"Not much, we were discovered by your very intelligent scouts out on the battlefield," Aldrin white lied through his teeth, but Moren had known the boy since he was three, his face covered in sugar declaring it must have been a dragon that ate all the cookies. She also had first hand knowledge of the scouts still left to her command; men who couldn't cut it as the village idiot.
"We are still piecing it together ourselves," she admitted, letting go of his hand as if she finally convinced herself he was real. "The armies of the east marched towards Ostero when our 'very intelligent' scouts picked up ships flying the Empire's banner in the Isentic Sea. We barely arrived when they already foolishly stormed the beach," Moren sucked in a breath as her hand brushed against a table, her wound opening up at the exertion.
Aldrin didn't even think, he just placed a careful hand on the elbow of her damaged shoulder and tried to lead her back to the healer's chair. For a moment, the Queen was surprised and resisted, but her body relented, already exhausted from the energy spent rising towards the guests. She sat down hard in the chair, and her only functioning hand gripped the side of her right arm, steadying it. As her fingers pulled away from her skin, claw marks from fighting off the pain raised in their wake.
The prince noticed some wine probably mixed with the few healing herbs the army's doctors carried and began to pour a cup while the Queen tried to claw back her dignity. He handed the cup to her left hand and sat back on his haunches as she sipped. "I, there is a healer with me, a priest of Hospar."
Moren didn't seem to hear the boy, but Bedros responded, "A priest of Hospar? They refuse to fight against the invading Empire!"
"Well, he's not a very good one," Aldrin mumbled back at the flames from a man who'd been drafting men in perhaps not the most kindest of fashion for the past three months.
The Queen's delicate fingers placed the cup on her small table already overcrowded with missives, and let her hand come to rest on Aldrin's shoulder. "Did he know who you are?"
Aldrin nodded, he'd been unable to keep his secret hidden from anyone. Sometimes, he suspected even the random rabble in the crowds the Historians played to knew that the boy pretending to be a mighty giant was really a lowly prince. His old stab wound panged as his mind trailed back to Kaltar, who'd been far too kind for his fate.
"Then the healer can remain and hopefully do some good," the Queen commanded.
"There are others too, a wi...woman who can help the priest, and probably won't leave his side, and a dark girl. She's...she's the reason I'm still alive," Aldrin confessed to Moren.
The Queen nodded slowly, "Bedros, go and see to their comfort. Make certain they have enough to eat and a dry place to rest."
"My Lady?" Bedros asked without questioning her, or so he hoped.
"Our Prince and I need to talk, privately," she dropped any feigned sweetness, finding the veneer never suited her. The Commander bobbed his head and shooed out the other lackeys. Only Aldrin remained, his ass still hovering a few inches off the muddy ground.
Whatever mask she'd managed to summon broke away and her strained face crashed into jagged crevices Aldrin didn't remember. She reached up to her shoulder and peeked under the bandage.
"Kuchi sin," the Queen cursed in her rarely used native tongue, "that kopele did a right job."
At the boy's curious but not grossed out eyes she explained, "Arrow, right to the shoulder. I should have expected it, but..." Aldrin pulled out one of the few sponges soaking in some cold water. He wrung it out, but knew from his own experience it was going to sting. Pulling the bandage off his stepmother's naked shoulder, he tried to not look too deeply into the burrowed hole of her ruptured muscle and flesh. Instead, he dribbled some water into it and then dabbed away the rushing mix of blood and pus. Moren's nails dug into the chair with the pain but she held her tongue, knowing her always worried general's were right outside the tent, listening in.
"A poultice?" he asked, looking about for something similar to the putrefying goo he rubbed on his own side for weeks.
"The butchers left something that smells like rotting yak piss in a bucket over there," she gestured through her sweating brow at the corner.
Aldrin found it by following his nose, a pungent odor that could take down the entire Empire's army in a closed space. Perhaps they should put that in the battle plans "maybe" pile. Trying to cut off his nose by flexing his face, Aldrin dug a deep wad of the poultice onto his fingers and slathered it on before adding a bandage.
As he began to wrap, Moren rose out of her pain coma and watched the boy she'd barely known. What she remembered was some knock-kneed child, stumbling in his brother's shadow and trying to be forgotten by the rest of the gentry. He usually got his wish, as there were always other matters to be attended. But now, she dare dream, he seemed almost competent. A leader?
As Aldrin rose away from his ministrations, a weary hand followed, coming to rest on his cheek. The Queen's brass eyes that always burned like the mechanical hounds of the underworld softened and melted in the lamplight. "I was a terrible mother to you."
"No," Aldrin disagreed before her words even sank in. They'd never exchanged more than a handful beyond, "Yes, my Queen." "Sorry, your Highness." and "It was Henrik what tracked in the mud!" He assumed she couldn't see the prince child past the lines of soldiers that would beat down the door.
"Do not lie to save my feelings," she admonished, that fiery glint returning, "I never had the family touch, and all you children slipped into the background."
"All except Henrik," Aldrin muttered, hoping she'd take her royal hand away.
"Yes," invoking his brother seemed to pull her out of her reprieve, and her hand dropped. The shield of warrior Queen fell back into place almost as quickly as it vanished, "There are vipers amongst us."
"I know."
"You do?" Moren sat back causing her wound to jar, but she ignored the pain shooting through the deadening arm. The doctors wouldn't be straight with her, but she already knew she was likely to lose almost all control of it.
"I was there when father...when the King was assassinated," saying it that way made it feel cold and distant. Murdered was too fresh and painful. Assassinated was clinical. Aldrin could deal with assassinated.
His muddled Ostero eyes shifted up to hers, narrowing, "But you were not."
"No," she admitted, "I was not. I stormed out prior to find your lout of a brother when my own lady intercepted me and warned of men moving about the castle. Oh, Edwina..." she lapsed into a silence the prince was growing all too familiar with. A moment for the fallen. "While the Empire cut through our front lines, I dashed out the back through the unguarded stables."
"You left your husband to die," Aldrin's voice was crisp, as if he was accusing her of taking the last biscuit.
She didn't flinch away from the child, no, not a child anymore, but not yet a man. That trial was yet to come, she feared, "Yes, I did. And I would again. It allowed me a chance to raise whatever might I could, to shore up our lands, to prepare for this..." her dead hand thudded to her lap and dragged across her bloodstained greaves.
"You're doing a stellar job," Aldrin muttered to himself. The young boy would have shirked away as the Queen glared at him for his aside, but the young man only glared back, daring her to disagree.
"Do you believe me? Or am I the one who sided with the enemy to kill my husband and closest friends?" Moren harvested her words carefully, as if she could easily fend off an armed teenage boy trying to avenge his fallen father in her state.
But Aldrin only nodded slowly. He never liked her, but he never hated her either. Not the way Henrik did. Not the way he was supposed to.
"And what of you, prince of the realm? How did you survive a castle under siege?"
Despite himself Aldrin laughed, a harsh bark from his throat, at the idea that he could have been a ringleader of anything, much less the possible destruction of his entire world. The idea of answering with a sarcastic, "Yes, I confess, it was me. I planned
the entire thing while I was crawling under the knights' knees and wrote to the Emperor with some drawings of a cat I once saw." But he noted the glint of silver in the Queen's left hand. She was probably awful with it, but he was in no mood for another stab wound to his guts.
"A Knight of the Lord Albrant, he saved me."
"A Knight...is he still with you?" she was calculating in her mind.
"No, he returned to the fight to help free his men," Aldrin shook his head, "He found his daughter and she led me out. We were to meet at Tumbler's End but..."
"Of course!" Moren interrupted, the pieces of hearsay and rumors finally slotting into place, "Albrant and his surviving Knights made for the Tower of Ashar. A wise move. But there's still the matter of..."
"Henrik's with them," Aldrin finished for her, "We heard from the people at Tumbler's End."
"And they're certain Henrik was within the army?" Moren pushed.
"'That spotty prattling brat of a King,' yeah, I think they're fairly certain," Aldrin said, trying to stave off his memories of that wretched town.
But Moren didn't laugh, her mind already calculating. She'd suspected Henrik survived. There'd been little crowing from the few Empire prisoner's they'd taken about slaying the crowned prince, only taunts of slicing open her husband's head like a melon before she slit their throats. But the rumors were convoluted, some were certain it was King Elric in the north, or that Henrik was raising her army. One even put little Bonny in adorable curls locked at the top of a high tower.
So, if they could press to the Tower of Ashar, form a conclave and begin the push against... "Confound it all, what is it?"
The rhythmic tapping against her tent's flap stopped and a small head poked in, "Sorry to disturb you Ma'am! Urgent News! Ma'am!"
"Messengers, gods save me from messengers," Moren muttered before waving her good hand at him, "Yes, yes, come in."
The man entered, not much taller than Isa, but most of that came from his bowed legs from a lifetime on the back of a horse. Messengers rarely were offered a seat, mostly because no one wanted their good chairs shot through. He looked about at the Queen's boudoir chambers, before remembering to bow.
"The message," the Queen prompted.
"My Lady, The Tower's Been Taken!" the Messenger shouted each word as if they'd been drilled into his head and tattooed on the back of his eyelids, "The Tower Of Ashar Has Fallen To Enemy Fingers!"
"Impossible," Moren interrupted, trying to stand. Aldrin rose with her and offered a hand, she tried to place her dead hand in it, but it refused to move. Instead, he lifted the hand and took most of her weight as they walked together towards the Messenger. "That tower cannot be taken, it has never been taken."
The Messenger mentally flipped through his script, "The Empire's Flag Was Flown At The Dawn Hour This Morning!"
"Kuchi sin, he has the King," she'd been spending too much time with her old kin, their manners and tongue were difficult to wrench free. "Why? Why is Vasska wasting troops and resources on this? He left nearly a hundred wounded men lying in wait on the beach for this."
"The sword!" Aldrin snapped his fingers as an epiphany grabbed him by his recently cultivated curlies.
"What sword?" Moren asked, raising her good hand to silence the Messenger who was about to repeat his message as if it would help.
"The sword of Casamir. That's what cuts the magic. Of course!" Aldrin spoke aloud to himself as if he were reading one half of the dialogue in a play. The Queen caught his excited eye and raised one eyebrow. "The sword of Casamir, it's real, and it's buried near here, very near. 'And at the Tower on Springday, all magic will'... something. I hadn't quite worked that part out yet. But the sword's the key."
Moren glared at the Messenger, who was holding his hand out for a tip. Instead, she pointed at the door and told him to get out. As the flap closed the Queen turned to her stepson, "How is a sword a key?"
"It," Aldrin dropped his head, deciding it was time to come clean, "I was tasked with finding Liam, the Sword of Cas who is actually Casamir but it got changed over time. It's not important."
"And who tasked you with this?" Moren asked slowly, wondering how much of his tale involved fairy farts after all.
"A witch that saved me life," Aldrin admitted, lifting up his tunic to show the still vivid scar running under his ribs.
Moren grimaced at it but nodded slowly. She'd had her own dealings with witches before, both times were unpleasant. "And why would Vasska care about this ancient hero's sword?"
"There's a prophecy, an old one, that puts Casamir's sword at the heart of the magical apocalypse."
"He gets the sword, he can stop the magic, he appeases Argur, he becomes a new prophet?" Moren carried on Aldrin's thoughts, "Sweet Scepticar, that man's just mad enough to throw this many lives away on a prophecy hidden inside a biscuit."
Aldrin nodded before lowering his eyes. A few thoughts banged against his head before he rose and looked deep into Moren's soul, appearing all the more like his father, "I must get the sword. I can use it to trade for Henrik and anyone else the Emperor has imprisoned in the tower."
"You believe your brother yet lives?" Moren asked.
Aldrin nodded, he wasn't that lucky. Besides, Vasska, despite his reputation, didn't kill those he found useful. A King chained up in his own dungeon could be very useful.
"Then I will dispatch a team of my knights to find this sword and..."
"No," Aldrin interrupted, "I must go."
"This is madness. Why?" Moren asked him calmly as if she were dealing with the mad Emperor now.
Because this is my quest to finish? Because I owe it to everyone who sacrificed so much to get me to this point? Because I need to see it to the end? "Because I said so," Aldrin finished, a power he'd never tasted before in his voice.
Moren's eyes searched his, trying to suss out a weakness, a breaking point that would reveal the terrified child hiding under this man's shell. But she only found determination. Even if she were to try to stop him, he'd probably sneak off anyway. It was the Ostero thing to do.
"Very well," the Queen responded, "But I will still send a bastion of my Knights with you. Five of the very best," she mentally went over her stock, "Five of my somewhat very best."
Aldrin dropped his grip on her arm which fell with a thud as he bowed to the Queen. But she placed her good arm on his back and attempted a minor curtsey. "And, while you're gone we'll give that bastard what he's got coming."
Aldrin couldn't feel the warmth of the pair of hands tightening around his freshly armored midsection, but even knowing they were there was enough to send a small blush to his cheeks as he tried to steer his newly adopted horse around a set of fallen logs. The soldiers the Queen gifted them led most of the party while another hung back, his eyes keen on the assassin who smiled gamely at his horse and climbed aboard without a saddle.
Ciara squished herself tighter to Aldrin and called out over the pounding of hooves, "When does the bouncing stop?!"
"About an hour after you dismount!" he shouted towards his horse's ears, hoping some of it would travel back to her. His horse snorted in response and kicked her legs at that. The girl dug her fingers deeper into his armor and they graced across the prince inside the can.
Beside him, Kynton grinned wildly, spurring his horse out of his cantor into a wild gallop. His priestly eyes lit up with mischief when he saw the black beauty Bedros personally paraded before them, an Avarian bred for scouting. It was clearly meant for Aldrin, but a bay mare -- with more willing spirit than flesh -- nosed him in the back of the head. The prince spun about and received a set of long horse teeth gnashing on his hair. He giggled at the girl and patted the star on her head, making his choice of steed.
Bedros eyed the assassin suspiciously, not wanting his best horse to fall to the Dunner, and Kynton swooped after the opportunity. Without waiting for anyone to say a word, he hitched up his robes and climbed up onto the saddle, savoring the feel of hundreds of pounds of horse muscle
beneath his thighs. It'd been years, but you never forget how to steer a pony.
Isa crossed her arms and glared at everyone mounting on their steeds. Aldrin slid up onto his bay, whispering something about carrots into her twitching ear and offered a hand to Ciara who was still shifting under the loaned armor that pinched her chest and hips. She let the gauntlets, nearly five sizes too big, slip off her hands for the final time and grabbed Aldrin's hand, rising behind him. The Bay shifted under the new weight, but obliged the addition. Ciara grabbed hard to Aldrin's middle and decided she wouldn't let go until they got to the tomb. It wasn't that horses frightened her; so long as they stayed in their stalls and didn't shit in the castle, she'd never seen much reason to go near one.
The witch; however, was a different matter entirely. Kynton shook the reigns of his Black Beauty and got him to dance on his hooves. Isa jumped away from the Avarian just as Aldrin's bay swatted her in the face with her tail. She spun about, ready to give the tail such a zapping when Kynton's horse nudged her in the back. "Oh Luscious Lotus, if you're quite finished playing with the ponies, we'd like to leave," the priest called to her and broke into giggles at the death glare beaming off her face.
"I'll walk," she muttered, trying to find a safe distance away from the animals who could sense her discomfort and were going in for the kill.
"You'll walk?" Kynton laughed at that. "Is the widdle baby afraid of the widdle pony?"
"May your horse slip and crush you beneath it," she muttered at him, her eyes flashing blue.
Ciara noticed the beginning signs of magic and said to the unmovable witch, "If you come with us, you travel on a horse." The blue glare shifted to her and the girl finished, "Unless you wish to remain so near thousands of dead."
Isa glared at her but she got the message. "Very well. I'd prefer one a bit lower to the ground," she announced to the soldiers as if she were putting in an order for a dress.
Bedros looked at the men, some of their best, who shifted cautiously in their saddles, uncertain why they were afraid of the tiny woman. "I am afraid, my lady, there are no other horses," the Commander said to her, and added another "my lady" for good measure.
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