The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  Morghiad stopped at a hitching post beneath a window to secure Tyshar, and the scent of Artemi reached him on the soft breeze. She came striding round the corner in woodcoloured clothing that cinched her narrow waist, a half-dozen hares slung over one shoulder and a bow in her free hand.

  Her eyes widened at seeing him. “What are you doing here?” she whispered harshly. “And why are you dressed like that? You look like a...” Artemi did not finish, and frowned instead.

  Morghiad remained rooted to the spot. “I have to tell your parents what has happened between us. And I have to tell y-”

  “You can’t! They’ll disown me, and kill you! Has that mind of yours burned to ash? And what about when the king hears of this?” She dropped the hares in frustration.

  “Artemi, I am-” He broke off as a proud-looking, sturdy man approached. Morghiad felt his stomach tighten and his muscles tense; this was not what he had planned.

  Toryn did little to suppress a glare.

  “Sire, we weren’t expecting your presence at this time. What urgent business brings you here?”

  Morghiad took a deep breath and turned back to face Artemi. He could almost feel the anger rising in her, as if their minds were still connected.

  “You? You are the man who imprisoned me in this place?” Her voice was quiet, deadly.

  Morghiad nodded with resignation.

  “You wilfully kept the truth from me! You have manipulated me!” Artemi’s dark eyes blazed with fury, though her lips trembled with hurt.

  He fought his urge to embrace her, to explain his affection for her. “You seemed to have decided so much about my character

  before you even knew it. It was easier for me t-”

  “It was easy for you? I am sure that it was. ButI am not one of your courtiers to be pushed into whatever corner is most useful to you. I will not be used and manoeuvred like a weapon in one of your battles! And you are very much mistaken if you think I would marry you. King or not, I could never wed a liar!” Artemi turned and stormed toward the back of the building, hair billowing out behind her like a wild burst of flame.

  He leaned heavily on his horse and squeezed his eyes shut. How had he managed to fail so spectacularly at pleasing so many people?

  Toryn, who had been watching the entire scene unfold before him, paced up to

  face Morghiad. “It appears that the two of you know each other.” He folded his arms.

  Morghiad nodded. “There are some matters whichI should explain to you.”

  “It certainly sounds like it,” he said sternly. “Come to my office,” he ordered, and turned to the door.

  Morghiad followed obediently; he had no illusions as to who ruled in this situation. He passed several guards he recognised on the way through the house, and most of them nodded with puzzlement at his presence. The boy, evidently Silar’s pride-son, appeared to be stalking him quietly through the halls, occasionally popping his head out from behind a corner to assess the new visitor. At length, they reached the darkened study, and Toryn shut the door quietly behind them. Artemi’s

  father held back from immediately remonstrating, however, and began the conversation with a brief, “Speak.”

  Morghiad could not help but feel like a child who had been caught with his hands in the biscuit tin. “I bumped into Artemi by accident.”

  Toryn raised an eyebrow.

  “I was visiting Gadlond di Certa in an effort to keep him friendly, for what little it was worth, and there was an alert raised. Apparently one of his guards had seen an intruder heading for the cellars. It turned out to be Artemi, and whenI caught her, she explained that she had uncovered a plot to overthrow me. Unknown to di Certa, I allowed her to escape.”

  Her father frowned. “She was at his house? That’s over forty miles from here!”

  Morghiad did not comment, and instead continued, “She had gotten hold of a list of conspirators, and she had other evidence which she’d collected from Veradlin’s house. I visited her here a few weeks ago to ask for this evidence, and to discover if she had learned of anything else that could be useful.”

  Toryn’s eyes were popping out of his head. “Just how much of the country has she been riding around in? Did you encourage her?” His surprise rapidly turned to a glare.

  “No. But she had uncovered something that Silar and I had missed, and I needed her help. Anyway. I then rode to Hafendh – only to discover that she had followed me. It was too late and too far to send her back here unaccompanied, so I kept her with me. We then went to Conmar, and finally I brought her

  back here.” Morghiad thought of her final words to him. He needed her at Cadra - the whole castle did.

  Toryn had by now slumped at his desk and was raking his hand through his dark-red hair. “It appears that she has escaped more times from her prison thanI was aware.”

  “She prevented the entire country from descending into a civil war; in spite of her severe dislike of its present king.”

  Toryn only harrumphed. “And throughout you never revealed your identity to her?”

  Morghiad shook his head.

  “That was unfair to her. I very much hope that you did not - oh, don’t tell me that you and she have already...” He swallowed in

  disgust.

  “No.” Morghiad wanted to add more, but his voice failed him.

  Toryn did nothing to suppress his look of relief. “Well, that is something. Why did you come back here then?”

  “Because I... I cannot bear to live in Cadra without her there. And the city needs her too.” Morghiad disliked being subjected to such an outpouring of emotion from anyone, let alone himself.

  Toryn’s face became blank. “Artemi does not exist to provide you or anyone else with pleasure, and she was right. She is not to be used to make your life easier to bear. Worse, what if some idiot tells her about her previous lives? Could you really control the mouths of a whole castle? I suggest that you take your selfish pride back to your needy city.

  It appears that she does not care for you so much in this life as she did in the last.”

  The words hit Morghiad like a battalion of stampeding warhorses, crushing what little hope he had left. He bit down on his feelings before they became obvious. “Toryn. I must ask that you do not punish Artemi for her... escapades. She...” he felt his voice failing him again. “It is my fault she is trapped here when she should be free.”

  Her father regarded him silently, disapprovingly.

  “I’ll be gone, then. Good day, Toryn.” Morghiad turned and opened the office door to a small crowd of servants and guards. They soon dispersed at his glare, and he paced back to Corlands’ exit.

  Tyshar was as eager to gallop as far

  away from the house as his owner, and Morghiad vaulted onto the animal’s back as smoothly and as hurriedly as his coat would permit. Just as he left, he caught sight of a pale face peering out of one of the darkened windows at him. No one in the castle would have dared utter a word of her being vanhasielu; no one was that stupid. He did not acknowledge the face, and instead rode straight for the woods.

  every corner of the broad, wood-lined bar. The air was filled with the thick scent of red leaf cigar smoke and fresh ale. For the first time in weeks, Silar felt he could relax onto a wooden bench with a cold beer and a positive outlook. Everything would be well once she was back in the castle. It felt as if the world had held its breath for eighteen years, and now grew blue with its desire to inhale at her return.

  Silar was no longer sure if he could remember her face very clearly, or the expressions that it most frequently carried. He took a deep draught on his drink while he considered the problem. When he lowered the mug, Rahake and Beetan were seated opposite him.

  “Evening, general.” Dark-skinned Rahake gave a nod and a courtesy raise of his

  ale.

  Beetan, as was typical, dispensed with such pleasantries. “You’re looking as smug as a man on a sunny balcony with a pastry in one hand-”

&nbs
p; “...and a glass of kefruit juice in the other,” Silar and Rahake finished in unison. The man in that painting did look very self-satisfied indeed. “I’m just glad to have this conspiracy and plotting business dealt with - the worst of it, anyway,” Silar said.

  Rahake nodded sagely. “Nasty business, that. Can’t imagine anything worse than having that gluttonous imbecile di Certa as king. And Bracon!” He very nearly spat. “May he burn slowly in a bed of Blaze.”

  Beetan grunted with agreement into his tankard.

  “Speaking of kings,” Rahake continued, “Where has ours gone? I didn’t see his well-honed form at training this morning.”

  Silar leaned forward, causing his hair, which had by now grown too long, to fall across his eyes. He ignored it. “He’s on a very important mission.”

  “Oh?” Beetan set his drink down. “What could be so important after the foiling the biggest follocking plot this country’s ever seen?”

  Silar sat back. “I am sworn to secrecy.”

  The three men drank in silence for a moment, thinking of the king’s great task. Silar looked up to the high ceiling and examined the intricately carved, red-brown beams. He wondered how soon he would see that hair of

  Artemi’s, and how quickly he would turn into a simpering idiot around her. He had already accepted that he’d never enjoy the comfort of a woman’s soft body again. Not unless she was some sort of goddess-like legend of a woman who knew how to use a sword. There was just something about a dangerous woman that drove him half-insane.

  Silar returned his gaze to the melee of the bar. Baydie was rushing about to serve a hoard of thirsty merchants, and several of his buxom serving girls were filling row upon row of wine glasses. It was a mystery how Baydie managed to find and employ the prettiest girls to work the taps. The barman had repeatedly tried to enlist Artemi while she was quite clearly Morghiad’s benay-gosa, flattering her with the most outrageously improper compliments. His

  memory of the former kahr’s reaction made Silar grin broadly, and the two lieutenants looked at him quizzically. His smile was quickly shattered however, as a dark storm cloud of a man swept into the room.

  Morghiad stopped to bark something at one of the barmaids, and then stomped over to their table, where he plonked himself onto a bench. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said gruffly.

  Silar felt his heart drop to the welltrodden floor boards. Toryn would not have stopped Artemi from coming to Cadra if she had really wanted to, which could only mean that she and Morghiad had fallen out. A particularly well-rounded barmaid plopped a flagon of ale onto the centre of the table and a tankard in front of the king. Morghiad grunted

  in thanks and poured himselfa mug-full. “Someone tell me what I’ve missed during my absence,” he muttered between swallows.

  Beetan pretended to ignore his mood. “Well, Beodrin decided to go a little easier on us this morning. And Selieni’s been pining for you, my lord.” Her admiration for the man had become a source of amusement for the other lieutenants, and some annoyance for Beodrin. Morghiad appeared to remain adamantly unaware of his mass of female devotees.

  He pulled a grimace. “One of you needs to have a word with her. I’ve tried explaining it.”

  Rahake blinked. “Surely you don’t mean for us to interfere? She’s still very young and it would only embarrass her. We’d also risk poisoning her against Artemi before her

  return.”

  Morghiad looked deeply into his tankard. “Selieni owes her life to Artemi.”

  “Both women owe their lives to you,” Rahake retorted.

  Morghiad refilled his mug and set about quaffing it. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Before long, their king was very drunk indeed, and so Silar and Beetan took it upon themselves to walk the stumbling man back to his rooms.

  “Bloody Blazes, Morghiad, you weigh almost as much as this castle!” the orangehaired lieutenant declared as he ducked under one of the king’s arms.

  Morghiad gave him a weary and slightly unfocussed look. “I’m not fat,” he slurred.

  “No,” Silar agreed, taking the other

  arm. The man was rather heavy, but then Silar was a similar build, and probably not far off from being as burdensome.

  Morghiad elaborated, “It’s probably just the weight of my rep – responsibs – my respons’blilities.” He cracked a weak laugh at his own joke, but the smile quickly dropped.

  The three accomplished the challenge of climbing the narrow blackened steps to the empty corridors above, and Silar took the opportunity to find the reason behind Morghiad’s mood. “What happened with Artemi?”

  Beetan spluttered. “Art - you went to see her?”

  Morghiad grunted and screwed his nose up. “Women,” he muttered.

  Beetan pressed on, “Well, sire, is she

  coming here?”

  “Artemi hates me,” Morghiad sniffed. “She said thatI am a liar because I didn’t tell her my idents-ity. A lie by omi-shun. ButI have to keep things from her anyway. Everyone does.”

  “We have to keep some secrets to ensure that people remain safe and alive, and it’s not the same as outright lying.” Silar wasn’t sure why he was trying to reason with a drunken, barely articulate man.

  He sighed loudly. “I should have told her who I was though. She thinks I have imprisoned her and marked her out as my own proper – property.”

  “We did the right thing with her, Morghiad. I have no doubt about that,” Silar stated firmly. “And she never stays angry at you for more than a day.”

  “This is diff’rent,” he mumbled, and retreated back into the depths of his own mind. Eventually they stumbled into his rooms and dropped him onto the oversized and apparently underused bed. The Grand Ruler of Calidell almost immediately fell into a quiet, childlike slumber. As he left the royal apartments, Silar considered the implications of this division.

  “What he needs is a wingman,” Beetan declared while they walked.

  That man did come out with the most unusual language. “Whatever is that?”

  The lieutenant drew himself up, looking very proud to be educating a spymaster. “The term comes from a group of warriors who used to sit astride great eagles and ride them to battle. Each flying warrior had a wingman who

  supported him in perilous situations. Artemi is a perilous situation, general.”

  Silar couldn’t help but smile. “Why not call it a reserve-man or flanking officer?”

  Beetan raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t quite have the same ring, does it? Besides, Morghiad needs you to get him in deep with the enemy. Not simply as a back-up bit of force.”

  Silar laughed. “Fine. I’ll be his wingman, then.”

  Curved hemispheres of rain sucked onto the glass panels of Artemi’s window, looking as dull and grey as she felt. She paced the floorboards and spun her sword quickly in her hands; she was beginning to feel the urge to roam again. The dark, wood-lined room had remained her self-imposed cell for over a week - her retreat from the world. Members of the household frequently visited or forced her to

  listen to their advice on anything from men to her overriding obligations. Artemi was wellaware that her selfishness had most likely put an end to the idyll of Corlands, and she had now seen enough of the realm outside it to realise that the house was a paradise.

  Her guilt very nearly outstripped her anger at King Morghiad’s callous behaviour, but only nearly. What sort of king traipsed alone around the countryside as if he were a legendary hero, anyway? He had humiliated her with his secret, allowed her to repeatedly insult him to his face when she had believed he was quite honourably doing it behind his back, and then he’d drawn her into his thrall and allowed her to kiss the man she so resented. What a fine joke he must have found it all!

  Artemi fumed while she stamped along

  the patterned edge of the soft rug. Caala and the guards repeatedly enthused that he was a good man, that he did have his heart in the right place, and that h
is reasons for keeping secrets from her were just.

  “Their loyalty has blinded them utterly to his character,” she muttered to herself. A soft knock touched her bedroom door. “Yes?”

  Pale-haired Sindra stepped into the room wearing shades of cream and red. The woman always managed to look willowy and elegant in the dresses she wore, even when gardening or running after Silar. It sometimes irked Artemi as, having spent her life in breeches or simple riding dresses, full gowns tended to look like unwieldy sacks on her. “How is your mood today?” her stepmother asked with warm eyes.

  “Angry rather than sad.” Artemi had spent a good couple of hours crying into Sindra’s bosom the day after the king had turned up in that exquisite coat.

  Sindra sat on the bed and pulled her sun-white hair over one shoulder. “Well, then it sounds like you are back to your old self again,” she smiled.

  Artemi raised an eyebrow, and let it fall. “I’m sorry, Sindra. If allthis comes to an end it will have been my fault. I... I could not have broached marrying him for what he has done. If a man lies about one thing, how amI to know if he has not lied about another? And how could I bear being shunted about like another piece of his property?”