The Crimson Queen

by Alec Hutson

  “Nel!” he cried, fighting back the urge to hug her.

  “Keilan,” she said, lacing her hand in his and giving it a small squeeze. “How are you finding the life of a Scholia apprentice?”

  “It’s . . . it’s good.”

  “Three meals a day and all the boring history you can cram into your skull?”

  Keilan laughed. “Yes. Something like that.”

  “Well, I remember Vhelan complaining about the same. But there’s good reason for what they do, don’t worry. They want to take your measure before they start teaching you real sorcery. A fair number of those they bring here with ability never end up becoming magisters, and instead are returned to their families.”

  “Oh.” Keilan hadn’t known that. He’d supposed that sorcery was so rare that the Scholia would strive to never turn any away they found with the gift.

  They walked together in silence for a time. “It’s so good to see you,” he finally said. And it was. He hadn’t met any of his old companions – Nel, Vhelan, or Xin – since the ceremony in the great hall where the queen had welcomed them and taken his oath of service, though Garmond had sought him out before the seeker departed for Ver Anath, gifting him with his beautifully illuminated copy of The Tinker’s Bestiary.

  Nel patted his arm. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Vhelan has kept me busy running all over the city attending to different things, and he’s spent quite a bit of time with his fellow magisters poring over the scrolls, books, and other treasures we gathered in Uthmala and Vis.”

  “Did they discover anything?”

  “Yes, but progress is slow because only a few of the magisters have any ability in High Kalyuni. Vhelan had me find some scholars in the city who claimed proficiency with the writing, but even still – ”

  “Keilan!”

  They turned to find the Tradesmen approaching. The boys had changed into tunics and breeches since the lesson ended, so they must have been planning to go out into the city. Belin had remarked a few days ago that more than a few winehouses and taverns refused to let them gamble if they were dressed in their apprentice robes.

  When Sevanil noticed Keilan and Nel together he elbowed Karik and whispered something that made the larger boy leer. Belin sauntered closer, making a show of looking Nel up and down. “Keilan Ferrisorn! Not two weeks in the Scholia and already you’ve made friends with the prettiest serving wench. I knew you were a proper Kingdom man.”

  Nel quirked an eyebrow. “I’m no serving wench, boy. Run along.”

  Belin chuckled, but his eyes had suddenly turned hard. “Well, are you a noble? A magister? One of the queen’s handmaidens?” At each shake of Nel’s head he edged closer, until he was looming over her. “Then we’re running out of things you could be.”

  Nel gazed up at him, untroubled by his attempt to intimidate her. “I’m the personal assistant of one of the senior magisters.”

  “Personal assistant? I’ve been looking for one of those. I had to leave all my ‘personal assistants’ when I moved into the Scholia. How about it, girl? Tired of ‘assisting’ some dried-up old man?”

  Karik guffawed loudly at this.

  Anger rose in Keilan, and he took a step forward, but Nel tightened her grip on his arm. “Such sweet words you sing. If you’d prefer to sing them in a much higher octave, I encourage you to keep talking.”

  Belin stepped back a pace, blinking in surprise. “Did you just threaten me, girl? I’m a magister and the son of Sorin Derrilsorn!” He snarled and reached out for her, but clutched empty air. In an eyeblink Nel had twisted free of Keilan and sidestepped Belin, a dagger appearing in her hand as if plucked from the air.

  “An APPRENTICE magister,” Nel said amiably, spinning the onyx pommel in her palm so that the blade glittered in the flickering light from the wall sconces. “And not so far from being the gelded son of Sorin Derrilsorn.”

  Belin mouth worked soundlessly, an enraged flush creeping up his neck.

  Nel tapped the side of the dagger against her chin. “Tell me, do you think your father would still introduce you as his son if I – ” and now Nel made a clicking noise with her tongue “ – disposed of whatever passed for your manhood? Care to find out?”

  “I’ll have you flogged for this,” he whispered hoarsely. Keilan couldn’t imagine that Belin’s bulging eyes could get any bigger.

  “But then you’d have to tell everyone how you scampered away from a little girl like a dog with its tail between its legs. And you’d have to say that this happened.”

  The dagger flashed, too fast to see clearly. Belin made a strangled sound, but no dark stain blossomed anywhere on his tunic. The boy let out a shuddering breath, then glared at Nel. “I’ll take that knife and shove it in your – ”

  His breeches fell down.

  For a brief moment everyone froze. Keilan couldn’t hold back a hiccup of laughter at the shock in Belin’s face.

  Nel’s brow crinkled as she studied him critically. “If that’s all you have to offer, apprentice Belin, I think I’ll pass on your offer.”

  At that the two boys behind Belin laughed as well. The boy from the Shattered Kingdoms lunged down and gathered his pants, holding them up after he had straightened. With as much dignity as he could muster Belin backed away, his face pale but his chin held high.

  “I’m going to find out who are, girl,” he muttered. “And when I do . . .”

  The dagger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Nel pointed at Sevanil. “You. You’re from Lyr, yes?”

  Sevanil nodded slowly, glancing at Karik beside him.

  “Do you know who Col Temis was?”

  Another nod. “Aye. The Warren King.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “He died. On the Night of the Black Masks.”

  “He died with a knife in his belly. My knife. So I would advise you to enlighten your friend here what that says about me. Veniche, amini?”

  Sevanil swallowed hard. “Veniche. I will talk to him.”

  “Good, do that,” Nel said, then as if dismissing the three boys she took Keilan’s arm again and turned away, leading him further down the corridor.

  When Keilan glanced over his shoulder he saw their retreating backsides vanishing around a bend in the passage, Belin almost hopping as he tried to both run and keep his pants up.

  He looked at Nel, and she sighed and shrugged. “You’ve seen me fight giant spiders and shape-changing demons. Do you really think I’m going to back down in front of those little toads?”

  “No . . . but aren’t you afraid he’ll tell one of the senior magisters?”

  Nel patted his arm. “Don’t worry – I know all of them quite well. And none would take his word over mine.”

  “And that story about the Warren King?”

  “Yes?” There was a mischievous twinkle in Nel’s eye.

  “Is it true?”

  She chuckled. “On the Night of the Black Masks I was doing the same thing as every other sensible thief – keeping my head down behind the stoutest door I could find. It is still a mystery who killed dear old Col, so I’ll use that to my advantage. I like having a few whispers going round about how dangerous I am.”

  Keilan shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone remotely like you.”

  “Nor will you again!” she said, then was quiet for a moment. “Keilan, I didn’t come here simply to say hello or scare a few beardless boys. There’s something I need your help with.”

  “Tell me what it is and I’ll do it.”

  Nel smiled – almost sadly, Keilan thought – and patted his arm. “I knew you’d say that. Keilan, it’s about Xin.”

  Ah.

  “I was hoping that time would heal the wounds he’s carrying. Time and . . . me. And you. Being around friends who could replace his brothers. But . . . but he’s still sl
ipping away, Keilan. Bit by bit, a fragment at a time. I can feel it.”

  “How can I help him? Do you want me to talk to him?”

  Nel turned to him with glistening eyes. “That helped before. It did. I think he would have killed himself in Vis if you hadn’t reminded him of his debt to you. But I was thinking of something else. Do you remember those evenings we spent training together? I would demonstrate a knife trick or two, and then Xin would lead us through some simple sword-fighting patterns, and finally you’d take him off to the seeker’s wagon to teach him how to read?”

  “Of course I remember. Those were some of the best nights of my life.”

  Nel gripped his arm hard. “I think so, too! Only with Vhelan had I felt so free before, so accepted . . . and I know Xin enjoyed those evenings as well. Keilan, I’ve spoken with the magisters in charge of educating the newest apprentices. I’ve convinced them that it would be to the great benefit of you all if you received some basic training in weaponry. Nothing so intense, just enough that if you find yourself without the strength to cast a spell – or have your sorcery drained away by a paladin of Ama – that you are not as helpless as babes.”

  “And Xin will teach us?”

  “Yes! I hope it will be another reason for him to continue living in this world. What do you think? Can you help?”

  Keilan nodded, and Nel gathered him in a quick embrace.

  “Thank you, Keilan. Together we can save him, I know it.”

  The reactions of the apprentices when they had first been told that they would be beginning weapons training surprised Keilan. He had thought that the mere mention of the Fists would have sent ripples of excitement through them, but most seemed bemused that those preparing to learn how to summon fire and lightning would ever find themselves in a situation where they needed to jab someone with a thin piece of metal. Tamryl had blinked her large silver eyes slowly and pursed her lips, as if in disapproval of the thought of violence. Her friend and constant shadow, Halix, had demonstrated the attitude Keilan had expected: more interested in the Fists themselves than the idea of swinging a sword. He had peppered the magister who had informed them about their new instructor with questions about how one of the legendary slave-soldiers had found his way to the Scholia. Belin and Karik had affected bored indifference, as if this was just another demand on their time, which they would rather spend in the gambling dens and taverns of Herath. Sevaril had snorted contemptuously and remarked loudly that his older cousin, a celebrated bravo of Lyr, had already taught him the dueling arts.

  All these conceits had been shattered and swept away before the first lesson was even finished. Xin had come before them in the wine-colored leather cuirass of the Fists, his long black hair – which he had allowed to grow since his brother’s deaths – swept back and bound into a top-knot. Two others had accompanied him, Magister d’Terin and a solemn-faced Shan wearing the red cloak of the queen’s personal guard. The two warriors had stood stiff-backed beneath the gently swaying silver skulls hanging from the odeon’s tree as d’Terin had introduced them to the apprentices: Xin, third of five, from the Lapis Stables, and Kwan Lo-Ren, once of Red Fang Mountain, and now the commander of the Scarlet Guard. Then the blind magister had stepped aside to make room, and without a hint of ceremony a demonstration had commenced.

  Keilan had felt a change in the attitude of the apprentices within moments of watching these two master swordsmen come together. There had been an audible intake of breath as the Shan had leaped forward, drawing his curved blade with such speed that it seemed to simply materialize in his hand. For the briefest of moments Keilan feared that Xin would be unprepared for this lightning-like attack – but with a quickness at least equal to the Shan the Fist warrior had met the flashing sword with his own, and the shriek of steel coming together had shivered the air.

  Cut and parry, lunge and block, the blades had flickered like striking serpents as the two warriors had moved around the odeon’s tree, stepping carefully over exposed roots and buckled stone. The spectacle had been hypnotic, the swords weaving patterns as they came together and separated almost too fast to follow, and when Keilan managed to tear his attention from the duel he had found the other apprentices watching wide-eyed. Finally the two swordsmen had stopped, sheathing their blades simultaneously as they turned to their audience, and the apprentices had burst into applause at the display.

  Xin’s class quickly became the most exciting time of their morning lessons. After d’Terin or another of the senior magisters had finished their daily lecture, Xin would lead the students to an ancient section of the battlements with enough room to accommodate swordplay. He began simply, as he had with Keilan: the first few sessions were dedicated to improving the apprentice’s footwork, their balance and the grip they used. The boys learned with the heavy wooden practice swords Keilan and Nel had once trained with; these were roughly the same weight as the Fist’s preferred weapon, a double-edged sword most suitable for slashing and hacking. But for the slight, reedy Tamryl he introduced a thin, piercing blade, similar to the swords favored by the bravos of Lyr. After a late morning spent struggling with the heavy Fist sword, a sweat-soaked Sevanil had also adopted the more slender blade, claiming that this was in fact the weapon for any true Lyrishman.

  Keilan felt the apprentices drawing closer under the Fist’s tutelage. After a few sparring sessions, Sevanil started teaching Tamryl some of the tricks and techniques his cousin had once shown him, and soon whatever animosity had arisen from her constant questioning of the magisters disappeared. Even Belin grudgingly accepted her when his friends welcomed her into their group. They started eating together, and a few times talked long into the night about their families, and of their hopes and dreams for the future. Tamryl was part Kindred, Keilan discovered – her mother had been a famous physician among that itinerant people. When their caravan had passed through Ver Anath many years ago, her mother had been summoned to the manse of a powerful merchant family and had saved the life of their eldest son. The merchant prince and the Kindred chirurgeon had fallen in love, and Tamryl had been born the following year, causing a great scandal in the city.

  Halix’s father was also wealthy and famous, one of the greatest of Seri’s artificer lords. At first his family had been aghast when his sorcerous gift manifested itself, for the artificers prided themselves on harnessing the natural, measurable forces of the world, and most felt that relying on sorcery recalled an earlier, more barbaric era that deserved to be forgotten. But his father had seized upon it as an opportunity: perhaps his son could learn how to merge the clockwork genius of the artificers with the wild and chaotic power of sorcery. And so he had been sent here, to Herath and the Scholia.

  As they spent more time together the sneering bravado of the Tradesmen was revealed to simply be the insecurity of boys thrust into a situation they didn’t truly understand. Belin even apologized to Tamryl for his earlier rudeness, giving her a twisting golden bracelet he had fashioned in his father’s workshop. Tamryl, in her generosity, had smiled shyly and accepted Belin’s words and gift with good grace.

  The improved mood among the apprentices was not the only benefit that came from the sword training. To Keilan’s great relief and happiness he quickly noticed an improvement in Xin’s demeanor as well – when their lessons had first begun the Fist warrior had rarely grinned, his face sallow and his eyes almost lifeless. But after a few sessions Keilan thought he saw some color returning to Xin’s cheeks, and he started moving with more purpose. Ten days after the morning trainings had started, Keilan had been surprised to hear the Fist’s laughter erupt while helping Tamryl and Sevanil refine their technique. He never did learn what the Lyrish boy had said to elicit that reaction from Xin, but his heart had soared at the sound.

  Weeks passed, and Keilan embraced the rhythms of the Scholia. Study and swordplay in the mornings, afternoons spent exploring Herath with the other apprentices. Every day brought new and int
eresting experiences. He drank firewine and listened to minstrels with Belin in the taverns near the docks. The next day he visited a Kindred encampment with Tamryl when a string of their brightly painted wagons had passed through Herath, trying their bitter tea as dancers whirled to the sound of racing fiddles. Later he had watched in breathless fascination as Halix had shown him his collection of small copper automatons shaped like animals, and how simply winding a key on their backs could send them stumbling forward, as if animated by sorcery.

  After months of turbulent storms, the sky was finally lightening, and the shoreline had appeared on the horizon.

  And then came the summons from the Crimson Queen.

  Her presence loomed over Saltstone and the Scholia, even if the apprentices never saw her, save for when they were invited to dine in the palace’s great feast hall. During those dinners she hardly seemed to eat or talk, a goddess of pale white stone watching with an unknowable expression as the nobles and magisters of the Scholia drank and cavorted. Once she had caught him watching her, and he thought – for the briefest of moments – that the corners of her thin mouth had quirked slightly. But whatever emotion, if he had not imagined it, had been fleeting, and she had not looked at him again.

  “Strength,” Nel had told him, a few days after Xin had started teaching the apprentices. She’d visited him to ask about how the others were taking to the weapon training, and he in turn had wanted to know more about the queen, and why she seemed so aloof during the feasts. “It’s a show of strength. Because of her age, she’s still just a girl in the eyes of many of the kingdom’s nobles. If she had been anyone else there’d have been a regent, most likely, and eventually Cein would have been married off to one of them. There are a half-dozen families in Dymoria with a claim nearly as strong on the Dragon Throne as the d’Karas, and since she was born out of wedlock, and spent her childhood in the Sunset Lands, that only puts her on more uncertain ground. A few years ago, you know, a group of powerful nobles tried to overthrow her. The results were as you could imagine, but there are still mutterings, in the manses on the Slopes, that she’s leading the kingdom toward ruin. So during feast days, when everyone can see her, she has to be cold and hard and strong. Any sign of weakness might inspire another attempt to seize the throne. But she’s not as emotionless as she might appear – in many ways, she’s fired with more passion that anyone I’ve ever met. She’d have to be, to accomplish all she has while still so young.”