Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Lucky little… he cursed inward. Then he grinned. “Hey fellows,” he said. “I think I saw who you’re looking for upstairs.”

  XI

  THE KNIGHT

  “Iam, hear me,” Torsten whispered. He clutched his holy pendant—the same one given to him by King Liam, nearly lost only weeks ago—against his chest while looking upward. The great Vigilant Eye towered in the apse of the Yarrington Cathedral. The holy symbol was cast in gold with a pupil of glass that, when looked at from the east, framed Mount Lister in all her glory.

  Light poured in through stained-glass windows above and behind it. They depicted the story of the God Feud and Autla Nothhelm, the First King of Glass, the one for whom their currency was named. In the depiction, he was being anointed on the flattened summit of Mount Lister by Iam himself thousands of years ago after the Feud ended, given the task to spread His light to all creatures.

  Torsten imagined that King Liam, young and healthy, once kneeled in this very spot gazing upon the legends of old before deciding to bring an end to the incestuous squabbling that had, for so long, confined the Glass Kingdom to its own little corner of Pantego. Now, their sphere of influence extended from Latiapur in the South to far east Panping, well beyond Yaolin City, and up to Winter’s Thumb at the foot of Drav Cra. Pi had only been king for a month, yet already he was following in his father’s footsteps by bringing Redstar’s people into the fold.

  It just felt so… different this time.

  “A trickster and heathen has been invited within these very walls,” Torsten said to Iam. “Only ruin follows in his wake. Never has Your light led me astray, but please, help me understand why he should be counted amongst Your holy kingdom. Show me, oh, Vigilant Eye, what am I missing?”

  “Something troubling you, Wearer?”

  Torsten turned to see Wren the Holy shuffling toward him. His cane clacked across the marble floor, echoing down the cathedral’s soaring nave as he navigated the room. He looked more weary than usual, even considering his age. Dark rings wrapped his eye-sockets, scorched from taking the vow of sightlessness. Heavy white robes and the clunky necklace of interlocking Eyes of Iam around his neck seemed to weigh him down.

  Pi’s resurrection had left the cathedral inundated with worshippers, come to see the place where he had been reborn and where, long ago, Iam ended the God Feud and took man under His sheltering wing. They came to hear the words of Wren, the mouthpiece of Iam in Pantego. The High Priest’s voice usually carried with vim and vigor, but today, it was raspy from his many sermons.

  Torsten had come at sunrise to try and give the old man time to rest before the doors opened to the public, but Wren was ever vigilant.

  “It’s nothing, Your Holiness,” he said. Torsten went to stand, but Wren lay a hand on his shoulder. His aim was true despite having no use of his eyes.

  “Please. I have been around long enough to know when a man is feeling exceedingly… mortal.” His thin lips creased into a smile. In a kingdom where war had left so many children orphans, perhaps his greatest gift of all was a fatherly smile. Of course, Torsten’s father was a lecherous cur who’d never served, but there was still something about Wren that made him feel at home.

  Torsten sighed and lifted himself onto the front pew before the altar. Wren sat beside him, his old knees popping.

  “We leave to quell the Shesaitju rebellion today,” Torsten said.

  “So I have heard.”

  “Then you also know who the young king has invited to march at our side?”

  Wren nodded.

  “Then please, Your Holiness, tell me how I can march beside a heathen like that?”

  “My son, when Liam sought to bring all of Pantego under a single banner, he knew he could not force the people beyond this realm to see the light of Iam. He could only show them the way; they had to do the rest. Now the world is a brighter place for his many efforts.”

  “I don’t question anything Liam did.”

  “But you fought alongside him for a long, long time. Beside allies old and new, men and dwarves from different corners of our world. Not all of whom believed Iam to be the source of light in their soul. Yet you fought with them nonetheless.”

  “Redstar is different. I know it may be a sin to think, but I don’t believe his soul is redeemable.”

  “Every soul is redeemable.”

  “What about all the fallen gods who have been banished from this realm. What about Nesilia and Bliss?” Wren’s brow furrowed at the name of the latter. “The One Who Remained,” Torsten corrected. That was the name people were familiar with when speaking of her. Torsten realized then that Redstar was the one who claimed Bliss and the One Who remained were one and the same, that Bliss had defeated Nesilia, the Buried Goddess before the feud ended. And that Iam had then punished her by transforming her into a beast and condemning her to that foul place, a vindictive act against the very nature of the God whom Torsten loved.

  Redstar also claimed that Nesilia and Iam had been lovers, not mortal enemies and that everything he knew about the God Feud was a lie.

  More of his lies and games.

  Bliss was likely a demonic creature of Elsewhere, similar to any other. All Redstar’s talk of serving the Buried Goddess by slaying her; in the end, he was clearly just trying to keep Torsten away from Yarrington while Oleander suffered from the wicked curse placed upon Pi. All a part of Redstar’s plot to get Torsten killed so that, in her grief, Oleander would lead the Glass Kingdom, which left him behind and forgot him, into ruin.

  As Torsten’s darkening thoughts twisted his features, Wren’s smile deepened.

  “All mortal souls are redeemable,” he said. “We are all the children of Iam, and His word is mercy. His word is peace. I cannot say why He has brought Redstar to us, just how I cannot say why He saw fit to afflict Liam with so wretched an ailment though his hair had only just begun to gray. But to say it wasn’t his time is folly.”

  “Can His enemies not upset His designs? Redstar poisoned King Pi’s mind and led him to suicide.”

  “Yet, he lives again by the Hand of Iam.” Wren groaned as he used his cane to rise from the pew. “They can certainly try, Sir Unger, but so long as we faithful remain, they cannot shake us.”

  Torsten turned from the High Priest of Iam to regard the massive eye set before him. He ran his fingers around his own eye sockets in prayer, then stood.

  “Thank you, Your Holiness, for helping show me the way.”

  Wren shook his head. “I am only an oracle of Iam. The path of light is always within you.” He tapped Torsten’s chest with his cane.

  “I hope I don’t lose it. You’ll look after King Pi while we’re gone? I worry about him, up in that castle. He barely left his quarters as a boy. Even those few on the Council who remain from serving his father are strangers to him.”

  “Always. In these times of peril, it will help the young king to turn to his holy studies.”

  “Thank you, Great Father.” Torsten bowed and traced his eyes again.

  “Thank Him,” Wren said, gesturing to the gargantuan Eye of Iam. He needed no sight to find it. “I am but a vessel.”

  Torsten turned to leave the cathedral, suddenly feeling lighter. It still didn’t feel right, what he had to do, but Wren and the lofty cathedral had a way of calming him, of making him realize he was but a small part of Iam’s plan.

  He pushed open the massive front doors, two hunks of iron with patterned rifts cut out and filled with frosted glass. Crisp, cold air greeted him, even though the sun shone brightly that morning, making him long for summer.

  A small cohort of King’s Shieldsmen awaited him, though he had come to the cathedral alone. He was about to ask why they weren’t at their posts or with the rest of the army outside the city walls when Oleander hopped down from her beloved white horse and ran to him, wearing tall, spiked heels despite the cobblestone streets of the Royal Avenue.

  “Torsten.” She threw her arms around him before he could say a
word.

  He got caught halfway between embracing her in return and pushing her away. He wasn’t sure when their relationship had become so informal, and he could see the prying eyes of his men over her shoulder, struggling to stay at attention as they likely thought the same thing.

  “Is everything all right, Your Grace?” Torsten asked. He peeled her off him, and Torsten started walking, so they didn’t linger. The Queen Mother out on the streets was a rare thing indeed. He saw no need to inform the whole city of her presence. She hadn’t made many friends, and he wasn’t sure who might seek retribution.

  “Is everything all right?” Her expression soured. “I had to beg my newly brazen son to let me out of my room. It’s as if he has forgotten who was really in charge after Liam forgot how to speak.”

  “He spent that time in a cloud of horrid visions, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, yes. Put there by that bastard I call ‘Brother.’”

  “I don’t like the way you’re treated any more than you, but Pi is King now. Would you prefer him unconscious and clinging to life again?”

  “Of course not!” Her raised voice brought the attention of a few passersby.

  Any other month, the end of the Royal Avenue, the grand plaza in Old Yarrington within which the Cathedral of Yarrington stood, would be full of flowering trees, but now it was barren. Instead, pilgrims from afar filled it with tents, waiting for their chance to hear a sermon from Wren the Holy.

  A young man, the father of several, pointed back at the Cathedral, his wife and children smiling. Torsten stopped and followed his finger to the snow-covered summit of Mount Lister, visible through Iam’s Eye, standing proudly at the peak of the roof. The pupil was made from glass similar to the one at the altar, but this one was segmented, like a cut diamond. As the sun rose over the mountain, the prism cast a rainbow across the plaza. The pilgrims flocked to the vibrant strips of light, praising Iam, kissing the very street upon which His light touched.

  “It’s been a difficult year, hasn’t it?” Torsten said.

  Yet there was Iam’s light, still shining bright—an arm of warmth against the bitter onslaught of cold.

  “Torsten,” Oleander said, clearly irritated. She shook his arm.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Torsten replied.

  “Did you hear a word I said?”

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I must have missed it. My mind is on the forthcoming battle.”

  Oleander groaned. “Is there a man in this world that isn’t just like my husband?”

  “There is no man like him.”

  “Hey, careful with her or I’ll have your hands!” she snapped at the stablehand who had taken the reins of her horse to walk her behind them. She slapped the young man’s hands, then ran her fingers through the horse’s mane. Torsten couldn’t remember the last time she let her favorite horse out of the royal stables where she kept her locked up and safe like a piece of jewelry.

  “I… I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” the young man stuttered.

  “A light touch, and grace. If I hear a whinny from you pulling her…”

  “You won’t. My apologies.”

  Oleander rolled her eyes and returned to Torsten’s side. “The age of great men is clearly over.”

  Torsten forced a chuckle but didn’t respond. He’d been on the receiving end of her seemingly senseless scorn enough times to know how it felt. He snuck the stable hand a nod of approval before they continued down the Royal Avenue, flanked by Shieldsmen. Mansions belonging to Yarrington’s noblest families stood, nearly all of them for generations, the stone of their foundations hewn from Mount Lister itself. The newest belonged to the reinstated Master of Coin, Yuri Darkings. It was at the end of the row, still partially under construction but even more magnificent than the others.

  Yuri came from a family of no-names who rose up the ranks of the Winde Traders Guild until he was running the accounts. That was the greatness of Liam, he looked beyond established houses to raise men like Yuri and Torsten beyond their station. Now, Yuri had a crew of human laborers constructing the newest wing of his Old Yarrington home, including a giant for a foreman who was busy hefting a wood column as thick as the trunks in the Webbed Woods.

  A giant, yet the Crown could barely entice an experienced group of dwarves to repair the Royal Crypt. He blamed Oleander’s wrath for their lack of respect, but the truth was, it would’ve happened anyway. The people didn’t know all the real reasons behind why she had so many loyal servants hanged and most would fear their rulers regardless. Kings and Queens across Pantego had done far worse and been feared far more.

  Pi had been revived by a miracle of Iam and was greatly revered in the weeks leading up to a coronation barely anyone of worth showed up for. Nothing really changed. In the end, the people were thankful to Iam, not a child-king they barely knew. Oleander could have been the most beloved queen in history, and still, nothing would have changed. Because neither of them was Liam.

  “Forgive me if it is not my place to ask, but do you ever miss him?” Torsten said.

  “Who?” Oleander replied.

  “Liam. I know he didn’t always make your life easy, but…”

  “Of course, I do. Is there a reason you are so interested in my relationship with my late husband?”

  “It’s only that… I was there… at his funeral. The kingdom wept, yet you didn’t even shed a tear.”

  “Do you know how long I spent feeding him? Changing him once he fell ill—probably thanks to one of his dirty, foreign whores? How many times I watched Tessa clean him after he…” She drew a deep, solemn breath, and Torsten wasn’t sure if it was because she was finally stricken by what she’d done to her former handmaiden, or over the memory of Liam. He hoped both.

  “I was waiting for him to die and was relieved when he did,” she went on. “I bid farewell to that man long before his kingdom did.”

  Torsten’s head hung a little lower.

  “I never cared that he took me from my home and my people when I was but a girl because I had never seen a man so mighty,” she said. “It was as if Iam Himself had come to the Drav Cra in the form of a man.”

  “I remember thinking the same thing when I saw him down on the docks as a boy,” Torsten replied. “With his white armor shimmering, wondering how we could both possibly be counted among men. He was like a god.”

  “I hated seeing him so weak. I would miss the way he scolded me for not presenting myself appropriately for an audience or when I failed to produce a worthy heir for so long. By the end, I couldn’t bear to look at him. All I cared about was Pi and him getting healthy again, helping him become even a fraction of the man Liam was.”

  “He seems to be finding his footing.”

  Oleander frowned. “Yes….”

  “My Queen, I know you’re concerned for him; I am too. First, leaving no option but war without even consulting his Council, then allying with Redstar and warlocks. Whatever happened after his body died, it’s as if he feels he is all alone.”

  “It’s the Drav Cra in him,” Oleander said. “In the far North, a boy his age is sent out into the wilderness to survive on his own. To battle the wolves and bitter cold.”

  “He’s half Liam too. I didn’t know our great King at that age—I wasn’t even born—though I’m sure it took him some time to find his way, too. Pi can’t do it alone. You need to try to get through to him while I’m gone.”

  “His father would have broken his neck if he’d talked to him the way he does me.”

  Her horse neighed, and she shot a look back at the stablehand so fierce it could’ve frozen the air between them.

  “May I speak frankly, My Queen?”

  Oleander eyed him from head to toe, then nodded.

  “Don’t push him away,” Torsten said. “Endure his insults. Show him how much you love him. I’ve seen it firsthand the lengths you’re willing to go for the slightest chance at helping him.”

  They were in front of the castle fortifications now. T
orsten made sure not to let his gaze stray toward the ramparts, where less than a Dawning ago, the Queen had strung so many up to die.

  Hers, on the other hand, flitted there, and just for the briefest moment, Torsten thought he saw a wave of regret pass like a shadow across her face. A sight he thought impossible.

  “Get him to open up, My Queen,” Torsten said, “so that we may begin to understand what he went through and what’s now going on inside him. If there is one strength within you to which even Liam paled in comparison, it is your undying love for your son. Show him that.”

  Oleander’s features grew hard as she folded her arms. “Do you have no fear, Wearer? Speaking so openly to the Queen Mother?”

  “I have many fears, but there is not one of them I wouldn’t face for this kingdom.”

  Oleander stalked forward, her smoldering blue eyes enough to make a man feel small. Not to mention that with her heels on she was taller even than Torsten.

  “Even me?” she asked. She lay both her hands on his shoulders, her nails clacking against his armor.

  “Anything,” he said, voice shaky. His mind took him back to the night in his chambers when she threw herself at him. To even think of Oleander in that manner made him feel ill, dirty.

  “Then do something for me, my honest Wearer.” She leaned in, her warm breath tickling his ear. “Slaughter those rebels in the name of your king and remind Pantego who his father was. And when you’re finished with him, see to it that Redstar never returns here. I care not how.”

  Torsten backed away, incredulous. “Your Grace?”

  “You know what must be done, so do it. And when you return victorious and free of this blight, I’ll see to it that ours is the only advice my precious boy will care to hear.” She grabbed him by the back and pulled him close. Then, she kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck, my knight.”

  She whipped around, her long, cerulean dress kicking up the powdered snow. “Come boy!” She clapped her hands, and the stablehand allowed her horse to trot to her side. She stroked the magnificent creature’s mane as she sauntered back behind the walls of the Glass Castle. Her guard went with her, not daring look at him or mutter under their breath about how close the Queen Mother was with the Wearer of White.