The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  An ill king brings circling wolves, Torsten thought to himself. Uriah had spoken those words often at the first sign of the King’s waning mind.

  “A kingdom, as long as it rules over conquered peoples, will always have enemies,” Torsten said. “King Liam spent a lifetime spreading the word of Iam, but he can no longer speak. For all we know, the Shesaitju, Panpingese, or any countless others have already begun plotting.”

  “As if we don't have a strong enough army to thwart any uprising?” Oleander asked. “Has Yaolin City not been secured? Has the entire Panping Region not flown the Vigilant Eye for thirty years?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I am simp—”

  “Enough of this,” she said, waving her hand. “You know I hate politics.”

  It was true, she preferred to pry, and taunt, and seduce, and that was precisely what she was doing at the moment. She turned toward Torsten, applied a liberal amount of shimmer to her neck and collarbone, then reached down to lift the mask she would wear to the masquerade that night celebrating King Liam’s birthday. It was frosted white glass lightly adorned with a filigree of gold. She placed it against her face, her full lips still visible.

  “Do I look okay?” she asked, wearing a crooked smile.

  “My Queen,” he said. “You look perfect.”

  “Yes, yes,” she droned, pulling the mask away from her face.

  She strolled to her window and lifted a glass of wine with a stem so thin it was barely visible from the sill. She swirled the contents before taking a long pull. Again, her features twisted with concern.

  "Is it not true that the Prince hasn’t left his room since the orepul was stolen?” she said, turning back to Torsten, lips stained a deeper red.

  Torsten held his tongue again. This conversation with the Queen seemed endless. The doll didn’t hold a piece of the boy’s soul. It was ancient, Drav Cra hogwash that she too didn’t truly believe in. Pagan folklore that she’d happily forgotten until she needed something to blame beyond only her wretched brother.

  No, what Pi needed more than anything was faith in Iam. Torsten had seen that first hand, but he said nothing.

  "He grows old," she continued, "and hardly remembers why he is so sad. You speak of lost men, but can you stomach another king who cannot rule? My son is destined for the throne, and yet, he cannot sit upon it thanks to my rotten brother.”

  Oleander ambled toward Torsten, rising to the same height as him. All Drav Cra were tall and lean, but for a fleeting moment, he felt like she’d grown.

  “You will recover what was stolen from your beloved future king, or I will find a new Wearer who can,” she said.

  Torsten bowed as low as his armor would allow. “Yes, my Queen,” he said through his teeth. When she got like this, he knew it was best not to press.

  “Good. Now, leave me,” she demanded.

  Torsten turned toward the door.

  “And knight,” she said, stopping him. “Do not disappoint me.”

  He bowed again and exited her chambers.

  V

  THE THIEF

  Yarrington, the capital of the Glass Kingdom, practically sparkled like the waves on the Torrential Sea. Whitney could only guess that’s how the kingdom’s name was derived. It was a city that had stood the test of time, whose winding, spindly streets appeared in constant motion as people from all over Pantego went about their daily business. It was a city whose architecture proved the melding of these peoples—buildings with tall arches designed to allow giants passage, small homes bore into boulders for dwarves, but mostly those more appealing to humans.

  The towering, white walls surrounding it had helped it survive innumerable wars and sieges over the ages—at least until King Liam had established himself and conquered those threatening the peace.

  Mount Lister could be seen standing tall and proud from anywhere in the city. Anywhere, except the spot where Whitney found himself. From there, he could only see the gray, damp walls of a cell somewhere in the castle dungeons. He wondered why dungeon cells always had to be so dark. Motes of dust floated about, dancing in a thin ray of fading sunlight pouring in through a small, barred window set so high he could only see a slice of the sky. He wiggled his fingers, creating shadows on the dirty floor.

  “Ah, fresh meat,” said a voice from the darkness.

  Whitney had been listening to the old man snore from the adjacent cell for what seemed like an hour. He’d wondered when he’d wake up.

  “Hello, stranger,” Whitney said, applying his best impression of nobility.

  “A bit overdressed for a place like this, dun’t ye say?” The man stepped out of the darkness, his bony limbs creaking, shaking, and wobbling with each step. He wore a filthy, tattered, gray tunic like he’d just been draped with a sack. The few teeth he had left were yellow and thick with grime.

  “Prince Breynard of Gilly Gale,” Whitney said with a flourish. That was his go-to identity in times like these. Gilly Gale was the name of some forgotten stronghold at the base of the Dragon’s Tail, the mountains in the North where the dwarves dug their hollows. Whitney stumbled upon the ruins while running from an angry Breklian lord after he’d spent a night with the man’s favorite concubine. It was manned by a group of monks who worshipped a god they called the Lord of Eternal Silence. It was no wonder no one had heard of it, the crazy bastards had all taken a vow of silence.

  “Never heard of no Gilly Gale,” the man said.

  “Oh, it’s a beautiful land. Tall mountains, lush valleys. You know the sort.”

  A good lie was the very essence of thievery, and a lie was most easily told and believed when it was sprinkled with bits of truth. Whitney thought lying to be an art, not a skill, taking great pride in crafting his tall tales.

  “He ain’t a prince!” a guard shouted, voice distant and removed. A series of laughs followed.

  Whitney counted four distinct voices.

  He moved closer to the bars separating him from the geezer.

  “They’re right,” he whispered, looking around as if trying to keep a secret.

  The old man’s cackle turned into a wheeze, followed by a moist hacking. He almost fell over before finally recovering.

  “What’s your name, old man?” Whitney asked, casually leaning against the prison bars.

  In response, the man simply lowered himself to the hard stone floor. Whitney cringed when the man stretched his wiry legs, his aging bones popping. Old people were the worst. They smelled—their bodies half-decayed already. They were difficult to communicate with, always having trouble hearing.

  “Since you’re likely too old to hear me, allow me to be the first; my real name is Whitney Fierstown, perhaps you know the name?” It didn’t matter if a withering old prisoner knew the truth. He needed the man to trust him if he planned on getting out.

  The man cackled more. "I been in this cell longer than ye’ve been alive, boy. Every day passes I wonder why they ain’t hanged me yet. No, I never heard of ye.”

  He probably wasn’t exaggerating. He was ancient. Probably knew the Buried Goddess before she got buried.

  “How about a different question, then?” Whitney turned his back and took a few steps away before returning his gaze to the man. “What’s an old man like you done to deserve the cell?”

  The man eyed Whitney, his face beginning to soften if only for a moment. His eyes scrunched and his mouth curled into a snarl.

  “That’s two questions, ye biff,” he said. “I seen a hunnerd of ye come and go from these cells and not one of ye deserved to be here more than me.”

  “For all you know,” Whitney said, “I caused a riot and killed the Queen.”

  “Ye dun’t.”

  “That’s true, I didn’t.” Whitney smiled. “But I might've. Actually, all I did was steal one little gem.”

  Whitney pushed himself away from the bars and fell backward into a roll, head over feet until he was seated on the floor with his back against the wall.

  The old m
an stared at him but didn't seem the least bit fazed.

  The sun was beginning to set outside, the blue-purple light of night painting the cells the same color. Whitney settled against the wall with one leg propped up, arm on his knee, examining dirty fingernails.

  “So, ye dressed like a fruitcake?” the old man asked after a brief silence.

  “When in Old Yarrington… they say.”

  He looked down at the tattered hems of his pants and swore under his breath. It was all part of the plan to get into the King’s soiree, but he hadn’t counted on the sky unleashing a torrent worthy of the gods and his outfit getting completely ruined. When he escaped, he would have to find someplace to clean up if he was going to fit in at any masquerade—royal or no.

  The old man harrumphed and laid down on the bench that would be both seat and cot. Whitney rose and did the same. It was hard stone and completely unacceptable in terms of comfort, but Whitney had suffered more for less. After a while, he felt a familiar feeling in his stomach. He stood and strode toward the cell door.

  “Can I get a menu?” he shouted. “There a barmaid available?”

  No one answered.

  “Stew and mead, then,” he decided.

  “Ain’t time for eatin,” the old man said without stirring. “Ye missed the meal, and that’s that. Ye’ll have to wait till supper time.”

  Whitney sat again.

  “I don’t plan to still be here at supper time,” he said under his breath.

  “Neither did I me first day. Look at me now. Get comfortable, kid.” He cackled his way into a coughing fit once more.

  Whitney rolled his eyes and peered back through his tiny sliver of a window—his only connection to the outside world. For now.

  From his pocket, he pulled out a key he’d snagged off a guard on his way into the dungeons and rolled it between his thumb and index finger. Every cell across the world had two things in common, they left the promise of being free right there to drive men mad, and not one had ever been able to hold Whitney Fierstown for long.

  The Glass Crown was soon to be his.

  VI

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten stood at the opposite end of the Grand Hall, watching as Queen Oleander took her place beside King Liam on the dais. Once upon a time, the Nothhelm's were the picture of royalty. The Glass Throne stood as a monument to Liam's power, a tangible reminder of his accomplishments and deeds. They say that it was half the size when his father died in the First War of Panping and Liam the Conqueror was named king. Everything in the Glass Kingdom was half the size.

  The Queen’s throne, nearly as impressive, was elaborately decorated with glass flowers of her namesake. But it paled in comparison to the woman herself. She looked even more stunning in contrast to the decrepit King. It was a sad sight to behold. He’d been struck down in the prime of his life by a disease even the best of the realm’s physicians couldn’t name. Oleander had spared no expense, even bringing healers from as far as Panping to bring with them the wisdom of their lands. Still, nothing could heal the King.

  What remained of his hair was stringy and peeked out in thin wisps from below the Glass Crown. His amber eyes appeared to have life, but they stared blearily, his mouth hanging open, drool playing at the corners.

  Torsten ached for his once-mighty Lord. The days he’d spent at Liam’s side were his best; first wearing the mail of a Glass soldier and then, donning light blue and white of the King's Shield. Now, he was Wearer of White—King Liam's personal sentry and the kingdom's most respected military authority outside of the King himself.

  He’d watched the King’s steady decline and had been there with Uriah when the King was still cognizant enough to question it all.

  “What’s happening to me, Uriah?” Liam’s voice was still strong in those days—now he didn’t possess one at all.

  “It will pass,” Uriah would lie to him, told him it was probably from stress over desiring a worthy heir or a dalliance in one of the faraway lands they’d conquered.

  Then and now, Torsten’s most important job was to keep the King safe and alive. It wouldn’t be long before both his and Uriah's failures were complete. There was sadness in King Liam's golden eyes, and by order of the Queen, this would not be an evening for tears. She reached out from her throne and adjusted his Glass Crown, which had drooped at some point along with his face. Torsten sighed, turning his attention from Liam before it drowned him in sorrow.

  With the King’s condition, these types of events were nerve-wracking. So many within an arm’s length of mead and striking distance of the Notthelms, and all of them in disguise.

  Sir Wardric Jolly, the King’s Shieldsman posted closest to the entrance, raised his left arm in a purposeful gesture meant for Torsten. Torsten knew the signals; he’d helped Uriah develop them. Torsten responded by scratching the stubble on his chin. Another noble with violent history with the kingdom had arrived. That made Iam knows how many.

  The Grand Hall filled to near capacity, the whole of the Yarrington court there to celebrate the King’s fiftieth year—although he looked a hundred. Lords and ladies pranced around, their faces covered by masks. Torsten thought it was a perfect picture of the kingdom’s most noble houses. Glass faces for a Glass Kingdom.

  They were schemers and sycophants. Half of them came from kingdoms forced to bend the knee at the tip of a sword. Others did so preemptively before Liam brought the wrath of Iam to their doorsteps. In those days, when he arrived at a kingdom’s wall, the Vigilant Eye of Iam painted on his shield, it was either kneel or have your entire history erased.

  Torsten wasn’t sure what would happen when King Liam died and the crown passed to Pi. He was too young to begin with, and far too troubled to rule effectively—not to mention a blasphemer—meaning Oleander would be the true power in Yarrington. Every morning Torsten woke, he could feel Pantego growing smaller. He could taste the coming battle on his tongue like blood after being on the wrong end of a hard punch. Would those conquered peoples remain loyal to the Glass or would they renounce the grace of Iam as Pi seemed to? Would the Shesaitju, or Panping, or whoever else return to their heathenistic ways?

  Arriving musicians tuned their instruments on a makeshift stage in the center of the hall, pulling Torsten from his worry. Above them hung a grand, glass chandelier adorned with hundreds of little flames, their light being cleverly magnified and spread throughout the room using the glass and mirrors.

  Watching the servants scurrying around like ants was almost like watching a dance performance in one of the city's finest playhouses. They weaved in and out between the guests, stopping to offer drinks or lavish foods. Torsten had often fantasized about being one of those nameless servants. An anonymous face in the crowd, only noticed if performing poorly. How could one perform such a mundane task poorly? He wanted desperately at times like this to be able to wake in the morning, put on servant’s attire like he was destined to before King Liam knighted him, then clean, bake, or sew without a worry for anything but coin.

  The thought shamed him. He knew he should be eternally grateful to Liam for raising him up.

  He was just tired. Tired of lying awake at night fearing for the fate of the Glass Kingdom, wondering what would happen when it no longer had a king.

  Queen Oleander may have ensnared the masses with her appearance, but she made decisions rashly and based upon emotion, not rationale. It was the savage, Drav Cra blood in her. She’d all but ignored the kingdom’s Royal Council since Liam lost his ability to communicate, and she hadn't even been crowned Queen Regent yet.

  Taxes had gone up to finance extravagant parties like this, designed to pretend all was right with the kingdom. A drought, unlike any Torsten could remember, had food stores lower than ever, and in light of rumors that the Shesaitju had refused full payment on the year’s taxes, the army was restless. Oleander didn’t seem to notice any of it. All she concerned herself with was her son’s worthless, lost doll.

  Growing frustration had T
orsten’s mind racing, making it difficult to concentrate but the soft flow of music starting up soothed him a bit.

  Couples circled one another, eyes locked and chests inflated like birds flashing their colors for potential mates. A lute played melodious and fast. Cymbals crashed, a crescendo. He watched one couple in particular as they moved with the music. It always amazed Torsten how much a good dance mimicked battle. She advanced, he retreated, then they switched roles, never breaking eye-contact, always mindful of footing. Torsten was no dancer, but you’d have to sail across the Torrential Sea to find anyone who hadn’t heard of his skill with a sword.

  His eyes wandered around the Grand Hall to all the other nobles. No one acted as though this was a night for the King, least of all Queen Oleander. She sat quietly, her many ringed fingers tapping in time with the music. Her gaze momentarily drifted to Liam. Torsten saw something in her eyes but couldn’t place it. Pity? Sorrow? Relief? In public, she played the role of adoring wife to the man who stole her from her homeland and forced her to marry him, but in private they argued often. Especially after she took so long to produce an heir.

  Torsten had been at the King’s side that day—little more than a young man himself when they traveled to the far north, across Winter’s Thumb, to the place where the nomadic Drav Cra roamed. Their boats were legendary—even mythological—sailing Ice Deep and the Torrential Sea, raiding and pillaging to survive. Nomads and pirates, their lands were too hard with frost to offer much in the way of resources, and most civilized men had long since fled those wastes.

  Liam sought to conquer all of Pantego in the name of Iam, but even he was ready to turn from those harsh lands until he spotted the young daughter of the powerful Ruuhar Clan dradinengor, long before she’d bled. The moment the young King laid his eyes upon Oleander, he had to have her as his queen despite a kingdom of right-born women from which to choose. Her father protested, fought, but when Liam had something in his sights, no army could stand in his way.