The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  bite as their skin met. She led Medea to a tall mirror, and her daughter played her typical trick of looking to the floor. Artemi took a moment to study their reflections before she said any more, but found herself going over the usual set of similarities and differences. They were the same height and shape. No, Medea would be taller if she stood straighter. There were many similarities in their facial features, but her daughter carried them far better, managing to look much less irritated by the world. Artemi laughed softly at the thought, and it caused Medea to briefly look at herself.

  “I always wanted jet black hair like yours.”

  The kahriss remained silent.

  Artemi pressed on, “It’s true. Do you have any idea how many people assume they know me because mine is red? When I was born into the Geira tribe in Verban, they said to my father that it meant I was cursed. They thought it was a sign of evil. And in the city of Toranda they called it The Whore’s Colour. But there isn’t a culture in the world that dislikes black hair.”

  “Father always used to talk about your hair,” she whispered.

  The queen smiled. “He had a peculiar fascination with it that I could never quite understand. Besides, there is far more to be achieved than being admired... not that you aren’t admired.” They had already received several marriage proposals for her, in spite of her obvious ability to wield. “I want you to lead the next patrol to the borders. Will you do it?”

  “And if I make a mistake?”

  “Then you will learn from it.”

  “Will my brother come?”

  “No.”

  Medea looked rather upset at that pronouncement but, at length, she nodded in acquiescence.

  “Good. Now-” Her flow was cut off as Silar burst in with a miniature tower of documents.

  “Good morning, ladies. I have something which may be of interest to you both.” He plonked the pile onto the already-overloaded desk.

  “You found the cave registers?”

  He smiled. “Buried in the reserve archives by our overly enthusiastic group of administrators.”

  Enthusiastic enough to organise everything into obscurity. “You brought several files?”

  He compressed his lips. “None

  has the name Zennar. If he is in there, whatever name his parents used is not the name he uses today.”

  Artemi opened the first file carefully. “Why are there so many here?”

  “It turns out quite a few children were born there in the weeks after he died. Busiest month the cave has ever seen – or so I’m told.”

  “That’s odd.” She counted the files. “Twelve kanaala born there in a month, when there had barely been one per year before that?”

  The general shrugged, and took the next file.

  It was only a matter of moments before each of them had found a Morghiad amongst the pile. No fewer than five of the children had been given the name, but which one was theirs? Two of them could be discounted because of their Wilrean parentage, though that assumed he had been speaking the truth of Pryandar. One set of parents was described as very short, and it soon became apparent that none of the parents hailed from the area of the former capital. Their search had reached a surprisingly abrupt halt, surprisingly early.

  Artemi chewed on her lip for a

  moment. “I don’t suppose you fancy using that peculiar talent of yours, general?”

  He frowned in thought and picked up the nearest file. “Here.” He handed it to her. “Read the names to me.”

  “Father: Olgo Dervent; Mother: Freja Mesan.”

  Silar shook his head. “Try the next one.”

  Artemi opened another file. “Father: Siman Coralin; Mother: Aralyn Tigreya.”

  “No.”

  They went through each of the

  ten parents’ names twice, and none of them sparked anything in Silar. Perhaps he had not been born here, after all.

  “Wait.” Medea picked up one of the discarded documents. “Why did you bring the other children’s files in – the ones who weren’t called Morghiad? It only would have taken you an extra moment to check. And you never do anything without some aim in mind, general, no matter how subconscious.”

  He blinked. “I suppose it’s possible... but they would have to have knowingly lied about their son’s name to us.”

  “Yes,” Artemi said slowly. “You cannot name a vanha-sielu anything else, no matter what your intentions.” The thought always reminded her of her father Ne’alin, who had complained he couldn’t call her Cattrin. I tried to write the name down, he’d said, but my hand kept writing Artemi. “But you can still lie if you know it’s a lie, and these records were completed by our own archivists. They could have written any name they were told to.” She turned to her daughter. “Good thinking, Med.”

  Medea beamed prettily.

  It was another six files before Artemi spoke the names that made

  Silar flinch. “Felis Hesarde and Letoa Shantar.”

  “Say them again.”

  “Felis Hasarde and Letoa Shantar.”

  His forehead ruffled in a series of creases. “Study the names. You know one of them.”

  Artemi looked carefully at the sheet in question. It was dated to precisely two weeks following Morghiad’s death, but she was certain she had never met a woman called Letoa. Felis, however... There was something about that name.

  “That’s it,” Silar hissed, “Keep

  thinking whatever you’re thinking.”

  She turned the man’s name over in her mind several times, but it brought back nothing. Damn her head full of useless memories! “Do you see anything?”

  The general shook his head. “I’m not sure.... but you do, and whatever it is you know makes me uneasy. We need more clues.”

  “You think this is bad?”

  “Artemi, this whole thing reeks. False names, Talia’s death – we need to put Morghiad somewhere we can watch him closely, because I can promise you that someone else is

  watching him. Maybe he is in danger, too.”

  “Then we shall see to it that he remains safe.”

  Silar forced a smile. “Very well. I must travel to the Cadran province now. Talia’s murderers have waited long enough, don’t you think?”

  “Be careful, general.”

  He shot her one of his smirks, turned and swept out of the room.

  Medea was studying her closely. “He’ll never fall out of love with you, will he?”

  The queen sighed. “I wish for his sake that one day he does.” But if

  he had not stayed, her children would have suffered for it. It was hard to deny that his loyalty had been immensely useful to her; his trustworthiness was unrivalled. And he was her friend, an invaluable and dear friend.

  Just then, a cricket sounded its call in her ear, a cricket only she could hear. “Kalad and The Hunter are back. Let’s go to meet them.”

  Her daughter resumed her hunched posture once more, hiding her face behind her hair. Artemi was sorely tempted to shout her daughter into standing properly, but decided not to.

  Medea would find her strength one day. One blazed day!

  The palace gate was a throng of merchants, soldiers, servants and nobles when they arrived. All moved about in progressions of colour and noise against the white solitude of the buildings. Their breath and the heat from their animals steamed in the chill air, creating short-lived clouds that teased the noses of their makers. Artemi pulled her fur cloak around her before the wind stole it, and waited.

  The dark shapes of The Hunter, Kalad and several of his soldiers soon emerged from the crowds beyond. The Kusuru rode forward to greet his queen immediately. “Those legs look very fine in that get-up.” He winked an olive eye. “And I see you’re wearing the bodice which shows off everything very nicely. A good choice.”

  She tried very hard to think of a witty retort, but failed. She could hardly deny that she had dressed more carefully for her former husband, even though he was far too young... Bla
zes, thoughts like that could drive a woman crazy! Her deliberations changed, however, when she saw The Hunter glance at Medea and look away almost as quickly. Her daughter seemed to

  hunch even more markedly. Had they fallen out?

  Kalad was still at the palace gate, smiling and chatting to some of the female soldiers there. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a blue snow flower and handed it to one of the girls. Oh, that was all the queen needed! How had she managed to produce such an incorrigible flirt of a son? Almost as if he’d heard her concerns and decided to defy them, he jumped from the saddle and wrapped an arm around the other girl. His grin was as broad as any of Morghiad’s when he’d been in a good mood. Artemi had seen enough. She

  marched towards her son and glowered at him in as dark a manner as she could muster.

  “Good morning, mother.” His smile faded slowly, and he bid goodbye to his ladies with kisses on their hands. He waited calmly for her, clearly quite unashamed of his behaviour.

  “You cannot afford to lead women on in that manner, Kahr Kalad. They’ll get ideas into their heads.”

  His face was still quite unapologetic. “Why, because I’m a monster? You think I might poison one of them with my kisses?

  “No,” she said through gritted

  teeth. Though... no one really knew what he was capable of.

  “Of course, my father would never have done anything like that.”

  “No. He wouldn’t. Kal...” Now was as good a time as any to tell him. “About your father – the reason I called you back here – come with me.” Once his horse had been put away she led him to a quiet area of the courtyard with The Hunter and Medea.

  Silar soon joined them with his mount, which had no less than twenty saddlebags strapped to its back. His long, grey cloak spoke of the extended journey he was about to undertake. He smiled warmly. “Have you told him the good news?”

  “Oh?” Kalad moved his eyes quickly between the now-beaming queen and her general. “So you two are finally getting married? Well, that’s wonderful.”

  Artemi’s smile dropped, and Silar nearly lost his reins. “No... it isn’t that,” she managed to say.

  The general looked as if he wanted to make his exit as quickly as possible. Such conversational blunders were quite unusual around him, which probably meant there was a reason behind his decision to allow it to

  happen – or perhaps his mind had been otherwise occupied.

  Kalad raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  The queen rearranged her cloak at the shoulders and began again. “Your father is alive.”

  Her son frowned. It was a very Morghiad sort of frown. “What?”

  “I will try to explain exactly how to you later but, very basically, he has been made vanha-sielu. None of us knew until he turned up here. He doesn’t remember yet – you know about that, don’t you? How it works? And you must never even mention

  vanha-sielu to him.”

  Kalad nodded slowly. “And, ah... can...” His voice weakened. “Will he stay?”

  “I will do my best to make sure of it. And you must meet him.” She grinned broadly. “Perhaps he will be a good influence on you.” Artemi flicked her eyes between The Hunter and Silar. “Not so caddish as you two.”

  “Me?” Silar guffawed. “Hunterboy here’s the one who insists on drooling over your chest every time you walk into a room.”

  “There is nothing wrong with appreciating the assets of a woman.

  Perhaps you should try it sometime, general,” the Calbeni spat back.

  “I don’t feel the need to shout it to the rest of the world, or perhaps you are trying to prove something?”

  “Believe me, I have nothing to prove, Forllan. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you had nothing but a slit down there to-”

  “Boys! Please!” The day when Morghiad would be there to shut them both up could not come quickly enough. “Silar, perhaps you should be on your way.”

  He grunted in agreement and smoothly mounted his horse. He leaned over as he rode around The Hunter’s back. “Look after them for me, and try to do it without offending anyone. If you can.”

  The Kusuru merely glowered at the opposite wall, and soon Silar was gone.

  a slow profusion of hot water, splashing against stone each time his nose met it. His body ached in every place it was possible to ache. The world was turning to shades of black and white.

  “Ten more like that! Full extensions, lad. No lazy presses!” the sergeant yelled. He looked very comfortable in his armchair, legs swung over the side. Very comfortable and very satisfied with himself.

  Morghiad forced his way through another press-up. It was tough, but it would never be as harsh as the training he had been through before.

  He growled again as he struggled to keep his arms from shaking. No weaknesses visible. The final ones were unnecessarily slow, drawn-out. But he completed them. Calidell’s newest cadet stood, caught his breath and continued to drip sweat onto the floor.

  Sergeant D’Avrohan pressed his lips. “Alright, lad. Fifteen laps round the courtyard. Fast as you can. Go on, get to it!”

  He took off towards the far wall, gradually easing his limbs into a new set of movements.

  “Faster! This isn’t a blazed walk

  through the Fields of Athenly!”

  Morghiad compelled his legs to move him with greater speed, each footfall feeling like a crash of solid ice against rock. He counted in his head to distract himself from the pain: one, two, three –

  “Hurry it up!”

  - four, five, six, seven, eight... He finished the laps by the time he reached two-hundred-and-fifty-eight, but kept counting to control his breathing.

  The sergeant came to assess him. His frown was light, but obvious. “An unfit soldier can be outfought. A

  slow soldier won’t reach his enemy in time. I want to make sure you’re good enough to protect my queen, understand?” He was another one who seemed unusually fond of his monarch. The whole city was awash with this insanity.

  A messenger ran in to the courtyard, saluted, and handed the sergeant a note. The red-haired man read it carefully. His pale eyes rose to the cadet. “We’ll work on your swordsmanship at the palace; you’ve been invited to train there today. Quite an honour, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Sergeant D’Avrohan. May I ask who invited me?”

  He chuckled. “Why don’t we leave it a mystery for you to work out? More fun that way. Now, I don’t want to look at your stinking body any longer. Go now, bathe and find yourself a uniform. Meet me here in ten minutes.”

  Morghiad trotted away and into the diffuse light of Peachgrove’s halls. His two footsoldiers followed him, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that no other cadets received the same attentions. Someone wanted to keep an eye on him. He would have to concern himself with that particular problem

  later; he needed to work his way into the army first, gain trust. Once he reached the shower rooms he tore off his sopping clothes and stood under the slew of water that poured from a wide channel above. The liquid was cool and soothing on his tired muscles, but it did nothing to calm his mind. He placed both hands against the shimmering walls and attempted to slow down his thumping pulse.

  Another cadet walked into the shower room behind him and he was happy to ignore them, until she started singing. It was quite definitely the voice of a woman. Was it normal here for

  men and women to shower naked together? Blazes! Morghiad grabbed his things and made a speedy departure, keeping his eyes firmly fixed to the floor. His guards smirked at him as he passed, still dripping and partially exposed. Surely all of his dignity would be gone by the time he finished this blasted mission!

  When he returned to his room he found that someone had left a neatly folded uniform on his bed, together with a new pair of boots and fairly basic sword. How was it that they knew his size without measuring him? He cast the thought aside and stepped

  into the clothing with as much h
aste as he could muster. They were scratchy things, more cheaply made than the full army uniform. And though the colours were the same black and green, the arrangement of shirt, coat and trousers was no more elaborate than that of a farm boy.

  He presented his newly dressed form to Sergeant D’Avrohan, and the elder man assumed a curious look of smug amusement. “Off we go, then!”

  Their walk through the streets was less dramatic than that of the previous day, garnering only a few curious stares and half bows. A swirl of young noblewomen in silks moved past, giggling and winking at him. Until, that was, two of them recognised that he was not the infamous kahr. More gawps followed, but the sergeant pressed deeper into the city before they could accost him. The palace gates were rather difficult to distinguish from the oddities of the rest of the city, but when he reached them the queen and a tall, russet-skinned man were standing beneath the steeply curved arch of white. The man wore entirely black clothing and two swords, which Morghiad knew to be very special, in addition to the red scarf of The

  Dedicated.

  With hair that shone in surprisingly vivid shades of scarlet and gold, the queen offered one of her overly warm smiles at both of them. She appeared to have dressed herself in an outfit that was barely appropriate, given her role.

  “Are you too busy ogling the queen, or are you going to bow to her?” the sergeant barked.