir to the throne” that Rohen had grown up hating more than anyone, would spare his life after the last battle. The young king had offered every survivor in the Usurper’s army the same choice: permanent exile from Darenthi or a chance at redemption by joining the Templar. Many who chose the latter failed their initiation and were sent into exile anyway, but some, like Rohen, had been reborn into new lives as champions of the realm.

  If someone back then had told me I would end up wearing this armor and carrying this sword, I never would have believed them. And if they had told me that Delaryn would be forced to marry the man who had destroyed her family…

  “You need to eat something,” Zin said, when Sehris’s nose wrinkled at the smell of the porridge. “You won’t get another chance until we reach Dorelas late tonight.”

  The dark elf craned her neck to allow him to gently pour some of the hot liquid into her mouth. The instant it hit her tongue, she nearly recoiled.

  “Ilhari vlos, that is vile!” she hissed.

  “Like Ro said, everything here is terrible,” Zin muttered. “But you need something hot to eat before you freeze.”

  Sehris batted her eyelids coquettishly. “I can think of other ways to stay warm.”

  Zin smiled down at her. “Go on…”

  Rohen groaned in exasperation. When Zin actually leaned down to give Sehris a quick kiss, however, Rohen immediately grabbed his friend’s shoulder.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he snapped, looking around. “If someone saw you—”

  “Relax,” Zin said. “There’s almost no one left in this godsforsaken place. The rest of the army is outside the walls, and all the servants are scrambling to prepare the feast.”

  “The Lord Protector could be back at any second! By the Watcher…”

  Rohen turned away and shook his head. One of these days, the two of them were going to get caught, and he didn’t even want to think about how the Keepers would react—or any other faction of the Tel Bator, for that matter. Lord Protector Kraythe was a tough but honorable man, and he knew that the three of them were childhood friends…but he did not know the full truth about Zin and Sehris. The very idea of a Keeper taking a sorceress as his lover was heresy of the highest order. If Kraythe ever learned the truth and told the other two Lords of the Tel Bator…by the gods, they would be as apoplectic as if Zin and Sehris had set fire to the Triumvirate Temple.

  Mercifully, Zin went back to feeding Sehris porridge instead, and she had almost choked down the rest of the bowl by the time the Lord Protector appeared at the top of the stairs next to them. He strode down the snow-covered steps, his blue-gold cloak rustling behind him in the wind. Somehow, his plate armor always seemed to gleam as if it had just been polished. Either the artificers had woven an enchantment into the metal or (more likely) the older man was as meticulous about maintenance as he was about everything else.

  “There you are,” Edmund Kraythe, Lord Protector of the Templar, said in a deep, baritone voice that cut through the wind with the clarity of a war horn. Despite his crippled right arm and battle-scarred face, the Lord Protector projected a palpable aura of power anywhere he went. His neatly trimmed beard had grayed into nearly the same shade as his eyes.

  “Sir,” Rohen and Zin called out in near unison.

  “The army is nearly ready to leave,” Kraythe announced. “Major Thorne is waiting.”

  “Then we should get moving,” Zin said, setting the half-empty bowl down on the steps. “Sorry about removing the gag, sir, I just thought—”

  “No harm done,” Kraythe said, smiling as he stepped in front of Sehris. “How are you holding up, dear?”

  “I am eager and ready to serve, my lord,” Sehris replied. “You will not be disappointed.”

  “I know,” he assured her. “The Lord Vigilant never would have sent you if he didn’t believe you could handle the Chol…or the cold.”

  Sehris smiled back at him. “It’s not so bad, sir.”

  “You’re a terrible liar. It’s one of the reasons I trust you.”

  Zin snickered as he reached down to help her up. With her ankles and wrists bound so tightly together, she could barely walk, let alone stand, without aid—which was the whole point. Sorcerers weren’t permitted to leave the Galespire without heavy restraints and a Keeper at their side; this was the first time Sehris had left the tower since the end of the civil war.

  “There we go,” Zin said, brushing off the dark elf’s robes and leggings. “Do you really think we need the gag, sir?”

  “You’re the Keeper here, son—she is your responsibility.” Lord Kraythe smiled and clapped a stern, fatherly hand on Zin’s back. “It will make the soldiers feel safer, so I suggest you play along.”

  “I understand completely, my lord,” Sehris said, parting her lips ever so slightly. “I am ready.”

 
Zin gently wedged the small leather band back into her mouth and tightened the straps around her neck. She earnestly didn’t seem to mind, but Rohen could barely stand to see her like this. Sehris had cried the first time she had found a dead mouse back in the orphanage in Silver Falls, even though one of her adopted cats had been the culprit. The idea that anyone needed to be protected from her was beyond preposterous.

  But the edicts of Dathiel the Watcher, god of vigilance and patron of the Keepers, were as immutable as they were clear: power inevitably corrupted even the most virtuous men and women, and nothing was as powerful—or as tempting—as the Aether. Those born with the ability to channel its energies were a danger to themselves and everyone around them. For every caring, docile soul like Sehris, there were a dozen madmen like Ralos Zek or Jorem Farr. The Keepers were determined to keep Darenthi from becoming a chaotic cesspool like Highwind or—even worse—a magocracy like the Crell Sovereignty or the elven empires of old.

  “We’ll see you in Rimewreath tomorrow night,” Lord Kraythe said. “May the light of the Moonmaiden guide your steps.”

  “And may the Guardian shield us from this accursed wind,” Zin muttered. He flashed Rohen one last smirk before he began escorting Sehris through the courtyard. Her frozen chains rattled as she shuffled along toward the stables.

  “She will be fine,” Kraythe assured him, a knowing glint in his eye. “They both will.”

  Rohen felt his cheeks flush. “I’m not worried, sir, I just—”

  “They are your friends, and you are concerned for their safety,” the Lord Protector said. “I am not so old that I have forgotten what it’s like to be a young man, you know. Your friends are your family at this point in your life.”

  Rohen smiled but still glanced away, annoyed at himself for not hiding his feelings better. Not that he had often been able to keep secrets from the Lord Protector —the old man seemed downright omniscient sometimes. Given that he was the Voice of the Guardian in the mortal world, it made sense.

  “I am mostly worried about Sehris and the Chol, sir,” Rohen said. “They will be drawn to her presence.”

  “Eventually, perhaps, but she’s not much of a lure on her own. There’s a reason the Keepers only sent one channeler. A group of artificers would have been a far more irresistible lure.”

  Rohen nodded. “Still, I would feel better if I were going along to protect her.”

  Kraythe chuckled softly. “Just because you’re a Templar doesn’t mean you’re the only one capable of fighting off the Chol, son. Keeper Zinath will get the job done.”

  “I only meant that—”

  “Besides, you just don’t want to sit through dinner with a bunch of spoiled tharns,” Kraythe went on. “And I don’t blame you in the least.”

  He clapped the younger man on the back, then started up the stairs. Rohen followed swiftly, but he couldn’t resist the urge to toss a final glance out across the courtyard. Zin was steering his horse through the main gate with Sehris riding sidesaddle behind him. Rohen desperately wanted to be with them right now, and in all honesty, it had nothing to with dinner or the tharns. He still had no idea how he was going to cope with seeing Delaryn on the arm of the High King.

  Rohen bit down on his lip as he trudged up the battered, snow-covered steps. The central keep of Whitefeather Hold greeted them at the top, and this time he couldn’t stop the old memories from crashing over him. Every time he blinked, he saw boulders flying over the walls and arrows raining down upon the bailey. He could even feel the spear sliding through the gaps in his armor and knocking him from his feet.

  “It’s never easy,” the Lord Protector said.

  Rohen blinked. “Sir?”

  “Returning to the site of an old battle,” Kraythe said. “The first time I returned to Bloodstone, I almost got sick. I didn’t even know it was coming. One minute I was touring the repaired walls, and the next I was keeled over the battlements trying to keep down my breakfast.”

  Rohen pursed his lips, amazed once again at his mentor’s perceptiveness. “It’s uh…it’s not a problem, sir.”

  Kraythe smiled. “There’s no shame in remembering the past or in recognizing the debt we owe to the men and women who served at our side.”

  “Sir?”

  “Thousands of Templar have died in Darenthi’s defense over the years, yet so many tharns, generals, and even Tel Bator priests act like we don’t exist until the Chol crawl out of the mountains every few decades. I would rather be haunted by the faces of the dead than forget the sacrifices they made on behalf of the living.”

  Rohen nodded but remained silent, unsure of how to respond. The stories about the Lord Protector’s defense of Bloodstone Castle were the stuff of Darenthi legend. As a young man, Kraythe had fought and defeated numerous Crell sorcerers in personal combat. No other living man or woman—even the Lord Vigilant and his magic-resistant Keepers—could make that claim.

  “In some ways, I suspect you’ll come to appreciate the simplicity of the days ahead,” the Lord Protector said, coming to a halt a few yards in front of the keep’s double doors. “It’s one of the benefits of being a Templar.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our Order’s entire purpose is to fight evil—undead, demons, Chol. They are all monsters, but at least they don’t try to hide their true nature. Doubt and regret will be the furthest things from your mind when you drive your blade through the heart of a Godcursed elf.”

  “I, uh, I suppose so,” Rohen murmured.

  “Trust me: there is nothing as liberating as clarity, and you will never be more clear-eyed than when you are standing before a horde of Chol,” Kraythe said. “The lines between good and evil will be as stark as the difference between night and day.”

  Rohen frowned and studied the older man’s profile, wondering what the Lord Protector was getting at. But then the older man sighed and waved the gauntlet of his free hand.

  “You must forgive me for rambling,” he said. “Apparently I’m already dreading an evening at court where our enemies won’t be nearly so obvious.”

  Rohen smiled. “I understand, sir.”

  “No, you don’t…and I hope you never will,” Kraythe said with a wry smile. “But we’ve dawdled enough. Come.”

  The Lord Protector rapped his gauntlet on the door, and the soldiers inside tugged them open a few moments later. It wasn’t easy—the wood was swollen and warped thanks to the bitter cold—but eventually they created a large enough gap for the two men to pass through. The sweet aroma of cooking meat filled the wide foyer on the other side, and Rohen’s mouth instantly watered at the prospect of a genuine meal. He hadn’t eaten anything besides bread and salted fish since they had left Griffonwing.

  Kraythe led the way through the foyer and into the narrow, perpendicular corridor just outside the great hall. Everything was different than when Rohen had been here three years ago: the paintings, the pottery, even the damn carpet. He could still navigate the halls with his eyes closed—especially the way to Delaryn’s old chambers—but it still felt like he was in a different Hold in a different part of the country.

  “This entire castle will be unrecognizable by next winter, I imagine,” Kraythe said, pausing in front of a mounted silver shield inscribed with heraldry from one of the southern families. “His Majesty is determined to wash away every scrap of the Usurper’s legacy.”

  “I imagine General Galavir will be pleased,” Rohen said as he lowered his hood.

  “I’m sure he will be. Once the Chol are gone, he can move his family north and claim this Hold for himself. Thedric wanted to reward the man who won the war and put him back on the throne.”

  Rohen nodded but didn’t reply. The longer he stood here, the harder he found it to breathe. Repressing the memories of the battle in the courtyard had been difficult enough, but this was like having his nose rubbed in his failure to defend Delaryn and her family…

  “There is something I wanted to ask you before we meet with the king,” the L
ord Protector said after a moment.

  “Sir?”

  “Do you know why I brought you with me, son? Why I really brought you with me, I mean.”

  “Uh…not exactly, sir,” Rohen admitted. “There are plenty of more experienced Templar at Griffonwing or Palegarde.”

  “Indeed there are,” Kraythe said. “But the High Queen didn’t request their presence by name.”

  Rohen’s mouth sagged open. “What?”

  “Queen Delaryn wants to see you. Evidently the two of you know each other?”

  The Lord Protector’s gray eyes twinkled as if they were waiting for young man to incriminate himself somehow. Or perhaps Rohen was just being paranoid.

  “W-we do, sir,” Rohen stuttered. “I met Her Majesty back in Silver Falls many years ago. Before the, uh…before the end of the war.”

  Kraythe arched a single eyebrow. “Curious. How did Duke Haldor’s daughter possibly come to know an orphan, let alone one with elven blood?”

  Rohen glanced over to his reflection in the silver shield. Without his hood drawn, his elven heritage was readily apparent. His pointed ears and sharp features had marked him as an outcast his entire life. As much as the humans of Darenthi secretly appreciated elven beauty, the ancient elves—the Avetharri—were the consummate villains of history. Their sins had brought sorcery into the world, corrupted the Pale, and ultimately destroyed or imprisoned the gods.

  Their treachery had also created the Chol, as if anyone needed a further reminder about the perils of magic with a horde of bloodthirsty albino elves gathering here in the north yet again.

  “Delaryn’s father built the orphanage where Zin and Sehris and I grew up,” Rohen said after a moment. “Or at least, he gave them more gold than they had ever had before.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Lord Protector murmured. “One of Duke Haldor’s many failed efforts to convince the people that he deserved to sit upon the White Throne.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, sir, but Her Majesty and her brother spent a lot of time in the orphanage,” Rohen said carefully. “They said that it was what their mother would have wanted. ‘There are no orphans among the Roskarim.’ I never knew what they meant, exactly.”