Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

  His lips twitched. He could see she was playing with him. Again, she doubted that happened to him on a daily basis. “I am mortally wounded,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I did not think you would be like this.”

  “A man?”

  “Maybe.”

  He picked up her hand and placed it on his chest. “I do have a heart, Sarra. Can you not feel its beat? Please, do not be the one to break it.”

  She left her hand there for a moment, then gently withdrew it. “One month?”

  He nodded. “One month.”

  Raised voices sounded from outside the palace and she watched him glance out of the window. Men were pushing and shoving each other around, the ale finally taking its toll as the White Eye began to disappear off the edge of the Caelum. Trouble was brewing, she thought.

  A guard appeared in the doorway, stopping as he saw Comminor wasn’t alone. The Chief Select took Sarra’s hand and kissed her fingers. “Until next month.”

  She nodded and walked to the door. Outside, she paused just out of sight and listened as the guard spoke. “We are about to suppress the rebellion. We will bring the main perpetrators back here. What should we do with them?”

  There was a slight pause, and then Comminor’s deep voice answered. “Kill them.”

  Sarra shivered, and slipped away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  They had only been travelling for four hours, and Orsin was already bored.

  “Where will we stop tonight?” he asked his mother, who rode alongside him on her favourite gelding. He already knew the answer as there was only one hamlet a day’s ride from Vichton, but he hoped to prod her into a conversation. She had been very quiet since leaving their hometown.

  “At Lipton,” she said, confirming his thoughts. “And then tomorrow we shall head for Kettlestan.”

  That surprised him. The town lay in the Plains of Wulfengar, on the north side of the wall. He frowned. “Julen told us to head straight for Heartwood.”

  “Julen is not here.”

  “Yes, but–”

  “The decision is made.” Her knuckles were white where they held the reins, her back straight and stiff.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the four knights they rode with, wondering if they had heard her dismissive attitude towards him. They all looked politely away as if admiring the countryside, but he was certain they must have overheard their conversation. Irritation flared within him. She always spoke to him as if he were a child. Had she not noticed he had been growing his beard these six years hence?

  He said nothing more for a while, not quite sure why she seemed so tense. Was she frightened of the coming invasion? Angry that the peace she had fought to gain had been threatened?

  Truth to tell, he very rarely knew what was going through his mother’s mind. Obviously, he knew she had been Dux of the Exercitus – the leader of Heartwood’s army. She had often joined him and Julen in the training ring when they were children before he had been sent away, and she clearly enjoyed the physical exertion. Orsin himself had never seen her in battle, although Julen had related the couple of times she had joined him in a skirmish and said she had fought effortlessly, never seeming in danger.

  Still, he had grown up in a very different world to that of his parents. Nowadays Heartwood had no standing army and Anguis was at peace. There had not been war for twenty-two years. Although the law required that all men train with the sword and be able to hit a target with a longbow from fifty paces, and a militaristic life was not forbidden for women in Laxony like it still was in Wulfengar, he did not personally know any other females who were interested in donning armour instead of a pretty gown. The women he mixed with – from daughters of other knights to tavern wenches – would not know how to defend themselves with a sword, nor would they have even a passing interest in battle tactics or the latest designs in armour.

  Men were stronger than women – that was a fact, not an opinion. How could a woman best a man in battle, truly? He understood that a fit, swift woman could possibly have the advantage over an unfit, overweight man – but against a young, strong man in his prime, like practically any knight who fought for a living? Orsin could not comprehend it, and had always assumed his mother’s role in the Exercitus was a token one, granted to her by an outdated establishment in an attempt to placate their closest Laxonian allies.

  He glanced across at her, as surreptitiously as he could. True, she continued to train regularly and remained slim and muscular, although he had heard her complain on wet, cold days that she felt like an old chair that – though once supple and flexible – creaked and groaned when sat upon. He knew she thought herself a superior fighter, and that his father had always spoken of her battle skills with the utmost respect. But how much of that was down to the way a husband would speak to a wife – especially a wife with a shrewish temper? Surely all the stories his father had told him of how she had held off the Darkwater army practically on her own could not possibly be true? If he, Orsin, were to fight her in battle, would she really be able to best him – a man, four inches taller, bigger and obviously stronger than she?

  She was looking across at the river, and he took the opportunity to study her face. The fine lines around her eyes and her weathered skin spoke of someone who had spent too many nights sleeping rough. She was striking, but not beautiful, he thought, which puzzled him, because his father had been a rich, handsome man who would have been able to court any woman he wanted. Why had he chosen such a cold, harsh Wulfian woman who wrapped herself in resentment like a thick cloak?

  Still, she was his mother, and as he saw her brow furrow in thought his heart went out to her. She had survived the Darkwater invasion and had probably thought to live out her life in peace. She was concerned about Horada and he knew she worried about Julen and his mysterious adventures continuously. His father had told him that when he took a wife, he would need to care for her and protect her from the harshness of the real world. “Is that what you do for Mother?” Orsin had asked. Chonrad had just grinned at that, but Orsin was sure that even though Chonrad pretended he and his wife were equals, deep down he saw himself as the provider and protector.

  Orsin reached over and covered his mother’s hand with his own. “Do not fear,” he said softly. “Everything will be all right. I will be there to protect you should the need arise.”

  The gelding slowed to a halt.

  Procella stared at her son. “I am sorry?”

  Orsin reined in his horse. “I was just saying, I will always be there to look after you if…” His voice trailed off at the look on her face. Behind her, one of the knights who had served with her in the Exercitus winced, and the other three’s eyebrows nearly shot off their foreheads.

  Procella’s face turned stony. “Let us get one thing straight.” She spoke through gritted teeth, clenching her jaw so hard that her cheek muscles knotted like walnuts. “I am not one of the ladies whose company you like to keep, who talk about nothing but the bows in their hair and the latest length of their overtunics. I trained under the mighty Valens, and I was Dux of Heartwood’s Exercitus. Nobody looks after me!”

  “But you are just a woman,” Orsin began.

  He wasn’t to finish his sentence. Before he could form another word, she leaned over from the saddle and her fist met his face with enough force to take him by surprise, snapping back his head. He lost his balance, grappled for a hold, failed to find one and fell backwards off his horse.

  Procella dismounted, sprightly as a cat, and before he could move she straddled him and pressed the blade of her dagger to his throat.

  “I do not care if you are my son,” she said, and although her voice was little more than a whisper, it rang with such menace that his blood ran cold as a mountain stream. “You will show me some respect.”

  Bewildered, he tried to explain himself. “I am sorry. I truly thought you were scared at the thought of the invasion…”<
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  Behind them, one knight groaned and another cursed and called him a name he couldn’t quite catch. But it involved being the son of some animal, and it didn’t sound complimentary.

  Angry and embarrassed, Orsin pushed up, intending to throw her off, but Procella leaned forward and the dagger bit into his skin. It stung and he knew she had drawn blood. She was going to push the blade up through his throat and into his brain, he was sure of it.

  He stopped moving and stared at her. She didn’t look scared or fearful. Instead, her eyes blazed with fervour, like a priest afire with his religion.

  “I. Am. Not. Scared.” She spoke each word slowly, as if he were simple. “While in the Exercitus, I trained for battle every hour of every day. I have commanded armies consisting of thousands of men and have earned their respect. I have killed more men than you have drunk ales – and that is saying something. I have bested men twice the size of you who were twice as strong, with twice the sword skill. I could best you in my sleep, after drinking five flagons of wine and with my hands tied behind my back. I am Procella, the best knight you will ever meet, and if you forget it again, I swear I will make you pay.”

  He lay still, burning with indignation, and ashamed of being a tiny bit afraid of her. She blinked, and the passion in her eyes died a little. The dagger left his skin, and she pushed herself up and off him. “Come,” she said shortly. “We must make haste or we will not reach Lipton by sunset.”

  They did not speak again for the rest of the day.

  Nor did they speak much the following day, and the knights travelling with them also kept their distance, seemingly taking his criticism of the ex-Dux as a personal slight. Orsin grew used to his own company and sank into a melancholic sulk. Instead of improving his respect for her, Procella’s actions had only served to increase his bitterness. Why did she have to humiliate him in front of their companions? Already he had to endure constantly being told how wonderful his parents were, what wonderful knights and warriors they had been. Did she not realise how she had taken away the respect he had built up over the past year in one fell swoop?

  On the afternoon of the second day, they crossed the Wall through one of the old gatehouses – standing open since the break-up of the Exercitus – into Wulfengar. Orsin’s temper didn’t improve at travelling into the other country. He disliked Wulfians with their squat builds, hairy faces, gruff voices and their age-old resentment that refused to die. And even though he might not truly believe women could be as great in battle as men, still he thought of them socially as equals and detested the way the Wulfians refused to let them sit on councils and enter universities. It was archaic, and his mood darkened as they travelled deeper into the land characterised by wide, flat plains, stark and unwelcoming.

  They arrived at Kettlestan shortly before sunset. Orsin hadn’t met the present lord, Hunfrith, before, but he knew his parents had stayed with him in the past. Following the Darkwater invasion, Chonrad and Procella had taken it upon themselves to ensure the lords on both sides of the wall continued to keep the peace, and Orsin had heard them speak several times about Hunfrith. Procella had called the Wulfian a name that had made Orsin stare at the time, shocked as to why he was always scolded if he used that word but his mother was allowed to get away with it. Chonrad had been more forgiving and assured her that Hunfrith was all talk. Was that why his mother wanted to call in there now – to ensure he wasn’t stirring up trouble with the imminent threat of an elemental invasion?

  He didn’t dare ask her, though, and remained quiet as they approached the town walls and paused at the gatehouse – now closed for the evening – to request entrance. They were kept waiting an inordinately long time while the guard sent a runner to the castle for guidance, and by the time the gates finally opened, Procella’s mouth was set in a firm line and Orsin was ready to flatten the first Wulfian he saw.

  He restrained himself, however, determined not to give his mother the opportunity to criticise him again, and they led their horses into the town and through the streets to the castle.

  They had to wait again to pass through the castle gatehouse, and by this time Orsin knew Hunfrith was doing it on purpose. This is my land, the Wulfian was saying. You pass through here only with my permission.

  “It would have been easier to just piss all around us,” Orsin murmured to his mother. Her mouth quirked, but she did not answer him.

  Finally granted entry, they dismounted in the yard. As they handed the reins of their horses over to the stable lads, the lord exited the hall doors and crossed the courtyard.

  Tall for a Wulfian, Hunfrith had huge shoulders and arms like tree trunks. Orsin could imagine that if Hunfrith stood his ground and refused to move, it would take fifty men to drag him from the spot. The Wulfian walked slowly toward them, an arrogant swagger to his walk.

  Orsin had once watched a stallion mount a mare in the field. The mare had resisted him at first, but the stallion had pursued her for what seemed like hours, finally overpowering her with persistence and brute force, the sheer animal power it exerted taking Orsin’s breath away.

  And as he approached, that was exactly how Hunfrith looked at Procella.

  Uh-oh.

  II

  Catena sat atop her horse, her stomach churning with a mixture of nerves and excitement at the thought of the coming journey.

  To one side of her Demitto also sat on his horse, which shifted restlessly, picking up on the emissary’s obvious impatience to be on the move. He flew the Heartwood banner – an oak tree sewn in gold thread on a bright green pennant, and he wore his ceremonial armour once again, the steel polished to a dazzling shine and the emeralds glittering in the early morning sun, but she suspected he would remove it once he was out of sight of Harlton Castle. She couldn’t imagine the irreverent knight would suffer in the hot armour for the next eleven days.

  The rest of the Heartwood party waited behind them, their faces conveying their pity for the young prince as Tahir said his last goodbyes to his friends and family.

  Catena, too, felt pity wash over her. Tahir stood stiffly before his parents as a member of the household read aloud to the waiting crowd an official statement prepared by the King and Queen of Amerle about how much they were going to miss their son and how proud of him they were.

  They did not look proud, and they did not look as if they were going to miss him. They looked bored and relieved that he was finally going, and as the speaker finished and rolled up the parchment, Tahir’s mother did little more than bend forward and kiss her son on the cheek, while his father gave him a soldier’s salute and didn’t touch him at all.

  Tahir had made few close friends, more because of lack of opportunity than anything else, Catena thought as he turned and waved awkwardly to the groups of young men and women of his own age who stood on the steps – mainly the sons and daughters of those who worked in the castle. The King had a son and heir in Tahir’s brother, who was currently travelling somewhere on the other side of the country to seal a possible marriage deal, and who hadn’t even bothered to write or send a message to say goodbye. The King had decided at Tahir’s birth that he would apply for his youngest son to be the new Selected, and as such had never invested time and energy in getting to know or understand the boy.

  Catena puzzled that the Queen seemed so unaffected though. True, the young prince could be rude and arrogant, but wasn’t the rule that if a child misbehaved one had to look to the parent for a reason why? Tahir’s attitude had been born out of neglect and of being given whatever he wanted – horses and exotic pets, rare books, fine clothes and expensive jewellery – in return for keeping himself to himself and not bothering his mother and father.

  And now it seemed there was nobody at the castle willing to shed a tear for the boy. Catena watched him give a stiff little bow to his parents, turn and wave to the crowd of castle staff and then walk to his horse. He held his chin high and appeared to look down at the crowd with a sneer as he mounted. Catena knew him well eno
ugh though to see the way his hands shook as he took up the reins, and to notice how pale his skin was, and the way sweat beaded his forehead.

  At least he had Atavus, she thought, watching the hunting hound waiting by the horse’s side. The two of them were inseparable. Part of her had wanted to suggest that Atavus remain at Harlton – after all, what was going to happen to the dog once Tahir had been sacrificed? But she hadn’t had the heart to suggest it. Better that he gain some comfort from his one and only friend in the short time he had left.

  Not wanting to draw attention to his discomfort in front of everyone, she turned her horse with her knees and led the way out of the castle yard, under the portcullis and across the drawbridge, the horses’ hooves echoing above the stagnant water of the moat. Demitto glanced across at her as if aware there was a problem, but he didn’t say anything. She waited until they had travelled to where the road curved around the forest and the castle disappeared out of sight.

  Then she reined in her horse, gesturing for the Heartwood party to do the same. She kicked her feet out of the stirrups and swung down from the saddle, walked across to Tahir and held out a hand. He stared at her for a moment, then dismounted and took her hand.

  She walked him off the road and behind a large bush. And then she rested a hand on his back while he vomited onto the leaves.

  She felt a pressure at her shoulder and turned to see Demitto. He stared at Tahir, then flicked his gaze over to her. She wondered whether he would mock the Prince for his display of fear, but the emissary simply took out his water bag, removed the lid, then passed it to Tahir as he straightened and wiped his mouth. Tahir took the leather bag, eyes lowered, drank a mouthful, swirled and spat, then drank again before passing it back.

  “’Tis a nice day,” Demitto remarked, looking up at the blazing sun. “Perhaps we should take a while to admire the scenery before we continue on our journey.”

  Tahir rubbed his nose and then lifted his chin. His hand strayed automatically to the dog at his side, as if he found comfort in touching Atavus’s soft ears. “No. I am all right. We should carry on.”