The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I wouldn’t have killed them all,” she mumbled. She wasn’t sure if she believed those words, which frightened her. She could feel that tingle of energy on her arm and hand again, pulsing in her blood. Even the Shesaitju who came to her defense. She wasn’t sure what she would have done.

  “I’ll believe that when you tell me how you beat Redstar,” Whitney said.

  She had no response. Torsten thought what happened when she released enough energy to stop the Arch Warlock was the work of Iam. She thought maybe she’d drawn on Bliss' godly blood. But the spider’s corpse had been meters away from her, and neither she nor Wetzel had ever been able to draw on any blood but their own before.

  “Exactly,” Whitney said.

  “Did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That they were the kind of men who’d do... that... to me.”

  Whitney swallowed the lump in his throat. “All I knew was that they were thieves and cowards,” he said.

  A smirk played at the corners of her lips. “You’re a thief, and if I remember the woods correctly, you yelp like a coward.”

  “But I do it with style! That bastard dwarf challenged me to steal the crown, then swiped it during the attack and fled. I am many things Sora, but you should have seen me fighting off Black Sandsmen until the Glass soldiers arrived to save the day.”

  “Didn’t they arrest you?”

  “Which time?”

  They shared a laugh, and Sora felt the itch of tension fading. It was the same every time he did something wrong. She’d scold him, and then a few wisecracks later and he’d have her smiling and forgetting why exactly she’d been so angry. Not this time.

  She leveled her gaze at him until he had no choice but to make eye contact. “If you ever lay me out like fresh meat again, Whitney Fierstown—”

  “Blisslayer,” he corrected. Her scowl stole the color from his cheeks.

  “If you ever do that again, I’ll burn your hands so deep you’d never steal another thing. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Whitney circled his eye with one finger. “I swear to Iam and all the fallen gods. Never again.” She kept her lips straight and continued staring until finally, he frowned. “I didn’t think it would go that far. I promise.”

  Sora exhaled through her teeth. “It’s okay. We’ll consider using my assets one of your more forgettable lessons.”

  “You just have to keep working at it.”

  “Forget it.”

  He smirked, then leaned back and made himself comfortable. “Oh, Sora, we’ll make a thief out of you yet.”

  “Yeah…”

  She stared off into the distance where a watchtower rose over an outcrop of rock, and the road twisted back around toward a colossal stone bridge crossing the gorge. The columns and arches supporting it sank into the shadow of the rift. Others sprung out from anchors in the snow-covered rock. It made the old wooden bridge crossing Troborough’s portion of the Shellnak River seem like a plaything. She didn’t even know man could build such a wonder, yet here she was, growing further and further from the home she knew with every second.

  “So, that’s the bridge to Panping?”

  “Yeah. Older than the Glass Kingdom itself. Dwarves built it… I think.”

  “And why aren’t we crossing it?”

  “It’s a long way to Yaolin City and the roads are filled with things worse than Grint Strongiron. Like I’ve said, it’ll be a quick ride down to Winde Port. We’ll sell the silks and whatever else is back there, buy passage on the first ship to Yaolin City, and be there in half the time.”

  “What about the crown? I bet we could purchase our own ship with that.”

  He looked at her, appalled. The last time she’d seen him appear so concerned about anything was right before he delved into Bliss' lair, which meant this wasn’t just one of his games.

  “So, that really did belong to the late king?” she said.

  “Plucked it off his holy head.”

  “Then you might want to consider hiding it.” She gestured to the watchtower standing proudly on their side of the bridge where the road bent south. Another waited on the other side, blue and white banners of the Glass Kingdom draped from the tops. Archers waited on the walls, and more soldiers stood at the base. They searched another wagon waiting to pass.

  Whitney sprung upright. He yanked the crown from his head, looked at her, then back at it.

  “You’re right,” he said. “If they recognize this we’re dead.”

  “Recognize what? I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “Very funny. Slow down.” Whitney crawled into the wagon and dug through a pile of fine silk blankets, wrapping the half-crown in one.

  “You better hurry up!”

  Sora snapped on the reins, and the jolt sent him tumbling into the back of the carriage.

  “Sora!” he yelped. He lost the crown in the pile of sheets and scrambled to find it. She couldn’t help but chuckle as she noticed the great Whitney Blisslayer beginning to sweat. It was the least he deserved for almost getting her killed just to get the relic back, after all. And if she was stuck with him on this journey to see the world and the home of her ancestors for the very first time, she was done doing everything on his terms.

  III

  THE KNIGHT

  It was no easy task, repairing the Royal Crypt after an earthquake split the ceiling, leaving a zigzagging gash down the base of Mount Lister. Canvas and wooden scaffolding covered it, but snow flurries still found their way in where pilgrims and worshippers tried to peak in at the site of Iam’s latest miracle.

  The entire wall, which once housed the caskets of Liam Nothhelm and his son, Pi, had ruptured. And so, Liam’s corpse was placed off to the side, coin-covered eyes staring up through the lid of his glass sarcophagus. The casket beside his was empty, fractured by the quake before Pi stumbled out that fateful night.

  “Lord Wearer?” the dwarven foreman said.

  Dwarven artisans were summoned to perform the repairs, for they alone possessed the skills to undertake such a task quickly. The tunnels were older than the castle, older even than the Glass itself having been dug thousands of Dawnings before humans migrated south from the Drav Cra tundra.

  Torsten’s focus was so lost between the remains of his great king and the site of Pi’s rebirth, he barely registered the dwarf’s words. As a Hand of Iam, he was not one to question the one true God, but he couldn’t stifle the questions echoing around in his head over the last weeks.

  Why not Liam? Why not both of them? Why him? Only him?

  He knew how horrid it was to think. No father should be forced to live in a world where his son had already passed, but the Glass Kingdom needed a leader—a true leader—now more than ever. The wolves were waiting to pounce, and once the wonder of Pi’s triumphant return to the realm of the living and subsequent coronation wore off, Torsten knew they would.

  The dwarf shook Torsten’s arm. “Me Lord.”

  “What?” Torsten snapped, too late to adjust his tone. He breathed deeply. “Apologies.”

  “Ain’t no matter, me Lord.” The dwarf pointed toward the heaviest bit of construction. The burly little dwarf’s beard drooped down to his belt, and his biceps were as wide as Torsten’s, even though he was a third his height. “Just lettin ye know we’re gonna need a bit of extra support in that sector. Struts be makin things uneven—”

  “Do what you must,” Torsten interrupted. “I just want this place closed in so nobody can disturb them.”

  “Aye. Bad luck disturbing the buried and the dead.”

  Torsten nodded.

  The dwarf didn’t leave, only shifted his weight to the other foot and scratched his head.

  “Was there something else?” Torsten asked.

  “It’s uh…. All this work's gonna take longer than expected.”

  “How much longer?”

  “A fortnight? Maybe three.
”

  “If you need more men, there are plenty of folk in South Corner who can use the coin. Trust me.”

  “Won’t help. With the mountain so damaged, we gotta work slow or risk cavin the whole yigging thing—excuse me words, Lord.”

  Torsten motioned for him to continue.

  “Then there’s matchin the architecture, and I tell ye, even we dwarves don’t build em like this no more. The stonework's impeccable.”

  Torsten ground his teeth. “The Crown hired your crew because you’re one of the best in the Dragon’s Tail.”

  The dwarf clicked his tongue. “The best willin to travel so far south to work on a crypt. Ye humans do love yer dead. We burn ours and give em to the air. Fires keep us warm and the demons away. Just bein round em gives me the willies.”

  Torsten bent to meet him face to face, knowing how much the dwarves hated being reminded of their stature. He grabbed him by the collar. “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he bristled. “You’re being paid handsomely. Get it done or we’ll find someone else who can.”

  The dwarf didn’t back down. “Ain’t no one better than dwarves, Glassman. And ain’t none of em other than me who’d be wantin to risk bein slung over a wall by the throat by the Queen Mother.”

  Torsten squeezed tighter, then decided better of it. He shoved him away. “Just get it done.”

  The dwarf bowed excessively low. “O’course, yer Highness. We won’t stop til the job’s done or yer coffers be dry.”

  “Dwarves,” Torsten grumbled. As he turned to leave, he thought he heard the foreman mutter something about ‘flower-pickers’ under his breath.

  The new Master of Masons, Leuvero Messier was instructed to find the best and Icarus deToit, the new Master of Coin, to pay whatever it took, but the new Royal Council lacked experience, among other necessary virtues. Of all those who’d served directly under Liam, only Torsten remained. The others had been dismissed, executed, or fled the Queen’s rage while he was off to the Webbed Woods.

  Even Uriah had to start somewhere, Torsten told himself.

  Being the Wearer wasn’t an easy job, and it wasn’t his place to question his station. Still, he longed for the days when Uriah wore the white helm, and the only worry was if news of the late king’s condition would leak beyond the castle walls. Things were simpler then.

  Instead, he now had business in the dungeons, facing one of those Royal Council members who’d fled and now returned. The warren of dwarven-built tunnels deepened and grew less ornately carved until it was no more than plain, efficiently stacked blocks of stone. Somehow, even the room full of corpses found a way to smell more pleasing.

  Torsten turned into the lower dungeons. Sir Nikserof stood with a torch before one of the cells. He noticed Torsten and struck his chestplate in salute.

  “Wearer, he’s in here,” he said. “They say he strolled right into the prefect's estate in Winde Port, begging for his old station back.” Torsten returned the salute. He wasn’t sure of the soldier’s name as he had traveled all the way from Winde Port.

  In the cell sat an older gentleman wearing fat mustache. He dressed like a noble because he was one.

  “Sir Unger!” the prisoner exclaimed. He jumped at the bars and poked his head into the opening. “There’s been some sort of mistake.”

  “No, Lord Darkings, there hasn’t been,” Torsten said. Yuri Darkings was the former royal Master of Coin, handler of finances. He had the tanned skin of a man from the great port city to the southeast, and no man knew more about the Yarrington coffers than he. “You abandoned your kingdom in its time of need.”

  “Oh please, Shieldsman,” he countered, his sense of nobility returning. “It was a matter of survival. Oh wait, you wouldn’t know. You were sent away before she’d really lost it.”

  “I did what I had to for the Glass.”

  “So did I. You think it would have helped anybody had I stayed and wound up hanged like Deturo and the others? Now we have some pimple-faced Royal Physician no good to anyone. Now let me out, and we can put all this behind us.”

  “Your role has already been filled.”

  “What, by some pup from the market district? One of my assistants? I was hand-picked by King Liam before his body failed. I never imagined how much I’d miss him being around.”

  Torsten didn’t want to voice his agreement, but his expression betrayed his thoughts. Yuri seemed to gain confidence in seeing he was getting through.

  “He kept me too busy to breathe with all his conquests,” Yuri said, “but at least those made sense.”

  “King Pi has returned,” Torsten said, mustering his most authoritative tone. “Everything is as it should be, yet I’m told you were in no rush to return. You would have been in Winde Port for a week or two before Prefect Calhoun says you walked through his doors.”

  “Would you have been scrambling to return here?”

  “Am I not here now?”

  Yuri sighed and backed away. “You’ve made your point, locking me away down here. But be smart, Sir Unger. I know what it takes to fund a war. I hear the rumors. I know what’s coming.”

  “I am merely a member of the Royal Council,” Torsten said. “I don’t decide who sits on it.”

  “Ah, but you have her ear.”

  “There is a new king now.”

  “Please, I may have just returned, but I have ears all over the city. I know the ‘Miracle King’ hasn’t spoken a word since he was returned to life, if that’s even what happened.”

  “It was. I was there.”

  “Relax. I’m not questioning anything these days. All I know is that everyone who disappointed Oleander wound up dead or down here, but all she did was kick you from the castle and onto some insane quest. Don’t be a fool, Unger. I can help, just as I have for decades.”

  “I’m sure you could. But how could we ever trust a man who’d abandoned his post?”

  “I hear the Caleef is visiting soon. I know exactly how much they owe us in delinquent taxes, how much they’ve been skimping since the late king’s condition became public. Down to the autla. And I know how much it costs to arm a Glass Soldier for war. Who is in charge now, deToit, my apprentice?” He laughed when Torsten’s face betrayed the answer. “He can barely grow a beard. You need me.”

  Torsten wanted to curse the man, but he knew he was right. As much as he loathed merchant-types with all their scheming and counting coins, men like Yuri were all that kept the Crown from drowning in debt. War was expensive, if it came to that, and another loan from the Iron Bank in Brotlebir was out of the question. Liam funded more than half his campaigns through them, paying the dwarves back when another foreign city was sacked and absorbed by the kingdom.

  Investing in Liam had been a smart decision, and his ability to settle debts had forged strong alliances with the dwarven kings, especially King Cragrock of Brike’s Hollow. Investing in the unpredictable Queen and a child, however; that was far riskier. The fact ever more proved by the quality of artisans willing to travel to Yarrington. In the days of Liam, dwarves would have fought one another for the chance to build something for him. Now they sent their leftovers.

  “Your reinstatement is not for me to decide,” Torsten said. “But I’ll speak with her.”

  “I suggest you do it fast. It’s never a good idea to be in a castle surrounded by strangers. You know me at least, and you know I know what I’m doing. Can you say the same for anyone else in the new Council?”

  “I said I’d talk to her.” He turned to Sir Nikserof. “See to it he is fed well and made comfortable during his time here.”

  “Sir.” Nikserof saluted.

  “We’re all that’s left, Torsten,” Yuri said as Torsten turned to leave. “We can’t let her mar Liam’s legacy any further before the boy is even old enough to lead.”

  Torsten grunted a response, then continued along. He knew Yuri only as well as he needed to, being that they served on the same Council for the last year, but he also knew the old dwa
rven saying that the demon you know is better than the demon you don’t. And Yuri was right. There was nobody in Yarrington better with money.

  Torsten reached the other end of the dungeons when he heard a cackle. The sound of it made his blood boil and his heart race.

  “My, my. My dear sister really has made a mess of things,” Redstar said through the metal mask covering his face to keep him from drawing blood with his teeth. All that was visible beyond it were his dark eyes. It was the playfulness in them Torsten found most unnerving. Locked in the deepest dungeon, to be executed any day now, yet everything seemed like a game to him.

  “Quiet!” one of the two guards posted outside his cell snapped.

  Torsten stopped and bit his lip. He told himself not to turn and face the manipulating heathen. It never led to anything good.

  “Why don’t you let me out and I’ll talk with her? I can join the fair prince. Miraculous, what happened to him, wouldn’t you say? It is like he has some strong tie to the Lady. Two souls beneath this mountain were once buried but not dead, not really. How… poetic.”

  Torsten couldn’t hold it in. He turned to engage when Sir Wardric Jolly arrived and slammed on the bars in front of him. The gray-haired Shieldsman was the unofficial second in the King’s Shield, having served since before Torsten was born.

  “You’ll hang soon enough, knave,” Wardric said. He turned to Torsten and saluted. “Sir, I need to talk with you.”

  Torsten held Redstar’s gaze for a moment longer.

  “Buried, not dead. Buried, not dead,” Redstar sang, snickering.

  “Torsten,” Wardric said, finally earning Torsten’s focus. He guided him around the corner. “When are you going to get rid of him already?”

  “The Queen did not wish to besmirch the miracle of Pi’s rebirth by spilling the blood of her brother before the coronation,” Torsten replied.