The Seven Realms- The Complete Series

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “It didn’t help that I supposedly spirited you off to Demonai without telling her,” Averill said.

  “That’s my fault, and I’m sorry,” Raisa said. “It was a stupid thing to do, going to Southbridge Temple without an escort. It could have ended much worse.”

  She’d never have met Han Alister. She wouldn’t have to feel bad that he was dead.

  Averill waved her regrets away. “You have to take chances, Raisa. What seems safest on its face may not be in the long run. Your ministry is making a real difference in Southbridge and Ragmarket. Speaker Jemson is working wonders with the money you’ve provided.”

  “I’ve meant to go and visit,” Raisa said, pacing again. “But everything is so hard right now. I feel like a prisoner.”

  Averill fingered the Demonai pendant that hung around his neck. “Could it be that your mother already has a match in mind for you?”

  Raisa stopped pacing and swung around. “I’ve told her I don’t want to marry any time soon.”

  Averill shrugged. “Sometimes monarchs must act on a match, whether the timing is ideal or not. You’ve heard of child marriages among the nobility, I know, especially in the south. Not that you’re a child any longer, Raisa.”

  Raisa studied her father’s face, hoping he was teasing her, but he looked completely serious. “There’s so much I want to do before I get married,” she said. “With the war going on, I haven’t even had the chance to travel. I’d like to go to Tamron and We’enhaven and Arden, and see how they do things there. I want to see Oden’s Ford. I want to go sailing on the Indio and visit the Northern Isles.”

  “And get captured by pirates, no doubt.” Averill held up his hand, laughing. “You are too much like me, daughter. Unable to keep still for very long. I take it your mother hasn’t mentioned a specific suitor, then?”

  Raisa shook her head. “She does seem to be opposed to a southern match, though. She said things were too unsettled, that I might marry someone who’d lose his throne the next week. I said, Fine, I have my own throne. I told her we should wait until the war is over and it’s all sorted out.”

  “What did she say to that?” Averill asked.

  “Well.” Raisa thought back to her conversation with the queen. “She seems to be in a hurry. You know how she is. She wants to see me settled.” A cold dread settled under Raisa’s breastbone. Did the queen really intend to marry her off before she’d had a chance to do anything?

  Who would it be? One of the Klemaths? Jon Hakkam? About the best that could be said for them was that they’d be easy to manage.

  “I’m going to wait until after I’m crowned,” Raisa said. “And then I’ll marry whoever I like.”

  She scowled fiercely at her father, and he grinned back, shaking his head. They both knew that was unlikely to happen. Queens married for the good of the realm.

  “Just…be careful, Briar Rose,” Averill said. “You have good instincts. Listen to them.”

  “I will.” Raisa nodded. “Well,” she said shyly, taking his hands, “I guess this is good-bye for a few days.”

  “The next time I see you, you’ll be officially grown,” Averill said. “Named heir to the Gray Wolf throne. Breaking hearts all around, no doubt.”

  “Pursued by every spotty, ambitious lord and second son between twelve and eighty,” Raisa replied, shivering. She’d been looking forward to this season in her life: to dancing and flirting and kissing and love poems and notes ferried by trusted friends, and secret meetings in the garden, but when it came down to it, who would she have if she had a choice?

  Micah was intriguing, but she didn’t really trust him, even if a marriage to him were possible.

  No one else came to mind except Amon, and that would never be either.

  She looked up to find her father gazing at her sympathetically, as if he could read her mind.

  “Save at least one dance for me.” He kissed her on the forehead, and was gone.

  Following the incidents in Southbridge and his lack of success in having Mac Gillen booted from the Guard, Edon Byrne had proposed reassigning Amon to a less treacherous neighborhood, where there would be less opportunity for Gillen to take revenge.

  Amon had refused the reassignment. Absent a posting to Raisa’s personal guard (which carried its own risks and temptations), there was nowhere else he’d rather be than on the meanest streets of Fellsmarch. So instead of reassigning Amon, Edon transferred his Oden’s Ford classmates to Southbridge Guardhouse, so he’d have someone to watch his back.

  One thing was true—Southbridge was a great place to learn. Amon learned more in two months than in a year at Oden’s Ford. Though, to be fair, it was a different curriculum, to a different purpose. He knew he’d need the theory and strategy and history he’d studied at Wien House as an officer.

  In Ragmarket and Southbridge, he learned how to defuse a potentially violent situation without drawing his sword. He learned to look into a man’s face and predict whether he would run or fight, whether he was lying or telling the truth. He learned how to put a victim at ease, so he could get the information he needed to track down a thief. When trouble was brewing, he could smell it in the air.

  Amon developed networks of residents who began to trust that he wouldn’t betray them if they fed him information about thieves or tipped him off to a gang fight. The other soldiers at the Southbridge Guardhouse—the good ones—learned that he wouldn’t betray them either, and they began to turn to him for leadership of sorts.

  All in all, Amon felt that he was doing some good, despite Mac Gillen. Best of all, his successes were a constant irritant to his sergeant.

  One night he and his patrol returned to Southbridge Guardhouse to find his father waiting in the briefing room, maps spread over a long table. It was two a.m., and a rumble of snores came from the next room. Jak Barnhouse, the duty officer, was hovering, practically wringing his hands.

  “I know Sergeant Gillen would want to speak with you, if he was here,” Corporal Barnhouse said. “I don’t know where he is just now.”

  “The rest of you, give your reports to Corporal Barnhouse and get some sleep,” Edon said, waving off Amon’s squadron. “I need to speak with Corporal Byrne in private.”

  They shuffled off with Barnhouse, looking over their shoulders like they were hoping Captain Byrne would relent, and they’d be asked to stay.

  “Sit.” Amon’s father gestured to a chair. “At ease.” The captain’s face was etched with lines of weariness, and Amon felt a twinge of worry.

  Amon sat, resting his hands on the table. “What is it, Da?”

  “I need to ask a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “I know you—ah—prefer your posting here in Southbridge.” Here, a trace of a smile came and went. “But I need you and your triple to come back to the castle close and serve as personal guard to the princess heir.”

  Amon frowned, confused, then looked around to make sure no one could overhear. “But…but I thought you said it was best if I kept my distance since…since the complaint from the Bayars. That people would talk.”

  His father studied Amon’s face for a long moment, then said, “People will talk, that is a risk, but greater risk has come up, so I’ll deal with this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Queen Marianna is sending Averill Demonai and me to Chalk Cliffs to look into reports of pirates,” Edon said. “Tomorrow.”

  Amon still didn’t understand. “What does that have to do with the princess heir?”

  “I have a bad feeling about it, that’s all,” his father growled, raking a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Then, after a long pause, he added, as if the words were difficult to say, “My connection with the queen has been…muddied. Usually I can predict what she’ll do, guess what she’s thinking, but lately…I don’t know. Something’s changed. I almost feel as though she wants to get us out of the way.”

  “Why would she want to do that?” Amon felt stupid, asking quest
ion after question, but he’d figured he rather know than take a guess. “And…if she does…I mean, she is the queen and all.”

  Amon pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead as if it hurt. “I’m just not sure she’s making good decisions. She may have good reasons for doing what she’s doing. I just don’t understand them. But I’m going to do what I need to to protect the line. And if I’m wrong, then…” He shrugged.

  “Well, then. You sent my triple to bed.” Amon rose to his feet. “Shall I wake them and tell them to get ready to leave?”

  His father shook his head. “There’s something else. Something important.” He waved him back to his seat.

  Amon sat down again, waiting, smothering a yawn. He’d do whatever his captain, his father, wanted him to do. That was a given. So why couldn’t they all get some sleep?

  His father cleared his throat. “In the clan, as you know, there is a naming ceremony, in which the young are confirmed in their vocation. Among the gentry here in Fellsmarch, name day parties mark passage into adulthood.”

  “Right,” Amon said, and was tempted to add, I know, but didn’t.

  “We Byrnes have our own rite of passage,” his father said.

  “We Byrnes?” Amon looked up at his father’s face, thinking he was joking, but found no trace of humor there. “What do you mean?”

  “Our family has a special bond with the queens of the Fells, going back to Hanalea. It often passes to the eldest in each generation. Unless he or she refuses. Then it goes to the next child.”

  “The captain of the Queen’s Guard has always been a Byrne,” Amon said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “It’s a Byrne for a reason,” his father said. “A soldier named Byrne died for Hanalea when she was taken by the Demon King. That soldier’s son helped to free her. When she returned to the throne, she proclaimed that henceforth the captain of her Guard would be bound to the queen, blood to blood, so he would be better able to do his job. That soldier’s son was the first to be bound. Your many-greats-grandfather.”

  “So,” Amon said, trying to understand, “you are…bound to Marianna. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “And my mother was bound to Lissa. And her father to Lucia.”

  “How does that work? Do you swear an oath, or…”

  “It’s more than an oath. There is a temple ceremony, a binding ritual. And after that, your destinies are linked. We serve the line of Gray Wolf queens. The bond cannot be broken. We cannot knowingly act contrary to the good of the line.”

  “It’s magic, then?” Amon said, and his father nodded.

  “What happens if you do act contrary to the good of the line?” Amon asked. His father shook his head. “We don’t That’s the thing. We are physically incapable of doing so.”

  This was more than surprising. Amon had always considered his family the least magical of any he knew. In fact, he’d always felt left out and rather colorless next to those that had it, like wizards, clan royalty, even the queens.

  The Byrnes were dependable, steady, honest, hardworking, loyal—courageous to a fault. The kind of men and women you would want to have fighting beside you or covering your back or guarding the treasury. But magical?

  Amon struggled to come up with something to say other than, Are you sure? Or, You’re not serious?

  “You have magical powers, then?” he asked.

  His father laughed, rubbing his chin as if embarrassed. “Well, it’s a subtle thing.”

  “The queen—she knows about this?”

  Byrne shook his head. “The queens do not. That’s the way Hanalea wanted it—she was more interested in preserving the Gray Wolf line than in supporting an individual queen.”

  “Are you bound to the line, or to an individual queen?”

  “I’m bound to the line, but in effect, each captain serves one queen, unless that queen somehow endangers the line. His father paused, then added, softly, “We don’t discuss that particular charge with our queens, either.”

  “So…there may be times when we act contrary to the interests of our sovereign queen in order to serve the line?”

  “Aye,” his father said, without apology. “Even if Marianna knew, I doubt she’d take it all that seriously. You know how she is about the temples and the faith. For her, it’s rather like believing in garden pixies.”

  “So,” Amon said, looking for the point in this bit of history. “You’ll choose your successor when the time comes.”

  “The next captain in line would serve Raisa. I’ve chosen you.”

  Amon sat stunned, his thoughts swirling, a kaleidoscope of images and memories.

  How had he ended up here, in this place, poised to assume the role that fate had handed him?

  His father had tutored him in swordplay and horsemanship, but no more so than any other father. He’d spent long hours around the Guard barracks and stables at the castle, because his father was posted there, and he was interested in horses, and he loved to hear the talk of tactics and weaponry.

  No one had ever said to him, Go to Oden’s Ford and learn to be a soldier. But he had. And no one had ever said to him, Join the Queen’s Guard. But he had. Serving in the Guard was a family tradition, though he had many aunts and uncles who had not.

  But always, of course, at least one per generation had.

  Since he’d been named to the Guard, he’d considered the possibility he might end up captain if he performed well and stayed with it. After all, he’d come in as a corporal, based on his performance at school and the recommendations of his father’s friends. He was a skilled swordsman, the best in his class, and excelled in his coursework and received high marks in field operations. Everyone said he took after his father. And he was proud of that.

  He’d always assumed, however, that he’d chosen his own way from a range of possibilities. That if he’d wanted to be a trader, or a blacksmith, or an artist like his sister, he could have done it. And now it turned out he’d been treading a narrow path, committed from birth, walled in by magic and a bargain made a thousand years ago.

  “You do have a choice,” his father said, as if he’d read his thoughts.

  Amon looked up at his father. “How do I have a choice? Lydia becomes captain?”

  “She is a Byrne,” his father said.

  Amon thought of his dreamer of a sister sitting on the riverbank, skirts spread about her, head bent over a charcoal drawing. He shook his head wordlessly.

  “And if she says no, there’s Ira,” his father said, naming Amon’s ten-year-old brother. “Though he’s still young, and we need to choose a captain now.” He paused. “You have cousins, of course.”

  “Why now?” Amon asked. “There can be only one captain of the Guard, and that’s you.” Perhaps by the time a decision needed to be made, he’d have time to get used to the idea.

  “I’m worried about the Princess Raisa. Right now we have no direct connection with her, and my connection with Queen Marianna seems to be failing. If you’re willing, bonding with Hanalea’s line through Raisa will give you something of a sixth sense. You’ll be able to anticipate trouble, to know when she’s in danger, to predict what she might do. It’s also supposed to give us some influence over them, where their safety is concerned.” He smiled wryly.

  That won’t do any good, Amon thought. They’ll do whatever they want anyway.

  “This is…permanent, I take it?” Amon asked. “What if I change my mind?”

  “It is permanent,” his father said, toying with the ring on his left hand, the heavy gold wolf ring he was never without. “You won’t change your mind once it’s done.” He paused, smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. It’s not as if you’re going into orders. You can marry, have children, all of that.”

  To continue the line of Byrnes, of course.

  “And if it comes down to a choice between family and queen?”

  His father looked into Amon’s eyes, his hazel gaze clear and direct. “The queen, of course.”

&n
bsp; Of course. Amon already knew the answer when he asked the question. In his heart of hearts he’d known his father’s priorities all along.

  “What about Oden’s Ford? Would I go back, or…?”

  “We’ll see how things stand when the time comes. It may be you’ll go back. Whatever serves the line.” His father sighed. “I’d wanted you to complete your training before your naming. But I don’t think we can risk waiting.”

  But—there was this other thing Amon had avoided thinking about. His feelings for Raisa. Even now his heart beat faster when he thought of her. Images rolled through his mind—Raisa, dressed as a boy, in that ridiculous cap, striding unarmed into Southbridge Guardhouse to save gang members who were being tortured. Raisa delivering name day gifts to Speaker Jemson to feed the poor. Raisa demanding that he help her become a better queen.

  Raisa in the garden by torchlight—her hair hanging in long strands around her face, chin propped on her fist, green eyes deep enough to drown in. Raisa floating in his arms around the dance floor, her head against his shoulder, her small perfect body pressed against his while he tried to control the hammering of his heart. He remembered those two kisses that she’d probably given without a thought.

  Two kisses that still woke him up at night.

  Everything about her seduced him—her looks, her speech, the way she moved, the person she was and was meant to be.

  “Da,” he said, staring down at the table, unable to meet his father’s eyes, “the thing is, I’m…I have feelings for Raisa—for the princess heir—that I shouldn’t have. I’m worried that I might—that we might—do something that would…harm the line.”

  Amon swallowed hard and looked up into his father’s face and saw something that he never expected to see—understanding layered over sorrow.

  “Amon,” he said. “We love the Gray Wolf queens. But it’s like I told you. Once named, we will not harm the line. It is our great strength, and also our burden.”

  Amon stared at his father. He thought of his mother, dead in childbirth with Ira, and wondered if she had known. By the standards of the day, Edon Byrne had been a good husband and an attentive father, faithful to duty and queen. Now he seemed like a tragic figure, a holder of secrets.