The Kinshield Legacy

by K. C. May

  Brodas squatted and cocked his head to look into her eyes. He knew she could hear and see him, and in a few hours, she would be able to stand up. “I would have preferred your cooperation. Doing it this way is not without its price. The strong-willed tend to go ranting after a few weeks. By then, I should have what I need, and a new guild mistress will take your place just as you have taken Aminda’s today.” He brought the ring up to his chin and closed his eyes. He pulled from deep within his center enough strength and will to turn her. As pressure around his chest and at the base of his throat began to build, he shoved the mounting power toward the stone as his lips formed the words, Sola Allien.

  Lilalian’s eyes softened into round puppy’s eyes. Brodas put a hand on her arm and healed her, removing the spell of paralysis. Little by little, she moved her hands, feet, arms and legs. “You should be starting to regain feeling now,” Brodas said, rubbing his temples. The pressure was building like the rumblings after an earthquake.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” Lilalian said as she started to rise. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  Warrick shot an appreciative glance at Brodas. He extended a hand to help her up, and she grasped it and stood. She wobbled on unsteady legs and he caught her with an arm around her waist. “Whoa there.”

  She steadied herself against him and smiled. “Could you help me put Aminda on her horse?”

  Warrick nodded with a somber expression. “Of course. But we’ll want to clean her up first.”

  Brodas rubbed his pounding temples.

  “Are you ill, Seer Ravenkind?” Lilalian asked.

  The volume of her voice exploded in his head and he grimaced. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “Just a bit overwhelmed by the tragedy that has befallen us this evening.” The pain began to diminish as his healing powers did their work.

  She eyed the guild mistress’s corpse. “What will I tell the other women?” she asked.

  “Why, the truth, of course,” Brodas answered. He smiled gently, the pain nearly gone.

  She looked at him with a confused expression.

  “My dear,” Brodas said, “you’ll soon learn, as I did, that everyone has their own truth. To Aminda, an agreement with me would have been bad for the guild. Your truth is different, is it not?”

  Lilalian nodded slowly.

  “What you tell them isn’t as important as the effect your words have. You simply need to find the truth that’s right for the Sisterhood.”

  Chapter 9

  Risan set his quill down and fanned the parchment. Yes, he thought with an appreciative nod. It was a good design, suitable for the man who would wield the finished weapon. Within the hilt, the tang would be the full width of the blade, and the full length of the grip. The hilt itself would be wide -- wide enough for Gavin’s large hand -- and resemble a pair of writhing snakes, which, to his people, represented wisdom and prosperity. The head of one snake formed the pommel, and the head of the other lay just below the guard, the blade extending from its open mouth like a tongue. It would be more than a weapon; it would be a work of art.

  Through the walls of his forge, the shouts of merchants crying their wares and accusations of swindling by their customers eased into Risan’s consciousness. The jingle and slap of a tambourine grew louder as a band approached the market. The elusive, dreamy prose of a bard wove a spell through Risan’s thoughts, and died away as the bard moved farther down the street.

  Risan looked up from his sketch and drew his eyebrows together. This moment felt familiar to him, as though he’d lived it before. No, not lived it - dreamt it. He felt light-headed as the images from the dream flooded his mind. It had been a dream so lucid, he’d thought it to be a vision of some kind, like the ones his grandfather used to have. Five or six years ago, he dreamed a hero had saved Arlet, and Risan had vowed to make the hero a sword. “A sword worthy of a king,” his dream self had said. The jingling of the tambourine faded away like a wistful summer breeze.

  The sky rocks. He had all but forgotten the bits he’d collected over the years, inspired by that dream. Mixed with iron, they would make a strong alloy perfect for Gavin’s new sword.

  Risan moved a drum of tools and a heavy workbench to open a hatch in the floor of his foundry. Inside the storage pit sat a large chest. He jumped down into the pit and opened the chest. There inside lay five burlap bags. He removed the bags, closed the chest and hatch, then took his design into the house.

  Arlet kneaded dough in the kitchen.

  “It’s finished,” he announced in their native language. “The design of Gavin’s new sword.”

  “Let me see it,” she said. A bit of flour dotted her nose and she tried to blow it off.

  Risan reached up and gently brushed it from her nose, then planted a kiss where the flour had been. “I’ll make it with sky rocks, so it’ll be strong and hold an edge like a razor.”

  “You still have the sky rocks? I thought you used them years ago to make an axe for that fellow from Tern.”

  “No, I didn’t. Didn’t seem right at the time. I can’t say why.”

  “My hero’s sword will be special.”

  “It’ll be the finest sword I’ve ever made. He has the Rune Stones. You know what that means.”

  “Yes, of course. He deserves an extraordinary weapon.”

  Risan paced the floor. “Yes. He deserves the best blacksmith, the best weapon. But Arlet, somehow a sword - even though I’m making it with the sky rocks - doesn’t seem like enough fël for his deed. I’ll make the best weapon I can, but something’s missing.”

  He twisted his beard. Gavin Kinshield had the Rune Stones. Of course, he didn’t actually admit he’d been the one to solve the King’s Runes, but neither did he deny it. A man who would risk his own life to save a stranger in icy water wouldn’t be a thief or a liar. Such compassion. Yes, Gavin Kinshield had solved those runes. The kingdom would soon have a king, and that man had saved Risan’s wife.

  “Don’t fret. It’ll be a fine sword,” Arlet said. She put the dough in a bowl and covered it with a towel, then moved it to a sunny windowsill. “He’ll be pleased. Go wash, and you can help me cook.”

  As they sat for supper that evening, Arlet chattered about some nonsense with the neighbor’s milk-goat while Risan pondered the gems and the battler. “Do you think anyone else knows?” he asked.

  “About the neighbor mixing mare milk with goat?” Arlet asked.

  “No! About Gavin Kinshield and the gems. Why should I care what the neighbors do with their milk?”

  Arlet put her spoon down and leaned forward to look her husband square in the eye. “You promised him you would tell no one about the gems. If you want to show loyalty to Gavin Kinshield, you’ll keep your word.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. I’m only wondering.” Risan sat in silence, chewing his food slowly as he thought about the brave knight. He’d been there in Risan’s home, sitting in front of the fire like any other man might. Tall and muscular with square shoulders and an intense, intelligent gaze, he’d radiated strength unlike any person Risan had ever met.

  “Actually, I think everyone must know by now,” Arlet said. “The ‘goat’ milk they sell tastes sweeter than most...”

  Admittedly Risan had been somewhat taken aback by Gavin at first, not so much by the size of the man or the jagged scars that ran down his face, nor by his missing tooth or his dark, hooded eyes. It was his air. His commanding presence. The majestic power of him as he climbed down from the saddle. The gentle strength with which he lifted Arlet from the warhorse and set her on the ground. Attention had focused and settled on him, even during the moments they sat silently in front of the fire. In Risan’s eyes, Gavin Kinshield was already king.

  “...wonder how cheese tastes made with part goat milk and part mare,” Arlet said.

  He helped Arlet clear the table and wash the dishes, then took his coat from the hook on the door. “I’m going to down a few ales with my pals”

  She pointed a fing
er at him and shook it a few times. “Risan, don’t you dare tell anyone about Gavin being the rune solver.”

  “I’m not going to tell,” he argued. “Trust me.”

  “I trust your intentions, but I don’t trust your long tongue. You made a promise to a king.” She did not need to remind him of the Farthan proverb warning of the eternal obligation of such a vow. She kissed his cheek then patted it. “Remember that.”

  Risan rolled his eyes and sighed as he walked out the door.

  An hour later, Risan sat with his friends at the Red Eye Tavern toasting Lurin’s new baby, Goisil’s newly built home, Sebur’s father-in-law finally returning to his own home, and Risan’s full belly. Any accomplishment, large or small, was worthy of a toast at the Red Eye. They toasted the day of the week and toasted another toast.

  Risan, like his friends, prided himself on his ability to consume vast quantities of ale and still walk home, though the definition of walking in that context was a matter of debate. They toasted crawling home as well, since the accomplishment was in the arrival not in the means.

  “I would like to toast,” Risan said, “to my wife.”

  “To Arlet,” the others sang. They lifted their tankards and guzzled their drink.

  “May her loveliness grace your home for a hundred years,” Goisil cheered.

  “A hundred years,” the men shouted, drinking once more.

  “And toast to brave man that saved her,” Risan added, lifting his mug.

  “To the man that saved her,” came the chorus of voices.

  Lurin scowled and paused, his tankard lifted partway to his lips. “What man? What’re ya talkin’ about?”

  Risan broke into a wide smile. He’d promised Gavin Kinshield he wouldn’t tell anyone about the gems. But if he told only about Arlet’s near-drowning in the Flint River, that would be all right. “He would cuff me for certain if I told this tale,” Risan said with a teasing grin. His heart pounded with his excitement. He wanted so badly to tell this story, to share his secret, but he couldn’t. What he could do, however, was paint a picture of their soon-to-be-king as a hero. He would just need to be very careful not to get carried away and reveal more than he should. His friends took the bait and begged for the story, sending for a round of full tankards for everyone.

  Risan settled into his seat and repeated the tale as Arlet had told him, adding his own embellishments where appropriate to heighten the suspense and emphasize the heroism of her rescuer. Whether it was the ale catching up to him or his excitement in telling the tale that made him slur his words, he wasn’t sure, and so he slowed down and concentrated on telling only about Arlet’s rescue and nothing more.

  “Where’d he come from?” asked Sebur, eldest of the four. “Was he fishin’ in the river? Who was he?”

  “Not fisherman,” Risan said. “Warrant knight. Crossing river because of bridge was out. This stranger brought Arlet back home - even brought her jackass, if you can believe it.” He pounded his fist on the tabletop for emphasis, making tankards jump.

  “Warrant knight? Bah! What kind o’valour-gild he ask for?” Lurin asked.

  “Nothing,” Risan said. “That is amazing part. Hero did not ask for anything - and even he tried to refuse my offer at first. Tried to refuse a fël.”

  “Come on,” Sebur said. “He had to’ve wanted somethin’ for his trouble. Didn’t he casually put his hand out...” Sebur extended his hand. “...waitin’ for you to drop some coins in it?”

  The other men laughed.

  Risan leaned forward and looked them each square in the eye. “You see, this is kind of man he is. I am making sword for him -- finest war sword ever made by Farthan hands. Sword worthy of king. --er, hero.”

  “Ah, see there?” Lurin asked. “Sure he saved yer girl, an’ ya feel indebted an’ want to reward him fer it, but don’t ya doubt for a minute he’ll be ‘round askin’ fer somethin’ more. Gold, jewels - somethin’.”

  Sebur poked the table with a gnarled finger. “You tellin’ us that fine war sword ha’nt got no jewels in it, no fancy gold trimmin’ on the hilt?”

  “Well, I am putting gems in hilt for him,” Risan said, “but--”

  “Ah ha! You see?” Sebur said. “That’s wot them greedy warrant knights are about, ya know. Valour-gild. They don’t do nothin’ fer nobody unless they think they’ll get somethin’ from it. They ain’t called ‘ranters fer nothin’.”

  “And if you don’t pay, they’ll take what they want,” Goisil chimed in.

  “Yeh.” “That’s right,” Sebur and Lurin agreed.

  “No! He is not like that,” Risan argued, slamming his fist on the table. “Gems are his, not mine. He got them honestly.”

  “One of them gems weren’t a diamond, eh?” Sebur asked. “I heard Calewen’s Pendant was snatched from her tomb.”

  “Noooo,” Risan drawled as his patience thinned. They were maligning the king and didn’t even know it. “Gems are not diamonds.”

  “Anythin’ missin’ from yer shop, Risan?” Lurin asked, nudging him with an elbow. “Bet yer so-called warrant knight got his self a bright new dagger while you wasn’t lookin’.”

  Goisil wagged his brows suggestively. “Or maybe he wants a tumble with your wife.”

  Sebur cackled and slapped Goisil’s shoulder. “Yeh, good one. Better bolt your doors at night, Risan. He’ll prob’ly sneak in while you’re sleepin’--”

  “Damn it, he is not thief,” Risan shouted. “No one can steal Rune Stones.” The tavern fell silent. Immediately he realized his mistake. He shut his eyes and cursed himself for opening his big mouth. Maybe they hadn’t heard him. Yet, when he opened his eyes again, everyone in the tavern was watching him.

  “The man that saved yer girl solved the King’s Runes?” Lurin asked.

  A wave of whispers swept across the tavern, and people shifted toward them to hear more.

  “Shhhh!” Risan hissed. “Keep your voice down.”

  Goisil leaned forward. “Who is he?” he whispered. Sebur and Lurin leaned in to hear.

  “I am not telling his name,” Risan said in a low voice. “I already told too much. But know this - our new king is true hero.”

  Chapter 10

  After two days of travel, Gavin arrived at the Lucky Inn as night deepened. Smoke rose from every chimney, sending the cozy smell of burning wood into the air and snuffing the stench of manure that usually haunted the village. As the lights in the windows blinked out one by one, the air felt a little colder, the night a little lonelier. Gavin dismounted and blew into his hands, then rubbed them together.

  He woke the stable hand and gave him two pielars for Golam’s board. With a pat for his horse, he gathered his gear, and paid for a room at the inn. After a quick sponge bath, he made his way to the only tavern in Thendylath that never closed.

  Directly ahead of the entrance was a betting table in what everyone called the pit. Three stairs to the right and to the left led up to a wooden deck which wrapped around the pit, lined on the inside edge with a railing to keep the inebriated from falling in.

  Inside the pit raged a storm. Coins rained down on the table, tossed by eager gamblers at the front of the crowd. Dozens of people swarmed around the betting table, each waving a coin in the air, ready to be the next victim. Some of the shorter people standing at the back of the crowd jumped into the air or stood on their toes, hoping to steal a glance at the action on the betting table.

  On the deck circling the pit, men and women gathered at the jumble of tables, toasting each other and telling tales. Some leaned over the railing, watching the betting from above. A few heads turned toward the swordsman as he made his way through the crowded room to an empty table in the corner.

  “Who’s next?” a tall red-haired woman shouted. “Try your luck. Win big tonight.” She walked around the outside edge of the pit, encouraging the patrons with a bright smile to join the excitement.

  Gavin ordered ale and a basket of roasted chicken from the barmaid. While h
e waited for his meal, he surveyed the room.

  The redhead in the pit caught his eye and smiled, acknowledging him with a lifted chin. Mina. Mina? Mida, that was it. Gavin gave her a nod and courteous smile, then turned his gaze away so she wouldn’t take his smile as encouragement. He’d bedded her once before, but once she’d had her pleasure, she spent the rest of the time telling him to hurry up, too eager to return to the betting table. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

  “Here y’are,” the barmaid said in tone of forced cheerfulness. She set down a basket of greasy chicken and a tankard, filled to the brim with warm, dark ale. “Seven pielars.” She held out her hand.

  Gavin dug in his coin purse and asked, “Have you heard any talk lately about a pendant with a diamond in it?”

  “No.” She sighed, staring at the ceiling, shifted her weight to the other foot impatiently.

  Gavin dropped a single pielar in her palm, and she snapped a scowl at him. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She put the coin into the pocket of her apron and held her hand out again. “See the wench there, with the black hair? Said she overheard somethin’ a few days ago ’bout a diamond necklace. You should ask her.”

  Gavin paid her seven more copper coins with his thanks. He watched while she made her way to the raven-haired barmaid and spoke, then pointed at him. The other woman nodded and headed to his table.

  “I hear you’re lookin’ for a necklace.” She pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear and looked him over with her large brown eyes. Her teeth were crooked and yellowed, but she had deliciously full lips.

  “Yeh. A diamond pendant.”