Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy

by Shawn Speakman

  “Indeed. Well struck, my son.”

  Tom flushed with pleasure. “I think I’m finally getting used to the enchantment,” he said, gesturing at the jewelled hilt of his sword. “It felt strange at first, but now . . .”

  “Now you have learned to trust your weapon, and your horse too.” Osrik paused, eying Tom’s gelding with a frown. “Though how you can trust those new-fangled Harrami saddles, I’ve no idea.”

  “I quite like them. Much more manoeuvrable than the old design. The Harrami know a thing or two about fighting on horseback.”

  Osrik grunted, plainly unconvinced.

  “You’ll see, Father—by the time I’m old enough to command the White Wolves, every knight in the realm will be using them.”

  The king narrowed his eyes. “You are resolved on that, then? To command the Wolves? You are only fourteen, Tom. You needn’t make up your mind just yet.”

  “What’s to decide? I’m a born soldier. Everyone says so.”

  “Indeed, but you are also a prince of the realm, and your brother will have need of your counsel.”

  “Erik? He never listens to me about anything.”

  “You are young, both of you, and very different.” Osrik smiled fondly. “My golden sun and my little raven, day and night. I know that has brought its frustrations, but when you are both older and wiser, you will recognise those differences as a great strength.”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to grunt, unconvinced.

  “It may be difficult for you to credit now, but one day yours will be the most important voice in Erik’s life.”

  “Politics . . .” Tom shook his head. “I’ve no interest in courtly games.”

  “Politics is not a game, my son. It is deadly serious.”

  Tom paused, wary now. “Is something wrong?” And then, feeling suddenly defensive: “You needn’t fear for Erik. He’ll be a great king.”

  “Your brother is a strong and principled young man. But it takes more than principles to rule a kingdom. Pragmatism. Compromise. These may not be Holy Virtues, but they are essential to kingship. Erik sees the good in every man, and that is a gift. But you, my raven, see shades of grey that are invisible to your brother. And from time to time, it will fall to you to show him. He may not always welcome your advice, but he will have need of it, whether he realises it or not. Together, you will protect the realm. That is your most solemn duty, my son: to protect the kingdom at all costs. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Father.”

  Tom had never felt so valued as he did in that moment. So important.

  It was, in hindsight, the conversation that changed everything.

  Midsummer, 418 PE

  Erik held his hand under the mare’s velvety muzzle, letting the animal take his scent. She snuffled at him cautiously but otherwise gave him a pass. She even let him touch the bright white star between her eyes, her famous namesake. Erik smiled, well pleased with himself.

  Typical. Only moments ago, the mare had jerked away from Tom’s touch, flattening her ears and showing the whites of her eyes. But Erik literally had the animal eating out of his hand, crunching contentedly on a carrot.

  “You have a way with beasts, Erik White,” said the Darish prince. “My father’s horse does not suffer strange hands lightly.”

  “Nor does your father suffer strange hands on his horse, Your Highness,” the Darish groom said stiffly. “With greatest respect, I would be more comfortable if—”

  “Your comfort is not my concern, Alis,” Prince Borlan said coolly.

  There was an awkward pause. Then Erik smiled. “Thank you for letting me see her, Borlan. She lives up to her reputation and more. And now this great lady deserves her rest. Please.” He gestured at the door. Tom didn’t miss the relieved look on the groom’s face, nor the wink Erik flashed at the servant as they withdrew.

  “Impudent churl,” Borlan growled. “I should have him tossed into the streets.”

  Tom was inclined to agree. After all, the man had embarrassed his prince in front of their hosts.

  Erik saw it differently, of course. “But then who would look after your father’s pride and joy? A horse that high-strung must be terribly choosy about her servants.”

  Borlan sighed. “It’s true, unfortunately. The only reason she tolerates Alis is because he reared her from a filly.”

  “Not easily replaced, then,” Erik said, sounding thoughtful.

  Tom rolled his eyes. His brother was so transparent.

  To him, at any rate, but the Darish prince swallowed it whole. “Alas,” Borlan said, “I daresay he is not.”

  They headed back to the keep to wash up before the banquet, parting ways at the entrance to the visitor’s wing. When their guest was well out of earshot, Tom said, “You shouldn’t interfere, Erik. How he deals with his groom is not your business, and it could come back to haunt you.”

  Erik gave him a bemused look. “You think it reasonable that he dismiss the man for doing his job?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s not my concern, nor is it yours. You can’t protect another man’s servants, and besides—the last thing you want is to make an enemy of the Prince of Dar.”

  Erik laughed. “Is that what you think I was doing? You have a low threshold for enmity, Brother.”

  Tom let it go. It wasn’t worth arguing over, and the matter wasn’t likely to come up again.

  Or so he thought. But he hadn’t counted on Riggard Black.

  “I simply must see this legendary animal,” Rig said later that evening, lounging against the deserted banquet table. With the meal long since concluded, the kingdom’s youngest banner lord was well into his cups, but that seemed only to ingratiate him further to the Darish prince. The two had met only a few hours ago but already they were fast friends.

  Even so, friendship had its limits. “I think not, Lord Black,” Borlan said archly. “I risked my father’s wrath once today, and that is enough.”

  Rig snorted good-naturedly. “Coward.”

  The crowd of lordlings gathered around them laughed as though this were a witticism for the ages. Bootlicks, Tom thought. It made him ill.

  “Insults will get you nowhere, Lord Black,” Erik said. “Bribery, however . . .”

  Borlan narrowed his eyes. “You have something in mind?”

  Erik glanced meaningfully across the oratorium to the gaggle of young women watching them from a respectable distance. Predictably, this triggered a paroxysm of blushing and giggling.

  Prince Borlan grunted appreciatively. “I’m listening.”

  “In exchange for another look at the legendary Gilene, greatest of the Darish steeds, I shall provide a suitably flattering introduction to a young lady of your choice.”

  “An introduction from the crown prince,” Rig said, whistling. “That ought to get your foot in the door, at least.”

  Feeling someone’s gaze on him, Tom looked to the far side of the room; a familiar pair of blue eyes locked with his. As always, it sent a shock of warmth through his limbs. Sirin Grey looked away quickly, a fierce blush colouring her cheeks. Unlike her peers, however, she didn’t succumb to a fit of giggling. She was far too poised for such nonsense.

  “So many worthy young ladies,” Prince Borlan said, making a great show of inspecting the women from afar. “What about that one, the beauty with the dark braids?”

  “Sirin Grey.” Rig hefted his wine cup. “Excellent choice!”

  “Not her.” They were the first words Tom had spoken in a long while, and every head swivelled in his direction. Heat spread over his face. “Choose someone else,” he said roughly.

  “What’s this?” Rig ducked his head to catch Tom’s downcast glance. “Does our young Raven carry a candle for Lady Sirin?”

  The mob’s laughter carried an edge of malice, as it always did when it came at Tom’s expense. Mock if you like, Tom thought fiercely. None of you will ever know a love like ours. Even so, he could feel himself flushing in earnest now, hi
s breath growing tight and strained.

  Erik’s smooth voice cut across the laughter. “Tom is quite right, I’m afraid. Lady Sirin is far too reserved. You won’t get anywhere with her. Might I suggest Lady Adalia? Or perhaps Lady Haria . . .”

  And just like that, Tom was invisible again. The predators had been distracted with raw flesh, leaving him to lick his wounds in peace.

  Within the hour, the deal was duly brokered, and they were slinking across the bailey, their drunken group augmented by half a dozen young ladies of more adventurous disposition—including Sirin, who’d come along to be near Tom. As the eldest among them, Riggard Black assumed the role of commander, leading their little army stealthily to the stables. It was late enough that the servants would be asleep by now, and they stood a good chance of their clandestine mission going undetected.

  “Here she is,” Borlan said smugly. “The legendary Gilene, jewel of the great stables of Dar.” The Darish king’s mare danced restlessly at the back of her stall, the whites of her eyes showing in the moonlight.

  “Magnificent,” Rig said. “I’ve never seen her like.”

  “Is she fast?” one of the young ladies whispered.

  “The fastest horse ever born,” Borlan declared. And then, inevitably: “I can show you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tom said, daring a second sentence in as many hours.

  “Whyever not?”

  Because it’s dark, you’re drunk, and by all accounts your father loves that horse more than his own heir.

  “Our Raven is a cautious creature,” Rig said, smiling apologetically.

  “You call it caution,” Tom snapped, “I call it sense.”

  “As do I,” Sirin put in. “You could hurt yourself, Highness, or the horse.”

  No one paid either of them any heed.

  Borlan dragged himself over the fence and proceeded to trail the nervous mare about the stall with a saddle blanket. It was a ridiculous sight, but the more the girls giggled, the more determined Borlan became. His pride was on the line now, and he pursued the horse doggedly until he’d cornered her. Tom was sure he’d take a hoof in the gut for his troubles, but somehow, the prince managed to wrestle his father’s anxious steed into her riding tack. “Open the gate,” he said as he slung himself into the saddle.

  He trotted grandly around the courtyard awhile, showing the mare to best advantage. She truly was a magnificent creature: tail high, muscles rippling, glossy coat gleaming silver-black in the moonlight. Watching her made Tom feel lighter. He even dared to lace his fingers through Sirin’s in the dark.

  But the onlookers had been promised more. “Let her go,” Lady Adalia called. “I want to see her run!”

  Tom threw an urgent look at his brother, and for once, he saw his own unease reflected in Erik’s eyes. “Perhaps it would be better—” Erik began.

  But it was too late. Drunk on liquor and the attention of young women, Borlan was beyond reason. He kicked Gilene to a gallop.

  Tom watched the tragedy unfold exactly as he had known it would. Borlan rode straight at the well, not realising it was there, and by the time the obstacle materialised out of the dark, there was nothing to be done. The mare tried to jump, but her unprepared rider threw her off-balance. Tom heard a sickening crack, and horse and rider tumbled to the flagstones.

  Tom fought back tears as he watched his brother and Riggard Black pull Borlan out from under the horse. The Darish prince was howling about his leg, but Tom didn’t care a whit for him; Borlan had reaped the rewards of his own foolishness. Poor Gilene, meanwhile, had had no say in her fate, and now it was sealed. Even in the dark, Tom could see that her foreleg was broken. Such a beautiful creature, he thought. What a waste.

  “Rig, take the others and go,” Erik said. “Borlan and I will answer for this.” Even as he spoke, lights were flaring around the bailey, servants roused by the noise.

  Rig shook his head. “This is my fault as much as yours. I’m staying, but I’ll get rid of the others.” He didn’t wait for a reply, rounding up the shaken group and herding them off before judgement descended on them all.

  Tom sent Sirin off with the others. Then he knelt by the broken horse, stroking her mane and trying his best to calm her while Erik and Rig helped the prince to sit.

  “My father,” Borlan choked, as though the consequences of his actions had only just occurred to him. “Dear gods, he’ll disown me.”

  “He’ll be relieved that you’re safe,” Erik said.

  “No, you don’t understand.” Borlan’s voice grew shrill with panic. “He’ll be furious. Worse than furious! You have to help me!”

  “How?”

  “The horse—we’ll say she wasn’t shod properly! Then it isn’t really my fault—it’s the groom’s!”

  Tom looked up from the mare, watching his brother closely now.

  “That won’t go well for the groom,” Erik said.

  “Who gives a damn? He’s just a servant! Will you help me or not?”

  Erik hesitated. He glanced at Rig, but the latter shrugged and shook his head. He had no advice.

  “Erik.” Tom motioned his brother aside. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. Just do as he asks.”

  “Let him blame the groom?” Erik scowled. “If Borlan is so afraid of what his father will do to him, what do you suppose will happen to a servant?”

  “You have more important things to worry about.”

  “Such as? That groom has a family to feed, and—”

  “Don’t you see? This isn’t just some drunken mishap among village youths. If you expose Borlan now, he will not forget it. Dar is an important ally, and one day he will be its king.”

  “So I should lie for him?”

  Tom almost shouted in his exasperation. “Yes, Erik, you should lie for him! It’s the lesser of evils!”

  Erik opened his mouth to argue, but there was no time—if they were going to tamper with a horseshoe, they needed to do it now. Already, someone was stirring on the far side of the courtyard.

  Rig didn’t wait for Erik’s decision; he fetched a chisel and pulloff from the stables and set to work. Tom helped, the two of them moving with swift, practiced movements while the light on the far side of the courtyard drew nearer. Erik watched it all with an unreadable frown.

  They had just finished hiding the ferrier tools when Arran Green arrived. Tom cursed their luck. Green was his father’s most trusted knight—and the sternest man Tom had ever known. He eyed the scene grimly, no doubt understanding the lay of it at a glance.

  “The horse threw a shoe,” Borlan blurted.

  “Is that so?” Perhaps Green sensed the lie, or perhaps the question was merely rhetorical. Either way, when he shone his light on Erik, Tom knew it was over. His brother might have lied to another, but not to Arran Green.

  Erik drew himself up and looked his father’s man squarely in the eye.

  And so the Prince of Dar became Erik’s first true enemy.

  Spring, 427 PE

  “It has happened, Your Majesty,” First Counsel Highmount informed them gravely. “The Oridians have invaded Andithyri.”

  Erik closed his eyes. A moment’s pause, jaw twitching, features contracted as if in pain. Then his fist came down on the desk, hard enough to send an inkbottle leaping into the air. Arran Green was fortunate not to have it land in his lap. The old knight pushed it away from the edge of the desk but did not otherwise react. His stoic gaze remained trained on Erik. He knew what was coming. They all did. That didn’t stop Tom from saying a prayer in his mind—a last, desperate plea to the gods to make his brother see reason.

  Alas.

  “We have no choice, then. We must declare war.”

  Albern Highmount made a steeple of his fingers. Arran Green thumbed his beard. They regarded their king in grim silence.

  Say something, damn you! He’ll listen to you! He wouldn’t listen to Tom—he’d made that clear. But Highmount was Erik’s top political adviso
r, Green his best military commander. If anyone could steer the king from this madness, it was they.

  “I know you feel obligated to support our ally—” Highmount began.

  “Obligated.” Erik shook his head. “It’s more than that. We stood by when the Trionate of Oridia swallowed Kerain, and again when they swallowed Dar. This time is different. I am treaty-bound.”

  Tom could restrain himself no longer; he leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of Erik’s desk until the colour fled from his knuckles. “That treaty was folly. Father was a fool to make such promises. Put our own country in jeopardy to save the Andithyrians? No one in his right mind would expect us to honour that!”

  “Though I would certainly choose different language,” Highmount said, “I concur with the sentiment. The commitments enshrined in the Treaty of Imran were deeply unwise. I advised His Majesty, your father, strenuously against them.”

  “He should have listened,” Tom said. “He never should have signed it.”

  “But he did,” Erik said. “Whatever his reasons, the thing was done before you were born. We cannot simply pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “Why not?” Tom could feel his colour rising along with his volume, but he couldn’t help himself. “You are king! You can do whatever you like!”

  Arran Green frowned at that. As always, Tom felt a flash of shame at having earned the old knight’s displeasure. Since Osrik’s passing, Green was the only man in the world still capable of making him feeling like a child—one forever in search of his father’s approval.

  Tom took a breath, recalibrated. “That is to say, you can do whatever is necessary to protect the realm. Indeed, brother, you must.”

  “It is the highest duty of a king,” Highmount added ponderously.

  That was a mistake. Erik’s gaze iced over. “I will thank you not to lecture me on the duties of a king.”

  The first counsel bowed his head, but it was more a gesture of acknowledgement than genuine contrition. He was on thin ice, Tom knew. One day soon, he would tax Erik’s patience beyond the breaking point and earn himself a dismissal. When that happened, one of the most sensible voices in the land would no longer have the king’s ear—and Erik was desperately in need of sensible voices, especially now. Just as Father foresaw, Tom thought grimly.