Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  “I thought that was just a wives’ tale,” I balked. My eyes flicked to Quintin in disbelief. “Surely, no one still holds a grudge over something that happened six hundred years ago.”

  “A woman’s place is at the hearth, not on the battlefield,” Quintin stated bluntly, blue eyes guarded and watchful. Before, those words would have pricked my pride. Now, my ego having been well-checked, it merely hurt my feelings.

  “Such is tradition, in Tuvre’s country,” Viktor added, rubbing his bearded jaw.

  I jutted my chin at him in his leather apron. “And why are you any different?”

  “Viktor is from Frii,” Quintin supplied helpfully, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “A bastard of Freyja!” the smith proclaimed with pride, thumping his chest with one fist.

  My companion chuckled, the first time I’d ever seen him laugh – or smile, for that matter. I was too startled by the sight to remark on it.

  “And as such, had no qualms about fabricating one for you. Now take that off.” Quintin nodded to my gauntleted arm. “Your mother will have my hide if you miss breakfast.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Two days later, the finished piece was waiting for me in the garden when I appeared for my morning training. Quintin was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the Freyjan shield rested on the edge of the fountain, gleaming in the early morning light. I donned it reverently, struggling with the buckles but eventually managing with the aid of my teeth. I had just finished securing the last one when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A taunting whistle rang out close behind me, followed by the whir of steel cutting air. I spun to my left, raising the shield in defense, and a deafening clang accompanied a jarring blast to my arm. Quintin lowered his sword.

  “The hells is wrong with you?!” I exclaimed angrily, shaking out my tingling hand.

  “At least you’re starting with decent instincts. You should do well with it.”

  “You could have taken my head off!”

  “Not with a half-assed swing like that,” he dismissed. “Come on. We’re starting some new drills today.”

  The new drills consisted of repetitive circuits of simple strikes and counters, gradually increasing in speed until I faltered. Each of said circuits involved me blocking his sword with my gauntleted arm. I discovered, then, that I had never been in any real danger. When my focus slipped and I failed to raise my shield in time, Quintin’s blade halted inches from my flesh. His control was absolute. The drills battered my forearm inside the gauntlet, and by the end of the morning’s practice, I was wincing at every strike.

  “What do you think of the shield?” my father asked later at the table. I wrestled one-handed with my breakfast, sweaty and sore in my training gear. At Quintin’s insistence, it had become my typical state at our morning meal. My parents tolerated it with mild amusement, and Greta made no more protests besides the occasional disapproving glare. After suffering Quintin’s for months, hers were mild by comparison.

  I worded my reply with care, conscious of what must have been a significant expense on my behalf.

  “Very finely crafted, thank you, Father.”

  The corners of his kind eyes crinkled in a smile. “I was referring more to function than aesthetics, but you are welcome.”

  “Seems to suit me,” I assured, shifting my aching arm on my lap, unable to find a comfortable position. “Just need more practice.”

  Practice, as it so happened, was agonizing. I made every attempt to put a brave face on it, hoping that, like my time at the garrison, regular pain would dull my susceptibility to it. Alas, that was not the case. By the fourth day, I was fighting tears with every strike. Quintin called an abrupt halt mid-lesson, holding out one hand and staking his sword in the ground with the other.

  “Take it off.”

  After a brief hesitation, I obeyed, teeth and fingers wrestling with the buckles. I swallowed a whimper as I slid it off my arm and passed the gauntlet to him.

  “Seven hells,” he breathed, eyes fixed on my black-and-blue skin.

  “It’s fine,” I muttered, tugging the sleeve of my tunic down to cover the bruises.

  “It’s not fine. Why didn’t you say something?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, staring at a nearby holly bush in sullen silence. When I didn’t respond, he gave his head a frustrated shake and set to examining the gauntlet in his hands.

  “That’s enough for today,” he said, studying the layers of leather beneath the steel. “Rest that arm a bit, and then we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  My head snapped back to him, my right foot taking an involuntary step in protest. “Please don’t take it.” I tried to keep my voice calm, steady, but cold fingers of panic slithered down my spine and shattered my composure.

  Quintin looked up at me, surprise flickering across his face.

  “It doesn’t hurt that bad,” I lied, scrubbing at the ruins of my left forearm. “I can handle it.”

  His brows knit, clearly dubious of my claim.

  “I’ll get better,” I promised, forcing the words through my throat. “I just have to get used to it.”

  Those pale eyes searched mine for a long moment, reading the pride and desperation that was surely painted across my features. I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my words from sounding like a plea, even if they were.

  “…I need it.”

  There it was again, that look that wasn’t quite pity but came horribly close. “You’ll get it back,” he reassured gently. “It merely needs some adjustment.”

  The adjustments turned out to be an exchange of a few layers of hardened leather for dense wool padding. Quintin drew out my convalescence, checking my arm daily. It took over a week for the bruises to subside, even with the pungent liniment Shera procured for me. Once the color had faded to an off-putting yellow hue and it was no longer painful to the touch, I was allowed to return to training.

  I poked at the new material packed between the hardened outer leather pads and the soft kidskin liner.

  “Just put it on,” Quintin grumbled from across the garden.

  The wool lining gave it a level of flex and comfort that made it almost pleasant to wear. I twisted it around every which way, glad to have it back.

  “The padding will allow you to use it more readily in combat, but it also means you won’t be able to block a heavy weapon like a two-hander or an axe.”

  “What am I supposed to do against those, then?”

  He fixed me with his stony gaze. “Run.”

  I balked. “Not very honorable.”

  “Someone of your stature and skill should not be facing a heavy weapon.”

  “Lazerins do not run.”

  “You will if you want to live.” When I refused to back down, he loosed a huff of blatant frustration. “We can work on some deflection drills. In the absurdly unlikely event that you find yourself in such a situation, the shield should hold up if you can use it more like a traditional buckler.”

  “Show me.”

  We spent the last weeks of winter drilling relentlessly each morning. The padding saved my arm, as did the shift in style. Instead of bracing against the full force of a strike, I practiced knocking my opponent’s weapon aside using the lobstered plate shield. It was a more fluid method, allowing for continuous movement and requiring significantly less strength. I was able to take advantage of my talent for good timing, a skill I’d developed quickly when learning to shoot from the saddle. Quintin seemed pleased with my improvement, and I felt more and more in control each day.

  When the weather began to turn and the garden started to green, another invitation arrived from the palace. The King and Queen invited us, along with every other noble in Litheria, to celebrate the spring equinox with a hunt and subsequent feast. The event was two weeks away. As I’d predicted, my father had already arranged for his return to Laezon. Missives had come and gone between the city manor and our rural estat
e, and there was some disagreement on studding rights that required his intervention. My mother and I would stay to represent the family at the festivities and then follow shortly after.

  A note from Adrian arrived the same day, inviting me to the Greyshor. After an involuntary spike of fear, I penned my acceptance and set the date for the following evening.

  “You’re not seriously going back there,” Aubrey protested after our lesson that afternoon.

  “I can’t be afraid forever,” I pointed out.

  “You could have been killed!”

  “I’ll have a proper escort this time,” I countered, and immediately regretted the words. They suggested Quintin was less than sufficient, and he’d done the job capably.

  “See that you do. And for my sake, watch your consumption!” he scolded.

  “I’ll behave myself, I promise.”

  Satisfied, he collapsed into a plush chair near me. “Now, on to more pressing matters.” Leaning forward in his seat, he set his sly gaze on me and steepled his fingers. “Agorai.”

  I rolled my eyes, head lolling dramatically. “Not this again.”

  “Do you truly not yearn for one last gasp of freedom before you sell yourself into servitude for the rest of your days?”

  I laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to it if that was what I expected from this marriage.”

  “Still, soon you’ll be ordering your own household about with toddling children clinging to your skirts. Don’t you want something more for yourself first?”

  “Like what.”

  He threw his arms wide, eyes glittering. “Adventure!”

  “I’ve had adventure in my life, Aubrey.”

  He waved his hand dismissively at me. “Crawling in the mud at the garrison for a few months hardly counts. Besides, that was years ago. You’re overdue for another scandalous escapade.” Eyeing his wine glass, he changed tactics. “I’m going either way, but I’d much rather have you with me. Who knows what trouble I may find myself in without your worldly guidance?” I glared at him, and he pouted back. “Who will help me pick the lice from my hair? Teach me to re-stuff my mattress with straw? Show me the most efficient way to empty a chamber pot?”

  I threw a nearby pillow at him as we laughed.

  “Will you truly not let this go?” I begged.

  He lifted his chin obstinately. “Not a chance.”

  When I was sure he wouldn’t budge, I sighed my resignation. “Fine. I’ll ask. But I doubt they’ll agree.”

  Since my father was departing the next morning, my hand was forced and I had to broach the topic with them at dinner that evening.

  “To Elas?” my mother exclaimed in disbelief.

  “To Agorai. To the university,” I clarified. “It would only be for a year, and Aubrey so desperately wants my company.” Perhaps if I shifted it more onto his shoulders, they might more readily agree. Or so I hoped.

  My father was clearly not in favor of the idea. “You are betrothed to another man, Elivya. It would be unseemly.”

  “I will talk to Adrian,” I assured. “He’ll understand. He knows Aubrey holds no designs on me.”

  “This is all very last-minute,” Mother commented unhappily.

  “Surely he has other friends that could accompany him,” Father protested. “What about that Therus lad he’s always hanging around? Leon. Or Ignatus’ boy? He seems the type to enjoy a year of study.”

  I shook my head. “Leon is apprenticing at an apothecary and Mateo is too young to attend the university.”

  “Surely there are others,” he insisted.

  “I am his best and closest friend, and he has asked for my help.” I kept my voice as diplomatic as possible. “I didn’t want him to go at all, but he insists, and I’d much rather he didn’t go alone.”

  My parents regarded each other for a long moment before my mother gave voice to their silent accord.

  “We will discuss it and give you an answer in the morning.”

  I tossed and turned in my sheets that night, unable to sleep with the next year of my life hanging undecided. Surrendering in frustration, I slipped barefoot from my room and down the hall to my parents’ study. The house was dark and empty so late at night, but lamplight glowed through the crack in the door. I inched my way silently up to the frame, leaning as close as I dared to the opening while remaining carefully to the side of it, lest they catch sight of my shadow through the gap.

  “-could jeopardize her contract with the Van Dryns.” My father’s muffled voice hummed with disapproval.

  “I trust her to read Adrian well enough. She wouldn’t risk his affections, not even for Aubrey.”

  “Even so, surely the gossip would haunt her for years.”

  “You and I both know that gossip is less dangerous than what is coming. You’ve seen the reports from Makednos. They will be here within the year.”

  “Amenon will not stand for it.”

  “You cannot know that.” There was something unfamiliar in her voice – something I’d heard too often in my own these last months: fear.

  Silence followed, and I worried I would have to make a quick retreat, but I heard no sounds of movement.

  “What do you suggest, then?” My father’s voice again, somewhat resigned.

  “Let her go. She will be safer in Elas than here. If things take a turn for the worse, she can remain there.”

  “Elas is closer to Persica than we are.”

  I heard her hair rustle against her gown as she shook her head. “They won’t press Agorai. Not yet. Not until they’ve eliminated her allies.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s what I would do.” She paused. He must not have looked convinced, because she added, “And it’s what my contacts have told me.”

  An exasperated sigh tore from him “We talked about this-”

  “I know what you said,” she cut in sharply. “But I am what I am, Damien. And now, more than ever, I’m glad I didn’t listen. Something is coming. Something far worse than the War.”

  I startled in my hiding spot in the hall. The War of Crowns had lasted three long, bloody years and left scars across all of Alesia.

  “And if you’re wrong?” Father asked quietly.

  “Let’s hope I am. But if I’m not, I’d rather she be far from here.”

  Sounds of movement spurred my retreat back down the hallway and I returned to my room, heart racing.

  What could be worse than war? What is coming?

  When Quintin and I made our disheveled appearance at the breakfast table the next morning, I was practically squirming in my sparring woolens. I forced myself to focus on my meal and not be the first to press the matter. I could wait. I had been trained to patience, even if it hadn’t been my easiest lesson. Finally, it was my father who broached the subject.

  “Your mother and I have discussed your request,” he began. My eyes shot up from my plate to meet his, stern and stormy green in his weathered face. “Provided you obtain the Van Dryns’ blessing, you have our permission to accompany Aubrey to Agorai. You will spend a year of study at the university there, and then return to fulfill your duties to this House and your future husband. Is that clear?”

  Shera flashed me an excited grin from her seat down the table, but my own enthusiasm was hampered by the foreboding of the previous night’s revelations.

  “Thank you,” I breathed, smiling broadly.

  “You must, of course, be attended by a proper escort. We’ll not have you wandering a foreign city unprotected.” Father glanced from me to Quintin, who was all but frozen in his seat to my left, before turning to gesture at his other two armsmen, seated at the far end of the table. “Gabe and Preston will accompany you-”

  Two voices protested at once in a jumble of unintelligible noise. One was my own, an incredulous “What? No!” escaping my lips before I knew I’d formed the words. It took me a moment to realize it was Quintin who had prov
ided the second. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on my father, jaw tight and the barest hint of concern peeking through his careful mask. My parents blinked at us in confusion, the two guardsmen doing their utmost to not look offended.

  “I would be more comfortable-” I began.

  “My lord, if I may-” he started simultaneously.

  “I find myself surprised.” Father overrode us both, irritation laid plain in his voice. “Both of you have made it clear to me on several occasions how burdensome your assignments have been.”

  “Nevertheless, my lord,” Quintin replied. “I must ask you to reconsider.”

  “You are not the only capable sword in this House. Gabe and Preston are excellent soldiers.”

  “They are, my lord. Just not the right ones.”

  The room was silent as my father’s displeasure mounted like a storm cloud over the table. His penetrating gaze shifted to me. “And what have you to say on the matter?”

  I swallowed hard, my voice trembling meekly. “I would be more at ease with my current detail.” I’d not even considered that Father might send anyone else besides my surly Tuvrian guardian. The thought of spending a year in an unfamiliar city under someone else’s watch filled me with inexplicable terror. Quintin could protect me. I had seen it. He carried faces for me, and I had no doubt he’d take on more for my sake without hesitation.

  I couldn’t go without him. I also couldn’t explain to my father why that was so, so I forced my voice to steady and grasped for a reasonable excuse.

  “I’ve only just begun to make progress with the Freyjan shield. Neither of them can teach me.” I nodded at my wheat-haired guardian. “He can.”

  My mother watched in silence as my father scrutinized us both. “Fine,” he eventually relented with a wave of his hand. “The detail is yours if you want it.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Quintin bowed from his seat.

  “Your mother will see to the particulars,” he dismissed the topic. “I’ve exhausted my patience with the matter.”

  After finishing the meal in silence, I followed Quintin out of the dining room, grabbing his arm to draw him up short.