The Seer and the Sword

by Victoria Hanley

‘No. I need to sleep.’

  The darkness seemed alive, pressing on her. Goblin shapes glided round her bed, hissing at her, gibbering evilly, a reverberating sound that bounced endlessly through her room. The lonely queen feared her reason was undone for ever. As a demon form sat on her chest, squeezing her life, she began to wish for death.

  A terrible thought occurred to her. What if Torina had also been drugged? What if her daughter was visited by these hellish visions? Would it be enough to impel the girl to stab out her life? Perhaps Vesputo told the truth.

  ‘No,’ Dreea whispered. The demon grinned and devoured the rest of her breath.

  She prayed to God for help, asking for a sign that her daughter lived.

  All night she was mocked and menaced by grotesque forms. It seemed each one seized a piece of her soul and ran about the room with it, cackling in glee. She tried to call back the scavenged parts of herself. But all seemed cut apart, deformed, despairing. And always, the paralysing doubt followed her; Torina could be dead.

  Near dawn, Dreea lay in a pool of sweat, her water pitcher empty, heart hammering a litany of exhausted fear. She was sure death would come soon, that her heart would simply cease to beat. She had given up praying. Her body was turned towards the curtained window.

  A pink shaft of light penetrated. The distraught queen focused on the ray of sun, clinging to it like a frightened child will hold its mother’s hand. Someone was walking into the room on that beam of light. Torina. The girl’s luminous eyes held her mother. She raised an arm. The gambolling demons gathered into a raucous ball, shrivelled up and vanished.

  ‘Live,’ the vision said. ‘You must live!’

  ‘Yes,’ Dreea vowed. ‘Yes. I’ll never drink it again.’

  The apparition faded. Dreea threw off her blankets. She groped for the window. Fluttering hands reached for the wide dawn.

  ‘I’m alive,’ she told the sun. ‘And so is Torina.’

  Later, a serving woman came. Dreea knew her; Amile. A kindly, simple-minded woman. Dreea confided she was hungry and Amile was glad to bring lunch. As the queen ate, some of the trembling left her hands. She drank another pitcher of water. Amile helped her bathe and dress. The queen called for a mirror.

  The reflection startled her. Her hair was completely white. Purple circled her eyes. Amile braided her hair and wound it round her head, then added the simple coronet Dreea preferred. All the time, the queen sat lost in thought.

  She was carried to the cemetery in a litter. The closed coffin, decked with dried flowers, sat near. She was among the first mourners to arrive. Vesputo was there, wearing Kareed’s crown. With flawless courtesy, he assisted her to a chair. A few others stood near, Emid among them.

  The trainer bowed over her hand. She took his rough, scarred fingers, thinking that he, too, had aged many years in a few months.

  ‘Stay close to me, Emid, please,’ she said. ‘It does me good to see you, on this dark day.’ She looked into his eyes, searching for a sign of willingness to speak her code. He met her gaze. Her frazzled heart smiled as he took a place by her chair.

  ‘Vesputo,’ she said calmly.

  ‘My queen.’

  ‘Vesputo, as I had no chance to say goodbye to my daughter, please, open the coffin before the other mourners arrive. Let me see her face.’

  There was hardly a flicker of alarm on that smooth, handsome face. ‘Out of the question, madam. The sight is too horrible and you are too frail.’

  From the corner of her eye, Dreea observed Emid standing rigid, scarcely breathing. She closed her eyes to hide the fierce surge of hope in her heart. Vesputo had answered. She was convinced. It was not her daughter’s body in that coffin.

  Whose then? And where was Torina?

  It seemed to Dreea that in only a few moments, a thousand soldiers surrounded her. They were everywhere, a dark mass of Archeldan green. Did Vesputo have so much power, then? These were all young men, and she didn’t remember their faces.

  ‘Ah, my lord, perhaps you know best.’ She saw him relax. ‘I must be ruled by you.’

  He took her hand. ‘Madam, your wisdom is an inspiration.’

  ‘Vesputo.’ She lowered her voice, but not enough for Emid not to overhear. ‘I need your protection.’

  ‘Protection, madam?’

  ‘Someone has been drugging me.’

  She had startled him. ‘Drugging you, madam? In the castle? Surely not.’

  She leaned in nearer. ‘I believe it’s that woman, Irene. The one who brings my cordial at night.’

  ‘How can this be?’

  ‘Believe me, sir. It’s the only explanation. My mind has been crowded with grief, but I would never forget my God.’ She was speaking to Emid, hoping he heard.

  ‘My dear queen, I’ll do everything in my power.’

  ‘Thank you, Vesputo. I knew I could trust you. Please send for Mirandae to attend me. And ask Emid to recommend a guard. I’ll need a doctor too.’

  ‘Certainly. You have only to ask.’ His face was a cold, dangerous mask.

  ‘Now that my family is dead,’ Dreea told him, ‘I wish to withdraw from public life. As you know, it’s never interested me. I’ll weave, and visit the poor. The kingdom is safe in your hands. Remember, you can’t be too careful. I suggest you hire a taster for yourself.’

  ‘I’ll consider it.’ The dangerous edge blunted.

  He went to greet important people. She turned to Emid, wanting to hold his steady arm. The trainer gave her the barest nod. She took a great, shivering breath and sank back in her cushions, tears of relief welling.

  Dreea listened to her daughter’s memorial. The crowd of mourners was enormous, most people racked with grief. Truell, the priest who gave the eulogy, was sometimes too overcome to speak. Poor man. He believed Torina was dead. They all thought she was gone.

  Dreea hugged to herself the belief that her daughter lived. But as the service continued, she was consumed with longing for the silver goblet. Sweat started out all over her. By the time the coffin was lowered, her strength was gone. She saw the people lining up to kiss her hand.

  ‘Emid,’ she said, tugging his sleeve. ‘I must go . . . take me home.’

  She saw the shock on his face, felt the welcome power of his arms, heard his great voice summoning help. Boys herded round her; a man with a kind face felt her pulse, patting her back. She was lifted into the litter.

  Vesputo was there, ordering every care be given her, urging the people to return home, as the queen was ill.

  Alone in the king’s rooms, Vesputo paced, needing to think.

  Toban had given Dreea too much poison; nearly killed her. He was told to sedate her enough to miss the wedding. Now, due to her public allegations of being drugged (and Vesputo was sure more than one person had overheard her) it was no longer possible to continue with the charade of slowly diminishing health.

  Vesputo swore to himself. A few more months would have accomplished her death, quietly. What was he to do? The people loved their gentle queen. If she died now, rumours would start and questions be asked. Too many questions could lead to civil war, a bad beginning for a new king. Now was the time to consolidate his power, not fight for it.

  Did Dreea know her influence? What would have happened if she’d insisted he open the coffin?

  ‘How I’d love to kill her,’ he told the fire.

  But this queen never desired power, even when it was given to her. In the great game of life, she was a queen but she didn’t know it herself. A queen behaving like a pawn.

  He summoned Toban. ‘You gave too much! I didn’t want a public spectacle!’

  ‘Sorry, my lord. Her constitution must be more delicate than I gauged.’

  ‘Ah. Will she live? Without your ministrations? For you must never go near her again. Whoever tends her must not trace you to me.’

  ‘I agree. Without the drugs, sir, she’ll be ill for a while, but should recover. Faben is said to be a fine physician. Have you decided to let her live, then?’<
br />
  ‘Don’t be crude, Toban. Yes, I have. She’s only a woman, and does nothing but mouth prayers and weave tapestries. Because of what happened today, if she dies now, it could bring me difficulties. As it is, I must find a way to answer the charge of drugs in the castle.’

  Vesputo stared at the fire, looking for a solution. At last, he smiled.

  ‘I’ll tell everyone we’ve discovered that Irene was an accomplice of Landen’s, that they wanted to kill the whole royal family; that Irene may have given Torina drugs, weakening her mind and causing her to take her own life.’

  Toban looked at Vesputo with admiration.

  ‘I executed Irene in a grieving rage,’ Vesputo continued. He cocked an eyebrow. ‘That will explain her disappearance.’

  Chapter Ten

  In the kingdom of Desante, sixteen-year-old Lindsa scattered scraps for the chickens. The clucking birds pecked greedily, scurrying about in the chilly air.

  Lindsa’s eyes wandered to the trees growing up the mountainside. She wondered again why her parents had chosen to build right up against the foothills. True, as they said, they didn’t get unwelcome visitors here. But then, they didn’t get welcome visitors either.

  Lindsa lived for the days when she made the long walk to the village to sell produce and barter supplies. She’d stay all afternoon, laughing and talking. Sometimes she even caught a glimpse of King Ardesen’s soldiers and tried out her smile on them. But, here at home, nothing ever happened. Nothing but beans and squash and chickens.

  The sinking sun was turning the air colder. Lindsa strewed the last of the feed.

  She caught a faint movement in the trees. She squinted through the early dusk. Sometimes animals made their way near, and Lindsa loved animals. She set her basket down and went closer to the woods.

  A ragged boy staggered out of the trees. He wore odd shoes, and trousers that looked foreign. He was wrapped in old blankets. The amber light of sunset lit glazed eyes; his skin was flushed. He seemed to be trying to speak, but only a weak croak came from his cracked lips. He fell in front of Lindsa, crumpling completely.

  Lindsa ran for the house, calling her mother. Anna hurried out, kneeling beside the stranger. He lay face down. Anna turned his body, putting her hand on his forehead.

  ‘Mercy! The poor thing’s burning up with fever!’ Her homely face was full of pity.

  ‘Where did he come from?’ Lindsa asked.

  Anna was examining the thin figure. ‘This ain’t no boy,’ she said.

  ‘Not a boy?’

  ‘Help me get her inside. She’s near dead, poor love.’

  Mother and daughter lifted the feather-light stranger and carried her into a bedroom. They removed her damp clothes, proving that indeed she was no boy. They dressed her in one of Lindsa’s shifts. Anna bustled about, feeding the fire and making warm broth. Then she gathered the wasted wanderer into her ample lap, spooning broth into the fevered mouth.

  ‘Rest easy now, rest easy,’ she crooned. ‘You’re safe.’

  Lindsa took in the girl’s straggly, cropped red hair. Under it, her features were delicate but strong, her cheeks thin.

  ‘She doesn’t see us, Ma.’

  ‘No, poor child. Too far gone with fever.’

  Anna tucked the stranger into bed, piling quilts round her.

  ‘Will she live?’ Lindsa asked anxiously.

  ‘Well, no one knows what God may do. I don’t believe she came to us only to die. But we must work to save her. She can do no more for herself, that much is plain. Look how starved she is. That ain’t the work of one day. We must feed her the broth every hour all night, and keep her warm. The fever’s hot, but she’s no more heat to spare.’

  ‘Where’s she from, Ma? Her clothes – why would she be dressed like a boy, with hair like that?’

  ‘You can see it’s only just cut. Must have been lovely. She’s on the run, and who would she be running from but some man?’

  Lindsa took one of the girl’s hands. ‘Do you think so now? How romantic!’

  ‘Humph. Lucky to have found us.’

  ‘How long her fingers are.’ Lindsa chafed them, looking at the girl’s burning face.

  ‘This ain’t no common girl. This one has spirit.’ Anna sponged the hot head.

  Lindsa picked up the foreign clothes. ‘Shall I wash them, Ma?’

  ‘May as well.’

  Lindsa folded the rough trousers. There was a bulge in one of the legs. She put her hand in the pocket and pulled out a small purse of fine velvet.

  ‘Look, Ma!’ She held it out.

  Anna clicked her tongue. ‘What did I say? This ain’t no ordinary stray cat we have here. Well, open it, maybe it tells who she is.’

  Lindsa felt inside the velvet. She pulled out a large crystal globe. It sparkled deep in the middle, like a diamond would. Lindsa put it in the strange girl’s hand. She held it close and sighed.

  ‘You see, I have the crystal again.’ Her accent was as pure as a fine lady.

  Lindsa brought out a handful of polished red stones.

  ‘Ma?’ She poured them into Anna’s palm.

  Anna stared at the brilliant jewels, running her thumb over their shining surfaces. ‘Rubies,’ she breathed. ‘Lindsa, each of these could feed us for years.’ She looked sharply at her daughter. Lindsa sat entranced, staring from the gems to the girl on the bed.

  Early on a bitter morning, Captain Hadnell’s soldiers were summoned to the central tent of their barracks. As Landen walked across the adjoining field, freezing wind cut into his face. The young men assembled into rows.

  ‘I have news,’ Hadnell announced. ‘A new tragedy on our western neighbour, Archeld.’

  Landen’s eyes fixed on the captain, his heart hurtling.

  ‘As you remember, Archeld’s King Kareed was murdered over two months ago.’ The captain’s voice rose across the heads of the soldiers. ‘Kareed had only one child, a daughter, Torina. She was betrothed to Commander Vesputo. After a period of mourning, she married him.’

  Landen caught himself in a gasp. He tried to tame his wild breath. Torina married to Vesputo? Was it possible?

  ‘Tragically,’ his captain went on, ‘she died by her own hand soon after the wedding, having never recovered her senses after the loss of her father. Vesputo is now king of Archeld without her.’

  Landen clutched the hilt of his sword as if it could support him. Died by her own hand? Never recovered her senses!

  Captain Hadnell droned on, but the young man in the second row did not hear him. Died. Dead? She was dead? His heart battled with the news; denying, denying.

  No, she would never kill herself. She wouldn’t marry her father’s killer. It’s all wrong, a false story, a political lie. Vesputo must have forced her to marry him, then killed her.

  But that meant she was dead. She was dead! Landen stood shaking in his place, fighting for air. He’d never known with such indelible certainty that he loved Torina. He realized that he’d hoped with eternal, groundless faith, that someday their futures would join.

  He struggled to believe she must be still alive, imprisoned or even escaped. The girl he knew had the capacity to outdo Vesputo. But then he remembered her wan, lost look at their last meeting. Since then, she’d endured the murder of her father and an odious marriage. Landen shuddered. If she saw no way out, would it be like her to take her own life?

  His arms went rigid. He was seized with the urge to ride to Archeld, find Vesputo, demand the real story. He must know. He must.

  ‘. . . the chaos of a new king and shocked population has changed our relations with Archeld,’ Captain Hadnell was saying. ‘The borders will be heavily guarded and patrolled.’

  For the first time in Landen’s life, he wanted to tear into someone, anyone. He looked straight ahead, sure that if he met a man’s eyes he would strike.

  Dead. He knew Archeldan customs. A thousand people must have seen her married; thousands more witnessed her burial. Despicable deceiver though he was, Vesput
o could never stage such a thing without her body. She was surely dead.

  Landen’s breath took forever to draw in and out. A light-headed tingle rang in his ears. He concentrated hard on breathing, watching as if from far off as his body strove to keep upright.

  Somehow he managed to stay in formation until the men were dismissed to their duties. From a dazed, freezing distance, he went through the motions of his tasks. When others spoke to him, their words floated in on a slow, lifeless tide. His speech back to them was borne off by the same dull current. He didn’t know if his mates noticed; did not care. By evening, his arms and legs felt impossibly heavy. He turned in as early as allowed, lying exhausted on his bunk.

  In the night, he woke with tears on his cheeks. He stumbled outside without a coat. As he looked up, it seemed to him the stars ought to fall out of the sky. But there they were, serene and quiet, bright points in the quilt of darkness.

  One I love is taken from me.

  We will never walk together over the fields of earth,

  Never hear the birds in the morning.

  Oh, I have lived with you and loved you

  And now you are gone away,

  Gone where I cannot follow

  Until I have finished all my days.

  He stayed out for a long while, until the tears froze on his face.

  The next day he sought out Captain Hadnell to find what was required to participate in the Desan Games, where soldiers fought criminals to the death.

  Torina heard soft words. Her lids opened. She knew at once she had lost some time. Where was she? How did she get off the cold mountainside, into this warm place?

  Two women stood near, talking in low voices. Torina raised one of her hands. It was little more than bone within skin.

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked.

  The older woman, the one with a face as comforting as the quilts that cosied Torina’s body, gave her an eager look.

  ‘Is it you? Are you talking?’

  Torina pulled against her pillows, trying to sit up. ‘Where is this?’

  ‘Lindsa, she knows her mind!’ exclaimed the motherly woman. The younger sat down beside the bed.

  ‘This is our farmhouse,’ the dark-haired girl answered, taking one of Torina’s thin hands.