A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden

by Shiriluna Nott

  Diddy lifted his chin, measuring Liro. “A good and gracious ruler would reflect on all of this. What is your opinion, cousin?”

  Liro’s face pinched. He pointed savagely to Gib. “You’re that filthy lowborn farmer, aren’t you? Joel is still spoiling you, I see. He must be polishing you to be his new bauble to play with. I can hardly imagine what he’s seen in you other than easy prey.”

  Joel gasped and Gib clenched his fist. How dare he—

  “I would remind you to consider your words carefully, Lord Adelwijn.” Hasain’s voice had dropped to an eerie lilt. “Gibben Nemesio is a guest of Seneschal Koal Adelwijn and a trusted friend of Prince Didier Adelwijn—therefore under the protection and gratitude of King Rishi Radek. You would do well to treat him with such respect.”

  Liro’s eyes flashed as he gritted his teeth and hissed back. “Big words for a bastard son. No authority is given you, Hasain Radek.”

  Hasain’s frown was every bit as intimidating as Liro’s. “Is my status yet one more thing to frighten you? Does it infuriate you to know that I’ve been given the privilege of a king’s son when I don’t have the title? Does the knowledge that I’ll always be your equal make you feel slighted in some way?”

  Neetra snorted. “Equal indeed. Liro is the product of a good and decent marriage between two people of noble standing. You were the slip up of an overconfident fool with a servant. There is nothing fair or just about the leisure you’ve been given, and one day change will come.”

  “I would agree. Change is needed in Arden. Perhaps no titles are needed anymore. Perhaps we would all be better off as equals.” Hasain was lofty, though even Gib knew the young lord wouldn’t appreciate the loss of his title. Gib was still comforted to hear his feelings echoed by someone else.

  Before anyone else could say anything, the gong rang one last time. “Dean of Academy Marc Arrio and Lady Beatrice,” called out the announcer. Gib glanced over as the dean and his wife made their belated entrance.

  Neetra lifted his goblet then and nodded to the ragtag group of friends. “I suppose that’s enough chatter for now. Here’s to the inevitable change.” He took a drink and turned his cold eyes on Diddy. “My prince, if I’m not mistaken, it’s time for you to rejoin your family. The main event for the evening will commence soon. We wouldn’t want anyone to miss it.” The councilor smiled darkly.

  The hair on the back of Gib’s neck stood on end. A smile had no place on Neetra’s face for any reason.

  Diddy looked back at his friends and nodded an apology. “I’m afraid it’s true. I must go.”

  Gib didn’t feel it was fair. Neetra and Liro were walking away as if they hadn’t said anything terrible or hurt anyone with their cruel words. They should be made to apologize—to Kezra and Joel and Hasain, even himself—but it appeared no one was going to stop them.

  Joel leaned a bit closer, his voice bitter and subdued. “Would you like to get out of here for a while, Gib?”

  The sentinel trainee nodded as he glared at Liro Adelwijn’s back. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

  The grand hallway outside the ballroom was abandoned save for a lone sentry posted at the door. He paid Gib and Joel little heed as the two boys passed. They moved beyond the immediate passageways surrounding the ballroom, and the corridors began to grow dark and eerily quiet. No lighted torches or beautiful chandeliers illuminated their path here.

  “I’m glad we snuck away,” Gib whispered as they walked. “I really needed a breath of fresh air.” And time to clear my head. That was all too much to absorb at once.

  Joel let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry. This whole night has probably been awful for you.”

  “No it hasn’t. I was enjoying myself until Diddy and Tarquin led me over to where all the councilors were congregating.” Gib laughed nervously.

  “My uncle’s behavior was deplorable,” Joel replied, jaw set in a straight line. “Liro’s too.” He shook his head in disgust, his eyes overtaken by defeat. “I’m truly sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault.” Gib dared to reach out, taking hold of the mage trainee’s hand. “I could never be mad at you.”

  Joel’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t immediately pull his hand away. Instead, the older boy stopped to squeeze Gib’s fingers, caressing his calloused palm. Joel’s voice was soft as he replied, “Thank you for standing up for me back there. I—Liro always manages to fluster me so horribly that I can’t speak.”

  “I’d say it all again, in a heartbeat.”

  “You’re too wonderful.” Joel released Gib’s hand with a sad smile and took another step. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  Gib followed, curiosity piqued. He was led through another corridor and then up a set of winding stairs. Gib stumbled once or twice in the dark, but he managed to reach the top step unscathed. A second stairway loomed ahead, and Gib couldn’t help but curse under his breath as the mage trainee headed toward it. “Chhaya’s bane, Joel! Where are you taking us?”

  Even in the dim light, Gib could see Joel’s eyes sparkle. “The view will be worth it, trust me.”

  By the time they had ascended the second stairwell, Gib’s lungs were on fire and he was glaring daggers at Joel’s back. Nothing can possibly be worth this effort. Nothing.

  The corridor was dimly lit up here, though the sentinel trainee couldn’t figure out the source of the illumination—but as they went forward, passing through an arched doorway, the narrow walls opened around them and Gib knew where he’d been led. It was one of the galleries that loomed above the ballroom. Weak light filtered up from the chandeliers below, casting shadows along the sculpted marble curvatures above.

  “I thought maybe we could watch the bonfire lighting ceremony from up here,” Joel said. He went to the edge of the balcony, his mage robes flowing around his feet with so much grace he appeared to be floating.

  Gib followed at length, setting a cautious hand on the stone railing that ran along the outer edge of the balcony. His stomach lurched when he realized just how far up they were. He knew it was silly and irrational, but the fear of toppling over the ledge and crashing to his death kept him from moving any closer.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” the mage trainee assured, smiling as he patted the sturdy marble banister with one hand.

  “Daya, Joel. We could have started out with the lower gallery and then worked our way up. I’m not used to being up so high.” Gib laughed nervously.

  Joel leaned against the balcony, resting his forearms on the smooth stone. He nodded down. “Have a look.”

  Following the older boy’s gaze, Gib shifted his eyes downward to watch the celebration. People swayed and danced far below. Adorned in silk dresses and perfectly tailored doublets, they all looked more like stringed marionettes than real people. Music filtered up to Gib and Joel, as did the jolly laughter and chatter of the patrons. Removed from the party as they were, Gib could almost forget the harsh words and unfair judgments many of these highborns placed onto their peers. It was possible—just for a brief moment—to admire the beauty of the world below, despite the lies within its immaculate foundation.

  His brown eyes found the dais where the royal family’s table was positioned, and from his vantage point, Gib could see them all: the King, Queen, and royal children. Diddy had rejoined his family. The young prince sat between his mother and younger brother and appeared to be in good spirits based upon the crooked grin on his face.

  “Joel,” Gib asked as a sudden thought dawned on him. “Why isn’t Diddy’s last name Radek?”

  The mage trainee turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  Gib hesitated. “Earlier, Hasain addressed him as Prince Didier Adelwijn. Forgive me, but if King Rishi is his father, then why is Diddy’s last name Adelwijn? Shouldn’t he be a Radek?”

  Joel coughed and looked around as though to be certain they were alone. He lowered his voice to a soft hush. “Because when the King first met my au
nt, Didier was already a toddler.”

  The sentinel trainee blinked. He didn’t comprehend Joel’s delicately phrased words at first. Oh. Diddy has his mother’s last name because— “You mean Diddy isn’t really King Rishi’s son?”

  “Didier was raised as the King’s son. King Rishi recognizes him as his child—but they aren’t of the same blood.” Joel stared down at the festivities below. “My aunt was ostracized for being young, unwed, and with a child whose father she refused to name. I was too young at the time to remember any of this, but I’ve heard it was quite the scandal.”

  Gib smirked. “It seems as though scandal runs deep in your bloodline.”

  “Yes. My father was worried Aunt Dahlia’s life would be ruined. You have to understand how serious it was—and still can be—for a highborn lady to have a child but no husband. Fortunately, King Rishi didn’t care. He married my aunt despite her shameful predicament.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t shock me.”

  Joel chuckled. “You’ll quickly learn that all Radeks bear a healthy disregard for rules and tradition. But no, Didier will never be in line for the throne, for he’s not of Radek lineage. The burden of the crown will rest on Prince Deegan.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that burden on anyone.”

  “Nor would I.” Joel paused, his smile pained. His silvery-blue eyes flitted toward Gib. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. You’ll never know how much it means to have you by my side. The scorn is—easier to brush aside.”

  Gib’s heart panged with emotion, and he was reaching for the older boy’s hand before thinking otherwise. “I’m glad you invited me and I—I would stand by you even if it meant feeling the scorn of every highborn in Silver City.”

  Joel’s smile was dazed and lovely, but as he parted his lips to respond, the sound of blaring trumpets from below caught their attention. A moment later, the other instruments in the ensemble had joined in the fanfare.

  “Is the ceremony starting?” Gib asked, peering over the balcony ledge.

  All the guests were crowding around the pyre, and up on the dais, the members of the royal family had all risen to their feet and began to make their way to the center of the room. King Rishi walked arm in arm with the Queen while the two princes and young princess trailed closely behind. The strange Blessed Mages and red-headed bodyguard watched from the dais but made no move to follow the family.

  “Gib. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

  Joel’s tender voice was like silk in Gib’s ear. It cut through the resounding music below, through flesh and bone, piercing Gib’s very core. The sentinel trainee turned away from the pyre and toward the voice which always managed to undo him so completely. Joel’s eyes were beautiful and devastating as he reached out with both hands, pulling Gib close, wrapping him in a desperate embrace. A moment later, when he felt the touch of Joel’s lips against his own, Gib melted against the older boy.

  “What about the guards? What if they see us?” Gib asked through shuddering gasps, his own hands weaving their way into Joel’s smooth waves.

  The older boy sighed against Gib’s mouth, his fingers coming to rest at the base of Gib’s skull. “Let’s hope they’re as occupied watching the ceremony as the highborns.” Joel kissed him a second time, just as feverishly as the first. “I think I’m in love with you, Gibben Nemesio.”

  A strained squeak made its way up Gib’s throat as the words hit him like a hammer in the center of his chest. His knees wobbled feebly and he found himself leaning against Joel for support. Cupping the older boy’s face in his hands, Gib clung to him for dear life. “I love you, too.”

  The two boys held each other, the only sound the procession below. The celebration might as well have been a thousand leagues away. Everything else faded into nothingness and for a brief moment, they were the only two people in the world.

  Joel’s fingers worked through Gib’s hair, caressing his curls. “We should watch King Rishi light the pyre,” the mage trainee murmured softly.

  Gib was more than content to absorb every detail of the older boy’s face instead, still lost in a dream—but then Joel pulled away without warning or reason, and Gib’s reverie came to a grinding, gut-wrenching halt. He blinked. “J–Joel? W–what is it?”

  Joel raised a hand, demanding silence. “Something is wrong.” The mage trainee’s eyes were fixed on something beyond Gib.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned to see what held Joel’s attention. Down the corridor, Gib could only see a fallen candelabrum, nothing more. “It must have been knocked over by someone. What’s so wrong with that?”

  Joel shook his head. “There’s a sentry posted on every floor of the palace. Surely he would have heard it fall.”

  As the pieces clicked into place, a harrowing feeling settled over the sentinel trainee. “If the guard investigated the sound, you’d think he would have picked it up.” Joel nodded but was already making his way down the hall.

  Every hair on the back of Gib’s neck was on end as they neared the end of the corridor. The candelabrum had been toppled onto its side and lay haphazardly in the middle of the hallway, and a pool of dark liquid stained the marble floor just beyond. At first, Gib thought it was spilled candlewax, but as he moved closer, a sickening realization began to rise from the pit of his stomach. He latched onto Joel’s arm. “Is that—?”

  “Blood.” The mage trainee’s voice was devoid of emotion.

  Joel stepped around the candelabrum, and still clinging to the older boy’s arm, Gib was forced to follow along. A shuddering gasp escaped his lips when he saw the blood was not contained to a single location—a path of ugly red smeared the corridor floor and disappeared around a pillar several paces in front of where they stood.

  Gib froze. He knew, somehow, what kind of horror waited around the corner. He wanted to turn and run away, to get as far from this dark, wicked place as he could, but even as Joel lurched forward, Gib found his own legs moving. His logical mind screamed at him to flee, but he couldn’t. He had to know—

  As they rounded the pillar, he heard Joel issue a chilling gasp. It was a sound that would haunt Gib for the rest of his life. He was only a pace behind, so a moment later he could see it as well—

  His eyes went wide and his hand shot up to his mouth, stifling a cry of his own. Goddesses, help us.

  Gib’s stomach heaved at the sight of the royal guardsman, cold and motionless on the floor with his throat slashed wide open.

  Chapter Twelve

  “He’s dead,” Gib croaked, leaning against the marble pillar for support. His heart raced in his chest. “Oh Gods, he’s dead.”

  The celebration in the ballroom blared on beneath them, but the sounds were lost to Gib. His pulse was like thunder inside his ears, and he struggled to take gasping breaths into lungs burning from lack of air. He tried to look away from the horror strewn across the corridor floor in front of him, but his eyes refused to turn from the bloodied body.

  Joel knelt down beside the fallen sentry, dark crimson soaking the bottom of his mage robes. He touched the side of the guard’s neck, searching for any sign of life. “The sentinel’s armor is missing.” Joel’s words shook as uncontrollably as Gib’s knees.

  Gib realized it was true. The sentry’s fine uniform had been stripped off his body. Only his woolen undergarments and boots remained intact. The man’s broadsword also lay haphazardly by his side. A shiver made its way up Gib’s spine like a shard of ice. “Joel, it’s the assassin. It has to be! He killed this man and now he’s on his way to—” Gib choked, unable to finish.

  The mage trainee stood, his features contorted into a mask of fury. “He’s going to attack the King when he lights the pyre!”

  Gib moved without words or thought. He lurched forward, bending low to take the sentinel’s discarded broadsword into his hands, scooping the weapon off the floor in one fluid motion. He gripped the hilt between his hands. The blade towered above his head like a tree trunk made of steel.

>   “What are you doing?” Joel asked, eyes wide and frightened. “We have to call for help.”

  Gib shook his head. “Even if you go over to the balcony and scream as loud as you can, no one will hear you above the crowd.”

  “Then we’ll run for help. We’ll warn them—”

  “There isn’t time, Joel! Look!”

  Far below, cheers rose from the crowd as King Rishi stepped away from the rest of the royal family. One of the royal guardsmen held a burning torch in one hand and was approaching the King—

  “We have to find the assassin now.” Gib peered down the length of the dark corridor, head spinning. The killer could be hiding anywhere. How would they ever find and stop him in time? “It will be faster if we split up.” The sentinel trainee could barely form words through his chattering teeth. He pointed down the corridor. “You go one way, I’ll go the other. We’ll flush the assassin out in the middle.”

  Joel shook his head. “No, that’s a bad idea. We’re just the two of us—a half trained mage and first-year sentinel trainee. This is a skilled killer. We should stay together.”

  “Go!” Gib demanded. “The King is about to light the fire!”

  Joel locked his jaw but nodded his head in dubious agreement. “Be careful.” The older boy turned on his heels and sped down the corridor.

  Gib’s feet carried him in the opposite direction, back toward the stairwell. He tried not to think of the danger King Rishi was in—or the peril he and Joel also faced. Instead, the sentinel trainee concentrated on placing one shaking foot in front of the other. His breaths shot forth from between pursed lips in jagged spurts, and cold beads of sweat now threatened to drench the entirety of his tunic. The noise of the celebration below was a dull humming in his head, but Gib could barely hear it over his pounding heart.

  Gib kept the broadsword raised and at the ready. His forearms screamed in agony, the weight of the heavy steel bearing down on his muscles. Gib could almost hear Master Roland’s sharp words in his mind. “Gibben Nemesio, you dolt! That sword is meant to be wielded by a man twice your size and height! What do you plan on doing when you have to swing it at an enemy?” What other option did he have? Time was running out.