by Elise Kova
Baldair made a show of considering it. “Not yet,” he answered finally. “I think I’d like to see to you first.”
She chuckled, a throaty and feminine sound that he was eager to catch with his lips.
In the night, he held her however she desired. He bent and moved, eager and willing to discover the nuances of her pleasure, delighting in finding his own alongside. When the dawn came, he held her until she roused.
Baldair had never slept with a woman so many nights in a row as he did with Raylynn on that journey. Every morning, he held her tighter. Their footprints in the sand were a reminder they would return to the world as he knew it soon enough. The war raged and waited for him, but it wouldn’t wait long. And now? Now he was willingly bringing someone else into the danger of it.
On the fourth day of their journey, as they crested one of the great dunes of the Western Waste, she exhaled a simple “there”. Sure enough, a line of stone cut through the desert—the East West Way. “Lord Twintle’s estate is not far now. Convenient for you, prince; we’re headed in the direction of the Crossroads.”
“Well, we have somewhere to make our escape to.” His focus was Raylynn’s revenge for her mother, and a calculated strike against the Knights who hunted her. He wasn’t foolish enough to think they could take on the whole lot, which meant they were getting in and getting out.
Raylynn nodded. He could already feel the energy of her body shifting, aggression tensing her seat in front of him.
“Do you have a plan?” It seemed a fair question, though he tried to question her little.
“Originally, it was that I’d go in at night, kill him in his bed, and kill as many as I could on the way out.”
She glared at him over her shoulder the second she felt his body shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But it seems a bit cavalier, no? You’re not some assassin in the night.”
“I am a trained killer,” she reminded him with deadly swiftness.
The reminder did still him. He had practiced with the sword his whole life, but he’d not had many excuses to apply what he’d learned. Raylynn had learned by doing.
“You are, and I am not.” He’d admitted it before; it wasn’t difficult to admit again. “But I also just got you to agree to join my guard. I’m not inclined to see you run into certain death.”
“Neither am I.” Her voice had a scolding tone. “So, as I was going to finish, I never attacked this place before because I know I’ll have one shot at success, and I want you to help me attain it as only a prince can.”
“And how is that?”
“He’s a Lord...” she began.
Just the idea made his flesh crawl. The very notion that a Lord—a man who was supposed to be the pinnacle of nobility and honor—could do the things Raylynn had accused him of. If they weren’t out to kill him, Baldair would’ve seen his title stripped within moments of returning to the Capital—no, the Crossroads, even.
“Not just a recently appointed one, either. Twintle is a proud noble who loves his station and all the trappings that come with it.”
“Then he’ll be compelled to take me in, as a prince,” Baldair thought aloud. “And you can just walk through the front door.”
“I can’t. You’ll let me in later,” she corrected.
“Why try to sneak in when he’ll open the doors for us?”
“He’ll open the doors for you, not me.”
“I’ll make up a name for you. They won’t know.”
“They will.” Raylynn half-turned in the saddle. She ran her finger over the thin scar on her cheek—a scar Baldair’s lips knew just as well as his eyes now. “I’ve been marked.”
His frown was so deep it almost hurt. There was nothing about Raylynn that made her less beautiful. But the idea of anyone going for another person’s face to “mark” them made his blood run hot.
“Then,” he continued, fighting to keep his cool, “I will go in alone and signal you from a low window when the moon is high.”
“There’s a servant’s entrance near the stables,” she said suddenly over his rambling thought. “It’s mostly unattended at night, used mostly for deliveries during the day. But the door is locked from the inside.”
“And you know this...how?”
Raylynn looked forward again in a movement that almost suggested she was hiding her expression.
“You couldn’t know that if you hadn’t watched the place before, if you hadn’t tried to get in…”
“The man killed my mother.”
It was all she said on the matter, and Baldair never pressed further. Raylynn had lived many years before they met, and he’d let the woman keep her mysteries. Instead, he focused on the rooftops of a manor house rising in the distance.
23. Baldair
The Le’Dan estate made Lord Twintle’s manor look like a hovel.
Baldair knew by most arbitrary standards, the sprawling manor home, detached stables, and one or two spare buildings of industry would be considered lavish. But as it was, he would struggle to find anything about the place to compliment given the circumstances that had brought him there. Knowing the true nature—or the nature he’d come to believe was true—of this Lord did not cast his home in a positive light.
In the desert behind him, just on the other side of the East West Way, Raylynn was perched and waiting. Baldair didn’t look over his shoulder, but he could feel her gaze between his shoulder blades. By the time he arrived at the stately gate of the low wall that ran around the perimeter of the home, a servant was already there to greet him.
“Fiarum evantes,” the man said in a traditional Western greeting. Baldair had heard the phrase before but couldn’t for the life of him remember the expected response.
He settled on, “Good day to you.” He wasn’t going to waste time struggling for a response.
“How may I be of service?”
“I’m on a bit of a holiday, as it were, and it seems I’ve misjudged my timing. How far is the Crossroads from here?” Thanks to Raylynn, he knew exactly how far the city was.
“About a day and a half, sir.”
“Misjudged indeed!” Baldair forced laughter, as if the idea of his supposed clumsiness was the most amusing thing in the world. “And no need for the ‘sir’—Baldair will do just fine.”
“Baldair?” the man repeated as he started to look at the visitor with new eyes.
“Baldair Solaris.”
“My prince!” The man bowed instantly.
“As I said, no need for all the formality.” The reassurance was sincere. Baldair was not his brother, and he gained no delight from people prostrating before him. There were advantages to being the prince that he did enjoy, but they were benefits he never wanted to come at the expense of others. At least, not intentionally.
“W-we had no reason to expect you.” The man regained his composure quickly.
“I didn’t expect to be here. As I said, a bit of traveling before my journey to the warfront, and I seem to have estimated the distance to the Crossroads poorly. Do you think your master would be willing to put us up for the night?” Baldair patted Baston’s neck.
“Yes, I am sure Lord Twintle would be honored.”
“Is the Lord in?” The possibility that the Lord was away on a genuine holiday of his own filled Baldair with sudden dread.
“He is, indeed, my prince.”
“Do see that I’m not troubling him.” The words were pure formality. Baldair knew he would never be turned away by a nobleman or woman. Hosting a prince bestowed valuable currency on those he inconvenienced: fodder for gossip, and prestige. A tiresome dance, he found, but one that still could be used to his advantage.
“No trouble, I can assure you.”
The servant escorted him in. The manor grounds followed the same format as most of the desert estates. Sorcerers ha
d hardened the earth and brought forth sources of water—or actively maintained water—with their magic, creating a sort of oasis wherever a lord or lady staked their claim.
Baldair thought back to Raylynn’s comments on sorcerers and how she was surprised at his comfort around magic. If he was being truthful, much of his opinion on magic was colored by his brother and Jax. He could also see how opinions in the South had shaped his own with time. But every rumor surely had a nugget of truth? Sorcerers weren’t feared for no reason, and he had heard the tales from the War of the Crystal Caverns.
Still, when he looked at places like the Le’Dan estate, or Lord Twintle’s manor, or even the Nameless City… He couldn’t see any way for the West to have survived without magic. And not just survive, but thrive.
Baldair dismounted and handed the reigns to a stablehand when a voice demanded his attention.
“Prince Baldair, our youngest sovereign, what an unexpected surprise and delight for you to grace my halls.” The speaker was a lean man, willowy, all arms and legs and spindly lines. Salt and pepper hair was oiled in place around a balding crown. He wore a sort of sash Baldair had only previously seen at formal events in Norin—garb of the old West.
“Forgive me, Lord Twintle.” There was no question in Baldair’s mind who he was addressing. The man radiated formality and self-importance, as if sunlight streamed from his pores. “I would have sent ahead had I known. You see, I got a bit delayed and wanted to sleep in a bed before returning to the Crossroads.”
“My home is always open to members of the Crown.” Lord Twintle motioned to the manor’s double front doors. “Come in, please, and get the dust off you.”
Baldair followed with all the grace he could muster. But his true focus was on the man before him. This was supposedly the person who had killed Raylynn’s mother. Baldair could imagine no world in which the twig-like figure before him could slay anyone even remotely like Raylynn—at least not fairly. The implication made his fists clench.
“See that the silver room is prepared for the prince,” Lord Twintle commanded a servant. “And send for kaha in the drawing room,” he said to another. “Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Kaha is fine.” Baldair thought the truth to be the other way around: the dark Western tea was far stronger than any alcohol he’d ever consumed.
“Kaha then, in the parlor.” Lord Twintle ushered Baldair down the lavishly decorated hall into an equally ornate sitting room.
It was done in a traditional Western style with clean lines and flattened furniture. Baldair chose to stand, inspecting the bookcases that lined a wall rather than attempting to sit. He didn’t trust his weight not to break the flimsy—but no doubt very expensive—seats.
“How are you finding the West, my prince?”
How Baldair hated small talk. It was one of the many reasons he found Court intolerable and avoided it unless his presence there was completely mandatory. When it was, he had the blessed excuse of his reputation to grant him permission to disappear for long stretches of time. Most would assume he’d run off with some lass, and no one ever bothered to confirm the reason for his absences. Granted, half the time, he was with some lass—a far better use for his time.
He and Twintle spoke about the West, the heat, the war in the North. Baldair plucked a book at random off the shelf at one point, pretending to thumb through it to discourage conversation for a moment, but the ruse failed when the act had the opposite effect and summoned the Lord to his side.
“Ah, taking an interest in Mhashan’s history?” he asked with a nod toward the tome, confirming its contents.
Baldair’s eyes actually skimmed the names and dates. He could’ve been holding the book up-side down until then for all the attention he’d given it. The dates he could recognize: pre-Imperial numbers stretched upon the page. Scripted next to them were more carefully detailed notes attached to key events, with the important players underlined.
“I have found myself more invested in it since coming here.” It was easy to admit because it was true.
“More Southerners should learn it.” Lord Twintle strolled over to the shelves of the bookcase, inspecting the relics he had stuffed between the tomes. “So much could be prevented if the Empire Solaris actually understood.”
“Understood what?” Baldair asked cautiously, an uneasy edge rubbing against his words. There was something to Lord Twintle’s speech that reeked of treason.
“Merely how much power there is in this world—power that most men will never understand.” The Lord stopped at a shelf, looking for a long moment at a decorative sword holder, its token absent.
“Such as?” He closed the book, slotting it back into its place on the shelf.
“Power of the gods, true sorcery—like they still know on the old continent.”
“The old continent?” Baldair only knew of two continents: the Main Continent where the Solaris Empire stood, and the Crescent Continent.
“Forgive me.” The lord smiled his false, detached smile. “It appears to have gotten late in the day, and I have not offered you more than a few measly bites to eat. Let’s retire to the dining room. I have seen a proper Western feast prepared.”
Lord Twintle started for the door before Baldair could say otherwise, effectively closing the conversation. Something about it lingered; there were questions left unanswered. Questions that felt important.
Dismissing it as nothing more than curiosity, Baldair trailed behind his host. He paused briefly, examining the sword stand that had seemed to capture so much of the Lord’s attention, and inspire his abrupt change in demeanor. It was nicely made, fitted wood, buffed, polished, and carefully carved with symbols. At its base was a silver plaque slotted beneath the insignia of a phoenix holding a sword in its talons. Upon the plaque was written, The Sword of Jadar.
24. Baldair
Do not inhale the food, do not inhale the food, Baldair repeated to himself. Even if he was loathe to be in the company of the Lord, even if the small talk was driving him halfway to insanity, he couldn’t betray the expected behavior of a prince. The very last thing Baldair wanted to do was alert Twintle to the possibility that something was amiss.
But something was amiss, and that something was that Baldair hadn’t had a quality hot meal in far too long.
He dutifully spooned rice into his mouth and let Lord Twintle prattle on about the merits of Western grains and the best region along the coast where they grew. He chewed over the pork, freshly imported that week from the East. And he attempted with every ounce of training his tutors had instilled in him to smile and listen and act the part of a royal.
When dinner was finished, a plate of spiced, liquor-smoked fruits and sharp smelling cheeses was placed before him, alongside another cup of kaha. Baldair brought the glass to his lips, guarding himself against the strong taste. It was becoming easier to look beyond the bitterness of it.
“My prince, I fear I’ve bored you.”
“Hardly.” Baldair paused, cup still in hand. “I think it’s fascinating to learn about the West.”
“So you’ve said.” The Lord reclined back in his chair. “Tell me, what is the most interesting thing you’ve learned?”
Baldair wished he’d paid even a little bit of attention to anything Twintle had said. It wasn’t his fault that it was all so boring. “The history of the Le’Dans and Ci’Dans has been particularly fascinating.” Erion had prattled on about it for hours the first time Baldair was in the Le’Dan estate.
“Ah, the West’s two oldest and most noble families, split apart by love gone awry.”
“Leon and Lanette.” Baldair knew the story. It was a favorite among lasses—star-crossed lovers and the misunderstandings that tore them apart, but a love that survived into death.
“Indeed.” Lord Twintle helped himself to a round ball of glistening fruit. “And the Ci’Dans ultimat
ely prevailed as the de-facto rulers of the West. It all happened so long ago that the history reads more like folklore, don’t you think?”
Baldair gave a small nod, finally taking a sip of his kaha to busy his mouth.
“The Ci’Dans ruled nobly for hundreds of years, leading Mhashan to prosperity and power. This was before the Ci’Dan whore spread her legs for your father.”
“Watch your tongue.” Baldair was delayed on the uptake, having never heard any man or woman speak so brazenly against the Emperor. “She was your princess, and first Empress.” Baldair had also never defended Aldrik’s mother so vehemently, but there wasn’t time to think on the matter.
“I merely state fact.” Lord Twintle was back to smiling his empty smile, the expression never touching his eyes. “The sword was hers to carry; she was destined to be our leader. But she put it in the hands of another and gave herself, and the future of Mhashan, to Lyndum. A nation that still fails to realize the true power it holds in the caverns.”
“I cannot continue to overlook this—” Baldair stood. His and Raylynn’s plan be damned, he now had his own reason to kill Twintle. He would not stand by and let his father’s Empire, his home, be slandered.
The resonance of a sharp metallic bang echoed straight into Baldair’s skull as a heavy object struck him across the head. He blinked away stars, trying to find his balance to see his attacker. A muscled servant wielding a cooking pan reared back.
The second hit struck the side of his head, and the world went black.
25. Raylynn
Something was wrong. As night fell, the manor seemed to grow quieter and quieter. Servants disappeared from their duties on the grounds, retreating into a small house attached to the outer wall that was no doubt their meager home.
The stillness unnerved her more than anything.
Raylynn had remained crouched all day; she could wait a few hours more. Still, she decided to move before their arranged time. Something felt amiss, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and life had taught her to trust such instincts. She waited until it was just dark enough that she could be easily mistaken for a shifting shadow in the wind and sand… had anyone been paying attention.
