The Court Of Stars (The Commonwealth Quartet Book 1)

by Malcolm Schmitz

  "Samuel!" he shouted, hoping that the other man would join him.

  He leaped into the fray, striking with all the desperation that fear lent him. The clamor of steel against steel echoed off the walls as he hit the first knight's armor. Christian wasn't putting up much of a defense. He was focused on defeating his opponents, as quickly as he could.

  He laid another blow on its shoulders, and then a third, but it did not tire. Christian felt his strength beginning to wane, and he gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly, praying desperately for guidance.

  Behind him, Samuel attacked Miriet. He couldn't see the fight, but he could hear the clamor of Samuel's sword and Miriet's panicked babbling. All he could hope was that she could evade him, long enough for her to disable the knights.

  The first knight swung at Christian's shoulder. He dodged, but just barely. The knight's stroke tore his doublet, barely grazing his arm. He felt a shock of pain, but it only stiffened his resolve.

  Christian grasped his sword in both hands and swung at the knight's helmet with all the might he could muster.

  He hit a little lower than he'd intended, between the knight's helmet and his breastplate. Though he hadn't used much force, the knight's helm flew across the room. It hit the enchanted wall with a loud clang-and so did his head.

  Where there should have been a bloody stump, there was a mass of cords, which spat and hissed like a serpent. They scattered sparks down the knight's armor.

  It still stood, its headless body still poised to attack. Though its movements seemed slower, it was readying itself to strike.

  There was a thud behind him, and he glanced to see what was wrong, purely on instinct.

  Miriet was climbing the wall, away from Samuel. He kept slashing at her and she moved, a hand's breadth away each time.

  Christian was distracted, and it was then that the mechanical knight struck. It slashed at him, the point of its sword going easily through his doublet and glancing off his ribs. A sharp streak of pain shot up his chest.

  He clamped his hand to the wound and struck, lashing out blindly at the knights. His sword skittered off its armor, the strange points and angles catching his blade and letting it fall.

  Christian knew that he couldn't last much longer. Running and fighting had sapped his strength, and getting hit had drained him even more.

  His arms were shaking. His sword seemed too heavy to lift. His head felt heavy too, and his vision blurred.

  The mechanical knights surrounded him, one on each side. They raised their swords.

  Christian commended himself to God, though his mind was spinning. He tried to prepare for one final strike, raising his sword in quivering hands.

  There was a loud crunch and a sizzling sound from behind him. The knights stiffened, froze, and fell to the ground with a clatter.

  Chapter Twelve

  Christian let out a deep breath, and shuddered, sinking to his knees. He was stunned he was still alive. The knights' strength had been so great that he'd half-expected to meet his Maker before the day was through.

  He turned, slowly, bracing himself on his sword. It felt wrong, using Ariador as a cane. Hopefully, his father would forgive him for it. He looked around.

  Samuel stood nearby, eyes wide, hands shaking around the hilt of his sword. Miriet lay, stunned, on the table, amid a tangle of wires and broken machinery. She was still breathing. He let out a sigh of relief.

  Christian picked Miriet up and slung her over his shoulder. He turned to Samuel.

  “...I think you saved my life. Thank you," he said. His voice was chilly-after all, Samuel had just attacked his friend. But whatever he had done had stopped the strange knights in their tracks.

  "You're welcome," Samuel said. He was turned away from Christian, and his shoulder was bleeding.

  Oh, no. He'd obviously been injured.

  "Let me take a look at that," Christian said. He pressed his lips together tightly. They couldn't risk the ship's captain getting sick.

  "It's fine." Samuel still was turned aside. His doublet had been torn, Christian noticed-his shoulder was bare, revealing a pale stripe of skin.

  "Samuel-" Christian turned to face him. His eyes widened.

  It wasn't that the wound was deep-it bled a little more than Christian liked, but it was a cut that would heal without too much intervention.

  He was shocked because Samuel's body was a woman's body.

  The... breasts, Christian realized, were bound, tightly, against his-no, her-skin. Her body was small, but her shoulders were broad. No wonder he hadn't suspected that Samuel was a woman. It was strange to even think it, but he was a she.

  She jerked away from him, face contorting with fear and anger.

  "Don't touch me, Arundel." Her voice shook a little, but she stood firm.

  "I won't. I have no... I won't touch you, I promise." Christian made a point of closing his eyes, so she wouldn't think he was eyeing her. He felt no desire for her; he hadn't even when he had thought she was a man.

  "...Thank you." Her voice was dry as a desert. "I'll just... cover myself."

  "Please, do that." Christian turned aside.

  "It doesn't really matter. After all, you are my betrothed. But..." He could hear the rustle of cloth as she adjusted her garments.

  "Wait... what?" His mind raced.

  "Sara?" he murmured.

  "The same." She snorted. "Hand me my sword."

  "I can open my eyes, then?" Christian frowned.

  "Yes, of course, just hand me my sword."

  She sounded annoyed. Christian hurried to grab Sara's sword, and gave it to her. She untied the leather strap from the end of it and used the strap to tie the remains of her doublet together.

  "Might I inquire what happened to your brother?"

  Christian was icily polite. Sara had lied to him, and she'd attacked his friend. But the ship was his-no, hers-and he had to tolerate her until he'd gotten where he needed to.

  That still seemed strange to him. Women couldn't own property, not in the same way men could. Either way, he would hold his tongue and let her have her way, until he had the others back. Then, Mercadier could talk his unruly-mistress was probably the wrong word-champion into allowing the men to take charge.

  "My brother?" Sara laughed bitterly. "He's been dead for ten years now.”

  "What? How?" Christian scowled, feeling utterly lost.

  "You know my father's mind broke. ... It was when Samuel died. He's never been the same, since."

  She began to walk, slowly, hand on her sword. Christian followed, nervously glancing around.

  "My father's chief adviser advised me to take my brother's place. My father would need an heir, you see, and ... well, there was no one else who qualified."

  He had no real answer to that, and didn't dare give one. She wheeled around, her gaze sharp as a two-edged sword.

  "Give me your word that you won't tell anyone about this."

  "How do you know I can be trusted?" he said, trying to evade the question. "I am an Arundel."

  He didn't want to give his word to something as insane as this. After all, Sara was a danger to the realm. Trusting a woman-with woman's fickle passions and fleeting moods-to be heir to one of the noble houses? Trusting a woman to, someday, be the King? It was so ridiculous he didn't even have the words to describe how ridiculous the idea was.

  "I know you."

  Sara stared him down. Christian felt like a rabbit beneath the gaze of a hawk. "You're a man of honor, even in difficult times. Promise me this, if nothing else."

  Christian thought, uneasily, that if there was a woman who could rule-and rule well-it would be her. The idea made his skin crawl, and he pushed the thought aside.

  "I give my word," he said. His hand clenched into a tight fist. He could feel his palm growing damp and his nails biting into it. "But... I'll require an explanation of this at your hand."

  Christian felt like a coward. He'd given his word because it was necessary, and he pl
anned to break it. The safety of the kingdom was more important than one woman, after all.

  "It'll be given, I assure you." Sara frowned. "Let's get back to the Polaris. My crew needs me."

  Miriet stirred, groggily. Her claws dug into Christian's shoulders. He gritted his teeth, but despite the pain, relief welled up in his chest.

  "Guh... " she groaned. "What'd I miss?"

  It was almost a dry joke. He lifted her, shifting her so her claws weren't digging into his flesh, and set her back down.

  "Nothing." Christian tried to keep his voice gentle. "Glad you're still alive, Miriet."

  She sat up, balancing precariously on his shoulder.

  "Let's get back to the ship," she said.

  ★★★

  The climb out of the serpent's mouth wasn't particularly long, but it was difficult. The walls were slick and pebbled with small ridges. For anyone but Miriet, it was impossible to keep a steady footing. Miriet climbed the wall as easily as a fly could have, but she had the gift of demonic-no, alien-grace.

  Eventually, Sara hit on the small boy's trick of bracing oneself against two sides of a corner. She pushed herself higher and higher up.

  Christian watched. He'd never been the most agile, and he was trying to see how she did it without falling.

  "Stop gawping and get up here!" she called.

  After a long, slow ascent, they made it to the monster's mouth. A cool sea breeze brushed his face. Christian had thought he'd never feel the wind again, and it felt welcome against his face. Vast, gray-green waves crashed against the creature's side, and the sound of the ocean rang in his ears.

  He could see the Polaris, far below. By some miracle, the rope still connected Leviathan to the ship. But the rope was frayed-probably because of the monster's attack, he thought-and in some pieces, only held together by threads.

  Not to be outdone by Sara, though, he reached forth and lowered himself onto the rope.

  The rope shuddered with every movement Christian made. It was stiff and caked with sea salt, and it scraped against his hands like a thousand tiny blades. His stomach churned, and his head spinned. He forced himself not to look down, but he could see the sea moving, and it dizzied him.

  He closed his eyes and reached out, grabbing ahead of him.

  It was slow, terrifying going. He could hear the crash of the waves far below, and the rope swayed from side to side as he pulled himself along.

  Christian's fingers slipped. He grabbed the rope tighter.

  "Keep moving. You're almost there!" Miriet shouted.

  He couldn't do it. He could not move even one inch. His fingers were slipping again and he knew he was going to fall and there was nothing he could do.

  He forced himself forward. The rope swayed, and the sea looked immeasurably deep. He could see himself falling forever into its depths and—

  The boards of the deck brushed against his slipping foot. Christian thanked God, and fell to the rocking deck, hands shaking too badly to even cross himself properly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Three weeks after the battle with the sea serpent, Christian stood on the ship's rear deck. He watched the gold strip of land on the horizon grow steadily larger.

  The sky was the pale, clear blue of early morning, and the salt smell of sea air was steadily being replaced by the spicy-sweet scent of the Jihrat coastline. If he looked closely, he could pick out minarets and towers on the horizon.

  He forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on it, but the sight made him sick. It conjured up terrible memories he'd hoped to avoid. Images of the Crusade, the siege, and his fallen comrades flashed before his eyes.

  For a moment, he thought he felt the presence of the dead, hanging heavily on his shoulders. He tried to force himself to keep looking. He couldn't be so weak, not at a time like this.

  Christian had to look away, though. He felt disgusting and broken. He crossed himself, shuddering, but the feeling refused to go away. If anything, he only felt more ill, having called for God's presence in a hellish place like this.

  Miriet approached him, scuttling along the deck's railings. Her scales were the colour of rotten fruit, and her ears lay flat on her head. She snorted, and he half-expected smoke to come from her nostrils.

  "Oi, Christian!" she shouted.

  He flinched. Did she have to be so loud?

  "...What is it?"

  "The 'Captain' wants to see you," she said. Her voice was as sour as wine that had been left in the sun.

  "Why?" Christian folded his arms across his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

  "She wants directions. Apparently I'm 'clear as mud'. I swear, I tried to tell her where we were going and she looked at me like I was Netzil xemself."

  Christian stared at her mutely. He didn't understand most of Miriet's strange references at the best of times, and at a time like this, he didn't care to try.

  "Netzil? You know, the Trickster?" Miriet's scales brightened a little, from reddish-brown to a yellowy-orange.

  "No. But you said the Captain wanted to see me?"

  Christian steeled himself to what had to be done. He couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity. There were too many other, more important things at stake.

  "Oh. Right." Miriet's nostrils flared, and her tone was painfully peeved. "She's in her cabin."

  "'She' said to call her 'he'." Christian didn't feel quite right thinking of Samuel as Sara. In his head, they were two entirely different people. Samuel was still the distant ... was he a friend?... that he'd arranged to have marry his sister. Sara was the revolutionary, the firebrand, the one he couldn't trust.

  "Right..." Miriet shook her head. "I still get those mixed up."

  "Get what mixed up?"

  "Pronouns. They're so arbitrary." Miriet reared up on her back legs, and made a disdainful gesture.

  Christian just shook his head.

  "I'm going to go talk to him," he said. "Stay out of the way, please?"

  Miriet nodded. "Fine. Just... don't leave me on the ship."

  It was slightly tempting. Miriet was loud, obtrusive, and rather noticeable-all liabilities. But Christian knew they'd need her help once they found the alien's vessel. She was the only one who could use their strange magic.

  And, he realized, he had begun to enjoy her company. Though half the time she spoke inanities-or worse, blasphemies-she was, at least, interesting. Her talk of other worlds, though it was the highest blasphemy of all, had woken something in him. He wanted more than his life had to offer.

  "I give you my word-I'll let you come with us."

  And with those words, he began walking to the Captain's cabin.

  Christian knocked on her door. When there was no response, he eased it open a crack, glancing inside.

  Sara was sitting on her desk, feet dangling over the side. She was looking at a map of the world.

  It was printed on thick, glossy paper that shone in the flickering light of her lamp. Looking at it, he could see every tiny detail: the Ostarian Isles, the Cape of Selimath, and, he realized with a pang of homesickness, the forests around the Castle back home. Looking at it, he felt as if he was a bird soaring above the flattened world.

  For a moment, Christian wondered how such a strange and wonderful thing had been uncovered. Of course, the Verdenlaces were the mapmakers; if there was a map in existence, they'd know of it, and probably have at least one copy. But this was like no map he'd ever seen before.

  "Where did you get this?" he said. "It's beautiful."

  "It's an heirloom." Sara rolled it up, and put it behind her desk. She crossed her legs, lacing her hands in her lap.

  "You said you wanted to see me." Christian frowned, clasping his hands behind his back.

  "I did. Where exactly are we going?" Sara slid off the desk, sitting down in the chair behind it. She smoothed her hair with the back of her hand. "Your familiar was as clear as mud."

  "She's not mine," Christian said, automatically. His hands tightened behi
nd his back. "We're going towards the Great Rift. Here."

  It was a good ways inland, a jagged red-brown scar across the sandy Shinoam. Seeing it from the air was a little less bad than he'd thought it would be, but it still made him bite his lip, hard enough to tighten the skin. He knew every rock, every crevice and hole.

  The memories hit hard.

  The thirst was the first thing he remembered-two days under the desert sun without water parched a body dry and bleached a man's bones while he still lived. It weakened you worse than the Devil himself.

  It was as if he was back there-a stripling of fourteen, in pot-metal armor with a sword he could barely lift, in the hell that was war. A horse, panicking, nearly trampled him-he dodged, only to find himself standing on a corpse-an arrow grazed his side and he staggered, a line of pain shooting through his skin.

  His heart felt as though it might burst, and his breath ran in rapid gasps.

  "Christian?"

  He jumped in his seat, and blinked. Sara's voice had brought him back to reality. He felt cold sweat running down the back of his neck, and he frowned.

  "What? I ... I didn't hear you." He averted his eyes from the map.

  "It's a desert journey, then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Christian nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

  Sara pinched the bridge of her nose.

  "Damn," she muttered. "We'll have to leave the Polaris in port. And we'll have to gather supplies..."

  Christian nodded again. He knew that if getting supplies for the journey was the hardest thing they had to do, they'd be extremely lucky. His heart still raced, and he felt clammy and disgusting.

  "And we'll need a guide," Sara finished. She leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling.

  "Yes," he said again.

  "Why do you even trust her, Christian?!" she cried. It was frustration, he knew, but it still made him flinch.

  He cleared his throat, biting his lip to steady himself.

  "Do you mean Miriet?" he asked. "She's saved my life, more times than one. Yours as well."