Three of Swords

by Michael Jason Brandt

  “Marko is dead?”

  Rinnick stopped speaking. He swallowed deeply, then stared down into the cup of water Nico had handed him. “Aye, My Prince.”

  Nico did not wish to continue this conversation. It was desperately important, he knew, yet the shock of the news was very upsetting. His mind needed to be able to think clearly—something of which it was currently incapable.

  “Rinnick, I must request that you stop there for now,” he said calmly. “I will send for you when I am ready. I must…process this news.”

  “Of course, My Prince. I will wait in the barracks.” He stepped back and bowed. Then he left the room, as Nico watched without seeing.

  This could not have happened. Not for a single moment had he ever considered the possibility.

  “Nico.”

  Her voice was quiet, her hand soft on his shoulder. “I heard. I’m sorry.”

  He had cried for Renard, and for the other eleven under his command, but was not crying now. This was much too complicated for simple grief. He wanted to mourn Marko the way he had those companions lost in the battle, but there were far greater implications to what he had just learned.

  “Nico, please say something.”

  “My father is…unwell.”

  “You’ll be king. Our kingdoms can be allies. The marriage—”

  “I don’t want to be king. I’ve never wanted to be king. The idea terrifies me.”

  “You don’t get a choice.”

  He looked at her. She stared back, her face displaying a confidence he lacked. There was a strength here that could be relied upon. He needed that, just now, but did not know how to ask for it.

  For days, he had been losing one piece of himself after another. Renard, then Captain Bayard, then Mip. And now Marko. The void inside kept getting bigger. But here, staring into those soft brown eyes, he wondered if he could reverse the ebbing tide.

  A hush had fallen over them, disturbed only by the distant sounds of the city coming through the windows. A certain tranquility filled the suite.

  “Do you want me to go?” she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if she were unwilling to disturb the peace.

  “Like you did last night?” he asked. Not an accusation; merely a question.

  “Last night I thought I was marrying your brother,” she replied. “I was afraid of falling in love. Tonight…I know it’s okay.”

  He bowed his head, feeling the tears coming at last. He was sorry that Marko was gone, without ever getting to know this young woman. So many things about the loss of his brother saddened him profoundly. But in one small way, the blow was softened. At least he could make one good thing come of it.

  He would always remember her as being braver than he, for starting the embrace. One of the few parts of the night he could later recall, but enough to keep him going through the hard trials that awaited.

  At some point during the night, however, she left him. He did not want her to, but she insisted that they emerge from separate chambers come morn. It was the practical choice, of course, but as soon as she left the bed he felt the void returning, so powerful the emptiness threatened to swallow him entirely. Impulsively, he worried that he would never see her again.

  Nico was awakened at dawn by Lima, just as he had commanded. He knew upon seeing her that something was amiss, for her belt held no sword. The weapon was as good as useless in her current condition, but no trooper would go without unless dictated by unusual circumstances.

  “They would not let me leave the barracks with it,” she explained, following his gaze. “Something is definitely wrong.”

  He nodded. “You heard the news from Rinnick, I presume?”

  “Aye. I…am sorry for your loss. And I think you will be a fine king.”

  He closed his eyes. It already begins. Rumors and events moved quickly, unstoppable, regardless of his wishes. You don’t get a choice, Leti had said. She was right about that, but Nico was still getting tired of fate deciding his life for him. “Return to the barracks. Make sure Rinnick is with you. Do we have anyone remaining in the hospital? No? Good. Tell Manus, Ezra, and Mickens to prepare the horses. All squadrons make arrangements to ride on a moment’s notice.”

  “Are we leaving?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I hope not. I need to see her again. “But we must be ready in case.”

  “What if they stop us?”

  “They won’t, not yet. If something happens, it will start with me. Having the heir to the throne as a hostage is worth more than all the Threeshields. No offense.”

  Lima laughed. “None taken. We’ll be ready, then. But I worry about you.”

  Nico shrugged. “I’m sure this matter can be resolved peaceably. The precautions are just that—precautions.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “Do you really believe that, Commander? Come with me. There is nothing here worth the risk.”

  Yes, there is. “Dismissed, Private. I’ll see you this eve.”

  She saluted and left.

  Hoping to catch Toby a little early, Nico went to the sparring chamber first. The room had several occupants, but they did not include the young prince.

  He went to the throne room next, hoping to be granted an impromptu meeting with the king. The doors were closed, and a guard stoically informed him that a special session was in progress.

  Nico wandered the castle halls for a period, hoping to give the appearance of aimlessness, before finding himself at last outside the royal quarters. First he inquired if the prince was in chamber, then the princess. Neither was, according to the servants.

  He returned to his suite, deeply disturbed. A new mood had settled over the castle, or at least over him, less morbid than that before the battle, but no less ominous and just as inevitable. He could not begin to explain why, but things—his status with the Asturians, their expressions, his belonging—had changed, and were coming to an end. He could no longer pretend the feeling was just the fantasy of a nervous mind. He had done nothing to warrant their suspicion—had, in fact, done everything to earn their trust. It was impossible to believe that they could treat him as anything less than a friend, but the proof was behind every suspicious stare.

  Lima did not come at dusk. He knew then that he needed to leave, but could not bring himself to. She will come back. All he could do was wait, and hope. The hours never seemed so long.

  Long after sunset, there was a knock on the door. By this point his heart was emptied of emotion. Even when he opened the door and saw her, even as he let her in, he knew it was over.

  She did not sit, nor did he offer, instead simply waiting for her to speak.

  Leti was clearly upset and confused—conditions for which he was in complete sympathy.

  “They intend to arrest you in the morn,” she warned him, speaking in a lowered voice, aware of her treason. “I argued in your defense, said you were ignorant, but Jacinto has the king’s ear. My father’s hate for yours runs strong.”

  Nico nodded. Almost disinterestedly, he asked why.

  She studied his face for a moment. “You don’t know, do you? I was right, wasn’t I?” Her eyes sparkled, as if knowing this truth lifted a burden from her heart. “There are Akenberg markings on the arms found with Iago. And many prisoners confirmed it—your kingdom paid for this rebellion.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” What game was father playing? Did he not realize how risky that was, with me here? “Are you certain, or could this all be Jacinto’s doing?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this.” She put her hands on her hips, trying to look determined. “I do know I’ll keep pressing the issue, though. Father will listen eventually, after his anger subsides. You saved his life, after all—”

  “Leti, you know I can’t stay. Not now. I have to leave.”

  Her entire body seemed to slump, all that determination melting away in an instant. “You mustn’t.”

  “It’s time for me to think of Akenb
erg first. I can’t risk staying here, hoping your father comes to his senses.” He went to the armor stand, examining the heavy mail. He decided to leave that behind, as well as the shield. The sword he would take.

  “If you go, they will think that proof of your guilt.”

  “So be it.” He considered his clothing. There was nothing irreplaceable. If it came down to a hasty flight, he would be better served going light. And if they tried to stop him with anything less than a full squad, the sword would be enough.

  “There will be war between our lands. Between us. We’ll be enemies.”

  She was right, he knew. Eberhart’s abdication had quickly led to civil war within the empire, and Nico’s own kingdom was right at the center. That war was spreading quickly, already encompassing four kingdoms. He had little hope the fighting would stop there.

  Nico turned to her, took her by the arms and looked directly into her face, wishing to convey the depth of his conviction. “Do you love me, Leti?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then you and I will never be enemies. No matter what else happens.”

  She tried one more time. “Stay, Nico. This is what your father wants, not you. He’s playing some game, and we’re the pieces. Don’t choose your father over me.”

  She was right again, of course. He smiled at her, his fingers loosening their grip. She smiled back, relief spreading across her face. He stepped in and kissed her lips, briefly. Taking a moment to study her features, intending to quickly memorize every line and curve. As if he hadn’t already.

  “I don’t get a choice, remember?” He let her go, grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. He was pretty sure he had everything he needed.

  He was thankful she did not cry. He might not have made it out the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vilnia

  IT WAS hard for Yohan to contain the excitement that had been welling inside all morn, knowing that even at their current modest pace they would reach the small fort of Westsky by eve. Although he had said nothing to her about their progress, he knew Jena was also aware. There was a renewed spring in her steps—still wobbly, but less so than the day before—and an uncharacteristic frivolity in her speech.

  Westsky was not much more than another disheveled watchtower, slightly larger and better preserved than the half-ruined one he and Karlo had scaled so many days earlier. But it represented salvation to the struggling pair. The post meant food, blankets, and fresh clothing. And perhaps most importantly of all, people.

  Captain Marek had detached an entire squad—ten soldiers—to the fort. Those ten were more than comrades at this point, they were a lifeline to civilization itself. In Westsky there would be news of the goings-on elsewhere in Vilnia and the empire at large. Trivialities of which Yohan normally did not concern himself, but now looked forward to hearing about with irrational anticipation.

  He was aware of the irony that he, Yohan the Oster, quiet and reclusive as he was known to be, was so eager to be with people again. The mood would not last, of course, but he would enjoy it while he could.

  There would be joking. And gambling. And drinking. He did not expect to participate, but looked forward to watching. And then, after a day or two of rest and recuperation, he and Jena could continue down the road toward Halfsummit, and absolute safety. Temporary safety, he reminded himself.

  Perhaps several of the Westskies would join them. Yohan was not without mixed feelings about that, and did not intend to suggest the idea, but neither would he oppose it. He would not blame Jena at all if she wished for better company than he the rest of the way.

  By late afternoon, they could see the tip of the apogee peeking over the next mountain. Yohan wondered if the fort was sending out patrols. If so, he and Jena were close enough to encounter one any moment.

  An hour later, however, the tip was obscured by heavy snowflakes. Another storm was setting in, and Yohan knew that winter was finally upon them. The weather—like the animals—had briefly turned sympathetic to their needs. But now that support was hastily withdrawn, and the sky would soon become the enemy again.

  “Where are they?” she asked irritably, all trace of frivolity gone. “Regulations are to send patrols two miles out, twice per day. They should have found us by now.”

  Yohan thought about explaining the difference between regulation and reality. Soldiers tended to become lax over time, especially at a remote outpost like this. One squad had been stationed here, led by only a corporal, drawn from the ranks of recruits and less inclined to authority than an officer. Patrols would be intermittent at best, especially during inclement weather.

  But never knowing when her tongue would turn sharp, Yohan had no desire for it to lash at him. He selfishly decided to let those in the fort suffer its wrath instead, and merely shrugged.

  She clicked her cheek a few times—one of the many signs of annoyance he had learned to recognize in recent days—and pulled her tattered cloak tighter around her torso. The wetness of the flakes seeped through their clothes, exacerbating their cold discomfort and certainly not helping her mood. He felt sorry for the soldiers ahead.

  Soon the shrouded sun was setting behind the high-rising peaks, rapidly turning day into night and deepening the chill. Yohan and Jena had barely exchanged a word for an hour.

  Not helping matters, once the structure came back into view, signs of revelry inside became obvious. The light of flame—a large fire in its pit—shone through an open window like a beacon through the darkness. The sounds of laughter carried on a current of wind to the two of them, landing on frozen ears, and Yohan saw her shapely jaw clench.

  They came within a few hundred yards, and saw a lone silhouette emerge from the shadowy structure, step two paces out, and pause. Yohan recognized its motion well enough to know the figure was urinating. There was nothing against the regulations about such an act, but the man certainly would not have done it in front of the commander and princess had he known she was there. Far worse, however, was that the silhouette showed no sign of a scabbard, and soldiers on duty were to keep their sword on them at all times.

  Jena opened her mouth to shout. Yohan quickly clamped his hand over it, then pulled her down into the snow in case the man should look their way. Her eyes flashed in anger, and he half-expected her to bite into his flesh.

  “Let me make sure, first,” he hissed. “Wait here.”

  Staying low until he reached a depression in the ground, a rocky gully that ran to and beyond the tower, Yohan came within fifteen yards of the structure. He could walk relatively upright and remain concealed, especially as the gully deepened and widened. He kept his eyes on the tower’s entrance, thankful for the fire’s bright illumination but not staring directly at it, trying to maintain at least some of his low-light vision. He slowed as he got nearer, trying to focus on the snippets of conversation coming from within, wanting to hear enough to identify the Imperial language. But so far whole words were not coming through, only unintelligible syllables.

  Hearing a crunch not far behind, he spun back with momentary panic. There was Jena, following, mimicking his hunched posture. Of course—he never should have expected her to wait idly where he left her. He held a finger to his lips, and she nodded.

  Yohan moved slower yet as he came closer to the structure and the people inside. He should have been able to hear them clearly by now, but a trick of the wind now carried the voices away, forcing him to move closer.

  More mindful of the tower than the ground, he tripped over a rock or root and found himself with a faceful of icy wetness. He pushed himself up, thankful that Jena had been silenced so he would not have to hear her snicker at his clumsiness. Then, looking at the object over which he had fallen, he stared into the dead eyes of a Vilnian soldier.

  Yohan closed his own, sighing deeply. Of course it would be like this. He reopened them and motioned for Jena to stop where she was, then began to scan the gully. There was an abundance of dark smudges mixed in with white.
The darkness and snow—on the ground and in the air—obscured nearly everything, so he forced himself to move in one tentative step after another, seeking the others.

  It was disconcerting how their eyes—open and terrified, as if frightened by the moon above—were always the first thing he recognized as a person, the rest amorphously blending with the colorless landscape. He stopped at six, knowing he could find four more if he kept looking.

  Yohan returned to where he had left Jena. “All ten?” she asked in a whisper. He nodded.

  No reports, no jokes, no fresh supplies. Not here.

  “Do you think we can make it to Halfsummit?” she asked.

  He had been pondering that very question since that first pair of eyes had bored itself forever into his mind. “I think so.”

  She nodded, then looked at the tower. “So we don’t take them by surprise? See if we can kill them all?”

  This, too, he had been pondering. Seriously pondering. “We don’t know how many there are… Enough to kill ten of us, though.”

  A vicious grin formed on her lips. An ugly expression, incongruous with her attractive features, but he understood exactly where it came from. Revenge had a very strong appeal.

  He shook his head. “Too risky. We have a report to make.”

  She looked at him again, and their eyes locked for a few long seconds. Her face had once again become expressionless, and Yohan wished he could read her thoughts. Not for the first time.

  Then she nodded. “Do we go back and around the other side?”

  “We’re already this far.” And I am eager to get away from this place. “Stick to the gully and we should be okay.”

  Bending lower than before as he led the way, they moved as quickly as possible without making noise. Not that they were likely to be heard above the sound of the laughing and joking—now unmistakably foreign—happening inside.