An Oath Of The Kings (Book 4)

by Valerie Zambito

  When all matters were finalized, he dismissed the group and reached for his pipe once again.

  “Father?” He turned and smiled at sight of his daughter. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Always. Come on in, darling.” He stood and when she came to stand in front of him, he drew a hand down the side of her head. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Jala swung a nervous glance over her shoulder at Teran Mathis standing in the doorway.

  “Father, Teran and I wanted you to be the first to hear the news.”

  “News?”

  Teran came forward and knelt in front of him. “I have asked the Princess for her hand in marriage, Your Grace, and I ask for your blessing in our union.”

  Teran waited on bended knee. Rogan let him. For long moments. Finally, he crossed his arms at his chest and looked down at the metalshifter. “I don’t have to spell out for you what will happen if you ever mistreat my daughter, do I?”

  Teran shook his head. “No, Your Grace.”

  “You will be a good father to my grandchild?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Rogan tugged on Teran’s beard. “It’s a little short and scraggly.”

  “I…I am only in my twentieth year, Your Grace. I still have time…”

  Rogan glanced at Jala who wore an amused grin and then prodded the Fist in the shoulder until he stood. He chuckled. “I will be honored to have you join my family, Teran. You may—”

  A sudden, avian screech startled Rogan and he spun toward the window. Black feathers filled his vision as an enormous raven swooped through the open window directly at his head, talons outstretched to attack. Rogan grabbed Jala and dove to the ground, covering her with his body. He grunted in pain as the raven raked his back with its claws.

  “Father, get off me!” Jala yelled, wiggling to get free. “I’m supposed to be protecting you!”

  Rogan came up in a crouch, a sword of fire hissing to life in his fist. In his other, he sent a ball of fire screaming toward the bird and brought it down in a hail of flame. The raven flopped on the floor in the throes of death for several seconds, filling the room with the smell of burning feathers and seared flesh.

  “If that isn’t the strangest thing,” Teran breathed, walking over to the dead bird and nudging it with his sword. “Do you think it was feralshifting at work here?”

  Before Rogan had a chance to answer, more loud squawks sounded as dozens of ravens poured in through the open window.

  His first instinct was to protect Jala who could not shift due to her pregnancy.

  “Jala, you can’t use your magic! Get out!” he hissed, slashing at the air with his fire sword. His arms moved fast, but several birds still managed to find a way in between his strokes to claw and peck at him with sharp talons and beaks.

  “Don’t worry about me!” Jala screamed. “The window! Close the window!”

  Rogan barely heard her over the thunder of flapping wings. There must be a hundred of them! Jala and Teran disappeared beneath the sea of black and Rogan growled as he battled his way toward the window where more of the birds were trying to squeeze their way inside.

  A pair of ravens landed on his head and tore at his hair, digging their feet into his scalp. Rogan swatted them away, but the blood and sweat that dripped into his eyes made it difficult to see. Frantically whirling his weapon around his body, he managed to keep most of the creatures at bay as he finally stumbled to the window and slammed it shut. He threw the latch, but the black bodies continued to thud against the shutters from the outside. He wondered how long it would hold against their onslaught. Even as he had the thought, the wood splintered under the pressure.

  He turned back to the room. Jala was on the ground, facedown.

  Rogan clawed his way toward her, but the bloody birds attacked him with more fervor.

  “Teran!”

  “Here!” The Fist stood at the table fighting off the ravens as his hands moved rapidly over the cutlery and trenchers. The metal slid across the table and clanged together in a jumbled heap. Teran worked fast, using his shifting to fuse the metal into a molten ball. Ignoring the violent attacks on his body, his hands stretched and wove the steely orb until he had the makings of a large, solid square that looked like chain mail. Bleeding profusely, he ran to Jala with his metalshifted armor. He swatted away the birds on top of her and draped the blanket of metal over her prone body. When he straightened, two long knives spun into existence in his hands out of nowhere. He stood protectively over Jala and started to hack at the air, sending feathers and bits of flesh flying.

  Rogan’s admiration for the Fist grew, but he knew Teran wouldn’t be able to last long. There were just too many of the creatures.

  “Take cover under the armor!” Rogan yelled, and Teran threw himself down to the ground next to Jala.

  Rogan knelt, thrust his arms upward and coated the air above his head with a blanket of fire. Smoking, dying ravens began to drop out of the air as Rogan swept the blaze back and forth along the ceiling. One by one they fell, and the floor disappeared beneath a pile of dead birds.

  It seemed to take a lifetime, but finally, the discordant screeching came to a stop.

  Rogan breathed a sigh of relief and let go of his magic.

  Teran and Jala sat up, scores of red welts striping their faces and bodies.

  Rogan helped Jala to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  She grimaced, angry at herself. “I tripped on one of the birds and hit my head, but I’m fine.”

  Uncharacteristic emotion welled inside him. “I don’t know what I would have done if anything happened to you. Or the baby.”

  “I’m fine, Father, really.” She looked around at the charred humps. “Do you think this was another Mage attack?”

  “It has to be. There were too many birds involved to be a feralshifting.”

  She lifted a determined eyebrow his way. “I hope you’re not going to use this as an excuse to stop me from marching with the army. I might not be able to shift, but I can and will fight for you, Father.”

  Rogan gave her one of his rare smiles. “You are your mother’s daughter, there is no doubt about that. No, I would never presume to keep you from your duty with the Fists.” A snarl replaced the smile. “Besides, you’re one of the best fighters in the army, and I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of those in the days ahead.”

  Chapter 9

  The Funeral

  The sun peeked over the horizon and the sudden halo of light added a touch of warmth to the cold, bleak morning. Ripples of mist floated along the cobblestones. The clop of horse hooves provided the only sound.

  Beck reached out a gloved hand to soothe the restless Haventhal gelding beneath him. A richly decorated black and scarlet caparison adorned with the lions of House Everard draped the animal’s face and body. Kiernan, dressed in a fur-lined robe, rode to his right atop her own decorated mount. The Scarlet Sabers, two of who pulled the cart carrying the bier that held Maximus, followed behind. The King’s Court and their escorts brought up the rear.

  The funeral procession filed by the silent spectators lining Dannery Row. Beck was touched to see many of his friends in the crowd. Gil and Dax. Miss Belle and Larkin Malley. The sorceresses and professors from Bardot Academy. Watershifters Digby and Liliana were there standing head and shoulders above the rest, but even they had to look up to Jase the innkeeper.

  The Iserlohn Army stood atop the wall and spread out before the open gates. The scarred Captain Bo Franck, out in front, slammed fist to chest. Beck returned his salute and rode out into the marketplace.

  Thousands of mourners crowded the aisles. Displaying none of the reserve of the residents of Nysa, here people openly wailed or shouted devotions. Several women threw flowers and their bodies in the path of the horses and the Scarlet Sabers had to move to the front to clear the way.

  Over the sounds of animals that squawked, barked and bayed, musicians played a haunting ballad of mourning that grated i
n the early morning air.

  Beck swallowed back his aversion and pushed forward past the congestion. Mercifully, it grew quieter as they made their way east of the city to the sepulcher site. Groups of people ambitious enough to go on foot walked or ran beside the column of horses, determined to witness the funeral of the King.

  When the large unlit pyre finally came into view, Beck edged his mount close to Kiernan and studied her face with worried eyes. She scrubbed away the tears that stained her cheek and gave him a reassuring smile.

  He brought the gelding to a halt, dismounted and helped Kiernan from her horse. At a discreet signal from him, six Sabers worked together to remove the bier holding Maximus’s shrouded body. Together, they climbed the steps built into the sepulcher and set their burden reverently on top.

  A dark-robed cleric came forward and offered the litany of the blessed. Beck barely heard the words. At the conclusion of the prayer, a Saber handed Kiernan a lit torch and she approached the pyre. Her features were stoic as she lowered the flame to the structure. Designed to engulf quickly, it took seconds only to hear the first sounds of crackling wood. Kiernan backed away and Beck put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. As the thick smoke drifted upward to the skies, Beck imagined it was Maximus’s spirit taking flight.

  One by one, the nobles dismounted and knelt before Kiernan one last time to pay their respects before leaving.

  But, Beck saw it for what it was. A final show of amity before the fighting begins.

  ****

  “From everything I’ve been told, Your Grace, your father was alone in his room and Sevant had been standing guard outside as usual when he was attacked. After hearing the screams, a servant rushed to the King’s rooms and came upon the Saber lying in the doorway with his throat cut. Your…your father suffered a similar fate. I’m sorry.”

  Kiernan didn’t turn from the window as she listened to Gage Gregaros’s account. “I find it hard to believe that someone managed to get past a Scarlet Saber and then my father. One man killed two blademasters?”

  “Sevant was taken by surprise,” Gage stated.

  “How do you know this?” Beck asked.

  Kiernan turned then as her husband asked the question on her lips.

  “His body was lying facedown with a dirty boot imprint on his back. He was killed from behind and then the assassin walked right over him to get to the King.”

  Kiernan began to pace as she mulled over the information. A blazing fire in one of the War Room’s two fireplaces provided light for the first twilight since Earthshine. She had stopped to rub her hands before the flames when subtle motion in one of the shadowed corners caught her attention. She peered into the darkness and feline yellow eyes perched atop a bookcase stared back.

  Natasha.

  Kiernan didn’t have the energy to chase the animal from the room so she let it be.

  But, it made her wonder. Was it only the cat keeping silent watch in this room or were the Dagarmon here also? She would have to speak to Beck about invisible, skulking wizards.

  “Who did it, Gage?” Beck questioned. “You must have a theory.”

  The aging lord shrugged his shoulders. “House Knapp is firmly behind you, and I believe House Hamilton to be as well. Johan might be a blowhard regarding the use of magic, but you can count him an ally. House Stowe does not have the military capability or political clout to stage such a coup. That leaves the Bartletts and the Morningstars.” He paused. “If this is indeed a politically motivated murder.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Men murder for many reasons, Your Grace, and not all of them are the obvious.”

  Kiernan disagreed. She felt certain that one of the nobles was behind this. She thought about what she knew of Duncan Bartlett and Elinor Morningstar. The Bartletts took over the section of lands around Iserport after Davad Etin died. From all accounts, Duncan was a fair lord and inspired the loyalty of his liegemen. He had the third largest army behind Gregaros and Morningstar, his bannermen numbering around fifteen hundred.

  Elinor Morningstar controlled the lands southwest of Iserport, appointed when Ava Conry was stripped of all lands and title after her failed takeover attempt twenty years ago.

  The two southern nobles depended on each other heavily for trade, and Elinor’s son shared an enthusiastic love of hawking with Lord Bartlett. Could they be working together? Both armies combined could mean trouble if executed properly.

  That raised another question. Successful political maneuverings typically required stealth and surprise. Why such a blatant attack? Killing the reigning monarch? Surely, Elinor and Duncan must remember when Etin and Conry tried to steal the Crown. The nobles learned to their detriment and ultimate deaths that the citizens of Iserlohn did not approve of plots and schemes that threatened their livelihood and safety. Although the people would not engage in actual fighting if it came to a power struggle between Houses, they had their own ways of ensuring victory for a favored ruler. Information, food, weapons. All could be supplied—or withheld—as the citizens saw fit.

  Kiernan started when Natasha jumped down from the bookcase and scooted out the door. Bloody cat!

  “Find out what you can before the ceremony tomorrow,” she told Gage. “I would like to know the owner of the sword to expect at my back.”

  Chapter 10

  Swords

  Grace Hall, the throne room named after Kiernan’s mother, Grace Everard, hummed with nervous energy. By the King’s law, citizens were permitted to witness the ceremonial Request for Swords. According to the royal scribe, a slight, balding fellow by the name of Josef Asher, the last time it happened was seventy-five years ago, and he took great pains to present the records that documented that fact.

  It was just as well that they were here, Kiernan thought. Speculation had been running rampant as to how the King had died and the people wanted answers. Worry lines creased most of the foreheads in the room with fear for the stability of the realm, and Kiernan hoped to ease those fears today.

  She would have the swords of the nobles.

  She would be Queen of Iserlohn.

  Not out of any desire for power, but out of an obligation to the people to protect and serve. By a birthright and an oath that have guided her every thought and action for as long as she could remember.

  Yes, she would try to assuage those fears this day. But, not before creating new ones.

  Nobles mingled in the center of the hall, while the citizens filed in and stood around the perimeter, scrambling for a position that would allow them a good view of the raised dais.

  Kiernan watched it all as Johan Hamilton stood across from her droning on about the needs of his lands. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the dark-haired Mila Stowe hurrying on a direct path toward Beck.

  What is that bloody woman up to? If Kiernan’s feminine instincts were correct, the young noble was in love with her husband. The subtle gestures, the constant attempts at whispered conversation. Of course, Kiernan knew Beck would never take advantage of that fact, but it still would not do to have the girl running around thinking she had a chance. It would be best for Kiernan to confront her sooner than later. The rumor that Mila and her son, Kellan, were together Kiernan dismissed as just that—rumor.

  “As I was saying, Your Grace, we need more grain from Bartlett if we are to keep the flocks in good health. The fat bastard has no problem asking for the wool, but when—”

  “If you will excuse me, Lord Hamilton,” Kiernan interrupted. “I must speak to my husband.” She left the flummoxed lord behind and arrived at Beck’s side just as Lady Stowe placed a hand on his arm and he leaned down to hear her words.

  Lady Stowe jumped back as though burned when she caught sight of Kiernan. “Your Grace.” She nodded politely, cheeks aflame.

  “We should take our seats,” Kiernan told Beck without acknowledging the noble. Petty, perhaps, but necessary for the girl’s sake. At least that’s what she told herself as she walked away
on Beck’s arm.

  When the Court members noticed Beck and Kiernan walking to their chairs on the dais, they hastened to their seats as well.

  “Must they be here?” Lord Hamilton growled as he walked up the wide platform steps, jerking his long chin toward the two Dagarmon standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You may not like what they represent, Johan, but you would be the first to crouch behind them in a fight,” Duncan Bartlett taunted with a laugh.

  “The tip of a sword is all I need stand behind,” the old man declared with more bravado than Kiernan knew he actually possessed.

  Kiernan signaled to the guards in the back of the room, and they moved to seal the doors. A slight scuffle broke out as several people tried to push their way in before the doors could be properly closed, but it was quickly subdued.

  Master Asher, the royal scribe, lifted the sides of his robes and rushed up the aisle to take his position at a desk near the front to record her words for dissemination throughout the land.

  As soon as he sat, the room fell silent.

  Slowly, Kiernan rose to her feet, walked to the edge of the dais and looked out at all the faces of her people. The adoration in their eyes could not be denied and sudden emotion overwhelmed her. They loved her just as much as she loved them. It had not always been that way, or at least she wasn’t sure at one time how they felt about her, but today, at this moment, she knew. It took her a moment to clear away the raw burn lodged in her throat.

  “My fellow citizens, it is with a heavy heart that I stand before you now. Iserlohn lost a great King yesterday, and I lost a great father.” Soft murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd.

  “My father taught me early on in life about the importance of resiliency in the face of adversity and I heed that lesson today. I can tell you without hesitation that House Everard stands firm before you.” A cheer rang up from the citizens around the perimeter. “In a few moments, the noblemen and noblewomen of this land will expect me to ask them for their swords, but I will not do so.” Shocked gasps and horrified sputters of disbelief built to a low tremble. Kiernan calmly waited until a hushed silence descended once again. “No, I will not ask for their swords,” she repeated and thrust a fist in the air. “I will demand them!”